my blog is 18+ !! minors and blank blogs please do not interact with my work or my blog — thank you !!
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you can find me on ao3 — fernluvsu.
yay, my requests are open.
these are my call of duty masterlists:
main fics and oneshots
rugby!simon
this is my akotsk masterlist
this is my bullseye masterlist
this is my dr. abbot (the pitt) fic.
—✿ get familiar with both me and my request rules below the cut. thanks for stopping by :)
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—✿ about me and my blog
i’m in my twenties, i’m a uni student, and i also work outside of writing — so please keep these in mind !!
i do not have an upload schedule, and i am incredibly inconsistent with what and when i write.
i will straight up block you if you’re a minor or an ageless blog and you interact with my work.
i love to write for ghost, gaz and price of call of duty
i love to write for a knight of the seven kingdoms
i love to write for dex (bullseye) of daredevil and daredevil: born again
i love rugby, so you will often catch me yapping on about that.
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—✿ my request rules
send me a request by using the salute your captain button — but please ensure you read my rules before making a request.
i’m here to be a whore for these fictional men, so i mainly write smut. but i could write fluff if you catch me outside my usual sluttivities.
for cod, i prefer writing for price, gaz, and ghost. i can write for graves and keegan if you ask nicely. i don’t have a huge interest in soap tbh, so it’s a very weak maybe for him lol.
for akotsk, i’m getting freaky with everyone i’m gonna be totally honest (baelor, maekar, daeron, aerion 😔, valarr, dunk, and lyonel). why are they all so sexy it’s almost annoying.
i do not write angst, noncon, ageplay or anything of the sort, piss or scat, heavy degradation, heavy dom/sub dynamics.
i usually write for female, or fem readers. i can write for gender neutral readers too.
i do not use y/n.
i take requests when i can, and write what i want. if i don’t want to write something, i won’t, but i appreciate your support.
—✿ my navigation tags
#captainfern - anything i post
#captainfernsalutes - answers to requests, asks and messages
#captainfernreblog - anything i reblog
#you guys are so nice to me omg - responses to lovely messages and lovely people <3
(cod sidenote: i no longer use the music-themed tags i previously created. please see my masterlists for the fics instead !!)
my requests are open !! pls read my rules before you drop anything into my inbox tho.
however i am going on a little teensy writing hiatus as my mental health has hit the floor lmao and i am not doing too great atm. reqs are open so i can stockpile for when i feel a bit better :)
I feel like Aerion would want to make you squirt… and i wont let up until you do.
oh he’d be absolutely relentless. made you do it once and it re-wired his brain
and getting you to do it is not for you. sure, he knows he’s making you feel good, but making you squirt is literally for him.
he’ll eat you out, lick you through multiple earth-shattering orgasms with a finger rubbing neat circles on your clit, and he’ll wait. because he can see the flesh of your belly tensing, and your thighs are shaking, and you’re fisting the sheets as you moan all pretty and high-pitched. and then it happens, wetting his face as he rests his warm cheek against your thigh, and he groans with his cock leaking in his briefs. has learnt to put a towel down by now and make sure you drink a lot of water beforehand.
That one show Finn is in called Prisoner has put beautiful images of modern!Aerion with a baby. I have no idea what kind of story that would make but he just looks so cute all tired and teary eyed :(
Hello cute fern, are we getting a fourth of the Aerion x witch reader :0 ? I see you talk about the lady thing, omg, like that furry boy is domesticated finally obviously they would keep us there
i’m not sure !! i feel like the ending of the third chapter is pretty ambiguous and you can make up their future however you want. but if a fourth chapter is wanted, then i mightttt consider it
he’d be such a cocky little shit. sooo confident, as most scrum-halves are, and he’d run his mouth on the field all the time. other players would get pissed, and he’d try and fight them every time, even if they were entire feet taller than him. would totally score tries and celebrate by doing something stupid, like cupping his hand to his ear and listening to the cheers/boos of the crowd with a huge smile that will get clipped and plastered all over tiktok and instagram lmao.
and on top of that, he’d be superrr active on social media. posting gym photos and training photos where his abs are out and he’s all sweaty and his comments are just people commenting about how hot he looks. his teammates calling jokingly calling him ‘prince’ and ‘your highness’ in his comments since he’s so pretty and spoiled. he’d eat that shit uppp
cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).
synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?
Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.
Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?
Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.
He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.
A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.
"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"
And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."
"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."
It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.
You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.
No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.
Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.
What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.
The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.
Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.
And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."
All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."
Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."
Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."
You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.
"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."
Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.
"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."
You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.
And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.
"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."
The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.
It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.
He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"
Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.
Fic idea: what if : modern Aerion is your bf and he wants to role play bedding ceremony lol making you pretend he’s the prince who just took a bride and I think it could be hot
he’s such a little shit he’d so do this
18+ (modern au, smut, breeding, pussy pronouns cause that’s how we roll round hereee)
“you want to what?”
freshly showered, you spit your toothpaste into the sink and rinse, peering at your boyfriend curiously through the reflection of your ensuite mirror. aerion stands behind you, a towel around his waist and the pale skin of his torso still dewy from your shared shower.
“it’s role-play. we’ve done role-play before,” he says casually, leaning against the doorframe. you shoot him an amused look as you place your toothbrush away, and he rolls his eyes, huffing. “forget it.”
he turns and heads back into the bedroom, illuminated softly by the golden glow of lamplight either side of the large bed. you shake your head, laughing quietly to yourself as you follow him out. he sits himself heavily on the edge of the bed, towel sitting low on his hips and exposing the deep V and the neat line of white-blond hair that trails down from his navel.
“aerion, i love doing that kind of stuff with you,” you tell him, approaching in your silken pyjamas. his eyes trail down the expanse of your legs as you stand before him. “so… you want me to be a princess, yeah?”
his violet-blue eyes meet yours, and you watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. he nods once, the movement sure. confident.
“i’m a prince,” aerion affirms, leaning back with his hands flat to the mattress either side, exposing more of his chest and abdomen to you. his legs spread wider too. “and i’ve taken you as my bride, so there has to be a bedding ceremony.”
“a bedding ceremony?” you can’t help but smile. you fidget with the satin drawstring on your pyjama bottoms.
aerion looks you up and down, decidedly ignoring the smile spread across your pretty face. “a prince and a princess have to produce an heir, obviously.”
“obviously,” you repeat, fingers pulling apart the loose bow on the front of your pyjamas. aerion’s eyes flit down to the movement, quick like a falcon’s. and his gaze is predatory when you loop your thumbs into the waistband. you continue, “and where exactly did you get this idea? i mean, i understand bounty hunter and his target, and ceo and secretary, but this is new.”
aerion rolls his eyes. “it’s just—whatever. we don’t have to do it. you’re being—”
you pull your thumbs away from the elasticated waistband and let it snap back against your hips. “no, i want to. i really want to, aerion.”
he smiles, all wicked and vulpine in the low light of the room. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you say, then gesture towards your closet and ensuite. “should i… put on a dress?”
“maybe another time,” he tells you quietly, then gets to his feet. the mattress groans as he pushes himself from it and closes the distance between the two of you. his fingers quickly find the hem of your pyjama shirt. “you ready?”
you cock your head, challenging the boldness in his gaze. you simply raise your arms and allow him to pull your shirt from your body, your tits spilling free. you hear him groan under his breath when you make quick work of shoving your shorts down too, leaving you completely bare before him.
you kick the shorts away, fingers gently unravelling the towel around his waist. he watches you quietly, pupils swelling. you toss the towel aside, feeling the goosebumps ripple across the flesh of his abdomen as your hands trail from his hips, over the lines of his stomach.
you smile at him, teasing, fingers cupping the slight curve beneath his pectoral muscles. “and… action.”
there’s a flicker of a smile on your boyfriend’s face before it vanishes, replaced by a pure, unbridled need that sends your heartbeat straight between your thighs. his hands shift, one finding the small of your back and the other the side of your head, pulling you firmly into him.
you gasp out, hands flat against his chest. pushed against him, you feel the hardening of his cock against your bare skin, the heat of him near branding as his thumb moves to hook around your chin and pin your head in place.
“my pretty dove,” aerion mutters, eyes scanning your face. there’s a heat in his gaze that sparks embers in the ashes of your womb, and you find that it rises quickly through the base of your stomach. he coos, “look at you. bare for me—bare for your prince.”
you release a soft sound, something like a whimper that trips over the tip of your tongue. you feather your fingers across his chest—in the way you know he likes—and you delight in the purr that escapes him as your hands slide across his shoulders.
“for you,” you say in a whisper, pressing yourself closer and shifting your hips. his cock grinds up against you, flushed and hot. one hand remains on his shoulder, but the other traces down. across the lines of his abdomen, the neat line of white-blond hair, then through the patch at the base of his cock. your fingers ghost across the root of him. “please, my prince, i need—”
“i’ve waited so long,” aerion interrupts, the hand on the small of your back vanishing, only to reappear around your wrist. he pulls your hand away from his cock, slowly leading you towards the bed. “so long to have you. and now you’re here with me. where you belong.”
aerion guides you down onto the bed, and you shuffle back until your head finds pillows. you relax into them, and he chuckles, his own hand wrapping around the base of his cock. the head blushes deeply with trapped blood, the slit wet and pearling with pre-cum as he climbs up onto the mattress, resting on his knees.
“i am to be king one day, you know,” he tells you then, and you watch with your heart clattering against your ribs as he lowers himself between your spread legs. he lies on his stomach, hands finding the fat of your thighs as he continues. “everything will be mine. this country, this land, this castle—” he leans forward then, placing a gentle kiss to your clit. “—this pussy. you.”
you squirm, fisting the sheets. heat blossoms molten in your veins, flushing hot through your core as he presses another tender kiss to your clit, before trailing a line of small kisses down through your folds. you arch, mewling softly, the pleasure sending a series of electric shocks straight to the base of your spine.
“and because i’ll be king, i’ll need an heir,” he mutters, lips moving against your core. he spreads them wide, tongue unfurling like a serpent’s, and he drags it through your folds until he can swipe it flat across your hole. he hums, pleased, when your thighs clench either side of his head and a breathy moan of his name falls from your mouth. “but first, this pretty girl has been waiting for her prince long enough, hasn’t she?”
his tongue presses deep, bullying past the tight ring of muscle and splitting you apart. you’re slick and silken and warm against him, his face burying deeper between your legs as he grips the flesh of your thighs. you moan, the sound reaching the ceiling, as aerion takes you apart with his mouth. the sounds are loud and wet too, and you notice—but don’t address—the way his ears burn red as he works below you.
he parts from your pussy for a moment, staring up at you with glistening eyes. “fuck, she’s noisy, isn’t she? pretty baby’s wet and fussy—she’ll take me so well, i just know it.”
then, he’s sliding back in, his mouth hot against you. you moan loudly, a lilting and slightly breathy “my prince, please” as he fucks his tongue into you. he acknowledges you with a squeeze of his fingers against your thighs, but his movements don’t relent, and as he slowly grinds his hips against the mattress and the bunching sheets, he curls and flicks his tongue inside you.
you swelter where you lay stretched for him. your chest heaves, rising and falling in rapid succession as his nose ruts against the swollen pearl of your clit. the warmth kindled low in your belly fans through your womb, and there’s a steel-hot pressure building at the base of your spine. it makes you cant your hips, grinding your cunt deeper against his face.
“my pretty girl,” aerion murmurs directly into your cunt, and despite the throb of your heartbeat and the low buzz of pleasure in your blood, you know he’s not talking to you in that moment. his eyes are transfixed on your pussy, and he whispers to it between ruts of his tongue inside you. “being so good for me—” licking in, out, then a kiss to your folds, “—being so good for your prince—” a board stripe, up, then back down, “—m’gonna stuff you so full, pretty baby, i promise.”
he moves his tongue back inside you, curling and thrusting with as much tactility as his fingers would. it has you writhing into the sheets, pressure thick in the base of your spine, and you can feel the heat in your womb drawing hotter and hotter. molten.
“my prince,” you gasp out, something contracting low in your belly. your thighs pull tight, starting to spasm either side of his head. you whine, “please, i need—i’m so close.”
aerion says nothing, just continues to lick you towards your release. but his hand does snake inwards from your thigh, and you feel the firm press of a thumb on your clit. the added pressure tears a yowl from your throat, and you bear down into the contact as your body shakes, sweat building along your spine. you call his name, and his title, again and again, before the pressure in your back gives way and you tumble into your orgasm with twitching limbs and another loud moan of his name.
aerion takes you through it, rubbing his name across your puffy clit as he draws the slick from your pussy with long, serpentine curls of his tongue. a few beats pass, your heart knocking against your sternum, before the prince detaches from you, a string of slick and saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. it snaps when he licks his lips, his lower face wet, and he stares up at you with glazed eyes and pink cheeks.
“oh, she’s so ready for me,” aerion mutters, eyes finding your cunt one last time and pressing a tender kiss over your hole.
he kisses your folds, then your clit, then up and over your mound. he follows the curve of your lower belly, over your navel, and soon you’re moaning softly as he trails surprisingly gentle kisses over your sternum and between the valley of your breasts. he takes time to take nips at the skin on either one though, but he quickly slides his wet face into the column of your throat so he can kiss up and around your neck. when he finds the junction of your jaw, he licks over your pulse point.
his cock rests hot and heavy against your thigh, and as you blink away the haze of your first orgasm, you feel the heat of another, a promise, collecting inside you again.
“the first cock you’ll ever have, and it’s mine,” aerion utters, nosing your pulse and inhaling deeply, as if committing your smell to memory. he groans, and his cock jumps where it sits against the plush of your thigh. “fuck, sweet girl, y’r gonna take it like an absolute dream, aren’t you?”
you nod, delirious and far to high-strung across your pleasure to form a proper sentence. blood sits hot in your core as the prince shifts his hips, sliding the head of his cock through your folds. it’s messy as he ruts blindly, groaning into your neck as he wets his cock with small, jerking movements that make the mattress shake.
he spends a moment like this, panting and whining with his body pressing you into the bed. you wonder then, as heat traps between you and the ache in your pelvis festers bruise-like beneath the weight of your pulse, if this is the prince, or if it’s your boyfriend.
“my prince,” you call to him, hand finding his shoulder and trailing down his back. his skin is slightly clammy with sweat and remnants of his shower. “please, aerion.”
coaxed by your soft calls, aerion picks himself out of your neck and sits back on his haunches. he settles there, between your parted legs, and takes one hand around his cock to guide it up and down through your slick folds. you suck in a breath, and he taps the tip heavily against your puffy clit, a cunning smile splitting across his handsome face. his features appear softer in the golden lamplight.
“easy, sweet girl, easy,” he coos, his other hand finding the back of your knee. he drags one leg up, angling it against his body as he bends slightly. his cock notches, swallowed by the soft clutch of your pussy. he grins wide when you moan, speaking through a groan of his own. “oh, look at her. so ready to take her prince, isn’t she?”
the way he pushes in, with a shallow furrow in his brow and a slight parting of his lips, is less than ceremonious. it’s a deep, rolling thrust that slides his cock into you in one movement—it’s more of the aerion you know, than the prince you’ve met—and the feeling of him bottoming out has you choking on a sob.
but still, the prince settles. he holds one of your legs against him, practically hooking it over his shoulder. the width of him stretches you apart, and you flutter around him, pussy wet and thrumming with your pulse. heat sits stagnant in your belly as his cock plugs you full, his balls resting snug against the curve of your arse.
“here it is, that’s my good girl,” aerion mutters as his eyes flick from where you struggle to look at him, to where his cock splits your cunt apart. his fingers skim over your folds, feeling around where you take him. the sensation makes you mewl, and he shushes you, hand finding your other leg next. “i know, i know.”
“deep,” you say simply, gasping when he gets both of your legs near his shoulders and bends even more. you feel some air leave your lungs as he presses your legs back towards you. “y’so deep—m’so full.”
aerion pulls out, then shunts back in. it’s a breathtaking movement that sends you reeling: you arch, spine curling, sheets bunching beneath you as he pries you open on the thick of his cock. he thrusts again, and again still, and he grunts with each rolling stroke of his cock near the plug of your cervix.
“i know, i know,” the prince repeats, practically folding you in half as he fucks you. your pussy drools around him, eliciting a wet string of plap-plap-plap as he moves into a solid, rhythmic pace. “you feel your prince right up in your tummy, baby? is that right? never felt that before, huh?”
you nod, nails pressing little red indents into his shoulders as he thrusts into you. your head tips and you moan out his name, tits bouncing, tummy squished as he folds you. he pants loudly, sweat glistening high on his forehead. it catches like glitter in the ichor of the lamplight, and if you were to blur your eyes enough, it may have appeared like a crown.
“taking me so well,” he praises you, eyes threatening to close as he already begins to lose himself. your cunt clenches tight around him, and the little whimpers that fall from your mouth have his cock jerking inside you. he groans, “holy fuck, baby, you’re so good.”
that sounded like aerion.
you loop him back into the fantasy, drawing him even closer, sucking him in even deeper—both physically and mentally. one hand trails over the nape of his neck, then you thread your fingers through the short hair at the back of his head. you tug lightly, but focus on scratching the tips of your nails across his scalp.
“my prince,” you whine out, the syllables stretched poorly across a wanton moan. the pressure in your lower back has returned, and the promise of another orgasm has materialised, growing hot in your stomach. you whisper to him, “let me give you an heir.”
he groans. it’s loud and almost pained as it fights it’s way from the depths of his chest. his body presses tighter to yours, pinning your legs, the angle driving him even deeper into you. you moan loudly, something clenching in the base of your belly, as his cock pulls you apart.
“i’ll give it to you,” aerion grits out, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he holds back from spilling right then and there. his balls twitch heavy against your arse, and the tension in his pelvis bleeds like ink into the marrow of his bones. “i’ll come—i’ll spill inside you, pretty dove. i’ll fill this pretty pussy so good, i promise.”
you whine, urging his head down. and he relents briefly, sliding his mouth to yours and licking a couple of sweet-tasting whimpers from your tongue and teeth. when he pulls back, he huffs, rutting his hips against yours even faster now. the stretch of his cock pulls the pressure inside you apart, tearing it from your limbs, until it coagulates deep in the pit of your womb and you succumb to the heat.
you come with a gush around him, the feeling drawing a loud, pornographic moan from you. “aerion” slips out into the evening silence of your room, and you clutch him tightly as your body shakes and quivers. your pussy flutters tightly around the thick of his cock too, slick dribbling out with each desperate thrust.
a thin white ring builds around the base of his cock as he fucks you through it, the sounds of your cunt taking him—schlick-schlick-schlick—making his ears burn hot and his balls tug tight against your arse. composure evades him, evaporating into the golden-hued shadows, as his own orgasm builds, and builds, and builds.
“you’re going to give me an heir,” the prince groans, rambling mostly. “i’m gonna fill you—fill this pussy, fuck you nice and full, yeah? i want—i want you round with my child, baby. i—fuck, just—just need to breed this pretty little—”
he doesn’t last long, sentence sliced by the point of his pleasure. it’s sharp, taking him brutally while he moans out your name. it’s wanton and desperate as he buries himself into you, a sword into a scabbard, and comes. you mewl softly, still trembling, when he spills right up against the plug of your womb, your legs still bent against your stomach as he leans into you. his cock twitches as he empties inside you, and a small whimper of your name falls from his lips, feeling your pussy milk him dry.
you both pant like you’ve run non-stop. sweat clings to you both, and you’re tacky with it as he extracts your legs from his chest and gently lowers them either side of him. his cock is still buried inside you, plugging in his cum, as he gently shifts so you can both lie comfortably against the mussed sheets. he buries his face between the swell of your tits and you stroke his hair tenderly, heartbeats syncing.
“and…scene,” you whisper, playful but tired. you draw circles across the back of his head when he grunts into your chest, too pleasure-lax to be amused. you smile. “are you okay, my prince?”
he doesn’t want to admit how much he enjoyed that. he also doesn’t want to show you how red his face is, burning from the fact he liked it so much.
so instead, he grunts and mouths at your sternum. you smile, taking that for your answer.
———
this turned out longer than expected lol i couldn’t help myself
Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader x Ser Duncan the Tall
✿ you and daeron want to take care of your favourite knight during a tourney (and dunk is more than happy to be cared for)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 8.5k
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically described, reader has an undefined but established relationship with daeron, SMUT, dunkdaeron, threesome (paris is lovely this time of year), fingering, handjobs (yes plural), oral (m!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, praise!! pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), m!masturbation, inexperienced!dunk, slightly more dom!daeron, a lot of making out i'm gonna be real, explicit alcohol consumption, wine play?, fluff and yearning, strong language, everyone is exactly where they want to be :)
a/n: this is written for the wonderfully talented @vekharious — happiest of happy birthdays !! this is for you, queen of dunkdaeron, i hope you enjoy <3
There’s a pleasant, amber-lit warmth around you as you recline back against the plush chaise, eyes dipping in the shadows of the tent. You nurse a cup of blackberry wine, remnants sticky and sweet between the grooves of your bottom teeth as you run the point of your tongue across them. You take a gentle breath, smelling the incense coiling out in thin, white wisps from the thurible suspended overhead: floral bergamot and the musk of something earthier. Shredded wildgrass. Rain on hot earth.
Languidly, your other hand cards through Daeron’s hair, fingers threading between the strands and rubbing along his scalp. His head rests in your lap, his eyes closed, his lips stained a reddish-purple from the wine and the press of your lips. He hums, a leonine purr from the depths of his chest, when the tips of your fingers run in circles along his temple.
He shifts, eyes blinking open to stare up at you. Beyond the canvas of the tent, the music of wandering bards clears the warm evening air of silence, matching birdsong with the plucking of strings and the drone of a wooden flute.
Wordlessly, you lower the cup to him, pressing it gently to his mouth and pouring some in. He drinks with his eyes on you the entire time, glassy and perfectly reflecting the candlelight over your shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking,” Daeron drawls after swallowing, eyes darting across the lines of your face.
“You’ve been thinking? That’s dangerous,” you comment softly, tugging at his hair. “Should I be worried?”
The prince rolls his eyes and continues, “Yes, yes, your jesting is hilarious. But, I have been thinking.”
You take a sip of wine. As you do, he watches the way your throat works around the swallow. His thoughts are softer around the edges, velveteen against the thick arch of his skull, and as his glazed eyes follow the wine down the drop of your throat, he feels his cock give a feeble jerk in his trousers.
You rub your fingers against the crown of his head, speaking when the silence stretches. “What have you been thinking, my prince?”
“Don’t my prince me.”
“You are my prince, are you not?”
Daeron huffs, and you smile down at him. You dip then, pressing your lips to his, the angle slightly awkward, but it doesn’t matter. The prince makes a noise from the back of his throat when your mouth drops to his, and he licks the overripe berries from your lips. He would’ve licked it from your teeth and your tongue too, but you pull away before he can deepen the kiss.
“What have you been thinking about, Daeron?” You repeat, his name so gentle rolling across your tongue. It’s a warm brush across his chest, like the feathering of fingers over his sternum. If he were less mortal, he may have started glowing, skin burning hot at the amorous lilt in that one word alone.
“Duncan,” he replies, almost breathless. The fingers in his hair are teasing, tugging, and he fights off the fluttering of his eyelashes as he looks up at you. “Ser Duncan.”
You peer down at him curiously.
A beat of silence passes, framed only by the distant strumming of a lute and the hammering of your heart against your ribs. The hand on his head shifts, and you swipe a stray lock away from his glistening eyes.
“Ser Duncan,” you say. It’s a statement. Firm and sound as the man who owns the name. The big oak of a man made up of sword callouses on his large hands and a stretching mass of shoulders beneath the thinning material of his tunic. You run your thumb over one of the prince’s eyebrows as you speak again. “And what about him?”
“He’s a big lad, isn’t he?” Daeron whispers out. “A good lad, too.”
“He is,” you agree without much thought.
Ser Duncan the Tall is a big lad. Carved from stone, fists of iron. His arms are thick, as are his shoulders, and his back, and his legs. He takes up space even when he hunches in poor attempts to make himself smaller. His chest and stomach are a solid mass of fat and muscle, soft to the touch which you had found out when, rather boldly—and rather drunkenly—you had placed a palm flat to his chest a few evenings ago. And gods, how he had blushed beneath the trailing of your hand over the solid bulk of his abdomen. Ser Duncan the Tall, a man who made you look bite-sized in comparison, all big and strong with a tendency to go bright red in the ears at the mercy of a pretty lady.
“Such a good lad,” Daeron murmurs, eyes finally closing as you trace the ridge of his browbone. The way he says it makes you smile around the rim of your cup as you take another mouthful of wine. Daeron opens his eyes at the movement, muttering, “Yeah?”
“He is,” you say again, dropping the cup to his face and pouring another decent amount of wine into his mouth. Your hand runs down his cheek, and you wipe a droplet from the corner of his mouth before it can roll down the side of his head. Thumb still at the corner of his mouth as he swallows, you ask, “And why exactly are you thinking about Ser Duncan?”
“I just thought—” the prince begins, almost sheepish, but the wine in his veins is honey-thick and warm, and that velvet brush of his thoughts isn’t bowing to any kind of sober shame. “—we could try something.”
You drink the rest of the wine, sediment swirling in the bottom of the cup as you place it to the side. The two bottles nearby roll empty against the ground. You let your pause linger as you listen to the combined plucking of chordophones somewhere across the camp.
“You want to try something with Ser Duncan?” You query, fingers feather-light as you trace over his cheekbone and the scar that sits there, gnarled but healed.
Daeron smiles. “Yes.”
“And… you think I would agree?”
Daeron continues to smile, but it grows. He reaches a hand, lazy in its movement, to cup the side of your head and bring you down to him once more. He kisses you then, gentle and sugared by blackberries, and there’s a subtle flick of his tongue against your lower lip. You huff into it, and he allows you to pull back. Looking down at him, your hand back in his hair now, you find him smiling still with a pink hue across his cheeks.
“Surely you’ve seen the way he acts around you,” Daeron says, hand trailing briefly over your throat, before tracing a line down your chest, between the valley of your breasts. He continues, “The man goes blood red when you so much as smile at him.”
You want to roll your eyes, but Daeron’s right. You know exactly how the knight shies away beneath your smile, beneath the sweep of your gaze, beneath the whisper of your praise.
Daeron’s hand stretches over the softness of your stomach, palm across your navel. “And he is such a good knight. Surely he deserves someone like you to care for him?”
You offer the prince a knowing smile. “And you wish to care for him as well?”
Daeron shrugs, the movement heavy against your thigh. He kneads at your stomach, and you puff, batting his hand away. He hums out a laugh before his head turns and he kisses your stomach through the thin linen of your chemise.
“If it pleases him,” Daeron murmurs against you. His cheeks are bright pink now, and you can’t help but skim your knuckles across it, feeling the heat prickling there. Daeron catches your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing over the backs of your fingers. “So?”
A thick heat bundles tightly behind your navel at the thought of Ser Duncan and your prince and you. The wet kisses being left across the back of your perfumed hand aren’t helping the ache between your thighs either.
“You are very convincing, your grace,” you chide, free hand finding his hair and pulling his head back. He grunts, but takes it with lowering eyelids, watching you with the corners of his lips creeping upwards. You ignore the smug look on his face, bending to kiss him once more, lips brushing as you reply, “If it pleases him.”
—✿—
Ten minutes later, and slightly tipsy, you traipse out of your tent and across the camp, the blackberry wine hot in your veins. You shroud yourself in Daeron’s cloak, with your chemise exposed and hastily tucked into a pair of linen trousers, tied tightly around your waist. The material billows around your shins as you cross the encampment, peering through the darkness in search of Ser Duncan.
You follow the music, lured by the stringed quartet who gather beneath the golden lamplight in the opening of Lord Baratheon’s tent. You duck inside, smelling roasted meat and spilled ale, and you fight your way through the churning dancers until you reach the grand table at the very far end.
Lyonel raises his eyes from his supper, fork half-way to his mouth. His eyes twinkle, a few curls of his dark hair brushing messily over his eyes. With his other hand, he wipes them away as he addresses you by name.
“I thought you had retired for the evening,” Lyonel says, eyes trailing down your slightly dishevelled form.
He bites the slab of meat from his fork and chews carefully as you wave off his comment, looking around the tent as you speak. “May you point me in the direction of Ser Duncan?”
Lyonel’s eyes are sparkling as he chews, then swallows. His grin is woolfish too. “Oh? Whatever for?”
Your gaze finds his and you challenge it, stern and unwavering. The liquid courage that builds like ichor in your blood is enough to chase any potential embarrassment away.
“Take a wild guess,” you say, cocking your head as you appraise him. And before he can make a wild guess—which, from experience, would be more than wild—you continue, “Do you know where he is or not?”
He takes a stab at another piece of meat, before gesturing vaguely with his fork towards the tent’s entrance. He shoves the piece into his mouth and says around the food, “I’ve put him and his boy in one of my tents for the night. He shouldn’t have gone too far, he left a mere few minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Lyonel,” you say, bending into a mocking curtsy.
Lyonel barks out a laugh, tipping his head to you as you swivel and exit the tent. With your cloak billowing out behind you, you hurry across the encampment until the music has softened and you can make out footprints in the mud that are much bigger than everyone else’s. Ahead, Ser Duncan dips his head to avoid a lantern mounted to a post.
“Ser Duncan!” You call out to him, voice carrying honey-sweet through the warm, still air.
He turns, slightly startled, just a few metres out from Lyonel’s tent. As you near, you notice the way his eyes widen at your state, taking in the thin material of your chemise, the well-stitched linen of your trousers, and the thick cloak that blankets your figure. He drops into a small bow as you approach, and you chuckle warmly.
“M’lady,” he greets, looking at you through those pretty light brown lashes you’d come to love staring at so much. He rises when you’re directly in front of him, forcing you to crane your head. No matter how tall you ever think you feel, Ser Duncan always makes you feel small. He clears his throat politely. “Are you alright?”
“I am,” you tell him, taking a step closer and feeling the heat radiating from his body. You watch his throat work around a swallow when you reach your hand out and gently touch the pillowy muscle of his bicep. You smile, blinking up at him. “Although, I wanted to ask something of you.”
“Of—” Dunk clears his throat again as if his mouth was too dry and his tongue too heavy. “—Of course, m’lady. Anything at all.”
You grin at that. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me and Daeron in his tent?”
Dunk’s eyes widen. Baby-blue but sparkling dark beneath the casting glow of the nearby lantern. His pupils stretch outwards, and you watch his irises cloud over as he considers the weight of your words. His eyes never stray from your face as your hand gently strokes up and down his bicep.
“I, uh, I mean, I’d… that would…” Dunk stutters, then stops, composing himself. His eyes flicker down to where your hand traces flat lines across the side of his arm, and then back to your face, where you blink up at him like a doe. He exhales a quick breath. “What would I—what would we do?”
“Drink, ideally,” you tell him, fingers drawing over his shoulder now. You reach, tracing line after line until you find the meat of his pec and you feel his breathing hitch beneath your touch. You continue quietly, “But we would like to take care of you, if that is something you’d also want.”
Dunk gapes at your boldness. “We?”
“We,” you assert with a firm nod. Your hand ghosts down one pec, thumb brushing his covered nipple. You’re tracing the hammering of his heart. “Me and Daeron. I must admit this was his idea, but if you are unwilling, that is absolutely fine. He and I will simply—”
Dunk shudders beneath your touch, and one of his large hands lifts slowly to wrap around your wrist. He stills your hand where you’d been drawing circles around his clothed nipple, and you peer up at him with a small smile etched across your face. He stares down at you, chest heaving, eyes scanning your face. Then, he spares a glance towards the tent.
He speaks facing away from you. “I am not unwilling.”
Your smile grows larger. “Yeah?”
The knight turns now, and his cheeks are pink. His ears are even pinker, and you coo up at him, lifting your other hand to feather the pads of your fingers across his cheekbone.
“I am willing,” he whispers, bending his head to draw in more of your touch. His eyes flutter closed as you cup the side of his face, feeling the heat of his blush and the subtle movement of his jaw as he speaks again. “I’m willing, m’lady.”
“Ah,” you say simply, drawing your hand away. His eyes open and he releases your wrist too. You pet his chest again. “He was right.”
“I beg your pardon?” There’s a tip of his head like a puppy.
“Daeron,” you say as if the name was gilded in gold. Perhaps, in many ways, it was. “He told me you were a good lad, and he was right.”
Something like a whine breaks out from the back of Dunk’s throat, and his eyes rise to scan the encampment, but no soul wanders in this direction. You notice the flush creeping down the column of his neck now, and you can’t help the heat that kindles behind your navel as you observe it.
Quickly, you withdraw your hand from his chest and offer the tall man your arm, which he takes without a second thought. He has to stoop slightly, which makes you chuckle.
“Come now, Ser Duncan.” You guide him towards your tent, earth churning beneath you.
The knight clears his throat. “Dunk is fine, m’lady.”
You peer up at him, patting his arm. “Dunk it is.”
—✿—
You pull the flap of Daeron’s tent aside and allow Dunk to duck in, his body hulking through the small opening. You fasten the canvas shut when you both stand inside, and you smile warmly, heart fluttering, as Dunk takes in the interior of the tent with awe. He gapes at the high ceilings draped in blacks and crimsons, the suspended lanterns, and the ornate thurible that overflows with white, bergamot-scented smoke.
Across the room, Daeron lounges much like you left him, stretched across the cushioned, ground-level chaise like a sun-drunk cat. His tunic is gone though, abdomen exposed to the lanterns and candles that fill the tent with a sunset glow. The prince opens his eyes, drawn by the movement, and the smile that pulls across his handsome face is nothing less than excited.
“Ser Duncan,” he utters, low and heady through the shadows, and the tone hits you straight in the bottom of your stomach, heat seeping between your legs as you wrap your arms around Dunk’s arm.
“Dunk,” you correct tenderly, pressing your cheek to his bicep. Your hands drift down his arm, fingers interlocking either side of his hand. You speak to the prince, still separated by metres of intricately-spun Myrish carpet. “Would like us to take care of him.”
Dunk couldn’t blush any harder if he tried.
The smile on Daeron’s face stretches even wider as he sits up and leans against the back of the chaise.
“Perfect,” he whispers, reaching across to secure a new bottle of blackberry wine.
You gently lead Dunk over to the chaise, and he lumbers behind you with his hand in yours. He inhales deeply, smelling the powdery incense and the sweet, perfumed oil on your skin as you remove your hand from his and shrug the cloak from your shoulders. Daeron gestures to the chaise, and Dunk lowers himself with a stiff grunt as you stand before him, pulling apart the knots of your trousers.
Daeron hands the knight a cup then uncorks the wine. “Ser?”
“Please,” Dunk whispers, barely aware of his own voice.
His eyes linger on the prince, whose hair is perfectly dishevelled and framing his pretty, amber-lit face. After a moment, his eyes flit to yours, and he lets the prince pour wine into his cup as he watches the trousers drop from you, leaving you in just your thin chemise. He swallows, eyes snapping to the dark burgundy wine swirling around his cup.
Dunk takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised. It tastes nothing of the ale or cider he’s used to. It’s rich and sweet and perfectly fermented. Blackberries and sugar, but there’s a berry tartness to it too that lingers along the sides of his tongue. It tastes expensive.
You settle at his other side, and you are so close to him. Dunk can feel the press of your breasts against his arm as you lean to take the cup offered by the prince, and he can feel the shifting of your breathing before you take a sip. Daeron is close to him too, head parallel to his shoulder leaning back against the cushioned chaise. The strumming of instruments from Lyonel’s tent filters through the thick canvas, and the knight downs his entire cup as nerves begin clawing up the inside of his chest.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” Daeron chides suddenly, leaning his head against Dunk’s shoulder. He blindly reaches for the wine and pours more into Dunk’s empty cup. “You are a good knight, Ser Duncan. An honorable one at that. Don’t you think you deserve to be taken care of?”
Dunk’s heart beats wildly against his sternum. Granting him time to think, he takes another deep sip of wine. He feels slightly dizzy already, but he’s not sure if it’s the wine he’s chugged or the heady incense that clouds above his head.
“I don’t think so, your grace,” Dunk answers after a moment. “I don’t think I deserve—”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” you add, hand finding his chest again. It’s still over his heart. A resting comfort that does nothing to cool his heated blood. You smile up at him. “You’re a good knight. The best knight.”
Dunk shakes his head, a small dip in his brow. “I don’t—”
“Our favourite knight,” Daeron interrupts, watching as Dunk drinks his second cup of wine. The prince is already holding the bottle, and he refills the cup quickly, noticing the flaming flush across the giant’s face and neck. “You’re a good knight, aren’t you, ser?”
Dunk looks between you both. You feel him shudder beneath the press of your palm.
“Yes,” he responds meekly, then takes another drink from his cup.
You do as well. As does Daeron, and you and the prince exchange a knowing glance over the rims of your cups as you all drink. A quiet moment passes, the song beyond the tent changes tempo, and suddenly the heat inside you is just that. Heat. A blistering need spreading wild through your diaphragm as you finish your cup—you forgot how many you’ve had—and place it aside.
“Dunk…” You draw out, hand balling in his shirt now.
“Hm?” He hums, mouth full.
“Can I take this off you please?”
You tug at his tunic. He swallows, nearly choking on it, and nods. Smiling, you snatch the hem and tug it over his head, stretching to pull it from his arms too, leaving him bare in the warmth of the tent. You hum, pleased, two hands finding the mounds of his pecs as he reclines against the back of the chaise.
“So strong…” You mutter, squeezing the fat there.
It makes Dunk groan, his pink-stained lips parting as he watches your fingers work across the muscle of his chest. You grip, palms flat over his nipples, watching the shift of skin and flesh. Daeron watches too, enraptured, before a scheming smile splits across his face and he holds his cup near Dunk’s collar bones. He pours a little then, and you watch with wide eyes as a trickle of wine falls across Dunk’s chest and slips between his pecs.
Dunk groans. “Oh gods.”
“Don’t make a mess now, sweetheart,” Daeron chuckles as you dip and catch the wine with the point of your tongue. You flatten it, just at Dunk’s sternum, and begin licking upwards, trailing back between his pecs and cleaning the blackberry from his skin. Daeron purrs, head resting against Dunk’s shoulder still, smiling proudly. “That’s good…”
Dunk cranes his head upwards so you can suck the remnants from the dip of his collarbone. Then you pull back, holding most of the wine on your tongue. You look at the knight imploringly, but he shifts his head, looking down at the prince.
Daeron nods. “Go on.”
Dunk grunts, a sound of unbridled relief, as he lowers his head and slots his mouth against yours. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and they move against yours slowly, timidly. You clutch the muscle of his chest as you crawl over into his lap properly, straddling the mass of his thighs as your mouths move. When his lips split open just enough, you swipe your tongue in, and it’s met with a low groan.
Daeron drinks and watches, but his free hand slinks upwards until he can take a fistful of Dunk’s hair, massaging the back of the knight’s head. Dunk groans again and his tongue meets yours, firm and salt-licked, and you smother it with blackberry wine. One of your hands trails off Dunk’s chest and dips lower, brushing over the hair that thickens beneath his navel in a messy line. You rub your palm over it, and you feel the contraction of muscle beneath fat, and that draws your heartbeat heavily between your spread legs.
Casually, Daeron reaches around where you and Dunk connect and takes the cup from the knight. Dunk makes a noise into your mouth, some kind of gruff acknowledgement, before both of his hands find your hips. They’re warm and solid and big.
“Alright, ser, c’mon now,” Daeron mutters and pulls at Dunk’s hair. The knight swallows his moan as he’s yanked away from your mouth, and you hide a giggle at the blush painting his cheeks and the glaze across his bright blue eyes. All cups are long forgotten now, and Daeron’s hand finds the back of your neck before he’s bringing you towards him. “We have to share the lady, yes?”
Dunk nods dumbly, the movements sluggish, as you smile and slot your mouth against the prince’s while one of your hands continues to trace the line of his trousers. Daeron’s mouth is firmer than Dunk’s, more experienced. His tongue pushes in harder, more incessantly, and his lips shift against yours with a speed you’ve only recently gotten used to. It’s messy and loud, and the prince moans wantonly into your mouth, the sound ricocheting off the tent’s canvas.
Dunk watches and you feel the stirring of his cock beneath the material of his trousers. Blindly, your hand drags down and you press your palm flat to the outline of his hardening cock. The knight sucks in a sudden breath, eyes on where you and Daeron kiss, hiding a groan as the warm pressure of your hand bears down on him.
You take your other hand, previously kneading across the thick fat of Dunk’s chest, and place it across Daeron’s lap too: his cock tenting his linen trousers and aching. He huffs into your mouth and you catch the sound with the tip of your tongue. After a moment, both of your palms working against fabric, you pull away, and Daeron gives you one last wet kiss on the corner of your mouth before he turns his attention to Dunk, who stares at the two of you like you were born from the heavens above.
“Dunk…” Daeron drawls, snatching his nearby cup and quickly downing the rest of his wine. It remains pink on his lips as he tosses the cup across the tent—the sound of it clattering making you roll your eyes—and turns his attention to Dunk. The knight snaps his gaze from you to him, enraptured. Daeron smiles, taking a hand and running a couple of fingers down the curve of Dunk’s jaw. “I would like to try something.”
Dunk’s eyes find yours for a split second. “With me?”
“With you,” the prince affirms with a molasses-thick lilt, fingers sliding down the side of Dunk’s neck. “If it pleases you, of course.”
In the amber light, candles and lanterns glowing like dozens of little suns, Dunk’s pupils swell even more. His attention flits from Daeron, to you, then back to Daeron, tracing the lines of the prince’s face, before ultimately settling on his mouth. You smile, heat unravelling in the depths of your belly, heartbeat thick between your thighs, while you continue to grind your hands against both men’s obvious bulges.
A high-pitched trill from the distant flute swirls through the tent like birdsong. Silence stretches, and then another ballad commences with a clamouring of singing voices and a dramatic strum of a lute.
A single beat of your heart passes before Dunk slowly, slowly nods, and the smile that cracks across Daeron’s face is utterly victorious. You feel the ache of your own wide smile as you remove your hands and take a fistful of each man’s hair, knuckles firm against the backs of their heads. Dunk groans, and Daeron’s smile grows wicked as you press them closer, closer, and closer still, until they both close their eyes and their mouths meet hot in front of you. Daeron’s hand stays firm on the side of Dunk’s neck as he presses inwards, mouth moving. A small, whimper-like sound slips from between the knight’s wine-stained lips as Daeron’s tongue pushes in. His hands tighten on your hips as Daeron kisses him, kneading the flesh at the top of your arse.
“That’s it, that’s so good, Dunk,” you whisper, tugging lightly on his hair.
He whines in response, eyes blinking open as he angles his head to look at you—but Daeron doesn’t let him get far, pulling the knight down by the side of his neck and slamming their mouths back together. Dunk groans, eyes falling closed once more, and you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you as you remove your hands.
You shift in Dunk’s lap, leaning across to take the ties of Daeron’s trousers apart. They hang loosely around his hips, the knots falling apart easily, and still tongue-deep inside Dunk’s mouth, the prince lifts his hips for you. You bite down on your lower lip, another hot flash sounding through your belly, as you pull Daeron’s trousers down. He’s not wearing breeches—following your drunken round together prior to Dunk’s arrival—and his hard cock flops out hard against the lines of his abdomen.
You take it in hand, feeling the velvet-warmth of his skin, the head flushing a deep, bruising red as pre-cum pearls at the slit. The prince moans like a whore, loud and unabashed, into Dunk’s mouth as you swipe your thumb across the head, then trace it down the dip of his frenulum.
Daeron breaks the kiss and immediately slams his mouth to yours, and the sound that leaves Dunk’s throat sounds more akin to a wounded animal than a knight of the realm.
“Oh, praise the seven,” he mutters, cock throbbing in his trousers as he watches you stroke the prince’s cock as you kiss. That makes you smile, and you rip yourself from Daeron and take hold of the laces of Dunk’s trousers. You look at the knight, imploring, asking, and he nods too fast and too eager. But you love it. “Please, love, please.”
Daeron licks and sucks down the side of your neck as you pull the knight’s trousers apart. You do the same with his breeches. His hips lift momentarily, and you move awkwardly in his lap to pull his trousers and breeches down the thick mass of his thighs, bunching them near his knees as his cock falls free, thick and heavy and wet against his leg.
“Fuck,” you can’t help but breathe, and Daeron picks himself out of your neck. You reach forward and wrap your fingers around Dunk, both hands full now. He groans thickly, head rolling back against the chaise, as you slink your fingers up to the blushing head. You whisper, “Gods, Dunk, it’s—you’re so big.”
Dunk groans again. More embarrassed this time. His ears are bright red.
Daeron hums, delighted, and shoots a hand down too. He meets yours, brushing over your fingers as he wraps his own hand around the thick of Dunk’s cock, feeling the hot pump of blood and the subtle give of the velvety skin.
“You’ll split her apart,” Daeron mutters, speaking as if you weren’t right next to him. He leans his head back against Dunk’s shoulder, peppering the skin he could reach with soft kisses, before speaking again. “But she’ll take you, lad—” his eyes flit to you. “—she always does.”
Dunk groans at the prince’s words, righting his head to watch both of your hands work up and down the length of his leaking cock. You work together—Daeron leaning across to spit a blackberry-stained glob of saliva over the knight’s tip—in taking Dunk apart stroke by stroke. The poor knight shakes beneath you, chest shuddering, lips parted as whine after whine erupts from the back of his throat.
“You’re so pretty, Dunk,” you tell him, leaning forward to kiss the dip in his brow. He inclines his head, pleading, and you whisper against his lips before kissing him properly: “And you’re such a good knight.”
Daeron sucks a mark onto Dunk’s freckled shoulder, eyelids low as he watches his hand and yours stroke up and down, slick with spit and pre-cum. He bites off a moan, his cock jerking in your fingers as you move your hands at the same time. His breathing begins to pick up, a heat firing up in his belly as his eyes find where you and Dunk lick the wine from each other’s teeth.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Daeron says, and you pull away to listen. He takes hold of your chemise, and you break your hold on them for a split second so he can pull it over your head. Dunk groans, one hand immediately shifting to cup one of your tits. Pawing, kneading. Daeron continues, “Y’wanna let our knight stretch you out on his fingers?”
Dunk’s eyes widen.
You nod. “Please.”
Daeron grabs Dunk’s wrist, pulling it away from your chest and instead redirecting it between your split legs. You continue to straddle the knight’s lap as Daeron slides two of Dunk’s thick fingers over your mound then down between your thighs, tips brushing over the puffy bead of your clit. You keen, feeling the heat of your slick—and remnants of Daeron’s cum—as Dunk’s fingers dip over your clit and spread your folds apart under Daeron’s guide.
The knight moans. “This is—oh, she’s—”
“Soaked,” Daeron mutters, pushing Dunk’s fingers against your hole. You suck in a breath. As does Dunk. Daeron purrs, other hand squeezing the base of Dunk’s cock. “She’s soaked, Dunk. All for you—our good knight.”
“Our favourite knight,” you add, the final syllables stretching out into a moan as Daeron urges Dunk to press his fingers inside. Blunt and heavy and thick, spreading you apart. A dull ache builds across your womb, your thighs trembling slightly as two sword-calloused fingers push in, in, in, and then curl. You don’t know how he knows to do that, but he does, and he finds that perfect spot inside you that makes you yowl. “Oh my—ah f-fuck, Dunk, oh gods.”
His cock jerks in your hold, his chest heaving as your pussy clamps tight around his fingers. It’s unlike anything he’s felt before. Lush and silken, all vice-like around his fingers as he slowly pumps them in and out. Daeron’s fingers circle around his wrist, leading his movements.
Stuttering out a breath, you slowly wriggle your hips to meet the rutting of his fingers. You continue to stroke him too, and you feel him twitch again when your pussy flutters. A minute of this lapses before Daeron removes his hand and angles his head to the side, facing the knight, imploring with a batter of his eyelashes.
Dunk grunts but obliges without a second thought. As he splits you apart on his fingers, he dips his head to kiss the prince on his own accord. His mouth moves firmer this time, more confident. He’s finding his feet. Daeron responds to the knight’s eagerness with a lewd moan, his fingers jerking over Dunk’s cock again.
Dunk pulls to the side, panting. “Wait, wait, I can’t—”
Daeron shushes him, kissing his cheek, “I know, Dunk, I know, s’okay.”
And with that, Daeron withdraws his hand. You do as well, whimpering quietly as you place it back against Dunk’s chest for anchorage. Dunk’s head rolls back, eyes to the canvased ceiling, and he groans: half in pain, half in relief. Ghost-like tendrils of bergamot and wildgrass float just above his head, and when he exhales, now completely focused on the warm, wet heat around his fingers, the smoke shifts and dances in the lantern light.
“Add a third,” Daeron suddenly says, voice commanding but drunkenly tender.
Dunk listens. Of course he listens.
A third finger pushes inside you unceremoniously. You moan, gasping simultaneously, nails digging bluntly into the fat of Dunk’s pec. Daeron grins, watching Dunk’s fingers disappear inside you as his hand wraps around yours, helping you fist his own cock. The response Dunk has to your sounds is feverish—his head whips down and he slams his mouth to yours, although it’s mostly tongue and spit and a brief clash of teeth. You both whimper, but the kiss lasts less than five seconds before Daeron is removing your hand from his cock and urging you off Dunk’s lap.
You pout in protest. “Daeron—”
Dunk’s expression is much the same. “M’lord—”
“Gods, you’re like puppies,” Daeron chides, easing you off Dunk’s lap. The knight’s fingers slip from the clutch of your cunt, pulling a thick web of slick with them. You mewl at the loss, the emptiness, and Dunk’s wet hand instantly finds the fat of your arse as Daeron shuffles back, pulling you onto your hands and knees. The prince continues, “Here we go, Ser Duncan. Let us take care of you.”
Daeron cradles the back of your head as he settles you across the chaise, your elbows and knees pressing deep into the cushions. He presses your face against his thigh.
Dunk sits up immediately, his pout gone. Instead, awe spreads thick and fast across his handsome face as he kneels behind you. One large hand paws the fat of your arse, the curve of your hip, whilst the other clasps near the head of his cock as he drags it lightly down the split of your arse.
He moans your name. “Oh this—this is—”
“Be a good lad, Dunk,” Daeron begins, massaging circles along the nape of your neck as he wipes the head of his cock against your mouth. You’ve lifted your head now, smelling the musk of his skin and floral bergamot as you wet your lips. “You’re going to listen to your prince, okay?”
Your pussy clenches around nothing at Daeron’s words, and they’re not even directed at you. The heat behind your navel burns hotter, and hotter still as the tip of Dunk’s cock messily slides down between your folds.
“Yeah,” Dunk breathes out, nodding. His eyes are glazed over and a few loose strands of hair cling to his sweaty forehead.
“Good,” Daeron says, finally feeding his cock into your mouth. You part your lips and lax your jaw, moaning low as the prince slides in. Fending off a moan of his own, he whispers, “Push in just a little. Just the tip—oh, yeah, that’s a good lad…”
Daeron’s sentence shifts mid-air as Dunk immediately heeds his instructions: sliding the head of his cock against your hole, tracing it once with a clumsy circle, before pushing inside.
You moan around Daeron’s cock. Your heart slams against your sternum and the heat in your stomach festers into an ache. It’s a viscous need that claws up your diaphragm, set alight where he slowly pries your pussy apart. Behind you, Dunk shakes—a full body tremor as he holds himself, the tip of his cock buried inside you. His balls twitch and a heavy tension is already settling deep in his bones, his joints, as he feels you pumping warm around him.
“Is this okay?” He whispers, glassy eyes falling up the dip of your spine. “Is this—am I doing okay?”
You say something, but it’s garbled around the thick of Daeron’s cock, your words shoved back down your throat as the prince holds you by the back of the neck. Daeron laughs, a deep, rolling hum as he pets you, hips twitching and angling his cock even deeper down your throat.
“So good,” Daeron mutters, answering for you. The distant music changes again with a loud drumming of fingers against wood. Daeron smoothes his other hand down your back. “Y’can go all the way now. She’ll take you.”
You moan around his cock, tongue writhing over the warm skin. The prince’s eyes fall to you and you exchange a glance. He smiles.
Dunk groans loudly, the timbre shaking the candles nearby as he slowly pushes his hips forward. There’s a tensing in his lower stomach, up the muscles of his thighs as he tips himself against your arse, cock bullying open the clutch of your cunt. You moan again—the slide of him drawing the air from your lungs as your lips wrap around Daeron’s tip—and he whimpers.
“Oh g–gods above, this—oh, fuck, this is—you’re so—” Stinging hot with his blush, the knight struggles to string his sentence together.
It makes your pussy flutter, something flipping low in your stomach as the heat inside you spreads further. It pulls tight as Dunk continues to feed his cock into you, prying you apart.
“Tight?” Daeron suddenly finishes for him as he begins guiding you up and down his length. Your hand works around the base, smoothing over the curve of his balls as your head moves beneath the press of his hand.
Dunk groans, eyes still closed as he nods. “Yeah, yes, shit, she’s—”
He bottoms out then, pelvis flat against the curve of your arse, his hands gripping the jut of your hips as though you mean to flee him. It’s vice-like, almost too tight. You fight off another moan as Daeron edges down your throat, cock twitching against your tongue as Dunk cuts his sentence off with a whimper.
His cock is thick inside you. The width of him splits you apart, and he reaches so far that the pressure inside you stretches from your womb to your chest. It makes you shake, thrumming like the string of a lute, trembling slightly as you arch for him. He opens his eyes and finds where your pussy takes him. His cock jerks inside of you, and you moan around the prince’s cock.
“She’s the best you’ll ever have,” Daeron begins, still drawing shapes across your arching back as the knight pulls himself from you. He thrusts back in, almost like he’s afraid to hurt you, as Daeron reaches across to paw at the flesh of your arse—simultaneously shoving his cock further down your throat. He ignores the way you gag. “My prettiest girl. Always so good for me—and now she’s being so good for you, isn’t she, Dunk?”
Sweat clings high on Dunk’s forehead, cheeks pink as he begins rolling his hips. His thrusts slowly build in pace, and his heart flips in his chest at Daeron’s words. Nodding dumbly—that’s all he feels he can do—he mutters out a string of, “yes, so good, so good, such a good girl,” as he fucks you atop the cushioned chaise.
Daeron’s hand returns to tracing across the warm skin of your back. He writes his name, his full name and title, not that you can discern that anyway.
Dunk’s thrusts are sporadic in their pressure, and it makes you whine around Daeron’s cock, trying to get the prince’s attention with your lips spread wide around him. The warmth gathering in your womb is there, festering, as your clit throbs with the weight of your pulse. He’s so close to getting it perfect—your best knight, trying so hard to please you.
You manage to catch the prince’s eye when he finally looks away from the huffing knight. His cheeks flame pink, matching the blackberry wine that clings to his lips. He coos, knowing, then directs another lilting order across your body and onto the burning red ears of Dunk.
“You won’t hurt her,” he says. “Go harder.”
Dunks looks over at the prince. “Harder?”
Daeron nods, and so Dunk listens. His fingers tighten on your hips as he pulls out, resting just inside you, before inclining in at such a force you topple forward onto Daeron’s lap. The prince groans, content, as he cradles your head against his lap while you moan around his cock. Dunk grunts as he sets his pace, the sounds bearish as the hazy cloud of incense churns like a thinning stormcloud above his head. The fat of your arse shifts, rippling as he fucks you into the chaise.
Then, he finds the spot that has your eyes rolling. The thick, blunt head of his cock nails it and, by the gods, he feels you tighten around him, and he sees your arch deepen. So he chases it: he chases the high-pitched keens stuck in your throat, and he chases the fluttering of your cunt around him, and he chases the way you rock your hips back to meet each of his thrusts. And the entire time he chases, hounding your pleasure, Daeron praises him, and that sets his pulse thundering in his ears.
“That’s a good lad… that’s it, y’doing so well for us,” the prince utters as he continues to guide your head up and down. “You’re making her feel so good, Dunk.”
You keep your mouth lax, but can barely keep up with him since Dunk’s all but forcing you towards release. You feel it building like stone in the base of your spine. And you know your knight is much the same as, despite his stamina, his thrusts slowly begin to falter.
“Please,” he mutters, practically holding you up now. “Please, sweet girl, I’m—gods, you feel so good. You’re just—you’re so good.”
You whine around Daeron’s cock, saliva stringing wet from the corners of your mouth.
“Yeah, that’s it, Dunk, she’s close,” he drawls, hand shifting from your back to your chest so he can palm at your tits. “Lean forward for me.”
Dunk does as he’s told, and he and the prince meet in the middle. Thanks to Dunk’s height, their mouths slot together easily, a clash of steel and sharpened swords. It’s rough and wet and loud, and the fact you can’t see them makes you writhe between them, both your mouth and your cunt stuffed full. You’re spit-roasted, strung out tight between their bodies as their tongues meet.
“Such a good listener,” you hear Daeron mumble against Dunk’s mouth. Then, they’re kissing again and you’re left shaking.
Dunk’s cock ruts into you, knocking right up beside the plug of your cervix, drawing a thick, incandescent pressure from the base of your spine. It settles right at the bottom of your womb as you gag around Daeron’s cock, and as tears begin blurring your vision, the pressure mounts, and mounts, until you’re moaning loud around Daeron.
Both men pull apart at the same time to watch you come apart. Your release hits you hard, and Daeron pulls his cock from your mouth, resting your head against his thigh so you can moan “Dunk, Dunk, fuck, oh gods, nnngh—”
“There she is,” Daeron says as he pets the side of your face. His other hand is quick to rut down his length, fucking his fist as he coos down at you. “That’s my girl, taking it so well.”
The muscles in Dunk’s jaw jump as he grits his teeth, fucking you through it. He bullies his cock into you, losing his sense of self the more your heat consumes him. The way your pussy clamps around him, pulsing like the beating of his heart, makes him dizzy. The need he has for you is sickly sweet and he can taste it where he bites his teeth together. He needs you. He needs this again, and again, and again—
“Stuff her full, Ser Duncan,” Daeron says, but the order is breathy as he runs the head of his leaking cock over your cheek as you fizzle down from your high. His fist moves quickly, and Dunk can hear the wet shlick-shlick-shlick as the prince’s head rolls back against the chaise. “Spill inside her. I want you t’feel how well she takes it. How well she takes you.”
Dunk’s a pyre and Daeron the match, his words igniting all that Dunk had been holding back. With a guttural groan, nearly a growl the way it claws out of his throat, Dunk slams you down hard onto his hips—the motion drawing a tired hiccup from you—before his cock jerks. He buries himself to the hilt, stretching you apart, then moans your name like it’s the only word he knows.
“Sweet girl, sweet girl—ah, gods, m’coming, m’coming,” the knight rambles, then spills right up against the base of your womb.
It comes in thick, viscous spurts. You whine, nuzzling your face against the short, coarse hair across Daeron’s thigh.
The knight’s sounds, which have now dissolved into meek whines as his balls draw up and he pumps himself inside you, spur the prince on. Daeron moans your name, followed by a quick “Dunk, fuck,” before he’s spilling over his knuckles and painting the dewy skin of your cheek. You feel some splatter all sticky across your eyebrow too.
Dunk shudders behind you, shoulders heaving as he catches his breath. His cock rests deep inside you, plugging his seed at the base of your cervix as you tremble against him. Dizzy, he reaches across you to stroke a tender hand down your back while Daeron slides the leaking head of his cock through the cum splattered across your cheek.
A minute of panting passes before Dunk slowly removes his cock from the clutch of your pussy—much to your shared chagrin as you both let out a similar sound. He whines, watching his seed spill out of you, and you whine at the feeling of it seeping like molasses through your folds.
Daeron pats your cheek, smearing his cum across your face even more, and the stickiness against your skin and the feel of it growing tacky when you open your mouth makes you cringe.
“Daeron,” you mutter, but it’s not as firm as you wanted it to be.
Dunk collapses back onto the chaise and, much to your surprise, pulls you with him. He collects you with one strong arm around your middle and hefts you like your body mass is no more than a kitten’s. You mewl like one though, shocked and slightly sore, as he bundles you into his side and tucks his chin against the top of your head. You curl into him and he’s boiling hot.
Dunk beckons the prince with a crook of his finger too, and Daeron shuffles across the chaise—slightly unsteady, teetering nearly—before settling half on top of you. You don’t argue as he plasters himself against you, Dunk’s arm reaching around him too.
You trace the freckles across Dunk’s pec as you speak, “You alright?”
Dunk blinks down at you, dazed. “Am… I alright?”
You look up at him and smile. “Yeah.”
“Aye, m’more than alright,” he answers quickly. “M’grand, sweet girl. Are—I wasn’t too rough with you, was I? I didn’t want to—”
“You were perfect,” Daeron interrupts the knight’s stuttering, speaking for you as one of his hands—still damp with cum and spit—takes hold of one of your breasts. He kneads the flesh like he so often does when you lie together like this. “If you weren’t, she wouldn’t’ve come screeching like a wild cat.”
You roll your eyes and Dunk goes even redder.
“You were perfect,” you say gentler than Daeron. You shoot your prince a pointed look—which he counters with a soft kiss to your forehead—before you shift and press a kiss to the patch of skin just above Dunk’s nipple. “You did so well, Dunk. Our good knight.”
“Our perfect knight,” Daeron adds through a purr.
In response, Dunk takes his hand and threads his fingers through Daeron’s hair, clutching the prince tightly as he dips his head. They share a kiss, any remnants of blackberry wine licked clean by now. A moment passes before you whine, and Dunk can’t help but chuckle as he breaks the kiss and dips even lower, kissing you too.
“I suppose you’ll fight for the honour of both a prince and a lady on the morrow, won’t you?” Daeron mutters, dragging his mouth down the column of Dunk’s neck while the knight kisses you, sucking and biting at the sun-kissed skin.
You hum against Dunk’s mouth, adding with a smile, “And when you win, you’ll have both a prince and a lady waiting to congratulate you.”
Dunk’s cock jerks against his thigh. He couldn’t go any redder even if he tried.
