authors note: felt like being a lil teasing shit to ser duncan so i made this! i hope you enjoyed! i wrote this on my phone while on the train.
another authors note: i don't how to fill spaces between dialogue that's happening rapidly. like both characters going back and forth. so yeah—
the wind was awful that night.
it kept throwing itself at the shutters hard enough to make the whole little inn room creak, and every now and then a draft slipped in through the cracks, sharp enough to make you tug the blanket higher over yourself.
the fire in the hearth had burned low a while ago. now it barely gave any heat at all, just a dull orange glow that did more for the shadows than for the cold.
across the room, dunk sat in the poor little chair near the hearth, all knees and shoulders and too much man for too little furniture. one long leg was stretched out, the other bent awkwardly, and every time he shifted the chair gave a warning groan beneath him.
you watched him over the edge of the blanket for a moment.
he was pretending not to stare at you.
it was not a very good effort.
a smile tugged at your mouth. “you look miserable.”
dunk’s head turned at once, his brow already drawing together. “i ain’t miserable.”
you settled a little deeper into the bed, watching him with far too much amusement. “you are.”
“ain’t.”
“then you only look like you’re suffering terribly.”
that earned a quiet huff from him. he leaned back a touch in the chair, though there was nowhere for a man his size to go, and rubbed one rough hand over the back of his neck. “this room’s cold.”
“mm,” you said, glancing once toward the useless hearth. “and yet somehow i endure.”
dunk gave you a look at that. a real one. stern enough that it might have worked on someone else.
on you, it only made the smile grow.
“poor ser duncan,” you murmured. “brought low by a weak fire and a stingy innkeeper.”
“it is a weak fire,” he muttered.
you pulled the blanket closer around your shoulders. “should i pray for you?”
his mouth twitched then. just a little. “you’re making fun.”
“a little,” you admitted.
another hard gust battered the shutters, and the whole room seemed to shiver with it. you tucked your cold hands beneath the blanket, but when you glanced back over, dunk was already looking at you again.
you caught him at it.
his gaze flicked away so quick it might’ve been funny if he weren’t so bad at hiding it.
“you keep looking over here,” you said.
dunk frowned down at the floorboards. “only because you keep talking.”
you smiled into the blanket. “oh, is that why?”
“aye,” he said, but the color creeping into his ears betrayed him at once.
you tilted your head, studying him with open interest now. “not because you want to come over here?”
his head snapped back toward you, and for a second he only stared.
“i never said that,” he answered, far too gruffly.
you shifted onto your side, propping your head in your hand as you looked at him. “you didn’t have to.”
dunk muttered something under his breath and looked away again, broad shoulders going tight beneath his tunic.
it was very hard not to enjoy yourself.
“if you wanted to share the bed, ser,” you said sweetly, “you could simply ask.”
his jaw worked once before he answered. “i wasn’t asking.”
“no?”
“no.”
you watched him for another second, taking in the stubborn set of his mouth, the way his hand stayed at the back of his neck like he could rub the awkwardness right out of himself.
“then what are you doing?” you asked.
for a moment he said nothing at all.
the wind howled again. the candle flame trembled. somewhere downstairs a door slammed, then all went quiet save for the storm.
at last dunk cleared his throat. “it’d be warmer.”
you blinked up at him, all false innocence. “the room?”
his frown deepened. “the bed.”
“would it?”
“aye.”
you nodded solemnly, as if considering some grave matter. “how interesting.”
he eyed you now, suspicion plain across his face. “why’s that interesting?”
“because,” you said, tracing a finger idly along the edge of the blanket, “it sounds very much like you are asking.”
“i’m not asking,” he said again, though there was less conviction in it now.
“mm.”
dunk shifted in the chair, and it gave another miserable creak. “i’m only saying.”
“saying what?”
his eyes cut toward the bed, then toward you, then away again before he could get caught. “that two people in a bed keep more warmth than one.”
you nodded once more, as grave as a septa. “a remarkable discovery.”
that pulled a noise out of him, low and half exasperated. “you know what i mean.”
“do i?”
he dragged a hand down over his face. “you’re wicked tonight.”
“and you’re shy tonight.” you retorted
his hand dropped at once. “i ain’t shy.”
you smiled. “you are a little.”
“ m'not.”
“dunk,” you said softly, “you’ve looked at this bed half the night.”
he muttered something again, too low to catch.
you lifted your brows. “what was that?”
“nothing.”
“was it a prayer?” you say teasingly.
his mouth twitched before he could stop it. “no.”
“a plea for mercy?” you continued
that got a snort from him, and he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs now. in the low firelight he looked all broad hands and bent head and too much feeling trying very hard not to show itself.
“you’ve got no mercy,” he said.
“not when you’re making this so easy.”
he looked up at that.
really looked up.
there was something so open in his face for half a heartbeat that it nearly took the teasing right out of you. not hurt. not anger. just that earnestness of his, plain as day, always making him easier to read than he knew.
then it was gone again, tucked away beneath another quiet frown.
“it’s cold,” he said, as though that settled every matter.
you smiled. “so you’ve said.”
“and that blanket’s thin.”
you glanced down at it. “it is.”
“and if you freeze in the night,” he continued, voice rougher now, “then i’ll have to hear you complain tomorrow.”
you couldn’t help the grin that broke loose at that. “oh, so this is for your comfort.”
“partly.”
you pounced at once. “partly?”
he seemed to regret the word the moment it left his mouth.
“what’s the other part?” you asked.
and dunk hesitated.
his fingers flexed once against his knee. then again.
when he finally spoke, his voice had gone quieter.
“i’d sleep easier, is all.”
something in you softened at once.
you kept your voice light anyway. “would you?”
he gave a single nod, not quite meeting your eyes now. “when i know you’re warm.”
that one landed right in the middle of you.
you had to look away for a moment, pretending to fuss with the blanket just so he would not see it written plain across your face.
still, after a beat, you looked back at him and said, “that is a very noble excuse.”
his brow lifted. “it ain’t an excuse.”
“no?”
“no.” he shifted again, then added more stubbornly, “it’s true.”
you smiled a little. “and if i were already warm?”
his eyes met yours then.
there was a pause. long enough to feel it.
“then,” he said slowly, “i suppose i’d have to check.”
the laugh left you before you could stop it, bright and warm in the little room.
dunk’s whole face changed at the sound of it. softened. eased.
gods, he always did that.
you drew your knees up beneath the blanket and looked at him with open mischief. “ser duncan, are you trying to talk your way into cuddling me?”
that near killed him dead.
his shoulders went tight at once, and his ears turned properly red now. “i never said cuddling.”
“you meant it.”
“i did not.”
“you did.”
he sat there staring at you, caught between indignation and embarrassment, and somehow managed to look both wounded and guilty at once.
you bit back a smile. “you said warm.”
“aye.”
“with your arms around me.”
his mouth opened.
then shut again.
you tilted your head. “very suspicious.”
“you make everything worse,” he muttered.
“for you, maybe.”
“for me exactly.”
you laughed softly and shifted, lifting the edge of the blanket just a little. “then come here and suffer properly.”
the words had barely left you when he went still.
there it was again, that startled look. not because he did not want it. because he did. and some part of him still never expected to be welcomed so easily.
it turned your teasing gentle.
“come on,” you said, quieter now. “before that chair breaks beneath you.”
his mouth twitched. after a moment he pushed himself up from the chair in one smooth motion, and somehow the room felt even smaller when he stood. he crossed to the bed slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind, then sat at the very edge of the mattress.
the whole thing dipped under his weight.
and still, somehow, he left a careful stretch of space between you.
you stared at it for a second, then looked up at him. “that’s hardly cuddling.”
dunk glanced down at the gap as if only just noticing it. “i’m in the bed, ain’t i?”
“yes,” you said, holding back a smile, “like a man awaiting judgment.”
his mouth twitched again. “well. i am.”
you shifted closer by an inch, watching him from beneath your lashes. “for what crime?”
he looked at you then, and whatever teasing answer you expected never came.
instead he said, very quietly, “wanting too much.”
it stole your breath.
for half a second all you could do was look at him.
then, before he could regret saying it, before he could pull away into himself again, you crossed the space between you and tucked yourself against his side beneath the blanket.
dunk sucked in a breath so sharply you felt it.
his arm came around you slowly at first, careful as if he thought he might frighten you off. then the other followed, drawing the blanket over both of you, until you were properly folded into the warmth of him.
his chest was broad and solid beneath your cheek, warmer than the bed, warmer than the room, warmer than anything else that night.
you smiled and settled closer. “there,” you murmured. “that’s better.”
his voice came low above you. “aye.”
you tipped your face just enough to look up at him. “warmer?”
his hand spread wide against your back. “much.”
“for me or for you?”
at that, his arm tightened just a little.
“both,” he admitted.
you smiled against him. “ah. so you admit it now.”
“didn’t say you were right.”
“you didn’t have to.”
he made a sound then, something halfway between a laugh and a groan, and ducked his head a little as if he could hide his smile in your hair.
outside, the wind beat harder against the shutters, but tucked against him now, you hardly noticed it.
dunk shifted just enough to settle you more comfortably against him, one hand rubbing slow once down your back before going still again. absent. soothing. the sort of touch that made your chest ache because he did it without thinking.
“you really were making excuses,” you said softly.
he looked down at you, his face still pink around the ears, his eyes gentler now than they had been all evening. “maybe i was.”
you lifted your brows. “just a little?”
“maybe.”
“and here i thought you were being noble.”
that earned a faint smile from him, small and crooked and terribly fond. “can’t i be both?”
you laughed under your breath. “not when you look this pleased with yourself.”
“i do not.”
“you do,” you said, smiling wider when he frowned.
he tipped his chin down toward the top of your head. “you’re the only one smiling.”
“because i’m warm.”
his hand moved over your back again, slow and broad. “because you like tormenting me.”
you tucked yourself closer just to make his breath catch. “that too.”
this time the laugh really did leave him, quiet and rough and close enough that you felt it more than heard it.
for a little while after that, neither of you spoke.
the room stayed cold everywhere beyond the blanket. the storm went on outside. the candle guttered lower. but none of it seemed to matter with dunk’s arms around you, with his warmth wrapped all along your side, with the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your cheek.
eventually he tipped his chin lightly against the top of your head.
“you comfortable?” he asked.
you nodded against him. “very.”
“good.”
his voice was soft with it. satisfied.
you let the quiet stretch for a moment longer, then asked, “and you?”
he was silent just long enough for you to smile.
then his arm tightened around you, gentle but certain, and his mouth brushed the top of your hair, not quite a kiss, near enough to one.
“aye,” he said. “better now.”
you smiled into his chest. “because the bed is warmer?”
there was a pause.
then, so quietly you almost missed it, “because you’re here.”
that one got you.
you pressed a little closer to hide it, but dunk must have known exactly why, because his hand moved over your back again, slow and tender.
“don’t start being sweet now,” you murmured.
his chest shifted beneath your cheek with a laugh too small to be called one. “why not?”
“because i was winning.”
his chin rested a little more fully atop your head.
“no,” he said softly. “i think i was.”
and when the wind howled harder outside, dunk only held you closer, like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to do it.
aerion sat at his desk, the only light in his dark room cast by the muted blue glow of his computer screen.
he had spent the last two hours working through a stack of internal reports his father wanted reviewed before morning, all tied to three prospective acquisitions under targaryen capital. forecast models, valuation notes, risk summaries. usually he could force his way through the numbers. tonight, they only made his headache worse.
he glances at the clock, seeing 11:54pm, and he knows he fucked up.
there has been a rule in place ever since whatever this is had started.
that the three of you would at least share one meal together. breakfast, lunch, dinner, or even a quick snack or a drink. regardless of what it was, the three of you agreed to have it together.
“it’s for quality time,” you had said one evening. for once, dunk and aerion were home at the same time. “i want to spend time where it’s just us three.” you glanced up shyly at the two of them. “this is new, yes. but...” you continued, your words dragging out. “it’d be nice to...”
the memory fades quickly as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes stinging from staring at the screen too long.
he hears commotion in the kitchen, followed by a few rushed shushes.
“dunk, be quiet,” he hears you whisper, more like yell.
“m’sorry, love,” he hears dunk grunt.
“aerion is working in there. don’t know what it is, but we ought to be quiet,” you continue.
and aerion can already picture dunk in his mind. wide blue eyes. stiff and tall in the middle of the kitchen with gods know what in his hands.
aerion stands then, long arms stretching up toward the ceiling, his shirt riding up over his navel.
“was thinking about adding some browned butter,” he hears you say, followed by dunk’s excited reaction.
“what that?” dunk asks.
“where you brown the butter. on the stove, adds a nutty flavor innit” you explain.
“i think aerion would like that. i’d like that too,” dunk says, and aerion can hear the soft giggle that escapes your mouth.
he smiles to himself before quickly shaking off the feeling.
he opens the door with a creak, and he hears the two of you go still.
his eyes dart forward. the living room is dark, but the kitchen light is dim, lit only by a few lamps.
“aerion,” you say, turning to look at him, something soft and fond all over your face.
for a moment, he just stands there by the doorway, one hand still curled around the knob.
you look pretty like this.
hair a little messy, sleep shirt loose on your frame, the kitchen warm behind you. dunk stands beside the counter, big and broad and half in the way, holding a bag of flour like he’s been trusted with something delicate and has no clue what to do with it.
aerion lets out a slow breath through his nose.
“thought you two were meant to be quiet.”
your mouth twitches at that, a smile threatening.
“we were.”
“were,” he repeats dryly, eyes shifting to dunk.
dunk only shrugs, all big shoulders and no shame. “tried.”
“you did not,” you mutter.
“did too.”
aerion huffs something that could almost pass for a laugh, then drags a hand down his face. gods. even that hurts.
you notice it at once, of course you do. your expression changes, softening even more as you step toward him.
“you okay?”
such a simple question. one that should be easy enough to answer.
instead, aerion just looks at you, then away. “fine.”
you give him a look.
dunk does too, though his is more obvious. more blunt. brows pulling together as he squints at aerion from across the kitchen like the answer has personally offended him.
“you look awful,” dunk says.
you turn to him. “dunk.”
“what?” he says, blinking. “he does.”
aerion glares, though there’s not much force behind it. “always a pleasure.”
“just tellin’ the truth.”
“that has never once made you charming.”
dunk grins at that, wide and easy, and it does something unpleasant to the tightness in aerion’s chest. or maybe pleasant. he’s too tired to know the difference anymore.
you step closer still, close enough now that aerion can smell the faint sweetness clinging to your skin. vanilla, maybe. or whatever lotion you use before bed.
“did you eat?” you ask quietly.
and there it is.
the question that makes his jaw tense.
because no, he didn’t.
because that stupid rule had been made for a reason, and he had still let the night get away from him.
because the clock had read 11:54 and he had sat there like some fucking idiot staring at numbers instead of getting up. instead of coming out. instead of choosing this.
your eyes flick over his face, and he knows you already have your answer.
“aerion,” you murmur.
he exhales, annoyed now, though mostly at himself. “i lost track of time.”
dunk makes a low sound in his throat. not quite a hum. not quite disappointment. just something heavy and knowing.
“that’s not eating,” he says.
“thank you, dunk. that insight was invaluable.”
you almost smile at that, but it fades quickly.
“we waited,” you say.
and that one lands.
hard.
aerion’s gaze lifts back to yours. “you shouldn’t have.”
“wanted to,” dunk says simply.
that makes something in him twist.
because of course you did.
of course the two of you had stayed up in this warm kitchen under dim lights, flour on the counter, talking in hushed voices and waiting for him. like this was easy. like he was someone worth waiting on.
his throat feels tight all of a sudden.
you must see something shift in him, because your voice softens. “we were gonna make cookies.”
“i gathered that.”
“you can still have some,” dunk offers, as if this is a serious consolation. “raw or baked.”
you snort softly. “don’t offer him raw dough like that’s a proper meal.”
“could be.”
“for you, maybe.”
dunk looks at aerion then, earnest in that way only he can be. “we can make somethin’ else.”
aerion stares at him.
there is flour on dunk’s shirt. a smear of something dark near his wrist, maybe melted chocolate. he looks ridiculous. huge and solid in the middle of your kitchen, speaking like it is the simplest thing in the world to start over this late at night just because aerion forgot to eat.
and gods help him, but the sight of it makes the ache behind his eyes ease, just a little.
“you don’t have to do that,” aerion says, quieter now.
“know that,” you reply. “still want to.”
the room falls silent after that.
not awkward. not strained.
just full.
aerion looks between the two of you. at you standing there in your sleep clothes, all soft concern and sleepy affection. at dunk, still holding the flour bag like he’d fight a man with it if asked.
something warm curls low in his chest. something dangerous. something tender.
he hates how badly he wants to step into it.
instead, he says, “if i say yes, are you going to both stare at me like i’m dying the whole time?”
“probably,” you say.
“yeah,” dunk agrees.
aerion closes his eyes for a brief second, then lets out a tired breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“fine,” he mutters.
your whole face lights up.
dunk, pleased beyond reason, sets the flour down with a heavy thump. “knew he’d say yes.”
“you did not know that.” you reply a half second.
“did.”
aerion shakes his head, but he’s already moving, already being pulled in by the warmth of the kitchen and the softness of your voice and the quiet domestic mess of the two of you.
and maybe that was the real problem.
not the reports. not the hour. not even the headache splitting him clean through.
it was this.
how easily the two of you could make him forget himself.
hiii i was ur first anon!! chapter 1 of the modern!au was so fantastic and im so excited to see where it goes :)) i know you’ll build up both sides of their stories so well and do amazing for the next parts 🩷🩷🩷 thank u for sharing with us!
that means so much to me, you don't understand ;')
slowly building up the story! if you have anything you'd like me to write, pls don't be afraid to send them my way. i also have a few more one shots that will be published soon for our strong half man of a knight. <3333
YAAAAYYYYYY U JUST MADE ME JUMP UP AND DOWN THANK U FOR POSTING ITTT THANKUUU!!!!! Im the anon who asked about ur upcoming dunk stories and thank u for feeding me im looking forward to sososo much more of ur beautiful writing!!!! have a lovely lovely day!!!!!!❤️❤️❤️
you make my heart swell anonnn!!!! ;') if you have anything you'd like me to write then feel free to tell me!! i got a few more onshots in mind for our knight <3
summary: modern!akosk where trade school dunk and business major aerion needs a roommate. rowan, raymun's girlfriend, has a friend in mind.
warning: eventual three-way partnership, non so far? multi chapter, f!reader with curves and a belly. eventual sexual tension and smut but not yet so far. lots of dialogue
note: lots of dialogue and world building. trying to set the tone.
authors note: building it up slowly!! im a sucker for slow burn. thinking about putting it out on ao3, whatcha think?
gods help you.
you sat stiffly on the large couch in the living room, hands tucked between your knees as you looked around the apartment properly for the first time.
there was a large entertainment system mounted in front of you, sleek and far too nice for the sort of place you'd been expecting. soft lights glowed behind it, shifting faintly against the wall.
aerion had explained, with that look on his face like you ought to already know this, that when they watched films, the lights changed with whatever was on screen. matching colors. setting the mood, apparently.
beneath your toes, a dark green rug spread across the floor, thick and fuzzy enough that your feet sank into it a little. a brown wooden coffee table sat in the middle, scarred just enough to keep the room from feeling too polished.
the whole place felt like both of them at once.
there were little signs of dunk in the heavier things. the solid coffee table, the worn leather basket tucked beside the sofa with old blankets folded inside, the darker woods, the sturdier shapes. everything practical. everything like it had been picked to last.
and then there was aerion in the details. the lighting. the careful placement of books and candles on the shelves. the way the room looked put together without seeming cluttered, like every object had been told exactly where it belonged and obeyed.
not much, but it was there.
the kitchen opened just off the living room, all clean counters and warm overhead light. on one side sat a rather expensive-looking espresso machine beside an electric kettle, both so shiny and out of place they may as well have belonged to aerion by name alone.
dunk sat at the opposite end of the sofa, posture straight, shoulders a little tense, his eyes fixed on aerion as he went on about the rules of the house. he looked too awkward to interrupt, like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find where to fit it.
"right. you do your own laundry," aerion says, standing in the middle of the room with a mug in hand like he's presiding over some sort of council meeting. rowan and raymun had disappeared down the hall with your bags, leaving you alone for this part of it. "dunk and i have designated days. mine is friday. dunk's is saturday."
you blink at him.
right. designated days.
"we do a grocery shop once a month," he continues, taking a small sip from his mug. his sharp jaw flexes as he swallows. "together. we buy the usual things for the house and split the bill evenly. if you'd like anything specific beyond that, you're welcome to buy your own snacks separately."
you nod slowly, hands folded in your lap.
"you'll pay your portion of the rent to me on the fifth day of every month," he says. "if you're going to be late, that is fine, but i expect you to tell me early."
his eyes sharpen slightly when he says it, like that part matters more than the money itself.
"he'll mope if you don't," dunk murmurs, leaning just a little in your direction. "he's a bit bossy, that one."
you try to hide your smile. really, you do.
aerion ignores him with the ease of someone long used to it.
"dunk works night shifts most of the time," he says, starting toward the massive windows at the far end of the room. "occasionally he'll have a day shift, but not often."
from where you sit, you can see more of the apartment now. the living room opened right into the kitchen, separated only by a long island counter with two barstools tucked neatly beneath it. the counters were dark stone, clean enough to gleam beneath the warm pendant lights overhead. a dish towel was folded over the sink, too neat to be dunk's work, but there was a pair of heavy boots by the door and a dark jacket thrown over one of the dining chairs that gave him away elsewhere.
beyond aerion, the windows stretched wide and tall, showing off the city below in scattered gold and white. cars crawled slowly down the street far beneath you, their headlights glinting through the glass. one whole wall beside him had been turned into shelving. books, mostly, but not only books. records stacked on the lower shelves, a speaker tucked into one corner, framed prints, one candle, two healthy-looking plants, and a bowl by the entrance where keys and loose coins had been tossed. everything looked curated, but not untouched. lived in, just carefully.
the place looked too put together to belong to two men and too lived in to belong to only one.
everywhere you looked, the apartment split itself between them.
aerion in the details. dunk in the weight of it.
"i work entirely online," aerion continues. "meetings during the day, calls, reports, the usual. occasionally i go out if i have to, but most times i'm here. so keep the volume to a minimum during working hours."
past the kitchen was the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. one door stood half open, showing the edge of a bed and a dark navy comforter. another was shut completely. yours sat at the end, still open from where rowan and raymun had carried your bags inside, the dim shape of black trash bags just barely visible from where you sat.
you shift a little, toes curling into the soft rug beneath your feet.
"do you have these written down somewhere," you ask lightly, trying not to smile, "or should i just hope i remember all of them."
aerion glances at you over the rim of his mug.
"don't tempt me," he says. "i absolutely will."
that makes your mouth twitch.
"and one last thing," he says, straightening from the window at last and looking between you and dunk.
you already know you're not going to like whatever comes next.
"never bring someone home. and if you have to. tell us."
there's a beat of silence.
"we are all human, we all have needs," he says flatly, as if this is a perfectly reasonable thing to announce in the living room. "but i do not need to hear anyone fucking at odd hours of the day or in the wee hours of night. for fuck's sake. give us a warning or somthin'. "
you nearly choke trying to hold back your laugh.
beside you, dunk shifts, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
"that's mostly for raymun when he visits," he mutters.
"it is for everyone," aerion says at once.
you clear your throat, trying very hard to look normal. "anything else?"
aerion glances at you.
"yes, actually."
beside you, dunk lets out a quiet sigh, like he'd expected that answer.
"no dishes left in the sink overnight," aerion says. "wipe down the counters if you make a mess. lock the door if you're the last one in. and for the love of the gods, if you finish the coffee, say something."
that one catches you off guard.
your eyes flick toward the expensive espresso machine sitting on the kitchen counter, all polished steel and quiet intimidation, then back to him.
"noted." you say.
"good."
"he says that," dunk murmurs, low enough that it almost gets lost in the room, "but he's worse about the coffee than anyone."
aerion turns his head. "because i am the only one here who knows how to make it properly."
rowan and raymun come back a moment later, brushing past the hallway with the last of your things finally put away. from what little you'd seen, your room had a wooden desk beneath the window and a low set of drawers against one wall. sparse, but not bare.
"alright, love. all set," rowan says, plopping down beside you on the couch.
the cushions dip under her weight, and you don't miss the way aerion's jaw tightens at the sudden movement, like even that small disruption unsettles something in him.
"hey, half man," raymun says warmly, going straight for dunk, who barely has time to brace before raymun's pulling him into a one-armed hug.
"the issue now is your bed," rowan says, already reaching for your hand. her fingers slip through yours, warm and familiar. "i brought a bedroll from my camping things. it's not much, but it'll be softer than the floor until we figure the rest out."
something in your stomach drops.
a bedroll.
gods.
"you didn't have to do that," you say quietly, though the words come out thin, shame already settling heavy in your chest.
"absolutely not," aerion says.
he sets his mug down against the wooden coffee table with a quiet clink before lowering himself into the leather chair by the window, all sharp angles and controlled annoyance. it was one of those expensive-looking chairs that seemed more like a statement than furniture, dark leather curved over polished wood.
rowan turns so fast she nearly twists herself around on the couch. "excuse me?"
"it's temporary," rowan says, looking back at aerion, already irritated.
aerion doesn't answer her. he just reaches for his phone and starts scrolling, thumb moving with quick little flicks across the screen like the conversation is already over and he's the only one who knows it.
rowan rolls her eyes so hard it almost makes you smile.
"we can probably head up to Maiden Home tomorrow," she says, turning back to you and squeezing your hand. "see if there's a sale or something."
but you're already too far into your own head to really hear the rest.
a bed. a frame. a mattress. rent. groceries.
money.
the word sits ugly in your chest.
between tuition, your scholarship, and the pathetic little paychecks from the restaurant, there wasn't much room for anything extra. not after rent. not after food. not after life kept finding new ways to take and take and take. the thought of making them spend more on you made something heavy settle behind your ribs.
you don't realize how quiet you've gone until aerion speaks again.
"that won't be necessary."
you look up.
he's holding his phone out now, expression unreadable, the bright screen showing a completed order confirmation.
bed frame. mattress. delivery date.
already done.
"there," he says, far too calm about it. "my uncle owns Balerion House. i used the family discount."
there's something almost smug in the way he says it, like he's pleased to have solved the problem before anyone else could drag it out.
but then he looks at you properly.
at the way your shoulders have curled inward and the crease settled between your brows. the way your hand has gone still in rowan's.
and something in him shifts.
not much.
just enough to soften his edge.
"you can pay me back later," he says, a little less sharp now. "or not all at once. whatever works."
and duncan smiles at that, toothy grin and a knowing look. he coughs slightly as aeron shoots him a harsh glare and raymun chuckles in the back.
"i..." you start, already lost of words.
"you don't have to say thank you," dunk says at last.
he's got an arm still slung around raymun, the two of them stuck together like they always are, easy and family in a way that makes the room feel lest tight.
"just be good to the place," he continues, voice low and steady and he looks at you proper. "treat it like its yers."
something in your chest tights at his words.
yours
and dunks expression softens, just a little.
"we're peaceful' ere." he says quietly. "notin' to fret over."
you not, swallowing hard.
"okay."
rowan and raymun leave not long after, both of them hugging you tight at the door.
"call me if you need anything," rowan says, giving your shoulder a firm squeeze. "i mean it."
raymun stands just behind her, smiling easy.
"half man over there is good at building things," he says, jerking his chin toward dunk, who's gone slack and comfortable against the sofa now that the worst of it seems over.
"and aerion," he goes on, lowering his voice like he doesn't want him hearing this part, "aerion gets things done. don't ask me why, don't ask me how, but if he wants something sorted, it gets sorted."
your eyes flick toward aerion.
rowan leans in then, voice dropping to a whisper.
"he's a targaryen."
you look at her with wide eyes.
as if the pale blond hair and violet eyes had not already told you enough. but you don't say anything. just a soft whisper of goodbye.
the door shuts behind them a second later.
and just like that, the apartment goes quiet again.
not empty. not really. dunk is still there, stretched back into the couch, one arm thrown over the back of it, legs spread out like he belongs wherever he puts himself. aerion is by the chair again, phone still in hand, that expensive face of his lit by the screen for half a second before it goes dark.
still, it feels different.
rowan and raymun had filled up the place. all warmth and noise and easy touches and little jokes. now it's just the three of you.
you stand there by the door for a second too long, hand still lingering by the knob before you let it fall back to your side.
"well," you murmur, mostly to yourself.
aerion glances up first.
"the bed should be here by thursday," he says, like that's the most important thing to say right now. "delivery window says between ten and two."
you blink at him.
"okay."
he gives one short nod, already looking back at his phone. "i'll be here."
of course he will.
the silence stretches again, not awkward exactly. just new. unfamiliar. like the apartment itself is waiting to see what sort of shape you'll take inside it.
dunk is the one who breaks it.
"you hungry?" he asks.
you look over at him. "what?"
"hungry," he says again, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "raymun and rowan were in and out so much i don't reckon any of us really ate."
your stomach twists at that. from nerves maybe. or embarrassment. or because he's right.
you shrug one shoulder. "i'm okay."
dunk just looks at you.
not hard. not suspicious. just steady.
then he nods once, like he's heard the lie and decided not to press it yet.
"right," he says. "well. i'm makin' tea anyway."
he pushes himself up from the couch, big and slow and easy, and heads for the kitchen. you watch him go, the soft drag of his socks over the floor, the way he moves around the space without thinking about it. like the counters know his hands already. like the cupboards open for him on their own.
aerion sets his phone down on the arm of the chair.
"the mugs are in the cabinet above the kettle," he says, though dunk is already reaching for them. "and don't use the gold-rimmed ones. those were a gift."
dunk doesn't even turn around. "wasn't goin' to."
"good."
you look between them, and for a second, despite everything, despite the way your whole life is stuffed into black bags at the end of their hallway, something small in you loosens.
just a little.
you slip your shoes off by the door and step further into the apartment, the dark green rug soft under your feet. the room smells faintly like coffee still, and something warm from earlier, butter maybe, or toast. the city lights beyond the windows blink against the glass, gold and white and far below.
you don't really know where to stand.
so you stay half between the living room and kitchen, arms folding loosely across your stomach.
aerion notices, of course he does.
"if you're going to hover," he says, not looking at you, "at least sit down. you're making the whole place anxious."
your mouth parts a little.
then, before you can stop it, a laugh escapes you. short and quiet, but real.
aerion's eyes flick up then.
dunk glances back over his shoulder.
"see," dunk says, low and pleased with himself for some reason. "she can laugh."
you roll your eyes a little, but sit anyway. this time on one of the stools by the island.
the kitchen lights are warmer up close. they cast everything in this soft gold glow, glinting off the counters, the sink, the polished steel of that stupidly expensive espresso machine. the kettle sits by it, matte black, sleek enough to look decorative.
dunk fills it with water.
aerion watches him for all of five seconds before standing.
"move."
dunk looks over. "i know how to boil water."
"that isn't what worries me."
"what worries ye then?"
aerion doesn't answer that. he just brushes past him, reaching for a small tin near the back of the counter. "if we're making tea, at least make proper tea."
dunk steps aside with a muttered, "bossy."
you hear it.
so does aerion.
"and yet," he says coolly, opening the tin, "here you all are, benefiting from it."
you press your lips together, trying not to smile again.
the kettle clicks on. aerion moves around the kitchen like he's done this exact thing a hundred times, every gesture precise, every reach certain. dunk leans against the opposite side of the counter now, arms folded over his chest, watching with the sort of patient annoyance that says this is not new.
you wonder, not for the first time, what living with them has been like. what sort of shape their days take. how long they've been stepping around each other like this, sharp edges and soft ones, fitting anyway.
"you'll want the hot water running a minute before you shower," dunk says suddenly, looking at you. "takes time to warm up."
you nod. "okay."
"and the lock on your window sticks."
"a little," aerion corrects.
dunk looks at him. "it sticks."
aerion lifts one shoulder. "only if you force it the wrong way."
"which means it sticks."
you look down at your hands, folded too neatly in your lap.
the kettle starts to hum softly before it clicks off.
dunk reaches for the bread then, pulling a few slices from the bag and slipping them into the toaster like this had been the plan all along.
"you don't have to do all this," you say quietly.
dunk glances at you.
"didn't say we had to."
the toast pops up a moment later. he butters it while it's still hot, slow and easy, the butter melting right into the surface. he sets two pieces on a plate and slides it across the island toward you.
"eat."
your eyes drop to the plate.
then to your hands.
then back to the toast.
"i'm fine," you say, but weaker this time, and even you can hear how useless it sounds.
aerion doesn't look up from where he's pouring the water.
"clearly."
you glance at him.
he says it so flatly it almost circles back around into concern, though you know better than to call it that.
you take the plate anyway.
the heat of it settles into your palms.
"how do you take your tea?" aerion asks.
you look up, caught off guard.
"oh. anything is fine."
aerion pauses.
then slowly looks at you over the rim of the teapot like you've said something deeply irritating.
"no, it isn't."
your brows pull together. "it's tea."
"yes," he says. "and you take it some particular way."
you stare at him for a second.
dunk says nothing, but there's something almost amused in the way he watches the two of you.
"milk?" aerion asks. "sugar? honey? do you take it plain and awful?"
that pulls another small laugh from you before you can stop it.
"milk," you say. "and one sugar."
aerion gives one short nod, like finally, something sensible.
he fixes it without another word and slides the mug toward you across the counter.
"there."
you wrap your fingers around it carefully, the warmth almost too much all at once.
"thank you," you murmur.
this time neither of them tells you not to.
for a little while, the kitchen goes quiet again.
not bad quiet.
just the soft kind.
the kind made up of mugs against counters, the faint hum of the city outside, the occasional shift of dunk's weight where he leans, the way aerion taps one finger once against the handle of the kettle before going still again.
you take a bite of the toast.
warm. buttery. simple.
and for some reason, that nearly undoes you more than anything else.
because it had been so easy.
because no one made a thing of it.
because dunk had just slid the plate toward you like of course you were meant to eat too, and aerion had stood there arguing with you until you admitted how you liked your tea like your preferences mattered enough to pin down.
you stare down into the mug for a second too long.
"what," aerion says.
you blink up at him. "what?"
"you've got that look on your face again."
"what look." you say half a beat.
"the one where you're thinking too hard." aerion responds.
dunk huffs softly under his breath.
you shake your head and take another sip before answering.
"nothing."
aerion narrows his eyes a touch, like he doesn't believe you for a second.
"dangerous" he says, but his lips are stretched in a smug smirk.
dunk, mercifully, lets you hide in the silence for a little longer.
-
when the night settles and you find yourself standing in the middle of your new room, your new life, there comes a knock at the door.
"come in," you say softly.
the door creaks open and dunk peers inside, a pillow tucked beneath one arm.
"i figured, y'know," he says, jerking his head toward the bedroll laid out on the floor. "it might be a bit more comfortable."
his lips press into a shy little smile, his jaw flexing as he stands there in the doorway.
you look up at him then, really look.
his size catches you off guard all over again. the broad, solid shape of his chest, the thick strength of his arms, his height making the whole doorway seem smaller around him. for a second, you get a little lost in it.
you cough softly, shaking yourself from whatever that was.
"oh," you say, reaching out for the pillow.
your fingers brush his hand for only a second, soft against rough, and still you feel it.
"thank you," you say, quieter now. shyer.
dunk lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing there like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
for a few seconds, the room falls into that strange little silence again. not bad. just awkward. new.
then dunk shifts back a step and turns toward the door.
"goodnight," he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a small smile.
you hold the pillow a little closer to your chest.
warning: non, just fluff. shorter than my usual writing!
authors note: just been thinking about dunk and how your first kiss would go. my asks are open btw!!
another authors note: this is for my anon!!
gods, you just want to kiss him.
you’re seated near the fire, your bedroll beneath you and duncan to your right.
egg is a few feet ahead, snoring loud enough for the entire tourney to hear.
duncan is saying something to you, telling you the gossip he’s heard from raymun, but you can barely focus on a word of it.
not when the firelight catches against the hard lines of his face. not when his voice is low and rough and meant only for you. not when he is sitting so close that if you leaned even the slightest bit, your shoulder would brush his.
and gods, you want that too.
you’ve been having dreams.
dreams of his tough, rough, calloused hands against your soft skin.
the smell of him—earth and sweat and leather, something warm and wholly duncan—wrapping around you until even in sleep, you swear you can feel him.
and it is torture.
because now he sits beside you, close enough for the heat of him to drift your way, close enough that if you turned your head just slightly, your lips might brush the rough line of his jaw.
then he lets out a laugh, so natural and easy, his lips spreading into a genuine smile, his teeth showing.
“then raymun said—” he begins, adding emphasis with his hands as he speaks.
and gods.
that near does you in more than anything else.
because duncan does not laugh like that often. not so open, not so unguarded, not with that soft warmth in his face that makes him look younger somehow. gentler.
and all you can think is that you want to kiss that smile right off his face.
then he turns to you, gently leaning to the side and knocking his shoulder against yours when he notices how quiet you’ve been.
“fuck it,” you murmur, placing your hand on the bedroll for support as you lean forward. your eyes flutter closed before you press a soft, gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.
you pull back then, not wanting to see his reaction, not wanting to see some disappointed look on his face.
instead, you turn your head to stare at the elm tree beneath which you’d made camp.
for one horrible, endless moment, there is only silence.
even egg’s snoring seems to fade into the night.
your heart pounds so hard it feels painful now, your fingers curling into the bedroll beneath you as heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks. gods. gods, what had you done?
duncan says nothing.
and somehow that is worse.
you keep your eyes fixed on the elm tree, on the rough bark and the crooked branches stretching overhead, because if you look at him now and see confusion, or pity, or worse — nothing at all — you think you might truly die of embarrassment.
“did you mean to miss?”
his voice comes low and rough beside you.
your breath catches.
slowly, far too slowly, you turn your head back toward him. ears pink to the tips.
and duncan is looking at you in a way that makes your stomach twist.
his eyes are dark, fixed on your face, on your mouth, and there is something in them you have never seen so plainly before. something warm. something startled. something wanting.
“i—” you begin, but no words come.
duncan shifts then, turning more fully toward you. one of his hands comes down against the bedroll beside your leg, big and rough and steadying himself as though he too has forgotten how to breathe properly.
“ ’cause,” he says, voice even lower now, “if you meant to kiss me, i think you ought to do it proper.”
and seven kingdoms help you.
because all at once the air feels too thin, the fire too warm, his gaze too much and not enough all at once.
you stare at him.
duncan’s ears are bright pink but he does not look away.
not this time.
“proper?” you whisper.
his mouth twitches, almost a smile, though there is something unsteady in it. “aye.”
his eyes drop to your lips again.
“proper.”
and this time, when you lean toward him, duncan meets you halfway.
AAAAAAAA I LOVE UR DUNK SO MUCH😭😭😭😭 ur writing is just so lovely and so good and it has me kicking my feet! do u have anything else coming up for dunk?
HI ANNONNNN. TYSM!!!! and yes!! i have a series happening with dunk x reader and aerion x reader (eventual three way?). ive just written chapter 2 and it will up shortly! HOWEVER. I HAVE ONE WHERE YOU KISS DUNK FOR THE FIRST TIME. DO YOU WANT THAT? ITS SHORT BUT SWEET BUT DIDN'T THINK PPL WOULD LIKE IT?? how we feeling about pink ear dunk??
ok you know what im just gonna post it cause its JSUT SO STINKIN CUTE
hi!!! i just wanted to say that ur dunk fics are my favorite things ever. you write the tension so well and they’re just beautifully done !!! 🩷🩷
omg my first anon hi!!!! thank you soooo much for reading, like genuinely. for the room for one more modern fic im practicing tipping over the tension and just falling straight right in AHA. i love u anon <3
summary: modern!akosk where trade school dunk and business major aerion needs a roommate. rowan, raymun's girlfriend, has a friend in mind.
warning: eventual three-way partnership, non so far? multi chapter, f!reader with curves and a belly. eventual sexual tension and smut but not yet so far. lots of dialogue.
note: thought of this randomly. and im thinking it will be a multi situation
authors note: i need to practice writing building tension and eventual smut so this will be my practice.
"look, i love you, babe," rowan says from the toilet, panties still hanging at her ankles like this is somehow a normal conversation to be having right now.
"yeah, but you're kicking me out," you murmur around your toothbrush.
from the kitchen, raymun's cooking fills the apartment. the sizzle of the pan, the sound of a cabinet shutting, something warm and domestic that only makes your chest ache worse.
you pull the toothbrush from your mouth, one hand coming to rest on the edge of the sink as you stare at yourself in the mirror and sigh.
"i know, i know," you mutter. "you need your privacy and i've taken up too much time on your couch."
"no, babe. it's okay," rowan says, finishing on the toilet before standing and slipping her panties back on, her shirt falling down to her knees.
"you don't bother me," she says gently, settling beside you. "but i feel like you need your own space. your own area."
you had been staying in a studio with your shitty ass boyfriend. the same shitty ass boyfriend who cheated on you. again.
and this time, you'd had enough.
so with hot tears running down your face, you had stuffed your clothes and whatever else you could grab into black trash bags, hands shaking so hard you could barely tie them shut. then you called rowan in the middle of the night, crying so hard you could barely get the words out.
she and raymun came to get you.
by the time they arrived, you were sitting out on the cold concrete steps of the apartment building, arms wrapped around yourself, surrounded by trash bags full of your life.
rowan rubs your back now, slow and warm through your shirt.
"i know this isn't ideal," she says. "but raymun's friend is looking for someone. and his roommate too. they just got a place, three bedrooms. one room's empty."
you look at her through the mirror, tired, your face puffy from sleep and crying and too many days of pretending you're fine.
"two guys."
rowan rolls her eyes. "yes, two guys."
"absolutely not."
"oh my god." she says then rolls her eyes.
you turn back to the sink, spit into it, rinse your mouth, then set the toothbrush down with a quiet clack against the ceramic.
"i just got out of living with one shitty man. why would i go live with two more."
"because these ones aren't shitty." she responds a half second after.
you stare at her.
and rowan stares back.
from the kitchen, a cabinet shuts. the pan sizzles again. raymun hums under his breath like none of this is strange, like you're not in their tiny bathroom discussing where to put the wreckage of your life at eight in the morning.
"one of them is raymun's best friend," rowan says. "and the other one's some business major pretty boy who color codes everything and acts bitchy when people touch his oat milk."
despite yourself, your mouth twitches.
rowan catches it instantly. "there she is."
"i hate you." you murmur
"no, you don't."
"i dislike you in this exact moment."
"that's fair."
she nudges her shoulder into yours. "just meet them."
you let out a breath, long and thin, your hand still braced on the sink.
"and what," you mutter. "i walk in there with my trash bags and my trauma and ask if they have room."
"well when you say it like that, you make it sound weird."
"it is weird." you murmur
"babes." rowan reaches for your hand, squeezing once. "you're not asking strangers off the street. dunk already said yes."
you blink. "dunk."
"yes."
"his name is dunk."
"mhm."
"that is not a real name."
"it's definitely a real name because i've heard raymun yell it at least thirty times."
you scrub a hand down your face. "this is insane."
"it's westeros."
"that does not make me feel better."
rowan laughs, soft and short, then stands and fixes the hem of her shirt. "get dressed."
you turn to look at her. "now?"
"yes, now. before you change your mind and burrow into my couch cushions for another week."
you groan, but she only grins and slips out of the bathroom.
"ten minutes," she calls down the hall. "and wear something that says stable but mysterious."
"rowan."
"i'm helping."
you hear raymun laugh from the kitchen.
it takes you closer to twenty to get ready.
mostly because every shirt you pull from the trash bag is wrinkled, and half of them smell faintly like him. his detergent. his apartment. his hands. you hate that, more than you can put into words. hate that he lingers in fabric, in scent, in memory. hate that even now, getting dressed feels like pulling on proof that he happened to you.
you end up in a sweater too big in the sleeves and jeans that fit well enough. not your best. not your worst. just something clean. something that feels enough like you to wear.
when you step into the kitchen, rowan is already leaning against the counter with a coffee in hand while raymun stands over the stove flipping something in a pan.
both of them look at you.
rowan's face softens.
raymun just smiles, easy and quiet. "you look good."
"liar."
"rude," he says, sliding a plate onto the counter. "eat."
"i'm not hungry." you argue
rowan points at the plate. "wrong answer."
it's eggs and toast. simple. hot. you hadn't realized how hungry you were until the smell hits you full in the chest, warm and buttery and safe. something awful in you almost cracks right there.
raymun notices. of course he does.
his voice gentles. "just a few bites."
you nod once.
the three of you move around each other in the little kitchen like this is normal now. like your body hasn't been living in survival mode for the last four days. like you haven't been sleeping lightly on their couch, waking every time one of them got up for water or shifted under the blankets in their room. like this isn't temporary kindness stretched over something raw and aching.
rowan talks while you eat, mostly to fill the silence.
"dunk's sweet," she says. "quiet, but sweet. works with his hands, fixes things, carries too much weight emotionally and physically probably."
raymun snorts into his coffee.
"and aerion," she continues, "is kind of scary at first but only because his face is like that."
"my face is like what?" raymun asks.
"not you. aerion."
"he's just..." rowan waves her fork in the air. "sharp. but he's funny. and clean. and honestly you'll probably end up liking him because he judges other people harder than he judges his friends. and he's fuckin rich. "
"that's supposed to help?" you ask.
"yes."
it does not.
still, by the time you're in the car with one bag in the back and another at your feet, your stomach full and your nerves alive and biting, it feels too late to stop any of this.
rain taps lightly against the windows.
rowan turns in her seat to look at you from the passenger side. "last chance.
you cross your arms. "you say that like i have options."
"you always have options." rowan says.
"bad ones." you argue.
"true."
then raymun pulls out into traffic.
the ride is not long enough. you spend all of it staring out the window at wet sidewalks and people hurrying beneath umbrellas, at coffee shops full of strangers and bus stops and brick buildings and all the little lives still moving while yours feels like it split open four nights ago and never quite shut again.
rowan keeps talking. about rent, mostly. about how cheap it is for the area. about how the place is older but charming if you don't look too hard at the corners. about how one of the windows sticks and the floor in the hallway creaks and the boys nearly killed each other assembling an ikea shelf.
"that part was mostly aerion yelling and dunk holding the instructions upside down," raymun says.
"i was there," rowan says. "i know."
you huff a laugh before you can stop it.
rowan reaches back and squeezes your knee.
the building is older, brick and narrow, with chipped steps slick from rain. not ugly. just lived in. the kind of place that has seen too many tenants and too many winters.
you stand on the sidewalk staring up at it.
your chest feels tight again.
"hey," raymun says gently.
you look at him.
"just meet them."
you nod.
the stairwell smells faintly like dust and somebody's cooking. by the second flight you're already regretting every choice that led you here. by the third, your bag feels heavier than it should. by the fourth, you're out of breath and annoyed and half convinced you'll turn around and go right back down.
but rowan is already knocking.
you barely have time to fix your face before the door opens.
and he is... large.
that's the first thing you think, stupidly.
large in the doorway. large in the shoulders. large in the hands braced against the edge of the door as he pulls it open. taller than raymun by enough to matter, built broad and solid in a worn gray t-shirt and dark sweats, his hair messy like he pushed a hand through it too many times. he looks at rowan first, then raymun, then you.
his whole face changes.
not dramatically. just enough.
surprise, maybe. and then something gentler. something careful.
"dunk," rowan says brightly, like she isn't delivering a whole person to his apartment. "hi."
"hey," he says.
his voice is low. rough around the edges. warm.
your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.
he opens the door wider at once. "come in. hall's cold."
before you can answer, another voice calls from somewhere deeper inside the apartment.
"if this is another one of raymun's wet shoe disasters, i'm not cleaning it up."
then he appears.
pretty boy business major, apparently.
and rowan, unfortunately, had not oversold him.
he's standing at the end of the short hallway in a black long sleeve and loose lounge pants, one hand wrapped around a mug, his white hair slightly mussed but still somehow intentional. his face is all sharp lines and sleep-soft annoyance, eyes flicking over the four of you before landing on you.
he pauses.
you watch him take in the bag in your hand, the one by your feet, rowan's too-bright expression, raymun's calm one, dunk still holding the door open like some sort of giant polite guard dog.
understanding dawns on his face.
"oh," he says.
you almost laugh. "yeah."
his eyes lift back to yours, and there is something there. not pity, exactly. thank god. just a quiet sort of recognition. of mess. of embarrassment. of being seen when you'd rather not be.
he sets the mug down on the little table beside him.
"well," he says, voice smooth and dry, "i assume if rowan brought you here, we're all pretending this was discussed properly."
"it was discussed," rowan says.
"between you and raymun, maybe."
"details."
he sighs like this is his personal burden in life, then looks back at you.
"aerion," he says. "since apparently we're skipping the normal process."
you tell him your name.
something in his expression eases at that. just a fraction.
behind you, rowan leans close and whispers, "told you he was pretty."
you elbow her hard in the ribs.
dunk steps back to make room. "you should come in."
and because the hallway is cold, because your arms ache, because rowan is looking at you with that don't-panic face she only pulls out in emergencies, because raymun already carried one of your bags up four flights of stairs without complaint, because the apartment beyond the doorway is warm and lit gold and smells faintly like coffee and detergent and something baking
you do.
the floors creak under your shoes.
there are boxes still stacked in the corner of the living room, one blanket half folded on the couch, books on the coffee table, a tool bag by the wall, and a plant sitting on the windowsill like somebody actually expects things to live here.
it feels lived in already.
it feels almost unfair, how quickly something in your chest aches for that.
summary: dunk get's jealous at the way you laugh with ser lyonel.
warning: fluff, feminine reader who has curves.
tags: jealous!dunk, ser lyonel is helping u out.
note: im trying to build some sexual tension but i really suck at writing smut lol. so im stuck with flustered kisses aha. sorry, i tried. also i want to mention that my asks are open.
you were laughing, laughing.
the kind of laugh where you throw your head back, hand on your chest, and your sweet soothing voice bubbling out of your throat.
ser lynoel, sat across of you. his massive antlered head piece on his head. he thrusts his cup in his hand, adding emphasise to the story he is telling you.
dunk it seated next to egg and across raymun. but his eyes are focused on you. the way you lean forward on the seat, how your dress clings to your curves as you move. ser lynoel says something once again, earning another sweet fit of giggles from your throat and you use your hand to cover your mouth out of embarassment but ser lyonel pushes your hand down and says something along the lines of i like the way you laugh
and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, a bashful smile plastered on you face as you gently and teasingly push back against ser lyonel's shoulder.
"easy there, half man." raymun murmurs under his breath, not looking at him. "you're near breathing fire."
"some may say you're a dragon," egg comments, eyes already on your small frame across the tent. his hands dirtied with oil from his food.
"shut up," dunk mutters but his eyes never leave you.
he watches as ser lyonel leans forward now, whispering something in your ear and it earns another honest laugh from you. he turns then, sending a wink towards duncan's way.
and dunk freezes, his whole body going still, because what in the seven hells was that supposed to mean?
but he tried to be calm, tries to remain still cause what right does he have over you.
but when he see's ser lyonel reach forward, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear, and he sees that shy smile. the one thats supposed to be reserved for him, the one only for his eyes.
and before raymun could reason with him, dunk stands to his full height, towering over everyone in the damn tent, and makes his way toward you with long strides.
ser lyonel leans back in his chair then, a satisfied smirk plastered on his face, and glances over, winking once more as he mouths the words, i told you so.
because truth be told, you had come into this tent with one mission. one mission only.
and it was to sit and speak with ser lyonel about how dunk doesn’t take a hint, doesn’t seem to understand what he’s doing to you, and how you don’t even know if he likes you back.
because one day he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon itself just for him, all soft-eyed and quiet, like there is no one else in the world worth seeing.
and then the next, he goes back to being duncan the lunk, all big shoulders and fumbled silences, acting as though the way his hand lingers at your waist or the way his eyes follow you means nothing at all.
it is enough to drive any anyone mad.
ser lyonel, for all his dramatics and ridiculous antlers, had at least listened. he had sat across from you with that knowing look in his eye, nodding along as you spoke, occasionally lifting his cup to his mouth to hide what was very clearly amusement.
and when you had confessed, in a voice far smaller than you liked, that perhaps you had made a fool of yourself entirely, that perhaps dunk was only kind because that was the sort of man he was, ser lyonel had leaned forward and laughed.
not cruelly.
never cruelly.
but like a man who had seen this sort of thing before.
“my lady,” he had said, still smiling into his cup, “that man looks at you as if he’s half a breath away from drawing steel on anyone who dares stand too close.”
you had rolled your eyes at that, waving him off, but ser lyonel only shook his head.
“i am serious. the poor fool is gone for you.”
you had not believed him, not fully.
how could you, when dunk never said it? never did anything but stare and hover and touch you as though he couldn’t help himself, only to turn around and act like none of it meant a thing.
so ser lyonel, being far too entertained by it all, had leaned back in his chair and made you a promise.
“watch,” he had said. “give me five minutes and i’ll have your giant hedge knight storming across this tent like a man marching off to war.”
and you had laughed. truly laughed. because there was no way.
no way at all.
until now.
you pretend not to see the way dunk is making his way toward you, and you struggle to hold back a laugh when ser lyonel winks at you.
“ah, ser duncan!” ser lyonel says, raising his cup toward dunk, leaning back more casually in his chair, his knee knocking against yours.
“ah, my apologies, my lady,” ser lyonel says, reaching over to gently pat at your knee, against your skin.
and behind you, dunk releases a breath, low and heavy, near like a dragon.
and you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to laugh.
because you can feel him there now. big and looming at your back, all heat and broad shoulders and barely restrained temper.
“ser lyonel,” dunk says.
just that.
just his name, low and rough and carrying far more meaning than it ought to.
ser lyonel, the menace that he is, only smiles wider into his cup. “ser duncan.”
you finally tilt your head back enough to glance up at dunk, and gods, he looks ready to split something in half.
his jaw is tight. his mouth set. his eyes dark as they settle first on ser lyonel’s hand still far too near your knee, then on you.
“is somethin’ wrong?” you ask, all soft innocence.
dunk’s eyes narrow at once, because he knows that look. knows full well you are not nearly so innocent as you pretend.
“no,” he mutters.
ser lyonel hums. “then perhaps you have come to join us?”
“perhaps he has,” you say sweetly, finally looking back to ser lyonel.
dunk shifts behind you then, and the bench creaks as one of his hands comes down against the back of your chair. the other rests near your shoulder, caging you in without quite touching.
“you’ve had enough of his stories,” dunk says.
ser lyonel raises a brow. “have i now?”
“aye.”
you can hear the grin in ser lyonel’s voice before you even look at him. “and who says so?”
there is a beat.
then dunk says, low and certain, “me.”
ser lyonel’s grin only widens.
and you, for all your efforts, cannot hold back your smile now.
“well then, you heard the hedge knight,” ser lyonel says, taking a sip from his cup and sending another wink your way, tipping it toward you and dunk in goodbye.
but with a sudden surge of wickedness you stand. you glance up at dunk, who’s breathing low, his eyes dilated and maddening.
then you turn back to ser lyonel, a knowing smile grows on your face as you lean forward, just slightly, resting your hand against the wooden table as you bend closer. ser lyonel reacts in an instant, leaning forward too, and you press the softest part of your cheek against his.
“thank you, my lord,” you whisper against his ear, and ser lyonel’s mouth stretches into a wide grin. he glances up at dunk, who is now fuming.
“for what, my lady?” he asks as you lean back, settling instead against the strong, warm man behind you.
“for your stories. for your company,” you continue.
you feel dunk’s hand rest against your waist with a firm squeeze, almost like a warning.
and his fingers tighten at once. just enough to catch your breath.
behind you, he's all heat and fury, broad and silent and burning so fiercely ou swear the whole tent must feel it by now. ser lyonel certainly does, if the pleased look on his face is anything to go by.
"my stories?" he repeats, like he means to draw this out for as long as he can.
you nod, all sweetness. "they were very entertaining."
ser lyonel smiles wider. "were they now?"
"yes, very much so." you say, leaning further back against dunk.
and dunk makes a low sound in his chest not quite a word. not quite a warning.
something far more dangerous.
your smile threatens to break then, but tto keep it together, even as dunk's hand slides a little more firmly at your waist, keeping you tucked againsth im as though he means to remind the whole world exactly where you belong.
ser lyonel notices that too, of course he does.
"i'm glad i could be of service, my lady." he says, dipping his head towards you though his eyes flicker towards dunk with far too much satisfaction.
before you could reply, dunk is answering.
"we're leavin'" he says. voice low and rough above your head and it sends something warm down your spine.
"are you now?" ser lyonel continues and there's that look in his eyes.
"aye." dunk says fastly.
you look up at dunk, eyes wide and mouth agape.
his eyes drop to yours, dark and stormy and altogether too intense.
and gods. you had to look away before you do something foolish.
ser lyonel, the wicked man that he is, only leans back in his chair once more and lifts his cup towards you both. "then i shall not keep you."
his grin turns boyish, smug and unbearable.
and before dunk is turning you, before he is turning his foot and carrying you out of this tent.
ser lyonel finally says, whispers actually. "see, five minutes my lady."
and you freeze and dunk's hands stills on your waist.
before tugging you along. and as you both leave, ser lyonel is laughing, laughing loud enough for everyone to hear.
outside of the tent, dunk is fuming. his grip strong against your forearm, his entire hand circling around it.
"dunk—" you say, he's walking too fast for you to keep up causing you to trip over your own feet and dunk catches you with swift movements. throwing you over his shoulder, arm tucked against the back of your knees.
"dunk!" you exclaim, already too weak to fight him.
and with long strides, dunk makes it to camp. throwing you gently onto your bedroll and you fall with a soft whump.
and he stands in front of you jaw tight, muscles flexing, and eyes dark and dilated.
for a moment, he says nothing.
only standing there, chest rising and falling, staring at you like the cannot decide whether to scold you or kiss you or shake some sense into himself.
you push yourself up on your elbows, your hair mussed, and dress crooked from being hauled over his shoulder, and try very hard to not smile.
which only makes his expression darken more.
"what," he says at last, voice low. "was that?"
you blink up at him, all false innocence. "what was what?"
dunk lets out a breath through his nose, sharp and heated. he's not good with words, not good with expressing his feelings.
"don't play wit' me." he leans forward now.
"that in there. wit' lyonel". he continued.
you sit up straighten then and your heart beating faster though you refuse to let him see it. "i was only thanking him."
dunk laughs, but there is nothing amused in the sound.
"aye," he mutters. "looked a lot like thankin." he continued as he folds his arms against his chest.
and you tilt your head watching him, "were you jealous?" you finally asked.
and that stops him.
just for a moment.
a flicker across his face, soething caught and raw and far too honest before he turns his head away with a muttered curse.
"dunk," you say softer now.
his jaw works.
"he touched you."
and you roll your eyes, "so did you." you state.
and his eyes snap toward you, not expecting to find you already looking at him, but you hold his gaze with your own.
and now there is nowhere for either of you to hide.
because his hand had been at your waist. his chest at your back, his grip firm and possessive and burning through the layers of your dress like he had forgotten himself entirely.
you rise from your bedroll, and even then he is still bigger, broader, filling the whole of your sight as you step close enough to feel the heat coming off him.
“you cannot storm into a tent, drag me out over your shoulder, and then glower at me as if i am the one behaving strangely,” you murmur.
dunk stares down at you, breathing low.
“i ain’t glowerin’.”
you raise a brow.
his mouth twitches, just barely, before it hardens again.
“he was smilin’ at you,” dunk says, like that explains everything. like that alone is reason enough for war.
you hold his gaze. “and?”
and for the first time since he dragged you from the tent, duncan looks almost unsure.
like the answer matters. like you matter. his voice drops when he finally speaks.
"didn't like it."
gods help you.
dunks ears had turn pink with the realization of the words that had came out of his mouth. and for the first time since he had dragged you out of the ten like some great storm with boot, all that fury in him seems to falter.
just a little, enough for you to see it.
the uncertainty beneath it. its rawness. the way his throat works as if he would sooner face a line of armed men that stand here and explain himself to you.
you stare at him. eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.
and then, despite everything, despite the heat in your face and the way your heart is beating so hard it nearly aches, your mouth twitches.
because its duncan.
big, impossible duncan, who could carry you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing, who could glower a hole through a man across a crowded tent, who could storm in like a jealous husband with some song.
and now stands before you with pink ears and no idea what do with himself.
"you didn't like it," you repeat softly.
dunk grimaces at once, as if hearing the words back from your mouth is somehow worse. “don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“that.” he replies.
you tilt your head. “repeat what you said?”
he mutters something beneath his breath, too low and too rough for you to catch, and drags a hand down his face.
“dunk,” you say again, quieter this time.
he looks at you then. really looks.
and gods, it near undoes you.
because there is no missing it now. not with the way his chest is still rising too fast, not with the way his hand keeps opening and closing at his side like he is holding himself back from reaching for you again.
“you didn’t like ser lyonel touchin’ me,” you say.
“no.” he replies a half second after.
“you didn’t like him makin’ me laugh.” you continue.
his jaw tightens. “no.”
“you didn’t like him lookin’ at me.”
“no,” he says again, and this time the word comes out firmer. rougher. truer.
you take a small step closer.
dunk watches you do it, like even that is enough to steal the air from his lungs.
“why?” you ask.
and there it is.
the question hanging between you, far heavier than it ought to be.
dunk says nothing at first.
his eyes drop, just for a moment, to your mouth before climbing back to your face, and the look in them is so open, so helplessly honest, that it makes your stomach twist.
“you know why,” he says at last.
but you shake your head.
because perhaps you do.
perhaps you have for some time now.
but you need to hear it. need him to say it in whatever clumsy, rough-edged way he can manage, because you have spent far too long living on looks and touches and almosts.
“say it,” you whisper.
and dunk goes still.
so still.
his whole face tightens, like the words pain him somehow, like dragging them up from his chest is harder than any wound he has ever borne.
“i…” he starts, then stops.
you wait.
and he swallows hard.
“i don’t like it,” he says again, lower now, eyes fixed on yours, “when it’s someone else.”
your breath catches.
dunk seems to realize, too late, that he has said something perhaps worse than before, because the pink in his ears deepens and he looks half ready to bolt straight into the woods and never return.
but then your hand lifts.
slowly.
carefully.
and you place it against the center of his chest.
the muscles beneath your palm jump at once.
“someone else?” you murmur.
dunk looks down at your hand like it is the most dangerous thing in the world.
then back at you.
“aye,” he says.
his voice is barely more than a rasp.
“because…” he tries again, and this time when his hand finally comes up, it settles over yours where it rests on his chest, big and warm and trembling far more than you would have thought possible. “because i want—”
he stops.
shuts his eyes for half a breath.
starts again.
“because i want it to be me.”
and gods.
that does it.
you move your free hand to grab his, lifting it and placing it against your own stammering heart, and he feels it, feels the soft pounding of it beneath his palm.
and his eyes go wide, a sudden look of realization washing over his features.
because it is not only his heart beating wild in his chest.
it is yours too.
beneath his palm, your heart stammers and pounds so hard he can feel it through the thin fabric of your dress, quick and restless and altogether impossible to mistake. and for perhaps the first time since he had dragged you from that tent, all that heat and fury in him softens into something else.
something quieter.
something far more dangerous.
his hand spreads instinctively against your chest, careful despite its size, as though he cannot quite believe you have put it there. as though he is afraid to move it in case this is some dream he has stumbled into and any wrong breath might wake him from it.
“you feel it now?” you whisper.
dunk says nothing at first.
he only stares at you, eyes dark and wide and almost dazed, his ears still pink, his mouth parted as if words might come if only he knew how to shape them.
but duncan never was a man of easy words.
so instead his thumb twitches beneath your hand.
just once.
and the touch of it sends a shiver straight through you.
“gods,” he says at last, so low it is nearly a breath. “is that cause o’ me?”
you let out the smallest laugh then, shaky and warm and tender in a way that makes something in his face shift.
“who else would it be for?” you say
that seems to strike him harder than anything else has.
his jaw tightens, but not with anger now. with feeling. with something too large for him to hold neatly inside himself. his eyes drop to your mouth again, and this time he does not even try to hide it.
“you’ll undo me,” he mutters.
and though the words are rough, though they come out like something dragged from him against his will, they settle in the space between you with a kind of reverence.
and you feel the tug, a force so powerful that you step forward, your eyes still locked on dunk.
and he leans in too, his free palm is so large now against your cheek,
warm and rough and trembling just slightly, as though even now he cannot quite believe he is allowed this.
you lean into it without thinking.
and dunk lets out the softest breath at that, like the feeling of you giving in so easily has gone straight to his head.
his eyes drop to your mouth once more.
then back to your eyes.
asking.
always asking, even now.
you answer by stepping closer, until there is hardly any space left between you at all.
and then dunk kisses you.
it is not smooth. not practiced. not anything like ser lyonel’s teasing stories or the sort of kiss sung about by minstrels.
it is duncan.
warm and careful and a little desperate.
his mouth presses to yours like he has wanted to do this for far too long and had never once believed he truly could.
for one stunned second, neither of you move.
and then your hand tightens over his, still pressed to your heart, and dunk makes a low sound in his throat that nearly undoes you where you stand.
he kisses you again, deeper this time, gentler too, as though he is learning you with every breath. his thumb strokes once against your cheek, and the touch is so soft, so at odds with the size and strength of him, that it makes your knees weaken.
you rise onto your toes without meaning to, and dunk reacts at once, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your head, holding you there as if he cannot bear the thought of losing even an inch of you now.
the kiss turns slow.
unhurried.
like he is tasting something sweet and precious and still does not quite trust it to be real.
when you finally part, it is only by a breath.
dunk stays close, forehead nearly touching yours, his chest rising hard, his eyes dark and dazed and fixed wholly on you.
and when he speaks, his voice is little more than a rasp.
“should’ve done that sooner.”
before he can grow shy. before he can start thinking too much, before he can pull away and convince himself he has overstepped some line that had long since been crossed.
so you do.
you rise onto your toes once more and pull him down by the front of his tunic, and the little sound dunk makes at that — startled, deep, wanting — goes straight through you.
this kiss is different.
less careful.
or perhaps not less careful, but less uncertain.
because now he knows.
now he knows your heart stammers for him too, knows you are leaning into him just as eagerly, knows the ache in his chest is not his alone to bear.
his hand leaves your cheek only to find your waist again, gripping you there, firm and warm, drawing you closer until there is no space left between your bodies at all.
you melt into him.
and gods, for so long you had thought duncan all rough edges and broad strength and heavy silence, but here — here he is something else entirely.
something tender.
something starved.
he kisses you like a man who has been parched for years and has only just found water.
his mouth moves against yours with growing confidence, slow and deep and still tinged with that quiet reverence that makes your chest ache. and when your fingers curl tighter in his tunic, dunk makes that sound again, low in his throat, almost helpless with it.
the hand at your waist slides around, holding you more fully, as if he cannot quite stop himself now that he has begun. as if every touch he had swallowed down these long months has come flooding back all at once.
you pull back only enough to breathe.
dunk does not let you go far.
his forehead drops against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, his nose brushing yours in a way so unguardedly soft that it nearly undoes you more than the kiss itself.
“gods,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked. “gods.”
you cannot help but smile, your lips brushing his as you do. “what?”
his hand tightens at your waist.
“don’t laugh at me.”
but there is no real warning in it. only embarrassment. only that pink beginning to creep back over the tips of his ears, and the sight of it makes something warm and fond bloom through you.
“i’m not laughin’ at you,” you whisper.
dunk opens his eyes then, looking at you from far too close, and whatever he sees on your face seems to steal what little sense he had left, because he kisses you again before you can say another word.
this time there is no hesitation at all.
only heat.
only want.
only duncan, big hands and rough palms and a heart far softer than he knows what to do with, kissing you as though he has finally laid claim to something he had long feared was never his to have.
and when he finally draws back, your lips swollen and your breath gone and your whole body warm with him, he stares at you with that same dazed, disbelieving look.
like he cannot quite believe you are real.
like he cannot quite believe this is.
then, very quietly, almost gruff with how much it costs him, he says,
summary: you get jealous when dunk talks to a taller woman.
warning: non just fluff
tags: jealous!reader, egg likes to make fun of the situation cause heavens he is tired of you two, fluff
note: god i love this man. again, i havent written in a while so please bare with me as i get used to it once more. this sudden surge of ideas hit me so i have lots and lots and lots of stories in mind for our dear gentle giant. thanks for reading! lmk what u think
the trouble began in a little village south of nowhere, when ser duncan the tall caught sight of a woman near as tall as himself and looked at her as though the gods had played him some private jape. not with hunger, not with longing, but with something almost worse. delight. the sort of bright, plain delight you had come to treasure too much whenever it was turned your way.
she stood near the well with her husband, a broad woman with sun-browned skin and strong arms, her skirts tucked up a little from the mud, a basket braced against one hip like it weighed nothing at all. she laughed at something her husband said, and then dunk, passing with a sack of oats slung over his shoulder, stopped near dead in the middle of the lane.
“gods,” he said before he could help himself.
the woman turned at that, one brow lifting. then she looked him up and down and gave a bark of laughter. “well, there’s somethin you don’t see every day.”
dunk laughed too. actually laughed, easy and warm and surprised in a way that made something ugly twist low in your belly. he shifted the sack on his shoulder and ducked his head, near shy despite his size. “i might say the same.”
her husband only grinned, clearly long used to it. “always said my beth was built to look the gods in the eye.”
“and always i’ve said you were built to talk nonsense,” beth shot back, elbowing the man in the ribs.
dunk smiled at that. smiled. and then, as though he could not help himself, he said, “do folk stare much?”
“all the time,” beth answered at once. “and if they don’t stare, they ask if i was fed turnips by giants as a babe.”
dunk let out a sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. “aye. i’ve heard that one.”
you stood a little ways off with egg beside the horse, one hand resting uselessly against the saddle strap you had been meaning to tighten. the lane was narrow and muddy from the morning rain, the village no more than a handful of cottages and one inn with smoke curling from its chimney, and yet somehow it felt as though the whole world had narrowed to that little space by the well where dunk stood smiling at another woman.
she was married. plain enough to see. not soft in the way songs liked women to be, not painted or perfumed or dressed in anything fine. just tall. broad. easy in her skin. easy beside him.
and gods help you, that stung worse than if she had been beautiful.
because what right had you to compete with tall?
egg glanced up at you once, then again, his one good eye far too sharp for a boy his age. “you're frowning.”
you pulled harder than necessary at the strap. “i am not.”
“you are.”
“mind your business, egg.”
he snorted. “it is my business. i’m stood right next to it.”
you shot him a look, but it had no real force behind it. not when your attention kept dragging back to dunk, who was now ducking his head to hear beth better as she said something about low doors and cracked skulls. her husband laughed. dunk laughed too. and then beth, bold as anything, reached over and clapped him on the arm like they were old friends already.
you looked away at once.
that, for some reason, was what did it. not the talking. not the laughing. only that easy touch and the way dunk had not stepped back from it, had not gone all pink and awkward as he so often did when you took his hand or leaned too close at supper.
your stomach knotted.
“oh,” egg said, far too pleased with himself. “that’s what it is.”
“what is what?” you asked tightly.
he leaned against the horse, folding his arms. “you’re jealous.”
you turned on him so fast you near slipped in the mud. “i am no such thing.”
egg’s mouth twitched. “you are.”
“she is married.” you reason.
“i know.”
“and he is only speaking to her.” you continue.
“i know that too.”
“then how can i be jealous?”
egg shrugged, infuriatingly calm. “same way you’re still frowning though there’s no call for it.”
you opened your mouth, then shut it again. because there was no answer to that which would not condemn you further. the worst of it was, he was right. you were jealous. absurdly, bitterly jealous over something so foolish you ought to have been ashamed to name it even to yourself.
you had no claim on dunk. not truly. no promise had passed between you, no vows, no words plain enough to hold him to. only hands laced beneath blankets, his palm at your waist when he helped you down from the horse, your shoulder against his by the fire, the little private softness that had bloomed between you over miles and miles of hard road.
but none of that made him yours.
and watching him smile at a woman who fit beside him in a way you never could made that truth feel sharper than any dagger.
egg’s gaze softened, if only a little. “he don’t look at her like he looks at you, you know.”
you busied yourself with the saddle strap again, though it had long since been fixed. “i did not ask.”
“no, but you were thinkin loud enough that someone ought answer.”
that pulled a laugh from you despite yourself. small and unwilling, but a laugh all the same. egg preened a little at having won it.
“she’s only tall,” he went on. “that’s all.”
“only tall,” you repeated, quiet now. your eyes slipped back toward dunk despite everything. he was saying something with his hands, animated in a way he rarely was, and beth threw her head back and laughed again. “aye. that’s all.”
egg followed your gaze. “you think he likes her because she’s tall?”
you did not answer.
the boy groaned. “gods, you are simple sometimes.”
you stared at him. “mind yourself.”
“i mean it kindly,” he said, though he looked not kind at all, only exasperated in the way of boys who believed themselves very wise. “he’s only glad there’s someone else in the realm who knows what it’s like to knock their head on every cursed door beam between here and dorne. he ain’t courtin her.”
“egg.”
“he’s not.” egg tilted his head, studying you. “is that what’s got you twisted? because she’s more his size?”
you hated how easily he’d named it. hated more that your silence answered well enough.
egg’s face did something strange then. not cruel, not mocking. almost fond. “you know what he does every time you get on that horse?”
you frowned. “what are you talking about?”
“he puts his hands at your waist before you even ask.” egg picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “every time. like he can’t help himself.”
heat crept up your neck. “that means nothing.”
“means he likes touching you.”
“egg.”
“it does.” he shrugged again. “and when you fall asleep riding, he looks at you like someone’s handed him a dragon egg made of glass.”
you could not have spoken then if you tried.
the lane had grown louder around you. a cart rolling by, chickens fussing in the mud, someone shouting for a boy to fetch water from the other side of the square. and still dunk had not come back. not because he was lingering overlong, not because there was any wickedness in it, but because for once he was speaking to someone who understood one small little piece of him at once.
you ought to have granted him that gladly.
instead you stood in the mud sulking while egg, seven hells take him, peeled your thoughts open like an onion.
“i’m not jealous,” you said again, weaker now.
egg nodded solemnly. “of course not.”
you narrowed your eyes. “i dislike you.”
“no you don’t.” he bumped his shoulder against your arm. “and for what it’s worth, if ser told me tomorrow he wanted a wife as tall as him, i’d assume he’d been struck on the head.”
that startled a real laugh out of you then, sharp and helpless. “egg.”
he grinned, pleased. “there she is.”
and just like that, as if the gods had taken pity on your poor pride, dunk turned from the well and looked toward you. only toward you. the smile he had worn for beth faded into something softer at once, quieter and dearer, and even from across the lane you knew that look. knew it because it was the one he wore only when his gaze found you after searching elsewhere.
your heart, traitor that it was, lurched.
dunk said something by way of farewell to beth and her husband, then started back across the lane, his long strides eating the distance easy. there was still a bit of brightness about him, the tail end of that simple pleasure, but now that he was near enough you could see the faint line between his brows. not worry exactly. only that thoughtful look he got when he sensed something had shifted and did not yet know what.
he stopped before you and egg, broad shoulders near blocking out the weak afternoon sun. “all well?” he asked.
egg, black little wretch, smiled up at him angel-sweet. “she was just sayin how lovely it is that you found another tall fool.”
you closed your eyes. “egg.”
dunk blinked. “what?”
when you opened your eyes again, he was looking at you proper. not past you. not through you. only at you, his face open and confused and so painfully earnest that it made your jealousy feel mean and shabby all at once.
“nothin,” you muttered.
egg made a choking sound, suspiciously like smothered laughter.
dunk’s gaze moved from the boy to you and back again. his brow furrowed deeper. “did i miss somethin?”
“no,” you and egg said together.
which, of course, meant yes.
dunk looked between the two of you once more, plainly unconvinced, but the lane was no place to pull at it. not with folk moving past on either side and beth’s husband now hauling up another sack near the cart. so, after one last puzzled glance your way, he only reached for thunder’s reins and said, “we ought to get moving if we mean to make the next holdfast by dusk.”
“aye, ser,” egg said at once, far too innocent.
you busied yourself with adjusting the strap of your satchel, though it sat straight enough already. “aye.”
dunk lingered half a beat longer, like he meant to ask again, but then beth called something after him about minding low branches on the western road, and he laughed under his breath and raised a hand in farewell. it was harmless. all of it harmless. and still your stomach soured anew.
you hated yourself a little for that.
getting mounted was worse.
because dunk, as ever, came to you first.
he set a broad hand at your waist and lifted you easy as anything, setting you atop the horse before you could so much as gather your skirts proper. it was a touch he’d done a hundred times by now, thoughtless in its ease, his hands always sure, always gentle. only today it set your nerves jangling.
was he like this with everyone? would he have lifted beth so quick if she asked? would his hands have looked so small at her waist, or would they fit better there, better than they did on yours—
“you’re frownin again,” egg said as dunk swung up behind you.
“i am not.”
egg made a little humming noise that meant he was lying if he said no more.
dunk clicked his tongue at the horse and you all set out from the village, hooves thudding soft against the damp road. behind you the place shrank quickly, the well and cottages swallowed up by hedges and bare-branched trees, until all that remained was the muddy track ahead and the sound of leather creaking with every sway of the ride.
for a little while, no one spoke.
you were too aware of dunk behind you, of the line of his chest at your back whenever the horse shifted just so, of one large hand on the reins near your hip. too aware, too sore in your own mind to take comfort from it as you usually might.
egg, meanwhile, was silent in the way of boys who are not silent at all but only storing mischief.
it came upon you half an hour later.
“ser,” he said, voice bright with false innocence from where he rode on thunder now, having wheedled the place from dunk just outside the village. “do you think there are many more giant women in these parts?”
you nearly jerked in the saddle.
behind you, dunk made a confused sound. “what?”
egg shrugged one narrow shoulder. “just wonderin. seemed you were glad enough to find the one.”
you fixed your eyes upon the road. the road was very interesting. the road had no broad hands or easy laughter or tall women by wells.
dunk frowned. you could hear it in the silence before he answered. “i was only talkin.”
“aye,” egg said. “you were talkin quite a lot.”
“egg,” you said, sharper than intended.
that only made him grin wider. “what? i’m only sayin.”
dunk shifted slightly behind you, enough that his knee knocked lightly against your thigh. “what’s this about?”
“nothin,” you and egg said together once more.
dunk let out a breath through his nose. you could feel the sound of it more than hear it, the warm huff stirring near your hair. “that again.”
egg kicked one boot lazily against thunder’s side. “mayhaps she wants to grow a foot taller, ser.”
“egg.”
“what? then she could knock her head on doorframes with you and talk of it all day.”
you shut your eyes. “i shall push you from that horse.”
“you’ll have to catch me first.”
the brat actually laughed then, bright and cruelly pleased with himself.
behind you dunk had gone still. not angry, only thoughtful in that slow way of his, turning something over and over till he got the shape of it. you could almost feel his mind at work, which only made your face burn hotter.
the road bent westward between green fields gone winter-dull and low stone walls slick from old rain. a flock of crows lifted from one field as you passed, black wings cutting up into the pale sky. all of it would have been peaceful if not for egg, who seemed determined to peck at the sorest part of you till it bled.
“i don’t see the use in bein that tall,” he went on. “can’t fit in half the inns. legs too long for beds. everyone stares. sounds miserable.”
dunk found his voice at last. “it is miserable.”
egg nodded solemnly. “then i’m surprised you looked so happy.”
you made a sound somewhere between a cough and a groan.
this time dunk’s arm shifted around you—not fully around, only near enough that the inside of his forearm brushed your side as he reached to steady the reins. “egg,” he said, with warning at last.
egg, naturally, paid it no mind. “and if she’s married, does her husband have to duck to kiss her? seems inconvenient.”
“seven hells,” you muttered.
dunk choked on a laugh despite himself, and that was somehow worse, because the sound of it was warm and helpless and dear, and you wanted to stay cross with him. you did. but it was difficult when he laughed like that with his chest pressed lightly to your back.
egg heard it too and pounced. “there now. he likes that thought.”
“i do not,” dunk said at once, scandalized.
“then why’re you laughin?”
“because you sound like a fool.”
“i’m not the one moonin over a woman by a well.”
you made the mistake of turning your head then, just enough to shoot egg a glare, and caught instead the look on dunk’s face.
pink. pink all the way to the ears.
he saw you see it and went pinker still.
for one glorious moment, your jealousy loosened enough to make room for something else. something lighter. because whatever fool nonsense egg was spinning, dunk looked less like a man with wandering affections and more like one who’d been caught bare-headed in a storm.
egg noticed that too, curse him. “oh,” he said, drawing the word out with wicked delight. “it’s not her at all.”
“egg,” dunk said, low and doomed.
the boy sat up straighter in thunder’s saddle, one eye bright as a magpie’s. “it’s because she’s upset.”
“egg.”
“and you’re all red because you know she’s upset.”
you stared fiercely at the road again. the road, sadly, offered no grave to crawl into.
dunk’s hand tightened on the reins. “leave off.”
egg glanced between the two of you, then grinned in a way that promised he would absolutely not leave off. “i would, ser. only it’s very entertainin.”
for another mile he contented himself with humming tunelessly and shooting glances back over his shoulder at you both. you might almost have thought the worst was past.
then the road narrowed between two leaning oaks, and the horse beneath you stumbled lightly over a rut.
instinctively dunk’s hand came off the reins and spread over your waist to steady you. broad, warm, the whole of his palm bracing you through your dress for no more than a second. but it was enough. enough to send a shameful little rush through you, enough that you forgot your annoyance entirely and sat too still after.
egg, of course, saw that too.
“there,” he said brightly. “he ain’t put his hands on the giant woman, has he?”
you made a strangled sound.
dunk actually groaned. “egg, i swear—”
“just sayin. he only does that with you.”
the words fell into the road between you all.
simple words. boy’s words. teasing words.
and still they went through you like something sharp.
because egg said many foolish things, but not often things that were untrue.
the wind worried at the loose ends of your hair as the horse plodded on. somewhere off in the fields a dog barked. your fingers, resting in your lap, curled tight together.
dunk’s hand had left your waist, but the warmth of it seemed to remain. whether memory or hope or plain foolishness you could not have said.
egg leaned down from thunder’s back, peering at you upside down now with all the grace of a bat in a tree. “there now. you’re not frownin anymore.”
“i hate you.”
“no you don’t.”
“i do a little.”
he laughed. “that’s fair.”
for once, even dunk smiled at that. you felt it before you saw it, the way his chest loosened behind you, the way the heavy mood that had hung since the village lightened by a breath.
still, egg was not done. he rarely was.
“if it eases you,” he said in a tone that meant it would do no such thing, “she had very large elbows.”
you blinked. “what?”
“the woman. beth. very large elbows. looked dangerous.”
despite yourself, despite everything, a laugh escaped you.
real this time. quick and helpless.
egg beamed like the little demon he was. “there. knew that’d do.”
behind you, dunk huffed a quiet laugh of his own, and this time when his hand found your waist again—only to help guide the horse round a bend, only for practicality, surely—you did not stiffen from it.
you leaned back the smallest bit instead.
just enough that he would feel it.
just enough that egg, if he saw, would be unbearable about it for the next three days.
and since he was egg, of course he saw.
“gods save me,” he sighed dramatically to the empty road. “now they’re both blushin.”
by the time the sun had begun to sink low and golden, the three of you turned off the road and made for a little patch of open ground beside a stand of trees. there was a narrow stream not far off, just enough for water, and the grass there was softer than most places the road had granted you of late.
dunk was down from the horse first, as always.
his boots hit the earth and then his hands were at your waist before you had so much as gathered your skirts. he lifted you down easy, setting you upon your feet like it was the simplest thing in the world, like you weighed no more than a cloak in his hands. usually you would have muttered something at him for it, if only out of habit.
this time, still warmed through by the memory of his hand on your waist and egg’s infuriating little comments, you only looked up at him.
dunk looked down at you too, and for half a heartbeat neither of you moved.
then egg dropped from thunder with all the grace of a sack of onions and ruined it.
“mind now,” he said, brushing dirt from his sleeve. “ser only lifts you down because you’re not giant-sized.”
you shut your eyes. “egg.”
he grinned, utterly unrepentant. “that was my last one.”
“best be,” dunk muttered, though there was no true anger in it. only embarrassment, low and warm and stubborn.
egg only gave a little shrug and went to fuss with the bedrolls, humming under his breath as though he had not spent the whole afternoon making both your lives miserable.
true to his word, he left it there.
and once he did, a strange sort of quiet settled over the camp.
not awkward. not quite. only different.
the horses were seen to first. dunk moved about the little clearing with his usual steady purpose, unsaddling, checking straps, giving each beast a rub at the neck. you did what you always did, laid out the blankets, set the satchel near the tree line, fetched the little cook pot and whatever poor remains of supper were to be had. egg wandered off to gather kindling and returned with an armful of sticks and a face full of self-satisfaction, as though he had single-handedly saved you all from freezing.
soon enough a little fire was crackling to life.
the light of it danced over dunk’s face as he crouched beside it, broad hands working at the pot, his hair falling a little into his eyes. every now and then he glanced your way without seeming to mean to. every now and then you caught him at it.
neither of you said anything of the village. nor beth. nor jealousy. nor the way his hands had lingered at your waist just a second longer than needed when he helped you down.
egg, blessedly, seemed to have spent his last arrow for the day. he wolfed down his bit of supper, grumbled about the hardness of the ground, then wrapped himself in his blanket near the fire and was quiet after that.
quiet enough, at least.
the sky had gone deep blue by the time he finally yawned and turned on his side. “i’m sleepin,” he mumbled.
“you were sleepin a quarter hour ago,” dunk said.
egg opened one eye. “i was listenin.”
“to what?”
egg’s eye slid, very deliberately, to the space between you and dunk. “nothin.”
then he shut it again and, for once, left you in peace.
the fire popped softly.
the stream murmured somewhere in the dark.
and suddenly it was only you and dunk sitting with the hush of evening between you, close enough for the warmth of the flames to reach, close enough for the warmth of him to reach too.
you kept your eyes on the little pot in front of you, though there was not much to see. “he’s a menace.”
that brought a low huff from dunk, half laugh, half sigh. “aye.”
you dared a glance at him. he was already looking at you.
the firelight softened him. made the sharp planes of his face gentler somehow, caught warm in his brown eyes, turned the tips of his ears pink all over again when he realized he’d been caught.
“you let him go on long enough,” you murmured.
dunk looked down at his hands. “didn’t know what to say.”
“you’re usually not short on words where egg is concerned.”
that made his mouth twitch. “not about most things.”
you waited.
dunk reached for a bit of twig near his boot and broke it between his fingers without any need. “didn’t know you were upset at first.”
your stomach tightened. “i wasn’t upset.”
his eyes lifted at once, and there was that plain honesty in them again, so open it made lying feel a wicked thing. “you were.”
the night pressed close around the little clearing. beyond the reach of the fire, the trees stood black and still. you could hear egg breathing softly under his blanket, the horses shifting now and again, the water over stone. all of it made the moment feel smaller. quieter. harder to slip away from.
you drew your knees up a little and wrapped your arms around them. “it was foolish.”
dunk said nothing to that. only waited.
which, somehow, was worse.
you let out a breath. “i know she was married.”
“aye.”
“and i know you weren’t...” the words caught, foolish before they’d even formed. “i know it was not like that.”
dunk’s brow creased. “then why—”
you gave a little laugh that held no humor. “because she fit beside you.”
that silenced him.
your eyes dropped to the fire. “that’s all.”
for a long moment dunk did not move. the wood cracked, sending up a little spray of sparks, and still he only sat there looking at you like you had said something in another tongue and he was trying to make sense of it.
“fit?” he said at last, slow and careful.
heat crept up your neck even now. “you know what i mean.”
“i don’t,” he said, and there was no cleverness in it, no false modesty. he truly did not. “not rightly.”
you looked at him then, half exasperated, half aching. “she’s tall, dunk.”
he blinked.
“she knows what it is to duck through doors and bend into carts and stand eye to eye with you.” your fingers tightened around your skirts. “you looked so happy talking to her.”
something shifted in his face then. not amusement, not exactly. something softer. sadder maybe. like he was only just seeing the shape of your hurt and hated that it had been there at all.
“pea,” he said quietly.
the name made your chest ache.
“i was happy,” he admitted. “but not for that reason.”
you looked away. “what other reason is there?”
dunk leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. the fire threw his shadow long over the grass between you. “because for once i said somethin about bein too tall for the world and someone knew what i meant straight off. that’s all.”
you swallowed.
“there ain’t no great mystery in it.” his voice had gone rough with the need of making you understand. “it weren’t her. just the strangeness of it.”
“oh.”
it was such a small sound, and yet it seemed to undo him more than if you had cried.
dunk shifted closer over the blanket, not enough to crowd, only enough that the heat of him reached you more plainly. “did you think i liked her?”
you did not answer, which was answer enough.
his breath left him in a low, disbelieving huff. “seven save me.”
that made you frown. “you needn’t sound so wounded.”
“i am wounded.” he looked genuinely pained by it. “you thought i was moonin over some married woman because she can reach a high shelf.”
despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
dunk saw it and pressed on, earnest as prayer. “is that all it takes, then? long arms and a hard head?”
you let out a laugh, small and unwilling. “dunk.”
“i mean it.” he had gone pink again, but now that he’d started he would not stop. “if i wanted someone tall, i’d have gone seekin them years ago.”
your heart stumbled.
he looked at you then in that terribly open way of his, like he did not know how to guard what he felt even if he’d wished to. “i want who i want.”
the words fell between you soft as anything, and yet they struck harder than if he’d shouted them.
you stared.
dunk’s ears went red clear to the tips, but he held your gaze. held it like a man standing his ground.
“and who is that?” you asked, the question barely more than breath.
his mouth parted, then closed again. for a second you thought he might lose the nerve of it. look away. retreat into some muttered hedge knight awkwardness and leave the thing half-said.
instead he reached over the blanket, slow enough to give you every chance, and set his hand over yours.
warm. broad. certain.
“you know who,” he said softly.
the fire snapped.
somewhere behind you, one of the horses shifted in the grass.
and all at once it felt as if the whole world had gone still just to hear it.
your fingers turned beneath his before you could think better of it, lacing with his in the dark. “i hoped,” you whispered.
dunk’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles. “hoped what?”
you looked down at your joined hands because it was easier than looking at his face when your heart had gone this soft and frightened thing. “that it was me.”
dunk made the quietest sound then. not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. only something full of relief and tenderness both. his hand tightened round yours. “it’s always been you.”
that stole what little breath you had left.
you felt him shift nearer again. not close enough to press, only close enough that his knee brushed yours through the blankets. close enough that when you looked up at last, his face was all firelight and honesty and something so dearly felt you wondered how you had ever believed yourself outside it.
“i don’t care if you’re tall or small,” he murmured. “only that you’re you.”
your eyes stung all of a sudden, ridiculous things.
dunk saw at once. “ah, now.”
you laughed wetly and ducked your head. “don’t.”
“weren’t meanin to make you cry.”
“you didn’t.”
his free hand hovered a moment, then came up slow to tip your chin back toward him. rough fingers. gentle touch. always.
“i’d not look twice at any woman in the seven kingdoms if you were there to look at first,” he said, plain as that. “and that’s truth.”
there was no poetry in him. no courtly turn of phrase. only truth, big and awkward and dear.
and gods, it worked on you worse than any poem ever could.
you leaned into his hand before you could stop yourself.
dunk went still.
then softer.
his thumb stroked once along your cheek, and his voice dropped low enough that it might have been meant only for the dark between you. “there she is.”
“who?”
“my girl,” he said, as if the answer were the simplest thing in the world.
your breath caught.
behind you, from somewhere inside a blanket heap that was supposed to be asleep, egg’s muffled voice drifted out one last time.
“about time.”
you buried your face in your free hand at once. “egg.”
he only snorted, rolled over, and blessedly said no more.
dunk, to his credit, looked half ready to throw a boot at the boy.
but then you laughed, helpless and bright, and the tension of the day finally broke apart for good.
when you looked back at dunk, he was smiling too. small and shy and all the sweeter for it.
and this time, with egg quiet at last and the fire burning low, there was no one left to interrupt when dunk leaned in closer.
summary: sharing food is considered sacred to dunk.
warning: non, just cute fluff.
note: not edited per usual, im so sorry. god i love stupid in love dunk. i haven't written for a long time so please bare with me. im slowly getting back to it.
the inn was small, smoky, and close besides, with the smell of ale, onions, and wet wool hanging thick in the air. you, egg, and ser duncan had taken a place near the wall, where the rushes were old and the bench leaned a little to one side. the food was plain, but plain food was better than none, and all three of you set to it with the appetite the road always brought.
you could feel the steam of the stew against your face, warm and rich, while the hot crusty bread crumbled between your fingers. beside it sat your bit of pie, waiting to be eaten. for a while, you did well enough at it, taking spoonfuls of stew between bites of bread, letting the warmth of it settle in your belly after too many days of dry food and hard travel.
the three of you settled into a comfortable sort of silence, the kind that came easy after long weeks on the road. only the scrape of spoons, the tear of bread, and the sounds of the inn filled the space between you. even egg made quick work of his supper, which said enough of how hungry he had been.
dunk was more than halfway through his own when you began to slow near the end of yours. your bowl of stew still held a few spoonfuls at the bottom, gone only a little cooler now, and there was still the last bit of pie left upon your plate. but you felt full, fuller than you had in a long while on this journey, and the thought of another bite near did you in.
with your fork, you traced along the crust of the pie, listening to the soft scrape of it against the plate. it was a pleasant sound, oddly so, but still you did not eat.
instead you pushed the last of the stew about with your spoon, then nudged the bit of pie to one side with your fork before finally looking up.
and found dunk watching you.
“what?” you asked.
dunk blinked, as though caught at something he had not meant to be caught at. “nothin.”
egg, clever little egg, gave a snort and turned to you with a cheeky grin. “he wants your leftovers.”
“what, no—” dunk said in that tone he used when he lied.
you laughed then, wholehearted and warm, because of course this great gentle giant wanted your leftovers. so you pushed the bowl of stew and the plate with the last of your pie toward him.
he looked up at you with the most sincere smile, eyes full of something soft, something grateful, and it made your cheeks heat at once.
gods, he looked cute.
you could not help but watch him eat.
he finished his own bowl in two great bites before turning to yours. as he fed himself and chewed, he lifted one free hand and placed it softly atop yours. a simple gesture of thanks, no more than that, but the weight of his hand, calloused and warm, made your ears turn pink.
egg found it all terribly amusing, how easy it was for you to blush and go soft beneath dunk’s touch. disgusting too, perhaps, in the way only boys found such things disgusting when they were not truly disgusted at all. he peeked over at dunk, who was already finishing the last bit of pie as though it were some treasure, and shook his head in disbelief.
“i’m heading up to the room,” egg said at last. “i’m tired.”
he gave you a quick little smile before turning to dunk, who only nodded.
“we’ll come for you on the morrow,” dunk said.
egg gathered his things, then hurried off toward the stairs and the room you had settled in earlier, leaving you and dunk alone at the table.
“thank you for that,” dunk finally says, his hand still resting atop yours.
you tilt your head a little, curious. “for what?”
“for sharing yer food,” he hums, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his free hand.
“oh.” you give the smallest shrug. “it’s no big deal.”
but dunk looks at you like it is. like it means more than you know. his thumb shifts ever so slightly against your hand, rough and warm and careful all at once.
because to him, it was a big deal. bigger than you meant it to be, mayhaps.
food was not something lightly given on the road. not these days. not when coin was scarce and most meals were won by luck, by hunting, by fishing, or else made up of stringy bits of salted beef that filled the belly without ever quite satisfying it. there had been plenty of nights where the three of you had gone to sleep with less than you wanted and more hunger than comfort.
to share when there was little to spare, to offer up the last of something warm and good, that was no small thing. that was trust. that was care.
dunk’s gaze drops briefly to the empty bowl, then to the pie tin, before lifting back to you. softer now. “it is to me.”
that quiets you.
the sounds of the inn carry on around you, laughter from one table, the scrape of chairs from another, but at your little corner by the wall it feels strangely still. just you, and dunk, and his big hand still laid over yours like he’d forgotten to move it. or maybe hadn’t wanted to.
you glance down at it, then back up at him. “you say thank you like i handed you a kingdom.”
that makes the corner of his mouth twitch. “was better than a kingdom.”
you laugh softly at that, but dunk doesn’t. not truly. he only keeps looking at you with that same plain, earnest way of his that makes even the simplest words feel weighty.
“warm stew and pie,” he says. “shared from yer own plate.” he gives the faintest shake of his head, almost like he’s still surprised by it. “aye. i’d call that riches.”
comfortable silence falls between you, the sounds of men talking and laughing echoing in the background. somewhere a cup slams against wood, somewhere else a man lets out a bark of laughter, but none of it seems to touch the little corner you and dunk had made your own.
you glance down at your hands as dunk takes a sip of his ale. and then, with a sudden surge of confidence, quiet but bold all the same, you take hold of his large hand and lace your fingers through his.
you rest your chin against your free hand after, turning your head slightly as if your attention were on the inn itself, as if you were merely watching the folk around you and not the way your heart had begun to pound at the touch of him.
beside you, dunk smiles against the rim of his cup. his ears had already gone pink, and now the color begins to creep down the strong line of his neck too. still, he does not pull away. does not so much as shift from you. instead his fingers tighten around your smaller hand, careful and warm and sure, like he means to hold on as long as you’ll let him.
and gods, that alone makes your belly flutter.
dunk sets the cup down slow, like any sudden movement might frighten the moment away. the wood gives a soft knock beneath it, and only then does he turn his head to look at you proper.
his eyes drop first to your joined hands, near too large and small against one another, your fingers tucked safe between his. then they lift to your face.
you still do not look at him. not fully. only keep your chin propped upon your free hand, as though the rushes on the floor and the drunk men at the other tables had suddenly become the most interesting things in all the world.
that makes the corner of dunk’s mouth twitch.
“what’s this, then?” he asks, voice gone low and warm, roughened by ale and something softer besides.
you shrug, though your cheeks had already begun to burn. “nothin.”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, close enough to a laugh that it makes your stomach twist sweetly. “nothin,” he repeats, glancing once more at your hand in his. “that so?”
“mhm.”
but you tighten your hold all the same, and dunk notices. of course he does. he notices every small thing when it comes to you. the way your thumb shifts against the side of his hand. the little way your shoulders rise when you’re trying to seem unbothered. the faint pink in your ears that always gives you away before your words do.
for a moment he says nothing. only turns his hand beneath yours until his palm fits better against it, until your fingers settle more comfortably between his own. like he means to keep you there.
when you finally dare a glance his way, you find him already watching you. not with surprise now, not even with that flustered disbelief from before. only something deep and quiet and near tender enough to undo you.
“thought you were watchin the room,” he murmurs.
you look away at once. “i am.”
“are you?”
“yes.”
dunk hums at that, not believing a word of it, and leans the slightest bit closer. enough that the warmth of him reaches you even through your dress and the drafty inn air. his shoulder nearly brushes yours.
“funny,” he says. “seems to me yer busy holdin my hand.”
you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “and you’re lettin me.”
that catches him for half a breath. then his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like he does not realize he’s done it till after. or maybe he does, and simply cannot help himself.
“aye,” he says quietly. “that i am.”
the words settle low in your belly.
around you the inn still roars on, tankards clatter, chairs scrape, men laugh too loud and sing worse, but none of it reaches you now. not really. there is only dunk beside you, broad and warm and pink at the ears, his great hand wrapped around yours like it belongs there.
you chance another look at him and find his gaze softer still. his mouth parted just a little, like there is something more he wants to say but does not yet know how. dunk was never a man for pretty speeches. never one to dress his thoughts in ribbons. when something lived in him, it came plain. honest. all the more dangerous for it.
his eyes flick to your mouth only once, quick as anything, before returning to your eyes.
“should we head up?” you ask, though neither of you moves.
dunk’s brow lifts, almost like he’s surprised you remembered there were rooms upstairs at all. “should,” he says.
“but?”
that brings a real smile to him, small but warm and all the dearer for how rarely it came easy. “but i like this.”
your heart gives one hard, traitorous beat. “holding my hand?”
“aye.” his thumb brushes your skin again, slower now. deliberate. “that. and havin you sit close.”
the heat in your cheeks only deepens. “you say things very plain, ser.”
“don’t know another way.”
and gods, there it was again. that simple honesty that made your chest ache in the sweetest way.
you let your shoulder rest, just barely, against his arm. a small thing. hardly anything. but dunk goes still at once, like he feels every inch of it. his fingers tighten around yours, not enough to hurt, only enough to tell you he feels it too. all of it. every little touch. every little giving-in.
when he speaks again, his voice has gone softer than before. “we can stay a while longer.”
you smile then, finally turning your face toward him instead of the room. “aye?”
his gaze catches on you and holds. “aye.”
and from across the inn, some fool begins singing bawdy nonsense loud enough to sour the air, but even that cannot spoil the sweetness of the moment, not when dunk looks at you like that. not when his hand is still clasped around yours beneath the dim inn light, and neither of you seems any hurry to let go.
eventually, it is dunk who rises first. though not without reluctance.
his hand slips from yours only long enough for him to stand and gather what little had been left upon the table. even then he stays close, waiting for you to rise, his eyes dropping to you again the moment you do as though to make certain you are truly coming with him.
you smooth your hands over your skirts, trying to settle yourself, though nothing about you felt settled now. not with the warmth of his hand still lingering in yours. not with the way he had looked at you just now, all soft and pink-eared and honest besides.
“c’mon,” he says, voice low. “best we get up before egg falls asleep with his boots on.”
that makes you smile. “he’d do it too.”
“aye.” dunk reaches for your cloak where it had hung over the back of the bench, holding it open for you with that same easy care that always made your chest go soft. “and then he’d grumble all mornin like it were someone else’s fault.”
you laugh under your breath and slip your arms through, and for one brief moment his hands linger at your shoulders, adjusting the fabric where it had bunched. such a simple thing. such a dangerous thing too, when he touched you as if it were second nature.
the walk upstairs is quiet, but not empty.
the inn creaks around you, old wood and low voices and the distant sound of laughter from below. egg had gone up some time before, leaving the room to the two of you, and now the narrow stair felt even smaller with dunk ahead of you, broad enough to near block the whole of it. once, he glances back to make certain you are still there. as though you might vanish between one step and the next.
when at last you reach the room, dunk pushes the door open and steps aside to let you enter first.
it is not much of a room. one bed, wide enough perhaps for two if they did not mind closeness. a little washstand. a chair in the corner. a single candle burned low by the bed, throwing soft gold over the rough walls and rumpled blankets.
you stop short at the sight of it.
dunk does too.
for half a beat, neither of you says a word.
then, from somewhere down the hall, a muffled snore drifts through the thin boards and you realize at once egg must already be settled in the other room. which meant this one was yours.
and dunk’s.
your fingers twist together before you can stop them. “oh.”
behind you, dunk clears his throat. once. then again, rougher this time. “aye.”
you turn back to him and find his ears already red again.
“i can sleep on the floor,” he says at once, as though the thought had struck him like a blow. “or the chair. chair’s fine.”
you glance toward the poor little chair in the corner and cannot help the smile that tugs at your mouth. “dunk, you’d break it.”
that earns the faintest twitch from him, though he still looks deeply troubled by the whole matter. “floor, then.”
“there is a bed,” you say softly.
“there is,” he agrees, as if that were the very trouble.
for a moment you only look at one another. the same warmth from downstairs rises between you again, only now it feels quieter. closer. with no egg to interrupt it, no clatter of cups or laughter from drunk men to break the spell.
just you. and him. and one bed.
you step farther into the room, setting your things down near the washstand before turning back to him. dunk is still by the door, large hand resting on the latch, like he does not quite trust himself to come nearer unless bid.
“you needn’t sleep on the floor,” you tell him. “not after all these weeks on the road.”
his gaze finds yours at once. “and you needn’t be made uncomfortable on my account.”
the words are so very him that your heart aches a little. always making himself the burden. always ready to make himself smaller somehow, though he was the biggest man you had ever known.
“i wouldn’t be uncomfortable,” you say.
that stills him.
not all at once, but enough. enough that his fingers tighten once on the latch before falling away.
“you mean that?” he asks, quiet now.
you nod.
dunk studies your face like he might find the truth of it written there. when he does, something in his shoulders eases, though only a little. “i move in my sleep,” he warns.
you smile. “so do i.”
“i snore, or so i’m told.”
“egg snores louder.”
that earns a low huff from him, near a laugh. he shuts the door behind him then, slow and careful, and suddenly the little room feels smaller still.
warmer too.
you sit first, at the edge of the bed, and dunk watches like he is still waiting for you to change your mind. but when you only begin unpinning your hair, what remains of it, he finally moves to the other side of the room and begins shrugging off his sword belt and cloak.
the sound of leather, of boots set aside, of his tunic brushed free of dust fills the space between you. domestic little sounds. quiet ones. and somehow they feel more intimate than the bath had, more dangerous than holding hands downstairs.
because this is what comes after.
sleeping beside one another. waking beside one another. sharing breath and warmth and the dark.
when you look up, dunk has gone very still again.
he is watching you.
“what?” you ask, softer than before.
his eyes flick once to the bed, then back to you. “nothin.”
you smile at that, because he is a terrible liar.
carefully, you shift higher onto the mattress, leaving space enough beside you. an offering. a question.
dunk stares at the place for half a heartbeat, then another.
and then, slow as prayer, he comes to you.
the bed dips hard beneath his weight when he sits, making you sway ever so slightly toward him. instinctively his hand comes out, large and steady at your waist before either of you quite thinks on it. once more, a simple touch. once more, enough to make both your breaths catch.
“sorry,” he murmurs, though his hand does not leave right away.
“for what?” you ask, the words barely above a whisper.
his throat works. “bed’s small.”
“i don’t mind.”
his fingers flex once against your side, then fall away.
you both settle beneath the blanket in awkward little silence after that, careful not to crowd too much, careful not to brush where you needn’t. though with a bed that small, there was no true avoiding it. your shoulder rests near his arm. your knees almost meet beneath the coverlet. his heat reaches you easy, even through the little bit of space he tries so hard to keep between you.
for a while neither of you speaks.
the candle burns lower. the inn sighs and creaks around you. below, the last of the laughter fades into the hush of night.
then, in the dark, dunk says, “you warm enough?”
you turn your head on the pillow to find him already looking at you.
“aye,” you whisper. “you?”
“aye.”
but he is lying, and not well.
you can tell by the way his shoulders are still tight, by how carefully he has laid himself on the very edge of the bed as though afraid to take too much room. afraid to take anything that was yours without leave.
so, heart pounding, you shift closer.
only a little.
your knee brushes his.
dunk goes very still.
your hand, beneath the blanket, finds his wrist. “you’ll fall off if you keep to the edge like that.”
he lets out the faintest breath through his nose. “wouldn’t be the worst bed i’ve had.”
“dunk.”
that makes him smile in the dark, small and private and meant only for you. you feel it more than see it.
carefully now, as though every movement matters, he turns just enough toward you. enough that his arm may slip beneath your neck if you wished it. enough that the space between your bodies grows soft instead of strained.
“better?” he asks.
you nod, though he can hardly see it. “better.”
and after a moment’s hesitation, his hand comes to rest lightly at your waist over the blanket.
not possessive. not presumptuous.
only there.
only warm.
you breathe in slow. he does too. and at last, with his arm around you and your leg tucked close to his beneath the blanket, the bed no longer feels too small at all.
summary: you were forced to cut your beautiful hair, when you and egg end up in a dangerous situation. you hate the way you look but duncan doesn't. in fact hes obsessed.
warning: usual violence for akotsk, mentions of daggers and swords, insecure reader due to hair, reader hates how she looks, reader is f and kinda chubby
notes: i thought of this when i was on the train. so not edited. but i hope u enjoy. Let me know if you want a part 2!
gods you hated the way you look. it wasn't intentional, it was for survival, to save egg. you did to save the child.
it happened one unlucky night, at an inn. you, egg, and dunk had seated at the farthest corner table. ale and food was served to you. egg was tucked to your side, chewing on a peace of bread. he was exhausted but starving.
duncan sat in front of you, eyes heavy, he smells of dirt and road and exhaustion. his eyes dart across the room as the men grew rowdier and rowdier.
talks of whores being tossed around for a pretty penny, directions to where they are headed.
the intention was to remain calm and unnoticeable, you three were a simply family trying to head somewhere. all you had to do was finished your meal and head up to your rooms.
but luck wasn't on your side lately.
"look at this big brute," one man called from the opposite corner, ale in his hand, words slurring.
"gods above, he's massive," another man chimed in. dunks chin flexed in irritation, his hand already settling at hilt and you distinctively pull egg closer to you.
"look at her, look at her hair." the first one called out and dunks eyes darted to you. you look up at him, giving him the slighted shake of a 'no' because he would. he would fight for your honor, for your dignity. but tonight is not the night. you three have been traveling for 2 weeks now, already exhausted by the long and dry and hot road.
"aye, how much you think she costs?" the second man says. and your eyes darted at the man, glaring at him.
but you remain quiet, you remain still, you remain obedient because that is what you have learned in survival. simply eat your food and get on your way.
"look at the brat next to her—" they continue to talk, their conversations clearly about the three of you but dunk and you remain quiet, finishing the last bit of you ales.
it isn't until you were helping egg when you noticed the men had stood up and started to make way to your table. dunk was quick on his feet before three more averaged size men had jumped on him, trying to hold him back.
"aint this a targaeryan boy!" one man called out, grabbing egg out of your hand while another reaches for your waist. pulling you hard against his armor as his fingers pull and drag at your hair. the other wrapping against your neck. you struggle against his hold as you hear egg scream and kick against the man.
"i bet they'd pay a pretty penny for yer head," someone say. you see the way dunk jerks and pushes away the men. but each time one falls another comes up to jump him.
"egg!" you scream, wriggling and thrashing in the mans hand. "shut it girl!" he exclaims, pulling harder on your hair, yanking you back.
silence fills the room. those who do not want to get involved out of fear sat with their eyes wide open. the inn keeper had ran to the back.
dunk scream for both of you.
you were quick to grab the dagger that’s strapped at your thigh. with a scream, you lunge forward, dagger in hand and quickly sliced through the strand of your hair then the flesh of his forearm. the blade cut deep enough that he roared and jerked back, blood welling hot and sudden.
you barely felt yourself move after that. it was fear, pure and blinding. you slashed again, this time lower, catching his side and sending him stumbling away from egg.
then you were there, in front of the boy, breathing hard and holding the dagger out though your hand trembled terribly.
"you bitch!" the man screams but before he could do anything, dunk is behind him, slamming him onto one of the wooden tables and his fists make contact with this face.
"don't you fuckin dare touch her!" he growls.
egg hugs you from the back, hands gripping against your linen dress as his eyes pear up at your bluntly chopped hair.
"oi! oi! oi!" the inn keeper yells, behind him his son with an axe.
dunk stops, his fists bloody from the mans face.
"get the fuck out of ere with that shyte!" the in keeper continues, his son waving the axe in front of the three men.
dunk is quick onto your side, his hand slides over yours and safely grabs at your dagger. "it's alright," he says softly as you look up at him then glancing down at egg. "it's alright pea— he's safe now." he continues. that alone calms you down and you release the dagger from your hand before turning around and landing on your knees.
you move with quick movements, making sure no injuries on egg.
"my lady," he says, voice soft and low. "your hair..."he continues, reaching up to grab at your now short and blunt length. "i'm sorry my lady," he sobs. eyes red with tears running down his face.
"no, no my sweet. don't cry." you say to try calm the child. "you're safe, that's all that matters. besides, hair always grow back. you know that," you gesture at his bald head.
egg leans forward then, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and despite his age, you quickly lift him up.
"let's get to bed now," you hum.
you nod towards the inn keeper and he offers you a sympathetic smile. "we'll get a bathe ready for you in your rooms. free of charge."
by the time you had gotten egg down for bed in his room, you enter yours and find dunk seated at the edge of the bed.
"you alright dunk?" you say before noticing the steaming bath next to him.
"aye, m'alright. you?" he questions, his eyes dart towards your hair and he feels heavy. feels like he failed protecting you. he's a knight and he couldn't even do that.
“yeah, i’m alright. is it okay if i take a bath first?” you ask, and he nods.
dunk moves to the opposite side of the bed, broad shoulders stiff as he sits with his back now turned toward the bath. even then, he looked as though he could not bear to be far from you.
you were quick to strip, eager to rid yourself of the filth clinging to your skin. you felt crusted over with sweat and road dust, and worst of all, there had been blood upon your face. the man’s blood. dried now, but still enough to make your stomach turn when you thought on it too long.
the bath water was warm, blessedly so, and when you lowered yourself into it, it felt near enough to heaven after such a day. you folded your legs and drew your knees up against your chest, letting the water cover as much of you as it could. for a little while, you said nothing at all. only breathed. only listened to the quiet crackle of the hearth and the faint sounds below the inn.
then, softer now, you called out, “okay, you can turn around now.”
dunk took a second before he moved. a long second. you could hear the breath leave him, sharp through his nose, could picture the way his jaw had gone tight and his hands curled into fists where they rested upon his knees. he was still angry. not at you, never quite at you, but at what had happened. at himself, for letting it happen at all.
still, he turned. he always did.
when he faced you at last, there was something in his expression that made your chest ache. despair, maybe. regret. his eyes found you at once, but lingered upon your hair, hacked shorter now where you had cut it free, uneven and rough where the dagger had gone through it.
“m’sorry, m’lady,” he murmured.
you frowned. “don’t say sorry, dunk. i did it. i knew what i was doing.”
you said it as steady as you could, as though the words might make it true in a way that settled him. and it had been true. you had known. you had chosen. but deep down, beneath the steadiness, beneath the brave face you tried to hold before him, you hated it.
you hated what had happened. hated the blood, hated the fear, hated the memory of your own hand striking true.
and more than that, you hated the way you looked now.
you had never thought yourself lovely, not truly. not in the way songs told of. not in the way court ladies and princesses of the realm were meant to be. your belly was softer than you wished it was, your shoulders not so slim or graceful, your thighs thick and strong where others seemed slight as willow branches. and now your hair, once one of the few things you could bear to take pride in, had been cut through with a dagger and left uneven besides.
all at once you felt terribly plain. terribly ordinary.
your gaze dropped to the bathwater. “i look awful.”
dunk’s brow pulled low. “you do not.”
a small bitter laugh left you. “dunk.”
“you do not,” he said again, firmer this time. “not to me.”
that made you look up.
he was still sitting there on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, looking at you with such stubborn honesty that it near undid you. dunk was no courtly man, no silver-tongued singer come to fill your ears with pretty lies. whatever he said, he meant. and that only made it worse somehow, the way your heart twisted at hearing it from him.
his gaze softened, though his voice stayed low and rough. “you were brave. braver than any man there.”
you swallowed hard, suddenly unable to meet his eyes for long. the water felt too warm, the room too small. “i didn’t feel brave.”
“most folk don’t, when it matters.”
for a moment neither of you spoke. the quiet between you stretched soft and aching, filled only by the faint drip of water from the rim of the tub.
then dunk looked down at his hands and said, quieter now, “should’ve kept you safe.”
your chest tightened at that. “dunk—”
“i should have.” he spoke like a man condemning himself, every word heavy with it. “you should never have had to do that. not whilst i was there.”
you stared at him, at the grief written plain across that open face of his, and something in you gave way. because this was dunk. great, gentle, stubborn dunk, who carried the weight of every hurt as though it belonged to him. who looked more troubled by your cut hair than by the blood upon his own knuckles. who would sooner blame himself than let you bear pain alone.
then, with swift movements, dunk stood to his full height. he reached over to one of the bags he had lazily thrown upon the bed and grabbed the bar of soap you kept tucked away with your things.
without saying much, he strode over to the bath. the floor creaked beneath his boots, and the sheer size of him made the little inn room feel smaller still, warmer somehow.
you looked up at him, your arms tightening a little about your knees. “dunk—”
“hold still,” he said, though there was nothing harsh in it. only that same plain gentleness he always had with you, buried beneath all that size and awkwardness.
he crouched beside the tub, one knee pressing into the floorboards, and for a moment he only looked at you. really looked. at the dried blood still caught near your temple, at the dirt clinging stubbornly to your skin, at the shortened strands of your hair now curling damply against your face and neck. his jaw tightened again at the sight of it.
then, more careful than a man that large had any right to be, he dipped the soap into the water and worked it slowly between his hands.
“dunk,” you said softer this time, not stopping him, only watching.
“you missed some,” he murmured.
his hand came toward you then, broad and rough and warm even dampened by the bathwater. with slow fingers, he brushed the lather along the side of your face, so gentle it made your throat tighten. he was careful around the little scrape at your cheek, careful near your mouth, careful at the line of your jaw as though you were something terribly precious and breakable, though the both of you knew that was not true.
still, he touched you like it was.
you went quiet beneath it. quiet in a way that had nothing to do with fear now. the room had gone still save for the soft lap of water and the faint sounds from below the inn.
dunk’s thumb swept near your temple, wiping away the last of the blood. his eyes stayed fixed on the task, though every so often they flicked to yours and away again, like the looking itself cost him something.
“there,” he said, though his hand did not leave your face at once.
you looked up at him through damp lashes. “you’re awful good at this for a hedge knight.”
that brought the faintest twitch to his mouth. “am i?”
“mhm.” your voice was small, tired. “a bit too good, mayhaps.”
he huffed at that, almost a laugh, but his hand drifted then to the ends of your hair, what remained of it. the shortened pieces clung wetly to your skin, uneven where you had cut through it in haste. he gathered a few strands between his fingers, his expression falling once more.
“i’m sorry for your hair,” he said, quieter now. “i know it mattered to you.”
you looked away, heat creeping up your face though you were already in warm water. “it was only hair.”
“was not.”
his answer came so quick it made you glance back at him.
dunk swallowed, like he had not meant to say it aloud, but he did not take it back. his fingers still held the end of one damp lock, his rough thumb brushing over it once before letting it slip free.
“it was yours,” he said. “that makes it matter.”
the words settled over you heavier than they should have, heavier than any pretty thing a finer man might have said. perhaps because dunk was no fine man. no polished court knight. there was no game in him, no sweetness offered just for the sound of it. what came from him came plain and true, and that made it strike all the deeper.
you sank a little lower into the bath, your knees still drawn close, though now it was less to hide and more because your heart had begun to beat strangely. “you always say things so...”
“so what?”
you shook your head. “like they mean too much.”
dunk’s gaze held yours then, steady and open and altogether too honest. “they do.”
and for a moment neither of you moved. not him kneeling there by the bath, not you curled beneath the water. the room seemed to shrink around the silence, around the closeness of his hand still resting on the edge of the tub, around the way his eyes had gone soft on your face.
you could have reached for him then, had you wished. could have laid your hand atop his and seen if he would turn it over, if his fingers would lace with yours beneath the candlelight.
but all you did was breathe.
dunk cleared his throat first, as though he too had felt something shift and did not know what to make of it. he reached for the cloth beside the basin and dipped it into the water. “turn a little,” he said, voice gone rough. “there’s blood at the back of your neck still.”
obedient now, you turned in the bath, baring the line of your shoulder and neck to him.
behind you, dunk went very still.
the view of your bare back memorizes him but he shakes his head to focus on the tasks at hand.
he lathers the soap in his hand, he's now registering the smell of sweet honey and milk.
before massaging and lathering up your skin. you groan at the touch against your shoulders and neck. as he massages you, your muscles relax and loosen from the ache.
"feelin good?" he asks, as he notices the way you body relaxes in the tub. it takes everything in him to not glance down at the swell of your ass.
"yeah," you say softly. cheeks burning with a tint of red. he takes pride when he sees your ears pink.
after a few more moments of massaging you, dunk places the soap at the side on a wooden table. before gently scrubbing you with the wash cloth to make sure to get rid of all the dirt and blood.
only the sounds of water sloshing fill the room before you turn and glance at him.
"would you like to join?" you question.
dunk has seen you naked before, always standing guard as you bathe as protection but not once has he joined you.
"i- m'lady." he starts, voice catching at his through. color rises fast to this face, al the way up to the tips of his ears. "yer sure?"
"yeah, why not." you say, already making your way at the opposite side of the bath. back still facing him.
"i can return the favor. besides the water might get cold soon." you continue.
you were meet with a brief silence before you heard the rustling of clothes and sloshing of water.
you feel the weight, the heat, and his gaze as he enters in the water. his long legs stretch against the bath, each limb setting beside you.
he groans as the warm water surround him, the weight of the day already washing from him.
you turn then, slowly, facing him with wide eyes and blushing cheeks. the bathwater shifts softly around you as you reach for the bar of soap he had set aside earlier, your fingers still a little unsteady.
quietly, carefully, you begin to lather it between your hands, the soft scent of honey and milk rising with the steam. then you reach toward him.
dunk does not move at first. he only watches. intent and quiet, like a man afraid that even breathing too hard might break whatever this moment had become. his heart hammered so hard against his chest he was certain you must hear it, must see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
your wet hand finds his wrist first. warm, trembling only a little. then your fingers slide upward, slick with soap and water, over the broad roughness of his hand, over knuckles scarred from swordplay and road and too many fights.
“come here,” you murmur.
the words undo him more than they ought.
slowly, like a man in prayer, dunk shifts closer to the bath. his knees creak against the floorboards, his great frame folding down beside you, though there is nothing small about him even then. he looked near too big for the room, too big for the tub, too big perhaps for the tenderness with which you touched him now. and yet he let you. gods, he let you.
you reach higher, lathered fingers brushing at the dust along his forearm, over the hard line of muscle there, and dunk lets out the smallest breath through parted lips. his eyes stay fixed on you, on your face, though every now and then they betray him, dropping lower to the line of your shoulder above the water, to the damp strands of your shortened hair clinging to your skin.
“m’lady...” he says again, but softer now. weaker. as though the word itself had lost all shape in his mouth.
you only look at him with those shy, earnest eyes of yours, cheeks still flushed, and continue your slow work. the lather clings pale against his tanned skin, and you smooth it over him as though he is something precious too, something worth tending.
that near breaks him.
because dunk had always thought it should be him caring for you. guarding you, washing the blood from your skin, standing between you and every hard thing the world might throw. but this— your small hands upon him, your touch so gentle, your gaze soft where his own had gone rough with feeling— this was something else entirely. something more dangerous.
his hand comes to rest on the edge of the bath, so near your knee now that one little shift would have him touching you. but he does not. not yet. he only grips the wood and breathes through the storm of it, through the warmth of the room, through the sweet scent of soap and the sight of you looking at him like there was no monster in what had happened that day, no shame in your body, no ugliness in either of you at all.
only this.
his eyes trail slow, helplessly, from your eyelashes to the tip of your nose, then to your lips. lower still, to the soft swell of your breasts just above the bathwater, then the slope of your shoulders, damp and gleaming in the candlelight.
then his gaze catches on your hair. already curling from the warmth of the bath, the shortened strands clinging to your temples and neck, uneven where the dagger had gone through them.
something in his face changes. softens. aches.
and then he moves before he can think better of it. one rough hand lifts, large and careful all at once, and he tucks a damp strand behind your ear. his knuckles brush your cheek in the doing of it, feather-light despite the size of him.
you go still.
so does he, for half a heartbeat, as though only now realizing what he has done. but his hand does not fall away. it lingers there beside your face, thumb just shy of your skin, his eyes searching yours with that same open, honest uncertainty that always seemed to undo you more than any smooth words ever could.
“dunk,” you whisper.
he swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes. “yer pretty,” he says quietly. plain as that. as though it were the simplest truth in the world.
your breath catches. “with my hair like this?”
his brow pulls together at once, almost offended you would ask it. his thumb brushes lightly at your cheek. “with any hair.”
you stare at him, cheeks burning now for a reason that had nothing to do with the bath. “dunk...”
“pretty when yer cross with me,” he goes on, voice low and rough now, like once the words started he could not quite stop them. “pretty when yer tired. pretty when yer laughin. pretty now.” his eyes flick once more to the shortened curls by your face, then settle on you again, stubborn and sure. “always.”
that is the sort of thing no singer could have said half so well, because from dunk it came without polish, without charm, without any wish to impress. only truth. big and clumsy and earnest as the man himself.
you look down at the water, suddenly unable to bear the weight of his gaze. “you don’t say things halfway, do you?”
“don’t know how.” he says it so simply it near makes you laugh.
and when you look back up at him, his hand is still there at your cheek, warm and steady, like he means every word of it.
you lean into his touch, one hand coming up to gently hold at his thick forearm, as though to steady yourself against the weight of what sat in your chest.
“but i—” you start, only for the words to catch. shame came swift after them, hot and familiar and cruel.
your eyes fall from his, unable to bear the openness in them. “i don’t feel pretty,” you confess.
dunk looked at you then as though you had spoken some great wrong. as though you had said the sky was green or summer cold. his brow knit at once, deep and troubled, and his hand at your cheek only grew gentler.
“don’t say that.”
his voice was low, but there was something firm in it too. not anger. never anger. only hurt, as if it pained him to hear such words from your own mouth.
you tried to look away, but he would not let you go far. his thumb brushed once beneath your eye, coaxing your gaze back to his. “why not?” you whispered.
“because it ain’t true.”
the answer came so quickly, so plainly, that it near undid you.
you gave the faintest shake of your head. “you only say that because you care for me.”
that made his jaw tighten. “aye,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “i do.”
your breath caught.
dunk swallowed hard, as though he had not meant to let the words come so bare and easy, but once they were out he did not take them back. he only looked at you with that same stubborn honesty of his, like truth was the only gift he knew how to offer.
“but i ain’t blind neither,” he went on, quieter now. “i got eyes. i see you.”
his hand slipped from your cheek to the line of your jaw, rough thumb resting there so careful it made your throat tighten. “i see yer face. yer eyes. yer mouth. the way yer hair curls, even now. i see all of you.”
heat rose at once to your cheeks, though not enough to chase off the ache. “all of me is the trouble.”
“no.” he said it so firmly the water near seemed to still with it. “that’s the best of it.”
you stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling at the edges, and dunk’s face softened all over again. slower this time. sadder, maybe. like he could see the hurt you had carried long before this day and hated that he could not simply put his sword through it.
his other hand came to rest on the edge of the bath, close enough now that you could feel the heat of him even through the cooling air. “there ain’t nothin wrong with you,” he murmured. “not yer belly. not yer shoulders. not yer thighs. not any part.”
your fingers tightened around his forearm. “dunk...”
“i mean it.” his ears had gone pink again, but he kept on, because once he believed a thing he held to it like iron. “you’re soft where a woman ought to be soft. strong where she ought to be strong. and pretty all through.”
the words hit harder than they should have. perhaps because no one had ever said them so. not prettied them up. not made them sweet enough to sound empty. he said them like fact, like oath, like something he would stand in armor and swear before gods and men if only it would make you believe him.
your eyes burned then, sudden and unwelcome. “you make it sound so easy.”
dunk shook his head, thumb brushing once more along your jaw. “ain’t easy. just true.”
for a moment you could not speak. could only look at him kneeling there by the bath, all broad shoulders and clumsy tenderness, his face full of earnest hurt on your behalf, as though your unkindness toward yourself wounded him worse than any blade.
when you finally did speak, your voice was small. “you look at me as though i’m something lovely.”
his mouth parted, then closed again, like the answer was so plain he could not understand why it needed saying.
“that’s because you are.”
and gods, the way he said it.
your eyes sting before you can stop it. the tears come slow at first, clinging heavy to your lashes, and you hate that too, hate how easily he sees through you, how simply he reaches the softest parts you try so hard to keep hidden.
“ah, now,” dunk murmurs at once, his whole face changing at the sight of it. “don’t cry, pea”
pea.
the word near breaks you more than the rest. you let out a small, shaky laugh that catches wrong and turns into something closer to a sob. “i’m trying not to.”
“i know.” his thumb swipes gentle beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. his hand is rough, but his touch is not. never with you. “i know.”
more tears slip free anyway. silly things. stubborn things. they roll warm down your cheeks and dunk looks near stricken, like he would sooner face ten armed men than this.
“did i say it wrong?” he asks, voice gone soft and worried. “i meant it kindly.”
that makes you laugh again, wet and trembling. “you said it fine.”
he studies you a moment longer, like he is still not wholly convinced, then leans a little closer. his forehead nearly brushes yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that the whole room seems to narrow around the two of you.
“good,” he says quietly. “because i’ll say it again if i must.”
your hand still clings to his forearm. his hand still cups your cheek. neither of you move away.
the water has begun to cool around you, but you barely feel it now. all you feel is dunk. the heat of him, the steadiness of him, the way he looks at you like there is nothing in this world he would not fight if it dared make you feel small.
“you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whisper.
his brow furrows. “like what?”
“like i’m... precious.”
dunk’s expression softens into something almost helpless. “can’t help that, m’lady.”
his thumb brushes beneath your other eye this time, catching another tear. “you are.”
and there it is again, that plain honesty that steals the breath from your lungs more surely than any practiced charm. he says it as if there could be no argument. as if the matter is long settled.
your lips part, though nothing comes. you only look at him, at the pink in his ears, the awkward set of his shoulders, the gentleness in those large rough hands of his, and feel your heart go soft in places it ought not.
dunk glances to your mouth, only for a moment, then back to your eyes. his own have gone darker somehow, heavier with feeling, though he still holds himself back with that same careful restraint that is so very him.
“tell me to stop,” he says, voice low and rough. “and i will.”
but you do not.
you only lean the slightest bit closer, still holding to his arm, still trembling though not from fear now. and dunk lets out a breath like the last of his strength has gone with it.
then his hand slips from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, careful of your shortened curls, and he leans in slow enough to give you every chance to turn away.
you don’t.
and his lips finds yours, hot and needy but gentle. you find his other hand snaking around your waist, pulling you close against him and you gasps when your belly touches his skin.
the kiss deepens, lips moving against each other as if the world seems to fall apart. your arms wrap around his neck, fingers lacing through his locks as his hands rests at your hip, giving your flesh a nice squeeze before gripping at your ass.
"dunk..." you moan into the kiss. tongue dancing against each other, the weight of your worries and insecurities no more.
you both part slightly, his forehead resting against yours as both chests rising and falling from the heat of the kiss.
areudirty
vaporwave
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
stormborns
