‘Ello!

Who me? No, I’m just a Worm No rhyme or reason 23 any pronouns. Call me Rue :3

[kindamanlymuppet]

I’m just a Worm

I am here to reblog fanfic I like, be horny on main, and just be a worm

Maybe one day I’ll post my own writing but my muses only allow me to write poetry about being gay and sad.

I am also deeply muppet and Jim Henson Creations obsessed.

[elbiengoblin]

inside you there are two batmans. both of them are autistic.

[wysteria-bloom]

I have a funny little request, How do you think the baldur's gate 3 companions would react or respond to Tav talking to someone and who ever they are talking to asks them something about a husband/Wife and they point to one of the companions say “Yeah that’s my Husband/Wife right here”, Or Tav greeting the bg3 companions and saying “Hello my beautiful Wife or Handsome Husband how are you today?” Idk I think it would be funny you can either do all the companions or just a few and whoever else you want.

P.S One of the companions has to Karlach pls and thank you. Have a good day/night

↪"Say that again?"

Bg3 companions x reader

Warnings : none that I can think of, if there anything triggering please let me know

A/n : this is such a cute idea !!! Thank you so much for the request and ofc I'll include Karlach it's a literal crime if I don't

Characters : Astarion, Karlach, Shadowheart, Gale, Lae'zel, Wyll, Halsin, Minthara, Rolan, Raphael

▢ astarion

Astarion is mid-sip of his wine when he hears it. You’re chatting with a bartender, mentioning offhandedly, "Oh, my husband enjoys that brand of wine!" The words seem to hang in the air. A moment later, he chokes, coughing as he hurriedly sets his glass down.

"Sorry, darling, did I just hallucinate, or did you actually call me your husband?" He grins, sharp and playful, but there’s something else lurking in his ruby eyes—something softer. "How bold of you. I don’t recall signing any vows, though if they involve more pet names and adoration, I might be convinced."

Despite his teasing, there’s an undeniable smirk of satisfaction on his lips, and later that night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you catch him whispering his name with your last name attatched—testing the sound of it with a chuckle.

▢ shadowheart

Shadowheart stiffens, her hand momentarily pausing over the clasp of her pack as you effortlessly refer to her as your wife in conversation. She recovers quickly, a well-trained mask slipping into place, but you catch the slight widening of her eyes, the way her fingers tighten just a bit.

When the conversation is over, she turns to you, arms crossed, voice a delicate mix of amusement and hesitancy. "Wife, huh? That’s...a rather serious word, don’t you think?" There’s no irritation in her voice, just a quiet wariness.

You lean in and reassure her—tell her it just felt natural—she exhales, her stance softening. "I suppose... it doesn’t sound terrible coming from you." She smirks faintly, then, in a rare show of vulnerability, she murmurs, "Say it again. Just once."

▢ gale

Gale practically beams. He was in the middle of explaining some grand magical theory when you casually referred to him as your husband, and the conversation might as well have ceased to exist. He turns to you with wide, delighted eyes, as if you just handed him the crown jewel of Mystra herself.

"You—you truly think of me that way?" His voice is filled with genuine wonder, his hands twitching as if resisting the urge to pull you into an embrace right there. "I must admit, I rather like the sound of it."

For the rest of the day, he finds ways to bring it up—entirely coincidentally, of course. "Ah, yes, my spouse and I were just discussing that," he’ll say to a trader. Or, "Well, as my beloved has so kindly pointed out..." He’s positively radiant, and when the two of you are alone, he holds you close, murmuring, "One day, perhaps, we could make it more than just words."

▢ karlach

Karlach lets out the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. One moment, she’s hauling a crate of supplies, and the next, she’s throwing an arm around you, laughing loud enough to startle a nearby bard.

"Wife? You think I’m wife material?" She practically lifts you off the ground in a hug, her infernal engine humming warmly. "Oh, babe, you really know how to make a girl’s heart melt."

For the rest of the day, she won’t stop teasing you. "Hey, love, your wife could use a back rub after all that heavy lifting." Or "Shouldn't a wife get extra rations? I think that’s fair." But underneath the playful exterior, there’s a warmth in her gaze every time she looks at you—like you just gave her something precious she never thought she could have.

▢ lae'zel

The moment the word leaves your mouth—wife—Lae’zel halts. Her expression sharpens, golden eyes locking onto yours with an unreadable intensity. The person you were speaking to wisely excuses themselves, sensing the tension crackling in the air.

She steps closer, head tilting, her voice a low rumble. "You claim me as a wife?" It isn’t anger, but a challenge. Prove it, her tone demands.

You meet her gaze unwaveringly and confirm it without hesitation, she exhales, something pleased flashing across her face. "Hmph. Among my kin, such a title is not spoken lightly. If you speak it, you must own it."

Later, when camp is quiet and you were walking towards your tent, she pulls you aside, her hand gripping your wrist—possessive, firm but there was a softness to it that couldn't be denied. She looked flustered, frowning at you with a twitch of her brow," As your... wife. I demand we sleep in the same tent."

▢ wyll

Wyll is in the middle of charming a noble when you casually refer to him as your husband. The words slip from your lips without hesitation, and at first, he doesn’t react—so well-trained in maintaining composure. Only until the noble left did something warm flicker in his bi-coloured eyes, his confident smile faltering for just a heartbeat.

"Ah—your what?" He turns to you, and for the first time in a long while, the Blade of Frontiers looks genuinely caught off guard.

When you confirm it with an easy smile, he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to suppress the warmth creeping up his face. "Well, now you’ve gone and made a man blush," he teases, but there’s a softness to it. A part of him that seems to hold onto the word like a cherished melody.

Later that evening, when the two of you have a rare quiet moment, he leans in, his voice lower, more earnest. "You really see me that way?" His hand finds yours, thumb tracing circles against your palm. "Because I could get used to that."

▢ halsin

Halsin is kneeling by a wounded animal, murmuring a quiet spell of healing, when the word husband leaves your lips. It’s said so casually—to another druid, in passing—that at first, he doesn’t seem to react.

But then, as the spell finishes, he turns to you, golden eyes warm with something deeply affectionate. A slow smile spreads across his face, creasing the corners of his eyes. "Husband," he repeats, testing the weight of it, his voice rich with amusement. "That is… a title of great commitment. And yet, hearing it from you, it feels as though it has always been true."

There’s no teasing, no hesitation—only an earnest kind of joy. He steps closer, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his touch feather-light. "If this is how you see me, then I will wear the title with pride." His voice drops to a low murmur, meant only for you. "And should you ever wish to make it more than words, I will answer gladly."

From that moment on, he often refers to you in kind—my heart, my love, and, on particularly affectionate days, even my wife/husband/mate. It is not just a title to him; it is a promise.

▢ minthara

Minthara doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. She merely continues sharpening her blade, her red eyes cold and unreadable as you casually refer to her as your wife in conversation.

The person you were speaking to quickly departs, sensing the weight of silence that follows. Then, without looking up, Minthara speaks, her voice dangerously low. "You called me wife."

It isn’t a question. It’s an evaluation. A test.

You confirm it, she finally lifts her gaze to meet yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "How bold of you," she muses, setting her blade aside. "Amongst lolth-sworn drow, such words are not spoken lightly. They are a claim. A promise."

She stands, stepping into your space, her presence as commanding as ever. A hand grips your chin—not harsh, but firm. Possessive. "If you call me wife, then you had best mean it."

And yet, later that night, when the camp is quiet and she believes no one is watching, she lingers at your side a little longer. A rare softness flickers in her eyes before she turns away, murmuring to you just loud enough for you to hear—"Hmph. It does have a certain... power to it."

▢ raphael

The moment the word husband leaves your lips, Raphael goes completely still. The conversation you were having with an unfortunate merchant screeches to a halt as the cambion turns his attention fully on you. The air crackles with something dangerous—something deeply, intensely amused.

A slow smirk stretches across his lips. "My dear, I do believe I misheard you," he purrs, voice as smooth as velvet. "Did you just call me your husband? How delightfully bold of you."

He steps closer, red eyes gleaming with something unreadable—pleasure? Possession? The thrill of a game he suddenly must win? He takes your hand, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. Never breaking eye contact as his lips were curved in that usual salacious smirk of his,"Now, if you are to call me husband, I expect proper treatment. Gifts. Devotion. Perhaps a throne befitting a devil of my caliber."

There’s teasing in his tone, but beneath it? Oh, there’s something else entirely. Later, when no one is around, he murmurs against your ear, "let me hear it again... it sounds so terribly tempting when it falls from those lips of yours."

▢ rolan

Rolan is mid-rant—complaining about some idiot who failed to organise the library books the right way—when you absentmindedly refer to him as your husband. He stops talking. Completely.

His mouth opens. Closes. His tail flicks rapidly behind him, betraying his internal spiral.

"Wha—wait—what did you just call me?" His voice cracks, and he immediately clears his throat, straightening his shoulders in a desperate attempt to regain his dignity.

When you repeat it, casual as ever, he stares at you like you just cast Wish in front of him. "That’s… I mean, I am an impressive partner, but—" He crosses his arms, looking away, his cheeks burning a darker, unmistakable shade of red. "You can’t just say things like that without warning someone!"

But for the rest of the day, he’s noticeably smug—standing taller, magic practically crackling at his fingertips. And if you listen closely, you might hear him muttering under his breath: "Husband. Hah... obviously."

[kindamanlymuppet]

they’re all incredibly well written but halsin’s feels directly out of the game holySHIT

[kwistowee]

Short King 👑

[dearlizzies]

they’re all so hot what

[underratedcharacterslover]

Lyonel Sharing his Wife with Dunk would include

[18+ minors dni, smut headcanons]

Pairing: Female reader x Lyonel Baratheon x Duncan The Tall

➥ Lyonel pulling you onto his lap ,murmuring against your ear“Dunk has been staring at you all evening, wife. I think it’s time we let the man have a taste.”

➥ Duncan getting red to the tips of his ears, but his eyes turning dark with hunger as Lyonel just smirks and spreads your thighs wider on his lap, holding you open for him.

➥ Duncan dropping to his knees between your legs calling you “my lady” even while he’s licking you slowly,glancing up at Lyonel every time you moan, for permission before he does anything more.

➥ Lyonel’s hand grasping your hair, tilting your head back so he can watch your face while Duncan eats you like a starving man.

➥ Lyonel making you ride Duncan so he can watch every inch of his thick cock disappear inside you. “Look at her, Dunk. Look how well she takes you. My wife’s cunt was made for you, wasn’t it?” He growls while Duncan just shakes ,trying to hold back, hands gripping your hips tightly , whispering apologies “Seven hells, my lady, you’re so tight- forgive me-“

➥ Lyonel sitting in the big chair by the fire, wine in hand, ordering Duncan to bend you over the table in front of him.

➥ Every time Duncan thrusts in you, Lyonel describing exactly how you look, how your tits are bouncing, how your mouth is open, how wet you are for another man’s cock.Sometimes reaching out and rubbing your clit while Duncan rails you, making you scream both their names until your voice cracks.

➥ Duncan turning surprisingly filthy once he stops being shy. Pinning your wrists above your head with one hand and fucking you so deep you feel him in your spine. sucking bruises into your neck and breasts where Lyonel can see them the next morning. He also has a thing for making you squirt sliding his fingers into you alongside his cock and growling “Come on, my lady, let Lord Lyonel see what i can do to you.”

➥ Lyonel always finishing inside you last. After Duncan has fucked you boneless, Lyonel pulls you into his lap, sliding into your cunt, and fucks you slow and deep while Duncan watches breathing hard.

➥ Duncan carrying you to the bed after, gently laying you down between them.

➥ Lyonel kissing the tears from your cheeks and stroking your hair while Duncan gently cleans you with a warm cloth, murmuring how perfect you were, how lucky he is to be allowed to touch the Lady of Storm’s End. Both of them sandwiching you between their bodies, Lyonel’s chest to your back, Duncan’s arm across your waist as you fall asleep.

[kindamanlymuppet]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

[thespaceloft]

I WANT TO CLIMB THAT TALL MAN

[kindamanlymuppet]

i am having not very respectful thoughts

[xreader1989]

Hi 👋 can I please request Johnny Storm x wife!reader where Moleman flirts with her to rile up Johnny?

Like from that "don't be mad, I didn't dress you" scene. That would be great thanks 😊

Jealous Johnny

Johnny Storm x wife!reader

Word count: 1.9k Masterlist

Thank you for the request @caitie-lu ! Are there still some Johnny girls out there? I have two more fics in the drafts for him! I also have a Jack Abbot piece in the works, as always- requests are open ❤️

Over the past few years, you had worked incredibly hard helping Sue Storm run the Future Foundation.

Your degree in political science and global affairs finally helping you prove to the world that you deserve a seat at the table.

Negotiating with the world’s most influential leaders, drafting contracts and accords, it was truly your dream job.

What you hadn’t expected all those years ago was to meet your husband, who also happened to be the brother of your boss. You fell for one another quickly and fearlessly, the way Johnny Storm does most things in his life. He had a ring on your finger less than two years later, and life had been blissful ever since.

You had your dream job, a husband who loved you, and a found family.

The lab buzzed with the low hum of machinery, the screens were glowing softly against all the sleek stainless steel surfaces. It was one of those meetings where science, diplomacy, and pure chaos somehow had to coexist. So, Sue had insisted everyone be present.

You stood beside Sue at the main console, tablet in hand, going over notes for the third time. Across the room, Reed was mid-explanation, already five tangents deep, while Ben leaned against a workbench with his arms crossed, pretending to listen but clearly zoning out.

Johnny, on the other hand, was watching you. He was sitting next to Ben, he was supposed to be listening to Reed. But he was staring.

Not subtly, either.

You could feel it, like a heat lamp pointed directly at your back. Which, knowing him, wasn’t far from the truth.

You would think you would get used to it after all these years, but he still manages to make you blush. Everyone else on the other hand, was completely used to his obsession with you, and had learned to ignore it.

“—and that brings us to our guest,” Sue said smoothly, gesturing toward the far end of the lab. You both looked up from the tablet just in time.

The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, as if perfectly timed.

Mole Man entered like he owned the place.

Short, smug, and already scowling… until his eyes landed on you. At least you think they did. He was sporting his thin glasses that helped his eyes adjust to the light above ground and it was hard to tell exactly what he was focusing on.

Then everything changed.

“Well,” he said, voice dripping with something between amusement and interest, “I was not informed the surface world had become quite so… aesthetically pleasing.”

You blinked at home, trying to keep your expression neutral and professional.

Ben made a quiet choking noise and Johnny went very, very still.

Sue, ever the diplomat, stepped forward. “This is—”

“I know who she is,” Mole Man interrupted, not looking away from you. “I make it a point to learn about influential figures, especially before meeting with them. And I’ve been most excited to meet her.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Elder,” you said cheerfully.

You extended your hand to shake his, but he took it in his and placed a light kiss on your knuckles, making your skin feel hot. You were sure your cheeks were beat red. Even Sue had a hard time keeping her face neutral.

Her eyes widened as she watched you pull your hand back.

She cleared her throat, trying to redirect the vibe, “Harvey, thank you for coming all this way.”

His gaze dragged over you in a way that made your skin prickle. It wasn’t necessarily unsafe, but deeply annoying. The type of notion that made it nearly impossible not to roll your eyes.

“Oh, I like her,” he added. “Much more than you lot.” He gestured vaguely towards where Johnny, Ben, and Reed stood in shock.

Johnny pushed off the wall immediately. “Okay—nope. That’s enough of that.”

“Johnny,” Sue warned.

“What?” he shot back, already moving closer to you like a reflex. “He’s being weird.”

“I am being appreciative,” Mole Man corrected, stepping closer as well. “Surely she is allowed to receive compliments without interference… or are you one of those crazy… husbands?.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he beat you to it.

“You must find it exhausting,” he continued, looking at you again, “being surrounded by such… immature company.”

Ben barked a laugh. Reed looked back at his notes, avoiding the conversation completely.

Johnny, however, looked like he might spontaneously combust.

“I’m standing right here,” he said flatly, “and that’s my wife.”

“Yes,” Mole Man replied, unimpressed. “And yet somehow you’re still the least interesting person in the room.”

“Oh, that’s—” Johnny stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You know what? I don’t need to prove anything to a guy who lives underground.”

“Johnny,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

He glanced at you immediately, tension flickering.

Mole Man smirked.

“You see?” he said. “Even she must calm you. How tiresome.”

“I don’t have to—” Johnny started, then stopped again, visibly reining himself in.

Sue cleared her throat, another attempt to stay focused. “Perhaps we can stay focused on the purpose of this meeting.”

“Of course,” you added quickly, stepping slightly forward, subtly putting space between yourself and both men. “We’re here to discuss the Foundation’s expansion into—”

“Oh, I would expand anything you asked me to,” Mole Man cut in.

There was a beat of silence. You coughed, literally choking on your spit in shock.

Reed blinked, eyes widening as he pretended to look at his notebook. Ben turned his head around so that he was facing the conversation, fully invested now.

Johnny made a sound that could only be described as deeply offended disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Johnny,” Sue warned again, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips now.

“I’m just saying—he’s doing it on purpose!” Johnny gestured wildly. “He’s literally—he’s flirting to mess with me!”

Mole Man folded his hands behind his back. “If it unsettles you, that is merely a bonus.”

Johnny laughed once, sharp. “Unsettled? I’m not—”

“You’re pacing,” you pointed out gently.

He froze mid-step.

“…I’m not pacing,” he muttered.

“You were.” You said calmly, still trying not to show any sort of emotion on your face.

By the grace of god, the meeting somehow continued, though barely. Every time you spoke, Mole Man leaned in just a little too close. Every time he did, Johnny found an excuse to insert himself between you, adjusting a screen, grabbing a tool, existing aggressively in your space.

Johnny wasn’t even supposed to be directly involved. He was merely there because the rest of you were. And now he was fully involved in the negotiations you were supposed to be carrying out besides Sue.

By the time it ended, Johnny was visibly simmering.

Mole Man, annoyingly, looked delighted.

“Well,” he said as he prepared to leave, “this has been… enlightening. I do hope we meet again.”

His gaze lingered on you one last time.

“I certainly would not mind further conversation,” you said with a smirk, playing into it.

(So what if you loved getting Johnny just a little worked up?)

Johnny stepped forward immediately. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Mole Man chuckled, actually chuckled, and turned, disappearing out the lab doors. He threw a wave behind himself as you watched his shoulders shake.

The second the doors closed, Johnny dragged a hand down his face.

“Oh my god.” He said, groaning.

Ben lost it. Full-on laughter, echoing off the walls. She joined in from her place at the table, still pretending to look over her notes.

“I have never seen you like that,” Ben said, wheezing. “You were about two seconds away from throwing hands with a guy half your size.”

“He started it!” Johnny shot back.

Reed looked up, thoughtful as always. “Technically, his comments were strategically provocative—”

“Reed, not helping,” Ben said through his laughter.

Sue stepped closer to you, voice warm. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, smiling faintly. “I’m fine. Just… surprised, I guess.”

Sue glanced at Johnny, then back at you, clearly amused. “I’ll leave you two to sort that out.”

One by one, they filtered out, Ben still laughing, Reed already distracted again, Sue giving you a knowing look and still smiling.

And then it was just you and Johnny.

Silence stretched for a moment. He avoided your eyes at first, fiddling with nothing in particular, shoulders tight.

“…He’s an idiot,” Johnny muttered.

You tilted your head. “You’re jealous.”

His head snapped up. “I am not—”

“Johnny.” You said firmly.

He paused and then sighed, long and dramatic.

“…Okay, maybe a little.” He admitted bash fully.

You stepped closer, softening. “He was trying to get under your skin.”

“Yeah, well, mission accomplished,” he grumbled. “He kept looking at you like—like—”

“Like I was interesting?”

“Like he thought he had a shot,” Johnny corrected, voice sharper now. “Which he doesn’t. Obviously. But still.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

That got his attention.

“Hey,” you said gently.

He looked at you then and some of the tension eased. You ran your thumb over his knuckles, stopping at the gold band on his ring finger, tapping it thoughtfully.

“You have nothing to worry about,” you continued. “Not from him. Not from anyone.”

Johnny huffed softly. “I know. I just—he was so—”

“Obnoxious?” you offered.

“Exactly.” He said relieved, like you finally understood.

You smiled, stepping even closer, your free hand resting against his chest.

“I’m yours,” you said simply.

All the leftover irritation, the jealousy, the defensiveness, it melted right off his face, replaced by something softer.

“…Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” You answered confidently.

You leaned up, brushing your lips against his in a slow, reassuring kiss.

Johnny responded instantly, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer like he needed the confirmation.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“…Okay,” he murmured. “I feel better now.”

You laughed softly. “Good.”

He smirked a little then, some of his usual confidence returning. “Still gonna punch him if he talks to you like that again.”

“Johnny—”

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly. “Mostly.”

You shook your head, smiling, squeezing his hand.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s go before Ben starts telling everyone you almost fought Mole Man out of jealousy.”

Johnny groaned. “He’s already texting the group chat, I guarantee it.”

“Probably.” You said, biting back a laugh.

He laced your fingers together more tightly as you both headed for the door.

“…He really didn’t have a shot, though,” Johnny added under his breath.

You bumped his shoulder lightly. “Not even a little. No one does, but you baby.”

That seemed to satisfy him completely.

[kindamanlymuppet]

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

how he proposes to you

including: steve harrington, gator tillman, kurt kunkle, teacake meacham and keys

❀ contains: fluff! lots of fluff! mentions of pregnancy, illness (vomiting), pregnancy, pet names, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

❀ author's note: felt like i needed to write some fluff so here we are!!

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

𝜗ৎ steve harrington

Steve had known you were the one after the third date. That’s what he told you anyway. In truth, he knew you he wanted to marry you after the very first date. But he also knew you were both young, you had time.

And so, he waited three years.

And in those three years he fell so deeply in love with you—and in turn, you fell in love with him—that Steve couldn’t wait for the day he finally got down on one knee and asked you to be his wife.

He decided he would do it during a week away. You had rented a lake house, just the two of you for once. Usually you went on trips with Robin and Nancy or brought along Dustin and a few of the other kids that affectionately called you and Steve ‘mom’ and ‘dad’. But this week it was just you and Steve and he couldn’t think of a more perfect time to propose.

He planned it for the third evening mostly because he couldn’t wait. He had cooked an amazing carbonara complete with garlic bread and a Sicilian lemon cheesecake for dessert. It was mouth watering and despite the fact you weren’t drinking the expensive wine he had bought, Steve was feeling good.

The ring was burning a hole in his pocket and he really couldn’t wait any longer. He led you to the dock so you could watch the sunset together. It was stupidly romantic and everything Steve had wanted it to be and more.

And so, he drops down on one knee and pulls out the ring box. He tells you how he had lied—that he had actually wanted to marry you from the very first date. He told you that you were his best friend, that he wanted to hold you through the good times and the bad. That he wanted you to not only be his wife but the mother of his children.

And when he finishes, he looks up at you.

And then—you burst into tears.

Steve’s heart dropped out of his stomach.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He asks, trying not to panic as he slips the ring box back into his pocket so he could pull you into his arms. “Why are you crying? Do you—do you not want to marry me?”

You’re a blubbering mess, tears streaming down your face and shuddering breaths falling from your lips. “Of course I want to marry you, idiot.”

Steve laughs at little, one of his large hands cupping the back of your head while the other rubs your back gently.

“Then why are you crying?”

You sniffle, pulling away enough to look up at him. “B-because I really want to marry you but—”

“—but?” Steve repeats, alarmed. “There’s a but?”

You smile a little before nodding. “Yeah—because I think we’re gonna be a little busy for the next…9 months.”

Steve blinks, utterly perplexed.

“Why?” He asks. “Do you want to go backpacking or something—”

You let out a snort of laughter and shake your head. “Jesus—no. Steve—I’m pregnant.”

Steve doesn’t react. He doesn’t move. Hell—he may have stopped breathing and then—

He gets the biggest, dumbest smile on his face and before you could do anything except smile back, Steve arms are wrapping around your waist and he’s lifting you off your feet.

“Steve!” You yell out through a fit of laughter. “Be careful, I’m carrying precious cargo.”

“That you are,” Steve says, twirling you around once before setting you back down on your feet. He’s beaming. God—you had never seen Steve smile like that before. Like nothing—absolutely nothing—could have wiped it from his face.

And then he’s kissing you—kissing every square inch of your face and you’re holding back laughter, mixed with tears, as those kisses move down from your face, down your neck, over your chest before he’s finally kneeling in front of you. You squeal when he lifts your shirt but the warm kiss he places over your stomach makes you forget about the cold.

“I love you so, so much already, little one,” he tells your stomach, his voice so soft and gentle that you felt your heart double in size. This was all Steve had ever wanted.

He looks up at you then, those big hazel eyes that you prayed your child would get and the smile still has not left his face.

“So—is that a yes to marrying me or—”

“—yes,” you say through bright laughter. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

𝜗ৎ gator tillman

Gator Tillman swore when he was seventeen he was never going to marry. He knew how Roy treated women, how he looked at them as though they were disposable. He saw how girlfriends he had as a teenager would tense at the mention of his father, how they would break things off with Gator not too long after being introduced to Roy.

He couldn’t blame them. In fact, he could only blame himself. He had just wanted them to meet his family. But Gator quickly learned that any women he bought home wouldn’t be safe from Roy Tillman.

And so, Gator made a promise to himself to never settle, never marry, never have kids and he intended to keep that promise.

Then you came along.

You were a nurse at Lehigh’s General Hospital and Gator being the Sheriff’s Deputy for Stark County meant that you ran into each other a lot. It didn’t take long for Gator to ask for your number, figuring you could keep him occupied for a little while until he found another woman to keep his bed warm. But you had laughed in his face and told him to fuck off. And Gator? He was hooked.

It took a while for you to come around. But you eventually did and he fell in love with you despite his best efforts. And boy, did Gator Tillman fall hard.

And because he loved you so much—he had to keep you safe. He had to. And so, he had suggested moving out of Lehigh. Far away. It was his only option. And because you loved him so much, you said yes.

You left Lehigh under the cover of night with only three bags between you in the truck Gator had bought so his father couldn't track him. There was a small farmhouse waiting for you in Washington, it was a fixer upper but Gator was more than happy to get his hands dirty to build a home for the two of you. It took nearly two days to get there but it was worth it. Because it was the safest Gator had felt in a long time.

And so, it didn't take long for Gator to start thinking of how he was going to propose.

Marriage and Gator didn't seem to belong in the same sentence but he found himself imagining you with a ring on your finger, you in a white dress and god, the wedding night—

You didn't have much money, most of it was spent on renovating your house which Gator insisted on doing himself. But still, he went to a jewellery shop and bought the prettiest ring he could find for $200.

It was simple and he was sure you deserved more but he told himself he would replace it one day.

He decided to do it while out for a walk the forest nearby your house.

“You think we should try a pottery class together?” You ask Gator as you walk hand in hand down the path.

Gator hums by way of a response. The corner of your mouth twitches.

“Or maybe line dancing. Want me to book us in for a class?”

Again, Gator only hums in response.

“I’m thinking of starting an Only Fans,” you try next.

“Cool,” Gator murmurs, glancing over at the nearby river. “Cool.”

“Gator.”

He blinks and then turns to look at you as though he had only just realised you were there.

“What?”

“Were you listening to me?” You ask him, not annoyed just amused if anything. Gator was so rarely distracted.

“Yeah,” he lies as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, tugging you towards the river. “Something about pottery or dancing and um—”

“Only Fans,” you finish for him. “You’d said it would be ‘cool’ with it if I started one.”

Gator’s head snaps in your direction and you know you have him then.

“Baby, if you think—”

“—I was just seeing if you were listening to me,” you say, leaning up to pinch his cheek. His jaw clenches but you see the way his eyes soften as he looks at you. “And you clearly weren’t. What’s up? You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?” Gator grunts, kicking a nearby stone into the river.

“Yes. You are.”

You step closer to him, your eyes flickering between his as though trying to read his thoughts. Gator looks back at you, trying to keep his expression as neutral as humanely possible and ultimately failing as he thinks about that ring in his pocket—

“You’re nervous,” you observe, head titled to the side as you look at your boyfriend. “You’re never nervous.”

Gator tries to think of an excuse, some lie but he just can’t. He’s too busy imagining a life with you—one that made him feel safe and everything he had never felt growing up. He didn’t even really register that he was getting down on one knee.

“Marry me?” He asks simply.

There was no big speech, no long, romantic declaration. Just Gator Tillman with a ring in his hand, looking up at you with a soft expression he had only ever given you. One that said it all—I love you, I trust you, I feel safe with you.

“Yes,” you say, holding back a smile that was so big it almost hurt.

𝜗ৎ walter "keys" mckey

Keys took his time to plan your proposal.

Like seriously took his time.

Eight months to be exact.

He started with the ring—which he had custom made from a jeweller he had found after days of extensive research. It was expensive and a lot of effort but he knew that you deserved something special and uniquely you.

Keys then did even more research, trying to find the very best holiday destination for the proposal. He then did months of overtime and even some freelance work to be able to afford the holiday to the Maldives for you both.

He then booked various activities for the two of you including a sunset dolphin cruise, couples massage, scuba diving and all culminating in a private sandbank dinner beneath the stars where he would get down on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

Keys really had planed it all.

But what he hadn’t planned was for you getting sick the day after arriving.

And you weren’t just a little bit unwell—you were really fucking sick. Like you couldnt keep down a meal without throwing up and couldn’t get out of bed kind of ill.

You felt awful—not just because of the illness but because Keys had worked so hard and spent so much money that you weren’t sure he would be able to get back.

“Just go without me,” you murmur miserably, face mushed against your pillow as you try and convince Keys to go to the sunset dolphin cruise without you.

“Absolutely not,” Keys says with a shake of his head, climbing into bedside you. “I’m not leaving you when you’re this ill, sweetheart.”

He couldn’t tell you, not for a while, but Keys was internally freaking out. Not because of how much he had spent but because he had spent eight months planning—eight long months so that he knew exactly what to do the moment he dropped down on one knee in front of you. And now? Now he didn’t know what to do.

And so, Keys did what he did best. He took care of you. He cancelled almost all the activities he had booked and dedicated his time to making sure you were drinking enough water, holding your hair back when you threw up and running down to the hotel’s pharmacy to find anything that might help.

The very last day of your holiday (if you could even call it that) you felt a lot more human. Human enough that you had decided to go to the private dinner along the beach with Keys (though he had made sure that any sea food was kept well away from you).

“I’m really sorry I’ve been so sick,” you say sometime after dessert as you and Keys sit side by side in the sand.

“Don’t apologise,” Keys tells you firmly, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and tugging you closer so you could lean your head against his shoulder. “You can’t help being ill. Besides—I don’t mind looking after you.” He tells you, pressing a kiss to your slightly warm forehead.

He’s hyper aware of the ring box in his pocket and angles his body away from yours to ensure that you didn’t notice a thing. He’s trying so hard to act normal but he was nervous—stupidly so—and he needed this proposal to go perfectly since the holiday itself had been—well, not so perfect.

It’s quiet between the two of you then—you’re looking out at the ocean, at the sunset that kissed the horizon while his gaze remains on you.

He opens his mouth to say your name—to ask you that big, life changing question but—

“Holy shit!” You yell out, eyes wide and gesturing wildly towards the ocean. “Keys! Look!”

“Huh?” Keys murmurs, still looking at you as he fumbles with the ring box in his pocket. He hadn’t been paying attention to anything beyond looking at you and he glances towards the ocean just in time to see a pod of dolphins out at sea. “Oh wow—”

It was a perfect moment—the beach, the dolphins, the array of flowers that still littered the sand from the dinner and Keys didn’t hesitate. He scrambles about widely and you barely have time to blink before he’s kneeling down on one knee beside you.

Keys says your name again. He continues looking at you as your eyes remain on the frolicking dolphins for a few more moments before you turn to look back at him and he watches how your expression changes in a few, quick seconds.

Keys had a whole speech rehearsed. Something about how wonderful this week had been and how he hoped you had a lifetime of wonderful vacations together but it felt redundant now. And so, Keys instead spoke of how despite how much he hated seeing you so unwell, it had only cemented the fact that he wanted to love and take care of you for the rest of his days. How he would do it all over again, even if you had thrown up on his nicest shirt the other day. He wanted to say more—he wanted to say so much more but he didn’t get the chance to because you were grabbing his face and kissing him all over, murmuring “yes” over his sun-kissed skin.

𝜗ৎ kurt kunkle

Kurt honestly could have proposed the first very week you were started dating. But he knew how insane that was. So he waited—eight months to be exact. You were his first kiss, first love, his first—well, everything. He had a ring picked out before you had moved in together and did a lot of really stupid brand deals to be able to afford it.

“But you don’t drink protein shakes, Kurt,” you had said when you saw the package he had received with a strawberry flavoured protein powder inside.

But he had just shrugged, tried to hide the pink flush on his cheeks by pressing a kiss to your forehead, murmuring something about wanting to get a new monitor.

You had no idea those damn protein powders would be paying for your engagement ring.

Kurt initially was going to do a big proposal. Like in Disneyland in front of a bunch of people kind of thing. He wanted to vlog it, wanted to get as many views as possible because he knew how well those videos did.

But as you both stood in front of the castle, your eyes shining with child like wonder and Kurt’s camera set up nearby without you knowing—Kurt began to panic. There was so many people. What if you said no? What if you laughed at him? What if other people laughed at him? What if someone filmed it and the whole world laughed at him some more?

He couldn’t do it. Not in the middle of Disneyland, anyway.

He considered doing it on a livestream but again—the thought of you turning him down and the whole world seeing made him want to throw up.

And so—when it happened in the quiet of your living room, there was no cameras. It was just Kurt, some candles, a ring and you.

You hadn’t been expecting it. Not at all. You had came home from work and was greeted by a nervous looking Kurt. He had a silk blindfold in his hand and figuring it was for a taste test video or something equally as silly, you very nearly rolled your eyes. In your defence, you had a long day at work and the last thing you wanted was to blind taste pop tarts again.

“Kurt—” you began to say but the look in his big brown eyes made you stop. He looked desperate, as though he might cry if you say no. And so, you sigh and allow him to tie the blindfold behind your head.

He guides you through the apartment, his trembling hands holding your hips as you stand in what you think might be your living room.

“Is it pop tarts again?” You ask Kurt, unamused.

Kurt blushes, though you don’t see it. “Something like that,” he murmurs before he unties the blindfold and you look—expecting to see his camera set up and an abundance of pop tarts flavours littering the dining table but instead you see a candlelit dinner waiting for you.

You can’t help it. Your jaw drops. “Oh, Kurt!”

It may not have been much—just some mild spice fajitas (since Kurt could not handle anything too spicy) and some incredibly cheesy nachos. But you knew it was made with love and so, you devoured it.

You notice how nervous Kurt seemed which wasn’t anything out of the ordinary since he had a nervous disposition but he seemed especially nervous tonight.

“You okay?” You ask him, nudging his calf with your foot and shooting him a gentle smile. It did nothing to help Kurt’s nerves. In fact, it made him feel all warm inside. As though his insides were made of goo and that smile on your face? Fuck—he loved you. He loved you so much. He wanted to wake up every morning and see that smile. Wanted to—

“Iwannamarryyou.”

The words fall from his lips before he could stop them. He immediately wants to curl up into a ball and die—did that even count as a proposal? If it was a statement rather than a question? Did he need to play it off as a joke before you caught on? Did he need to change his name and move to a different state? Did he—

“Are you asking me or telling me?” You ask him gently, smiling back at him. He can see the hopefulness in your eyes and it does nothing to help the situation. Absolutely nothing. Kurt’s face darkens to a bright red as he forces himself to nod.

“Yeah,” he finally stutters out. “I’m—I’m asking.”

And because he figures that he should probably prove that he was serious—he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring before he drops down on one knee in front of you.

You let outa a squeal of excitement that makes Kurt jump, he nearly drops the ring in the nachos.

“Yes!” You exclaim happily, jumping up from your seat and rushing round the table to shower his face with kisses. “Of course I’ll marry you, Kurt.”

𝜗ৎ travis "teacake" meacham

In the two years you had been together, Travis had never kept a secret from you. He had practically told you every waking thought he had since your first date. Mostly because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut but it was also because he loved you. So the thought of keeping anything from you felt inconceivable.

And so, when he began to think about proposing to you—Travis had a problem.

Because how was he meant to keep something this big from you?

The day he bought the ring, he immediately wanted to tell you about it. He wanted to tell you how it sparkled in the light, how he had it engraved with his and your initials. But he couldn’t. And so, he told his barber about it instead.

He did the same thing when he had finally decided how he was going to do it, he ended up telling his parole officer. And the postman, and the guy who came to fix the boiler in your apartment and his boss and—well, anyone who would listen really.

He had decided that a recreation of your first date was what he wanted to do. And so, he spent all morning preparing a basket full of food, bought a gingham picnic blanket he knew you’d love and grabbed the biggest bunch of sunflowers he found at the florist.

“You didn’t have to do all this, Tea,” you say with a smile after Travis had attempted to feed you chocolate covered strawberries.

“Oh, I did,” Travis insists before he leans in to lick some of the remains of chocolate from the corner of your mouth. “You tastes so good, baby.”

Your face warms and Travis laughs—especially when you playfully smack his arm in warning.

“There’s children around Tea,” you mutter, jerking your head towards a bunch of children playing football nearby.

Travis puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, ruin my fun. No ravishing you on the picnic blanket.”

You try not to laugh but it’s impossible not to when Travis had that playful look in his eye. You lean in and press a kiss to his lips that he’s quick to return, his hand cupping your face as his other hands fiddles with the box in his pocket.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly when you pull away.

“I love you more.” He tells you.

“Not possible,” you say with a shake of your head.

Travis insists that no—he really does love you more. It’s back and forth for a while after that until you finally give in.

“Fine—we love each other equal amounts, how’s that?”

Travis considers it before nodding. “Okay,” he concedes. “But I love you that little bit more—”

You stuff a macaron in his mouth just to shut him up. And just like that—you’re both laughing again.

And Travis knows this is the perfect moment.

He says your name, pulling the box out from his pocket in what he hopes was a subtle move. You turn and before he could even open the box—

“Yes.”

Travis blinks, titling his head and furrowing his brow like a confused puppy.

“But I haven’t—”

“The postman told you,” you say quickly, your heart hammering as you look at Travis as though you could burst. “I’m sorry! I know you wanted it to be a surprise but he told me like two weeks ago—”

If Travis wasn’t on parole, he would have lost his shit at the postman.

“Ah shit,” he grumbles. “But I had this speech and I wanted to—”

“—and I’m sure it would have been amazing!” You say, your eyes flickering from his face to the damn ring box in his hand. “But you don’t need to do all that. My answer is yes.”

“But it was really good, like the perfect balance of romantic and funny and—”

You had truly never wanted Travis to shut up more. And so—you shut him up the way you only know how. You grab his face and pull him towards you. Your lips meet in a messy, slightly chaotic kiss. Travis manages to slide the ring on your finger before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you almost onto his lap.

“Tea—” you murmur against his lips. “There’s children—”

Travis groans and though you don’t see it, you know he’s rolling his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, pressing several final kisses to your lips before finally pulling away from you. “Then let’s get home so I can ravish my fiancée in the privacy of our own home.”

dividers by @uzmacchiato

[kindamanlymuppet]

sweethearts <3

[cosmictheo]

𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 | ser duncan the tall

| gif credits: @alicentive |

—summary: you spend your days teasing dunk on purpose, brushing too close, holding his gaze a second too long, slipping into suggestive positions when you know he’s watching—until one day, his patience finally snaps and gives in to the temptation you’ve so carefully crafted. —pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!reader —word count: ~5.4k —content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, outdoor sex, lots of body worship, praise, mutual pining, tension, reader loves to tease him, jealous!dunk, friends to lovers, inexperienced!dunk, needy!reader, dunk is down baddd. not proofread!

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Ser Arlan is gone, no longer around to complain about your presence every chance he gets, or to remind Dunk that a man like him should not travel with a woman like you, whose past burns hotter than the Dornish sun.

What really burns is your presence, your company, your gaze.

Dunk has always believed that you are some kind of trial sent by the gods to tempt him, to test his self-control, his strength of will, and his sense of knighthood.

He also believes that you don't really do it on purpose, and that you are as pure and innocent as he is. But now that the old man is gone, you seem to have only gotten much worse.

Duncan can't help but glance at you when you're bathing in some lake, pretending to be mending a tear in some old piece of clothing or sharpening the blade of his sword. His eyes flick towards you every time he overhears a little splash, just like clockwork, followed by a sharp gulp.

The sound of water lapping against the rocks is the only thing that breaks the stillness of the forest. You’ve wandered just a few yards from camp, far enough to enjoy some privacy, but close enough to feel Dunk's protective presence.

You slide into the natural pool, gasping as the cold water embraces your bare body.

On the other side of the bushes, you hear the rhythmic “shhh-shhh” of the whetstone rubbing against the steel. Dunk is there, sitting on a fallen log, pretending to be deeply focused on his sword.

But you know that’s not really what’s going on.

From the surface of the water, you can see him through the branches. His jaw is clenched and his ears are tinged with a betraying shade of red.

Every time you emerge from the water and the sound of splashing reaches his ears, his shoulders tense. His pretty blue eyes, once brimming with a childlike sweetness, now scan for you on pure gut instinct, at odds with the decency that Ser Arlan so fiercely drummed into him.

“Dunk,” you call out gently, your voice drifting above the mist.

He flinches so violently that he almost lets the sword fall out of his hand. He clears his throat noisily, staring at some ants at his feet.

“Y–yes? Is something wrong? Is it—is it too cold?” he asks breathlessly, without turning his head even a fraction of an inch.

“It’s perfect,” you reply, emerging from the water with exaggerated leisure. You know he can hear the water dripping steadily down your body. “But I could use that old cloak you were mending. I left mine by the fire.”

You hear him getting up. His steps are heavy, purposeful, but when he reaches the edge of the thicket, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Here... here it is,” he tells you, blindly stretching out his arm through the leaves, offering you the fabric.

You step closer to the edge and, instead of taking the cloak right away, you brush his fingers with yours. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the rush of blood in his big hand. Dunk lets out a quiet gasp, and for a second, his self-control weakens. His eyes drift away, meeting yours.

“I–I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, covering his eyes with his hands to force himself to respect your boundaries. “So sorry”

That makes you smirk playfully, pulling the cloak up around your damp body. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, Duncan.”

You tell him that often. And every time, he is reduced to a blushing, stammering mess.

Sometimes, when he comes back from shopping at a nearby grocery market or roadside merchant, he is almost knocked off his feet when he finds you down on the grass, on all fours to look through the thick bushes for those berries you like so much.

But could they really be found so low to the ground?

His wide eyes are moving on their own before he can even think to try to control them, gliding over your hair, the stretch of your back, and then slowing down as they trace the curve of your bum, that looks absurdly more defined in that skirt.

With a little push you make forward, the fabric slides up a bit more, revealing more of the skin on your legs for his eyes only.

Your hips have widened, the shape of your waist is exquisitely defined, and your exposed skin seems to glow in the light of the spring sunshine.

Dunk feels his mouth go dry instantly and he just stands there, holding the handbag in one hand, his grip gradually loosening as the moment ticks by.

His dilated eyes roam the contour of your hips with an intensity that overwhelms him, a surge of arousal that makes him feel lightheaded with longing.

“Dunk?” you call out as you stretch a little further to reach a particularly red berry, without actually turning around. “Is that you?”

Of course you know it’s him and that he’s there; you’ve heard him approaching ever since he stepped into the woods. But you do like to have a bit of fun, to tease him.

Duncan is frozen in place, the sack of groceries hanging from his fingers as if it weighed a ton. The sound of his own breathing seems loud in the silence of the clearing.

He tries to articulate a response, but his throat feels as if he has been swallowing desert sand.

“Y–yes... it’s me,” he finally manages to squeak out.

He watches with a face bright red as you stretch again, how the fabric of your skirt is pulled tight against your curves and how the sunlight reflects off the softness of your skin.

It is an exquisite form of torture.

“Did you bring what I asked for?” you inquire innocently, arching your back just slightly enough that the motion is impossible to overlook.

“A–aye. I brought... apples. And some—cheese,” he swallows hard, muffling his wheezing voice and blinking sharply to try to snap himself out of the daze. “M’lady... you should—I mean, you could prick yourself on the thorns. It’s not safe to be like that... anyone could...”

You laugh softly, a vibrating sound that sends a chill down Dunk's spine.

“Anyone could...?” you repeat, feigning concern as you finally lean back up, slower than necessary. You turn just enough so that he can see your smile over your shoulder. “There’s no one here but you, Dunk.”

Duncan, just as you are turning your head toward him, forces himself to look everywhere but at you: at the trees, the sky, birds dancing and chirping in the branches above.

“You shouldn't tease like that,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “It's not… appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” you echo, rising to your feet at last, a berry crunching between your teeth.

You take a step toward him, then another.

Dunk recoils instinctively, stepping back from you as if you were a flame that could burn him if he got too close.

“You know what I mean,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t… move like that.”

You look down at your own body, pretending to examine yourself with utter confusion.

“Move how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently, biting your lower lip that’s still stained with the berries’ red juice. “I was just looking for berries.”

“You... you know how,” he manages to croak out at an unusually husky tone, his blue eyes blinking rapidly back down at you. “Like a... like a cat. Or like something from the songs that lures knights into the swamps to drown them.”

“I'm not a fairy tale witch, Duncan. I'm just a woman,” you reply quietly, drawing closer to him to be within arm's reach. Then you hold out your hand, offering him a single perfectly ripe berry. “And you're not a knight yet, are you? You're just a man.”

Dunk leisurely lowers his gaze to your outstretched hand, following the extent of your arm down to the berry, only to return to your eyes, entranced by the hypnotic magnetism of them.

His imposing physique recoils under the overwhelming weight of your attentive gaze and the sweet, alluring glint in your eyes—a gaze that entices him closer. Despite his massive body, Dunk is nothing more than a timid little mouse in your presence.

“Ser Arlan isn't here anymore, Dunk. What are you so afraid of?” You continue speaking so sweetly, attempting to coax him, using a voice as velvety as silk. You press the berry against his lower lip. “Eat now. You've been walking in the sun all morning. You must be hungry.”

Hungry, he certainly is. Just not exactly starved for some woodland berries.

Dunk doesn't take the berry with his hand, instead his lips fall open instinctively as he tilts his head closer to your hand. As his mouth closes over the little fruit in your palm, his tongue brushes against your skin—a flutter of accidental touch that sets off a ripple of heat through your body.

But you realize it was no accident when you catch sight of the way he's looking down at you now, licking the berry juice from his lips and humming in appreciation, reveling in the lingering taste of your skin on the tip of his tongue.

“Mhm, really good,” he drawls, lifting his eyebrows and nodding in approval.

That's the first time Duncan has ever gone along with one of your little flirtations, but that's all it is, nothing more. He doesn't tease you back, he doesn't ask you to give him another berry, he doesn't even bother to glance at you as he shuffles past you, practically stumbling back to camp.

It is a modest victory, but the fact that he has dared to touch your hand with his tongue is a sign that Ser Arlan's lessons are losing the battle against his own natural instincts.

The days go by and that little spark seems to have been extinguished. Dunk has put his walls back up, higher and stronger than ever.

Every time you try to brush his arm as you walk side by side, he finds an excuse to adjust Thunder's load. If you smile sweetly at him during breakfast, he suddenly focuses on a non-existent stain on his coat. It's like trying to melt a mountain with a firefly; completely hopeless.

You reach an inn on your way south, somewhere along the way. The place is crowded, filled with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale. Dunk sits in a corner, his gaze low as he drinks, carrying out his role as silent and boring guardian.

Tired of bumping into his armor of politeness, you decide you've had enough.

You get up and head to the bar and it takes less than a moment to catch the eye of a burly-looking mercenary with a scar on his cheek and an easy laugh. You lean against the counter, letting your shoulder brush against his, and let out a laugh that echoes above the din of the tavern.

“And you say you're traveling alone with that giant?” asks the mercenary, eyeing you up and down.

“He's been my friend for as long as I can remember,” you answer lightheartedly, making sure Dunk hears you, because of course he's listening and observing everything you do. “But he's a very... reserved man. I've almost forgotten what an interesting conversation is.”

The man bursts out laughing and tilts his head toward you, his face just inches from yours. Offering you a sip from his own mug, you lean in and accept, drinking slowly and staring at him with an intensity you've reserved exclusively for Dunk, until now.

The creaking of wood makes you flinch.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk spring to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a heavy thud.

He is standing behind you, his huge frame casting a shadow over your own. The mercenary glances up, turning pale at the sight of the tall figure menacingly looming in front of him.

“No more drinks,” Dunk growls. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a possessiveness you have never heard in it before.

“Hey, easy there, big guy, we were just…” the mercenary begins.

Dunk doesn’t let him finish.

He puts a hand on your waist and forces you to spin around to his side.

“We're leaving. Now,” he orders, looking you straight in the eye.

His jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth look like they're about to burst. His pupils are dilated, and for the first time, there is no trace of Ser Arlan in his gaze. There is only a jealous man who has reached his limit.

He doesn't even give you a moment to say goodbye to your new friend; Duncan is already dragging you out of the tavern with him.

The cold night air hits your face as soon as Dunk pushes open the tavern doors, but the heat emanating from his hand around your waist is all it takes to keep you burning.

“Let go of me, Duncan!” you exclaim, but there’s a hint of triumph in your voice that you can’t quite hide. You break free from his grip with a sudden movement and turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s wrong with you? I was having a pleasant conversation for the first time in weeks.”

Dunk comes to a sharp halt and turns toward you, his blue eyes glowing with anger in the darkness of the night.

“That conversation was not pleasant,” he snarls. “That man was looking at you as if you were a piece of meat at a banquet!”

“You don’t look at me, Dunk!” you fire back, waving your hands in exasperation. “You don't talk to me unless it's to tell me the road is long or the porridge is ready. If you don't want to appreciate what's right in front of you, don't complain when someone else decides to.”

“Seven fuck—you did it on purpose,” he gasps accusingly, his voice descending to a dangerously low murmur. “You knew I was watching. You knew I was going out of my mind sitting there while that fool was touching you—you're—fucking infuriating”

“Infuriating?” you repeat, breaking into a short, bitter laugh, feeling offended, and taking a step toward him until your shoes touch his leather boots. “What’s infuriating is having to seduce half the realm just to get you to stop looking at your own bloody hands and look at me instead!”

He keeps staring at you, catching his breath.

“I don't even know why you're whining so much. After all...” you make a dramatic pause, looking him up and down with a slow, disillusioned gaze, “it's not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”

You turn around with an graceful sway of your hips and make your way back to your camp, concealed in the woods, and don't look back.

Dunk arrives long after you, shifting like a clumsy shadow through the trees. You hear him collapse onto his bedroll across the dying fire, letting out heavy sighs that betray how far sleep is from his grasp.

You smile to yourself, tucked away in your little tent, relishing the chaos you’ve sown in his mind.

The next morning, the sun is just beginning to filter through the leaves when you decide you’re ready to step outside. You expect to find him getting ready for the road, maybe still grumpy or avoiding your gaze as usual.

But what you see takes your breath away.

Dunk is standing with his back to your tent, shirtless.

The fresh dawn breeze brushes against his sun-tanned skin, and his shoulders, broad and powerful, flex and relax rhythmically. He is chopping wood with a small axe, each blow sharp and forceful, causing the muscles in his back to ripple in the golden light. Sweat makes his skin glow, accentuating every scar and line of his muscular, massive build.

You are frozen in the opening of the tent, just standing there watching him.

All of a sudden, he ceases his work, sticks the axe into the log, and slowly turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see you; on the contrary, there is a fresh spark in his blue eyes, a look you haven't seen in him before—confidence.

“Good morrow,” he tells you. His voice is so deep, filling the clearing. He’s not in a hurry to get clothes on. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair and gives you one of those lazy, longing glances you usually give him. “You slept a lot. I thought maybe we should stay another day here, y’know?”

You linger there, your hand still gripping the fabric of the tent, suddenly feeling very small in front of his towering nude figure.

“Did the cat get your tongue?” he teases with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a motion that causes his biceps and pecs to flex in a very appealing way—one that makes your mouth water and your stomach flutter.

The tables have turned so fast you can practically feel the whiplash. Seeing Dunk like this—exposed, sweat-slicked, and radiating a sudden, quiet authority—is almost too much to handle.

You try to summon that playful, teasing voice that usually leaves him stammering, but your throat feels so tight.

“I... I was just going to the river to bathe,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to look unimpressed despite the way your eyes keep betraying you, darting down to the hard lines of his stomach. “Since you’re so busy playing lumberjack, I figured I'd give you some space.”

Dunk huffs out a quiet laugh, low in his chest.

“Space?” he repeats, almost amused. “You’ve never cared much about giving me that before.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other under that look of his.

It’s irritating.

And unsettling.

And strangely... thrilling.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, trying to recover your composure, “maybe I’ve grown considerate overnight.”

“Mm,” Dunk nods slowly, though his expression says he doesn’t believe a word of it.

A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the leaves and lifting a strand of your hair across your face. Dunk’s eyes follow the motion absentmindedly before drifting lower again—down your neck, the loose collar of your chemise, the bare curve of your shoulder and then, your breasts.

You feel it.

Seven hells, you feel it.

You cross your arms tighter, pretending it’s because of the morning chill and that you're not as lustful as a cat in heat, and that your nipples have stood erect ever since you saw the broad expanse of his back.

“Don’t stop working on my account,” you mutter. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

That earns a crooked smile from him.

“River’s that way, my lady,” he says, nodding past the trees. “If you’re bathing.”

You hesitate, because now that sounds like a challenge.

“Oh, I know where it is,” you reply lightly.

Silence stretches between you, birds chatter somewhere in the canopy above, and the fire crackles faintly behind him.

Then Dunk says, casually:

“You’re not going?”

You narrow your eyes. “I said I was.”

“...but?”

Your cheeks warm, and you hate that he’s noticed.

“I was waiting for you to turn around,” you shoot back. “Some of us like our privacy.”

“You?” Dunk huffs, incredulous. “Privacy?”

You glare at him. “Yes, Duncan. Privacy.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face lingers. “Alright, m’lady. I’ll be a perfect gentleman for you, then.”

Then he makes a small, exaggerated show of turning around, presenting you with the broad expanse of his back again.

You slide the chemise down one shoulder.

Then the other.

The morning air kisses your bare skin, cool and bright beneath the rising sun. You step out of the garment and let it fall into the grass behind you.

Dunk exhales sharply and you smile to yourself.

“Thought you weren’t looking,” you say sweetly.

“I’m not,” he answers quickly.

The lie sits awkwardly in his voice.

You let out a soft, amused hum and continue down the narrow path toward the river, the morning grass cool beneath your bare feet. The trees thin as you approach the water, sunlight breaking through the leaves in bright golden patches.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him stepping through the trees after you, large and unhurried, his expression no longer shy or flustered but stubbornly resolved.

The river glimmers ahead, cool and clear as it winds between mossy stones. You step down into the shallows, the cold water climbing slowly up your ankles, your calves, your knees.

It makes you gasp softly.

Behind you, Duncan reaches down to pull off his boots, dropping them onto the grass with a dull thud. Then his belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft creak.

Your mouth opens slightly.

“Dunk—”

“You said it yourself,” he interrupts calmly, stepping closer to the water. “No one’s here but me.”

The water reaches his ankles, then his knees.

You can hear him exhale sharply at the coldness as he wades deeper.

His mouth tilts faintly, you can hear it in his voice.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice rumbling with quiet amusement. “You’ve been walking around me like a flame for weeks. Now you look nervous.”

You swallow, still with your back turned to him. “I’m not nervous.”

The words come out a little too fast.

Behind you, the river shifts softly around Dunk as he moves closer, the current curling around his legs. You can feel him there even without turning—his presence big and warm and just impossible to ignore.

For the first time in weeks, it isn’t him struggling to breathe.

It’s you.

“Mm,” he hums quietly, unconvinced.

You bend slightly, scooping a handful of cold water and letting it run over your arms, pretending to focus on the chill biting at your skin. The river only reaches your shoulders here, the surface rippling lazily in the morning light.

“Then why won’t you turn around?” he asks casually.

You swallow. “Because I’m bathing.”

“And I’m not?” he asks back.

You hear the faint splash as he dips his hands into the river, the sound of water sliding over skin. Your imagination, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the rest.

You force your tone to stay light. “You’ve bathed before without staring at me.”

“That was before,” Dunk says.

You finally glance back over your shoulder.

Big mistake.

He’s closer than you expected—standing waist-deep in the river, water streaming slowly down his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp where he’s splashed it, darker now, and his blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

Your heart stumbles.

“Well?” you say, forcing a teasing smile. “Enjoying the view?”

Dunk exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“You’ve been asking that question for weeks,” he murmurs.

“And?” you challenge softly.

For a moment he doesn’t answer.

His gaze drifts—over your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck where droplets of water slide slowly down your skin.

Then his eyes come back to yours.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am”

“Well,” you manage, trying to recover your playful tone, “that wasn’t very difficult to admit, was it?”

“You have no idea how difficult it was.” Dunk huffs quietly.

You tilt your head. “Oh, I think I do—”

Suddenly cold water splashes against your side.

You gasp, jumping slightly.

“Dunk!”

He’s grinning now, wide and unguarded in a way you’ve rarely seen.

“You were getting too comfortable again,” he chuckles.

“Oh, is that so?” Your eyes narrow.

You scoop up water and fling it back at him and the splash hits his shoulder and chest, droplets flying everywhere.

Water pushes against his broad hips as he moves, sending small waves rolling toward you. His grin hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown softer, warmer, like he’s finally letting himself enjoy the moment instead of fighting it.

“You’re smiling,” you note suspiciously.

“Aye,” he says.

“That usually means trouble.”

“Only for you.”

You splash him again in retaliation, but this time he’s close enough that it barely slows him.

Now the river barely moves between you. His chest rises and falls slowly, droplets of water sliding down the planes of his shoulders.

You suddenly become very aware of how tall he is, how close. How warm the air feels between your bodies despite the cold river.

“You really thought I wasn’t going to do anything?” he asks.

Your heart beats faster.

“Well…” you murmur, trying to hold your ground, “you usually don’t.”

“You’re impossible,” he breathes out.

“And you're annoyingly boring,” you retort playfully.

“Gods help me,” he murmurs.

Then his hand lifts.

Big, rough fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, almost hesitant for half a heartbeat and he studies your face like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your lips part slightly.

That seems to be all the answer he needs.

Dunk exhales a trembling sigh, and finally, he leans down.

When he kisses you, it isn’t hesitant the way everything else about him has been. It’s warm and certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like something long overdue finally happening.

Your fingers curl instinctively against his chest, water shifting around you both as you lean into him, relishing in his taste, in his lips.

Dunk groans against your lips and his big hands explore your body with a wild desperation, one tangling in your wet hair, gently pulling to tilt your head, while the other slides down your wet back until it cups your bum with a firmness that makes you breathe out a muffled gasp.

“Tell me t–to stop,” he pants in between hot kisses, his warm breath clashing with the icy water that laps at your lower body. “Tell me to stop, my love, and I—I will.”

“Don't—don't stop. Take me, Dunk, oh please, just fuck me,” you cry out, clinging to his neck with your arms and pressing your bare breasts against his firm chest.

Dunk doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts you with astonishing ease, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you with one arm under your thighs, as if you weigh nothing, as his other hand roams your body, exploring every curve he had previously only dared to sneak a peek at. His rough fingers brush your waist, bringing a sigh from you that he devours with another kiss, one that is wilder and hungrier.

You feel his hard, demanding manhood pressing up against you through the water. Dunk buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nibbling you so hard you arch your back.

“Not here,” he hisses, his voice cracking with excitement. “The water’s too fucking cold.”

Still holding you, he emerges from the river with heavy, steady steps. Water drips from your bodies as he carries you toward the shore, and he stop at the grass and carefully sets you down on it.

As he takes his place above you, he covers your body with sweet kisses, lingering for a few precious moments to worship your breasts.

“Seven hells,” he groans, his body trembling with arousal as he watches your eyes roll back and your back arch for him. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve spent so many nights dreaming of this, you have no idea—fuck.”

He just won't stop talking sweet praises to your body as he covers it with kisses, sucks, and nibbles.

“So beautiful, so delicious, all for me, hm? You’re a dream. My dream.”

When his fingers reach your sex, already drenched by more than just the river water—and wetter than it at this point—you squeal out a little yelp that is lost in the forest and has him breathing heavily.

Dunk takes his time, savoring all of your reactions, tracing slow, purposeful circles that have you begging for more, arching your back off the grass.

“Did you just say something about me being boring?” he teases, his blue eyes burning with a new and dangerous self-confidence as he reaches down to kiss one of your knees, making himself a place in between them.

“Shut up and just get in already,” you whine out, one of your feet impatiently tapping against his backside to make him hurry up. “I’ve been ready for you for months, Duncan.”

You settle yourself more comfortably on the grass, drawing him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his hips. As he finally aligns himself with your pulsating, eager cunt, you feel him hesitate for a moment, awkwardly searching for the right angle in a way that is incredibly endearing, before he manages to find his entry into you.

He stays still for a moment, just as the head of his cock is stretching out into your wet folds, merely feeling your warmth, how you hold him tight and wrap around him from inside. It's a moment of pure lack of experience, where he doesn't know whether to move, how hard to push, or how to even breathe.

You help him, gently rolling your hips, urging him to thrust deeper, and Dunk stutters out a whimper, beginning to move on your lead.

His thrusts are gentle, tentative at first, and he watches your face closely, afraid you will show any sign of displeasure or disapproval. Every time you make a sound, he pauses for a moment, kisses you with an overwhelming tenderness, and then continues, growing more confident as he goes.

“Like this?” he shudders, as he leans down over you, his hips delivering a particularly deep thrust that knocks the life out of you. “Do y–you like it like t–this, m’lady?”

“Y–yes, Dunk, just like that, deeper... don’t stop,” you tell him, digging your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under your grip. “You’re doing so well, so big...”

Encouraged by your sweet praises, he picks up the pace, and even though his movements are a bit uncoordinated, there's an earnestness in his passion that trumps any expert lover.

His big hands reach down to support your hips firmly, holding you, as he learns along the way how to give you the maximum amount of pleasure. He's clumsy, he's intense, and he's absolutely perfect.

“Dunk, don't—don't stop, keep going, p–please,” you whimper, and he obediently thrusts again with the determination to bring you over the edge.

The finish comes really fast, an overload of sensations where he, unable to hold it in any longer, loses himself in the rhythm, crying out your name like it's a prayer. Your body is still shaking, and every time you shut your eyes tight, you keep seeing him, sparkling like stars in a night sky.

His cock goes all the way into your womb, painting your gummy, fluttering walls with his color and filling you up to the brim, seed gushing out of your clenched cunt and oozing down your inner thighs.

Duncan collapses on top of you, seeking solace in your embrace, burying his face in your neck as his breathing gradually steadies, still whimpering incoherent words and crying out your name with a broken voice.

He is still deep inside you, throbbing and still spurting drops of seed, but he hurries to prop his elbows on either side of your head so as not to crush you with his nearly seven-foot height.

His fingers, still intertwined with yours on the grass, tremble slightly.

“Are you... are you okay?” he eventually asks in a croaky whisper, with such genuine concern that it almost makes you laugh. “Did I hurt you? It’s just... seven hells, I’ve never... I just didn't know how to make it last longer. I was too... I couldn't think about anything else but you”

“It was perfect, Duncan,” you soothe him, raising a hand to caress his damp cheek. “You're perfect”

He releases a sigh of relief that seems to come from deep within his lungs and leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I was afraid of being... I don't know, too rough. Or too clumsy,” he admits with a sheepish smile.

He squirms a little, still feeling the intimate connection between your bodies, and a new rush of heat begins to climb up his neck. He looks so adorably clueless in the afterglow, not quite sure whether to stay like this or find something to cover you with.

“Do you think the gods will be angry?” he abruptly asks, rising enough to look down at you as if the closest thing to a god around there, is you. “For being a knight and... well, this.”

You giggle softly and pull him by the neck to give him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips.

“I think the gods have more important things to do than spy on a woman and her man in the middle of the woods, Dunk.”

When you speak in such possessive terms, he blushes once again, his smile quivering bashfully before he leans his head in closer to you and kisses your lips lovingly.

“Your man,” he repeats, sealing the promise with another sweet kiss. “Yours.”

[kindamanlymuppet]

[sweetpleas]

yeah… i’m not going to survive long haired dunk…

[kindamanlymuppet]

beautiful man

[punisherslittlegirl]

Some short headcannons of my big boy Dunk>>

^^

He is huge, his hands, feet, arms everything’s in such bigger proportions. Even if you are tall yourself, he will beat you in width.

His hair is as soft as a child’s. The dirty blondish locks curl at the end and he absolutely asks you to run your hands through his hair as often as he can.

When he met you, he was a stutter and full of this tension that made him look like he would spring up into the air at any moment. He never had much luck with women, especially with ones like you. He loves any type of woman especially if they can be kind towards him.

(bare minimum king)

Hasn’t had much experience so, even when you just glance at him and smile across the room, he would take it as some sort of a flirtatious act.

Constantly thinks about you, besides your sweet features, worry also clouds his vision and makes the stars in the night sky just a bit more blurry and shiny when his eyes gloss.

He overthinks about his ability to provide for anyone else besides himself. He worries that he might not be able to give you everything you’ve ever wished for and thought of in your life. And thats okay. You needed to knock that into his big head.

This man will give you a size kink if you don’t already have one.

He can be quite good at manhandling you when it comes to that. He can pick you up and throw you around like a pillow, and you love it since you know he would never use that against you. He is not that kind of man and never will be.

He has such a stupid smile. When he smiles, he looks so adorable and sweet, it makes you remember when he told Egg that people told him he was stupid and he said “And?”.

Though, do not under him. He can look a bit too kind, but kindness often can be mistaken for being too trusting or anything of the sort. He is very careful. Especially now when he has more people to worry about than just him. Because he knows that in order to keep them safe, he has to keep himself alive first. So anything that might even slightly threaten that ability was treated with tenderness.

He is beefy. Really. His whole body is like a castle wall, and besides all that muscle that he hoarded onto himself, he also has a good amount of body fat. His stomach has that sweet pudge, his bicep isn’t defined and is huge, his legs are like two poles. Even his face is just a bit softer.

You absolutely hate when he coms back to you and he’s lost a few pounds because that means he had to ration food or sometimes go without. You know how much he loves to eat.

It would be a problem sometimes because he eats so much, obviously, lots of fuel is needed to power a big ma like him. Aaand he likes to eat. He enjoys every second of it. Especially when you make him something. It is even better because it tastes good and the woman he wants to devour too, made it.

He is the perfect example of a gentle giant. He loves having someone to be gentle to. It is necessary for him, after having to be violent and mean, to be able to hold someone and touch them in the gentlest of ways. One of his favourite moments to do that is when you are asleep. He would trace your face with his big finger and try not to wake you up.

He’s got your every feature memorised better than his own reflection in the mirror.

:PPP

[kindamanlymuppet]

SO CUTE

[luveline]

Hi baby 

Can you do one where you ask Clark for money (as a joke) but he’s so immediately down and also kinda worried? thank you! 

Cat Grant loves a good scheme. “I see it all the time online, you have to test him.”

You pick at your sandwich. The Daily Planet’s cafeteria is more of a restaurant. It’s the biggest news outlet in all of Metropolis, with a skyscraper for an office. The cafeteria has to accommodate that. It’s always open, always busy, but you and Cat managed to carve away space at a table in the corner of the room far from the kitchen and all the food laid out across stainless steel bars. “I don’t know,” you say finally. “I don’t want him to think I’m a user.”

“You’re not using. Don’t tell him what it’s for and watch what conclusion he comes to. It’s a good indicator.” She tucks a streak of her blonde hair behind her ear, her hoop earrings giving a gentle clink. “Seriously, boys are evil. You need to know if you can depend on him in your time of need. And I need to know how much I respect him.”

You take a big bite of sandwich to avoid answering while you think, but the thought comes suddenly, “What if he actually gives me money?” 

“That’s a win.”

You’ve never asked Clark for anything, as far as you can remember. You’ve been dating for five months and two weeks, which isn’t long, but sort of is? Like, you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him, and he’s so consistently lovely to you that you’re reluctant to ask, ‘cos maybe his answer will affect the way you look at him. Or what if he thinks you’re only dating him for the easy life he could provide? 

“We’re basically on the same pay,” you say, “I don’t think he’ll believe me.”

“Sure he will.” Cat smushes the last half of her sandwich with her hand. The chips inside all crunch into crumbs. 

You find you’re not that worried. Clark is sweet, and he likes a good joke. 

You pull out your phone and take another bite. The sandwich is not good, but you’re hungry. 

Clark can you send me some money, you type. You turn the phone to Cat for approval. When she nods, you hit send. 

It takes a minute for him to answer. It’s an Apple payment via text for $50. You laugh like a shock. 

“What did he say?” Cat asks. 

You show her the phone, but Clark is already typing, his messages popping up on the screen in quick succession. 

Is that enough? 

$50

Is everything ok ? I can send more 

“He sent another fifty,” you say.

“Oh my god.” 

Your phone starts to ring in your hand, Clark’s profile photo in the middle of the screen: his sleeping face tucked over your heart. You giggle to yourself as you answer, doughy bread in your mouth. “Hi, sorry, I’m chewing.”

“That’s okay, honey,” he says, sounding cheerful and worried all at once, “what’s up? Is that gonna be enough?”

“Oh, er, my card declined. I’m getting lunch with Cat.”

“Downstairs? I can come down, sweetheart, I have my wallet.” 

“No, I already paid for it.” 

“Aw, great, I was worried for a second there.”

“I can send it right back to you, now,” you say, feeling ever so slightly guilty. You don’t know what you were expecting, but his urgency makes you wanna kiss him stupid, not trick him further. “Thank you, for– for being so quick. You saved me the embarrassment.”

“That’s okay, I don’t need it back–”

“Well, no, I can’t keep a hundred dollars just ‘cos you sent it, baby, I– my card declined, but it was the card reader, that’s all.” 

“Just keep whatever you paid for lunch, then, and use the rest for lunch tomorrow.”

“It’s a sandwich." 

“Then you can have sandwiches all week.”

You meet Cat’s eyes, failing to hide your unyielding elation. He’s such a catch. “Okay. Clark, I’m sending it back, okay?” 

“Don’t tease me, I got so excited.” 

You laugh and hang up on him. 

Clark texts you ten seconds later: If you send it back to me I’m gonna send it back to you. Have a good break, see you later? <3

“I bet he will,” Cat says, having read the screen upside down. 

You text Clark back: Yes!! Can I come home with you? 

Yeah honey meet me by the elevators? I’ll be waiting for you 

“He is such a dork,” Cat says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m happy for you.” 

You’re feeling pretty good about it all yourself. You and Cat finish lunch and head your mildly separate ways. You’re in the print room today supervising, and it stretches into the uneventful afternoon. By finishing time, you’re excited to give Clark a kiss and sneak his hundred dollars back into his pocket somehow, but he’s not waiting by the elevator. 

It’s tempting to keep the money. He did sound excited for you to keep it, as strange as that might be. He rejected your offer to give it back, then tried to compromise that you could keep it. He'd pay for your lunch all week. 

Would he give you money for nothing at all? He was just worried, right? But when there was no problem, he didn’t want it back. 

It doesn’t hurt to poke around a little. 

Clark exits the elevator with a blank expression. When he sees you waiting a few feet away with your shoulders on the wall, his face lights up. His eyebrows soften, his lips lift and go white from the force of his smile. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, grinning as he wraps his arm around you from the small of your back. 

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “Today was long.” 

“Too long, bubby.” 

Bubby. You give him a harmless shove, but Clark pulls you right back in. Keeps his arm on you all the way home, give the few seconds getting off of the tram, where he offers his hand to guide you onto the road. 

“So,” you say, “about earlier…”

“What happened earlier?”

“With the money.”

Clark narrows his eyes at you. “What about it? Honey, I already told you to keep it. It was yours the second I sent it.” 

“No, it’s not– Clark. I would much rather you take it back, I really don’t need a hundred dollars for a sandwich I already paid for. It was this–” You pause, giving him a bashful, sorry smile. “Cat wanted me to see if you’d complain or not, I guess. So I lied about my card declining, sorry. I am actually sorry, and I can’t keep the money in good conscience.”

“Ooh, in good conscience,” he murmurs, mirroring your smile, though his is more of a smirk. “Well, that’s okay. If you feel bad about it, send it back to me, no hard feelings.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thank you, handsome,” you say. 

“What else is on your mind?”

“You… this isn’t supposed to sound like you need to say yes, but I guess I was wondering if you would’ve sent me it no matter what? My text literally just said can you send me money. I didn’t even say please, and I didn’t say it’s an emergency or anything.”

Clark shrugs at you. “Yeah, I would’ve sent it to you. I don’t care what it was for.”

“Clark, it was a hundred dollars.”

“Do you think you’re not worth a hundred dollars?”

“Not for no reason.” 

“In the moment, I assumed it was an emergency because you never ask me for anything, do you?” 

“Not really.”

“Would it shock you to know that I wish you would?” A curl falls onto his forehead, just above his dark brow. “You are the most important woman in my life. A hundred is nothing compared to that. I don’t really care what you want it for.” 

You’re pretty sure that’s an I love you. Maybe he’s saving the real thing for somewhere more intimate than the street, but that’s gotta be close. 

“Keep the money,” he says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I was still gonna send it back, even if you were just satisfying your curiosity. You didn’t lie to get it, you lied after.”

“You’re such a reporter,” you grumble, secretly very pleased. “Poking holes in my argument.”

(Clark sends you $50 the next day at lunch, with the text: Buy yourself dinner or whatever you want, do not send it back! 

Then: Please just take it. For my gratification if nothing else. Please!!

You text back: you’re being pervy 

Your phone pings. $50)

[kindamanlymuppet]

so cute and i wish someone would!!

[cat-fire]

Ok ok ok but touch starved dunk getting patched up by the pretty (chubby [optional ofc]) maiden that he's had his eye on for a while certain she's way out of his league/she's too good for him she is cleaning him up gently scolding him standing between his thick ass thighs trying not to stare too much at any part of her - her face or breasts mostly. And as a thanks fingering her with his thick af fingers seeing how much she can take

your little erotic confession haunted me for the past 24 hours so... it had to be done. i need to pour some water on myself after finishing this. enjoy. yer welcome ❤️‍🔥 xx

i’ll make a mess of you

♡ ser duncan the tall x female reader ♡

smut, touch starved!dunk, devotion kink, size difference, dirty talk, fingering, cunilingus, masturbation

word count: 5.7k

dunk sat on the edge of the low stool, his knees spread wide to make room for you. even sitting, his head was nearly level with yours. he felt a bit like a clumsy titan, his skin buzzing everywhere your small hands touched him.

you were standing right there, tucked into the notch of his thick thighs, the curve of your hips brushing against his breeches every time you leaned in.

“hold still, ser," you scolded softly, your voice like honey. you dabbed a damp cloth against the wound on his ribs, your focus entirely on the task. the water stung, but he barely registered it over the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears. he could feel the warmth radiating from your body, a gentle contrast to the cold, hard muscle of his own.

“m’sorry, m’lady,” he mumbled, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue. he forced himself not to flinch as you cleaned another wound. he was afraid to move, afraid he might break you.

he could see the gentle swell of your belly pressing against the fabric of your dress as you worked, the way your breasts strained the neckline when you leaned forward. he swallowed hard, his throat suddenly as dry as the dornish sands.

you finished with the last of the visible wounds on his chest and torso.

the scent of lavender and herbs rose from the bowl of water, mingling with the coppery smell of his blood. you moved to clean a deeper cut on his bicep and your breasts brushed against his shoulder. he went rigid, a gasp catching in his chest.

your touch was warm, and you were so close. he could feel the heat of your breath on his neck. you were a miracle to him, and he was just... dunk. a big, clumsy knight, now covered in scars and sins.

you tsked, your brow furrowed in concentration. "you must learn to parry more than you bleed, ser duncan. look at you."

he couldn't speak. your words, tender yet firm, rendered him speechless. you were admonishing him, but it sounded like concern. you cared. the thought was overwhelming, that it almost stole the air from his lungs. he just stared, his mouth slightly agape, watching your hands move over his skin.

he wanted to pull you into his lap, to feel your softness pressed against him, to bury his face in the fragrant warmth of your hair and never let go. but he didn't. he just sat there, stock-still and let you patch him up, a silent, yearning giant under your hands.

he was deliberately trying. to not look. at you.

a smile touched your lips. "what is it, ser?" you asked, your voice a low murmur as you rinsed the cloth. "is my tending truly so terrible?"

he flinched at that, his eyes snapping to yours. they were wide with a kind of panicked devotion.

"no! gods, no. it's… it’s not that, m’lady." he looked away again, his gaze falling to the floorboards. "it's just… you shouldn't be doin' this. not for me."

"and why is that?" you pressed, setting the cloth aside. you placed your clean hands on your hips, a motion that pushed your breasts forward, and you didn't miss the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard.

“because you’re… you.” he said, the words coming out in a scraping whisper. “you’re good. and kind. and i’m just… dunk. a hedge knight with naught but a sword and the scars to prove it. i’m not worthy of this. of your hands on me.”

the honesty in his voice made your chest ache. you leaned, your belly pressed against the hard, ridged muscle of his abdomen. the contrast made you shiver.

"i decide who is worthy of my kindness, ser duncan. and i choose you."

his eyes dropped from your face. they couldn't help it. they dragged down, over the swell of your breasts, the generous curve of your stomach, the width of your hips.

he devoured you with a glance, a feast of forbidden longing. then suddenly he looked away, a flush creeping up his neck, burning red against his skin.

"i… i apologize, m’lady," he stammered, his massive hands clenching into fists on his thighs. "i shouldn't… i have no right."

you didn't pull back. instead, you leaned in even closer, your breasts now touching his chest.

your fingers traced the rugged line of his jaw,. that scratch of his stubble was delicious on your sensitive skin. you loved the raw texture, the masculine feel of it. heat bloomed in your cheeks, heat you couldn't hide as you committed the sensation to memory.

ser duncan surrendered to your touch, letting his head fall back, exposing his neck. his eyes slipped closed. he was breathing heavily now, each exhale a sigh of relief. you felt a pang of something fierce and protective in your chest. this great, powerful warrior was starved for this, for simple, human contact. your touch was a balm he hadn't even known he was craving.

emboldened by his response, you leaned further, meaning to murmur something reassuring. as your body shifted, your hips brushed against the apex of his thighs, and that was when you felt it. the hard, thick ridge of his arousal, straining against the leather of his breeches.

he went utterly still. the easy surrender vanished, replaced by taut tension. he froze, every muscle in his massive body locking up as if he'd been struck.

he tried to pull back, to create distance, but you were standing flush against him, trapped between the solid wall of his torso and the powerful cage of his thighs.

"i… m'lady, i…" he stammered, his big eyes flying open, wide with horror. he looked like a cornered beast, terrified of his own desire. "gods forgive me, i… i'm so sorry."

he was apologizing. for wanting you. a hot, fierce anger surged through you, aimed not at him, but at the world that had taught this good, gentle man that his desire was something to be ashamed of. you didn't move away. instead, you pressed closer, a slow roll of your hips that ground your soft belly against the hard feel of his cock.

he let out a strangled moan, his head lolling back against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut again.

you could feel the tremor that ran through him, the effort it took not to buck up into you, not to grab your hips and hold you there.

"don't apologize,ser” you breathed, the words a puff of air against his throat. you trailed your fingers down the side of his neck, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse beneath your touch. "don't you dare apologize for this."

you leaned in, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "do you have any idea how good you feel?" you whispered.

his only response was a sound that was half agony, half ecstasy. his huge hands, which had been clenched into white-knuckled fists on his thighs, slowly uncurled. they hovered for a moment, uncertain, before one of them came to rest on the curve of your hip. his palm was enormous, calloused and warm, covering the entire swell of your hip with room to spare.

a tremor of want settled between your legs. the callouses on his palm were rough against the soft fabric of your dress. he held you like you were something precious, something fragile, and yet you could feel the barely restrained power in that single touch.

"your wounds are clean, ser," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

you started to pull back, to step out of the cage of his thighs, to put some distance between you before this fire consumed you both.

you’d barely moved an inch before that huge hand on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your soft flesh. his other hand shot out, wrapping around your other hip, pulling you back. you stumbled forward, almost shocked at the realisation, landing hard against him, your belly slapping against his stomach.

“ser duncan!—”

you were now fully on him, straddling one of his massive thighs, the hard muscle pressing directly against the heat between your legs.

you sighed, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. he didn't let go. he held you there, his grip firm but not bruising, and finally, finally, he looked at you. really looked at you.

"don't go," he breathed. “please.”

his hands began to move, reverently, over the curves of your hips.

they roamed upwards, his palms tracing the swell of your waist, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. you trembled, a shiver racing down your spine. he was touching you with a kind of worshipful awe, as if he couldn't believe you were real.

"i have to thank you," he said, his voice that gravelly murmur that vibrated through your entire body. "for… for this. for your kindness." then one of his hands cupped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. he guided you closer. the hard ridge of his big cock was now a hot, insistent pressure against you, and you couldn't stop the whimper that escaped your lips.

"let me thank you, m’lady. let me thank you properly."

“ser duncan, i… mm—”

without waiting for an answer, he leaned in and captured your mouth with his. his lips were chapped but they were sweet and almost hesitant. he tasted of something uniquely, earthily him. you responded immediately, your lips parting, your hands sliding up from his shoulders to bury themselves in the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck.

as the kiss deepened and grew more confident, more demanding, it became clear that it is the kiss of a man who had been starved for affection for a lifetime. you could feel sll that tension in him, the tightly leashed control he was exercising. you wanted him to let go. you wanted to feel the full force of that desperate want.

his hand left your hip, trailing up your side in a slow path. his fingers were so wide they spanned your ribcage. you arched into his touch, a silent beg for more.

your breasts were spilling out of the cradle of his huge hands, the soft flesh overflowing his palms. he squeezed gently, a testing pressure, and another choked moan escaped your throat.

he broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. his forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed.

then, with a slowness that was almost torturous, he began to undress you. his fingers moved with a surprising dexterity as he found the laces of your gown. he fumbled for a moment, a blush creeping up his neck, and you couldn't help but smile at the endearing sight of this massive, intimidating warrior undone by a simple set of laces.

then he got them loose. he pulled the dress over your head, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. the cool air hit your skin, raising goosebumps. you were left in your thin linen chemise, the fabric nearly transparent in the candlelight. he just stared, his blue eyes wide, drinking in the sight of you.

he looked at your heavy breasts, the dark peaks of your nipples clearly visible through the thin linen. he looked at the soft curve of your belly, the generous swell of your hips.

"oh, gods," he breathed, the words a reverent whisper. "you're… you're perfect, m’lady.."

he pulled you close again, his arm wrapping around your waist, grinding you down against his cock. it was so slow it made your head spin.

then he found the hem of your chemise. he hesitated for a moment, his fingers twitching. slowly, inch by inch, he pulled it up. he exposed the soft skin of your stomach, the flare of your hips, the area between your legs. he kept pulling, until the chemise was bunched up under your arms, your breasts spilling out, completely bare to his gaze.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

"tell me," he rasped, his voice a low growl. "tell me how i can properly thank you. how do i make an offering to the gods that they will accept? what must i do to worship at your altar?"

you leaned into the circle of his arms, your body pliant and wanting. you took one of his huge hands in yours, marveling at the size and weight of it. your fingers looked impossibly small against his broad palm and thick digits.

you were so lost in him, that the words spilled out of your mouth without proper thinking.

"with your fingers, ser," you breathed, guiding his hand down, down the curve of your belly, over the swell of your hips. "an offering of yourself."

he looked confused for a moment, his brow furrowed, a clear "thick in the head" expression on his face. but then understanding dawned, and a flush of heat washed over him. his blue eyes darkened to the color of the sea amid storm.

"you want a dog like me to touch you there?" he choked out, his thumb dragging roughly over your hip bone. "i'm just a hedge knight, m'lady... i'll make a mess of you. i'll get you all ruined with these rough hands."

you slowly guided his hand to the apex of your thighs, to the slick, swollen folds hidden there. the moment his calloused fingertips made contact with your delicate skin, a jolt went through you that settled deep in your womb.

he took aside your smallclothes in one smooth movement.

your cunt was a filthy mess of slick, engorged flesh, a testament to how badly you wanted to be ruined. your labia were puffy, glistening with a heavy coat of juice. a thick trickle of wetness escaped from your entrance, dragging a hot line down the inside of your thighs. you were a slippery, aching void, desperate to be filled until you couldn't move.

his fingers stilled for a moment as he processed the sensation. the sand-paper texture of his skin against your soaking folds was intoxicating.

"gods," he rasped, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "you're gushing... you're so fuckin' wet, my lady... mmm..."

he began to move, his fingers exploring your heat with a curious touch. he found your clit, a hard, pulsing nub peeking out from its hood. he circled it slowly, the pad of his thumb delicious, bruising against the sensitive bundle of nerves. you felt the scrape of his callouses—the jagged skin of a man who killed for a living—grinding against your clit, sending a sharp hum through your entire pelvis.

"ahhh, ser duncan! nnh... fuck, right there," you moaned, your head falling back, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you bucked your hips against his palm. "grind it... ah! don't stop... please."

he silenced you with another kiss, this one sloppy and desperate, your tongues tangling and thrusting in a mimicry of what you both truly wanted. he devoured your moans, his own need a palpable thing, like a heavy weight in the air between you.

“you’re so small," he rasped, his eyes fixed on your face as he began to part you. "so soft and f-fuckin' wet for me."

he didn't just touch you; he occupied you. when he pushed the first of those heavy, knight-calloused fingers inside, the sensation was a violent shock. a blunt, stretching fullness that made your breath hitch and your toes curl. you felt your skin straining, your tight entrance forced to widen to accommodate the sheer, thick breadth of him.

it wasn't a smooth slide; it was a heavy, insistent invasion that claimed every inch of your inner walls, scraping against you with a texture that made your stomach flip.

he was so much larger than any man you’d known, his girth stretching you taut. he watched with a raw, focused intensity as his thick finger disappeared into your pouting heat, his thumb finding the hard little bead of your clitoris to pin it against your pubic bone.

"can you take it?" he groaned, his other hand moving to cup the heavy weight of your breast, his thumb crushing your nipple. "mmh... tell me if i'm too much. tell me if a dog's hands are too rough for such a pretty thing... 'cause i can't stop. "

"no... fuck me with them," you sobbed, your voice breaking as you felt the coarse drag of his skin scraping against your sensitive inner tissues. "i want to feel... ah! i want to feel how big you are... stretch me wide, ser duncan.."

the steady pressure of that thick finger as it explored, in and out, was a sweet agony. your hips bucked of their own accord, seeking more of that stretching friction, that full, bruising feeling.

“more,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the hard, knotted muscle of his bicep. “ser, please… nnh... fill me up…”

he complied, a low grunt of satisfaction vibrating in his chest. he added another thick finger alongside the first. the stretch was exquisite, a sharp, sweet ache that made your vision blur. your wetness gushed around his knuckles, coating them in a glossy sheen. the sound was obscene; a wet, suctioning squelch as he forced himself deeper, his broad knuckles bruising your delicate folds. you felt your body yield, the internal pressure building until you felt like you were going to break open under his hand.

but he only pushed in to the first knuckle, the breadth of the two fingers demanding your total, agonizing attention. they were so thick they barely fit, a blunt, insistent pressure against your entrance that made you feel wonderfully, obscenely stretched.

"s-ser... ah! you're so... so thick," you whined, your breath coming in short, frantic pants. "i can feel... nhhh... every scar on your hand... oh, gods... give me more of it!"

"so much," he groaned, the words torn from his throat. "gods above… you're so tight, so hot... i can feel you squeezin' me, m’lady.. tryin' to swallow me whole?"

dunk was mesmerized, his own arousal a heavy throb in the air, his breath coming in ragged pants. he was so turned on just from touching you, from watching your slick, pink flesh swallow his fingers, that a low, continuous moan rumbled in his chest. the palm of his other hand was adding pressure, making you squirm and whine.

he looked up at you, his eyes dark with a desperate, starving need. "can you take more, m'lady?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. " can you take all of me? tell me you want this dog to stretch you wide... tell me... ah! tell me you want to be ruined by my hands."

"yes! ruin me… please... stretch me... i want to feel you everywhere... fuck... please!"

you rocked your hips against his hand. you wanted more. you needed more.

he pushed in deeper, to the second knuckle, and the sensation was overwhelming. a sharp, sweet ache radiated through you, a feeling of being stretched to your absolute limit. it felt like you were being split, your tight, pulsing walls forced to accommodate the blunt, thick intrusion of a man who was far too big for you.

you could feel every single ridge of callous, every line on his skin as it dragged against your sensitive inner walls, that raw friction that made your stomach twist with a filthy kind of pleasure. your slick folds clung to him, coating him in your arousal.

he watched, mesmerized, as your cunt sucked his fingers in, as your body yielded to him. "gods," he breathed, the word a reverent whisper. "you're taking it. you're taking all of it. i didn't think... nnh... you're so fuckin' tight, m'lady... am i hurtin' you?"

he started praising you, his words a low, gravelly murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

"that's it, m'lady," he groaned, "so beautiful when you're full. so tight and wet for me."

he began to fuck you faster, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick heat, the sloppy, wet sounds of your arousal filling the quiet room. each thrust was a heavy, wet thud. the sound of a man who didn't know his own strength, his knuckles bruising your pussy as he hammered into you.

your heavy breasts bounced with the force of his thrusts, the soft flesh jiggling in his face. you could see the hunger in his big blue eyes as he watched, fascinated.

his face was flushed, his jaw hanging open like a beast. he was watching your cunt swallow his fingers, watching the way your slick flesh clung to him, the way you made a mess of his hand, of his breeches. you were spread wide open on his thick thighs, your body on display, and he was devouring every single second of it.

"need to see all of you," he rasped, the words a raw, needy sound like he was a man who couldn't believe his luck.

he slowly, torturously, pulled his fingers from your aching cunt. you whined at the loss, a high, desperate sound, the sudden emptiness a sharp, hollow ache.

your head was a mess of unashamed filth; you wanted to scream at him to put those thick, scarred fingers back in, to stretch you until you broke. he shushed you, his free hand stroking your hip, a soothing, possessive gesture that trembled with his own uncertainty.

"easy, easy," he murmured. "just for a moment. i want to see all of you before i make a real mess."

his words sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. a real mess. the promise was a heady, intoxicating thing.

with a single, smooth motion, he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you back on your feet between his powerful thighs. he rose with you, a mountain of a man, and for a moment, you were completely enveloped in his shadow. then he was kneeling before you, his massive frame sinking to the floorboards, his head now level with your soft belly.

his big hands went to your hips, then slowly, reverently, the cool air kissed your heated skin, raising goosebumps. the candlelight flickered, casting your lush curves in a golden glow.

he just knelt there for a long moment, staring. he looked at the heavy swell of your breasts, the dark, pebbled nipples. he looked at the soft, roundness of your belly, the way it curved down to the small thatch of hair between your legs. he looked at the generous flare of your hips, the thick, soft flesh of your thighs.

it wasn't a leer; it was a worship. he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, a masterpiece created just for him. his fingers, shaking and clumsy, parted your folds once again, holding your pink, dripping cunt open for his gaze. "seven hells," he breathed, the words a reverent curse. "you're... you're a goddess."

he leaned forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, just above your navel. his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin, and you shuddered, a moan escaping your lips. he trailed kisses lower, across the soft curve of your belly, until he was nuzzling at the apex of your thighs.

he looked up at you from his position on the floor, his blue eyes dark with a desperate, pleading hunger. duncan rested his cheek against the soft, warm flesh of your thigh.

"please, m'lady," he begged, his voice a rough, broken whisper. "please, let me taste you. let me worship you with my tongue too. i don't know what i'm doing. but gods, i want to eat every drop of you."

you could see him lose all composure, the last vestiges of control shattering. with the hand that wasn't braced against your hip, he fumbled with the laces of his breeches, freeing his cock.

it was as massive as the rest of him, thick and heavy, standing proud and erect from a thatch of dark curls. it was a terrifying, pulsing bar of meat, and your mind screamed with the dirty thought of how it would feel to be split by it.

he wrapped a huge, calloused hand around the shaft, his fingers barely meeting, and began to fist himself, the movement slow. the sight of him, this giant, noble-hearted man fisting himself while kneeling at your feet made your head spin with unashamed lust.

as you gave a breathy, desperate "yes," he dove in.

his tongue was hot and wet and broad, a stark, wonderful contrast to the rough drag of his stubble. he licked a long, slow stripe from your weeping entrance up to your pulsing clit, and you cried out, your knees nearly buckling.

he settled in, licking and sucking at your clit with a single-minded devotion. the wet, sloppy sounds of him eating you out filled the quiet room, punctuated by the harsh rasp of his own breathing and the soft, rhythmic slap of his fist on his cock.

"mmm... so much juice," he grunted into your thighs, his voice muffled and thick. "you taste like... ah! fuck... so sweet... i'm gonna... i'm gonna make such a mess."

you could hear him coating himself in your slickness, using your own arousal to lubricate his shaft. he was moaning into your cunt, a low, continuous hum of pleasure. he sounded like a dying man who'd just been given a sip of water, a starving man who'd just been handed a crust of bread.

the wet, slapping sound of his hand on himself mixed with the suction of his mouth against you—it was filthy, the kind of sound that should have made you blush, but it only made your pussy throb harder.

"duncan," you moaned, your fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer. "oh, gods, dunk... fuck, yes."

he responded with a deep, guttural "mmmmmmm" against your clit, the vibration sending a fresh wave of ecstasy crashing through you. his tongue was relentless, a slick, wet muscle that instinctively knew exactly where to go, exactly how to please. he was worshipping you with his mouth, and you were letting him, your head thrown back, your hips grinding against his face.

the feeling of being so exposed, so utterly consumed by this massive, gentle knight, was deliciously dirty. you felt needy and wanton, a complete slave to the pleasure he was giving you. your head was spinning with the thought of his huge, cum-slicked hand and his face buried in your mess.

as if sensing your rising need, he slipped two of those thick fingers back inside you. the combination of his hot, wet tongue on your clit and the blunt, stretching fullness of his fingers was too much. it was an impossible pleasure, a perfect storm of sensation that you couldn't possibly withstand. you felt your skin straining, the thick pads of his fingers scraping your internal walls while his tongue flicked at you with a desperate hunger.

his lips were sealed against your inner lips, sucking and licking, drinking down your essence. you could feel yourself gushing, a flood of slick arousal that coated his chin, his mouth, his stubbled cheeks. you could see the messy evidence of your desire clinging to him, and you could tell from the way he was fisting his own cock, from the desperate sounds he was making, that he loved it. he loved the taste of you, the feel of you, the sheer mess of it.

you started to shivering, a fine tremor that started in your thighs and spread through your entire body. "please," you begged, the word a ragged, breathy plea. "please, ser, please... fuck... i’m gonna..."

he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips swollen and glistening with your wetness. "do you like this?" he growled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "do you like how i fuck you with my fingers?" he sounded breathless, almost in disbelief that he was allowed to do this to you.

he punctuated the question by thrusting deep with those two fingers, pushing them in to the third knuckle, a brutal, stretching depth that stole your breath. you felt him bottom out inside you, his broad knuckles bruising your entrance as he forced himself as deep as he could go.

"yes!" you cried out, your hips bucking wildly. "yes, gods, yes! please please!"

he went back to devouring you, his tongue a relentless, wet heat against your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of your tight pussy. you could feel the pleasure tightening in your belly, a hot, heavy knot that was about to snap. you were so close, so painfully close.

"ser” you gasped, your hands fisting in his hair. "ser duncan... i'm... i'm... fuck, dunk!"

he understood. he curled his fingers inside you, finding that secret, sensitive spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. he sucked hard on your clit, and the world shattered.

you came with a scream tearing from your throat as pleasure, white-hot and absolute, consumed you. your entire body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on his thick fingers, your clit throbbing so violently it was almost painful. you gushed, a hot, wet flood of your arousal, soaking his face, his stubble, the collar of his tunic. you were a mess, a beautiful, aching mess.

he didn't let you go. he held you through it, his mouth still sealed against your cunt, his fingers still buried deep inside you, drawing out every last spasm of your orgasm.

at the same time, you heard him let out a strangled moan, a long, drawn-out "ahhhhhhh". you felt the hot splash of his cum against your calf, heard the wet, rhythmic sounds of him fisting himself through his orgasm. the heat of his seed was thick and stinging against your skin, a heavy, pulsing reminder of how hard he’d been working for you.

you loved the sight. you loved how he was cumming hard, the hot ropes of his seed painting his own hand, his breeches, the floorboards. he was making a mess, a filthy, glorious mess, and the thought only made your own orgasm that much more intense. his moans, oh gods, his moans almost destroyed you right then. they were the sounds of a man utterly undone, a touch-starved man finally getting what he ached for. it was a needy, desperate sound, his pathetic, beautiful whine that went straight to your heart and your cunt.

he stayed there for a long moment, his face buried in your pussy, his breathing ragged and harsh.

your legs were trembling, threatening to give out, but you held yourself upright. slowly, you reached down, your hands gentle as you cupped his face, lifting it from between your thighs. his beard was soaked, glistening with your release, and his eyes were wide, almost panicked, like a pup caught doing something it shouldn't. he looked flustered, ashamed, and utterly beautiful.

"it's alright," you whispered, leaning down to kiss him. it was a soft, tender kiss. you tasted yourself on his lips and tongue, a salty, musky flavor that was you mixed with the earthy taste of him. “i won’t tell anyone. i promise.”

you kissed him to show him that he wasn't dirty, that he wasn't unworthy. you kissed him to show him that he still deserved your touch, your affection, your everything.

he responded hesitantly at first, then with a growing desperation. he surged into the kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you down with him until you were straddling his lap on the floor.

your body molded to his hard, muscular frame, a perfect, breathtaking fit. one of those hands slid down, cupping the generous curve of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. his grip was firm, possessive. he kissed you sloppily, a man drowning and you were his only air. you could feel the sticky mess of his cooling cum on your thigh, and the evidence of your own desire on your stomach.

you pulled back slightly and looked into his blue eyes, which were still dark with a mix of awe and residual shock.

"that," you said, your voice a soft, contented murmur, "was the most amazing thing."

a slow, shy smile spread across his face, transforming him from a terrifying warrior into a beautiful, bashful boy. he ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck.

"for me too, m'lady," he mumbled into your hair. "for me too."

you felt yourself melting against him, your body boneless and sated, your cheek pressed against the fabric of his tunic. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. in the aftermath of such raw, desperate passion, there was a profound sense of peace, of rightness.

you looked up at him, and you saw it in his eyes. the doubt, the self-loathing, the feeling of unworthiness; it was all gone. in its place was a quiet, dawning understanding. he finally seemed to get it. he finally believed that he was worthy of your touch, of your desire, of you.

you reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw one more tike, the scratch of his stubble a familiar, comforting sensation.

"you're a good man, ser duncan," you said, your voice soft but firm. "a kind man. and a gentle one."

he ducked his head again, a bashful smile playing on his lips. "i try, m'lady."

"you do more than try," you insisted. "you succeed."

the tension was leaving his body, the last of his hesitation dissolving. he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a fierce, protective hug.

you were still nestled in his lap, your soft curves pressed against his hard, muscular frame, and you had never felt safer, more cherished, in your entire life.

he made a mess of you. but you’ve made a mess of him too.

[kindamanlymuppet]

OH MY GOD SO GOOD!!!!!!

[schnoobums]

SER DUNCAN THE TALL in A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS (2026)

[gutpunchlove]

ser duncan the tall + little details

[kindamanlymuppet]

i wont him

[spicyrose]

onlyfans!dunk looking through comments and requests on his videos with reader. and reader calls him 'sir' a lot in their videos, and dunk's whole angle is size kink + gentle dom, so someone suggests princess and knight (sir) roleplay. and dunk reads that suggestion and is immediately pushing his pants down and fisting his cock.

dunk fantasizing about reader being a princess he rescues from a tower. and she's been trapped so long and waited for him so long, all alone, and she's so grateful to her saviour, won't he let her show him how grateful she is? and you're getting on your knees but ser duncan tells you no, it's a knight's duty to serve his lady. to kneel for you, not the other way around. and he does, pushing up your pretty dress and eating your pretty pussy until your crying out 'sir duncan!'.

and then you're letting him climb on top of you and pin you to your soft bed and make love to you with slow, deep strokes that have you clinging to his much larger and stronger frame. it's sweet and loving, you giving yourself and him claiming you, an unspoken promise to always protect and serve you.

but you've been in that tower an awfully long time and once just isn't enough. you whine and beg until he's flipping you over and fucking you from behind. gives your ass a few good smacks to make you moan. asks you if this is what you needed and you sob out yes, yes so good. but you're insatiable and next thing he knows you're pinning him down and riding him for all he's worth with your pretty dress hiked up so he can see you bouncing on his huge cock with your little cunt absolutely stuffed and begging him please to give you another load of cum and...

oh, onlyfans!dunk cums all over his stomach.

nearly loses his fucking mind next time he sees you and you're in a soft pretty princess dress.

[kindamanlymuppet]

HELLO SIR!!!