—summary: lord lyonel has a hawk's eye for detail, and he’s set his sights on the hedge knight lingering too close to his daughter. so he decides to interrogate him about his intentions, letting slip how carefully you choose your lovers and stirring a spark of jealousy in dunk.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 4.8k
—content: smut / NSFW, minors dni!!!; oral sex (male receiving bc lord knows duncan deserves the sloppiest, most mind-blowing head ever), marking, lots of kisses, jealous!dunk, sassy & flirty reader, sexual tension, inexperienced dunk, praise, corruption kink, size difference, protective dad!lyonel, forbidden romance.
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: this will be the last chapter of this little series; i am extremely thankful for all the love you have given it, i’m so honored. hope you like it!
A day had passed since that encounter on the riverside, and for Dunk, time seemed to have stretched like metal in a forge. At sunset, he always seemed to find you in the same place—caught in the soft, molten gold of the dying sun, light spilling over the grass and dancing upon the river’s skin, warming even the dampest, most shadowed hollows of Ashford Meadow.
And when that twilight warmth touched his own skin, it was always you he felt —your cheek near his chest, your fingers looped around his arm as you walked together, as if such closeness were the most natural thing in the world.
He could not shake it.
He could not shake you.
So at last, he stops fighting the part of himself that tells him to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and people like you. But there is another part—louder and more stubborn—that knows fleeing from you would only bring him deeper trouble.
And trouble? Ser Duncan the Tall already has more than enough of it.
That morning, Duncan washes in the cold river near his camp, scrubbing away sweat and dust. He runs his hands through his bronze hair, slicking it back with river water, trying— and failing —to tame it into something resembling a knight fit to stand before a lord’s daughter. Not just some lord’s daughter, you.
Before he goes, he hesitates.
From his pack, he takes out a small stoppered vial, bought cheap from a market peddler, a simple little thing, no bigger than his thumb, filled with pale oil that smells sharply of crushed mint. He dabs a little at his wrists, then, awkwardly, at his neck, hoping the clean, green scent might chase away the river’s chill and the stink of travel.
It feels foolish.
But he does it anyway.
It is Egg who notice the flowers first, of course.
He walks along the edge of the camp where the grass grew tall and wild, dotted with small yellow blossoms that bent in the soft sunrise breeze.
“Those look like her colors,” Egg remarks, plucking one of the little yellow flowers and holding it up between his fingers to show them to Dunk. “Baratheon gold.”
But Duncan frowns. “They’re just weeds.”
“Not to a lady,” Egg reply, with the solemn certainty of a boy who thinks himself far wiser than he is. “You can’t go see her empty-handed.”
Dunk shifts his weight, suddenly awkward, conceding—however reluctantly—that the boy has a point. “I ain’t bringing her weeds.”
Egg snorts, really impressed by the ignorance a man so big can have. “They’re flowers, Ser. That’s different.”
He begins gathering them anyway, quick and efficient, handing them up to Dunk one by one. Before he quite knows how it had happened, he is holding a small, uneven bundle of yellow blooms, their stems damp with sap, their scent sweet.
Dunk stares at them as if they might bite him.
“She’s a highborn lady,” he mutters, genuinely failing to understand the whole concept of romance that Egg perceives. “What’s she want with field flowers?”
Egg just looks up at him, pale head tilted. “Better than nothing. Tell her you picked them yourself. That will count for something.”
Dunk knows better than to argue with Egg when he use that tone.
So he ties the stems together with a strip of twine, clumsy fingers fumbling as he does, and carry them in his hand as carefully as if they are made of glass.
Ser Duncan set out with long, determined strides toward the great yellow tent of House Baratheon.
He has scarcely reach the entrance when a familiar, thunderous voice stops him cold.
“My daughter appears to have lost the silk ties from her cloak.” Lyonel Baratheon greets him unexpectedly at the entrance to his tent, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Curiously, they are the same shade of gold that peeks out from the edge of your doublet, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk feels as if the ground has suddenly turned into thin ice. His heart hammers against the very silk that is betraying him.
He stands there, towering over most men but feeling small under Lord Lyonel’s piercing, dark gaze. His gaze lingers on the flowers a heartbeat too long.
The Laughing Storm isn't laughing now. He is sitting on a heavy wooden chair, nursing a cup of thick blackberry wine, his eyes tracking the sliver of gold fabric like a hawk watching a field mouse.
“I… I, uh…” Dunk stammers, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the Baratheon wine. He instinctively claps a massive hand over his pocket to hide the favor, which only makes him look more guilty. “It’s just a bit of… cloth, my lord. To, uh, mend a tear in my… m–my horse’s blanket?”
“A horse’s blanket?” Lyonel repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. He stands up, his height no match for Duncan's, but even so, he stands firmly in front of him. “You’re telling me my daughter’s personal silk is being used to patch up some dusty palfrey?”
The tension is thick enough to choke on. Dunk’s mind went completely blank. He is a man of his word, and lying felt like trying to swallow a mouthful of dry wool.
“Father, do not frighten my friend.”
Your voice cuts through the air like a silver bell, and Dunk feels a wave of relief so strong he nearly sags where he stands. You step out from behind the inner curtain of the tent, radiant in a gown of deep charcoal and amber, your presence breaking the storm before it can truly fall.
“I didn't lose it,” you say, walking over to your father and placing a steadying hand on his arm to calm him down. You give the tall man a look that is both sweet and sharp. “I gave it to Ser Duncan. As a reward.”
Lyonel’s eyebrows shots up so high they nearly disappear into his dark hairline. He crane his head, thankfully withdrawing his intent gaze from Duncan and looking at you, unimpressed. “A reward? For what? Did he slay a fucking dragon while I was napping?”
You let out a soft, musical laugh and turn your eyes to Dunk. The look you give him is heavy with that same secret intimacy of always, a look that make his knees feel like water.
“He did something much rarer, Father,” you explain, stepping toward Dunk until you are close enough to smell the sweet river water on his skin. “He offered me his friendship. And since you’re always complaining that I’m too ‘reckless,’ I thought it wise to have a man of his… stature… keeping an eye on things. On me.”
Lord Lyonel lets out a sound that was half-scoff, half-grunt. He looks up at Dunk, then at you, then back at the golden silk peeking out proudly on the hedge knight's pocket.
“Friendship, eh?” Lyonel finally barks, a small, begrudging smirk forming on his lips.
His dark eyes flick between you and Dunk, sharp as ever, missing nothing, the way you stand just a bit too close, the way Dunk looks like a man trying very hard not to breathe too deeply of your perfume.
“Well,” Lyonel goes on, rolling the word around like he’s tasting it, “if my daughter has decided you’re her new companion, I suppose I ought to see what sort of man I’m trusting her to.”
Dunk straightens instinctively, shoulders back, trying to look every inch the honorable knight he wishes he were.
“I’d give my life to protect her, my lord,” he says, earnest and simple, the truth ringing in every word.
That earns him a long, measuring look.
“Hmph!” Lyonel snorts. “Seven save me, you hedge knights and your big fucking words.” Then, to Dunk’s surprise, he steps aside and gestures into his tent. “Come. Have a cup of wine with me.”
Dunk blinks. “My lord?”
“A cup,” Lyonel repeats, smiling way too much. “Unless you’re afraid of Baratheon wine?”
That, at least, draws a crooked grin from Dunk. “No, my lord. Not afraid of wine.”
You hide your smile behind your hand, suppressing a laugh. Dunk shoots you a helpless look, and you answer with a small, apologetic smile that somehow makes his chest ache even more.
Inside the tent, the air is thick with the scent of leather, smoke, and crushed berries. Lyonel pours two cups of the dark, heavy wine and thrusts one into Dunk’s massive hand.
“To knights who know their place,” Lyonel says dryly, lifting his cup.
Dunk raises his own very awkwardly, his mind going too fast with nerves to prevent the very first thoughts forming on his lips. “To… your daughter.”
Dunk freezes the instant the words leave his mouth.
The tent seems to go very, very quiet.
Lyonel Baratheon slowly lowers his cup, dark eyes narrowing just a fraction. For one terrible heartbeat, Dunk is certain he has just signed his own death warrant with a mouth full of blackberry wine.
You, however, tilt your head and study him with something dangerously close to fondness.
“My daughter,” Lyonel repeats after him. “Not knights. Not honor. Not the Seven. My daughter.”
Dunk clears his throat, ears burning. “I meant— I just— she’s important, my lord. To you. And… and to me. And to the... realm.”
It is the simplest truth he knows how to give.
For a long moment, Lyonel only stares at him. Then he lets out a loud bark of laughter, slapping a heavy hand against the table.
“Gods be good,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re either the bravest man in this camp or the stupidest.”
Dunk manages a sheepish half-smile. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Could be both.”
The wine burns its way down Dunk’s throat, bold and strong — much like the man standing before him.
Meanwhile, you hover near the tent’s opening, your fingers worrying at the edge of your cloak. You meet Dunk’s eyes, just for a heartbeat, and in that look is everything unspoken: come find me.
And Lyonel follows his gaze to you.
“Oh no you don’t,” he says, catching on far too quickly. “You think I don’t see what’s going on here?”
Dunk nearly chokes on his second sip.
Lyonel leans back in his chair, studying you both with an expression far too knowing. “My daughter disappearing into spontaneous walks with a young, big knight? With no guard or chaperone?” He clicks his tongue, “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy”
Your cheeks warm. “Father—”
“Relax,” Lyonel cuts in, holding up a hand to silence you. “I’m not saying anything improper is happening.” His eyes flick meaningfully to Dunk, “Yet.”
“Yet...” Lyonel repeats, savoring the word far too much for Dunk’s comfort.
He sets his cup down with a soft thunk and folds his arms over his broad chest, studying Dunk like a commander sizing up a new recruit.
Ser Duncan is desperate to pour himself a little more wine to fill the now empty cups, consciously turning his eyes down to the cup and praying he were able just sink himself into it and be absorbed in the deep red liquid.
Dunk stiffens, opening the blue-colored eyes wide.
“In horses,” Lyonel goes on, eyes glinting. “In wine.”
A long pause.
“In men.”
Dunk's face is equally vibrant red as the beverage, close to choking as he drinks yet another big sip of it.
“She doesn’t take just anyone into her confidence,” Lord Lyonel adds casually, far too casually. “Or into her tent, for that matter.”
Dunk nearly drops his cup at that.
You make a small, scandalized sound. “Father!”
The man only smirks. “What? It is true, my love. You’ve never been one for dull company. Just like me.”
He looks back at Dunk, dark eyes sharp and amused.
“My daughter chooses her lovers with care,” Lyonel explains to him, the word heavy with implication. “And she’s never lacked for suitors. Knights, lords’ sons, even a prince or two who thought themselves charming enough.”
Something tight and ugly twists in Dunk’s chest at that.
He hadn’t known that.
He hadn’t wanted to know that.
“I—” He swallows, not knowing really what to say to that exactly. “I’m honored, then, my lord.”
Should he feel honored? Special?
Undoubtedly, Duncan feels anything but those things.
Lyonel studies him for a long beat, noting the obvious way his broad shoulders have sagged, just a little, under the weight of everything he has just said.
Then, unexpectedly, he snorts.
“Hells. You actually care.” A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s new.”
He gestures vaguely toward the tent opening, deciding the poor knight has been tested enough.
“Go on,” Lyonel urges. “Before I decide your head would look better mounted on one of my bedposts.”
“M’lord”
Dunk does not need to be told twice. He follows you away from the main tent, your personal guard already dismissed, his long strides a little less steady than usual.
“You survived,” you tease softly, glancing back at him with playful eyes.
“Barely,” Dunk admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your father’s a fearsome man.”
“He likes you,” you say, eyes bright. “That’s worse.”
He laughs, low and nervous. “That so?”
For a heartbeat, he hesitates and then he clears his throat and holds out the small, uneven bundle of yellow flowers, suddenly very interested in the ground at his feet.
“These are for you,” he says, voice rough with sheepishness. “I… I picked ’em myself. They— they reminded me of you.”
Your smile widens at once, warm and teasing.
“How very thoughtful of you, Ser Duncan,” you say lightly, accepting them. “They’re beautiful.”
With your other hand, you reach for his, your fingers slipping easily between his calloused ones, warm and loving.
Dunk swallows, looking down at you in awe.
Pulling his hand, he lets you lead him, because he is not certain his legs would remember how to move on their own.
Dunk stands awkwardly once inside, too big for the space, hands unsure of what to do with themselves.
He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing sideways as you pace around, reaching for a glass of sweet wine from the table, placing down the flowers gently.
“I don’t like thinking of other men looking at you the way I do,” Dunk admits quietly.
Duncan looks like he wants to swallow the words the moment they leave his lips, his large frame tensing as he awaits for your reaction. He feels like a fool—a hedge knight with no lands to his name, begrudging princes and lords their gaze.
You pause, the glass of wine halfway to your lips, and turn to look at him. The golden light filtering through the yellow silk of the tent walls bathes you in a warm, ethereal glow, making you look like the very goddess he sees in his dreams.
“The way you look at me, Ser?” you ask softly, setting the glass down. You take a slow, deliberate step toward him. “Ow, don't tell me you're jealous now”
Dunk’s large hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into his palms as if trying to grasp for a composure that has completely abandoned him. He looks down at his boots, then up at the yellow silk ceiling, doing anything to avoid that knowing, astute gaze of yours.
“Your father is right. You have excellent taste, and,” he gulps down nervously when you look up at him like that, as you face him standing right in front of him. “I… I’m just a man who happened to be tall enough for you to notice.”
You reach out, your fingers feather-light as they brush against the back of his hand. Dunk flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away; instead, he turns his hand over, his palm catching your delicate fingers.
“Is that what you still think?” you ask, stepping so close that the charcoal silk of your skirts rustles against his legs. “That I only noticed you because you’re tall? There are plenty of tall men in Ashford, Duncan.”
Certainly not as tall or as handsome as him, though.
Dunk’s breath hitches. His hand, so much larger than yours, trembles as he raises it to your face. He hesitates for a second, his thumb hovering just over your cheekbone, before he finally finds the courage to touch you. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the smoothness of yours.
He sighs tremulously, gathering the courage he requires to look you in the eye and utter a reply, it's so hard when you are gazing at him with such longing.
“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick and vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity, his breath catching as you slide your hand up to the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. “I know there are other men—”
You rush to interrupt him, denying with your head, “There are no other men.”
You tug gently, pulling his head down. Dunk obeys instantly, his body acting on instinct, his large hands coming up to hover uncertainly at your waist. He looks at your lips with a hunger that makes your stomach flip, yearning.
And then you lift your other hand, bringing the cup of wine to his mouth so he can take a drink.
Dunk blinks, startled for a second, and then leans down just enough to obey like the good boy he is. The rim of the cup brushes his lips, and he takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. The wine stains his mouth darker, and you can’t help noticing it, the way his breath comes a little heavier afterward.
After that, you take a small sip yourself, savoring the delightful taste of the wine and also the taste of his lips at the spot where he touched the rim of the glass.
“There,” you murmur, alluringly licking your lips under his attentive gaze. “For courage.”
Dunk’s pupils dilate until his eyes are as dark as the blackberry wine he just tasted. He watches your tongue dart out to catch a stray drop on your lower lip, and the wet sound he makes is half-groan, half-prayer.
“I don’t think I've ever lacked for courage, my lady,” he rasps, his voice trembling as his hands finally find purchase on your waist. His fingers are so long they nearly meet at the small of your back, pulling you flush against the solid, warm wall of his chest. “I’m going to do something very stupid.”
He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours and you're truly surprised by his sudden boldness.
“I certainly hope so, Ser Duncan,” you whisper back and then, you reach up, your fingers tangling deeper into the thick, sun-kissed hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him that final agonizing inch down.
Dunk kisses you with a desperate, honest hunger, his large hands sliding up your back to cradle your head, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
The kiss is heavy, unpracticed, and utterly devastating. Duncan groans into your mouth, a low, animalistic sound that rattles through your chest.
And his strength is staggering. As he pulls you closer, your feet nearly leave the ground and with a boost from all the pent-up desire you've been repressing, you hop onto his body, climbing him like a mountain.
Dunk’s breath hitches in a sharp, jagged gasp as your weight settles against him. His hands, previously hesitant, now slam against your thighs to hold you in place, his fingers digging into fancy silk with a desperate grip, your legs wrapping around his waist with the same desperation his hands reach through your skirts, groping for your skin.
You don't give him a chance to breath as he walks backwards, towards the large, fur-covered bed.
You trail a line of biting kisses along his jaw, moving toward the sensitive skin of his ear, while your hands frantically work at the laces of his doublet.
And you kiss him again. As you deepen the kiss, the distinct, refreshing scent of mint rises from his skin at the base of his neck, driving you even wilder.
Once he is seated on the edge of the bed, with you straddling him, Dunk helps you, his big, calloused hands far less coordinated than yours as he tugs at his own clothes, desperate to shed the layers between you.
And when his upper body is bare for you, you can't help but gaze at him with your breath quickening and your lips slightly parted. You can feel yourself getting so wet as you feast your eyes on his big pecs and those stomach muscles, with hairs curling on his chest. Your eyes drift down, taking in his abs, your mouth watering at the sight of that little happy trail down his belly, leading to his prominent erection hiding under his pants.
There's no reason to waste any more time when you have him right there. You push him down onto his back, arching slightly as you bend down, covering his chest and stomach with hot kisses.
“I–I've dreamt of this,” He pants, his voice cracking into a small mewling sound that crawls up his throat when you press a sweet kiss right over his heart. “Every night since the river, the night at the tent… I thought— I thought I was losing my mind.”
His hands, so big and eager, grasp your backside, pressing you down against him.
“It is not a dream,” you assure him, raising yourself up just enough above him to be able to whisper in his ear. “You have me right here to take, my love.”
He may feel that he could cum just from the way you pronounce the term of endearment, and how your teeth catch his earlobe in a nibble that teases the edge of pain, tugging at it playfully, proving to him that he indeed was not dreaming.
Duncan fumbles with the amber silk ties of your gown, his breathing coming in harsh hitches.
When the fabric finally gives way, revealing your shoulders and the swell of your breasts, Dunk freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with a worship that borders on the sacred.
He seems to have forgotten how to breathe. His hands tremble against your skin as the gown falls, baring your shoulders beneath the golden light of the tent. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, you lean forward, letting your hair brush over his bare chest before drifting up to his neck.
“You smell so fucking good, Dunk…” you whisper against his warm skin, your warm breath sending a shiver like lightning down his spine. “Is it mint?”
He is red-faced and breathless, lifting his chin to grant you full access to his neck, “A–aye, I thought you'd like it”
“I love it,” you recognized, pleased.
You trail your nose to the hollow of his collarbone, where the mingled scent of mint and man is strongest.
It is not enough for you to only breathe him in; you let the tip of your tongue glide slowly, drawing a wet, burning line from the base of his throat up to the shell of his ear. You taste the salt of his skin, the raw trace of desire that seems to rise from every one of his pores.
The man lets out a broken groan, his head falling back against the furs of the bed as his fingers dig hard into your thighs. He feels as though he might come apart only from this alone.
Your tongue keeps exploring, licking with deliberate wetness along the tense muscle of his neck, marking your claim upon that colossal body that now feels entirely yours under you.
“Seven hells…” he pants, his voice fracturing as all semblance of composure deserts him.
Your lips find the frantic thrum of the pulse in his neck, and you suckle softly at the skin before dragging your tongue once more over the mark you are leaving through his skin. He arches beneath you and you can feel him throbbing, pressing up against your inner thigh.
“Do not stop, f–fuck—” he pleads, the words thickening into a low roar as his hands slide up your back to crush you against him. “Please, love… don’t stop.”
A playful, wicked curve touches your lips as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye.
“Love...” you relish the word as if you were relishing him.
Duncan is sprawled across the bed, looking up at you with glassy eyes, “Is it okay? I don't intend to cross...”
“Shhh...”
With a flirtatious smile that promises both heaven and hell, you reach for the loosened laces of your bodice.
You don't take your eyes off him for a second, savoring the way his breath hitches as you shrug the amber silk from your shoulders. The gown slides down your curves in a soft hiss of fabric, passing down around your hips until you sit before him in nothing but the golden glow of the tent.
Dunk’s mouth hangs open, his throat working as he tries to swallow the sudden dryness there, taking in the breathtaking sight of you bare upon him.
Your hands do not hesitate to reach for his breeches, tugging playfully at the waistband. Without breaking eye contact, you pull them down his legs; as you do, his manhood leaps free from its confinement, so big, leaking, and utterly desperate for you.
“What do you do to me those dreams of yours, Duncan?” you ask, your fingers tracing a slow path up his thick thighs, grazing the sensitive skin with the sharp, teasing edge of your nails.
“In my dreams…,” he rasps, his hoarse voice fracturing into a small, broken moan as he feels your fingers drumming against his skin, inching ever closer to his leaking cock. “I–I dream of your heat, and— and of the sounds you might make when I finally find my way inside. And of how I ruin you for everyone else.”
As you look up to him, Dunk’s pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue of his eyes, leaving only a dark, shimmering hunger.
And then, your fingers finally close around him, firm and knowing, he let out a choked, desperate whimper.
You shift your weight, sliding down his body until you are kneeling between his thighs. The smell of him, raw and masculine, is overwhelming, mixed with the sharp scent of the mint on your own breath.
“Then ruin me, Ser Duncan.”
You don't hesitate; you lean forward, taking him into your mouth with a deliberate, slow suction around the tip that makes his pretty eyes roll back in his head.
“Fuck—” he cries out, his hands slamming down to grip your hair and guide you as your pretty lips attempt to swallow his head.
You take him deeper, your tongue tracing the length of him, savoring his salty taste through his leaking seed.
Dunk’s hips buck off the furs, his breath hitching into a series of broken, jagged sobs as you work him with skilled movements of your tongue and mouth. Your own moans vibrating around him as you take him deep in your throat.
“I cannot…” he groans at that, his fingers tighten in your hair as the world begins to dissolve around him. “I can’t hold, love… p–please…”
He thrusts his hips upward with a sudden, desperate strength, driven by a lifetime of repressed longing. You don’t pull back; instead, you use your hands to steady his thick thighs and take him even deeper, your throat tightening around him in a way that sends him over the precipice.
You feel the hot, heavy pulse of him against your tongue, the salty heat of his release flooding your mouth as he spills himself down your throat. So much that you struggle a little bit to swallow it all.
When you finally pull back, a thin, milky thread of him still connects with your plump lips.
Looking down at you from above, his eyes clouded with pleasure, Dunk feels his cock twitching, hardening once more at the overstimulating, overwhelming sight.
He reaches down with a trembling hand, his thumb catching the stray drop at the corner of your mouth, before slowly tracing his finger in between your lips, refusing to let any of him be lost anywhere but in your throat.
You eagerly suck on his finger, swallowing everything he gives you as if it were the finest wine.
“Come here,” he commands gently, his voice so hoarse, guiding you as you climb over his body so he can draw you closer and claim your mouth in a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.
You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, still tasting the lingering scent of mint on his skin.
“My father was lying, you know?” you confess, your thumb brushing over his cheekbones, tracing away a few drops of sweat off his flushed skin. Your tone is light, but your eyes are serious. “When he said all that about me having so many lovers.”
Dunk’s hand, which had been idly stroking your back, freezes. His eyes go wide, the blue returning to them as the pupils finally contract. “You mean… there weren't… princes? Lords?”
“Oh, there were suitors,” you laugh softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the tip of his nose. “Dull, preening men who bored me to tears. But there were no lovers, Dunk. Not until a certain a big hedge knight sneaked into my tent.”
You watch the realization wash over him, the way his shoulders lose their tension, the way a flush creeps up his neck.
Your mouth find his once again. “I wanted you to know. I didn’t want you carrying that in your silly head.”
Duncan breathes heavily, resentfully patting your ass with his palms. “You Baratheons are wicked.”
Your cheeky laugh warms his bones.
“Needed something to happen so I could finally do this.”
He kisses you, needing nothing more, crushing you against his body in a tight embrace, “You didn't need to do anything. You always had me ”
Whatever catastrophes could arise, he knows that none can be as devastating as this storm. You.
And for Dunk, that feels like more than he ever dared hope for.
—summary: as the only daughter of lyonel baratheon—and the most spoiled—you get everything you want. the only thing you want tonight is to get that big man. and the big man you shall have.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: pure fluff, shy!dunk, sassy & spoiled reader, sexual tension, love at first sight trope, lots of romance, height difference, protective/intimidating dad!lyonel, dancing, knight x princess vibes!!!
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Night is just descending, bringing darkness to the world, and men are already stumbling around and fighting each other in drunken brawls. Some have even pulled out their swords—you don't know if they're just fooling around or if they're serious.
Your father has always been very permissive with you, often letting you have whatever you want, however you want it. You are his only daughter, after all. And as his only daughter, you are frequently his guest of honor at his feasts and gatherings.
This gathering... it's like every other gathering you've been to. There's not much of a difference. Lots of noise, lots of people you've never seen before, lots of stinking booze, and to top it all off, way too many arrogant men who are bold enough to ask you for a dance. You reject them all, as you naturally would. There's no one who stands out tonight for you.
That is, until your eyes fall on him. Clearly, he stands out from everyone else. Your eyes are pulled to his massive size and broad frame.
He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.
Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.
But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.
It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.
When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.
He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.
He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.
“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.
You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.
“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.
“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”
“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”
“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”
“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.
“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”
“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”
“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.
That's your call.
“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”
Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.
Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.
And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that.
His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.
Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.
“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.
“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”
“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”
“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”
Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.
“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”
The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”
“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”
“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.
You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.
The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.
“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy.
He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”
A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.
Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.
“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”
Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”
By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.
“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”
Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.
“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”
“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.
Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.
“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”
“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”
“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”
He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.
“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”
“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”
His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.
“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”
“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”
You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.
He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.
Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
You notice eyes on you then.
Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.
“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”
You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”
He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.
Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.
His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.
“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”
You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”
You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.
“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”
You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.
You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.
Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.
His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.
You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.
“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”
Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”
“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”
“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”
He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.
“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”
He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”
You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”
He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”
Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.
“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
He is truly pathetic. And you love it.
You hum softly, amused.
“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”
He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.
“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”
“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”
Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.
It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.
“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”
Your expression softens.
“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.
You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.
“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.
“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”
He blinks. “M-my lady?”
“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”
His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”
You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”
His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.
“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.
You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”
He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”
That makes you still.
Your teasing fades, just a little.
“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”
Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”
“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”
Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.
You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.
“I must go,” you announce softly.
Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.
“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”
There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.
“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”
“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.
You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.
“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”
You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.
“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”
“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”
“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”
“Good night, my lady.”
You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.
Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.
He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.
— summary: just a little drabble about how much dunk enjoys spitting—and to spit on you!
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), spit kink, praise kink, he's so filthy.
Ser Duncan is so polite and well-mannered, a man of simple vows and soft words, the noblest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Everyone who knows him would agree.
But your man, your Dunk, is filthy. He wasn’t ashamed of the Flea Bottom roots in his veins, and he saw no reason to hide his baser instincts from you.
Why should he hold back from you? You have the right to discover every part of him.
The first time he did it, the shock stole the breath from your lungs. Because how could you possibly imagine that your sweet, gentle, and innocent lover would like to spit on you like you were some kind of spit bucket?
He loves to do it, takes a slow, deliberate pleasure in it. He loves to let his spit drip onto your body, loving the sight of it sliding down your skin, covering it like an emblem of his own.
Don't get him wrong, he absolutely loves finishing on you too, but there's just something so hot about seeing the glistening droplets of his saliva on your gorgeous body, gliding in between the folds of your pretty cunt, all wet, making it extra slippery for him.
Because, by the Seven, you have to be really well lubricated to take him all the way in.
That's his usual excuse.
“Ow—love, t–there you go,” he would mumble from behind you, spreading your buttocks open to get a proper angle to spit right on the spot where the bulbous head of his cock presses into the folds of your throbbing opening, desperate to swallow him inside. “I know you can do it, you always can—just need a little more wettin’, hmm?”
The sheer nastiness of it makes your toes curl and he watches with hooded eyes as he spits again, the moisture glistening on the fat, leaking head of his cock before he guides himself inside you, stretching you out so much that it squeezes the air out of your chest, feeling him even in every breath you take.
“S–see?” he coos, one of his big hands palming and kneading the flesh of your arse appreciatively, fucking deeper into you. Your tight heat wrapping around his whole length has him seeing stars everytime he closes his eyes. “You're so brave for me—oh fucking hells...”
Oh, he's so nasty!
His favorite place to fuck you is right there the grass, as you might expect. He has you lie down on his own tunic, still damp with sweat after he's been chopping wood all morning. The sun is only just peeking out in the east when Dunk is already making you finish for the third time.
“Look at me,” Dunk grunts, and how could you possibly disobey his commands when he’s fucking you so good? “Open your mouth for me—mhm, just like that.”
He licks his lips, a twinkle of sly mischief crossing his features as he leans closer to you. You see how moisture builds up in his mouth as you blink your eyes, forcing yourself to concentrate on him and not on the fact that his cock rubs up against your ribs every time he bottoms out.
Then he lets the drool glob fall out of his mouth and into yours, his eyes squinting as he watches in awe how you eagerly roll out your tongue to scoop up his spit, not letting anything go to waste.
“That's it...” he praises you, enjoying the sight of you swallowing it down so eagerly. “That's my good girl, so good to me.”
He slides a finger into your mouth now and you are quick to suck on it.
┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you beseech ser duncan to teach you about the longsword; the both of you get much more than you bargained for.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.8K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ (smut), nsfw, inexperienced dunk & virgin!reader, knight x princess trope, outdoor sex, loss of virginity, dunk the munch, oral sex (fem!rec), unprotected p in v sex, size kink/size difference, very sweet & dunk can do no wrong.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: took a long break from writing, but I’m back now with an insane amount of inspiration! so obsessed with akotsk & westeros againnnn, hope you all enjoy this one!
Emerald foliage hugs the silty banks of a winding stream, twisting through the woodlands of Ashford Meadow. The summery breeze that whispers through carries the scent of dew, petrichor, and smoke.
A balmy heat clings to a midday sun, obscured by the occasional wisp of cloud. It splits through the canopy, bathing leaves in shades of gold.
Fluttering wings of a songbird settle against the elm’s outstretched branches, serenading the man beneath it with its twittering lullaby. Sun spills over him, catching upon his dusky-blonde crown.
At its misshapen base, Dunk sits with a pensive brow and a maelstrom of improper thoughts, ones that, if vocalized, would call for the removal of his head.
Situated beside the remains of a snuffed campfire, is you — a princess of the realm, one who seemed unusually content in his presence.
Blood of the dragon, a Targaryen; scion of Baelor, the Hand of the King, Breakspear. Dunk could still scarcely fathom why a princess of the realm indulged in his company.
Careworn hands sit laced together atop his middle, fingers idly drumming against his tunic. His gaze hasn’t left you for several minutes, sheepishly following the soft contours of your features.
A cloak of velvet swallowed you whole, the hue of spilled crimson, billowing beneath the breeze. Draconic embellishments were woven into your gown, hem steeped with mud from your constant traversing.
“You don’t seem worried about gettin’ into trouble, m’lady,” Dunk remarks, comfortably sprawled beneath the tree. “I’m not exactly splendid company.”
Upon your arrival to Ashford Meadow alongside your kin, you had little desire to witness the carnage wrought by blood and blade.
Whilst Valarr demonstrated prowess upon the tournament grounds in the name of House Targaryen, you sought to assimilate amongst the smallfolk. It was a lively tapestry, one that you longed to weave yourself into.
You indulged in the occasional ale, breathed in the crisp air of the Ashford forests, and nimbly evaded the watchful eye of your Kingsguard. For a moment, you simply were — no title, no nobility, just yourself.
Two nights prior, you encountered Ser Duncan wandering the grounds, horse in-tow, wide-eyed and seeking refreshment. Humility was not lost upon him, nor his immeasurable compassion.
It was then that you engaged in conversation, perplexed and magnetized by this hedge knight. He was good; that piety you witnessed drenched his very being.
Goodness was not a commonality found in the realm — it was a rarity, akin to a gemstone hidden amongst mounds of rubble. Duty kept you bound to a life opposite of his; one of rigidity, not a shred of freedom.
“Do not sell yourself short, Ser,” The softness of your cadence wrapped him in silk, with all the sweetness of honey. “I find you to be riveting.”
“Riveting,” Dunk sputters, features ruddy with heat as he shakes his head. “You might find the horses to be a bit more entertainin’.”
“Perhaps,” You mused, chest expanding as you inhaled a gust of dew-laden air. “They are beautiful creatures, are they not? I quite enjoy a morning ride.”
With a stirring of his throat, he sits a little taller, grunting when rough bark cuts uncomfortably into his spine. “Beautiful, I s’pose — pains in the arse, some of them. Pardon my tongue, princess.”
Jovial laughter resonates throughout the grove, easing his embarrassment to a mere lull. He thinks himself to be little more than a prattling jester in your presence.
“Pardoned, Ser,” A teasing lilt spills from your tongue as you exhale, looking upon him with a peculiar softness. “Do you look forward to fighting in the tournament?”
“Of course,” He peacocks, his own facade of confidence bolstered by the timbre in his voice. “I hope to emerge a champion, once it’s over.”
“I am certain that the Gods will favor you,” There is a sweetness to you that he finds compelling; one worth fighting for. “If your heart is true, you shall find victory.”
“You believe that?” Dunk inquires, sitting up properly, forearms perched against his knees. He’s massive even when prone, all thick muscle and stretched limbs, and yet his eyes are exceedingly gentle.
“I do,” Your answer fills him with some sliver of hope. “The realm lacks knights like yourself — serious about your vows, a defender of the smallfolk, and selfless.”
“I am honored by your praise, m’lady,” He wonders what he did to deserve such accolades, but accepts them nonetheless. “You must not know many knights.”
“Not all of them have your heart, Ser Duncan.” Hands smooth over your skirts, an elegant dress that seems far too gaudy for a romp through the woodlands.
Though, it certainly isn’t lightweight, either. The refuge of the elm’s shade provides a needed respite from the growing heat, suffocating you in a gilded cage of velvet and pretty silks.
Whilst you toil in your gowns, Duncan admires the intricate fabrics, the way they contrast with your features, bringing out details he commits to memory.
A lump forms within his throat, cerulean hues tracing over the gracious curve of your throat. The neckline of your garment is trimmed in rubies and opals, flesh unblemished, a canvas of perfection.
Some wicked part of him considers what beauty rests beneath, features flushing with scarlet when he thinks too hard. It’s improper, crass to think of you in such ways.
It is unavoidable.
“Might I ask a favor of you, Ser Duncan?”
The amiable lull of your voice drags him from the brink of mental debauchery, much to his relief. He nearly coughs, straightening where he sits when you address him properly.
Who was he to refuse a princess of the Realm?
If the circumstances were different, he wouldn’t have a choice but to heed your wishes. Dunk’s scramble to adhere to your request made your nose wrinkle in wry amusement.
“Of course, m’lady.” He stumbles to kneel, movements clumsy and unpracticed. The sound of your laughter makes him bristle with embarrassment.
“You needn’t kneel, Ser,” As you rise from the grass, you gesture to the longsword sitting against the elm’s ancient trunk. “Could you teach me?”
Duncan stands, gaze finding the shoddy scabbard shielding Arlan’s sword from the elements. His incredulity is evident, marked by lofted brows and a tense jaw.
“Teach you to fight? Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but don’t you have a flock of Kingsguard for that?” Dunk questions, his tone considerate yet gentle.
“I do not wish to become a master-at-arms overnight, Ser — I only ask to know how to hold a blade, handle it, swing it at that wall if I must.” Gathering your skirts, you step towards the tree.
“A Kingsguard could teach you better than I, m’certain.” Persistent, he edges you toward the logical choice. Dunk already feels immense pressure — you’re a Princess, wasting your time alongside his ilk.
“The Kingsguard are of better use protecting my father and uncle,” Nearing the longsword, your gaze traces the well-worn hilt, across steel and silver. “I want you to show me.”
“Your Lord-Father would have my head if he knew,” His tone is somewhat pained, wrought with a tangle of nerves clotted in his belly. “I shouldn’t …”
“I won’t force your hand, Ser,” The graciousness of your smile is enough to make his knees buckle, not an easy feat for a man of his stature. “It was merely a request, one that you can deny.”
“Denyin’ a princess seems a dangerous gamble,” Flustered, his admission prompts you to laugh, shooting him a look. “My apologies.”
“Do you think me so spoiled, Ser Duncan? I would never make any demands of you,” Soft and marrow-deep, your velvety voice sinks into his bones. “You are a good man.”
“You flatter me, m’lady,” Scarlet clings to his features even still, not to be mistaken by the kiss of sunshine. Calloused hands fold together as he clears his throat. “S’pose I could show you a few techniques.”
This sort of defiance did ignite a fire within you.
Your father was a good man; tempered, just, and compassionate. However, all goodness had its limits, and your recent betrothal to a Lannister turned you sour.
If it were your choice, you would’ve favored someone like Ser Duncan the Tall — someone humble, whose penchant for selflessness outweighed ego. There was no charm equal to tenderness of heart.
Strength rests within his hands, firm and taut with years of earnest work, knuckles scraped, digits calloused. Hands that would handle you gently, you were certain.
A pang of molten heat struck violently at your belly as a slew of unholy fantasies invaded your mind like a festering plague. You thought of Dunk — of his mouth, his hands, how he might feel beneath you.
Quietly, your gaze raked over the muscle of his forearms, each layered in a dusting of dusky-blonde hair, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tunic.
This flicker of desire would prove difficult to extinguish.
“I do not wish for you to think of me as your superior,” It was insistent, your request; simple, you thought. “I am your equal in all measures, Ser Duncan.”
It was difficult to mask the shock he felt, lips parting in surprise. “Well, not in all measures, Princess,” Duncan protested, quieting when you sighed. “Sorry.”
“You must think me privileged for this, but status is sometimes burdensome,” Forlornly, your eyes drifted elsewhere, toward the sky. “For a woman.”
Dunk had spent much of his youth regaled by Ser Arlan regarding the snobbish, spoiled nature of nobility. Princes, princesses, lords, ladies — all of them too vain.
You didn’t strike Dunk as vain.
The longer he stared at you, the more he attempted to understand your desire for liberation, for wanting to hold a blade, or to sleep beneath the stars.
“It isn’t my place to judge, m’lady,” He consoles, blue hues fluttering about, attempting to maintain an element of propriety. “I thought all Targaryens were …”
“Exhaling fire and scorching with fury?” The mirth within your tone was unmistakable, accompanied by another dazzling smile that sparkled beneath the sunlight.
“Some of them,” Dunk shuddered to think of the serpentine Prince Aerion, with a gaze as sharp as razors. “Some are kinder.” A low rumble spread throughout his chest.
Warmth slithered over the back of your neck, tendrils of fire that clung to your flesh. It was soothed only by another wisp of breeze, easing the flame that danced within you.
Silence simmered, creeping between the both of you like ivy, holding with it a veiled tension. Attraction was to be expected — you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, far too ethereal for the likes of him.
Golden sunlight curled across your crown, drenching you in midday embers. It glittered against your smile, a gentle thing, one that regarded Duncan as someone worthy of attention.
“Perhaps I could return at twilight,” It was a brazen suggestion, one that turned his stomach with nerves. It required sneaking off from your tents — again. “If that suffices.”
“Are you certain? Won’t you have to …” Dunk’s rambling ceases when he notices the look you give him; amused, as if he’s said something humorous.
“I am elusive, and I am certain that I won’t be caught,” Your assurances did little to alleviate his worry, but he conceded to you anyway. “Do not fret, Ser Duncan.”
Despite your reassurance, Dunk contemplates all possibilities; if you’re followed, if you’re caught with him alone, if you are questioned in regards to your whereabouts.
Though, he finds a strange sense of serenity in your heartened smile. It reminds him of sunlight striking water at the first sigh of dawn; glittering, bright, and breathtaking. His heart sings at the sight of you before him.
“If you are caught?” Dunk pipes up as you inch toward the woodland, hem catching upon undergrowth with a sense of carelessness.
“Then I will treasure the time that I had with you, Ser Duncan the Tall.” With that, you turn on your heels, your mirthful grin emblazoned on his mind like a hot brand, certain to never leave his thoughts.
Gods help him.
Twilight chases the day away, veins of violet infusing an orange horizon, bringing with it a cloak of encroaching darkness. Stars twinkle overhead, a thousand kisses of a celestial light.
As sunlight wanes into dying embers, Dunk paces beside a crackling campfire, wisps of fire dancing away into a cooler dusk. Sienna blankets emerald glass, casting shadows over the great elm.
Anxiousness gnaws away at his stomach like a beast clawing at a carcass, eating his marrow, leaving only his nerves in the wreckage.
He assumes the worst — you aren’t coming.
Calloused hands perch themselves against his hips, kneading into rough-hewn fabric for a semblance of relief. Every distant stirring of wildlife sends a jolt of fear through him.
Dunk half-expects Prince Baelor to storm through the trees with his white-cloaks like a reaper come to collect his head, but nothing happens. Instead, he’s met with a stretch of endless silence.
It is only when your silhouette moves gracefully through darkness that he eases his pacing.
Gone are your lavish gowns, exchanged for something pretty yet simplistic, a rich violet swathed in your cloak. Any intricate braids are pinned down, and his breath hitches at the sight of you.
A smaller, bejeweled knapsack hangs loosely from your hand, a token of repayment for your unlikely instructor. As you weave through the grass, a warm smile spreads across your features.
“Good eve, Ser Duncan,” Greeted by a comely hearth and his handsome visage, you unclasp your cloak, placing the garment upon a lower branch. “I’ve brought you something.”
He nearly blossoms when you reveal your gift; foodstuffs, his weakness. It’s a colorful array of baked pastries, fresh fruits, and a hunk of cured ham, wrapped carefully in a scrap of fine cloth.
“You didn’t have to,” Dunk mumbles, stomach lurching violently. He eats for two, a man of his indomitable size; he welcomes the meal. “Thank you, m’lady. This is generous of you.”
“Rumor has it that you’ve a penchant for gooseberry cakes,” The lightness of your teasing causes him to blush, and he knows it originated from Ser Lyonel. “I cannot blame you.”
Dunk’s smile is sheepish, wreathed in a tinge of chagrin as he stifles a cough. “Wondered who spread such a rumor,” He sighs, ogling the small tart. “There’s some truth to it.”
Amusingly, he sheds his flustered expression, greedily digging into the food you brought with you. Homemade stew from Fleabottom was his form of a delicacy, and this far surpassed it.
The thick glaze of gooseberry jam floods his tongue, bittersweet as it twists in-tandem with the spongy cake. He’d eaten four of these in Ser Lyonel’s tent yesterday without an ounce of shame.
Your footsteps are feather-light, carrying you through swaying grass as you approach Thunder, one of Ser Duncan’s horses. Fingertips stroke softly along his neck, drifting across chestnut fur to his withers.
“I used to have a horse much like this one, until my cousin impaled it with a sword out of spite.” Anguish layered itself into your tone, lying beneath the surface.
Prince Aerion, Dunk assumes, mouth curling into a frown of displeasure. The thought of someone willfully inflicting harm to an animal with malicious intent turns his stomach with dread.
“I’ve little tolerance for anyone who maims animals,” Dunk utters, swiping at his lips with the back of his palm. The tarts sit heavy in his belly. “Don’t care if they’re royal blood or not.”
“You’re kind, Ser Duncan,” A low exhale billows through your nose, fingers brushing over the horse’s shoulder in continuous motions. “I should hope that you never lose such a sentiment.”
Sturdy hands close around his sheathed longsword, holding it aloft as he comes to stand beside you. He keeps a comfortable berth, but the newfound proximity nearly turns him into a blushing boy.
This time, you’re keenly aware of his gaze and how it shyly flutters about your countenance. Dunk looks at you fondly and with the warmth of someone who sees you, and not shrouded by lust.
“Still wantin’ to learn a thing or two?” His question is as soft as silk, wrapped within the rougher baritone of his Fleabottom drawl.
“If you’re willing, Ser,” Your reply is noninvasive, making no demands of the hedge knight. There is little honor in using your status to make him do much of anything. “I would be honored.”
Dunk clears his throat, gesturing toward the stretch of grass beside the helm, furthest away from the horses and campfire. “We’ll need a bit of room for this. Don’t want you hittin’ the horses.”
Gathering your skirts, you nimbly dance around the fire, setting in the grass as Dunk removes the longsword from its scabbard. It’s no Valyrian steel; it’s worn with age, clunky, but it’s reliable.
He offers it to you, noticing your arms buckle slightly, unaccustomed to the weight of a blade. “Heavier than I thought it’d be.” You murmur, managing to keep it somewhat steady.
“It’s no feather, princess,” Dunk chuckles, politely stepping beside you. He hovers, bulk of his musculature ghosting over you, a thrilling sensation. “If I may.”
The knight goes crimson again, attempting to ignore the closeness between bodies, but he isn’t impervious to the saccharine scent of your skin.
Dunk reaches to adjust your grip, large hands blanketing yours, calloused skin like rough leather over your own. He shudders; you feel like silk, softer than anything he’s touched before.
As he politely moves your hands about the hilt, he steadies you wordlessly, watching as you fix your stance without being prompted.
“Seems you already know a thing about posture,” He marvels aloud, smiling when you laugh. “Have I said somethin’ funny again?” Dunk assumes his antics often amuse you.
“I’ve grown up watching my brother handle sword and shield, and my father. I observe them when I can,” The radiance of your smile is unlike any other. “Perhaps you’ll make a swordsman of me yet.”
Another rumble of laughter shakes his chest, a sound that you aim to hear often, if you can. Firelight licks across his frame, blanketing his features in a sienna glow, embers against blue.
“You’ll want to know how to parry,” Dunk clears his throat, showing you how with a stick he found lying about. “You can try it with one hand, but you’ll want two on the hilt.”
With a nod, you awkwardly mimic his movements, wondering if all knights feel clumsy when wielding a sword. Despite your unpracticed hand, the sense of power you feel is present.
He shows you how to strike with three maneuvers, each different from the last. Swordplay is a foreign concept, one that requires ample practice and patience.
Regardless, you’re a quick learner, but you handle the longsword as if it’s an anchor. It is heavy, forcing exertion from your arms, delicate and untrained.
“Swing up,” Dunk’s instruction is calm, tempered; he sounds akin to a soothing septa instead of a knight. As you follow through, albeit barely, he smiles. “Good girl.”
Butterflies erupt within your belly like a storm, accompanied by a molten heat that is rather unfamiliar to you. Gods, you burn — his words sink like fire into your flesh.
Good girl, he says — you’d like for him to say it again, only with your mouth on his throat.
In turn, Dunk thoroughly revels in watching you handle his tutelage, even if your movements are bumbling and ungainly. You’re beautiful when focused; furrowed brows, curled lip, locks of hair strewn about.
“I cannot imagine practicing this each day,” You confess, muscles already burning from merely bearing the weight of the blade. “How long have you been a knight, Ser Duncan?”
“A sennight,” The softness of his cadence signals honesty; he’s only just been knighted. “I’m no master-at-arms, princess.” He murmurs, brows furrowing together.
“Not all experience measures a fighter. Some of the Kingsguard are shoddy swordsmen, chosen only by status and bloodline,” Your words bring him some comfort, but it’s threadbare. “I think you’re a fine teacher.”
“You’d have better luck learnin’ from your Kingsguard, m’lady,” Dunk murmurs, unwilling to accept such accolades from you. “I don’t know as much as I’d like to.”
“I would rather learn from someone who is currently practicing than from someone who hasn’t in years.” You shrug, lowering the longsword to alleviate the dull ache in your arms.
There is some measure of truth to your words, infused with a wisdom that Dunk takes to heart. He watches as you brace yourself against the sword, tip of steel dug into the earth beneath you.
“Tired already, princess?” A teasing lilt clings to his voice, innocuously harmless as you give him a pointed glance. “Meanin’ no offense, of course.”
“This is more difficult than I thought it’d be,” Heat blossoms over your features as Dunk steps forward to retrieve his longsword. “You all make it seem so effortless — you, my father, my brother.”
“You’ll have to build a bit of muscle,” Without a second thought, his large hand closes around your bicep. When he realizes his error, he jerks away. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to …”
“You’ve a tender hand, Ser Duncan,” Your words caress his mind like that of a balmy draft, warm and molten as it wraps around him. “For a man of your stature and strength.”
A hitch forms within his throat, countenance ruddy, burning hotter as he shrinks beneath your stare. It is penetrating yet kind, the sort of gaze that would make a man like him collapse to his knees.
“Ser Arlan used to tell me that I was as thick as a castle wall, and twice as stupid,” Dunk fumbles, placing his sword back into its scabbard. “Nothing’s changed.”
“You aren’t stupid nor a fool, Ser,” Despite your consolation, he withers away, lowering himself onto his bedroll with an unceremonious grunt. “You didn’t mean any harm.”
Unconvinced, he sits with his knees drawn toward his chest, appearing larger than before as you sit beside him. Beneath the elm’s flourishing boughs, neither of you say much of anything.
A tenuous quiet falls like a whispered hush through the grove, the only ambiance that of a lively wilderness and the smoldering of the campfire.
Above, the stars paint the horizon with their pale light, a sky uninhabited by dour clouds. It’s crystalline, accompanied by the kiss of a midsummer’s eve and the scent of new life.
“This place is beautiful,” Your voice floats like a distant dream, severing the silence. “Forests like these aren’t common near Dragonstone; not as green.”
“It is beautiful,” Dunk hums in concurrence, and though your eyes fall to the heavens above, he is too preoccupied with staring at you. “Very nice.”
Cringing at the sound of his own voice, words turn to ash upon his tongue, dying within his throat. He wonders how many lords and handsome princes have asked for your hand, or your favor.
Laughter tumbles from your lips, nose wrinkling in wry amusement as you glance at him. Your eyes follow the strong line of his jaw, over days-old stubble, over the crook of his nose.
Dunk meets your gaze, swallowing the slight lump within his throat, regarding you with a thinly-veiled fondness. He tenses when your palm settles against his forearm.
“Princess, I — You shouldn’t,” Floundering in embarrassment, he looks the part of a blushing maiden more than you, endlessly gallant. “You’re …”
“Virtuous,” Silken fingertips trace the muscle of his arm, gaze eclipsed by a blossoming desire. “If I wanted to be with you, would you spurn my advances, ser?”
A weighted shock slams into his chest, a force so sudden that it rips the air from his lungs. Your honor was to be protected, safeguarded; Dunk worried about yours far more than his own.
Yet, your embrace was akin to cold raindrops against his blazing skin; welcomed, refreshing, and gentle.
Gooseflesh coalesced along his spine, accompanied by a tremor that quaked his stomach. In such close proximity, he caught a whiff of your scent; honeyed, the sweetest thing imaginable.
“Aren’t you worried about your station? Worried about your honor? I’m a mere knight, m’lady, I want to do right by you.” Dunk rambles, feeling your hand grace his own, satin stretched over something rough.
“If my honor falls upon you, then I’ve chosen a soft place to land, I cannot think of another more deserving,” The cadence of your voice brings him some comfort. “Damn my station.”
This was your freedom to choose whomever you wanted — and you wanted Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight.
“I don’t want to hurt you, princess,” Something rough and heavy slithers into his voice, letting it drop to a deliciously low octave. “I’m not a very experienced lover.”
“We have that in common,” As his hand slips into yours, you press a kiss against his bruised knuckles, over calloused skin. “We can learn together.”
Dunk knows what catastrophe this could bring upon him; ruin, most likely, or perhaps a severed head. Despite this warning, he bends anyway, abandoning caution.
He understands that you’ve a right to choose, just as he is owed a right to deny you — he doesn’t.
In your youth, you often pranced about Dragonstone, stealing kisses from stable boys and starry-eyed noblemen at feasts. There was a curiosity present, and this was the first time you truly wanted to explore.
As if circling a wild doe, Dunk is deliberate as he leans to kiss you, so painfully sluggish that you nearly bridge the gap yourself. Anticipation stirs within you, a spark soon to fester into fire.
Tenderness blossoms where uncertainty withers, and whatever pang of fear you felt ceases to exist. Lips meld together, honey and smoke.
A steady exhale drags through his chest, one of contentment as he climbs down from his own nervousness. His hand shifts, politely grazing the underside of your jaw, the action brief.
“I won’t shatter, Dunk,” Abandoning the usage of lordly dossiers, his name sits on your tongue, wreathed in something cloying. “I promise.”
Dunk takes your words into consideration, shivering as your breath fans across his mouth, like the sigh of summertime. His head jostles in a brief nod before he kisses you again; passionate this time.
Something heady hazes his mind, something feverish as he tilts forward to kiss you fully, feeling your fingers grasp at his tunic. There is nothing forceful, nor harsh — only ardor.
Blanched light pools through the elm’s verdant canopy, blanketing the both of you in silver. Your mouth is akin to silk, something downy to balance his roughness.
When your hands creep toward his collar, Dunk almost leaps at the contact, palm cupping your jaw. Each kiss bleeds into the last — less restrained, and steadily growing comfortable.
Within his kiss, you find yourself flourishing, shedding the shackles of duty and embracing a newfound calm. His thumb slowly circles your cheek, tender as ever.
The rigidity of his posture begins to unfurl, limbs loosening as he settles against his bedroll, heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
He inhales when you slink closer, feeling the curve of your breasts press into his chest. It is then that you brazenly surge forth, climbing into his lap without hesitation.
Dunk agonizingly recalled the last time he’d touched a woman; many moons ago, a brothel worker bought by Ser Arlan. It was a sour recollection of events — clumsy hands and a clumsier bedding.
You were no harlot; you were of royal blood, dragon’s blood.
Emboldened and driven by the hum of excitement, you find yourself in the knight’s lap, spread over thick thighs as your kiss crawls to a simmer.
“You are exceptionally handsome,” Your amiable lull is beguiling to him, body pliant and waiting beneath velvet garments. “You’ve the bluest eyes of anyone I’ve seen.”
Heat licks along his spine as he basks in your compliments, feeling a pang of foolishness when he realizes he hasn’t paid you the same favor.
“You’re beautiful,” Dunk gathers his bearings, stifling a throaty groan as your hips adjust against him. Mortification courses through his veins when he realizes he’s already hard. “The sort of beauty one might sing about.”
Smitten, you do little to mask your enamorment, fingertips gathering along the nape of his neck. “Are you going to write a song about me, Ser Duncan?” Your tone is coy, a touch playful.
“I just might, princess.” He rumbles, gazing up at you as if you’re a goddess come to claim him. Dunk’s hands cup your hips with a burst of confidence, stare half-lidded as caresses your curves.
Enraptured, he watches as your hands abandon his throat, reaching down to ruck up your skirts, listening to the hitch in his chest.
Plum-colored velvet pools around the swell of your hips, fabric settled in an unceremonious heap. It is you that kisses Dunk again, infused with a fiery passion that he gladly chases.
A noise stirs within his throat, a deep sound of satisfaction coupled with desperation. Restraint only tempers his hand for so long until it becomes futile.
Between ambrosial kisses, he meets your doe-eyed gaze, teetering upon the knife’s edge of desire. Surrounded by the teeming shroud of wilderness, your heart echoed his name, an amorous lament.
Mouths softly collide, succumbing to a mutual and burning flame, one that takes you both. He feels your hands tug at his tunic, fingertips dancing across bare flesh.
He shivers when you touch him, likely out of startlement and surprise instead of an earthly chill. Dunk revels in the feeling of your satiny palms caressing at the muscles of his abdomen.
“Dunk,” You sigh against his lips, sweet breath pluming over his features, a wash of sweetness. The tent in his trousers strains urgently against your inner thigh. “My sweet Dunk.”
It isn’t a firm claim you utter, but he would’ve been glad if it were, hand lowering to your thigh. Dunk’s calloused digits settle beneath your skirts, daring to glide over satiny flesh, the first to touch.
“Princess,” His gravelly murmur is so warm, warmer than any kiss of sunlight as he plants a kiss to your jaw. You taste like a dream beneath the pillars of his lips. “I’d like to taste you proper.”
Inexperience did not equate to naivety — you knew what he meant, knew of his intentions.
A tremor of anticipation coiled tight within your belly, warped by an insatiable desire. It was unexpected for you, a virtuous woman, but you did not spurn whatever fantasy he longed to share.
“Of course, if it pleases you.” Your agreement was nearly instantaneous, met with yearning blue eyes and a lackadaisical nod. The knight gestured toward his shoddy bedroll.
“I’m aimin’ to please you, m’lady,” Dunk’s earnestness makes you melt as you lay on your back, lashes kissing the freckled skin beneath his eyes. “That’s all I want.”
The earth cradles you, bedroll nestled above a thatch of spongy grass, and you feel little discomfort as the knight shifts between your legs. His frame is statuesque, forcing your legs farther apart.
It allows you to hold steadfastly to his arms, thick and burly beneath your palms, nails digging playfully into his biceps. As he hovers above you, bulky musculature blanketing you with heat, your lips curl into a smile.
“I do not wish for you to feel any sort of obligation,” It is your turn to become flustered, visibly smitten as you trace your hands along his arms. “Royal blood or not.”
“I want to please you,” The insistence in his husky lull makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. “Would you allow me this?” Dunk asks, tone bordering upon desperation.
With a hurried nod, you feel his mouth press sloppily to the juncture between your throat and shoulder. He kisses you wherever he can, nothing short of reverent and tender.
Gold-skinned and eager, your knight shuffles further down, calloused palms cupping your hips, drawing circles there as his mouth descends upon you.
First, you feel his lips sweetly embrace the crook of your knee, skirts hitched up around your waist. It’s sluggish yet exploratory, savoring you, worshiping you; it’s what you deserve.
Dunk’s rust-blonde crown begins to disappear between your thighs, lavishing your inner thighs in kisses until he finds your cunt. You’re slick already, warm and waiting, all for him.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pants like a crazed animal, breathing somewhat labored with excitement. Before you can utter another syllable, his lips are on you like a hot brand.
His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, wanton and deliciously needy.
Strong hands idly caress and squeeze at your hips, grounding himself as he savors your cunt. Dunk is enthralled, and yet he moves slowly, longing to savor your taste.
Bliss ripples through your body in balmy waves, a white-hot buzz that clouds your mind. A soft, keening moan splits your diaphragm, one hand fisting at his ruddy tresses.
The knight unabashedly grunts from the taste of you, hands coming to hook beneath your thighs, resting soundly atop your hips. The muscles in his forearms tighten, caging you in against him.
His broad shoulders bully your legs apart, tongue like embers as he slowly traces your cunt, drinking you in. He hears you moan, say his name, and he’s driven to madness.
“Gods above, Dunk.” Your cloying moan carries through the grove, heady and delighted, thighs tensing against his face. Pleasure sinks into you like talons, sharp and urgent.
Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.
Dunk groans, the gravelly noise shaking his chest, mouth sloppily lavishing your cunt in kisses. He lacks grace and tact, but makes up for it with a ceaseless passion.
It’s as if you might melt into the bedroll, shrinking further earthward, back arched with ecstasy. As molten heat pools between your thighs, Dunk laps at your cunt with great enthusiasm.
He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked him to; begged him to, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.
Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.
Another barrage of his tongue evokes a moan from your mouth, bubbling from your throat, a blissful crescendo. You fear smothering him, but Dunk welcomes it gleefully.
It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.
Your nerves feel ragged, as if they are scorched with wildfire, burning within Dunk’s embrace. Instinctively, your hips lurch forward, haplessly jerking toward his mouth.
“Sweet girl.” His low, affectionate drawl makes the ache between your legs grow, prompting you to give another tug of his hair.
“D—Dunk,” A throaty, tapering moan escapes your mouth, and then another, and another. His tongue laps dutifully across your clit, repetitive yet driving you to the very brink. “There, there!”
Whatever nervousness he once felt toward your coupling is extinguished, leaving only his affection for you in its wake. Strong hands sweetly caress your thighs, circling beside your hips.
The heavens above glimmer down upon you, cool breeze bringing some relief to the heat of your body. Another ripple of ecstasy oozes through your bones, mouth agape, countenance one of bliss.
Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue sloppily rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud.
You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.
Dunk tenderly takes you through it with loving hands and a gentle mouth, still greedily lapping at your slit. Your taste sits heavy on his tongue, bittersweet and his alone.
The height of your pinnacle fills you with ecstasy, loose-limbed and heady as you settle fully into the bedroll. Your knees tremble, grip loosening against his crown.
Scarlet-faced and aching, Dunk presses a string of warm kisses to your thighs, face lifting from between your legs. Beguiled, he offers you a charmed smile, tongue lashing over his bottom lip.
“Was that alright, m’lady?” Dunk rumbles, attempting to ignore the incessant throbbing that strains against his breeches. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, no,” You soothe, catching your breath as you coax him closer, wanting to cradle his face. “That was wonderful, Dunk. I did not think such pleasure was possible.”
At your bewildered confession, the knight chuckles, visage rather sheepish as he sinks into your embrace. Your silken palms come to cup his jaw, thumbs circling across his face as you urge him closer.
“We don’t have to keep goin’, princess,” Dunk offers, delighted to please you without a care for his own release. “M’happy to lay here with you.”
To his shock, you kiss him, loosing a soft moan when you taste yourself on his tongue. It drives him mad with desire, sucking in a sharp inhale as he reciprocates.
As mouths join in a blistering kiss, he feels your hands dip to his broad shoulders, pushing steadily and without any sense of urgency.
Dunk follows obediently, guided by your heavenly hand until he’s on his back and you’re perched in his lap. Clamoring to straddle him, you sit up, noticing the delight etched into his visage.
“I want to continue, Ser,” Fingertips tease the hem of his tunic, beginning to lift the fabric up. Hurriedly, he moves up enough to peel it off, tossing it aside. “As long as you wish the same.”
“Aye, I — Yes,” He fumbles, bristling with excitement as he feels your lips press against his throat. A poignant groan bubbles through his throat, hands settling over your hips. “You’re beautiful.”
Dunk sits contentedly beneath you, shivering as your digits caress across his chest, over a light layer of hair. He’s well-built, broad — but he isn’t some chiseled statue.
Adjusting your weight, you let your hands drop to the front of his trousers, toying with the laces. Lips meet again in another flurry of kisses, fingers tugging until the linen loosens.
Freeing his cock, you nearly gasp at the sheer size of him, stomach pierced by the icy stab of fear. You’ve never seen a man unclad before, and he can hear the audible hitch in your throat.
“I’ll be gentle, promise,” Dunk assures you immediately, hands caressing along your spine. He plants a soft kiss to your jaw, nose nuzzling into your satiny skin. “Wouldn’t dare hurt you, princess.”
“I trust you, Dunk,” Your whisper tapers off into a soft gasp as his cock pulses hotly against your thigh. “You’re so handsome, so perfect.” The sultry lull of your voice makes his cock twitch.
“M’lady …” Flustered, he preens beneath your praise, unaccustomed to hearing such sweetness from one’s tongue. He’s a little tongue-tied, swallowing the growing lump in his throat.
“I want to feel you,” As your plea reaches his ears, he struggles to maintain propriety, resisting the urge to pull you onto his cock. “More than anything.”
“I’m yours,” Dunk does little to mask the desperation, voice frayed and fractured with want. “I’m your man.” His sigh is almost dreamlike, pupils dilated with the shadow of desire.
At that, you lower yourself onto his cock, gasping at the intrusion. He is thick, his girth something to acclimate to. The both of you loose a shared moan, foreheads flush together.
Tight around him, his cockhead splits past your folds, pressing into your cunt. The sensation of him stretching you out makes you moan, hands gripping at his shoulders, nails kissing skin.
“Dunk!” Your moan is piercing, an overwhelming pleasure pierced by the sting of discontent. You dig crescents into the broad, freckled muscles of his shoulders.
He watches as your countenance blossoms into a look of bliss and mingled discomfort, brows furrowing together, lips agape. Dunk bristles, worried that he’s hurting you involuntarily.
“Fuck.” Your hissed expletive is unbecoming of a maiden, and yet you say it anyway. His deliberate entry makes you writhe, soothed by the kisses he presses to your throat.
“Should I stop? Is it — Gods, is it painful, m’lady?” The knight flounders, desire hazing his sensibilities. You feel divine, taking him perfectly, save for the clenched muscles.
“No, do not,” Another sputtered whine slips past your mouth as you remember to breathe, settling further down onto his cock. “Seven Hells, Dunk.”
“Easy now,” Dunk pants, not wanting you to exert yourself so swiftly. It’s the first time you’ve bedded a man — and he isn’t small, by any means. “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”
The use of such an innocuous nickname causes your stomach to pulse with butterflies. You lower yourself further, inch by inch, breath fanning across his face.
Fortunately, the warm slick between your thighs soothes the descent, and you feel him deep; deeper than you expected. A low grunt ripples through him, hands cupping your hips.
It is Dunk’s steadfast hold that guides you, cautiously easing you up upon his cock, and lowering you again. The movement is innately intimate, intended to be pleasurable.
The tranquil hum around you is accompanied by the soft noises of your coupling, with labored breaths and the occasional moan. Your hands reach for his hair, gripping tightly to him.
“Gods, you’re perfect,” Dunk huffs, pressing a warm, sloppy kiss to your mouth. The pace becomes rhythmic, certain; your cunt clenches tight around him. “Slowly, m’lady.”
His warm baritone fills you with comfort, pacifying any worry you might’ve had. Before you can move any faster, you can feel him in your belly, causing you to shiver.
It’s a deep-rooted bliss you feel as you ride his cock, aided by his tender support. He isn’t forceful, never takes more than you want, allowing you to set whatever pace you choose.
Beneath you, Dunk reclines, comfortably sprawled across the tattered bedroll. Cerulean hues gaze at you as if you’ve hung the stars yourself, watching as you take his cock so perfectly.
Something wicked flickered inside of his heart, imagining taking you against the tree, skirts rucked around your hips. When his name slips lasciviously from your mouth, he looses another eager grunt.
He cradles your virtue as if it’s something precious, lips parted, chest expanding with a sharp inhale. Dunk is thoroughly razed, unable to keep from caressing your hips, large hands holding you tightly.
As you sink down onto his cock once more, the pressure becomes less of a sting, it’s natural; you want him again and again.
The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you — beautiful, radiant you, someone worthy of worship.
You rode Ser Duncan as you would a broken gelding, finding your rhythm, mapping out any awkward motions. It was continuous; up and down, hips rolling forward, hands steady atop his chest.
Unfortunately, Dunk knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
It was as if every nerve was set ablaze, senses drowned by you, submerged within the warmth of your cunt and the mere visage of you. He groaned when your nails dug beside his ribs; a pleasant sting.
“Fuckin’ Hells, don’t stop.” Dunk doesn’t intend to spout expletives in the presence of a lady, but it spills clumsily from his mouth anyway. You seem to like it, mouth twitching into a smile.
“Dunk!” You moan, and the sudden quickening of your pace is dizzying for the both of you. A dull ache radiates throughout your thighs, pulsing within your cunt.
Years without a woman’s embrace made him incredibly sensitive — he’d only ever had it once before. With you, this all felt otherworldly, an ecstasy unlike any other.
When you sink down onto his thick cock once more, his composure is thoroughly destroyed, naught but ash. He says your name; reverent, adoring, and loud.
He spills himself inside of you then, cock throbbing hotly as you rock downward again. Dunk almost guides you off, but the sensation nearly causes collapse as his face screws up with bliss.
It’s a sight that is surely to be emblazoned in his thoughts forever — you atop him, doe-eyed and pliant, your hands stroking his chest.
The peak of ecstasy makes his limbs feel weak, and you begin to still, bouncing another time or two until the both of you cease. It’s hushed; the sort of silence born of a joyous disbelief, reveling in the moment.
As you move off of him, you feel the sting that is sure to be with you for days to come. Yet, you delight in it; your knight did this to you willingly.
“Are you feelin’ well? Nothin’ painful?” Dunk asks immediately, awkwardly attempting to clean himself of the mess he made. Tendrils of his spend are left behind, and he shifts to grab his tunic.
“You are well-endowed,” You muse softly, laying down beneath the stare. “It isn’t what I expected it to be. I’ve been told foul tales of consummation before.”
Flushed, Dunk grabs his flask of water, taking a hearty swig before settling next to you. “I wouldn’t dare harm you,” He murmurs, features ruddy as you curl closer to him. “Couldn’t imagine someone treatin’ you unkind.”
The smile you give him could’ve illuminated a thousand fires, one of sweetness. He is rendered sheepish, reduced to a blushing boy in your presence.
“I wish that I could stay here until the morrow.” There’s a forlorn melancholy in your tone, and as much as Dunk wants you to stay, he knows you’re bound by duty.
“It isn’t morrow yet, m’lady.” Dunk’s low croon causes you to shiver, and you press your body closer, savoring the feeling of being held.
As you lay together beneath the heavens, shrouded by gentle greenery and the arms of your knight, duty suddenly becomes an afterthought.
-18+, oral f receiving, dunk is pussy drunk, he doesn't really understand a woman's body lol but he wants to learn! + handjob, slight spit play! ᥫ᭡.
the tavern was a cesspool of noise and stale ale. you sat in a corner, cloaked and hooded, trying to make yourself invisible while dunk saw to the horses. the journey had been long, and the promise of a hot meal and a soft bed was a siren's call you couldn't ignore, even if it meant enduring the company of leering merchants and boisterous sellswords.
dunk returned, his broad frame blocking out the light from the fire as he sat down opposite you. he slid a wooden plate of bread and cheese towards you, his expression weary. "eat, princess. we'll be on the road at first light."
you nodded, too tired to argue with the formal address.
at the next table, a pair of sellswords had been watching the two of you since dunk crossed the room. one nudged the other with his elbow. "big lad like that," the thinner one muttered, not nearly as quiet as he thought. "must've done well for himself."
"aye," the other snorted, eyeing you openly. "pretty little wife tucked in the corner..."
"careful," the first man laughed. "you keep staring like that and her husband'll knock your teeth out."
dunk's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. he simply tore off a piece of cheese with deliberate calm, though a faint line had appeared between his brows. he shifted slightly in his seat just enough that his shoulder angled toward you, broad and solid, subtly blocking their line of sight. the movement was casual. protective. intentional.
"should not call me that here to be safe," you murmured softly after a moment. "princess...i mean" you whispered to him.
his eyes flicked to you.
"they think i'm your wife."
a faint, embarrassed heat crept into his ears. "aye, better that than something worse."
across the room, the noise swelled again as the fat merchant slammed his tankard down. "...and i tell you," he bellowed, "the secret to a happy wife isn't gold or jewels. it's between her legs!"
laughter erupted. you felt the heat climb your neck as before, but this time something else lingered beneath the embarrassment. dunk went still again, quiet, watchful, but his knee had shifted closer to yours beneath the table.
"no, i'm serious!" he insisted, leaning in conspiratorially. "you get down there, you use your mouth on her, and she'll be putty in your hands for a week. they all love it. every last one of 'em. squeal like a stuck pig, they do!"
you felt a hot blush creep up your neck, and you stared down at your plate, wishing you could melt into the floor. but dunk didn't laugh, his focus narrowing in on the drunkard's words as if they were the most important instructions he'd ever received. he took a long, slow swig of his ale, his eyes thoughtful, contemplative. the rest of the evening was a blur. you ate in silence, the merchant's crude words echoing in your mind.
dunk found a small inn on the edge of town, securing a single room with two narrow beds. the silence between you was heavy, charged with a new, unspoken tension. you sat on the edge of your bed, unlacing your boots, your heart hammering against your ribs.
he was watching you. you could feel his gaze on you, intense and unwavering.
you swallowed and forced yourself to keep working at the laces, though your fingers had gone clumsy. the fire in the small hearth crackled, throwing restless shadows across the walls. the beds were narrow enough that your knees would nearly touch if you both lay on your sides.
"princess."
the word was quieter now. rougher.
you looked up despite yourself.
dunk was leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, big hands hanging loose between them. he looked almost troubled.
"those men," he said slowly, like he was picking his way across uncertain ground, "they speak like women are something to be handled."
your breath left you in a shaky huff. "they were drunk."
"that's when men say what they truly think."
you didn't know what to say to that.
he shifted, the bed creaking under his weight as he stood. the room felt suddenly too small for him. he crossed it in two long strides and crouched in front of you, close enough that the heat of him bled through the thin fabric of your skirts.
"i don't like it," he muttered. "the way they spoke. as if... as if a wife's happiness were some trick. some lever to pull."
your pulse was a frantic thing in your throat. "it was crude tavern talk."
"aye." his jaw flexed. "but i was listening." his eyes had a look of painful curiosity that made your stomach twist.
"i don't know much," he admitted. "about... that. courtship. marriage. what women want." a faint flush crept up his neck, barely visible beneath the firelight. "but i'd not have it be like that. i'd not have you think—" he stopped himself.
you blinked. "me?"
he exhaled, long and slow, as if the word had slipped out before he could stop it.
"aye. you."
silence stretched between you, taut as a drawn bowstring.
"i would not want it made small," he continued, voice low. "not made into something to be managed." his big hands flexed on his knees. "that no woman should have to endure a fool bragging about her like that. and that if a man is lucky enough to win a wife's affection, he ought to earn it every day. not boast of it over ale."
your heart thudded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. you forced a shaky smile. "you would make a very serious husband."
a corner of his mouth twitched. "i'm serious about most things."
"i've noticed."
his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he caught himself and looked back to your eyes. that tiny, fleeting slip of attention made warmth bloom low in your stomach.
you cleared your throat. "ser duncan the tall," you said lightly, though your voice wavered, "defender of women's honor everywhere."
he huffed a quiet laugh. "someone ought to be." he didn't move away and neither did you. careful. he was so careful with you. but even as he rose and stepped back, giving you space, the room felt irrevocably altered.
whatever the drunken merchant had meant as crude instruction had done something else entirely. it had made dunk think. and the way he looked at you now, thoughtful, protective, and achingly unsure, made your heart and stomach do flips.
"princess," he said, his voice a low rumble,
"yes?"
"those men in the tavern...what they were saying." he paused, and you could hear the hesitation in his voice. "was there any truth to it?"
your face burned. "i...i wouldn't know, ser."
"dunk," he corrected gently. "and you don't have to...i just..." he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, a gesture of frustration. "i want to make you contented. and if that's something women enjoy...something you would enjoy, i would do it...for you."
the sincerity in his voice was your undoing. he wasn't thinking of his own pleasure. he was thinking of yours, guided by the drunken wisdom of a tavern fool. it was the most romantic, most chivalrous thing you had ever heard.
you stood up, your legs trembling slightly, and crossed the small space between you. you knelt in front of him, taking his large hands in yours. "thank you" you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.
he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. "then...will you let me? i do not mean to dishonor you i just—"
"dunk, it's quite alright. i do want to...try it, i mean." you stood up, your fingers fumbling with the laces of your gown, your body thrumming with a nervous, exhilarating energy. he watched you, his eyes dark with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as you let the dress fall to the floor.
you lay back on the bed, your heart pounding. he hesitated for only a moment before joining you, his large body hovering over yours. he didn't kiss you, not yet. he just looked at you, his gaze a physical touch.
"show me," he whispered, his voice raw with need.
you guided his head down, your fingers tangling in his soft hair. he settled between your thighs, his warm breath a ghost against your most sensitive skin. he was hesitant at first, his movements clumsy and unsure.
"if you do not enjoy it dunk we can stop—" you whispered, but he only shook his head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, his exploration slow and reverent. then, remembering the merchant's words, he leaned in and gave you a long, slow lick.
you gasped, your back arching off the bed. it was a tentative, experimental touch, but it sent a bolt of pure pleasure through you.
he froze. "did you like that...?"
"yes," you breathed, your hand tightening in his hair. "again. please."
he obeyed, this time with more confidence. he began to explore you with his tongue, learning your body, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan. he was a diligent student, his focus absolute, his only goal to please you.
and then, he found your clit.
he circled it with the tip of his tongue, and you cried out, your hips bucking against his mouth. a new fire lit in his eyes. this was it. this was the secret the merchant had been talking about. he felt almost guilty, ashamed for it, touching you in such a way only a husband would, and he would never forgive himself for taking away your purity before you could wed a man of real status...but all these thoughts clouded away each time you would mewl and whine sweet things at each lick.
he dove in, his clumsy hesitation vanishing, replaced by a determined hunger. he wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he began to suck, hard and relentless.
"gods above... you taste like honey. like the first taste of summer wine after a long winter."
it was overwhelming. the pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. he was no longer just learning; he was claiming. he was obsessed, he loved you, and your sweet dripping pussy so much, his heartbeat was heard in his own ears, devouring you with a single-minded intensity that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts.
the world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on you, the rough scrape of his incoming stubble against your sensitive skin, the desperate, hungry sounds he was making deep in his throat.
"dunk," you sobbed, your hands fisting in the blankets. "i can't... it's too much..."
at your cry, he froze instantly. he pulled back just enough to look up at you, his mouth and chin glistening, his eyes wide with alarm. "am i hurting you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "princess, tell me. am i hurting you?"
you shook your head frantically, tears of pleasure streaming down your temples. "no," you gasped, trying to catch your breath. "no, you're not...it feels so good...it's— don't stop!"
"oh," he rumbled, the sound vibrating against your core.
and then he dove back in. he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with a force that made your vision go white. your back arched off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as the pleasure became a sharp, exquisite agony. your hands flew from the blankets to his head, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, trying to push him away, to ground yourself, to do something to survive the onslaught.
your squirming only seemed to spur him on. he held you tighter, his arms like iron bands around your thighs, refusing to let you escape the pleasure he was determined to give you.
in one fluid, impossibly powerful motion, he moved. he lifted his upper body, his hands gripping your waist, and with a strength that stole your breath, he flipped you over. the world spun, and suddenly you were no longer on your back. you were straddling his face, your knees on either side of his head, your weight settled firmly on his mouth.
he was buried beneath you, his nose pressed against your mound, pressing open-mouthed, hot, wet kisses on your wet pussy. the new position was devastating. you were completely at his mercy, spread open and exposed, every sensitive part of you pressed against his hungry mouth. your hands flew out to brace yourself against the wooden headboard, your body trembling uncontrollably.
"there," he growled, the vibration a shockwave through your entire body.
"dunk! i could hurt you— let me off—" you mumbled worriedly, but his hands gripped your ass, holding you down. there was no escape, no respite.
"m'strong enough m'lady, i could die happy right here." his words muffled, he sucked harder, his tongue flicking against your clit in a rapid, merciless rhythm. the tension inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a white-hot knot of pure sensation, until it finally snapped.
"gods w-wait!"
"no...no i want it princess," he growled against your quivering flesh, his voice a low, possessive command. "give me all of it." he lapped at you, his tongue stroking you through your spasms, prolonging the ecstasy until you were a whimpering, overstimulated wreck. "that's it... that's my girl. so sweet."
you came with a strangled scream, your body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing over you so hard you saw stars, creaming all over his mouth. he held you through it, his mouth never leaving you, drinking in your release as if it were the finest wine.
when it was over, you were a boneless, trembling mess. he finally pulled away, his face glistening with your arousal, his eyes shining with a triumphant, possessive pride. he lifted you off his face and onto his lap and kissed you, a deep, messy kiss.
you could barely manage a response, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic, holding him there as if the world might tilt without him anchoring you. you could feel him, impossibly hard and straining against his breeches beneath you. it seemed your pleasure had become his own.
your head fell against his shoulder, breath still shaky. the rigid, demanding pressure of his cock against your thigh had eased into a warm, heavy presence. a flicker of self-consciousness washed over you, and you reached for the discarded blanket at the foot of the bed, tugging it up to cover your waist. the soft wool was a small shield against the intensity of his gaze.
he pressed a kiss to your temple this time. then your brow. then the corner of your mouth, gentler and gentler still, as though easing you back from the heights he'd drawn you to.
"stay with me," he murmured, arms tightening just slightly around you.
you shifted in his lap, the hard line of his erection still an undeniable presence beneath the blanket. a new kind of courage, born from the intimacy of the moment, stirred within you. you met his softened gaze, your own eyes clear. "let me help you, ser," you whispered, your voice still raspy from your cries. you let your hand drift down from his chest, over the blanket, until it rested directly over the straining fabric of his breeches. you gave a gentle, questioning squeeze. "please?"
"you don't need to-"
"i want to..."
a low groan rumbled in his chest, his hips pushing up slightly into your touch. he took your hand in his, his large, calloused fingers dwarfing yours. without breaking eye contact, he brought your palm to his lips and spat into it, a hot, wet, shockingly intimate gesture. your breath hitched.
"s-sorry..." he murmured, guiding your slickened hand back down before pushing beneath the waistband of his breeches and bringing his cock out. "like this..." he guided your hand to his length. your fingers brushed against coarse hair and then, finally, against hot, silken skin.
he was massive. your fingers couldn't even close around his thick girth, and you could feel the heavy weight of him in your palm as he guided you down his impressive length. you had felt him press against you, but holding him like this, feeling the sheer size and power of him, was something else entirely. the sounds were slick and obscene. you wanted to worship him, to make him feel as utterly wrecked and cherished as he had made you feel.
you began to stroke him harder. he let out a harsh breath, his head falling back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. you watched his face, mesmerized by the way his brow furrowed in pleasure, the way his jaw clenched. you swiped your thumb over the slick head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your fist.
"gods, just like that," he gritted out, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his grip tight. "your hand...so small...feels so good."
you redoubled your efforts, your movements growing bolder as you learned what he liked. you twisted your wrist on the upstroke, squeezed gently on the down. you wanted to see him fall apart, to hear him cry out your name. you wanted to be the one to make him lose control. and as his breathing grew ragged and his thrusts became more erratic, you knew you were close.
"so big dunk...are all cocks this big?" you whispered in awe.
he shook his head, mind in a haze. "dunno pretty girl..." the words were a choked, honest confession.
you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his jaw, your hand never ceasing its steady, slick rhythm. "just yours then," you murmured against his skin.
his control finally snapped. with a guttural groan, his hand flew from your thigh to cover yours, not to stop you, but to guide you, to force your hand to move faster, harder. his hips surged up off the bed, fucking himself into your tight grip with a desperate, primal need.
"look at me," he commanded, his voice a ragged snarl. "please please look at me..." you obeyed, lifting your gaze to his face. his eyes were wild, burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "watch what you do to me. watch me."
and you did. you watched as his face contorted, as his mouth fell open in a silent cry. you felt the thick vein on the underside of his cock pulse violently against your palm. with a final, brutal thrust, he came, spilling himself in hot, thick ropes over your hand and his own stomach. he cried out your name then, a broken, hoarse sound that was more prayer than profanity, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release.
he collapsed back against the headboard, utterly spent, his chest heaving. for a long moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing. you slowly withdrew your hand, slick with his spend, and looked at the mess you had made of him. a fierce, feminine pride bloomed in your chest.
he opened his eyes, which were now soft and hazy with satisfaction, then tucked his softening cock back into his breeches.
for a moment, he simply looked at you. not at your hand. not at the disarray of sheets. at you. a quiet huff of laughter left him, his head tipping back briefly against the wood. "you have no idea what you do to me."
"i think i do..." licking up the cum on your fingers as he lazily wiped his hand on the discarded linen at your side, entirely unrepentant.
you shifted closer, crawling up his body slowly, deliberately, until your knees completely bracketed his hips. he watched every inch of your movement now. your fingers slid up his chest, tracing the rise and fall of his breath, the steady drum of his heart beneath your palm.
"i like seeing you like this," you confessed softly.
his brows lifted faintly. "spent?"
"no." you giggled. your thumb brushed over his collarbone. "relaxed..."
his hands came up, settling on your hips, not gripping, just holding you there. you leaned down, brushing your mouth against his to give him a sweet kiss.
he tilted his head, brushing his nose lightly against yours.
"sleep now, princess" he murmured at last, "we ride early."
"we could always push the two beds together..." you smile, just now noticing how huge he looked on the narrow little bed. ৻ꪆ
husband!dunk x inexperienced wife!reader 18+ NSFW MDNI
synopsis: after you and your husband swear vows before the Seven, you fear for your wedding night. despite your initial nerves due to inexperience, dunk reverently shows you how a wife is to be pleased
warnings: smut with a teaspoon of plot, au where Dunk actually has some game, slightly ooc dunk, oral (f receiving), praise, soft/service dom!dunk, loss of virginity, prone bone headlock fucking, very fluffy and intimate, reader and dunk are very much in love
W.C: 4k
note: I DIDNT LIE DID I?? the poll said yall wanted wedding night dunk x reader so I hope u enjoy :))
The bells were not of gilded septs, nor did great lords gather beneath banners stitched with lions, stags, or dragons. It was but a humble union, held where the fields kissed the edge of the village, beneath an old elm whose roots had witnessed more seasons than any living soul could name. The bride, you, wore no crown of jewels, only a circlet of wildflowers gathered at first light, while your gown, mended by careful hands a dozen times over, shone fairer than silk in the eyes of the man who awaited you.
Dunk came clad in homespun wool, his boots still marked by honest soil. He possessed no castle to bestow, no titles to speak of, only calloused hands, a loyal heart, and a promise that neither winter's hunger nor summer's toil would ever find you standing alone.
A few witnesses who were no more than strangers, gathered close, shoulder to shoulder, their laughter mingling with the song of fiddles and the crackling of the cookfire. Fresh bread was broken as though it were a king's feast, rough ale poured as though it were Lys’s finest vintage, and every humble dish was received with grateful smiles. Children darted between drunken dancers, old folk clapped weathered hands to forgotten tunes, and for one blessed evening, no soul counted what they lacked.
When the vows were spoken between you, they were not carved from ancient books nor adorned with the honeyed words of learned septons. They were simple, yet truer than oaths sworn before thrones.
"My cloak is threadbare," Duncan murmured, taking your hands in his. "Yet what warmth it keeps shall be yours."
"And my hearth is small," you replied, your voice soft as the evening wind. "Yet no stranger shall ever find it, for it is your home."
"Gold builds keeps," he said, "but it is bread shared in lean winters that builds a marriage. Crowns are inherited. Love is earned, day by day, until the Stranger himself comes calling."
The silence broke beneath warm applause and quiet tears. Then the fiddles found their tune once more, and you both stepped into the dance as dusk yielded to moonlight. Above you, the heavens burned with a thousand distant fires, indifferent to kings and kingdoms alike, yet somehow kinder that night, as though even the old gods and the new had paused to bless a marriage that possessed nothing, save everything that truly mattered.
As ale found warmth in your stomach you felt your trepidation begin to ease, only slightly. The thunder in your ribs quickened every time your mind wandered to what will happen once the ceremony is over. Not that you didn’t trust your husband, or have any reason to be nervous. Your mother equipped you poorly for your wedding night, only having vaguely spoken about it once. The last thing you wished to do was make a fool of yourself.
As the night carries on with its merriment, you find yourself besieged by memories as you gazed at the man beside you. His boyish smile and reddened cheeks when he courted you. His trembling hands and fumbling words. Nothing could’ve endeared you more.
He came to your father’s inn with little more than a weary horse, a weather-beaten cloak, and a sword whose glory had long outlived the silver upon its hilt. You, the innkeeper's daughter, bright as the first dawn after a bitter winter, with laughter that warmed the hall more surely than the crackling hearth. Noble ladies wore jewels to capture the eye. You needed none. A loose strand of hair upon your cheek seemed treasure enough to humble kings. Throughout Duncan’s stay, he found reasons to linger.
One evening it was because his saddle strap required mending. The next because the rains had rendered the roads impassable. Then because he claimed his horse had gone lame, though the beast trotted soundly enough whenever you were not looking. Every excuse was a prayer for one more hour beneath the same roof that sheltered you. You soon learned the truth.
"You lie poorly for a knight."
"I was taught to wield a sword, not falsehoods."
"And yet here you are."
"Aye," he said with a crooked smile. "Because truth would have me say I have nowhere else I would rather be."
You laughed then, not to mock him, but because his own honesty seemed to surpass what he deemed himself capable of. Dunk wasn’t a man with silvery words, but he did have truth above all else.
The village whispered that you deserved a merchant's son with fat purses and warm hands, or perhaps a lesser lord with vineyards and stone keeps. What future could a penniless knight offer but cold roads, old armor, and uncertain tomorrows? He asked himself the same question each night. One moonlit evening you both stood beside the stables where the scent of hay mingled with the sweetness of summer blossoms.
"I have no home," he confessed. "No fields to leave our children. My name is worth less than the horse I ride, and poor girl grows thinner with every ride." You watched him in silence.
"I own but one thing of value."
"And what is that?"
"My word."
He swallowed, as though each sentence cost him blood.
"If ever I called you wife, I would spend every beat of my heart earning the honor of hearing yours answer it. I cannot promise silk upon your shoulders, nor feasts, nor servants waiting at your call."
He stepped closer.
"But I swear this before every god who still troubles to hear broken men. No winter would find you facing the fire alone while I draw breath. No sorrow would be yours that I would not claim as my own. And if love were coin, my lady..." He smiled sadly. "...then I would shame the richest lord in Westeros."
"You speak like a fool."
"I've been called worse, m’lady."
"You ask me to trade comfort for hardship."
"I ask if you’d trade certainty for devotion."
You reached for his scarred hand, the hand that had gripped sword hilts until the skin had become leather.
"I've watched wealthy men count their coins while looking past their wives as though they were furniture. You..." You curled your fingers around his. "...you look at me as though I were the sunrise."
"You are."
"No," you whispered. "The sunrise belongs to everyone."
"But perhaps... I could belong to you." You murmured as you peered into his eyes.
The thought leaves a wounded smile on your face as you picture that night, or your knight, rather. So loving, so willing, so ready to give you all he had for a chance to call you his wife. He had been completely helpless since the moment he laid his eyes on you. A desperate, powerless fool under your gaze. Even after swearing vows to one another, it seems nothing had changed.
The festivity came to a slow as the bard's tempo grew drowsier and drunken feet became heavier. The moon was well hung in the night sky by the time you and Dunk were meant to convene in your chambers. Or for now, an inn room. You and Duncan agreed on settling down in a cottage with your father’s dowry, but for now, it would be him, you, and the road. The air felt stiff as you laid in your chemise, awaiting his arrival. You felt every fiber of the mattress, every pump of your blood and every flutter in your stomach. What if he found you undesirable? What if you ruin it somehow? Your worry came from a lack of understanding. You were unsure how to please a man, only sure how to please yourself. Though you knew Dunk would rather see himself dead than harm you, the supposed pain of it frightened you too. Would you bleed badly? Would it frighten him? Would you be unable to take him? Would that make you a failure as a wife? What if-
The door opened with a slight groan.
“There you are, my lo-“
”I'm ready.” You spoke as you laid stiffly atop the bed, your chest rising and falling with a wideness in your eyes. They were fixed to the wood beams of the ceiling, unable to glance at your husband. Dunk froze at the door, confused and slightly surprised by your behavior.
”What?”
”I’m ready- just…do it.” Your instruction drew an amused scoff from him.
“No…no, sweet girl, we don’t have to do that. It’s just me.”
”But, it’s our duty to, yes? As man and wife?”
”It’s not our duty if no one’s here to watch us. Or if you’re shaking like a leaf, for that matter. Here,” he pulled you up from the bed gently, drinking in your state as you stood. Your hair was slightly askew, a worried furrow in your brow. The sight of you was always endearing to him, but not when you seemed afraid. Especially of something in his control.
“I’ll tell the inn keeper to get a bath ready. You must be exhausted.”
”No, Dunk…I-I want to, I really do, I’m simply,” the words struggled on your tongue, “I worry I will not satisfy you the way I should.” Your confession seemed to stun him more.
“Satisy me? Gods- no, you needn’t worry about me, girl. It is my duty to satisfy you, should you wish it.”
His words loosened the nervous coil in your stomach, a foreign warmth burrowing in its wake. You felt your chest rise and fall with something wanton rather than fearful. He means to please you, you thought in disbelief. Suddenly, consummation seemed like something you could enjoy. Seven blessed you with a man so eager to be of service, now, it was time to allow him to service you. To worship every inch of your skin. To savour every moan that leaves your lips.
You take a step closer, peering into his eyes.
”That’s highly improper, Ser.”
The formality of the title left him fighting back a groan as you began running your hands up and down his chest.
”Aye, so it is.”
You found yourself watching the man who could scarcely speak whenever you stood before him. His words would fail, but never his eyes. There was a quiet longing in them, a boy's hope wrapped in a grown man's heart, forever trying to show you what you meant to him. And every time he stood there, fumbling for words that never came, you loved him a little more.
“If wishing to please my wife goes against propriety, you’d be better off a septa.” The jest draws a sharp laugh from you, your hands snaking up to his neck. You feel the flush beneath his skin, your fingers drawing his face closer to yours.
”You speak like a fool.” You parrot the words you spoke when he told you he loved you. The movement of your lips gently brushes his, a hair’s length away. You are keen to the sensation, feeling the growing pit of warmth in your stomach grow. Knees weaken from below you. Breathing stalls in your lungs.
“I’ve been called worse, wife.” He echoes them back with a different name for you on the end. A name that proves he swore vows before Gods for your hand. As the words leave his lips they find yours in a reverent conquest, a groan in the back of his throat. The feeling of your plush lips drove him to madness, his hands already wandering your form. He kissed you as though time itself had stilled to witness it, tasting each tender breath with quiet adoration. Your lips answered his in gentle measure, weaving a wordless hymn between you. In his hands you became softened clay, yielding wholly to the grace of his affection.
”Should I still call for a bath?”
”Fuck the bath.”
You spoke between breaths, your kiss hastening in fervor. It became something you both craved, were desperate for, even. To feel his lips entangled with your own as you gasped and moaned into each other’s mouths. Your fist tightened in his hair as he grabbed at the plush of your ass. The feeling made a whine escape you as you felt him smile against your lips. Without pulling away, you felt yourself being hoisted in the air, his palms holding you firmly against him. Your legs wrapped around his waist as his lips began to travel down your neck. Open mouthed kisses adorned the column of your throat, Dunk’s warmth breath making you shudder.
“Mmm, Dunk…” The plea came in a breathy sigh, your hand carding through his hair. He hummed in response. Before you could beg him for more, you felt yourself being lowered onto the bed. Your back sunk into the mattress as you laid, Duncan slipping his tunic over his head in unhurried grace, exposing skin kissed by sun and marked by life's quiet labors. You indulged yourself in the sight, studying his form. He possessed the quiet grandeur of rolling hills rather than jagged peaks. Muscle rose beneath his skin in gentle contours, never harsh, never vain, softened by a welcome fullness that invited touch as much as admiration.
As his shirt fell to the floor, you sat yourself up slightly, your fingertips returning to his chest. As your gentle touch cascaded, you hummed at the sight of your husband.
“So handsome, Dunk. So strong.”
A pained groan died in his throat as a hand came to cradle the back of your head. His reaction leaves an unsatisfied scratch in your brain.
”Mmm, you like that, don’t you? My big, strong husband. You take such good care of me, Ser. Isn’t that right?”
He nods weakly, the crimson in his cheeks spreading to his ears.
“Please, wife, let me please you. ‘Can make you feel so good, sweet girl, please. Need to make you feel so good…” He whined, slowly crawling atop you in bed. As his form eclipsed your body, he buried his face in your neck, kissing in between pleads.
“I’m yours to serve, husband. Serve how you please.” Your words meet his ear in a breathy gasp, craven for his touch. Without another moment, Dunk obliges, shuffling down the expanse of your body. Before you can speak another word, he’s hiking your chemise to your waist, spreading your knees with an unhurried reverence. You feel the cool air of the room against your slickness.
“She’s so soaked for me. Isn’t that right, sweet girl?”
The words made you writhe in embarrassment as you laid before him, your legs thrown over his shoulders. The width of them spreads your legs further, giving Dunk better access. The feeling of his breath on your wet cunt makes you buck your hips in need of touch.
Tentatively, Dunk’s tongue finds your slit, licking up towards your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you as his tongue found the pleasure point. You felt him chuckle against you as his tongue explored you a second time. Then a third, and a fourth. Small licks that earned whimpers and sighs from you. Your chest heaved as your hand found his hair, gripping it to ground yourself in your pleasure. The tug drew a groan from Duncan, the sound going straight to your core.
His lips latched your clit and began to suckle gently, sending a surge of warmth through your body. Your whines and moans grew louder as he indulged himself in the sweetness of your cunt, savoring every ounce of pleasure he gave you.
“Mhmmph-Dunk…so good, baby. Just like that…”
He hummed against you in response as you praised him listlessly, so smothered in your own pleasure. You peered down to see his hazy eyes meeting yours, lost in the taste of your soaked pussy. To Dunk, he could die happy right where he is. Between your thighs, hearing your sighs and gasps, his hair in your grasp, pleasing his girl. It was a feeling no gold could ever buy.
“Fuck, Dunk- want more…need you…” You pleaded under his tongue, begging for the feeling of his cock. With hesitation, Dunk pulled back, placing one, messy kiss right on your clit. His chin and lips were slick with your arousal. You’d be lying if you said the sight didn’t please you. To be completely drunk off your pussy, soaked with the proof of your own pleasure.
He shed his breeches in an ungraceful manner, tripping over his own feet. His cock sprang free, painfully hard, pointing toward his stomach. The sight made you swallow, unsure where it was meant to go. He was well endowed in width as well as length. Dunk took note of the uncertainty in your expression, reassuring you as he crawled back onto the bed.
“I’d never dream of hurting you, dear wife. I’ll be so, so gentle…” His words died on his tongue as he began to leave a trail of kisses from your chest to your neck. As his lips suckled on the skin below your ear, his hands found the hem of your night chemise. You gasped quietly as you felt the fabric traveling up your body, exposing more skin with every small movement. Dunk discarded the covering, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of the discarded fabric. Your hands quickly tried covering yourself to shield his gaze from your bare form.
“None of that, love. It’s just me…” The last three words were scarcely a whisper as his hands found your wrists with a gentleness no one could ever imagine a man of his size having. He drew your hands to his mouth, kissing each of your knuckles as his eyes fluttered shut. As his lips found the tenth finger, his eyes wandered over you with quiet devotion, savoring each lovely detail as though afraid the next breath might steal it from him. Your beauty was not merely seen, it was received with gratitude. What miracle had led the gods to place so radiant a woman beside him and call her his wife? Dunk couldn’t fathom it. He knew only that no corner of you deserved silence. Every inch begged to be admired, every flaw to be called beautiful, every part of you to be reminded that you were cherished beyond measure.
“My beautiful wife…my sweet, beautiful, wife. Gods- this better not be just a dream.” He practically moaned as his eyes roamed your flesh.
“Mm mm,” you protested, “I’m your wife now, Duncan, fuck me like it.”
At your words, he flipped you onto your stomach, handling you as if you weighed nothing. The quick movement drew a startled squeak from you. You felt his palm give a weak slap to the plush of your ass, earning him another muffled gasp.
He aligned himself with your soaked cunt, his flushed tip pressing against your entrance. Your hips shuffled backwards, welcoming the feeling, eager to take him.
“Tell me to stop and I will. Understood?”
”Yes, Ser.”
You feel him begin to thrust, breaching you. The intrusion brings a sharp pressure, your fists gripping the sheets as your mouth falls agape. As the pressure intensifies, your back arches into him.
“Mhm…that’s it, girl…I know, I know…doing so well for me.” His gruff voice finds the shell of your ear as he nearly bottoms out. The pain was undeniable, an uncomfortable stretch that made you whine into the sheets.
“Shhh, shh, almost there…”
Dunk laid kisses on your bare shoulder as his cock buried itself to the hilt. He bit back a groan, panting against your back as he let you adjust. As the moments passed, you felt the pain melt into a strange warmth, a newfound pleasure replacing the sting. You wiggled your ass into his hips, inviting him to move slightly. Dunk complied, gently rocking into your pussy without pulling out. The sensation was unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Something deep, intoxicating. Something born of passion and desire. Your eyelids began to flutter as you surrendered to his pace, your fists gripping the sheets harder.
“Feel so good, m’lady, my sweet girl. I’ll do anything you say. Anything to please you.”
”Faster.” You plea, greedy for the feeling. When his cock kisses the spot that makes your breath hitch in your throat. When you feel completely, utterly, full of your husband. He heeds your command, his hips snapping with new fervor. More of him leaving and more of him reentering, with a pace that made you whimper with every thrust. His face found the crook of your neck, keenly listening to your wanton sounds. They were unlike any music he’d heard before. This was something sacred, a song only for his ears. Or perhaps everyone in the inn, should you grow louder.
“F-f…uck, Dunk, so big…”
”I know, love, I know…doing so good f’me.”
Despite his words his pace quickened, the snap in his hips intensifying. Each thrust made a wet slapping sound against your ass, filling the inn room with the lewd sounds of a marital bed. The sound of discovering a pleasure you didn’t think possible.
Dunk’s thrusts quickened and deepened with each drive of his hips, drawing shameless, muffled moans from you with every movement. To support himself, he slid his arm beneath your chin, keeping you locked in place with his sturdy arm. You gripped onto his arm, anchoring yourself in your pleasure. Dunk felt drool dribble from your lips onto his arm as your nails bit into the flesh. His hold tightened as his hips went faster.
The position and pace had you at loss for words or pleas, only unabashed, open mouth moans. Dunk found himself smothered in pleasure of his own, hearing his animalistic grunts against your ear. They were raw, pussy drunk groans, deep from his chest. Sounds that only got you wetter as you laid merciless in your husband’s grasp. Beneath the totality of his weight, you began to writhe, your legs starting to tremble.
“Mhmph…feels good, hm? Yeah? You gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Yeah? That’s it…let go for me… Mhm…”
His words were pained and strangled against your ear, disrupted by grunts and moans. You could only respond with desperate head nodding and broken, pleasure ridden words.
The coiling warmth in your stomach snapped as you reached the peak of your pleasure. Your mouth opened yet no sound escaped, eyelids shutting in a quiet tide, succumbing to your orgasm. Your pussy clamped around Dunk, bringing him to the peak of his pleasure as well. You screamed into the mattress as the pleasure seized you, something that took hold of your whole body. Dunk filled your spasming cunt with his seed, watching as he spilled from your swollen pussy.
As your breathing slowed you felt your body surrender, a drowsy bliss finding you in your afterglow. Your eyes drifted shut as you laid beneath your husband, still coming down from a high of his own.
“Did I hurt you? Does anything hurt?”
“Mm mm.” You replied, sleep plaguing your voice.
”Yeah? You feel alright, love?”
”More than alright, Dunk.”
”I can call for a bath if you’d like?” He spoke against your bare shoulder, placing a kiss upon the blade to punctuate the sentence.
“In the morrow perhaps. Now you may just hold me.”
”Aye, I’d be glad to do so, wife.”
You laid in his arms in quiet vigil, feeling the steady drum of his heart against your ear. Your husband held you all through the night as though you may disappear upon sunrise. Regardless of how many times he may wake and brush the stray hair from your face, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead. The gods
cw. brat taming, fingering, manhandling, cunnilingus, size kink, noble! reader
synopsis. in which dunk cannot stand his lady.
you've been getting on his last nerve lately. and that is something, for dunk is a very, very patient man. or so he's been told. praised for, even.
since finding work and looking for a strong lord or noble to tend to hadn't been going smoothly lately, he accepted one of his only offers; guarding a wealthy merchant and his household as they traveled between holds and trade routes. it would be easy enough, dunk had thought. all he had to do was stand tall, look fearsome, and keep blades away from the soft, perfumed throats of the family.
he had not accounted for you.
you, with your fine silks and sharp mouth. you, with your jeweled fingers and that chin always tilted up at him as though he is something you've scraped off the bottom of your slipper. your father warned him about you on his first day of hire. "my daughter is... spirited." he'd told dunk. you'd chased off all your last knights with your foul behavior. the money hadn't been worth it.
however, dunk had nodded earnest as ever, hands clasped behind his back, as he towered over the polished floors and high ceilings. spirited he could handle. he grew up in slums. he knows sharp tongues and hot tempers and wild children with no reins.
he's fearsome and domineering. servants scatter when he passes. guards keep respectful distance. stable boys stare at him as though he is some giant carved from oak and iron.
but upon his first interaction with you where he'd tried to introduce himself to you, you cut him off entirely as you stand dangerously close to him in the hall of your manor. "i do not care. you'll be just like all the rest. now move."
ah.
he moves.
at first, he thought your horrible attitude was just a part of being raised wealthy and as the only daughter of your household. of course you were used to getting your way and treating the people around you like trash. you are young, surely. it was nothing but a poor first interaction; he has no wish to bully a nobleman's daughter.
but you test him.
you slip away from the convoy just to see if he'll notice, wander toward dark tree lines where bandits could lurk. you lean over bridge rails too far, and you talk to strange men in markets just to get a reaction out of dunk. every time he steps in, large form looming behind you as he catches your wrist just as you're about to touch a stranger and tells you, "that is enough, my lady," you laugh in his face.
"you don't command me, hedge knight."
the first time you spit on him is when he pulls you away from a man who's mouthing at your neck roguishly during a ball while you're too drunk to function. it landed on his cheek, dripping down slowly. he did not wipe it away immediately. he just looked down at you in disbelief.
you held his gaze, daring him. you are smaller than him by half, but you dare to challenge him either way. he'd never received training for a matter like this. "i told you, you do not command me. if you put your hands on me again, i will tell father to have one of your meaty fingers cut off."
he let you go. that was weeks ago. but you've made a sport of it since then, calling him an oaf, dog, brute, low-born. you toss orders at him in front of others. you complain about how he walks too close, is too big and clumsy, breathes too loud. you tell your fellow ladies that he smells of the stables and sweat, though he washes twice as often as any man in your company.
he's come to wonder if you do it for the fun of it or if you are simply seeking a reaction from him. because he notices the way your gaze turns expectant after you humiliate him. you do watch him quite a lot. when he removes his armor back in your manor after a long day, how you like to frequent the servant's quarters after dark, using the excuse of wanting a night snack from the kitchens... it's so suspicious. sometimes he wonders if he should take his cock out of his breeches and fist it while calling your name to see if you come running. but he doesn't.
dunk is not a clever man, but he is not blind.
still, he says nothing, because he is paid to guard your family, and you. and he doesn't want to sacrifice the pretty penny your father pays him to keep you in order.
so he endures.
until today. today, you slip away again. the road cuts through sparse woods, the afternoon light thin and golden. the caravan slows to navigate a narrow pass, and in that moment of distraction, you are gone. he can tell before he knows for sure. it's been too quiet. he rushes to scan the wagons and seek your fluffy head of hair, but nothing. "fuck." he curses roughly under his breath, stopping everything to search the area for you.
he finds you a quarter mile back, skirts gathered in your fists as you climb a moss-slick rock that juts above a shallow ravine. "what are you doing?" his voice carries. "did you jump out of your seat for me to chase you?"
you don't even look at him. "i'm admiring the view, dunk. go away."
he grits his teeth and steps forward slowly, trying not to startle you or have you run away. "get down this instant. this isn't funny."
"no."
the rock shifts under your slipper, and dunk's heart lurches up into his throat. he reaches forward, hissing; "get. down."
you finally glance back at him, your lip curled in a sneer. "no. you are not my father. leave me be."
"no," he says tightly, "but i am the one who will have to tell him if you break your foolish neck."
you roll your eyes and turn away again, just as your foot skids on the slick rock and you slip forward, letting out a startled little yelp. dunk moves before your other foot even leaves the surface of the rock, massive hands clamping around your body as he drags you back against him forcefully, your soft body pressed up against his with his arm locked around your middle like a band of iron.
for a second, neither of you move. your heart is racing. he can feel it through the layers of silk and linen. "are you mad?" he growls directly in your ear.
once you gather your bearings, you start twisting around in his grip, being a little hellion once more as if he didn't just save your life. "unhand me!"
his patience, that endless, gentle well everyone praises, is dry. he is sick of you. "i do not trust you not to run off again! you could have fallen," he emphasizes.
"but i did not."
"because i caught you. i am paid to guard you," he says angrily, holding you firm against him. "not to chase you like a stray hound every time you decide to prove you have no sense."
"well, i didn't call you a dog for no reason-"
"enough."
you've never heard that tone from him. and for a heartbeat, you falter.
then your pride surges back, and you reach back and elbow at his chest. it's like pushing a wall. "do not speak to me so," you snap. "you are nothing but hired steel. you forget your place."
dunk clenches his jaw tightly and squeezes you a little tighter, trying to will you to shut your smart mouth. "and where's my place?" he demands.
"beneath me," you say sickeningly sweet, before aiming another rough blow to his chest, trying to get him to let you go. you wriggle around, trying again to throw him off you -
his arm bands around you tighter, and he lifts you clean off your feet as though you weigh nothing at all. "put me down!" you shriek, kicking uselessly. he ignores your babbling and in one smooth motion, tosses you over his shoulder. suddenly, you're staring at his broad back and the ground swinging beneath you, your hair falling down his spine, your quickly begin to pound your fists against his back.
"dunk!" you scream, scandalized. "how dare you! i will have you-"
"you will do nothing," he snaps, big hand clamping firmly against the back of your thighs to keep you steady as he strides toward the road, each step long and unyielding. "i am taking you back home. you do not deserve to be out galivanting today."
you twist, but he adjusts easily, unbothered by your struggle. "and then, you will apologize," he says, not looking back. "and you will stay exactly where i put you until you remember how to behave like a lady."
dunk's grip tightens just enough to remind you how completely at his mercy you are.and for the first time since he took this cursed job, he does not yield. you punch his back hard, wondering if you can sink your teeth into his back somehow, when his broad hand comes down hard against the curve of your backside. you jolt, a sharp, shocked squeal tearing from you as your whole body tenses and rocks forward.
dunk's heart beats a tad too fast. he did not plan to smack you, but it was instinct. a correction, like a farmer swatting a mule that won't stop kicking. but the way you reacted... indignation faltering into pure surprise, has heat spreading through his body. he centers his brain long enough to hear your shrill cries. "y-you brute!"
you start wriggling again even more frantically now, trying to twist around and hit him. so he does it again. another rough smack delivered to your ass. he watches the motion of your soft flesh rippling back into place after he spanks you, and that strange feeling of arousal fills him once more.
this time your hips jerk involuntarily, your hands clutching at his back for balance instead of striking him. he's quite satisfied by that. your arrogance has started cracking around the edges. as he walks, he spanks you periodically, each hit measured and deliberate, his large palm landing square and sure through layers of silk, the impact more than enough to sting. to humble.
your protests dissolve into breathless little mumbles of outrage, and your hands, which had been clawing and striking him, slide instead to grip the back of his tunic. your legs stop kicking. you are now limp over his shoulder as he returns you not by carriage, but on his steed with him to your manor.
-
dunk does not waste any time in carrying you through the grand doors, up the staircase, down the long hall toward your chambers where he can make his corrections. lucky for him, your father is nowhere in sight to be questioning why his trusted knight is practically dragging his daughter you her room.
dunk stops outside your room and shifts you carefully before opening the door with one hand. he steps inside and shuts it behind him with his heel. then he walks swiftly to your bed, picks you up, and drops you onto it on your hands and knees, taking off your shoes and tossing them to the ground. "i do not need help to disrobe-!" you complain, trying to weave around and pushing his big hands away, but his temper spikes once more.
"you are the most unruly creature i have ever met." he hisses, pushing your face into the bed. "you run off into the woods," he continues, jaw tight. "you taunt strange men. you climb rocks over ravines just to see if i will come after you."
"do not call me that! i only wish to have some fun, but i cannot with you breathing down my-"
he cuts you off sternly. "and i am not sure if it is because you have been raised too spoiled and pampered to have any manners, or if you act out because you're frustrated that i haven't stuffed your little cunt."
you let out an undignified little sound as he calls out your poorly hidden desires so bluntly, your body shuddering under his. dunk’s huge hand starts to trail to the hem of your dress, and he begins to bunch it up at your hips.
“you’ve made a mess,” his voice comes out as a scoff, and he slowly traces a thick finger along the damp seam of your clothed cunt. “did my brutish behaviour excite you, my lady?”
hearing your own words, your past mockery of him repeated back to you so snidely somehow excites you further. you wonder why he’s taken so long to put you in your place, but the day has finally come for him to put an end to your behaviour and set you straight. breathy moans leave your lips as he rubs you through your drawers, the stickiness collected on the crotch part pushing against you and making a bigger mess. he grabs the back suddenly, tugging it up and pulling it between your ass cheeks so he can rub the fabric against your clit.
his other hand reaches up to fist in your soft hair, tugging and forcing your body to curve towards him with no means of escape. his grip inflicts the perfect amount of pleasure-pain. you feel hot and achy everywhere.
“ser duncan!”
"now you want to address me by my title?" he shakes his head, continuously rubbing your underwear against your sticky cunt, slick now drooling down your thighs. "tch. i can smell your mess. is all this for me?"
you cry out a pathetic "yes!" and push your hips back against his hand, seeking more friction. his face gives an involuntary twitch at your answer, his expression shifting into something you wouldn't be able to read if you were looking at him right now. his hand stills against you momentarily, and you grind your pussy against the heel of his hand with a whine, seeking more.
“seven hells,” he mutters under his breath. that was the last thing he expected from you. he was ready to get off you and pretend he hadn't touched you at all, but you wanted it. the proud little lady who's been tormenting him for weeks is suddenly pliant under his hands, warm and trembling.
dunk lets out a slow breath through his nose, and grabs a fistful of your drawers, tugging them down to your ankles. he watches the sticky strings web between the fabric and your cunt, and groans at how filthy you are for him
“so that’s it,” he says quietly, lowering his face to your cunt and pushing the tip of his finger into your puffy hole. “all this trouble… just because you wanted my attention.” he blows softly on your clit, and you whimper, trying to jut your hips back into his face. he pushes you down a little harder, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle without warning.
a whimper escapes you at the sudden, unfamiliar intrusion, and as he begins to pump the invading digit slowly, your slick walls cling greedily to his finger as it sinks deep inside of you.
transfixed, he watches as your swollen lips part and cling to his finger with each thrust, a wet squelching sound filling the room. your arousal gushes out around his finger and coats it, making it easy to slip inside you, despite how tight your walls cling to him once he's inside.
with how close his face is to your cunt, he can't resist only looking anymore, and pushes his finger down inside you to make space for his mouth to cover your pussy. he lets out a highly pleased noise at the honeyed taste of you, and eagerly laps at your wetness while curling and twisting his finger inside of you.
he gets caught up in your taste, running his tongue through your falls and dragging upwards, flicking over the tight bud of your ass. you squeal and snap back to attention, having gotten dumb and drooly from when he'd been munching your cunt, but the new sensation has you on high alert once more. he spreads your cheeks with his free hand. "don't move."
you whimper at his tone and gasp as his tongue runs up and down, all the way from the base of your sloppy folds to your ass, all while easing a second finger inside of you.
"s-ser duncan, i-" your voice breaks off into a gasp when his tongue probes inside of you, his fingers spreading you open far enough for him to stuff his tongue in as well. he moans inside of you, sending vibrations through your hole and making your stomach tighten up. your lips part to form weak pants as you bury your face in the pillow.
dunk can see how much your body is responding to him as well. the way your cunt molds to fit his fingers and tongue, how your wetness flows freely to keep your hole lubricated and messy for him. and he could swear the longer he feasts upon you, the better you taste. he's never tasted a cunt as ripe as yours. but he won't tell you that.
his tongue working diligently to taste every drop of your essence. he loses himself in the act of pleasuring you, consumed by the desire to feel you come undone beneath him.
he keeps his fingers stuffed inside you but pulls back for a moment to watch how your cunt swallows them up, and he takes in the sight of your puffy, swollen lips, and the glistening, dusky flesh within. "of course you have the prettiest little pussy." he mumbles, tugging his fingers back and twisting them back in with a turn of his wrist.
before you can respond, he seals his mouth over your cunt once more his tongue delving deep to lap at your dripping slit. your body arches into the sheets. "i cannot take any more," you hiccup. " 'm about to... g-about to-"
dunk ignores your babbles and suckles on your swollen folds, his tongue trailing up to trace circles your clit, flicking over the sensitive bud teasingly before diving back down. his fingers pump faster, stroking your h-spot with each thrust, pushing you ruthlessly towards your impending orgasm. "beg for it," he growls against your sex, his fingers pausing their movement, leaving you teetering on the edge.
"please," you whimper, your voice high and breathy, desperate for release. you cry his name as your orgasm crashes through you, your pussy clamping down on his fingers, as your release gushes onto his hand, your body lifting off the bed. dunk groans, lapping up your essence as it pours out of you, swallowing every drop greedily. your pussy flutters around the invading digits and on his mouth, greedily seeking more. dunk devours every drop until you're licked clean, then runs his tongue over his lips with a satisfied hum.
Hi there!!!! New follower cause I read your NSFW headcanons for Chris Redfield but I was wondering if you would be inspired to make one for Leon Kennedy? (Thats my man hehe though i love Chris too) No pressure at all! ♡
hi love, thank u for the follow 🤎 even though i’m a chris girly, who doesn’t love them some leon? enjoy xx
- the ultimate Switch™, leon loves to dominate and be dominated equally, his favorite is to combine both in one session where he lets you play around with him & take control before he teaches you who’s really got the upper hand
- huge praise kink, again, both to be praised and to shower you in it
- will straight up ask “am i good boy?” when going down on you
- has a way of making you feel like the most beautiful person in the world, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear while he pushes himself deep inside of you
- 7.5 inches, not skinny but not super thick, with well maintained, blonde hair & a super pink tip
- read this somewhere else and i agree, it’s basically canon that leon is a munch & a half
- spends actual hours between your legs, making sure he licks and sucks at all of your weak spots; you have to literally push him off or he will keep going even after making you cum over & over
- loves to get messy in it, burying his face in you, not caring how much of your arousal & his spit gets on his face & neck
- like, amaaazing at eating ass
- favorite position is any variation of doggy; whether he’s got you face down, ass up, one foot right next to your face as he drives into you; or maybe fucking you from behind, pressing you up against his chest with his strong bicep around your neck
- very vocal, moaning & telling you how good you feel, how good you take it
- i think he could very well have a mommy/daddy kink when subbing, not every time but would occasionally love to have you treat him like a dumb little slut and put him to good use
- loves when you tie him up & ride him
- always wants to finish inside of you, super into watching his cum drip out of you afterwards
- sometimes, he’ll lick all his cum out of you & fuck you on his tongue until you can’t take anymore
- big into sucking & playing with your nipples
- has an album on his phone of all the selfies you’ve sent him that he jacks off to when he’s away on missions
- cums on his phone on purpose to see your face covered in it <3
- makes you the best hot chocolate after sex
- puts on an old movie, brings you in close to cuddle & gives you lots of forehead kisses afterwards
- would fuck you every single day if able to stupid BOWs
Bodyguard!Leon x First Daughter!Reader Enemies to Lovers
Chapter 2
❌18+ MDNI❌
thanks so much for all the support you guys have given this fic already! i appreciate all the returning readers and the new ones 🫶 enjoy!
Chapters: 1, 2
shoutout @sammimi19 @12soap34 @theebladestar for proofreading ✨
“Oh, honey… You look beautiful.”
You trust your mother, you really do, but you don't really feel beautiful at the moment. Or at least, you don't truly feel like yourself as you eye your reflection in the mirror, your form covered in a long-sleeved glittery gown. The sequins on the fabric itch, and you have to stop yourself from constantly readjusting it so as not to irritate your skin.
Standing in your spacious bedroom filled with antique furniture, you feel as though the dress makes you look just as dated as the place. Everything around you is ancient, and now you look old too, in your old gown and your old shoes. No twenty-one year old would be caught dead wearing this.
“Uh, thanks, mom,” you mutter, unconvinced.
She sighs from her spot on the bed, her green eyes filled with empathy. “Look, sweetheart, I know you didn't want this… But your father… He’s just trying to do what's good for you—for us. It's election year, we have to support him and stand together.”
“Right,” you scoff in barely contained sarcasm, “because hijacking my birthday to invite sponsors is us standing together.”
“Honey…”
“I know, I know. Big smile and calm posture,” you huff, parroting the words she always repeats.
She shakes her head with a fond smile before standing behind you, squeezing your shoulders reassuringly. “You will do great, sweetie. You always do.”
Heels click on the marble tile of the long hallway as you approach the president whose back is facing you. Your mother links her arm around yours, pulling you forward before calling out a soft ‘honey’ to the man.
He turns, expression neutral, though there is a coldness in his blue eyes that you have come to learn never leaves him. “Barbara,” he mutters in acknowledgment. “There you two are—you had me waiting.”
“You said seven,” you retort in a grumble. “It is seven.”
The look he gives you has the blonde woman beside you intervene in a soft murmur. “Alright, you two, don't start.”
You raise your hands in surrender, refusing to meet his gaze, before he finally turns to lead the way. The three of you walk until you reach the double doors of the East Room, two staff members ready to open the gate at the president’s signal.
He nods, gesturing for them to do so, but not without throwing a quick glance your way.
“Behave.”
It’s simply infuriating. He didn't even wish you a happy birthday yet, only muttering orders of what you should and shouldn’t do during this joke of an event. You wish you could argue, snap, or flat out refuse to do as he says, but you know the consequences would be so dramatic, you would rather not poke the bear.
You’re met with warm lights, quiet chatter, and classical music once you enter the room, the guests turning their attention towards your family as you make your way inside. Very quickly, the onslaught of greetings and small talk begins when the invitees call for your attention one by one.
You move from one group to another, from businessmen to politicians alike, all present under the guise of attending a private, casual dinner when it is anything but. The worst part is you weren't even allowed to invite your friends, even though it's supposed to be your birthday. So now you're forced to entertain guests, internally cringing at every tone deaf joke and inappropriate gaze from old men that have nothing in common with you.
When you grab a second flute of champagne after finishing the first one, hoping that alcohol will soothe your nerves, your mother gives you a stern look from across the room that has you setting the glass back down. In that case, you’ll just settle for food.
You smile politely to random people whose names you don't know as you weave your way through fancy suits and expensive gowns, until you reach the long, elaborate buffet table. Hors d'œuvres, amuse bouches, and every other fancy fucking french word for bite sized treats are piled on ornate silver plates. Your hand hovers, unsure of what to pick, when you let your eyes trail to the chocolate fountain set on the far end. Maybe sugar will do.
Walking over, you grab a sliced strawberry from a fruit plate, then dip it into the cascading melted chocolate. Your mouth is already watering, but before you bite into it, you turn your back to the party so no one witnesses the possible mess of smudged dessert on your face—you’re self-conscious enough already.
Once certain no one is paying too much attention, you shove the entire berry in your mouth, filling your cheeks with sweet and tart goodness. You exhale from your nose in contentment, bringing a finger to wipe at the stained corners of your lips, when you suddenly pause at the feel of eyes on your profile.
You turn your head slowly to face the onlooker with the demeanor of a child who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, only to choke on the damn strawberry down your throat at the sight of the person.
It’s him. The hot blonde dude from the previous night. The one that rejected you and bruised your ego in a way you're sure will never recover.
Why the hell is he here? Is he some important guest too?
He notices your wide eyed look of confusion and responds with one of curiosity, a ghost of smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. You swallow hard and reach for a napkin, dabbing your chin in preparation to start your slew of questions, only to suddenly be hit with realization.
Wait…
The suit, the spiraling wire by his neck, the barely concealed gun, and the stance—the fucking clasped-hands-at-the-crotch stance… He’s Secret Service.
“Wh— What is this?” you ask in a scoff once you throw the cloth on the table, marching towards the man in a determined step.
His smile widens, though you catch him quickly biting the inside of his mouth as he feigns ignorance. “What is what?”
“Why are you here? You work here? You’re Secret Service?”
“You could say I am,” he nods with his impassive poker face.
Huffing, you cross your arms in irritation as you come to stand even closer. “What kind of answer is that? Just say yes or no.”
He stares at you for a moment, the annoying little twitch of his mouth starting again, when he lifts a hand to his own lips, tapping the corner where they join with his finger. “You have a little…”
Goddamnit.
You immediately feel your face heat up as you unceremoniously scramble to wipe your mouth of leftover chocolate with the back of your hand. Why does every interaction with this man result in your humiliation?
“Yeah, thanks,” you mutter sarcastically before returning to your accusatory tone. “Why didn't you tell me you’re an agent yesterday? I made a fool of myself talking to you...”
He shakes his head in the picture of innocence, a small pout on his plump lips as he tries to soothe your concerns. “Oh, I assure you you didn't, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?!” you scoff suddenly in a gasp.
It’s the dress isn't it? It’s making you look old as shit in front of the hottest guy you ever met, who also probably thinks you're an idiot by now.
“I— You’re older than me,” you point out, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Don't call me that.”
“Isn't that what all security detail call you?” he quirks an eyebrow.
Well, he does make a good argument. Your mortification only increases, however, and you throw a glance around just to make sure no one else is witnessing your shame. Behind you, the party continues, people seemingly oblivious to your little conversation. Although, you do catch your father’s icy eyes across the room, and you already know he's internally berating you for not mingling more with guests.
You turn back to the man, your head bowed when you mutter an answer. “Yes…”
He appears to have caught the president’s lingering gaze as well as he straightens his posture, his voice dropping an octave. “So then it shouldn't be a problem… Ma’am.”
Sighing in defeat, you're about to leave when you pause, squinting your eyes in suspicion. “What's your name anyway?”
“Leon S. Kennedy, at your service.” He offers a curt nod.
“Kennedy,” you huff in irony. The name is familiar, of course, the very history of the walls surrounding you imprinted with it. “Alright then, agent Kennedy... Just so you know, I’m going to be asking around about you… Because I don't like this.” You make a vague gesture towards him, gaze filled with skepticism.
He smirks lightly again, before nodding in total ease. “By all means, please do.”
You observe him for a moment before clicking your tongue. “Unbelievable,” you huff as you turn on your heels, ready to join back the party. But before you go far, you hear him throw another comment at your back.
“Happy birthday, ma’am.”
With your eye twitching and your shoulders tense, you walk away in irritation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
By the end of the night, your feet hurt like hell in your heels, and your dress itches so bad you wonder if it didn't scratch your skin raw. But none of the physical discomfort compares to the absolute mortification simmering inside you from your previous interaction with Kennedy.
He's so rude, you wonder how he ever managed to land this job. Although, he does look rather young, so maybe he's a rookie. Then again, his demeanor screamed anything but. He was so unfazed by your skeptical questions, it was a bit intimidating the way he stood his ground. Because of that, you made a conscious effort to avoid him for the rest of the party, and it thankfully worked. Though, you also did not get a chance to ask the other agents about him, too busy entertaining elites.
The thought of him keeps you awake longer than necessary when you finally slip under the sheets in comfortable pyjamas, the events of the two previous meetings replaying in your mind over and over again. It feels so unfair that you never go out to party, and the one time you do, this happens? Life is a cruel joke.
The next morning, you sit at the breakfast table in a simple outfit and barely styled hair. You know your mother might say something about choosing more ladylike clothes, but after masquerading as a middle aged housewife dressed for a holiday party the previous night, you could not care less for her comments.
Opening a text from Maya on your flip phone, you're happy to see her confirm your plans to go for a swim together in the backyard pool later. It's been so terribly hot this summer, and you hope you can hang out to cool down and forget all about last night's stupid event.
“‘Morning,” your father announces lowly as he enters the room, the staff responding with a slew of ‘good morning, Mr. President.’
“G’morning,” you answer between two bites of toast.
You watch him settle beside your mother, his coffee already waiting for him—black and piping hot, just how he likes it. He picks up his cup, his usual frown forever plastered on his forehead as he takes a sip. “We made good progress last night,” he begins, “hosting the party was the right call.”
Because of course he would praise his own decisions. You nearly roll your eyes.
“I’m so glad to hear that, honey,” Barbara chimes. “Everything went well—the food, the music—and, of course, everybody praised the little star of the show.” She looks your way, giving you an approving smile.
“Hm,” the president hums, making a single nod in response before he meets your eyes. “I saw you talk to one of the agents.”
You freeze, feeling caught in a moment of panic, before remembering there is nothing inherently wrong in talking to a member of the security detail. It's just that everything your father says always feels like an accusation.
“Yeah, I did,” you answer simply.
The grey-haired man checks his watch, verifying the time. “In the afternoon I have a meeting with him and other staff. I’d like you present.”
It's not even a question—you know you’re not afforded a choice.
“When?”
“Two-thirty, Roosevelt Room.”
Great. Fuck your swimming plans, then.
“Okay,” you answer quietly, sighing in defeat.
“Miss Graham, sir,” Davis’s deep voice speaks through his radio, and another responds shortly after to give the all clear.
The door opens and you’re led inside, finding most of the meeting’s attendees already sitting in their spots at the long table, about a dozen people gathered.
“Ah. You’re here.” The president motions for you to settle to his left, and as you do, you feel the eyes of the room follow your every movement.
But it's a particular pair that has your breath stuttering when you sit, as you find yourself directly facing Leon S. Kennedy. You're a bit taken aback by his position at the table—only senior staff are afforded the spot directly on your father’s right.
Just who is this guy?
“Agent Kennedy, I believe you have already met my daughter.”
“I have, sir,” he nods curtly, throwing you a knowing glance. “We were able to make light introductions.”
“Good. Then I’ll get straight to the point.” Without wasting time, the president turns to you with a serious expression. “Due to some recent… events, I have decided to make changes to your security detail. Including hiring new professionals that will ensure your safety.”
Frowning in confusion, you look around the room of men and women in suits in search for anyone as clueless as you. But, alas, it looks like you're the only one left out of the loop.
“Wait, what kind of events?” you inquire with tense shoulders.
President Graham exhales sharply through his nose, like he wishes he didn't have to explain things but is left with no choice. “I did not want to talk about this amidst your birthday festivities. But, three days ago, we received alarming threats… And some of them pertain to your safety specifically.”
You feel a chill run down your spine, his words making a knot grow in your gut. Threats aren't exactly something new, every prominent politician receives multiples in the morning mail. But if it's something serious enough—real enough—your father is taking precautionary measures, it means it's a lot worse than usual.
Swallowing hard, you ask the question sitting on your tongue. “So, what's gonna change for me now?”
“You will be more closely monitored, for a start. More agents at campus, more communication with the White House about your schedules and whereabouts…” he pauses, letting his words register before motioning to the blonde on his right. “But most importantly, Agent Kennedy will now be the Detail Leader of your security.”
You throw a glance at the man in question only to find him already observing you. You're starting to grow tired of his piercing stare that he keeps on shamelessly.
“He’s replacing Davis,” you conclude bitterly. The latter is standing by the door, his face as stoic as ever even as he gets demoted after years of service.
Kennedy frowns at your tone, and he looks like he wants to say something but decides to ultimately stay quiet as your father speaks.
“Yes, but only temporarily… We didn't bring Mr. Kennedy here for a random reason. He’s not a regular agent—not Secret Service. Rather, he's someone a lot more equipped to face the threats that have been placed concerning you.”
You were always told the agents surrounding you are the best at what they do, so it's in utter confusion that you ask your next question. “What does that even mean?”
This time, it's the agent himself who answers, a familiar acronym falling out of his mouth; “BOWs.”
“What?”
“You heard him right,” the president nods, his eyes flickering between you both before addressing the room. “As you all know, election year is always particularly tense, so with the addition to these threats, there is simply no way we can stand idly by while things around us change.”
Nods and hums of agreement fill the room as your father continues to speak, explaining how security will increase all around from the White House to Congress. His words slowly grow into mumbled jumble in your ears as you truly process the newly acquired information.
People out there—you don't know who—have been making serious threats about you that involve bioweapons. So now, your every move will be scrutinized and secured under the oversight of an agent you only just met recently in the most embarrassing situation ever.
You feel irritation internally fester inside you. You don't want this guy with the piercing eyes and smug smirk. No, you want Davis, or Morales, or anyone from the team you grew up with over the past four years and who are now like family to you. Calm and composed middle aged men who let you get away with the lack of protocol every now and then. Not the guy who's still very much staring you down every chance he gets even with a room full of professionals and your very own president of a father next to him.
By the time the meeting is adjourned, you have done everything possible to avoid the blonde’s gaze as you absentmindedly listened to the others speak. Finally, you're cleared to leave, so you stand and exit the room, not looking behind as you do.
Except, there is nowhere to run from the man, because he quickly appears by your side once you’re out in the hallway, like some kind of soundless ghost. You nearly jump at the sight, clutching your chest in surprise. “Jesus Christ! You scared me…”
“My apologies, ma’am, that was not my intention,” he murmurs sympathetically, but the little shit has that teasing mirth in his eyes again. He can’t fool you.
Scoffing under your breath a sarcastic ‘ma’am,’ you don't wait for him as you begin to walk, with him effortlessly matching your steps. “I’m not even going out today, you don't have to follow me.”
“Well, I know you’ve delayed your previous plans for the afternoon by an hour, and using the outdoor swimming pool still counts as outside,” he chides, tilting his head curiously. “I believe your friend Maya will be here soon, if I’m not mistaken?”
You freeze in your steps, turning to him with wide, furious eyes. “How the heck do you know all that already?”
“Oh, I’ve spoken to staff and went through your entire schedule for the upcoming days,” he answers confidently, before his voice gains a teasing lilt. “I will say, it's mostly empty.”
Feeling your pride get wounded at the implication that you're leading a boring, lonely life, you cross your arms defensively. “Well, it's not like there's much to do for the First Daughter anyway. I’m not the one people voted for, I’m fine staying home.”
“Of course,” he answers professionally, but you clearly see the twitch of his lips.
You sigh and quicken your strides, then when you reach the elevator meant to take you downstairs, he motions for you to enter it first, already moving to stand beside you. “I know you're supposed to be a super bodyguard or whatever, but I hope you know I’m not exactly happy about this change,” you announce once the doors shut.
“Oh, trust me, ma’am, I can tell,” he huffs out a low chuckle, before turning to you with a more serious expression. “Nonetheless, I hope to make it clear that moving forward, you are my priority. That means I am there wherever you go, whatever you do—when you go out, eat, sleep—I will always be no more than one door away, and I will know of your location and activities at all times…” he drawls the last words, letting them linger in the confines of the lift. “I hope that you and I can work well together, Miss Graham.”
“Great.” Sarcasm drips from your tone. “So long as you're honest about who you are—unlike last time—I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
You expect him to laugh, nod along, or even ignore you. But instead, he quips right back with a cocky smile that makes you seethe. “And so long as you fix your dress straps before flirting with strangers at bars, we’ll be just fine.”
The elevator dings with your cheeks on fire, and you hurry out before he can revel in the look of embarrassment on your face, muttering a barely audible 'whatever’ past your shoulder.
Older Mentor!Leon Kennedy x DSO Agent!Reader Slowburn 🪻🌻🥀
❌18+ MDNI❌
Final Chapter: Epilogue
totally not tearing as i post this haha what :') also i know i haven't mentioned her again but just know layla married a super hot rich dude who loves her and her brother and they're all very happy yay
shouthout @sammimi19 for being my talent manager, and @theebladestar for proofreading ✨
and massive thank you to @gabswst-aug for the kitties! 💝
this is a long, and emotional one, so i hope you guys enjoy. thank you for reading! 💙
CW tags WILL contain spoilers (try not to read them if you're generally okay with nsfw stuff so you avoid getting spoiled!)
The creaking noise of your office chair fills your ears when you shift for the umpteenth time to get comfortable. It seems as though no matter how you position yourself, this chair simply doesn't do the trick.
You sigh, taking a sip of your giant water bottle. You have been trying to do better at staying hydrated, so you recently picked up the huge ‘jug’ from the store—as Leon likes to call it—in hopes it will help you reach your hydration goals.
The thought of the man makes you smile. He can be such a smartass, but it's nothing you’re not used to. Nine years of friendship, then followed by seven of a relationship, you have now known him for exactly half your life as you reach your thirty-second birthday.
You still can't believe it sometimes, how you went from purely platonic to now growing old together. But the sparkly ring on your finger serves as a great reminder, its shine catching in the light whenever you move your hand. He got you the perfect one too—just what you wanted.
Thoughts of your perfect husband swirl in your head when you suddenly hear a noise outside in the hallway. It sounds like something rolling on the floor, like a cart perhaps, but you’re not sure. Since it’s usually quiet during this time at the FOS department on a Friday, your curiosity is peaked.
You don't have to wonder for much longer when a soft knock comes at your door. Four rhythmic taps, two slow ones, then two consecutives. Leon.
“Come in,” you murmur, a grin already spreading on your face. You find it sweet that he goes out of his way to knock, even though you will always let him in.
The door clicks, and in comes the man himself. He’s sporting his usual work attire—a suit, a tie, and dress shoes. Except now he’s forced to wear reading glasses while using the computer—to his great dismay and your great pleasure. You think he looks incredibly cute, while he insists it makes him appear older. But it's not like his age was ever a problem for you anyway.
“Hey, kiddo,” he smiles, looking a bit disheveled, and that's when you see the big leather chair he’s pulling behind him and into the room.
“What is that?” you frown in confusion as he shuts the door. “Is that from your office?”
“You said yours was uncomfortable, didn't you?” he mutters sheepishly.
“Yeah… But I didn't expect you to roll a chair all the way from the other side of the building!”
He chuckles, pushing the seat closer until it's positioned right next to yours. “One of the few downsides of you changing departments, I’ll admit.”
“Well, since you brought it all the way here…” You move to switch spots, then sink into the comfy cushion with a relieved sigh. “Damn. It’s so much better than mine.”
Leon grins in satisfaction, then leans down to kiss your forehead softly. “Good. Wouldn't want my lovely wife to suffer while her body is working so hard.” He places a hand on your round stomach, his thumb rubbing a soothing motion.
“You’re spoiling me too much… Makes me wanna stay pregnant forever,” you giggle and place your hand on top of his.
“Well…” he bites his lip with a barely suppressed smirk, “I wouldn't complain.”
With that, he goes in for a kiss, groaning softly into your mouth from the contact. What starts as sweet and chaste quickly morphs into something needier when your tongues meet. It makes your head spin the way he cradles your face to deepen his access, his lips molding to yours like they were made for each other.
“Leon, we’re at work…” you pant once you pull away.
“Never stopped us before,” he retorts, pecking your mouth again. “On this very same chair, too,” he adds with a grin.
Feeling your face grow hot, you huff as you pinch his cheek, his stubble tickling your fingers. “Yeah, but never in my office. You know it's way too quiet here, unlike your side.”
Leon pauses to look around the room, as if confirming if it's truly as noiseless as you claim. But then, he looks back down at you, and he can no longer suppress himself. You’re just so unbelievably pretty with his baby in your belly. He waited so long, even after proposing one year into your relationship, with a wedding held during the spring of 2017—he never wanted to rush you.
It's the only thing that truly makes the age gap more pertinent and at the forefront of his mind. He’s forty-five now, expecting his first baby when his peers are long done having kids. But he wouldn't have it any other way if not with you. He wanted you to focus on your career first, which you did—brilliantly.
He watched you switch paths into an FOS position and slowly gain experience and rise in ranks while he supported from the side, no longer so heavily involved in your work. Even though he misses it sometimes, the shared moments during missions and reports, he still wouldn't change a thing if it means keeping you safe.
You also like to point out how it's healthier to separate some of your lives’ aspects to not grow sick of each other, but that’s where he wholeheartedly disagrees. He could spend every waking moment in your company and never complain.
Which is why the chair was the perfect excuse to come visit you in your office, just to get another look at your gorgeous face and pretty bump. At six months now, it's obvious through most of your clothes, and it drives him a little feral every time you leave the house knowing people will get to see his claim on you. Yes, he has fully embraced the caveman in him by now. There was no use fighting him anyway the moment you agreed to be forever his.
“Do you think you can be quiet?” he rasps in your ear with a kiss to your jaw.
You bite your lip, feeling that familiar heat coil in your gut at his proximity. “What do you wanna do?” you whisper, already enticed.
“Oh, wouldn't you like to know?” He moves to lock the door out of precaution. Then, without missing a beat, he comes to kneel at your feet, looking up at you through his black frames with those ice blues you never grow tired of. “If you want… you can open these pretty legs for me, sweetheart.”
“God… Sometimes I can’t believe how much of a freak you turned out to be,” you huff, and yet do exactly as he asks when you spread your thighs.
“Me? A freak? Nah, baby, I’m just in love.”
Ten minutes later, your skirt is hitched up to your waist, pantyhose bunched down at your ankles, with his face buried into your sensitive cunt. His glasses lay long forgotten next to where you're gripping the desk tightly with a hand, the other used to muffle your needy noises.
“Always so fucking sweet,” he grunts between your folds, his tongue incessantly dragging over your clit just to see you twitch. “I miss this little pussy every time I’m not tasting it—could stay here for hours.”
And he certainly has before. You remember distinctly the day he found out you were pregnant and proceeded to eat you out for quite literally hours, until you were a shaking, sobbing mess under him.
With a suck at your inner lips, you whimper behind your palm, and he takes that as his cue to repeat the motion again and again. Then, he pulls back, spreading your labia wider with his thumbs, and spits directly into your drippy hole just to see it flutter.
“So pretty, and all for me,” he smiles up at you proudly. “Right, baby?”
“Y-yeah… All for you, Leon.”
He moans at your words, then dives right back in, tongue first. With his lips on your clit, he brings a finger to circle your entrance, pulling more sounds out of you, before pushing in. He steadily finger fucks you, starting gentle before increasing rhythm, and he curles his digit inwards with every motion, until you’re completely losing your mind.
“Fuck, fuck— Leon!” Your cry is muted by your palm as your legs shake and convulse around his head, your orgasm overwhelming every cell in your body. You just pray no one hears.
Leon is not often this daring. Yes, he steals kisses and butt pats whenever he can, but full on sex at HQ is something you have only done a handful of times before—most of them having been during your pregnancy. He just can't seem to get enough of you in this state.
He peers up at you once you come down from the high, his face glistening with your slick and sporting a fucked out smile. You look down at him in your disheveled stare, and simply shake your head.
“You’re gonna smell like pussy now.”
He laughs, loud and bright, then purposely leans in to kiss you, just to be annoying. “Now we both smell like freaks.”
You hand him tissues with a sheepish smile, then slowly stand to pull up your pantyhose just for him to step in to help. It's such a small gesture, so mundane and forgettable, and yet something about it makes you pause just to appreciate him.
He looks so good with his flushed cheeks and tousled hair, his eyes filled with so much love and lust for you it puts to shame any fleeting relationship you had before him. No one has ever made you feel this loved, this wanted, and it's making you grow as insatiable as him.
“Wait,” you stop his movements with a hand on his wrist. “Think you can be quiet?” you ask the same question he did before.
Leon’s heart stutters at the implied meaning of your words. It is awfully soundless outside, but you have managed to stay mostly silent, so maybe another round wouldn't hurt. Hell, he would do just about anything for another round.
“Please,” the word slips out before he can stop it, then watches your eyes light up with mischief.
“Hm… Everything here makes noise,” you gesture vaguely to the desk and chairs before turning to him. “Maybe you can hold me up instead?”
He removes his jacket before you can even finish your question. “Fuck, yes. Anything.”
It takes a moment to shuffle around until you figure out the position you want as it's not exactly a simple one. He stands behind you with your back to his chest. His pants are down at his ankles when he holds up one of your legs with a hand under your knee, and his other arm encircles your waist. You brace a palm on the chair’s backrest for balance despite his secure hold, and then look down. With your thighs spread, there's enough access for you to reach between them for his painfully hard cock, and carefully slip it inside you.
You moan in unison at the feel of his first inch breaching you, then, he slowly slides in further so you can feel his thick length filling you up. He kisses along your neck to muffle his noises, the hand on your waist shifting to lift your sweater and reveal your bra.
Your breasts haven't gotten that much larger so far, though you know that change will probably happen when your milk comes in. However, what has changed is the darkening of your nipples, something you were feeling a bit insecure about until Leon proved you otherwise—he’s obsessed.
Pulling your bra cups down, he starts to pinch and squeeze at the peaks the moment your breasts spill out into the office air. His hips don't stop gyrating, fucking into you in a stable rhythm while keeping you steady on your foot, all while the chair you’re holding onto rolls with every thrust in a coming and going motion. He loves being strong enough to take you in every position you want.
“So tight,” he whines in your ear, his fingers digging into your skin and making it dimple between his digits. “Feels so good, honey—ngh— Prettiest little mommy… Fuck.”
You turn your face just to kiss him, whimpering into his mouth as quietly as you can while he splits you open. The word ‘mommy’ does something to you, and you feel that familiar build of pleasure every time his cockhead nudges your cervix. You could stay impaled on his length forever.
“I can feel you so deep…” you whisper between sloppy kisses. “Right where you belong.”
Leon makes a pathetically needy sound, because yes, this is where he belongs. With you, inside you, loving you, and giving you his all—this is where he wants to be.
“Yes, sweetheart, thank you,” he bites your lip and it makes your cunt clench around him. He’s thanking you for this as if he isn't the one holding you upright and drilling into you as hard as he wants. It makes your heart warm and your walls quiver.
“I’m so close…” Your voice comes out broken, like you’re tethering on the edge and just need an extra push. “Cum inside me—wanna feel it.”
He has to close his eyes to keep his composure as he rests his forehead against yours, his thrusts never stopping. He can feel himself fully losing it, and can't manage to stay calm anymore when he tugs at your nipple until you gasp.
“Yeah? Want my cum? Want me to breed you more?” he rasps in your ear, the obscene sound of his balls slapping your skin filling the room. The caveman is fully out. “You didn't get enough, babe? Look at you… Shit, you're so fucking stunning with my baby inside you… But you want more, huh?”
“Yes! Fuck!” you curse loudly when he slides his hand down, grazing past your bump, and then cupping your mound like he owns it. And damn it, he does.
“Shhh… What did we say about being loud?” He kisses your cheek tenderly, a complete contrast to the way he’s rearranging your insides. “I’ll give you what you want if you stay quiet… Just, fuck— Just stay put and let me fill you up. Gonna pump you so fucking full I’ll put a second kid in there before the first is out.”
That does it.
You clamp a hand on your mouth, nearly screaming of pleasure when your climax hits you hard. His fingers work your clit, his cock fucks you fast, and his lips press kisses along your neck, all while you lose yourself completely in his grasp. You know the only reason you’re still standing upright is his arm under your thigh and his hand on your pussy, like a portable little thing he can rut into even as your limbs turn to jello.
“Good mommy,” he praises, suckling along your neck, then preparing to let himself go too. It's not hard when you're gripping him so tight post-orgasm his dick is nearly choking. “You're perfect,” he adds in a whisper.
Soon enough, his rhythm stutters, his grip tightens, and he’s moaning incessantly in your neck as he shoots his load right into your already filled womb. Then, when his own limbs turn to mush, he sets you down on the chair where you can catch your breath while he kneels with his head resting on your thigh.
“Shit, I need a minute,” he pants tiredly.
When you look down at him to find him flushed, sweaty and disheveled, his pants still at his ankles, the sight makes you giggle. “Are you beat, old man?”
He huffs, giving your thigh a light bite in protest. “Shut up…”
You laugh again, your eyes crinkling at the corners in fondness. If there's one thing that has never changed between you, it's the endless teasing and playful banter.
Through his exhaustion, Leon stands up with a grunt—forty-five has him making noises with every movement—then quickly pulls up his slacks to help you fix your clothes too.
His eyes glimmer when he slides your panties in place, knowing they will collect his spend that will steadily leak out of you during the day. The thought of that alone could have him ready to go again if not for his protesting back.
He fixes your bra and sweater, but not without giving both of your darkened nipples a wet suck each—just because he can. Finally, he fixes your hair to the best of his ability and kisses you on the cheek when done.
“Yeah, no, people are definitely gonna tell we were up to something,” you conclude when you catch your reflections in the turned off monitor.
He laughs, then tucks his shirt with a grin, the thin fabric clinging to his muscles with every movement. “Well, I consider it hazard pay for all the shit they’ve put us through.”
“Amen,” you chuckle.
Leon’s grin softens into a small smile, a hint of sadness flickering through his ice blues when he notices the light tremor of your hands where they rest on your bump. He knows he should be used to it by now, but it never stops hurting knowing you continue to suffer from the consequences of that night. He’s just grateful he never has to worry about you being put into that kind of danger again.
“Water?” you interrupt his thoughts when you offer him your comically large bottle.
He takes it with a renewed smirk, shifting his focus on teasing you. “Thanks, kid. You know me, I love jugs.”
You roll your eyes at his awful joke while he grins with pride, then takes a loud sip of water as his gaze drifts to your desk. It lands on the little corkboard you keep on your wall for personal mementos and pictures, and he feels butterflies when all your cherished moments seem to be related to him.
Binx doodles, photos of Leon and you on your dates, in addition to sonograms of your unborn baby—he could cry at how adorably sweet you are.
“You put those up,” he points to the black and white ultrasound images. Those were taken almost a month ago during your twentieth week appointment. You had both been excited to find out the gender of the baby, only for them to keep their legs closed and render the task impossible for the nurse.
“Mhm. I wanted to hang pictures of the stubborn little weed.”
“Reminds me of someone,” he teases, kissing your cheek before you can pout.
Leaning into his touch, you look at the clock on the wall and remember something. “Oh, Claire texted, by the way. She wanted to confirm tonight's dinner. We’re still on, right?”
“Yep. Seven was it?”
“Yeah,” you nod, readjusting in the comfy chair you will undoubtedly never return. “I’ll probably meet you there a bit later, though. I have some extra work to do today after lunch with Sherry.”
“Don't overwork yourself, kid,” he frowns as he tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Call me when you're on your way, alright?”
“Will do… And I can't believe you still call me kid even now,” you huff as you gesture to your pregnant belly, though an evident smile tugs at your lips.
He laughs, pecking your lips one more time, then grabs his glasses as he prepares to leave your office with a deliberately unhurried step.
“Told you. You’ll always be my kiddo. Even when you're old and wrinkly with dentures.”
As Leon settles on the plush sofa next to Jill, he lets out a contended sigh. It's been a while since he gathered with friends, and it's always nice to be surrounded by those closest to him.
“You said your lovely wife is running late, yeah? I think Sherry is too,” Claire addresses him as she sinks into the armchair opposite him.
“Yeah, they're probably working together on reports,” he answers with a smile, the mere thought of you bringing one to his face. “I’m sure they'll get here as soon as they can.”
“Look at you, Kennedy!” Chris grins as he sits on the armrest beside him, giving him a loud clap on the back. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you’re the pregnant one with how much you're glowing.”
Jill and Claire snicker, with the latter agreeing from her spot. “I have to agree, you look absolutely radiant.”
Leon has gotten used to the siblings’ incessant teasing, especially since he married you and they like to remind him how much happier he is now on every possible occasion. After all, they have witnessed him during some of his darkest moments, so to see the change in him is a welcome sight.
He remembers how nervous he was to announce you two had gotten together, only to be met by their overwhelming support. They said they trusted him to take good care of you, and it felt like the best compliment in the world.
“Fuck off, both you,” he huffs in response to their teasing, giving Chris a nudge before turning to the brunette beside him. “Jill, back me up here, they're doing their evil duo shit again.”
“I got you. We’re not letting the Redfields defeat us,” she raises her hand for a high-five that he gleefully returns.
“Hey, you’re a Redfield too!” Chris scoffs at her, but he’s only met by a dismissive hand wave.
“I married you, sure, but no way am I dropping Valentine. Jill Redfield sounds weird.”
The buff man can't help but laugh, clearly not truly upset that she has kept her surname all these years. They never planned on having children anyway, so there was never a need for them to unify their last names.
“Where’s the little one?” Leon suddenly asks when he notices Gabby missing.
“Oh, she's with her dad, they went to the store to grab dessert—I completely forgot to plan for it,” Claire grumbles, then is interrupted by the sound of jingling keys. “Ah, they must be here!”
Damien appears with boxed pastries in his arms and Gabby on his tail. She looks more like her mother with every passing year.
“Leon! It’s been a while!” the man smiles as he sees him. “You came alone?”
The blonde smiles back with a wave. “Kiddo’s coming in a bit with Sherry… Hey, Gabs!”
“Hi,” the girl greets timidly before moving to sit by Claire. Then, in typical nine-year-old fashion, she asks bluntly, “do you guys know the baby’s gender yet?”
Leon is taken aback by the sudden question before he chuckle, shaking his head. “No, they couldn't see during the ultrasound last time. But we got this blood test that should settle it for us… Why? Do you have predictions?”
Gabby smiles shyly and looks at her mother with a small giggle, prompting Claire to side hug her affectionately.
“She hopes it's a girl,” the woman grins, then turns back to the child. “Right, honey?”
“Well, because you said the baby will be like my cousin and I think a girl cousin would be so fun… But a boy cousin would still be nice too.”
The adults smile fondly, with Damien reaching over to ruffle the girl’s hair when he passes by to settle on the sectional. Chatter fills the room as they all bask in each other's presence, catching up and sharing anecdotes of their daily lives, until the doorbell rings.
Leon’s eyes immediately turn towards the entrance, sitting up a bit straighter in anticipation. He always feels a bit silly over how affected he still is by you, like a teenager with a massive crush. But he can't help it, every morning he gets to wake up by your side is a blessing in his book.
When you and Sherry walk in, his eyes light up, and he swears the room brightens with your smile, like you're some kind of celestial being made of sunshine and fairy dust. His personal angel sent down just for him.
He observes as you greet everyone, hugs and smiles exchanged before you inevitably find your way to him, your side pressed to his.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs low enough only for you to hear. He then takes note of your clothes with a quirked eyebrow. “You changed?”
Looking down at your jeans and hoodie, you chuckle, then lean into him as his hand comes to rest at your waist. “I feel like I get a pass to wear sweatshirts at dinners as the resident pregnant lady… I decided to keep spare comfy clothes in the car. Best decision ever.”
“You're so cute,” he coos adoringly with a gentle pinch at your side. “You look perfect, kiddo.”
Jill, who is now beside you as you sat between her and Leon, turns to you both with a curious smile. “So, from a scale of jumping with excitement to shitting your pants, how ready are you guys to become parents?”
“Jumping with excitement,” you grin.
“Shitting my pants,” Leon says at the same time.
You both pause, then turn to look at each other with intrigue. Jill just laughs, shaking her head at the sight of your collective confusion. “I feel like both are very valid reactions,” she teases.
“It's not that I’m not scared, I’m just also really excited…” you murmur, peering at Leon to gauge his reaction. “I feel like we’ve waited for this for so long, right?”
“Absolutely,” he immediately answers to quench your worries. “It just seems a bit daunting, that's all… I mean, I’m forty-five, people my age are usually past starting families.”
Jill tucks a strand of her silver streaked hair away from her face before smiling softly. “I never wanted kids, so I’m not the best fit to give advice about this, but I’m sure that your baby won't care about your age, Leon. As long as you do your best, that's all that matters.”
“Exactly,” you add in agreement, and he sighs with a small nod, despite his eyes still holding some worry in them.
Your conversation is interrupted when everyone is called to sit at the table for dinner to be served. The evening goes by in a breeze in the company of friends who you consider family, and it ends with a toast presented by none other than Chris Redfield.
He raises his glass, a playful grin on his face. “To the Kennedys and their growing family! May the baby inherit their mother’s kind heart, and, uh, their father’s good hair, I guess.”
The room erupts in laughter, with Leon not-so-discreetly flipping Chris off as Sherry covers Gabby’s eyes. You giggle, lifting your glass of water as you clink it with the others’ drinks, your heart feeling full.
“Ugh, I’m exhausted,” you grunt as you slump on the bed, spreading your limbs like a starfish on the soft surface the moment you finish your nighttime routine.
Stretching in his cotton shirt and sweatpants, Leon comes out of the bathroom with a yawn, equally tired.
“Take it easy, sweetheart, you’ve had a long day.”
“I did… Especially when a certain someone came to deliver a chair as an excuse for nefarious behavior.”
He laughs softly, moving to lay beside you on his stomach, laying his dark blonde head on his crossed arms. “That was one hell of a delivery.”
You huff, poking his forehead with a berating finger. “My legs are sore, you know.”
“And who was it again who wanted to have sex while standing? I’m sorry, but this one’s on you, kid.”
When you groan as a retort, shifting to peel the covers, he gives your ass a light slap that makes you grumble.
“Stop pouting,” he drawls with a smirk. “I’ll give you a leg massage.”
Your eyes suddenly light-up and you immediately halt in your movements. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Now come here.”
You do as told, shifting until you’re laying on your front with a leg propped up towards your chest to allow room for your round belly. With a pillow hugged to your side, you feel yourself relax, and even more so when Leon starts touching you with warm palms.
He massages your calves in slow, circular motions, then moves on to your thighs before going back down, and so on and so forth. You feel boneless under his loving hands, your body completely pliant, and yet your mind whirrs with running thoughts.
“Hey…” you murmur quietly. “What you said earlier with Jill, do you really mean you’re that worried?”
Leon pauses his movements, taking a moment to think before answering as he resumes the massage. “It's not so bad. You know me, I just get in my head sometimes…” He swallows, as if stopping himself from saying more, then lets out a chuckle. “I guess I’m just worried the age gap will be too big for the kid to like my dad jokes.”
Smiling at his lighter tone, you look at him past your shoulder with your head propped on your palm. “Babe, even I don’t like your dad jokes, and I’m thirty-two.”
He laughs, then gives your ass another slap as he leans in for a kiss to your smirking lips. “Yeah, you don't like them. You love them.”
The massage continues with your worry over his words mostly appeased, and soon after, you find yourselves under the covers, in the dark and ready to go to sleep. You reach for his hand like you do every night, giving it a squeeze with a whispered ‘I love you’, then close your eyes for the night.
You’re just about to drift when you hear his voice resound softly in the silence.
“Do you think I’ll be a good dad?”
The question takes you by surprise, the answer obvious in your mind, but you immediately discard sleep when hearing how vulnerable his tone is.
“Of course, Leon… Of course you’ll be a good dad.”
You knew he was more concerned than he let on. He always does this—pretending everything is okay not to burden you. No matter how many times you promise him he can lay his worries on you, he still hesitates, afraid of being too much.
Deep down, you know it's because of that night when you gave up your life for his. He’s always avoiding making your stress and fatigue worsen, his eyes filling with concern whenever your hands tremble or you complain of a headache. Things that you have learned to live with, but for him, they serve as a constant reminder of his suppressed guilt.
You scoot closer, then wrap your arms around his neck just for him to melt into you completely as he lays his head on your chest. He closes his eyes, listening to your steady heartbeat, then tangles his legs with yours.
“I’m sorry, I just… I get worried about messing up. I don't really know much about children, and apart from Damien, I don't know that many dads.”
You hug him tighter as you nod, feeling his hand come to a rest on your bump. You take in a shaky breath, then decide to share your own struggles.
“I think it's normal to think about your own experience and childhood when you're about to have a baby… You know, I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately, how I wish she was here along with dad, so they could see me—us—become parents.”
Leon feels his chest tighten at the mention of your deceased parents, his own wounds of grief flaring at the thought. He always thinks of the fact neither of you really have families, at least not any close relatives. It makes him all the more protective of you and the bond you share. After all, it's only you and him in this world.
His thumb rubs soothing circles on your bump as he speaks, “I think they would be really, really proud of you, sweetheart. I know I am.”
“Well, I’m proud of you too, and I know you will be a great father, because you give your all in everything else and this will be no different,” you kiss the crown of his hair, breathing in the clean scent of his shampoo. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”
“Hey,” he huffs, a smile pulling at his lips, “that's my line.”
“Wouldn't be the first thing I learn from you.”
Leon chuckles softly, then tilts his head to meet your eyes with his blue ones. You can't see much in the dark, but you can still see the way they shine with fondness. He already feels better from your reassuring words.
“Thank you, kid. I wouldn't do this with anyone but you.” He kisses your stomach tenderly in gratitude.
Tears start to prick your eyes—damned hormones—but you blink them away and switch to a lighter tone. No need to cry when you're the happiest you’ve ever been.
“You’re welcome, my good sir. I also would have stayed unmarried and depressed if it’s not with you.”
The fondness in Leon’s heart grows tenfold, and he gives your sides a squeeze before nuzzling further into your chest.
Oh, the things you do to him.
A moment of silence passes before he speaks muffled. “Remember when you had to call me ‘sir’ around other people during training days? You would always switch back to first names the second you could get away with it.”
You laugh at the memory, remembering yourself at eighteen, fresh out of your year in the military where titles meant everything, and yet you always resisted calling him anything but Leon.
“Because I wanted to be special… And we were already friends anyway!” you exclaim to defend yourself.
He grins, kissing your sternum where it peeks over the collar of your tanktop. “You were already special, you’re the only one I mentored.”
“Yeah, well, I had a massive crush and scribbled your name on my notebooks… I was desperate and greedy for more.”
He laughs, but then the sound slowly dies down the longer he lets himself think of your confession. “You know, I still can't believe it… The fact you liked me for so long and I had no idea,” he sighs, his breath tickling your skin. “I can't tell if not knowing was a blessing or a curse.”
“Definitely a blessing,” you immediately retort. “You would have absolutely panicked and melted into a puddle of shame and guilt before sending me off to be trained by someone else.”
Leon gives it a thought for all but two seconds before begrudgingly agreeing—you know him too well. “Okay, fair.”
“I still can't believe you started liking me back. I thought I wasn't your type.”
He scoffs, like the notion of you not being exactly what he always wanted irks him. “And what type is that?” he quirks an accusing eyebrow.
“I don't know… Badass and mysterious?” you giggle.
You can't see it in the dark, but he rolls his eyes hard. But then he can't help but kiss your cheek, because when it comes to you he’s the absolute sappiest.
“Oh, baby, you’re the most badass and mysterious of them all,” he murmurs with a grin.
You’re about to answer when your phone dings with an email notification, prompting you to reach for the device on your nightstand.
“Hey, no phones after ten,” Leon grumbles.
“Yeah, yeah, I just forgot to turn off notifications, dad,” you answer with a huff as the screen lights up your features.
“It better be important…”
You pay him no mind, opening your email app just to see the name of the lab you recently visited. “Wait, it’s the blood test…” you whisper in a mix of excitement and nerves. “The NIPT results!”
He frowns, leaning to look at the contents of your screen where your thumb hovers over the link. “They’re sending them at nearly midnight?”
“I was supposed to get it today, maybe their system got delayed… Oh, God, why am I suddenly nervous?”
“It’s alright to be nervous,” he reassures you with a smile that makes your heart flutter. “No matter what, it’ll be our baby, so they're already perfect.”
“Yeah, you’re so right,” you nod in agreement, then take a deep inhale. “Okay, are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Holding your breath, you finally press to show the awaited results. The test is meant to screen for common chromosomal conditions, as well as detect the sex of the baby. You know in the deepest pit of your soul, that no matter the outcome, you will love this child and do your very best as a mother, especially with Leon at your side.
Finally, the PDF opens, and you exhale once you read the head of the page.
Summary of results:
Aneuploidies and microdeletions: Low risk.
Fetal fractions: 10.2% (normal)
Fetal sex: Female.
Your relief at the baby being at low risk is quickly overshadowed by excitement when you read that last line. Your eyes widen, and you choke on a gasp.
“Oh my God… Leon!”
The poor man beside you is as confused as they come as he tries and fails to read the tiny font on your tiny screen without his glasses. Your reaction doesn't help, only furthering his worry.
“What? What is it?” He places a hand on yours where you're holding your phone, just to bring it closer as he squints.
The sight makes you laugh, and you finally have mercy on him by making the announcement yourself.
“It's low risk, so, all good, and… it’s a girl!”
Leon’s heart stutters, a sudden gasp leaving his throat. “A girl?”
“Yes! Well, female,” you grin.
He takes a moment for the information to sink in before nodding slowly. “Like you.”
“Yes, a girl like me.”
“That’s… That’s so cute,” he finally smiles as he pictures a mini version of you playing up a storm around the house. “Gabby called it.”
“She did?” you laugh, running fingers through his hair soothingly.
“She’ll be so happy,” he nods with a chuckle, before his expression turns back into something awe-filled. “I mean, fuck, it doesn't mean much no matter… But I kind of always wanted a girl.”
The confession tugs at your heartstrings like nothing else. You kiss his cheek tenderly with a whisper, “I know, and you’ll be the best girl dad ever.”
“And you’ll be the best mom, sweetheart. Binxie can attest to that, even if he’s an old grumpy cat now.”
Giggling, you can already picture the feline’s reaction to a noisy, crying baby. He will probably hide in the guest bedroom for some peace and quiet.
“It’ll be just us three and Binx,” you murmur with a fond smile. “Together.”
“Yeah…” Leon hums and holds you tight against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world. And to him, you really are. “Just like it was always meant to be, my love.”
Melting into his hold, you feel your hearts beating in sync where your chests are pressed together. You were never one to believe in soulmates and predestined lovers, but when it comes to him, there are no doubts in your mind that you were made for each other.
“I love you so much, Leon.”
“I love you more than I ever thought I was capable of, kiddo... Thank you for choosing me.”
You answer his gratitude with a kiss that he returns in earnest, his lips molding to yours perfectly. Choosing him was never a conscious effort for you, it was as natural as the tides being pulled by the moon’s gravity. There is no universe where you don't belong to him, and you knew that from the moment he offered you a kind smile and a promise that you will be okay.
The end.
i'm not sure what to say as we come to the conclusion of this story, i feel a lot of emotions that's for sure, especially as it coincides with a period of big changes in my personal life 💙
when i started writing for the first time in march, i never expected my fics to get such overwheming support, and i definitely have a bit of imposter syndrome knowing i'm such a noob yet people seem to like my stories
nonetheless, i am so grateful to each and every person who liked, reblogged or commented, especially commented, because you guys motivated me more than anything to keep writing and posting frequently
we're ending this book (yes, a whole ass book) at about 88k which is absolutely insane for someone not used to finishing many things in her life. i'm so happy to have discovered writing as a hobby that can bring me and others joy in this little corner of the internet
i want to present a special thanks to @sammimi19 my dear bestie who supported me since my very first fic and who is always the first one to read my chapters and offer valuable feedback (even tho she pretends to be surprised by chapter events in the comments, don't believe her you guys) i love you so so much sammy, and i appreciate having you in my life more than you know 💘
once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading YGBO, i hope i can continue writing many more stories for as long as i enjoy it 💙
Once the elevator reaches the secret floor, you’re met by a hallway with vintage, wine-colored carpet and various art paintings lining the dark walls. The place looks old, which does not come as a surprise considering the hotel’s age, but everything seems to be maintained with utmost care.
Leon keeps himself one step ahead of you in a protective stance, his fingers twitching for a gun he doesn't have, and his body missing the heat of yours now that he’s forced to put distance between you. He’s not sure where this is leading, but he has a bad feeling growing in his chest.
To make matters worse, the signal here seems to be nonexistent—your attempt to call Hunnigan through your bracelet having failed miserably. You can't go back for fear of being detected, so with no choice but to advance, both your steps are careful yet hurried as you continue down the long corridor.
After passing a few gates that wouldn't open without special codes—Pop-pop’s birthday could only get you so far—you finally come across a set of double doors with a plaque on the wall that reads ‘Viewing Room.’ Observing it closer, the golden slab seems brand new in contrast with the place’s antique appearance, like it had just been installed there not too long ago.
With your interest peaked, you watch Leon try the handle, and to your surprise, it yields open. He keeps an arm outstretched in your path that signals you to stay back as he peeps through the crack and frowns at whatever he sees.
You can’t wait any longer, so you slide under him and peek as well, prompting him to huff. But, he doesn't say anything considering the room inside already has a couple of people who appear to be waiting staff. From your spot, it looks like a home cinema. A luxurious one, with comfortable leather recliners and trays of food and drinks on small tables—a cinephile's dream.
But what makes you frown along Leon is what's playing on the big screen. It doesn't show a movie, or a show, or whatever documentary aristocrats are interested in. Instead, it’s a split display of multiple news channels—all the main ones, in addition to local stations of the DMV area.
You would think it's simply an idle screen to prepare for the night’s show, but it seems a deliberate choice as each broadcast has a quadrant surrounding its frame that reads a countdown timer of about one hour.
A timer in a secret villain lair can never mean a good thing.
Eddy’s words suddenly echo through your mind, ‘you will find out about it tomorrow—everyone will.’ Whatever is planned to happen tonight, seems to be important enough to be relayed by national news, and that has your heart racing in apprehension.
“What do we do now?” you whisper at Leon, fully aware of how you always seem to seek out his guidance in times of stress.
He looks at you with gentle warmth, a familiar feeling of adoration spreading through his chest at the sight of you. But his expression quickly morphs into something more serious as he thinks through the next step.
The choice is made for him, however, when incoming footsteps are heard, no doubt those of the guests that were upstairs. He grabs your hand and leads you where the hallway takes a sharp turn, keeping a secure grip on you as he presses his back on the wall and you mirror his movement.
From there, you hear chatter of various voices, different conversations taking place at the same time. They seem to be heading towards the viewing room, and you strain to pick up on any valuable piece of information.
“I can assure you, you will be amazed by its effectiveness,” a male voice speaks and Leon peeks past the corner just enough to spot Adams. “I was explaining before to Eddy—who seems to be running late, by the way—about how conclusive the trials have been. Even if we were interrupted during that last batch.”
“I’m sorry again about your wife, Marcus,” a tall man replies, and gestures to the scientist to head inside the room. From his amber locks, the agent can guess it's Eddy’s brother.
“Thank you, Rob… It hasn't been easy…”
After that, the conversation grows muffled as the men disappear from the hallway with a couple more guests following. You stay quiet, still holding hands with Leon, until quietness returns and the door shuts.
“He’s demonstrating 'effectiveness,’” the blonde sighs in exasperation. “So I guess they're planning on testing the chips… Which means people are in imminent danger if that timer is anything to go by.”
“Why do rich people suck ass so bad?” you huff, and he responds with a squeeze to your palm.
“I don't know, kiddo, but this shit never ends…”
Leon knows an hour is an awfully short amount of time, and the DSO needs to be alerted as fast as possible to try and prevent what could possibly be a bioterrorist attack. He has no idea how many people are at risk, but those screens showed various locations in the area, including D.C. It’s bad enough if even one person gets their brains turned into mush, let alone multiple.
“Wait, look,” you suddenly interrupt his thoughts with a pointed finger.
Down the hallway, a red ‘EXIT’ sign shines by a gate to your great relief. As soon as you’re out, you can call Hunnigan, and backup can be brought in to fix the situation.
This time, it's you who pulls Leon along, and he feels his heart stutter as you lead the way with your focused expression. He knows that deep inside, you feel guilty about the earlier moment with Eddy, even though it was him who inserted himself in your plan. He has to admit, though, he could get used to holding hands with you on missions—he just hopes he doesn't have to deal with any more involuntary cucking as a trade-off.
Pushing the heavy door open, you find yourselves in an emergency staircase and sigh of relief. Even villains seem to be aware of fire safety. But as you’re about to ascend to reach back a level with signal, you notice a sign with an arrow pointing downstairs: ‘Security.’
“Do you think there's camera feeds of this place down there?” you raise an eyebrow at Leon, and he already knows your plan.
“Probably… But before we do that, we call Ingrid first.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
Fifteen minutes later, HQ has been informed when you were able to catch radio transmission up the stairs, and you're currently making your way back down knowing a team will arrive soon enough to further investigate. For now, you’re just grateful no one is present in the vicinity.
Despite Leon’s protests asking you to leave to go find Martin and Ferreira, you stubbornly insisted on following along, especially with the timer in mind.
“I don't have time to go find them and then get back down. I’m sure the emergency doors are locked anyway, because then anyone would be able to get in here.”
The agent rolls his eyes as you continue on your tangent on why your presence is necessary, and only stop once you reach the lower level and immediately find a guard scrolling on his phone by the entrance.
You both freeze in place, and the man slowly lifts his head with a confused expression. “Are you with the party? Sorry, but this is a restricted area.”
“Oh, so sorry! We were looking for the, uh, washroom,” you mumble out a lie.
“In the fire escape?” He arches a brow and straightens his posture. Eyeing you in suspicion, he then focuses on the blonde as if sizing him up, before slowly reaching for his holstered gun.
A beat passes where no one moves, until, suddenly, Leon lurches to land a fist square on the man’s jaw, knocking him down faster than he can withdraw his firearm.
“Jesus Christ, Leon!” you gasp, eyes wide as you watch him lower the man’s unconscious body to the floor.
“Too much?” he chuckles lowly, then grabs the guard’s weapon and badge. “Couldn't risk it.”
You shake your head, and yank the ID tag from his grasp before touching it to the door’s lock so it opens with a beep. “That was the old cop in you that came out just now.”
“Hey! I’m trying to keep us alive here,” Leon scoffs, dragging the limp body inside as you hold the gate open for him. “Plus, we only have like…” a pause, and he checks his watch with a grumble “...forty minutes left. So move it, rookie.”
Huffing and puffing, you help him settle the man in a supply closet, moving cleaning supplies out of the way and taking care to immobilize his wrists behind him with his own tie.
Once done, you both stand with an exhale, the agent appreciating your handy work of the makeshift restraints.
“I taught you that one,” he grins proudly, and you nudge his elbow with a soft smile.
“You taught me everything.”
A warmth settles in his chest at your words, and as he watches your expression, he can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia at the way you still look so much like your younger self. You grew up, your features that of a woman rather than a girl, but your heart has remained unchanged—devoted as ever.
He looks back down at the guard, at the way you just helped him tie up an underpaid worker who is probably just doing his job, and a wave of that familiar guilt hits him again.
The worst part is he doesn't even feel that bad for the passed out man. He probably knew his employers are shady people, so it's kind of on him for working here in the first place… No, he feels bad for you. For the fact you even have to be a part of any of this to begin with.
“Sometimes, I wish I didn't,” he whispers before he can stop himself.
You frown at his words, hurt blooming in your heart at his apparent regret over having you under his wing. You subconsciously take a step away from him, crossing your arms protectively.
“Are you still on about me picking the wrong job?”
Leon winces at the bitterness in your tone, but he won't lie to you. Not when he has so many things he needs to make right.
“You know I will never change my mind when it comes to that.”
He gives you one more lingering glance, before walking past you and back out into the hall of the security floor. You follow silently, ruminating on your own thoughts as you try to figure out once again his mysterious emotions.
“But you still helped me…” you point out quietly. “You still used every card in your deck to help me make it up until here.”
He pauses, turning to you with a melancholic smile that nearly makes you want to cry from how sad he looks. You hate to see him so seemingly sorrowful simply because of the career choices you made.
“And I would do it again if it makes you happy, kid,” he murmurs, his deep voice barely audible in the eerie place. “I would do anything for you, you know that, right?”
Sighing from an odd mix of relief and pain, you nod with a small smile. “I know… And I would too.”
Leon doesn't like how easily you return his promise, but he knows your love for him runs deep, and for that he is infinitely grateful—despite how much the guilt it causes burns.
A short while later, you were able to lock two more guards in a bathroom while they were using the urinals. A handy, specialized door wedge did the trick—compliments of Hunnigan. As for their radios, you stuck a small signal jammer on the wall that should be enough for a few feet radius. Finally, Leon started leading the way towards the controls, gun in hand, with the distant banging on the bathroom door serving as background noise.
You’re able to view inside the desired room through a thick glass window on the metal gate. It looks empty. Good. You then use the badge on the card reader to let you both inside.
What you expected to be a regular, boring security room with a few camera feeds and old desk chairs, turned out to be sterile white walls and sleek command panels with a thousand buttons. This is all most certainly recently built.
“What even is this place?” Leon frowns, his eyes landing on an array of screens.
Walking closer, you discern random numbers, location names, and multiple countdown timers. None of it really makes sense, but on one of the monitors you find the camera feed you were hoping for of the gathering upstairs.
“There,” you point and move to try and figure out the control panel to get it to play sound. It takes a short while, but you seem to finally get a hang of how the computer system operates.
From your peripheral vision, you notice Leon watching you intently with a small, appreciative smile and he can't help but compliment you. “You know you’ve always had a knack for these things.”
“The one thing you didn't teach me,” you tease and he rolls his eyes playfully.
A moment later, and sound finally comes through so you’re able to listen in on the group of elites who appear to be watching Adams speak as he seemingly delivers a speech.
“—with staggered releases, we’ll watch public reaction slowly increase into panic, which is our goal of course. But this is first and foremost a test run, so all you lovely ladies and gents can decide the worthiness of the product.”
Through the grainy quality of the monitor, you see the tall redhead from earlier, Eddy’s brother, straighten in his seat. “Can you explain the details of the plan again for those unfamiliar.”
“With pleasure,” Adams smiles crookedly, then readjusts his red tie before continuing. “Once we have the reaction desired, we simply offer the solution to the problem: a preventative cure.”
You frown, leaning closer to listen to the man spilling the valuable secrets you have been seeking, and Leon seems just as intrigued as you.
“You see, the goal is for this to be sold as a virus rather than a targeted attack. Which is why the strikes will happen within specific areas, to simulate the spread of a disease that only we have the ‘vaccine’ against.”
“But there is no vaccine,” a woman concludes at the back of the room.
“Correct. We will administer placebo injections, but in reality we can disable the M2423—or the chips—remotely… As long as we hit focal areas, like our beloved capital, the threat will be taken seriously enough that a cure for this new, deadly and contagious 'disease’ will be the number one sought after solution.”
There’s a silence in the room that matches yours and Leon’s. You can feel your heart beating in your temples from adrenaline at hearing the terrible plans these deranged people have for the night.
Edd Chastain is the one who speaks next after blowing out cigar smoke—seemingly a family favorite. “How did you get these things inside of them again?”
“We had different hospital locations tamper with common vaccines and shots—flu, MMR, hepatitis, vitamin K etc.”
The last mention has you freezing in place, your heart lurching in your chest and prompting Leon to look at you warily.
“What is it?” He steps closer, his frown deepening.
“Vitamin K… That’s given to newborns,” you whisper in shock. “I-I remember Claire explaining this to me when Gabby was born. They’re—fuck, they're putting brain exploding chips inside fucking newborns…”
Before the agent by your side can process the stomach churning news, Chastain speaks again in an arrogant tone.
“This sounds all fine and dandy until they can trace the injections back to you. Then what?”
Adams purses his lips, but he smiles nonetheless. “No worries, my team and I have started this process many months ago thanks to our generous early benefactors such as you, Mr. Chastain... It would be virtually impossible to conclude that a vaccine someone had last spring is the reason for their sudden demise now.”
“How many targets tonight?” the woman in the back asks.
“We have eight transmitters ready to release the sound frequencies that will trigger the bursts, and two targets for each. Which means sixteen total.”
“Sixteen people is not a lot. I don't see how this will prompt the government to want to rapidly invest in a cure,” Edd waves a dismissive hand, making his golden watch catch in the dimmed light.
You see Leon visibly twitch at the nonchalance exhibited by the participants of this unhinged conversation, and he seems to have officially reached his limit.
“Alright, fuck these wastes of oxygen,” he grits out, tightening his hold on the borrowed gun. “I’m running upstairs to let HQ know about this bullshit, and then I’ll come back to deal with these fuckers myself.”
“Count me in,” you mutter, and the both of you are about to turn on your heels when Marcus Adams’ voice comes through again.
“Well, Mr. Chastain, you’ll be happy to know I have a target that is sure to cause a stir… You see, the day my beloved Caitriona sacrificed herself for this project—after some government lackeys interfered—we were able to momentarily get a hold of one of them by subduing him…” he pauses, letting suspense fill the room before continuing. “If my deductions are correct, we have infected a DSO worker—meaning someone who operates directly under the president. Now if that doesn't get their attention, then I don't know what will.”
Time completely halts around you when you realize the agent they 'momentarily got a hold of’ is none other than the one standing beside you, his blue eyes wide in shock as he comes to the same conclusion.
Eddy, not given the permission to kiss the agent, settles for nuzzling into the blonde’s neck with a hand stroking up and down his thigh. “I should’ve expected this from Barry’s cousin—that asshole is a freak,” he chuckles into Leon’s collar.
The latter is tenser than a rock, and you wonder how the drunk man can't tell how uncomfortable he must be. Which is why you don't refuse him when he reaches for your thigh for purchase, his fingers digging almost bruisingly into your skin.
“Yeah… Barry.” Leon feels his eye twitch when the other begins to trail his fingers over the buttons of his shirt, and he feels you lock up next to him. When he steals a glance your way, it's you who appears to be seething in jealousy this time. The murderous look you're giving Eddy almost makes him smile in satisfaction.
The redhead starts to unbutton Leon without missing a beat despite his drunken clumsiness. He then pulls back just to look at you both with a hungry grin. “You know, you two make a really hot fucking couple… You should come by for Swingers’ Night.”
“Swingers’ Night?” you both gasp in unison, and Eddy laughs at your synchronization again.
“Well, yeah, it was Barry who started it. We do one every month, and he's always the one going the craziest. Fuck, just thinking about it gets me worked up,” he groans, tightening his grip on Leon’s thigh, who in turn tightens his hold on yours. “You know how kinky he is, right, Mr. Crawford?”
Leon feels the urge to die on the spot out of cringe, but he knows he can't leave you in the presence of this fucker, so he attempts to keep his calm. How is he even supposed to answer that question? If this Barry dude is meant to be his cousin, shouldn't he not know about his kinks?
“Uh… Yes?” he responds awkwardly and feels you place a hand on his in reassurance. He can breathe slightly better now.
Eddy, who has loosened Leon’s bow tie and opened three of his buttons already, finally pauses as his inhibited brain seems to catch up.
“You don't fuck your cousin, do you, Logan?”
The room quiets into a tense silence and it's all you can do not to laugh—or cry—at the weirdest fucking question Leon must have ever received. You squeeze his hand in encouragement and watch him take deep breaths to steel himself.
“No.”
His answer is simple, but under it lies a very real threat to poor, oblivious Eddy who's just looking for a good threesome with hot strangers. He just so happens to also be a black market investor in illegal BOW business.
“Cool, cool…,” he nods slowly, “I mean, not that I would judge or anything. We’ve all been there.”
This time, you do laugh. Because fuck, how are you supposed not to laugh at that. It’s strained, and breathless, and you try to stop but you can't bring yourself to from the sheer craziness of the situation. Only when Eddy resumes unbuttoning Leon does your smile disappear and you abruptly reach for his wrist out of sheer instinct.
Both men turn to look at you expectantly, and you rack your brain for something to say then release him to finally speak. “Is Swingers Night what you meant by ‘where great minds meet and great things happen’?”
Please say no, please say no.
“What? No,” Eddy laughs, then places the cigar he had put on the ashtray into Leon’s mouth who takes it without protest—because at this point nothing fucking matters anymore.
You sigh of relief, then press further, “so what is it?”
The redhead seems to ponder in hesitation for a moment, but the sight of Leon blowing out smoke from his flared nostrils seems to do something to him—which you can definitely relate to.
“Okay, okay, I guess I can let you in on a little secret… See that tall cabinet over there?” He gestures with his chin to a set of double doors that blend into the walls. “There's no wine in there. In truth, it's actually a little elevator.”
“Elevator?” your eyes widen, and Leon frowns further.
“Yes. It takes you to a, um, you could say secret floor—where we hold private events, like the one that will start in a couple of hours… But, naturally, you can’t ride it without bypassing security measures, like a special code for example.”
Holy shit. Maybe Leon should seduce villains more often if this guy is spilling this much out just from a bit of groping.
“Ah, I’ve said too much, dad wouldn't like it,” Eddy chuckles, then shakes his head in exasperation. “Then again, that old schmuck isn't here to dictate everything I do with my life, is he?”
The blonde agent looks him over in something akin to pity, the taste of bitter tar lingering on his tongue. “No. He’s not.”
At that, Eddy takes the cigar back from Leon, and lets out a small moan when he places it between his lips. “Let's not worry about all that right now. Him and my brother can be the perfect little father and son duo, while we should continue this in my room so we’re not interrupted.”
You exchange a look with your partner that says everything: we need to get that secret code. So, with a shared nod, Leon turns to the man with a determined expression.
“Where’s your room?”
Thankfully, it only takes about eight minutes for Eddy to take you to his suite, and only because he took forever drunkenly looking for his key card in all his fancy pockets.
Once inside the luxurious room, you're about to discreetly discuss with Leon the next step, when he suddenly shoves the man on the plush bed with a bit too much force. The latter gasps as his body bounces on golden pillows, but his surprise quickly subsides to make way for excitement.
“Getting impatient, handsome?”
“It’s ‘sir’ to you,” Leon grumbles, and you bite your lip to hold back a snicker—and maybe a moan too.
With an inconspicuous motion towards your purse, he shifts to cover your next movements with his broad chest as he climbs on the bed beside the redhead.
“You got a wife, Eddy?” he huffs as the other reaches to stroke the agent’s half uncovered chest.
“Divorced. She couldn't keep up with me.”
In the meantime, you move to stand at the french commode and place your bag and wine glass on its marble surface. You open the purse to take out a tube of lipstick that you unscrew to reveal a pale, yellow powder inside, grateful it went completely undetected earlier by security.
Stealing a quick glance at the men on the bed, you find Eddy’s hands on Leon’s waist, trying to pull him closer, and that only prompts you to move faster as an intense mix of jealousy and protectiveness floods through you.
You empty the sodium pentothal—colloquially known as a ‘truth serum’—into the wine glass you still didn't drink, and then swirl the liquid for the drug to mix in seamlessly. Its effects start rather quickly, and it makes a person relaxed, languid and talkative—which doesn't guarantee them spilling concealed truths, but it certainly helps.
“Is the pretty doll joining too or is she just gonna watch?” the aristocrat grins from his spot.
Leon forces himself not to snap, but you quickly come into view and join them on the bed. He lets out a low scoff at how the idiot looks like he’s having the time of his life between you both.
“I’m right here,” you murmur huskily and pretend to sip from your glass again, before bringing it to the redhead's lips. “You weren't kidding about the wine. Looks like you have excellent taste, Mr. Chastain.”
The latter giggles, then tilts his head for you to tip the drink back for him to ingest. Then when his mouth fills, he’s about to retreat when Leon’s hand grips the back of his hair and forces him to stay in place.
“Be a good boy and drink.”
That has you feeling things again, and a part of you can't help wondering if Leon ever gets this domineering in bed—not that you're willing to find out after he completely broke your heart. You’re not ready to risk getting close to him again knowing he doesn't want you the same way.
Your sorrowful thoughts are interrupted by Eddy’s hand on your wrist when he's had more than enough gulps of the spiked drink, and you finally relent. He coughs a bit, and wipes his mouth with a clumsy hand.
“Do you two do this often?” he slurs with a chuckle.
“You mean two-teaming little freaks who like to bite more than they can chew? Yeah, more often than you’d think,” Leon rolls his eyes.
You give him a pointed look and he just shrugs in response when the other man giggles again. He seems to really believe the play you've orchestrated.
“This is so great,” Eddy beams, then attempts to pull you both closer, though his arms are already growing sluggish. “I’m usually left in the cuck chair.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Leon scoffs, and this time you slap his bicep.
“Stop,” you whisper yell like a stern teacher.
He huffs at your berating gesture then shrugs. “What? He’s already pretty much out of it.”
“He doesn't need to know that!”
“What are you guys saying?” the man mumbles between you, and when you both look down at him, you see the ways his eyes are heavy-lidded and his body is completely relaxed.
He’s out of it alright.
“Hey, Eddy…” you begin with a husky voice, then tilt your head as you cut to the chase. “What was it you said earlier about the elevator in the private lounge? Something about a code?”
“Hmph…” he answers with a grumble, “I want you to sit on my face, please.”
The scoff that leaves Leon is unabashed, and he suddenly wraps a hand around the man’s collar. “What the hell did you just say?”
Eddy moans, “y-you can fuck me at the same time,” his hips buck up into the air.
You watch the agent stare at the man in complete disbelief before he releases him and turns to look at you with incredulity. “I can't do this shit.”
At that, the redhead suddenly clings onto him with what little strength he has in his sluggish limbs, and he looks downright pathetic when he begs with pleading eyes.
“Wait, no, don't leave. You’re so— you’re so fucking hot, I-I’ll do anything, sir, please!”
“Anything?” you raise an eyebrow, your eyes flickering from his to Leon’s exasperated features.
“Anything,” Eddy reiterates with frantic nods. “Please just stay. Don't want daddy to leave.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Daddy?!” Leon recoils, “you’re like, older than me, dude, what the hell?!”
There is no force strong enough in the universe that could have stopped you from bursting out laughing, cackling loudly at his outraged expression paired with the other’s infatuated look.
Leon scowls, muttering a low ‘not funny’, though he can't help but feel his heart warm at the sound of your free laugh that he missed hearing so much.
“To his defense,” you strain between uncontrollable chuckles, “daddiness isn't really about age—more like a lifestyle.”
He narrows his eyes, his irritation shifting from the redhead to you, “and what the hell do you know about all that?”
You giggle some more at his face, and when your gaze drifts down, you find Eddy in the middle of falling asleep. “Oh, shit!” your laughter stops immediately as you reach to tap his face. “Eddy! Eddy, don't fall asleep, you need to tell me about the code!”
“Da…ddy…”
“Your old man really did a number on you, huh?” Leon mutters under his breath before hauling the man up by collar into a sitting position. “Alright, buddy, you want your daddy so bad? Well daddy’s here, and if you don't start talking he might leave again and love your brother more. Because unlike you, he doesn't disappoint the family.”
The redhead whines at that, scrambling to hold onto Leon, and with a broken whimper he whispers, “w-what… what do you want me to say?”
“The code, Eddy. Tell me the fucking code for the elevator.”
“Oh… that…” he chuckles sleepily in the agent's grip, and you hold your breath in hopes he will finally give you what you need. “It’s Pop-pop’s birthday… 0905, uh, 12… God, I miss Pop-pop.”
You immediately repeat the sequence in your head until you memorize it, and then watch as a look of relief washes over Leon’s face—it wasn't all for nothing.
He releases Eddy and lets him drop back down, then pulls the golden duvet over him with a sigh, “sweet dreams, asshole.”
And just like that, the man passes out to both your great reliefs.
After grabbing Eddy’s key card, you and Leon make your way back to the private lounge swiftly, and though he doesn't say a word you still notice the tension in his shoulders.
Once the door beeps and you're both inside, he strides straight to the earlier directed cabinet, and notices a barely visible card slot between the door gaps. He inserts the key there, still not saying a word, then watches as the doors open to reveal the elevator like promised.
“Update Hunnigan on the situation and go watch Adams, I’ll go check out what this thing’s all about.”
He begins to punch in the code on a number pad when you step closer. “You can't go alone. What if it's dangerous down there?”
Leon pauses with his thumb hovering over the buttons, and he turns to you with a stern look. “Kid, don't start,” he snaps.
Exhaling sharply through your nose, you cross your arms defensively. “No, no. You don't start. We’re not doing this again.”
He scoffs, mirroring your posture. “I don't think you get to make demands after blindsiding me like that.”
Feeling a mixture of guilt and irritation, the latter wins when you remember how his stubbornness almost cost you valuable intel. And all just for some stupid ego? No. You’re not accepting that after he wounded yours.
“Yeah, well, I don't think you can either after yesterday.”
Leon suddenly goes quiet, your words hitting like a gut punch, and he knows you’re right. He knows that he broke your heart, that nothing he ever does will ever fix it, and that you deserve so, so much better than any deficient apology he might attempt. But watching you stand before him in all your furious glory, he can't help but at least want to try.
He will never understand why you have feelings for him out of all people. There's a voice screaming at him that it's because you were young, alone, and gullible, and that if you had met him as an adult you wouldn't look twice at him. And yet, a twisted part of him still relishes in your love, and he prays that when you hear him speak his heart’s truth, you will hopefully forgive him.
“I know… Look, Kiddo, I’m sorry, I didn't—”
He’s interrupted by muffled voices coming from the hallway, and you both freeze when realization hits.
“Fuck, they're here!” you whisper yell in panic.
Leon’s quick instincts come to the forefront when he finally presses the ‘enter’ key for the code, and the mirror-walled elevator slides open.
“Come on!” He hauls you along him by the waist and presses the button for the lower floor frantically.
Only once the doors glide shut that the both of you breathe, your adrenaline fueled hearts beating nearly in sync, and that's when you notice the position you are in.
With his arm around your waist, your own around his shoulders, fingers clutching his suit, you’re practically hugging in the cramped elevator, and when your eyes meet you feel you might actually faint.
“Hey,” he whispers, his ice blues roaming your features.
“Hi…”
A small smile etches on his lips from your shy reply, and he brings a tentative hand up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear, not making a single effort to put distance between you.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Leon sighs at your clipped response, and then, like he can't help himself, his eyes drop to your lips. “You really are breathtaking, sweetheart…” he murmurs lovingly. “When I’m with you, I feel like I can hardly breathe.”
Your heartbeat stutters, and you notice how even he is surprised at how easily that confession slipped out of him without so much as a stammer. It’s one thing to whisper sweet nothing in the dark during the heat of sex, but this—this is different.
Leon leans closer until his forehead rests on yours and he closes his lids like he’s about to kiss you—or like the sight of your adoring eyes is too much to bear.
He doesn't kiss you, though. Not when you look so vulnerable and scared, like you're one confession away from begging him not to break your heart again. That's when he knows, if he wants to fix this, he needs to do it the right way.
Not in a secret elevator on the way to a clandestine villainous lair.
He opens his eyes just to peer down at you with a pleading face. “When this is over, I hope we can talk. Really talk this time… Is that okay, kiddo?”
You gulp, already knowing you're done for from the sheer way you're melting like putty in his arms when he has barely done anything yet.
“Yeah, okay…” your agreement slips out as naturally as breathing.
Next chapter.
already missing eddy shenanigans but unfortunately they gotta do their job or whatever
Bodyguard!Leon x First Daughter!Reader Enemies to Lovers
❌18+ MDNI❌
Rude. Blunt. Cocky. Overbearing. Those were the words that come to mind whenever you think of Leon S. Kennedy, the man whose job is to protect you, yet drives you completely mad while doing it.
[Reserved, out of the limelight, and adopted, that is what is known most about you. The last point is the tabloids’ favorite topic when it comes to articles about the First Daughter, theorizing about your biological family and how you ended up chosen by your adoptive parents. That, along with scrutinizing every single outfit you wear whenever caught by invasive paparazzi in public, calling your style everything from ‘busted’ to ‘tacky.’ You wish you could burn them all.]
cw: bodyguard!leon, fem!reader, enemies to lovers, slow burn (if you know me, you know i mean it), angst, fluff, eventual smut, canon divergent, political themes (but it's RE core), they're both stubborn and annoying, as one is in every e2l.
shoutout @sammimi19 @12soap34 @theebladestar for proofreading ✨
dear friends! i am back with yet another series because apparently i cannot be stopped 🤓 today i bring you the bodyguard fic i have talked about which will now become my second long form series along hofah (and replacing ygbo)
i just want to give some context for the story. reader is the first daughter and replaces ashley graham narratively but with a LOT of differences. without giving spoilers, just know that ashley does not exist in this story, and that president graham is not as nice as in ID lmao
also real world politics suck so much ass right now i had to make this story very RE core with BOW social dilemmas rather than whatever the fuck is going on rn, because i refuse to cry of dread and despair every time i write a new chapter
i will be uploading once a week on every sunday, so stay tuned for new chapters folks! 🤍
Dim lights, trendy music, and loud chatter overwhelm your senses as soon as you step into the busy bar. It's a Friday night, so it comes as no surprise for it to be quite full. Not that you’re familiar with the scene—you haven't exactly had many chances to frequent the nightlife scene before. In fact, it's your twenty-first birthday tonight, and as per American law you can finally legally enter a bar.
But, unfortunately for you, American law also dictates that you're surveilled by two Secret Service agents inside the establishment, one waiting in the car outside, and then two more, each standing at a different entrance. Five of them total. Five men with barely concealed guns and ear pieces just for one single night of drinking with your girlfriends.
God, you have never hated being the president’s daughter more.
Readjusting your dress straps, you follow the lead of your friend Maya, who has been to this bar many times before, as she guides you to a booth. Your other two friends, Alex and Liv, follow behind until you're all seated around the table.
And, of course, from the corner of your eye, you spot Agent Davis at the counter, dressed in a poor attempt of casual fashion to blend in, and Agent Morales who gives you a curt nod from his spot in the corner. You don't even have it in you to return it.
“Hey, stop making that face,” Maya chides as she pokes your shoulder. “Just pretend they're not there! This is still gonna be fun, you’ll see!”
You sigh, but nod nonetheless. You know there isn't anything you can do to avoid their ‘protection.’ After all, your father, John Graham, is the incumbent head of state, and that comes with a whole baggage of responsibilities. None of which you wanted in the first place since you have never been fond of the man, let alone his politics.
“Okay, we’re here, we’re doing this… We just need to get some drinks,” you announce to the table.
“Oh, you’re not wasting time,” Liv giggles but agrees nonetheless.
After deciding your order, you volunteer to go place it at the counter along with Alex, just to experience ordering drinks like a normal adult for the first time. You know that in a busy bar in the middle of downtown D.C., you risk being recognized, but then again, the public barely knows much about you that you doubt anyone would bother approaching you.
Reserved, out of the limelight, and adopted, that is what is known most about you. The last point is the tabloids’ favorite topic when it comes to articles about the First Daughter, theorizing about your biological family and how you ended up chosen by your adoptive parents. That, along with scrutinizing every single outfit you wear whenever caught by invasive paparazzi in public, calling your style everything from ‘busted’ to ‘tacky.’ You wish you could burn them all.
“Two cosmos, one sex on the beach, and one espresso martini, please!” Alex exclaims to the barman with an excited smile.
The man behind the counter grins mid drink preparations, pausing just to extend a hand over the bartop for you to shake.
“Miss Graham, it's an honor,” he smiles enthusiastically. “Drinks are on the house!”
You return his smile with a polite one, already feeling put on the spot from being recognized, but you know the staff were pre-informed of your arrival so you don't let it shake you. But it’s that last sentence he said that somewhat irks you. You appreciate the kind gesture, of course, but out of all the people in this bar you are the last one in need of freebies, and it annoys you how it happens all the time.
It’s been almost four years since your father was elected in late 2000, and you can clearly remember how much more normal your life was before. People did not give a damn about your last name, and you were treated like any regular girl in the world. No special favors, no free perks, no people befriending you for ulterior motives. It was so much more simple before he decided to run for president—always greedy for more. You can't wait for him to leave office and for things to go back to how they were, but he is of course aiming for a second term, to no one’s surprise.
Five minutes later, you’re sipping your fruity cocktail at the booth, popping the garnishing cherry into your mouth in contentment. Your friends are happy to have gotten free drinks, and you're finally relaxing enough to enjoy your birthday night.
Swirling her glass, Liv gives you a pointed look with her amber eyes. “I still can't believe your dad actually let you do this!”
“She’s twenty-one, for God’s sake,” Maya scoffs. “It’s about damn time he lets her breathe a little.”
“Well, he only agreed because it's just you three,” you explain. “Plus, he still plans on celebrating what he calls my ‘real’ birthday party tomorrow with that whole dinner he's hosting.”
You omit the fact you know tomorrow’s celebration has nothing to do with you and everything to do with an excuse to gather influential figures that will aid him in his campaign. You would rather not think about that whole embarrassing situation at the moment.
“Either way, we all know tonight is when you’re having the real fun,” Alex snickers, already halfway done with her martini. “So drink up, babes, because we’re ordering shots next.”
And drink you do—cocktails, shots and even a glass of whiskey. It’s not the first time you consume so much alcohol that you become a giggling mess. Even as the resident Good Girl you still have your moments of rebellion. They're just usually short lived in order to not anger your parents.
“Oh my God, the hot guy at the bar keeps staring our way!” Liv suddenly squeals so loud you wonder if the music is enough to cover her comment.
Maya turns way too obviously as she looks over the line of stools where various people sit. “What guy? I don't see him.”
“That guy! The blonde one!” Liv clumsily points before Alex swats her hand down with a snicker.
You turn as well, looking to your right as discreetly as you can in your inebriated state, and sure enough, there is a guy. Even with your drunken brain, you can immediately acknowledge how incredibly attractive the man looks from across the room.
Dressed in dark jeans, a long sleeve black top, with a grey t-shirt over it, he looks to be in his mid-to-late-twenties, and effortlessly hot. Like the kind of guy who would get street scouted by a modeling agency and be completely clueless as to why.
But one thing's for sure, he does not look clueless right now as his gaze meets yours, ice blues intense and unwavering. It's a bit rude, really, the way he holds eye contact shamelessly, but it's then you realize he’s staring at you, specifically, out of all your friends, and that makes something inside you revel.
Oh, wait.
You recognize that look.
That small frown accompanied by the pursing of lips or sometimes a little head tilt. It's the look that says someone thinks you look familiar and is soon coming to realize who you are.
Sure enough, his eyes widen slightly when you keep your daring gaze on him, refusing to be the first to look away, as he seemingly finally puts two and two together. There, now he knows. He was never interested by you, only your vaguely recognizable face. It doesn't even come as a surprise, most people are like that anyway, but it still hurts a bit—he really is hot.
You finally look away, with your girlfriends teasing you about gaining his attention, but you know it's akin to the interest you might have for a wild animal at a zoo more than anything. So, you ignore it all, focusing on your drink instead, and forcing yourself not to look in his direction again.
Later, you leave the table with Maya to go to the bathroom, acknowledging Morales on the way with a small smile. You use the empty stall first, then wash your hands at the sink when it's her turn. The washrooms are somewhat busy, with people coming and going, many of them stealing glances your way that you try to ignore.
Your eyes focus on your own reflection instead. Your dark pink, sparkly dress whose left strap keeps sliding down your shoulder, your makeup that has slowly melted throughout the night and left you with raccoon eyes rather than a smokey glam. And then there's that look on your face. Like you're scared, or maybe anxious—a lost little girl trying to pretend her life is normal for once.
It's pathetic. No wonder that man, or anyone really, is never interested in you outside of your name.
President Graham’s presidency started right on your senior year of high school, which was not cool, but your classmates had known you for years, so the change did not feel drastic. College, however, was another story. It made everything more awkward than it already is for a young adult, especially when it comes to dating.
Disappointment after disappointment has made you allergic to relationships. Men are already assholes, but they get worse when they can get something out of courting you. It is not fun finding out the guy you have liked for months was only hoping your dad would secure him an internship at the White House. But then again, he was majoring in Political Science—you should’ve known better.
It’s been two years since, and you have completely forfeited dating. Your friends, however, continuously encourage you to ‘go out there and meet someone.’ In fact, tonight is supposed to be a chance to encounter somebody outside of your usual circles. Someone who hopefully doesn't care about your name but sees you for who you truly are instead. The problem is you don’t even know who that is anymore.
Bouts of giggling to your right call for your attention, and you turn to see a group of young women whispering loudly amongst themselves while eyeing you. Then with an air of cocky confidence, one of them approaches, a tall brunette, all white teeth and sparkly eyes.
“Hi! You’re the president’s daughter, right? Sorry, I keep forgetting your name,” she snickers while you look at her like a deer caught in headlights.
“Um, yes.”
“Great!” she gives an even faker smile, eyeing you up and down in the process. “Do you think you could get us some free drinks? I noticed the bartender put your tab on the house.”
Oh, but of course.
You feel instantly uncomfortable, and start calculating whether you should actually accept her request or not. It’s exhausting having to sieve every one of your actions through the filter of PR, but any wrong move and your face is on People magazine with a giant bold headline about how you're a certified bitch.
“I, um…” you stammer in hesitation, your mind running a thousand miles an hour despite its sluggish drunkenness.
“If you don't want to just say so,” the woman snorts sardonically.
You want to snap in her face—tell her she's being rude, that you don't owe her shit, and that she could at least start with a fucking ‘please.’ But then, your father’s cold eyes and stern face stop you dead in your tracks, and you swallow the onslaught of insults threatening to spill out.
Suddenly, Maya shows up beside you and links her arm around yours protectively. “Sorry, but Miss Graham is on a private outing and is not available for fan interactions,” she returns the woman’s phony smirk as she pulls you out of the bathroom. “Enjoy your night!”
You don't care to look back at the scoffing faces of the group, sighing in relief once you're back out amongst the tables and booths. You turn to meet Maya’s brown eyes and dimpled smile, and you offer her one of your own.
“Thank you,” you murmur in gratitude. Though, there is a feeling of embarrassment that settles inside you at not being able to defend yourself on your own.
“You don't have to thank me, those bitches were rude,” she huffs, her short stature making her cute despite her strong character.
“I know. I just wish I could actually say something for once…”
It upsets you to no end having to suppress your personality for the sake of good publicity. You want to be able to live a full life. Go out, drink, argue, date, have hookups and make bad decisions, just like any other girl your age unburdened by shoulder-crushing responsibility is able to.
Noticing your soured expression, Maya pulls you towards the bartop once more. “Come on, let's get another round and forget about those meanies.”
“Hell yeah,” you huff out a chuckle, grateful for the support of your oldest friend since middle school. You wouldn’t be able to do this without her.
Standing again at the counter, you let her put in an order of drinks and tapas while you look around mindlessly. Though, really it's just an excuse to eye the dark blonde guy from earlier who is still sitting on a stool, nursing a bottle of beer. You notice him absentmindedly toying with a navy cap that’s sitting on the bartop, a Patriots logo stitched onto it.
As if sensing your attention, he lifts his gaze from the sports hat to your face, a curious expression on his handsome features. Again, you start the unspoken staring contest, feeling a thrill out of ‘misbehaving’ through something so trivial after you were just a stammering mess in the bathroom.
He returns the challenge, eyes unwavering, until he suddenly speaks.
“You sure did a lot of drinking tonight.”
It takes you a moment to register his comment, but you’re too tipsy to analyze its connotations.
“What?” you blink in confusion.
“I said you’ve been drinking a lot… You might wanna slow it down,” he mutters matter-of-factly before taking a swig of his cold one.
“Uh, okay?” you scoff, completely taken aback. Maya finishes ordering right then, and you’re already tugging her arm to go back to your table in annoyance, when you catch the smug little smirk that spreads on his face.
You know what? Fuck being quiet.
Suddenly letting go of your best friend, you spin to stride towards the man with determination, albeit your walk is a bit wobbly from the alcohol. But you make it to him nonetheless, hands on your hips like a stern teacher.
“What does it matter to you if I drink? It’s my twenty-first birthday, I’m allowed to drink. I’m expected to, even.”
His eyes trail to the dress strap that has yet again slid down your shoulder, and you quickly fix it in self-consciousness, feeling your face grow hot.
“I never said you shouldn't,” he murmurs in a smooth voice that makes your brain tingle. “I just said it might be wise to slow down…”
“Are you implying I’m an irresponsible drinker? You don't even know me.”
Except he does. Or at least that is what you concluded when he kept intently eyeing you earlier. Now, you don't know anymore.
“I’m just saying it's easier to make bad decisions when inebriated. Trust me, I’ve made my fair share of drunken mistakes.”
You take note of the way he softens his tone, like he’s being mindful of his words and hoping not to offend. But the cocky lilt is still there, and it has you both irritated and incomprehensibly interested. A few feet away, Davis is watching from his spot at a table, probably assessing the man before you as per usual, though he makes no move to intervene so long as you are seemingly okay.
“What kind of mistakes?” you find yourself asking without thinking.
He looks at you for a moment, silent, before slowly swiveling in his seat to better angle himself in your direction. “Do you do this often?”
You huff as he ignores your question, crossing your arms defensively. “Do what?”
“Talk to strangers.” His eyes drop to your cleavage for a split second, but it’s not fast enough to escape your intoxicated senses. Even as he looks away with a hand running through his pushed back strands as if completely innocent.
Okay, maybe he didn't actually recognize you, because if he did he wouldn’t dare be so audacious in his approach… So does that mean his earlier staring was from actual interest? Why didn't he approach you, then? Why are men, as simple minded as most of them tend to be, so hard to read sometimes?
“Well, usually strangers are the ones talking to me first… Kinda like you did,” you retort with a smug smile.
He chuckles lowly, and you feel your stomach do a little backflip at the sound and sight. He looks a little too attractive for your own good.
“I guess I did, huh?” He quirks a playful eyebrow, then clicks his tongue. “But you could’ve ignored me. Your friends are still waiting for you, you know?”
You turn to see the girls at the table eyeing you with mischief, their giggling loud enough to reach you. You already know if you went back to them now they would endlessly tease you about getting cold feet, plus, you kind of do want to see where this is going.
Turning back around, you relax your posture slightly and give him a challenging look. “What if I don't want to stay with my friends? Are you gonna ask me to leave?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his lips etching into a smirk again, and he’s about to say something when he suddenly stops himself and closes his mouth. His expression then morphs into something less playful when he speaks again, his gaze is lowered towards his beer.
“No, I won't…”
Apparently, that is all your drunken self needed to hear before you’re plopping down on the stool beside his. “Well, good. Because I wanna sit here anyways.”
The man seems slightly taken aback, but he doesn’t show it fully. Once you’re settled, your elbow only an inch from touching his, he looks past your shoulder. His eyes land on the imposing man with his hands clasped over his crotch in the most stereotypical bodyguard stance there ever was. Ah, Morales, ever the subtle one.
You’re about to say something about the agents’ presence, maybe even offer an apology, when his voice drops to a husky whisper that has your gaze lingering on his lips.
“You know… That strap needs adjusting.” Holding his beer, he vaguely points at the piece of string resting on your upper arm—it seems to have slipped again. “You might have what they call a… ‘wardrobe malfunction.’”
You’re quiet for a moment as you take in the sheer audacity of this stupidly beautiful asshole. First he judges your drinking, and now your dress? He’s starting to sound more and more like your dad.
“Shouldn't you hope for that to happen to get a look?” you suddenly snap, before realizing what you just said.
Fuck, he better not know who you are now.
The blonde inhales sharply through his nose, like your words hit something inside. Then, with a look so intense his blue eyes look somehow even bluer, he murmurs in a quiet tone.
“Do you want me to get a look?”
That has your breath hitching, your throat running dry as you decide to be bold for once. “Maybe… Maybe if you ask for my number first…”
He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, he only eyes you intensely while your heart stutters wildly in your chest. Until, his gaze falters down to your mouth, before he instantly looks away just as quickly. Then, a low laugh bubbles in his throat and he shakes his head, setting down his bottle with a clink and reaching for his wallet.
You stare in utter confusion as he stands to place dollar bills on the counter without a word, before turning to you with a twitch of his lips.
“Happy birthday, Miss Graham.”
And just like that, he places his navy cap on his head, adjusting it with a firm grip as he walks away. Not even affording you another glance.
What the fuck?
He knew? He fucking knew the whole time? God, you should've listened to your intuition in the first place, now you just made yourself look like the most pathetic idiot ever! Shit, he’s probably gonna go around telling his friends how the first daughter is a hoe and how he rejected her miserably.
Watching him leave, your jaw clenches when you realize you have officially reached your lowest point yet, and it's all thanks to fruity cocktails and pretty blue eyes. You mentally add the humiliating interaction to the ever-growing pile of reasons you hate your father’s job, balling your fists in your lap in utter frustration. This is the worst birthday ever.
Next chapter coming soon.
super duper excited to write my first enemies to lovers, i hope you guys enjooooy, thank you for reading! 🤍🤍
> shows her affection through actions rather than words. if you’re having a bad day, she would bring you in for a hug, wrapping multiple arms around you. making you feel secure, because no matter what, she has you.
> pays attention to the small details. as an archaeologist, she has a keen eye for the finer details, and that applies to you as well as her work. whether it be noticing the change in your perfume or a shift in mood. she always sees the small things.
> always likes to keep you close. when walking through a dodgy street, she will wrap her arm around your waist and pull you into her, staring daggers at the degenerates lining the road.
> teasing you. using her devil fruit powers, robin is always poking, prodding and tickling you. what’s worse, she does it with a completely straight face, as if she’s not torturing you!
> always wants your attention. when relaxing on the main deck, you sat on the floor beside her, robin has one set of hands flicking the pages of her book. the other braiding your hair, coaxing you into sleep. if you dare try get up to fulfil one of your tasks on the ship, her hands will drag you back to her side.
⚠ Genre/warnings: situationship to lovers idk i just love prom and he deserves this sm, slight nsfw (heated makeout), pinning, atp cindy4life lol, this is so damnn
✎ Reading time: approx. 16min
₊˚ʚ It was as if the months apart had never happened, the chemistry between you still as strong as ever.
₊˚ʚ Prompto pushed himself away from the garage wall and began slowly making his way towards you. Each step he took was measured, his eyes never leaving yours.
₊˚ʚ Suddenly, it was as if a dam burst. All the pent-up emotions, the months of silence, the questions left unasked, came rushing out at once.
The night was quiet, and the stars above were the only witnesses to your departure. The journey to Hammerhead was cold and lonely, the silence only broken by the crunch of gravel under your shoes.
You made your way along the path, the lights of Hammerhead growing closer with each step. The thought of leaving the group behind weighed heavily on your heart, but you had made your decision.
As you finally reached the base of Hammerhead, Cindy, who was working late into the night, noticed your arrival. She looked up from her project, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of you alone.
"Well, now, ain't that a sight," she remarked in her soft drawl, taking in your state. "What're you doin' here this late and by yourself, darlin'?"
"i left the guys."
Cindy's curious expression quickly turned to surprise. "Left the boys, huh? Ain't that somethin'. What happened there, if you don't mind me askin'?"
"just- realised i never belonged."
Cindy's brow furrowed at your words, a hint of concern in her eyes. "Never belonged? What makes you say that?"
"At the end of the day, we girls can't afford to stay with the boys." you chuckled.
Cindy raised an eyebrow at your chuckle, a puzzled look on her face. "Why's that, darlin'? Nothin' wrong with a girl hangin' with the fellas."
"i caught feelings." you said, gripping onto your belongings.
Understanding dawned in Cindy's eyes as you confessed. She looked at you with empathy, seeing the pain behind your words. She took a seat on a nearby crate and patted the spot next to her, gesturing for you to sit. "Come on, sit down. Let's talk."
You hesitantly joined her, sitting on the crate and placing your belongings beside you. The night air was still and quiet, the only noise coming from the faint sounds of machinery and distant crickets.
Cindy looked at you, her voice soft in the moonlight. "So, you been likin' one of the boys, huh? Can't blame ya, they're handsome fellas. Which one was it, if ya don't mind me askin'?"
"Prompto" The thought of him sent tingles down your spine as you spoke his name out loud.
"Ah, Prompto. He's a good kid. Real peppy, always crackin' jokes. Can't really blame ya for falling for him."
She paused, her eyes studying your face, "But somethin' tells me it ain't as simple as just likin' him, is it?"
You played with your bracelets as you spoke nervously, a bit worried for Cindy's judgement of the situation you put yourself in.
"I felt like my feelings could potentially ruin the group dynamic so i left, realising I don't belong."
Cindy chuckled with empathy, "Sounds like a bit of a mess, darlin'."
"But it ain't your feelings that's ruining things. You have a right to feel the way you feel.
Cindy shifted slightly, turning to face you directly. "You ain't ruined nothin' by likin' Prompto. That's just how the heart works, can't always control who you fall for."
"it's fine! I'll get over it..."
Cindy could sense the resignation in your voice, and it tugged at her heartstrings. "It's not gonna be that easy, darlin'. Feelings like that don't just go away, especially not overnight."
You held your head up, looking at her sheepishly. "That's why I came here to ask you... If i could stay here, work, get my mind off of them?"
Cindy's face brightened at your request. "You wanna work here, huh? Well, we could always use an extra pair of hands. Plus, keepin' busy is a good way to keep your mind occupied."
She patted your back with a warm smile. "Sure, darlin'. You can stay and work. I'll teach you the ropes, and before you know it, you'll be a regular mechanic here at Hammerhead."
"thanks"
Cindy gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "No need to thank me, darlin'. We all need a fresh start sometimes, and that's what Hammerhead's all about. New beginnings."
╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. You found solace in the rhythm of the garage, the familiar hum of machines and the hum of the desert night lulling you into a sense of peace. Your days were filled with the scent of oil and the occasional banter with Cindy and Cid, the gruff yet affectionate owner of the garage.
The work was challenging at times, but you found comfort in the routine. The distance from Prompto and the guys allowed you time to process your feelings and come to terms with your new life. Despite the occasional pang of friendsickness, you found a sense of belonging in your new role at Hammerhead.
Over time, you adapted to the garage life, your hands becoming calloused and greasy, your laughter and skills familiar to the regular visitors of Hammerhead, who welcomed you as one of their own.
But every now and then, thoughts of Prompto and the group would creep into your mind, like a faint whisper in the wind. You pushed them aside, reminding yourself of the reasons you had left in the first place. Still, the ache in your chest was undeniable, the memories and what-ifs lingering like a bittersweet perfume. It was a constant struggle, balancing the tranquility of your new life with the lingering pull of the past.
As the familiar sound of the Regalia's engine echoed through the air, you looked up from your work on a nearby car, your heart skipping a beat. It was the chocobros, here for some vehicle upgrades.
Noctis led the charge, followed closely by Ignis, Gladiolus, and... Prompto. Seeing them all again, so casually together, sent a pang of nostalgia and longing through you.
Hiding your feelings behind a neutral expression, you quickly tried to push down the emotions welling up within you. You feigned distraction, continuing to tinker with the car in front of you, hoping they wouldn't notice your internal struggle.
Cindy, however, had a keen eye for reading people. She noticed the flicker of emotion in your eyes as the group approached. She sidled up beside you, a knowing look in her eyes.
"You all right, darlin'?" she whispered, her voice low and understanding. "They can't see it, but I can."
"I'll be alright." You said, wiping oil grease from your cheek, giving her a reassuring smirk.
Cindy gave you a supportive smile, patting your back gently. "You've got guts, holdin' it together like this. 'Course you'll be alright. Just remember, I'm here if you need to vent, scream, or just a shoulder to lean on."
The rest of the group had been engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to your momentary struggle. Prompto's laughter echoed in the background, causing your heart to clench slightly as you tried to focus on your work.
The urge to run towards them and hug them all while spilling so many sorry's went through your mind for a split second, but you knew that won't do.
The guys approached the garage, peeking in at your figure working on some badass vehicles.
Everyone had noticed the transformation. With your new outfit, your voice resembling Cindy's Southern drawl, and your mannerisms changing to match hers, you had become a bit of a chameleon, blending into the environment of the garage.
Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus glanced your way, their eyes widening slightly as they took in your appearance and demeanour. But it was Prompto's reaction that caught your attention.
He stood there, stunned for a moment, his eyes wide as he stared at you. The gears in his head were clearly turning as he tried to reconcile the 'new you' with the person he once knew.
He seemed to be at a loss for words, the familiar banter and jokes that usually flowed effortlessly from him were nowhere to be found.
As the group settled in and started discussing the upgrades they wanted for the Regalia, Cindy smoothly took charge. She launched into a friendly negotiation with Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus, while Prompto lingered in the background, his eyes still resting on you occasionally.
You, however, tried to keep your focus on your work, pretending not to notice his glances. The sounds of the garage faded into the background as you tried to keep your hands steady and your mind clear.
Every so often, you'd catch a glimpse of Prompto in your peripheral vision, his eyes meeting yours before quickly averting them, looking a bit flustered. The air between you both was heavy with unspoken emotions, an invisible thread of tension stretching tight.
Cindy, ever observant, noticed the silent communication between you and Prompto. She suppressed a slight grin, her eyes flickering between the two of you as she continued her negotiations with the guys.
As they finalized the details with Cindy, the conversation wrapped up, and they began to prepare to leave. Prompto lingered a moment longer, his eyes still on you, his expression a mix of longing and hesitation.
The group sauntered out of the garage, heading toward the nearby restaurant, their voices carrying on the warm evening air. Cindy watched them go, then turned to you with a knowing smile.
"You sure you don't wanna join them, darlin'?" she asked, her tone gentle but laced with encouragement.
"it's better this way."
Cindy nodded understandingly, her smile turning slightly bittersweet. "I get it, darlin'. Sometimes, what you want and what you need are two different things."
As you continued to work on the car, your thoughts were a tangle of emotions. Seeing Prompto and the guys again had stirred up feelings you had been trying to suppress, and their departure left you with a mix of relief and a strange pang of emptiness.
Your heart ached with an unspoken longing, a silent plea for just one more moment, one more look into his eyes. The familiar banter, the laughter, the bond you used to share - it all seemed like a lifetime ago.
The hum of the car under your hands was a temporary distraction, but it couldn't drown out the persistent pull in your chest, the deep-seated desire to see Prompto again, to hear his voice, to feel his presence.
The hours ticked by, the sun slowly descending towards the horizon. The guys finished their meal and emerged from the restaurant, their voices echoing through the still night air as they discussed their plans for the night.
Your eyes found Prompto amongst the group, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the sunset. His gaze roamed over the garage and, for a moment, seemed to linger on you.
Your heart skipped a beat as you saw Prompto's gaze fall on you for a moment. Reflexively, you ducked your head, using your long bangs and ponytail as a makeshift shield, hoping he hadn't noticed you watching him.
The sound of the guys' footsteps approaching sent a jolt through you, your senses hyper-alert to every sound and movement. You could hear them saying their goodbyes to Cindy.
Noctis sauntered over to you, an intrigued look in his eyes. He leaned against the hood of the car you were working on, observing you quietly for a moment before finally speaking.
"You've changed a lot, haven't you?" he noted, his voice nonchalant but his eyes studying you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Still sharp, even in a new shell," he commented, his tone holding a hint of pride. "You're good at adapting."
You couldn't really speak up, although you felt like there was so much to say. You nodded in confirmation, getting back to work.
Noctis watched you silently for a moment, his expression a mix of confusion and a hint of frustration. It was clear he had more to say, but you had already shut him down. He gave a slight shrug, realizing that pushing further would be futile.
"Take care."
The guys climbed into the car, the Regalia's engine roaring to life as they pulled away from the garage, disappearing into the night.
The silence that settled over Hammerhead after they left felt deafening. The hum of the garage, the occasional rustle of the desert wind, and the beating of your own heart were the only sounds left in the stillness of the night.
The thought of them driving off into the night, continuing their adventures without you, stung more than you cared to admit. But you shook the thought away quickly, reminding yourself of the reasons you had left in the first place.
You turned your attention back to the car you were working on, determined to bury yourself in the familiar rhythm of the garage work. The sooner you lost yourself in the work, the sooner you could forget about the ache in your chest.
╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴
The days were filled with the hustle and bustle of the garage, and the nights were spent catching up over the dinner table with Cindy and Cid, listening to their stories and sharing a few laughs.
Time had flown by in a blur of car repair and tire changes. The days had been long but filled with the fulfilling sense of accomplishment and routine. 11 months had passed since you had left the group, the pain of separation slowly fading into a dull ache you had learned to live with.
The nights were the hardest, when the silence of the garage seemed deafening, and the memory of Prompto's face would surface in your mind, unbidden.
The sound of the Regalia's engine roaring into the garage was a welcome yet unwelcome intrusion one day. You looked up from the car you were working on to see Noctis, Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto stepping out of the car, looking a bit weary but no worse for the wear.
They looked more seasoned, their faces sporting a few more scars, but their eyes were still filled with the familiar determination and bond they had shared since the beginning of their journey.
Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus greeted Cindy and Cid with some casual banter, their voices familiar and almost comforting. Prompto lingered a bit behind the rest, his eyes scanning the garage until they landed on you, as if time was repeating.
Your gazes met, and that familiar rush of emotions washed over you both. The weight of the past six months hung heavy in the air, a silent conversation passing between you both through the brief exchange of looks.
A mix of surprise, relief, and something else you couldn't quite put your finger on flickered in Prompto's eyes, but it was gone in an instant as Gladiolus said something, drawing his attention away from you.
You returned your focus to the car, pretending to be busy with tuning, but your heart was racing in your chest. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Prompto stealing furtive glances in your direction.
Every glance sent a jolt of electricity through you, reminding you of the chemistry you had shared before you left. The silence between you both felt heavy, filled with unspoken words, emotions, and a thousand questions.
You returned to your work, but the ache in your chest grew more insistent.
The evening descended upon Hammerhead, bringing a gentle coolness to the air. The stars above glittered like diamonds against the inky black canvas of the night sky.
The sound of footsteps in the garage startled you, breaking the peaceful silence of the night. You looked up to see the unmistakable silhouette of Prompto, framed by the dim light spilling in from the outside.
Prompto stood at the entrance of the garage, his lean frame casually rested against the door frame. His eyes were fixed on you, studying you intently. He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched you silently.
The air between you was thick with unspoken words, a thousand emotions swirling in the silence. Prompto's eyes were unreadable, his expression a mixture of curiosity.
You couldn't breathe, you couldn't speak.
Your heart stuttered in your chest as you met Prompto's gaze, and suddenly, you found yourself at a loss for words. Your mouth felt dry, your thoughts a tangled mess. It was as if his presence had sucked all the oxygen from the air, leaving you in a state of breathlessness.
You tried to say something, anything, but no words came out. You stared back at him, your eyes wide, your heart thudding loudly in your ears. The silence between you was deafening.
Prompto's gaze had changed. His eyes shone with a new, more masculine air, his once boyish features now sharpened and matured, giving him a more rugged and handsome look.
His blue eyes were like twin pools of shimmering water, seemingly drawing you into him. You noticed the freckles that sprinkle his tan skin like stars on a night sky. His hair was messy yet attractive, falling effortlessly in shaggy layers around his face.
You noticed this change as he looked at you. His gaze was no longer the playful and innocent gaze you had grown to know.
His gaze held a confidence that hadn’t been there before, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
Prompto seemed to sense your inner turmoil, the way your breath hitched and your eyes widened. His gaze softened slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
Prompto pushed away from the door frame and began slowly making his way towards you. Each step he took was measured, his eyes never leaving yours. With every step, the distance between you seemed to shrink, the tension building silently.
As he closed the gap between you, you could see the myriad of emotions playing out in his eyes. He came to a stop just a few steps away from you, his hands shoved in his pockets.
"h-hello again..."
Prompto's expression softened further, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Hey."
His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he was trying to gauge your response to his presence. He looked at you quietly for a moment more, his eyes searching your face.
The air was filled with a mix of uncertainty and anticipation, both of you teetering on the edge of something unspoken.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, watching each other. Prompto's eyes held an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that you had never seen before.
Suddenly, it was as if a dam burst. All the pent-up emotions, the months of silence, the questions left unasked, they all came rushing out at once.
Without a word, Prompto closed the remaining distance between you, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. He pulled you towards him, his grip firm but gentle, his eyes never leaving yours.
You stumbled slightly as he tugged you closer, your body colliding against his. His breath was warm against your face, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart mirrored in your own chest.
He stood there, holding you tightly, his eyes roaming over your face, tracing the contours, studying your expression. His fingers started to rub small soothing circles on your skin, sending small frissons of electricity down your spine.
The kiss was sudden and intense, his lips claiming yours with a desperate hunger. It was as if months of pent-up frustration, longing, and unspoken words were poured into that single gesture.
Your mind went blank for a moment, surprised by the sudden contact. But then, a wave of desire washed over you, and your body responded on instinct. Your arms reached up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer, as you returned the kiss with equal fervor.
His hands moved from your arms and settled on the sides of your face, holding you as he deepened the kiss. It was as if the months apart had never happened, the chemistry between you still as strong as ever.
The sound of the boys calling out for Prompto shattered the moment, reminding you that the outside world existed.
Reluctantly, you both pulled away from each other, your breaths ragged and your eyes slightly dazed.
You looked into each other's eyes, both of you trying to regain your composure, the passion of the kiss still lingering on your lips. Prompto looked torn, his gaze reluctantly moving towards the sound of the guys' voices.
You could see the struggle on his face, the desire to stay with you and the pressure to return to the group. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go, taking a step back, putting some distance between you again.
Prompto gave you a small, almost rueful smile, his eyes locking with yours. "Yeah, I'll make sure I do more damage to the Regalia during our trips..." He said, indicating they were all here because of his little mischief.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the direction the guys' voices were coming from. "Duty calls," he said reluctantly, a hint of disappointment in his tone.
Taken by surprise, Prompto stumbled back towards you, his mouth forming a small 'o' as you pulled him in for another kiss. The unexpected gesture caught him off guard, but after a moment, he melted into the kiss, his arms encircling your waist as he held you tightly.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath still a bit ragged. "Wait for me?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper.
"like i always do."
Prompto's breath hitched at your words, and for a moment, he just held you tighter, his eyes searching yours. A mixture of emotions flickered across his face - surprise, hope, and a touch of disbelief.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow exhale. "Damn it," he muttered as if he was both frustrated and relieved. "I can't leave now knowing you need me, can I?"
Prompto pushed you against the garage wall, his body pressing against yours as he captured your lips in another fervent kiss. The cool night air was a contrast against the heat between you. His hands explored the curves of your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
The world around you seemed to fall away, the only thing that existed being the two of you, your bodies pressed together, your breaths mingling in the dark. His lips left kisses against your neck, tasting and teasing, igniting a fire that you thought had died months ago.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps followed by a collective gasp. You looked up to see Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus staring at you two, their mouths hanging open.
They stood there, completely taken aback by the sight of you and Prompto locked together against the garage wall. You both froze, your eyes widening in surprise and slight embarrassment at being caught.
Noctis was the first to break the silence, a shocked and almost comical expression on his face as he looked between the two of you. "What the hell?" he blurted out.
Ignis and Gladiolus were both speechless, their eyes wide as they tried to process what they were witnessing. Gladiolus whistled low, breaking the silence with a low, appreciative "damn."
Prompto pulled away from you, his hands still holding onto your waist as he turned to face the others. He looked sheepish and a bit guilty, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "Uh, Hey guys..."
Noctis pinched his nose and you pushed Prompto lightly towards them. "You gotta go."
Prompto gave you an almost pleading look, as if he didn't want to leave, but seeing your insistence, he reluctantly let go of you, a hint of disappointment in his eyes.
Noctis, still looking utterly bewildered, just shook his head slightly, mumbling something along the lines of "I can't believe this." Ignis, chuckled at the prince's comment.
Ignis and Gladiolus had similarly surprised expressions on their faces, though Gladiolus just looked amused and somewhat impressed. He clapped a hand on Prompto's shoulder as they started walking back to the Regalia, Prompto throwing one last glance back at you before disappearing into the night.
The ache in your chest was replaced by a feeling of affection as you anticipated your next encounter with Prompto, envisioning another good memory to cherish.
@drxcorelibre - do not steal, plagiarise or repost my posts on any other social media. This is my only account.
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