STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]
tags: (semi-canon-divergent, dunk competes in the tilt but still can't quite fully escape his fate), dunk uses sex as a distraction, oral (f rec.), vaginal fingering, f!reader is implied to be a virgin, unprotected sex, dunk is still an idiot but we love him
“Are you trying to distract me?” It comes out dazed, as you arch back to meet him.
Dunk hums, “Is it working?”
He’s spent enough time fretting. No use worrying about what the morning will bring, not late at night like this. The sun will rise, whether he wants it to or not.
You sigh in response, head tipping - a shiver, when the slight points of his canines run across your throat.
“Supposed to be distracting you.”
Your skin itches.
The urge to run builds in your bones, muscles aching for flight - because surely that’s what you should do.
That’s what they must mean you to do, right? Why else would they push Dunk's meeting with the Hand of the King until the morn, and another with the Council to follow. Giving you both plenty of time to slip from the tent and make off into the night.
Exchanging his dreams of knighthood for his life. A poor trade to be certain, but it would be enough. Wouldn’t it?
But deep down, you know the thought is useless to dwell on.
Dunk wouldn’t go.
And you wouldn’t leave him.
Leaving you to toss and turn to the bedroll - with Dunk’s breadth at your back, further ensnaring you.
The sky long bleeding into inky black above - the clouds covering all the stars. Picking things apart, again, in hushed whispers.
You’d been too busy clinging to the rush, letting it consume you.
The light touches. The drag of knuckles against skin and fingers twined together.
The flush that pinkens his ears when he gets caught staring at you - your brows raised and a smile playing at your lips, and his gaze carefully, then boldly, holding.
Tipping headlong into more.
An arm twined around your waist, in the Baratheon tent. Tugging you roughly onto his lap when Lord Lyonel’s tongue got a little too loose - even if he seemed just as transfixed by the Baratheon as you’d been.
Ignoring the slanted, pleased look his young squire had sent his way.
And the fake retch that followed, when Dunk had stolen a kiss from you to drive his point further home. Egg taking that as his queue to watch the evening play, while you leaned back into a broad chest and a wide hand splayed high across your thigh.
You’d go back to that moment, if you could. Hold onto it as long as you could - the golden glow of Dunk’s second victory, and the too-loud music in the Baratheon tent, woven with unfiltered merriment. The calm before the raging storm, though it hadn’t seemed it.
A thousand useless scenarios run through your mind, now.
Maybe in another, the prince would not have been in that tent. Maybe he would not have turned out so cruel.
Maybe a different play would've been chosen.
But there were few worlds where Egg would not have yelled for help, when the Targaryen prince snapped Tanselle‘s fingers in his anger.
And none where Dunk would not have run to aid. Scruffing the prince’s collar like he was a pup, baring his own teeth in a snarl.
About to strike, before four of the Kingsguard fell upon him. Before Egg stepped in to prevent another blow - to do what you could not. To protect him.
The guilt eats away at you. How you had been unable to do anything, too frozen in the shock of the moment and the anger on Dunk's face.
“We should see if Lord Ashford can step in.“ You start again - determined to find a way out, the words spoken into the quiet. A circling desperation, as you try to find an ending in the tight knot of paths in front of you, “We are all his guests, shouldn’t we-“
A grunt of disagreement, and an arm that bands just a little more tightly around you.
“Lord Baelor is Hand of the King.” Dunk argues, “He’s just. Said he’d meet with me, and I already said I would.”
“He’s one of them.” You hiss back, eyes flicking to the opening of your tent - a quiet settling over the grounds, unease lingering.
He’s still a Targaryen - a dragon - even if he seems kind, and stories spread about such a man known as the Hammer could not be completely untrue.
He’ll side with his family, just like the way you'll fight tooth and nail for yours.
“Our Egg is, too.”
His wording makes your heart lurch.
The tent feels too big with just the two of you - funny, how quickly Egg had worked his way into your misfit party. A missing piece, almost, and now-
“Thought you were furious with him,” Some of your anger tempers, “He thinks you are, anyways.”
Dunk sighs. A hand leaving your waist to scrape over his face.
What a mess you’ve found yourselves in.
“He’s a good lad,” It comes out low, muttered in your ear. “I’m not mad, I’m just-“
He just saw himself in Egg.
The deception hurt, but that did, too.
You had tried to convince Egg of that, ears pricked to the muffled hum of voices behind a thick door, after. His head bowed and shoulders curving inward, a black and red cape pulled tight around him.
Regret rolling off him thick enough to taste, and you hoped the small amount of comfort you were holding -
“He never stays mad long," You murmured, "It isn’t like Dunk to hold a grudge. He’ll come around. We can fix this.”
- would be enough.
If there was even enough time left, for it.
You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. If you’d even be allowed a reunion, now that it was revealed that your orphaned squire was really the son of Prince Maekar. Brother to the man Dunk might have ended, if help had come a moment later. That moment on the bench might have been your goodbye, and it makes your heart lurch to think of it that way.
The silence hangs, in the long expanse of space after his sigh. Too many thoughts pushing their way in, twisting into knots inside you.
But it’s then, that you notice a new kind of prickle of your skin. Fingers that draw back the collar of your stolen tunic. Lips that press against your bare shoulder, and the shift of hips behind you.
“Are you trying to distract me?” It comes out dazed, as you arch back to meet him.
Dunk hums, “Is it working?”
He’s spent enough time fretting tonight. No use worrying about what the morning will bring, not late at night like this.
The sun will rise, whether he wants it to or not, and there's better things to put his mind to.
You sigh in response, head tipping - a shiver, when the slight points of his canines run across your throat.
“Supposed to be distracting you.”
There’s a rough sound, then - heated breath across your skin. His palm dipping until he’s cupping a breast. Emboldened, after the tourney tent.
“Been doing plenty of that lately.”
A roll of his hips against yours, as he tugs you back to meet him. Feeling the thickening ridge against the curve of your ass. The way he inhales you, face buried in the curve of your neck - and you realize it’s been far too long since he’s kissed you.
You turn. Fitting against him, letting yourself get lost in the press of his mouth. The way he’s become more sure since the first time your lips met - a hand spanning the curve of your jaw, keeping your face angled to his while his tongue sweeps against your lip.
If he had not been held back, you’re sure he would have crushed the prince’s skull with his own two hands.
And yet they touch you so tenderly now - fingertips at the hinge of your jaw, spanning down to your neck. Feeling the moan that buzzes beneath your skin, where his palm cradles your throat.
Desire unfurls inside you. His hand following the curve of your thigh as it hitches against his hip. Slipping up, beneath your tunic to grasp at bare skin, yanking you closer - all while yours slip across broad shoulders.
The slow grind that grows desperate, and there’s nothing to cut short your need tonight.
And again - with the press and rock of your bodies - you find yourself beneath him, as if he’s come to the same conclusion. Eyes heavy-lidded, watching for the stay of your hand as he tugs at the single layer fabric covering you - but your back only bows, helping him slip it from your shoulders.
The exhale that pushes from him after is heavy - his gaze so quick to drop down, to take what you give him while he can.
Bared fully, beneath him.
His gaze tracing over soft curves gilded with the silver peek of moonlight, fingers tracing the curve of your hip up to your breast. His hips dipping down to press against the hitch of your thigh, as you trace the breadth of his shoulders. Nails biting into fabric and tugging, eager to free him as you are.
“Wait,” There’s the peek of his tongue between his lips. Before they’re pressing against your skin, already moving down. “Want to kiss you too, like that.”
Like you had - fitting between this thighs and taking everything he gave you.
It starts with familiar territory. Your throat and the curve of your breasts. The valley between, as he explores further. A hum against the curve of your stomach, goosebumps rising with the hot press of his mouth. Hands gripping your hips, as your legs part wider to make room for his shoulders.
Palms slipping beneath your thighs, curling around. Tugging them a little wider, splaying you open for him to see.
His eyes drop down to slick skin and soft curls, and yours flit away. Heat sweeping over your cheeks at the rough groan that rumbles in his chest. A little gasp when there’s a huff of hot air against your core.
Anticipation winding around your ribs, pulling taut.
“Tasted you on my fingers, down at the river.” Dunk’s voice dips low, in a rough rasp.
Where he’d escaped after that morning you shared together - slipping out from beneath you when Thunder’s whinny and Egg’s whistling tune had left you both scrambling for your clothes.
“Had to stroke myself again, right there.”
His breath hitches at the way you clench - the slick shine between your thighs where he has you spread open.
All for him, just like before.
“Did you think about me?” It’s breathless and hopeful. Daring a glance down - only to catch him looking at you, like he always was.
Eyes half-lidded.
“Always thinking about you. More often than I should say.”
A flash of teeth with a crooked smile and the admission that slips from him - earnest.
“Though I kept telling myself I shouldn’t.”
Thumbs that sweep against soft skin. A twisting in your chest, and a fluttering in your stomach like bird’s wings.
You can’t lose him. Not now. You’d do anything-
He presses a kiss between your thighs.
Feather-light, brow furrowed in concentration. Another, tongue peeking out and pressing where you’re slick and oh- the last of your thoughts spring from you, with the hitch of your breath and the jolt that shudders through you.
“Yeah?” He rumbles, “Good?”
It’s low, and it’s hopeful, and it’s sweet, and it’s him - and you’re loosening another moan and a curse and a plea, all at once.
“So good,” You sigh, ”Gods, please-“
He does it again, again, again.
It becomes futile, the way you buck against him. His hands gripping on tighter, fingerprint-bruises against your skin as his tongue parts your folds, and then dips inside you. One palm moving up to splay across your stomach - pressing down to keep you there, right where he wants you.
Testing, teasing. Cataloging the flex of muscle beneath his touch and the places that cause a curse to slip from you.
Only when your fingers tangle in his hair, does he move. A low groan when you tug, urging him back.
Pressing messy kisses against your clit until you’re begging. Something winding tight inside you, twisting each time his tongue flattens to lick you.
“Need more,” You whine. There’s an emptiness inside you, low and aching, “Need you.”
There’s a groan against your cunt, the flex of fingers against your skin. Ones that fan out further, until his thumb can rub at your clit.
Plucking that string of pleasure, as his eyes lift - darkened with want.
“You’d let me have you?”
It’s a low rasp of a question, near breathless.
As if he didn’t already.
All of you was his, if he’s only reach out and take it.
“Dunk-“ It’s almost a growl, the way you whine with need - nails biting into his forearm.
“Easy,” He coos, with an achingly slow circle against your clit. Eyes dropping down, tongue dipping out to run across his lips, as he considers. “Should work you open then, shouldn’t I?”
Something between your thighs throbs with the prospect of having all of him.
“Please.”
He knows how it should go. Had gleaned enough from traded stories and too-thin doors outside brothels. A hand loosens, fingers dragging down. Thumb skimming down your folds, until he’s just nudging inside. A teasing press that has you clenching around the tip, before his hand is flipping.
You’re slick, and his finger slips inside you. There’s a bright, aching fullness already, as you wrap around him. An experimental thrust as he sinks knuckle-deep. Those blue eyes flicking up to watch - your lower lip caught between your teeth as you nod, letting the sharp pinch bleeds into pleasure.
A slow rhythm that starts with one, and then two. Encouraged by your panting breath and the plea that slips from you. The way you beg, for his mouth again.
How he can’t help but inch closer. Eyes fluttering shut as he hauls a thigh over his shoulder, the other following suit. Teasing and licking, as your heels dig into his back at his hips rut into the bedroll.
The thrust of his fingers becoming half-forgotten, but it’s enough to feel full of him, like this - two notched deep inside, the twitch and crook sending heat blooming in your belly. The tension winding tighter and the world narrowing down to just the tent, and the two of you tucked inside.
“I’m so close,“ You beg. “Don’t stop-“
More words - tender, soft things - trying to slip from you, but they loosen from your brain to your tongue. Helpless noises, as your muscles wind stiff.
You didn’t need to worry, though. Dunk always saw things through, and there was never something he wanted more than this. Dutiful, in the way his fingers began to flex again. Hungry in the way he devours you - those eyes fixed on the pinch of your brow and the part of your lips - his name another wanting, ragged plea.
You break apart, with a cry.
White stars blur above you, bright smudges against a purple sky. The thundering pleasure and thrum of your heart drowns out what he murmurs - sweet, filthy things you’d like to keep.
Hot sparks coursing through you, drawn out with the flick of a tongue until it’s tipping towards too much. Wriggling against him until there’s kisses pressed to your thighs instead, until the tight pulse around his fingers ebb and they slip free.
You float back down, as the painted pattern above drifting back into view. Boneless, thighs slipping from broad shoulders. Falling back open as he shifts - a palm scraping against his jaw. The shift of his body against yours, blue eyes coming into view.
“D’you still want more?”
He’s too far away. Hovering somewhere near your breasts, half pushed up on an elbow. Your hands curve at his jaw, urging him the rest of the way. Mouth pressing to his, deepening the kiss until you can taste yourself on his tongue. A groan as his hips roll against yours, a hand biting into your hip with need.
“Gods, yes.” It’s mumbled against his lips.
Pulling back, as heavy-lidded eyes flit down to the peek of bandaged ribs beneath his tunic, “But you shouldn’t be pushing too hard.”
He huffs, and you squeak as he flips you. Tugging you astride him, hands braced carefully on his abdomen as your thighs split wide. Settled in his lap once more, as his back rests up against the trunk of the old elm - your tent wrapping around it overhead.
Feeling the heavy curve pressed snug against your core. His smile drunken - off of you, and it sends another throbbing wave of need - chin tipping down to where he strains against his trousers.
“Never minded you calling the shots.” Dunk admits - a hand gripping at your hips, coaxing you to grind against him. Smearing your core against fabric already damp with his desire.
“And you can ride well enough. Can’t you?”
It’s an offer and a challenge, and you could never resist a temptation like this. Hands running down his chest, mindful of the wrapping beneath, before peeling his tunic off - leaving it among the roots.
You rise up on your knees so he can shove his trousers down - his other hand dipping against the small of your back, keeping you close enough that he can mouth at your tits.
Hungry kisses against your skin, so warm against his. A groan as his body rolls, kicking the fabric free. Your own echoing at the press of something hard and warm against the juncture of your thigh.
It’s bliss, when you sink back down. The slick slide of your cunt against his shaft, the way he sighs your name when you shift - seeking friction.
And he’s the one that begs this time - a soft groan when he catches against your entrance, only for you to tilt your hips at the last second. Testing how he feels against you - how you know it will be a stretch, even after two of his fingers worked you open.
His cock twitching, fingers flexing as if he’d like to pull you down himself. Another circuit of your hips before the mark deepens between his brows.
“Sweetling.” It’s almost growled out - impatience thrumming through him and winding around the endearment.
Falling from him so tenderly before, and now it only makes you grin - how gone he is, how you’re so eager to follow. The flutter of nerves in your stomach melt into something warmer, dripping low.
“‘m ready,” You assure him - hands slipping up to his shoulders. Fingers twisting in the strands that have grown long, at the nape of his neck. “Want you in me, please-“
Dunk groans before his head tips forward and he’s spitting into his palm, before wrapping it around himself and stroking. Knuckles running across your stomach and then down, as he pumps. As you chase it - hips rocking up, against the notch of his fingers.
A rough huff, as his fingers squeeze tighter. The other hand at your waist, a gentle pressure tilting your hips until he can part you with his tip. Bump up against your aching clit - a thumb pressing against his shaft so he can smear himself with you before angling the flushed head down to nudge again at your entrance.
Blue eyes tearing up to find yours.
Waiting for you. Holding himself there, even as he’s leaking for you. And it’s here that he hesitates, just a for a heartbeat - the words coming just as slowly.
“You really sure it’s me you want?”
If you weren’t so needy you’re sure your tongue would go sharp. As if there could be anyone else, as if he didn’t already have your heart.
As if he hadn’t already taken what he was so worried about with the press of his fingers, chivalrous as he was. Something that had never mattered to you.
Instead, your brows lift.
“You want me to find someone else?" It's punctuated with wide eyes and the tilt of your head, "Make for the camp perhaps, and find a nice bed and handsome Lord there?”
You make as if to lift off his lap, but his hands find your hips. Something stormy swirling across his eyes and another low sound rumbling from him.
"No." He rasps, "It's just-"
It’s an effort not to grin, with how quickly he answers, and then stumbles. Giving you time to let gravity work in your favor - letting yourself close that last inch between you - a ragged sigh punching from your chest as you bloom around him, breath caught in your throat at the stretch as he starts to fill you.
“Seven fuckin’ hells-“ Dunk grits out as you clench around his tip - so wet and warm, and you whine in agreement.
Your limited expertise ends here, but there’s a deep ache guiding you - chasing that need to have him inside you. That the rest will follow, that you’ll figure it out. That everything these past few days have been leading to this.
The burn turning sweet, as you work another inch inside you, and then another. Pleasure licks up your spine, as you work your hips in rolling circles - brow pinched and lips parted.
Stubborn, again. A whine in your throat and he’s tugging you to him - his mouth at your breasts and throat until you’re seated in his lap, snug around him and a hand at your stomach, imagining how deep be must be.
“Feels-“ You gasp, searching for words. For anything, as you rock against him. Feeling the slide of him inside you, your hands slipping from your thighs to his shoulders.
“I know.” It’s breathless, a warm huff of hair at your ear - goosebumps rising against your skin, “Take me so well, don’t you?”
A moan in response, as you figure out your rhythm. Shallow movements turning into long strokes as you inch towards something bright - but just as you start to get close, Dunk’s breath hitches and he’s catching at your hips.
Tugging you down and still as his chest heaves, lips parted.
“Just need-,” It’s panted out, “So tight. Not gonna last, sweetling.”
You sway at the edge of a plateau, heartbeat pulsing between your thighs as he keeps you full. Fingers snaking down without thought - circling slick skin as your back arches. Letting him watch the way you swallow him, the peek of his shaft so slick with your need for him. Helping you keep the angle, tiny movements of your hips as you circle your clit again and again.
Building, twisting pleasure, all while he tries to hold on for just a little longer.
But you break first. Desperate for this feeling. To have him holding you like this - it feels like torture to have to be so still.
You want him to roll you beneath him, again. To let go of this tight leash, to bury his face against your neck as he fucks you into the ground.
Until he’s spilling into you - a dangerous thought, but you’re too wound up to keep your fantasizing in check.
“I need it,” You whine instead, nearly there. “Dunk, please-“
It's etched across your face, and his resolve only wavers for a second, before he's moving. He’d never leave you wanting - teeth gritting as his hips punch up, hands tugging you down to meet him.
There’s no slow build, the teasing press of tongue and fingers. His cock skims against all of you - keep you full, rubbing against a spot that has your thighs trembling and your lips begging for more.
More, more, more.
Sweat prickles at the base of your neck, across your skin. Eyes fluttering shut as he moves you - a near punishing pace that’s the worst torture and the sweetest bliss, all at once.
Your fingers work. A hand braced against his shoulder, as the pleasure mounts again. So much more intense than before, though that alone had felt like enough to break you.
“I’m gonna-“ It’s sighed out - a warning and a plea, as you tip towards the edge, “Fuck, Dunk, gonna make come on your cock.”
The noise he makes is one you’ll remember - low and rough, as his hips keep their pace. The tent filled with the slick slap and the circle of your fingers and the soft assurances that slip from him.
“It’s yours,” Dunk breathes, “I’m yours.”
There’s more, but it’s lost to the night - your cry drowning out the rest as you come. Jolts of bliss thrumming through you as you pulse around him, whimpers as you draw out the feeling as long as you can.
He moves, while pleasure still crashes through you. Hands spanning your waist, pushing you back towards the bedroll, following after.
Near-swapping places, your back hitting the nest of blankets all while he keeps himself pressed to the hilt inside you.
Arcing over you for another heartbeat, your noise of surprise swallowed by the dip of his head. The kiss turning messy - the lick of tongues and huffed-out breaths.
One more thrust, and then another.
And then he’s pulling himself out of you with a ragged groan of your name, fingers wrapping around. Fisting his cock, pumping himself twice with slick strokes before his release spills across your stomach.
Only sheer force of will had kept him from coming the second he felt you around him - and he gives into the pleasure, now. A shift of his hips and he’s streaking across your bare tits, dripping down the curves. An apology half-groaned out but he can’t pretend he doesn’t like the way you look - pleasure-drunk and covered with him.
Working himself empty while his eyes rake down your form. Committing each second to memory, something to keep in a world so fleeting.
It’s one you want to keep as well. One you want a million more of, too. The night already presses in around you again - but if he needs you to pretend a little longer with him, to distract him, too - you’ll do that.
“I’m yours, too.” You tell him instead, as he comes back down.
You always had been.
That, at least, you could promise him.
It’s some time later, that Dunk speaks. Something quiet into the night, a wish and a worry slipping free - the stroke of his fingers down your spine going still.
“No matter what happens tomorrow, you’ll be by my side?”
He must read you as well as you read him.
You’d been running when you first met. Maybe Dunk still thought you were.
But something had changed, along the road. Over starry nights, and beds nestled in thick grass and pale blue petals. Beneath the bough of an old elm tree.
He was wrong. You’d follow him onto the field if he asked - into the jaws of the beast. If there were such a thing as lady knights, you think you could try to be as brave as him.
But instead, you’ll linger on the edge, with Egg.
Eyes wide open, this time.
Your lips press into his skin, right above the thrum of his heart.
“Always.”
(in my head it doesn't go to the full trial of the seven, and Dunk and his sweetling make up with Egg, leading to more adventures) (also I know Dunk never would've lasted that long so pls just imagine him fighting for his life the whole time haha) 💖💖 thank you for hanging in there and for reading this fic! I had so much fun writing it, and your comments and kudos mean so, so much.
thank you so much my lovely friend @citrus-moonlight, I am so 👀👀👀👀💖💖 at your sneak peek omg! I can’t wait for more!
I am like 3/4ths done with the last chapter in my dunk mini-fic, I have a snippet here to share! I haven’t been able to stop thinking akotsk, and I hope I’ll have more to share soon
“Tasted you on my fingers, down at the river.” Dunk’s voice dips low, a rough rasp.
Where he’d escaped after that morning you shared together - slipping out from beneath you when Thunder’s whinny and Egg’s whistling tune had left you both scrambling for your clothes.
“Had to stroke myself again, right there.”
His breath hitches at the way you clench, at his words - the slick shine between your thighs where he has you spread open.
All for him, just like before.
“Did you think about me?” It’s breathless and hopeful. Daring a glance down - only to catch him looking at you, like he always was.
Eyes half-lidded. The flash of teeth with a crooked smile and the admission that slips from him - earnest.
“Always thinking about you.”
no pressure tagging - you, if you see this! if you’ve been itching to share a snippet then this tag is for you - I’d love to see what you’re working on!! 💖
It has been A While, to say the least, since I've felt motivated to really write anything, but as a way of trying shake off the cobwebs I decided to try my hand at something that I've been turning around in my brain for probably almost three years now, and it's not WIP related OR Klaue related (I know, *gasp*!).
This was supposed to be a quick-ish exercise that I was planning to finish before the end of the month but I got busy (on top of overthinking things of course) and well, I'm approaching 8k now and still editing so...whoops? 😂
Aaaaaanyway, without further ado here's a snippet from the Alfred Pennyworth x f reader x Kino Loy The Batman/Andor AU crossover threesome (???!?!) one shot that I'm currently working on.
"It's not that I- " Kino frowns, almost seeming surprised when he looks down and sees that he's still holding on to you, and you think you sense a moment of hesitation before he releases your wrist. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered, but I thought that you and Pennyworth were..?"
You manage to keep your smile to just one corner of your mouth, actively working to not let on how much it tickles you to hear Alfred simply called "Pennyworth".
"Oh, we are." you confirm, tilting your head. "Very much so. And that's not changing, just to be clear."
"Ok. Then, what are you saying?" He asks, setting down the drink that has now lost his interest.
"Well, I've been.. thinking about you. Actually, I've been finding it rather hard to not think about you. So I - actually Alfred and I - have been-"
"So, he knows." Kino says, blinking with intrigued realization.
"Yes, he knows what I'm doing." You nod, setting your own glass down on your desk next to his. "He knows what I want."
Your words have an effect you didn't expect, Kino's shoulders straightening as a muscle twitches in his jaw, a defiance in the way the his gaze now slides over your body.
Oh he does, does he?
His expression stays cool, but he can't hide the way his eyes flash as they follow your hand up to his chest, fingers just brushing over the silver hair between the open buttons of his shirt. You're already fighting the impulse to replace them with your lips, and then something goes fuzzy in your head as you realize that you can feel the quick beating of his heart thrumming beneath your fingertips.
"And, that is?" he asks, voice dragging an octave lower.
You manage to keep your feet planted where they are as he steps into your touch but, fuck, he's so close to you now and the deep, questioning intensity in his eyes has your breath to catching in your throat.
You lick your lips, trying desperately to re-collect your thoughts.
"Use your words, love."
Your and Kino's attention is drawn suddenly to where Alfred has been quietly observing, leaning against the doorway with hands in his pockets.
You can only blink, skin warming at having be caught - even though you haven't, really - and that warmth swiftly slides lower and deeper as reality begins to sink in, both men looking at you now. Waiting for you.
Stepping into the room Alfred approaches you, a hand reaching to rest on your waist, his eyes flicking briefly to the other man's before looking back at you.
"I will admit that I am.. interested in giving you what you want." Kino says carefully. "But I'd like to hear you ask for it."
You open your mouth to speak but your words falter when Alfred's other hand starts to move, sliding up over the curve of your waist and then slowly cupping your breast. Kino's lips part, his breathing growing rougher as he follows Alfred's path, eyes going nearly black when you gasp as a thumb flicks briefly over your nipple before continuing higher.
"Go on." Alfred prompts you, fingers curling on under your chin, tipping your head so that you can't avoid Kino's eyes.
"I want.. I want you. Both of you." you manage to stammer out. "Together."
No pressure tags @viceofdionysus and and @eupheme - and anyone else who sees this!
"As we prepare to go out of radio communication we're still able to feel your love, from Earth. And to all of you down there on Earth and around Earth, we love you, from the moon."
A breath, and then his eyes are cutting down to you. Pupils blown dark and almost eclipsing the blue.
“What you said. And seeing you like that-
Nestled between his thighs. Improper, with how close you are, and looking like you’re his.
“What do you need?” It comes out soft and coaxing. “Name it, and it’s yours.”
(Or - you help Dunk relax after his first victory at the tourney)
Dunk grunts, as you crash into him.
An arm wrapping around your waist, your murmured out apology forgotten as he keeps you there - cradled between spread thighs as he sits in the empty victor’s tent, unwilling to let you step away.
You’re not used to this.
Used to the bow of his head when it tilts down to listen. How he looks when the sun rises high overhead - nestled against the grass with an arm slung under his head.
Forever out of reach.
Not like now. Not with the clear blue of his eyes, level with yours.
You kiss him before you can think more of it. Something stolen, with the quick press of your lips to his.
Another, when he follows - because he can, now - mouth slanting over yours with a groan, before you can pull away. His forearm snug against the small of your back and fingers curving around your hip.
Letting the rest of the world melt away, for just a heartbeat. Until you remember just where you are, and the events of the tourney crash over you.
“Seven hells, Dunk. You had me worried.” You breathe, as your forehead presses to his. Unwilling to let yourself get too swept up in his kiss, not after what you just saw.
“Thought you were up against Lord Ashford’s son.”
The pound of your heartbeat still hammers, your nerves swept up in the yells from the crowd and the stomping of feet in the stands.
You’d heard the whispered rumors from the steward. Watched the young Lord carefully during the opening joust the night before - trying to pick up the strength of his arm and his skill in the saddle - and Dunk had let you run through every detail you’d gleaned this morning without a word.
Only for someone else to step to the lane.
The thrill of the tilt had been much more exciting in your distant, fuzzy memories. When you were much, much smaller - before you could catch the way the sun glinted off the sharp edge of a blade, and the way fabric darkened beneath mail when soaked through with blood.
How much a cry of pain could sound like one of triumph, if you weren’t paying close enough attention.
Last night had felt more like a nightmare. Enough that you had barely slept. Eyes open in the dark, tracing over his features. A hand reached out - entwining your fingers with Dunk’s while he dreamed, and Egg burrowed at your back to block the late night chill.
“He found another.” It’s almost dismissive, his eyes suddenly fixed on the matted-down grass at his feet.
Lord Ashford had found another, and Dunk had found himself at the end of Ser Swann’s lance. Three of them, in fact, before the end.
Your support had never wavered - you’d always bet on Dunk - but your heart had tripped and galloped after him. The hairs on the back of your neck standing on end from Egg’s high screams of encouragement. Torn between closing your eyes with the deafening crack of the lances, and keeping them open so that you saw it all.
It was nothing like the road. Of drunks and robbers. Ser Swann’s movements were not slowed, and knives were not dulled from lack of care.
Or like the practice tilts Ser Arlan had set up - the wood cracked and worn, and rings hung from boughs with old strips of both.
Lances shattering. One broken upon Dunk’s wooden shield. Thunder whirling around and almost unseating him, and Egg nearly missing the hand-off. The second tipping until it glanced off hard against Dunk’s ribs.
The third took them both down, and then - it had been over. On the ground, no one would last long against such a giant of a man.
Worry had melted with something else - a heat, an ache, watching him fight. All the training funneled into that moment, and any skill he lacked was made up for in strength and courage.
Filling you with pride as well, when the Lord had yielded. With how the shouts had turned to cheers - Egg’s rising louder above the rest.
It still lingers, as your hands flit across Dunk’s shoulders. The armor borrowed from Steeley Pate, enough won to rent the set for another day - peeled off before you slipped into the tent.
Brought to Egg to wipe clean and polish at the camp. Thunder to be tended to after, his hide still soaked with sweat and energy left to burn.
He groans, as your palms trace down. Lifting the edge of his yellow tunic to reveal the expanse of bruised flesh beneath, blooming red and mottled pink at the edges.
You hiss in a breath, and he echos the sound as his shoulders roll - his shirt discarded. Another groan as your fingers probe at his ribs - far from the touch of a Maester, but you’re satisfied when you feel solid bone.
“You’ll be fine.”
It comes out low. Soothing, all while you shove a hand down into your bag. Rooting around for the small tin, prying off the lid and swiping two fingers through the pale salve.
Herbs mixed with beeswax. The sweet smell of honey melding with the earthy scent of arnica and yarrow.
It’s not the first time you’ve patched Dunk up, and you’re sure it won’t be the last.
“Where’d you get that?” He sighs in relief, as you smooth it over the bruised skin. “Must’ve cost a fortune.”
Spreading it across his ribs and working it into split knuckles. Scraps of old cotton following, tied together at the ends. Wound carefully around his broad chest and bound tight - finally easing some of the ache.
Letting him breathe.
Your smile is warm, eyes flitting to his as you fix the last knot.
“You’re not alone out there, Dunk. I know it’s been hard, but they see you.”
Not the high-born lords and knights he’s beseeched - begging for a scrap of memory of an old, forgotten man. Met with haughty looks and sneers - dismissed, when he did not look like them.
It was with the smallfolk. The older woman who had dropped her basket - Dunk blocking out the aisle as he scrambled to pick up plums before any hands could reach for them.
The young boy who couldn’t manage the stack of chopped wood - feet sore from all the trips to the forest. The time cut in half with a pair of strong arms to assist.
Looks that followed, when he spoke with a kind and patient tone to his squire. You weren’t the only one that noticed.
And more - plenty more. Enough that when one of them had pressed the tin and scraps of fabric into your hands as the tilt ended - even you had felt it.
What a man like him could do.
What a man like him was.
He’d been every inch a knight on the field. Blow after blow on Ser Swann’s shield, unyielding. A boot planted on their chest when they went down - his sword held steady, when it had hovered at their throat.
Merciful, when it mattered.
And now, he sits in front of you. A battered victor, all hunched shoulders and soft eyes and you can’t help the flip in your heart or the way your head tips to rest against his thigh.
Or the way your look must reflect his own.
“I see you, too.”
And, you do. It’s always been there, and it’s like a weight’s been lifted to finally show it. At how easily it’s returned - like it’s always been there, just waiting for you both to notice.
A smoldering ember that’s finally sparked to life.
Dunk’s breath catches at your words - the contact - his hips flexing upward. And then he’s moving - shifting away from you, the worn cloth scraping against your cheek.
Jostling you - a hand coming down to tug fruitlessly at the waistband, and it’s then that you see the pulled-tight fabric between his thighs, straining as he thickens.
A muttered out curse that would please the Laughing Storm, all while the worry wrapped tight around your heart unfurls. Turning sweet, and dripping down your pool between your thighs.
A breath, and then his eyes are cutting down to you. The slow loop, and you know he sees it - recognizes the faded blue tunic you had fished from the makeshift clothes line and cinched with rope, while yours still dried. Pupils blown dark, almost eclipsing the blue.
“What you said. And seeing you like that-“
Nestled between his thighs. Improper, with how close you are, and looking like you’re his.
You do something to him, and the knowledge makes you bold. Something shifting between you since that early morning - a hunger that’s gnawed at your bones.
“What do you need?” It comes out soft and coaxing. “Name it, and it’s yours.”
You’d give him anything.
Dunk’s breath hitches - cracks - on his answer. A hand carefully reaching down for yours, as if he expects you to rip it away. Drawing it back to cup him, like you’d done in the tent.
“Always need you.”
Helpless, with how you look - head tipped up, a hand curving against him. The other slipping up to the ties of his breeches, plucking at the knot.
Loosening, and the fabric finally gives. Your eyes going heavy-lidded with want - fumbling, as you draw him out. Silken skin over steel, and you swear it feels like he pulses in your hand when your fingers wrap around.
Dunk hold himself still as stone, knuckles bleached white where they curve around the wooden seat. Like he’d take anything you gave him and thank you for it, after.
Like the brush of your knuckles would be enough to undo him, or maybe even just the gift of your gaze.
Your eyes drop, as your fingers flex. Measuring, and it takes your breath away.
“Gods, you’re big.”
“You knew that.” It’s almost defensive. As if he’s unsure whether that’s good or bad. If it’s what you want.
But you only want him.
“I mean here.” Your fingers don’t meet, as they circle him and stroke.
For a moment, you wonder if you’ll fit him. If it will be enough, even when you’re boneless and slick. It makes you shiver with want.
It makes you want to trace every inch of him, until he forgets every ache and bruise.
His hands had felt so good, calloused and strong - blending with the bliss of his mouth against yours and the heat of his gaze. It had taken no time to find your peak under his touch, that throb of pleasure so much stronger than the moments on the road that’s you’d stolen, beneath the cover of your bedroll.
You mean to do the same. Maybe it would feel better, too - your hand so much smaller and softer than his. Maybe you could do this for him.
But that’s before you saw the way his cock hung so heavy between his thighs. The weight of it in your fist and the glimmer leaking from the tip.
Your thumb rolls over the flushed head and he shifts into your touch with a groan. Without thinking, you’re bringing it to your lips, sucking it clean.
A wounded sound punches from his chest, his eyes slipping shut. Another rough sound when you surprise him - shifting forward.
Wanting another taste. Knowing that this was done, sometimes. That there could be pleasure from your mouth, not just from the tug of your hands and wet clutch of your cunt.
A kiss placed there, against his shaft.
A second, and then a third - as another rough curse falls from him. Feather-light, as he throbs in your hand.
“Please.” It’s gritted out, breathless.
More. Anything.
You don’t leave him wanting long. Always prone to thinking about himself second, and you want this to be just for him.
Lips parting around his tip as he groans - and his hands leave their post to fist in your borrowed shirt. Anchoring himself as you take a little more, tongue tracing thick veins and the curved ridge at his tip. Fingers following, sliding over spit-slick skin.
”Gods, your mouth.”
The praise burns through you. It makes you wonder if this is how he felt - feeling how warm and wet you were for him. This heady rush that alights inside you, a heartbeat pulse between your thighs.
A deep clench in your core as your eyes flutter shut. Concentrating on the bob of your head and the stretch of your lips. Inching further down each time, though there was still plenty to go.
Learning a rhythm, like he had. Attuned to the catch of his breath and the sharp exhale when your fist twists. The flex of his thighs when you tongue the sensitive spot beneath the head, or inch too deep - throat spasming and the press against your shoulder as he eases you back before you take too much.
Tears prick, and your stubborn streak shows. You swallow around him, and his thumb is sweeping against the hollow of your cheek - pressing down to feel the swell of himself.
“Should see yourself,” He rasps, “Look so pretty, takin’ so much of me like that.”
It sends another rush of warmth, and you let yourself get lost. In the swirl of your tongue and weight of him in your mouth. Thinking that he’s wrong, as your eyes flick up to lock on his. Thinking that he should see himself, too.
Gold streams in, shafts of light slipping between fabric and the wooden posts. Gilding his hair, bisecting half-lidded eyes and parted lips - catching on the whorls of flaxen hair across his muscled chest.
His sounds half-hushed, but still slipping through. Panting breath and broken groans caught in his throat.
Your own moan buzzing against his skin with the slick slide of your tongue. Not really minding it they slipped from the tent, not if it marked him as yours.
And you his.
But there’s no one looking for a hedge knight, taking his spoils. Not with ale and mead flowing, and song slipping beneath the canvas.
In here, time stands still. The seconds only passing with the way his breath turns short and heartbeat thunders. The chair creaking now - wood shifting with the way his hips have begun to buck.
“You’re gonna make me come.” A sharp inhale of breath. Another tug at the collar of your shirt in warning - the words coming in a desperate, warning rush. “Sweetling, I’m gonna-“
But your eyes only stay on his. Heavy-lidded and wanting, the muscles in his stomach and thighs flexing when your hand only strokes faster.
Something soft slipping past his lips. Your name, maybe. A plea, and a curse as his cock jerks - and with a ragged groan, he’s spending himself across your tongue.
More, with each pulse. You manage a swallow but it’s not enough, the way he spills against your lips, dripping against your chin.
Pride cuts through the pleasure. Those strung-tight muscles going loose - finally bested.
“Fuck.”
It’s rumbled out, as you ease your mouth off him. As your thumb catches the excess - gathering it up and slipping it past your lips for a final taste.
His touch is lazy - fingers tracing the column of your throat. A thumb against the hollow, pressing down against as if you had felt him there.
“‘ave you done that before?”
You expect to see judgment in his eyes, but there’s just that look again - like he can’t believe you’re his. Breathless and ruined.
“No,” Your head shakes, “Just you.”
“Good.” Dunk’s voice pitches low, pleased. A rough, possessive edge, as his thumb shifts up - tracing the curve of your lips, before dropping his mouth roughly to yours.
Not shying away of the taste of himself on your tongue, a confession rasped out when it breaks.
“Want that just for me.”
There’s a throb between your thighs, but the music from outside the tent rises, and the world rushes back in. The spell breaks.
They’ll be looking for Dunk, in the Baratheon tent. And Egg - Egg deserved the praise too, with how hard he worked.
Dunk fixes himself as you do - tucking himself back in. Easing the shirt back over stiff shoulders, as you rise up on your knees.
Your eyes sweep over him again. For the last time, for once more - unable to help it.
His follow, leaning into the fingers that card through the mussed golden strands. Loosening the bruised petals from your favor, until they join the others on the floor.
“’m sorry I could not keep them.”
Dunk’s voice is low, eyes dropping to catch on the pale bits of blue that surround you. That mark between his brows softening when you close the space. Lips pressing to his, once more, as you smile.
“I’ll make you another.”
thank you so much for the kind words on this mini-series! I hope you like this update as well 💖
