hiii i'm jj, welcome to my blog! i've been on tumblr foreeeever but i've decided to graduate from being a lurker bc honestly i've just been loving writing so much lately. i am always and remain the no.1 Challengers (2025) fan of all time, president of the fanclub etc. etc. Otherwise, i have so many interests it's impossible to list!
current obsession/muses: akotsk (dunk, tanselle, aerion, daeron, valarr, baelor on occasion)
i rlly like to read and am, as an internet dweller, predictably pretentious abt music. if u have recs (or requests! or general chatter) of any kind my inbox is WIDE open <3
currently reading: Okay Days by Jenny mustard
current listening: the bridge by kelela ft. pink pantheress
✿ dunk has always been such a good friend to you (inspired somewhat by this ask).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.8k
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically defined, friends to lovers, brief violence + blood description, protective!dunk, implied inexperienced!dunk, implied inexperienced!reader, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, creampie, praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), reader gets foldeddd, yearning and fluff and all that, dunk is in LOVE with you, strong language
a/n: the gif….. the shoulders….. the back….. THE BACK !!!
Golden afternoon sunshine glitters across the river’s surface, mottled between the gently swaying leaves of the willow above. The branches skim the water, a brush against canvas, as you lather honey wax soap between two wet hands. You hum quietly as you place the soap bar amongst the shingles before running your fingers over Dunk’s hair, threading bubbles through the lightly knotted strands.
The knight’s eyes are closed as he sits in the river’s shallows, water lapping around his bare hips. You kneel on the bank, his thick woolen cloak softening the press of stones beneath your legs as you extend your arms and scrub your fingers against his scalp.
“Hair like a horse’s,” you remark, taking a good fistful of his tawny brown hair and pulling it out, admiring the length of the soapy strands. “S’gotten long, hasn’t it?”
Dunk leans back into your touch, your other hand working at the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “You can cut it if you want.”
You laugh softly, twirling the thick lock around your finger. You give it a little tug, a small grunt leaving the back of his throat.
“No, I like it,” you mutter, before wiping the remaining suds across his freckled shoulders. You pat him firmly on the back, the slap of wet skin loud through the woodland around you. “Rinse, boy.”
Dunk does what he’s told and bends his large body forward. He dunks his head beneath the water, hands finding his hair to wash the soap away. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine, the muscles across his back and shoulders, but you make good work of ignoring the dip in his lower back and the curve of his arse. Instead, you watch a misty cloud of white float away downstream, before Dunk is pulling himself out of the water.
And you realise you didn’t get out of the way.
“Shit!” You exclaim, attempting to fall to the side, but to no avail. Dunk whips his head back, cold river water dashing across your face and chest as he shakes his head like a dog. You groan, slapping his shoulder as you get to your feet, other hand wiping down your face. “Every fucking time, Dunk.”
“Then you should expect it by now,” Dunk says, smiling up at you as you wring excess water from your sleeves. You shoot him a pointed look and he laughs. He wades out further into the river, turning and floating, watching you carefully. “Are you bathing too?”
You nod, already untying your dress. You shed your layers until you’re bare atop his cloak, bending to fold your clothes neatly atop the spun wool. It’s a juxtaposition to his own belongings, which are strewn haphazardly across the bank. Carefully, you toe the water and despite the pleasant spring air glowing warm around you, the water bites cold.
“It’s not bad,” Dunk tells you. He’s looking in your direction, but those sky-blue eyes of his are squarely on your face. Countless times you’ve been bare before him in manners like this, and countless times his eyes have never strayed from the lines of your face. He brings a hand out of the water, cupping some in his palm. “See?”
“Says the walking furnace himself,” you mumble as you take a deep breath, realising slowly wading in wasn’t going to do you any favours. So, you take a few large steps until you’re knee deep in the river, before diving straight in. Cold water rushes around you, and when you break the surface a few feet from Dunk, you gasp. “Ah! Dunk, you prick, it’s freezing!”
You splash him then, and he takes it with a wide grin split across his face. You splash him again, and he chuckles, reaching one strong arm out and taking hold of your wrist. Your other hand splashes too, water flying around you, and he grabs that wrist with his other hand. He holds you firmly, and before you know it, he’s dunking you under the water.
You’re under for barely a second, and he hoists you out, laughter echoing loudly through the clearing, glancing off the river’s surface like a skipping stone.
“I hate you,” you spit, but you don’t mean it.
You regain control of your arms—he lets you go, not that you have to fight him—and you grab the nape of his neck. He laughs while you shove him beneath the water, holding him there like you mean to drown him. The knight lets you, of course, considering he gives you a victorious four seconds before he easily rights himself and comes up for air. You let out a playful yelp, swimming away as he takes a swipe at you. You kick yourself off the stony bottom, paddling away, but he gets a hand on your ankle and yanks you back so firmly that a wake pushes out around you, sending the water lapping higher up the shingled bank.
“Dunk!” You shout as you thrash about the water. You look around the forest, dappled sunlight passing across your eyes in short, golden bursts. You smile as you shout, “My closest friend is drowning me! A knight is drowning me! Help!”
Dunk smiles, rolling his eyes. “Oh, hush. You deserve it.”
That night, beneath the ever-reaching cloak of darkness, you huddle by the fire, gnawing on a slightly stale roll of beef-stuffed bread. You had been reading your book—the only book you had, and which you had read eight times over yet—which now sits at your feet. There’s a slight chill in the air that licks at the flames in such a way they look to be dancing atop the gathered branches. Dunk approaches from tending to the horses, pulling his thick cloak from his shoulders. You look up, mouth full and cheeks protruding, as Dunk bends and wraps his cloak around your body.
“Y’do’ h’v t’do dat,” you say around your dinner, and he looks at you strangely as you chew.
“D’you just cast a spell on me?” He asks, shaking his head as he settles down beside you.
You slap his thigh, chewing and finally swallowing. You shrug your shoulders, gesturing to the heavy cloak now shrouding you. “You don’t have to do that,” you repeat, clearer now.
“Right, then I’ll take it back.” Dunk reaches a hand out, but you lean away.
“No, no, whatever, thank you,” you say quickly, enjoying the added layer and the heat as the nightly chill rustles the dead leaves on the ground around you. Dunk just huffs, amused, reclining back against the trunk of the willow. You look down at your half-eaten roll then, sighing through your nose before offering it to him. “You can have the rest.”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, you need to eat.”
“This is my second roll.”
“Exactly,” Dunk says, eyes flitting down your covered frame for just a second, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks back at you. “You need to eat. I’d make you a third if we had any rolls left.”
You shake the bread roll in front of his face, a strip of salt beef hanging out the bitten end. “I’ve eaten. Have the rest.”
“No, you need to eat.”
“Dunk, I’ve eaten. I’m full.”
“No, you’re not.”
You roll your eyes. “Take the fucking bread.”
Dunk eyes the food sceptically for a moment, then looks back to you. “Are you sure?”
“Take the bread or I’ll throw it at your big head.”
Dunk takes it without another word, his sword-calloused fingers brushing yours. He takes a large bite, chewing contently as you lean back against the tree as well. Your shoulders knock together, and you feel the heat radiating off of him despite his thin tunic and fraying summer cloak he insists he mends himself—despite your sewing skills being considerably better than his (which, in itself, is not difficult considering his are… poor).
You take the corner of the cloak, your thumb immediately poking through a hole there. He watches you, eyes wide and glistening. There are crumbs around his lips.
“You need to let me mend this,” you tell him, wiggling your thumb for emphasis.
“I can do it.”
“I’ve mended every cloak you’ve had since we were children,” you say pointedly, tugging on the hole. It rips a little bigger, and he makes a face. You hide your smile. “My needlework is much better than yours.”
He huffs. “I mended my trousers just this morning.”
In the semi-darkness, your eyes find a patch of poorly stitched fabric beneath his right knee.
You laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Dunk takes a rough bite of the bread roll, shaking his head as he chews. “Some friend you are.”
—✿—
Four days later, you and Dunk ride your horses along a well-trodden path. It rings around a dense thicket of woodland, and you listen to the way in which the trees jostle their leaves and branches together as the breeze blows through them. Birdsong filters out between the canopy too. You close your eyes, seated comfortably in your saddle as you ride Chestnut.
Ahead of you however, several hooded figures jump out onto the dirt road, brandishing jagged daggers. Dunk reacts before you, one strong arm shooting out to seize hold of Chestnut’s reins and pull you to an abrupt stop. Chestnut huffs in protest as Dunk manoeuvres himself and Thunder in front of you, the sturdy warhorse barely blinking as the three men advance.
“Pretty horse y’ve got,” one of the men says, gesturing to Thunder with the point of his dagger. The man’s eyes lift over to you a moment later, and he smiles a mouth full of silver as he gestures at you next. “Pretty wee lady y’ve got, too.”
Dunk’s face is set in stone, a steely flash in his eyes as he dismounts. All three men snap their eyes away from you to peer up at the hulking mass of a man standing before them. Dunk stands taller than Thunder’s withers, and he isn’t a small horse by any means.
One of the men falters on his sentence, concern flashing across his face, but the man who had first spoken takes a brave—or, you think, rather foolish—step forward, dagger outstretched. Dunk’s hand is balled tight on the pommel of his sword, which rests faithfully at his hip.
“Coin,” the man instructs simply. His eyes shoot up to you again, and you feel a worried chill creep up your spine. A sickly sort of nausea spindles through your diaphragm too. The man looks back at Dunk, dagger brandishing. “Or we can take the lady—”
Dunk rips his sword from its rope sheath and points it at the man. The other two take a few large steps back. Dunk grips the sword, the blade unwavering as he angles it directly at the man’s face.
“Speak one more word and you lose a hand,” Dunk grits out, the muscles in his jaw working. You watch, slightly helpless, from your saddle. Dunk nods towards the other two men, who still clutch their daggers in dirt-stained fingers. “Well? Anything to say?”
The first man scowls. “You—”
Dunk spins his wrist and shifts forward, blade of his sword coming down hard on the man’s hand. Blood splatters outwards in stripes of red silk, painting the earth like a bug squashed beneath a thumb. The man lets out a harrowing scream, his dagger hitting the reddened earth with a dull thud as he backs away, cradling his hand now. A large, deep gash splits across the side of his hand, cutting beneath the thumb knuckle in a bloody display of muscle and bone.
“Fucking hell!” One of the other men shouts, before proceeding to sprint back into the shadows of the forest alongside his friend, scarpering like a pair of rats. The injured man stumbles back, sending Dunk a look of pure fright, before vanishing into the woods, leaving a dotted trail of blood in his wake.
Dunk kicks the dagger away, watching it skitter off into the woodlands underbrush, before turning to you. He approaches slowly, placing a gentle hand on your calf.
“Are you alright?” He asks, wiping the tip of his sword through the dirt.
“Fine,” you tell him. Your eyes find his, which are brimming with worry, before you allow yours to rise to the forest line. You sigh. “You should’ve cut his hand off.”
Dunk sheaths his sword, frowning. “I was… I was trying to be intimidating. I didn’t—I mean, if he tried to get to you, I would’ve… I would’ve maybe, you know—”
You reach down and pet your friend gently on the top of his head. “Too noble for your own good, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, and he’s still holding your calf. “Thieves like that are mostly harmless. I didn’t…” He looks up at you then. “Should I have…?”
You shake your head. “You did great, Dunk. Very brave, and very strong.”
Dunk bows his head, bashful. He gives your calf one last firm pat before pulling himself up and into his own saddle. He offers you one last glance over his shoulder.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
You nod, smiling softly. “I’m fine, Dunk.”
He nods too, turning. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, still smiling as your eyes find his shoulders and back. You see the mass of muscle beneath the material that covers him, and you can’t help the weight of your smile and the warmth in your chest that quickly replaces your feeling of nausea.
—✿—
Two days after that, the springtime sun shines warmly against your back as you and Dunk traipse the sun-soaked cobbled streets of Oldtown. The towering knight loiters close behind you as you browse the market stalls, air swimming with flowery incense and freshly baked breads. Dunk lugs a few linen sacks of supplies in his arms, carrying them easily, as you give him yet another parchment-wrapped parcel of who knows what.
He lets you slip it into one of the sacks. “What is that?”
“Cake,” you say simply.
The frown that graces his face is light as he fights a smile. “You can’t keep buying cake. Our coin is scarce, and should be spent on things we need.”
You shoot him a pointed look over your shoulder, replying light-heartedly, “Well, it’s my coin and I need cake. Shut up.”
Dunk doesn’t argue, and instead follows you through the crowd. You linger ahead though as Dunk lags behind, hyper-aware of his large size taking up a considerable amount of the thoroughfare. He apologises under his breath as he accidentally bumps someone, and he tries to keep his arms tucked in as he holds onto all the produce you had insisted on purchasing.
When he finally catches up to you, after being cursed at by an elderly woman, you’re standing before a market stall with a wide grin split across your pretty face. Dunk watches you laugh softly at something the vendor says—the vendor, who happens to be a very attractive man around your age—before offering a response. And whatever you say makes the vendor smile even wider, a mouth full of flashing ivory.
Something solid churns deep in Dunk’s chest. It settles deep in the chambers of his heart.
He sidles up to you as casually as possible, body casting a long shadow across the stall. The vendor looks up, and Dunk almost feels guilty in the delight that greets him when the vendor’s smile vanishes.
You lift your head, smiling at your companion. “Dunk, what do you think?”
His eyes pull away from the vendor to where you’re showing him… another cake.
He huffs. “M’lady.”
It’s small, probably an easy fit in the palm of your hand, decorated with segments of blackberries and dusted with glittering sugar. His eyes flit from the little cake to your face, where you look at him with glossy eyes he swears he can see his reflection in—all pleading and begging and looking just the way you did when he met you all those years ago. Except now, you’re no longer surrounded by the grime of Flea Bottom. You’re here, together, in a tightly-packed market in Oldtown, clean and well-fed and smelling of honey and horse.
“One more,” you whisper. “This one looks good.”
“I’m certain you said that earlier,” Dunk mutters, but doesn’t argue.
He nods at the vendor, who hurries to offer you a square of parchment to wrap the little cake in. You beam, and Dunk feels something glowing from his chest, warm against the bone of his sternum. He hands the vendor the right coin before the two of you move off, heading back through the market, footsteps audible against the cobbled ground.
“Thank you,” you say suddenly, shifting to the side to lean your cheek against his arm. The muscle of his bicep is pillowy and warm against your face, and you peer up at him as you take a gentle hold of his wrist as he hefts the loot of the trip. “Thank you, Dunk.”
He smiles down at you, a few strands of hair framing his face. “Y’welcome.”
—✿—
Evening falls in a curtain of pale oranges and yellows as you lounge across the mattress. The inn room around you is lit up in those colours, sunlight streaming in through the small window that overlooks one of Oldtown’s many winding alleys. You lie comfortably in your chemise, candles burning near the iron-framed bed, deflated pillows piled behind you. Paper rustling is all that fills the room as you read, the book resting in your lap.
The room’s door opens and Dunk ducks in. You greet him.
He stands over the bed and holds something out to you. “Here.”
You place your book aside, taking in his slightly flushed appearance. “What…?”
The knight holds a book out towards you, leather-bound and clean of wear and tear. Your mouth parts into a small gasp as you gently take the book, admiring it and hefting its weight in your hands.
“Dunk,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Where did you get this?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’ve read your book a hundred times over by now, so I thought a new one’d suit you well.”
You brush your fingers down the neatly bound spine. “Dunk…”
Tossing it aside, you all but throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him to you. He laughs at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around your middle, cheeks heating as you murmur thanks into his shoulder. You pull back after a moment, but his hands rest on your hips and your fingers remain interlinked behind the column of his neck.
“You’re too good to me, y’know that?” You mutter, cocking your head and appraising the pink tint across his lightly freckled cheeks.
It flushes to his ears. “You deserve it. That and more, t’be fair.”
You chuckle at that, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. You thread them slowly, scratching against his scalp, and the sound that leaves his throat is nothing less than a purr as his eyes close and he leans his head back into the contact. The grip he has on your hips tightens. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.
“Like what?” You query, your other hand resting high on his shoulder, toying with the seam of his tunic.
Dunk opens his eyes. “Huh?”
“You said I deserve that and more,” you tell him. “Like what? What else do I deserve?”
He groans quietly, warring with himself as his eyes, lids half-lowered and sluggish in their movements, trace the features of your face.
“So much more,” he whispers. The hold on your hips draws firmer and you feel a giddy sort of heat take over you, settling in your stomach and between your thighs. Dunk continues, corner of his mouth curling up into a shadow of a grimace. “More than I can give you.”
You pout at his words, fingers in his hair taking the strands firmly between knuckles and tugging. He sucks in a breath, and you hold him as you speak.
“Don’t act the fool,” you say. “You give me everything I want, Dunk.”
He frowns.
“You do,” you challenge, hand not in his hair coming to cup his cheek now. His skin is warm and slightly dewy to the touch, testament of a man having spent the last hour searching the warm, narrow streets of Oldtown for a book. A book for you. You swipe your thumb along his cheekbone. “Now tell me: what else do I deserve?”
Dunk opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes sweep down your face again, lingering on the shape of your lips, then the lines of your nose. They reach your eyes and he releases a pained sound—a sound punched from his gut, dragged across a whimper so intimate that it settles your heartbeat between your thighs.
“You deserve everything,” he whispers finally, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. Touching, a nervous movement, before his lips close and he’s trapping a grunt between his teeth as you scratch at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, speaking like your touch might put him to sleep. “Everything I can give you.”
The hand you have on his face shifts to his jaw and you work the muscle and bone beneath the pads of your fingers. “And what can you give me?”
Dunk groans, head lolling to the side, resting against your forearm while you continue to rub at the nape of his neck, hair between your fingers. You let go of his jaw and swipe your hand across his forehead, pushing loose strands away so you can get a good look at his face. He’s redder now, his blush coloured darker in the shadows of the room. His freckles blur together beneath the flickering candlelight too, and you allow yourself to feather the tips of your fingers across the ones high on his cheekbones. You map them like the stars as he rubs his head against your forearm like a cat.
“Anything you want,” Dunk whispers finally, and it’s broken around a whine. Heat prickles at the back of your neck, blood pumping hot in your core as your body reacts to his audible need. Beneath the thin material of your chemise, you’re on fire. Dunk finally opens his eyes, observing you when the silence stretches for just a moment too long. He says your name, soft, tender, before he speaks. “Please.”
You smile, tucking a few thin locks of his hair behind his ear. You lean in, lips ghosting across the warm skin of his cheek. “I want you.”
A rumbling groan is ripped from his throat as he shifts his head to the side, chasing your words before they can disappear into the candlelit air. His mouth slots to yours so easily as you turn your head too, and another deep sound leaves his mouth as your lips work together. You grip his hair tightly, angling his head back so you can draw him in even closer.
Your name falls from his mouth, followed by a whisper of “my sweet girl,” before your tongues draw together. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, clutching firmly, fingers flexing as if you would draw away from him. You whimper in response, tugging at his hair.
“C’mon,” he mutters against your mouth as his hands find your hips again. He shifts you backwards, hefting you like a sack of grain until your head hits the stack of pillows. You smile into the kiss, pulling his hair into a closed fist at the back of his head. He groans, teeth catching on your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”
You sit up slightly, forcing him to back up. Tugging your chemise off, the amber-lit warmth of the room greets your bare tits, and you toss the garment aside as Dunk gapes at you, eyes firmly on your chest.
“Dunk,” you chuckle, taking in his shocked—pleased—expression. “You’ve seen me bare before.”
“Not like this,” he utters, voice dark. He leans in then, and you suck in a gasp as he presses his face between the valley of your breasts. His hands find the small of your back, hugging you to him, and the skin of his face is burning red-hot against your chest. His mouth opens and he groans loudly, holding you tightly. “Oh gods.”
You seize his head and pull him back to you. You kiss him hard this time—it’s not gentle, and it’s not tender. It’s teeth and tongue and spit and fuelled by everything pent up inside you. A glass bottle uncorked, liquid need overflowing as you lick the salt from his tongue. His clothing comes next: blindly, you work his tunic over his arms and shoulders, pulling away from him so he could throw it across the room. He’s on you like a leaping hound, pinning you back against the pillows while your hands find the ties of his trousers.
There’s a molasses-thick desire seeping into your belly as you untie his trousers. It consumes you, hot and sticky, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth as your fingers brush across the tent in the material of his trousers. He groans in return, the sound breathless and almost embarrassed, as you shuck his trousers down and start tugging at his breeches.
He pulls back. “Sweet girl, hold on—”
You pause, panting, fingers on the knot at the band of his breeches. “Are you okay?”
“M’so good,” Dunk whispers, kissing you one last time on the lips. It’s chaste, almost polite, something akin to an apology before he leans back. A pout is halfway formed across your lips, nipples hardening at the loss of warmth against your front, before you feel his hands run down your back to the bunched fabric of your smallclothes. His eyes find yours as he slowly, slowly begins guiding them down. “Is this okay?”
You nod, admiring the shadowed lines of his face in the candlelight. A small dip in his brow draws his face into a mask of disbelief as he gently draws your smallclothes down your hips, over the curve of your arse, and then down your thighs. You lift yourself to aid him, eyes on the way his tongue finds the corner of his mouth again, his pupils blown wide. Soon, your thin linen undergarments are discarded and you lie completely bare before him.
“Here she is…” Dunk whispers, and it’s so quiet you’re certain it wasn’t meant for you.
His large hands find the plush of your thighs, kneading the flesh there as he parts them. His movements are unhurried as he brings them wider, and wider still, until the slick heat of your core glistens wet in the flickering candlelight. The sound that leaves him is pained, stretched thin across a moan as his fingers ghost down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He traces circles as he looks.
Your heart clatters against your ribcage like a marble in a jar and you swear you’re losing your breath. A hand you barely register as yours reaches out, feeling along the line of hair above his breeches. The muscle is cloaked in a layer of fat that you dig your fingers into, and you taste that molasses-thick desire between your teeth as his name rolls over your tongue.
“Put your mouth on me,” you say when you draw his attention away from your core. Your fingers dip, tracing the line of hair, brushing over the tent in his breeches. There’s a jerk of mass beneath the fabric. It sends your heartbeat straight between your legs.
The small dent in his brow deepens as he shudders out a breath, eyes on yours. “I’ve never…”
“S’alright,” you tell him, other hand finding his face. You pat his cheek tenderly. “We’ll learn—we’ll learn together, okay?”
His lips part, but he nods. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes as he settles further onto the bed, mattress and bedframe groaning. You can feel the callouses on the top of his palms against you, and his hands twist from your inner thighs to the backs of them. You yelp when he suddenly pushes your thighs up, thumb and fingers on either side of your knee’s undersides. He bends them up until they rest against the softness of your belly.
The angle is exposing, and there is a fleeting moment of fear that passes through your mind. It is squashed immediately when a boarish grunt leaves Dunk’s throat as he bends forward, squeezing your legs to anchor himself, before his breath is ghosting across you.
You writhe, gasping out, “Dunk, Dunk, please—”
His eyes appear black in the dim light as he peers up at you, hair damp on his forehead already. He watches you carefully as he blows out a breath—the sensation against your slick folds slicing your sentence mid-air. You moan softly and Dunk repeats the action, tepid air a finger-like stroke against the blazing warmth of your cunt. You manage to wriggle an arm between the fold of your legs, your fingers threading through his hair again.
He takes the encouragement: still looking up at you, Dunk gently presses his mouth to your core. It’s a kiss, a press of lips against velvet warmth, before they part. His tongue follows, a tentative split between your folds as his head shifts. His nose bumps your clit, and when a short “ha-ah” slips over the point of your tongue, he chases—tongue finding, searching, until you call a stretched-out whine of his name when he finally gets it.
“Dunk, yes, fuck,” you ramble, fisting his hair when he flattens his tongue. Something electric fizzles down your spine, shoulders to hips, as he works with a pressure just slightly too little, but somehow it works. It works because it’s him, and it works because you cant your hips and gently urge his head forward. And because he’s a good knight, your good knight, he listens, his lips drawing around your clit in a wet suction that punches a moan from you. “Du–uh–nk, oh gods.”
A thick grumble vibrates against you, his eyelids fluttering. His mouth shifts, tongue splitting back down your folds as you pant. He continues to watch you, eyes glassy. You nod, imploring, when the point of his tongue finds your hole, and you tighten your grip on his hair when he presses in. Like everything else about him, his tongue is thick—a thick press inside you that pulls you apart. It draws a pressure into the base of your belly as he licks into you, the line of his nose pressing deep against your puffy clit.
You wriggle beneath him, trapped under the fold of your own thighs as he pins you to the mattress and takes what he wants—gives you what you need. And he gives it to you, ever the quick-learner, with his tongue pulling and pushing in broad strokes. In, out, curling inwards as his head shifts. He chases the gasps that fall from your mouth, the little whimpers you try and quell as his tongue flicks in. He hums, pleased at the way your body heats up beneath him, and he feels his cock jerk in his breeches when the vibrations of his hum travel straight through you. You keen, holding his head tighter against your core. He breathes deeply, smelling and tasting you, face slick and flushed.
Is this good? he wants to ask. Am I making you feel good? teeters painfully on his tongue, but he keeps them locked in. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. Not now, not ever. The sounds you make spur him on, ignite a spark deep in his chest. His closest friend. His. His sweet girl writhing and moaning for him.
Sickly sweet now, the molasses-thick need crystalises in your womb, and you feel something tugging. A deep-seated pressure that rocks your heartbeat through your core, blood pumping hot in your veins. There’s a tension in your thighs too, and they tremble in his hold as his tongue splits you apart. The sounds are wet, and Dunk is grunting, and you’re trying not to fall too deeply into it—but you can’t help it. All you can think of, all you can hear, all you can taste is Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, and that pressure inside you builds to its breaking point. Your fingers grip his hair tightly as you attempt to grind yourself against his face.
“Dunk,” you whine, calling for him as your body shakes. “Dunk, s’good—m’gonna—”
You burst apart when his tongue dips deep inside you and he groans into your heat. The pressure inside you fissures and your cunt clenches tightly around him, heartbeat spiking as you call for him over and over, strung across breathy whimpers that seem to rise into the ceiling. He licks you through it, face unyielding as you tremble under the weight of his palms.
After a long moment, pleasure spiking sharp in the pit of your stomach, you pull him away from you by his hair. The knight groans, eyes finally closing, his face slick with you, lips kiss-bruised and wet as he whispers your name. He squeezes your thighs too, before gently placing your legs back against the sheets.
“Did I… was that okay?” Dunk can finally ask, eyes roaming down your naked form. They fall from your face, to your chest and stomach, to where you drool out between your thighs. The sight makes him moan, one hand resting over his lap.
“So good,” you assure him, picking yourself off the pillows now. Dunk swallows, watching you as you close the gap and kiss him. He’s shocked, frozen for a split-second as you lick yourself from his lips. The loud moan you offer him quickly pulls him back to solid earth, and he opens his mouth to kiss you back. You mutter against his lips, “You did so well, Dunk.”
He preens beneath the praise, ears burning hot as your tongues meet. He huffs into the kiss, his own pleasure thick in his trousers, the taste and smell and heat of you swimming in his head. But you seem to know exactly how he’s feeling, and your hand finds the ties of his breeches once more. You pull them loose as your mouths move together.
You dip a hand in and wrap your fingers around his cock. Dunk breaks the kiss with a low groan, forehead resting against yours as you pull him from the linen of his breeches. He’s warm and solid in your hand, velvet skin across steel as he pumps hot in your hand. Both of you look down.
“Gods…” You whisper, giving him a little stroke. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. But here, in the privacy of this little inn room, bathed in ichored candlelight, it’s so much different. Your fingers work lightly, feeling the subtle give of skin. There are soft, shallow ridges and a vein you can feel working up the back of his shaft, and he’s so warm and so real against you. You whisper again, “So pretty, Dunk.”
He offers you a whiny breath as your fingers press beneath the dip of his cockhead. It’s blushing a deep pink and pearling wet at the slit and he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he’s frowning like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your hand is so much smaller than his—the sight of it wrapped around his cock making it jerk.
“So big…” You think aloud as your fingers move gently.
Dunk breathes deeply, chest heaving. His hands are on your hips, gripping you firmly, smoothing stuttering circles with his thumbs.
You pull away from him. He looks at you, eyes nearly black.
“Want you,” you tell him simply, fingers wrapping around the base of him now. You give him a tight squeeze. “Need you.”
“Gods above,” Dunk gasps out, but he’s already nodding. A thick, viscous heat clings to his ribs, pulls at the strings of his heart as he lets you work your fingers around the thick of his cock. He dips and kisses your forehead—he can’t help it. “Okay, sweet girl, I’ll give it to you.”
You smile then, retracting your hand. He hisses at the lack of contact, watching you shuffle back until you’re lying amongst your throne of pillows. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen. His sweet girl, spreading her legs with a smile on her pretty face. All for him.
The thoughts make him dizzy as he quickly shucks his clothing down his legs, kicking it away. He kneels on the bed, bedframe creaking beneath the weight of his body, but he ignores it. He draws in close to you, large hands finding the backs of your thighs and folding you again. The sound it pushes from your chest—“ha–uh–fu–uck, Dunk,”—is breathy and sweet in the amber-lit air between you. It has his cock jerking where it sits heavy and leaking against the mass of his thigh as he settles before you.
It’s easy to fold you like this. He leans over you, abdomen contracting as he holds himself up enough not to crush you. Up enough, too, to take one hand and clutch the base of his cock, guiding it to your cunt. You whimper his name and the sound goes directly to his brain, fills his lungs like a puff of smoke. It’s heady and dizzying and he can’t help but moan as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit.
“Dunk,” you whine, the pressure between your folds sparking something in your lower belly again. Your cunt flutters around nothing when he taps the head against your swollen clit, then slowly drags it back down to notch at your hole. You suck in a breath. “Please.”
He doesn’t say anything. But he’s listening. He clutches himself in a lightly trembling hand and carefully, almost too slowly, pushes in. Your pussy opens up for him, slick and warm, sucking in the head with a wet clutch that has him losing his breath. It’s tight and unlike nothing he’s ever experienced before.
You whimper, hands gripping the sheets beside you. “Dunk, please, keep going.”
He hadn’t realised he’d stopped.
“M’sorry,” he whispers, then shifts his hips. Such a good listener.
He leans in, cock splitting you apart. He’s thick and heavy, dragging against your walls in one solid movement. It’s intoxicating, and you whine, the sound rattling your teeth as it’s wrenched from the back of your throat. You’re so full, and he’s still moving.
Dunk mutters your name like a prayer as he feeds his cock into you, marvelling at the way you open for him. Deeper and deeper. He holds you firm, folding you into the mattress, pinned beneath his strong chest. The heat that envelops him, he’s certain, burns hotter than any flame in Westeros.
He stills after a moment. The head of his cock is wedged right up beneath the plug of your cervix, and there’s a slowly soothing ache somewhere in your pelvis. You can feel it, feel it festering like a bruise. Dunk’s cock gives a feeble jerk inside you, and you wince just slightly, so full, reaching so deep.
His face drops. Worried. “Are you—?”
“M’okay,” you whisper. The pain is slowly dissipating as your cunt flutters around him. You see him bite back a groan, pleasure fighting against concern. You smile at him softly. “So good, Dunk. You feel so good inside me.”
Dunk’s still frowning, but you can tell your words have hit him square across the face. He releases a shuddering breath, and his cock twitches inside you again.
“Please move,” you tell him, purposefully tightening the muscles of your core, sucking him in even tighter. His eyes flutter, and you finally get to hear that groan he had been wrangling with. It’s hoarse, flung through gravel. You huff loudly. “Please, Dunk.”
“Okay, okay,” Dunk utters, soothing.
Holding your thighs, he pulls out until just the head rests inside. He takes a deep breath, then pushes back in, and his composure shatters completely when you attempt to arch, moaning. He’s making you feel like this. He is. He hounds after that feeling, pulling his cock out again and repeating the movement until he settles into a pace he didn’t know he could keep.
“That’s it, just like that,” you ramble, tits bouncing against your chest as Dunk’s thrusts lean heavy. Your knees near your head, the pressure on your belly making him feel even deeper. The ache inside you has completely vanished, replaced now by that viscous heat you’ve come to love. “Dunk, fuck, so—so good.”
The bed creaks in protest as he drives you deeper and deeper into the mattress, his strokes becoming more confident. He’s a quick learner, you already know, and you can feel the pride leeching from him as he breaks you apart from the inside out. He’s basking in the little sounds that fall from you as the head of his cock nudges deep. Thick, stretching, rolling.
You’re so tight around him. Warm and slick and everything he’d dared to imagine late at night, bent against a tree with his cock in hand. And you take him so well, sucking him in as his hips roll, skin-slapping-skin. The iron headboard knocks against the wooden wall, but he pays it no mind, thoughts only of you, you, you. His girl. His perfect girl.
“Harder,” you moan, fisting the sheets.
Dunk listens.
He wrestles your legs onto his shoulders, angling himself even deeper now and thrusting deep. You yelp, then moan, at the angle and the fact he nails that perfect spot inside you on the third thrust. He hears it, hears the shift in your moans, feels the clench of your pussy, all hot and vice-like around him. And he follows it, tracing it like a line to treasure. Rolling hips, creaking bed, bear-like grunts.
“Like that?” He utters, but he knows. He’s folding you in half and he knows.
You can barely answer, pressure tight in your womb. His cock drags you closer to another release, bubbling hot as he pins you beneath the thick, muscled mass of his body. He’s a walking furnace, and you feel it closer now. Fire seeps from his skin. Sweat traps along your front, along your back, building beneath the joints of your knees as he fucks you.
“Y–yeah,” you manage to reply, but that’s all you have energy for. Your pleasure is stacking deep inside you and you’re losing your ability to form proper words.
Dunk grunts in response.
Hair hangs over his forehead, some tacked to his skin with sweat. The muscles in his arms work as he holds himself over you. He’s so thick, so strong. You manage to lift an arm to squeeze at his bicep, fingers indenting flesh. You want to bite it, but he has you trapped so firmly against the mattress that you’re sure you couldn’t move an inch if you tried.
Your pussy squeezes around him again as pressure builds. It’s familiar now, and you know where it comes from, and where it’s going to lead you, as it crawls down your spine and spans out across your womb.
You clutch Dunk’s arm with one hand, the other useless at your side, limbless and pleasure-lax. “Dunk.”
“Yeah?” He looks down at you, a light furrow in his brow. “You’ve got something for me?”
You nod. “M’so close.”
Dunk huffs, pace remaining. Firm and even, cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you. His hips roll, the mattress shifts, the bedframe groans and knocks heavy against the wall. Candles flicker around you, white wax dripping, rolling in pearls. His eyes are on you, blue smothered beneath black. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.
That makes you moan. A feather-soft “Dunk,” followed by a louder, more desperate, “Oh, gods, Dunk—!” You shatter for a second time then, body giving in. Your cunt clutches tight around his cock, slick gushing as he fucks you through it, dribbling out and down the curve of your arse as he rocks in, in, in. His movements falter, just slightly, as you cry out for him, release pressing heavy on your belly as he folds you.
“M’here, m’here,” Dunk coos, bending to kiss you. Your legs press even deeper, and you whine into the kiss. Trembling, legs shaking, heart seeping deep into the marrow of your bones. Dunk pulls back, thrusts slowing by a fraction as his cock jerks. He moans like a wounded man, “Oh, sweet girl, I’m—I’m—”
It’s a sudden, solid heat in his pelvis. His cock jumps where it’s seated against the base of your cervix, and his balls draw tight where they rest against the curve of your arse. His hips stutter, thighs tensing, then he’s spilling. Inside you.
It feels thicker, hotter. It knocks through his diaphragm and he groans through it, jaw working as he shoves himself to the hilt inside you. He feels the way your pussy wraps to take him, sucks him in even deeper as he empties himself in white-hot stripes. The force in which it leaves him is dizzying, and his eyes drop closed, mouth parting.
And he can’t help himself.
“I love you,” he breathes out as he comes, spilling hot. It leaves him in shudders as he holds himself over you, trapping you, keeping you. He huffs, fending off a groan as he rolls his hips to a stop. “Gods above.”
Neither of you speak for a long moment after that. The mattress settles as you still. You pant, and so does Dunk, as pleasure fizzles like the bubbles of ale.
Dunk flushes even deeper when he shakes himself from his haze. He opens his eyes properly, peering down at you as if he’d caused you injury.
“M’sorry,” he says quickly, scanning your face. “My sweet girl, I’m—”
You shake your head, heartbeat calming. “S’okay—oh, Dunk, it’s okay.”
You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing.
“I love you,” you tell him through a whisper. There’s a quiet in the room that feels warm against your skin. You can hear music somewhere below you: the muffled plucking of strings, the clamour of singing voices. You stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. “More than anything.”
His reply is to bend and kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, but there’s a strength behind it that tastes of the knight you know.
“You’re too good to me,” Dunk mumbles against your lips, echoing your words from earlier. “My sweet girl. Too good for me.”
aerion making out with his shy girl in the castle halls so much that the guards start subtlety complaining to maekar while trying so hard to avoid being accused of treason !! #ineedtgatcookiesobaf
aerion loves to make out in semi-public ⊹ ࣪ ˖
the corridors were not, by any stretch of the imagination, a place for trysts. they are cold, drafty, and perpetually echoing with the footsteps of guards and servants. yet, it had become aerion's favorite place in the red keep.
at any moment, at any time, he had you pressed against the stone wall, his body a warm, solid shield from the castle's chill. his lips were soft, his tongue coaxing, and he tasted of the lemon cake you had shared at supper.
your hands, which had been nervously twisting in the fabric of your gown, now rested tentatively on his chest.
you were melting into him, your shyness burning away under the intensity of his affection. a soft sigh escaped your lips, and he swallowed it with a gentle hum of approval.
"you taste sweeter than the wine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes, usually so sharp and arrogant, were soft and hazy in the torchlight. "i could taste you forever."
you buried your face in the crook of his neck. "aerion, someone will see."
"that is no concern of mine, nor should it be yours," he whispered, his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you even closer. "let them see how much i adore my wife."
down the hall, two kingsguard stood as still as the stone statues they guarded. this was the fourth time this week they had been forced to witness their prince's...devotion.
ser gerold cleared his throat, a low, discreet sound. "my prince," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "the hour grows late. your father requested your presence after supper."
aerion didn't even turn his head. "he can wait," he said, his voice muffled by your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "i am occupied with matters of state."
the other guard shifted his weight, the leather of his boots groaning softly. he caught gerold's eye and gave a minuscule, almost imperceptible shake of his head. don't push it. they both remembered what happened to the last guard who had complained too loudly about the prince's "distractions." a reassignment to the night's watch was a fate worse than death for most.
later that night, when the castle was finally quiet, ser gerold found himself standing before prince maekar in his solar. the prince was poring over maps, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"your grace," gerold began, choosing his words with the care of a man walking on eggshells. "i bring a report. a... logistical concern, regarding the prince's... security detail."
maekar didn't look up. "spit it out, ser gerold. i haven't got all night for you to dance around the issue."
"it is... well, it is the corridors, your grace. prince aerion has developed a fondness for... lingering. in the halls. with the princess." gerold paused, sweating under his armor. "it makes it difficult to maintain a secure perimeter. the constant... stopping. it creates blind spots. and the guards, they do not wish to witness such... private moments, for fear of disrespecting the princess, or... of being accused of treasonous thoughts."
maekar finally lifted his head, a flicker of something- amusement? annoyance?- in his dark eyes. he stared at the knight for a long moment.
"so my son is so besotted with his wife that he forgets his duty, and your men are so flustered by a kiss that they fear for their heads?" maekar's voice was dry. "gods save us all from love and fools." he waved a dismissive hand. "tell your men to look at the floor. and tell my son that if he must behave like a love-struck squire, to do it behind a closed door. now get out."
being as i am an idiot, and having been one my whole life, i just wanna say that i find it very easy to do nothing, and go nowhere. i eat chocolate late at night in the dark. i stand in the garden also. and i’m often waiting for something to happen. and i’m stupid.
pairing: frank langdon x resident!reader
wc: 2.8k (this was supposed to be a blurb but i'm a yapper)
the pitt masterlist
summary: your first sleepover at frank's
contains: broken bed (not like that you perv), frank gets a boner, intense yearning
a/n: i hope you enjoy! be sure to check out my y(2k) sleepover event (link at the bottom of this piece) and place your own request! | dividers from @diviniyae
In the overmasking soundscape of the Pitt — beeping monitors, rushing footsteps, and the occasional cry of pain— you somehow manage to take a phone call without having to step outside. Frank watches you from the workstation beside yours, where he pokes at the keyboard in an attempt to type out his notes on his last patient, with little success.
It's nearly ten o'clock, and you're the last two day shift doctors around —besides Robby, of course, captain going down with the ship and all that. An especially long trauma right at seven kept the both of you here past quitting time, which meant that the last hour has been spent in the throes of charting.
Frank's bones feel like they're weighed down by sandbags, and he's only capable of thinking in fragments. Plus, the promise of his empty, divorced dad apartment isn't much of a motivator.
He catches pieces of your phone conversation, mostly frustrated comments on your end. "This is ridiculous, I paid for a room already," you mutter, then ask to speak to a manager.
After another couple of minutes, you hang up the phone and slam it face-down on the workstation.
Frank grimaces. Anyone with half a brain knows not to test you when you're wearing the same exact expression you have now: locked, tight frown, deflated posture, and a sharp crease in your brows.
"What's going on?" he asks after a moment, peering over the top of the divider to find you cradling your head in your hands.
A sharp inhale shoots you ramrod straight.
"Nothing," your insistence comes suspiciously fast as you school your frown into a tight, neutral line. "I'm fine, let's just get the hell out of here, huh?"
"Okay, Karen," Frank teases without thinking about it, shifting his gaze back to the computer, where all the words swirl together. He blinks long and slow. There's a possibility he's reached a semi-delirious point of exhaustion.
"Excuse me?" Your nostrils flare out. Frank swears there's steam shooting out of your ears. "Did you just call me a Karen?"
Blue eyes widen, the reaction more pointed under the harsh hospital lights. "I just mean because you asked for the manager," he gulps, holding up two hands in defense.
You narrow your eyes at him.
"The hotel I'm staying at tonight just called to say they gave my room away," you nearly growl, your intonation making it seem like it's his fault.
"Why are you staying in a hotel room?" he asks.
He's been to your apartment once, months ago, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with half the day shift for a movie night. You'd somehow wrangled everyone into watching Jurassic Park because Whitaker and Javadi said during a shift that they'd never seen it.
You're hard for Frank to pin down. Half the time you scare the shit out of him. The other half you're hosting movie nights, bringing in banana bread, or showing the med students a procedure with gentle, practiced hands.
It wasn't like he made himself easy to get a read on, either. Between the divorce, the kids, and sprinting upstairs after trauma just to make his drug test before the lab closed, most days he'd barely managed to keep his own head above water.
It took a while, but somewhere over the last few months, his conversations with you started getting longer. Less about patients, more about whatever happened to come up between charts.
"My apartment is being fumigated," you slump back into your seat, locking your hands atop your head. Frank has never seen you so… despondent. It's unnerving. "I told the hotel I'd have a late check-in, but they still gave my room away."
After a moment's thought, Frank realizes the bind you're in. You moved to Pittsburgh for your residency. You don't have any friends or family here. If your hotel screwed you over this late in the evening, then you're up shit's creek.
If he's being honest, he's also seeing something in you that he sees in himself, nearly every time he catches his reflection in the mirror.
Loneliness.
His leg jiggles restlessly under his desk. "You can…" he swallows when your inscrutable eyes meet his. "You can sleep at my place, if you want to."
You furrow your brow. "I wasn't asking—"
"I know," Frank cuts in, saving the chart he's working on, then exits out of it. "But I'm offering."
Frank sees the gears turning in your head. You'd rather gnash your teeth and suffer through the plot of Armageddon than ask for help. You nibble on your bottom lip —an expression Frank has only ever seen you make during a complicated intubation. He never noticed how adorable it is until now.
"I don't want to be an imposition," you say, a little quieter.
"You wouldn't be," he shakes his head. "I don't have the kids tonight. They still don't have beds yet, but I've got a sofa. It's yours if you want it."
"Yeah, okay," his heart gives a little flip when you finally relent, a tight, forced smile stretching across your lips. "Thank you."
Langdon flips the light switch once you're inside, illuminating the apartment in a familliar fluorescent glow.
He drops his backpack by the door, then waves a hand at the small, sparsely furnished space.
"This is it," he says.
"It's nice," you nod at the space, noting the distinct lack of anything particularly Langdon.
"No, it's not," he snorts. "But I appreciate the sentiment."
He's right in assuming you're just being polite. A laminate island divides the kitchen from the gray-walled living room. A sofa faces the television mounted opposite it, and a small table with three chairs fills the remaining space. Functional instead of homey.
If someone told you this was a furnished rental, you'd believe them.
The only evidence of anyone actually living here is the little toy kitchen in the corner, decked out in primary colors. A small plastic chest sits beside it, dotted with yellow stars and two names hand-painted on the side.
Tanner & Penny
Your lip quirks up at this.
"Your kids'?" You ask as you lean against the edge of the island, hooking your thumb towards the playset.
"Yeah," he smiles in familiarity, then steps around you to get to the fridge. He pops a photo out from under a magnet, and slides it across the island to you.
You've never seen photos of Langdon's kids before, but they are, without a doubt, his.
"That's Penny," he points to the little girl with a dimple in her chin. "And Tanner," he says of the slightly larger boy with eyes that are bright, clear water blue.
"They're cute," you nod. "They look a lot like you."
Langdon's thin smile lingers, then he clears his throat. "I can get the sofa set up for you, if you want to hop in the shower," he offers. "Or, did you want to get something to eat? I have a pizza in the freezer, but not much else."
"Pizza's good," you reply, then stifle a yawn. Your body aches with the kind of exhaustion that should knock you out cold, but your brain refuses to follow suit. "I might go ahead and take a shower, if that's okay with you?"
He nods.
Frank grabs you a clean towel and shows you how to work the faucet.
The whole thing feels strangely intimate. His razor on the sink. His shampoo in the shower. The towel he'd pulled from his own linen closet. All of it is closer than you've ever thought you'd be with a man who is, technically speaking, your boss.
You skip washing your hair, leaving it up in a clip as you cleanse your body of the day's grime.
While you towel off, you catch the faint hint of something, then realize that Langdon buys fabric softener. It takes a moment for that fact to digest.
You change into your pajamas —a ratty t-shirt and a holey pair of sweatpants. A little embarrassing, but you packed for a secluded hotel room, not Frank Langdon's dad-chelor pad.
When you emerge from the bathroom, there's a distinct smell of pizza in the air. You pad out in too-big socks to find cushions scattered about the living room and Frank hunched over the sofa, yanking at a steel frame. His cheeks have gone red, manipulating the frame with no success.
"I didn't realize it's a…" you lose the word as you join him, tugging at the opposite side of the frame.
"Pull out," Langdon spews, exasperated and cranky.
"I'm trying!" You say as you try from a different angle.
"No," he huffs, out of breath as he stands up straight. His hands fly to his hips. "It's a pull-out couch."
"Then why isn't it pulling out?" You snap in response, peering into the mechanism.
There's no way to tell why, exactly, the mattress isn't extending like it should, so you try pushing it back in.
It creaks in stubborn response, but doesn't budge.
"It's not going back in," you grumble. Langdon grabs his end and also tries to shove the frame back in. Nothing, save for a distinct click. As though the metal decides to lock in place.
"Sssssshit," Langdon drags out the word, staring at the sofa like he might chuck it through the curtainless window. He scrubs his hand over his face, so hard he leaves white fingerprints over reddened skin.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of what to say. Do you apologize for possibly making it worse? Do you just leave?
"I'm so sorry," he bounces on his heels, shaking his hands, expelling all his nervous energy at once. "You can sleep in my bed. I'll take the floor."
"What? No, that's… that's way too much from what you've already offered," you bluster, then hook your thumb towards the door. "I'll just find a hotel, Langdon, seriously. Not a big deal."
You turn on your heel, but a large hand catches your shoulder.
"No, it's way too late for that. You'll end up in some piece-of-shit motel," he says as you spin around. You glance down to where his fingers splay across your shoulder. "And then you'll get murdered, and I'll feel just terrible about it." You roll your eyes, but he presses on. "Please, just… take me up on it?"
He looks so tired, you realize, gazing up into cloudy blue eyes.
The timer on the oven cuts through the moment in a shrill, incessant beep.
Langdon glances down at his hand, then slowly draws it back. As he wanders past you into the kitchen, you brush your fingertips over the spot, catching the residual heat.
He takes the pizza out of the oven, the pan tudding on the kitchen island. Your mouth waters at the sight of steaming, gooey cheese and pepperoni.
Langdon follows your gaze to the pizza, then smiles at you. "Will you stay?"
Every logical piece of you screams to grab your backpack and leave, but you suppose you're too damn tired for all that. "Sure," you whisper.
The pizza disappears within fifteen minutes of leaving the oven, no evidence it ever existed apart from a crumb-scattered pan. Frank changes the sheets on his bed, and tells you goodnight.
Relieved for the shower he's desperately craved, Frank follows a delicious, floral scent to the bathroom, the source of which he quickly finds on the sink.
Rose & Pearl is the scent of your body gel, though Frank's not sure where the pearl part comes into play as he sniffs the open bottle.
He catches himself in the mirror, then slowly sets the bottle back down.
Pervert, he scolds himself. Didn't even realize he picked up the damn thing.
When he steps out of the bathroom later, a trail of steam billowing behind, he exhales at the sight of the closed bedroom door. You're in there, leaving that rosy scent all over his pillowcases. His sheets.
In attempt to distract himself, he plucks his phone off the kitchen counter, only to realize it's nearly dead. "Shit," he murmurs. His eyes dart to the closed bedroom door.
He takes a deep breath before knocking.
"Yeah?" You don't sound groggy, so any potential guilt about waking you vanishes from the queue.
"Can I come in for a sec?" Frank asks.
"Yeah," you reply. The door creaks as it opens.
"Forgot my phone charger," he gestures apologetically to the nightstand on the side of the bed opposite from where you sit, propped up against the headboard.
In his bed. With your hair down, spilling around your shoulders in glossy waves. Always so put together in the ED, Frank's never seen you so… cozy.
"It's okay," you force a thin smile.
You crane your neck when Frank rounds the bed, frowning at his setup on the living room floor. Beside the broken couch lays Tanner's Paw Patrol pillow and Penny's Disney Princess blanket. A bright contrast against the drab, gray carpet. "That doesn't look very comfortable," you assess.
"It's alright," he waves off your concern. As he plucks his phone charger from behind the nightstand, he feels the weight of your eyes lingering on him. Frank turns, and finds you boring a hole through his head with your stare.
"Why don't we share?" You ask, exhaling long through your nose.
"Huh?"
"Langdon," your voice borders on an exasperated mumble as you pat the empty space on the bed. "Just lay down. It's already midnight, we're both exhausted. I don't care. It's fine."
Frank's eyes dart from you to the shoddy setup in the living room, and back. He really doesn't want to sleep on the floor.
Jesus Christ. He gives an appreciative nod. He grabs the blanket off the living room floor, and against all his better judgment, climbs into bed with you.
You turn off the lamp on your side of the bed, leaving the room mostly dark, save for the streetlight peeking in from the blinds.
The mattress is a queen, large enough for the both of you, but the space between your bodies is limited. Frank's nose is clogged with the sweet smell of your body wash. Your heat mixes with his.
Get a grip and go to sleep, Langdon, he thinks.
"Goodnight," you murmur from somewhere beside him. Frank's stomach rolls around in his gut.
"Goodnight," he whispers back. He adjusts so he's on his side, facing away from you.
A strong pair of arms looped through yours radiates warmth. Four legs all tangled up like dock knots, and a nose nudging into your hair. Your hand rests over top of the one on your hip. And somewhere between the small of your back and the curve of your rear, a firm length smushes up against you.
You whine at the feeling, not quite conscious, not quite asleep, and roll over. Your bones feel like lead, but the feeling quickly melts when that hardness rubs against your core. Pleasure shoots up through your veins.
You slowly blink awake to see the snoring figure of Frank Langdon. Your eyes widen.
Fuck, you think. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
You freeze, unsure of how, exactly, to disentangle yourself without waking him up.
He's definitely asleep. You can tell by the slow thud of his heartbreat, and the soft, lazy snoring that rumbles through his throat. Morning light stretches through the slats of the blinds, striking the top of his softly mussed hair.
So peaceful. You blink as the word crosses your mind — peaceful. Something you don't think you've felt since you moved to Pittsbrugh almost a year ago.
It's been lonely, you can admit that, especially since you have no family here, no real friends besides the ones you've made at work. Princess and Perlah, Samira. Mel. Jesse. Langdon.
Langdon, whose dick is pressed right up against your ass.
Shit. You peel away from him, starting with your legs, then roll out of the bed. Somehow he remains dead asleep, pawing at the empty space you left behind. Something self-indulgent inside of you keeps your feet glued to the ground for a moment.
His face is half-squished into the pillow, his t-shirt partially riding up to reveal a slightly hairy tummy. You can appreciate a nice figure, right? Doesn't have anything to do with the safety you felt blanketing your entire body when he touched you.
No, you insist, as you pad quietly towards the bathroom. Doesn't have anything to do with anything.
When you return about ten minutes later, teeth brushed and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, you find Langdon sat up in the bed. Eyes glued to his phone. Pillow placed over his lap.
"Morning," he inhales upon sight of you, a smile stretching across his face so tight you know it's forced. "Sleep okay?"
"Yep," you chirp, forcing a stretched smile of your own. "Like a log."
jamie's y(2k) sleepover - requests for this event are open
dennis fucking reader aggressively and like,, dominating but speaking very submissively. So he’s pounding into you, leaving bruises from his grip on her hips, maybe even pulling hair.. but saying things like “am i making you feel good? yeah, that’s all i want. i wanna make you feel so good. im your good boy, right? tell me. please.”
THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT THE PEOPLE (ME) WANNA SEEE !!! this post of mine is rlly similar actually! cw choking aheadd
service top dennis <33 him starting out with dominating you and slowly melting submission. having a laser focus on bringing you as much pleasure as he can. he’s willing to hurt you for it too, only because you asked so sweetly. he didn’t think he’d be into being rough with you at the beginning, but once he started it became hard for him to stop.
yes, he loves your soft sighs and your hands that lightly tyg at his hair, pulling him into a kiss when he’s making love to you. but god, he loves watching you lose your mind — nails scratching at his back, holding onto him for dear life. your eyes squeezed shut n mouth agape, crying out because he just fucks you so good.
having dennis groan into your neck and double his efforts when you say yeah, denny. you’re such a good boy, your own voice wavering from the strength of his thrusts. he won’t stop till he makes you squirt on his cock btw.
and if you don’t reply, he’ll wrap his fingers around your neck and squeeze to call for your attention. talk to me, honey. a-am i not doing good? as he slows his thrusts. he’s suchh a tease, he knows exactly what he’s doing :(
18+ mdni ♡ A/N: Gorgeous summertime day and i’m thinking about picnicking with boyfriend!Dunk…this reads a little modern because i only decided several paragraphs in to keep it in-universe #sorry. Maybe it's easy to procure and preserve cucumbers in Westeros who knows. i got a little lost in the sauce so this is technically too long to be a drabble but it feels right so i'm calling it that anyway <3
p.s. Summer Camp AU has slowed bc im on an impromptu holiday but fear not...she stays on my mind BAD and we are still very much open for business
Sitting beside a giant oak tree, listening to Egg ramble about the new sword tricks he’s learning and staring up at the clouds. You have to peer through the tree’s branches, its verdant leaves swaying in the breeze, and soon Egg is up and scrambling to show off. The sword in question is a little wooden thing, hand-crafted by Dunk in a single evening with a few snapped-off slabs of campfire kindling.
He jumps and slices and twirls around in the grass, while you and Dunk sit eating in content silence. His homemade cucumber sandwiches crunch between your teeth and your homemade lemonade cools down your throats. Egg squeals with laughter and runs off a little further, fascinated by an especially large dragonfly.
“Seven knows how he has all that energy,” Dunk says, chuckling and leaning back on his hands.
“Ah, sweet youth,” you joke.
He smiles a little harder and shakes his head, taking another sip of lemonade. When you’re done eating, you stretch yourself out on Dunk’s cloak, laid out like a blanket. As you stretch, you feel his eyes on you, tracking each movement as if there’ll be a test later.
“You’re staring, Ser.”
He lets your words hang in the air for a moment, watching as a cheeky smile grows on your lips, then nudging you with his foot. “I am.”
“Like what you see?”
Instead of responding with words, he lowers himself over you. He hovers over your lips. “Always, m’lady.”
You hum through a satisfied sigh and let your eyes slide shut. Still leaning over you, Dunk gives you a slow kiss, shuffles to lay by your side.
“You–” he clears his throat, “you’ll be wanting to go home soon, I imagine.”
Though your brow furrows, you keep your eyes closed. “I haven’t thought about going anywhere. I haven’t anywhere to go.”
“Of course, but–” Again, Dunk stumbles. You feel him shift against your arm. “You’ll be wanting somewhere.”
“Oh?”
Eventually, when he can’t lay still, he just sits up. His shadow laves half your body in cool, while the other half continues to practically melt.
“I don’t want you to leave, of course, it’s just–” When you open your eyes, he’s hugging his knees and frowning into the distance. He could be wondering after Egg or stalling, but it feels like a while before he keeps talking. “You’re a lady.”
“Of this, Ser, I am aware.”
“You don’t–You don’t complain but me and Egg can’t be your ideal travel partners.”
“And why not?” You sit up on your elbow, doing your best to look stern as you turn your head up to face him. In the sun, his skin shimmers with a sheen of sweat and the tension in his jaw is making him look especially rugged. He’s just so nervous. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
“You suppose right.”
“Only, I’d like–” He cuts himself off again to gesture vaguely at the air. “I imagine you’d like to be…to have a little more than all this.”
“I happen to think ‘all this’ is very nice,” you say, settling down on your back again. “Thank you very much.”
“It’s not, though.”
Shielding your eyes again, you squint up at him. “What?”
“It’s alright for the likes of me but…I’d like to give you more. Much more.”
“Dunk, you’ve given me plenty more than I could ever even ask for.”
“I’d like to give you more, that’s all.” He sighs, settles back on his hands and lets his head fall back. For a moment he gets distant again, tilting his head at the sprawling, high grass and towering trees. “It can’t be easy, being married to a knight. Ser Arlan…I’m not sure he was ever in love.”
The silence comes back and both of you let it sit, still just as easy and comfortable as before. Waves of cool air whistle through the trees, the grass, your clothes. As he realises what he just said, Dunk’s entire body flushes deep pink and he has to fan his shirt at the collar, before giving in to the heat entirely and pulling it over his head. Of course now, he seems even more embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact.
You want to comfort him and insist you are certainly not complaining, but you’re too busy trying to stifle giddy giggles at the mere sight of him. Broad, thick, with a fine tangle of copper hairs sprawling across his chest. Your own body swells with heat and fighting an inevitably losing battle with your self discipline, you lift your arms and grab at the air until he’s back on top of you. There are more pressing matters than your perpetual lust for your big, gorgeous Dunk, but with the weight and his heat, that’s easy to forget.
His tongue slides over yours the very moment he kisses you, both of you eager and pent up in this dreamy, sweltering weather. When your fingers wind into his hair, it’s already a little damp with sweat. Only when he’s grunting gently and totally disarmed do you feel in control enough to ask it, right into his mouth.
“Being married to a knight, hm?”
He doesn’t even hesitate, just nods against your neck as his teeth graze over your collarbone. It takes your giggling to break him out of his trance and he stills, realising what he’s just insinuated for a second time.
“M–m’lady.” He hurriedly pushes off you, looking down stunned when your grip on his biceps tightens. Even though he lets you pull him closer, he whispers frantically. “What if Egg comes back?”
“He won’t,” you giggle. “He’s never done gallivanting before dinner.”
Anxiety is still nestled into his features, his breath short and his round, boyish baby blues wide. Shaking your head, you giggle some more, pulling him back towards your lips.
“We can talk about it later, if you wish.”
He mutters your name, apparently in resistance, even as his posture melts against your body and his hand clutches at your waist. “We should…Mm.”
“We will,” you say into his mouth. His lips taste of sugar and citrus and your legs wrap instinctively around his hips and pretty soon, neither of you can remember what it is you’re supposedly meant to be doing.
The sun continues to blaze and birdsong chirps in the branches overhead. Eventually, Egg does come back and just as you predicted, it’s only to be right on time to sit around the fire and dig into whatever scarce meal you and Dunk have managed to scrounge together. Lit by the flames, Dunk’s hair glows like their embers, and as he laughs at the fitful recap of Egg’s day, his eyebags crease and bunch. Your stomach is full, your heart is full, and somehow, seemingly more than you do him, your knight loves you. It’s not much but to you, it’s perfect.
♡ A/N: Secret sweetheart Counselor!Aerion everybody...my man my man my man my baby my baby | Summer Camp AU masterlist
Aerion rolls his eyes when people respond to him like a 90s movie cliche, but then he can’t stop being that cliche. The pierced and tattooed goth kid who only smiles at misfortune and in bad weather. Mouthy rich kid roughing it in the sticks and completely out of his depth. Playboy who only wants what he can’t have.
There’s no reason you shouldn’t be wrapped right around his little finger. Aerion puts it down to the stench of bad luck that’s been clinging to him since he took his first hit of cocaine. Even when he got sober (the first time), things that should’ve been easy just weren’t. For years, sure things have been making left turns, unbreakable truths have been falling apart in his hands. He’s started having to try when he wants things.
Now, he’s not on some eat, pray, love shit. There have been no ghosts of Christmas past, or future, or whatever the fuck. It’s just that–He came here, he saw you and he knew he had to have you. As far as he’s concerned, you’re already his. All he’s waiting for is you to catch up, and he knows better than to rush. He’s an animal of prey, a hunter; the kill is sweeter when he’s earned it. That, and he’s met your kind before. If he pushes, you won’t fall and in fact, might use the momentum to take off so far in the opposite direction, all he’ll have at the end of this summer are lofty daydreams and an unsated libido.
So, he’s trying.
Back when he was trading all his bad habits for only slightly better ones, he rediscovered a raging sweet tooth. Apparently, the itch he began soothing with binge drinking in his teenage years, can just as easily be solved with sugar. It means he carries around five packs of gum, a bundle of lollipops and a fizzy drink at all times. He has the kind of diet that makes gym rats like Dunk drop their jaws. You, however, don’t seem to mind.
Of course, neither do the kids, which means he has to be quadruple-stocked at all times, because if they catch him unwrapping a bar of chocolate, they know they can irritate their way into a share of his sugary spoils. Or, it’ll be especially hot, they’ll have been especially well behaved. Whatever, maybe he's easily convinced but it does still take convincing. The only person who gets it for free is you.
With lollipops fanned between his fingers like playing cards, he’ll ask, “Want one?” and feel his lips twitch upwards at how easy it is to get you to smile. He makes sure to turn up the chivalry if there are other counselors around. Even if it’s only small, he likes staking his claim on you. Look, he imagines the action says, I provide. Your beaming smile and the way you thank him, perpetually stunned and shy despite a whole summer of these little favours.
It occurs to him that if it was any harder to impress you, he wouldn’t bother. Like this, it’s so worth the effort that he’s constantly looking for ways to one-up himself. He saves you marshmallows at campfires, makes sure he’s the first to bend down when your laces come undone, and that he’s always close enough on forest walks that he can pluck stray leaves from your hair. Though, of course it’s easy, he thinks. You’re already his.
18+ mdni ♡ A/N: Counselor!Aerion in the arts cabin AKA men will do anything except go to therapy or tell their crush they have feelings for them | Summer Camp AU masterlist
This play was fucking Tanselle’s idea and yet look who’s actually here, actually working. Aerion’s never going to let anyone tell him he’s lazy again. His hands ache from all the wrangling cardboard and papier mache-ing. The room stinks of acrylic paint. Syrupy rays of sunlight stream through the windows, in big yellow slats that swirl with dust whenever he moves and barely seem to alleviate the heavy shadows that cling to the art cabin’s walls like wallpaper. Aerion refuses to switch the light on because the second it gets dark, he’s giving up.
When the door opens he doesn’t even notice. Muffled footsteps just about break through his focus and then there you are, standing over him with a smile. He can’t decide whether it’s friendly or mocking.
“Yes?”
You offer to help and he scoffs. As you’re sitting down, he insists that no, really, he’s fine. The bench creaks beneath you as you make yourself comfortable and peel an old, chipped-off bit of wood right by your thigh and Aerion wants to say that surely you’d rather spend the night with Valarr, or Dunk, or literally anybody else. What he can’t quite bring himself to say is that the quiet in here is the first time in years that solitude hasn’t felt like a punishment. He’s in here, building a papier mache dragon, and discovering what hippies mean when they recommend meditation. It’s humiliating.
It’s also far too much work for one person to take on alone, which you tell him as you scrunch and fold bunches of tissue papers into wonky flowers. If you weren’t doing such a good job, he’d argue. Actually, he does argue, but you just keep laughing and eventually, he wants that quiet back.
Somehow, in a move he can attribute only to your surely malintentioned distraction, he stays until it gets dark. It's hot and thick, still syrupy. He looks up and finds you peeling glue-soaked tissue paper from your fingers, and something confusing and totally all-consuming lurches in his chest. Part of him thinks he might cry and then, thank God, you yawn.
“Get out.”
You look up, already wearing your teasing half-smile. “What’d I do now?”
“You’re tired.” He shrugs, tries not to gag when he screws open the silver paint and gets to work adding highlights to his dragon’s scales.
“Aren’t you? We’ll finish earlier if I stay.”
Despite himself, he folds without being pressed even a little. “Suit yourself. But no talking.”
“Alright, officer. Can I ask why?”
He shrugs again. “I’m tired.”
The half smile grows fuller and only gets more teasing. Aerion feels a swelling in his chest that grows so broad, so fast, he’s afraid his ribcage will pop right open. For a second, he thinks he can’t breathe, but then you swing open a window and he realises it was only all the paint fumes in the room. Your shorts ride up as you lift your legs up to cross them and desire stirs in the pit of Aerion’s stomach. It dries his mouth out, it makes his head go somehow even quieter.
Before he even knows what’s happening, his eyelids are drooping and he’s still painting, but the sunlight pouring in is pale, watery and dawn-yellow. You're fast asleep, slumped on the table, an orange tissue paper tulip plastered on your cheek. Aerion reaches to peel it off you–he can’t afford to waste a prop–and finds himself merely tracing his fingers lightly along your face. His breath hitches as if you’ve woken up, and then he swiftly stumbles out of the arts’ cabin, burning up all over and cradling his hand as if the fingers have just been sliced off. Outside, in the dewy, cloudless half-light, he catches his breath and decides to head for an early, solo breakfast. For hours, apart from his own breathing and dull steps wandering around, it’s so, so quiet.
