a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one

(she/her)  | 18+ ONLY | header is from the world of thedas book

[fiveshotsofjager]

I need every single one of y'all to see this NEOW

via Wreck HQ on Instagram

[fiveshotsofjager]

Why are the droids getting sexier

[physadelys]

vampire hunter d x verlir pt.1

vergil as meier link and lir as charlotte

[kathaletta]

someone on tt requested this drawing of Leliana 😌

[a-lyoshka]

nightingale

[goat-limbs]

Where Does The Nose Go? | part one

contents (sfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!reader, inspired by HCA's The Little Mermaid, switching POVs (indicated with dividers), medieval rom-com, love at first sight, witchcraft, body horror, transformation, romantic and sexual tension, mutual pining, yearning, caretaking, non-sexual nudity, there was only one bed(roll), sword of chastity, protective!Dunk, virgin!Dunk, soft!Dunk.

part two ->

synopsis: A mermaid falls in love with a knight praying on her riverbank. A witch gives her legs and three days to make him love her back.

word count: 13K

a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @strangergraphics and @honeyluvsw! Thank you lovely humans for giving it a read before publishing (@lateknightbites and @siliceousooze). My last-minute mermay offering :') There will be two parts of this story!

The feeling of driving his sword through someone’s chest is entirely wretched. Duncan remembers the cause and what it carries, but every time he takes a life his jaw locks tight and his breath stops in a naïve surge of compassion.

The man pierced with Dunk’s iron says his mother’s name. It comes out thin and astonished, as though he had expected to die louder. Duncan hears it over the din. He watches the man’s eyes go queer in his face—film creeping over them, the pupils dulling, the whole wet look turning flat, the way dead fish do when they rise in poisoned water and the sun gets at their bellies.

An apology pushes up hard against Duncan’s teeth. He keeps it there. There is something mean in begging pardon of a man you have already run through. It makes him answer for your sorrow besides his own death. When the body sags and quits at last, Duncan braces a hand to the fellow’s shoulder, eases him off the blade, and lowers him onto his back with what care he can manage in a field full of screaming men. Then he pulls his sword free and breathes.

The stream is only a little way off. Sun has had all morning to work on his armour. The plates burn through his surcoat. The mail at his throat rubs raw and holds the heat there. Under it, the blood trapped in the quilted cloth has already begun to turn.

He knows he ought to go back. He knows the work is not done. His knees strike the bank before the thought is finished. He drags off one glove and then the other, drops them in the grass, and thrusts both hands into the current so fast the cold hurts. Water ropes round his fingers and under his nails and takes the blood by threads at first, then by clouds, until the stream runs pink, then weak as watered wine, then clear again as though the thing had never happened anywhere but inside his own skull.

He bows his head over it. His breath goes in rough through the nose and leaves slower. For a moment he can do nothing but look at his hands—broad things, nicked over the knuckles. Then he cups water to his face. The shock of it lifts the worst of the heat. He does it again. Lets it run from his brow and nose and mouth. Somewhere behind him men are still shouting. Steel still rings out, thin with distance now.

Duncan shuts his eyes. He has never been much for prayer, nor for finding the right words for it, but there are not many disbelievers in a foxhole. He opens his mouth.

“Mother, take him. He called your name. Forgive me for it. Mind his mother, too.” Breath shudders out of him. “Warrior, make me brave enough. Keep my hand true.”

Beyond the bank where the water deepens and the weeds grow long as hair, something has gone perfectly still to watch him.

When you see him kill your heart flutters strangely. Clean slice, straight for the heart. Merciful and cold in the same breath.

You know violence as the sharp white turn of a fish’s belly before your teeth close round it. The panic-kick of things that fit in your hands and things that do not, the times your own blood has gone stringing loose in the water because something bigger thought to make a meal of you first. Death below the surface is ugly, but it serves. Something eats. Something lives another day. Here, men spill one another open for reasons that do not end in hunger. The body falls in the grass and feeds no one. The waste of it catches at your mind.

Yet the great one uses his strength well. Joyless, he puts the blade where it must go and gets it done. Warrior, your thoughts supply at once, though he is younger than the word makes him sound.

Then, he stays. Only for a breath long enough to ease the dead man down from his sword and keep him from crumpling into the dirt like a sack split at the seams, but it is enough to draw you closer under the current. Almost as if he cannot bear for the man to go wholly alone. Almost as if being the hand that kills makes him answerable for that last small stretch between breath and none.

You slip nearer the bank, slow as weed-drift, and brace your fingers between the stones. The stream is clear here. It lets you see him drop to his knees. Lets you see him strip off his gloves with hands gone clumsy from heat. Blood clouds into the water when he thrusts his fingers in. He bends and sluices his face.

Your tail gives a hard, involuntary twitch. Until now he has been iron and leather and bright mail and the broad set of shoulders that belong to grown creatures who know their force. Then the water takes the blood and the grime from him and what rises from beneath it stills your breath clean out of you.

A boy. A beautiful boy. Young in the face despite the size of him. Wet lashes spiked dark. Mouth parted. Water running from brow to cheek to jaw, then slipping under the collar at his throat and down his neck. Your nails bite into the stones. Your gills flare wide and fast. You drag in more water through them without meaning to, as if the stream has suddenly thinned and left you short.

He opens his mouth and your eyes shut. The shouting from the field dulls. Stream keeps on at your shoulders. Wind moves somewhere high in the crowns of the trees. All of it goes faint around the shape of his voice. It reaches you blurred by distance, scant and earnest, with none of the grand sound men use when they want the world to think them holy. He asks for the dead man first. For the mother of the dead man. Forgiveness for what his own hand has done. Then he asks for bravery enough to return and do more of other men’s bidding before the sun goes down.

Nothing for himself. No glory. No protection. No rich spoil. Not even life.

Your grip slips and tightens again. Something deep in you, old as tide-pull, gives way. You have seen handsome things before. Fast things. Dangerous things. You have wanted and hunted and fed.

This is worse. This is a hurt that blooms sweet through the middle of you. By the time he lowers his head and the last of his prayer leaves his mouth and goes nowhere you can see, you love him so completely it feels less like being struck and more like sinking.

He rises and leaves, and the place he was at is empty as if it were bitten. The bank looks wrong without him on it. The water goes on over the stones as though nothing has happened. Your heart has no such manners. It follows him at once, crude and greedy, as though wanting were a hand with fingers on it. You part your lips with half a mind to call after him. Men can be called. Men can be coaxed to the water with the right note laid soft over the surface. You know how to turn the voice sweet enough to draw a neck forward, a foot wrong, a whole body into your keeping. The sound gathers under your tongue and dies there. To put a spell on him feels foul. It seems to you that a creature like that ought to come of his own will, or not at all.

You do not know by what rules men choose their maidens. You know only the old shapes from song and tale, the women with hair to their waists and wreaths at their throats, the ones led from halls by the hand, kissed before witnesses, warmed by fires built on dry land. Even the plainest of them has what you have not.

Legs.

By the time the sun tilts lower you are stern in the mind and weak in the heart, which is a poor way to go to a witch and the only way you have.

You gather what seems dear. Round pebbles from the streambed, the ones worn smooth as eggs. A white one with a milk-pale seam through the middle. A twist of yarrow and sage stolen from the bank where the roots drink deep. A handful of hazelnuts, though you have never eaten one and do not know if witches do. Three rowan berries bright as pinpricks of blood. One swan feather gone loose among the rushes.

Childish things, perhaps. Bride-things from the mind of a fool. You keep them all the same, tucked close in the fold of weed and river-grass you knot for carrying. Then you force yourself into one of the narrow runs that leaves the stream and threads the dark places inland. Mud slicks your sides. Roots comb your hair. The water grows warm and still and brown. It narrows to veins and then opens without warning into the bog pool, black at the middle, with a hut crouched on the shore as if it had grown there meanly from the peat.

You wait a long while with only your eyes above the weed. Nothing stirs but a gnat-cloud and the slow shake of sedge in the wind. At last you take one of the little stones from your hoard and throw it. It clicks against the wooden door. The sound is small; it still seems to carry everywhere. You sink lower, heart drumming hard, and hide among the pondweed with the offerings clutched to your breast, as if the right gifts and a brave face might yet make you into something a beautiful boy could love.

The door opens. The woman who steps out is bent nowhere and old everywhere. Her hair hangs in ropes the colour of drowned straw. Her shift is the grey of mushroom flesh. She peers toward the water as if she has smelt you already.

“Well,” she says. “What pretty thing noses at my threshold?”

You rise through the skin of water and push the bundle of gifts towards her. “I brought—”

“Did you.” She stoops and takes it between two fingers, as if it is something small and dead. “Then speak. A wish is no good to me till it has a mouth.”

You blink at her. Try to find the words for something prettier than a blunt girly whim, but they come out as they are. “I want legs.”

The witch looks at you for a moment. Then, she laughs. “That is not what you want.”

Mud stirs under your tail with the force of your annoyance. You dig the tip of it down into the black silt.

“Ah,” she coos, seeing it. “There is no shame in wanting, child. Only folly in pretending. You want a lad to love you.” You remain silent long enough for her eyes narrow with delight. “No. Not a lad.” She leans closer over the bank, and her smile turns terrible with it. “A knight.”

The scales along the back of your tail prickle. “Can you help me?”

“Likely.” She reaches down without warning, crooks one finger beneath your chin, and turns your face first one way, then the other. “You are fair enough for mortal work. Fairer than many that walk on two feet and think well of themselves besides. Why not sing to him? Why not call him into the water? Earth has given you gifts enough. Why do you not use them?”

You pull away from her hand. “I do not wish to lure him.”

Her mouth rounds. “Oh.” The sound is soft, but curdles your stomach all the same. “It is true love, then,” she says. “Pure as springwater. You would not stain your dear knight with a spell.” Her voice thins to a hiss. “What do you think you are doing here, if not spell-work?”

“The spell is not for him,” you say, and hear the weakness in it. “It is for me. I only need legs.”

“A spell is a spell all the same.”

She turns your bundle and lets the things fall. The pebbles, the berries, the herbs, the feather—all of it drops into the bog with a series of small, insulting plops. One hazelnut floats a moment before the water takes it.

“You may keep your trinkets,” she says. “I am not a hedge-wife to be bought with rowan and sage.”

Heat rises through you against the coldness of the bog. “Then why hear me?”

“Because I am curious.” She smiles again. “And because I can give you what you want. Under a condition,” she says.

Of course. Again, you keep still and say nothing. She seems to like that better than if you had begged.

“I will give you legs, and all that comes with them. You will wake with feet to stand on and knees to bend. You will go where he goes if you can keep pace. You will have three nights to win what you came for.”

The reeds whisper in the wind. Somewhere behind her hut a bird cries once and stops.

“If by the third night the knight loves you, the bargain is spent. If not, a soul is owed me.”

Your fingers tighten on the mud-bank. “Mine?”

“If you are dull enough.” The witch reaches into the fold of her garment and brings out a dagger. It is old and grisly, with a hilt of dark wood worn smooth by long handling. The blade is dark as well, but moonlight catches on it in a thin wet line. It looks hungry. “Or his.”

You stare at it.

“He may be given in your stead,” she says mildly. “A thrust under the rib. Upward, if you are weak in the arm. Bring him to me warm and I shall count us square.”

“Why would I do that?”

She lifts one shoulder. “Because hearts turn vicious when they do not get their fill. Because death is easier than longing for some creatures. Because on the third night you may find you love yourself a little more than him. I make room for all outcomes.”

The dagger gleams in her hand. You cannot stop looking at it. At last you whisper, “How shall I know if he loves me?”

The witch’s brows rise. “Were you not certain of it a moment ago?”

A pout blooms on your face unbidden.

She crouches at the bank then, bringing her face close to yours. Her breath smells of peat and old roots.

“When mortal men love their maidens,” she says, almost kindly, “they do not keep their hands to themselves. They part those fine legs you hunger after. They open the flesh between and put themselves there.”

A cold shiver runs the length of you.

Her smile returns, pleased and wicked. “There. That is plain enough even for a love-addled little fish.” She straightens. “Well? Do you accept?”

The word catches in your mouth. You sweep the dagger, the dark bog, the hut with your eyes. Then, her face, which has no mercy in it and no patience either. Because you have already loved him enough to come here, you say, “Yes.”

“Of course you do.” She puts the dagger down on the bank within your reach, then slips her hand somewhere inside her sleeve, deeper than the cloth ought to allow. When she draws it out again there is an egg in her palm, black-speckled and oddly warm.

You frown at it.

“Eat.”

“What is it?”

“An egg,” she says. “Do not go witless on me now.”

You take it from her. The shell is warm indeed, almost hot. “And then?”

“Then you sleep. Then you wake altered. It need not trouble you beyond that.”

It turns in your hand. “Raw?”

The witch gives you a look of withering contempt. “No, child. Put it in a silver cup and take it with honey.” She bares her teeth. “Yes, raw.”

Your eyes lower, ashamed of the question. The shell cracks easily. The inside slides thick and strange over your tongue. You swallow twice to get it down. The witch watches every motion.

When it is done, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and say, “How shall I find him?”

At that, something shifts in her face. Too rotten to be kindness, but it is the brief look of someone hearing a tune they know well.

“His blood is in the water,” she says.

Then she steps back, pulls the door open, and goes inside. It shuts between one blink and the next, leaving you in the bog with the dagger on the bank and the taste of the egg still clinging at the back of your throat.

You swim the way you came slowly. Moonlight makes the water mean and every root below look like a hand with the shape of something waiting. Above, the moon itself has thinned to a sickle near fine enough to seem a cut laid across the sky. It tells you that on the night of your judgement it will be gone altogether. You will hear it in the dark. His blood is in the water, the witch had said, and the current takes you at her word, carrying you through the narrow runs and back toward the broader stream where you first saw him kneel.

By the time you reach it, the bank is empty. You keep to the deeper part and let yourself drift there, belly turned uneasy by the egg, heart sore with a want that has already learned absence.

Sleep comes badly. Even so, it comes. The river rocks you. In the first fold of dreaming he leans over the bank again, all shadow and wet lashes, and this time when he opens his mouth it is not prayer that leaves it but your name. He reaches for you with a careful hand and thumb wedging under your chin. He bends and kisses you as though he has been thinking on nothing else.

Then the dream turns. Above you, something vast opens. The eye of god, grey and pale and lidless, hanging in the dark where the moon had been. Its patience is so complete the age of it exceeds the feeling of pity. Below, a pair of shears glints, iron-black and long as oars. The water thickens around you into a fat-like jelly, holds you fiercely, as the blades close with a sound no louder than a crab-shell snapping, and fire races you clean through. 

Scale after scale dulls and loosens. Webbing parts. Bone groans as if gripped and wrung by unseen hands. Your tail splits where no living thing ought to split and your flesh draws apart. New joints wrench themselves into being with a wet internal crack that never seems to finish. You open your mouth to scream and swallow black water instead. Heat tears through you from spine to hip to the new-made lengths of you, all the way to ten small, useless ends where your body has never ended before. Hair roots burn. Teeth ache. Even your fingertips feel changed, as though the whole of you has been dragged through too narrow an opening and forced to come out other.

You wake choking while dawn creeps into the sky. Half on the bank, half in the wash of the stream, naked to the chill, with the dagger clutched to your breast. Air rasps into you thinly through mouth and nose, making panic strike at once. You paw at your ribs and find only smooth skin where your gills ought to flare. Sealed. Gone. You drag another breath and another, each one scant enough to frighten. The water at your side offers no help. It laps your hip stupidly, as if it does not know you.

When you look down, you see them. Legs.

Two of them, long and bare and wrong as peeled roots. Knees knuckled sharp. Feet splayed in the mud with their blunt little toes. They belong to you no more than the moon belongs to the bog. The sight turns your stomach. You put a hand to one thigh. The skin there is soft and strange, without scale or sheen or the strength of a tail built to drive through current. When you try to draw the limb in, the knee folds with a hideous ease and the whole thing jerks sideways. It feels loose. Breakable. Made badly.

Still, you have asked for them. You plant both palms in the earth and try to rise and pain bites through your middle. Your legs buckle, each seeming to choose a different direction. One foot slides out from under you. The other catches on nothing and twists. You go down hard on your hands, palms full of mud. For a while you can do nothing but crouch there trembling, hair hanging round your face, breath coming sharp and ugly through a body that no longer knows its own shape.

Morning hones itself as you kneel in it. The scent of his blood has thinned almost to nothing. In its place comes the rest: men everywhere, dead and living both. Sweat gone sour in gambesons. Split guts, horse piss, iron and smoke. The field beyond the trees breathes out ruin by the lungful.

You have three days. Three days to find the knight, make him love you, and keep your soul out of a witch’s hand. You cannot even stand. Water clouds your vision and you laugh bitterly at how it won’t let you go entirely.

On the morrow, Dunk sweeps through the edges of the battlefield after the worst of it, checking for men still breathing whose bodies might be saved or those who need a merciful hand to help them pass. His side aches badly where someone slashed him, one ear hears less than it did before the fight, and one of his sockets throbs with excess blood, but at least he’s not the one gasping his last. He keeps his eyes peeled for movement, yet when he notices a particular creature trembling at the very shore where his inept prayers were heard, he stills.

A girl. Mud-caked, naked, and—Gods—crying.

He hauls the reins on Sweetfoot at once, dulling an instinct to charge forward and holding her in a rushed trot instead. “M’lady!” he calls from horseback. “M’lady, be not afraid!”

Your eyes lift, but the rest of you dwindles immediately. Arms come to cover your head and Duncan notices you’re stricken with grime wrists to elbows as if you were trying to make your way uphill on all fours. He dismounts with a small grunt and hunches on instinct. His arms spread wide and gentle, and before he knows it he’s murmuring as he would to a skittish thing. “Easy now,” he whispers. “Easy. I vow this to you—I am no threat. My name is… Ser D-Duncan The Tall. I won't hurt you.”

The title sits oddly in his mouth when he’s half-shrunken and on bent legs. As he comes closer, his cheeks begin hoarding warmth despite him, for the shape of you is visible and evident even at this angle. Breasts plastered to your thighs billow with each frightened breath. Your belly creases in the middle and clay tears and crumbles off your knees when you shudder. He sees nothing else, but in his chest an unbearable instinct to cradle you almost overcomes him.

His head turns to the side, so he watches you only with his eye’s corner. When he’s close enough, he undoes his cape, spreads it gently over your back and lets it fall over you. He has a fleeting thought on what kind of smell it must carry and whether that matters.

Only then does he see the dagger. It is clutched in your fist, half-hidden by mud and the hunch of your body, but iron is iron. His hand stills on the edge of the wool. For a breath he says nothing. A crying maid with a blade is still a maid with a blade, and fear can make a body quicker than training.

“Easy,” he says again, lower. “You needn’t use that on me.”

You stop trembling enough to lift your face. The blade drops. Then all at once you are on him, hands closing round his waist with such force Dunk rocks back on his heels. Something reaches him through wool and shaking breath. Unintelligible mutter. Then—found me. And again, softer, urgent with respite. Knew you would. Knew you’d find me.

For a moment he does nothing but stand there with his own arms half-raised, startled clean through. Then they come round you, shy and boyish. One hand settles between your shoulders. He rubs once, then again, broad and slow, as though you are a frightened colt and his hand might smooth you into sense. “There now,” he says, because it is what comes. “There now.”

Beneath the mud and the cold reek of the stream there is a smell to you he cannot place. Something green. Something sweet. It cuts strangely through blood and horse and churned earth. 

He lets you cling till your breathing eases enough to stop catching. When it eases, he gives your shoulders one careful squeeze and tries to look at your face without looking full at your face.

“M’lady,” he says. “Have you been hurt?” You shake your head against him. He swallows. “And your clothes—were you robbed?” There is a pause to that. Then you nod.

“Ah.” Dunk shuts his mouth on all the things that might follow that and does not ask them. “Well. I’ll take you to the village,” he says. “We’ll find something to put on your back, and someone to look you over.”

You do not let go, and he finds he does not much mind that. By now he is holding most of your weight besides. He means to set you back a little then, only enough to walk you to Sweetfoot, but the moment he loosens his hold your legs betray you. They fold queerly with the loose, witless give of limbs that do not know their own business. Dunk catches you fast under the arms before your knees can strike earth. 

Some hurt in the low back, he thinks. Or the spine knocked wrong. He has seen men go slack in the limbs from less.

“Easy,” he says again, lower now. “I’ve you.”

Your head comes up. There is mud on your cheek, tears dried in bright tracks through it. Up close the sight of you lands worse on him than it did before. Such beauty in such a place. Such beauty at all. If someone asked him later, he would have no better answer than that.

“May I carry you?” he asks.

You nod.

He gathers the cape tight first, fingers making poor work of it. Then he crouches so you may put your arms round his neck. When you do, your face comes so near he feels the warmth of your breath on his mouth. His own has gone dry. “I will lift you now,” he says, for want of anything wiser.

One arm behind your back, the other under your knees. He brings you up. The pull in his side is vicious enough to whiten his sight for a blink, but he only grunts and holds you the tighter for it. You are light to him. Light should not be so difficult.

Sweetfoot turns her head and blows at the sight of you in Dunk’s arms. “Mind yourself,” Dunk mutters, and means the horse, and himself, and perhaps the day entire.

Getting you into the saddle proves ugly work. There is no good way to manage a naked maid wrapped in a cloak when one hand is wanted for decency, the other for balance, and his side seems set on parting company with him. He stands a moment with his jaw shut hard, then does it the only way such things ever get done—awkwardly.

“M’lady,” he says, hot-faced, “I must set you before me.” You only look at him with those wide, strange eyes and make no complaint.

He gets one boot to stirrup, hauls himself up enough to raise you after, and nearly fumbles you when the cloak slips and his forearm feels the bare warmth of your back through the wool. Heat runs through him so fast it feels wrong. He gets you right the second time by sheer stubbornness, settles you before the saddle-bow, then adjusts behind with a grunt he prays sounds like effort.

It does not improve matters.

There is no room worth speaking of. You sit before him with your hair damp and knees thrown to one side, and Dunk must put an arm round your middle the moment Sweetfoot moves or see you slide clean off. He has no notion what one does with a girl in such a fix. Horses, boys, wounds, armour, hard roads, those he understands. A maiden fair as vision and shaky in the limbs, is another matter. He finds himself hoping there is some widow in the village with a stern face and capable hands who might take one look at you and know everything he does not. Then he may ride on to Riverrun with peace in his mind.

The thought sits well enough till you lean back. A little more weight at each step, whether from weariness or trust he cannot tell. Soon your back is to his chest and your hair keeps straying under his chin. He has to look somewhere, so he looks at your hands on Sweetfoot’s neck.

Mud is dried in the lines of your palms and packed black beneath your nails. The nails themselves are pale in a way he mislikes. A drowned sort of blandness, as though the blood had only lately remembered to leave them. His hand closes harder on the reins.

What befell you? Robbed, you had said—no, nodded. Robbed of clothes and the strength in your legs. Robbed near of your wits, to be found bare and weeping on the skirts of slaughter. His mind offers up answers and every one of them is ugly.

“You are safe enough for now,” he says, because the words come and because he wants them said. “We’ll have you among decent folk directly.”

You say nothing. Perhaps doze. Perhaps you only listen. When Sweetfoot steps through a rut, your head tips back against him for an instant, and Dunk’s arm goes firmer round your waist.

Riverrun can wait an hour. Even a day, if it must. First the village. Clothes. Food. A woman to tend you. Then he will know what ought be done.

He keeps his eyes ahead and rides. When the road begins to thicken with huts and kitchen smoke he turns Sweetfoot toward the first cottage with a swept patch of yard and washing strung on a line. A hen darts from underhoof squawking. Dunk reins in, slides down, and reaches up for you.

The door opens before he can knock. A broad woman with red wrists and a face like a hatchet stands in the threshold, takes in Dunk, the horse, the cloak-wrapped girl in his arms, and narrows her eyes. “I can explain,” Dunk says, which is a poor beginning and sounds like one besides.

“Can you?” she says.

Heat climbs his neck. “I found her by the stream yonder. She’s been robbed, I think. She’s got no clothes, and her legs are none too steady. I thought—” He falters, then tries again. “I thought a woman might better see to her.”

The woman looks past him to your face. Something in hers shifts, not softer exactly, but less sharp. “Well, I am a woman,” she says. “Bring her in, then, you great oaf, and stand there bleeding on my threshold no longer.”

Dunk ducks his head and does as he’s bid. The cottage is low-ceilinged and close with the smell of onions and wool. He sets you down where the woman tells him, though not without trouble, for your legs go queer under you again and your hand catches in his sleeve with sudden force. “You are safe,” he says under his breath.

Your fingers tighten. “Please,” you whisper. “Do not leave.”

That near aches him more than the clinging had. “I’ll be just outside,” he says, for the woman is already flapping a hand at him to get out and because there is no fitting place for him in a room where a maid must be dressed. “Only outside. I vow it.”

A beat. Then, you let go. The door shuts on him. Dunk stands in the yard with a hand pressed to his side. Through the wall come the dim sounds of women’s voices, yours low and strange, the older one brisk and practical. Once there is a clatter. Once a silence long enough to make him straighten from the fence-post he had leaned on. He is thinking whether it would be madness to knock when the woman steps out at last, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Well?” Dunk asks.

“Well, nothing’s broke,” she says. “No fever that I can feel, no wound worth speaking of. She’s frightened half witless and weak in the legs, that’s all. Hungry, too, I’d say. May be she took some knock to the head. May be she was born a little moon-touched. Hard to say.”

Dunk blinks at her. “She knows her own name?” he asks.

The woman gives him a look. “She knows enough.”

That does not answer much, but before he can find a better question the door opens and you come out.

The clothes hang on you as they would on a child dressed from a dead woman’s chest: a coarse shift, a faded gown, sleeves a touch too short, hem uncertain, boots big enough to host toes twice as long as yours. Your hair has been pushed back from your face with damp hands. Your legs still look unsure of themselves. Dunk moves before thinking and takes you by the elbows when you waver on the step. “There now,” he murmurs. “Steady.”

You look up at him with such plain relief that his grip gentles.

The woman snorts softly behind you. “Take her home, then.”

Dunk clears his throat. “Aye. That is—” He looks down at you. “Where is your home, m’lady?”

Your hand comes up and closes over his forearm. “There is nothing for me there,” you say. Your fingers tighten. “Please.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it. “I am bound for Riverrun,” he says at last. “I’ve business there. I cannot—”

“That is where I am going,” you say quickly. “The last place where I have anything. Please. Take me with you.”

Dunk stares. It may be nonsense. It may be the plain truth. It may be only the talk of a girl too frightened to be left among strangers. He cannot tell. What he can tell is the feel of your hand on his arm, the look of you trying not to sway where you stand, and the knowledge that if he leaves you here, he will think on it all the road to Riverrun and probably every road after.

The woman folds her arms and watches him make a misery of the choice. “Well?” she says.

Dunk lets out a breath. “I can take you as far as Riverrun,” he says, still looking at you. “No farther promised than that.”

Your smile is answer enough. Later, when doubt gets into him, it will be one of the things he reaches back for.

Soon after the village, Duncan finds himself about a number of tasks he had not meant to take on. He accepts the pity bundle of more garments from the woman, all of them light. He lifts you to the saddle, then goes back for Chestnut and Thunder. He loses the mark of his back, gathers his scant belongings, counts them, and thinks of the trouble of one bedroll. Riverrun lies four nights off, and his purse is too light for inns along the way. He shifts the saddle on Chestnut till it will hold you steady enough, then goes through the poor store of cloth he owns to see whether there is anything fit to spare you. At last he finds a blanket little better than rough army issue and ties it round your shoulders with a length of string.

When he is done, he steps back to look at you and nearly laughs for the misery of it. A strange girl with no place to go, less worldly goods than he has, a queer way of speaking, and legs that seem only half-convinced by land—and here he is, setting his road to her pace as though this were a sensible thing. Duncan knows well enough what sort of fool he is. Dunk the Lunk, thick as a castle wall, slow as an aurochs. Still, his mouth pulls into a shy half-smile.

“Ready?” he asks.

The world of men continues to bewilder. They kill each other relentlessly and let the bodies rot out in the fields until crows find them. They speak oddly. They wear clothes. Rough things that scratch the skin round armpits and knees, and make their beasts wear clothes too. They walk on two imbalanced legs that have less sense to them than you would ever think they have, which end with feeble little things that need the most woeful instrument imaginable to stay protected—shoes.

The pain comes on you late. At first everything is so strange that the cuts in your feet barely matter. Then, just as you get the first grasp on how to walk on those fleshy stilts, an old woman gives you a shift, a skirt that wedges itself between your thighs, stockings that roll beneath your knees, and a pair of disgusting animal-skin things that make the wound across your sole press and bleed, press and bleed. You could fit another set of those ugly little toes into them and still they’d knock your ankles raw. Duncan seems to think your wits were rumbled sideways by whatever befell you, and sighs through his nose each time you try a few wobbling steps before giving up and tossing you from one place to another. From doorstep to horseback. From horseback to ground. From ground back to horseback again. Then, the horse takes over the carrying.

None of this matters greatly. None of it rubs you wrong in any way, because your knight has found you and agreed to take you to Riverrun, of which you know only that it is overrun with rivers and mean spirits, and you want nothing to do with either. You want everything to do with him, though, so you let the beast called Chestnut carry you toward it and knock your newly acquired arse against the hard leather of her saddle.

You glance at him often, only to make certain you were right to choose him, but Duncan proves worth every bruise on your buttocks. He is prettier close by. Washed of blood, his face goes almost holy at moments—too open and clean in the look of it—then a shift of shade will catch under the brow and jaw and make a man of him again so suddenly it gives you pause. His arms are strong enough to carry a girl like you. His heart, plainly, is soft enough to help one and trust one within the space of a single hesitant breath.

That softness lives in him in sly places. Not only in the face, though the face does its share. In the stammer that catches him when he is too aware of himself. In the way he asks leave before he touches you, as though a thing may be both necessary and solemn. In how he handles even his own size like it might alarm somebody if set down too hard. You begin to see that the boyishness in him is not only a matter of smooth cheeks and dark lashes and that honest mouth. It lives deeper. Some tender piece of him has made it to his great age uncrushed.

You have no notion what he knows of love. His lips look unkissed, which strikes you at once as improbable and agreeable. Kissable all the same. So are his cheeks, if it comes to that, and the hollows under his eyes look made for the brushing of thumbs in acts of pity or fondness or whatever human girls do when they mean to soothe a man. You think, in the stupid way of girls, that it may be just as well if he knows nothing. You know very little yourself. The males of your kind are greedy, quarrelsome creatures who would bite the shine off a scale if they thought it theirs by right. The tenderest kiss you have ever given in all your life was to a trout, and that was mostly because it was dying.

Still, you know enough to know this: there is something dear in a creature so large keeping such a breakable heart inside him. Duncan feels safe to you in the way deep water once did. Not because he could not drown you if he wished, but because every part of him seems arranged against wishing it.

The road, of course, is another matter. It goes on and on, pale and hard beneath the horses, made by men for reasons men must have found clever. When there is no canopy the sun comes down bare and mean, scorching your face, your scalp, the tender tops of your hands. Dust lifts and settles in your throat. The saddle knocks under you with a steady, sour persistence, and after a while even wonder thins into boredom. You cannot understand why anyone would choose such a path. Roads have no give. They hold the day’s heat. They are full of stones and wheel-ruts and the old droppings of beasts. Water, at least, takes your shape when it carries you.

But then, toward evening, the land alters. Light begins to bleed richer colours over everything. It gathers in the grasses and tips the hedges. It slicks itself along the backs of flies until the air is full of brief, burning specks. The trunks of trees grow black on one side and warm on the other, and the far fields seem to have been brushed by something molten and low. From the height of Chestnut’s back, you see land from its own heart for the first time: furrow, ditch, thorn, moss, little stones shining in the road, the long back of the world lifting itself toward dark.

The dying sun finds Duncan too. It catches in his hair until the auburn of it wakes with red-gold hidden under it, banked fire stirred by a stick. All of him brightens: cheek, ear, the blunt line of his nose, the great slope of shoulder under travel-stained cloth. When the sun begins to go, his colours come alive. It seems unfair that a thing may grow more beautiful just when the light is going, as if it was never meant to be kept.

“M’lady?” His voice pulls you from the sky. You turn your head and find him watching you from Sweetfoot’s back. “Are you tired?”

You consider this. “Tired of what?”

He blinks.

“Sitting on a beast?” you ask.

A sound leaves him then, low and huffed through his nose. “Aye. Riding can weary a body. We should make camp soon. It will be dark before long.”

You look him over for signs of weariness, but he shows none that you can read. He sits tall enough, broad enough, with the reins easy in one hand and the dust on him as if it has been there all his life. “The road is hard,” you allow. “The beast is delightful.”

At that you lean forward and wrap both arms around Chestnut’s neck. Chestnut blows out a pleased breath and dips her head as if she agrees with you entirely.

Duncan stares for a moment. Then his mouth presses itself into a line and he looks back to the road.

“Do people always choose paths this hard?” you ask.

“This?” he says. “This is no hard road. It’s straight, and flat enough, and there’s no great wind to cut at us. There are harder paths than this.”

You frown. “Why would anyone take a harder path?”

“Sometimes they must.”

You consider that gravely. Men do seem fond of arranging misery into rules and then obeying them.

After another little while, Duncan says, “Keep your eyes peeled for a place to camp, if there is one you like.”

Your hand lifts before he has finished speaking. “There.”

He follows the line of your finger. There is only a thick tangle of trees and bramble ahead, with sun lying through the branches. “There?” he says.

“By the water.”

He looks again, slower this time, as if water may show itself out of courtesy. “There ain’t water there, m’lady.”

“There is.”

His gaze comes back to you. It is a look you dislike before you understand it. Careful. Mild. The look given to a creature who has said something foolish and might be frightened if the foolishness is named aloud. Pity sits in it, thinly covered.

Heat pinches under your ribs. “Beyond those trees,” you say. “Where the sun takes aim. There is water.”

Duncan shifts in the saddle. For a moment it seems he means to answer. Instead he only draws a breath and turns Sweetfoot’s head. “All right, then.”

The gentleness of it makes the pinch in you flare hotter. The males of your own kind speak so when they wish to make you small. Little thing, pretty thing, witless thing. They forget how quickly a little thing can open a throat when she has teeth and a mind to use them. How a male may reach for you in the weeds, grinning, and only know himself dead when his fingers will no longer close because all the blood has run out of them.

You say nothing. Chestnut follows Sweetfoot off the road and into the green press, Thunder trots close behind with all of the belongings clinking at his sides.

Branches drag over your shoulders. Leaves brush your face and catch in your hair. The ground grows softer almost immediately, darkening underhoof. You hear it before he does, of course: the low, glassy talk of water over stone, hidden under bird-call and the rasp of insects. A moment later Duncan hears it too. His head lifts. Sweetfoot’s ears prick forward. He urges her on a little faster without looking back.

The trees thin, and beyond them lies a small bed of grass pressed close to a clear stream running lazy under evening light. A willow grows at the bank with its long hair fallen into the water, making a green chamber beneath it. The surface holds the last of the sun in broken pieces and lets them go again.

Duncan reins in. At first, he only looks. “Well,” he says at last, quiet and baffled. “Gods be good.” You sit straighter on Chestnut’s back when he turns to you. “How did you know?”

Your chin lifts, because even though he has no right to know, you are a proud creature. “I am not so witless as you think me, knight.”

At that his face changes. The bafflement stays, but something troubled comes into it too. “I never thought you witless,” he says.

Instead of dignifying that with a response, you begin getting off Chestnut. It seems simple enough. One leg must go somewhere, then the other after it, and the ground waits below with its usual bad intentions. You slide halfway down the saddle and there the business collapses. Your skirt catches, one foot finds nothing. Your hands clutch at leather and mane, and you are left hanging from the side of the beast in a deeply humiliating fashion, breathing hard through your nose.

Duncan is there before you make a fool of yourself entire. His hands span your waist through the shift, large and warm and terribly sure. He lifts you down as if the effort costs him nothing, though you have seen the way his side catches sometimes when he thinks you are looking elsewhere.

“I only meant,” he says, setting you on the grass with more care than the world deserves, “you keep surprising me.”

You say nothing to that. Only look at him from close by, and shamelessly so. He is shy for a lad this big. It pleases and worries you in equal measure. It makes you wonder, briefly and without comfort, whether he will know what to do with you at all. Whether he knows how men put themselves between the legs of women who want them so dearly. Whether, third night from this one, the witch will have the soul she grinned for.

Before you can ask, Duncan looks away. “You may bathe, if you like,” he says. “Under the willow there. I’ll start a fire. See to some food. Water the horses after.” Then he turns from you with the haste of a sailor escaping a sinking ship.

The first thing you lose is the shoes. You wrench them off and drop them in the grass with hatred. The cut across your sole still presses when your foot meets earth, but at least it is no longer trapped against leather, forced to bleed and bleed in its own little prison. The stockings go next, or try to. They roll and cling beneath your knees like pale eels. Then, the blanket. You tug at the ties and laces and strings, cross with their stubbornness, then only angrier. Human clothes are full of tricks and no kindness. At last, with a tired grunt, you pull the shift up over your head.

Behind you, wood clatters. You look round.

Duncan stands a few feet away with firewood scattered at his boots. His mouth has parted. For one suspended moment he simply gapes. Then flush climbs fiercely round his ears, up his neck, into his face, and he drops into a crouch to gather the sticks as if they have become suddenly precious.

“M-m’lady,” he says, strangled. “You oughtn’t—Seven save me—you oughtn’t undress before a man you scarce know.”

You stare at him.

“I thought you meant to go beneath the willow,” he goes on, still looking hard at the twigs. “Out of sight. I thought—what are you doing? Have you never been on the road? Or near men? Or near folk at all?”

An instinct pinches you, strange and unwelcome, to cover your chest. You do, though slowly, and with no clear idea why. He looks as if you have done him some harm. “It is only flesh,” you say. “You have flesh too. What is so wicked about mine that you cannot look?”

He makes a small, suffering sound and bends lower over the firewood. “My flesh is—” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “It is different.”

You glance down at yourself, then at him. “How?”

His hand closes on a stick so tightly the bark cracks. “M’lady, I beg you.”

“For what?”

“For pity,” he says, so miserably that your brows lift. “It is improper, is all. A maid shouldn’t—And I don’t mean to have you think I’m that sort of man. I am trying to do good by you.”

He sounds so nervous your annoyance falters. Only for a moment.

You pick up the shift and hold it to your chest, then begin toward the bank. Walking still feels like being made to argue with the earth. Each step must be planned, lowered, endured. Too much pressure and the pain flares white-hot. Too little and your knee goes soft. Your feet seem stupidly far away from the rest of you, little traitors sent ahead to ruin your dignity.

You stop beside him. Duncan bows his head even lower, as though your bare ankle might strike him blind.

“Do you dislike women’s bodies?” you ask.

The sound he makes then is very nearly a whine. “Please, m’lady. Spare me. I am only a hedge knight. I am trying—please.”

You huff at him. “Forgive me for tormenting you with some skin.” Then you limp on beneath the willow’s hanging hair.

There, hidden by the long green fall of it, you strip with more temper than grace and lower yourself toward the stream. This is going poorly. Your knight does not seem at all like the men you have watched from the shallows, those shore-men who seize their lovers round the waist and press them down laughing in the dark, bodies gleaming, mouths so sinful your tail once twitched hard enough to stir silt. Duncan behaves as though the sight of you is a trial set by cruel gods.

At least there is water.

The stream receives you kindly, though changed skin and sealed ribs make even kindness strange. You lie back over its cool sheet and drift where it is deep enough to hold you, looking up through the willow leaves as they sieve the last gold from the sky. The current slips beneath your new body, uncertain around the parts it no longer knows, and you let it carry what little of you it still can.

Duncan remains crouched over the scattered firewood long after you limp beneath the tree, ears burning as though someone has boxed them both. The stream talks quietly behind him. The horses crop at the grass.

He has no answer for what has just happened. None he likes, anyway.

You are strange. Stranger than any girl he has known, though known is too large a word for the few girls that ever had cause to look twice at him. Your face is strange too, in how open it is. He has not seen one so plain and easy to read since he was a boy looking down into still puddles and finding his own there. He can tell when you are baffled. When you are tired. When you are pleased. When you are angry.

Now you are angry. Likely under the willow still wearing that fierce little frown, cross with him because he turned his eyes away. That is the oddest part. Most maids, he thinks, would be angry with a man for gaping. You seem wounded that he did not gape longer.

He did gape. Only a heartbeat, maybe, before sense struck him like a thrown stone, but a heartbeat can be a mean long while when a girl stands bare in afternoon light. He saw the lift of your breasts before your arms came up, full where the borrowed shift had hidden them, and prickling with river-cool air. He saw the narrow give of your belly, the line where ribs fell into waist, the dark crease of shadow beneath. Enough. More than enough. Too much for a man meant to be gathering sticks and doing honourable things with his hands.

You asked how your flesh was different from his. The terrible thing is he would only need to stand up to show you.

That thought near makes him groan aloud. He jams another stick into the small pit he has scraped clear with his boot and starts arranging kindling with far more care than kindling deserves. Fire. Food. Horses. Bedroll. Those are proper troubles. Those can be solved with hands and a bit of sense.

The bedroll is the worst of them. Four nights to Riverrun. A purse too light for inns unless he means to arrive there hungry and horseless. He pokes at the kindling and gives himself over to a hard, practical anguish.

When the fire catches, he goes to see to the horses. Sweetfoot accepts his hand with her usual calm. Chestnut, traitor that she is, blows warm air straight into his face and tosses her head toward the willow.

“Oh, have you a new favourite?” Duncan mutters. Chestnut chews at nothing, looking pleased with herself. “Aye. Good. All of you against me, then.”

He returns to the fire with what food he has: one mangy rabbit still fit for roasting, a clutch of withered potatoes that have begun trying to become more potatoes, and bread gone hard enough to argue with a knife. He has had worse meals. Many worse. Still, he finds himself worrying whether it will be enough for a tender-mouthed creature like you, whether you are used to finer things, softer things, things served by hands that have never been black with battlefield mud.

The whole day sits oddly in his skull. Morning had found him still full of war. Blood from the day before. The sour stink of men opened for no good reason. Boys felled in the grass with their eyes gone milky and their mothers’ names drying on their tongues. He had been angry then, in a slow thick way, at killing and lords and banners and all the great heavy wheels that roll over little bodies until no one can tell what shape they had.

Then he found you by the stream, naked, half-wild with fear, concussed or close enough, begging him without quite begging to take you with him. Now you are angry because he would not stand there and leer at your tits.

Duncan understands horses better than people. Dogs too. Even mules, ugly-hearted beasts though they can be. A horse gives warning before it kicks. A dog shows teeth before it bites. People smile, weep, lie, ask strange questions, go hurt in places a man cannot see. You escape even the small customs he has managed to learn.

He lifts his eyes from the rabbit just as the wind moves the willow’s hanging hair aside. Through the green gaps, he sees you.

You are floating on your back where the stream broadens under the tree, arms spread loose on either side, legs moving slowly beneath the skin of the water. The last light scatters over you in pieces. A knee and a hip. The small rise of your belly. Water darkens and brightens as it crosses you, breaking your shape and making it whole again. Your hair fans out around your head. Your eyes are closed, mouth parted, and the stream slips between your lips as though you have invited it.

Duncan ought to look away, but the boy he is, he doesn't.

There is enough of you on display to shame a septa dead in her robes. Breasts, thighs, the place between them blurred and shown by water in turns. Yet your face holds him worst. The peace of it, the ease of it. Stripped of cloth and terror and all the hard rules that seem to trouble you, you look newly made and older than the earth together. Not human, he thinks. Then he feels wicked for it, because you are a girl, and hurt, and under his protection.

Still, you look like one of those goddesses men carved in old stones before the Seven came, the kind Duncan knows nothing about except that a wiser man would kneel or run. You look pleased to have the world off your skin. No wonder you shed clothing like a snare.

The willow falls back into place. Green covers you again. Duncan looks down at the rabbit, jaw tight, and turns it over the flame before it can make it to coal. He scolds himself too, keeps muttering Ser Arlan's little knightly preachings to tear his mind away from what boys think about, and back to what sworn swords should think about.

The stream sloshes and plops with the sound of a body being dragged out of it. There, Dunk wonders what exactly to do, because he knows well enough you are no good at walking yet, but finds himself in the grip of a strange preference. He would rather let the stumble happen and rush to help than prevent it outright, if prevention means enduring another comparison of flesh.

Soon enough, he catches you limping from the corner of his eye to the heart of his vision. You come to sit beside him much too close for his peace. The cold of the river comes off you plainly, running against the heat of his shoulder where yours nearly touches. Damp has darkened your hair and set loose drops along your neck. Before he can shift away without making it an insult, you arrange yourself with great importance and announce, “There. Modest.”

Dunk looks. Stupidly, but he does. He has never known cloth to be a thing worthy of praise. Cloth is only cloth. A courtesy. A barrier. A way for decent folk to go about the world without setting fire to one another’s ears. Yet in his want to tell you that you have done well, he stabs his own foot clean through.

The linen has clung to you everywhere it ought to have had the manners to hang loose. Breast, belly, the small inward draw of your waist—all made plainer by water and the thinness of the shift. The blanket lies in a heap too near the fire, abandoned as though wool has somehow offended you.

He holds the lump in his throat from becoming a sound. Then he reaches for the blanket, shakes the worst of the grass from it, and puts it over your shoulders with as much solemn care as if he were robing a queen. He draws it close beneath your throat and tucks one edge over the other.

“You’ve not dried yourself off,” he says. “Cold, aren’t ye?”

You look at him for a moment. Then, there's a nod, and, thank the Seven, your hands take over the keeping of the blanket at your breastbone. The lump in Dunk's throat loosens.

He busies himself with the food. The rabbit has given what it can to the pot, which is less than a rabbit ought to give and more than nothing. The potatoes have softened. The bread will have to be chewed with conviction. He ladles the thin pottage into one of his wooden bowls and passes it to you.

You take it in both hands and eye it with open suspicion. “What is this?”

“Supper,” he says.

You smell it.

“It ain’t much,” Dunk goes on, because the look on your face begins to trouble him. “Only rabbit and some potatoes, and the bread’s gone hard. Still, you ought to eat. There’s a day on the road ahead, and you’ve had naught in you since—” He stops, because he does not know since when. “A while, I’d wager.”

He expects disappointment, perhaps. Revulsion, if you are some lord’s daughter after all, though what lord’s daughter finds herself naked and half-drowned by a stream is beyond him.

Instead, you look bewildered. “You made this?”

Dunk blinks. “A-aye, m’lady.”

You dip your fingers in before he can offer a spoon. The first bite goes into your mouth carefully, as though supper may have sharp bits within it. Then your face changes.

It is a small thing, merely a lifting of brows and mouth pausing round the taste. Then you take another bit, and another, hotter than is wise, huffing through it and laughing once under your breath as though the whole notion of cooked rabbit has played some clever trick on you. Grease shines at the corner of your mouth. You lick it away with no shame at all.

“This is good,” you say, and sound surprised by your own gladness. “This is very good.”

Dunk is bewildered. It is one kind of cruelty to tease him and huff at him for trying his best at decency and failing, another to make a jest out of him and his hedge-ridden status. He looks down into his own bowl.

“Must you mock me?”

You stop chewing at once. The mouthful is too large to swallow cleanly, but you do it anyway and wince as it goes down. “Mock you?” you ask. “Why would I?”

“It’s only rabbit,” he mutters. “And mangled potatoes. You needn’t make a show of it.”

The hurt that comes into your face lands in him badly.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” you say. “Forgive me. I only meant—I would not be able to make this.” A pause. “Or start a fire, for that matter.”

Dunk lifts his head. “You do not know how to start a fire?”

You look at him a moment too long, then back into the bowl. “I’ve never needed it.”

That answer is another strange stone set on the growing pile of you. He gives a low hum and scrapes at his own supper with the spoon. “Well,” he says after a moment, rough with regret. “I beg your pardon, then. If you truly enjoy it, I am glad.”

Your eyes lift. “I do. Truly.”

Knowing it is true does something worse than the praise did. It catches him off guard and warms him under the breastbone, soft and dangerous. He leans back on one hand, taking you in. Half-smile, bare feet peeking from beneath the blanket, bowl clutched as though it contains some small wonder.

“So,” he says, because his mouth is safer when it is trying to crack an unresolvable riddle, “you’re a lady who cannot cook, cannot start a fire, and despises garments and shoes, but has some queer prescience when it comes to finding a body of water. Hm?”

Silence only, then a wide-eyed glance.

“Peculiar,” Dunk says.

“I do not understand why men wear so much cloth anyway,” you say, picking at the blanket where it sits under your chin. “What is peculiar is to have skin so feeble—”

There, your voice dies. Dunk has gone very still with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Men?” he says.

You blink.

“You are people too,” he says, after a beat.

The words are gentle enough, but they come with a puzzled furrow between his brows, as though he is trying to set you in the proper place and cannot find the shelf. He takes another mouthful and chews it slowly. “Have you worn lighter cloth before, then? Before… all this?”

Before the stream, he means. Before the mud. Before the village woman and the borrowed gown. Before whatever thing he has decided happened to you.

Your fingers tighten round the bowl. “Lighter, yes.”

“How light?”

You give him a careful look.

Dunk seems to understand his mistake before you answer. Red returns to his ears with comic speed. “Never mind. You needn’t— That was no question to ask a maid.”

You consider him. “Do you not often see women naked?”

He chokes. It is only a little choke, but enough to make him turn his face and thump one fist against his chest. “Gods,” he says when he has breath again. “M’lady.”

“I am only asking.”

“Aye, well. Some questions ought to be asked with more care.”

“Why?”

“Because they—” He looks at you, then away, then helplessly down to his lap. “Because they put thoughts in a man’s head.”

“What thoughts?”

His mouth opens. Shuts. You lean closer, interested so plainly Dunk near suffocates on air that suddenly feels chewable in his mouth. “Do women’s bodies trouble all men so badly, or only hedge knights?” you ask.

He makes the suffering sound again. Quieter this time, but telling all the same. “I've seen women,” he says, with the grave misery of a fool walking barefoot over hot coals. “Some. A few. In bathhouses, once or twice by mistake. On the road, folk are not always private as they ought be. And, uh—” He clears his throat so hard it sounds painful. “And in places where women are paid to be looked at.”

You stare. “Paid?”

“Aye.”

“To be looked at?”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?”

Dunk puts his bowl down. You wait. He looks into the fire as if the flames might take pity on him and leap high enough to swallow his face. “Things between men and women.”

“What things?”

“Married things,” he says, too quickly.

“Only married people do them?”

His eyes close briefly. “No.”

“Then why call them married things?”

“Because I am trying to keep this talk decent,” Dunk huffs.

You frown into your supper. “Have you done them?” you ask.

It is such a rude and forthright question it strikes bone in him, though somehow it does not quite offend. His face pulls tight. The flush burns hotter, but something under it draws inward, shy and sore and young.

“N-no,” Duncan says, small.

You lean closer, as if trying to match him in secrecy lest his horses suddenly recognise human tongue. “Never?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “I’ve had no wife.”

“But you said folk do these things without wives.”

“Aye, some do.” He groans then, low and exasperated, dragging one hand over his mouth. “Gods.”

“But you do not.”

“No.”

“Why?”

His thumb moves over the rim of his bowl. There is dirt under the nail, a split at the knuckle, the hand of a man who knows fire and reins and sword-hilts and very little of where to put himself when a girl asks him plain questions in the dusk.

“Seemed wrong, most times,” he says. “Or costly. Or I was too young. Or too big and stupid and slow to know what was wanted till the chance had gone.”

He goes quiet after that, hoping it is enough of a confession to satisfy you. Another part of him wonders what business he has entertaining the whim at all. A puzzle of a girl you are, that is for certain. Strange in your questions, in your frowns, in the careless tilt of your head when you hear a thing you cannot place.

Then a thought comes on him, tender and stupid enough to shame him: is this another chance he cannot recognise while it is being given? He lifts his face to check yours for some sign of what he imagines a lustful glance might be, though he has no real notion what he expects to find there. Heat? Mischief? Some womanly knowledge he would know when he saw it? Before he can make any proper fool’s study of you, you ask another question.

“Do you like kissing?”

You might as well have picked up a knife by the blade. “I—” His throat works. “I suppose I might.”

“You suppose?”

He breathes heavy. His skin surely can’t get any hotter, so he answers, “I have kissed.”

Your eyes brighten at that, keen enough to make him regret the disclosure at once. “How many times?”

Duncan laughs then, though there is little mirth in it. Nerves, mayhaps. Or the pure severity of you sitting there with rabbit grease on your mouth, asking after his kisses as if counting apples in a basket. He has admitted to being green and now sounds greener still. “Seven save me,” he whines.

“How many?”

“Enough to know a man should not count in front of a lady.”

“Was it good?”

The fire pops. Somewhere behind the pair of you one of the horses tears grass with its teeth. Dunk sits in deepening blushing silence.

You eat another bite. Hum, as if the flavours have managed to marry into something more delicious during the interrogation. “At the shore,” you say then, “men kiss women as if they are hungry.”

Dunk’s gaze snaps to you.

“I have seen it,” you add. “They hold them by the waist and put them down in the grass. Sometimes the women laugh. Sometimes they make sounds as if they are being bitten, but they keep their hands in the men’s hair, so I think they must like it.”

Duncan feels himself go past blushing into something worse. Stricken, feverish, and too aware of the place where his belly has kicked tight under your words. He cannot have you thinking him that sort of knight. Cannot sit here in the dark with you speaking of women pressed into grass and let his mind go where it has already begun to go.

“M’lady,” he says, and hears the plea in it himself. “I think we ought to try and get some sleep.”

“It is barely dark,” you say.

“It will be darker soon.”

“That happens whether we sleep or not.”

“Aye,” he says faintly. “So it does.”

You lick a bit of grease from your thumb. His eyes move there and away so fast he prays you miss it. “Do you want more supper?” he asks.

You smile into your bowl. “You are changing the subject.”

He smiles back, weakly. Hopes there is enough begging in it, though judging by your curiosity about every cursed thing under the moon, falling to his knees would only give you more to ask about. “I am… trying to save my soul.”

Your laugh comes out small and surprised, and it spills warm through his chest in a way that has no business being so pleasant.

“Eat,” he says. “Then sleep. There will be more road on the morrow, and you already hate the road.”

“I hate the shoes more,” you tell him.

“Aye. I had gathered.”

“And the stockings.”

“A terrible foe,” Dunk says, standing up.

“And the laces.”

“Cruel little beasts.”

You glance at him, something sharp and pleased on you. It is very difficult to keep thoughts from his head, foul thoughts, when you look like this. His heart softens a notch while the other parts of him harden, and before he is forced back to sitting, Dunk turns and tells you, “I’ll water the horses and prepare the bedroll for us.”

He does so. You follow him soon after, quiet-footed for once, and stop to eye the splay of oilcloth and old wool on the ground as if it is another human custom laid out for judgment.

Dunk clears his throat. “You should lie down. You’ve had a long day.”

That much, at least, you obey. You lower yourself carefully, one knee bending wrong at first, then righting with a frown that makes him look away before fondness can show too plainly on his face. He waits until you are settled, then pulls the blanket up over you and tucks it in at your shoulder. Only a little. Only enough to keep the night air off. His hand stills there for half a heartbeat before he draws it back.

Then he turns, draws his sword, and lays it down between the two sides of the bedroll.

It makes a good enough line. Honest steel. Cold steel. A better man than he is, perhaps, lying straight-backed where honour ought to be.

You watch him do it, and Dunk pretends not to notice.

Getting himself down beside you is less graceful than he would like. He lowers carefully, trying to favour the slash in his side, but the wound pulls anyway and a wince catches him regardless. He settles on his back at last with a breath through his teeth, one arm tucked behind his head, his body held a proper distance from the blade.

For a while there is only the fire. The horses. The soft working of water under the willow. But, of course, you must ask. “What is the sword for?”

Dunk shuts his eyes and opens them again. “For sleeping.”

You turn your face toward him. He can feel it without looking. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, m’lady. It is only—” He searches for the words and finds only poor ones. “It is a boundary, like. For your honour.”

“My honour?”

“Aye.”

“Does it need steel?”

Dunk rubs a hand over his brow. “Mayhaps mine does.”

That comes out wrong enough to make him go still. He tries again before you can catch hold of it.

“I mean, it is proper. A man and a maid should not lie close without vows between them. Or kinship. Or—” He thinks of hedge knights, camp followers, drunk squires, road wives, all the world as it is rather than as septons pretend it to be. “Or some understanding.”

You hum. It is only a small sound, but it slips soft through the dark and goes straight into his groin. Pretty. Gods help him, even that is pretty. Your voice has no need of song to work on a man.

Dunk fixes his eyes on the sky. “I do not wish you to think ill of me,” he says, lower. “That is all.”

Another stretch of quiet. The fire clicks and collapses inward on itself.

“Do husbands and wives sleep like this too?”

Dunk's lids squeeze shut so hard they hurt.

He ought to answer. He knows he ought. It is a simple question, mayhaps, though no question of yours has proved simple yet. But he has no answer fit to give without inviting ten more behind it, each worse than the last. His side aches. His head aches. His body is a foe beside a sword that suddenly seems no wider than a blade of grass.

So Dunk lies very still and does his worst pretending to be asleep. After a moment, you hum again, as if you know perfectly well he is awake and have decided to let him keep the lie.

[dmbakura]

trish, cavaliere angelo edition

[captainfern]

thinking about taking care of dunk after he’s injured… if you know what i mean…

18+ (smut, praise for dunk, riding)

he sits stiffly against the tree, bare chest shuddering with laboured breaths as your hands ghost across the tender skin of his face. your fingers, soft and warm, brush the deep purple bruise around his eye and the one blooming like a magnolia on his cheek.

his muscles are rigid, jaw working as you apply the earthy-smelling salve to the wounds on his face. he lets out a pained hiss when your thumb swipes a glob of the creamy white balm across a gash above his eyebrow.

you cradle the side of his face, cooing gently as you finish applying the salve. your lean in and plant a gentle kiss to his forehead as he sighs out your name, another shudder racking through him. the muscles in his shoulders and arms shift as his hands grip your hips; vice-like despite his obvious fatigue and the pain that riddles him.

“easy, sweet boy, nice and slow,” you whisper, your free hand roaming down his chest to palm the fat of his pectoral muscles. your thumb swipes over a nipple and he sucks in a breath. you hum a chuckle as you raise your hips, lifting yourself off his length, your pussy pulling tight around the tip. “m’trying to make you feel better, so just take it nice and slow, okay?”

dunk nods, the movement rigid. you smile as his eyes droop, and you lean in to press another kiss to his jawline as you gently sink back down. your pussy splits open around him, the wet clutch of your walls sucking him back in as you lower yourself into his lap. your thighs tense where you straddle him, and you move your hand from his face to the side of his neck, holding for stability.

dunk groans when your fingers brush the nape of his neck, and he angles his face so you can plant another kiss to the underside of his jaw. you kiss a small bruise, and he exhales through his nose, his eyes shut.

“feels good,” he whispers, hands like steel weights on your hips. you take all of him, cunt clenching tight when you bottom out. he groans softly, hoarse and gravel-strewn from the back of his throat. “oh, gods above…”

you ring your hips in a circle. one time, then two, grinding your swollen clit against the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. there’s a reddened bruise beneath his navel, just adjacent to the trail of hair that leads down from it. you bring your hand down his pectorals, over the soft muscle of his belly until you can run your fingertips across the bruise.

dunk grumbles, but says nothing. his head leans back against the tree trunk, woods serene around him, as he guides you in grinding yourself on his cock. you lift your hips while you pet his bruise, slowly sinking back down as you gently massage the skin around it.

“my poor dunk,” you utter, the thick stretch of his cock making you a little breathless around the vowels. you whimper when the fat head nudges that perfect spot inside you, but you swallow the moan of his name that threatens to escape as you bring yourself up and down. “my poor, sweet dunk. always getting into trouble.”

“s’not trouble…” dunk mutters, mouth falling open as he grunts into the still air. his cock twitches inside you as you take him over and over, the silken walls of your pussy sliding against him—wet and warm and perfect. dunk continues, panting. “i will always defend the innocent. that is my duty.”

“i know,” you say, hand finding his chest again. you place a hand over his wildly beating heart as you lean in for another kiss. before your lips meet his though, you smile. “my big, strong boy. you’re such a good knight, aren’t you? my brave, brave boy.”

you kiss dunk then, slotting your mouth to his just as he groans at the heat in your words. he groans again when your tongue swipes across his lips, and he picks his head off the tree to get a better angle and kiss you better. heat pools low in your belly when your tongues meet, and you taste the bittersweet remnants of your homemade pain relief in the grooves of his teeth.

you lift and lower your hips, grinding on the downstroke. his cock stretches you open, your arse landing softly on the mass of his thighs, which your pussy drips onto as you take him all.

“you’re such a good boy,” you tell him, pulling out of the kiss. he licks his lips, eyelids low and pupils wide. beneath the bruising and blood, a lurid blush glows high on his cheeks as he shudders, sweat building on his brow. you coo at him softly, coaxing him towards his looming orgasm. “and does my good boy want to come?”

dunk trembles, groaning from deep in his chest. it’s your name, strewn across the pained sound with great effort, but it makes your clit swell with your heartbeat and your pussy clench tight around the thick of him. you hold onto the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself as you pick up the pace, ensuring your movements are still as gentle as possible.

mumbling something, the large man pitches a little off the tree to bury his face into the crook of your neck. he’s burning hot against you, and you feel his lips suckling on the supple skin as his hips offer up a few pathetic jerks as you take him all the way to the root. dunk’s body shakes against you, and your hand shifts to the back of his head to cradle him, threading your fingers through his hair and petting his scalp.

he spills then, his cock deep against the plug of your cervix and spreading your pussy apart as she drools around him. the noise from his throat is pained, desperate, strung across a whine as he releases inside you, seed filling you hot as you meet his orgasm with a grinding of your hips. he whimpers your name around another groan, face buried deep in your neck, as you set yourself a gruelling pace.

“ah-ha, ha, f-fuck, oh my gods,” dunk rambles, whiny around the edges as you lift then drop, lift then drop, until your knees threaten to buckle and you settle yourself into a deep grind instead. dunk gasps out when your body goes taut beneath his hold and your cunt tightens around him. “yes, yes, please—”

“dunk,” you moan as your orgasm consumes you from the inside out, your entire body shaking as you hold him to you. the tension in your lower belly quickly dissipates as your pussy pulls tight and you cream around his cock. you hold yourself upright, careful not to collapse into his aching arms. “so good, dunk… yeah, you did so well.”

he detaches himself from your neck and slides his mouth to yours, licking over your bottom teeth and groaning loudly when your tongues meet. your hand finds his face once more and you hold him tenderly as you kiss, your thumb stroking over the bruise on his cheekbone as if your touch alone could fix him.

to dunk, it really did feel that way.

[fiveshotsofjager]

[t-e-e-n-a]

Hope everyone had a pleasant Devil MAY Cry...

[ladythedrunken]

Ser Duncan the Tall P!Links

Nsfw obvy

Taking you like this under a tree

Loves having his mouth full when you're on top

He is big and HUNGRY

Taking you against a wall while egg is out

Taking his stress out

Dunk being needy

[louloucake]

inner desires ₊⊹⟢

ser duncan the tall x runaway!princess!reader

-18+, you and dunk encounter sex pollen unknowingly!, aphrodisiac/pollen-induced arousal, size kink, some breeding undertones, creampie!!!, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, spit play!! ᥫ᭡

the wood was alive with the scent of the lover’s bloom, those delicate, violet flowers that bloomed only under the light of the moon. it was a scent meant to drive the fiercest lion mad with desire.

and now you were burning up. not from a fever, but from something far more primal.

"ser duncan," you whined, your voice small and breathless. you kicked at the furs, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that made the coarse fabric of your dress stick to you. "it is suddenly far too hot to sleep…"

dunk sat on the other side of the fire, his massive frame tense. he was staring at you with eyes so dark they looked like pools of molten iron. he was trying to be a good knight. he was trying to keep his distance, to protect you from the dangers of strange men and evils of the woods. but the air between you was thick, electric, charged with the scent of your arousal mixed with the intoxicating perfume of the flowers.

he hadn’t known, truly. if he had, he would have never suggested resting here. but it was now far too late, and before he could understand what was happening, he too felt his own body temperature rise with a pulse throbbing in his breeches.

"m’princess," he rasped, his voice gravelly and deep. "you must attempt to rest, we have a long road ahead in the morrow."

"i can't sleep," you said, rolling onto your side to face him fully. you could feel the heat radiating from your body, the fire and his own body a solid wall of comfort. "it's too hot, ser duncan. i need..."

"water?" he offered, reaching for his canteen.

"no," you whimpered, the word barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

you pushed yourself up from the furs, your legs trembling slightly. you walked toward him, your eyes fixed on the massive figure sitting by the embers. the ground seemed to stretch endlessly beneath your bare feet.

you needed him. you needed the feeling of his skin, the strength of his arms, the way he looked at you like you were the only star in the sky.

dunk watched you approach, his jaw tightening so hard you could see the muscle working beneath the skin. he shifted, his boots scraping restlessly on the dirt, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, as if he were fighting an internal battle.

"you are burning, m’lady," he rasped, his voice rougher than before. the air around him was thick with the scent of musk and wildflowers. he couldn't hide it anymore. he was sweating, his tunic damp at the collar. "the bloom...it is in the air. it is making you feverish."

"i cannot feel my own face i am so flushed," you breathed, stopping right in front of him. you reached out, your fingers brushing the hard line of his chest through his shirt. the contact sent a jolt of electricity through both of you. "i am...i am so empty, dunk."

his eyes snapped down to your hand, then back up to your face. the restraint he had been clinging to for days- the chaste knight, the guardian, the protector- shattered. he let out a ragged exhale, his hand flying up to cover yours, his grip desperate and trembling.

"gods," he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest.

you took his massive hand- palm rough with calluses, fingers long and capable- and guided it to your waist. you ran it down your side, over your hip, and pressed it flat against your stomach.

dunk froze. his eyes widened as he felt the heat of your skin through your thin shift. he looked up at you, his adam's apple bobbing.

"you want me to touch you?"

"yes," you cried out, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. the pollen was making everything hypersensitive, every touch a spark of lightning. "please, ser duncan. dunk…"

he didn't hesitate this time. his hand, rough and calloused, moved from your waist to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin like he was memorizing the sensation.

he moved his hand down your neck, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch reverent and worshipful.

he watched as you shivered under his touch, the firelight dancing across your skin. you reached up, your fingers fumbling with the ties of your bodice, and slowly, agonizingly, began to undress.

dunk watched you with rapt attention, his mouth slightly open, his chest heaving. the sight of you, exposed to the cool night air, made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. when the shift fell away, pooling at your waist, he let out a low, guttural sound.

"by the seven," he whispered, his hand moving to cup your breast, his fingers tracing the sensitive peak. "you are breathtaking."

you reached for him, your hands shaking as you pushed at his tunic. he sat back slightly, allowing you to pull the fabric over his head, tossing it aside. the air hit his skin, and he was revealed to you- broad, muscular, scarred, and magnificent. he looked like a warrior forged in the fires of battle, a god made flesh.

"you are so beautiful," you murmured, your hands tracing the hard lines of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.

he smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his rough features. he reached out, his hands gripping your waist, and lifted you easily, settling you on his lap. the contact was electric, your skin sticking to his in the night air.

he pulled you close, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent—the scent of sweat and pollen and you. he kissed you then, slowly and reverently.

it was a deep, soul-searching exploration. his lips moved against yours, slow and tender, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, tasting you, claiming you.

"you taste like honey," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. "i am a brute for wanting you like this. i am a heathen for thinking of you in my bed."

“you are a man, a sweet- gentle man and i do not fear you, dunk.” you whispered in his ear, pressing kisses to the skin below his earlobe.

his hands roamed your body, his fingers mapping every inch of your skin, his touch both gentle and demanding. he kissed you again, deeper, harder, his tongue tangling with yours. he pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with lust, looking down at you with an intensity that took your breath away.

"please, ser duncan. i need you to make me feel something other than this heat," you cried out, arching against him.

"tell me you want this," he growled against your lips, his huge hand squeezing your breast softly. "tell me you want your knight to take you."

"yes," you sobbed, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "yes, dunk. take me. make me yours."

he lifted you slightly, pulling his burning hot, leaking cock out of his breeches and slowly guiding himself to your entrance.

you were both radiating so much body heat that even your pussy was like an oven. he guided his tip past your tiny stretched hole, and it was searing warm inside you. slowly, agonizingly, he sank into you. you gasped, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders. he was huge, filling you completely, stretching you to your limits.

"gods above forgive me," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. "you're so tight. you're squeezing me so hard."

“it's because you are s-so huge, dunk. i always wondered if you’d fit!” you mewl, fingers gripping the sweaty hair at the base of his neck.

he began to move, his hips rocking against yours, slow and sensual. he watched you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your face, the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back. he wanted to map every curve, every sigh, every trembling breath.

"look at me," he commanded softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. his hands, slick with sweat, gripped your waist, holding you steady as he drove himself deeper, harder. “p-please look at me, sweet girl.”

his eyes dark and unfocused, drinking in the sight of your face flushed with heat. he shifted his angle, his hips angling downward to strike that spot that made you gasp and arch your back. your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.

"you are squeezing me so tight. it feels...it feels like i am drowning in you," he hissed, the sound strangled.

the heat was overwhelming. you were slick with sweat, your bodies sliding against each other with a wet, obscene sound. he watched you, his eyes hooded and heavy with lust, as he thrust into you, slow and deep, over and over again.

in your haze you reach for one of his hands to then guide him down to find your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, tight circles.

"there?" dunk murmurs quietly, his voice a ragged rasp as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his dark gaze searching yours for approval, for permission to continue.

"a bit- bit faster please-" you whine out, your voice trembling with need.

his hips snap up with sudden, brutal force and his fingers move faster against your sensitive bundle of nerves, a blur of motion that has you seeing stars.

you cry out his name, a broken, desperate sound. "dunk! oh dunk!"

"say it," he growls, his voice thick with need, his eyes dark and unfocused, burning with a possessive fire. "say you want me. say you are mine."

"i am yours," you sobbed. “i am yours, dunk. please, don't stop."

he leans down, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips, his breathing heavy and ragged, his chest heaving against yours. "you are so good for me. m’good girl. m’princess. you take me so so so well."

then, the wave hits. he works your clit furiously, his thumb and fingers rubbing in tight, desperate circles, feeling the way you clench around him. you scream as you come undone, a rush of wet heat clamping down around him, your body spasming in his arms.

as you ride out your high, he pulls back slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow. he looks at his hand, sticky with your juices, and then spits into his palm, mixing it with your essence to create a slicker, messier glide.

"hold on," he grunts, his voice thick with lust. he resumes the assault on your clit, using the spit to make it even better, his fingers slippery and warm. "i'm not done with you yet. you're going to take everything i have."

he thrusts again, harder this time, chasing his own release, his body aching with the need to fill you completely.

he kissed you again, a searing, desperate clash of lips and tongues, swallowing your moans. he couldn't hold back anymore. the pollen was too strong, the heat too high. with a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking up as he spilled himself inside you, filling you with his hot, thick seed.

he held himself there, his chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapped tight around you, as he rode out the waves of his pleasure. you could feel him throbbing inside you, pulsing with life, marking you as his own.

he pulled back slightly, looking down at where you were joined, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of his seed mixing with your own juices. he reached down, his thumb brushing through the mess, spreading it around.

he watched your face, his thumb pressing firmly against your clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles.

“d’you feel any better, m’lady?” he murmured, his voice a dark, husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "do you need more, sweet girl?…i vowed to serve you in every way, every life."

he didn't let you rest. the pollen was still humming in your blood, a relentless tide. his thumb still on your swollen nub, slick and warm, and he began to rub in tight, vicious circles.

“c’mon- c’mon m’love. one more, squeeze down one more time.”

the sensation was overwhelming, a second wave crashing over you before you were even ready.

you screamed. the pleasure was too much, too sharp, too bright. your body seized, your hips bucking uncontrollably as the second orgasm ripped through you, even stronger than the first. you saw white, your vision blurring as the world spun.

your eyes fluttered shut, your body going limp in his arms. the heat of the pollen, the exertion, and the sheer force of your pleasure overwhelmed you. darkness claimed you, and you slipped into a deep, exhausted slumber.

dunk kissed your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin. he gathered you into his arms, his strength unwavering.

he stood up, carrying you back to your makeshift tent and sleeping ground. the cold night air bit at his skin, but he didn't care. he walked with a steady, confident gait, the protector, the lover, the man who had claimed his runaway princess.

he laid you gently on the linens covering the grass, pulling the blanket up over your body. he slowly sat beside you, listening to your breathing slow down.

"you're safe now," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “my princess…”

[whyamihere666]

Fetch me a stool…or perhaps a ladder

sub!dunk x fem!prostitute reader

18+ MDNI!!

Summary: Ser Arlan takes Dunk to a brothel for the first time, insisting it’s where he’ll truly find manhood. When he falls into readers service, she decides to teach him what it means to be good

Warnings: sub!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, use of sweet/good boy, prostitution/brothel work (obviously), handjobs, oral (m!receiving), riding, begging, gentle!dom reader, fem reader, fem anatomy, typical GOT/medieval misogyny

WC: 4.5k

note: not proofread- also, sorry if this is an inaccurate depiction of a medieval brothel, idk I wasn’t there LMAO- Also, im sorry the spacing is so weird, it turned into a huge pain in the ass so I hope it’s not too weird, thx!!

“You‘ve the body of a man, but not the spine of one, aye? Bit of stubble doesn‘t make you grown.“ Ser Arlan barked into the night air, Duncan in tow. Despite his squire being the age of twenty and…something, Ser Arlan insisted he had yet to be a man. Pretty adamant on the matter, actually. Perhaps it was because he still looked upon the same hunger-ravaged lad Duncan had once been. Or maybe the youthful glimmer that lingered in his gaze. 

Regardless, Duncan was at his wit‘s end. After being berated with phrases like, you‘ve a man‘s height and a child‘s wits or, you‘re green as spring wheat and twice as foolish, what Ser Arlan deemed manhood was a riddle so thorned, not even the wisest minds could make sense of it. 

Beneath the weeping heavens, they journeyed side by side. One wandering, one bound with purpose. They marched beneath the moonless rain as one debated in the chamber of his thoughts, where the seven hells are we going? And the other debated if he‘d spend his coin on a ginger or a blonde. 

“Well now, this is where the realm stops coddlin‘ ya. Where men are forged.“ Ser Arlan remarks the brothel before them as though it was a gilded throne, eager for him to warm it. As the matter became plain to Duncan, he found himself stricken with unease. His nerves twist, restless with dread. He had been riddled with quiet torment as his eyes widened at the shelter ahead. Never had Duncan wielded a honeyed tongue nor the gleaming riches that women tended to favor. Still, coin in this establishment could succeed where his words failed. If he had any coin…  

“Ser we- I mean no disrespect but, I‘m uncertain we can afford such…service.“ Verily, Duncan was ignorant of how heavy the coin purse was. But, it‘d make a fine plea to wait outside with the horses. 

“Nonsense, boy, I‘ll buy myself the lowliest of the lot. You can spend the rest on a decent lady. The grimy ones are sold cheapest, and I‘d not shame ye with ‘em.“

To Ser Arlan, that phrase was even more endearing than “I love you“.  

A restless quiver stirred in Duncan‘s blood as he envisioned his own hand offering the coin. The notion sickened him, striking foully against the image he had long held of himself. It defied every principle, every virtue and every moral he had. Regardless of the coiling dread in his stomach, he was highly aware of the inevitability of it all. Duncan opened his mouth in protest then closed it, in hopes to find wiser words on his tongue. He had never laid with a woman before. And he didn‘t wish to humiliate himself before someone who does it for coin.

Without so much as another murmur, Ser Arlan advanced upon the entrance and strode toward the brightly lit dwelling. Well, it appeared bright amidst the veil of impossible nightfall. With unwilling feet did Duncan stagger after, his heart beset by mounting fear as the haze upon his mind faded.

His senses gained clarity. Beneath the shroud of eveningtide there stood the house as he approached. A house of ill renown and impropriety. Yet, it was garbed in such splendor that even a septon’s eye might linger upon it. The timbered walls were painted a deep crimson and wine-dark velvet hues, whilst lanterns of amber glass hung from iron hooks. It casted honeyed light upon the rain slick cobbles below. Silken banners stirred languidly from the upper balconies, and from within came the muffled strains of girlish squeals, soft laughter and the clink of silver goblets. 

Before Duncan knew what was hell and what was his reality, Ser Arlan pushed the heavy oaken door, amplifying every sight and sound from outside. The ceilings were draped with silk, sheer as a maiden‘s sigh. The gold thread glimmered like the eyes of the temptresses watching from their alcoves. Sweet perfumes of myrrh, rose and spiced wine wafted through the chill night air, entwining themselves with all who enter.  

The madame of the house was quick to greet the pair of them, yet she couldn‘t help to think it odd a father brings his son to such a place. 

“Cheapest you have.“ Ser Arlan grunts, placing coin in the madame‘s palm. Before Duncan could ask how much he ought to spend, he has nowhere to be seen, already escorted to the ‘cheapest accomodation‘. 

“I- sorry, M‘lady, I‘m new to these…dealings. What‘s the fee? And- where do I head?“ 

The madame was a mere stranger to men of gentle make and virtuous heart. At once she perceived what should be amended in him, and where he must be sent. Duncan handed her the appropriate coin with a trembling, clammy palm. The woman takes it as though it‘s life blood, nodding vaguely down the hall.   

“Eighth door to your right. Don‘t stray.“ Duncan nodded at her gruff words as though they were orders in battle. With a gulp, he began his death procession down the narrow hall. His ears were met with a growing symphony of skin against skin and restless pants. With eyes widened like silver platters, he cast his gaze from the gauzy curtains, behind which lurked filth scarcely shielded. 

“Three…four…five…six…“

He counted each curtain as his feet carried him closer to what he thought was his certain demise. After a rushed recounting, he found himself before the eighth curtain to the right. He needed to be certain it was the right one. He didn‘t want to end up with the “lowly lot“ Ser Arlan entertains. Without another moment to lose, he clears his throat, reluctantly ducking through the archway. 

The gruff sound from his throat alerted from where you lounged on your bed, tucked behind the silken canopies that shielded the bed from the rest of the room. Like muscle memory, you adjust the jewelry that sits heavy atop your skin. You then make sure your satin garment, (only worn for the sake of being taken off), sits right. Then came your speech, which also flowed from your lips like you had rehearsed it for years.   

“Right then, shed your breeches and leave your boots by th-“ Your unenthused instructions were interrupted by a sharp hitch of your breath. You finally assessed the man that stood before you, awaiting your service.

 A towering man of broad shoulders and abundant frame, fashioned strong as an oak yet fair upon the eye. His strength sat plainly upon him in the swell of arm and chest, though softened somewhat by a pleasing fullness around his mid section. His countenance was comely and warm, bearing the easy humbleness of a man often admired in tavern and hall alike. Even though Duncan found that far from the truth.

“Seven‘s bones…look at the height on you. I ought to tell someone to fetch me a stool. Or perhaps a ladder.”

You remark as you giggle at your own joke. He nodded politely at your crude comment, at an utter loss for words. Any would fail him if he tried. Still, there he remained, rigid and motionless, as though wit and will alike had abandoned him.

Tense in limb and uncertain in purpose, he obeyed what you instructed prior (only the second step), by removing his boots and leaving them by the threshold.

“You're quite the timid sort aren‘t you? May I have your name, Ser?“ You stood closer, radiant doe-like eyes peering up at him. The sight only made his words feel more scarce on his tongue. He opens and closes his mouth, anticipating sound. How would anything he say compete with your melodic, sing-song voice?

“Dunk…My name is Dunk, M‘lady.“ A flattered beam finds your lips as you blush at his formality. No man had ever addressed you as such. Somedays you were fortunate to even be referred to as “woman“.

“Please, spare me your fine formalities, Dunk, I am no lady. Unless, you have a knack for pretending…“ Your words trailed as he nervously interjected you.

“No, I do not wish to pretend anythin‘, M‘lady. You are a lady, so I‘d like to speak to you as one.“ Dunk managed to nervously choke out, to which you nodded in somewhat understanding. 

You stole a moment to gawk at the kindness he had already shown you, despite being in your room for nearly thirty seconds. As you beheld the man before you, he finally allowed himself to drink you in properly.

 You were fair in visage, (certainly the most beautiful woman he could‘ve bought his time with), radiant in youth. Your beauty was something gentle and natural, neither overworked or vain, but softly striking in its ease. Dunk thought the embodiment of grace had taken a particular liking to your form. Eyes bared bright, attentive life to them, keen as the morning sky. 

“So, Dunk, what would you have of me? Or shall I decide, since you don‘t seem forward sort?“

“Pardon my ignorance, but I am untried in these matters. Not certain what‘s…customary.“

“Well, these sorts of places don‘t demand practice. All the girls know plenty of their trade for the likes of you. So, just tell me what excites you.“

“I suppose I don’t quite know, M’lady.” He curtly replied with a chuckle on his lips. You shrug at his response, having a quiet debate in your head. What were you to do with him?

You hum, beginning to drag your nails and finger tips across his chest, spurring him on. The muscle stiffened beneath the touch, but he seemed to relish the sensation. Still, there was much more to be done.  

The idea took root in your mind, slowly lowering yourself to your knees. He appeared even taller from where you kneeled, and you appeared far smaller in comparison to his stature. Something foreign stirred in the pit of Dunk‘s stomach at the sight. 

A faint, knowing curve of your lips betrayed your feigned innocence, taking delight in his slow undoing. You shifted your attention to the hilt of the long sword that rested at his hip. It was an old iron thing, clearly worn with use and age. Your fist grasped the base of it as your face neared closer to the handle of his sword. 

“Does this excite you, Ser?“ Your sultry voice is followed by the breath stalling in Dunk‘s lungs, faltering as you drag your tongue up the expanse of the hilt. Through half lidded vision, you watch his brows furrow in what appears to be a wounded frustration. The drag of your tongue is met with the old taste of sweat from his palm, the masculine flavour going straight to the throbbing between your thighs. As he watched the lewd act, he couldn‘t help but picture the hilt of his sword as something much more…localized. 

You brought yourself back to standing, your body in closer proximity to his than before. With an audible gulp, his stare conveyed a captivated terror. As though something he had been dreaming for was coming true faster than he could make sense of it. 

“Or perhaps, this?“ You sang, eyes transfixed to where his stare lingered. As you began to fiddle with the clasps of your gown, the fabric bunched at your feet in one fell swoop. Leaving you completely bare before him, aside from the lavish jewelry adorning your form. 

Before he could reply, his rigid cock strained against his breeches as he practically drooled beholding you. You tilted your head in hopes of finding his gaze, but it proved to be futile. His eyes feasted upon the sight of your breasts, mind restless with image. How they‘d feel in his hands, how they‘d feel in his mouth. 

You took his rough hands into your own, guiding them to caress the tender swell of your breasts. The column of his throat bobs as he kneads the flesh in his palms, a muffled groan escaping him. His thumbs run across the pebbled buds of your nipples causing you tot shudder under his touch. 

As you noted his newfound pleasure, you took his hands back into yours, escorting him to your bed with an unyielding smile upon your lips. He complied, his eyes now enraptured by your own. 

You pushed him back onto the bed, surprising you slightly due to his size. He was entirely powerless under your gaze, pliant putty in your hands. His eyes peered up at you as though he was witnessing divinity. As though you were to pardon him from all worldly anguish. Unlike other men, who seek haste and efficiency, Dunk would not be hurried. He would have every fragment of time, and hold it close as though it were treasure beyond reckoning. 

You joined him amongst furs and silks in slow, calculated movements. What was once dread had now turned to fervent impatience, a yearning for only nearness. He would deem it a blessed passing to die with so much as your company, without having to lay a hand on you. 

In one swift motion your legs bracketed his, straddling him where he laid. The position somehow made him appear more helpless beneath you, completely at your mercy. Mercy you had, as you were inclined to be gentle and slow with the blushing giant underneath you.  Your nails found their rightful place a second time, mindlessly tracing lines into his tunic. 

“Do you touch yourself, Ser?“ Your keen gaze flicks to him as your lip catches between your teeth. The filthy question was spoken so innocently, so softly, he began to think he had misheard you. The question was a handy way of allowing your inexperienced clients to open up. Dunk turns a crimson that matches the silks the pile of you lay on top of. 

“Most men do, M‘lady.“ Dunk nervously chuckles beneath you, still unsure where to put his hands. For now, they would lay tensely beside him. 

“And… that means you do as well?“ The tease brought another wave of flush to his neck and ears, only making your smile grow wider. 

“Show me.“ Your order finds his ears in a silvery whisper, to which he begins to fumble with the laces of his breeches. To save him the embarrassment, you place his hand aside, shifting your attention to the tangled prison. As your fingers work the strings, his hips buck into your hand as he suppresses a whine. 

“Eager are we?“ You giggle in amusement, pushing his breeches to his ankles. For a moment, you deem yourself disoriented, that your eyes have betrayed you. You gulp in astonishment, unsure what to make of his…length.

“Your knight, Ser Arlan, you‘re certain he is not your father?“ 

“No, M‘lady.“

“Right then.“

You deny yourself a witty remark like your cock would do a better job impaling me than that sword on your hip, or perhaps, so men can just carry lances however they please? You did not wish to subject him to further embarrassment, considering it was his first time in a brothel. You wanted to give him a reason to return, you thought. 

 Dunk kicks them off, instantly taking his cock in his fist. With eyes half-lidded in languor, he keeps you vigilantly in his sight, as his hand squeezed amidst his clumsy strokes. You shifted where you laid, positioning yourself to replace his hand. His breath came in sharp exhales through his nose, cheeks redder than a field stained by battle. 

“Dunk,“ the name crawled off your tongue, “you‘re blushing in front of a whore.“ You remark with an amused tone, watching as he tries to shield his face from you. Gently, you grasp his wrist, pulling his hand away. 

“Allow me, sweet boy.“ You purr into the shell of his ear, taking his length into your palm. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling, head thrown back against the furrs. He‘s sensitive, you note mentally. You start working him in slow, languid movements, his mouth falling open into an ‘o‘ shape. He feels heavy in your hands, finger tips just barely touching due to his size. 

“M‘not a boy.“ He grits through his teeth as you continue stroking him exactly how he showed you. To his comment, your hand hastened in speed only slightly, watching his heaving breaths grow more laborious. You remarked every twitch, every stiffening muscle. As he lost himself in the abyss of his own pleasure, he became far less mindful of his sounds. It was a pleasure to bear witness to his unraveling.

“Forgive me, Ser. It‘s a fair assumption to make, when you're so needy for me, like a good boy.“ Despite his best efforts, he seems to cherish the title, a needy groan escaping him. You buried yourself against the crook of his neck, leaving a lingering path of kisses upon his skin, as though you were marking him with the memory of your closeness. The dual sensations draw needy whines and groans deep from his chest. Your fist quickens at the sound.

“D-don‘t stop, M‘lady, mmph, feels so g…“ His words trail off as he loses himself in the sensation, pleading eyes finding your own. 

“Does my hand feel better than yours, Dunk? Am I making you feel good? Such a big strong man…so handsome when he‘s begging.“ 

The pad of your thumb drags over his slit, his hips bucking at the feeling. He nods and agrees listlessly, so enraptured by your touch. You maneuver yourself down the bed, your hand still working Dunk through his pleasure. His eyes snapped open as he felt your breath on his tip, your face a dangerous proximity to his cock.

“You musn‘t- I‘ll s-spend too soon.“ His empty plea draws a breathy laugh from you. A lumbering giant who could surely break firewood with his palms, reduced to a writhing mess beneath your touch. 

“I won‘t tell a soul.“ You whisper, swearing yourself to secrecy. To your assurement, Dunk nods vigorously, eager to feel your lips around his cock. You began by placing sloppy kisses on his reddened tip, gently licking ever so often. It was pure anguish for Dunk, growing even needier as you continued. The tip of your tongue dragged right along his slit, causing him to nearly cry out. 

“Shhh, ‘gonna take such good care of you. Just relax for me, sweet boy.“ He nods again at your assurance, watching intently as your soft lips wrap around him. It was rather challenging to deny such an offer when faced with your tempting, darling eyes. His lips part as he feels the warmth of your mouth, smothering him so sweetly. 

The feeling was intoxicating, a surge of bliss coursing through him. He whined at the sensation, carding his rough fingers through your hair. Not with the intent to force or push, solely to ground himself to the moment. 

You peered up at him through your glossy eyes, meeting his gaze, clouded with pleasure. A wistful part of his mind wished he could be subjected to the view of you every day. His reasoning warned him that such fantasies were but folly. He thought of your sweet kindness as purchased, not something he had rightfully earned. 

Through the chamber resounded the lewd strains of your mouth, rich with sinful delight, until Dunk felt his senses reel. It was wicked indulgence, yet incredibly tender. 

You grew bolder in your efforts, taking him deeper into your throat. The act was followed by wet sounding gawks coming from the walls of your mouth. His cock twitched and pulsed against your tongue, signalling you he did not make his claim in falsehood. He really was about to spend too soon. You hummed against his length, a pleased purr from your throat as his breathing grew more erratic.

“I can‘t-fuck- I‘m gonna…Gods I‘m so sorry, M‘lady,” His pleas are followed by strained groans that rattled in his chest, earning him another content hum from you. The vibration of your voice, the wet eyes boring into his, the soft tousled hair tangled in his fist, was enough to send him over the edge. He came with a hoarse, whiny moan, hips involuntarily bucking further into your mouth. Dunk had never felt such invigorating bliss in all of his days. 

As you swallowed each drop of his release, your eyes never dared to leave him. You watched as he convulsed with each spurt, his eyelids fluttering with a pleasure he didn‘t think achievable. His chest rose and fell with each quivering breath. There was something so enchanting about a man who has entirely surrendered. As his breathing slowed and stalled in his lungs, your bare form crawled up the furrs to run your fingers through his wayward hair. 

“So good for me, Dunk. Such a good boy for me, hm?“ He nuzzled into your touch as you tenderly caressed his head. Your other hand finds his flushed cheek, stroking the feverish skin as he regains his bearings. 

With one elbow propped on the mattress, you lean into his chest as you touch him. You feel the raw heat of his body as one of your bare tits press into his tunic. With a newfound courage, his palm kneads your exposed breast, groaning at the contact. A few gentle squeezes then turns into him maneuvering you on your back. 

The angle grants him access to both, nuzzling his face between the swells of supple flesh. To Dunk, air was a trifling matter. He could suffocate between your tits without a single lament on the matter. Your fingers continue gently stroking his scalp as he explores the skin. Open mouth kisses and nudges with his nose sends a pleasurable hum through your veins.

“Want t‘please you, M‘lady. Wanna be so good for you.“ He murmured with a strangled voice still buried between your tits. You gently tug on his sandy hair in hopes he‘d speak clearer. 

“That‘s sweet of you, Dunk, but I can fetch us wine in the meantime. It is not my intent to overwhel-“

Your words are cut off by a soft gasp as he begins to suckle on the tender peaks of your nipples. His tongue flicks and sucks the skin as you feel yourself writhing beneath him. Your fist tightens in his hair as he bathes them in wet heat, the suction of his lips sending blood straight to your throbbing clit. And to your astonishment, he‘s hard again. Hard as stale bread. 

The slavering sounds of his mouth on your tits fill the room, accompanied by your gentle sighs of bliss. His mouth left your tit in a wet pop, eagerly latching to your other one. In the midst of his movement, you clasp your arms around his torso, flipping him onto his back quicker than a flea on a farm dog. 

He makes a vexated, wounded sound as you find yourself straddling him again. Your tits gleamed with the slick of his mouth in candlelight, bestowing a delicious vision unto Duncan‘s eyes. You drag a finger over his lips, hushing his confused pleas. 

“Y‘wanna make me feel good, Dunk? You want this brothel to hear me cry your name?“ 

Dunk keenly nodded at your words, partial to that last suggestion. You tugged at the hem of his tunic, implying you wished to see it on the floor. Drool pooled in your mouth as you watched him comply. His muscles bulged from his flesh with every movement. 

Dunk writhes beneath you, his chest heaving as he stared at you intently. With your eyes fixed on his, you lean back slightly, your hands finding the mattress behind you. You bare your dripping cunt to his gaze, watching his pleased grin turn to a wounded pout. As he watches your slick pussy, you begin rubbing your slickness across your folds, displaying how wet he makes you. 

“See what you do to me? Need you to fill me like a good boy. Need you to fuck me so good, Dunk. You can make me feel good, can‘t you, baby?“ 

“Uh-huh, I can please you, M‘lady. Please- let me be good for you.“ 

You nod, humming at his words. Your leaking pussy hovers above his eager cock, practically begging you to sink down on it. Who were you to deny it such pleasure?

In slow, deliberate movements, you lower yourself onto him, feeling your walls accommodate him in a delicious stretch. His mouth falls agape as you sink further, a low groan rattling his throat. 

“Gods above…“ He loses the thought on his tongue as your bare hips meet his, feeling himself entirely buried inside you. A sweet moan leaves your throat as you feel him reach places none of your customers could. So thick and deep, you were completely full with him. 

Your hands take hold of his wrists, pinning them beside his head. The act startled him, his eyes widening in sweet bewilderment. You were a hair‘s length from his face, his ragged pants fanning your cheeks. The grip on his wrists tightened as you rolled your hips, feeling his tip rub against the spot inside you that made your knees limp. Your lids fluttered shut as he bucked into, feeling deeper than you had before. 

Your chamber rings with the sharp, wet slaps of skin against skin, and strangled moans. With aching knees you bounced atop him, one hand groping your tit, the other scraping its nails down the plane of Duncan‘s chest. You were pleased by the helpless groans that escaped him, hypnotized by the sight of before him. You were even more pleased by the new red marks marking his pec.

“Fuck- Dunk, it‘s so fucking big- filling me so perfect. Such a good boy for me.“ You choke out through the haze of your pleasure. Shameless moans left your lips as you bounced with a newfound vigor, taking him from tip to base every thrust. Dunk began to meet your hips each thrust, brushing your sweet spot each time. The mounting pleasure in your stomach began to coil, threatening to snap. 

“Oh Dunk, I- I‘m…mm…“

  You listlessly warned as your pleasure thrashed upon you, igniting every vein in your body. Your aching pussy clamped down on his length, a surge of wet slick coating his cock. You were slightly humiliated by how fast you managed to finish. The feeling lessened as you felt Dunk coat your insides with hot ropes of cum, a shudder racking his body. He came with a groan more strained than the last, surrendering to his pleasure. 

Soon, the only sounds that remained were your uneven breaths and the muffled commotion from the other rooms. You gaze upon the man, so spent, yet so swallowed by pleasure. 

In a rare, defiant act of your morals, you leaned down to claim his lips with your own, tenderly kissing him. His hands clasped your jaw and he clumsily reciprocated the kiss. Duncan‘s inexperience was clear, but his enthusiasm was a force of nature. 

Perhaps you didn‘t need a stool or a ladder, to take such a man

another note: sorry for the rushed ending, I had a bit of a writers block at the end- hope u enjoyed !!

[goldenhoneyedwine]

what if one night dunk wakes up to his pregnant wife's tossing and turning and chittering teeth from the cold but she didn't want to bother him so didn't wake him up

The cottage you lived in with your husband, Dunk, could get drafty on cold autumn nights. The fire burned low in the hearth and you didn’t have the heart to wake your husband to ask him to put more logs on the fire. He worked so hard, your Dunk, to provide for you and your growing family. And when he was exhausted like this, he slept like the dead. His low snores usually lulled you to sleep as it was the perfect white noise to quiet your mind. But you found yourself simply too cold to sleep. You cradle your swollen belly as you strain to rise out of bed, and hiss as your bare feet hit the ice-cold cottage floor. You’re just about to rise and hobble over to the fireplace, when your husband’s huge hand wraps around your wrist.

You turn to see he is blinking away the confusion of sleep, a concerned look on his face when he realizes that you are getting out of bed. “No little lady. Stay.” He quietly commands with a gravely voice.

You shiver as you pull the covers tighter around you, but feel warm inside as you watch you husband pick up logs one handed like they are twigs and arrange them. The fire roars to life now, the crackling and popping fill the otherwise silent room. “You should always wake me.” He groans as he stands up off stiff knees, and lumbers back over to bed.

“It was a silly reason to wake you. I was alright. Just a little cold.”

“No reason is too silly. The most important thing, you are” he presses a kiss to your forehead, the only part of skin not sheltered under blankets. Between the crackling fire, and the heat of your husband’s body laying next to you, the chill feels like a distant memory now.

[amidstedenslush]

Ich Bin Nur Ein Kleiner Friesenjunge…

(1/2)

— Ser Duncan The Tall / Fem! Reader / Ser Donnel of Duskendale

— Summary: You invite Ser Duncan the Tall to share a drink with you and your sworn shield.

— Warnings: Classism, Sexual Themes/Thoughts

────────────────────────────────────────────

Dunk had begged Egg to let him remain in flea bottom.He could have found some modest inn with a clean enough bed and slept there for a day or two. He had more than enough coin in his purse.

If Egg filled his belly at court, as he was sure to do, Dunk would not need to spend so much as a copper on a hot meal for days.

But the boy pleaded with him, looking up with those queer purple eyes of his and it struck Dunk then that this was no common boy at all, but a prince of the dragons blood.

And a man like Dunk did not find it in him to refuse a prince, even if it was just Egg. So he sighed and said he would go.

Another argument, if truth be told, was that his aunt had a mind to meet him.

Baelor’s sister…the aunt of his sons that had perished in the spring. Dunk could not fathom why she would wish to meet him at all. The thought sat ill in his belly and he gave a small shudder before he could help himself.

He wondered too, if she was as comely and kind hearted as Egg claimed.

Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall…

A woman like that would have no use for him, he decided. More likely she would wish to beat him, or smother him in his sleep, or worse. No kindness would come of it, he was certain of that.

“Saddle up, Egg,” he said. “It will not take more than a day or two before we arrive.”

──────────────────────

“My lady…princess, I mean…”

Egg shook his head and sighed, still clutching at you as if you might vanish the moment he let go.

The prince looked at Dunk expectantly. They had practiced the greeting a dozen times on the road.

Dunk gulped and looked back at you. Your expression did not look promising. Even so, you extended your hand to him.

He bent and brushed his chapped lips against your fingers as quickly as he could.

Your hand was very soft, he thought, blushing.

Egg had told him to pay you a compliment. You were said to have a fondness for pretty words.

Pretty words had never sat comfortably on his tongue. He had tried them once with lady webber and made such a muddle of it that she laughed at him besides. No doubt you would do the same.

Dunk tried to draw his hand away, but you held it fast in your own.

“Do you have good use of this hand, ser?” you asked, tapping his foot with the toe of your slipper. “ And your foot as well? Do they serve you faithfully, See Duncan the tall?” You all but sang his title.

“Please, lady aunt-” Egg began, eager to smooth things over.

“Never mind the princess, ser. She is only making sport of you. Think nothing of it…” came the voice of Ser Donnel from behind them.

You shot your sworn shield a sharp look, one brow arching in rebuke. How dare he cut your interrogation short?

Then you turned back to the man who towered over you. Looking up at him was tiresome. For half a heartbeat you considered commanding him to kneel, if only so the world might be set aright and he would be forced to look up at you for once.

“He is right, ser. You must not mind my tongue. It has a mind of its own from time to time, spilling the filthiest of things….” you said, laying a hand lightly against your throat.

Dunk gulped, feeling as if he had turned to stone. He did not know whether to laugh or fall to his knees in apology. She had every right to be angry, he thought. He did not mistake your jest for kindness.

“…Yer-your eyes go well with your dress! I mean your gown-” he stammered.

Ser Donnel clapped the giant on the shoulder. “Aye, aye, ser. Off you go now…” he chortled.

You waved the boys out of the hall, pausing only to kiss Egg on the cheek. Then you glanced back at Dunk and gave him a small wink.

Dunk turned red all the way to his ears.

“Did you have to make a fool of him?” your sworn shield squinted at you.

You smiled at him, clasping your hands behind your back, acting coy.

“ I have not the faintest clue what you are speaking of!”

“I know that look,” he murmured, stepping closer. “It is the same one I was given when they changed my post to run after the likes of you..”

A pout graced your lips. “And hasn’t life changed for the better ever since?”

He grunted. “Aye, but not without a grey hair or two…”

“Oh,come off it. Your hair is as red as the day you became a sworn brother of the kingsguard…” you said, nose in the air.

He gave a rough huff at your response.

──────────────────────

“Tell me,ser…where is it that you hail from?” you asked, sipping your arbor gold and swirling it in your mouth before swallowing.

You had seated yourself beside him and your nephew for a quaint supper. Most things were quaint these days, with Aerys as king.

The other lords and ladies were occupied with their own conversations and little egg had long since been sent to bed.

Now it was only you and Dunk.

“Kings landing, your grace…” he replied, swallowing a thick bite of roast.

You set down your goblet. “King’s landing? You will have to be more specific, ser.”

He drew his brows together. “Flea bottom.”

Dunk the lunk was not so thick as to miss that you were making sport of him once more.

“That is more like it, ser. For a moment I thought you meant you had grown up here in the red keep, which is also in king’s landing. A rather foolish thought, was it not?”

“Aye, your grace. ” he muttered.

Dunk had a mind to haul you across his knee and spank your arse raw. He thought better of it. Had you not been a princess, he might have done just that.

You stood up abruptly and dunk did the same.

“Well then, ser, you must show me around sometime….”

──────────────────────

The bed Dunk lay in was near as large as he was. For the first time in his life, he did not need to draw up his legs to sleep comfortably.

His wakefulness was not the bed’s fault, though the feather mattress was so soft he felt half swallowed by it.

Nay, it was not the bed that kept him from sleep.

Dunk’s thoughts were on you.

He thought of your voice, rich and sure and how you never faltered nor stumbled over your words. You knew exactly who you were and what you were worth.

Dunk was not like that. He had no store of fine words to match yours.

He shook his head.

It had been some time since Dunk had felt so small. Not when Egg made one of his clever remarks, nor even when the boy had to read for him.

Dunk thought of your scent as well. You smelled like some fine pastry, cream and cherries. He remembered the softness of your hand, smooth and delicate, without a single callus.

He smiled despite himself.

“Never done a day’s work in her life…” he whispered to the darkness.

Your face came to him next and your neck and the soft skin above your gown. No scars on you, no sign of pox or hurt. Unlike your elder brother.

And then there was your bosom. The stiff bodice had pushed your breasts up high, covered in jewels. He had wanted to slip a finger between them, just to see if they were as soft as they looked. Dunk blushed at the thought.

A knock at the door disturbed his lewd fancies.

Dunk sat up at once. Who would be calling at such an hour? Egg, perhaps, though he doubted it. The boy had spoken often enough of sleeping in his own bed again and seemed far too pleased with the notion to leave it now and come bothering him in the middle of the night.

The door opened a little and Dunk caught sight of red hair in the gap.

He sat upright and tumbled from the bed. “Who is it?”

“It is only me, ser. Do not look so frightened.”

The man slipped inside and shut the door behind him. He wore no white cloak, nor any armor, but plain clothes such as any common man like himself might wear.

“Ser Donnel?” Dunk said, gaping at him.

“Precisely,” the knight said with a sigh. “I am sorry for this, serand do not think it was my doing. Dress yourself and come with us for a drink.”

“A-a drink?” Dunk stammered.

“Aye, a drink with a certain haughty princess” he said with a chuckle, his eyes dropping to the front of Dunk’s breeches, where his arousal was plain enough.

Dunk spun around at once. “The princess!”

He could have torn the damn thing off for betraying him so. He had not even noticed.

“I know the effects of her-”

“No! This has nothing to do with-” Dunk cut in.

Ser Donnel spoke over him just the same. “Oh, I would not say that in front of her, ser. She would be so disappointed.”

“What?”

“Off we go, ser. We cannot keep her waiting too long or she will have none of us.”

“Have?” Dunk turned, his face as red as the kingsguard’s hair.

“Dress yourself!”

──────────────────────

You took some pleasure in seeing how red he’d grown, though none of you had even touched your cups.

When Dunk caught you staring, you did not look away.

Had he been any other man, you might have lowered your eyes and played the coy maid with a new suitor. But you found you did not care if he thought you too bold or even unseemly.

It had helped you snare another certain someone once. A commoner to boot, even if he was well off.

You had acquired a taste for the less fine things in life…

For men who did not stink of the same perfume you wore. Men with healthy appetites and broad backs marked by scars and bruises from a brawl. Men who did not cower before you on account of your station. Men who told you off…with plain speech and no courtly polish.

“I want to dance!” you said, looking him straight in the eyes.

Before he could answer, you took his hand in yours and dragged the great oaf to the middle of the lively tavern.

“I’ll order some ale,” Ser Donnel muttered to himself with a smile. “…And most like pay for it too.”

──────────────────────

Ich bin Berliner Kindl, bin kein Friesenjunge!

[julez-5]

Hear me outttt: Older!Dunk with young!reader who loves all of his scares even if he thinks they look ugly. I just wanted to lick that man’s scars SO DAMN BAD (especially the ones on his big, thick, veiny arms) while he’s talking😔✌🏼

KISS YOUR SCARS—Duncan the Tall

Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!reader

content: In the early morning you take the time to admire Ser Duncan's scarred skin.

cw: MDNI 18+ allusions to smut at the end, lmk if I missed any

a/n: I feel like I am in such a writing slump 🫠 please feel free to send in any requests/drabble ideas you may have :)

The morning light had slowly started to flow in through the windows, as nothing but the sound of quiet breaths filled the room. Duncan held a tight grip around your waist, holding you tightly even in sleep as if he was afraid of something daring to rip the pair of you apart. 

You had been awake for some time now, just observing him. He looked younger in his sleep, a peace that his waking hour did not seem to bring these days. Your eyes moved to his chest, dragging down looking at the past scars that painted his body. 

You knew he wasn’t very fond of you seeing them. Having told you once to leave the ugly skin alone when your hands had trailed over them in a moment of passion as you stared at them for a moment he deemed too long. 

You did not feel the same way he did. You quite enjoyed looking at them, as each told a story. The tales of a warrior who had lived a life, and you had wanted to know about each and every one of them. 

Most of all you wanted to feel them. You wanted to see what they felt like to run your fingers across, even kiss, or mayhaps drag your tongue across them. You hand hovered over a long jagged edge that ran across his chest, before finally you let it drop. 

He let out a sigh as he felt your finger run against the raised skin, “What are you doin’?” he asked, his blue eyes opening slightly as he blinked away the sleep. HIs hand still remained wrapped firmly around you, keeping you close. 

You did answer at first, allowing your hand to move across the plains of his skin. You pulled back slightly letting your hand dip lower as you took advantage of his early morning state, not full awake yet. 

This one was larger than the other, near his hips bone, “Admiring,” you answered, leaning down to press a kiss to the large scar. 

He tensed slightly, his eyebrows pinched together, “Leave it,” he instructed you, but it lacked any real bite. He could not tell you no. It was an awful habit he had learned, but he could not drop it no matter how hard he tried. 

“How’d you get this one?” you questioned, ignoring his request. He did not need to look to know exactly which former wound you referred to. 

“Trial of Seven,” he responded, causing you to hum. “Now leave the ugly skin alone.”

He did not think something so ugly, so imperfect deserved to be touched so softly by you, let alone have the pleasure of having your beautiful lips pressed to it. He barely believed he deserved that privilege and yet you gave it to him anyways. 

You looked up meeting his eyes as he watched you, “It is not ugly. It is a part of you,” you replied, before you turned looking to his arm 

He pulled away slightly, allowing you to move as you straddled his hips ignoring his hard morning wood pressing into your arse. You lifted his hand gently as you examined the area of his bicep noticing another. 

He watched you waiting to see what your next move would be. If you would run your fingers along it or even press another gentle kiss to the thin cut, but you did neither. He should have known better than to attempt to guess your next moves. 

You dipped your head forward dragging your tongue across the skin causing him to groan before he could stop himself. He could feel your grinning against his arm before you opened your mouth taking a small nibble at the skin. 

In a flash, with a practiced ease you were flipped around lying on your back as you now stared up at him. You smirked up at him, your eyes gleaming with mischief. Your legs wound around his waist like muscle memory, pulling him closer into you. His hardened cock now pressing directly into your core. 

“You are trouble,” he told you, trying to keep his voice stern, but he could not help the small smile that graced his lips. 

You hummed leaning forward to press your lips to his as you rolled your hips against him, causing him to groan into your mouth again. “Mayhaps you should do something about it,” you suggested. 

“Oh, I plan too.”

[spicyrose]

❀˖° — SWEET FRICTION.

onlyfans!dunk x reader.

continuation from here, but not necessary to read.

reader is a good friend and offers to help dunk film another video for his onlyfans, still no sex but this time with heavy petting. reader can handle that, right? wrong you end up humping his thigh until you both cum.

2.8k+ words

cw: fem!reader, no y/n, onlyfans au, dry humping, dunk buys reader lingerie but is too shy to look at her wearing it (but can touch her tits? dunk make it make sense), dirty talk, size kink, good girl/sweet girl, honestly they're just kinda horny and dumb and sweet

You’re shocked when you look in your bank account and see the money transfer from Dunk. You immediately text him.

You: ??

Dunk: ??

You screenshot the transfer and send it.

Dunk: Figured 50/50 was alright?

Seven hells. That was the money from the OnlyFans video you'd made with Dunk? You feel heat rise up your neck and you squirm at the thought of how many people must have watched Dunk spanking you. You'd definitely rewatched it a few times, hardly believing that was you, that was Dunk, it was so fucking hot.

Dunk’s typing.

Dunk: Or should it be 60/40?

Dunk: You were doing most of the work

Dunk: I’ll send now

You quickly text back that 50/50 is fine.

Honestly….you’d forgotten about the money. You’d been so nervous and excited before, and after, well, all you could think about was him. How easily he’d been able to manhandle you into place, but how gentle and sweet he was throughout and how he took such good care of you after. It wasn’t sex, and you weren’t together, but he still wanted to look after you and had kept asking to be sure he hadn’t hurt you. You’d had to resist the urge to confess you could have taken a lot more and a lot harder. As it was, the marks he’d left on your ass had faded all too fast, and you miss them.

So maybe you’d had a tiny crush on Dunk before filming that video, which is maybe just a little worse after being bent over his knee.

You feel hot all over and that heat gives you the confidence to text back.

You: would u want to do another video?

You feel your stomach flip waiting for Dunk to finish typing. He stops and starts several times before sending the message.

Dunk: what would you want to do?

You swallow hard. Oh, so many things you want that man to do to you. But you hold back and try to think of what to say.

You: not sex but sex-ish

It takes him five agonizing minutes to finish typing, stopping, and typing, only to send:

Dunk: ok

Dunk: sounds good

You chew your lip, hesitant, but decide fuck it and text him.

You: I can buy something nice to wear for it

Again you’re stuck watching the ‘Dunk is typing…’ message flicker in and out.

Dunk: ok let me know how much

You: ??

Dunk: what?

You: why

Dunk: I’ll pay you back

You: you don’t have to do that!

Dunk: I want to

Why does he have to be such a gentleman? It’s so sexy. You resist the urge to ask him what he’d like to see you in, or to tease him, or to outright beg him to come over and fuck you with or without a camera.

You: thank you!!

***

“What do you think?” you ask, standing in the lingerie he’d bought you and trying not to feel nervous.

You’d bought a pretty lacy set in the exact same shade of blue as his eyes. If he makes the connection, he doesn’t remark on it; but then he’s hardly even looked at you before his head is ducking down and eyes avert. You’ve never known anyone as bashful as him.

“‘s pretty,” he mumbles.

You pout. You’d have liked more of a reaction than that, but it’s a good reminder of why you’re here. Business, not pleasure.

You found last time you filmed that Dunk seemed to prefer you being in charge of establishing how things would go, so you again take the initiative.

“So just to recap”, you start, in reference to what you’d already discussed for this video through texting. “Just, uh, heavy touching over clothes. Nothing being taken off. You can touch my tits, thighs, ass, just not, um-“

Not your pussy.

Dunk nods his understanding but doesn’t look at you. A red flush creeps across his nose and cheeks that makes you want to kiss his face over and over.

“Kissing is fine, but not on the mouth.”

That just feels too intimate. You don’t trust yourself to remember this is all for show if Dunk kisses you. He’s your friend, a good friend, and you don’t want to ruin things with him.

“And you should talk a lot-“

“Talk?” Dunk interrupts, looking at you for the first time.

“Yeah. I think you’ll want to for this to work. Since we’re not actually showing or doing much. As in, not full sex. But I think that can work, because most of your audience is women, and for women it’s more of a build, and it’s nice to have a …guided fantasy. So I’m really just the stand-in for female viewers to pretend I’m them.”

“Pretend they’re with me?” Dunk asks, and his voice is so genuinely surprised you have to resist teasing him.

“Of course,” you answer.

His hands fidget and he looks away again. He rubs the back of his neck.

“‘m just not used to thinkin’ of myself that way. I mean you…you’re….”

You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, and he looks so nervous it feels a cruelty to force him.

“You did it before. The way you talked last time was really nice,” you say, words chosen to be objective, but your face burns.

“Honestly, don’t even remember what I said,” Dunk shrugs. “And I’ve never been good with words.”

“You are. Just be confident, and it’ll be so good, I promise,” you reassure. “Just talk to me. Ask me what I want. Ask me if I like what you’re doing. Be sweet to me. Call me sweet names and say that I’m being good for you. And go slow. Whatever speed you think is slow, start slower. I’ll tell you if you need to go faster.” You pause. “Are you still good with this?”

“Yeah,” Dunk says, voice low, and eyes meeting yours in a way that startles you, so blue and deep and intimate.

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

“Alright, let’s go then,” you say.

He pulls his shirt over his head. You stare.

You’d seen him shirtless before. You’d walked in on him in just his boxers before. But you’d not really looked and, oh. Oh he’s just so big and strong. Not pure muscle, but healthy, and powerful. You’re going to look fucking tiny next to him.

“‘S this alright?” Dunk asks, and you realize you must have been ogling a little too openly for even Dunk to notice.

“Great!” you answer a little too cheerfully.

***

You’re sat in Dunk’s lap with your back to his chest. His hands are at your waist and one of his knees nudges between your thighs to spread you open for the camera. Goosebumps trail up your arms and you shiver. Dunk’s hands move to your arms instinctively and rub soothingly up and down your flesh. You can feel his heart hammering in his chest and wonder if he can feel the same from you. You can hear him starting and stopping a few times, before he manages to get the words out.

“What do you need, sweet girl?” Dunk asks in a low voice that has you shivering all over again.

“Touch me.”

“Am touchin’ you.”

You give a little huff of annoyance. You can feel Dunk smile against your skin, evidently pleased with himself for that one.

“Kiss my neck,” you say, not asking but telling.

Your eyes flutter shut at the light brushing of his lips against the curve of your neck. You tilt your head further, giving greater access and inviting more. Dunk tries adding a little pressure and you whine.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

His mouth trails further along your neck.

“Like this?”

“Yes," you sigh.

He finds the sweet spot on your neck that has you squirming.

“Here, is it?” Dunk asks.

“Yes!” you practically squeak.

He suckles the skin and you moan.

“That feel good?” he asks.

“Yes,” you admit, feeling your face go hot.

You hadn’t expected to get this turned on this fast.

“Want me to touch you some more?” Dunk asks, and you know he’s actually checking in that he has permission to keep going. He’s so sweet it makes you want to melt completely. He makes you feel so safe.

“Yes, please” you whine.

“Can I play with these pretty tits a little?” he pants in your ear.

“Yes!”

His hands leave your arms and run up your abdomen to rest just below your lace-covered breasts. You can feel his fingers tremble slightly as he hesitates. Your hands cover his much larger ones, running a thumb over his knuckles, giving him time to pull away and call things off. When he doesn’t, you move his hands to your tits and lightly squeeze over his hands so that he cups your breasts.

“Ah, fuck” Dunk groans.

He kneads gently. You hum appreciatively at the delicious feeling of your hard nipples rubbing against the fabric. You want him touching your bare skin. You want his mouth on your nipple. You squirm in his lap.

“You’re so big,” you whine and push your body against his hands. “So big and strong.”

It would be so easy for him to fold you in half. Bend you over. Hold you up against a wall.

You feel like playing a little dirty.

"Like your big hands," you praise. "Like your big everything."

You grin as he curses and hides his face against the back of your neck.

“My sweet girl” he breathes hot against your skin and scatters kisses on your neck and shoulder, nuzzling into you. “My pretty girl wearing the pretty things I bought her.”

Oh. Oh, you hadn’t discussed that, but fuck, it’s hot. You being his girl and wearing nice things for him. Well, that’s a little true, isn’t it? He bought you this pretty lingerie and now you’re both enjoying the reward of him playing with you in it.

“Harder,” you ask, and keen when he complies by squeezing you rougher.

You’ve not been able to sit still. You’ve shivered and squirmed until, somehow, entirely by accident, you’ve ended up with your thighs tightly locked around one of his. Dunk’s thumbs circle your nipples and you jerk forward, your clit catching on his thigh and dragging deliciously.

“Fuck!” you moan, louder than any before, and freeze.

Dunk stills too.

“Were you grinding against m’thigh?” he asks, voice low.

You’re so embarrassed. You hadn’t meant to. It just felt so good. Had you gone too far? Had you ruined everything?

Dunk’s hands drop to your hips and he grips the flesh there hard. His face presses into your shoulder and he groans.

“Y-you can” he pants. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart.”

You gasp in surprise, but fortunately, your body seems to work faster than your brain. Your hips roll into his hard muscle experimentally. Then, harder, angling your hips just right so that your clit grinds against him.

His breath tickles the tiny hairs at the back of your neck. You imagine how good it would feel for him to fuck you from behind. Dunk’s body caging yours and his size completely overwhelming you. Fucking you so deep and good and slow.

You can feel a wet spot soak through your new panties. You duck your head and feel your face burn at the obvious sign of your need. You try to lift yourself off Dunk’s thigh, wondering if you might yet hide it, but his hands on your hips push you back down onto his thigh and there can be no doubt Dunk knows you’re wet.

“You like that?” Dunk asks in that low, sexy voice. “That feel good?”

Again you try to duck your head, but Dunk isn’t having it. One of his hands leaves your hips to tilt your chin up.

“Uh uh,” he corrects, in a tone somehow cooing and condescending. “If you’re gonna get off on m’thigh, you can at least tell me you’re enjoyin’ it.”

“I like it,” you whimper.

“Good girl.”

Fuck, he’s got you so close to falling apart completely. It isn’t fair. How can Dunk, sweet and shy Dunk, your Dunk, be this calm about it? You roll your hips further back against him and that’s when you feel it.

Oh. Dunk isn’t calm and collected at all.

Dunk’s hard. And he’s fucking huge.

Dunk groans and again hides his face against the back of your neck, but now you're the one checking his behaviour. You’re going to cum and he is too.

You push yourself back flush against him. He gives a strangled cry and grips your hips so hard, you can already feel bruises forming. You rub yourself back against him.

“Is this okay?" you ask, voice coming out between little pants. "Does this feel good?"

"Y-yes!" he chokes out.

It makes you feel incredible to have big, strong, stoic Dunk go weak for you.

He lifts and angles his leg just right to make it easier for you to grind back against his cock while still rubbing your clit into his thigh. One of his hands stays anchored to your hip, the other squeezes and plays with one of your breasts. You're both too far gone for dirty talk, panting and moaning and whining for each other, needing release. You can feel it rising, rising, rising within you, until finally, you're overtaken. You cum, thighs clamping down around his as you keen and buck your hips wildly. Dunk lasts hardly three seconds longer before he's giving a cry and cumming, too, clinging to you so tightly it hurts in the best way.

You cling to each other even as the aftershocks die down and cold realization slowly hits you. You'd just humped and gotten off on Dunk's leg, had grinded on Dunk until he came, and you did it all on camera. Sick worry knots your stomach, but surprisingly, it's Dunk who soothes your nerves this time.

"Shhh, shh, sweet girl, it's okay," he breathes, voice low and sexy again, but there's a softness to it that sounds so sweet and real. He nuzzles your neck and his hands run gently over your waist. "You did so good f'me. So good."

Dunk holds you and runs his hands along you soothingly until the anxiety fades, your heartbeat slows, and your body calms. You'd cum harder than you normally did. Maybe it was the thrill of it. Maybe it was Dunk. But fuck, it had felt good, and now all you wanted was to curl up into his side and fall asleep with him holding you, if for nothing else than so you could cling to the fantasy a little longer.

But you had to come back to reality eventually.

You reach over and turn the camera off. You look at Dunk.

"Are you...are we...okay?" you ask.

You can see Dunk fighting to settle on what to say. Finally, he nods.

"'Course. Only natural, I 'spose. You aren't...angry with me?"

You laugh and shake your head. He laughs, too, light, nervous. You're uncertain where all this leaves you but at least neither of you thinks the other has taken advantage.

"D'ya need anything?" he asks.

You shake your head.

"Want to take a shower?" Dunk asks, then quickly elaborates. "Use my shower. As in, do you, alone, need t—"

You laugh again and shake your head.

"Do you mind if I take one? I'm sort of—" he looks down at his groin, your gaze following to see a wet spot from his cum.

You fight every fibre of your being urging you to get on your knees and clean him up with your tongue. Instead, you squeak out, "No, go ahead!"

He sets you up with a glass of water and his discarded shirt to wear before heading to the bathroom. You snuggle down into his sheets and cuddle his pillow, wishing it was him.

***

Dunk's heart nearly leaps out of his chest to you when he comes out the shower to find you'd fallen asleep in his bed. He wants to hold you, pet your hair, kiss you, whisper while you sleep how beautiful you are and how good you made him feel and how lucky he is that he got to see you fall apart like that. But it wouldn't be right to climb into bed with you while you're sleeping. So he tucks the blankets around you, allows himself to enjoy watching you lying peaceful and sweet and snuggled into his pillow, then leaves you to rest.

***

He doesn't upload the video until a few days later. Dunk waits to get your approval first then waits a little longer, selfishly, to keep that moment just between you two for a few more hours. Finally, he uploads.

Dunk gets a text message later from Raymun.

Raymun: srsly WHO is the mystery bird on your OF????

[lvmimis]

anyway i want the whole bed to shake with every thrust and i want him to sound more helpless than i do