mid 20's || aussie || they/she || reading/writing blog || 18+ minors dni 🧿I will not be held responsible for what you choose to read🧿 the book has not been published and I'm no contact with the friend/author but when that book comes out I am the first hater of Nurlan I am the #1 hater of Nurlan I am mother of haters for Nurlan I am a Nurlan oppressor and oppositely I am the first stan of Burach I am the #1 stan of Burach I am the mother of stans for Burach I am a Burach apologist I was in the trenches being personally victimised by these men none of you will be on my level and I intend to be a cunt about it
hi I greatly enjoy writing men absolutely feral, down bad, obsessed with their women. have a great day.
━━ Marvel:
Sunlight - Frank Castle x Reader
OH, YOUR LOVE IS SUNLIGHT
prologue/masterlist
"wow, matt, your frank is pretty skilled. he talks and he can smile. I didn't know they could do that."
frank castle finds his match in a woman from another dimension
━━ DC Comics
Lights Are On Universe:
THERE AIN'T NO LOVE LIKE OUR LOVE
"it is refreshing not being on the receiving end of harley."
Unconfirmed - Rick Flag x OC
part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || epilogue
rick flag is forced to play by amanda waller's rules and his best friend isn't happy about it
━━ A Song of Ice and Fire:
¹Born to the Soil - Maekar Targaryen x Milf!OC (Lady Lenora Brandywyne)
I WON'T DENY I'VE GOT IN MY MIND NOW
ALL THE THINGS I WOULD DO
SO I TRY TO TALK REFINED
FOR FEAR THAT YOU FIND OUT
HOW I'M IMAGININ' YOU
fic masterlist || house brandywyne info
"you will never have to beg for anything from me."
it seems prince maekar targaryen has met his match. the only problem? she's already married. (INCLUDES SMUT)
²Born of a Tempest - Lyonel Baratheon x Targ!OC (Princess Naeriah Targaryen)
MY LOVE HAS CONCRETE FEET
MY LOVE'S AN IRON BALL
WRAPPED AROUND YOUR ANKLES
OVER THE WATERFALL
fic masterlist "oh, my darling lady. I promise to be very, very nice to her."
naeriah stormslayer decides to have some fun a few days before she's due to meet her betrothed. it just so happens that lyonel baratheon has decided to do the same. (INCLUDES SMUT)
Strange Trails - Gendry x Arya
I'VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR A TRAIL TO FOLLOW AGAIN
the night we met || frozen pines || meet me in the woods || love like ghosts "as you wish, m'lady."
canon divergence of gendrya in season 8 and of arya in general I couldn't stand how calm and collected she was no way that hot-blooded girl was that level-headed
━━ Lord of the Rings:
End of Begining - Eomer x OC - WIP
JUST TRUST ME, YOU'LL BE FINE
masterlist
"I haven't been little in over fifty years, greenleaf, watch your mouth."
aragwen finds herself drawn to the vastness of rohan
━━ Edits
Born From War [ERROR: FIC NOT FOUND]
Princess Blodwyn of House Targaryen || Lady Vaesella of House Tarlahrys || Lady Aerona of House Bracken
Born from the Soil [ATTENTION: FIC IS LINKED ABOVE]
Lady Lenora Brandywyne
Born from a Tempest [ATTENTION: FIC IS LINKED ABOVE]
Princess Naeriah Stormslayer of House Targaryen
I am once again begging people to realize that AI checker doesn’t work. it’s never worked. it’s notoriously known to have flagged human-made works as AI and AI-generated works as human-made. and by feeding it people’s works, you are feeding more works to AI, because apparently the machine itself is AI.
the only thing AI checker does is harm genuine artists and people in general too.
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside-
In the car, on the hood, in the backyard, semi-public, role-play, in the carwash, in the pool, begging for more, distracted, sleepiness, one leg up, two legs up, bite me, on your knees-
cw: arranged marriage, shameless headstrong reader!!, enemies to lovers (they're enemies in maekar's head), bickering!!!, tension, bedding ceremony!!, non-consensual touching(not by maekar), grumpy maekar, jealousy, over protectiveness, possessiveness, body worship(m!receiving), prone bone!!, manhandling, nose riding, spitting, pussy sniffing, spanking!!, fingering(f!receiving), oral(f!receiving), p in v, dirty talk!!, slight breath play, headlock!!, biting, degradation, praise, hate fucking for one sec, a sprinkle of angst, insecurities, self worth issues, (8.9kw)
a/n: english is not my first language so i'm sorry for mistakes/repeating words!! im nervous to put out a bigger piece than usual aaaa. i will do maybe two to three parts!! this will be an au! so if you have any questions or requests about this pairing, let me know muehehe! i love them so much lol
credits: gif @/goodsirs divider @/feimingo
“i did not believe you wished for witnesses to our coupling, your grace.”
“it is tradition—”
“oh, so it is. a tradition in which half the court will see your wife bare as the day she was born. does that excite you?”
“excite—”
maekar took a deep, steadying breath, trying very hard not to snap at his newly betrothed. or throttle her. was it truly too late to call the arrangement off? a prince of the realm could do as he pleased, after all.
“it excites me in the same measure as a court meeting about grain taxes does, wife,” he grunted, fingers tightening onto the half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. he would need way more than that for what was to come in a few moments. maekar would drown himself in numerous barrels if it would spare him from having to pretend to fuck his wife in front of tens of courtiers and ladies in waiting. oh, and a maester. how could he have forgotten? the gods also needed to be witnesses to such a sacred arrangement. the more people see the proof of his virility, the better. they should invite the whole realm if they are so eager to see him perform his husbandry duties.
“grain taxes,” was heard from his right, your voice deadpan as you sneaked a glance towards him, a huff falling from your lips. “it pleases me that my lord husband would associate us having a moment of unbridled passion with the ever ardent intricacies of grain taxes,” your lips twitched, a little smile in the corner, cheeky.
he could feel the vein in his temple pulsing. a headache was on the way. and even then, it couldn’t even come close to the one that was already in his presence. he could’ve asked all the healers in the seven kingdoms, and none of them would be able to cure him of the ever-lasting migraine that was his wife.
a wound without a cure. a curse without benediction. a grueling fate without end, at least for now.
“unbridled passion?” he almost bristled at the words. the assumption that there will be anything but a poor attempt at make-believe on his part grated on his nerves. “i would have hoped that you would not delude yourself into believing we shall be doing more than a farce of this, wife.”
maekar was not about to engage in any intimate endeavors with his new wife. the court should be more than pleased that he was even willing to go along with this to begin with. having sycophants linger near their royal chambers while they were supposed to get lost in the throes of passion was unnerving enough. he will have to make it seem like the consummation happened, like he was on the other side of the door, pleasing his wife and proving the realm he was still a man in his prime, capable of desire. figures.
“a farce?” you probed, eyebrow raised, the arch of your mouth thinning in displeasure. “you would make a sham of our consummation?” the tone of your voice seemed almost… offended, as if you couldn’t believe your husband would even go to such lengths to avoid bedding you.
that timbre of your voice made his brows furrow, lifting the goblet of wine to his lips to stall his response, glancing to the side over the rim of the cup. he allowed himself a furtive glance towards you, enough to notice the slight narrowing of your eyes. you were opposing him, just as you have been doing since ink touched scroll a fortnight ago, when both of your fates were tied by duty and vow.
“not a sham,” he corrected, although he was not sure it held much truth. “i am sparing both of us of the dreadful act of having to touch one another more than necessary, which i was of the impression would please you. not make you look like a scorned child.”
there was a long, tense silence before you spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “you would think it dreadful to touch one another?”
maekar paused for a moment, taken aback by the note of disbelief underlying your words, making him turn to look at you fully now, needing to see why you would have that reaction to such a simple truth. “by the looks of it, wife, you do not seem to share my sentiment?”
there was a sharp glint in your eyes now, the poise in your posture faltering for a moment, giving way to tension, before you gathered yourself. “not in the slightest. i deem it preposterous that you would even think of it in such a manner,” you retorted, chin lifting, proud. “or, is it perhaps a ploy to conceal your dignity, my lord husband?”
“my dignity?” his voice dipped low, almost cautionary, making it clear that your next words should be chosen very carefully, lest you wish to start something maekar was not sure you had the wits about you to see through.
but you did not seem frightened in the slightest by his attempt to dissuade you.
“yes,” you reinforced, head tilting just so to the side, feigning innocence. “are you so unassured in your virility that you would devise such schemes to keep it from being questioned? i reckon it is normal for a man of your station to care so deeply about these things, but such lengths are truly ridicu—”
your words were cut off by rough, calloused fingers pressing into your cheeks, hard enough to stall your speech as maekar leaned into your space. he was gripping your face, keeping your gaze on his, not giving you an inch of room to even tilt your head one side or the other.
“one more word out of you, and i swear to all the seven,” he snarled, purple eyes slanted in a glare so scathing it could burn you whole, like dragon-fire. he felt the moment your breath hitched, the short puff of air brushing his fingers. “i will throttle you right here, in front of all these good-for-nothing lickspittles.”
he was expecting your demeanor to change. for fear to cloud your vision and reason to come back to you. for apologies to tumble unbidden from your mouth, hoping to appease and coax him into being merciful.
no wife, no woman of his will look him in the eye with so much fervor, insulting one of the qualities he was boastful about. his virility? maekar had sired six children. a feat worthy of praise. a testament to the strength of his seed, to the potency of it. to how easy it was for it to take root in a fertile womb and conceive heirs for him.
his newly betrothed had some nerve trying to undermine the one thing the whole realm knew to be true.
with that same nerve, you looked maekar in the eyes and smiled. a quirk of your lips, eyes lowering as the pressure of his fingers rose, half—lidded with something akin to satisfaction, as if you wanted this to happen, waiting for your husband to lose control and exert that temper you knew flared at the slightest provocation. too quick now, after a fortnight of constant instigation from you, feeling like his fuse grew shorter and shorter, and now it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose, inevitably.
your tone was soft, but the challenge beneath it was unmistakable. “did i perhaps touch a nerve, my lord husband? is it truly so easy to have you rattled? enough to grasp me like a brute, where anyone can see? and at our wedding feast, no less.” the more you talked, the more honey weaved through your words. but it wasn’t sweet, not in the slightest. it burned. “have manners been forgotten by a prince of the realm? i would've thought you more courteous than this.”
you were toying with him, like a cat would a mouse. and maekar targaryen had never been faced with such a thing, with a woman who dared bare her teeth back at him after he showed his. it made the ancient blood that flowed through his veins sear under his skin, hackles raising as if he was a dragon in human form, ready to breathe fire onto its enemies and leave smoke and ash behind.
the gods knew to take dragons away, for if they were still roaming around them now, maekar wouldn’t have hesitated to feed his novel betrothed to his own and watch from the sidelines, not missing a moment.
the thought made his fingers dig even harder into her cheeks, the soft skin dimpling under his blunt nails. your lips were pursed because of the pressure, and maekar will not admit to himself how his scathing glare flitted to the way they formed a pout, glistening still with the wine you were drinking prior. you looked ridiculous. that’s why his eyes lingered before returning to hold your gaze.
“you don’t deserve my manners,” he downright growled, a sound so deep and rumbly, like a dragon made flesh, leaning in until your noses almost touched, but he won’t allow more contact between you two than what he was willing to offer. “you don’t deserve anything that i have to give,” he almost spat, his broad chest heaving slightly, as if restraint was becoming hard to grasp. “i do not want to give you anything, you insufferable wench.”
your eyes widened for a moment at his words, but yet again, there was no fear, no offense, not even a sliver of rebuttal. only pure delight, as if his harsh words were music to your ears.
maekar did not understand. why were you not cowering? why were you not mellowing out? why in gods name were you tipping your head forward, close enough for your breaths to mingle.
“but you will, my lord husband,” came your whisper, brushing against his rough lips, as if you wanted him to taste the resolve in your words, the defiance in your tone. “i am your lady wife. what is yours, is mine.” another twitch of your lips, now higher, more pleased, like a cat that got the cream. “and i shall have it, even if i need to take it from you by any means necessary.”
“you know not of what you speak—”
“and neither do you,” you interjected, firmer this time, your gaze lowering to his lips for just a moment, as if pondering a secret only known by you, before lifting to make eye contact again. “your riches do not interest me. the crown i could do without. your name is nothing but an ancient thing that binds me to you,” you had his attention, to his absolute dismay, and it visibly pleased you.
“what i want,” a pause, leaning in enough to let your lips brush his, making him recoil, before he stubbornly held his place, not wanting to show how much the contact unnerved him. “is you, my lord husband.”
you must’ve had too much to drink, maekar thought. what you were saying made no sense to him, sounding like a lie the simpering women would whisper into one’s ear when they wanted to climb into their beds and rut on their cocks to solidify their station. it must be a ploy to try and soften him, to make him pliant and susceptible to future indulgences of yours.
you wanting him? why in gods name would that interest you in the slightest, when many other things should garner your attention, those which were mentioned by you. it should’ve been his gold, his station, his name, his connections.
not him. never him.
“do not think yourself so clever,” he spat, feeling his frustration mount, underlined with a begrudging sense of confusion, which he chose to ignore. “to believe that i shall fall for these empty words of sentiment,” maekar continued, fingertips squishing more of your now flushed cheeks, but not enough to bruise. he was not a brute to mar a woman, let alone one tied to him by marriage, contrary to rumors and whispers. “so do not waste your breath, my lady. it will do you no good, and i am not inclined to listen further.”
he thought that would be sufficient to shut you up, to make you see reason for once since you wed, and stop you from pushing nonsensical notions like they were fact. but you didn’t. his words seemed to only fuel the fire in your eyes, and he could feel the way your jaw clenched just so under his grip, resolve surging.
“i will prove it to you,” fell from your lips, solid and resolute, as if there was not an ounce of apprehension beneath your tongue. “one day, you will see that i speak truth,” a deep, steadying breath passing between your mouths, as if you were holding back something of great weight. “you will rid yourself of this meaningless whim of yours and accept what i am willing to give.” you spoke it as if the future was as you saw fit, and he had no say in it. it enraged and perturbed him in equal measure. “or you won’t have a sliver of peace in my presence.”
as if that was any different from how things have been since the papers were signed. maekar has not had any modicum of repose since he was cursed with a bothersome woman like you. the gods must jest at his expense now more than ever for the hand he was dealt.
“you have a lot of nerve for a—”
“and now, as the night grows near, we shall encourage the lord and lady towards what they surely are most expectant of! their bedding!”
the words boomed among the feast, ripping them apart from one another as every pair of eyes in the hall turned towards them, more attentive than ever.
maekar almost winced. he hated bedding ceremonies, for he would rather walk on glass barefoot than be subjected to such foolish nonsense. but alas, the court demanded it in fear of maekar showing reluctance towards another bride after many years of being a widower. so, he relented, kicking and screaming internally when it was brought to his attention, but anything to shut the mouths of courtiers and realm alike.
maekar did not look to his side. something in his chest pulled him away from meeting your gaze after the charged conversation you had. he hated that your words had been enough to unsettle him, even the tiniest bit.
instead, his eyes followed a group of way too eager lords who were rounding their high table to hoist you up and out of your seat. had they no shame in being so zealous? to let their hands grip at you, lifting you above their shoulders, fingers too rough against the fine silk of your wedding gown. where had decorum gone?
the sight made irritation spark in his gut, especially when he could hear your squeals of delight and the lilting sound of laughter that spilled unbridled from your lips as you were carried away to the royal chambers. it’s like you reveled in this whole travesty. in men touching you so shamelessly while hooting and hollering ribald jokes, one more salacious than the other.
in his case, being tugged on by simpering ladies was nothing but a nightmare come to life, but he had to bite his tongue and go along for the sake of tradition. maekar would’ve rather your hands on him, trying to rid him of his ceremonial cloak and vest, than a bunch of unknown women with too much nerve and too little propriety. he knew you better than he did these squealing birds.
your mirth was ever present when maekar made it to the chambers, his eyes narrowing to slits as he saw the way one of the lords was handling you, too ambitious in the way his fingers were nearly ripping your gown to the floor, leaving you clad in only a thin chemise. and he wasn’t the only one. the rest of the mindless, idiotic sycophants even dared to let their grubby palms smooth down your curves as they hollered more japes.
the ladies tending to him were more reserved, probably sensing maekar’s prickly nature, his body language so stiff they could barely get his tunic off, now half open, letting the broad expanse of his chest peek through, smattered with fine white hairs.
“a sword needs its sheath, don’t it, my lady?” exclaimed one of the men as his rugged fingers jerked your chemise down your shoulders, exposing the soft mounds of your breasts to the air, nipples hardening into dusky peaks. maekar’s breath stalled for a moment at the sight.
and like a beacon, every lord in the room had no shame in taking it all in, mouths open like panting bulls, some even licking their lips as if wanting to taste, making maekar’s restraint thin.
“gods, i wish my mother hadn’t weaned me, for your breasts are a sight to behold, my—”
“that’s enough,” slipped from maekar’s mouth, regretting it for a moment, before he pressed on. “keep your hands and your words to yourself if you wish to still draw breath where you stand.”
his tone was sharp, brooking no argument, if the people in attendance were smart. enough to cut every single jest, straightening the backs of every man in the room like clockwork, their mouths shut so tight their jaws trembled.
“y—your grace—”
“get the fuck out of the room before i decide to turn my wedding night crimson with the blood of the lot of you,” he barked, taking one step closer to where they stood, and it was sufficient to make them scramble, almost tripping over themselves to stand on the other side of the door.
the ladies remaining were uncertain of what to do, how to proceed. they haven’t undressed the prince like they meant to, hovering near maekar, almost trembling themselves.
“ah, ladies, do not fret,” you lilted, sweet like honeysuckle, stepping towards maekar, one hand lifting to press against the opening of his shirt, fingers spreading, brushing through the fine chest hairs. “i shall have the pleasure of undressing my husband myself. these muscles will know my touch alone.”
and for all the bravado he showed earlier, maekar could barely breathe under the bold touch of your hand, soft fingers brushing through the smattering of white onto his skin, reverent, as if you liked the sensation. and your words, spoken so saccharine, but he could tell it pleased you. having him to yourself. gods, what was wrong with you?
“now, off you go,” you continued, leaning into maekar’s space, pressing your bare breasts against his arm, his bicep cushioned between them. “my husband is ever eager to consummate our marriage, and i do not have the heart to make him wait any longer.”
maekar’s breath left him in one fell swoop, half from the feeling of your lush flesh pressing against his arm, and half from your words. you were a temptress, and the want to throttle you was coming back full force now, just as it was at the feast.
the door closed no long after, leaving you alone in the shared room, but not without company, for the lords and ladies, accompanied by one maester, had to hover on the other side, awaiting no doubt sounds of pleasure to waft through the mahogany wood.
“i’m pretty certain one of them was drooling while looking at my breasts,” you whispered, as if it was a secret, as if maekar hadn’t seen the hunger in their eyes and wanted to rip out each eyeball from their sockets with his bare hands.
“that does not concern me,” came his response, narrowed gaze dropping to where your hand still caressed his chest.
“mhm,” a pause, before your chin lifted, peering at him, a quirk to your lips. “i’m also certain one of them was eager enough to grope at them. i felt it.”
“which one?”
he hated the way he bristled, eyes traveling even lower now, to where your breasts were pushed up against his bicep, cushioning the corded muscle. god, but you had nice tits. they looked good squished against him, but he didn’t give that thought too much attention. he just liked tits a lot, is all. yours held no significance than, let’s say, a whore’s would.
the smile you gave him as soon as the inquiry left his mouth was so self-gratifying, he almost took his words back.
“i thought it did not concern you, my lord husband,” you reminded him, pressing even closer, the hand onto his chest drifting down, deft fingers slowly popping open the buttons on his tunic. “why the sudden interests, hm?”
maekar’s hand shot up to stop yours, halting your progress in undressing him, chest heaving slightly as he grit out, feeling tense as a coiled spring now that you two were alone and so, so close.
“stop it. we are not going to—”
and his words dissolve into a punched out groan as your hand trailed down to his crotch, where you seemed delighted to find him half—hard, and have no shame to press the heel of your palm into the growing thickness, rubbing in a slow downward motion.
“no?” you breathe, and the smile you give him is syrupy. he swears he can taste it, your words almost mocking him for his weakness, for the reaction his body had to… all of this. “then why are you hard, my lord husband? was the touch of all those ladies so satisfactory that it aroused you?”
and maekar wants to say that, yes, he got hard from those stupid court ladies feeling him up and tugging at his clothes, and not from the sight of your breasts pressed up against him, pebbled nipples brushing against the satin of his tunic. and definitely not from thinking how well his mouth could fit around one of them to suckle and lap at like a dog.
these feverish thoughts were just a result of not having seen a woman half—bare in years, and his body was betraying him by plaguing his mind with debauched scenarios that would never happen. that should never happen. he couldn't let himself show intimacy in such a way.
“because you keep touching me,” he snapped, harsher than he would have wanted, but he was so tense, and your hand felt too good, a fact which would never reach your ears. “even though i expressed no desire to want such a thing.”
your hand did not stop, whatsoever, continuing to rub slowly over the now fully hard cock in his breeches, making his breathing come in short, angry puffs against your cheek.
“then stop me,” you offered, only leaning closer, as if goading him into trying. “you’re a strong man. i reckon you could overpower a lady if you wanted,” then your lips pursued, thoughtful, and you continued. “unless… the stories i’ve heard about the anvil’s prowess were only tales for sleeping children?”
maekar knew what you were doing, playing him like a fiddle, making him lose all reason and succumb to your whims against his will, as if he were a weak man. as if he couldn’t discern between what he wanted to do and what you wanted him to do.
and still, he was powerless when challenged, like you knew his visceral need to prove himself to you, or anyone else. the gnawing ache in his chest whenever someone dared question him in any aspect of his life.
but more so, when his strength was disputed. undermined.
it did not even take a blink of an eye until he had grabbed you by the arm, hauling you over to the bed, pushing you backwards until you fell, sprawled against the furs and pelts, which cushioned the fall.
his weight pressed you into the mattress like the anvil itself, his knees bracketing your hips, holding you where he wanted you, wide-eyed and breasts jiggling with every breath. for a moment, he reveled in the surprise etched onto your face, before it turned into a cheeky smirk as your hands wasted no time before brushing down his chest again, seeking to undress him.
“so eager, my lord husband,” she whispered, still a bit breathless from the rough manhandling, but delighted beyond measure. “do not tell me that you’ve been secretly aching for this?”
maekar scoffed, scowling down at her from above, even as his breath hitched. gods, no one had touched him like this in so long. not with this teasing familiarity, and not on a night meant to be cold and ceremonial, even if they had never lain together. hell, even stood next to each other for more than duty demanded in the last fortnight.
your hands were warm, picking at the buttons like you had all the time in the world, and it grated on his nerves, even more so when he saw the smirk on your plush lips widening the more skin you uncovered.
he caught your wrist, firm enough to stop your exploration, holding it over his chest for a tense moment, before releasing it, brushing it to the side so he could take over, undoing the buttons himself. maekar rationalized that it was because you were agonizingly slow, and your touch annoyed him, the feeling of your fingertips brushing his skin prickling, leaving gooseflesh behind.
the tunic fell away swiftly, leaving him bare-chested, a mountain of corded muscle and sinew, veins traveling along his forearms and down his throat from how tense he was. your eyes drank him in, mouth parting in a sigh, overly pleased, as if the sight of him alone unraveled you.
it did not take long for your hands to follow the same path your gaze did, pawing shamelessly at the broad expanse of scarred skin, brushing over the smattering of thin white hairs onto his chest and down his navel.
maekar’s skin prickled further under your touch. he could feel your fingers over every scar. the one from dragonstone’s training yard when he was still a boy, the thin line across his ribs from a valyrian steel sword graze, now traced by curious, gentle fingers. but equally desirous.
the low rumble from his throat slipped without his permission as you continued, now groping at the thick muscles of his biceps and pectorals, sighing while you did it, breathy and satisfied, as if the feel of his muscles pleased you. being audacious enough to sink your fingers into the skin, to squeeze and feel every inch you could get under your palms. and he couldn’t do anything but watch you, feeling his breath hitch as he saw you lick your lips, slow and habitual, as if you didn’t realize you did it while feeling him up.
the prince could not get his bearings anymore. his breath came faster now—shallow, uneven. each one of your touches burned like fire, leaving behind a scorching trail. your hands were not those of a shy, hesitant maiden. no, they felt like a claim, like you were worshiping his body with shameless delight, exploring every hard ridge and dense muscle as if you’d been starved for it, as if you’d been waiting to do it.
“gods, husband,” slipped from your mouth as he felt a particularly lingering touch down his abdomen, your nails scraping along the skin, making the muscles ripple. “but you are a sight to behold,” you almost moaned, gaze half—lidded with nothing but unrelenting hunger. “you look delicious enough to eat,” you continued, downright purring now, like a feline playing with your food, daring to brush your hands down his shoulders, and along his arms, nails prickling at the protruding veins along the way. “so big and strong.”
you must’ve had way too much to drink. there was no other explanation as to why such words would come out of your mouth, why your palms touched him like you wanted him. that could not be. no one wanted him. no one should’ve wanted him. he was a hardened warrior, a widower, a father of six, a man who didn’t need—
gods above… delicious? how could you call him something so absurdly ridiculous? as if he were a feast laid out for your personal consumption. as if his body was made to be admired—devoured in its entirety—by her shameless gaze and persistent hands.
“how come no lady pounced on you sooner, hm?” you had the nerve to question—still touching him, mapping out his body like it was yours alone to do with as you pleased—as if there was a line out the door of ladies wanting nothing more but to jump on his cock and have their way with him. what preposterous notions had you in that head of yours? you must’ve hit it when you were a child, to think such perceptions.
his jaw tightened, trying to regain some sort of upper hand against you. “no lady is as impudent as you,” he reproached, his lip lifting in a half snarl, like a beast held at bay. “as adamant to touch something that isn’t yours—”
“isn’t?” you interjected, nails digging into the meat of his abdomen, hard enough to leave red crescent moons behind. a mark of yours, as if punishing him for even daring to say such a thing, when he knew you were bound by vow beneath the old gods and the new. it made maekar hiss, like a dragon challenged, ready to retaliate. “you are mine, by law and by vow,” you firmly stated, nails biting at skin anew, scraping down, painting red indent lines along ivory. “just as i am yours,” maekar had half a mind to snap, to bite, to do anything to stop the words coming out of your mouth, but you did not waver. “yours to have, yours to take, yours to touch.”
a beat, your chest heaving now, too, just like his was, only softer. “so touch me, husband,” provocation again, in your tone, in your gaze, in every single inch of your body. “unless you do not know how? has your prowess deserted you in the years of widowing?” maekar was moments away from strangling you, his fingers twitching with the urge to just wrap them around your throat and squeeze until not even breath slipped past your lips. but he had no such luck, for your next words stalled him, unmoving.
“shall i scream for all those court vipers to hear?” you incited, eyes narrowed, nails still deep into his skin, but he could barely feel the sting over the pounding in his ears over your goading. “shall i let the whole realm know that my lord husband is incapable of even touching his lady wife? of being man enough to make her feel good? instead of standing there gaping at a pair of tits like a green boy in his first whorehouse, incapable of—”
maekar’s eyes flashed—anger. humiliation. and something he couldn’t name, but it burned in his gut, spreading all the way down to his cock, hard enough to split stone now. it was surely the adrenaline of it all, his nerves on high alert, heart pounding so hard in his chest he could taste it in his mouth. nothing else. it couldn’t be anything else. not with you.
you were baiting him again. mocking his hesitation and reluctance to touch you, tone biting, just as your nails have been on his skin. words spoken like a commoner, not even close to the speech of a highborn lady, now wife of a prince of the realm. a targaryen.
he couldn’t continue like this. not with your hands on him, with your eyes watching him like you wanted him, like you desired him. with your—gods, with your tits bouncing with every breath, enticing him to forget all about your insolence and dip down to mouth and slobber all over them like a fucking dog until you moaned and arched against his tongue and teeth and—
his hands were rough, not enough to bruise, but firm as he grabbed your hips, holding onto the fat there and flipping you in one swift motion. not gently, not romantically.
dominant, like he had no doubt you would stay where he put you, where he wanted you, face down into the furs and pelts, hips angled backwards by his steady grip, bare breasts squished against the mattress, as was your tummy.
“m—maekar—,” you shrieked, surprised and muffled into the bed now, but he didn’t want to hear a word from you now, one palm dipping towards your shoulders, pressing down, keeping you in place. a silent command—stay there or else.
he was breathing hard, like a bull after a good run, nostrils flaring, broad chest heaving, eyes trained on the way your body looked beneath him now, arched, at his mercy, under his strong hands, held in place exactly as he pleased. no longer playing by your whims, no longer unnerved by your gaze or touches. no longer making him question things he was not ready to untangle.
his face was hot, hotter now, as his eyes traced the curves of you, the way your chemise hiked up your thighs, letting him get a peek at your rear. gods, what were you doing to him? maekar wished he could forget the way your ardent gaze devoured him whole, as if he were a god among men, as your tone dipped into sweet honey, sultry and purred.
nothing could unnerve him anymore. he was no longer shackled by—
a whine. pitched and demanding, slipped from your lips as your hips wiggled in his grip, pushing your rear back against him, brushing against the bulge in his breeches, ample flesh jiggling from side to side, catching his gaze like a beacon. “d—do something, you useless brute!” you demanded, back arching with the grace of a feline, pleading for attention without much preamble. still shameless, still without an ounce of decorum.
maekar’s breath left him sharply at the sight. your hips swaying, arse sticking out in unabashed invitation, like you were a cat begging to be scratched, petted—or worse, claimed. how dare you? he thought, incredulous as to how a woman could be this unashamed in her desires—in her want for… him. for this brute, as you called him so brazenly.
a brute, was he?
well, if he were such a brute, then he would act like one, and put you in your damn place once and for all, solidifying his place in this marriage and proving you wrong.
slowly, akin to a predator stalking his prey, his hand moved back towards the fat of your hip to join the other, thumbs digging slightly into the curve where waist met ass, feeling the warmth of you through the silk. you were burning, and he barely touched you yet. what a debauched creature you were.
and then, because you begged with that wiggle and sway, he answered. no longer useless, as his hands slid lower over plush cheeks, palm flattening over one rounded backside, and gave a sharp, resounding smack, making the silken flesh jiggle from the impact.
maekar expected a yelp, a rebuke. not a loud, pleasured moan, like a woman possessed, mouth parting against the pelt under your cushioned cheek, eyelashes fluttering, as if savoring the sting of the strike.
“gods, yes, yes,” you sighed, already pushing your arse back towards his palm, wanting more, like a greedy little thing.
his eyes darkened, the purple obscured by the black now, a flush crawling up his throat at the way you sounded, as if he offered you salvation and damnation both. like you’ve been waiting for this very moment since the wedding feast—his hand smacking your ass like a fucking degenerate commoner. and now you want more.
he didn’t hesitate.
smack. another sharp spank landed, not harsh enough to hurt deeply, but firm and stinging through the fabric of your thin chemise.
“look at you,” he grit out, mocking but reverent in equal measure as he hiked up your chemise to your hips, revealing the heated skin of your arse, where his palm smacked, marking you with ardor. it gave him a thrill like no other to see the labor of his punishment on you.
“arching and begging for it like a fucking cat in heat,” he continued, palm smoothing down the flush of your skin, but not to soothe. just to feel the heated pulse of the flesh there beneath his fingers.
it made his cock twitch in his breeches.
even more when he realized you weren’t wearing any small clothes, as a lady should. like a bride would on her wedding night.
gods, you were audacious beyond measure. he didn’t know if it angered him more than it thrilled him.
“no smallclothes,” he noted, tilting his head, as if assessing the expanse of bare flesh now at his disposal. maekar could even see a peek of the folds of your cunt as you continued to arch into his touches. and you were wet, almost dripping onto your thighs, onto the bedding underneath. his spanks have gotten you aroused. “not even a commoner would be this immodest.”
“don’t need them,” you retorted, only trying to push backwards more, relentless and needy. “they’ll only get in the way of you putting your cock in me.”
all the gods above, that mouth on you was lethal.
the words made a ragged, bitten-off curse fall from his mouth as his fingers moved to spread the globes of your rear enough to expose your pussy better to his gaze.
“drenched,” maekar breathed—still hang up on the way you mentioned his cock in such a raunchy manner, unbefitting of a lady—not being able to tear his eyes away from how soaked you were, and only dripping more, your hole clenching around nothing, as if already taunting him inside. “making a mess all over yourself, like you belong on streets of silk than in the bed of a prince.”
he couldn’t help but lean down, but not towards where you were softest. not yet. his rough lips pressed to the warmth now seared onto your arse, only hovering for a moment, before he pulled back his lips to bite, sinking his teeth into the ardent flesh. gently at first, just a slight press of canines. a dragon claiming what he marked.
then he kissed it. a hot, open—mouthed press that warmed the aching skin even more. no finesses, no romance. just raw possession now, letting you know with teeth and tongue that you belonged to him entirely now, and not the other way around. gods and vows aside. he was not yours. but you were his.
you couldn’t help the soft sounds falling from your lips, every touch from your husband burning. a true dragon’s claim on his hoard. no longer distant, no longer resisting that primal instinct you knew lay dormant within him, just waiting to be taunted out.
“a—ah, you could always move your mouth lower, my lord husband.”
lower.
said in such a sultry, daring way, as if you thought he wouldn't, as if you needed to coax him towards your cunt.
maekar exhaled slowly, the flush on his throat only blooming more insistent with every word from you, each more sweltering than the other. he even forgot about the courtiers lingering on the other side of the door. the thought only made his flush deepen, traveling all the way to the tips of his ears, reddening his cheeks along the way. he’s sure they heard the spanks. gods, they’re gonna think him a barbarian who slaps his wife around for pleasure. and it was only your fault for goading him into such things.
he couldn’t let shame burn too hotly in his gut, choosing to distract himself by slowly peppering kisses up your thighs, tongue laving across the skin, pulling more breathy sounds out of you. every press of lips was deliberate, each one slower than the last, inching where you wanted him most, where you smelled strongest. tangy, musky, and just a bit of sweetness, all dripping out of you, the more attention he gave.
for a prince of the realm, the way he comported himself tonight should’ve been shameful, but he couldn’t think about propriety and etiquette as his nose brushed along your folds, inhaling deeply, searing your scent to the back of his throat as he groaned aloud. fuck, fuck, fuck.
it felt perverted to trail the tip of his nose along your drooly folds, spreading them just so, nudging them apart, coating himself in your juices, mouth dropping open in a near growl.
the sound that got out of you was more like a yelped moan than anything, but you pressed your hips back, as if itching to hump your pussy against the bridge of his nose. and maybe one day, he would let you do just that, but today he had other plans, as he let the tip of his nose bump against your chubby clit, brushing against the silky skin.
“yes, yes, yes, right there,” you whined like a mantra, having no qualms in moving your hips, grinding down helplessly in hopes of pressing the tip of your husband’s nose more firmly against the bundle of nerves at the top of your pussy. “feels good, husband, gods—”
just this. just you humping his nose like a fevered whore, getting him soaked with your slick, enough for it to drip onto his reddened cheeks and even down to his lips, urging him to lick at them, tasting you on his tongue.
that was enough to urge him to stick his tongue out and lave at your pussy, a broad, firm flick of it, greedily soaking up all the wetness he could. maekar would drink from you if he could. if such a thing as the nectar of the gods existed, he was sure it wouldn’t come close to the taste of your cunt on his tongue.
your moan was loud, pulled from deep within your chest, melting you from head to toe as your husband continued to lap at you with a greed rivaling a thief's, stealing the sweetest sounds from your throat, the combination of his nose bumping into your clit and his tongue parting your folds almost making you go cross eyed from pleasure. “don’t stop, don’t—fuck, maekar, don’t stop licking.”
even like this, you were demanding and bossy.
“y’taste good, wife,” came muffled from between your thighs, accompanied by wet, slurping sounds, so lewd and arousing, it only made you drip onto his awaiting tongue more. “if i knew this was all i needed to do to keep your mouth shut,” a suck against your quivering hole, obscene enough to make even you flush. “i would’ve had you spread open right after we signed the papers,” a huff against your wetness, before he nudged his nose against your clit anew, grinding it in slow circular motions, making you shake. “it would’ve saved me a fortnight of peace.”
his words only made you seek his touch more, hips grinding with more fervor, seeking as much pleasure as he could give. “you should’ve,” you retorted, airy and soft, molded around a mewl as his tongue replaced the tip of his nose, circling your clit firmly, your eyes almost rolling back into your head from how good it felt. “should’ve taken me, too. put your cock to good use and render me speechless.”
as always, you were relentless. here he was, drowning in your pussy, and you wanted more. he should’ve left you like that, a sprawled mess onto the bed, aching and whining, showing you the importance of patience. of gratitude. of restraint.
but, alas, he has lost the will to make you suffer, to want to see you crumple, and now only desired this version of you. needy and pliant and pleading for every inch of him like a good wife would.
and even then, he couldn’t forget all the lip you gave him, all those jabs and ceaseless fussing.
your husband was not going to give you everything you wanted when you wanted it. not on your terms.
maekar drew back from between your folds, your juices smeared over the bottom half of his face, coating his beard, glistening in the candlelight, and twirled his tongue around his mouth for a few moments, before spitting right onto your quivering hole, thumb following to spread the wetness around. it was vulgar, but it made you whine louder. so he did it again, a bigger glob of saliva this time, dripping from your entrance to your clit, before trailing down onto the bedding.
“filthy,” he rebuked, as if he wasn’t the one dirtying you with such unabashed lewdness. two thick, calloused fingers swiped through the mixture of slick and spit, gathering it generously before feeding it into your hole, slow and methodical, all the way up to the second knuckle.
and curled, brushing against spongy walls.
“gods—,” you cried out, clenching around his fingers, as if sucking them deeper. it made your husband growl, punishing your greed by curling the digits again, dragging the rough pads along those spots which made your pitch higher, your thighs quiver. “more, maekar,” you pleaded, pushing your hips back, grinding onto his fingers, ass jiggling from the way maekar’s wrist slapped against the bottom of your rear. “need more, ah, need your cock. p—put your cock in me already, you brute—” you tried again, but he ignored you, only adding a third finger, stuffing you more full, placating you. but teasing you in equal measure, like the brute he was.
that seemed to frustrate you more, whine gurgling from your throat, hips gyrating with more insistence. “n—not enough!” you gritted, so, so impatient, focused on getting the only thing you truly wanted. “a true husband would’ve had his cock in me by now! a—are you, ah, fuck,” a harsh flick of his wrist interrupted your protests, deterring you for a moment, before you continued, brows furrowing. “does your prick not work anymore, my lord husband? are you afraid i won’t be satisfied?” the words tumbled out of your mouth unbidden, throwing every taunt at him in hopes of him biting.
“is it so small that it’ll leave me asking for your fingers again or—”
silence.
before a weight settled over your back like a blanket, so warm and sturdy, pinning your upper body onto the pelts ruthlessly, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you winded for a few moments.
“shut up,” was growled against your ear, so low and vicious it made your now empty hole quiver and drip even more slick. gods, where had his fingers gone? “you insufferable, wanton wench,” his words dripped with so much venom it made a delicious shiver run down your spine, more than delighted to have him pressed along your back, shoulders to hips, feeling the hard length of his cock press along the folds of your pussy through his breeches.
one of his hands fumbled with the fastenings, pulling himself out, thick and girthy, guiding the head towards your folds, smearing his precum all over the silky flesh as he panted against your ear. “you don’t deserve this,” he rumbled, gliding the cock-head slowly along the wetness, before slapping it against your clit. once, twice, like small love taps, barely giving you any stimulation. “but i’ll give it to you anyway,” he inched back towards your entrance, repeating the lewd motion, precum coating the throbbing hole with each slap of the head against it.
his arms moved, one settling by your head, elbow pressed into the mattress so he can curl all that muscle and sinew against your neck, cradling your head between his forearm and bicep, the crook of his elbow pressing softly against your throat, making you gasp, choked and whiny. your husband had you in a headlock, squeezing just so, just enough for you to feel his strength and what he could do with it, if he wished.
it made you moan shamelessly, palms coming to curl around the muscle there, nails digging in, making maekar hiss, and flex just a bit more in retaliation, before relaxing the squeeze.
“please, husband,” you pleaded, a little breathless from the hold of his arm, pushing your hips back against him. “take me, fuck me, have me.”
music to maekar’s ears. having you so desperate, begging for him so sweetly, letting him place you how he wanted and keep you there, his weight keeping you pressed to the bedding, your hips tilted up by his other hand, which now slowly pushed the head of his cock into your glistening hole, still careful, even with all the pent-up frustration and arousal. he never meant to hurt you, no matter how much you infuriated him.
a loud, suffering groan brushed your ear as he bottomed out, feeling how tight you were, how wet and warm and gods—he could die in your cunt. in this greedy, hungry thing, which pulsed and throbbed and squeezed around him like it wanted him deeper.
you were no better, practically drooling over his bicep, shameless moans spilling freely, loud enough to be heard by the courtiers, perhaps the whole castle. pleasure overtook you, urging you to babble, fingers gripping at his muscles like a lifeline. “have me, husband,” you repeated those salacious words, clenching around him tightly. “t—take me like a real man, not a green boy who—”
the hand that guided his cock inside snapped upwards, clamping over your mouth, thick fingers pressing into the flush of your skin, rendering any more comments to silence.
“shut,” he ground out, dragging his hips back before snapping them forward, thrusting inside you. “your insolent mouth, woman,” rasped against your cheek now, as he set a firm, ruthless pace, navel slapping against the flesh of your ass, making it jiggle, the sound echoing through the room.
your sounds of pleasure were muffled by his hands, slobbering all over the inside of his palm from how much you were drooling, moans and cries barely making it past the rough fingers pressed to your lips. maekar could’ve winced at the feeling of wetness, but it only thrilled him more to have you like this, mindless with bliss from how deep his cock reached, the tip hitting that one spot inside your gummy walls that made your nails scratch at his bicep and your tongue lolling out, pressing against his palm, even daring to lick.
every thrust brought him closer to the edge, feeling the telltale sign of heat at the base of his spine, spreading into the pit of his stomach. and by the way your sounds could barely be silenced anymore, so were you.
his pace quickened, hips snapping against your ass harder, rutting into you with fervor, close to snarling against your ear from how good it felt. gods, your pussy was made for this. for him. coating his cock, making tendrils of slick stick to his navel and the backs of your thighs from how wet you were, the sounds squelching and filthy. “pussy so good, wife,” maekar rumbled, the praise slipping from his mouth. “so good for your husband’s cock.”
his wife was getting close, he could tell; her hands now clawing at the one of his onto her mouth, making him slacken it just enough for her to cry out, garbled and supplicating.
“spend in me,” you mewled, little ah, ah, ah sounds muffling against the inside of his palm, now coated with your drool. “give me your seed, maekar,” the pleading continued, making his thrusts falter minutely. “let me have your seed, husband.”
you sounded so desperate, so… earnest, as if all that happened led to this, to you asking for something a husband should give freely, without a shroud of doubt. like a future where you might end up round and full with his child was something you would be pleased with. it was too much for him. he won’t be made to believe that such a forthcoming was meant to be sound, especially when you were overcome with pleasure.
maekar found himself shaking his head, palms pressing back against your mouth to silence any more begging, to cease such ramblings from a woman who didn’t mean what she was saying, even if your words almost made him cum inside of you moments ago.
“i—i can’t,” he groaned, low and shaky, as if pained. “i won’t, wife.”
content: Talks of the future confirm what you have known for a long time, that Duncan is the one.
words: 2.2k
cw: MDNI 18+ p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, cream pie, established relations, lmk if I missed any
a/n: in the same universe as same bed, new man, but can be read as standalone. I wrote this while finishing season 2 of wreck. cormac kelly gave me the motivation to write this 🙂↕️
You sat perched on the counter, as you scrolled through Dunk’s work fixing the grammatical eras. He sat in the chair next to you, your body facing his. You opened your mouth as he fed you another bite of ice cream, “You’re so pretty,” he told you.
Your eyes moved from the screen to find your boyfriend staring at you dreamily, “Are you high?”
His eyes widened, “No absolutely not. I just think you’re gorgeous.”
“I was teasing you, Dunk,” you assured him with a small chuckle. You leaned down pressing a soft kiss to his lips before sitting back up.
Your eyes moved back to the screen, as his eyes stayed on you trailing over your face with a fond smile, his hands moving to run up and down your calves, “You’re smart too,” he added.
You smirked, glancing back at him, “Do you want something?”
“No. I’m just admiring my beautiful, smart girlfriend.” You hummed, continuing to make the last few changes, “I love you,” he told you, the same tone that he had been using all night.
“I love you,” you told him back, pressing into the keyboard once more, and shutting the cover to the laptop, setting it behind you.
He stood, moving to place the bowl in the sink, before moving in between your thighs, his hands running up and down the exposed flesh, “Why do you keep looking at me like that?: you asked, as you snaked your arms around his neck, letting your forearms drape.
“Like what?”
“Like I am some ethereal being.”
“I don't even know what that means.”
“Not of this world,” you explained, causing him to smile.
He loved that about. You never made him feel stupid. You were patient, and to him you were out of this world, “You are out of this world.”
You rolled your eyes kissing his cheek, then moved kissing the other, pulling away to grin at him, “You are very sentimental tonight,” you told him.
“I’m a sentimental guy,” he answered with a shrug, his hands moved down to your knees before backing up your thigh.
“You want to ask me something. You’ve been tip-toeing around it all night.”
“I already asked you something. I asked you to read my paper, and you do that,” he said, but his gaze immediately looked down avoiding your eyes.
You pulled your arms back, before one hand reached up gripping his chin in your hand forcing his blue eyes to meet yours, as you raised a brow, “Dunk,” you prompted. He let out a sigh trying to look away once more, but you kept a firm grasp on his chin.
“You going to make me ask?”
“You don’t know what I’m going to ask,” he countered.
“Do you believe that?”
“No.” He knew you more than likely knew exactly what he wanted to ask. You seemed to always know what he was thinking before he even did, but he supposes that it was normal being together for a year. “I found this place. A house, and I’ve been saving up the money. Plus everything Arlan left me.”
You pushed your lips together trying to hide the smile threatening to pull at your lips. You nodded, listening, allowing him to continue. Allowing him to be the one to ask, “It’s got three bedrooms. Enough for a future, and I was thinking that maybe we could make it our home. Together.”
“You want a future with me,” you asked, tilting your head, your hand finally moving form his chin back to his shoulders.
“Of course I do,” he answered without hesitation, the tip of his ears turning red as he held your gaze, “You are it for me. You are the one,” he told you.
You flashed your teeth at him, unable to contain your grin, “The one?” you question.
“The one,” he confirmed.
“I would love nothing more than to get a home with you, Duncan,” you told him.
His smile widened now matching your own, “Gods, I love you,” he confessed before leaning it pressing his mouth to yours, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of adoration he felt into you.
You did the same, pushing your mouth to his, hoping to transfer all the happiness he made you felt into his lips.
Your hands moved slowly dragging down his chest, causing his abdomen to tense under you. HIs moved gripping your hips pulling you closer to the edge of the counter as your legs wrapped around his legs light muscle memory.
You pressed your hips further into his groin causing him to let out a low moan, one his large hands moving to grip your breast tightly through the shirt that he was pretty sure was his. You reached for the hem of his shirt giving a tug causing him to pull away only to pull the material over his head, then yours followed. Before both could even hit the floor his mouth was back on yours.
This time it wasn’t as gentle. There was no soft declaration, but instead both of you trying to conquer the other. A clash of hunger that sounded of your teeth clanking against each other. His hands moved back pinching the hardened peaks of your breast causing you to moan.
He pulled away for a moment, staring at you for a moment causing you to smile, “I love you,” he whispered, so soft, so full of truth it caused your heart to ache.
You were thankful everyday that your path led you to Duncan.
That you had met his incredible man, and he loved you just as much as you loved him.
He was the one. The one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. The only one for you.
“I love you,” you told him back, causing him to smile at you.
His hand moved down your chest, leaning you back against the counter,you lifted your hips allowing him to drag your shorts and panties down your legs. He pressed his mouth to the sensitive flesh of your thighs, kissing up toward your glistening core.
His tongue licked a long strip in between your folds, causing you to buck against him. Your hands shoot forward to lace in his hair. “You taste so good,” he groaned, repeating his actions.
He hummed, sending the vibration straight through you causing you to arch into him. He inserted a digit into your leaking hole, allowing you to adjust around him as he moved it in and out as his tongue dragged upward before flicking against your swollen pearl.
Your eyes rolled back slightly, as your toes curled, as he inserted yet another digit. Though his fingers were thick, your cunt adjusted to him easily, molding to him after having spent so much time learning them.
“Oh, fuck,” you groaned out, rubbing yourself agaisnt his face, causing him to grin slightly.
He worked his fingers in and out, hitting the exact spot he knew you loved, earning every single moan that escaped your lips. “Does that feel good, baby?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“So good. So fucking good, Duncan,” you told him, pulling his hair harshly, causing him to groan. He inserted another digit causing you to cry out slightly. His free hand moved up your chest to grasp your tit, beginning to pinch the hardened nub.
It suddenly all became too much. Your orgasm waved over you without warning. You could feel it everywhere, deep in your bones as your thighs shook on either side of your boyfriend's face. He continued to use his fingers to fuck you through your orgasm.
Tears filled your eyes at the bliss, as he finally pulled away, pressing a final kiss to your woman hood before pulling away from you. He stood to his full height staring down at you with a small grin, “You are beautiful,” he muttered, as his eyes took in your full form.
You sat up your hands moving to the waist band of his sweatpants pushing them down to the floor alongside his boxers. He kicked them off to the side as you wrapped your hand around him, giving him a small squeeze around his shaft.
His eyes changed in a flash turning from the soft loving gaze to one filled with hunger as you pressed your heels into his ass dragging you closer. “I love you,” you told him, you stroked him lazily.
“I love you. You’re it for me, baby. You’re the one,” he promised, leaning forward to seal it with a searing kiss. He branded you with his mouth, making himself home once more as your fingers laced through his hair.
You ran his tip slickening his cock with yourself, before noticing him at your entrance.He had no problem slipping in as the warmth engulfed him causing him to moan at the feeling. Your cunt adjusted to him just as easily as it always had as if it was made for him and only him.
“You were made for me,” he moaned as he began to move against you. Giving you a trial thrust. Your hands moving from his hair to his shoulder, your nails raking against his skin, painting it red. You couldn’t even form a reply, only your moan slipped through as he began to fuck you.
He was so deep, you felt completely and utterly filled with the man before you. He was in your cunt, he was in your bones, and he was in your blood infiltrating himself into your every sense. It felt as if he was a aprt of you, one that you could not live without.
The kitchen filled with your moans and the wet sound of him sliding in and out your cunt. “Look at you, pretty girl,” he groaned, feeling you clench around him. “You take me so well,” he groaned as you gripped him like a vice at the praise, “You are so utterly perfect,” he groaned, getting the same response once more.
Your nails broke the skin, but he didn’t falter continuing to fuck you, wokring to deliver you another orgasm. He continued to deliver you filthy praise, edging you on as the coil in your lower belly had long formed, already threatening to snap.
You continued to cry his name out as if it was a prayer. As if this was your saving grace, and the pleasure he was bringing you was heaven. He was the only thought you could form.
“Duncan!”
“Oh, Dunk!”
“Duncan!”
You clenched around him once more, as his pelvic bone rubbed against your clit. Your head tilting back in a low moan, as you finally felt the coil snap. The waves of relief drenching you as your vision went white. You gripped him, claiming him just as he had claimed you. Showing him that he belonged here with you in this moment that no one would be able to achieve what you and he had.
“Oh, fuck,” Dunk groaned, at the feeling, burryign himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, painting your walls white with him.
You were his.
Just as he was yours.
He leaned forward resting his forehead against yours, “I love you. I love you more than anything,” he whispered out into the air.
You grinned, your hands moving to run through his head, that was already damp with sweat, “I love you,” you told him back, moving to kiss his cheek before kissing the other.
You sat next to Rowan, repositioning, as the hard metal from bleachers dug into your ass, your eyes on the field watching Dunk, his large hands wrapping around another man’s waist tearing him to the ground.
“I don’t understand what's going on,” she whispered to you, for the hundredth time.
You let out a chuckle,“They’re trying to get the ball is all I know,” you said, your eyes moving to the score board, “There is only a minute left so I wouldn’t try and figure it out now,” you told her, turning toward her with a small grin.
“He told Raymun he wants to marry you. Not anytime soon, but said that you’re the one.”
You smile, a giddy feeling filling your bones, “The one?” you asked, causing her to nod.
“The one,” she confirmed, as the buzzer sounded through the air, indicating the end of the game.
You both stood to your feet clapping your hands together, before you began to make your way through the sea of people down to the field. Waiting outside for your boyfriend to exit the locker rooms.
The players finally began to filter out as you noticed him, his height allowing him to stand above the rest, and easy to spot. Duncan grinned as his eyes set on you, a complete look of admiration filling his face at he made his way toward you
You reached out pulling him to your embrace,”I’m sweaty,” he argued.
“Don’t care,” you replied, pulling away. He leaned down pressing his lips to yours, sealing everything that you both already knew. This was it, because you are both the only one for the other.
“You’re the one,” you whispered against his mouth.
He grinned against your lips, “You’re the one,” he repeated.
Daeron Targaryen + Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
✿ you and dunk are tasked with escorting prince daeron from king’s landing to summerhall. the journey is long, and you are all quick to become more than just travelling companions.
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 13.4k (omfg)
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader can be read as plus-sized (mentions of larger thighs, tummy, etc) but is otherwise physically undefined, reader is dunk’s best friend/travelling companion, some plot (a lil slow burn), yearning, SMUT, threesome, slight voyeurism?, oral (f&m!receiving), brief face-fucking, m!masturbation, fingering, unprotected piv, spanking, multiple orgasms, cum-play/eating, praise, pet names (sweet girl, pretty girl), breeding, praise, dirty talk, overstimulation, lowkey soft dom!dunk, but also soft dom!daeron too so idk, strong language, dunk is very protective, daeron is a cocky little shit, reader is exactly where she wants to be >:)
a/n: straight up long as hell lmaooo but you can all thank lovely @ladythedrunken for this <3
DAY ONE
You sit idly atop Chestnut, stroking your fingers through his dark mane as Ser Duncan fusses over the front cinch of your saddle. You watch him curiously, his big hands tugging at the leather strap and ensuring it sits snugly against the bay horse.
“Must you do this every time?” You ask him, cocking your head as you watch his dirt-stained hands work.
He looks up at you with those watery blue eyes you have become increasingly fond of during your time with him. He stares at you as if only just noticing your presence.
“Yes,” Dunk replies simply. “If the saddle doesn’t sit right—”
“I’ve been tacking my horse since I was ten and two,” you remind him with a subtle smile, unhooking your foot from a stirrup and nudging Dunk’s side with the toe of your boot. “Even more, I’d say I saddle better than you do.”
Dunk’s hands drop from the cinch strap, but not before he takes hold of your ankle. His hand covers the joint completely where it’s obscured by the worn hide of your boot. He holds you firmly, gently guiding your leg away from his side and back towards your stirrup. You feel the heat of his hand against you, breaking through the barrier of your boot, and you find yourself biting your lip as he sits your foot back against the steel of the stirrup.
“Ser Arlan taught me to saddle,” Dunk says, planting a couple of firm pats against your calf. His hand waits there, cupping the flesh. “Do you think you are better than him?”
You smile down at him. “Yes.”
He lets out a dry laugh, before suddenly noticing he still has his hand on your calf. Cheeks tinted pink, he withdraws his hand and steps away, but not before giving Chestnut a gentle stroke down the neck.
You watch the hedge knight turn then, and your gaze rises to the horizon. King’s Landing sits framed by the sea, the early morning sun bright behind the stone spires of the Red Keep that jut towards the sky. You notice a group of men approaching then: riding black palfreys down the trodden dirt road, cloaks pulled low over their heads. Dunk stands beside Thunder, fingers stroking the warhorse’s nose as he assesses the approaching troupe.
“I must admit,” you begin, the dull echoing of hooves on earth reaching the still air around you. “I’m surprised he didn’t flee.”
Dunk offers you a huff. “There’s still time.”
The group of riders reach you and Dunk in less than a minute, and they pull to a stop several yards away. You watch a few of them pull down their cloaks, revealing somewhat familiar faces of the kingsguard. You recognise Roland, who leaps from his horse with a pained grunt. He turns to a hunched, hooded figure after he’s dismounted.
“Off,” he instructs firmly, tugging the hem of the figure’s cloak.
The figure groans, slumping over further in his saddle. “No.”
Roland frowns, shooting you and Dunk an apologetic look. Dunk waves his hand, and Roland takes a step back, gesturing to the hooded figure.
“His grace has been rather reluctant, as you can probably imagine,” Roland says to Dunk, before his eyes find you. You smile at him, and he returns it. If Dunk clocks it, he doesn’t let on, but you know him better than that, for the way he clears his throat is anything but casual. Roland continues, his eyes on you still, “His palfrey is loaded with supplies. Food, water, coin. Enough for the weeks ahead.”
“Thank you, Ser Roland,” you say politely, bowing your head.
Ser Roland turns and thumps the reluctant royal on the leg. “Prince Daeron, behave yourself, for Ser Duncan and his lovely companion will not be as forgiving as I if you attempt another escape.”
Daeron finally sits up, and his hood falls away from his head. You watch him carefully. His blond hair is a scraggly mess atop his head, framing his paled face like strings of gold. His eyes, a misty violet-blue in the early morning sun, are framed by dark circles, and the lines of his nose and lips are pink, as if he had just been plucked from his sleep. Despite his post-drunken, dishevelled state, you can’t help but notice the prince’s obvious beauty.
“I do not doubt that,” Daeron drawls, eyes sinking to find Ser Duncan standing beside his horse. He looks the giant man up and down, and a small smile stretches across your lips as you watch the prince’s eyes linger on the strong expanse of Dunk’s muscled shoulders. Daeron sighs through his nose. “How is it that you have gotten bigger since I last saw you?”
Dunk shrugs, the movement drawing his cloak tight around his shoulders. Daeron watches it closely as Dunk speaks, his tone even. “M’not sure, your grace. But m’lady feeds me well.”
Daeron looks up then, as if only just noticing you were there. His eyes find yours and you offer him a small smile. Something tight knots in the base of your stomach as you watch a thin smile creep across his face, his eyes soft but searching. Searching for something—you’re not sure what—in the pools of your irises as he sits up a little straighter in his saddle, gloved hands ringing around the reins.
“I see,” he says, still looking at you. “Lady…?”
You give the prince your name.
He repeats it like he can taste it.
Dunk turns to Ser Roland then, and the knights shake hands. “We shall disembark, ser.”
“Take care, Ser Duncan,” Roland tells him, before clambering back onto his horse. He offers Dunk one last sympathetic look. “Please keep the prince out of trouble. Prince Maekar awaits his arrival at Summerhall.”
With that, Ser Roland and the surrounding kingsguard take off back towards King’s Landing, leaving you and Dunk in the presence of Prince Maekar’s eldest son. Dunk walks forward and takes hold of Daeron’s horse’s halter, his other hand petting the black stallion soothingly. Daeron watches this happen from atop his horse.
“He looks fit,” Dunk utters, directing his words to you. “We will aim to journey until the sun begins to set.”
You nod.
Daeron frowns. “Surely you do not expect me to sit astride for that long? My father does expect heirs of me, believe it or not.”
You can’t help but chuckle, and Daeron’s eyes sparkle as they find you. Dunk huffs, giving the royal horse one last pat before retreating back to Thunder. He addresses the prince as he boosts himself into his saddle.
“We will take rest when I say we will take rest,” Dunk informs, offering the prince one last pointed look before he turns to you. His eyes immediately soften, and you nudge Chestnut forward until the two of you stand abreast. “Shall we take leave?”
You nod, wriggling a little in your saddle to get comfortable. “Yes.”
“I will take lead,” Dunk says, urging Thunder forward. You pull Chestnut in beside Daeron, and he glances at you with a surprisingly sober smirk on his handsome face. Dunk looks at the two of you over his shoulder. “M’lady, you will ride beside his grace. Please use your dagger if he attempts an escape.”
You laugh as Daeron gapes.
“I distinctly remember the orders from my father were to deliver me to Summerhall unharmed,” Daeron says, eyes flicking from the solid mass of Dunk’s back to your pretty face. “And as for the image of a beautiful woman driving her blade into my thigh… well, that’s not as much of a deterrent as you think it is.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk bristle as he nudges Thunder into a brisk walk. You do the same, with Daeron mimicking your movements. As you settle into the beginning of your journey, you raise a brow in the prince’s direction.
“You speak quite openly for a prince,” you tell him.
He reaches up and pushes a strand of blond hair away from his face. He looks at you with eyes that seem to pierce straight through. “So I’ve been told.”
You can’t hide your smile.
He cocks his head. “Do you find it improper?”
“Quite the opposite,” you reply, gloved fingers stroking the thin leather of Chestnut’s reins. “I find it rather endearing.”
Daeron lets out an abrupt laugh, head falling back until his hair disappears into the cloak’s hood that gathers at his shoulder blades. “I don’t think my manner of speaking has ever been described as endearing, but thank you.”
You shrug, then reach across the small gap that separates you. Daeron watches you carefully as you gently take hold of his cloak’s hood and pull it over his head. You watch his smile vanish behind the dark material as you pull it tightly over his head and face. You laugh when you realise he’s essentially riding blind.
Dunk looks over his shoulder at the sound. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine,” you say, withdrawing.
Daeron adjusts his hood so it sits perfectly: obscuring most of his head and shadowing his face just enough, but the glint of his violet-blue eyes is hard to miss.
That night, after several upon several hours of riding—and several more breaks for Daeron who, rather unsurprisingly, has the bladder of a common child—Dunk decides it is time to retire for the night. The sun has just slipped beneath the distant hills, and the sky is alight with hues of pink and orange that fill the forest clearing with a kaleidoscope of bright colours. You take the liberty of tying all three horses up beneath the branches of a towering ash before dashing a line of oats across the ground for them to snack on. A few yards away, Dunk has sat Daeron down on a bedroll—physically sat him down, pushing the prince onto his arse with two strong hands on his shoulders—and now hefts a pile of branches in his arms. He drops them on a flat piece of ground.
“I’ll tend to the fire,” Dunk says, looking up as you approach.
You place a gentle hand on his back, a silent thank you, before you walk around him. You breeze past Daeron, who sits cross-legged on the thinning bedroll like a sulking child. He looks up at you with watery eyes, his pale features bathed in the ichor of the sunset.
He calls your name. “Will you sit with me?”
You ignore him as you open one of the sacks tacked to your saddle. You pull out a loaf of bread, wrapped in clean linen, then a pouch of salt beef. Daeron frowns as you approach with the food, kneeling beside him whilst Dunk finishes up the fire. You hear it begin to crackle as you settle the loaf of bread across your lap and tear it apart.
“What is this?” Daeron asks, a deep dent in his brows as you hand him a generous chunk of bread and a handful of hard salt beef. He takes the food as if it were poisonous, peering at it and waiting for his fingers to start withering.
You hear Dunk sigh through his nose as he dusts his palms across his thighs. “Supper.”
“Supper is supposed to be edible,” Daeron mutters. The point of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, and he brings a strip of beef to it. He licks it, then pulls his tongue back into his mouth, smacking his lips. His frown deepens. “This is horrid.”
“You will eat what is given to you,” Dunk says.
With the fire roaring now, he lumbers over and sits beside you and across from Daeron. He watches with rapt attention as you split open a chunk of bread and stuff a bundle of salt beef between the pieces. You hand it to him, and Dunk hefts it gratefully in his hands.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Daeron scoffs, still looking at his bread and beef. “I thought you said your lady feeds you well? I’ve fed better to the dogs that roam Rhaenys’ hill.”
Dunk scowls. “Don’t you—”
But you laugh. “Well, my prince, please feel free to forfeit your meal. I’m sure I can go and find a hungry dog to feed it to.”
Daeron goes quiet. You hum to yourself, enjoying the heat of the fire on your back as you stuff your own segment of bread with beef. You take a bite, and by the time you chew and swallow, Daeron has mimicked you and raised the stuffed bread to his mouth. He eats without another complaint.
DAY FOUR
“Might we stay at an inn tonight?” Daeron broaches, calling to Dunk who rides a few metres ahead. “My back pains me.”
“No,” Dunk replies simply.
Daeron groans, tipping his head back until his hood falls. “Please.”
“No.”
Daeron turns to you, pouting. “M’lady—”
“No,” you say.
“Please.”
“Ask again and I shall confiscate your bedroll,” Dunk grumbles ahead. “Your back will pain you more if you have to sleep amongst the dirt and rocks.”
Daeron rolls his eyes, and looks at you. His eyes are soft in his sobriety, and they appear clearer as they drag across your body. The smile that crosses his face is nothing short of satisfying as an obviously pleasing thought crosses his mind.
“I’m sure the lady would share hers with her prince,” he utters, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes.
You notice that Dunk doesn’t react with words, but you recognise the way the muscles of his back shift as he stills in his saddle, shoulders hunching as his grip goes white-knuckled on the reins.
You reply to Daeron to ease your poor knight. “I will gladly give mine up. I will share Dunk’s—it would be a tight fit, but I think we’d manage.”
Dunk’s ears go bright pink.
Daeron runs the point of his tongue across his bottom lip, saying nothing more.
DAY EIGHT
The three of you pass through a small village to replenish your inventory. Dunk heads into the market, and you sit with Daeron on a hill overlooking the open field dotted with stalls. He yawns and tips to the side, resting his cloaked head against your shoulder. Birdsong fills the air overhead, the sky a brilliant blue and the grass beneath you soft and lush with drying dew.
Daeron’s body is warm beside yours, and you feel your body sway with each of his inhales and exhales as Dunk’s large figure vanishes from view. You should tell the prince that what he is doing is considerably improper, that he shouldn’t be resting his head against the shoulder of a common woman. But, as you sit atop the grassy hill, you realise that he is as much a common man with the cloak over his head as you are a common woman. So you stay silent.
“You smell heavenly,” Daeron suddenly says, and the abrupt break in silence nearly makes you jump in fright. “Like… honeycakes.”
You scoff, rather unladylike, but it settles and you don’t feel guilty about it. “I haven’t bathed in eight days.”
“You bathed in the river two days ago.”
“Without soap,” you reply, then nod towards the market. “Dunk is getting me more.”
Daeron hums. “Does he know which kind you like best?”
The question feels odd. It feels as though it had been pushed out into the open after a long period of sitting in the shadows.
“Dunk knows everything about me,” you whisper, fidgeting with the rope belt that hangs from your waist. The fibres are soft and well-spun beneath your fingers compared to the coarse thickness of Dunk’s belt. When Daeron doesn’t respond, you continue. “I have known him for many years, your grace.”
“So you must know he cares for you?”
There’s a tight knot in your belly. It’s so heavy you feel you might sink into the soft grass beneath you; you might fall back into the dirt and it will consume you like flesh from a carcass.
“Of course,” you say quietly. “He is my closest friend.”
“Ah.” Daeron clears his throat, still leaning against your shoulder. “He cares for you more than that, m’lady. I know it.”
“You know nothing.”
Daeron peels himself away from you, his eyes finding yours and mirroring the bright blue of the sky above. He peers at you like he’s known you all his life. There’s a comfort that crosses between you, and he leans back on his hands, eyes never leaving yours.
“I know plenty,” he says. “I have spent years frequenting the Street of Silk. I know what lust looks like in the eyes of men, m’lady, just as much as I know what love looks like.”
You feel yourself growing hot beneath the low collar of your dress. You look away. “You cannot speak of such things with me. It is improper.”
Daeron laughs. “I recall it was you who found my openness endearing.”
You suck your teeth, withholding a scornful reply.
The prince continues, undeterred. He says your name, soft as silk. “The hedge knight is in love with you.”
You don’t look at him. Or maybe you can’t.
“I know what love looks like,” Daeron echoes his earlier words. “And that man… looks at you how my father looked at my mother.”
You finally turn to him then. His eyes are cast downhill and there’s an almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. Ivory teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip as he loses himself in thought, and you go against all of your common sense and place a comforting hand against his knee. That breaks whatever stupor he was in, for he looks over at you as if you’d just saved him from drowning.
“Dunk is in love with you,” Daeron says like the words hurt coming out.
You nod.
It’s not as though you didn’t notice the way the hedge knight reacted to you: the way he reacted to your touch, to your attention, to your words. You knew how red he got when you insisted you bathe together, and you knew how hard it was for him to keep his eyes rooted to the riverbed as the water flowed around you. You knew how much he liked it when you complimented him, when you praised him, and you knew he keened like a proud dog when you applauded his strength or his bravery. You knew how obsessed he was in making sure you were safe, how consistent he was in checking your saddle before each ride, or sweeping the inn before your sporadic stays.
“I know.” You finally find your voice. “I suppose it sounds strange coming from another person. Especially…”
Daeron grins. “A prince?”
You chuckle. “Yeah.”
Daeron hums, and you realise your hand is still on his knee. You remove it, and you could have sworn he almost looked offended.
“So… what does lust look like?” You decide to ask, the question almost too loud in the natural silence that fell between the two of you.
Daeron looks you up and down, smile slowly slinking away. He meets your eyes. “You’d know.”
DAY NINE
You wash yourself the next morning with the honey wax soap Dunk had brought you—the soap you always sought out each time you found yourselves perusing stalls of village markets. You are by yourself in the slow-moving stream, willows framing the banks with their low-hanging branches, their sage-coloured leaves brushing the clear water. You can hear the low voices of Dunk and Daeron a little upstream, who are lounging half-naked against the shingled bank.
The water is cool around your waist as you lather the soap across your arms, beneath them, then over your breasts. Yellowish bubbles cover your skin as you scrub yourself with a pumice next, then dip yourself beneath the surface to rinse. When you rise and wipe the water from your eyes, you find Dunk approaching along the bank with his head lowered.
“Hi, Dunk,” you greet him, wading towards the bank, the waterline sinking lower, lower, and lower still.
Dunk clears his throat. He holds your fresh clothes in his hands, folded neatly. He holds them out to you, his eyes on the rocks at his feet as his cheeks slowly turn pink. You smile when you leave the stream, bare to the forest around you.
You stand right in front of him, just as you always did. “Thank you, Dunk.”
“S’alright,” he mutters. His ears were pink too. No matter how long you had known each other, he still found himself heating up each time you approached him like this. He holds your clothes out. “I’ve washed your other dress and the lot. They’re drying.”
“Thank you,” you say again, taking your chemise from the top of the pile. You shake the excess water off yourself, feeling almost foolishly like a dog, before unfurling the garment.
“Dunk, I lost your soap in the stream,” came Daeron’s voice, and you yelp as one of Dunk’s hands shot out to grab your upper arm.
He settles you directly in front of him, shielding you from the approaching prince with the mass of his body. Still holding your dress in one hand, he holds you firm with the other as he tosses his head over his shoulder, watching as a stark-naked Daeron stumbles over the rocky shore. You giggle, catching a brief glimpse of the prince’s pale body before Dunk is shifting you closer to his chest, hiding you.
“Well, dive down and get it,” Dunk says a bit too roughly.
“Your grace,” you greet, unable to see him, but you stick a bare arm to the side and offer him a wave from behind the wall of Dunk.
Dunk pulls you closer until you’re pushed right against him. You suck in a breath, your bare tits squishing against the strong pudge of his abdomen.
“I will get the soap, just wait downstream,” Dunk growls out, and you feel the reverberations through his body as it passes through your bones.
You can’t see the prince, but he’s smiling. The smile on his face is so brazen that Dunk feels the need to haul a large rock in his direction. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds you to him until the prince turns on his heel and retreats back around the willow, his bare arse on show.
Only when Daeron has disappeared does Dunk realise how he’s handling you. His ears go even redder—if that was even possible—and he immediately guides you away from him. He drops his arms, but doesn’t move, his eyes on the stream.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean—”
“Do not apologise.” You slip your chemise over your head and let it settle against the curves of your frame. “You saved my decency.”
You take your dress from him next, and he waits patiently, listening as you pull yourself into it. After a moment listening to you huff as you tug the material to sit on your body the way you want, he feels a hand on his chest.
“Dunk,” you say gently, turning to show him your back. He finally looks at you. “Can you tie my back please?”
Dunk has done this a million times. He might just be better than any lady in waiting. Besides, you feel more like a princess with him anyway.
You wait, the soles of your feet resting against rocks as you feel his hands descend on you, taking the ribbons of your dress. He slowly begins to thread them, following the pattern. With each curl, his fingers brush against you, and you purse your lips, Daeron’s words echoing around your skull like the bells of a sept.
Love. That single word sticks to the grooves of your brain as Dunk’s fingers warm against the covered skin of your back.
After a moment, he finishes and ties the ribbons off, taking a deliberate step back.
“There,” he announces as you spin back around. He can look at you now. “Perfect.”
DAY ELEVEN
“Surely we can reward ourselves with a night in an inn?” Daeron queries, both hope and fatigue noticeable in his words.
The day had been particularly strenuous. You had reached the Stormlands, and Dunk was insistent on pressing on for as long as possible.
The morning had started freezing and wet: rain lashing the earth, sky heavy with clouds that would alight periodically with white flashes of lightning. Dunk had opted to remove Thunder’s saddle then, storing it on Chestnut and pulling you to sit before him—much more comfortable bareback than to attempt to squeeze the both of you between the saddlehorn and the firm lip at the back. His thick body shielded you from much of the rain that flailed in from behind, and he bundled you against his chest, warming you as much as he could.
By midday, the clouds had cleared but the wind had found you. Strong gales blew through the valley, and Dunk kept you in the fortress of his arms. Daeron groaned as he rode beside you both, complaining as the wind billowed his cloak and pushed his hair into his eyes. He was wet and cold and princes shouldn’t get wet and cold, he had argued.
The wind thankfully died by the afternoon, but the rain sought you all out again. The droplets were thin but icy, and poor Thunder looked miserable with his mane flattened across his face and his hooves caked in mud. The kingsroad had long churned to mud and the journey seemed to drag on and on forever.
Evening passed and the rain ceased, and when night fell and a small scattering of illuminated buildings appeared out of the gloom, Daeron almost shouted with joy.
“It’s been a long day,” Daeron continues, casting Dunk a pointed look.
Dunk sighs through his nose, sparing a look down to where you are slumped against his chest. You wear his cloak over top of your own, bundled beneath the thick fabric. Your eyes are closed and you breathe softly, one of his strong arms wrapping around your middle.
Almost in agreement, both Thunder and Chestnut let out simultaneous snorts.
And when he feels you shiver against him, his mind is made up.
“Fine,” he says, and Daeron beams in the semi-darkness. But he’s not doing this for him. He’s doing it for you.
A few minutes later, Dunk is gently shaking you awake as Thunder trots towards the inn’s stables. You stir with a little whine, and Dunk feels something lurch in his chest.
And in his trousers.
“What’re we doing?” You ask, sitting up slightly and rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. You blink and look around, noting the inn and the wafting aroma of a warm cooked meal.
Dunk carefully extracts himself and slips off of Thunder, Daeron gladly dismounting his own palfrey as a stableboy approaches. Dunk turns and lifts his arms as he so often did when the two of you rode together. You offer him a lazy smile in thanks, your hands finding the pillowy muscles of his biceps as his hands find your waist.
His hands are strong and wide against you. He hefts you like you weigh little more than a babe, bringing you down to earth as your dress and cloaks billow around you. Daeron watches the interaction from afar, leaning back against his horse as Dunk’s hands remain on your sides and yours remain on his biceps. The knight’s eyes flit across your face and land on your mouth for a second too long, your bodies a hair’s breadth apart.
Behind Dunk, Daeron groans. He hands the reins of his horse to the stableboy and tosses him a dragon. The stableboy’s eyes widen as he clasps the coin in one dirty hand, and Dunk turns to shoot Daeron an incredulous look.
“Should you be flashing that kind of coin ‘round here?” Dunk hisses. His hands leave your waist, but you tiredly chase the contact: your arms wrapping around one of his, face smushing into his upper arm.
Daeron casts the stableboy a bored look, who is now taking both Thunder and Chestnut as well. Daeron points between the horses as the stableboy looks up at him, eyes wide. “Make sure they all get oats. And an apple—” he turns to Dunk. “—Do horses eat apples?”
You hum, too tired to respond, but Dunk does anyway. “Yeah, I’spose, but—”
Daeron’s already turning back to the stableboy, who looks no older than ten. “Yes, make sure they get oats and an apple.”
The stableboy nods and hurries away with the horses, and Dunk can’t help but watch them go with guilt lodged in his throat.
Daeron saunters towards you, and the knight startles when the prince hooks his hands around his free arm.
“C’mon then, Ser Duncan,” Daeron drags out, tugging the knight along. “I long for an actual mattress.”
Inside, Dunk makes it apparent that Daeron was not leaving his sight, no matter how much the prince begged for his own room. To Dunk, he would rather sleep on the floor whilst the prince got a comfortable bed, than risk sleeping in another room and allow the prince a chance of escape.
“You treat me like a prisoner,” Daeron grumbles as Dunk shoulders open the stiff door to your room for the night.
“You run, I chase,” Dunk says. “And I really don’t feel like chasing you.”
The room is cramped but warm. The ceiling is low, which Dunk found out too late when he bumped the crown of his head against a wooden beam. Two beds are crammed into the small space: one with a wrought-iron frame and a plush straw mattress, big enough for two people, and another tucked in the corner which was short and narrow and obviously intended for a child. On the other side of the room, a crudely made wooden chair with a singular pillow placed on the seat.
Dunk says your name gently, and you stir where you continue to lean into the softness of his arm. “You’ll take the large bed.”
Daeron gapes as he sheds his cloak. He then gestures to the child’s bed. “I am not sleeping on that.”
Dunk grunts. “You’ll sleep where I tell you.”
Daeron huffs and crosses the room. He sits on the edge of the larger bed and crosses his arms over his chest.
You giggle, unwinding yourself from your hedge knight and slipping off both his cloak and your own that obscure your body. You place them both on a hook near the door. You turn to Dunk, offering him your back after slipping your shoes and stockings off.
“May you untie me, ser?” You ask him quietly, and Daeron’s eyes snap over to you both.
Dunk ignores the prince and gets to work. Tenderly, he undoes the ties at the back of your dress, and you hum to yourself all the while. Daeron’s stopped sulking, and he observes the blush high on Dunk’s cheeks as the hedge knight loosens your garment. He also notices the way the dress’ collar slips down, revealing more of your chest and the upper slope of your breasts. He swallows thickly, and feels something stir deep inside him as your dress falls away and you are left in your chemise.
“Thank you,” you say, bending to gather your dress. Your arse is so close to brushing Dunk’s pelvis that his breath hitches and he nearly chokes on it. When you right yourself and cross the room to hang up your dress, Dunk shoots Daeron a look. The prince just smirks. You return. “I don’t mind sleeping on the smaller bed.”
Dunk shakes his head. “No. You’ll sleep here. The prince is fine on the child’s bed.”
“No, I am not.” Daeron lies back on the large bed.
Dunk scowls as you giggle and approach the bed. You crawl onto it until you’re lying beside Daeron, and the prince turns his head to watch you clamber beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. Gritting his teeth, Dunk sits down in the old wooden chair. He should rip you away from the prince, scold you for being so close, banish the dreamer to the corner of the room like a petulant child.
But he doesn’t. He just watches.
“We can share,” you mutter, laying on your side.
Dunk’s heart tightens, and his jaw works as the muscles there tense. “No, you will not.”
Daeron mirrors your position, eyes glimmering in the candlelight as he blatantly ignores the larger man. “How kind of you.”
Dunk leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. “Daeron, get off the bed.”
Daeron’s eye flick over to Dunk. “Oh, the first name. Am I in trouble?”
“You’re about to be. Get off the bed.”
You sit up a little and look over your shoulder at your hedge knight. His cheeks are pink, there’s a light sheen of sweat glistening high on his forehead, and you note the shuddering in his shoulders as he sucks in a deep, calming breath. He looks even larger in the shadows: tall and wide and so, so big.
“The lady said we can share,” Daeron says, and you support his statement with a nod. If Dunk didn’t love you so, he would have reprimanded you too. A cat-like smile creeps across the prince’s face after a moment of tense silence, and Dunk’s heart leaps into his throat when Daeron’s hand closes around your chin and forces you to look at him. “We can share, can’t we?”
You nod. “Yes.”
Daeron mock pouts, thumb stroking the soft curve of your jaw. “Well… what about Dunk? Can he share with us too? We both know that bed will be much too small for him.”
You nod again, humming. “Mhm.”
Daeron turns back to Dunk, still holding your chin. “There we go, ser. She says we can all share the bed. How lovely is that?”
Dunk’s half hard.
He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does. He can see every curve of your body as you lay on the bed in your thin chemise, and he can see the way you react to the prince’s touch. His cock stirs in his breeches, and the prince’s soft goading is not helping. That scares him a little, and he suddenly feels the need to drink several pints of ale.
Daeron shifts to look at you. His pupils are so wide his eyes appear black, and there’s a flush on his cheekbones that gives you butterflies. He doesn’t look like a prince, with his hair tucked out of his face, a healing scar dashed across his cheekbone. You want to touch it.
So you do.
You raise a hand and bring your fingers to his cheek, feeling the raised skin there. Behind you, Dunk growls out your name, but it feels less a warning of don’t touch and more a warning of be careful. Daeron’s eyes droop, blond lashes fluttering as you run your thumb over the healed laceration. A small sound leaves him, and you catch his throat bobbing as his head chases the contact of your fingers.
Dunk should rip the two of you away from each other. He’s fighting with himself, fighting with his duty. He should be protecting your honour, your virtue as a lady, but he should also be protecting whatever honour a prince like Daeron has left. That crosses his mind, and he frowns, then his thoughts shift. Daeron has been in more whore houses than Dunk has slept in hedges—he’s slept in a lot of hedges—and suddenly, he feels queasy. The prince is dirty. Surely he’s diseased. Surely if you touch him, you will—
He hears you whimper.
He snaps himself from his daze, and his heart drops into his stomach.
You’re kissing the prince.
Still cupping Daeron’s face, you both move at the same time. When your mouths meet, you whimper, and a whine-like noise slips from Daeron’s throat too. His lips are warm and surprisingly plush, and they move against yours like he’s done this a thousand times. His tongue flicks across your lips, and you part for him, allowing him to lick into your mouth and slide his tongue across your own. You whimper again, and one of his hands finds the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.
The chair groans as Dunk springs to his feet.
Daeron pulls away, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his body as Dunk looms over the bed. The prince smiles as you pant, and Dunk’s fury is reflected in his blue eyes.
Dunk’s fists clench at his sides. “Stop.”
Daeron dips his head and kisses you again. You whine, and the sound spears right through Dunk’s heart. You kiss Daeron and taste the salt of dinner and the lingering wine from his flask. He licks over your teeth, and you try to keep up, something hot and honey-thick pooling in the base of your belly as you press against him.
Dunk calls your name. You pull out of the kiss and Daeron peppers kisses from the corner of your mouth and down your throat as you peer up to look at your knight.
“Please,” Dunk whispers, knees knocking against the mattress where he stands. “Please don’t do this.”
You pout as Daeron sucks harshly at a particularly soft spot at the hollow of your throat. “Dunk, I… I want this.”
Dunk chews his lip, brows furrowing. “But… I…”
That makes your heart stutter. You use all your strength to push Daeron away from you, and you roll towards Dunk, your chemise riding up the thick of your thighs. You kneel on the mattress, ignoring Daeron’s whines as your hands find Dunk’s chest. His fingers wrap around your wrists. He’s burning hot.
“Dunk,” you whisper, craning your head.
Dunk goes shy under your gaze. You look at him like he’s so much smaller, so much more noble, so much less of the giant oaf he’s always been told he was.
You look at him like you love him.
“Dunk,” you repeat, and he finally meets your eyes without breaking. You give him a soft smile and he swears he may melt. “Dunk, my sweet knight. Please let me have this.”
Dunk frowns. “I’d let you have anything, just… not this. Not him.”
Daeron lets out a small noise of offence.
You caress Dunk’s chest, feeling the soft muscle and the rapid beating of his heart. “I know, I know, but Dunk, my sweet boy, please. I want this, okay? I want this… and I want you, too. I want—gods, I want both of you.”
You don’t need to turn around to know Daeron is smiling like a dragon atop a horde of gold and glitter.
Dunk seizes like he’s been struck. “What?”
You don’t back down. You’re too far in to retreat like some fair maiden. “I love you, Dunk. And I want you. I want you, and I want Daeron.”
“Where…?” Dunk frowns, shaking his head. “Where is this coming from?”
“From deep within, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chimes in behind you, and you glance back to see how he’s lounging against the bed like a cat. He gives you a wink, one of his hands pressed flat to the front of his trousers, barely concealing the pitching tent there. He continues smoothly. “Your pretty lady is not the maiden you think she is.”
Dunk scowls at the prince. “Do not speak of her as if she is one of your whores.”
Daeron laughs, and you soothe Dunk with more pets to his chest.
“I do not kiss my whores, ser,” Daeron says, sounding bored. “I do not kiss them, nor do I particularly like them. They are convenient. Our pretty lady on the other hand…”
Our hits Dunk across the head like a blow from an axe.
He growls, and his hands shoot down to grasp your hips. You suck in a startled gasp as Dunk pulls you into him, your hands pinned against his chest. A pleasant heat is filling your core, and your thighs squeeze together as your heartbeat seems to travel south.
“There is no our,” Dunk spits, and it’s the gruffest you’ve ever heard him. “She is mine—she is my lady, and I will not allow you to treat her like the women in the brothels you frequent.”
Daeron rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, Ser Duncan, I will not speak to her like a Silk Street whore,” he says, looking you up and down. His smile is sinister and it makes you whine, the sound making Dunk’s eyes widen. “But I will fuck her like one.”
Dunk’s eyes flash. “How could—?”
“Dunk,” you plead, and his eyes are on you in an instant. “Please let… let me have you.”
You don’t mention the prince, but Dunk already knows he’s a part of it.
He’s scared. Dunk is scared of whatever the hell he is about to do. He’s scared of whatever he’s saying yes to when he dips his head and slots his mouth to yours, his arms tight at your waist. But you moan into his mouth—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard—and suddenly he’s not scared anymore.
Dunk’s mouth is rougher than Daeron’s. Less coordinated, a bit sloppier, but he’s eager and it makes your cunt clench around nothing as he holds you to him. You lick the seam of his lips and he groans, his mouth opening. Your tongue finds his and they smooth together so naturally it makes you feel faint.
The mattress sinks behind you, and suddenly another warm body is pressing to your back. You whimper into Dunk’s mouth when Daeron’s hands ghost around your ribs. He cups your tits through the material of your chemise, his thumb and forefingers finding where your nipples harden beneath the fabric. His mouth draws against the curve of your shoulder, tongue licking the neckline of your chemise. You feel his hard cock against you, the tent in his trousers pushing tightly against the plush curve of your arse as your hands work across Dunk’s chest.
You drag your hands down Dunk’s soft belly, finding the hem of his tunic and tugging on it. Dunk extracts himself from the kiss with a disgruntled huff, pupils blown wide as he yanks his tunic over his head one-handed. You bite your lip, smiling as you drag your hands across his stomach, beneath the curve of his pecs, up and over his freckled shoulders, then all the way back down. Dunk bends to kiss you again. This time, it’s him licking forward, tongue passing heavily over yours, tasting honey on your gums.
Daeron grinds himself against you, and you can’t help but moan at the warmth of him pressing against the split of your arse. Your chemise rides up, revealing the backs of your thighs, and Daeron takes that as an invitation to slip the hemline up, up, up until he can settle the bare material above your arse.
He groans, one hand moving to cup one of your arsecheeks as he ruts himself against you. You pull away from Dunk’s mouth to sigh out and lean back into the contact. Dunk huffs and shifts, noticing the prince’s actions.
Fuck it.
He takes your chemise and rips it over your head. You yelp as it flies over your head and disappears somewhere in the room, leaving you completely bare and pinned between the two men. They’re both mostly clothed and searing hot against you. It makes you dizzy.
Dunk doesn’t avert his eyes like he usually does. He takes a step back and allows his eyes to rake down your body, following the dips and curves. He groans, falling to his knees, and you gasp out, taking hold of his shoulders as he kneels beside the bed.
He presses a kiss to your stomach. To the spot above your navel. Then he heads lower, with his hands on your hips, and kisses down your navel and along the curve of your lower belly. You whimper, Daeron still kneading your tits and grinding himself against the cleft of your arse as Dunk’s breath fans across your stomach before he’s kissing directly over your mound.
You keen, head bent to watch Dunk sink even lower.
He moans, eyes finding yours through his lashes. His eyes find your thighs next.
“Can I?” He asks around a whisper, and you reply by spreading your thighs. Daeron helps you, holding you steady as your legs part and your slick core meets the warm air of the room. Dunk moans again as his eyes find your slit. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”
Daeron hums in agreement, still rocking his hips against your arse, his fingers rolling your nipples in small circles. You’re leaning back against him, neck craned for him to lick and suckle at the sensitive skin between your neck and shoulder.
Dunk angles his face forward, and you squirm when his nose presses between your folds, followed closely by the warm press of his lips. He splits you and breathes in, his own exhale hinged around a whine that vibrates through you. You grip his shoulders tightly.
Daeron chuckles, leaning his chin on your shoulder and looking down at the big man hunched before you. “You ever eaten pussy, ser?”
The crudeness of it has heat flaring through you, and you have half the mind to close your thighs around Dunk’s face. Dunk ignores the prince as his tongue unfurls and slides between your silken folds, sliding up and down. You cry out his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth before letting it go with a slick pop, only to follow the movement with a few chaste kisses, then he’s dragging his tongue back down again. He repeats this several times until you’re trembling, and he finally, finally, curls his tongue around your hole.
You suck in a breath, and Daeron chuckles again. “Clearly you have.”
Dunk pulls back, lips ghosting over you, just enough to mutter out, “I‘ve never,” before delving straight back in.
Your head falls back even further as your moans fill the room. Most of them writhe around the syllables of Dunk’s name. A stuttered whine of “you’re doing so good” has his cock tugging painfully at the seam of his breeches, pre-cum wetting the fabric.
Meanwhile, Daeron is back to licking and biting across your shoulder. He’s switched sides now, and the hand which had been fondling the fat of your arse shifts. It curls, like a serpent, around your hip then over your lower belly. It passes across your mound, then dips lower until a finger presses to the puffy bead of your clit.
Your eyes fly open. “Daeron.”
“S’alright…” He whispers, kissing the pulse beneath your ear as he wriggles his finger between your pussy and Dunk’s face. He hears Dunk grunt, but ignores him. Instead, the prince slowly starts rubbing firm circles against your clit. “This feel good?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, Daeron’s finger on your clit and Dunk’s tongue sliding into your cunt. Heat fills your stomach, sweat building along your spine, your hips twitching.
Dunk’s hands on your thighs find your hips as his mouth moves against your pussy. He holds you upright, stopping you from toppling off the bed. You anchor yourself on his strong shoulders too, and you find yourself closing your eyes as your body begins to thrum with pleasure. That familiar feeling begins to build inside you: tight in your abdomen, surging down your spine and weaving between vertebrae. Building, building, heat blooming in your belly, a teeth-splitting tightness that stretches across the front of your womb.
Daeron’s long hair tickles your shoulder and the side of your face. You feel his heart hammering between your shoulder blades, and you suddenly realise he’s half-naked. You don’t recall him ever taking his shirt off.
He grinds his cock against you, panting against your neck as his finger works circles across your clit. “You feeling good, sweet girl? Is Dunk making you feel good?”
“Uh-huh,” you breathe, stiffening in his arms. Dunk’s tongue shoves deep inside you, the thick muscle splitting you open. His mouth is burning hot against you too. And Daeron’s finger is incessant on your clit, your hips bucking to meet the movements. “Oh, gods, fuck, m’gonna—m’gonna—”
“That’s it,” Daeron whispers. “That’s it. Let it happen.”
The tightness in your belly snaps clean in half. Heart stuttering in your chest, you release with a sob of both of their names. It fills the space like a chant as you come, your fingers digging deep into the freckled flesh of Dunk’s shoulders as his tongue laps up the slick that threatens to drool out of you. Daeron strokes you through it too. Your body shakes against his, pleasure white-hot at the ends of your nerves as he gently rocks his cock against your plush arse. Your thighs clamp around Dunk’s head, and a deep moan rips out of his chest. He pulls away from you, kissing your thighs as he retreats. Daeron slips his hand away.
Dunk’s face is slick with you. “Gods, sweetheart…”
Daeron grins down at the knight over your shoulder. “Good?”
Dunk doesn’t respond. He sits higher on his knees and spreads your thighs once more. Two thick fingers swipe through your slick folds, splitting your pussy open. You whine, arching against Daeron as Dunk’s fingers find your hole.
And sink inside.
There’s a small aching stretch, and you hiss around the intrusion. Dunk mutters a sincere apology, kissing your stomach, but his fingers don’t relent. He pushes them in, stretching you open, curling and flicking and sinking deep. You take him to the knuckle, and he coos at you. Daeron kisses you on the cheek, feeling your body tighten.
“Easy, easy…” Daeron says against the warm skin of your cheek. He kisses you there again, his stubble scratching the soft skin.
Dunk sucks in a deep breath. “Gods, you’re so tight.”
He pulls his fingers out, then gently pushes them back in.
“F-fuck,” you curse, fingernails pressing crescents into Dunk’s shoulders. “Dunk, oh my gods—”
Daeron grabs your chin and twists your head around. He slides his mouth against yours then whines into the contact, and you mirror the sound with heat returning to your womb. Dunk watches your mouths connect with his brows knitting together and a solid weight in the base of his tummy. As your mouths move together, he catches glimpses of tongue, pushing and pulling, and his cock jerks in his breeches. He groans low as his eyes find your pussy again, and he focuses on where you take his fingers.
He leans forward then, fingers crooking deep inside you, and presses his mouth back to your clit. He suckles gentle, watching you the entire time, and he relishes in the way your hips buck and you pant into the prince’s mouth. A low whine flees the confines of your mouth, and it makes Dunk’s cock leak against the material of his breeches. But Daeron is quick to chase your noises, his tongue bullying between your lips and licking the sounds from you.
Daeron serves the blistering heat in your belly: his teeth drag along your lip, his tongue sliding along the points of your teeth; he clutches your jaw in a warm hand, and his chest is just as warm pressed against your bare back. His cock strains heavily in his breeches, and he’s positive that if he doesn’t free himself in the next few minutes, the fabric will rip open.
“Ser Duncan,” Daeron addresses the hedge knight when he pulls back from the kiss.
Dunk looks up, two thick fingers continuous in their movements. You feel the sword callouses at the base of his inner knuckle and the rub makes you keen.
“Might we bring this to bed?” Daeron asks, rubbing his hand down your side in soothing strokes. “I think our lady is ready for us, don’t you think?”
Dunk grunts, begrudgingly sliding his face out of your pussy. He slowly pulls his fingers from you too, then gives your clit one last pet as he slides them across your folds. You whine at the loss of contact, pussy fluttering around nothing as the hedge knight gets to his feet, the floorboards beneath him groaning.
Behind you, Daeron squeezes the fat of your hips before the warmth of his body retreats. He shuffles up to the head of the bed, resting himself amongst the fraying pillows. You let him sit for a moment, focusing on your knight. Your valiant, noble knight.
Your hands find the thick mass of his shoulders as he hulks over the edge of the bed, and you whine as you tug him down. He obeys without a second thought, allowing you to slam his mouth onto yours. You moan, tasting yourself on his tongue, his lower face sticky with your remnants. Dunk’s hands find your back and he pins you to him, groaning low in his throat as he kisses you. Gently, he rubs his clothed cock against your pelvis, and the weight and shape has you stilling, body on fire.
“Dunk,” you whisper against his mouth, one of your hands finding his hair and taking a fistful. “I love you.”
Dunk shudders as you scratch his scalp. His heart leaps out of his chest at your words, and he can’t help the string of whimpers that escape him knowing that you love him. You love him.
“I love you,” he says, then kisses you. It’s sloppier and meaner in a way he didn’t intend. He tries to pass on all of his feelings, but they’ve been bottled up for so long that your teeth clink together and your tongues mash without rhythm. It still makes you moan though, and he pulls out of the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “I love you.”
That makes you giddy.
Behind you, Daeron moans. It’s hinged half on pleasure and half on impatience.
“I could watch the two of you kiss all evening,” the prince drawls, palming himself through his breeches. When did he take his trousers off? “But I really, really don’t want to wait any longer. I have been told patience is not my strongest attribute—”
You tune him out, turning your body, then looking back over your shoulder at Dunk.
His ice-blue eyes are on you, but they’re dark with desire. His hands fidget with the ties of his breeches, as if warring with himself. But he can’t hide the large imprint of his hard cock in his breeches, and he can’t hide the fact he’d kicked his trousers off some time ago. His eyes roll down your naked back and a small sigh leaves him. He looks over at Daeron next, who is unlacing the ties of his own breeches as he watches the scene in front of him unfold.
You face Daeron. He looks especially regal against the pillows: his golden locks spread around his head like a halo, or maybe a crown, his bare chest bathed orange by the candlelight. But his eyes are almost animal with the way his pupils dilate and the irises all but vanish.
“How do you want me, my prince?” You ask him as he shucks his breeches off.
His hard cock falls free, slapping back against his stomach when he fists himself, fingers wrapping around the base. The head is ruddy and flushed red with blood, and your eyes trail along a prominent vein on the underside.
Daeron moans in response, eyes flitting between you and the towering mass of man behind you. The surface of his chest flushes with his arousal as his heart rate increases. He sits up further against the pillows, then pats his thigh.
“You’re going to be good and come and take your prince’s cock,” he says, then looks at Dunk. “And you’re going to open your mouth nice and wide for Ser Duncan, okay?”
You bite your lip as you smile and crawl across the bed to him, your tits swaying as you do. Daeron groans at the sight, twisting his hand around his cock, base to tip a few times, before you close in. He dips his head to kiss you, his free hand seizing the base of your jaw as his tongue bullies past your lips. When you break the kiss, the room around you glows with candlelight. Orange, amber. Shadows distort around you in an almost dream-like state.
Then, Daeron spins you. He manoeuvres you until your back is to him, and you kneel between his spread legs. You lock eyes with Dunk now, who slowly clambers onto the bed. The mattress protests beneath his weight, but he slides over the sheets until he’s kneeling in front of you. Daeron hums, obviously pleased, and leans forward.
He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of your shoulder in a playful bite as he drags the head of his cock down the split of your arse. You yelp at the contact, but something clenches in your belly.
“Daeron,” Dunk warns, his voice an even timbre in the relative silence of the room.
Daeron groans his response, then laves his tongue across the little indents he had bitten into your shoulder. His other hand clasps his cock tightly before he leans back and gathers saliva in the front of his mouth. With a gentle hand to the middle of your back, he carefully bends you forward until you fall into Dunk.
Dunk’s next movements are automatic: he holds you tenderly, large hands massaging your sides. He does this while Daeron leans back and spits down the crack of your arse, the sensation sudden and surprising and forcing a moan from the depths of your chest. Daeron smiles to himself as you whine, nuzzling your face between Dunk’s pecs as he presses the head of his cock against your cunt.
Your hole is slick and glistening, wet with your arousal and the remnants of Dunk’s spit. It makes his cock twitch, and he circles the fluttering hole a few times before he gives it a few solid slaps with his tip.
“Such a pretty girl,” Daeron whispers, running the head of his cock through your folds as you squirm in Dunk’s hold. He rubs your back, then takes hold of your hip. “Now be a good girl and help Ser Duncan out of his trousers.”
You do as you’re told.
With Dunk supporting you, blush sticky on his cheeks, you untie the knots at the top of his breeches. When you loosen the strings, you help the large man shuck them down past his hips until his cock can fall out. You whine, hard cock flopping against his thick thigh, slit wet with pre-cum and a lurid red that makes desire coil tightly in your gut. Sure, you’ve seen Dunk’s cock before, but it’s a whole lot different when you’re about to suck it.
You lean in and wrap a hand around the base.
Dunk’s breath hitches, his entire body shuddering. “Oh, gods, sweetheart.”
The tip of Daeron’s cock pushes in, and you mewl loudly. It pulls you apart in the best way and you find yourself becoming dizzy with need as Dunk’s warm cock rests against your cheek. It pumps hot with blood, and you angle your head to press a line of lazy kisses up the shaft, over the dip of his frenulum, and onto the head. He hisses at the exact time Daeron groans, the head of the prince’s cock swallowed by the wet clutch of your cunt.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the prince rambles, pausing momentarily. This reprieve gives you the chance to dribble across the head of Dunk’s big cock and chase it. You tongue the weeping slit, and the shaky moan that leaves the hedge knight’s mouth has your pussy clamping vice-like around Daeron. The prince breathes out, gripping your hip before slowly feeding more of his cock into you. “That’s it, that’s it, here we go…”
Dunk sucks in a breath, a large hand finding the back of your neck as your lips suck around the tip. “Easy, easy, sweet girl, be gentle…”
You hum, looking up at your hedge knight with glassy eyes. He returns the watery gaze and groans again, and you take the opportunity to hollow your cheeks and drag your mouth down his cock. Dunk’s chest shudders as he holds you, the muscles of his soft abdomen contracting. Behind you, Daeron holds your hips as he slowly pushes in. Deeper than before.
Dunk down your throat, you choke on a moan. Daeron’s smiling to himself as he splits you apart, cock spreading your pussy open with each pull outward. On the outstroke, Daeron keeps just the head of his cock inside you, waiting for just a second too long before pulling you back on to him. He does this a few times, and it has your body burning hot beneath your skin, that knot in your lower belly reappearing.
The bed creaks softly, the poorly-made frame scratching against the wooden floor. Daeron grunts and groans behind you, one of his hands reaching forward to run up and down your spine, feeling the dip and the sweat-slick skin there. His other hand pulls you back against his cock, which punches up towards your cervix as you arch, taking him deeper.
You slide your tongue along the vein on the underside of Dunk’s shaft, and you look up when he moans your name. You exchange another look, each mirroring each other’s desperation—feelings long withheld as you suckle around the head before forcing yourself back down. You taste the musk of his precum dribbling along the flat of your tongue. His cock twitches too, as if he’s been on the edge of release since the moment you put your mouth on him.
Daeron shoves into you, his rhythm firm but unhurried. So princely, resting up against the pillows, legs spread, one hand on your hip as he helps you fuck yourself onto him. The fat of your arse moves with you, and the hand once on your spine finds one of your arsecheeks. He grabs the flesh, kneads it between pale fingers, before pulling the hand back and bringing it down with a loud smack.
That earns a reaction from both you and Dunk.
You pull off the bigger man’s cock with a slick pop, a moan falling from your lips straight away as your spine dips. Dunk’s cock slaps against your cheek as your eyes close, and he hisses at the sudden lack of contact, the hand on the back of your neck tightening. His eyes shoot up, finding Daeron already looking at him.
There’s a fox-like smile on his blushed face, and Dunk watches with furrowed brows as the prince lands another audible smack to the flesh of your arse, still rolling you back onto his cock.
Dunk growls. “Do not put your hand—”
“She likes it, Ser Duncan,” Daeron utters, his hand rubbing soothing circles across you.
You respond with a small mewl as you desperately shift back to meet Daeron’s thrusts. Dunk’s frown deepens, but he can’t help the way his cock jerks and dribbles against your cheekbone. As he looks over at Daeron, Dunk’s hips jerk involuntarily, his cock sliding wet against your warm cheek. The friction makes him whimper, lips parting, balls drawing tight.
Daeron smiles, watching Dunk rut his cock against your face. He looks down at you next, seeing the pleasure distorted across your features as his cock pulls you closer and closer towards your release. His own pleasure is hot in the pit of his stomach, and he feels it tugging at the base of his spine as his breathing picks up.
“Want to spill inside you,” Daeron whispers suddenly, head falling back, hair brushing his shoulders as he continues to bring you against him, again and again. His words make you moan, eyes fluttering open as you attempt to press kisses to Dunk’s cock—but the giant holds your head still, continuing to ruck his cock across your cheek, making a mess of your face. Daeron hisses, righting his head once more. “Cunt’s so fuckin’ tight—it’d be a waste not to fill it. A waste—a waste of dragon seed to spill—fuck—spill anywhere else.”
You pant. “Daeron, my prince—”
Daeron ignores you. “Come on her face, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk groans. “I—”
“Do what I tell you,” Daeron grits out before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s got his hands on your hips now, squeezing the flesh as he drives you onto his cock.
You moan, your entire body shaking. Your arms have long given up on you as you rest against your forearms, mostly atop Dunk as he rubs his cock against you. It’s warm and wet on your face, and the whiny little pants falling from his lips have pleasure tightening in your belly. Daeron seems to nudge against that knot, over and over again. He’s so deep, the angle sucking him right in, that you can’t help the tears that bead at the corners of your eyes as you whine his name, his title, into the thick warmth of the room.
Dunk comes first. His fingers on your neck squeeze you like the grip of a sword, and the sudden pressure traps your moan in your throat. He calls your name as his cock jerks. Thick ropes of cum splatter over your cheek, dashing high over your forehead as well as he groans and rocks, mattress protesting beneath him. You close your eyes, whining around a whisper of his name, as his seed paints the warmth of your face, and you feel it dribbling when your own orgasm hits you.
You’re not sure how long it’s been since you’ve come this hard. Daeron’s cock deep inside you, the pressure snaps hard in your belly and shoots pleasure right down your legs. You tremble as it overtakes you, back dipping even further as you fall into Dunk’s hold. You knees ache where they bend in the sheets, and a fizzing heat sprints down the cable of your spine while Daeron fucks you through it.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Daeron rambles, movements slowing. He’s barely thrusting anymore, just grinding himself against you.
He groans, and you think it’s supposed to be your name, but it’s lost in his own pleasure. You whisper his name as Dunk pets you, simmering down from his own release, and Daeron groans once more before he’s coming. Just as he said, he spills inside you, shoving himself so deep you swear you can feel him spilling into your belly. It’s hot and thick and almost uncomfortable as you bend and take it, his hips stalling completely and his cock pumping with the beating of his heart.
The prince pulls out after a minute.
As soon as he parts from you, Dunk’s hands are shifting, and he’s pulling you away from Daeron and between his legs as he sits on the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight him off, and you allow him to cradle you to his chest. He kisses the top of your head, but you feel his half-hard cock against your tummy as one of his big hands slides down your back. He palms your arse as he holds you.
“Sweet girl?”
“Hm?”
Dunk places a kiss to the top of your head. “You think you can take my cock?”
The earnestness in his question makes you giggle, and he huffs against you. His hand squeezes the fat of your arse hard, and you yelp, before the world shifts around you once more. You spin until you’re facing a grinning Daeron, who strokes his cock lazily as it hardens in his palm. Dunk grunts as he pushes you back down, and you giggle again as you accept your fate and keel over. Your head finds Daeron’s lap.
“Hi, pretty girl,” he greets you, then bends.
He licks a fat stripe over your cheek, licking Dunk’s seed from your warm skin. You want to squeal, to wiggle away from him, but Dunk is holding your waist as he forcibly pins you into an arch, marvelling at Daeron’s seed dribbling from the clutch of your cunt. Daeron groans low in his throat as he licks, then pushes his tongue into your mouth. One hand finds your jaw and holds you while you kiss. It’s more tongue than anything else, and you taste Dunk. That makes you whimper.
Suddenly, you feel the thick head of Dunk’s cock drag up and down your slit. You pull out of Daeron’s kiss to gasp Dunk’s name, sparing a look over your shoulder. Dunk’s in a trance: his eyes drawn to where your pussy flutters, gaping as Daeron drools from you, down the curve of your inner thigh. His cock is fully hard now, bruising red at the tip as he smears Daeron’s seed through your folds.
The hand on your jaw draws your attention from the hedge knight. Daeron guides the tip of his cock to your mouth.
“Tongue,” he whispers. An order.
You oblige, poking your tongue out just as Dunk notches himself inside you. It’s a tight burn, a pulling intrusion in the base of your womb as your walls part for him. Your tongue slips back into your mouth, pressing to your bottom teeth as you groan. Your entire body shakes, and Daeron huffs above you.
He slaps his cock against your slightly parted lips. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, stick your tongue—oh, yeah, that’s it… good girl.”
You stick your tongue out for him mid-sentence, and he beams. Smile wicked on his face, he slaps the head of his cock against your tongue. It lands heavy and with a loud plap, the sound drawing Dunk’s eyes away from where he’s slowly feeding his cock into you.
Daeron’s head shoots up. Both men freeze.
Dunk’s cheeks are flushed a brilliant red as he and Daeron look at one another. Then, Daeron slowly slides his cockhead along the bumps of your tongue, and he moans ridiculously loud as he slips into the heat of your mouth. At the exact same time, Dunk pushes forward: spearing you on his cock, holding your hips tightly as your pussy opens up around him, walls silken smooth and tight. Both men enter you at the exact same time, eye-contact loud in the silence of the room.
You mewl like a kitten, lips wrapping as your nose is brought flush with the neat thatch of blond hair at the base of the prince’s cock. At the same time, you feel Dunk’s hips come to rest against your arse. They both still again, and you almost pass out.
Dunk breaks the silence first. He groans, and it’s broken around the vowels. “Oh, gods.”
“Can’t believe we waited this long,” Daeron utters, petting your head. He’s still talking to Dunk. “She’s fucking tight, isn’t she?”
Dunk’s brows pinch as he fights to stay still. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you. It makes you whimper, the vibrations thick around Daeron’s cock.
“Y–Yeah,” Dunk stutters.
“Bet she’s wet too, huh?” Daeron cocks his head.
“Yeah,” Dunk whispers, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I can…”
He stops himself with a bashful shake of his head. He’s trembling.
Daeron smiles. “You can what?”
Dunk groans. “I can feel… I can feel her drooling around me.”
You close your eyes, jaw aching as you hold your teeth away from Daeron’s cock. Dunk’s words flush a heat through your veins that makes you dizzy, and you swear you can see tiny little fires igniting, flashing in the black of your closed eyelids.
Dunk decides to move then: he pulls his cock out of you until he’s completely out. He watches, whispering your name like he can’t quite believe it, as your slick dribbles out of you, milky-white with the remnants of Daeron.
The prince watches the knight carefully. He slowly guides your head backwards, then forwards. With surprisingly gentle movements, he moves you up and down. You open your eyes then, gazing up at him as he watches Dunk.
“I want to come before you do,” Daeron says, then suddenly snaps his hips. He shoves himself down your throat, and you choke on it—gagging loudly enough for Dunk, half way inside you again, to freeze. The prince grins. “So be a good lad and hold off, will you?”
Dunk’s top lip curls. “Do that again and you’re out.”
“I don’t know what you mean…” Daeron knows exactly what the knight means.
Dunk pushes in and out, giving a little thrust that drags the prominent vein nicely along your posterior wall. You mewl around Daeron’s cock.
Dunk nods at the prince. “You know what I mean. Do it again and you’re out.”
“Oh, you’d kick a prince out? Into the cold, dark night? That’s not very knightly of you, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chides, then repeats his actions. The flushed tip of his hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears wet along your lower lashes.
“Daeron,” he hisses. “I’ll tie you to that bed and make you watch.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad.”
Dunk pushes in. You whine, suffocating. Daeron feeds his cock right to the back of your throat again, and Dunk feels your cunt clamp tight around him, your entire body descending into shivers as you struggle for air.
That’s it.
With a growl, Dunk hauls you off of the prince and yanks you directly into his lap. You gasp, choking on your own spit, as your back lands hard against Dunk’s warm chest.
Daeron pouts. “That’s not fair.”
Dunk snaps his hips, the angle driving him right against that perfect spot inside you. It knocks a mangled cry from your throat, the noise reverberating off the walls as Daeron watches from his throne of pillows, a heavy dip in his brow. Dunk starts a rhythm, and you can’t do anything but take it. He pulls you down onto his big cock over and over, manhandling you, squeezing the fat of your hips, your thighs, your waist—he’s everywhere and it’s intoxicating.
Daeron sits against the head of the bed with his cock leaking in his hand and a frown etched onto his face. But you know it’s superficial. You can see the glimmer in his eyes as he observes where Dunk’s cock bullies into you. There’s a thick white ring around the base of Dunk’s cock, and the mixture of your slick and the prince’s release dribbles out of you like honey.
There’s a storm brewing in your belly. It’s fiercer than before.
Dunk’s big arms wrap around you. The skin there is mottled with a mosaic of scars and bruises that seem to glow in the orange candlelight. Daeron traces them momentarily before he finds your tits, bouncing as Dunk fucks you, then your face.
“This isn’t fair…” Daeron whispers, but he doesn’t really mean it. He strokes his cock, his movements paced perfectly with Dunk’s thrusts. The prince gazes at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “Look at me, pretty girl. Please.”
Your eyes, previously unfocussed and fluttering as you battle towards your release, find his. His pupils are so wide and the blush on his cheeks has spread to his ears.
“Dunk’s so big, isn’t he?” Daeron whispers.
Dunk groans and you nod desperately. The giant buries his face against your shoulder, sucking and biting, tasting the salt of your skin.
“Yes,” you reply. You feel him so deep, you’re taking him so deep. “Yeah, he is.”
“Where do you feel him?” Daeron asks, and Dunk groans again, almost embarrassed.
You reach a shaky hand down and press a palm flat to the curve of your belly. Daeron follows the movements. He hums around a whine as you press down a little.
“There?” Daeron chokes out as he twists his wrist. “You’re feeling Dunk in your tummy?”
You curse. “Fuck, yeah—yes.”
“You like him there? You want him to fill you?”
Dunk’s entire mass shudders, his hands vice-like on your hips.
You moan, fighting to keep eye-contact with the prince. But it’s proving difficult, pleasure sticking to every fibre of your being. “Daeron.”
“Answer your prince, sweet girl,” he orders softly. “D’you want him to spill inside you? You want him to fill you like I did? You want his cum, don’t you?”
You feel like you’re on fire. Daeron’s words scorch hotter than the flames mounted to the walls of Dragonstone, and you find yourself sparking the embers of your release. Smoke billows, flames rise, your body sets alight.
“Yes.” You feel like you’re begging him, when it’s Dunk fucking you. “Please.”
Dunk groans, nuzzling the skin below your ear. “I’ll give it to you, I promise.”
Across the bed, Daeron smiles. “That’s it…”
You release with a moan, and you’re thankful the strong knight has such a fierce grip on you.
The flames inside overwhelm you and you tumble into your pleasure, body shaking, skin slick with sweat. Your pussy grips tight around the thick of Dunk’s cock, and the sensation knocks the air from your lungs. You pulse around him, hips jerking as he drives into you. He mouths at the skin of your neck, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as you shudder, your eyes falling closed as the energy is sapped from your body.
Dunk and Daeron both spill at the same time. You don’t know it, lying with your eyes closed in Dunk’s muscular arms, but they know it.
Daeron spills across his knuckles with your name on his lips, little whimpers following as he ruts into his fist and chases the tail of it. Splatters streak across his abdomen too, his abs contracting with each small jerk of his fingers. Strands of hair cling to his dewy forehead, and he pants like a dog when his pleasure finally crests and settles.
Dunk comes with a guttural groan. It’s more animal than man, and it vibrates through you, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones. His cock fits deep against the plug of your womb. He’s mumbling something as his hips stutter—take it, take it, sweet girl, jus’ be good and take it—and he completely empties himself inside you.
Before he stills completely, he whispers a whiny “I love you,” straight into your ear.
His hands stroke your sides as you emerge from your bliss. He mouths along your neck, then kisses your cheek, holding you firmly against him as you all settle and the room seems to settle with you. Daeron reclines against the pillows, softening cock slick and resting against one of his strong thighs.
After a moment, he sinks until he’s laying flat on the bed. You open your eyes fully now, blinking away the exhaustion, as you catch the glimmer in the prince’s eyes. He crooks a finger in your direction.
Dunk holds you and answers. “No.”
Daeron scoffs. “I wasn’t asking you.”
“No.”
“S’alright, Dunk…” You turn your head to press a tender kiss to his lips, and he whimpers when you slowly extract yourself from him.
You offer him a similar sound as your pussy gapes, leaking, as you shuffle back up the bed. Dunk gingerly lifts himself off the bed, heading to collect his clothes from the floor, as you clamber over to Daeron, who guides you in straddling his face.
You grip the headboard with a weakened arm. “Daeron, I can’t—”
“It’s okay, sweet girl, m’not gonna be mean,” Daeron coos, taking a gentle hold of your hips and pulling you down. His breath ghosts against your wet core. “Just want a taste, okay? I’ll be so gentle, I promise.”
He watches him and Dunk ooze from you for a second too long—a second too long, because his cock gives a feeble jerk against his thigh—before he brings you down atop his mouth. His tongue licks through your folds once, and when you tell him off through a flurry of high-pitched whines, he drags his tongue down to your hole. He laps up what he can, tasting the dull salinity and the musk and the fresh water. It makes his eyes roll, and he can’t help himself, stuffing his tongue inside you.
Sensitive, you try to sit up. “Daeron.”
Daeron grumbles something against you, his hands tight on your hips. He licks he and Dunk’s spend from your cunt, his nose pressing against the swollen pearl of your clit. He rocks his face into you, and you whine again, bordering on a squeal.
Thankfully, two warm hands find your armpits and hoist you up as if you weigh nothing. Daeron’s eyes snap open, and he watches as if he’s had something stolen from him as Dunk pulls you off the bed. You settle on your feet, panting as the hedge knight plants a kiss to the top of your head before urging your chemise back over the curves of your body.
Daeron complains with a petulant huff. “I could accuse you of treason for that.”
Dunk rolls his eyes, hugging you as you adjust the way your chemise sits on your body, skin sticky with sweat.
“You’re too spoiled for your own good,” Dunk mutters. “Too used to getting what you want.”
Daeron rolls his eyes. “So what?” I want her, so I should—”
“Shut up.” Dunk feels the need to throw something at the prince as you cling to his strong body. He holds you like he never wants to let you go again.
DAY SEVENTEEN
Prince Maekar greets the three of you as you dismount your horses before the grand doors of Summerhall. Daeron stumbles slightly as he hits the loose stone, and you giggle as he reaches a hand out to you to steady himself.
Dunk bows his head before Maekar, and Daeron continues to cling to you as you both approach the white-haired prince.
Maekar offers Ser Duncan a polite smile, then casts a look towards his son. Something flickers across his face, Daeron watching you closely.
Maekar clears his throat. “Thank you for returning my boy to me, Ser Duncan. Once again, I am thankful for your loyal service.”
Dunk straightens. “It was an honour, your grace.”
“I trust he behaved himself?” Maekar asks, looking around the hedge knight to where Daeron smiles at you as you speak to him in a hushed whisper.
Dunk spares a look over his shoulder. He turns back to Maekar.
“Mostly,” Dunk answers. “M’lady kept him in line.”
You try not to roll your eyes, the memories of how you were awoken that very morning—with Daeron’s head between your legs and one of Dunk’s rough fingers on your clit—heavy in your memory as the prince looks up as Dunk turns again.
They exchange a knowing smile.
———
genuinely the longest one shot i’ve ever written lmao sorry for any mistakes
