18+ blog. occasional writer. uni student. daydreamer. night owl. certified rom-com enthusiast. waiting for my meet-cute. must be bullseye on the brain!
—summary: you spend your days teasing dunk on purpose, brushing too close, holding his gaze a second too long, slipping into suggestive positions when you know he’s watching—until one day, his patience finally snaps and gives in to the temptation you’ve so carefully crafted.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!reader
—word count: ~5.4k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, outdoor sex, lots of body worship, praise, mutual pining, tension, reader loves to tease him, jealous!dunk, friends to lovers, inexperienced!dunk, needy!reader, dunk is down baddd. not proofread!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Ser Arlan is gone, no longer around to complain about your presence every chance he gets, or to remind Dunk that a man like him should not travel with a woman like you, whose past burns hotter than the Dornish sun.
What really burns is your presence, your company, your gaze.
Dunk has always believed that you are some kind of trial sent by the gods to tempt him, to test his self-control, his strength of will, and his sense of knighthood.
He also believes that you don't really do it on purpose, and that you are as pure and innocent as he is. But now that the old man is gone, you seem to have only gotten much worse.
Duncan can't help but glance at you when you're bathing in some lake, pretending to be mending a tear in some old piece of clothing or sharpening the blade of his sword. His eyes flick towards you every time he overhears a little splash, just like clockwork, followed by a sharp gulp.
The sound of water lapping against the rocks is the only thing that breaks the stillness of the forest. You’ve wandered just a few yards from camp, far enough to enjoy some privacy, but close enough to feel Dunk's protective presence.
You slide into the natural pool, gasping as the cold water embraces your bare body.
On the other side of the bushes, you hear the rhythmic “shhh-shhh” of the whetstone rubbing against the steel. Dunk is there, sitting on a fallen log, pretending to be deeply focused on his sword.
But you know that’s not really what’s going on.
From the surface of the water, you can see him through the branches. His jaw is clenched and his ears are tinged with a betraying shade of red.
Every time you emerge from the water and the sound of splashing reaches his ears, his shoulders tense. His pretty blue eyes, once brimming with a childlike sweetness, now scan for you on pure gut instinct, at odds with the decency that Ser Arlan so fiercely drummed into him.
“Dunk,” you call out gently, your voice drifting above the mist.
He flinches so violently that he almost lets the sword fall out of his hand. He clears his throat noisily, staring at some ants at his feet.
“Y–yes? Is something wrong? Is it—is it too cold?” he asks breathlessly, without turning his head even a fraction of an inch.
“It’s perfect,” you reply, emerging from the water with exaggerated leisure. You know he can hear the water dripping steadily down your body. “But I could use that old cloak you were mending. I left mine by the fire.”
You hear him getting up. His steps are heavy, purposeful, but when he reaches the edge of the thicket, he stops dead in his tracks.
“Here... here it is,” he tells you, blindly stretching out his arm through the leaves, offering you the fabric.
You step closer to the edge and, instead of taking the cloak right away, you brush his fingers with yours. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the rush of blood in his big hand. Dunk lets out a quiet gasp, and for a second, his self-control weakens. His eyes drift away, meeting yours.
“I–I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, covering his eyes with his hands to force himself to respect your boundaries. “So sorry”
That makes you smirk playfully, pulling the cloak up around your damp body. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, Duncan.”
You tell him that often. And every time, he is reduced to a blushing, stammering mess.
Sometimes, when he comes back from shopping at a nearby grocery market or roadside merchant, he is almost knocked off his feet when he finds you down on the grass, on all fours to look through the thick bushes for those berries you like so much.
But could they really be found so low to the ground?
His wide eyes are moving on their own before he can even think to try to control them, gliding over your hair, the stretch of your back, and then slowing down as they trace the curve of your bum, that looks absurdly more defined in that skirt.
With a little push you make forward, the fabric slides up a bit more, revealing more of the skin on your legs for his eyes only.
Your hips have widened, the shape of your waist is exquisitely defined, and your exposed skin seems to glow in the light of the spring sunshine.
Dunk feels his mouth go dry instantly and he just stands there, holding the handbag in one hand, his grip gradually loosening as the moment ticks by.
His dilated eyes roam the contour of your hips with an intensity that overwhelms him, a surge of arousal that makes him feel lightheaded with longing.
“Dunk?” you call out as you stretch a little further to reach a particularly red berry, without actually turning around. “Is that you?”
Of course you know it’s him and that he’s there; you’ve heard him approaching ever since he stepped into the woods. But you do like to have a bit of fun, to tease him.
Duncan is frozen in place, the sack of groceries hanging from his fingers as if it weighed a ton. The sound of his own breathing seems loud in the silence of the clearing.
He tries to articulate a response, but his throat feels as if he has been swallowing desert sand.
“Y–yes... it’s me,” he finally manages to squeak out.
He watches with a face bright red as you stretch again, how the fabric of your skirt is pulled tight against your curves and how the sunlight reflects off the softness of your skin.
It is an exquisite form of torture.
“Did you bring what I asked for?” you inquire innocently, arching your back just slightly enough that the motion is impossible to overlook.
“A–aye. I brought... apples. And some—cheese,” he swallows hard, muffling his wheezing voice and blinking sharply to try to snap himself out of the daze. “M’lady... you should—I mean, you could prick yourself on the thorns. It’s not safe to be like that... anyone could...”
You laugh softly, a vibrating sound that sends a chill down Dunk's spine.
“Anyone could...?” you repeat, feigning concern as you finally lean back up, slower than necessary. You turn just enough so that he can see your smile over your shoulder. “There’s no one here but you, Dunk.”
Duncan, just as you are turning your head toward him, forces himself to look everywhere but at you: at the trees, the sky, birds dancing and chirping in the branches above.
“You shouldn't tease like that,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “It's not… appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” you echo, rising to your feet at last, a berry crunching between your teeth.
You take a step toward him, then another.
Dunk recoils instinctively, stepping back from you as if you were a flame that could burn him if he got too close.
“You know what I mean,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t… move like that.”
You look down at your own body, pretending to examine yourself with utter confusion.
“Move how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently, biting your lower lip that’s still stained with the berries’ red juice. “I was just looking for berries.”
“You... you know how,” he manages to croak out at an unusually husky tone, his blue eyes blinking rapidly back down at you. “Like a... like a cat. Or like something from the songs that lures knights into the swamps to drown them.”
“I'm not a fairy tale witch, Duncan. I'm just a woman,” you reply quietly, drawing closer to him to be within arm's reach. Then you hold out your hand, offering him a single perfectly ripe berry. “And you're not a knight yet, are you? You're just a man.”
Dunk leisurely lowers his gaze to your outstretched hand, following the extent of your arm down to the berry, only to return to your eyes, entranced by the hypnotic magnetism of them.
His imposing physique recoils under the overwhelming weight of your attentive gaze and the sweet, alluring glint in your eyes—a gaze that entices him closer. Despite his massive body, Dunk is nothing more than a timid little mouse in your presence.
“Ser Arlan isn't here anymore, Dunk. What are you so afraid of?” You continue speaking so sweetly, attempting to coax him, using a voice as velvety as silk. You press the berry against his lower lip. “Eat now. You've been walking in the sun all morning. You must be hungry.”
Hungry, he certainly is. Just not exactly starved for some woodland berries.
Dunk doesn't take the berry with his hand, instead his lips fall open instinctively as he tilts his head closer to your hand. As his mouth closes over the little fruit in your palm, his tongue brushes against your skin—a flutter of accidental touch that sets off a ripple of heat through your body.
But you realize it was no accident when you catch sight of the way he's looking down at you now, licking the berry juice from his lips and humming in appreciation, reveling in the lingering taste of your skin on the tip of his tongue.
“Mhm, really good,” he drawls, lifting his eyebrows and nodding in approval.
That's the first time Duncan has ever gone along with one of your little flirtations, but that's all it is, nothing more. He doesn't tease you back, he doesn't ask you to give him another berry, he doesn't even bother to glance at you as he shuffles past you, practically stumbling back to camp.
It is a modest victory, but the fact that he has dared to touch your hand with his tongue is a sign that Ser Arlan's lessons are losing the battle against his own natural instincts.
The days go by and that little spark seems to have been extinguished. Dunk has put his walls back up, higher and stronger than ever.
Every time you try to brush his arm as you walk side by side, he finds an excuse to adjust Thunder's load. If you smile sweetly at him during breakfast, he suddenly focuses on a non-existent stain on his coat. It's like trying to melt a mountain with a firefly; completely hopeless.
You reach an inn on your way south, somewhere along the way. The place is crowded, filled with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale. Dunk sits in a corner, his gaze low as he drinks, carrying out his role as silent and boring guardian.
Tired of bumping into his armor of politeness, you decide you've had enough.
You get up and head to the bar and it takes less than a moment to catch the eye of a burly-looking mercenary with a scar on his cheek and an easy laugh. You lean against the counter, letting your shoulder brush against his, and let out a laugh that echoes above the din of the tavern.
“And you say you're traveling alone with that giant?” asks the mercenary, eyeing you up and down.
“He's been my friend for as long as I can remember,” you answer lightheartedly, making sure Dunk hears you, because of course he's listening and observing everything you do. “But he's a very... reserved man. I've almost forgotten what an interesting conversation is.”
The man bursts out laughing and tilts his head toward you, his face just inches from yours. Offering you a sip from his own mug, you lean in and accept, drinking slowly and staring at him with an intensity you've reserved exclusively for Dunk, until now.
The creaking of wood makes you flinch.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk spring to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a heavy thud.
He is standing behind you, his huge frame casting a shadow over your own. The mercenary glances up, turning pale at the sight of the tall figure menacingly looming in front of him.
“No more drinks,” Dunk growls. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a possessiveness you have never heard in it before.
“Hey, easy there, big guy, we were just…” the mercenary begins.
Dunk doesn’t let him finish.
He puts a hand on your waist and forces you to spin around to his side.
“We're leaving. Now,” he orders, looking you straight in the eye.
His jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth look like they're about to burst. His pupils are dilated, and for the first time, there is no trace of Ser Arlan in his gaze. There is only a jealous man who has reached his limit.
He doesn't even give you a moment to say goodbye to your new friend; Duncan is already dragging you out of the tavern with him.
The cold night air hits your face as soon as Dunk pushes open the tavern doors, but the heat emanating from his hand around your waist is all it takes to keep you burning.
“Let go of me, Duncan!” you exclaim, but there’s a hint of triumph in your voice that you can’t quite hide. You break free from his grip with a sudden movement and turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s wrong with you? I was having a pleasant conversation for the first time in weeks.”
Dunk comes to a sharp halt and turns toward you, his blue eyes glowing with anger in the darkness of the night.
“That conversation was not pleasant,” he snarls. “That man was looking at you as if you were a piece of meat at a banquet!”
“You don’t look at me, Dunk!” you fire back, waving your hands in exasperation. “You don't talk to me unless it's to tell me the road is long or the porridge is ready. If you don't want to appreciate what's right in front of you, don't complain when someone else decides to.”
“Seven fuck—you did it on purpose,” he gasps accusingly, his voice descending to a dangerously low murmur. “You knew I was watching. You knew I was going out of my mind sitting there while that fool was touching you—you're—fucking infuriating”
“Infuriating?” you repeat, breaking into a short, bitter laugh, feeling offended, and taking a step toward him until your shoes touch his leather boots. “What’s infuriating is having to seduce half the realm just to get you to stop looking at your own bloody hands and look at me instead!”
He keeps staring at you, catching his breath.
“I don't even know why you're whining so much. After all...” you make a dramatic pause, looking him up and down with a slow, disillusioned gaze, “it's not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”
You turn around with an graceful sway of your hips and make your way back to your camp, concealed in the woods, and don't look back.
Dunk arrives long after you, shifting like a clumsy shadow through the trees. You hear him collapse onto his bedroll across the dying fire, letting out heavy sighs that betray how far sleep is from his grasp.
You smile to yourself, tucked away in your little tent, relishing the chaos you’ve sown in his mind.
The next morning, the sun is just beginning to filter through the leaves when you decide you’re ready to step outside. You expect to find him getting ready for the road, maybe still grumpy or avoiding your gaze as usual.
But what you see takes your breath away.
Dunk is standing with his back to your tent, shirtless.
The fresh dawn breeze brushes against his sun-tanned skin, and his shoulders, broad and powerful, flex and relax rhythmically. He is chopping wood with a small axe, each blow sharp and forceful, causing the muscles in his back to ripple in the golden light. Sweat makes his skin glow, accentuating every scar and line of his muscular, massive build.
You are frozen in the opening of the tent, just standing there watching him.
All of a sudden, he ceases his work, sticks the axe into the log, and slowly turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see you; on the contrary, there is a fresh spark in his blue eyes, a look you haven't seen in him before—confidence.
“Good morrow,” he tells you. His voice is so deep, filling the clearing. He’s not in a hurry to get clothes on. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair and gives you one of those lazy, longing glances you usually give him. “You slept a lot. I thought maybe we should stay another day here, y’know?”
You linger there, your hand still gripping the fabric of the tent, suddenly feeling very small in front of his towering nude figure.
“Did the cat get your tongue?” he teases with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a motion that causes his biceps and pecs to flex in a very appealing way—one that makes your mouth water and your stomach flutter.
The tables have turned so fast you can practically feel the whiplash. Seeing Dunk like this—exposed, sweat-slicked, and radiating a sudden, quiet authority—is almost too much to handle.
You try to summon that playful, teasing voice that usually leaves him stammering, but your throat feels so tight.
“I... I was just going to the river to bathe,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to look unimpressed despite the way your eyes keep betraying you, darting down to the hard lines of his stomach. “Since you’re so busy playing lumberjack, I figured I'd give you some space.”
Dunk huffs out a quiet laugh, low in his chest.
“Space?” he repeats, almost amused. “You’ve never cared much about giving me that before.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other under that look of his.
It’s irritating.
And unsettling.
And strangely... thrilling.
“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, trying to recover your composure, “maybe I’ve grown considerate overnight.”
“Mm,” Dunk nods slowly, though his expression says he doesn’t believe a word of it.
A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the leaves and lifting a strand of your hair across your face. Dunk’s eyes follow the motion absentmindedly before drifting lower again—down your neck, the loose collar of your chemise, the bare curve of your shoulder and then, your breasts.
You feel it.
Seven hells, you feel it.
You cross your arms tighter, pretending it’s because of the morning chill and that you're not as lustful as a cat in heat, and that your nipples have stood erect ever since you saw the broad expanse of his back.
“Don’t stop working on my account,” you mutter. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”
That earns a crooked smile from him.
“River’s that way, my lady,” he says, nodding past the trees. “If you’re bathing.”
You hesitate, because now that sounds like a challenge.
“Oh, I know where it is,” you reply lightly.
Silence stretches between you, birds chatter somewhere in the canopy above, and the fire crackles faintly behind him.
Then Dunk says, casually:
“You’re not going?”
You narrow your eyes. “I said I was.”
“...but?”
Your cheeks warm, and you hate that he’s noticed.
“I was waiting for you to turn around,” you shoot back. “Some of us like our privacy.”
“You?” Dunk huffs, incredulous. “Privacy?”
You glare at him. “Yes, Duncan. Privacy.”
He lifts both hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face lingers. “Alright, m’lady. I’ll be a perfect gentleman for you, then.”
Then he makes a small, exaggerated show of turning around, presenting you with the broad expanse of his back again.
You slide the chemise down one shoulder.
Then the other.
The morning air kisses your bare skin, cool and bright beneath the rising sun. You step out of the garment and let it fall into the grass behind you.
Dunk exhales sharply and you smile to yourself.
“Thought you weren’t looking,” you say sweetly.
“I’m not,” he answers quickly.
The lie sits awkwardly in his voice.
You let out a soft, amused hum and continue down the narrow path toward the river, the morning grass cool beneath your bare feet. The trees thin as you approach the water, sunlight breaking through the leaves in bright golden patches.
You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him stepping through the trees after you, large and unhurried, his expression no longer shy or flustered but stubbornly resolved.
The river glimmers ahead, cool and clear as it winds between mossy stones. You step down into the shallows, the cold water climbing slowly up your ankles, your calves, your knees.
It makes you gasp softly.
Behind you, Duncan reaches down to pull off his boots, dropping them onto the grass with a dull thud. Then his belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft creak.
Your mouth opens slightly.
“Dunk—”
“You said it yourself,” he interrupts calmly, stepping closer to the water. “No one’s here but me.”
The water reaches his ankles, then his knees.
You can hear him exhale sharply at the coldness as he wades deeper.
His mouth tilts faintly, you can hear it in his voice.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice rumbling with quiet amusement. “You’ve been walking around me like a flame for weeks. Now you look nervous.”
You swallow, still with your back turned to him. “I’m not nervous.”
The words come out a little too fast.
Behind you, the river shifts softly around Dunk as he moves closer, the current curling around his legs. You can feel him there even without turning—his presence big and warm and just impossible to ignore.
For the first time in weeks, it isn’t him struggling to breathe.
It’s you.
“Mm,” he hums quietly, unconvinced.
You bend slightly, scooping a handful of cold water and letting it run over your arms, pretending to focus on the chill biting at your skin. The river only reaches your shoulders here, the surface rippling lazily in the morning light.
“Then why won’t you turn around?” he asks casually.
You swallow. “Because I’m bathing.”
“And I’m not?” he asks back.
You hear the faint splash as he dips his hands into the river, the sound of water sliding over skin. Your imagination, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the rest.
You force your tone to stay light. “You’ve bathed before without staring at me.”
“That was before,” Dunk says.
You finally glance back over your shoulder.
Big mistake.
He’s closer than you expected—standing waist-deep in the river, water streaming slowly down his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp where he’s splashed it, darker now, and his blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
Your heart stumbles.
“Well?” you say, forcing a teasing smile. “Enjoying the view?”
Dunk exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.
“You’ve been asking that question for weeks,” he murmurs.
“And?” you challenge softly.
For a moment he doesn’t answer.
His gaze drifts—over your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck where droplets of water slide slowly down your skin.
Then his eyes come back to yours.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I am”
“Well,” you manage, trying to recover your playful tone, “that wasn’t very difficult to admit, was it?”
“You have no idea how difficult it was.” Dunk huffs quietly.
You tilt your head. “Oh, I think I do—”
Suddenly cold water splashes against your side.
You gasp, jumping slightly.
“Dunk!”
He’s grinning now, wide and unguarded in a way you’ve rarely seen.
“You were getting too comfortable again,” he chuckles.
“Oh, is that so?” Your eyes narrow.
You scoop up water and fling it back at him and the splash hits his shoulder and chest, droplets flying everywhere.
Water pushes against his broad hips as he moves, sending small waves rolling toward you. His grin hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown softer, warmer, like he’s finally letting himself enjoy the moment instead of fighting it.
“You’re smiling,” you note suspiciously.
“Aye,” he says.
“That usually means trouble.”
“Only for you.”
You splash him again in retaliation, but this time he’s close enough that it barely slows him.
Now the river barely moves between you. His chest rises and falls slowly, droplets of water sliding down the planes of his shoulders.
You suddenly become very aware of how tall he is, how close. How warm the air feels between your bodies despite the cold river.
“You really thought I wasn’t going to do anything?” he asks.
Your heart beats faster.
“Well…” you murmur, trying to hold your ground, “you usually don’t.”
“You’re impossible,” he breathes out.
“And you're annoyingly boring,” you retort playfully.
“Gods help me,” he murmurs.
Then his hand lifts.
Big, rough fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, almost hesitant for half a heartbeat and he studies your face like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your lips part slightly.
That seems to be all the answer he needs.
Dunk exhales a trembling sigh, and finally, he leans down.
When he kisses you, it isn’t hesitant the way everything else about him has been. It’s warm and certain.
The kind of kiss that feels like something long overdue finally happening.
Your fingers curl instinctively against his chest, water shifting around you both as you lean into him, relishing in his taste, in his lips.
Dunk groans against your lips and his big hands explore your body with a wild desperation, one tangling in your wet hair, gently pulling to tilt your head, while the other slides down your wet back until it cups your bum with a firmness that makes you breathe out a muffled gasp.
“Tell me t–to stop,” he pants in between hot kisses, his warm breath clashing with the icy water that laps at your lower body. “Tell me to stop, my love, and I—I will.”
“Don't—don't stop. Take me, Dunk, oh please, just fuck me,” you cry out, clinging to his neck with your arms and pressing your bare breasts against his firm chest.
Dunk doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts you with astonishing ease, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you with one arm under your thighs, as if you weigh nothing, as his other hand roams your body, exploring every curve he had previously only dared to sneak a peek at. His rough fingers brush your waist, bringing a sigh from you that he devours with another kiss, one that is wilder and hungrier.
You feel his hard, demanding manhood pressing up against you through the water. Dunk buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nibbling you so hard you arch your back.
“Not here,” he hisses, his voice cracking with excitement. “The water’s too fucking cold.”
Still holding you, he emerges from the river with heavy, steady steps. Water drips from your bodies as he carries you toward the shore, and he stop at the grass and carefully sets you down on it.
As he takes his place above you, he covers your body with sweet kisses, lingering for a few precious moments to worship your breasts.
“Seven hells,” he groans, his body trembling with arousal as he watches your eyes roll back and your back arch for him. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve spent so many nights dreaming of this, you have no idea—fuck.”
He just won't stop talking sweet praises to your body as he covers it with kisses, sucks, and nibbles.
“So beautiful, so delicious, all for me, hm? You’re a dream. My dream.”
When his fingers reach your sex, already drenched by more than just the river water—and wetter than it at this point—you squeal out a little yelp that is lost in the forest and has him breathing heavily.
Dunk takes his time, savoring all of your reactions, tracing slow, purposeful circles that have you begging for more, arching your back off the grass.
“Did you just say something about me being boring?” he teases, his blue eyes burning with a new and dangerous self-confidence as he reaches down to kiss one of your knees, making himself a place in between them.
“Shut up and just get in already,” you whine out, one of your feet impatiently tapping against his backside to make him hurry up. “I’ve been ready for you for months, Duncan.”
You settle yourself more comfortably on the grass, drawing him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his hips. As he finally aligns himself with your pulsating, eager cunt, you feel him hesitate for a moment, awkwardly searching for the right angle in a way that is incredibly endearing, before he manages to find his entry into you.
He stays still for a moment, just as the head of his cock is stretching out into your wet folds, merely feeling your warmth, how you hold him tight and wrap around him from inside. It's a moment of pure lack of experience, where he doesn't know whether to move, how hard to push, or how to even breathe.
You help him, gently rolling your hips, urging him to thrust deeper, and Dunk stutters out a whimper, beginning to move on your lead.
His thrusts are gentle, tentative at first, and he watches your face closely, afraid you will show any sign of displeasure or disapproval. Every time you make a sound, he pauses for a moment, kisses you with an overwhelming tenderness, and then continues, growing more confident as he goes.
“Like this?” he shudders, as he leans down over you, his hips delivering a particularly deep thrust that knocks the life out of you. “Do y–you like it like t–this, m’lady?”
“Y–yes, Dunk, just like that, deeper... don’t stop,” you tell him, digging your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under your grip. “You’re doing so well, so big...”
Encouraged by your sweet praises, he picks up the pace, and even though his movements are a bit uncoordinated, there's an earnestness in his passion that trumps any expert lover.
His big hands reach down to support your hips firmly, holding you, as he learns along the way how to give you the maximum amount of pleasure. He's clumsy, he's intense, and he's absolutely perfect.
“Dunk, don't—don't stop, keep going, p–please,” you whimper, and he obediently thrusts again with the determination to bring you over the edge.
The finish comes really fast, an overload of sensations where he, unable to hold it in any longer, loses himself in the rhythm, crying out your name like it's a prayer. Your body is still shaking, and every time you shut your eyes tight, you keep seeing him, sparkling like stars in a night sky.
His cock goes all the way into your womb, painting your gummy, fluttering walls with his color and filling you up to the brim, seed gushing out of your clenched cunt and oozing down your inner thighs.
Duncan collapses on top of you, seeking solace in your embrace, burying his face in your neck as his breathing gradually steadies, still whimpering incoherent words and crying out your name with a broken voice.
He is still deep inside you, throbbing and still spurting drops of seed, but he hurries to prop his elbows on either side of your head so as not to crush you with his nearly seven-foot height.
His fingers, still intertwined with yours on the grass, tremble slightly.
“Are you... are you okay?” he eventually asks in a croaky whisper, with such genuine concern that it almost makes you laugh. “Did I hurt you? It’s just... seven hells, I’ve never... I just didn't know how to make it last longer. I was too... I couldn't think about anything else but you”
“It was perfect, Duncan,” you soothe him, raising a hand to caress his damp cheek. “You're perfect”
He releases a sigh of relief that seems to come from deep within his lungs and leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
“I was afraid of being... I don't know, too rough. Or too clumsy,” he admits with a sheepish smile.
He squirms a little, still feeling the intimate connection between your bodies, and a new rush of heat begins to climb up his neck. He looks so adorably clueless in the afterglow, not quite sure whether to stay like this or find something to cover you with.
“Do you think the gods will be angry?” he abruptly asks, rising enough to look down at you as if the closest thing to a god around there, is you. “For being a knight and... well, this.”
You giggle softly and pull him by the neck to give him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips.
“I think the gods have more important things to do than spy on a woman and her man in the middle of the woods, Dunk.”
When you speak in such possessive terms, he blushes once again, his smile quivering bashfully before he leans his head in closer to you and kisses your lips lovingly.
“Your man,” he repeats, sealing the promise with another sweet kiss. “Yours.”
You and SER DUNCAN are nothing alike, yet somehow he’s smitten. There is just one problem: you’ve sworn off love.
includes fem!juggler!reader / no physical descriptions / hercules and meg coded / love at first sight (on dunk's part) / fluff / flirting / sexual tension / so much staring / dunk's inexperience showing / wc 3.1k
Dunk was alone with good lamb, duck, and a tankard of ale.
He was alone until a man and a woman stumbled into the inn’s common room. After dropping a few copper coins into the innkeeper’s hand, the man ventured upstairs for slumber, and you stayed downstairs for a drink.
You sat at a table away from him, and Dunk tried his best not to stare, though it was difficult. Not only were you a beauty, but he had never seen a lady down ale as if it were water. While you were on your third refill and he was halfway through his lamb, he spared a glance in your direction. If he didn't get so nervous around pretty women, he’d talk to you.
Just when he was going to look away, your eyes met his.
Dunk looked down at his food. When a few seconds passed, his gaze darted to you. You were still staring; this time, your eyes were narrowed. Shit. He took a sip of his ale like it’d make him seem more innocent.
The wood creaked as you stood up from your seat, bringing your tankard with you. You invited yourself over to his table, and Dunk found himself fixing his posture. Once you settled, your chin resting in your palm, you didn’t say anything. It was a long, awkward silence. So much so that the candle between the two of you hissed and popped, as if it were uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell if you were trying to intimidate him or flirt. Either way, he enjoyed looking at your face.
Dunk cleared his throat. “Uh, m’lady?”
The corners of your lips lifted. “I’m no lady,” you replied, and you gave your name for him to use instead.
He liked your name. It matched you, and it was a whole lot better than Dunk.
“Have you ever been in love?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’ve been,” you sighed, not bothering to acknowledge his evident confusion. “It ruined my life.”
Dunk opened his mouth to offer his apologies, but then you kept talking, and he didn't have the heart to stop you. Suddenly, his evening meal turned to listening to a lady rant about a previous affair. All he gathered thus far was that you and your former lover were minstrels who traveled together around Westeros, and you risked a whole lot to do so.
He really didn't have time for this. If he wanted to enter the lists, he needed to get to Ashford by the morrow.
You slammed your hand against the table. “Then, after everything I did for him, I found him fucking some whore!”
That explained why you were so angry, Dunk thought. “My, that’s awful.”
You hummed, sipping the last bit of ale. “I refuse to make that mistake again.”
He furrowed his brows. “So, you’ve sworn off love?”
“Aye.”
A life without love seemed sad. “But what if—”
“I won’t.”
You sounded so sure that it made him shut his mouth—stupid Dunk. He always either spoke too much or too little.
Desperate to change the topic, he asked, “Who’s the man you’re with? If you, uh, don’t mind me askin.’”
“An acquaintance,” you answered simply. “We met at Tumbleton, and he brought me along. We’re heading to Ashford.”
Ashford? That meant this won’t be the last he’ll see of you. He couldn’t help the small smile that formed on his face at the thought.
“As am I.”
You tilted your head, your lips parting to ask what for, then your eyes caught sight of his sword and shield.
“You’re a knight,” you stated, a slight inflection in your voice, almost as if you were impressed. Heat crept up his neck. “Where from, ser?”
“Everyplace,” he answered. “I’m a hedge knight.”
Dunk expected immediate disappointment. He was a knight without land or master—the lowest form of knight. There was nothing impressive about that. Yet, your expression remained polite and interested. His eyes fell to his plate, suddenly unable to hold your gaze. He wasn’t used to being taken seriously. People rarely did with him, but, for some reason, you did.
“You’re going for the tourney?”
He nodded. “I mean to be a champion.”
Once he mustered up the courage to look at you again, he found a small smile on your face that wasn't there before. It didn’t seem mocking by any means, though what did he know?
“Well, I wish you the best—” you paused and leaned toward him from across the table, “—Ser…?”
You were closer than ever, and he prayed you didn’t notice how he blushed. You probably did. He wasn’t known for being subtle.
It took a moment for him to find his voice, his mouth opening and closing like a fool. “Dunk.”
“Ser Dunk,” you finished.
He wished to hear you say his name again, though that’d be an odd request to make, so he said nothing. You stood up and peeked into your tankard to ensure there was no ale left. Dunk could only stare, his gaze traveling downward. He didn’t care much for your dress or the fact that it was made of wool, but rather what was hidden underneath. There was no doubt in his mind that your body would be just as beautiful as your face.
Gods, what was he doing? That was no way to look at a woman.
He forced his eyes up and was mortified to find you already looking at him with raised brows. Through his embarrassment, he gave a clumsy apology, but you only chuckled in response. He let out a breath, relieved his gawking hadn’t offended you.
You fetched a silver stag from the pouch tied around your waist and left it on the table for the innkeeper. He wanted to ask what you did, where he might find you, but he had a feeling you wouldn’t tell him, regardless. You’d rather he figure it out himself.
The last thing you said to him before you disappeared upstairs was, “Perhaps we’ll meet again at Ashford.”
He let the words hang in the air, and for a moment, he could almost forget the tourney entirely. He shook his head, scolding himself. The lists could not wait, no matter how distracting you were.
Oh, who was he fooling? He would look for you the moment he arrived at Ashford.
Dunk now had two priorities: the tourney and you.
By the time you and your travel companion, Payten, arrived at Ashford, it was nearly nightfall. The place was filled with people and tents, and the smell of food wafted in the air. Your stomach grumbled. In hindsight, you should have eaten a meal while you were at the inn, but it was too late for that.
You were introduced to the other minstrels, and when you gave them a taste of what you could do, they allowed you to join their performance. If they hadn’t, you wouldn’t have cared—you were more of a solo performer anyway.
One by one, people stopped by the tent to watch everyone's act. Some minstrels sang and played their instruments, an acrobat tumbled across the stage, a contortionist, well, contorted his body in ways you didn’t know possible, and then it was your turn. The crowd watched as you took center stage, holding two juggling knives in one hand and two leather balls in the other. You showed it to them in a rather theatrical fashion, earning some oohs and aahs. You liked the sound of that, as it meant your coin pouch would be heavier by the end of your act.
You did your usual routine, and it ended with the knife stabbing down into the hardwood plank. Well, fuck. That wasn’t planned, but you played it off with a bow. The people laughed and applauded, and you were glad your mistake went unnoticed. As you pulled the knife from the stage, you stood up, your eyes skimming over the audience until they stopped on one person.
Ser Dunk, the man from the inn.
He was hard to miss, as he was a head taller than everyone else around him. You had sorely underestimated just how tall he was.
The coins being tossed at your feet brought you out of your thoughts. You stored your props away in your knapsack, then made sure to retrieve all the copper and silver. It’d be foolish to leave them for someone else to take. By then, your pouch was filled, and the crowd had dispersed elsewhere, but the hedge knight remained, watching you. He was lucky. If he were any other man, you would have told him to piss off.
While Payten and the other minstrels left to celebrate the successful show, Dunk seemed to have finally found the courage to approach you. Even while you stood upon the stage, you were barely eye level with him. He said your name, then offered the copper groat that sat in his palm.
“A single copper groat?” You crossed your arms in feigned offense. “Surely my performance wasn’t that bad.”
Dunk’s eyes widened. Only then did you notice how blue they were. “No, ‘course not! Sorry, I have little money.”
The frown on your face disappeared almost instantly. “Oh, I was only jesting,” you told him, reaching out to close his hand over the coin. “Keep it. I’ve got enough to last me.”
He opened his mouth as if to insist, but when you pushed his hand toward his chest, he knew you weren’t going to change your mind.
A small smile graced his lips, and he nodded, “You are kind.”
That wasn’t the first word you’d use to describe yourself. You had been hurt in the past, and that hurt made you mean, and yet, you couldn’t be mean to the man you met yesternight. After spending the last few years on foot, you had encountered many men, and Dunk appeared to be one of the few with actual decency. Or maybe you were being fooled. Again.
You brushed off his words and ignored how your fingers twitched when you retracted your hand from his. You couldn’t afford to be lulled into a false sense of security. Your pride wouldn’t allow it.
“When I want to be, yes,” you said, attempting to rebuild your walls.
Dunk’s brows pinched together, having noticed the change in your demeanor. You picked up your knapsack and slung it over your body. Your mind told you to end the exchange there, make an excuse that you wanted to explore the other festivities on your own. It should be simple enough. But when you looked at him and saw those blues staring back at you, the words didn’t come.
They didn’t come because there was a part of you that wanted to be with him a little longer.
“You’re very tall,” was what left your mouth instead.
Dunk looked down at himself. “Aye,” he replied, nodding, “and you’re just right.”
Just right. Whatever that meant.
When you smiled in response, he smiled, too, almost like he couldn't help it.
As you hopped off the stage, you placed a hand on his shoulder for support. There was little space between the two of you once your feet hit the ground, your body mere inches from his. You felt him tense under your touch. He looked away, his throat bobbing and ears turning pink. You wondered if he was always this easy to fluster. If so, you’d use it to your advantage.
“Tell me, Ser Dunk,” you began, tilting your head to try catch his gaze, “have you entered the lists?”
You didn’t have much care for tourneys. After all, you only came to Ashford Meadow to earn money, but since you knew him, you’d consider watching the joust.
He shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “No. I need a knight or a lord to vouch for me.”
“Well, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help there.”
“That’s all right,” he breathed out. “I was hoping we’d meet again anyway, so…”
You would have assumed his words to be flattery, but he sounded so sincere that you weren’t sure what to make of it. Your experiences taught you that men who spoke sweetly always expected something in return. Yet, he looked as though he would be content with nothing more than your company.
Unsure of how to respond, you did what you did best. You deflected.
“Shall we have some ale?”
The ale had somehow led you and Dunk away from Ashford’s festivities. After wandering around aimlessly and stopping by tents, you were desperate to escape the crowd.
You led him into the middle of a field, leaving just the two of you standing under the night sky. There, you learned that he was a squire for Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and how he had knighted him before he passed. You could tell he thought highly of him just from his tone alone. He showed you his shield, and in turn, you let him look at the props in your knapsack. You tried to teach him how to juggle, but he was so awful at it that you ended your lesson early and told him to stick to being a knight.
Eventually, you both grew tired of standing and sat down to admire the stars.
“I can’t spot a single constellation,” you sighed, your fingers running through the blades of grass. When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, his eyes as soft as the smile on his lips. Your heart skipped a beat—must be because of the ale. “The stars are up there, ser.”
Dunk lifted his gaze to the sky. “Aye. Sorry.”
You huffed, though it sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “You do that a lot.”
“Pardon?”
“Stare,” you clarified. Before he could apologize, which was another thing he did a lot, you added, “Not that I mind, of course.”
The silence that followed gave way to the distant chatter and music, and the sound of crickets chirping. You decided to watch him while he looked at the sky, which you supposed was hypocritical of you. The moon and stars provided enough light to discern his features, from the slope of his nose to the curve of his jaw. You’d be lying if you said the hedge knight wasn't attractive. He was handsome in a boyish way, though that boyishness didn’t translate to the rest of him. With his cloak gone, because he had insisted you sit on it instead of the grass, it was easier to see the sheer size of him. His shoulders, his arms, his thighs.
You forced your eyes elsewhere before you did something stupid.
“You don’t?” Dunk asked, his voice quiet, uncertain.
“I don’t.”
He glanced at you to confirm you were being truthful, then nodded. “Good. Well, not good, but… you know, I’m glad it doesn’t bother you.”
“You’re wasting the view, ser,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his. “I’m hardly a sight compared to the stars.”
Dunk laughed, as if what you said was silly. “The stars don’t compare.”
His words lingered in the space between you until the breeze swept them away. Your past lover never uttered words like that to you. He never deemed you better than the celestial bodies that greet Westeros every night. An unfamiliar warmth settled in your chest. Even after all this time, you were still a fool who craved connection.
As if his words finally caught up with him, he added, “Forgive me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just… when I’m with you, I don't feel so alone.”
Your expression softened. Perhaps that was what this was—two lonely people finding comfort in each other.
“You barely know me, ser,” you reminded him.
There was a pause before he said, “I’d like to know you.”
The last time you opened up to someone, you got hurt. Since then, you only had casual encounters, ones fueled by impulse and lust. It was easier that way. No expectations or attachments. That said, you wouldn't mind sleeping with the hedge knight. Dunk seemed kind. Honorable, too, from the little you had seen. Words were difficult for you, but you could give him your body.
You lifted your hand, your fingers dancing across the collar of his tunic before you rested your palm against his jaw, guiding him to look at you. His eyes were wide, and it didn’t take long for his cheeks to flush a deep shade of red. He was so still, too scared to move or breathe, as if the smallest of movements would deter you.
Your hand traveled to his nape, slotting your fingers through his hair. You felt him shiver and heard his breathing get heavier.
He whispered your name. “What are you doing?”
“You wish to know me, do you not?”
Dunk’s face paled. He looked like he was about to faint. “Y-Yes, but… this isn’t what I meant.”
You tilted your head, asking, “No?”
“No.”
It was hard to believe him when his gaze kept darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. You could tell he was trying his hardest not to give in, and you almost felt bad for teasing him. Almost.
“Are you sure?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter until your mouth aligned with his.
He swallowed hard. “No.”
That was all the answer you needed. Dunk leaned in, hesitant and slow, as if giving you every chance to stop him. When your lips brushed, it was barely a kiss at all. Just a whisper of warmth, a promise unfulfilled. And then you pulled away.
You let out a soft, exaggerated sigh, schooling your features into something like disappointment. “That’s a shame,” you said lightly. “I’ve never kissed a knight before.”
His mouth opened, no doubt to apologize or to protest or to say something earnest and ill-timed. You did not give him the chance.
“I ought to go, anyway,” you continued, already reaching for your knapsack. “I’m starving, and I promised another performance.”
You stood, slinging the strap over your shoulder. For a moment, you lingered, just long enough to look down at him. He was still flushed, still dazed, watching you as though he might memorize the shape of you if he stared hard enough.
“I hope you get to enter the lists. Truly,” you said. “Good night, Ser Dunk.”
And then you turned and walked away like nothing happened, leaving him seated in the grass beneath the stars, wondering if he had imagined it at all.
sunnie speaks!
i'm experiencing akotsk withdrawal. i need s2 now.
no one asked, but yes i listened to i won't say (i'm in love) on repeat while writing this. anyways, i hope you enjoyed reading this, and i'd love to hear your thoughts <3 i might write a part 2, but i don't know... (also, this is the first time in months i actually sat and wrote something—thank you peter claffey as ser duncan)
let's chat about ser duncan!
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summary: on the eve of your arranged marriage to baelor targaryen, your childhood best friend, daeron, indulges you in one final night of defiance before he loses you for good - and baelor does not take kindly to learning that his nephew has taken his future bride to a brothel. (6k)
contents: friends to lovers, arranged marriage, angst, implied age gap, so much yearning, depressed!daeron (fork found in kitchen), also baelor would absolutely talk you through it cw for vague mentions of ocd and smut 18+ (MDNI): public sex kinda, fingering, dry humping
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You were to be wed on the morrow, and Daeron sank into his cups.
He had long lived in the folly that he would marry you someday — his first ever friend, and the only girl he ever dreamed of. But then the crown fell into great debts to your father, who managed all the gold mines from Oldtown to Summerhall; and the only way the king saw to foot the bill was to wed the man’s daughter to his own heir.
By all accounts, you were taking your betrothal far easier than your best friend. You had no other choice but to keep your wits about you, to plaster an artificial smile on your face and mindlessly agree to everything everyone ever told you to do, or to think. Even now, you let Baelor Targaryen — the husband you did not ask for — give you a tour of the newly decorated throne room where you would have your reception — which you had no say in.
The orante sea of Targaryen red and Highgarden gold blur together, along with Baelor’s words, as you avert your gaze to your hands, where you scratch fresh marks to your already raging nail beds.
“What do you think about it, princess?”
You only vaguely hear Baelor’s words through the metaphorical cotton in your ears. You blink hard and whip your head to face him, smiling before you’ve even registered his question. “I think it’s beautiful, Your Grace— Your mother did a wonderful job decorating.”
“While I appreciate the compliment, my lady, I was referring to our… arrangement,” Baelor corrects with a polite smile, half-hidden behind his greying beard. He slows to a stop in front of you, and you catch a whiff of the musky oils he’d bathed in — a stark contrast to your much lighter, floral aromatics.
“Oh. Right. I think— I think that it’s…” You stumble over yourself to find the words; not the ones you want to say, perhaps, but the ones you’ve been groomed to. Baelor ducks his head to flash you a patient look, and your cheeks flare with embarrassment. “I think that it is wise, Your Grace. If our marriage can ease the crown’s debts, I’m glad to be of service.”
“Is that you speaking, my lady?” he presses with a soft squint in his blue-brown irises. “Or your father?”
Your breath stutters. “I— I’m not sure what you mean, Your Grace.”
“What is it you want, princess?”
Your mouth parts to answer him. But, before you can stutter out a response you only halfway mean, the sound of chair legs scraping the cobbles rings through the expansive room. Your heads whip in tandem in the direction of the raucous noise, where you find Daeron trying and failing to catch himself on a table by the door.
He’s well drunk despite the early afternoon, wearing the ale in his wild golden hair, glassy blue eyes, and flushed red cheeks. He struggles to readjust the ornately decorated bench he’d run into with sloppy hands. It takes him several seconds too long to notice the looks he’s getting in response.
“My apologies…” he slurs, pink lips curling into a sloppy grin that doesn’t match the solemn look in his light eyes. “I seemed to have— Lost my way…”
“Aye. That much is quite clear,” Baelor sighs, much too used to his nephew’s antics by now.
The boy had always favored his ale, but never quite this much. He’s been haunting the halls of the Red Keep for some weeks now — the Kingsguard once found him in a ditch off of Flea Bottom the day it was announced Baelor would be wed to you, all bruised and bloody from the fighting pits. He hasn’t been fully sober ever since.
“Apologies, princess,” Baelor murmurs to you. “Do forgive my nephew.”
“No forgiveness needed, Your Grace—”
There’s another grating scrape, followed by a dull thud of a heavy body hitting the ground as Daeron trips over his graceless feet. He groans when he hits the unforgiving ground, writhing with only his long legs visible from your view of him.
Your features crumple with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy as you look on at the drunken boy. “I should take him to his chambers before he hurts himself—”
“The knights can escort him, my lady,” Baelor tells you.
“He’s much too fragile for that,” you quip with a tender smile. “And as I said— I don’t mind helping, Your Grace.”
Daeron doesn’t make it easy for you.
He never has, in truth, but least of all now.
He smells of musk and sweet ale as he falls heavily to your side, forcing you to carry the brunt of his weight as you help him back into bed. He falls heavily onto the feathered mattress, limp and unmoving. You exhale an exasperated breath and reach for his legs to situate him properly on the unmade sheets.
“Why must you make everything so difficult?” you huff.
Daeron’s head lolls against the pillows, golden hair sitting wildly around him.
“Why must you wound me so?” he argues in indistinct slurs. His glassy, red-rimmed eyes blink slowly up at your towering figure. He musters a trembling grin at the confused look you give him in return. “We both know it is not my uncle you want, petal…”
His eyes flutter shut as he lifts a sloppy hand to his face, trying and failing to find the rogue strand of hair clinging to his lashes.
“What I want doesn’t matter, Daeron,” you sigh and help him brush the golden tress back behind his ear.
Your breath catches in your throat when the boy’s warm hand wraps suddenly around your wrist, fingers warm and gentle as they linger on your wild pulse. He peers up at you with a pair of wet, ocean-colored eyes and murmurs quietly, “I don’t matter?”
“You know that isn’t what I meant,” you whisper and jerk your hand from his grip. “The decision is already made. The hall is already decorated. I’m getting married whether I like it or not—”
“You could always change your mind,” Daeron lilts, as if it were so simple. “And it would all be done with…”
“Not all of us are allowed to be so selfish, my prince,” you mutter bitterly and turn on your heel, heading the short distance for the pitcher of water and bowl of dates left on the table by the balcony. “Some of us actually have to think about other people from time to time.”
Daeron scoffs sloppily, folding his lanky hands across his lean stomach. “I think about other people,” he argues like a child.
“Do you?” you hum with a palpable lack of enthusiasm, beneath the sloshing of water you pour for him in a chalice.
“Aye, my lady… You,” he answers, smiling lazily when you glare at him over your shoulder. “I dream only of you— My Flower of Highgarden.”
“The Flower of Highgarden,” you correct him of the silly nickname that’s haunted you since birth, and walk the water and dates back over the drunken boy. You leave both at his bedside, with an air of distance about you that makes his chest ache. “I am getting married on the morrow, Daeron. It’s happening. So please, get a hold of yourself— if not for your sake, then for mine.
The evening air outside the Red Keep swells with the scent of sage and fresh flowers. A silken breeze rushes through the skirt of your dress as you lean over the balcony, bathing in the sweet scent down below, where the smallfolk leave bouquets and handmade trinkets by the castle’s entrance.
“I don’t understand,” you murmur to the man beside you, with your gaze still lingering on the shuffling crowd. “We don’t do this in Highgarden.”
“It’s custom for people to leave their blessings the night before a royal wedding,” Baelor explains. “Though, to be true, I have never quite seen it like this… They have taken quite a liking to you, it would seem.”
The kind smile he gives you makes your cheeks flare red-hot. You despise his attention as much as you crave it, desperately so. You fake a smile and swallow hard, picking again at the scarred skin of your nail beds from where your hands rest on the balcony. “Well, I am— pleased that the realm is, Your Grace—”
Your breath catches in your throat when Baelor’s wide hand splays suddenly over both of yours, effectively ceasing your assault on your delicate fingers. You peer timidly at him from beneath your lashes and cower at the warmth in his mismatched eyes.
“You are the most comely girl at court,” he tells you, gutwrenchingly gentle, as his fingers smooth over the red marks on your skin. “Why must you destroy yourself this way?”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” you murmur shyly, clearing your throat as you slide your hands from his grip, clasping them behind your back. “It’s a habit I haven’t quite been able to break, it would seem…”
Baelor softens and takes a step closer, pervading the scent of the late evening with his mixture of leather and musk. “I understand that… that I am not the husband you wished for,” the man starts slowly, calculating each word from his mouth. “But I will do right by you, princess. I can assure you of that.”
“I know you will, Your Grace. You’re a good man,” you say with an honest smile. “Even if it was not what I desired, I am no less pleased that it turned out to be you, Your Grace—”
“Baelor,” he corrects with a soft grin, taking a step closer and swiping an eyelash for your cheek. Your skin flares when his hand lingers there. You wonder if he notices.
“Baelor…” you repeat, far more timidly in comparison.
His mouth parts to speak, but he stops himself short. A flicker of confusion dances over his scruffy face before he wonders aloud. “Pardon my forwardness, my lady, but… Have you ever been kissed?”
Thoughts of Daeron flash instantly across your mind at his question. He’s always there in some way or another, stashed somewhere within each of your fondest memories — how he held you when you were younger; how he kissed you, how he touched you.
But that was all make-believe, you figure, a game of house you knew was always bound to end.
So you shake your head against the man’s softly calloused palm and answer, half-truthfully, “Never in a way that mattered, Your Grace…”
The answer seems to please him as his kind smile slowly returns.
“May I?” he offers vaguely.
You know you can’t say no. You’re not sure if you want to. So you nod and whisper back, “Of course…”
You tilt your chin to meet him halfway when he ducks down to kiss you. His beard tickles your delicate skin, a rather foreign sensation compared to Daeron’s shaven face. His lips are thinner than his nephew’s, too, tasting of sweet mint leaves and bitter whiskey. It’s different — good different — and you finally forget to be nervous as you reach suddenly for his bearded jaw.
Baelor freezes against you when you lick into his mouth, with far more expertise than someone who had never been kissed before. It surprises him as much as it excites him; the notion that there is still so much he doesn’t know about you. You catch him smiling softly to himself about it when your kissed lips part with a quiet click.
Your glassy eyes widen into a not-so-subtle look of shock at yourself. You bring your trembling hands back down to your sides again. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I— I forget myself—”
“No. Don’t apologize,” the man murmurs in an achingly gentle voice that does not match the fire in his blue-brown irises. “If you apologize every time I kiss you from now on, you’ll be spending a lifetime doing so, won’t you?”
His words, the solemn promise in them, make your stomach do a backflip.
“Aye,” you nod on bated breath. “I guess so…”
You’re still reeling from the adrenaline rush of kissing a somewhat stranger — both your soon-to-be husband and future king — when you return finally to your chambers. Your heart lurches to a fluttering stop at the shadowy figure you find lying in your bed, bathed in a golden sea of flickering candlelight. You exhale a relieved sigh when you find it’s only Daeron making himself at home in your bed, but you are still no less aggrieved to see him this way.
“What are you doing here?” you snap and quickly close the door behind you.
“Waiting for you, of course,” the now mostly-sobered boy responds through a groan, stretching out his tired limbs as if he’d just been sleeping. His thin chemise rises up his torso when he folds his arms behind his wild head, revealing his pale skin and the tuft of golden hair trailing down into his trousers.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” you argue. “What would people think if they saw the two of us in here like this?”
“Who cares?” he scoffs with all the carelessness of a young prince, smiling wider when you scowl at him. “We know the truth of it— What anyone else has to say on the matter doesn’t concern the two of us.”
“That’s because no one ever taught you that it’s not about the truth of it,” you spit and storm his way, yanking your silken sheets from beneath his dirty boots. “It’s about perception. And you know your father would be cross if he found you in here—”
“My father is always cross,” Daeron scoffs.
“Only because you make him so.”
“Tell me, petal…” the boy begins, swinging his long legs off the mattress and peering up at you with a pair of glittering blue eyes. “Have you ever done the wrong thing?”
Your eyes narrow. “I’m looking at him,” you deadpan.
“Ouch,” he grimaces, grabbing at his heart over his baggy tunic. “But I presume I deserve that…”
“Aye. You do.”
He reaches for your hand when you try to turn away, wrapping his warm fingers around your smaller ones to keep you in place. “Come with me. To Flea Bottom.”
“Flea Bottom?” you repeat with an incredulous twist to your features, scoffing out a faint laugh. “Why would I go to—”
“To do the wrong thing,” Daeron finishes for you, tender with a lingering hope. “With me.”
You shake your head and try to pull your hand out of his, but he only holds you tighter. “I can’t, Daeron…”
“Live for yourself for a change,” he tells you, begs you. “Just once. And I will never speak to you of my heartache again, I swear it.”
By all accounts, you probably should’ve known by the subtle glimmer in his soft blue eyes that he only met trouble. Maybe that’s why you went with him in the first place, you think, for a bit of trouble — god knows, that’s all he’s good for. But, even still, you let him dress you in his trousers and baggy shirt, removing any remnants of your status, before stealing you away to the labyrinth that is Flea Bottom.
He keeps your hand clutched in his larger one as he leads you through the unpaved streets of twisted alleyways, reeking of stables, mud, and baked bread. You laugh like a pair of children as you chase gracelessly behind him, forgetting for a fleeting moment that you are to be wed on the morrow — that you will soon be expected to become a wife and a mother before the season is through.
Eventually, the loud chatter and swirling smoke from flickering fires gives way to something quieter, dimmer; smelling of sweat, sex, and soft perfume. Daeron tucks you into his warm side as you duck into a narrow hall, where moans and cries of pleasure bounce off the cobblestone walls. Your footsteps stutter in shock.
“You didn’t tell me you were taking me to a pleasure house—”
“Aye. I didn’t,” Daeron hums with a lazy grin. “Because you wouldn’t have agreed to come otherwise…”
The brothel is dark, lit only by rogue torches growing slowly dim on the walls. The naked bodies surrounding you on either side are bathed in shadow. The hand not clutching the back of Daeron’s cloak rises instinctively to cover your eyes, shielding them from the lurid sight of sex that sits everywhere you look.
“No. Don’t,” Daeron says and reaches for you with his free hand, curling his lanky fingers around your wrist to gently urge your hand from your face. “I want you to watch— To see what it looks like when you take what you want…”
Your eyes are slow to part from his lighter ones. You glance tentatively all around you — at the woman riding the face of a man on a nearby couch, of another man sandwiched between two masculine bodies by the wall, of two women caressing their naked bodies with gentle touches. It’s completely and utterly scandalous. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“No princes, no thrones…” Daeron whispers with his mouth pressed to your ear, and his chest against your back. “No debts, no weddings… Just—”
“Fucking?” you tell him.
“Pleasure,” he corrects. “So, ask yourself, petal, and be truthful… What do you want?”
It’s a simple question. One you couldn’t answer if you wanted to.
You want to be queen, like your father always groomed you to be — you want to marry Baelor, to be rich and powerful and idolized. But another, not-so-distant part of you yearns to be without responsibility and consequence — you want to be with Daeron in some far-off place by the sea, you want to fuck and drink and travel the world and never stick around long enough to learn anybody’s names.
You want all of it. And even though you know you cannot possibly have it, you try hard to take it anyway.
You reach out for Daeron and cradle his shaven jaw like you’re holding the sun in both hands. You drag him to you and press a searing kiss to his mouth, wasting little time in tasting him as your tongue licks suddenly between his parted lips, entwining with his own like velvet twisting with velvet.
Daeron grumbles a moan against you. He slides his warm hands beneath your borrowed shirt, up your stomach, and over your ribcage. He leaves faint trail marks along the skin of your back when he scratches his dull nails down your spine. You shiver against him, and he smiles into your kiss — inhaling your gasped breath when he pushes you suddenly into a cobbled wall, breaking the impact with a hand behind your head.
His mouth pulls away from yours with a low smack, lips swollen and rosy and shining with your spit. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.
“What do you say, My Flower of Highgarden?” he slurs, panting hard against your mouth. “Are you going to take it?”
“Depends,” you challenge on bated breath. “Are you going to give it to me?”
The blonde boy nods, with a pink smile blooming lazily on his mouth. “Aye… I am.”
He ducks down before you can blink, kissing you hard enough to bruise. He swallows each of your quiet moans as his fingers creep toward your borrowed trousers, loosening the knot there with eager hands. Your fingers wrench the thin fabric of his tunic into fists to keep him impossibly close while his sneak beneath the hem — past your stomach, over a tuft of coarse hair, and down towards where you need him most.
You coat his middle finger in a thin layer of honey when it slots between your velvety folds, whimpering when he nudges softly at your sensitive clit.
“I can feel you throbbing,” he slurs against you. “’S like a heartbeat…”
“Please…” you sigh, though you’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for — please don’t tease me, please make me feel good, please fuck me.
“I’ve got you…” Daeron murmurs, panting against your mouth and swallowing your moans when his long finger slips finally inside you. His lip quirks into a crooked smile at the pretty noise you make for him.
You only vaguely feel him rutting against your thigh, pressing his stiffening cock against you to ease his own ache while he continues to pleasure yours.
“I’ve got you… Let me have it…”
Your moans fill the shadowed hall, and entwine with all the others.
You scrub the remnants of the sinful night from your body and prepare to become a dutiful bride by early morning. You’re still buzzing from the adrenaline rush as you writhe restlessly beneath your silk sheets. You can almost still feel Daeron’s fingers inside of you, if you think about it hard enough, as well as the outline of his hard cock pressed against your outer thigh, from where he’d gotten off humping your leg like a hound.
You revel in the night as much as you mourn it — pleased to have experienced it at all while simultaneously grieving that you’ll never be that girl again; and still a little surprised that you got away with it at all.
Almost.
A quiet knock from a delicate hand echoes through your expansive, pitch-black bedroom. Your heart lurches into your throat — a fleeting horror that turns into ice-cold panic in your veins a second later. You rise slowly, propping your weight on your elbows, and gazing wearily at the shadow looming beneath your door.
You swallow hard and pray your voice doesn’t shake as you call out, “Come in.”
The heavy door creaks open. A sliver of golden light from the torches in the hallway fills the room as one of your handmaidens shuffles in, gaze averted and hands clasped together. She curtsies and clears her throat, “Pardon me, my lady— but the Lord Hand has requested your presence in his study.”
You hope it’s still too dark for her to see the look of fear that flashes across your features. “The hour is quite late…” is the only thing you think to say, with an audible waver in your voice.
“Aye, my lady,” the young girl nods with an apprehensive gaze. “But he said he was urgent.”
“…Alright, then,” you nod once and hold your breath until the maid scurries off back the way she came. She closes the door behind her with a dull click, and the room returns to a velvet black darkness, with only your trembling breath to fill it.
You’re still in your thin white slip when you make the long trek to Baelor’s study, weaving through the candlelit maze of the Red Keep with two knights flanking you on either side. They work for your father, sworn to protect you and you alone, yet you can’t help but feel a bit like they’re leading you to a slaughter now.
They open the double doors of the expansive study for you and remain just outside of it while you saunter slowly in — slippers scuffing the cobbles like your feet are made of bricks, sweaty hands picking at your worry-worn nailbeds. You wear the guilt all over, like a bad dog with blood on its muzzle.
The fear in your stomach blossoms something fierce in your chest when Baelor’s eyes meet yours from across the way, sitting at his desk with Maekar and Daeron standing just before him. The older men are still in their day garb, made of Targaryen red and black, while the blonde boy remains in the baggy tatters he’d taken you to Flea Bottom in.
Daeron wears the sin all over still, hardly bothering to wash it off his skin, lest some of you go with it.
You cower on instinct when their gazes snap suddenly in your direction. You know you’ve long been caught, even when Baelor gives you a kind smile as you approach him.
“Thank you for coming, my lady,” he says in a gentle voice and sets his quill into the inkpot at his side. “I know the hour is late. I hope I did not disturb you.”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” you assure him and clear your throat when the words get stuck there.
“I thought it prudent to make you aware of some rather… troubling accusations,” the man continues with a knowing glint in his brown-blue eyes, flickers of candlelight dancing in his gaze. “You and my nephew were spied, some hours ago, beyond the walls of the Red Keep, engaging in behaviors that were… unbecoming of a woman of the court…”
“So we snuck out and drank a bit of wine,” Daeron laughs at your side, not yet showered and still reeking of sex and ale. He glances at you with glassy eyes and a lopsided grin before turning back to Baelor. “It’s hardly enough to warrant such arbitration, wouldn’t you say, uncle?”
“You were seen defiling the princess the day before her fucking wedding,” Maekar spits from the boy’s other side, jaw clenched tight behind his silver beard. “You’re lucky I’m not shipping you off to the Free Cities to make a man out of you.”
“Right,” Daeron scoffs. “Punish me for going to a brothel by sending me to the sex capital of the Seven Kingdoms— Ow!”
Maekar’s ringed hand slams hard into the back of the boy’s wild head. He grimaces, rubbing at the crown of his golden tresses with a pale hand.
“Do you not deny it?” Baelor asks you, with a suspicious squint in his gaze, as if he were distantly hoping you would.
“No, Your Grace,” you mutter with an averted gaze, etching new marks onto your delicate fingertips. “I did sneak out—”
“She lies,” Daeron blurts before the words have properly left your mouth. “She did not leave of her own volition, uncle. I forced her out… Wouldn’t take no for an answer…” Daeron’s drunk slurs trail off as he turns to flash you a lazy grin and a pair of squinted eyes. “Better a liar than a whore, right, petal?”
“Watch your tongue,” Maekar scolds from his other side.
“But there was no defiling, father, of that I’m sure,” Daeron continues anyway, head swiveling as he turns to face the other man. His smile widens beneath the strands of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. “I only used my fingers—”
“You idiot,” the father hisses, scooping his son up by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back towards the entrance.
Daeron’s stumbled footsteps echo in the otherwise silent study as he staggers behind him on graceless feet. He’s all but thrown out the door when Maekar swings it open again, only to slam it shut behind him with a booming thud a second later.
The sound rings through the suffocating quiet that you and Baelor are soon left alone in — the kind of quiet that snatches all the air out of a room; the kind of quiet that makes it suddenly very hard to breathe.
“Does he speak the truth of it?” the man wonders after a few long moments, with one arm propped along the arm of his chair and the other folded along the table’s edge.
You inhale a wavering breath.
“He does, Your Grace,” you murmur, lacking the courage to meet his eyes. “I had not planned it— Nor did Daeron, I think— It was simply the circumstances of the moment in which we found ourselves in that—”
“Did you like it?” Baelor interjects your rambling, which he knows is only full of the words you’ve been conditioned to say, and not the ones you truly mean.
You falter at the simple question. “I-I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Your Grace—”
“I’m entirely sure that you’re entirely sure what I mean,” the man hums with a kind smile, chair creaking under his weight when he slouches further into it. “Did you like being undone in a pleasure house like a common whore?”
His words, foreignly brash, and his eyes, foreignly hardened, make your stomach do a backflip.
“I… I don’t know—”
“You never do, do you?” Baelor mutters with a sympathetic squint to his mismatched eyes. “You’re always so concerned about what everyone else wants— What everyone else thinks of you— That you never learned how to form your own opinions…”
You shift uncomfortably before him, feeling utterly dissected under his prying stare and grimacing when you dig a fresh mark onto the skin of your pointerfinger.
“So I’ll ask you again, princess,” the man continues, leaning forward in his seat and never once taking his eyes off you. He peers at you over the flickering candles and repeats, more slowly this time. “Did you… like it?”
You swallow hard and nod once.
“Yes,” you hear yourself say on bated breath. “I think I did…”
“What about it did you like?”
You struggle to catch your breath, more so to find an adequate answer.
“I think that I— I just spent so much time worrying about my duties as the… the wretched Flower of Highgarden,” you laugh bitterly at the stupid nickname. “That I forgot what it meant to feel good. That I was allowed to feel good, and suddenly I was surrounded by people just taking what they wanted, and I felt so…”
“Free?” Baelor finishes for you, brows raised to his hairline.
“Powerful,” you correct, squinting like the word is half-foreign on your tongue.
Something flickers in his brown-blue eyes, something more than just the candlelight, as if he were finally seeing you for the first time.
His chair legs scrape the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height, rounding the table in measured strides, ambling towards you like a predator stalking its prey.
“Is Daeron who you want?” he asks with lowered brows. “Is that where your loyalties lie?”
“My loyalty is to the crown, Your Grace—”
You clear your throat and tilt your chin to meet the man’s gaze when he towers over you, smelling of leather and the old books he spends most of his days studying. Your breath stutters when he suddenly reaches for your face.
“Don’t answer from here,” he murmurs lowly, tapping gently at your skull. His pale pointer finger trails down — past your cheek, over your jaw, and down your thrumming pulse — until it rests along your sternum, just over your racing heart. “Answer from here.”
You inhale a wavering breath, glassy eyes darting back and forth between his unblinking ones.
“In a… In a perfect world…” you start in a trembling voice, struggling to keep the man’s gaze as you turn instead to your reddened nail beds. “Daeron and I would take off for Sunspear or Casterly Rock— Somewhere by the sea, where the sun is always shining— And the world would just be the two of us, fucking and drinking and loving all we want…”
Baelor’s brows perk at your sudden brashness. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because this is not a perfect world,” you answer plainly, half-morose. “And I’m not so selfish as to pretend that I don’t have my own duties here…”
Baelor’s lip quirks in a gentle smile beneath his greying beard as he exhales a laugh through his nose.
“A trait rather befitting for a future queen, perhaps…” he hums and points his mismatched gaze to the silk bow sitting at the chest of your slip, tracing it with the tip of his pointerfinger.
“Despite my… regrettable actions…” you trail off, just barely able to meet the man’s gaze as you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “My racing mind did inevitably run into thoughts of you, Your Grace…”
“Really?” he hums. “Pray tell.”
“Daeron asked me what I wanted, and I thought first of you,” you confess. “And I realized I had grown quite attached to the thought of becoming your wife. Of ruling beside you— some many years on, of course, but— The sheer thought of it made me… It made me feel like I could conquer worlds.”
“Aye,” Baelor nods, with a fire in his brown-blue gaze that matches your own. “We will.”
He’s kissing you before you can blink, pressing his mouth to yours and cradling the back of your neck in a calloused hand, urging your jaw upward with his thumb. He steals the breath from your lungs under the weight of his searing kiss, as fierce and merciless as taking a bite out of an apple. It’s all tongue and teeth and spit — a passion you weren’t sure a man as wooden as Baelor was able to give, or otherwise cared to.
A string of saliva connects your mouths when he pulls away from you. Baelor smiles softly to himself when you try hopelessly to chase his kiss, swiping the thread of spit away with the pad of his thumb when it clings to your chin.
“Did you cum?” he asks you, then follows quickly at the look you give him. “When my nephew fucked you with his fingers at a whorehouse— Did you cum?”
His prying gaze darts rapidly between your glassy one as you struggle to answer — unsure of whether to be honest or to tell a feeble lie in hopes of placating his ego. You decide, finally, to tell the truth.
“Yes,” you answer and nod once into his hand.
“And I trust it will be the last time?”
“As you command, Your Grace—”
“Baelor,” he corrects.
“As you command, Baelor.”
There’s a twinkle of subtle mischief in your gaze that makes his lips curl into a quiet smile. He leans down again, and you think he’s going to kiss you, but he only traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.
“You are not as soft as the tales would tell it, are you? Flower of Highgarden,” he hums in a melodic voice, breath fanning over your mouth. “Gentle, yes. But not soft.”
“What’s the difference?” you whisper, and he feels the breath of it over his bearded chin.
“A soft person wouldn’t dare touch a knife, would they? But you… You’d kiss my forehead before pressing a blade to my neck— That’s gentle,” he explains, walking you backward with meandering footsteps that rhyme with your own.
Your breath catches in your chest when the backs of your thighs collide suddenly with the edge of the table. It scrapes once on the cobbles, and then again when Baelor urges you suddenly around with a firm hand on your elbow. He spins you away from him and presses you further into the wooden edge with his chest flush against your back.
“And I am— The idiot who would thank you for slitting my throat…” he mutters in your ear, scruff scratching at your neck as his calloused hands crawl up your thighs, pushing up the hem of it as they go. “As long as it meant you touched my skin…”
His wide palms trail over your hip bones, up your stomach, and past your ribcage. They settle finally under your breasts, just lingering there, and you wonder if he can feel the way your breathing stutters beneath them — if he can feel the way you fight the urge to grind your ass against his cock.
“Is this wise, my lord?” you whisper, nose brushing his bearded jaw when you peer hesitantly over your shoulder. “Our wedding is at dawn— They’ll be expecting a bedding ceremony—”
“Aye. They will. And you can pretend to be the sweet, virgin wife for the people on the morrow all you want,” Baelor hums, reaching for his belt with one hand to undo the buckle there. “But there’s no use in pretending when we’re alone, is there?””
Excitement stirs in your flaring chest and down into the pit of your swirling stomach, throbbing somewhere in the depths of your loins the same way you had for Daeron. You keep his stare when he pulls his half-hard cock from the confines of his trousers, mouth watering for a taste of him.
“No… I suppose not,” you say on bated breath and let Baelor fuck you stupid in the middle of the candlelight study — moaning his name within the cobbled walls, mere hours before you recite your sacred vows before the gods.
You and SER DUNCAN are nothing alike, yet somehow he’s smitten. There is just one problem: you’ve sworn off love.
includes fem!juggler!reader / no physical descriptions / hercules and meg coded / love at first sight (on dunk's part) / fluff / flirting / sexual tension / so much staring / dunk's inexperience showing / wc 3.1k
Dunk was alone with good lamb, duck, and a tankard of ale.
He was alone until a man and a woman stumbled into the inn’s common room. After dropping a few copper coins into the innkeeper’s hand, the man ventured upstairs for slumber, and you stayed downstairs for a drink.
You sat at a table away from him, and Dunk tried his best not to stare, though it was difficult. Not only were you a beauty, but he had never seen a lady down ale as if it were water. While you were on your third refill and he was halfway through his lamb, he spared a glance in your direction. If he didn't get so nervous around pretty women, he’d talk to you.
Just when he was going to look away, your eyes met his.
Dunk looked down at his food. When a few seconds passed, his gaze darted to you. You were still staring; this time, your eyes were narrowed. Shit. He took a sip of his ale like it’d make him seem more innocent.
The wood creaked as you stood up from your seat, bringing your tankard with you. You invited yourself over to his table, and Dunk found himself fixing his posture. Once you settled, your chin resting in your palm, you didn’t say anything. It was a long, awkward silence. So much so that the candle between the two of you hissed and popped, as if it were uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell if you were trying to intimidate him or flirt. Either way, he enjoyed looking at your face.
Dunk cleared his throat. “Uh, m’lady?”
The corners of your lips lifted. “I’m no lady,” you replied, and you gave your name for him to use instead.
He liked your name. It matched you, and it was a whole lot better than Dunk.
“Have you ever been in love?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’ve been,” you sighed, not bothering to acknowledge his evident confusion. “It ruined my life.”
Dunk opened his mouth to offer his apologies, but then you kept talking, and he didn't have the heart to stop you. Suddenly, his evening meal turned to listening to a lady rant about a previous affair. All he gathered thus far was that you and your former lover were minstrels who traveled together around Westeros, and you risked a whole lot to do so.
He really didn't have time for this. If he wanted to enter the lists, he needed to get to Ashford by the morrow.
You slammed your hand against the table. “Then, after everything I did for him, I found him fucking some whore!”
That explained why you were so angry, Dunk thought. “My, that’s awful.”
You hummed, sipping the last bit of ale. “I refuse to make that mistake again.”
He furrowed his brows. “So, you’ve sworn off love?”
“Aye.”
A life without love seemed sad. “But what if—”
“I won’t.”
You sounded so sure that it made him shut his mouth—stupid Dunk. He always either spoke too much or too little.
Desperate to change the topic, he asked, “Who’s the man you’re with? If you, uh, don’t mind me askin.’”
“An acquaintance,” you answered simply. “We met at Tumbleton, and he brought me along. We’re heading to Ashford.”
Ashford? That meant this won’t be the last he’ll see of you. He couldn’t help the small smile that formed on his face at the thought.
“As am I.”
You tilted your head, your lips parting to ask what for, then your eyes caught sight of his sword and shield.
“You’re a knight,” you stated, a slight inflection in your voice, almost as if you were impressed. Heat crept up his neck. “Where from, ser?”
“Everyplace,” he answered. “I’m a hedge knight.”
Dunk expected immediate disappointment. He was a knight without land or master—the lowest form of knight. There was nothing impressive about that. Yet, your expression remained polite and interested. His eyes fell to his plate, suddenly unable to hold your gaze. He wasn’t used to being taken seriously. People rarely did with him, but, for some reason, you did.
“You’re going for the tourney?”
He nodded. “I mean to be a champion.”
Once he mustered up the courage to look at you again, he found a small smile on your face that wasn't there before. It didn’t seem mocking by any means, though what did he know?
“Well, I wish you the best—” you paused and leaned toward him from across the table, “—Ser…?”
You were closer than ever, and he prayed you didn’t notice how he blushed. You probably did. He wasn’t known for being subtle.
It took a moment for him to find his voice, his mouth opening and closing like a fool. “Dunk.”
“Ser Dunk,” you finished.
He wished to hear you say his name again, though that’d be an odd request to make, so he said nothing. You stood up and peeked into your tankard to ensure there was no ale left. Dunk could only stare, his gaze traveling downward. He didn’t care much for your dress or the fact that it was made of wool, but rather what was hidden underneath. There was no doubt in his mind that your body would be just as beautiful as your face.
Gods, what was he doing? That was no way to look at a woman.
He forced his eyes up and was mortified to find you already looking at him with raised brows. Through his embarrassment, he gave a clumsy apology, but you only chuckled in response. He let out a breath, relieved his gawking hadn’t offended you.
You fetched a silver stag from the pouch tied around your waist and left it on the table for the innkeeper. He wanted to ask what you did, where he might find you, but he had a feeling you wouldn’t tell him, regardless. You’d rather he figure it out himself.
The last thing you said to him before you disappeared upstairs was, “Perhaps we’ll meet again at Ashford.”
He let the words hang in the air, and for a moment, he could almost forget the tourney entirely. He shook his head, scolding himself. The lists could not wait, no matter how distracting you were.
Oh, who was he fooling? He would look for you the moment he arrived at Ashford.
Dunk now had two priorities: the tourney and you.
By the time you and your travel companion, Payten, arrived at Ashford, it was nearly nightfall. The place was filled with people and tents, and the smell of food wafted in the air. Your stomach grumbled. In hindsight, you should have eaten a meal while you were at the inn, but it was too late for that.
You were introduced to the other minstrels, and when you gave them a taste of what you could do, they allowed you to join their performance. If they hadn’t, you wouldn’t have cared—you were more of a solo performer anyway.
One by one, people stopped by the tent to watch everyone's act. Some minstrels sang and played their instruments, an acrobat tumbled across the stage, a contortionist, well, contorted his body in ways you didn’t know possible, and then it was your turn. The crowd watched as you took center stage, holding two juggling knives in one hand and two leather balls in the other. You showed it to them in a rather theatrical fashion, earning some oohs and aahs. You liked the sound of that, as it meant your coin pouch would be heavier by the end of your act.
You did your usual routine, and it ended with the knife stabbing down into the hardwood plank. Well, fuck. That wasn’t planned, but you played it off with a bow. The people laughed and applauded, and you were glad your mistake went unnoticed. As you pulled the knife from the stage, you stood up, your eyes skimming over the audience until they stopped on one person.
Ser Dunk, the man from the inn.
He was hard to miss, as he was a head taller than everyone else around him. You had sorely underestimated just how tall he was.
The coins being tossed at your feet brought you out of your thoughts. You stored your props away in your knapsack, then made sure to retrieve all the copper and silver. It’d be foolish to leave them for someone else to take. By then, your pouch was filled, and the crowd had dispersed elsewhere, but the hedge knight remained, watching you. He was lucky. If he were any other man, you would have told him to piss off.
While Payten and the other minstrels left to celebrate the successful show, Dunk seemed to have finally found the courage to approach you. Even while you stood upon the stage, you were barely eye level with him. He said your name, then offered the copper groat that sat in his palm.
“A single copper groat?” You crossed your arms in feigned offense. “Surely my performance wasn’t that bad.”
Dunk’s eyes widened. Only then did you notice how blue they were. “No, ‘course not! Sorry, I have little money.”
The frown on your face disappeared almost instantly. “Oh, I was only jesting,” you told him, reaching out to close his hand over the coin. “Keep it. I’ve got enough to last me.”
He opened his mouth as if to insist, but when you pushed his hand toward his chest, he knew you weren’t going to change your mind.
A small smile graced his lips, and he nodded, “You are kind.”
That wasn’t the first word you’d use to describe yourself. You had been hurt in the past, and that hurt made you mean, and yet, you couldn’t be mean to the man you met yesternight. After spending the last few years on foot, you had encountered many men, and Dunk appeared to be one of the few with actual decency. Or maybe you were being fooled. Again.
You brushed off his words and ignored how your fingers twitched when you retracted your hand from his. You couldn’t afford to be lulled into a false sense of security. Your pride wouldn’t allow it.
“When I want to be, yes,” you said, attempting to rebuild your walls.
Dunk’s brows pinched together, having noticed the change in your demeanor. You picked up your knapsack and slung it over your body. Your mind told you to end the exchange there, make an excuse that you wanted to explore the other festivities on your own. It should be simple enough. But when you looked at him and saw those blues staring back at you, the words didn’t come.
They didn’t come because there was a part of you that wanted to be with him a little longer.
“You’re very tall,” was what left your mouth instead.
Dunk looked down at himself. “Aye,” he replied, nodding, “and you’re just right.”
Just right. Whatever that meant.
When you smiled in response, he smiled, too, almost like he couldn't help it.
As you hopped off the stage, you placed a hand on his shoulder for support. There was little space between the two of you once your feet hit the ground, your body mere inches from his. You felt him tense under your touch. He looked away, his throat bobbing and ears turning pink. You wondered if he was always this easy to fluster. If so, you’d use it to your advantage.
“Tell me, Ser Dunk,” you began, tilting your head to try catch his gaze, “have you entered the lists?”
You didn’t have much care for tourneys. After all, you only came to Ashford Meadow to earn money, but since you knew him, you’d consider watching the joust.
He shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “No. I need a knight or a lord to vouch for me.”
“Well, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help there.”
“That’s all right,” he breathed out. “I was hoping we’d meet again anyway, so…”
You would have assumed his words to be flattery, but he sounded so sincere that you weren’t sure what to make of it. Your experiences taught you that men who spoke sweetly always expected something in return. Yet, he looked as though he would be content with nothing more than your company.
Unsure of how to respond, you did what you did best. You deflected.
“Shall we have some ale?”
The ale had somehow led you and Dunk away from Ashford’s festivities. After wandering around aimlessly and stopping by tents, you were desperate to escape the crowd.
You led him into the middle of a field, leaving just the two of you standing under the night sky. There, you learned that he was a squire for Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and how he had knighted him before he passed. You could tell he thought highly of him just from his tone alone. He showed you his shield, and in turn, you let him look at the props in your knapsack. You tried to teach him how to juggle, but he was so awful at it that you ended your lesson early and told him to stick to being a knight.
Eventually, you both grew tired of standing and sat down to admire the stars.
“I can’t spot a single constellation,” you sighed, your fingers running through the blades of grass. When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, his eyes as soft as the smile on his lips. Your heart skipped a beat—must be because of the ale. “The stars are up there, ser.”
Dunk lifted his gaze to the sky. “Aye. Sorry.”
You huffed, though it sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “You do that a lot.”
“Pardon?”
“Stare,” you clarified. Before he could apologize, which was another thing he did a lot, you added, “Not that I mind, of course.”
The silence that followed gave way to the distant chatter and music, and the sound of crickets chirping. You decided to watch him while he looked at the sky, which you supposed was hypocritical of you. The moon and stars provided enough light to discern his features, from the slope of his nose to the curve of his jaw. You’d be lying if you said the hedge knight wasn't attractive. He was handsome in a boyish way, though that boyishness didn’t translate to the rest of him. With his cloak gone, because he had insisted you sit on it instead of the grass, it was easier to see the sheer size of him. His shoulders, his arms, his thighs.
You forced your eyes elsewhere before you did something stupid.
“You don’t?” Dunk asked, his voice quiet, uncertain.
“I don’t.”
He glanced at you to confirm you were being truthful, then nodded. “Good. Well, not good, but… you know, I’m glad it doesn’t bother you.”
“You’re wasting the view, ser,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his. “I’m hardly a sight compared to the stars.”
Dunk laughed, as if what you said was silly. “The stars don’t compare.”
His words lingered in the space between you until the breeze swept them away. Your past lover never uttered words like that to you. He never deemed you better than the celestial bodies that greet Westeros every night. An unfamiliar warmth settled in your chest. Even after all this time, you were still a fool who craved connection.
As if his words finally caught up with him, he added, “Forgive me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just… when I’m with you, I don't feel so alone.”
Your expression softened. Perhaps that was what this was—two lonely people finding comfort in each other.
“You barely know me, ser,” you reminded him.
There was a pause before he said, “I’d like to know you.”
The last time you opened up to someone, you got hurt. Since then, you only had casual encounters, ones fueled by impulse and lust. It was easier that way. No expectations or attachments. That said, you wouldn't mind sleeping with the hedge knight. Dunk seemed kind. Honorable, too, from the little you had seen. Words were difficult for you, but you could give him your body.
You lifted your hand, your fingers dancing across the collar of his tunic before you rested your palm against his jaw, guiding him to look at you. His eyes were wide, and it didn’t take long for his cheeks to flush a deep shade of red. He was so still, too scared to move or breathe, as if the smallest of movements would deter you.
Your hand traveled to his nape, slotting your fingers through his hair. You felt him shiver and heard his breathing get heavier.
He whispered your name. “What are you doing?”
“You wish to know me, do you not?”
Dunk’s face paled. He looked like he was about to faint. “Y-Yes, but… this isn’t what I meant.”
You tilted your head, asking, “No?”
“No.”
It was hard to believe him when his gaze kept darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. You could tell he was trying his hardest not to give in, and you almost felt bad for teasing him. Almost.
“Are you sure?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter until your mouth aligned with his.
He swallowed hard. “No.”
That was all the answer you needed. Dunk leaned in, hesitant and slow, as if giving you every chance to stop him. When your lips brushed, it was barely a kiss at all. Just a whisper of warmth, a promise unfulfilled. And then you pulled away.
You let out a soft, exaggerated sigh, schooling your features into something like disappointment. “That’s a shame,” you said lightly. “I’ve never kissed a knight before.”
His mouth opened, no doubt to apologize or to protest or to say something earnest and ill-timed. You did not give him the chance.
“I ought to go, anyway,” you continued, already reaching for your knapsack. “I’m starving, and I promised another performance.”
You stood, slinging the strap over your shoulder. For a moment, you lingered, just long enough to look down at him. He was still flushed, still dazed, watching you as though he might memorize the shape of you if he stared hard enough.
“I hope you get to enter the lists. Truly,” you said. “Good night, Ser Dunk.”
And then you turned and walked away like nothing happened, leaving him seated in the grass beneath the stars, wondering if he had imagined it at all.
sunnie speaks!
i'm experiencing akotsk withdrawal. i need s2 now.
no one asked, but yes i listened to i won't say (i'm in love) on repeat while writing this. anyways, i hope you enjoyed reading this, and i'd love to hear your thoughts <3 i might write a part 2, but i don't know... (also, this is the first time in months i actually sat and wrote something—thank you peter claffey as ser duncan)
let's chat about ser duncan!
if you like my work, consider following @sunniefics to stay up to date on all my future fics!
wip ser duncan x fem!juggler!reader — i saw someone say dunk is hercules coded, and i needed to write a meg coded reader. lmk if you want to be tagged when this is posted!
i'm in the mood to speak on dunk’s sheer size….☘︎ ݁˖
the girth is really what truly astonishes, when he presses against your entrance, it is an immense pressure, a deep, stretching ache. both being virgins it really is an exploration and new experience for you both…
his gaze, darts between your face and your pussy stretching to take him, his concern for your comfort a contrast to the overwhelming power he holds. he halts at your sharp intake of breath, his large hand coming to rest gently on your lower belly, a soft sound from his lips drawing your eyes to his.
"do i pain you, my lady? should i stop?"
"n-no," you manage, a small nod accompanying the word. your hands once gripping his broad shoulders now tangling in the back of his hair.
"easy now," he murmurs as he resumes sinking you down on him.
"gods above!" you gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as your back arches from the intensity of his slow, deliberate entry.
"s’okay- s’okay i feel it, i’ll be gentle. i swear it."
he releases your hip to grasp the base of his shaft, a means to have a more focused pressure, sinking another inch.
"dunk!"
"there girl," he praises, his voice thick with a primal satisfaction as your slickness coats him, easing his path. "i would not see you hurt," with a final, gentle push, you feel him nudge impossibly deep, a presence you feel in your belly. instinctively, you try to widen your straddle, desperate for more room to accommodate his fat cock.
"be at ease, now," he urges, tapping the inside of your thigh. "i don’t think i can move if your muscles don’unclench."
you draw a ragged breath and release it slowly. duncan feels the subtle shift, the way your body softens around his intrusion. "aye, just so my love."
as you exhale, he presses forward, seating himself another measure deeper before slowly lifting you up and down experimentally.
"seven hells, you feel like heaven," he groans, his composure fraying at the edges. his eyes are fixed upon where you are joined. at the sound of your exhaled breath, he thrusts again burying his entire length within you. another sharp cry escapes your lips, and your hands grip or- tug his hair.
"breathe. just breathe," he commands, his own brows raised in encouragement as he demonstrates for you. you nod, mimicking him, the tightness in your chest easing with each cycle of air.
"good…keep breathing…" he asks. your nod is frantic as you comply. in, out, in, out...and with each exhale, sir duncan begins to move you up and down, impaling you on his veiny girth cock, in a slow, deep rhythm that fills you completely.
wip all i needed was a tall himbo to get me out of my writing slump (if you couldn't guess from the title, dunk and reader will be hercules and meg coded!)
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