Starting a master list and an Ao3 link for my fics, which I will hopefully be able to add to in the near future.
Please see below:
AKOTSK:
"Just Like This"
AKA Ser Duncan drabbles--an assortment of one-shots, Dunk x reader. Contain fluff, hurt-comfort, a twinge of angst but nothing that sad. Just light and sweet! No smut. --Updated 3/12/26
"Breaking the Night"
Dunk x time traveler!you. Isekai trope. You end up in Westeros with no memory of how or why. This contains some violence and adult language, no smut but there is yearning! I am using this as a fun way to get back into writing longer fics. It's not proofread tbh and I don't really care. It's just for fun--Updated 4/7/26, currently working on chapter 4!
"Mistress of Relief"
A Maekar x reader one shot. Maekar needs a good massage. Reader is a skilled masseuse. No smut, but slowly burning attraction. Isekai trope again, sorry not sorry it's my favorite. Part 1/2 up now!
Unnamed Dunk x time traveler!you fic. WIP. This one will be longer, angsty, sweet, and wild. I'm using Breaking the Night to help me prepare for this. I have not begun to write it yet, but the ideas are there.
There's more to come, I swear! My mind is full ideas that I'm excited to put on paper. Stay tuned :)
dunk oiling you up with his big warm hands... hnnnngh (behaving normally)
A/N: Finally figured out how to do the multiple gifs thing as seen above! Wow. Also, my asks are now open! I didn't realize you had to allow that in the settings... Please do drop your thoughts or requests in there!
Dunk and his big strong hands oiling you up. Long thick fingers, slick with oil and warm with his body heat, dragging across skin. The feel of rough callouses as he kneads all the soft parts of you.
He is delighted to have you all to himself after a long hard day. Melting under his firm touch, mewling in satisfaction. His chest flutters to see you happy and content. Youâre so good to him, trusting him to care for you, provide for you...
Worshiping the swell of your breasts. Coating the cute pouch of your belly in warm fragrant oil. You feel like a biscuit under a bakerâs hands before being baked in the oven, and the thought makes you giggle.
Dunk ignores the girthy tent his cock makes beneath his trousers. Tries to focus on working the knots on your oiled up thighs. He gulps when he notices theyâve gotten thicker with muscle. Mustâve been all the walking and traveling. He thinks back to all the days youâve chosen to stay by his side, allowed him to pour his love and devotion to you by staying close. The swell of his manhood twitches happily at the thought.
He continues, dragging and kneading the alluring expanse of your back. All exposed and vulnerable to him. Thereâs a few knots and tensions, so he pours more oil into his hands. Rubbing them together so they get warmer and slicker. Gliding up and down flesh so familiar with hard ground only softened by thinning bedrolls. You melt under his touch, brows relaxing. A soft sigh through your lips that pleases Dunk, stirring the warm feeling in his belly.
Firm fingers rub all over the plump of your ass. Dunk feels his mouth water at the sight. His woman, all pliant and submissive for him. Strong, kind, soft in all his favorite places (which is really just all of you).
He has to take a few shaky deep breaths to keep his self-control when he squeezes. Fingers digging in and the fat of your ass molding to the spaces in between. He pants, the need to taste and lick in between your thighs getting stronger.
At your enthusiastic consent, he spreads you open, and groans seeing your cunt all wet and weeping for him. He nearly trips as he shuffles down the bed. Hands keeping you so spread apart that your yummy cunt lips welcome his tongue when he dives face-first.
ser duncan the tall x runaway princessâč àŁȘ Ëâê«áȘĘ
-18+, explicit sexual content (smut) virginity, elopement/running away, forbidden, praise kink!! unprotected sex, creampie!! mild pain during first penetration and ofcccc enthusiastic consent!!! á„«áĄ
in the dead of night, cold seeped into your bones as you darted through the moonlit courtyard, heart pounding against your ribcage. the weight of your decision bore down on you, but you didn't look back. the iron gate loomed ahead, its bars slick with condensation.Â
your hands trembled as you unhooked the latch, but the gate creaked open, revealing ser duncan the tall.
you threw yourself at him, as he hoisted you up onto his horse. then as he got on you clutched his waist, feeling the muscles of his back through your thin nightdress.
âhurry," you gasped as shouts echoed from the palace.
duncan kicked his horse into motion, not bothering to look back. the city blurred past in a rush of black and grey. fear surged through you, but so did exhilaration.Â
you'd made your choice.
the horse cantered through the night, dunk's silence was comforting, it left space for your thoughts to race, to settle. by the time the first light of dawn crested the horizon, you'd begun to believe this wasn't a fever dream.
as the sun climbed, dunk steered the horse off the main road and into a dense forest. dappled sunlight danced on the ground as they picked their way through the underbrush. a large clearing opened before them, a riot of green and gold bathed in light. duncan reined in the horse and dismounted.
"this will do," he said, offering you his hand. "we'll rest here till nightfall. they'll search the kingsroad first. no one knows this trail but me."
you slid off the horse, your muscles protesting at the sudden motion. dunk led you to a fallen log, its bark rough under your fingers. he unpacked a bedroll and spread it out, an unexpectedly domesticated gesture.
"we should be safe here," he said, crouching down to unlatch his saddlebags. "i've been using this path for years."
you watched him as he poured water from his flask onto a cloth and began to clean his horses face a bit.his hands were steady, deft. a blush crept up your cheeks as you recalled those hands tracing your body two nights ago. they'd been gentle then too.
"duncan..." you began tentatively.
he looked up. "yes, your highness?"
you swallowed hard. "please, you mustn't call me that."
a slow smile spread across his face. "what should i call you?"
you hesitated. "by my name. or anything but formalities reallyâŠ"Â
he nodded. "as you wish..."
you lay down next to him, his arm wrapped around you, warm and solid. you fit against him like a puzzle piece, your back pressed to his chest. his breath ruffled your hair.
"this wasn't what i expected when i agreed to 'escort' you," he murmured.
you smiled into the crook of his elbow. "neither did i." after a long stretch of comfortable silence you whisper out his name, âduncan?"
"hmm?"
"thank you."
he tightened his arm around you, his hand spreading wide across your stomach, a warm, heavy weight that anchored you to him. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath a soft, warm puff against your skin. for a long moment, he just held you, and you could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your back.
"there's nothing to thank me for," he finally murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "i'd walk through the seven hells for you if need be."
you shifted, turning in his embrace until you were face to face. the morning light filtered through the leaves, painting his rugged features in soft shades of green and gold. you reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"it wasn't easy for me," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "i was so scared. but i knewâŠi knew if i was with you, i'd be safe."
"i'll always keep you safe," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "i swear it mâlady."
you leaned in, closing the small distance between you, and pressed your lips to his. it was a slow, sweet kiss, a gentle exploration that held none of the frantic desperation of your first time. it was a kiss of comfort, of reassurance, of a love that had already weathered its first storm and emerged stronger for it.
he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, a silent question that you answered with a soft sigh. his hands began to wander, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, mapping your body as if he were committing it to memory. he was still so gentle, so reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe you were his.
you pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his. "dunk," you breathed, your voice thick with a new kind of need. "please touch me again."
"you're sure?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair. "iâm sure," you promised. "i truly do want it."
and with those words of confirmation, he rolled you onto your back, his body hovering over yours, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. he looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and a lingering awe that made your heart ache.
his hands were everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning every curve and hollow of your body. he was still gentle, but there was a new confidence to his touch, a surety that came from knowing you, from knowing what you liked, what you needed.
he parted your thighs with his knee, settling between them. he was already hard, a thick, heavy ridge pressing against your clothed cunt. he rocked against you, a slow, deliberate friction that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
"dunk-," you gasped, your hips rising to meet his. "please."
âi know- i know mâsweet girl-â
he needed no further encouragement.Â
with a groan, he pushed himself up, his weight shifting off you for a blessed moment. his hands, those same steady, deft hands that had tended his horse, went to the edge of his breeches. he fumbled, his usually sure fingers clumsy with haste, and the sight of this mighty knight so undone by need sent a fresh wave of desire through you.
when he finally freed himself, your breath caught. his cock was thick and heavy, curving upwards from a thatch of dark sandy curls. a blush crept up his neck, but his eyes never left yours, dark and intense with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.
his large hands found the hem of your thin night shift, and he paused, his gaze questioning. you answered by lifting your hips, a silent, eager permission. he peeled the fabric up and over your head, his knuckles brushing against your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. the cool morning air kissed your bare body, but you felt no chill, only the heat of his gaze as it roamed over you, worshipful and hungry.
next came your small clothes. he hooked his fingers into the delicate ties, his touch surprisingly gentle. he tugged them down your legs slowly, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it revealed you to him. he tossed them aside without a glance, his focus entirely on the now-bared heart of you.
he settled back between your thighs, the heat of his bare skin against yours as he took himself in hand, guiding the thick, blunt head of his cock to your slick entrance.Â
he began to push inside. it was a slow, inexorable pressure, a deep, stretching fullness that stole the air from your lungs. there was a brief, sharp sting, a fleeting burn that made you gasp into his mouth. he froze immediately, his entire body going rigid.
"i'm hurting you," he breathed, his voice thick with self-loathing. "i knew i would."
"no," you choked out, your hands gripping his biceps, your nails digging into his skin. "it's⊠it's alright. don't stop."
he looked down at you, his eyes searching yours, and he must have seen the truth there because he pushed forward again, sinking deeper until he was fully sheathed inside you.Â
he stilled, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"gods," he whimpered, the sound so unguarded, so unlike the stoic knight you knew. "you feel⊠you feel perfect."
you could only whimper in response, your inner walls clenching around him, a silent plea for more.Â
he began to move, his strokes shallow at first, testing your limits.Â
but as your hips rose to meet his, a silent encouragement, his control finally snapped. his movements became deeper, more confident, a primal rhythm that spoke of a need as old as time. he was whining, a continuous stream of soft, desperate sounds.
"are you⊠are you alright?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
you nodded, a single, tear tracing a path down your cheek. "more than," you choked out. "d-don't stop, dunk please!"
the pleasure built, a slow, sweet ache that coiled in your belly, growing tighter with each thrust. you were moving with him now, your bodies slick with sweat, moving in perfect harmony. the world outside this clearing ceased to exist.Â
there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the feel of his skin against yours, and the brilliant, uncaring sun watching over you.
your broken plea seemed to shatter what little control he had left. he let out a ragged groan, his head falling to the crook of your shoulder as his hips drove into you, harder and deeper than before. the pleasure was blinding, a white-hot pulse that stole your thoughts and left you a gasping, writhing thing beneath him.
"that's it," he panted against your skin, his voice a strained, reverent whisper. "sâokay pretty girl." the words made you clench around him. he hissed, his rhythm faltering for a beat. "gods, you feel like you were made for me. like the gods saved you just for me..."
he shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through you. you cried out, your back arching off the ground as your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into the sweat-slicked muscle of his back. he was relentless now, a steady, powerful rhythm that pushed you higher and higher, each stroke hitting that perfect, devastating spot inside you.
"look at you," he growled, lifting his head to watch you, his dark blue eyes burning with an intensity that was almost frightening. "so beautiful. my pretty princess spread out and taking me so well." he punctuated his words with a particularly deep thrust that made you see stars. "do you hear me? most beautiful woman iâve ever known, ever seen-"
you could only whimper in response, your mind gone, your body a vessel for the pleasure he was giving you. the world outside this clearing ceased to exist. there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the feel of his skin against yours, and the brilliant, uncaring sun watching over you. the coil in your belly was winding tighter and tighter, a delicious, unbearable tension that was begging to snap.
"please, dunk!" you sobbed, not even sure what you were begging for. more? faster? for it to never end?
he seemed to understand. he reached between your bodies, his calloused thumb finding your clit and circling it once, twice. that was all it took. the pleasure that had been building crashed over you in a blinding, deafening wave. you screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, your body convulsing, your inner walls clamping down around him like a vise.
he followed you over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering violently as he spilled himself inside you. he collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in your hair. you were both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, your hearts beating a frantic, synchronized rhythm against your ribs. after a long moment, he rolled onto his side, pulling you into his arms and tucking you against his chest.
"i love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "i've loved you from the moment i first saw you."
tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of joy.
"i love you, too," you whispered back, your hand resting over his heart. "always."
dunk oiling you up with his big warm hands... hnnnngh (behaving normally)
A/N: Finally figured out how to do the multiple gifs thing as seen above! Wow. Also, my asks are now open! I didn't realize you had to allow that in the settings... Please do drop your thoughts or requests in there!
Dunk and his big strong hands oiling you up. Long thick fingers, slick with oil and warm with his body heat, dragging across skin. The feel of rough callouses as he kneads all the soft parts of you.
He is delighted to have you all to himself after a long hard day. Melting under his firm touch, mewling in satisfaction. His chest flutters to see you happy and content. Youâre so good to him, trusting him to care for you, provide for you...
Worshiping the swell of your breasts. Coating the cute pouch of your belly in warm fragrant oil. You feel like a biscuit under a bakerâs hands before being baked in the oven, and the thought makes you giggle.
Dunk ignores the girthy tent his cock makes beneath his trousers. Tries to focus on working the knots on your oiled up thighs. He gulps when he notices theyâve gotten thicker with muscle. Mustâve been all the walking and traveling. He thinks back to all the days youâve chosen to stay by his side, allowed him to pour his love and devotion to you by staying close. The swell of his manhood twitches happily at the thought.
He continues, dragging and kneading the alluring expanse of your back. All exposed and vulnerable to him. Thereâs a few knots and tensions, so he pours more oil into his hands. Rubbing them together so they get warmer and slicker. Gliding up and down flesh so familiar with hard ground only softened by thinning bedrolls. You melt under his touch, brows relaxing. A soft sigh through your lips that pleases Dunk, stirring the warm feeling in his belly.
Firm fingers rub all over the plump of your ass. Dunk feels his mouth water at the sight. His woman, all pliant and submissive for him. Strong, kind, soft in all his favorite places (which is really just all of you).
He has to take a few shaky deep breaths to keep his self-control when he squeezes. Fingers digging in and the fat of your ass molding to the spaces in between. He pants, the need to taste and lick in between your thighs getting stronger.
At your enthusiastic consent, he spreads you open, and groans seeing your cunt all wet and weeping for him. He nearly trips as he shuffles down the bed. Hands keeping you so spread apart that your yummy cunt lips welcome his tongue when he dives face-first.
Angst, mutual pining. language, jealous!reader, idiotic!dunk, oblivious!dunk, protective!dunk, slow burn, friends to lovers, grief and mourning, death, misogyny, attempted sexual assault, physical assault, fighting canon typical westeros attitudes, blood, did I mention angst, bad pacing, lots of times skips (kinda) that are marked by dividers, shitty transition sentences, please read part 2 before reading this
word count â 7k
series masterlist
The day had only deepened by the time you found your way back through the pressed bodies, the roar of voices still ringing in your ears. Your knuckles achedâbruised and bloodied from the impact you had on that drunken fool's skin.
Every flex of your fingers stung. You wiped them once against your trousers before stepping back into the edge of the crowd where Duncan stood. A thick rope braced in his hands, boots digging into the dirt as he pulled, hip lunging forward.
He didn't notice you at first.
Oh but you noticed him, how could you not?
You couldn't help the way your body chured at the sight, the way a pool of heat started settling in your belly.
The line strained, men on both sides grunting and shouting, heels carving trenches into the ground. And DuncanâgodsâDuncan was carrying his entire side. Muscles pulled taut beneath his worn tunic, jaw set, teeth bared in effort.
And when the opposite side finally gave, they went tumbling in a heap of curses and dust.
Duncan laughed, breathless and bright, tossing the young boy over his shoulder in celebration as Lord Lyonel clapped him hard on the back.
That's when his eyes found you. Relief flickered first, before his gaze dropped to your hands.
"...What happened?" he muttered as he walked up to you. You flex your fingers once, dismissive. "Nothin' worth talking' about."
His brows furrowed, not convinced, "Thats blood"
âA very observant knight.â
âI ainât a knight.â
âYet.â you sigh.
Duncan huffed softly through his nose, though concerned still lingered plainly across his face. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the bruising already beginning to bloom across your knuckles.
âDid someone do this to you?â
âNo,â you answered honestly enough. âThe opposite, actuallyâ
A sigh of exhaustion escapes duncs lips, a small smile creeping upâas if he was trying not to show his pride in you.
Egg appeared beside him suddenly, eyes widening the second he saw your hands. âGods.â
âIt looks worse than it is,â you muttered.
Duncan looked unconvinced, his hands lifted slightly, almost reaching for yours before stopping halfway. The unfinished gesture lingered awkwardly in the air.
but the noise of Lord Lyonels booming voice swallowed the moment before he could press further. You only titled your head slightly, glancing past him, head pointing towards the abandoned rope.
"Nice work", you added, quieter
For a moment, something softened in Duncans expression. The grin he'd wore after winning tug-of-war hadn't entirely disappeared. Dust cling to his clothes, sweat dampened the curls at his temples, and his chest still rose heavily from exertion.
"Aye?" he asked.
"Aye" you replied.
His smile widened then--small but genuine.
That smile would be the death of you
Lord Lyonel was already shouting for him again, waving a wineskin in the air like a bottle standard. The enormous lords laughter rolled across the ground loud enough to turn heads.
"DUNC!" he bellowed. "GET YOUR GREAT OX OF A SELF OVER HERE!"
Duncan winced while you tried your best to suppress a laugh.
"You should go" you said, folding your arms.
"Probably should." Yet he did not move a muscle.
Instead his gaze flickered back toward your bruised knuckles one last time. "You oughta let me clean those." The concern in his voice caught you off guard
You swollowed the lump in your throat. "They're fine."
Duncan frowned immedaitly/
"Thats what people say right before they get a infection." This only made you roll your eyes.
"I would listen to him if i were you" Egg added playfully helpfully
"Oh hush, no one asked you"
Duncan shook his head, though amusement flickered behind his eyes.
"Just...don't disappear again." The words left him before he seemed to realize hed spoke them.
Your chest tightened, because there it was again. That strange look he had been giving you lately. Like your absence bothered him more than it should, more than it had in the past.
Before either of you could dwell on it, Lord Lyonel roared his name a second time.
Duncan groaned dramatically. "I'm comin'!"
The giant knight-to-be shot you one final glance before turning away.
You watched him disappear back into the crowd. And despite everythingâdespite tanselle, despite your aching heart, despite the blood drying across your knuckles...
You found yourself smiling.
As the day stretched on you found yourself in the stands, banners snapping in the wind as nobels took their places above the list.
You shaded your eyes, scanning the raised platform until your gaze landed on a man seated among themâolder, composed, streaked of silver cutting through dark hair.
"That's the prince...?â you mumured
Egg nodded beside you. âPrince Baelorâ
You studied the man another moment before humming thoughtfully. ââŠThink heâs looking for a second wife?â
Your comment alone made Duncan nearly swallow his own tongue. Letting out a choked up âExcuse me!?â.
You kept your expression perfectly straight. âWell heâs handsome enoughâ
âHe is the prince!â
âAnd?â
âAndââ Duncan struggled helplessly for words, âyou canât just say things like that!â
Egg burst into a startled laughter beside you. You only sighed dramatically.
Your lower lip comes out in a pout. âA shame, truly. I think Iâd look good in silkâ a spark of mischief takes over you as you turn your head to look up at the man.
Your eyebrows arched ever so slightly, fox-like amusement curling at the corners of your mouth while false innocence gleamed in your eyes.
âDonât you think the sameâ
Duncan stared at you like you had grown another head.
Gods.
His ears burned red almost immediately.
Because the moment the words left your mouth, his traitorous mid supplied the image before he could stop it.
You draped in soft silkâŠ
Thin fabric catching sunlightâŠ
Gold threaded across your waist and wrists instead of worn leather ties and travel-stained sleeves. Your hair loose down your back instead of hurriedly tired away from the roads. Rings glittering against your fingers. Silk brushing against your skin every time you movedâ
Duncanâs throat and trousers tighten.
He looked away almost instantly, jaw clenching hard. The thought of how right it looked in his mind consumed him.
Pretty things had always suited you, though you never owned many. Even now after years on the road, Duncan still noticed the small things without meaning toâthe way sunlight caught against your cheek when you laughed, the way your eyes softened near fires late at night, the way men turned to look whenever you passed by then through campgrounds and markets alike.
He noticed everything. Always has. He justâŠnever lingered in those thoughts too long. At least he tried not to.
But now here you were, looking up at him like that, teasing and warm and far too pretty for your own good, and suddenly Duncan became painfully aware of the fact that he was staring. His gaze flicked briefly toward your mouth before jerking upward so quickly it almost hurt.
âWell?â You pressed innocently, batting your lashes to him.
Egg looked between the two of you with poorly hidden delight.
Duncan scrubbed a round hand down his face. âI think,â he muttered hoarsely, âyou say strange things on purposeâ
This only made your grin widen.
âAnd you didnât answer the questionâ
He groaned softly under his breath.
Because in truth?
Yes.
Gods, Yes.
You would look beautiful in silk.
Youâd look beautiful in anything.
That night, the air turned colder
The campfires burned low beneath the darkening sky, orange embers crackling softly while distant laughter and drunken singing carried through the grounds. Horses shuffled lazily near the trees, armor clinked somewhere far off, and above it all the stars stretched endless and pale.
You laid next to Egg, just like the night before. It's a sudden change in routine no one else in the world would have noticed.
Duncan did immediately.
He stood near the fire, lingering beside Thunder under the weak excuse of keeping the horse calm. Occupying his hands with Thunders tack simply so he had something to do besides stare at you.
Still, his eyes kept wandering back to you like they belonged there.
You simply tucked yourself down beside the boy, cloak pulled around your shoulders, face turned toward the dying at fire.
Something uncomfortable twisted low in Duncanâs chest.
The same feeling from the night before.
The distance felt wrong.
For years it always was the sameâyou beside him beneath shared cloaks and hard ground, muttering half asleep insults whenever he snores too loudly or stole the warmth. He was used to reaching out in the dark and feeling your shoulder bump against his.
Now there was empty space.
Too much empty space.
Duncan powered himself slowly into his bedroll across from you, trying to ignore the strange tightness settling beneath his ribs.
âYouâre sleepinâ over there again?â He asked finally, voice carefully calm
Your eyes remained shut. âMhmâ
âThat boy kicks in his sleepâ
âIâve survived worseâ
Egg, already half asleep, cracked one eye open before quickly deciding this conversation was none of his business.
Duncan frowned.
âYouâre bein' strangeâ
That made your lips quirk upward slightly. âIâm sleepingâ
âAye...I can see thatâ
You stared at him for a moment across the firelight, expression unreadable.
Then you rolled onto your side.
âGoodnight, Duncan.â
And gods help him Duncan spent half the night awake after that.
Staring up at the trees.
Listening to the crackle for the dying fire.
Wondering why it bothered him so much.
The next morning began with an argument, far too early for your liking. The sort of argument that started quietly and somehow became sharp before either of you realized it.
Egg had disappeared shortly after sunrise. Leaving just you and Duncan near the camp.
A dangerous thing these days.
Because every conversation seemed to circle back to the same issue.
You.
The morning air was cool, still carrying traces of dew as the camp slowly came alive around you. Men called one another between tents. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves. Somewhere nearby, a cook cursed loudly after dropping a pot.
You focused on sweetfoot instead. Anything was easier than looking at Duncan.
Your fingers steadily through the mare's tack, tightening buckles that didn't need tightening, checking straps you had already checked twice.
Duncan watched from across the clearing. For a long moment he said nothing
Trying to convince himself to leave it alone.
Trying to convince himself he was imagining things.
Trying to convince himself that the hollow feeling sitting beneath his ribs wasn't real.
And of course, eventually he failed.
"You've been actin' strange" The words left him before he could stop the.
Your hands immediately paused, only for a second. Then they resumed working.
"I have not"
"You have"
"No"
"You have"
A sigh escaped you. Slow. Exhausted. The sort of sigh that suggested this conversation had already happened several times inside your own head.
You turned toward him.
Your expression wasn't angerâhe wished it was for that would've been easier to take. Instead you just looked exhausted.
"Duncan."
"What?"
"What exactly am I doing that is so strange"
Duncan opened his mouth, but nothing came from him. Because the truth was he didnt know how to explain it. All he knew was that something had changed.
You smiled less.
You wandered off more.
You seemed distracted whenever he spoke.
You wouldnt look at him for very long and when you did, you were teasing and cruel to the point it made Duncan feel things he hasn't felt.
Not embarrassment, nor discomfort, something warm in his chest.
And every night for the last few daysâyou slept somewhere else.
Which shouldn't matter.
Except for Duncan it did.
"You just are"
Your eyebrows shot upward. "Wonderful explanation"
Duncan rubbed a hand across his face. "You know what I meant"
"No, duncan" you huff, frustration taking over you. "I don't"
Silence stretched between you. A horse whinned somewhere nearby.
The distant sounds of the tourney drifted through the trees.
Neither of you moved.
Duncan swollowed.
"You haven't talked to me properly in days"
Something flickered across your face, hurt and sympathy that's gone almost immediately.
"You talk enough for the both of us"
"Im serious"
"So am I"
"No", his voice came out rougher than intended. "You ain't"
That made you freeze. The frustration in his voice surprised even him. Because beneath it was something else. Something heavier. Something he couldn't name.
The thought of losing you had never crossed his mind before, not truly.
You'd always been there.
Since Flea Bottom.
Since the days when neither of you had anything but stolen crusts of breath and each other.
Since muddy alleys and crowded streets that smelled of fish, smoke and rot.
Since nights spent curled beneath market stalls trying to keep warm while the rain hammered overhead.
Since Rafe.
Back when the three of you had been inseparable. Three half-starved children against the whole world.
Rafe with her quick fingers and quicker tongue.
You with your sharp eyes and sharper insticts.
And Duncan, all awkward limbs and impossible kindness.
Since Ser Arlan.
Old and stubborn and rough around every edge imaginable.
The knight who took in two filthy street children when nobody else would. The knight who gave you a place to belong.
You followed behind his horse for miles. Shared his fires. Learned his habits. Learned the difference between surviving and living.
You were simply there, like a second pair of lungs breathing beside him when the world grew too heavy. Like sunlight filtering through the trees at dawn after a long, cold night. Like the familiar warmth of a fire at the end of the road. Like homeâthe kind a person carried with them rather than found on a map.
And now he couldn't shake the feeling that you were slipping through his fingers somehow.
Even though you were standing right in front of him.
"It feels like I'm losing you.."
Something in your heart pangs.
He could never lose you. You had followed him from Flea Bottom to the farthest roads of the realm. Through grief, hunger, cold nights, and long years
Duncan feared losing you, while you feared spending the rest of your life loving him without ever being loved the same way in return.
A soft smile spreads across your face, an attempt to heed the sadness deep within you.
"Im right here, Duncan...I'm fine."
"I swear it"
you're a liar.
Duncan searched your face for a long moment, as though trying to find the answer hidden somewhere behind your smile. His jaw worked once, like he wanted to argue againâbut whatever he found in your expression made him stop.
"you always say that what you ain't"
The words were quiet, not accusatory anymore. Just tired.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The camp carried on around you like a world pretending not to notice what was breaking quietly between two people who didn't know how to name it.
Then Duncan exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck like he could scrub the feeling away.
"I don't like it," he muttered at last. "Whatever this is"
Gods, he looked so earnest it almost hurt.
So worried.
Worried for you.
Never realizing he was the reason your heart ached in the first place.
Finally, after a. moment of agonizing silence, Duncan let out a slow breath through his nose.
"...Alright, [name]"
The market was already bustling by midday.
Merchants shouted over one another, banners fluttered overhead, and the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, horse manure and ale blended into one unmistakable tourney smell.
Egg walked ahead on purpose, you suspected he was secretly enjoyiing himself far more than he ever admitted.
Duncan followed close behind, one hand resting loosely near Thunder's rein while keeping an eye on both of you.
As always.
It was as peaceful as the camp grounds could be. Unfortunately that peace was destroyed when trouble started at an Egg seller's stall.
You should have known it would.
Duncan was on the search for goose eggs,
According to him, they made for a proper breakfast--one he and you had eaten a handful of times growing up whenever luck was kind and coin wasn't entirely absent.
Unfortunately, the Merchant was not skilled in the common tongue, making the language barrier cause lots of confusion on both ends.
The Merchant reached into a crate and pulled out a large goose, setting it carefully atop a flat stone. Then, without hesitation, he lifted a butcher's knife high above his head.
Duncan's eyes widened.
"No! No!" Duncan protested. "Um, uh, goose eggs." he explains once more "Just the eggs"
The man looks at him in confusion, bringing his arm back upâ
"No, no, no, uh..." Duncan contemplated on how he should go about this. Dunc crouches down slightly, making a form of a squatting bird, using his elbows as wings. "Goose eggs, like"
As he poorly demonstrated, the merchant looked utterly baffled, egg immediately buried his face in his hands. You lasted perhaps three seconds before laughter escaped you.
Real laughter. The kind that bent your shoulders and stole the breath from your lungs.
Duncan shot you an offended look.
"I don't see you helpin'."
"Oh, no" you wheezed. "Please continue. I need to see how geese lay eggs"
Egg made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
And then you saw her.
Teal blue.
A flash of familiar color moving through the crowd.
Tanselle.
The laughter died almost immediately.
She approached with easy grace, weaving between merchants and customers alike, sunlight catching her dark curls.
The woman made her way through the crowd towards the three of you, one foot after another, each step she took made your stomach ache.
It ached even more when Duncan straightened so fast it was almost painful to watch. Duncan immediately egan fumbling over himself.
"Do you like goose eggs?" Duncan blurted out, earning him a weird look from the woman, brushing it off ever so slightly.
"Your shield, will be ready this evening, ser"
"Th-thank you" Duncan says as she walks away, closing his eyes slowly and huffing out a deep breath.
Embarrassment and shame overtaking him.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh!" Egg taunts Duncan under his breath, making you roll your eyes.
"Shut up" Duncan scoffs at Egg.
You rolled your eyes and turned away before the jealousy sitting in your chest had a chance to show on your face.
All those years on the road taught you many things.
How to mask your emotions, How to track rabbits through damp earth. How to stretch a single loaf of bread for three hungry people. And most importantly how to make a meal out of almost nothing at all.
And somewhere along the way, you'd become surprisingly good at cooking.
Not the sort of cooking noble ladies learned in castles, but the kind that kept people alive. The kind learned over campfires, with borrowed pans and whatever ingredients could be afforded that day.
This morning, the gods had been kind.
Fresh bread. Ham. Goose eggs. Enough for proper breakfast sandwiches.
A rare luxury.
The three of you sat around the fire while the smell of frying mean and toasted bread drifted through the camp. The eggs sizzled softly in the pan as you worked, stacking everything together once it was finished.
The first sandwich went straight into Duncan's hands.
A mistake.
The man was enormous, it was no surprise whenever he would eat more than he weighed. Yet somehow every meal still managed to suprise you.
Duncan took one look at the sandwich, nodded approvingly, then attempted to fit nearly the entire thing into his mouth at once.
Like always.
You rolled your eyes as he tried fitting the entire thing into his mouth.
Egg looked equally horrified.
"You're disgusting"
Duncan only shrugged as he continued to devour the sandwich in his hands.
The jousting list filled quickly as the morning wore on.
Knight after knight thundered down the field beneath snapping banners and roaring crowds. Lances shattered into splinters. Horses screamed. Men crashed into the dirt while thousands cheered at their misfortune.
Duncan watched every single pass with conplete concentration.
You were beginning to suspect he forgot the rest of the realm existed whenever a knight picked up a lance. Egg stood beside him, asking endless questions while Duncan attempted to answer each one as though he were already some seasoned tourney champion himself.
You mostly listened and watched.
Unfortunately, you werent watching the joust nearly as much as you were watching Duncan. Later, the three of you escaped quickly, finding a quiet patch of grass overlooking the whole camp.
The field rolled gently beneath the afternoon sunlight. Tourney pavilions stretched across the horizon in brilliant colors while banners fluttered lazily in the warm breeze.
For a little while it felt peaceful.
The sort of peace people spent their entire lives searching for.
Egg sat comfortably beside you, and hand placed firmly on the grass keeping him upright.
âI think I could be quite happy in a place like thisâ Egg says looking off to the distance at the campgrounds.
âI completely agree,â You said immediately.
Duncan frowned
âYouâre in a place like thisâ Dunk says in confusion.
You rolled onto your side to look at him.
âHe meant to stay here for a while, to have a life like thisâ
âExactly,â Egg agrees.
"Oh"
The conversation drifted after that. Or rather, Duncan and Egg continued talking while you stretched out beneath the sunlight and closed your eyes.
The warmth of the sun settled across your skin, soaking through your clothes and easing some of the tension that had made a home beneath your ribs these past few days.
For a little while, you listened.
The distant cheers from the list.
The rustle of grass beneath the breeze. Egg and Duncan continuing their conversation somewhere beside you.
You felt content.
Safe.
It was strange how that word still felt unfamiliar.
Growing up in Flea Bottom, safety had never existed.
There had only ever been surviving.
Stealing bread before someone else could. Sleeping with one eyes open. Learning which streets to avoid after dark. Learning how quickly kindness could disappear when coin became involved.
You remembered your mother.
You remembered running.
You remembered rafe.
Gods, sometimes you still missed her so much it physically hurt.
You could almost hear her laughter if you closed your eyes long enough. See her grin after she'd successfully picked some rich merchant's pocket. Hear her telling you not to get greedy.
"Never get greedy"
The words still followed you.
As your thoughts continued to wander from Flea Bottom to Rafe, to Ser Arlan and life on the road, Duncan would always consume your thoughts.
You could barely remember a life without him anymore.
Every meaningful memory seemed to have him standing somewhere inside it.
A tall lanky boy sharing stoel bread in flea bottom. A grieving child standing besides rafe dead body. A stubborn squire following Ser Arlan across the realm. A young man offering you a larger portion of supper even when he was starving himself.
Somehow, without you noticing, Duncan had become woven into every corner of your life.
And perhaps that was the cruelest part. You weren't sure where your story ended and his began anymore
"Ser Duncan?"
A voice cut through your thoughts.
Causing your head to lift up from the grass, eyes squinting from the bright sunlight.
"A word, if you please?"
Duncan pushed himself to his feet, brushing grass from his trouser.
"Wonder what that's about"
"Probably finally realized how ugly you are" You replied, Egg couldn't hold back a small snort.
Duncan only pointed at you, "You've become mean."
Not only that but your most recent comment now makes you a liar.
"Only recently?" A smile tugged on your lips
"Much worse recently"
Your smile only grew.
He rolled his eyes but there was affection hiding behind the gesture. Then he turned and followed the messenger away.
Your eyes followed him until his broad form disappeared into the wooded area.
Egg waited several seconds before uttering a word.
"You should tell him"
This earned a groan from you. "Not this shit again"
"I'm serious" Egg whips his head towards you in frustration.
"So am I" You snap your neck with just as much frustration, brows furrowed together.
The boy threw his hands into the air, "You've been in love with him for years!"
You immediately looked away.
The movement alone was an answer enough.
"You look at him like he's the sun"
You barked out a humourless laugh, "And he looks at Tanselle like she's the Maiden herself"
Egg immediately shook his head, "That's different".
"No, it is not"
"It is"
You folded your arms across your chest, "Egg"
"He worries about you constantly"
"He's my friend" you smile shyly, try your hardest to downplay what was obvious.
Egg scoffed. "He spent half the morning arguing because he thought you were avoiding him."
The remark struck a nerve more than you cared to admit. You looked toward the trees where Duncan had disappeared, a dull ache setting in your chest.
"Maybe that's for the best," you muttered softly.
Egg stared at you like you'd lost your mind, but for once, he didn't argue.
The silence stretched between you and Egg for a while after that.
Eventually, the sound of approaching footsteps broke it.
You looked up to find Duncan emerging from the trees, ducking beneath a low hanging branch as he made his way back toward you. His expression was thoughtful, brow furrowed in a way that told you he'd been turning something over his head for a while.
"There he is," Egg muttered.
Duncan stopped beside you both, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well?" you asked. "What did the man want"
"He wanted me to unhorse Lord Ashfords youngest in a joust."
You frown, "What for?"
"So he can bet on me and win money" he stops for a second "I did not give him answer, he said to think on it, I have till the morrow"
You rolled your eyes at him, "You can not be actually considering it?"
"No." He looked almost offended. "I do not want a victory that I have not earned"
Something warm settled in your chest.
Of course Duncan didnt.
The distant sound of trumpets echoes across the tourney grounds. All three of you turned toward the list as the next round of jousting began.
Making your way through the crowd of pressed bodies to get the best view.
And when Prince Aerion Targaryen rode onto the field, the entire mood of the tourney seemed to change.
You dislike him as soon as you see his smug face.
Beside you, Duncan watched carefully, arms folded across his chest. Egg stood almost hunched over the fences, lavender eyes fixed on the lists.
The first few tilts passed quickly. Lances shattered, horses thundered and the crowd cheered. The next tilt began much like the others, yet it felt much different.
You couldn't have explained why, but something felt different. Perhaps it was the tension lingering in the air after Aerions earlier behavior, or perhaps it was the look on Duncan's face. The large man had gone unusually quiet beside you, his eyes narrowed as he studied the prince across the lists.
Aerion lowered his lance, the polished tip dipping lower than it should have, Across the lits, his opponent kept his own lance steady, aimed where any honorable knight would aim. The Horses began to move, first avtrot, then a canter.
A heartbeat later they charged. The earth trembled beneath pounding hooves as the distance between them vanished.
Then Duncan stiffened
"He's too low."
You blinked, tearing your gaze away from the charging horses long enough to glance up at him.
"What?"
Duncan's eyes never left the field. His expression had gone hard, jaw tightening as he leaned forward slightly.
"His lance."
You looked back toward the lists, confusion giving way to unease. At first, everything seemed normal--the thunder of hooves, the lowering of lances, the blur of brightly painted shields toward one another.
Then you saw it.
Aerion wasn't aiming for the knight.
His lance sat angled toward something else, something more vulnerable.
"Oh gods..."
The impact came with a horrible sound.
It was not the crack of splintering wood.
Nor the clang of steel.
It was the horses' scream.
Blood sprayed across the list as the animal screamed, stumbling mid-stride before its front legs buckled beneath it. The horse crashed into the dirt with all its weight, pitching forward so violently that. its rider was thrown from the saddle.
man and beast hit the ground together.
The knight disappeared beneath the falling horse, an armor crunching against the earth as the animal's full weight came down on top of him.
The scream that followed turned your stomach.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Shouts rang out from every side as men and women leapt to their feet, screaming curses toward Aerions. Some demanded his arrest for cheating, while other called for his head, their outrage echoing acorss the feild
Beside you, Duncan's arm shot out without thought, one large hand finding your waist and pulling you lightly in front of him while his other did the same to Egg. Protective and instinctive, as though he couldn't help himself.
Several men began throwing cups and scraps of food onto the field. One particularly furious old man launched an entire piece of what smelled like horse manure at the princes face.
"AERIONS YOU BASTARD"
The shout was quickly joined by dozens more. The noise became deafening as men climbed over the fences, women, screamed and children cried. The crowd surged forward like a living thing purechaos spreading through the lists. The Kingsguard emerged with haste, white cloaks flashing through the confusion as they pushed riders and spectators apart. Commands were shouted, swords remained sheathed--but barely--and for several terrifying moments it looked as though a rio might truly begin.
Egg had gone plae.
"I want to leave"
For wance, nobody argued.
Duncan's hand remained firmly at your waist as he guided both of you though the sea of bodies. Bodies pressed in from every side as angry voices followed behind.
The further you move from the lists, the quieter things become.
But none of you spoke much after what you'd seen, and it wasn't until hours later--after food, drink and enough distance from the field--that the mood finally began to lift.
Eventually the three of you found yourselves near one of the larger camp gatherings. Music drifted through the evening air as men sang badly, women laughed and ale flowed freely.
And in the center of it all stood Lord Lyonel Baratheon.
Drunk.
So very drunk.
The enormous lord had somehow climbed onto a table and was attempting what could generously be called dance, the table graoing beneath him as the crowd cheer him on.
You found yourself laughing despite everything.
Even Duncan cracked a smile.
Lyonel nearly fell off the table twice.
Someone handsed his another drink, a terrible decision that only engouraged the spectacle as the night carried on after that.
As the laughter and music carried through the camp, the horrors of the afternoon slowly began to fade into the background, if only for a little while.
You were so involved in the good time that you didn't even notice watchful eyes.
The three of you wandered through rows of tents lit by lantern light and campfires.
Past merchants, singers and gamblers.
Until an old woman caught your eyes.
She approached the three of you slowly, half-hidden by shadows and lantern light. Her silver hair was braided with ribbons and bone, and though her face was lined with wrinkles, her eyes remained sharp and watchful. There was something unsettling about the way she looked at people, as though she saw more than she should, and it made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.
"A fortune teller." Egg said.
You immediately rolled your eyes.
"A liar."
"A fortune teller" Egg repeated
"A liar."
Duncan only shrugged, "could be both"
She studied each one of you carefully. Long enough to become uncomfrotable.
Then her gaze settled on you.
"You walk beside destiny."
The words made you regret letting this old woman walk up to you.
"You will know great love."
Your stomach sank.
"But it shall bring you sorrow before it brings you peace.
Before you could respond, her attention shifted toward egg, the smile she once had vanishing as the old woman became strangely serious.
"You are not what you appear to be"
Egg froze.
"The fortune teller continued, her gaze fixed on Egg. "You will wear a crown." Silence followed. Egg looked alarmed. "You will be tested by war," she said, leaning forward slightly. "You will lose brothers. You will lose sons." Egg's face had gone completely still.
Your protective instinct flared.
A sharp, irrational surge of anger twisted in your chest as you looked at Egg. He had gone completely still, far too still for a boy his age, and something about it made your stomach knot. Whatever game this woman thought she was playing, you suddenly wanted no part of it.
"Thats enough"
The words came out sharper than intended, leaving your mouth before you could stop them.
The woman merely looked at you. Then nodded.
As if she understood.
Egg remained quiet, and you drifted a little closer to him, saying nothing but staying by his side until the silence finally broke when Ser Raymun Fossoway made himself known.
Pulling Duncan away from a drink, Egg decided to return to the entertainment tent to see tanseles performance once more. You set off in search of new arrowheads, leaving teh three of you to part ways for a while.
Only for a little while.
Or so you thought.
The market was quieter at night, lanterns glowing warmly above merchant stalls as voices drifted between the tents.
You moved slowly through the crowd, examining bundles of arrows laid across a wooden table.
Turning one over between your dinger, you tested its weight and balance as your thoughts drifted.
Back to the joust.
Back to the fortune teller.
Back to Duncan
Back to the strange ache that seemed permanently lodged somewhere inside your chest.
And so distracted were you that you almost missed the feeling of someone watching you.
The sensation crawled up your spide, slow and unpleasant, setting every instinct on edge.
Years in Flea Bottom had taught you to trust that feeling.
You lifted your head from the merchant's stall and slowly turned.
Three men stood several paces away.
They looked like the sort of men Flea Bottom taught you to avoid on instinct
Broad-shouldered. Unshaven. Clothes stained with old ale and dirt. One had a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once. Another wore a greasy leather jerkin stretched tight across his stomach. The third stood slightly behind the others, thin and sharp-faced, his eyes never leaving you.
One of them smiled.
The sight turned your stomach.
There was nothing friendly in it. Nothing human. His bruised mouth curled slowly upward, revealing yellowed teeth slick with spit. It was the smile of a man who thought he'd already won. The smile of someone enjoying your discomfort. Someone who liked seeing fear.
Every instinct inside you recoilded
Your stomach sank so suddenly it felt like a stone had been dropped into your gut.
Recognition hit a heartbeat later.
The drunk from the ale tent.
The same man you punched a day ago.
The swelling around his nose had darkened into an ugly purple bruise, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. The sight should have satisfied you, but instead it made every instinct inside you scream.
He had not come alone, and your heart lurched with a sudden surge of dreadâno, not here, not now.
You turned away immediately.
Fast, not running, beacuse running drew attening.
Running makes you prey.
So you walked.
THen walked faster.
The noise of the tourney swallowed you as you slipped into the crowd, merchants shouting over one another while children darted between legs and knights and squires pushed through the muddy lanes between tents, and you got moving without ever looking back.
Years in Flea Bottom had taught you another lesson.
If someone is following, make them work for it.
You ducked into a cloth merchants tent, browsed for several moments, left through the opposite side, crossed two rows of stalls and entered a tent selling carved wooden trinkets.
Waited.
Listened.
Nothing.
You slipped out again, your pulse hammering as you moved from one tent to the next.
A seller of spices.
A woman selling ribbons.
A blacksmith displaying horseshoes.
Each time you glanced behind you, you saw only strangers.
No bruised drunk.
No crooked nose.
No sharp-faced man.
The crowd thickened around you, and you slipped deeper into it weaving between merchants, knights and festival-goers alike. You changed direction whenever possible, doubled back one, then again, and soly after several long minutes did your breathing finally begin to slow.
Eventually you found yourself near the edge of the tourney grounds.
The noise faded there, not completely, but just enough.
The roar of the crowd became a distant murmur. Merchants' cries softened into background noise. The press of bodies thinned until there was finally space to breathe.
You slipped behind a row of supply wagons parked near a cluster of trees. The noise of the fair faded slightly there, muffled by canvas, wood and distance. For the first time since the flight, you allowed yourself a shaky breath, pressing a hand against your aching ribs as you tried to gather yourself.
Quiet.
Hidden.
Safe.
Or as safe as anywhere could be.
You leaned against one of the wagon wheels and forced yourself to breathe.
You were alone, with no one watching and no one knowing where you'd gone.
And for the first time all evening, you thought you were safe.
Maybe you'd lost them.
Maybe they had given up.
Maybeâ
CRACK.
A fist smashed into your face.
Pain exploded across. The world spun spideways as you stumbled, barely catching yourself before hitting the ground. What light burst across your vision and a ringing filled your ears.
For a single disorienting heartbeat, everything blurred together into pain and confusion, and you couldn't understand what had happened or why the earth suddenly felt so unsteady beneath you.
Your hand tightened around the knife at your belt, not drawing it, just feeling it there.
The drunk grinned as he noticed your fear.
"Oh, she's frightened now. Look at her. All that fire gone out her, hasnt it?"
His friends laughed. The sound made our skin crawl.
"You should've minded your tongue earlier," one of them said.
"A pretty thing like you ought to know better"
Something hot twisted in your stomach.
Fear.
Rage.
Both.
You'd heard those words your entire life. In Flea Bottom, in taverns, in crowded markets, from men who thought being born male gave them ownership over the worldâand over women who never belonged to them.
The drunk's gaze swept over you openly, lingering far too long as it crawled over every inch of you, slow and deliberate, as though he were inspecting something he already believed belonged to him.
Like you were livestock.
Like you were something to be bought.
Something to be taken.
Something to be broken like a mare until obedient.
"Got claws on her too," he spat into the dirt. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
Run.
Fight.
Run.
Fight.
The two instincts collided violently inside your chest.
The nearest road was blocked, the crowd had thinned, nobody was close enough, nobody was coming, and you were on your own.
Again.
Just like Flea Bottom.
Just like always.
The realization settled over you with terrifying clarity.
No knight was coming. Not Duncan, not Ser Arlanânobody. It was just you.
The drunk lunged first, and though you thought you were ready for it, you quickly realized you weren't.
You twisted away from his grasp, but one of the others caught your shoulder and slammed you hard against the side of a wagon.
Pain exploded through your back, knocking the breath from your lungs and leaving you unable to breathe for a moment.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't move.
Then panic took overâraw and ugly.
A hand grabbed for your wrist while another reached for your shirt. You reacted without thinking, panic and instinct taking over as your nails raked across someone's face. A scream followed immediately. You kicked wildly, your boot connecting hard with a knee. Something popped, and the man folded with a curse.
"Littleâbitch!"Â
The drunk caught you anyway, his rough fingers tangling in the sleeve of your shirt and yanking hard enough that the worn fabric tore with an ugly ripping sound that seemed far louder than it should have in that moment.
Your stomach dropped. Fear hit harder than any fist ever couldânot because they could beat you, but because you knew exactly what men like this wanted. The realization sent a cold wave of dread through you, quickly swallowed by something hotter. Rage followed immediately after, fierce enough to burn away the fear and leave only the desperate need to fight back.
You drove your elbow backward with every ounce of strength you had.
Something cracked, and the drunk staggered away swearing.
"You little whore!" he snarled, clutching at his face. "Think you're too good for us?"
Blood dripped from his nose as he stumbled, fury twisting his features.
"We'll teach you some manners yet."
One of the others laughed harshly.
"Hold her still!"
Another man slammed a fist into your mouth while a second seized hold of you.
Your head jerked sharply to the side.
Blood filled your mouth with the taste of iron as the world blurred.
But years in Flea Bottom have taught you something important.
A fair fight was a luxury.
Survival wasn't.
You grabbed the first thing you could reach before the man could capture your hands--a stick from beside the wagon wheel--and violenting jabbing it into the nearest piece of flesh you could reach.
It struck one man right in the eye socket. He dropped instantly, clutching his bleeding eye as he howled in pain. The second rushed you before you could catch your breath.
You met him halfway.
Neither of you fought like knights; there was nothing noble about it, only fists, scratching, kicking, grabbing, and pure desperation.
He landed a punch against your ribs, and you drove your knee between his legs, dropping him at once.
The drunk recovered enough to charge again, stumbling forward with a snarl of anger and humiliation, his bloodied face twisted into something ugly as he threw himself at you without a shred of caution or sense.
You didn't even think. You picked up a broken length of wood and swung. Smashing the mans face so hard that his neck twisted violently.Â
The crack echoed through the trees as he hit the ground hard and didn't get back up.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Breathless.
Your chest heaved violently, every part of you hurting at once. Your cheek throbbed, your lip was split, one eye was already beginning to swell, and your ribs felt bruised with every breath you took. But despite it all, despite the pain radiating through your body, you were still standing.
The three men weren't.
One curled in the dirt clutching his face, blood overflowing through his hands onto the now stained grass.
Another was trying unsuccessfully to crawl away.
The drunk lay beside the wagon lifeless.Â
You turned before your shaking legs could betray you, and every step back toward camp hurt; your ribs screamed, blood dripped from your split lip, and your hands wouldn't stop trembling, but you kept walking.
Because if Flea Bottom had taught you anythingâ
It was that surviving didn't always look pretty.
Sometimes it looked like blood on your knuckles.
Sometimes it looked like tears you refused to shed.
And sometimes it looked like leaving three men broken in the dirt because they thought a woman alone would be easy prey
authors note â OUUUUU....this has been in my drafts since april, i've been working on it on and off for almost 3 months (crazy). I'm so bad a writing fight scenes and time skips. I'm sorry if this is hot dog shit.
tag list â @gaiestguyever-to-exist, @vitaminnzz, @knyam, @jesssuperwholock03, @rockerchicktravellinwidthedoctor, @superfan02 @sgreer123 @@rebeccawinters @saturnknows @sossocisson @thelightthief @theprophaecy @0nlybitt3r4may @bitchykittenconnoisseur
summary: It's been a long day for both of you but as the night sets in, Dunk still won't pay you any attention. You have zero doubt of his affection, but it's high time you convince your knight he needn't always be so gentle with you.
tags/warnings: smut, handjob, rough(ish) sex, riding, moody!dunk, kind of sub!dunk, service top!dunk
wc: 1.5k
A/N: baby's first Dunk fic!!!! everybody say good job jj đ lowkey i'm slowly but surely fucking up my wrist bc i also work the fuck out of it at my job so, if im a little slower than usual that'll be why sorry beloveds đ. anyway i love my big dumb boyfriend and u WILL be seeing more of him thank u and goodnight.
p.s. if u r following me for the pitt dw i'm not abandoning her!!! we're just taking a little hyperfixation detour...i have a big heart and very flexible legs, there's room for everybody in here
Maybe heâs been less impressive in a tourney than he wouldâve hoped, maybe he let himself get roped into a party, only to spot wealthy lords flirting with you across the room while he was fetching drinks. Knowing Dunk, itâs possible heâs just a little hungry.Â
Either way, your poor knight is in a pissy mood. Arms folded over his chest, lip jutted out in the cutest little pout. Slouching in your tent, he watches you get comfortable, striding back and forth with the ribbons on your bustier undone.Â
âBy the Seven, itâs warm,â you keep complaining, fanning a hand by your face and pointedly glancing in his direction. As the sun sets, you canât have long before Egg returns; courtesy of Dunkâs only tentatively maintained curfew. The knight in question is huffing through sweat-shiny, reddened cheeks himself, yet still refuses you even a taste of the attention youâre after. Youâve been at it so long, youâre almost certainly hotter now than you would be if you could just sit still for five minutes. Unfortunately for Dunk, youâre as stubborn as you are pretty.Â
âAre you honestly just going to sit there and sulk?â you demand, finally stomping to a stop right in front of him. It does Dunk absolutely no good to have such a sight before him: your hands on your hips, glowering down at him and periodically blotting away sweat with your skirt. The long flashes of your legs nearly break him, but he wonât. He canât.Â
âBeg pardon, mâlady. But you should leave me be.âÂ
âAnd whyâs that?â Another wipe of your forehead, skirt hiked up high enough to see the weathered top of your stockings. Dunk pushes himself as far back into his seat as he can get. You give him absolutely no respite, taking a slight step forward that puts your unbound chest right in his face. He swallows, hard.Â
âMâladyâŠâÂ
âSuddenly, you seem in much higher spirits, Ser.â You lower yourself into his lap, rubbing your hand languidly over his crotch as he twitches into what just might be the most raging boner heâs ever had in his life.Â
He takes a stuttering, deep breath and circles his hand around your wrist. Whether he means to push you away, hold you still, or shove your hand into his breeches, even he has no idea. âPlease, my love. Donât.âÂ
âBut why?â Your strength should be no match for his, but when your hands finally do reach for the tie on his breeches, Dunk simply cannot fight it. Jaw ajar in a silent moan and eyebrows downturned, he continues holding onto your wrist. You stroke him at a torturously slow pace, fixing him with a stern glare. âDuncan.âÂ
His grip tightens and his mouth shuts. In fact, so do his eyes. Even a glance might undo him, may certainly snap the dangerously taut bounds around his desire. Because of course, of course he wants you. He always wants you.Â
âIâm notâŠâ His thumb strokes your wrist and he reluctantly pulls it away, to give it a sloppy kiss, still with his eyes shut. âToday hasnât been my day, my lady.â
âThen let me help,â you urge, shuffling impossibly closer and nodding downwards. âDid it not feel good?âÂ
âNo, itâit always feels good. Youâre alwaysâI love you so much. All of you, everything you have to give me. Itâs justâŠI canât.â
Your body doesnât move an inch, but your head tilts ever so slightly.Â
âIf IâŠIf weâŠâ He sighs. âI donât mean to be untoward.â
âDo it, I dare you.âÂ
He chuckles and brings your foreheads together, thumb brushing against your cheek. âThis is how I like to treat you. How I should treat you.â
You pout. âI am not a china doll, Dunk.â
âOf course, butââ He cuts himself off with a rasping groan. His hips hitch upwards and his grip on your waist tightens and for a fraction of a second, he allows himself to think of it. Grabbing you, manhandling you, making good on his title of husband and fucking you senseless. To feel his blood pumping for something more meaningful than honour, to make him good for something that matters, that isnât jousting or royals or riches. To use this brutish, hulking body for love. For you.Â
âPlease, my lord. Youâre upset. Let me make it better.âÂ
Again, he bites his lip through another groan. He shakes his head and tries to pull back, but thereâs nowhere for him to go. You know what it does to him, to give him titles he doesnât deserve. Titles that sound weighty and legitimate coming from your mouth, a blasphemy that has him imagining himself as a king.Â
Slow and teasing, your hand is back in his breeches, his hips raising to meet your touch without a second thought. By the time youâre grinding on his thigh and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Dunkâs bad mood is nearly forgotten and all that tension is concentrated into one thought: serving you.Â
He lifts you both off the chair to pull down his breeches and wastes no time pulling you ever closer. âSo wet,â he whispers into your open mouth.Â
Your arms wrap around his neck as he buries himself inside you, your mouth pressing wet, hot kisses over every spot of his face you can reach. âShow me.âÂ
âHm?â Dunk canât seem to stop groaning, half-certain heâs close already. Itâs pathetic; heâs barely moved at all and your clothes are still on.Â
âHow you were afraid you might treat me. Show me what these big, strong hands are capable of. I want to seeâMmâ Throwing your head back, you bite your lip and grip his hair with a fierceness Dunk has never felt from you before. âShow me the knight I have in my charge, hm? The man entrusted with my love, my pleasure. My life.âÂ
This undoes him entirely. Heâs been breathing through brewing moans, whining into your neck, tensing his thighs to keep himself still. Youâre a good woman, a kind woman, a person who has shown him some of the only tenderness heâs ever known. He shouldnât, he keeps thinking. He shouldnât. But youâyou wretchâknow exactly how to work him, play him like a fiddle. You pull down the top of your blouse so that your chest spills out. Soft, pliant flesh, right there for the taking. Grabbing, sucking, kissing. As you wrap your arms closer around him, you coil strands of his hair around your fingers and give him one long, slow grind of your hips.Â
âShow me, Dunk.âÂ
And who is heâthis mere hedge knightâto deny you?
âGods, mâlady.â His hands clench around your waist. His heels dig into the ground. Before, he was letting you set the pace and simply holding you through it. Your grip in his hair tightens even further as he slams you, over and over, onto his lap. For a moment, his eyes slide shut. Though he struggles, he insists on keeping them open, keeping his half-lidded gaze trained on you. âMâsorryâGodsâFeels so good. Tell me if it hurts.â
You canât even respond, lip bitten and a droning whine escaping your throat as he at once pulls you onto his dick and thrusts into you at an unforgiving pace.Â
âTell me,â he grunts. His hands go from your hips to your chest. He squeezes, then ducks his head down to suck and nip at the skin around your nipple, while his thumb works on the other. He rubs relentless circles and groans, his free arm holding you tight against his body. âWill youâah, my love, so fucking good.âÂ
He canât stop asking and apologising, begging as overwhelmed tears spring into his eyes.Â
âDoes it feel good, mâlady? Am Iââ Yet another pained groan.Â
âYou are, Ser.â You moan into his neck. âYouâre so good to me. So good, Dunk.âÂ
The pace only gets more aggressive. Dunkâs moans flow freely and loudly, deep from the centre of his chest, his palm pressed flat against your back, practically pushing your hearts together. Your thighs slap as he snaps up into you, his voice fills your ear and now heâs gripping your biceps, pulling you downwards and filling you without giving you a second to breathe. You squeeze around him and heâs so close, all he needs is to hear it one more time. Of course, you know this.Â
âSo, so good, Ser.â Youâre soaking wet and clenching around him, showering him with breathless praise as your orgasm ricochets through just about every cell of your body. âSuch a good boy. My big, strong knight.âÂ
When he cums, he tries kissing you. Even as you lean down to help him, all he can manage his licking into your mouth as wild, keening moans leave him. His hips keep stuttering and he leaks out of you, back down himself as gradually smaller spurts of warmth fill you up. Tears roll down his cheeks and his chest heaves with breaths. Itâs all he can do to stay conscious when you lean in to lick a stripe up his face and press a tender kiss right where his tears just were.Â
âMâlady, Iââ He twitches inside you. âWe donât have time to go again.âÂ
But he swears that the second you do, he wonât do anything stupid again like wasting that time sulking.
Ser Duncan the Tall x Female! farmerâs daughter ⥠Bound by Oaths, Forced Proximity (Travel/Road Trip), Devotional Submission, Voyeuristic Awakening, Size Difference, First-Time Intimacy
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, heavy over-stimulation and premature climax, dirty talk, crying/begging, mild breath play (mouth covered), tearing of clothing, and themes of an impending forced marriage.
Synopsis: I am your sword and your shield. From this day, until my last day.
Sent on a four-day journey into the heart of the Riverlands to treat a rotted harvest, you are trapped on a muddy track with the one man you cannot afford to look at. Ser Duncan the Tall is a monument of knightly discipline, but when he drops to his knees in a torrential downpour, the fragile walls between you begin to wash away. As the isolation of the road closes in, his restraint starts to fray. Trapped between the expectations of your future marriage and the terrifying heat of his presence, you are about to discover what happens when a righteous knight is pushed past his limit, and just how ruinous his devotion can truly be.
Words Count: 15.3k
Read part one here.Â
Part Two
The forest stretched endlessly, towering oaks and whispering pines forming a verdant cathedral. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the mossy ground in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The air carried the earthy musk of leaves and the sweet perfume of wildflowers.
Peace should have lived here.
Instead, there was torture.
Every hoofbeat on the earth, every creak of leather, every rustle of fabric made you hyperaware of the man riding beside you. Ser Duncan. His presence pressed down, a gravitational pull that distorted the air. You felt the sheer breadth of his shoulders, the way his thighs flexed as he guided his horse, the rumble of his voice when he spoke.
You couldn't look at him. Not after last night.
The memory burned behind your eyelids. You saw it in the way the light caught the stubble on his jaw, in the column of his throat as he swallowed. His breathing haunted you, those broken, pleading words surfacing every time he shifted in his saddle.
Your hands tightened on the reins, knuckles turning white. Your mare flicked her ears back, sensing your tension. You forced a deep breath, trying to focus on the mission, on the task at hand.
Your father had sent you to check a remote sheep pasture, a half-day's ride into the woods. He had insisted Ser Duncan accompany you, citing increased bandit activity.
It felt like punishment.
"We'll stop here. Let them drink. The stream's just ahead."
Your throat tightened, preventing words. You could only nod as he guided his horse from the path. His mare's coat gleamed like polished copper in the sunlight. You'd always admired her from afar.
"Is that Thunder?" The question tumbled out, clumsy in the silence.
He gave a slight shake of his head. "No." His hand stroked the mare's neck, a gentle touch against her hide. "This is Chestnut. I only ride Thunder for battle. He's... eager. Chestnut is better suited for the road."
He dismounted in one long motion, boots sinking into the earth. You watched his tunic pull taut across his shoulders as he worked to loosen the girth. Heat prickled the back of your neck.
Your legs trembled as you swung down from your saddle. You approached his mare slowly, palm extended. Chestnut turned her intelligent head, nostrils flaring to catch your scent. Her muzzle was velvet against your fingers, an anchor in the swirling chaos of your thoughts.
"She's beautiful. You've trained her well."
You kept your focus on the horse.
"She's a good girl," his voice was rougher than usual. "Smart. Strong."
"The other one... Thunder. What is he like?"
You glanced at him from under your lashes.
"Fast. Fearless. He doesn't like to stand still. In a fight... there's no one better." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, gone as quick as it came. "But he's a lot of work."
You nodded, understanding the space between the words. A warhorse. A living weapon. Not a companion for a quiet ride. The two animals felt like two halves of the same man.
You led Chestnut toward the stream, hooves sinking into the muddy bank with soft sucking sounds. Duncan followed. Heat from his body bled into the forest air, warming the space around you.
He helped with the tack, his movements efficient but clumsy. His arm brushed yours reaching for your cinch. He froze, hand hovering in the space between you.
"Sorry." A low grumble. He didn't turn his head.
"It's... fine."
You focused on your own buckles, fingers stuck on the leather straps.
You finished with the saddle and turned. He was staring. His eyes were intense, the blue so deep it was almost violet. He looked away fast, jaw clenching.
He stepped back. Then again. A careful distance.
"This place," he said, gaze fixed on the mossy rocks by the stream. "It's good. Quiet."
You looked around. The clearing opened up before you. Sunbeams pierced the canopy, lighting a space carpeted in wildflowers.
"Yes. It is."
He stood there, back to you, tension in his shoulders visible.
Then he turned.
And did something that stopped your heart.
His knee hit the damp earth with a soft thud.
The forest floor tilted. The world spun. He knelt there, a giant reduced to supplication, head bowed, one massive fist resting on his thigh. That dark, unruly hair was now bowed before you.
"Ser Duncan?" The name scraped your throat. "What are you doing?"
His gaze remained fixed on the ground. The voice that emerged was low and rough, a vibration that traveled up from the soles of your boots and settled deep in your belly.
"I would take my oath. Here. Now. As your sworn shield, my lady."
The words hung suspended in the sun-dappled air. You stared at his knuckles, white against the fabric of his thigh. Your mind went blank, then scrambled to make sense of this.
"My... what?" You stumbled back, a twig snapping under your heel. "You already serve my father."
"I serve your father," he corrected, still not lifting his head. "This is different. I would serve you. Only you. It would be... an honor."
Your breath caught. This was madness. You were a farmer's daughter, your hands calloused from work, not a lady in a keep. What need did you have for a sworn shield?
"Ser Duncan⊠I don't understand. Why here? Why now?"
You thought he was trying to rebuild that wall between you, stone by painful stone. Instead, he was tearing it all down.
"I've said what I'll do." His voice was firm, but the strain beneath it was a frayed rope. "I need to say the words. I need... I need to say them right."
A fat drop of rain splattered on the back of your hand. Then another. Within seconds, a soft patter turned into a deafening roar as the sky changed from blue to churning grey. Rain hammered down, turning the clearing into a glistening mess.
"Get up!" you shouted over the downpour, the rain soaking through your dress, clinging to your skin. "You'll catch your death! This is insanity!"
He didn't move. His head remained bowed, water streaming down his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, carving paths through the dirt on his cheeks. He looked like a statue being worn away by the elements, a man of stone and earth and rain.
"Please, Ser Duncan!" you begged, your voice breaking.
The image from the night before flashed in your mindâhis face contorted in pleasure, his body moving in that desperate, lonely rhythm. The shame of watching him, the heat of your own response, it all mixed with the dizzying sight of him kneeling before you now. Your cheeks burned with a fire that had nothing to do with the storm.
A pulse started between your legs, a heavy, insistent throb.
He drew a shuddering breath, the rain plastering his hair to his skull.
"I vow," he began, his voice a resonant boom that somehow cut through the thunder. "I vow on my sword, on my honor, on my life..."
He hesitated, struggling for the words. You had never heard him stumble like this.
"To be your shield in darkness and in light⊠To protect you from all harm, from steel and from slander, from the blade of an enemy and the whisper of a liar. To defend your name as I would my own. To obâ⊠To obey your commands, save those that would bring dishonor to either of us."
His eyes lifted, catching yours through the torrential rain. They blazed, wild.
"To be faithful to you," he continued, his voice gathering strength. "To keep your secrets as my own, to guard your person as the most precious treasure in the Seven Kingdoms. To stand between you and all that would harm you, and to lay down my life before yours is touched."
He reached behind him, drawing his longsword in one fluid motion. The steel gleamed in the grey light. He reversed it, offering the hilt to you, the point resting in the mud at his feet.
"My lady." The title emerged raw, agonized. "I am your sword and your shield. From this day, until my last day."
The wind raged around you, whipping your hair across your face, the rain soaking you to the bone. Yet in that circle, in the mud, with a knight's sword at your feet, only the two of you existed.
His oath was insane, unexpected, and utterly, terrifyingly sincere.
Your gaze traveled from the sword to his face. His expression was stripped of all his usual restraint. He was giving you everything. His strength. His loyalty. His life.
Your hand moved of its own volition, reaching out. Fingers closed around the wet hilt of his sword. The leather felt alive in your palm, humming with his oath.
"Ser Duncan." Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but he heard it. "I... I accept your oath."
A shudder wracked his entire body. His eyes closed for a brief second, a look of profound, almost pained relief washing over his features. When they opened again, the fire remained, now tempered with something new.
"Rise, Ser Duncan."
He unfolded himself from the mud, a fluid motion that defied his size. Water sheeted from his shoulders, darkening his tunic.
The space between you crackled.
Your mind raced. He doesn't hate me. He doesn't see me as a burden. He... wants this. He wants to serve me.
"Come." Your voice found a sliver of command as you turned, leading the way toward a denser copse of trees at the clearing's edge. The rain softened to a misty drizzle beneath their branches. He followed, a silent, steadfast shadow. His presence no longer created tension; it offered comfort, a solid wall at your back.
Under the thick canopy, the storm's fury became a whispering hiss. You turned to face him, his sword still clutched in your hand. He stood before you, rain dripping from his hair, the tip of his nose, his eyes fixed on you with unwavering intensity.
"You're soaked," you said softly.
"So are you, my lady." A small smile touched his lips.
You had no idea what you'd agreed to, what you'd just unleashed. But for the first time in a long while, you didn't feel afraid.
The ride back was silent.
The rain had stopped as quickly as it began, leaving the forest smelling of wet earth. The storm that had broken between you and Ser Duncan in that clearing remained, making the act of sitting astride a horse feel charged with unspoken meaning.
You led the way, your mare's hooves squelching in the muddy track. You could feel him behind youâno need to look.
My shield. The words echoed in your head, a surreal, impossible refrain. He had sworn himself to you. Not to your father's house, not to the farm, but to you. A gesture so profound, so completely outside the bounds of your life, that you didn't know how to process it.
You faced forward, gripping your reins so tightly your knuckles ached.
As you neared the stables, the air cooled. A shiver ran through you. Your dress clung to your skin, the breeze carrying a chill that sank deep into your bones.
You dismounted too quickly, boots sinking into the mud-churned ground. Before your fingers could close around your mare's reins, a heavy weight settled over your shoulders.
His cloak.
It carried his scentâwet wool, the earthy smell of forest. Huge on you, it engulfed you like a warm tent, the hem brushing your boot tops. His body heat still clung to the fabric, a searing contrast to the cold air.
You looked up, a sharp retort ready on your lips. He was already dismounting, avoiding your gaze as he focused on securing the horses.
"You're cold." The words weren't a question but a statement, delivered in that low, gravelly voice that left no room for argument. "It's not safe to catch a chill, my lady."
The title hit you again.
"I'm not a lady," you insisted, voice sharper than intended. You pulled the cloak tighter, an attempt to ward off the dizzying sensation of his nearness. "I'm a farmer's daughter. I work the fields. And I've been cold before."
He finished with the reins and turned to face you fully. He was close. Too close. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
He looked down at you, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. Instead, a slow, deep red crept up from the collar of his tunic, staining the skin of his throat and the tips of his ears.Â
He was blushing.Â
The realization was so disarming, so at odds with his imposing presence, that it stole your breath.
"I don't care about your title. I care that the hands that work the land are honest."
The words were so simple, they bypassed all your defenses. You stared at him, completely at a loss. This was the man who had spoken of killing, who carried the weight of a prince's death on his shoulders. And here he was, blushing like a boy because he'd given you his cloak. The contradiction was maddening.
You tried to form a response, something clever and cutting to re-establish the distance between you.Â
But all you could think of was the image of him on his knees in the mud, swearing his life to you. All you could feel was the heat of his gaze and the weight of the cloak that smelled of him.
You wanted to reach out and touch him. To see if his skin was as hot as you remembered, as it had been in your fantasies.
"I... thank you for the cloak," you managed, your voice a breathless whisper. It was a pathetic surrender, but it was all you had.
He gave a curt, almost jerky nod. "I'll see you to your door."
He fell into step beside you, his long strides easily matching your pace. The short walk from the stables to the kitchen door felt like it lasted a lifetime. Every step was a battle against the urge to turn to him, to say something, to do something. His presence was a pull that made your skin feel too tight.
At the door, he stopped. He didn't try to open it for you, a small mercy you were grateful for. He simply stood there, a silent, watchful guardian.
"Goodnight, my lady."
"Goodnight, Ser Duncan."
His cloak stayed with you.
You couldn't bring yourself to return it. Didn't even try. It dominated the bedchamber, a shadow draped over the chair that seemed to pulse with his presence.
When the house settled into heavy silence, restraint snapped. You threw the bolt on the doorâa sharp clack of finalityâand crossed the room. The wool remained damp, heavy with the day's rain and the lingering heat of his body. You hauled it to the bed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You collapsed onto the mattress, gathering the fabric into your lap in a desperate heap. Burying your face in the folds, you inhaled. The scent assaulted your senses: rain-soaked forest, woodsmoke, the salt of his skin. Undeniably, intoxicatingly him. You clutched the wool to your chest, trying to force it into the hollow ache inside you, the scratchy texture a welcome irritation against your flushed skin.
You were splitting in two. Your mind warred with itself. The noble knight offering his sword clashed with the raw, primal image of his fist wrapped around his cockâthe desperate, guttural sounds he'd made. Ser Duncan was a mystery, and that mystery was burning you alive.
A soft knock shattered the air.
You lurched upright, clutching the cloak to your breasts like a stolen treasure. "Yes?"
"Your bath is ready, my lady," the maid's voice drifted through the thick wood. "I've drawn it hot."
You ignored her, your gaze fixed on the door as her footsteps faded. The bolt was already thrown, the room sealed. Alone again with his scent, the humid air felt thick enough to breathe, the heavy cloak still anchored in your grip. You didn't drop it. Instead, you brought the coarse wool to your bare skin.
The friction was a shock. It scraped over your nipples, making them ache and pebble instantly. A jagged gasp escaped you, imagining those weren't fibers, but his calloused palms. You rubbed the heavy fabric over your stomach and down the curve of your thighs, the rough texture intentional and punishing.
You were wet, soaking, aching. As you ground the cloak against yourself, you felt the dark wool grow damp with your own slickness. The thought was a thrill of pure depravity. You were marking his property. Staining his cloak with the evidence of how much you wanted him. Let him find it, you thought, a feverish light behind your eyes. Let him inhale and know exactly what he does to me.
"Ohhh, Ser Duncan," you whimpered, the name a prayer and a filthy confession.
You dropped to the cold stone floor, too impatient for the tub. You spread your legs, the cloak bunched beneath you and over you, and guided your hand into the heat. You were swollen, your folds dripping. Two fingers drove inside, stretching yourself, while the heel of your hand ground against your clit with frantic, messy pressure.
Your eyes closed and you saw him. You saw him on his knees, his mouth open, begging for you in the dark.
"I'd be so good for you," you whispered, throwing his own words back at the empty room. "I'd let you... I'd want you to..."
The pace quickened, your hips bucking off the floor. You weren't just touching yourself; you were trying to find him through the friction. Ragged, ugly sobs tore from your throat as the coil tightened. When the orgasm hit, it was a convulsion that ripped a broken cry from your lips. Your internal muscles clamped down hard on your fingers, waves of heat crashing through you until your limbs went limp.
Silence returned, thick and suffocating. You lay sprawled on the cold stone, the heavy wool draped over your trembling body like a shroud.
Shame followed immediately, an icy contrast to the heat. Your eyes dropped to the dark, wet patch on the cloak where you had pressed it between your legs. It was a desecration. You had taken his honor and made it a tool for your lust.
On unsteady legs, you rose and climbed into the steaming bath. You dragged the cloak in with you, submerged it, and began to scrub. The harsh lye soap turned your knuckles white as you worked, desperate to wash away the scent of your own climax.
But as the lavender suds swallowed the smell of him, you knew it was a lie.
The line was gone. You were standing on the edge of a cliff, and you had just taken the first, dizzying step into the abyss.
Grey muted the world outside your window. A miserable, needling rain had fallen since dawn, turning the track to a river of thick, grabbing mud. This was the sort of day that kept even the livestock huddled under thatch, but inside the solar, the atmosphere was far from restful.
Your father sat at the heavy oak table, a broken wax seal at his elbow and a deep furrow between his brows. Your mother bustled between the sideboard and the door, directing the kitchen girls with sharp, hushed commands that did little to mask her anxiety.
"Sit." Your father's voice lacked its usual warmth as you crossed the threshold. "We have a matter to settle."
The knot in your stomach tightened as you took your seat. The trencher of salt pork and cold eggs on your plate remained untouched.
"Your mother and I must take ship for Gulltown." He tapped the parchment before him. "A cog carrying our late-harvest grain was driven into the rocks off the Fingers. The merchant disputes the charter, and the masters of the port threaten to seize the rest of the cargo. It's a mess of Braavosi contracts, and I must see to it myself."
Gulltown. A week down the high road, at least, then the treacherous passage through the mountains. "How long?" Your voice came out smaller than intended.
"A moon. Perhaps longer." He rubbed his temples, where silver showed thick in his beard. "The bailiff will handle the threshing here, but I need you on the accounts. You know the ledgers better than he does."
That was familiar ground; you had managed the estate during his shorter absences. But your mother stepped forward then, her silk skirts rustling like dry leaves. She laid a second letter on the tableâthis one sealed with plain, uncrewed wax.
"There is more." Her voice was soft. "A rider arrived from the Riverlands while you slept. From my cousin, Ser Elmar Beck."
You broke the wax with a thumbnail and smoothed the parchment. The ink was cheap, the hand hurried and cramped.
"A blight," you murmured, reading the stark lines. "A grey mold on the winter wheat along the Blue Fork. He says it creeps across the fields like a mist, rotting the stalk before the ear can swell." You looked up, your fingers tensing against the paper. "Elmar is a knight, not a farmer. Why write to us?"
"Because Elmar and I broke our first lances together at Riverrun," your father said heavily. "He knows I have an eye for the soil, and he knows our valley has never starved. He is desperate. If the wheat fails, his smallfolk will eat dirt by first snowfall, and the Tullys will still demand their tax." He leaned forward, his gaze boring into yours. "I cannot go to the Trident and Gulltown at once."
The silence in the room grew heavy, thick with the smell of damp wool and woodsmoke.
"You want me to go," you said. It wasn't a question.
"It is a four-day ride to Beck's Ford," your mother interjected quickly, a little too smoothly. "You have the head for it. You will look at the ears, check the drainage by the river, and tell Elmar how we saved our crops three summers ago. A simple matter of counsel."
A simple matter. Four days out. A night at a lord's hall. Four days back. Through lands still raw from the last skirmishes between petty lords.
"I cannot ride the Riverlands alone, Mother."
"You won't be alone," your father said. His eyes shifted toward the open archway behind you.
You didn't need to turn. You knew the rhythm of that stride before you heard the dull thud of heavy boots on the flags. A sudden shift in the room's air told you he was thereâthe scent of rain, oiled leather, and horse-sweat cutting through the stale grease of the kitchen.
"Ser Duncan," your father called.
Duncan stepped into the solar. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, and his presence immediately made the low-ceilinged room feel claustrophobically small. His eyes found yours first before he bowed stiffly to your parents.
"My lord. My lady."
"You are to take three horses from the stable and accompany my daughter to the Blue Fork," your father commanded. "Ser Elmar has a rot in his fields. She has the knowledge to fix it; you have the steel to ensure she lives to come home."
Duncan didn't blink, but you caught the subtle, telltale hardening of his jaw, the way his large hand tightened around the pommel of his dagger.
"To the Riverlands, my lord? The roads near the Red Fork have been lawless since the spring rains."
"Which is why she goes with an anointed knight," your father snapped, leaving no room for dissent.
Duncan looked at you then. Truly looked. His eyes scanned your face, lingering for a fraction of a second on the hollow of your throat, where your pulse beat too fast against your collar. There was an intensity in his stare that made your skin prickle with a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth.
This was madness. To be trapped on a muddy track with him for days, weeks after the whispered words in the godswood, after the oath he had sworn that felt more like a threat to your virtue than a promise of protection.
"The rains will make the travel slow, Father," you said, your voice tight, almost brittle. "Perhaps it is better if we wait. Or send a courier with a treatise."
"A courier cannot smell the soil," your father said with finality. "You leave at first light. Duncan, see to the cloaks and the pack mules."
"Yes, my lord."
Duncan bowed again, a brief, efficient movement of iron and muscle. As he turned to leave, the space between you vanished for a heartbeat. His heavy leather sleeve brushed against the wool of yours. It was a careless, accidental contact, but it sent a sharp jolt straight through your core. For a second, his shadow completely blocked the grey light from the window, wrapping you in his heat.
He didn't look back as he strode out, but you saw the rigid line of his back, the tension in the corded muscles of his neck.
You stared down at your plate. The grease on the cold eggs had congealed into a white film. Your parents had just handed you over to the one man who made you forget your duty, your name, and your honorâand as the rain continued to lash against the glass, you knew the Riverlands would be the end of you both.
The morning you left was a study in bruised iron and wet wool. The rain had ceased by dawn, leaving the world glistening and the air thick with the scent of sodden earth. In the stableyard, the horses' breath misted in the chill. Ser Duncan's mare, Chestnut, pawed impatiently at the cobbles, her bronze coat gleaming like a polished kettle, while your own grey stood placidâa quiet beast meant for a lady, not a march through the mud.
You were cinching the girth, the damp leather creaking under your pulling hands, when the light failed.
A shadow fell over you, broad and sudden, blocking out the pale eastern sky. You didn't need to look up. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a physical presence that made the hairs on your arms stand up. You tried to focus on the buckle, to force your hands into steady, methodical movements, but your mind was already betraying you, mapping the sheer width of him behind you, the scent of well-water and oiled leather that followed him like a herald.
When you reached for the heavy riding saddle, your fingers strained against the damp hide. A large, calloused hand clamped over yours on the pommel.
"I have it," Duncan rumbled. His voice was too low, too deep for the morning stillness, a gravelly sound that vibrated straight through your ribs.
You didn't pull away. You froze, your knuckles trapped beneath the rough skin of his palm. His thumb brushed the side of your wrist, slow and deliberate, before he took the weight from you. His tunic strained across his back as he hoisted the saddle onto the mare with an easy, fluid grace.
"Thank you," you muttered to the horse's mane, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"The road to Beck's Ford will be unkind," he said, adjusting your stirrup leathers. "We must make our miles before the clouds return."
"Then let us find the high road, Ser," you replied, your tone clipping the air like shears to hide the tremor in your breath.
By midday, the silence between you had grown teeth.
The track along the Red Fork was a ribbon of deep, sucking mire, flanked by dense willow-choke that seemed to press the humidity down upon your shoulders. You rode ahead, trying desperately to mind your own business, to look at the scenery, to be the lady your father expected. An impossible, maddening task. Every jingle of his mail, every shift of his great weight in the leather behind you, drew your mind straight back to him. You were helplessly hyper-aware of him.
Worse, he rode so close that Chestnut's hot, rhythmic breath practically blew down your neck, puffing against the damp skin just beneath your hair. It sent a relentless, rhythmic prickle of heat straight down your spine.
You pulled your mare up so sharply the beast slid in the silt. Whirling in the saddle, your face flushed.
"You don't have to ride in my pocket, Ser Duncan. Your horse is breathing down my neck."
Duncan reined in, his bronze mare coming abreast of yours. He looked down at you from his height, his expression a mask of pure, unblinking knightly discipline. "The ditches are deep, my lady. The Riverlands are full of broken men after the harvest. It is safer this way."
"I am perfectly capable of staying out of a ditch," you snapped, knuckles white on the reins. "And I am capable of seeing danger before it arrives. Fall back. It is... distracting."
"Distracting?" Duncan's blue eyes darkened, turning the color of the river before a storm. He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, his shadow enveloping you once more. "A protector should be a comfort, not a distraction. Unless it isn't the safety of the road that is troubling you."
The implication made your breath catch. Lifting your chin, you fought to claw back your dignity. "What else would trouble me, Ser? I merely find your methods overbearing. You look at me like I am a problem you have to solve from a distance, yet you crowd me until I cannot breathe."
Duncan's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his stubble. The rigid professionalism he'd clung to all morning finally frayed.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded, his voice rising thick with frustration. "Should I stop being careful? Stop treating you like a lady? Do you want me to treat you like one of my squires? Swear at you? Spit on the ground?"
As if to prove the point, he turned his head and spat aggressively into the thick mud between your horses.
The wet thwack of spit hitting mire shattered the suffocating tension. So utterly un-knightly, so raw and ridiculous in the middle of his protective stance, that a startled laugh bubbled up before you could stop it.
You covered your mouth, but the sound escaped, clear and bright. Hearing you, the hard lines of Duncan's face crumbled. He looked down at the mud, then back at you, and a dark flush crept rapidly up his thick neck, staining his cheeks crimson.
A rough chuckle rumbled from his chest, and within seconds, you were both laughing. It was a frantic release of all the pressure building since leaving your home.
"Gods," Duncan muttered, running a thick hand over his face, his ears burning red. "Forgive me, my lady. That was... I am a fool. A bloody barbarian."
"A very dignified knight," you gasped, wiping a tear from your eye, your smile lingering as your heart hammered against your collarbone.
"The singers definitely leave that part out," he said, his voice softening. His blue eyes found yours again, anger replaced by a gaze so heavy it felt like a touch. His leather-gloved hand hovered before his thumb brushed a stray hair from your cheek. The contact sent heat through your skin. "Come. Let us find a place to make camp before the sky turns black again. And I promise... I will let Chestnut breathe the open air."
You turned your horse back onto the track, your body thrumming with restless heat. He fell into place just behind your shoulderânot quite as close, but close enough to feel the weight of his gaze.Â
The fire crackled, spitting orange sparks into the purple twilight. Woodsmoke and crisping pork fat hung heavy in the small clearing, trapped beneath the low canopy of willows. You sat cross-legged on your bedroll, a dented tin plate balanced on your knees, mechanically moving food with a horn spoon. Your appetite had vanished with the sun, replaced by a humming alertness that made every rustle in the brush sound like a drumbeat.
Duncan crouched three paces away, hunched over the small blaze like a shadow carved gargoyle. He'd shed his mail and heavy leather jerkin, wearing only a loose linen tunic with sleeves rolled past his elbows. Thick, corded forearms emerged, mapped with pale jagged briar-scars and old iron-nicks. Each time he stirred the coals with a green ash wood stick, muscles shifted beneath the thin cloth, broad and deliberate.
A maddeningly intimate view. You kept eyes fixed on your plate, trying to force yourself to eat, but your gaze kept sliding back to his bare wrists, to the dark hair curling at his unlaced throat.
"You're good at this," you said, voice thin against evening's vast silence. Your spoon gestured vaguely toward the trencher. "The food. Most men-at-arms I've known burn the outside and leave the center raw."
His chin remained tucked near his collarbone as he nudged a stray coal back into the hearth. "It's just salt meat and wild garlic. Fire does the work if you don't rush it."
"Still. Better than hardbread and cold water." You leaned back slightly, trying to adopt a casual posture you didn't feel. "It's nice to be looked after for a turn. At home, if the bailiff or maids see me idle for more than a minute, they find a ledger needing balancing or a wool-sack needing weighing."
Duncan finally raised his head. Firelight caught his eyes, turning dark blue into something warm and bright, like polished amber. "Your father told me you have the head of a master-builder. Said you could calculate the yield of a ten-acre plot before the seed was even out of the sack."
"He exaggerates," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the prickle on your throat from his intense stare. "He simply prefers the countinghouse to the fields, so he let me take the mud on my boots instead."
"Nothing wrong with mud," Duncan rumbled softly, gaze dropping to the stick in his large hands. He began peeling a strip of bark away with his thumbnail. "It's honest. Better than the grease in the city."
Silence settled again, but the sharp edge from the road had softened into something heavier, like humidity before a summer storm. You watched his thick fingers work the wood, obsessed with the sheer scale of his hands. They were the hands of a killer, big enough to crush a man's windpipe, yet you'd seen him handle your mare's delicate leather tack with heartbreaking gentleness.
"Tell me," you started, words slipping out before you could weigh them. "Tell me about King's Landing. You said you grew up in Flea Bottom. The septons always speak of it as a pit of sin and thieves, but... I've only ever known the valley."
Duncan's thumb stopped against the bark. He looked caught off guard, heavy brows drawing together as if trying to see through fog. "The septons aren't wrong," he said after a long moment. "It's a foul place. When the wind blows from the south, the stench of fish-markets and tanners' vats stays in your teeth for days. It's narrow, too. The hovels lean out so far over the alleys that you can't see the sky unless you're standing in the middle of the street."
He glanced down at his massive frame, a faint, humorless smile touching his mouth. "I was a lanky lad then. All ribs and long shins. Spent half my youth with a knot on my forehead from cracking it against low door-beams."
The image of a young, clumsy Duncan surviving by his wits in the capital's squalor struck something raw in your chest. "How did you find your way out?"
"Ser Arlan found me." He tossed the peeled stick into the flames, watching the fresh wood catch. "Eleven, maybe twelve. Trying to take a loaf of barley bread off a baker's cart near the Iron Gate. The baker's boys had me cornered with clubs. Arlan rode past on his old gelding. Dented breastplate, shield with the paint half-flaked off, but to me, he looked like the dragonknight himself. He bought the loaf, paid the baker for the trouble, told me he needed a boy to fetch his water and brush his horse."
"Sounds like a good man," you murmured.
"He was the only man." His voice dropped into a low, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate in the ground beneath your blanket. "Taught me how to hold a shield. How to stand straight. He told me a true knight doesn't need a golden spur or a high nameâjust an honest heart and the will to defend those who can't do it themselves." He looked up, blue eyes boring straight into yours across the small space. "He gave me everything I am.â
The unvarnished grief in his face made your throat tighten. He wasn't boasting; he was laying his soul bare in the dirt of a riverbank because you had asked. You wanted to move closer, to bridge the small patch of grass between your bedrolls and touch the corded muscle of his shoulder, just to tell him he was enough. The desire felt like a physical ache between your ribs.
To break the weight of it, you forced a lighter note into your voice. "And after? When you took his coin and went into the world? Any grand tourneys? Highborn ladies giving you their favors?"
Duncan blinked, the melancholy vanishing from his face, replaced instantly by that deep, dark crimson flush you had seen on the road. It crept up from his collar, staining his ears. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking very much like the stableboy he had once been.
"No." He cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at you. "No ladies. Mostly just rainy roads and old taverns where the ale tasted like horse-piss. The only women who ever looked twice at me were tavern wenches trying to see if I had any silver left in my pouch after a night's lodging."
You let out a genuine laugh, the tension breaking just enough for you to breathe. "So no broken hearts left from Oldtown to the Wall?"
"None." His voice steadied, embarrassment fading. He stopped looking at the fire. He looked at you. His eyes traveled slowly from your hair, down to the curve of your collarbone where your tunic was unfastened against the fire's heat, then lingered on your lips. "I've never had much use for fair words or courtly games, my lady. A man like me... we don't get the things the bards sing about."
The air thickened instantly, suffocating. The fire's crackle faded to a distant murmur. You watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the pulse leaping in the hollow of his thick throat. Though he remained still, his presence pressed against your skin.
You should look away. Should speak of the hour, the harvest, your father's ledgers. But you were paralyzed, caught by the dark hunger smoldering in his eyes. He wanted to cross the space between you, evident in the way his knuckles whitened around the ash stick, his whole body coiled tight beneath the linen shirt.
Duncan swallowed, the sound sharp in the quiet clearing. He rose abruptly, his massive frame blotting out the firelight and plunging you into shadow.
"The wind is shifting." His voice was rough, uneven, like iron dragging over stone. "I should... I need to double-hobble the grey. She's restless near the water."
He turned before you could answer, long strides carrying him quickly from the fire's circle into the dense darkness of the willow-choke.
You exhaled a long breath as you set your untouched plate on the grass. The shiver that ran through you had nothing to do with the night's chill. You pulled your woolen cloak tighter around your shoulders and lay back on your bedroll, staring up through the leaves at the cold, indifferent stars.
He was out there in the dark. A silent guardian who could kill a man with his bare hands. While you remained trapped in the small circle of light he had built.Â
Heat first. A solid wall of it pressed against your spine.
You lay on your side, curled against the morning chill, your back flush against something far more solid than your bedroll. Your eyes snapped open. You froze.
Enveloped.
The scent of woodsmoke, leather, his skin filled your senses.
Ser Duncan.
You lay completely against him. The hard plane of his chest rose and fell against your shoulder blades, a slow rhythm that contrasted with your frantic breathing. One massive arm draped over your waist, anchoring you. His other hand rested beneath your head.
You were using his hand as a pillow. Your cheek nestled into his calloused palm, his long fingers curled against your jawline, holding you close even in sleep. An intimate touch, while he remained asleep.
Every instinct screamed to move, pull away, feign sleep. Create distance before he woke. But you couldn't. His warmth seeped through your wool shift, lulling your body into liquid surrender.
He shifted behind you. A deep, unconscious movement. His body pressed closer, long thighs bracketing yours, chest molding to your back. A sleepy huff of air rumbled in his chest, puffing warm against your bare neck. A fierce shiver of need shot down your spine.
Gods, he was hard.
Through the thin layers of your clothes, you felt the solid length of himâhot, thick, pressed right against the soft swell of your hips. This wasn't the frantic tension from the woods. This was slow, heavy morning arousal, a potent proof of his body's silent desire, nestled perfectly against you.
A tiny whimper caught in your throat. You clamped your teeth together, praying to the Old Gods he hadn't heard. Duncan remained asleep, his breathing deep and regular. His hand beneath your cheek twitched, rough thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a slow, instinctive caress that made your toes curl beneath your blanket.
Your blood was humming, a furnace of heat pooling between your thighs. A persistent, throbbing ache made you want to lose all sense of propriety. You wanted to press back against the hard ridge of him, to grind your hips into that solid heat until the friction drove you completely mad. You wanted that massive hand to move, to leave your jaw, to slide down your neck and cup the aching weight of your breast.
You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting your own anatomy with everything you had. It was wrong. He was your sworn shield, asleep and unaware, and you were taking advantage of his proximity.
But the line between passive and active shattered when his hips gave a small, primitive thrust against you. A subtle, sleepy hitch of his weight, pressing him so firmly into your softness that you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning aloud.
This had to stop. Now.
With a herculean effort of will, you forced yourself to roll away, breaking the contact and slipping out from under his heavy arm. The sudden invasion of damp morning air where his heat had just been felt like a physical blow. You curled inward, your back now facing him, your heart knocking against your ribs.
You lay perfectly still, feigning sleep though your skin vibrated and breath came shallow. Behind you, he stirred, a confused, gravelly grunt as the loss of your warmth woke him. The wool of the bedrolls rustled loudly as he shifted, then the camp went entirely still.
You kept your shoulders steady, pretending to be lost in deep slumber, but you felt the immense weight of his gaze on your back. The silence stretched, thick with the unsaid, heavy with the realization of what had just happened in the dark.
Then you heard him rise. His footsteps were soft, heavy thuds in the damp grass as he moved away from your bedroll. A moment later, the faint, steady trickle of the stream signaled he was washing the sleep and the heat from his face.
Only then did you let out a ragged breath. You rolled onto your back, staring blankly up at the grey sky through heavy willow leaves. Your body still thrummed, the ache between your legs an insistent, mocking reminder of how close you had been to the flame. You had nearly been burned completely, and the most treacherous part of you wished you had let it happen.
That day's ride carried a different weight. The morning's sharp defensiveness had dissolved, replaced by a charged silence that needed no words to fill the miles. The dawn's intimacy had forged a wordless understanding between youâa quiet, dangerous truce.
Duncan kept his horse at a distance, yet you felt the constant weight of his gaze. When you glanced over, you'd catch his eyes lingering on your profile, tracing the line of your neck, or dropping to your hands where your knuckles whitened on the reins. This steady awareness made your skin prickle beneath your woolen cloak.
Late afternoon brought an inn into view at the crossroads. The River-Runnan, its weathered sign proclaimedâa three-story structure of river-stone and dark timber that looked as weary as the travelers approaching. It marked the last outpost of civilization before the track deteriorated into the isolated flats leading to your cousin's holdfast.
As you guided the horses into the stable yard, something unexpected occurred. Your grey mare, Rose, nickered softly. Duncan's bronze chestnut answered with a low, vibrating whinny. They stretched their muzzles across the space between them, sharing warm breath in an unmistakable greeting.
You and Duncan exchanged a look over the horses' heads.
"Well," he said, a rare smile touching his mouth. "Seems they've more sense than their masters. Made peace."
"It appears so," you agreed, your own smile breaking through your careful reserve. "I suppose we're stuck with each other's company a while longer."
He dismounted with the creak of leather, moving to stroke his mare's neck. "I think Chestnut likes you better than me, truth be told. She's been eyeing your oats all morning."
"She simply has excellent taste, Ser," you retorted as you slid from your saddle. Your legs were stiff, and for a moment, your balance faltered. Duncan was there instantly, his large hand cupping your elbow. His palm burned through your sleeve, his touch firm and steady before he seemed to remember himself and drew back. "She recognizes a woman of quality."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, making something in your belly flip. "Of course. My error, my lady."
Inside the common room's smoky warmth, you secured two chambers, telling yourself it was the only proper arrangement. But when the innkeeper handed over the iron keys, your fingers brushed Duncan's as you passed him his. A spark jumped between your skin that had nothing to do with propriety.
"Supper is in an hour," you said, your voice dropping into that breathless register you despised.
Duncan looked down at the heavy key in his palm, then up at you, his blue eyes dark and unblinking. "I will be waiting."
You practically fled up the creaking stairs, shutting your chamber door and leaning your weight against the thick timber. You needed the solitude to douse the sudden, wild heat that flared to life whenever he stood within arm's reach.
The hour passed in a blur of cold basin-water and the frantic smoothing of your travel-stained skirts. When you finally descended to the common room, the space was bustling with grain-traders and drovers, the air thick with the smell of roasting mutton, ale, and damp wool.
Duncan was already there. He had changed into a clean, dark linen tunic, and his hair was still damp from washing, curling tightly at the nape of his neck. He looked massive against the low ceilings, rugged and entirely unpolished in a way that made your throat go dry. He rose the moment you approached, a gesture of old-world chivalry that felt absurdly intimate in a room full of shouting teamsters.
"My lady," he murmured.
You rolled your eyes to hide the flush creeping up your neck, though you could not stop the smile. "We are at a crossroads inn, Duncan. Do not start that again."
The ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "As you wish."
He led you to a small, scarred table tucked into the shadows of the corner hearth. For a time, you ate the hearty mutton stew and crusty black bread in a comfortable, easy silence. The tension had not vanished; it had simply evolved. It was no longer the sharp, defensive pain of the previous day. It was anticipatory, a live wire humming in the dark.
"You handled the grey well through the mire today," he said, breaking the quiet as he broke a piece of bread. "She is a sweet thing, but she has a stubborn streak when the mud gets up to her hocks."
"So does her rider," you said, meeting his gaze over the rim of your ale-cup. "We are well-matched in our vices."
The look he gave you then was completely different from his usual guarded stares. It was slow, heavy, and reached his eyes, turning the blue to a deep, dark sapphire. "That you are. I have noticed you do not take to the rein easily."
"And you do, Ser Knight?"
"Only when the hand holding it is one I trust," he said softly.
The words landed between you like a weight. The conversation flowed more dangerously after that, masked behind mundane talk of harvest prices and the ridiculous cost of salt in King's Landing. It felt like a conspiracy, two people building a fragile bridge across a chasm, piece by agonizing piece.
But the night demanded an end. When you stood together at the foot of the stairs, the awkwardness returned, cold and sudden.
"Goodnight, Ser Duncan," you whispered.
He gave a short, efficient bow of his broad shoulders. "Sleep well, my lady. I am just across the timber if there is a noise."
You climbed the steps, feeling the physical weight of his eyes tracking the movement of your hips until you cleared the landing. You did not dare look back.
Your chamber door closed with a decisive click. The room was small, containing nothing but a narrow rope bed and a single window looking out over the black stable yard. You lit a tallow candle, watching the flame dance against the rough stone.
You were exhausted, but your blood was thrumming with a restless, agonizing energy. You paced the floorboards, your skin still singing from the morning when you had woken up molded against his chest, feeling the heavy, thick length of his arousal pressed into your hips. He was becoming more than a complication. He was becoming a necessity.
The next dawn broke bright and clear, the road drying into an easy, hard-packed track. The light-heartedness that followed was entirely new. Duncan actually made you laugh, a real, unburdened sound that echoed across the rolling hills as he recounted a ridiculous tale of Ser Arlan attempting to joust a drunken septon in the Reach.
By late afternoon, Beck's Ford's grey stone walls rose from the river-mists. Your relative, Ser Elmar Beck, proved a frantic, thin man whose relief at your arrival bordered on pathetic. He fussed over you instantly, shouting for servants, offering hot baths and a feast you had no desire to endure. Declining the pageantry, you insisted on a simple trencher and a quiet corner room near the granary.
After a brief, professional tour of the blighted fields where your focus finally returned, allowing you to map out a clear trenching strategy to save the winter wheat, Elmar's bailiff showed you to your quarters.
The room was modest but secluded, boasting a large, iron-latched window overlooking a breathtaking view of the Red Fork winding like a silver ribbon through the dark valley below. As you stood there watching twilight swallow the Riverlands, you heard the heavy, familiar boot-heels settle directly outside your door. He was there. Your shield. The keep's smallness only meant the walls between you were growing thinner.
He stood in the hallway, his immense frame seeming to fill the narrow space. Washed and changed too, his dark hair remained damp. He looked... good. Relaxed.
"Ser Elmar requests our presence at dinner." His massive frame nearly filled the narrow stone corridor. "I came to escort you."
"Of course." You stepped out into the hall, closing the heavy oak door behind you. "Though I am not sure if I am ready for more conversation."
He fell into step beside you as you walked toward the great hall, the steady thud of his boots a comforting rhythm. "Just stick with me." His voice dropped into a low, conspiratorial murmur. "I will protect you from the boring parts."
Looking up at him, a genuine smile fractured your reserve. "Is that part of your oath, Ser Duncan? Shielding me from tedious conversation?"
He looked down at you, his blue eyes entirely serious in the torchlight. "It is the most important part."
The warmth spreading through your chest at his words had nothing to do with the damp evening air. You walked into the great hall together, shoulders almost touching, a silent understanding passing between you. The journey had changed things. It had broken down the rigid walls of status and forced a new kind of honesty. You were no longer just a farmer's daughter and he no longer just a hedge knight. You were something else, something just beginning whose shape you could not yet name. For now, there was a blight to discuss, and a dinner to get through.
The dinner in Elmarâs hall was a simple, rustic affair, a welcome change from the stuffy, formal meals you had endured in the past. The long table was made of rough-hewn oak, and the candles were of cheap tallow, casting a warm, flickering light over the faces of the small household.
Ser Elmar Beck was a man shaped by his land, his face weathered and his hands calloused, much like your own father's. His wife, Lady Anya, was a quiet, round-cheeked woman with a kind smile and eyes that held a deep, lingering weariness. You noticed the way she held her hand protectively over her stomach, a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible. But you had seen it before in the women of your valley. You knew the signs.
The conversation was pleasant, revolving around the harvest, the local gossip of the Riverlands, and the peculiarities of the weather. Ser Duncan sat beside you, a solid, quiet presence. He ate with a focused intensity, but you could feel his attention, a subtle awareness that remained both comforting and distracting.
When the meal wound down, Elmar turned to you, his expression earnest. "My lady, I cannot thank you enough for making this journey. The sight of you on our threshold was a beacon of hope."
You inclined your head. "It was my duty, Ser Elmar. My father has always believed that knowledge of the land is meant to be shared."
He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "Your father is a wise man, and you have his eye, it seems. What you told me this afternoon about the water mold and the need to trench the eastern field makes perfect sense. I have been fighting this blight with prayers and copper sulphate, but I never thought to look at the water itself."
"It is a common mistake," you said. "The water looks clean, so we assume it is. But sometimes the danger is what we cannot see."
He leaned back in his chair, a look of profound respect on his face. "You have a true understanding. It is a rare thing, especially in someone so young."
You glanced at Ser Duncan. He was watching you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of quiet pride in his eyes that made your chest feel tight.
Lady Anya chose that moment to speak up, her voice soft. "My husband speaks truly. We are grateful." She paused, her hand resting on her stomach again. "And we will be more in need of such wisdom in the coming moons."
The unspoken announcement hung warmly in the air. You gave her a congratulatory smile. "My lady, that is wonderful news."
She smiled back, though it was tinged with anxiety. "We are hopeful. But my husband is not as young as he once was. The management of the fields and the health of the crops is a heavy burden when one is otherwise occupied."
Elmar sighed, placing his hand over his wife's. "My lady is too kind. The truth is, I am a soldier, not a farmer. I know how to hold a line, not how to read the soil. I have been doing a poor job of it, as this blight proves."
An idea began to form in your mind, bold and unexpected. You glanced at Duncan again, drawing strength from his steady presence before you spoke. "What if you had someone to manage it for you? Not a standard steward, but a master of fields. Someone with the knowledge to guide your men and oversee the health of the land."
You took a breath, the words rushing out with growing conviction. "I could write to my father. He knows of those who have studied the old ways, who understand the balance of water and soil. They could come here, assess the lands, and train your people. In the long run, a healthy harvest is worth more than any hoarded coin."
Elmar stared at you, his mouth slightly agape, while Anyaâs eyes lit up with a fragile hope. "You would do that for us?" the knight asked, his voice hushed. "You would find us such a person?"
"I know of one in particular near the Trident," you said. "Her mind is sharper than any sword. She might be persuaded to take on an apprentice here and pass on her knowledge. My father believes the realm is built on its fields, not its castles. Helping you keeps the Riverlands fed. It is not a favor, Ser Elmar. It is good sense."
The silence that followed was thick with possibility. Ser Duncan shifted beside you. You did not look at him, but you could feel the physical weight of his gaze on the side of your face. It was a look of quiet astonishment. You had taken control of the room, not with a high title, but with knowledge and sheer conviction.
Elmar finally spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "I am speechless, my lady. If you can arrange this, you will have saved not just our crops, but our home." He stood up, a formal gesture of profound gratitude. You rose as well, feeling Lady Anya's eyes on you.
"Consider it done, ser," you said, your voice steady. "I will send the raven at first light."
As you turned to leave the hall, Ser Duncan fell into step beside you. You walked in silence down the stone corridor, the weight of the evening settling over you. When you reached the door to your chamber, you turned to face him.
He was looking at you in a way he never had before. It was no longer the guarded, hungry look from the road, or the respectful, distant mask of a protector. It was open, raw, and full of an emotion so powerful it made your breath catch.
"Is that it?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Is this what you do? Ride into a lord's keep and fix everything?"
You couldn't help but smile, a little breathlessly. "Only the broken things."
He shook his head slowly, his blue eyes never leaving yours.
The air between you felt charged, entirely alive. He was so close, the heat from his bare forearms a tangible force in the chilly corridor. You thought of the morning in the camp, his body curled tightly around yours, your cheek nestled in his palm.
"I think," you said softly, "that we are all a little broken, Ser Duncan. Some of us are just better at hiding it."
For a moment, you thought he might finally breach the distance. His hand twitched at his side, a small, involuntary movement of his fingers. But he stopped himself, his knuckles tightening as he forced his rigid restraint back into place, brick by brick. You felt your body trembling.
But this time, you were not trembling with frustration or anxiety. You were trembling with a burgeoning sense of your own power. He saw you now. Truly saw you. Not as a responsibility, not as a farmer's daughter, but as a woman of intelligence and strength.
The morning sun filtered through the small window of Ser Elmar's study, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. You sat at a heavy oak desk, a piece of parchment spread before you, a quill in your hand. You had just finished your detailed report on the blight, outlining the causes, the recommended treatments, and the long-term strategies for drainage and crop rotation. It was thorough, precise, and, you hoped, helpful.
A soft knock at the door broke your concentration. "Enter."
Ser Elmar came in, his face looking less weary than it had the day before. "My lady. I hope I am not disturbing you."
"Not at all, ser. I was just finishing my report."
He approached the desk, peering at the neat lines of your script. "Extraordinary. Truly. You have a gift for this."
You felt a flush of pride. "It is simply a matter of observation, ser."
He smiled, a genuine crinkling of the eyes. "A rare and valuable skill." He hesitated, his expression turning hopeful. "Which is why I was hoping to impose on you once more."
You looked up, curious. "Impose?"
"We have a midwife arriving from a neighboring holdfast. She is a wise woman, and I would be grateful if you would be here to consult with her when she arrives. She will have questions about the land, the water... things you understand far better than I."
It was a reasonable request. But it meant another day. Another day here, away from the farm, away from the journey back with Ser Duncan. A small, treacherous part of you leapt at the prospect.
"I would be honored to assist, ser," you heard yourself say. "The midwife should be here by midday?"
He nodded. "So she said. I will send for you when she arrives. Thank you, again. You are a godsend."
He gave you a final, grateful nod and left the study. You were alone again, the silence of the room pressing in. You stood up, moving to the window that overlooked the inner courtyard. The sun was high, the day warm. You watched the bustle of the holdfast below.
And then you saw them.
A young maid, with auburn hair escaping her cap, was carrying a basket of linens. She was hurrying, her head down, and she nearly collided with a young man coming out of the stables. He was a woodcutter, by the look of his strong arms and the axe slung over his shoulder. His hair was the color of sand, and he had a broad, open face.
They stopped, inches apart. The maid's basket tilted, and a stack of clean rags tumbled to the cobblestones.
"Oh, forgive me, my lady! I wasn't looking!" the maid squeaked, her face turning scarlet. She immediately dropped to her knees, scrabbling to pick up the fallen laundry.
The young woodcutter laughed, a warm, easy sound. He crouched down to help her, his large hands gently gathering the clean cloths. "No harm done, Alia," he said, his voice low and kind. Their hands brushed over a piece of linen, and the contact seemed to jolt them both. They froze for a second, their eyes meeting.
It was a small, fleeting moment, but it was charged with a sweet, undeniable chemistry. You recognized it instantly. The awkwardness, the sudden awareness, the blush that wasn't just from embarrassment. It was the language of young, burgeoning affection.
But it was happening in the open. And you weren't the only one watching.
Ser Elmar had emerged from the main keep, his face already set in a frown of disapproval. "What is this?" he barked, his voice sharp. "Alia! You clumsy girl! Those are the linens for the birthing room! Get them washed again, at once!"
The maid's face crumpled, the blush of happiness replaced by one of mortification. "Yes, ser. Forgive me." She snatched the rest of the rags from the woodcutter's hands and fled, her head bowed.
The young man stood up slowly, his easy smile gone, replaced by a look of sullen anger. He shot a glare at the knight's retreating back before he, too, turned and stalked off toward the woods, his shoulders hunched.
You couldn't stand it. You had seen that look before, the quiet frustration of a life where small moments of joy were punishable offenses. You turned from the window, your heart thumping in your chest. You knew what you had to do.
You found Ser Elmar in the great hall, overseeing the delivery of some stores. You approached him, keeping your voice calm and respectful. "Ser Elmar, a moment."
He turned, his expression impatient. "Yes, my lady?"
"The maid, Alia," you began. "It was an accident. The woodcutter was helping her. There was no harm done."
His frown deepened. "She is careless. In my household, we do not tolerate carelessness. It leads to bigger problems."
"Or," you said, choosing your words carefully, "it leads to young people learning. She was flustered, yes. But he was kind to her. He helped her. That is not a problem, ser. That is a good thing."
He looked at you, startled by your gentle but firm rebuttal. "My lady, I appreciate your perspective. But the order of a keep must be maintained."
"And a happy household is an orderly one," you countered. "A scolding for a simple accident will only breed resentment. The girl is clearly a hard worker. Her only crime was a moment's distraction." You met his gaze, letting your own experience lend weight to your words. "Sometimes, ser, the soil is more fertile when you let a few wildflowers grow."
He blinked at you, the metaphor clearly not one he was accustomed to. But he was a fair man. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Perhaps you are right. I will... I will go easier on her."
"Thank you, ser." You gave him a small, respectful nod and walked away, your heart still pounding. You had done it. You had spoken up.
As you turned the corner, you almost walked straight into a solid wall of a man. You looked up, and up, into the familiar, stormy blue eyes of Ser Duncan.
He was standing in the shadows of the corridor, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He had seen the whole thing. From the look on his face, you couldn't tell if he was impressed or exasperated.
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" he rumbled, his voice a low, deep vibration that you felt in your bones.
"Help what?" you asked, feigning innocence, but you couldn't keep the smile from your lips.
He shook his head slowly, a ghost of a smile playing on his own mouth. "Fixing things. People. Problems. Everything."
You looked away, feeling suddenly warm under his gaze. "They needed fixing."
"So you do it," he said, his voice soft. "No matter the cost."
There was no judgment in his tone. Only a quiet, profound understanding. He saw it, the core of you. The need to make things right, to mend what was broken, whether it was a blighted field or a young girl's wounded pride.
It was a moment of pure, unspoken connection. A crack in the armor you both wore. You stood there, in the dim light of the corridor, and you felt a shift. The air was thick with it.
"I should see to my own duties," he said, his voice a little rougher than before.
"And I should prepare for the midwife," you replied.
He didn't move. Neither did you.
Finally, he pushed away from the wall, his movements slow, deliberate. "Be careful, my lady."
You didn't know if he was warning you about the midwife, or about something else entirely. Something about him, and you, and the dangerous path you were walking together.
You just nodded. "Always, Ser Duncan."
He watched you for a second longer, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the corridor, your heart beating a wild, hopeful rhythm.
The day stretched before you, another day in this holdfast. But you knew it wouldn't be like the others. Something had changed. You had intervened, and he had seen you do it. And in doing so, you had shown him another piece of yourself.
The afternoon sun was warm on your skin as you slipped away from the keep.
Ser Duncan was occupied with the men, inspecting the perimeter of the lands. It was the perfect opportunity.
The lake. You needed to see it again, up close. You needed to feel the cool water on your skin, to wash away the dust of the road and the tension of the past few days. More than that, you wanted to be alone. Truly alone, with no guards, no duties, no watchful blue eyes following your every move.
You followed a narrow path through the woods, the air growing cooler and more scented with pine and damp earth. The sounds of the holdfast faded behind you, replaced by the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves. It was a small, forbidden freedom, and it made you feel giddy and bold.
You could see the glint of the lake through the trees ahead. You picked up your pace, your mind already on the feel of the water, the sensation of being unburdened, even for a little while. You had even brought a small cake of soap, a decadent, unnecessary luxury for a simple bath.
As you rounded a large oak tree, a sound stopped you dead in your tracks. A sound that was not made by birds or leaves.
It was a gasp. A soft, high-pitched moan.
You froze, your heart leaping into your throat. You peered around the thick trunk of the tree, your curiosity warring with your sense of propriety.
And then you saw them.
The woodcutter and the maid.
They were barely thirty feet away, hidden in a small, sun-dappled pocket of the clearing. Oblivious to the world, they were utterly consumed by each other. Her back was pinned flat against the rough, flaking bark of a pine, her heavy kirtle hitched all the way to her waist, her bare legs wrapped tightly around his lean hips. His tunic had been discarded in the grass, his trousers shoved down just far enough to free himself.
They were fucking.
It was nothing like the sweet, fumbling innocence you had glimpsed in the cobblestone courtyard. This was raw, urgent, and primal. He was driving into her with a steady, punishingly powerful rhythm, his thick hand clamped brutally over her mouth to stifle her cries. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a flushed mask of ecstatic pleasure, her fingers clawing desperately at his bare shoulders.
You should have turned away. Every lesson of your upbringing demanded you leave them to their privacy. Yet you remained rooted to the spot, your eyes wide, your own body reacting with a sudden, terrifying intensity. You watched the hard flex of the young manâs flanks, the slick sheen of sweat coating his spine, the way her hips violently arched off the tree to meet every blunt, heavy thrust. The sounds filling the quiet woodsâthe wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, her muffled whimpers, his low, guttural groansâwere the most obscene and intoxicating things you had ever heard.
This was what it was truly like. This was what happened in the deep shadows, entirely free from the suffocating, watchful eyes of lords and septons. This was the kind of desire that could not be governed, that refused to be denied.
Instantly, you thought of Ser Duncan. You thought of his massive, powerful frame, of the thick, heavy length of him you had felt pressed against your ass in the gray light of dawn. You imagined him here, in this very clearing, holding you. Pinned against the bark. His large hand bruising your lips to keep you quiet. His immense body moving inside you with that same desperate, unrestrained ferocity.
A heavy rush of liquid heat flooded your core, so intense it made your knees sway. You instinctively pressed your thighs together, a helpless, aching attempt to ease the sudden, sharp throbbing between your legs.
You could not bear it a second longer. Your breath was coming in ragged, shallow pants, your entire skin on fire. You turned blindly to slip away before they could discover you.
But as you whirled around, your back collided with a solid, immovable wall of flesh. Before a gasp could leave your throat, a large, calloused hand clamped firmly over your mouth, cutting off your cry of surprise. An arm like an iron band wrapped around your waist, hoisting you backward and pinning you flush against a chest as hard and unyielding as the pine tree.
You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You knew exactly who it was before he even breathed. The scent of old leather, woodsmoke, and pure, raw male musk was unmistakable.
"What in the Seven Kingdoms do you think you are doing?" Duncan's voice was a low, furious growl, vibrating directly against the shell of your ear. He held you completely captive, his large body a cage of suffocating heat and corded muscle.
You tried to speak against his palm, to offer some breathless explanation, but his grip remained unyielding. You shook your head, your eyes wide with panic and a potent, confusing surge of arousal.
He was angry. You could feel the rigid tension vibrating through his entire frame, the iron tightness of his biceps. "You snuck off," he hissed, his hot breath scalding the sensitive skin of your neck. "Without a single word. Into the woods alone. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"
You wanted to twist around, to tell him you were perfectly fine, but his low rebuke was suddenly drowned out by a sharp shift in the clearing. The maid's muffled cries had grown more frantic, her whimpers rising in pitch as the woodcutterâs thrusts became fast and erratic. They were close.
Duncan heard it too. Every muscle in his massive body went utterly rigid behind you. Slowly, deliberately, the hand around your waist shifted, turning you slightly so that you were both forced to look back into the clearing.
You watched, transfixed, your skin a live wire of sensation. Ser Duncan's hand was still pressed over your lips, his chest rising and falling rapidly against your shoulder blades.
"Gods, yes," the maid panted, her voice cracking, completely breathless. "Please... fuck me harder. Please, just like that... don't stop. I am so close..."
"You feel so good," the woodcutter groaned, his voice strained and thick with lust. "So tight and wet... fuck, Alia... I am going to spend inside you..."
The crude, direct words sent a jolt of pure, undiluted electricity straight to your core. Behind you, Duncanâs breathing hitched violently. His chest was heaving now, his breath coming faster and hotter against your hair. The heavy hand over your mouth loosened slightly, his fingers trembling, but he did not remove it. He was a furnace at your back, his rising heat seeping through your clothes, melting into your own.
The lovers were entirely lost to their climax. Suddenly, the maid unwrapped her legs from his waist, sliding down the trunk of the pine until she was on her knees in the moss before him. She grabbed his hips with shameless eagerness, pulling him forward and taking him into her mouth with a desperate, low moan.
The woodcutter threw his head back against the sky, his large hands fisting blindly in her auburn hair. "Fuck, yes... just like that... oh, gods..."
Duncan made a strangled, guttural sound in his throatâa low noise of pure shock and answering arousal that vibrated through your spine and pooled heavily between your thighs. His arm tightened reflexively around your waist, a possessive, crushing gesture. He seemed to suddenly remember where he was, remember that he was holding you, forcing you to bear witness to something so raw. His hand began to lift away from your face, intending to shield your eyes.
But you stopped him.
You reached up, your fingers wrapping around his thick, scarred wrist, holding his hand firmly in place over your mouth. You did not want him to let go. You did not want to be shielded from the filth of it. You wanted to see. You wanted him to feel you watching it.
He froze. You could feel his utter disbelief, his shock, radiating from his skin in waves. But he did not pull away. He let you hold his wrist, his massive frame trembling slightly against yours as the final, desperate sounds of the clearing echoed through the trees. Together, you watched the young woodcutterâs face contort with pleasure as he spilled himself, watched the maid slide down into the grass beside him, both of them laughing breathlessly, slick with sweat and satisfaction.
Slowly, carefully, Ser Duncan turned you around in his arms. He removed his hand from your mouth, but he did not release your waist. He stared down at you, his eyes dark, the pupils completely blown out with a raw, hungry need that mirrored your own.
"You wanted to see that," he stated. His voice was a low, rough rasp, thick with the gravel of his own suppressed lust. It was not a question.
You did not deny it. Your lips parted, your breathing still ragged as you looked up into his stormy features.
Duncan took a deep, shuddering breath, his jaw clenching as he forced the wall of his rigid restraint back into place.Â
"Next time you get an itch for adventure, you tell me," he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble as he kept his grip tight on your waist, refusing to let you step back. "You do not just disappear into the gods-damned woods."
You lifted your chin, a spark of pure defiance flaring through your arousal. "And what if I do not want to tell you? What if I want to be alone?"
"You do not want to be alone," he bit out, his voice low, fierce, and entirely uncovered. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his massive bulk blotting out the sun. "You just want to see what happens when you push. You want to see if I will follow you."
The truth of it, the sheer weight of him seeing through your armor so easily, was both infuriating and intoxicating.
"Maybe I do," you retorted, your breath hot against his chin.
His eyes flashed. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle leaped, and his gaze dropped starkly to your mouth. Your lips parted in response, your body aching for him to finally rip the dress from your shoulders and pin you to the nearest trunk just as the woodcutter had done.
The fragile scaffolding of his chivalry finally collapsed.
With a low, feral curse, Ser Duncan the Tall wrenched himself away, the sudden fracture of contact leaving the air bleeding between you. He stumbled back a pace, shoving a trembling, massive hand over his face as if he could scrub away the raw, predatory hunger etched into his features. A furious, dark crimson flush surged up his thick neck, staining his ears and cheeks a hot, humiliated red.
"W-we turn back," he stammered, the syllables tripping heavily over his swollen lips, his voice a ruined, gravelly rasp. "Right now. You will... you will not leave my side until we are in the valley. Do you mark me?"
You could only stare, your own veins pulsing with a heat so sharp it bordered on agony. You managed a dazed nod, following him as he whirled and cut blindly through the dense brush.
But the suffocating canopy offered no escape. The trail narrowed into a treacherous, green vice, forcing you directly behind his broad, rigid back. The air between you vibrating with the musk of unspent violence and damp earth. Every step felt like a countdown. Suddenly, his boot caught a hidden root. His giant, seven-foot frame lurched backward, directly into your path.
The collision was total. Your face struck the solid wall of his back. Dunk was a furnace, radiating a primitive, heavy heat that soaked instantly through your clothes, melting straight to your bones.
"F-forgive me," he rumbled, a breathless vibration you felt in your own chest. He flinched, his muscles locking as he tried to pull away, desperate to re-establish the distance that kept his honor intact.
You didn't let him.
Driven by a sudden, wicked impulse, your hand shot out, locking around his thick, calloused wrist. "Duncan," you whispered.
He froze. He stood like a monument of trapped muscle beneath your palm, his pulse hammering against your fingertips like a panicked beast. Slowly, painfully, his massive head turned, pinning you over his shoulder. His face was a mask of pure ruinâhis blue eyes had darkened into a stormy, dilated black, his jaw clenched so hard the bone jumped beneath his flushed skin.
In one heavy, deliberate movement, he whirled to face you fully. He didn't reclaim his hand; instead, he seized your jaw with a desperation that hovered on the edge of violence, his rough, warm thumb smearing hard across your lips.
"D-don't," he breathed, the word a shattered, pathetic plea.
Instead of pulling away, you parted your teeth. With unashamed deliberation, you drew his thick, scarred thumb fully into your mouth.
Dunk let out a strangled, choked cry as you closed your lips tight around his skin. You sucked on him slowly, deeply, letting the wet, sweltering heat of your mouth envelope him as your tongue swirled around the calloused pad. It was an act of pure, shameless worshipâa wet, wicked mimicry of the very coupling you both craved. You looked up through your lashes, holding his blown-out eyes as you pulled his finger deeper against your palate, drawing out a slick, rhythmic friction. In that quiet forest, the dark, deliberate sound of your suction was an intimacy so absolute it felt as though you were already making love, your mouth taking him in just as your body begged to.
A violent convulsion bucked through his entire massive frame. His eyes squeezed shut, his face turning a deeper, bruised shade of red as he trembled against you, utterly unmade by the shameless glide of your mouth.
When you finally let him slip from your lips with a soft, wet pop, he stared down at his glistening skin, his chest heaving in ragged, whistling pants.
"Seven hells," he rasped, his voice thick and thoroughly ruined. "You... you know not what you do to me. You ruin me."
"I know," you whispered, stepping into his space until your breasts pressed against his broad torso. You gripped the front of his tunic, anchoring him to you. "And I want you to ruin me, too. Duncan, listen to me... I have never been with anyone. I have never made love in my life. No man has ever touched me. Not like this. Never."
The confession struck the knight like a physical blow. Dunkâs breath caught, a pathetic, beautiful whimper escaping his throat as his face burned an even deeper, agonizing crimson. The thought of your innocence, contrasted against the raw, filthy display of your desire, utterly destroyed what little remained of his sanity.
"Tell me to s-stop," he begged anyway, one last, desperate prayer for his honor, though his voice cracked and his hands were already fisting blindly in your clothes. "Tell me to walk away, and I swear it on my sword... on my honor. Just... speak it, before I do what cannot be undone."
"Don't," you breathed against his lips. "Don't stop."
With a sound that was almost animal, he devoured the final inch between you. His mouth crashed onto yours with a starved, feral hunger. His lips were scalding, his beard scratching brutally against your skin as he claimed your mouth.
His hand slid to the nape of your neck, fingers fisting into your hair to tilt your head back, bruising you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. The kiss was a wet, messy collision of teeth and tonguesâa slick, breathless exchange of heat and spit that made your head spin. He tasted of a dark, heavy sweetness that belonged to him alone.
He lunged closer, his arm locking around your waist like a band of iron, lifting you slightly as he crushed your hips against his.
The illusion of his restraint vanished completely. Through the layers of wool and linen, the rigid, monstrous length of his arousal pressed insistently against your abdomen. He was hard as iron, thick and unyielding. Driven by pure, unadulterated need, his hips ground against yours in a slow, desperate rhythm, seeking friction, seeking ruin, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted to stretch you open.
"This is wrong," he gasped against your lips, the words torn and agonizingly slurred, his pride entirely gone. "Gods, this is so wrong... you are so pure, and I... I cannot be this weak... I'll ruin you... I swore an oath..."
"Shut up," you breathed, catching his lower lip between your teeth and biting down just enough to draw a groan. You cupped his burning face, your thumbs wiping away the sweat at his temples. "Don't think about oaths. Take me. Right here. Take what you need."
His entire body convulsed, a shudder of agony and ecstasy. He let out a broken sound as his mouth seized yours again, deeper, more possessive, as his massive hands gripped your hips and anchored you tightly against his hardness.Â
The world shrank to the fevered space between your bodies.
Ser Duncan's hands were everywhere at once shaking and clumsy, grabbing at your waist, your hips, the curve of your back. His breath came in ragged, panting bursts against your neck, hot and desperate. The sheer strength of his hands should have been frightening, but it wasn't. It felt like worship.
"Please," you gasped against his mouth, your hands scrabbling at his broad shoulders. "Duncan... please. My dress..."
He made a low, guttural sound of pure frustration and seized the neckline of your kirtle. With a sharp, careless jerk, he yanked the fabric down, tearing the laces. The air hit your bare breasts with a shocking rush of cool, making your nipples pebble instantly. He stared, his blue eyes blown wide and dark, his chest heaving as if he'd been struck.
A strangled, helpless moan escaped his throat, a sound so raw and boyish it made your cunt clench. "IâfuckâI can't," he panted, his gaze glued to your exposed skin. "You're so..." He couldn't even finish the sentence. He just lowered his head and took your nipple into his mouth.
It was not practiced. It was clumsy and eager and utterly perfect. His lips were impossibly hot, wet, and soft as they sealed around your tight bud. He sucked with a greedy, noisy urgency, his tongue flicking clumsily over the sensitive tip, bathing it in warm, slick heat. He left a wet, glistening trail as he moved to your other breast, his breath hot against your damp skin, panting like he'd run for miles.
"Gods," he groaned, the sound vibrating against your flesh. "... I can't... I'm going to..."
"You can," you encouraged, your hands tangling in his thick hair, holding him to you.
"Touch me, Dunk," you begged, your voice a breathless, desperate whisper. You pushed your breasts harder against his face, shamelessly seeking more of that exquisite, clumsy heat. "Put your hands on me. Touch me how you want to, please..."
Your words shattered him. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly at your sides, finally moved. They slid up your sides, rough and warm, to cup the heavy weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your wet, spit-slick nipples. The dual sensation of his hands and his mouth was overwhelming.
He was panting like a man in a fever, his hips jerking uncontrollably against yours. And then, he stiffened. His whole body locked up, a tremor running through his massive frame.
He had come.
Right there, pressed against you, with just the friction of your bodies and the feel of your skin in his mouth, Ser Duncan the Tall had spilled himself in his breeches like a green boy. A deep, guttural moan of shame and release was muffled against your breast, his face buried in your cleavage as he shuddered through it.
You held him, your arms wrapped around his head, stroking his hair as he gasped for breath, his body still quaking with aftershocks. There was no mockery in you, only a fierce, possessive tenderness.
"Ser Duncan," you murmured, kissing the top of his head.
You felt the hot, spreading dampness seeping through his breeches and into your skirts. His cock was still hard, pulsing against you through the soaked fabric, every twitch of it sending a new, weaker gush of his seed soaking his clothes. He was utterly undone.
Slowly, he lifted his head, his face a picture of utter, beautiful humiliation. His eyes were glassy, his lips wet and swollen from your breasts.
"I... I am so sorry," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean to... I couldn't..."
You reached down and took his hand, your smaller fingers lacing tightly with his big, calloused ones. You brought his hand to your lips and kissed his knuckles.
"Ser Duncan," you said, your voice trembling with your own rising emotions. "Listen to me. I am to be married. To a man I don't love, for an alliance that means nothing to me. I would rather die a maid than let him touch me." Tears pricked at your eyes, spilling over and running down your cheeks. "Please. I am begging you. Be my first. Ruin me for anyone else. I want you to be the only man who ever knows me like this."
-18+, you and dunk encounter sex pollen unknowingly!, aphrodisiac/pollen-induced arousal, size kink, some breeding undertones, creampie!!!, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, spit play!! á„«áĄ
the wood was alive with the scent of the loverâs bloom, those delicate, violet flowers that bloomed only under the light of the moon. it was a scent meant to drive the fiercest lion mad with desire.
and now you were burning up. not from a fever, but from something far more primal.
"ser duncan," you whined, your voice small and breathless. you kicked at the furs, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that made the coarse fabric of your dress stick to you. "it is suddenly far too hot to sleepâŠ"
dunk sat on the other side of the fire, his massive frame tense. he was staring at you with eyes so dark they looked like pools of molten iron. he was trying to be a good knight. he was trying to keep his distance, to protect you from the dangers of strange men and evils of the woods. but the air between you was thick, electric, charged with the scent of your arousal mixed with the intoxicating perfume of the flowers.
he hadnât known, truly. if he had, he would have never suggested resting here. but it was now far too late, and before he could understand what was happening, he too felt his own body temperature rise with a pulse throbbing in his breeches.
"mâprincess," he rasped, his voice gravelly and deep. "you must attempt to rest, we have a long road ahead in the morrow."
"i can't sleep," you said, rolling onto your side to face him fully. you could feel the heat radiating from your body, the fire and his own body a solid wall of comfort. "it's too hot, ser duncan. i need..."
"water?" he offered, reaching for his canteen.
"no," you whimpered, the word barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
you pushed yourself up from the furs, your legs trembling slightly. you walked toward him, your eyes fixed on the massive figure sitting by the embers. the ground seemed to stretch endlessly beneath your bare feet.
you needed him. you needed the feeling of his skin, the strength of his arms, the way he looked at you like you were the only star in the sky.
dunk watched you approach, his jaw tightening so hard you could see the muscle working beneath the skin. he shifted, his boots scraping restlessly on the dirt, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, as if he were fighting an internal battle.
"you are burning, mâlady," he rasped, his voice rougher than before. the air around him was thick with the scent of musk and wildflowers. he couldn't hide it anymore. he was sweating, his tunic damp at the collar. "the bloom...it is in the air. it is making you feverish."
"i cannot feel my own face i am so flushed," you breathed, stopping right in front of him. you reached out, your fingers brushing the hard line of his chest through his shirt. the contact sent a jolt of electricity through both of you. "i am...i am so empty, dunk."
his eyes snapped down to your hand, then back up to your face. the restraint he had been clinging to for days- the chaste knight, the guardian, the protector- shattered. he let out a ragged exhale, his hand flying up to cover yours, his grip desperate and trembling.
"gods," he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest.
you took his massive hand- palm rough with calluses, fingers long and capable- and guided it to your waist. you ran it down your side, over your hip, and pressed it flat against your stomach.
dunk froze. his eyes widened as he felt the heat of your skin through your thin shift. he looked up at you, his adam's apple bobbing.
"you want me to touch you?"
"yes," you cried out, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. the pollen was making everything hypersensitive, every touch a spark of lightning. "please, ser duncan. dunkâŠ"
he didn't hesitate this time. his hand, rough and calloused, moved from your waist to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin like he was memorizing the sensation.
he moved his hand down your neck, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch reverent and worshipful.
he watched as you shivered under his touch, the firelight dancing across your skin. you reached up, your fingers fumbling with the ties of your bodice, and slowly, agonizingly, began to undress.
dunk watched you with rapt attention, his mouth slightly open, his chest heaving. the sight of you, exposed to the cool night air, made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. when the shift fell away, pooling at your waist, he let out a low, guttural sound.
"by the seven," he whispered, his hand moving to cup your breast, his fingers tracing the sensitive peak. "you are breathtaking."
you reached for him, your hands shaking as you pushed at his tunic. he sat back slightly, allowing you to pull the fabric over his head, tossing it aside. the air hit his skin, and he was revealed to you- broad, muscular, scarred, and magnificent. he looked like a warrior forged in the fires of battle, a god made flesh.
"you are so beautiful," you murmured, your hands tracing the hard lines of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.
he smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his rough features. he reached out, his hands gripping your waist, and lifted you easily, settling you on his lap. the contact was electric, your skin sticking to his in the night air.
he pulled you close, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scentâthe scent of sweat and pollen and you. he kissed you then, slowly and reverently.
it was a deep, soul-searching exploration. his lips moved against yours, slow and tender, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, tasting you, claiming you.
"you taste like honey," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. "i am a brute for wanting you like this. i am a heathen for thinking of you in my bed."
âyou are a man, a sweet- gentle man and i do not fear you, dunk.â you whispered in his ear, pressing kisses to the skin below his earlobe.
his hands roamed your body, his fingers mapping every inch of your skin, his touch both gentle and demanding. he kissed you again, deeper, harder, his tongue tangling with yours. he pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with lust, looking down at you with an intensity that took your breath away.
"please, ser duncan. i need you to make me feel something other than this heat," you cried out, arching against him.
"tell me you want this," he growled against your lips, his huge hand squeezing your breast softly. "tell me you want your knight to take you."
"yes," you sobbed, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "yes, dunk. take me. make me yours."
he lifted you slightly, pulling his burning hot, leaking cock out of his breeches and slowly guiding himself to your entrance.
you were both radiating so much body heat that even your pussy was like an oven. he guided his tip past your tiny stretched hole, and it was searing warm inside you. slowly, agonizingly, he sank into you. you gasped, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders. he was huge, filling you completely, stretching you to your limits.
"gods above forgive me," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. "you're so tight. you're squeezing me so hard."
âit's because you are s-so huge, dunk. i always wondered if youâd fit!â you mewl, fingers gripping the sweaty hair at the base of his neck.
he began to move, his hips rocking against yours, slow and sensual. he watched you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your face, the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back. he wanted to map every curve, every sigh, every trembling breath.
"look at me," he commanded softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. his hands, slick with sweat, gripped your waist, holding you steady as he drove himself deeper, harder. âp-please look at me, sweet girl.â
his eyes dark and unfocused, drinking in the sight of your face flushed with heat. he shifted his angle, his hips angling downward to strike that spot that made you gasp and arch your back. your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.
"you are squeezing me so tight. it feels...it feels like i am drowning in you," he hissed, the sound strangled.
the heat was overwhelming. you were slick with sweat, your bodies sliding against each other with a wet, obscene sound. he watched you, his eyes hooded and heavy with lust, as he thrust into you, slow and deep, over and over again.
in your haze you reach for one of his hands to then guide him down to find your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, tight circles.
"there?" dunk murmurs quietly, his voice a ragged rasp as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his dark gaze searching yours for approval, for permission to continue.
"a bit- bit faster please-" you whine out, your voice trembling with need.
his hips snap up with sudden, brutal force and his fingers move faster against your sensitive bundle of nerves, a blur of motion that has you seeing stars.
you cry out his name, a broken, desperate sound. "dunk! oh dunk!"
"say it," he growls, his voice thick with need, his eyes dark and unfocused, burning with a possessive fire. "say you want me. say you are mine."
"i am yours," you sobbed. âi am yours, dunk. please, don't stop."
he leans down, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips, his breathing heavy and ragged, his chest heaving against yours. "you are so good for me. mâgood girl. mâprincess. you take me so so so well."
then, the wave hits. he works your clit furiously, his thumb and fingers rubbing in tight, desperate circles, feeling the way you clench around him. you scream as you come undone, a rush of wet heat clamping down around him, your body spasming in his arms.
as you ride out your high, he pulls back slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow. he looks at his hand, sticky with your juices, and then spits into his palm, mixing it with your essence to create a slicker, messier glide.
"hold on," he grunts, his voice thick with lust. he resumes the assault on your clit, using the spit to make it even better, his fingers slippery and warm. "i'm not done with you yet. you're going to take everything i have."
he thrusts again, harder this time, chasing his own release, his body aching with the need to fill you completely.
he kissed you again, a searing, desperate clash of lips and tongues, swallowing your moans. he couldn't hold back anymore. the pollen was too strong, the heat too high. with a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking up as he spilled himself inside you, filling you with his hot, thick seed.
he held himself there, his chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapped tight around you, as he rode out the waves of his pleasure. you could feel him throbbing inside you, pulsing with life, marking you as his own.
he pulled back slightly, looking down at where you were joined, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of his seed mixing with your own juices. he reached down, his thumb brushing through the mess, spreading it around.
he watched your face, his thumb pressing firmly against your clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles.
âdâyou feel any better, mâlady?â he murmured, his voice a dark, husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "do you need more, sweet girl?âŠi vowed to serve you in every way, every life."
he didn't let you rest. the pollen was still humming in your blood, a relentless tide. his thumb still on your swollen nub, slick and warm, and he began to rub in tight, vicious circles.
âcâmon- câmon mâlove. one more, squeeze down one more time.â
the sensation was overwhelming, a second wave crashing over you before you were even ready.
you screamed. the pleasure was too much, too sharp, too bright. your body seized, your hips bucking uncontrollably as the second orgasm ripped through you, even stronger than the first. you saw white, your vision blurring as the world spun.
your eyes fluttered shut, your body going limp in his arms. the heat of the pollen, the exertion, and the sheer force of your pleasure overwhelmed you. darkness claimed you, and you slipped into a deep, exhausted slumber.
dunk kissed your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin. he gathered you into his arms, his strength unwavering.
he stood up, carrying you back to your makeshift tent and sleeping ground. the cold night air bit at his skin, but he didn't care. he walked with a steady, confident gait, the protector, the lover, the man who had claimed his runaway princess.
he laid you gently on the linens covering the grass, pulling the blanket up over your body. he slowly sat beside you, listening to your breathing slow down.
"you're safe now," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. âmy princessâŠâ
His arms are fine, maybe some nail marks on his thighs. But his chestâŠ
Gods it drives him crazy, bringing his eyes down and all those scratches on him like heâd been attacked by a bear.
He gets so turned on, fucking you senseless on the bed and all you can do is grab onto his chest while you squirm below him.
He loves the pain, the neediness, and your moans of desperation. Loves holding on to your wrist tightly against his chest so your nails stay digging into his skin.
His chest is so broad, it feels like a tiny pinch so itâs nothing to him. But he enjoys the pain and how you keep scratching the shit out of him.
And when youâre both cumming and in bliss, youâd feel so bad after and give the red scars some kisses. Youâd try to heal them but Dunk wouldnât let you, taking his time to pamper you after sex like the true knight he is
But Dunk fucking loves it, he shows it around like a badge of honor when heâs shirtless or fuel to get him off later when hes alone.
been thinking about dunk putting his entire weight on you while he fucks youâŠâŠâŠ.
like youâre flat on the bed, and heâs pinning you to the mattress with his entire body on top of you. the soft pudge of his stomach against your back, the strong expanse of his bare chest, the thick mass of his thighs as he spreads your legs.
his cock will stretch you open so good too. split you open, pull you apart, flushed head reaching against that spongey spot inside you that has you seeing stars. and all he has to do is rock his hips, rut himself into you, and youâre crying out for him, hands against the sheets.
and heâs grunting like a bear on top of you. maybe heâs got an arm beneath your throat, pinning your head back as he huffs and groans into your ear. the bedframe will creak and the mattress will dip in protest, but you wonât care.
youâre pinned beneath him, unmoving. skin on skin, sweat building. you smell himâhis cologne and his shampoo and his sweat. itâll make you dizzy, and heâll call your name when he comes deep inside you as your own orgasm hits you like a freight train.
he wonât pull out. youâll stay like this for a long time. just donât let him fall asleep, or youâll be trapped for the rest of the night.
contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x travelling companion fem!reader, sex pollen (but it's actually mushrooms), yearning, mutual pining, idiots in love, synesthesia, explicit consent, scent kink (act surprised), praise kink, body worship, coming untouched, size difference, outdoor sex, unprotected sex, prone bone, and to be super judicious also chem-sex (because well, they are high).
synopsis: They get lost in the woods and eat some mushrooms :')
word count: 13,1K *sigh*
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @strangergraphics! Thank you lovely humans for giving it a read before publishing (@hextoken, @lateknightbites and @ladyoftheelm).
Duncan is hungry. Beyond upset with himself, though he cannot show it. His boots grind after your footsteps in the moss, quite literally mangling the prints you leave behind with his large feet, eyes down because he cannot even force himself to look at you.
You had been right, of course. Right when you said to buy more long-lasting supplies. Right when you said there might be no inn for miles and miles, and the last bed and fair meal in your bellies were already fading from memory. Right when you said to walk around the woods instead of cutting through, because no one could see the stars under crowns grown so thick, and this particular forest had looked queer even from the road.
It had unsettled him too, if he is honest. The trees stood too close together. The path under them seemed less like a path than an invitation made by something with poor intentions. But Duncan had wanted, badly, to be the sort of man who knew the way.
He had said the coin purse was too light for the inn. He had said north was north. He had said the road through was straight enough, and if you kept going you would come out three days sooner than if you went around. He had said Ser Arlan taught him to read land and wind and moss on bark.
You had only looked at the forest and said, âMoss grows where it pleases in a place like that.â
And now moss grows everywhere. On stones, on roots, on the wrong sides of trees. It slicks the ground under his boots and makes a fool of every scrap of road-wisdom he dragged out to defend himself. The sky has been gone for two days. The trees keep swallowing the light. Little ways open ahead of you and close behind you without sound.
Worst of all, you have stopped telling him you were right. That is how Duncan knows you are truly angry, and it is the last thing he wants. Everything he does is to show you how dear you are to him. When you are only cross, you sharpen yourself on him. When there is still play in it, you peck and prod and make sport of his solemn face until he either laughs or thinks hard about putting his head through a tree. Now you walk ahead in silence with your cloak hem dark from mud, one hand pressed to your empty stomach when you think he cannot see. But he sees.
With the ache in his legs he can't decide whether it is a new punishment from the Gods, or merely a top up of his ongoing one. Being doomed to spend all his time around creature who smells of woodsmoke and crushed green things, whose laugh comes out meaner for hunger yet makes something in him lift like a hound hearing its name, whose hands can bind a cut with such brisk mercy he feels forgiven before the knot is tied, then cuff him round the arm a breath later for moving too soon.
Those hands trouble him. The gentleness of them troubles him worse. The little sharp swats you give him when he says something thick-headed trouble him worst of all, because Duncan is a boy beneath the height and mail and borrowed vows, and boys think where they are forbidden; boys wonder how the same hand might fall in privacy, in play, in anger sweetened by permission.
He cannot have you. That is the root and rot of it. So he keeps you where a hedge knight may keep what is precious and impossible: in his head, in his heart, and, when he strays furthest from the knightly path, in those low, shameful devotions that take him half-awake before dawn, hand gone traitor under the blanket while you sleep near enough to unman him, face softened by the pale morning, mouth parted and begrudgingly unkissed.
A rock hits the tree bark, and a grunt follows. The same crow that has yelled at the pair of you twice already flies off with a menacing cackle, and Duncan sees you standing there with your shoulders drawn and anger practically fuming off your neck.
âIf we kill it, we can eat it,â you announce grimly.
âYou cannot eat a crow,â he tells you. âItâs a bad omen.â
It is much too quiet. Much too calm, and matches your mood not at all, for you are beyond livid and looking for something to punch outright.
âOh?â you quip. âWorse than dying of hunger in the middle of the meanest fucking forest Iâve ever been to?â There, you stomp your foot hard enough to feel the impact travel thighwards and spread a vile ache. Your boot sinks into the moss.
Duncan gapes at you, clearly frightened. âWeâll find something soon enough,â he says, taking a few steps forward. His hands fist the belt of the satchel nervously. When you give him nothing but a death stare, he bows his head and mumbles, âForgive me, Iââ
It makes you explode. âStop this! Weâve found nothing for two days except for disgusting birds!â you yell at him. Or rather, your stomach yells at him, and there is a lot of space within it to draw air from. âWeâve passed the same split ash twice, and thereâs no sky in here. Where is your north now, hm?â You move in, throwing your hands around. When he says nothing, you press on: âI told you we shouldâve stayed at the inn. I told you we shouldâve walked round, but you never listen. Ser Arlan this, Ser Arlan that, Iâm sick of listening to the wisdom of that old fart! And quit standing there looking like I should pity you, itâs infuriating!â
His eyes jerk around, but his head doesnât. âA-aye,â he stammers. Walks right past you. âAs you wish.â
âDuncan, Iâmââ
âKeep moving.â He cuts you off. Hurt. âStart marking the trees, and perhaps we will stop walking in circles.â
You know damn well youâve hurt him, regret it dearly, and get only more cross about it. Stupid boys with their stupid I-can-do-this attitudes. Stupid Duncan with his stupid we-can-make-it every time you offer an easier solution. You are well aware of how light your shared purse is, but there are ways around things. You couldâve charmed the innkeeper. Couldâve haggled with the grain seller. Couldâve hunted small game on your way around the woods, and at least there would be some stars above your heads. At least the air would be fresh and not rotten-smelling and damp all the way. Stupid Duncan with his stupid frowned mouth that wouldnât even show you his endearing teeth or the way his eyes wrinkle when he laughs.
There are moments when you let yourself be deluded into thinking he has a kinder eye on you than merely a companionâs. He looks longingly whenever a larger patch of your body shows, and blushes furiously when he gets caught looking. Always makes you eat your ration first and pretends heâs well fed while his stomach could obviously host yours and his, and heâd still be hungry. He helps you into and out of the tall places, walks first through suspicious lands, and hides you with his broadness whenever someone ill-looking crosses your path. Often you find him staring at you in the mornings. He misliked the idea of you flirting your way into a warm bed so much the door rattled behind him when he stormed out of the inn. Went ahead guilty-looking and pulled at his brows as if it was some sort of personal betrayal.
You were very close to telling him that if you shared a bed you might be able to afford it, but something in you told you no. The same voice that acts as a constant apologist for all the deceptions of a girlish heart. It yearns for his lashes to tickle your cheeks when he kisses you and for his hands to smooth down your thighs, while the mind, still steadfast, screeches at you that he is a knight. A man honourable enough to apply all those gestures selflessly, out of duty and his soulâs purity. So you keep those little fits of unbearable pining to yourself, and only let them boil over from frustration in situations like this one. When the threat of closeness becomes so grand, you end up in the middle of nowhere instead, with no provisions, wineskin empty and body so hungry it feels as if it has started feasting on itself.
Watching him try to be competent while exhausted makes you furious in an oddly specific way. So much so that it takes an additional ounce of effort to look away from what it attempts to disguise. You insisted because food and shelter are sensible, yes, but underneath that: you are tired of him deciding what hardships both of you will nobly endure. You are tired of him being far away all the time. You are tired of him being able to admit a mistake exactly never, because he has some ridiculous fear of failing you.
So you drag yourself behind him, silent, functionally hostile, letting him mark the trees while your eyes remain fixed on the forestâs groundcover. For a long time there is nothing but moss and decomposing bark. Then, a little pale congregation shows itself under the lip of a fallen trunk.
You stop so quickly your knees almost forget the arrangement. Mushrooms. A whole clutch of them, bunched close in the wet dark, caps the colour of old cream and bruised grey at the edges, stems thin and stubborn where they push up through the rot. They look indecently alive in a forest that has offered no berries, no nuts, no rabbit flashing white under a bush, no squirrel rude enough to be killed, no clean water except what one might wring from the moss like from an old rag. You crouch and pick one. The stem gives with a soft little snap. It smells damp, earthy, faintly sweet in a way that makes your stomach fold in on itself with need.
You turn it over. Gills. Fine ones, packed tight underneath, pale as milk. You try to summon every scrap of sense you own about things growing wild and free: what colour means death, what smell means bellyache, what little skirts and bulbs and stains should send a person praying. The knowledge arrives in tatters. Old women muttering by cookfires. A girl you once knew who swore the brown ones were safest, until another girl swore the same about the white. You split the cap with your thumb and watch it bruise darker where you have hurt it.
The forest holds its breath. That is what Duncan notices first. The lack of you behind him. Muttered complaints, boots dragging and hungry little curses aimed at roots, birds, Gods, or him, cease entirely. He turns and finds you knelt in the moss bed, hunched over your own lap as if you have discovered treasure or a corpse.
âWhat is it?â he asks.
âMushrooms,â you tell him, eyes fixed on whatever's before you.
He goes still. âPut them down.â
âThey seem good enough.â
âPut them down,â he says again, and this time it lands as command. âYou do not know what they are.â
Your mouth sets. Oh, there it is. The last rotten twig laid on the pile. You are hungry enough to feel hollowed with a spoon. Cross enough to bite the next thing that comes near your mouth. Cross with him for the inn, for the road, for the woods, for treating you as if you are some soft lady to be carried through hardship rather than the companion sharing it. Cross with him for touching you only when duty gives him permission. Cross with him for staring with those huge blue eyes full of thoughts he never once has the courage to drag into words. Cross with him for standing over you now as if he gets to decide this too.
You gather two fistfuls from the moss and sit back on your heels.
âDonât,â Duncan says.
So you stuff the first handful into your mouth.
It is a dreadful decision immediately. They are wet and cold and spongy between your teeth, tasting of soil, pepper, old leaves, and something almost buttery enough to coil nerves. You chew with the wild-eyed conviction of a person proving a point no sensible man asked you to prove.
Duncan runs. For a man so large, he hits the ground beside you with shocking speed. âStop that! Spit them out!â His hand catches your chin, thumb at one side, fingers at the other, trying to turn your face up. True fear has made him clumsy. âSpit them out, I said. Seven hells, are you mad?â
You clamp your jaw shut.
âOpen your mouth.â
You shake your head with such force his grip slips. He catches you again, gentler and worse for it, because all that concern is going straight through your skin where his fingers hold you. He is stronger, of course he is, but strength has poor purchase against a mouth sealed by spite. You make a muffled, triumphant sound through the chewed mess of shroom flesh, and Duncan looks one breath away from prying your lips open with both hands.
âD'you want to die?â he snaps. âIs that it? You want to make a corpse of yourself because I told you no?â
It is enough to tip your anger over. You surge up into him with the second fistful crushed in your palm. He jerks back too late. Your hand smears over his mouth, damp caps and broken stems mashed against his lips, and for one glorious, idiotic heartbeat you have him pinned in sheer surprise, your other hand shoved hard against his jaw to keep him from throwing you off.
Then, he does throw you off. You land in the moss with a graceless thump while Duncan spits, coughs, spits again, one hand braced on the ground and the other scraping at his mouth as if he has kissed plague. âFuck,â he chokes, which would be deeply satisfying under finer circumstances. âFuckââ
You lie there with your chest heaving, ground cold under your back, and watch him retch up a sorry fleck of pale cap. âYou ainât dead yet,â you tell him.
Laughter bubbles out of you. Thin, cracked, half-starved, ugly with deranged little triumph. It keeps going because his face is appalled, because he has mushroom pulp on his chin, because the whole thing is so childish and awful that laughter is the only shape your body can make around the shame of it.
Then, you see his eyes and the humour dies.
Duncan wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. Spits once more into the moss. When he looks at you, he is furious, yes, but beneath it something scared sits bare and wounded. âThat was foolish,â he says, low and rough. âCruel foolish.â
You push up on one elbow. âDuncanââ
âNo.â He stands too quickly, sways, and pretends he has not. âEnough of this childish nonsense. Get up. Keep walking before we drop dead in this place and the ground eats what is left of us.â
You get up because staying on the ground would mean staying beside the shape of your own idiocy. There is no victory in your belly. The mushrooms sit there damp and useless, offering neither meal nor death nor apology. Your stomach remains hollowed. Your tongue finds some last shred of cap stuck against a tooth and you swallow it down because spitting now would feel too much like agreeing with him.
So you follow Duncan who walks ahead with his shoulders drawn hard, nicking the trees with more force than the trees deserve. Each cut shows pale through the bark. A poor little wound, then another, then another. You keep your eyes on them because looking at the back of his neck seems unwise. Because there is shame in you now, a hot coal of it under the hunger, and because the whole matter will surely sort itself out once there is road underfoot again. Road, sky, a stream, some village woman with a pot over the fire and enough mercy to sell you both porridge on credit.
The more you walk in dead silence, the more odd everything grows. First, the green deepens. Moss goes dark and bruises emerald where your boots press it flat, then almost black around the roots. The rot in fallen trunks shows itself in bands: brown, rust, yellowed cream, a wet red near the heartwood that makes you look twice. Beads of damp shine on bark like threaded glass. The world has somehow grown a skin and every part of it is tender.
Your eyes roll themselves to look ahead, to check whether up matches the down, and something unfeasible happens: Duncan's hair catches auburn where there is no sun to put it there. You blink hard, but it is still in place. Burning copper, warm at the roots, as if late summer has claimed him and crowned him its ruler.
He is ten paces ahead, fully clothed, filthy at the hem, angry with you in every line of him, and still something in the sight of his back opens a door you have spent months pretending was only a crack in the wall. His shoulders shift under the cloth. His rope-belt rides where his stride pulls it. One hand hangs near his thigh, broad and scraped at the knuckles, fingers flexing now and then as if he is still trying to close them around his temper.
And you can smell him. From there. From too far. Wool and old sweat. Iron, leather, green bark crushed fresh under his boots. The sour-sweet human warmth gathered at his throat after two days beneath the same clothes. It comes into you with the air and sits in your mouth, intimate as a thumb pressed on the tongue.
Your face goes hot. âDuncan,â you say before you mean to.
He stops, and turns only half-way. âWhat?â
Nothing. Everything. You have no answer fit for speech, only the sudden, humiliating perception of him through distance, moving among the trees like the forest made room grudgingly and only because it had to.
âIââ You swallow. The hollow in your stomach twists, and lowers into a stranger ache. âNothing.â
He looks over his shoulder then. Only for a moment. His eyes are still angry. Still hurt. Something else beneath. The blue of them near takes the knees out from under you.
The white of your shift under the cloak flashes blinding to him. For a vile moment he knows the body beneath the cloth with alarming accuracy. The curve and press of it. The warm hidden places where fabric clings. The space between your thighs where his fingers would fit if his hand twitched one inch further into sin. He blinks, and once his lids lower he can feel the forest pulsing around him. Trees throb from root to crown, or so he thinks. Leaves shiver high above, though there is no wind he can hear. Only you.
Your breath comes from behind him, fine and close, though he knows you are several paces back. The small draw of it, the break and the swallow after. If he stays inside the sound too long, his head fills with images that shame him: blood moving thick and slow through veins, mouths parting in the dark, the slick red place behind your teeth. It comes again, and this time he hears the scrape of teeth over your lower lip. Hears your tongue shift when you swallow. Hears the wet click of it like a secret told directly into his ear.
He turns away hard and starts walking before his face can betray him. The ground gives strangely under his boots. Too soft to carry him, or too willing. Moss takes his weight and keeps the shape of it. Roots, slick and glossy, groan like sleeping limbs. Behind him your steps begin to sound coloured. Brown-black when you tread on earth. Pale when you crush dry leaves. Red when you stumble and curse at the tree that caught your sleeve.
Duncan scratches at his wrist. The itch has started there, under the cuff, a mean little needling. Then the other wrist. Then the side of his neck, just beneath the hair. His skin feels wrong on him, pulled too tight over bone, and the collar of his tunic rasps his throat with each breath. He hooks one finger under it and drags, angry with the cloth, the nature and his own flesh for having the gall in a time like this.
He stops at the next tree and lifts the knife. The mark comes crooked. His hand is less steady than he thought. Bark peels under the blade, wan tissue showing beneath, and when he braces his palm against the trunk the taste of it goes through his skin. Warm resin and bitter green. Something cloying and golden underneath, thick enough to coat the tongue.
For one dreadful breath, he wants to put his mouth to it. Then, he snatches his hand back.
You catch up while he stands there, staring at the tree as though it has whispered something incredulous to him. Your shoulder comes near his arm. Near enough that your warmth finds him through sleeve and cloak and all his ruined good intentions. He employs every nerve in an effort of not looking down. Looking down would show him your mouth, and he already hears too much of it.
Duncan sucks in a breath and regrets it at once, because it tastes like your laughter. "D'you feelâ"
"N-no," you snap, visibly clawing at your sleeve.
The itching has gone worse now that you are close to him. You try to look everywhere but at his face and still it pushes itself into vision. More gorgeous than ever, which is a terrible thing to discover about a man who has just called you cruel foolish and looked as though you had stuck a knife between his ribs. His mouth sits soft even in anger, upper lip fine and nearly secretive, lower lip fuller, tenderly made, the whole of it held in that slight crookedness that makes him look as if a smile has once lived there and left its shape behind. Kissable enough to seem wet with sweetness. Near dripping, like split fruit. You can almost tell what it would taste of: salt, hunger, the warm copper of his bitten cheek, some grave and boyish mercy he keeps trying to spend on everyone but himself.
Beneath it, when his lips part around another breath, you catch the heart-wrenching disorder of his teeth. Crooked and ivory, youthful enough to undo the rest of his solemn, knightly face. His canines show for one bare second and something in you folds toward them with such obedient stupidity you want to laugh again, or bite your own hand. You would let them hurt you. You would lick over the uneven enamel just to learn the shape of him there too. His cheeks are freckled under the dirt, and the little mark high on the left one sits like a sign left by some indecently helpful god: here. Peck him here. His eyes are so blue they have no right to be warm, and yet they are, even scared, even angry, even with the pupils blown strange in the forestâs dim. His lashes would shame half the women in Westeros. His throat shows above his collar, working hard, begging for hands to circle it lovingly and feel the swallow pass under the thumbs.
It is the whole complex architecture of him that shreds you. The way his face moves before he can command it. Wrinkles with laughter. Saddens openly, no matter how quickly he ducks his head. Sets in anger he throttles inside himself until his jaw looks pained with it. He is a book flung open so wide the spine must be creaking, and still he behaves as if no one can read him. You want that face in your hands. At your neck. Bowed over you in the dark. You want that mouth at your breast, licking sweat from skin, lower too, in places the hunger in you has grown too proud to give it a name. He is a young man made, in this instant, to be loved down to the bone and back again, and you cannot understand why he will not simply let you.
âI feel⊠something,â you say after a moment, small and ashamed, and Dunkâs head snaps to the side to glare at you properly.
âI told you.â His voice comes out sharp, and he scrapes a hand over his mouth as if he can wipe the tremor from it. âI told you not to eat them.â
He looks worse now, which is a cruel way of saying better. Sweated through at the temples. Lips parted. The anger in him has gone twitchy, pulled tight, and every part of him seems brighter for it, as if fever has decided to make a feast of him first.
You ignore the fit because looking at him too long makes the ground loosen under your feet. âDo you feel it too?â
âI feelâŠâ He stops.
The words plainly fail him. His jaw shifts. His hands open and close at his sides, large and helpless, missing something they have no right to know the shape of yet. There are knightly words for pain, for hunger, for wounds taken cleanly, for fear swallowed and carried forward. There are no words decent enough for this kind of yearning. No chivalric term for a cock so hard it makes thought limp and useless. No sweet, courtly account of his tongue feeling parched as old leather, as if only the salt of your skin could wet it. His whole body has turned want into a task. His hands want your flesh, specifically, under them. His mouth wants sweat. His chest wants weight. Even his bones seem to ache in your direction.
âSick,â he says at last.
That throws you off enough to cool your face by one degree. âSick how?â
His eyes shut briefly. âWicked-sick.â
âDuncan.â
âBelow the gut,â he grits out. âAching.â
You move without thinking. One step, then another, drawn by the sound of him admitting anything at all. Your hand lifts near his chest, not touching yet, though the heat of him rises through the little space between you. âWell thenââ
âNo.â He backs away so quickly his spine hits the marked tree. Bark shudders behind him. For one absurd moment you think the forest gives a pleased little pulse. âNo,â he says again, weaker. âI will not. I cannot throw all we have away for one witchcraft misery.â
A frown pulls at your mouth. You swallow, and Duncan feels it as if the working of your throat has passed through his own. His eyes drop there and jerk back up, pained.
âBut weâve got nothing but each other,â you say.
It comes out bewildered. Worse than that, wet at the edges. The tears mortify you the instant they gather, because you are hungry and furious and lit up from the inside by some vile little mushroom, and still the part of you that hurts most is the old part. The standing outside him part. The watching him lock himself away with all his goodness like a miser with coin.
âDuncan,â you mumble, and step in again.
He makes a sound under his breath. Almost your name, but more a plea with its back broken.
Then both his hands come down on your shoulders. Firm, but not harsh. Even now, with his face ruined and his arms trembling from the work of resisting it, he holds you as if you are something flammable he must keep from the fire. His fingers bite only as much as they need to. He keeps you at armâs length, and the distance feels tormentuous, heartending and warm all the same.
âSit,â he says.
You stare at him.
âPlease,â he adds, and that does worse things to you than any command could.
With absolute pain written into every muscle, Duncan guides you back from him and down onto a mossy rise between two roots. He waits until you are seated, then pulls his hands away as if touch itself is thorned. He goes several paces off, too damn far, and lowers himself heavily to the ground with his back to another tree.
âWe wait,â he says, breathing hard through his nose. âThat is all. We wait it through.â
You hate the idea, but keep sitting where he put you because your head confuses the command for beguilement. The first few hauls of air almost convince you it might work. Your hands are folded badly in your lap, nails pressed into meat below the thumbs. He stays with his knees drawn up, head bowed and eyes closed. Looks as if he means to endure his own body by refusing to believe in it.
The distance should help; it does the opposite. It makes you want to scream. Whatever lives in your blood follows him across the ground and brings him back whole. His smell grows stronger with space, more exact, meaner for being denied. Salt has gathered at his hairline, and the place beneath his jaw where a mouth could fit grows warmer. You shift on the moss and the moss answers too softly, sinking under your hips with a sympathy you resent.
Across from you, Duncanâs hand closes around a fistful of earth and your own palm burns with it. His fingers dig in. Soil packs under his nails. A root bends against the heel of his hand, and your skin reports the pressure as if the soil has confused you for him.
He hears something. His head turns a fraction when you breathe through your mouth. Sweat slides down the side of your neck, slow as an insect. His lashes lift. His eyes go there with such naked soreness that your throat tightens around nothing.
âStop listening to me,â you say.
His mouth twitches into a strained smile. âI am tryin'.â
âYou look like you are praying.â
âI am tryin' that too.â
A stupid, tender ache opens in your chest and gets swallowed by the lower one. You drag your sleeve over your neck; it makes the itching worse. Cloth rasps over skin and the sound of it seems to pass through Duncanâs teeth; he winces and shifts, hard, then stills with both hands flat on the moss.
There is no hiding it. The line of him under his breeches is plain enough even in the dim. Angry, trapped, dragging each breath out of him by force. You look before you can tell yourself not to. Then you cannot look away quickly enough to make it innocent, and, begrudgingly, Duncan notices.
His face goes the most painful red. One hand flies down to cover himself, and the pressure makes him give a low, broken sound through his teeth. He jerks his hand away again, humiliated nearly past bearing, and turns his face aside. âDo not,â he says.
You should feel triumphant. Some sour little part of you tries, but it dies quickly. He looks wretched with it, sweating and rigid, punished by the very thing you have been imagining for months with all your private, girlish cruelty. Your own body answers him with a deep pull that leaves your thighs weak. Nothing shows on you so simply. That feels unfair too. You are suffering just as stupidly, only your suffering has the manners to hide under skirts.
âDunk,â you say, softer.
His shoulders climb.
âWe could help each otherââ
âNo,â he grits.
âYou did not even let me finish.â
âI heard enough.â
âYou heard what you wanted.â
âI heard what I feared.â He swallows, and the sound arrives in you wet and close. âAnd I said no.â
He feels your stare on him. His hands go into fists again, punishing the green because the green will not bruise like the body would. He is picturing it now, Gods help him. How wet you must be under all that cloth. He does not know much, but he has learned enough to know girls do that when they start looking like you look now: flushed and wounded and angry with wanting. He thinks of putting his hand there and near loses the thread of his own breathing. Thinks of the heat of you opening under his fingers. Thinks of being allowed the taste of it, then the taste of your mouth after, and in the state he is in now he cannot help wondering whether that too would have colour, or sound, or smell. Whether kissing you would ring gold in his teeth. Whether your breath would taste the way your laughter does. The sweetness of permission feels so distant it turns appalling, and Dunk sits there starved with the effort of keeping those pictures caged.
âIt would be wrong,â he says.
âWhy?â
âBecause we are half mad.â
âWe were half mad before.â
âThis is different.â
âYou mean easier.â
His eyes cut to you. The look makes heat climb under your ribs. There he is, the part of him that can be stern when forced to it, that can stand between you and ill-looking men on the road with all that height suddenly gathered into threat. It should warn you away, but instead it scrapes through the need and brightens it.
âI would not have you come back to yourself and curse me for it,â he says.
The words land too near the old fear. That miserable little thought that perhaps his whole pain is honour fighting witchcraft, while yours is only the truth made louder. You breathe through a phlegmy laugh. âCurse you.â
His brow knots.
You are about to leave it be. To sit through it, wait through it, whatever is a brilliant solution that Duncan has thought of. Your hips shift on the ground, and make you mutter, inadvertently, âI wanted you before I ate the bloody things.â
Duncan stares. Truly stares. The blue of his eyes has gone strange again, wide and dark at the centre, his face emptied of everything save for shock. âW-whaâwhat?â
You lick your lips. His gaze drops there and returns with visible effort. âY-yeah,â you say, now that it is out and steaming on the groundcover. âThat.â
He blinks. Your courage begins to thin immediately, because why wouldn't it. It was never courage, only fever with a mouth on it. You pull your knees closer, as if there is still some arrangement of limbs that could restore dignity.
âI meanââ Your voice catches. You hate it. âNever mind. I know you are trying to do right by me. I know. We can wait it through. Forget I said anything.â
Duncanâs chest rises, and the forest seems to rise with it. He breathes out your name, barely shaped. His hands have opened, the dirt clings to them. He looks frightened still, painfully so, but the fear has changed its direction. Some part of him has stepped to the edge and found ground there after all.
âSay it again,â he says.
Your heart gives a foolish, violent knock. âWhat?â
His throat moves. âWhat you just said."
You stare at him. âDuncanââ
âPlease.â
It takes more from you than the mushroom, that one word. You sit there with your skin singing and your mouth swollen around the truth, while he waits as if you have a blade to his neck and every intention of mercy.
âI wanted you before,â you say.
His eyes close, and his face changes direction so fast you nearly miss it. It seems to not be able to settle between hurt and then hurt getting alleviated, then the rest of locked places opening at different speeds. A bewildered, boyish joy gets smothered so quickly by hunger that your hands twitch in your lap.
âI thoughtââ he chokes. âI thought it was only me.â
A smile, toothy and horrible, pulls your mouth and it suddenly makes sense what one old woman has said to you about smiles: that they are deceitful, that creatures bare their teeth in fear and pain mostly. âIdiot,â you say, laughing, because the shake it gives to your shoulders at least loosens something up.
âAye,â Duncan says. For the first time in days his mouth tips upward. "I might be."
You nearly cry then. Properly. From fury, from tenderness, from the unfairness of him sitting there all this time with the same wound as yours hidden better than yours. Your lips part to tell him that waiting is fine, that you can both be noble and miserable and half-dead until the mushrooms spend themselves, that he need not come closer, that you are sorry for making it worse, when he lifts his head and rasps, "C'mere. C'mere, girl."
He manages to stand, but only just. Poor thing limps for the ballast between his legs, face drawn tight with the effort of making his body obey him. You find no such strength in yourself, so you crawl on all fours, getting fistfuls of moss between your fingers, knees drowning, cloak slipping off one shoulder as you go to him with whatever dignity hunger and witchcraft have left you.
When he gets close enough, he falls to his knees and into you. His arms come round you, pulling you in, the both of you stumbling with it. He sinks your back into the ground and his mouth onto yours. Groans loudly for it. The sound goes through you before the kiss does, and then the kiss is there too, wet and hard and poorly aimed for the first starving second while his mouth is learning yours by error.
Duncan feels like a hundred fists that have been holding each joint of his spine let go in the same instant. Suddenly he can bow deeper, go at it harder. Get more of himself over you, around you, as if he means to wrap you into himself. Your body tastes like absolution through his palms and covers him in its odd soot. It gets into the lines of his hands, beneath the nails, under the skin, and he does not know whether to pray over it or lick it off.
His cock presses to your thigh, and it is worse and better somehow than it has ever been. Worse because there is cloth between you and still the pressure nearly blinds him. Better because it is you, actually you, warm and shifting, making a place for him with your legs and your hands and your open, foolish mouth.
Into his mouth, you are laughing. He is kissing you and you are laughing, giggling so saccharine you might be made of sweet things. The laughter itself has a taste in Duncanâs ears, the sound of it melts on his tongue, enters the bloodstream through all the grooves in it, and when he pictures licking your neck, he wonders: would your skin giggle too?
His hands find your collar because the thought has nowhere else to go. He pulls at the laces with none of the skill he has for knots, fingers too large, too eager, too angry with cloth for existing. The shift gives under them, opening enough for air to touch the skin below your throat, and he lets his lips slide from yours.
It goes badly for him. Your jaw is slick from his own mouth. Lower, it goes open and wet and panting, tongue rolling out as if he has forgotten any courtly use for it. He licks down the side of your throat to the collarbone to find out whether laughter lives there, and learns it gives him praise instead. All of you tenses beneath him. Your legs jerk. Your nails go hard into his back through tunic, and the pain comes through bright enough to make his hips grind down.
âDuncanââ
âYesââ he mumbles into your skin, uselessly. Then, because he's gone foolish: âYou tasteâGodsâlike being let in. Like rain after I thought thereâd be none. I don't knowââ
He tries again with his tongue since words make a poor account of the matter. His weight settles over you, heavy and shaking, and you answer by wrapping your legs round his hips. The cradle of it, the permission of it, make his head dizzy. His cock settles where it most wants to be, when you take his face in both hands.
Duncan stills, or tries to. Your palms press his cheeks, thumbs push under his upper lip with such strange, fond boldness that his breath stops. You bare his teeth yourself, exposing the crooked row of them while he looks down at you, broken and burning, too far gone to be ashamed quickly enough.
Then you crane up and lick across them, and a slide of flesh on enamel rings in his bones like a bell. A sound leaves him that has no knightly ancestor.
âYouâre so pretty I could kill you,â you say.
He makes another sound, worse than the first, and you press your face to his before he can hide from it. Rub your cheek against his, nose dragging clumsily along the dirt and wet of him as if looking is suddenly insufficient, as if you must take the shape of his face by touch too.
âUndress me,â you breathe against him. Your hands clutch at his collar next, less patient than his. âAnd you. Take it off. I want to see you. Undress us.â
"A-all of it?" he asks dimly. The only thing he gets is a nod. A glint in the eyes that have gone so dark Dunk has to squint to recognise the ring of remaining colour in them. His mind is still considering it, while the body has taken to obeying briskly: he undoes the rope and tosses it into moss, gets his hand under the hem of the tunic, drags everything over his head and for a moment blinds himself in linen.
When he comes free his hair is rucked up and the sight of him near bends you with affection. He looks younger like this. Exposed by acquiescence before he is exposed by skin.
âBoots,â you tell him, because he has gone still under your looking.
âAye. Boots.â
He nearly tangles himself in the work of them, kicking one free, then the other, cursing when the heel catches in wet. His breeches follow with even less dignity, shoved down and worked off in an ugly struggle of knees and hips and breath held through his teeth. He is too large for haste. Too flustered for grace. Beautiful in the middle of both.
Then, his hands come back to you and change. Shaking terribly and clumsy as ever, but tender in a way that seizes your throat. He unlaces you as if he's wronged the ties and has to make amends. His knuckles drag against your breastbone, and he looks at your face like he still expects rebuke.
"Duncan," you say. "You can touch me."
"IâI know," he says. "I'm tryin' to be gentle."
âYou can be quick and gentle.â
He blinks to that. Grows as heedless as you wished him to be all this time and you watch the permission taking shape in a mind trained to deny itself. He pulls the laces loose, opens the front of your bodice, works fabric from shoulders and arms with an urgency that keeps catching on worship. When cloth sticks at your elbow, you both swear at it. When your skirt snags beneath your hip, he makes a noise close to despair and you have to lift yourself enough for him to drag it free.
Once you're denuded properly, framed by green and dark, he sits back on his heels and his face breaks open around the sight so quickly he has no time to hide it. Want, yes, awful and plain. But wonder too, and fear of the wonder, and that same helpless grace he wears when given food he did not ask for and badly needed. His hands hover near your sides without touching, fingers flexed, palms dirty, as though he has come upon something hallowed and has no idea what Gods do to fools who reach too fast.
âDo not look like that,â you say, though you want him to look exactly like that until the trees fall down.
His throat works once. âLike what?â
âLike it's a trickery,â you tell him. "I'm here."
To prove it, you push yourself up on your elbows and reach. Crawling. Climbing. You're climbing, climbing, climbing and there is no end to him. Duncan The Tall, Duncan The Broad, Duncan the man you've wanted so badly all this time and suddenly cannot contain it. Whatever it is that is happening now has not so much set you to be doing this, but has stripped the already precarious layers of we shouldn't, I couldn't, he wouldn't and made your mind and heart and hands and legs go need you, want you, death to me if I can't have you, please, please, pleaseâ
Your arms make it to his neck, hips slot into his lap, and there he is, angry and throbbing and so needy for you that the heat of him seems to have found its own heart. His hands catch your waist, grip harder when your skin gives under them. The first press of you against him turns his face ruinous. His mouth opens. His lashes jump. For one breath he looks as if he might beg pardon of your bones for wanting them so badly.
Then, you push him, barely. Pressure on the chest, a lean of your weight, and still he goes, pliant, as if all the strength has been taken out from under him. His back sinks into the moss, arms fling to the sides for he'd let you crucify him. You land with your palms on either of his shoulders, knees wedged into the dirt and thighs crowding his ribs. Between your legs his stomach rises softly, and the hairs on it tickle the skin most sensitive.
âThere,â you breathe.
Duncan is stricken. Drained of volition as if volition were blood, and that one is occupied to gather elsewhere. He bends his knees slightly to ease some of the terrible sensation of air cooling the weep of his cock, and thinks he's never been so close to bursting just from being. He has his eyes closed to achieve anythingâregroup, withstand, persist this unbearable wave of tenderness that thrashes in himâwhen your fingers get to the tendons of his neck and caress him, and it's all he needs to tip his head back and bare his throat to you.
There, your looking turns worse. You gape at the long working line of it until Duncanâs breath snags. The notch above his breastbone. Sinew drawn tight under the skin. The pulse batting there as if trying to get out. Your fingers follow first, light enough to make him suffer, then firmer when his head lolls to the side and his mouth opens on a sound he seems to bite in half.
âDonât do that,â he says, palms flexing in the dirt.
You pause. âDo what?â
Dunk's lids crack open and he finds you above him with your hair all wild, staring as if you've found a chunk of gold in the mud. âLook at me so,â he says. "As if I'mâ"
He fails there, since there are no words for it. As if I'm worth looking at. As if you're seeing something comely. Too much feeling is brought to a narrow door and made to wait outside because no word is plain and large enough to carry it in.
"You are," you tell him. Set both palms lower, where his chest is warm, alive and broad enough that your fingers look foolishly small against it. Through the sparse hair, over the hard-won muscle and the softer give laid over it, and that one you give a greedy squeeze. His nipple tightens under the heel of your hand and he jerks, shocked enough to look double-crossed by his own body, so you do it again.
âGods,â he says, strangled.
âGood?â
His answer comes late, dragged through the teeth. âAye," he says, though the mind still lingers in the country of mortification. Arms begin their raise, some old reflex reaching to cover himself, to help you or stop you, or simply manage the unbearable position of being wanted.
You swat them away, go back to cradling his jaw, and tell him softly, "Don't." He freezes, then melts under your thumbs on his cheekbones. "Don't be scared of me," you whisper.
âI ain't scared of you.â
âYou are.â
His face twists, proud even now. âIâm scared of what Iâll do.â
âWhat will you do?â
"Shame myself," he says. "Fail you, Iâ"
"You won't," you tell him. "Is it shameful if we are both ruined? I just want toâ" A swallow. "I just want to look." You bend over him, and the shift of your hips brings proof to your side of things. Your cunt grinds his stomach, leaves him all slicked and warm, and Duncan learns it helps little to nothing that you are equally fervent. Only makes him worse for it. He lies under you, enormous and nearly unmanned, and hears you whisper an absent, "Let me," a second before your mouth finds his chest.
He goes silent in that alarming way men do when noise has become too small for the body. Every part of him tightens. You kiss him, once, then again, then open your mouth and press your tongue to skin which tastes like freedom you have with him on the road, human and dear, and when your teeth graze him he gasps, and your own skin goes hot at the power of it. âYouâre beautiful,â you say into him.
He shakes his head hard. âN-no.â
âYes.â
âNo, girl, donâtââ
âYes,â you say again, and put your mouth lower to make the word enter him another way.
With it, your frame slides down his. His muscles pull tighter for it, cock strains against your stomach, hard and furious with denial, and the sight of him suffering through praise makes something in you go soft and feral both. Your hands glide from his ribs to hips, thumbs follow the inward cut there, then squeeze the warm, soft belt of flesh low on his belly. It's so generous and male and so violently lovely it makes your teeth set. Some songs ought to be rewritten for men like him. Some maiden's graces ought to be stolen back and hung on his foolish body where they belong. The supple flesh at his middle should be praised the way poets praise hips and breasts and long necks. His breadth should be Venusian, size should be called lush. His stubborn, hungry, frightened beauty should have men lighting candles under it and women lying awake from thinking too long.
It feels as if he sets of the beauty in you when he's all across your lips, gentle, coarse, freckled with the body that bears marks of every touch. It blooms easily where your fingers rake him, where your teeth nick him, where you suck and lick and kiss. He blemishes red against milk, and then the milk whole blushes into pink from all the blood that's alive within him, and for you.
âYou're so gorgeous,â you murmur, face lost in skin. âIt makes me angry that you do not see it.â
"You oughtn't eat those mushrooms," he says, trying for light, coming out pitiful. "They fool your eyes."
Your mouth splits into a smile. "I'm telling the truth," you tell his belly. "Only now I've the courage for it."
"Aye, well." Duncan swallows, and his spine bends towards you with it. "It's doing me harm, girl," he says anyway.
"Hm, good," you hum. Keep going lower, lower still until your nose finds his navel and rests there. The hair thickens beneath your mouth, darkening downwards, and you press your face into it because you can, because he lets you, because the smell of him there goes straight through your skull. You wedge your nose into the small dip of his belly and breathe him in.
It makes him feel like he's dying. Lust has him hard and fevered, yes, but your adoration takes his joints apart. He has imagined your mouth for months in shameful pieces: the shape it takes when you sleep, the wet inside of it when you laugh, the feel of it in a bedroll dream that left him waking guilty and sticky and half-mad with it. Now those same lips chose him, return to him, find new places to be fond over. He has no defence built for being cherished.
âPlease,â he says, though he's unsure what he begs for. His hips jump, hand joins the begging in your hair, and you just stay, drunk, half-conscious, with every breathing device body offers devoted to the densest parts of him.
There's no friction to explain it. It's only his mind draining and draining of thought so his blood can fill him elsewhere. He feels himself sweating, muscles in his sacrum thumping, sack going hard as rocks, before he even realises he's going to come simply from this. âMy girlâ" he tries, voice cracking around it. "Wait. I'mâohââ
You do hear him, but understand too late. He goes rigid beneath you, helpless and huge, and his lower back lifts off the ground, breath breaks into loud, choked moans, and then he spills so hot against your body it shocks you. A wicked part of you goes yes. Give me. The gentler one holds him through it, sighs all delighted and lets him rut into a poor cradle made of your bodies pressed together.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, shaking. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."
Your head lifts, sluggish, and you catch him turning his face aside, red to the ears. "Forgive you?" you ask.
âI didnât meanââ He swallows hard. âI shouldâve held. I shouldâveââ
âStop,â you say. Come back up to have your eyes level and drag some of the wet with you. "I could kiss you bloody for that.â
You brush the hair off his forehead. It shines satin. Makes him this much more beautiful. He looks at you, dumbfounded and startled, then lets his lids lower when you put your mouth back on him. To his cheek. Then, the high freckle on it you have wanted since before the forest went strange. âPretty,â you tell him. âGorgeous. Sweet stupid man.â
âDo not call me sweet after that.â
âIâll call you what I like.â
He tries to look stern. Fails because your mouth is on his again. Fails worse because he has barely softened at all, still hard, still wanting, already gathering toward the next hunger while shame loosens its fingers from his throat.
His hands come to you, and arrive with less fear. Still careful, but firmer now, dirt-palmed and shaking, learning the shapes that've been bludgeoning him in his sleep. His mouth opens wider, touch slides up, then down, then around, and when you gasp he hears it bright as struck metal and groans as if the sound is next to his ear.
âTell me,â he says against your lips.
âWhat?â
âIf I do wrong.â
âYou wonât.â
âTell me.â
You look at him then, this great man under you, stubborn and proud and delicate where he has hidden it worst, heart bigger than his body and twice as easy to wound. âIâll tell you,â you say. âAnd Iâll tell you when itâs right.â
His eyes close briefly. âAye,â he breathes. âDo that.â
"And you tell me," you say, "what do you want."
âYour neck,â he says, gathering you closer. Rising to sit, and pulling you with him. You let yourself be lifted and sat back onto his lap. "The nape." His voice roughens. "I wantâSeven forgive me, I want to smell you there."
The wish should be strange. It is strange. It feels like a hand closing under your ribs. âThen do it,â you tell him.
He finds your hips and turns you, guiding rather than hauling, mouth already searching for the place before he has settled you. You feel him shift, chest coming to your back, breath over your shoulder, and when his nose presses where it ought to, he makes a sound so low it seems to enter the ground before it enters you.
âGods,â he says.
You brace yourself on both hands. âWhat?â
There's no proper answer. Just mouth opening over skin, wet and hot and shaking. He breathes you in there, kisses, breathes again, each pass less composed than the one before. His groan reaches your spine as heat before sound.
One permission opens the next in him. More private. You let him smell you without recoiling or calling him a creep, and worseâseem to enjoy it, because the sweet scent of your cunt joins all the other ones. The locked, starved part of Duncan takes the gift and grows bold from enduring it. Your body softens forward, the shape of yes becomes flesh under him. It loosens something old and badly tied. If he may put his mouth here, then he may want the slope of your back. If he may want that, then perhaps the weight of himself over you is no crime. Perhaps wanting to cover you is only wanting, and no beastâs law until he makes it one.
He presses you down and you go willingly, sinking onto the moss, cheek turned to the side, hips lifting because Gods, I want you here, I want you right here. The earth gives as if it has been waiting to receive the shape of you both and smells loud.
Then, his frame comes over you. One arm wedges itself across your shoulders, the other braces on the ground. His weight lowers in pieces: chest to back, belly to pelvis, cockâslick and warmâto ass, calves to your feet, and it thrills you that there is so much of him still going on when you yourself end.
âI want you like this,â he says, mouth to your ear.
Your arms weaken. âDunk.â
Your voice makes gold flare behind his eyes. He sees it, absurdly, as his name leaves your mouth: gold struck thin, gold swallowed, gold caught in the hollow under his tongue. His arm tightens, asking with the pressure before his mouth can manage the question. âCan I? Have you like this?â
âYes,â you near cry. âYes. Take me.â
Duncan closes his eyes. Settles a bit heavier. âToo much?â he asks, wrecked.
âNo.â You push back against him, furious with tenderness. âI swear to the Seven, Iâll bite you. More, Duncan. Give me more.â
Your restlessness does something terrible to him. So he gives you more, in small increments, though he wants to give you all of it at once. Shields you with himself until the forest air can hardly get between you. You feel his heart hammering through his chest, buzzing like it's bees sealed under bark, and him rolling his hips into the plush of your buttocks. The promise of him is tremendousâslick, large, rigid, veined perfectly, with a thick blunt head that barely squeezes itself through the crease, and heavy, potent balls, ready to fill you up to the brim.
âI want you,â he murmurs at your ear, words broken by the drag of his pelvis. âI want you so much. Wanted youâGods, I wantedââ
âThen have me,â you whine and almost impale yourself on him. Duncan huffs a laboured breath, trembles when his hand leaves the dirt to guide himself inside you and you welcome the sweet weight pressing your shape into the ground. He's all over you. His scent has bled over to your tissues. His thighs flex over yours, and then, ohâ
"Fuckâ" he grits, and it's deeply satisfying. The crown breaches you. The whole wood pulses dark green, copper, red at the roots. The girth splits you. Only then do you remember how unbearable the need has been, because the answer to it comes shaped like Duncan and hurts accordingly. Your body takes him by inches, each one too much until the next one proves it survivable. He pushes in so slowly you can make out the build of him in your mind, impossibly present, taking his place through clench and that bright pain that flashes behind your eyes whenever your body tries to change its mind.
âEasy,â he pants, though there is nothing easy in him. âEasy, girl.â
He grips your hip, shaking so much the fingers jump on you. Holds himself there, barely inside enough to destroy you, nowhere near enough to save you. The restraint of it turns wicked. You feel the carefulness in him like another ache, another place he refuses to fill. âDuncan,â you whisper, pleading.
âI know,â he says. âI know.â
âYou donât.â
He tries to breathe. You feel it against your back, great lungs straining, arm tight across you. He gives you another inch and your vision darkens. Your thighs start quivering under his, badly enough that he stops. âSweetheart,â he says. âYou were to tell me.â
âI am telling you.â
âYouâre shaking.â
âYes." You swallow. Find his forearm and squeeze it meanly until your nails leave dents there. "Because you stopped.â
He hides in the back of your neck. For a second Dunk seems to lose the whole battle against himself there, hips twitching, cock dragging deeper by a cruel little accident that makes you choke on his name. He goes still immediately, horrified by his own body, and you could howl from the piety of it.
âKeep going,â you say.
âIâll hurt you.â
âN-noâit hurts wherever you arenât,â you say, and he groans. âPlease,â you say, needy, crazed, with your truth made fanatic. âDuncan, please. I need you. I need you, I need youââ
"Gods damn it, girl," he says. "Gods damn it, I need you too."
He pushes in farther. Rougher, all of him, setting you aflame from the inside. Your body empties of room for hunger or air or shame, because he's taken up all of the space within it. He rolls his hips and finds another impossible depth, making the burn open into something lovely enough to frighten you.
âThere,â you sob. "Right there."
He is all over you. In you. Around you. Heavy enough to press your breath into the earth, careful enough that you can feel forbearance shivering through him. His groan comes against your spine before your ears receive it, and when his mouth opens by your neck, all you can do is push back and take the shape he has made of you.
Then, Duncan's hips lift. He feels himself dragging all the way back, and your cunt grips him on the exit like it disagrees with the hollowing. "Fuck, you're soâ" he says. Sinks back in, faster, hungrier, worse, better, more, and finds that however little space the angle grants you, you use it wisely. Push your sweet ass out for him until your bodies meet with a wet slap and only then does he understand how wet you've made yourself for him. How ready you are. How willing.
He slots flush to you and finishes his thought: "âtight."
"Gods, fuck me more," you say. "Dunkâ"
His name turns gold behind his eyes again. Brighter this time, struck hard enough to spark. He works his muscles and feels the colour burst through his skull, down his spine, into the hand he has braced across you.
âLike this?â he asks, already doing it again.
âYes," you breathe. "Jus' like that. Oh, fuckââ
So he gives it to you. Just like that.
The boy in him, the one who blushes and stammers and hides his wants under duty until duty starts to resemble cowardice, gets shouldered aside by something broader. Some manâs part of him with dirt under its nails and your heat round its cock and no room left for pretty suffering. He still holds you with care; that remains. But his hips are done pretending they do not know what they want.
He fucks you harder, and the moss takes the force of it. Your fingers claw into green and black and flesh of his forearm. His palm slips in the dirt and catches again. The earth smells damp and opened. Leaves taste bitter on the air, and beneath all of it is you: hot, slick, clenching down each time he draws back as if your body would rather keep him entire.
âDuncan,â you gasp.
He buries his face against the back of your neck. âSay it again.â
âDuncan.â
Gold, again. He groans, broken loose enough that his mouth starts working without permission. âYouâre beautiful,â he says. "So beautiful."
You laugh, though it comes out ragged. âNow?â
âAye, now.â His hips grind deep on the word. âEspecially now.â
âLiar.â
âNo.â He lifts enough to look down the line of you, the turn of your cheek, the sweat on your neck, the place where your malleable body strains under his and endures more, asks for more than he would ever suspect. âYou are. Gods, you are. I can scarce stand it.â
You shudder around him. That does him harm, too.
He drops his mouth to your ear. âIf the sun never came up, Iâd not care. If this wood kept us here and there was only this, only you under me, Iâdââ His voice catches. He drives into you again, short and rough. âIâd be a worse man than I thought.â
âYouâd be honest,â you say, smiling. Exhilarated. Turn your face enough that your cheek drags in the moss. âTell me more.â
That should shame him. It does, but the shame is toothless. The mushrooms have made a ruin of his monastery for silence, and his body has found the ruin agreeable. âI hate when men look at you,â he says.
Your breathing trips. âWhat?â
âI hate it.â His hand tightens on your ribs, then loosens quickly, remembering. âIn inns. On roads. When you smile to get us bread cheaper. When some man thinks you soft because youâve a soft mouth, or thinks you easy because you are kind, or thinksââ He thrusts harder, angry now, the memory of every look finding your body through his. âI know what they think.â
You push back into him, mean with pleasure. âHow do you know?â
He goes still for half a breath. Then his mouth finds the shell of your ear, and his voice drops so low it seems dragged from the ground.
âI am a man.â
There. There it is. The confession under all confessions. He has looked too. He has thought. He has watched the curve of your smile over a cup, the bend of your back by the fire, the softness of your mouth in sleep, and made himself suffer for it as if suffering could make him clean. He has wanted with the rest of them and hated them for wanting less carefully.
You clench around him so hard his forehead knocks between your shoulder blades.
âSeven hells,â he chokes.
âWere you thinking too?â you ask, cruel because you need him to say it.
âAye.â
âWhat?â
His hips start again, less measured, sloppier and greater for it. The more they do, the more you drip for him and Duncan no longer knows anything. He just feels.
âYour mouth," he says. "Your hands. How youâd sound if Iââ He loses the sentence inside you and has to drag it back by force. âHow youâd look under me. Over me. Anywhere. I thought of you so much I near made myself sick with it.â
âGood,â you pant.
âGood?â
âYes. I wanted you sick.â
He gets punched to the gut by sheer force of words. Drives into you harder, close and blunt and heavy, his arm drawing you up enough that your back bows under him. His chest drags over your skin and hums through you, hair falls forward, tickling your cheek. His mouth returns to your neck as if that place has become a home he means to worry open.
âMy girl,â he mutters.
âYes,â you breathe.
âMy girl?â
âYes, Duncan, yours, justâfuckââ
More, more, more is what you want, so he gives it. Gives you more because you asked and because he has wanted to be asked for so long the wanting has grown limbs. He gives you the weight, and the girth of him until the tip touches the spot that makes you go there. There, right there, fuck me there, more, you keep saying. He smiles through it, nods through it, and despite his balls going laden enough to feel heavier than whole of him, he still manages to tease you.
âThere?â Duncan asks.
âThere," you say. "There, donât stop.â
Your legs tense. Feet curl against his calves, and your toes find them for purchase. He wonders if he is deep enough to dent the earth beneath your belly when he fills you. If you will be sore from him. If you will let him soothe you with his mouth after.
âI wouldnât,â he says, and then feels the change in you. The hardening of your buttocks under him. The faint tremor starting low, travelling outward through muscle, your body drawing itself tight around the place where he is buried. His hips falter, then go meaner because you push back for it. âClose?â
âOh, fuck, Dunk.â Your face has gone into the dirt. Your cheek, your mouth, all that cleverness pressed to moss and leaf-mould while you pant under him like the ground has stolen the rest of your words. âFuck, my darling, Iââ
His whole body stumbles at that. âSay that again.â
âYesââ you breathe instead, uselessly, beautifully. Your thighs shake beneath his. âDarling, Oh Gods, yesââ
You tighten on him. Duncan chokes. His arm bands across you with a blind little jerk, keeping you under him, keeping himself in you, his other hand clawing at the earth by your shoulder. âGirlââ
Then it has you. Breaks hot and huge through your nerves, too large for the body it has been given. Your hands seize in the ground. Hips kick back into him and then can do nothing but bear it, taking the thick drag of him through each bright pulse while the world opens its wet mouth around you. Soil at your cheek. Leaves green on the tongue of the air. His chest heavy over your back, a low-humming cage. His breath at your neck, ragged and stunned. His cock inside you, absolute.
Pleasure rolls through so fiercely it feels delivered, brought down to you by the only body that could have carried it. Your Venusian boy. Your tall knight. Your man with the freckled face and the foolish, breakable heart. You had wanted him before the mushrooms. You want him through them. You will want him when the forest has spat you both out into ordinary daylight and made cowards of all this green magic.
âDuncan,â you sob into the dirt.
He tries to hold. For one more breath, he tries. There is some last thread in him that thinks of weight, of gentleness, of the promise he made you with his mouth and his shaking hands. Then you clench again, deep and helpless, sucking him in as if your body means to wring the marrow out of him, and the thread snaps clean.
He slots himself tight to you. All the way in, hips pressed hard to your ass, whole of him poured over you, size finally surrendered to yours with no cleverness left in it. His mouth goes into your hair.
âFuck,â he bites out. âFuck, fuckâSevenââ
He comes worse than the first time. Brutal enough that he thinks, distantly, he might go blind from it. His body drives deep and stays there, sack flattened against you, him spilling hard into the tight, shuddering hold while the whole woods dissolve from his vision. His groan tears out loud, then breaks into something rawer. Teeth catch in your hair. For a moment he forgets how much of him there is, forgets all the roads he failed to find, forgets everything. Remembers his girl only.
âMy girl,â he cries into your hair, ruined with it. âGodsâmy girl.â
Several heartbeats continue the spending in him as aftershock, profound and almost soundless. It leaves him hollowed in a way hunger never managed, emptied clean through and simple with awe: he has put himself in you. Some living of him has gone where his hands and mouth and morning thoughts have been circling for months, and no witchcraft can explain the feeling spreading through his ribs now. That is his own. The fierce gladness of being allowed to give you something his body made, before sense arrives and worries it with teeth.
âOhââ you say.
It is the first small sound either of you has made that belongs to the after. Thin, dazed, almost curious. Duncan hears it and comes back to himself by ugly degrees: ground under his knees, sweat cooling along his spine, the fist of his hand in your hair, the full weight of him poured over you as if you are something the earth gave him to smother.
âSeven hells,â he whispers. Gathers himself off you with a haste that makes both of you wince, then gets an arm beneath your ribs and rolls you with him onto your sides. The movement is clumsy, tender, terrible. You end up tucked against him, his chest to your back for another breath, his mouth at the crown of your head, both of you still joined in the softening.
âDid I hurt you?â he asks.
You laugh. It comes out loose and pleased and completely unhelpful.
Duncan lifts himself enough to look at your face. âThat is no answer.â
âI know.â You turn your head with difficulty, cheek streaked with dirt, eyes gone drowsy in a way that makes him ache all over again. âAsk me again when my bones remember their duties.â
His brow pulls, worried despite everything. âHow do you feel?â
âLike Iâve been taken apart and put back wrong.â Your smile curls, lazy and wicked at the edge. âHappy.â
Satisfied enough, he eases himself from you, jaw tight with the sensation, and then goes still. For a second he only stares, caught by the sight of his seed slipping warm down your thigh, white as milk, taking grains of dirt with it. Wonder hits first. Possession after. Then sense comes in like cold water poured down his neck. âOh, Gods,â he breathes.
You turn into him before he can get any farther into horror, nuzzling your face against his chest as if you mean to burrow under the skin there and quiet the heart hammering beneath it. âDonât worry,â you murmur. âI know how to make moon tea. Hush. Justâhush a moment.â
His hand hovers above your back, then settles, broad and shaking. âYou are sure?â
âIâm sure.â
âAnd the itching?â he asks. âIs it still on you?â
You tip your face up enough to look at him. The forest has begun to dull around the edges. Green is green again, mostly. His hair is only light brown where damp has darkened it, though a warm thread still catches in it when he moves. The air no longer tastes quite so loudly of leaves. âNo,â you say. âAll my itches have been scratched.â
Duncan nods, solemn as a septon receiving grave news, and draws you closer. You let him have that for three breaths. Then, you add: âDoesnât mean I wonât itch again.â
His face changes so quickly it makes you laugh: worry struck through, then comprehension, then that wide boyish smile he has been hoarding from you like a miser. He laughs too, and the sound rolls through his chest into your cheek.
âIâve got you all covered in dirt,â he says, as if this is suddenly the great shame of the hour.
His palms move over you, brushing at your shoulder, your arm, the smear along your hip, making a worse mess of it because his hands are filthy too. The gentleness of the attempt makes your throat pinch.
âYeah, you brute,â you say. âManhandling me like that. So unknightlyââ
He cuts you off with his mouth. Better for it, like he's taken the lesson and learnt carefully. Long, deep, with no hunger's panic or teeth knocking, and no witchcraft dragging him by the blood. Loving too, with his hand at your jaw, thumb near the mouth's corner. You soften into him. Breath leaves him through his nose. He tastes only of ruined man.
When he lets you go, his forehead stays against yours. âWill you listen to me next time?â he asks.
You look down and trail your fingers through the hair on his chest, damp and curling under your touch. âNo.â
His eyes open. âNo?â
âI would go hungry another week if this is where it gets us.â
âGirl,â he says, despairing and fond in equal measure. He wraps you in before you can make it worse, chin settling on the top of your head. You feel the shape of his smile there, hidden in your hair. Beyond him, the trees stand dense and black and wet, all their malice used up or merely bored of you at last.
Then Duncan goes still. âHey,â he says quietly.
You shift against him. âWhat?â
His hand smooths once over your back, then points past your shoulder. You twist to look, and between the close trunks, farther ahead than any path had shown itself before, light pours through in a clean, ordinary sheet.
âLook,â he says.
"Gods be good," you say. "See? You ought to trust me more."
"As if that is your doing," Duncan huffs, all exasperated but still endeared.
"Hush, knight," you tell him. "Or I will eat you."
Duncan mutters something about never eating anything you hand him again, then takes your hand before you can answer. It rather spoils the threat.
Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x Targaryen Fem!Reader
Summary: You, Princess and daughter of Prince Baelor, sneak away into the Ashford tourney and meet an interesting knight. Wine, dancing, and poor decisions follow.
Word Count: 7.5k
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI! smut. i like my porn with a bit of plot. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. creampie. slight dom Dunk. outdoor sex (they do it on a wagon). oral sex (fem receiving). size kink. marking. dirty talk. praise kink. fingering. clitoral stimulation. breast play. hair pulling. getting caught (sort of). reader loves to tease him. alcohol consumption. slight canon divergence near the end. no use of y/n. reader is described to have dark hair for story purposes. not beta'd!!
Masterlist | AO3
Ashford Meadow had become a small city.
Colorful pavilions stretched across the field, banners snapping in the warm wind as horses stamped along the picket lines and squires hurried past with helms tucked under their arms. At the center of it all, the lists waited, freshly marked and already drawing crowds eager for the first tilts of the tourney.
You had slipped away not long ago.
Your familyâs pavilion stood among the royal tents at Ashford, raised as soon as your party arrivedâyour father, Prince Baelor, insisting it was the most practical arrangement. Practical, however, also meant watchful servants and the quiet expectation that a princess ought never wander where no one could account for her.
Unfortunately for them, that had never been a rule you followed particularly well.
If anyone was to blame for your younger cousinâs wandering habits, it was probably you. Aegon had spent far too many afternoons in your company not to learn how easily one might slip out and disappear for a while.
You only hoped he and Daeron would arrive safely soon. They had not yet reached Ashford, and the tourney grounds felt strangely incomplete without them.
In the meantime, it was far too lively to remain indoors waiting.
You had chosen the simplest dress you owned before sneaking outâplain enough, if not quite so plain as you might have likedâto pass through the crowds without notice.
A light cloak hung over your shoulders, its hood pulled loosely over your head. You lacked the silver hair most expected of Targaryens, favoring your fatherâs darker coloring insteadâthough that alone was hardly enough to hide who you were from those who knew your face.
Still, the disguise served well enough. Most people paid you no mind, save for the occasional vendor who noticed you beneath the hood and offered a quiet nod or soft âPrincessâ before looking away.
You simply smiled and moved on.
For a while you wandered through the encampment, watching the bustle with open curiosity. The banners of great houses flew above the tentsâlions, towers, apples, stagsâbright cloth billowing over the crowd.
Soon your wandering carried you farther. The ground sloped gently toward the road that led away from the tourney field, where a narrow bridge crossed the shallow stream running along the edge of the grounds.
The bridge itself was busy, with travelers moving steadily back and forth between the town and the meadow.
That was when you noticed them.
The man himself was enormous. Even among the movement of the crowd he stood outâbroad-shouldered and towering over anyone nearby, standing almost as tall as the horse at his side.
You slowed without quite meaning to, curiosity catching you there for a moment as you watched.Â
He held a shield awkwardly against his arm while a small bald-headed boy beside him leaned in, tugging stubbornly at the leather fastenings. You could only see the back of the boyâs head, shaved smooth and pale in the sunlight as he leaned forward, over the knightâs arm.
âHold still.âÂ
âI am holdinâ still!â
âYou keep moving.â
âThatâs because you keep pokinâ me.â
The boy gave one last tug, then straightened. He lingered for a brief moment with his back still turned before reaching for the mareâs reins.
âWell,â the boy said abruptly, âI should see to the horse.â
âWhat horse?â the knight asked.
âThis one.â
Before the knight could protest, the boy was already leading the mare across the bridge.
âYou just finished brushing her,â the knight called after him.
Within moments, both the boy and the mare had disappeared down the road beyond the bridge, leaving the tall knight standing alone at the edge of the tourney grounds.
You waited a moment longer, watching after them. Once the path was clear, you crossed the grass toward him.
He was still looking down the road when your shadow stretched across the ground before him.
At the movement, he turned and blinked, surprise flickering across his face at the unexpected sight of you.
Up close, he seemed even larger than he had from a distanceâsun-tanned skin, rough hands, and earnest eyes that lingered for a moment on you before he gave a small, awkward nod. It occurred to you then that he was rather handsome, in a plain and honest sort of way.
âMâlady,â he said, dipping his head in greeting. âBegginâ your pardon.â
The words seemed to leave a small pause between you, just long enough for your gaze to travel upward once more.
âYou are very tall,â you said at last, rather abruptly.
A faint flush crept up his cheeks. âI get that a fair bit.â
âI imagine you do.â
For a moment, your eyes lingered on the worn armor strapped over him.
âYouâre riding in the lists?â
âIf theyâll have me,â he said. âNameâs Ser DuncanâŠthe Tall.â
You echoed it softly, and a small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.Â
He blinked at you.
âSomethinâ funny, my lady?â
You shook your head quickly, though the smile was still there.
âNo, no. It is simply⊠very direct.â
âDirect?â
âYes.â You tilted your head slightly, amusement lingering in your eyes. âMost knights seem to favour grander titles.â
He rubbed the back of his neck.Â
âWell⊠it werenât meant to be grand.â
âI gathered that.â Your smile widened just a little. âBut I do appreciate the honesty of it. Itâs accurate, at least.â
He looked faintly flustered by that and for a moment he only looked at you, as though uncertain whether he had been praised or gently made fun of.
âAnd you, my lady?â he asked after a beat. âMight I know your name?â
You gave him your first name and nothing more.
âTruly?â
You laughed softly. âIt has been known to be true, yes.â
His ears went a little pink. âNo, I only meantââ He stopped himself, seeming to realize he was only making it worse. âItâs just⊠someone mentioned it earlier. Thatâs the same name as the Targaryen princess.â
You only smiled. âYes, I am aware.â
He looked at you as though he knew there was something in that answer he ought to understand, but before he could find hold of it, you tilted your head and went on lightly. âIt is a very fine name. You need not look so stricken over it.â
That drew a crooked, embarrassed smile from him. Your gaze moved over him again, taking in the plainness of him, the worn tunic and the lack of any bright finery such as the other knights wore.
âYou donât look like the other knights here,â you said.
He gave a crooked half-smile. âThat bad, is it?â
âNot badâŠdifferent.â
âWell⊠I reckon thatâs about right.â
A small smile touched your lips. âI shall watch for you in the lists.â
âYou will?â
âPerhaps. I do like to see how the stories turn out.â
âWhat stories?â
âThe ones where princes and champions discover they are not the only ones worth watching.â
He blinked, clearly not expecting that. A faint flush crept up his neck as he triedâand failedâto think of something clever to say in return.
âGood luck, Ser Duncan the Tall.â
With that you turned, letting the movement of the tourney grounds carry you away again as you disappeared between the colorful tents.
Behind you, Dunk remained where you had left him, staring after you for far longer than he ought to have. The crowd moved around him, but he scarcely noticed. He looked plainly flustered now, a faint color still at his ears, as though the sight of you leaving had unsettled him more than your words had.
Eventually, he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, still looking toward the place where you had vanished.
âThat was somethinâ.â
Long after the cheers had faded and most of the folk had settled into drink and laughter, sleep refused to come.
The night air carried distant sounds of celebration, voices rising and falling, the faint strain of music, and the occasional burst of laughter drifting across the darkened field.
Near the center of the grounds, a small crowd had gathered around a puppet booth.
You lingered at the edge, half watching the painted puppets dance while the players recited some tale of Florian and Jonquil in voices grander than the figures themselves. Laughter moved through the crowd while a few children shrieked with delight whenever the wooden dragon appeared.
It was entertaining enough.
But not nearly as entertaining as the day had promised.
You had not seen him ride. In fact, you had not seen him anywhere all day.
Which was why the familiar shape standing a short distance away caught your attention at once.
He lingered near the edge of the crowd, his broad shoulders unmistakable even among the press of people, the firelight catching on the rough edges of his worn tunic.
He seemed wholly absorbed in the puppet show, gaze fixed on the little stage while laughter rose and fell around him.
Before you could think better of it, you stepped forward. He noticed you more quickly this time, turning at once, his brow furrowing before recognition settled across his face.
âMâlady?â
You stopped beside him, the faintest smile touching your mouth.
âSer Duncan.â
âI was not expectinâ to see you again tonight,â he admitted, still sounding a little surprised.
âShould I take it you were hoping not to?â
âNo, no thatâs notâ I only meantââ
He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for a better way to put it. A small laugh slipped from you.
âI am only teasing you, Ser Duncan.â
That earned a short, sheepish huff of laughter from him, and some of the tension left his shoulders, though the color on his cheeks remained.
âI ainât always the quickest with that sort of thing,â he muttered, glancing briefly toward the stage again.
âSo I see,â you said with quiet amusement.
âWhat brings you out tonight?â he said after a moment.
âI was bored,â you said simply.
âIt was entertaining for a time,â you added, nodding toward the tilts outside. âBut not nearly as entertaining as the day had promised to be.â
His brow lifted slightly. âYou mean the tourney?â
âI had hoped to see a certain knight ride today.â
âWell⊠there were plenty of them,â he said.
A quiet chuckle slipped from you at that.
âYes,â you agreed. âThere were.â
You let the words sit for a moment, studying him in the dim light.
âBut I didnât see you ride,â you said.
His expression shifted, the faintest hint of embarrassment touching his face.
âWell⊠you wouldnât have.â
âNo?â
âNo.â He rubbed the back of his neck again. âTheyâve got the tilts set by rank. Knights with banners and proper standing go first.â
âAh. Yes, thatâs right.â You had known that, of course, it simply hadnât occurred to you earlier.
âAnd Ser Duncan the Tall?â you asked.
He gave a small shrug.
âStill waiting his turn, looks like.â
âWhat a shame.â
Your gaze drifted past him then, toward the lantern-lit press of tents and pavilions beyond the crowd.
âAre you thirsty, Ser Duncan?â
âThirsty?â
âYes.â
âI⊠suppose so.â
âGood,â you said, already turning toward the glow of the tents. âCome along.â
He hesitated.
âMâladyââ
You glanced back over your shoulder. âDo you often protest refreshments so solemnly?â
He looked caught between caution and confusion. âItâs onlyâŠought I to be goinâ anywhere with you?â
That made your smile return. âTo get wine from a tent across, Ser Duncan. Not across the Narrow Sea.â
The answer seemed to fluster him more than it should have. His eyes flicked once toward the crowd, then back to you.
âI did not meanââ
âI know you did not,â you said lightly. âAre you coming?â
âWell⊠I suppose one drink couldnât hurt.â
You had led him easily through the movement of people until the stag banners of House Baratheon came into view.
Their pavilion was lively.
Laughter spilled from within, where a group of knights argued loudly over some point of honor that had clearly become less important with every cup of ale.
Ser Duncan slowed beside you, but before he could begin protesting again, you slipped through the pavilionâs open flap. Inside, the air smelled of roasted meat and spilled wine and ale.Â
A passing squire paused long enough for you to take two cups of wine from the tray he carried. You handed one to Duncan who accepted it slowly, still looking faintly uncertain.
âYou do this often?â he asked.
âDrink wine?â
âWalk into lordsâ tents like you belong there.â
You took a small sip.
âOnly when I do.â
That earned a quiet laugh from him.
One cup turned into a second, then a third. Another cup that neither of you quite remembered accepting as time slipped by in easy conversation and careless amusement.
You had him talking about the road and the places he had seen. Ser Duncan answered honestly, and the more you laughed at his stories, the more his earlier awkwardness began to fade.
When he tried to ask after you in return, you offered only vague replies just enough to satisfy him, and not nearly enough to reveal anything about yourself you did not mean to.
At some point you shed your cloak, the warmth inside making it unnecessary. Most of the people around you were far too occupied with drink and laughter to notice who you were without it anyways.
The same could not be said for the tall knight beside you.
He tried very hard not to stare when the cloak slipped from your shoulders, revealing the close fit of your dress beneath. Still, his eyes betrayed him more than once as the evening wore on, catching where the fabric followed the line of you before darting guiltily away. You did not seem to noticeâor if you did, you gave no sign.
Before long, someone began playing a fiddle.
A few people cleared space between the tables, feet thumping against the ground as they dragged friends into the circle. Someone caught Duncan by the sleeve before he could refuse, and soon enough you found yourself pulled into the same lively chaos of spinning bodies and clumsy steps.
He looked horrified for all of two seconds.
Then he laughed.
The music swept you both along over the packed earth as voices rose all around. You spun once, nearly losing your balance before Duncanâs hand found your waist. The span of it seemed to cover an absurd amount of space there, broad enough to steady you in an instant. A startled grin broke across his face when you looked up at him.
âCareful,â he said.
âYouâre the one who stepped on my foot.â
âThat was not intentional.â
âYou did it twice.â
The rest of the evening seemed to run together. More dancing. More drinks.Â
Eventually, the air inside grew too warm. You stepped out through the flap into the cool night and paused there a moment, letting the breeze settle over you after the heat and noise behind you.
Behind you the canvas rustled, followed by a familiar voice. âI was beginning to think youâd escaped.â
You turned at the sound to find Ser Duncan stepping out after you, one hand still holding the edge of the tent.Â
âWhat? You didnât think Iâd leave you to suffer alone, did you?â
He snorted softly. âWouldâve been a cruel fate, that.â
Candlelight from within caught him for a moment as he stepped out beside you before the flap fell closed again, leaving the two of you in the quieter dark.
He came to stand beside you then, close enough that his arm nearly brushed yours. When you looked up, you found him already smiling down at youâfaint and easy in a way you had not seen before. After a moment his gaze drifted past you, lifting toward the night sky overhead.
The wine had left a pleasant warmth in your limbs, at odds with the cool breeze tugging lightly at your sleeve. For a moment you simply watched the stars overhead before speaking.
âYouâre not what I expected,â you said quietly.
At that, Dunk turned his head to look at you, a slight frown touching his brow. âWhat were you expectinâ?â
âIâm not sure.â
âThatâs not much of an answer.â
âNo,â you agreed, your voice light as you turned to him. âBut I do know this.â
He waited, watching as you faced him, his attention now fixed wholly on you.
âYou are not much like the others here.â
âThe others?â
âThe knights. Most of them spend half their time trying to sound grander than they are.â
âAnd me?â
âYou donât.â A small smile touched your mouth. âItâs rather refreshing.â
He only looked at you, uncertain what to say.
âPerhaps that is why I noticed you at all,â you added.
âBecause I wasnât talkinâ?â
âBecause you werenât trying so hard.â
The corner of his mouth twitched. âThatâs a generous way of sayinâ Iâve got no talent for showinâ off.â
âNo,â you said softly.
You stepped a little closer, tilting your head back to meet his eyes.
âIt is a generous way of saying I prefer you as you are.â
He didnât answer right away. His breath caught, faint but visible, and something in his expression softened before caution settled over it again.
âMâlady,â he said carefully.
âYes?â
âYouâre standinâ very close.â
Your smile was small. âAm I?â
He nodded once, though his eyes had not left yours. âAye.â
âAnd is that a problem?â
A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh. âIt might be.â
âWhy?â
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. He hesitated, as though reaching for the safest answer and finding none.
âDoes your family know youâre out here?â he asked instead.
âNo.â
Dunk glanced back toward the lantern glow of the tents. âYou should probably head back before they start lookinâ.â
You tilted your head slightly. âAre you sending me away, Ser Duncan?â
âIâm tryinâ to do the right thing.â
You glanced up at him through your lashes, a small smile curving your lips, brow raised as if to challenge him to explain.
He rubbed the back of his neck. âRememberinâ who Iâm talkinâ to.â
âAnd who is that?â
âA noble lady,â he said simply. âAnd me⊠a hedge knight who ought to know better.â
Your voice softened. âSo thatâs all it is? Your better sense?â
âNo.â
You held his gaze.
âThen what are you afraid of?â
He was quiet, the faint music from the pavilions drifting through the dark. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone lower.
âThat I might forget my place.â
Something in that made your chest tighten.
âPerhaps,â you said, your hands lifting almost without thought to rest lightly against his chest, âyou have been worrying over that all evening.â
He went still beneath your touch, breathing a little harder, his gaze fixed on your lips.
You leaned closerâslow enough that he could have pulled away.
He didnât.
Then it happened all at once. His hand closed around your waist and he pulled you forward, kissing you before either of you could think better of it.
The kiss was brief and careful, almost hesitant, as though he still meant to stop himself. When he drew back, it was only far enough to search your face, his hand still warm at your waist.
âYouâve had wine.â
âA devastating observation, Ser Duncan.â
That drew a quiet chuckle from him despite himself.
âAt this point,â he murmured, âyou may call me Duncan. Or Dunk, if it please you.â
Then the amusement faded, and he looked at you more carefully.
âI mean it,â he said, quieter now. âIs your head clear enough for this?â
You held his gaze. The warmth of the wine still lingered pleasantly in your veins, but there was nothing uncertain in your thoughts.
âYes.â
Your hand slipped from his chest to rest lightly at his waist, fingers curling against the fabric there.
âAnd you?â you asked softly. âIs your head clear enough, Dunk? Is this what you want?â
He drew a slow breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a moment before lifting again.
âSince this morninâ Iâve wanted little else,â he said.
Your smile was small, but it undid him completely. His grip tightened at your waist, and when he kissed you again there was no care left in it, only heat.
Your fingers knotted in his tunic as his mouth worked over yours, teeth catching briefly at your lower lip before his tongue slid against yours, warm and insistent, touched by the faint taste of ale.
His hand slid lower, closing over the curve of your arse as he squeezed, pulling a breathless sound from you that vanished into his mouth. He groaned softly in answer when your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging him closer, and he drew you firmly against him.
The full length of him pressed close, stealing your breath as the kiss deepened, until the evidence of his arousal was impossible to mistake.
The world seemed to narrow until there was nothing left but the warmth of him. Then laughter rang out from the tent behind you, sharp enough to break the spell and drag you back to where you stood.
You pulled back just far enough to catch your breath, lips tingling and pulse racing, but Duncan scarcely let the distance form. His mouth found your jaw at once, then the side of your neck, leaving slow, heated kisses in its wake that made your breath hitch.Â
When his teeth grazed the spot just beneath your ear, a shaky breath slipped from you. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric, and your knees nearly gave at the touch.
âDuncan,â you breathed.
He answered with a low hum against your skin and kissed lower, lingering at the base of your throat.
âWeâre⊠out in the open,â you whispered, fingers threading into his short, sun-streaked hair. âAnyone could see.â
The words seemed to reach him slowly, dragging him back from whatever had overtaken him. He let out a low groan like the effort of stopping pained him, then went still, his breath warm against your neck as a soft sigh slipped out before he finally pulled away.
His pupils were blown wide in the dim light, mouth parted and expression rough with want, only barely wrestled back under control. Gone was the flustered knight who had stumbled over your teasing. What looked back at you now was all hunger, held in check only by the thinnest thread.
His gaze drifted past you, searching the dark between the tents as though weighing something. Then without a word, he caught your hand.
You let him lead you.
He moved quickly, leading you away from the brighter noble pavilions and around the backs of the smaller tents near the edge of the grounds, where the light thinned and the noise of the feast faded to a distant hum. Out there, the night felt closer, broken only by the soft stir of horses and faint music drifting on the wind.
Duncan stopped in a narrow gap between a supply wagon and a stack of casks tucked beneath a canvas awning. The wagonâs tailboard hung open, its worn wood faintly pale in the dark, and the space behind it lay deep in shadowâhidden from the lantern light of the nearby tents.
When he turned back to you, he looked no calmer than before. If anything, the short walk had only sharpened whatever had taken hold of him. Still, a brief, crooked smile touched his mouth at the sight of you waiting there.
âYou are not so steady now,â you murmured.
His brow lifted slightly. âI was never steady.â
âYou were trying very hard to be.â
He gave you a look that was almost pained. âYou are enjoyinâ this far too much.â
âPerhaps.â
âCruel thing.â
A quiet laugh slipped from youâcut short as he moved. One moment you were standing, the next his hand was at your waist, the other sliding beneath your thigh as he lifted you with startling ease and set you on the lowered tailboard of the wagon.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he stepped between your knees, broad and solid, close enough to steal the rest of your thoughts.
His mouth found yours again, slow at first, then deeper as his hands tightened around you. When he finally drew back, it was only far enough for his lips to brush the corner of your mouth before drifting along your jaw.
âThis is no place for you,â Dunk muttered, his words rough and half-spent between kisses, the warning meant as much for himself as for you. âYou ought to be in a proper bedâŠâ
His mouth pressed briefly to your skin again.
âNot out here with me losinâ what little sense Iâve still got.â
You smiled against the brush of his mouth, fingers curling tighter into the rough weave of his tunic at his shoulders.
âThen perhaps,â you breathed, catching his lower lip gently between yours before speaking again, âyou should stop trying to make sense of it.â
A low, unsteady sound escaped him, almost a laugh but roughened by the way he kissed you harder. His tongue brushed yours while the hand braced high against you tightened. The other slid lower, gathering your skirt in his fist and dragging it upward inch by inch, rough fingertips grazing the bare skin of your thigh.
âThatâs poor counsel, mâlady,â he rasped against your mouth. âIf I donât stop now⊠I donât know that I shall.â
His fingers slid higher beneath your skirt, tracing the sensitive skin along the inside of your thigh, pausing just short of where you ached for him to go.
âTell me if I ought not,â he murmured right against your lips, barely breaking the contact.
You laughed softly, the sound swallowed by his next kiss.
âYou ask that now?â
A flush climbed high on his cheeks, visible even in the dim lantern spill, though his hand stayed where it wasâwarm and possessive, trembling just enough to betray how hard he was holding himself in check.
âAye,â he said, voice gravel-rough. âNow.â
You tipped your head, brushing your mouth over his once, twice, slow and teasing.
âNo,â you whispered against the seam of his lips. âDo not stop.â
His breath left him in a rush. You eased yourself back across the open tailboard, drawing away just enough to shift farther onto the wagon. Dunk followed at once, climbing up after you, one hand catching the edge of the board before he leaned over you again.
As he settled above you, his free hand found the lacing at the front of your dress, thick fingers working the knot with surprising gentleness. The cord loosened with a soft hiss, and the fabric slipped from your shoulders to gather at your elbows, baring you to the nightâand to him.
His mouth found your neck once more, lingering at your pulse long enough to steal your breath. The faint scrape of his stubble sent a shiver through you before he moved lower, following the line of your throat and collarbone until he reached the soft swell of your breast above the loosened neckline.
He kissed you there with parted lips, his mouth lingering as his breath warmed your skin, his tongue tracing the curve in a slow, deliberate stroke. The low sound he made against you sent a tremor through your ribs, your breath catching at the sensation.
Duncan drew in a rough breath, pausing only a moment as if steadying himself, before lowering his head again. This time his mouth closed over the sensitive peak, firmer, more certain. Your fingers slid into his hair and tugged him closer, urging him on.
He answered with a deeper pull, his tongue moving in slow, firm circles as his lips held fast.
A sharp jolt of pleasure shot down your spine, and your hips lifted instinctively, hooking around him as you drew him closer. The hard length of him pressed flush against you through his breeches and the thin barrier of your shift.
He groaned against your breast, the sound muffled as he sucked deeper. His hips rocked forward in answer, grinding that rigid heat along your core in a slow, heavy slide.
Without pause he shifted, his mouth finding your other breast with the same hungry care. The change drew a sharp arch from you, your back lifting off the sacks as a ragged sound slipped from your throat.
Then Duncanâs mouth left you with a slow, wet pop, the sudden loss of warmth sending a shiver through you. He pulled back just enough to ease the press of his hips against yours, and the absence of him drew a soft, needy whine from your throat before you could stop it.
âEasy, Iâve got you,â he murmured. One large hand settled on your thigh, his thumb brushing once in reassurance.
He began shifting lower, sliding down your body with careful strength. Broad shoulders rolled as he settled between your legs, hands finding the backs of your knees as he guided them gently over the wide span of his shoulders.
The motion raised your hips, and you gasped softly at the sudden shift, the cool night air brushing the damp linen between your legs before his warm breath chased it away.Â
Duncan paused there. The tip of his nose grazed the soft skin of your inner thigh. He looked up once more, eyes dark and unguardedâraw hunger mixed with something close to reverence.
Then he dipped his head.
His mouth found you through the thin shift first. A slow, open-mouthed kiss pressed directly to your center. The fabric turned wetter beneath his tongue as he dragged one long, firm lick upward, tasting you even through the linen. A low groan rolled out of his chest and thrummed straight into you.
He hooked one finger under the hem of your shift, tugging it aside with careful slowness until bare skin met his lips. Your hips jerked up toward his mouth, a broken moan slipping past your lips.Â
Then he kissed you there properly, warm and unhurried, tongue parting your cunt with gentle insistence. The first slow swirl sent pleasure flashing sharp and bright through you, your thighs tightening instinctively around his head, heels pressing into his broad back.
Duncan hummed softly in answer and set to work with hunger as his large hands held your thighs open and steady over his shoulders.
His mouth never falteredâtongue moving in slow, deliberate circles around your clit before sliding lower, tracing the slick seam of your entrance and gathering wetness before returning to that swollen bud with firmer pressure, lips sealing around it, sucking lightly in time with the slow lap of his tongue.
One of his hands slipped from your thigh, fingers trailing warm along the inside until they reached your core. He paused only long enough for his thumb to brush once where his tongue had been, before they lowered until his fingers found your entrance.
He pressed one thick finger inside you with aching slowness, letting the stretch bloom into pleasure before adding a second. His tongue never faltered as his fingers curled gently upward, searching until the pad brushed that sensitive place deep within.
Your hips jerked sharply upward, a broken cry spilling from your lips.
Duncan groaned low against your cunt at the sound, the rough vibration rolling straight through you and the noise seemed to unravel something inside you. Your fingers flew to his hair, burying themselves in the thick strands and gripping tight before giving it a sharp tug.
The action pulled another ragged sound from him, his shoulders shuddering as his groan deepened into something more desperate, muffled against your slick folds as the pull on his scalp sent pleasure arrowing down his spine.
The twin sensations built fast and sure, fingers sliding in and out with even rhythm, curling deeper each time to coax every shudder from you as your body began to shake.
You slowly felt the coil draw tight low in your belly, winding higher with every measured pump and every wet swirl over your heat. Your heels pressed into his broad back, thighs trembling around his ears, fingers knotting in his hair.
He sucked harder then, fingers driving faster, curling with exact precision against that spot until pleasure broke over you in sharp, pulsing waves. Your release crashed over you, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out, back bowing off the grain sacks, every muscle pulled taut and quivering.
He stayed with you through it, tongue easing to soft laps, fingers slowing gradually until the final tremor passed and you melted boneless against the sacks. Only then did he slip his fingers free and press one last gentle kiss to your mound before lifting his head.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The wagon creaked softly beneath you, and somewhere beyond the tents the distant hum of the tourney grounds drifted through the night.
Then the corner of his mouth tipped upward. A small, crooked smile appearedâalmost sheepish, as though he still could not quite believe he was kneeling there before you like this.
You smiled back, soft and easy, before your gaze slipped lower.
His breeches were straining tight now, the thick line of him pressing so hard against the laces it looked almost unfair how much space he took up even there. You sat up and reached out without a second thought, fingers brushing the worn leather until they found the ties.
His gaze dropped to your hands as your fingers worked at the ties, rough and worn beneath your touch. The crooked smile faded into something quieter, more intent, the last trace of humor slipping from his face as he followed every small movement.
His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath.
You worked the knot loose, then tugged the laces free one by one. The fabric parted as you eased it down just enough, and he sprang free, the sight of him stealing the breath from your lungs.
He was thick and long, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing proud along the shaft. Not shocking in the way that surprises, not truly, not when the rest of him towered so large and broad, but still the sight of it made your fingers curl instinctively around him, testing the heat and the solid weight. Your thumb traced a slow line up the underside, feeling him twitch in your grip.
Duncan let out a low groan, his head dipping for a heartbeat before his eyes found yours again. His hands stayed planted at his sides, knuckles whitening where they clenched into tight fists, every line of him drawn taut.
âGods,â you whispered. âYou are big everywhere.â
A faint, crooked smile tugged at his mouth despite the flush climbing higher along his neck. He watched as your hand closed more firmly around him, moving once from base to tip in a slow, testing stroke.
The touch drew a shudder from him. His hips jerked forward a fraction before he caught himself, breath leaving him rough and uneven. His eyes never left your faceâdark and heavy, fixed on every flicker of your expression as you explored him.
âForgive me, mâlady,â he said hoarsely. âBut I canât wait a second longer.â
Before the words had fully settled between you, his hands found your shoulders. He pressed you back with eager strengthânot rough, but urgent enough that your back met the rough weave of the sacks in a soft rush of straw.
Surprise stole your breath for half a heartbeat, and then his mouth claimed yours again, fierce and deep, the kiss carrying the faint taste of yourself.
You opened beneath him at once, your hands sliding up to fist the soft strands at the back of his neck and pull him closer as a startled sound escaped into the kiss.
All at once he tore his mouth away, breath coming rough and uneven. He shifted his weight, one knee nudging your thighs wider as his hand moved between your bodies. His fingers closed around himself, guiding the thick head to your entrance. You felt the blunt pressure thereâhot and insistentâparting your slick folds just enough to tease.
A smirk curved your lips despite the sudden rush of heat pooling low in your belly.
âSer Duncan,â you began, voice low and teasing, âare you always soââ
He answered by pushing forward in one slow, steady thrust.
Your words died on a sharp gasp as he filled you, stretching you wide and deep in a single burning glide. Your back arched, fingers digging into his shoulders as he sank to the hilt and stilled there buried fully inside you, every thick inch of him pulsing against your inner walls.
Duncan let out a broken sound, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His arms trembled where they caged you, breath coming in harsh pants against your mouth.Â
âGods,â he rasped. âYou feel⊠better than I dreamed.â
He did not move yet, giving you time to adjust to the overwhelming fullness, though the effort cost him visiblyâmuscles locked, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut as though holding himself in place took every scrap of will he possessed.
The fullness of him stole every thought, leaving only the heavy throb where your bodies joined. You felt every ridge, every pulse, the way he stretched you to the edge of too much and yet exactly right. Your walls fluttered around him, drawing a fresh groan from deep in his chest.
Slowly, you rocked your hips, testing the stretch and coaxing him deeper still though he was already seated to the root. The small movement sent sparks racing up your spine.
Duncanâs eyes snapped open at the motion. The blue had gone near black with hunger as a low growl rumbled through him.
âIf you keep that up I wonât last long,â he managed, voice rough.
You smiled through the haze of pleasure, your fingers sliding from his shoulders to thread into the damp hair at his nape.
âI want to feel you lose yourself,â you whispered against his mouth.
The words seemed to snap whatever last thread of restraint he held.
He drew back in a long, deliberate pull before driving forward, the motion pulling a sharp breath from you. Your body answered him too eagerly, hips lifting to meet him as your heels pressed into the small of his back.
Soft sounds slipped from your lips with each movementâencouragement he could not ignore.
ââHis pace quickened. The wagon creaked with the motion, his face burying against your neck, breath growing harsher. One broad hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly so each plunge struck deeper, harder, finding that place inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
You clutched at him, nails scoring lightly down his back through the linen, urging him on. âDunk,â you breathed, the name a broken prayer. âYesâŠlike that.â
He answered with a rough thrust that jolted you both. His mouth found yours again, messy and desperate, swallowing the next cry that tore from your throat. The rhythm turned wilder, less controlled, the wet slide of him inside you echoing into the quiet night.
âGods,â he growled against your mouth, voice raw and broken between harsh breaths. âSo fuckinâ tightâŠâ
Your walls spasmed hard around his thick length in helpless answer, gripping him so fiercely he hissed through clenched teeth. His hips snapped forward harder, punishing, relentless, the grain sacks shifting and rustling beneath you with violent force.Â
The wagon groaned under the onslaught, wood creaking in protest as he fucked into you with hungry need. You clawed at his back, nails raking down through wool and linen, leaving stinging trails that only seemed to spur him on.Â
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse, then biting downânot enough to break skin, but enough to mark. A low, animal sound rumbled from his chest as he sucked hard at the tender spot, tongue laving the sting while his hips never slowed.
He snarled against your throat, hips pistoning faster, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air. One massive hand shoved under your arse, lifting you higher so he could pound into you at a brutal new angle. Each thrust ground the base of his cock against your pearl, sparks exploding behind your eyes until you could barely breathe.
Pleasure coiled vicious and tight, almost too much. Your body shook, thighs trembling violently around him, walls fluttering wildly as release barreled toward you.
âDuncanâfuckâIâmââ
He slammed in one last time, grinding deep, hips rolling in filthy circles that dragged every thick inch against your fluttering walls. His thumb found your clit again, pressing hard, rubbing fast and rough.
The world shattered.
Your release ripped through you in violent, pulsing waves. You screamed his name, back bowing off the sacks, nails gouging crescents into his shoulders as your cunt clamped down like a vise, milking him with desperate, rhythmic spasms. Tears pricked your eyes from the sheer force of it.
Dunk broke with a guttural roar. His hips jerked erratically, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, flooding you with hot, thick spurts that seemed endless. His whole body shuddered violently, muscles locked and trembling as he ground against you through the aftershocks, wringing every last drop deep inside while low, wrecked groans spilled from his throat.
He collapsed over you, heavy and spent, his breath coming in slow, heavy pulls against your neck. For a long while neither of you moved. The wagon creaked softly beneath you while, somewhere beyond the tents, faint music and distant laughter drifted through the night air.
At last he lifted his head. His eyes were still dark, though softer now. Sweat had plastered strands of his hair to his brow. He brushed his thumb across your swollen lower lip and then pressed a slow kiss there.
âGods forgive me,â he murmured hoarsely. âI meant to be gentler.â
You smiled, lazy and sated, fingers tracing the fresh red marks youâd left on his neck. âDonât you dare apologize, ser. I wanted every brutal inch of you.â
His crooked grin returned. He kissed you again, slow and lingering, then pressed another soft kiss to your forehead and stayed there a moment longer.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet.
âSer Duncan?â
The call was young and uncertain, carrying from somewhere between the rows of pavilions.
Dunk went rigid over you.Â
You both went still as the quiet rustle of canvas and footsteps moving through the grass reached your ears. Someone was weaving between the wagons and tents, drawing closer with each step.
âSevens help me,â he breathed under his breath.
âSer Duncan!â the voice called again, closer this time.
He pushed himself upright at once, running a hand through his hair before realizing exactly how disheveled it must look. His eyes flicked to you, wide with sudden panic.
You were already scrambling upright, dragging your dress back over your shoulders and fumbling with the loosened laces. Dunk turned halfway away out of instinct, hastily tugging his breeches back into order and retying the cords with clumsy fingers.
The footsteps came closer followed by another rustle of grass.
Dunk glanced once toward the edge of the wagon, then back at you, his eyes still wide with embarrassment and disbelief.
You were just finishing with the laces of your dress when approaching footsteps sounded beside the wagon, then came to a stop. A small head appeared over the edge first, dark eyes squinting into the dim light.
âThere you are,â the boy said with clear relief. âIâve been looking everyââ
He broke off mid-sentence.
Dunk sat stiffly near the edge of the wagon, looking only slightly worse for wear, though his hair refused to settle no matter how many times he tried to smooth it.
For a moment, the boy only frowned at himâthen something behind Dunk caught his eye.
You had pushed yourself upright on the tailboard, sitting a little straighter as you gathered the last of your composure.
The boyâs gaze shifted past Dunk, and his eyes widened.
You froze the instant you recognized him.
âAegon?â
He blinked at you in disbelief. ââŠCousin?â
Between you, Dunk slowly turned his head, confusion spreading across his face.
You lifted a hand to your hair, fingers catching in the thoroughly tangled strands, and winced slightly. âWhat in the Seven Hells happened to your hair?â you asked, squinting down at him.
Aegonâs mouth fell open. âWhat happened to myââ He stopped himself, staring up at you more closely as suspicion crept across his face. âWhat happened to your hair?â
âWait,â Dunk cut in, raising a hand slightly. âHold on a moment. You two know each other?â
Aegon blinked at him, but Dunk was already frowning, glancing between you again. âHow do you know my squire?â
Your head snapped toward him. âYour squire?â
Dunk nodded slowly, still trying to piece it together.
You stared at Aegon, then back at Dunk, disbelief slipping into your voice. âYour squire is the son of Prince Maekar.â
Dunkâs brow furrowed. âPrinceââ
Aegon folded his arms with a small, miserable sigh. ââŠYes.â
You gestured toward him helplessly. âAegon Targaryen. My cousin.â
Dunk went very still.
Slowly, almost mechanically, his head turned toward you.
Aegon followed his gaze with grim satisfaction. âAnd you,â he said, looking back at Dunk, âare currently with the Princessââ
You sighed softly.
âDaughter of Prince Baelor,â Aegon added. âYou know⊠Hand of the King. Next in line to the throne.â
hii louđ, it's me again ,the girl who can't write her requests properly lol,what do you think of a fic about morning sex with dunk,the kind of where they want to fuck but still half asleep, I think this thing has a name but I don't know it
loves this!!!!
husband!dunk fucks you awake âč àŁȘ Ë
the first light of dawn was just a hazy grey suggestion behind the curtains, filtering into the bedroom and painting the familiar shapes in soft, muted tones.
you were floating in that perfect, weightless space just before true waking, curled up on dunk's broad chest.
his heartbeat was a slow, steady drum against your ear, a comforting rhythm that had lulled you to sleep hours ago. his arms were a secure band around you, one hand resting low on your back, the other on top of your hair. the world was warm and safe and dimly lit by the approaching dawn.
a soft sigh left your lips as you shifted, a slight, unconscious wiggle to get closer. the movement was small, but it was enough. you felt it against your thigh-
a thick, insistent heat pressing through the thin fabric of your sleep underclothes. he was already half-hard, a common, comforting morning occurrence.
in his sleep, dunk grumbled, a low, gravelly sound of protest. his arm tightened, pulling you flush against him, his face nuzzling deeper into your hair. he wasn't waking, not really, just reacting on pure instinct.
you lay still for a moment, letting the sleepy haze settle back over you.
then a low hum rumbled in his chest, part question, part contentment.
his hand began to move. it slid down over the curve of your ass. then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underclothes, tugging them down just enough. he didn't bother with finesse, just a sleepy, determined need.
"âŠonly goinâ to warm myself, yeah?" he murmured quietly.
he shifted you both, a slow, maneuvering roll until you were straddling his hips, your knees bracketing his torso. you were still leaning forward, your chest against his, your face buried in the warm skin of his neck. he guided himself to your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate lift of his hips, he sank into you, inch by thick, perfect inch.
a choked moan escaped you, muffled against his skin. he filled you completely, the angle deep and overwhelming. he stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, just letting you both adjust to the sensation.
"shhhhâŠ"
his hands came up to rest on your lower back, holding you in place.
then he began to move. it wasn't a frantic pace, but a slow, deep, upward roll of his hips. he was fucking up into you, a lazy, powerful rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your already sleep-dazed body. each thrust was a slow, deliberate drag, a sweet, torturous build.
you were still mostly asleep, lost in a haze of sensation, but your body knew what to do. you began to move with him, a slow, grinding rock of your hips that met his lazy thrusts.
a soft whimper escaped your lips, and you felt his hand gently push back the stray baby hairs from your forehead, his touch impossibly tender. his voice was a low, rough murmur right next to your ear.
"shh... r'you awake now, sweetgirl? hmm?"
you could only make a small, incoherent sound in response, your mind too foggy with pleasure to form words.
"s'okay, s'okay," he soothed, his hips maintaining that perfect, maddening rhythm. "i've got you..."
his hands roamed your body, tracing the curve of your spine, squeezing the flesh of your hips. he was worshiping you, even in his sleep-addled state. every slow thrust was a declaration, every touch a promise.
"aye, iâve got you," he whispered, his voice thick with awe. "taking me so good."
the pleasure was building, a slow, coiling heat in your core that was more potent for its languid pace. he was fucking you awake, gently, sweetly, turning your sleepy dreams into a vibrant, breathless reality. you could feel your release approaching, not like a tidal wave, but like the slow, inevitable rising of the tide.
his hand slid from your back to between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with a firm, steady pressure that was the opposite of the rhythm of his hips.
that was all it took.
your orgasm broke over you, a long, shuddering wave of pleasure that left you gasping his name against his neck. your walls clenched around him, and he followed you with a deep, shuddering groan, his hips pressing flush against yours as he found his own release, pumping warm loads of cum inside you.
for a long while, you just lay there, collapsed on his chest, his body still buried deep inside yours. you were both breathing heavily, the room filled with the sounds of your recovery. his hands were stroking your back in long, soothing passes.
you were fully awake now, every nerve ending alight and humming with satisfaction. you felt cherished, loved, utterly and completely his.
"goodmorrow," he finally mumbled, his voice a low, satisfied rumble in his chest.
you laughed, a breathy, happy sound, and lifted your head to look at him. his eyes were soft, a sleepy, loving blue.
"the best morrow."
he smiled, a slow, lazy curve of his lips, and moved his head down to kiss you, soft, sweet, and perfect.
đ đŹđ«đ±đąđ«đ± â± 18+, rough sex, size kink, filthy talk, pet names, feet play, smallest bit of degradation (duncan receiving).
recently youâve come to the conclusion that duncan is a pervert. thereâs no gentle way to say it, youâve already tried.
truthfully, you werenât aware that your sex life was so scandalous until you were babbling about it with your girlfriends in the village only to receive stunned giggles and gasps, and a whole array of questions. you remember the way your face burned hot, and how much you began to regret sharing those pieces of your personal life. something good came out of it, you supposeâ it only solidified the fact that your dunk is devoted to you.
heâs helplessly in love with you, and you now know that his affection only fuels the wild fire burning within him, because heâs so much of a deviant that heâs constantly shocking you with what heâll do next whenever youâre in the throes of messing about or rolling around in the linens. he doesnât use his brain all that much, only bringing which ever dirty desire heâs been dreaming of to life when he starts to think with his cock.
or when heâs just not thinking at all, in a lustful haze and unable piece together any consequences to his actions.
he has you pinned under him, strong forearm pressed right under where your knees hook naturally, with your feet in the air. your smaller frame bounces with every thrust, every movement of his hipsâ itâs obscene, both of you recognize that. he uses his size against you without even trying. itâs impossible for him not to when he takes up space so easily. itâs something heâs always hated about himself. but then he met you, and suddenly he loved taking up someoneâs space, especially when that means stuffing them full of his cock just about whenever he wants.
âgods, sweet one,â he mutters and slurs while pounding into you like youâve done something to properly piss him off maybe you have, you canât remember. barely open and deep sapphire eyes meet yours beyond the scruffy blonde hair that falls in his face, âlove yâso much, pretty. yâknow that? my best girlâ seven hells, youâre all mine⊠canât fuckinâ believe it.â
âduncanââ you hiccup, just as your cunt flutters around his cock and both of you nearly pass out from how good it feels. how much he fills you up, how deep he can go without even trying at all. itâs too much, it always is.
but then you blink once, and just as you open your eyes you feel his lips press against your curled toes. kisses trail down to your soles, then your heels. you gasp his name again, staring up at him with a dazed expression as he continues to worship every delicate bit of you. as his tongue slips past his lips, you try to pull your feet back with a whine. his hand grabs one of your ankles with ease, eyebrows furrowing as you try to get your words out.
âhave you lost your mind?â youâre forcing yourself to sound disgusted, despite how turned on you are with each passing second, still feeling his lips on your skin even now that theyâre gone, âyouâre beingâŠâ
âwhat?â he suddenly questions. he squeezes your ankle in his grip, eyes locked in on your outraged face. youâre putting on a good performance, heâll give you that. it doesnât stop the low rumble of his voice or his teasing, however.
âwhat am i being? tell me⊠cause i think i felt your lilâ cunt squeeze meâ definitely did, definitely think she liked it.â
gods, heâs rambling again. and his giant hand that isnât wrapped around your ankle like a cuff reaches downâ his thumb dives between your glimmering folds to find that little bundle hiding there with ease, before rubbing in sweet circles.
âbeinâ grossâ perverted,â you manage to gasp out, but itâs no use. heâs got you right where he wants you. hanging off the edge.
you can only moan when his lips return to your arches, your face is crumpled as you watch and feel him place those tender kisses that lead up to your toes with precision. when the wet heat of his mouth follows a second later, you shiver. and itâs really not your fault when you cum so hard you can barely see straight and your breathing stops. it couldnât possibly be your fault, not when heâs been so filthy. so utterly smitten with you that it drives him to devour you fully, with so few limits and such little reason.
when his name falls from your lips for the umpteenth time, in that pitched whine heâs gotten so used toâ heâs not shocked. heâs not shocked when he feels your cunt hug him tight, either. all messy and velvety as you milk him for all that heâs worth while heâs drooling all over your soft skin and grunting like the brute he becomes in moments like this.
âgood girl,â it comes out as a deep groan, rumbled over the sound of your mewls and sighs as he suddenly looms over you and cages you in, hands hooked under your knees as he folds you in half to the fullest extent and gets you through your orgasm with deliberate thrusts that shake the weak bed frame.
âcanât be that gross if youâre cumminâ like this, hm?â
what iffff itâs with dunk right, and instead of him being infected itâs her, and theyâre not together yet so heâs like super shy and super scared to hurt her because he has a crush on her. heâs scared that she doesnât actually want him and that sheâs just drugged up and that sheâll be pissed at him and never want him around anymore (but ofc she does she loves him too they just are both dumb) but it starts really sweet and then they get crazy and then when sheâs all done they confess and stuff đ
I LOVE UR WRITING SM đđđ
ok so you're a genius
Iâll Help You
Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
âż youâre infected with some kind of love potion, and you plead with dunk to make you feel better (or, a sex pollen fic but itâs you whoâs afflicted).
âż 18+
âż wc: 5k
âż cw: fem!reader + reader is implied to be from flea bottom/dunkâs childhood friend, no y/n + reader is physically undefined, sex pollen, SMUT, brief f!masturbation, fingering, finger-sucking, unprotected piv, riding!!, praise, dunk is such a gentleman, theyâre both so desperate for each other, strong language, fluff, confessions of love, mention of the dear bald child.
He feels helpless as he watches you toss and turn, the thin material of your chemise clinging to your sweat-soaked skin, the bed sheets a tangled mess at your feet. Your eyes are closed, but small, breathy whimpers leave your cracked lips as whatever is pumping through your veins burns through you like a fever.
Dunk sits on a wooden chair in the corner of the room. It is much too small for him, and his knees are practically at his chest as he keeps an eye on you. Guilt churns in his stomach, and his dinner sits untouched near the door. He doesnât have the stomach to eat. He feels that itâs his fault that youâre like this: writhing like an animal in pain, whimpering in your sleep.
He wasnât there to protect you when you wandered into the crowded markets. He wasnât there when a mysterious healer foretold your future and urged you to sip from an ornate silver flask. He wasnât there to protect you when the tonic you drank consumed you in a feverish delirium.
He still doesnât know how you managed to find your way back to the inn, but you did, and he was quick in hauling you up the stairs and straight into bed.
The fever seems to have worsened. Youâre muttering to yourself, and your hips twitch against the thin straw mattress. Dunk runs a hand down his face, not allowing himself to sleep. Heâs not sure what time it is, but all he knows is that the sky outside is pitch black, and Egg has been sound asleep in the next room for a long time.
Despite his guilt, the hedge knight canât help the way his eyes linger. The clean white linen of your chemise clings to the curve of your hip as you lie on your side. It sits high on your thighs too, and his eyes travel down the expanse of your legs. Your chest rises and falls quickly, the neckline having dipped to expose the top of your chest. The skin there is dewy with sweat, collecting between the mounds of your breasts.
He shakes his head to himself as his eyes find your face, tracing the lines of your closed eyes and fluttering eyelashes, the slope of your nose and the contours of your parted lips.
Dunk shakes his head again, groaning inwardly and running a large hand through his hair. The room is thick with heat, and he finds himself leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his tunic damp along his back and under his arms.
Suddenly, you make a little squeaking noise. Dunk sits up straight, drooping eyes now snapping open. He observes you startle yourself awake, sitting up as though possessed, eyes wild with confusion as you stare around the candlelit room like a cat in a trap.
Dunkâs on his feet before he can even think. He calls your name.
You look over at him, chest heaving. âDunk?â
âYeah,â he says gently, approaching the edge of the bed. âIâm here, itâs okay.â
He allows himself to sit on the very edge of the mattress, and it dips heavily under his weight. You whine out, body falling into his as you wrap your arms around his thick middle.Â
He coos softly, petting your hair with one hand, the other balled in a fist on his lap. âSâalright⊠sâalright, Iâm here.â
âDunk,â you whisper, broken around the vowel. You turn your head, and Dunk feels you press your nose directly into the side of his pectoral, dangerously close to his armpit. It makes him jolt, and you whine out, nuzzling your face into the heat of the muscle. âDunk.â
âWouldnât get too close,â he jokes, shifting his arm to rub a hand down your back. He is hyper-aware of the thin material that clings to you, and the way he can feel the dip of your spine as his palm flattens against you. âHavenât bathed since yesterdayâs swim in the river.â
You donât reply. Your body is frighteningly hot against Dunkâs, and he wonders if youâre going to cook yourself from the inside out. He can see the perspiration beading like little gems on your forehead, reflecting the nearby candlelight.
You rub your face against him, inhaling. You whine out, and suddenly, Dunk feels your fingers grip the fabric of his tunic. Youâre tugging upwards, as if youâre trying to urge him to take it off.
He freezes. âWhatâre you doing?â
âToo hot,â you whimper into his side, hands dropping to the hem of his tunic. Dunk sucks in a breath as your warm fingers slide beneath the material, finding the bare skin at his hip, skirting along the band of his trousers.
His arms move from around you, and he quickly takes hold of your arms. Heâs gentle, and he takes you away from him until thereâs a good foot or two of space between you now. But the whine you let out is heartbreaking, and Dunk bites down on his lip to stop himself from giving in and saying something stupid.
âDunk,â you whine out, his hands large and completely engulfing your wrists. âDunk, please help me.â
âWhatâs wrong?â He asks.
His eyes momentarily drop to where your loose chemise has fallen. More of your breasts are on display, and your nipples are hard beneath the material. He swallows thickly, noting too the way you wriggle against the mattress.
âNeed you,â you murmur, leaning down to press your lips to his knuckles where he holds your wrists. You plant a kiss to a scar across the middle knuckle on his pointer finger, and he retracts as if your touch burned him. You pout. âDunk, please. Thought y-you always want to help me?â
âYouâre sick.â Dunk takes the hand you had kissed and instead places it against your forehead. Hot steel, a blade left in the sun. You groan at the contact but he ignores you. âYou need to rest.â
âMânot sick,â you tell him defiantly, your eyelids drooping as you look your friend up and down. Heâs so big and so muscular and so thick. Everywhere. âMânot sick, Dunk, I swear it.â
âYou are a poor liar.â
You whine like a child. âMânot lying.â
Dunkâs hand drops from your forehead. âYour body tells me otherwise.â
Tentatively, the hedge knight releases your wrists and allows you to sit before him, and youâre left swaying like a drunkard as your gaze rakes down his body. He feels a little self-conscious at the way your eyes linger across the strong stretch of his arms. But youâre too busy thinking about his words to notice the slight furrow in his brows: your body tells me otherwise.
âYouâre obviously not looking hard enough,â you say after a moment thick with tense silence. âMy body can tell you other⊠other things, Dunk.â
You watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. You continue, drunk on lust and completely undeterred. âI had a love potion⊠or, sâpose it was like⊠like a sex potion or something⊠I dunno.â
Dunk blushes at your words.
âIâm only sick âcause I needââ you swallow, then slowly reach your hands out again. Your fingers skate along the covered muscles of his chest. ââneed you to fuck me.â
Dunk gapes, then recoils, practically leaping off the bed. You whimper, arms dropping uselessly in front of you as he pins himself to the far wall. Heâs shaking his head as you sit, alone and a lot colder now, on the bed, staring at him helplessly.
âYouâre ill,â he says slowly.
You shake your head, tugging at the neckline of your chemise, trying to filter air between the material and your damp skin. âNuh-uh.â
âThen youâre drunk,â he says instead. âYouâreâwhatever you had has made you drunk.â
You pout, a little offended. âMânot drunk.â
Dunk continues to shake his head, but his breathing is laboured. You whine, sitting further back and spreading your legs just enough so your chemise rides further up your thighs. If he looks down, he will surely catch a glimpse of your coreâwhich is flushing hot with blood beneath your skin, slick drooling from you almost painfully.
âIââ Dunk sucks in a deep breath. His big hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he screws his eyes shut. âI canât.â
You continue to pout. âBut⊠youâre meant to be looking after me.â
âI know, I know,â Dunk utters, running a hand down his face now. His eyes open hesitantly. âI just⊠this isnât you. Youâre not thinking clearly. I canât⊠I canât take advantage of you like this.â
âDunk,â you whine, and you watch him screw his eyes shut again. âDunk, please look at me.â
He cracks his eyes open.
âIâve always wanted you,â you tell him, your stomach aflutter with butterflies. Youâre nervous, but the fever the potion has you under is strong. Your boldness shines through. âDunk, I loââ
âNo, no, no,â Dunk interrupts quickly, crossing the room in two wide strides to press a hand to your mouth. His palm presses to your face, and the contact makes you moan against him. He jerks back as if you had bitten him, staring down at you with furrowed brows. âMâlady, I canâtââ
âIt will cure me,â you decide to tell him, leaning back even further. Your chemise rides up again, and this time, you know your pussyâs on complete display. But Dunk doesnât look down: his eyes remain on your face as you wet your lips with the point of your tongue. âAll I need to⊠need to do is release a few times, and Iâll feel better.â
Dunk shudders around an exhale. âI⊠I canât.â
Then, heâs retreating. You nearly shout in frustration, pleasure searing the inside of your chest as you watch him back away. He sits back on the chair in the corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest as he averts his eyes from you.
âDunkâŠâ you whisper. âPlease⊠I feel⊠it hurts.â
âYouâre not thinking right,â Dunk replies, voice cracking. âAnd youâll hate me if I do anything.â
âNever,â you reply, then curl your fingers around the hem of your chemise. You rip it over your head, and now youâre bare to the room. To Duncan. âIâve always wanted you, Dunk. Yâjust too bloody noble to see it.â
Dunkâs eyes widen as your breasts spill free. With a small sound of surprise, he drops his head and stares down at the creaky wooden floor.
âI promise you,â you begin, leaning back on one arm, the other trailing down your body as you look over at your brave, noble knight. Your fingers trail over the softness of your belly, then down over your mound. You let out a whiny little whimper as your fingers make contact with your core, brushing the swollen pearl of your clit. âI could never hate you. Iâve wanted you for as long as Iâve known you, Dunk. Since Dorne. Since the Stormlands. For goodness sake, since our days in Flea Bottom.â
Your clammy fingers part your silken folds. Theyâre slick to the touch, and you spread them between two fingers, the warm air of the room bracing against you. With hooded eyes, you watch Dunk squirm in his chair, his big shoulders heaving. He refuses to look up at you, but you can see the way heâs chewing on his lip, and you can see the way one of his arms drops to cover the front of his trousers.
âPlease, Dunk,â you plead as your fingers find your hole. Two draw a neat circle, before you push in and whine. Youâre warmer than usual, slicker than usual. You hiccup around another whine, and finally, finally, Dunkâs eyes lift. You gaze longingly at him. âNeed you to help me. Please.â
He doesnât say anything, but his eyes donât leave your face. Your fingers crook deeper inside yourself, sinking down to the middle knuckle now, but he still doesnât let his eyes wander. His eyes scan your face, looking for any signs of inebriationâany signs you might not mean what you say.
But he canât find anything.
And heâs not sure why that scares him more.
âIâll help you,â he whispers finally, as if he canât quite believe what heâs saying.Â
That earns him a beautiful moan, a melodic singing of his name as your head tips back. His eyes drop now, down the curves of your body, to where you split yourself open on your fingers. Youâve sunken down even further, hand pressed to the curve of your arse, and Dunkâs cock hardens straight away. Blood rushes south, and it almost makes him dizzy with the speed in which his cock chubs up.
He doesnât move from the chair though. Instead, he pulls his tunic over his head. Youâve seen him bare like this many times before, but it never gets old. His shoulders are so wide, and so strong. His chest is wide and muscular, and his stomach is tense with thickly corded muscle, but the layer of fat there makes you salivate. You yearn to scrape your nails along the freckles across his shoulders, or mouth along the thick trail of hair that disappears into his trousers.
You pump your fingers in and out, hips bucking to match the movements. The bed creaks loudly, which Dunk had feared from the beginning, the straw mattress groaning beneath your desperate movements.
With one hand pulling the ties of his trousers, the other crooks a finger in your direction. Your eyes light up, your ministrations pausing.
âCome here,â he instructs, tone soft as if coaxing a timid horse. It makes your pussy flutter around your fingers before you pull them from you with a huff and get to your feet. You teeter towards him on shaky legs, and he catches you before you can fall across his lap. âAre you okay?â
You nod. âMâperfect, Dunk. Gods, youâre so handsome.â
Dunk blushes deeper than before, cheeks a brilliant pink as he finally gets the ties of his trousers undone. You help by pulling the fabric apart and reaching down with a quick hand. You grab his cock with your slick fingers, and he hisses as you pull him out of his trousers. Heâs huge, which you already knew, but staring at it leaking in your hand, youâre not sure if itâs going to fit.
He pulls you into his lap until his cock rests against your belly. The chair is surprisingly solid beneath your combined weight.
âEasy, easyâŠâ He murmurs, watching the way your fingers struggle to wrap around his girth. The size difference makes his cock jerk against your palm, a desperate groan stuck in his throat.
You stroke his cock a few times, lifting your face to run your nose along the side of his neck. You inhale, taking in his scent as you rock your hips, dragging your bare cunt against his thigh. He groans in your ear, and you suck the skin of his jaw between your teeth, nibbling lightly as your hand works his length. Your fingers barely touch as you wrap your fingers around him, twisting near the base. Heâs soft and warm in your hand, and he paws at your hips as you rock against him.
âDunk,â you whisper in his ear, biting his earlobe.
âHm?â
âKiss me.â
Dunk releases a breath and turns his head at your request. Your mouths slot together easily, and he tastes of cheap ale. His lips are just as soft against yours, and you canât help the way you pant into his mouth as you part willingly part for him. Tongues clash, and his is just a bit too clumsy, but it makes you whine. Heâs desperate for your pleasure, and he holds you firmly against him as you lick into his mouth.
Simultaneously, you angle your hips enough to drag the heat of your pussy over the length of his cock. His breath hitches, and you steal his moan from between his teeth as a vein on the underside of his shaft rubs against the slick heat of your folds. Your hips roll against him, the fat tip of him nudging against your swollen clit, sending little shocks through your nerves.
âNeed you inside me,â you whisper against his mouth, the point of your tongue touching a small scar at his Cupidâs bow. âPlease, Dunk, please put your cockââ
Dunk groans, head falling back. You take the opportunity to suck at the shifting lump in his throat, then lick along the muscles that end at the strong line of his jaw.
âMâtoo big,â he says to the ceiling.
You grumble, lifting yourself in his lap. He gasps, holding your hips and catching you before you can sink down onto him. You groan, your hands flying up to his shoulders to pinch at the freckled skin, the head of his cock just kissing your leaking hole.
âMâtoo big,â he repeats, stern this time as you wriggle in his grasp.
âDonât care,â you huff, body shaking. You were slick with sweat and your heart was racing so fast you thought you were about to pass out. âNeed it.â
Dunk grunts, then sits you on his lap. His cock rests back against his stomach as he takes two fingers and, without warning, swipes them through your folds. You yelp, then moan as he collects the slick there. The two blunt tips find your hole and tap, making your hips buck.
âIf weâre going to do this, weâre going to do it properly,â Dunk tells you quietly, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to your lips. He pulls back before you can deepen it. âIf you can takeââ heâs so red in the face, you just want to kiss him all over. ââthree of my fingers, then you can⊠you can have my cock. Okay?â
Heâs trying his best to sound confident. If you werenât so horny, it probably wouldnât have worked. But instead, you whine and nod enthusiastically. He huffs, amused, before his two fingers slowly, slowly breach inside you.
Maybe he should have started with one.
Youâre impossibly tight around him. Your gummy walls are slick and warm, but they wrap around the digits like the leather of his swordâs sheath. You release a small breath as he pushes into the middle knuckle, then he withdraws. You donât have time to complain though, since heâs pushing in once more, this time to the very bottom knuckle. He splits you open, fingers moving gently as he crooks them enough to make you yowl.
He shushes you with a kiss. This time, itâs his tongue slipping into your mouth. He licks the spit from your tongue as he rucks two fingers into the tight clutch of your cunt, feeling the wetness drool out of you and run down the inside of his wrist. The whiny little whimpers youâre breathing into his mouth add fuel to the fire, his cock twitching against his abdomen as he increases his speed. He hits deep, and finds a gummy spot inside of you that makes you arch into him, your mouth growing lax as you moan his name.
You kiss for a while before he presses his ring finger to the rim of your cunt. He feels you stiffen as the tip breaches in alongside the other two, and then youâre leaving the kiss to mewl as he presses in further.
âIs this okay?â Dunk questions, kissing your jaw.
âY-yeah,â you sigh out, delirious. âSo good.â
The third finger sinks deeper, past one knuckle and then the next. Your walls part for him, and you moan loudly in his ear when it finally settles alongside the others. He keeps still for a second, marvelling in the heat of your body, the way you burn up against him, and the heat of your cunt and the slick that drips from you. He wonders if this is how wet you usually are, or if itâs a result of the potion
The thought has a flush creeping up the back of his neck.
You whine, hands squeezing the fat of his pectorals, hips bucking. âPlease move.â
He does. He draws all three fingers out until just the tips sit inside you, before heâs slowly pushing them back in. Your head drops back again and you moan into the quiet room, nearby candles flickering. Dunk leans forward again and trails a line of kisses over your shoulder and up your neck until he can suck on the pulsepoint beneath your ear.
Three fingers curl inside you, stretching you open. He reaches deeper than you ever could, seeking the spot inside you thatâs going to make you scream. And when he does find it, with a slightly graceless press of his knuckles to your folds, you kiss him to stop yourself from crying out. Instead, you moan his name, slurred as your teeth clash and your tongues flick against each other.
You move your hips, meeting the rucking of his fingers with each thrust. Youâre practically bouncing on his lap as he fucks his fingers in and out, building a rhythm. The sound of your pussy squelching makes Dunkâs ears burn, and your stomach clenches. That sends you right towards the edge: your first release crawling down your spine and spreading low in your womb as his fingers pry you apart, piece by piece. Your mouth drops to suck on his neck again, and you feel the vibrations of his groan as your pussy clenches around his fingers. Again and again, untilâ
âDunk,â you moan, tension snapping in your womb as you come around him.Â
He groans towards the ceiling at the feeling of you pulsing around him, and his fingers stutter, but continue their movements, as more slick dribbles down the inside of his wrist. Your orgasm racks through you in tremors, and your teeth scrape against his sensitive skin as you try to dictate your volume, small whimpers escaping your throat as you rock in his lap.
âThere,â you whisper, pulling back. A string of saliva connects your lips with the mark you had sucked onto his neck, and it snaps when you speak again. âI did it. I did it, Dunk.â
âYou did,â Dunk coos, pressing a kiss to your warm cheek as he pulls his fingers from you.
You whine, and watch with stars in your eyes as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, his blush still high on his cheeks. His pupils grow wider in the shadowed darkness of the room, and you run your fingers along his chest as he tastes you. Blindlyâyou canât take your eyes off where his lips wrap around his fingersâyou clasp his cock in your hand and guide him back to your entrance. You sit up a little, legs trembling, as you tap the head against your drooling hole.
Dunk rips his fingers from his mouth, two hands coming to rest on either of your hips. He kneads the flesh there a few times.
âNice and gentle,â he tells you as the head of his cock notches. You suck in a breath, and Dunk soothes you, fingers swiping over your hips. âI know you need it, sweet girl, but we need to go slow.â
You huff, but do as he says. With his help, you gently sink down inch by inch. You canât help the reverberating moan that leaves you as the girth splits you open. He feels so much wider than his fingers already, but your pussy is so wet and your head is so cloudy that you donât even register any pain. Thereâs little resistance too as you continue to slide down, eyes darting up to watch the hedge knightâs face contort in pleasure.
His brow pinches a little as he focuses on where your pretty pussy swallows his cock. Heâs never seen anything like it.
Then, when your whimpers go a little too quiet, he looks up at you. Your eyes meet and he whines deep in the back of his throat. You look stunning taking all of him like this, and he canât help but lean in for another kiss. You accept it gratefully, lips sliding together as you sink another few inches down.
âBeing such a good listener,â Dunk murmurs against your mouth as he catches your bottom lip between his teeth. You whimper in response, and he plants a solid kiss to the corner of your mouth. âTaking me nice and slow, just like I said. Never knew you were such a good girl.â
His sentence finishes when he bottoms out and the curve of your arse rests comfortably on his thighs. His trousers are slightly rough on the supple skin at the back of your thighs, but as you grind your hips experimentally against him, it adds to the sensation. You shiver as the head of his cock prods against the entrance to your cervix.
âYouâre so deep,â you tell him, and he nods dumbly. Heâs not really listening, too busy focusing on not spilling directly into you right that second.
âMâso deep,â he somehow manages to echo around a murmur. Then, he whines. âOh, my sweet girl. Can⊠can you feel me in your tummy?â
You moan, unable to answer with words. But you could feel him there.
You decide then to start moving, and Dunkâs mind goes blank. He helps you rise and fall, cunt milking around the thick of his cock like it was made for him. Forged for him, only for him. He watches the fat of your breasts bounce as you shift against him, and he listens to the breathy little whimpers you release as he fills you over and over.
âGods, you feel so good,â Dunk moans, the back of the wooden chair digging into his bare skin. It creaks quietly, but nothing severe, as you bounce in his lap. Your pussy takes him well now, stretching perfectly around him. Your hands slide around his shoulders as you anchor yourself to him, and you hold on for dear life as you take what you so badly need. Dunk moans again. âOh, gods, just like thatâthat feels so good, sweet girl, oh fuck.â
You pant loudly, the muscles in your legs and lower back beginning to ache. Youâre just too hot, and you can feel your second orgasm building up quickly. It surges within you like water, and the intensity of it has you clinging to him, nails dimpling his flesh.
âDunk,â you mewl, taking him all and grinding your swollen clit against the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. âOh, fuck, Dunk, mâso close already.â
Dunk huffs, leaning forward and mouthing at the curve of your breasts. He drags his tongue between the mounds, collecting the sweat that trails there. The sensation makes you whimper, a hand shooting down to collect a fistful of his hair. You grip his scalp as his warm mouth wraps around the bud of your nipple, and the feeling is so sharp with pleasure that you jerk against him, tears pricking in your eyes.
âYes, yes, yes,â you babble as he switches to your other nipple. His teeth graze you, and you buck wildly in his lap. When he pulls away, he finishes with a wet kiss to your mouth. Your hand leaves his hair and finds his throat, holding there gently as you moan. âGods, Dunk, feels so good. Mâgonnaâfuck, mâcoming.â
âLet me feel you,â Dunk whispers, and the dams burst.
Your orgasm floods you, then pulls you under. You canât lift yourself up anymore as it surges through, and you canât help the cry that falls from your lips as pleasure zips down your spine and splinters in your core. Your blood boils hot beneath your skin as you shiver against him, pussy clenching around the thick of his cock. It feels realm-shattering, like nothing youâve ever felt before: heâs so deep inside you, so thick inside you, that you canât help the way you writhe and call his name as if he werenât mere inches from you.
He watches you in absolute awe.
Taking over, he snaps his hips upwards, chasing his own high in the midst of yours. As you fizzle down, his balls draw up tight, and a guttural groan is ripped from him as he hugs you to his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His cock barely moves as he rolls his hips, thrusting desperately once, twice, thrice more before he comes.
You think you hear your name muffling against the damp skin of your neck as he spills inside of you, flooding your womb. Goosebumps rise across his back as you drag your nails across the freckles there, breathing deeply as he empties himself, then stills. He gasps against your neck, mouthing the skin there before you gently urge him away.
Your mind feels clear, and Dunk notices the glaze over your eyes has vanished.
âYou okay?â He asks, panting. His big hands rub up and down your back, his cock still nestling deep inside you.
You nod. âIâm so good, Dunk. Thank you.â
Dunk looks bashful. âSâalright.â
âI mean it. Thank you for doing this.â You kiss his cheek, then the other. His blush is as hot as embers as you kiss along the few freckles there. When you pull back, heâs looking at you with puppy-eyes that make you want to kiss him all over again. You reach up and cup his face.
âI love you,â you tell him.
His eyes go wide.
You giggle. âYou donât have to say it back. I just⊠I suppose Iâve been meaning to tell you that for a while.â
Dunk rushes forward and slams his mouth to yours, hugging you so tight to his body you fear the two of you may become one. Your hearts beat in sync as you kiss him, his hands all over your back, yours still on his face. When he pulls away, his pupils are still blown so wide his eyes appear black in the candlelight.
âYouâve made me question everything I thought I knew about myself,â he tells you earnestly.
You cock your head, slightly apprehensive. âIs that a good thing?â
âYes,â he eases your worries. âBecause now I know how much I love you.â
You kiss him again, and again still, until the candle nearby almost runs out of wax.
âââ
gosh heâs so noble and kind and sexy and beautiful and
ser duncan the tall x wife!reader, +18 (mdni), domesticity, manhandling, size difference, praise praise praise!!, pussy pronouns, intercrural sex, dry humping, dirty talk, strength kink, dunk is so in love!!, cuddling, (3.5k).
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: i believe dunk calls his wife m'lady when he wants to have his way with her(maybe calls her pussy that too oops)!!! i'm sorry for any mistakes i wrote this out of nowhere in the dead of night lol!! i might rewrite this one if i find i still feel like it's not good enough but maybe im just overthinking!!
dunkâs embrace was warmer than the embers from the hearth could ever be. your husband, broad, solid, and sturdy against your back, muscled arms like vices around your middle as he held you securely on his lap.
it has been a ritual of sorts between you two: to hold one another tightly at the end of the day, undisturbed by anything but the crackling of the fire and the whispers of your voices as you discussed the chores that needed to be handled tomorrow around your humble abode.
you felt so safe in your husbandâs arms. gods, there was no better place to laze around and get drowsier than wrapped up in him after a tiring day spent puttering around your shared home. he runs as hot as a furnace, your duncan. there was never a need for a blanket, for if you were cold, his big, calloused hands would rub and massage the chill away, so gently and tenderly, melting you even further into the cradle of his arms.
like now, those same broad palms were pressing into the give of your hips, slowly dimpling the clothed skin as he listened to you list off the livestock that needed to be taken towards the hills for grazing. his face was tucked into the crook of your neck, nuzzling the skin there, taking slow lungfuls of your scent, nosing along your throat, pleased to find remnants of lavender and soap from your earlier bath still clinging to the flesh.
âyâ smell so nice, my lady,â he rumbled against your skin, pressing closer, muscles and sinew tightening around your middle, perching you higher onto his lap until you are flush against his broad chest, your rear snug on top of his crotch. âi ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for yâr pretty skin.â
my lady. even after some moons of being each otherâs in front of the gods, your duncan still called you my lady. not all the time, no.
only when he felt the need to fuck you.
you thought it was endearing. your duncan, so big, so broad, as tall as oaks and as strong as steel, getting so overcome by the feeling of want, of need for you, that he blurts out such formalities still.
the sweet name rolls off his tongue anew, just a few after, more a strangled noise than anything, akin to a wounded beast as you feel a familiar thickness poking against the small of your back, barely grazing between your clothed buttocks.
it was truly a blessing how easily dunk got aroused. you hadnât even meant to do anything to entice him, but it seemed just having you close was enough to have him hard and wanting under you.
with a soft sigh, you lean your head back, his broad shoulder cushioning your nape as you peer up at him sweetly, voice but a whisper as you coax, testing the waters. âdo you wish for me, husband?â
the swiftness with which callouses bite into the fat of your hips was all the confirmation you needed. your duncan was so precious, so easily unraveled. it made you smile.
âgâgods, donât,â the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boyâs, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. âi oughta not, mâlady. yâre tired, i know of it. you spent all day puttinâ those gentle hands of yours to work. i cannot justââ
and it was the truth. you were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husbandâs flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.
âyou can,â you insisted, fingers lifting to cradle his chiseled jaw and lure his gaze towards yours, letting him see the same ardent desire reflecting back at him. the touch was tender but purposeful, making sure he could not look anywhere else but at you as you spoke. âfor i wish it, too.â
his pupils blew wide, the baby blues you so loved now darker, dropping to your mouth, as if debating on closing the distance, of tasting the words you spoke with his tongue and teeth to make sure you spoke truth.
you could tell the restraint was still warring within him, the concern regarding your fatigue from the labor of the day not quite vanquished. but it was no trouble, for you were as stubborn as he was, and even more relentless.
slowly, your hands touched his, soft against rough, guiding them up your knees, under your chemise, pressing broad palms against your thighs, letting him feel the warmth there as it beckoned him higher, towards the heat between them.
dunkâs jaw ticked, something akin to equal despair and desperation twisting his expression as he realized his resistance was crumbling. you could feel the harsh exhale through his nose against the top of your head, a hiss of surrender as his fingers squeezed at the flesh of your thighs, dimpling it as he hoisted you flush against him. his chest rumbled, the sound reverberating from the top of your spine and down to your very toes, something animal and carnal that brought gooseflesh all over your skin.
âyou arenât even ready fâme, mâlady,â your duncan exhaled shakily against your throat, the sound almost a moan as his fingers itched higher towards the apex of your thighs, where slickness already pooled unbidden. âyour pretty cuntâs not loose enough to take me yet. you ought to know i have to stretch her out fâ me.â
and you knew it to be true. your husbandâs cock was too big for you to take without the help of his fingers first, no matter how wet you were and how much you whined thatâ
âitâll fit,â tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for dunkâs warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. âbe gentle, and itâll fit, husbandââ
but your duncan would never put himself in the position to hurt you. no matter how molten the heat in the pit of his stomach got or how incessant your need to throw caution to the wind and see how well your pussy can stretch around his girth was.
his lips pressed fervently to your temple in an open-mouthed kiss, panting against the skin as he trailed more down to your rosy cheek, your jaw, placating you, trying to keep himself and you from doing something reckless.
âsânot right, mâlady,â dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. ââs already late and ya need to rest. you were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.â
his words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until theyâre brushing against the slickness smeared onto the inside of your thighs, making him pause for a tense moment.
dunk is so still, your gaze turning to him just as a groan parts his lips, the sound torn painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. âyouâreâmâlady, I,âgods, yâre drenchinâ yourself already.â
you feel heat flood your cheeks at his crude words, tilting your face up until it's pressed into his throat, a tad bashful at being caught so undone by your duncan. but who could blame you? having his solid frame hold you so tightly, hands roaming, and mouth kissing heated paths down your skin was enough to have your core slick and throbbing.
and yet, he was still trying to do right by you, by his lady, for his fingers were stagnant now, just rubbing into the soft flesh of your thighs in desperate strokes, the tips barely grazing against your soaked cunt.
it drove you mad, this husband of yours. always thinking about your wellâbeing, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.
âmhm, all for you, my love,â you encouraged, your hips rolling into the phantom of his touch, making your rear grind against the bulge in his breeches. you felt the way his throat bobbed until under lips, the vibration of yet another groan making you hum. your duncan was slowly giving in, slowly letting go.
as much a man of honor as he was, he could never deny you for too long, especially with how good it felt to have you grinding back onto his lap like this, the ridge of his cock humping the cradle of your rear again and again, making his mind turn to mush. his hands dug into the fat of your slick thighs, broad hands encompassing each one, guiding you properly against his crotch, moving you slowly back and forth, making your body slide lightly against his broad chest.
a gasp slipped past your lips, core throbbing at the feeling of your husband using his strength in such a way. gods, it made you wetter than a maiden on her first night, no matter how many times your duncan moved you as he pleased, his brawn being used for pleasure instead of fighting.
he was getting pent up, puffs of air rustling the top of your head, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs as he ground you faster against his crotch, the friction delicious and raw, like animals rutting together in their carnal desires. his grip was so strong, so steady, that you didnât even have to move anymore, letting him push and pull you against him, melting like drizzling honey into his strength.
dunk could barely think like this, with the whisper of her heat brushing against his clothed crotch, her chemise being damned to all hell for keeping the warmth he knew resided between those thighs. in his desperation, he kept one hand anchored to her, the other one fumbling with his breeches enough to free his aching cock from its confines, a sigh of relief following.
you wasted no time in hitching up your chemise, letting it pool around your hips, letting his glazed, unfocused eyes feast on the dampness between your legs, the folds of your pussy drooling slick along your thighs where his fingers still gripped.
âgods, look at that,â came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. âmâlady is so wet fâ me.â
and the way his gaze was fixated on your mound made you believe he was addressing your cunt, not you in that moment, which only made you wetter, to have your duncan call your pussy in such a way.
his hand rejoined the other, gripping higher up your thighs, at the apex of them, his thumbs now brushing over the dripping folds, making your breath hitch noisily, hips chasing the touch helplessly, begging silently for more.
the touch was reverent. thick, calloused thumbs outlining the flesh, parting it lewdly to reveal your puffy clit and fluttering hole, bringing a rosy flush of embarrassment to your face. your duncan loved seeing how much you wanted him, the pads of his fingers exposing you even more, letting cool air brush against your cunt, like a caress.
âlook at her,â he whispered against your jaw, his chin now hooked onto your shoulder to have a better view of how his thumbs were spreading you open. âsâthrobbing for me, isnât she? mâlady gets dirty so fast. i barely touched her anâ look.â
he juts his chin lightly, coaxing your gaze to shyly flit down to where his is, and a whine falls from your lips as his words ring true. you were so wet, already making his fingers glisten with your juices as he slowly starts to rub along your folds, gathering more, greedy with the feel of the smooth slide.
âbut sheâs not ready for me,â your duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesnât even sound like a reproach as his touch lingers onto your clit, swiping over it gently, giving you a smidge of the pleasure you seek. âsheâs too small to take me right. canât hurt you.â
it is too late to care for such things. you are desperate for more, already overwhelmed from his slow touches, rolling your hips to encourage him to rub your clit faster, to give you anything but this torturous indulgence.
âneed to feel you, duncan. want your cock, my sweet,â you plead, resuming the grind of your hips, feeling the thickness of him under you fully now, only fueling the molten heat in your veins. heâs so hard against your buttocks, and you shuffle enough to perch against his navel instead, letting his cock spring free between your thighs, bobbing against your slick flesh obscenely.
it makes you gasp, and you hear an even louder one above you. no wonder your husbandâs eyes are glued to the way the thick length looks framed by lush, slick flesh on either side. the tip of it is oozing precum along heated flesh, and you watch with bated breath as it gives little throbs and twitches.
you have half of your mind to not seem frenzied with lust, but your body has no such qualms. one of your hands moves to palm his cock, lining it flush against your wet slit, folds parting against the girth of it, plump and soft. it looks sinful, clawing a groan out of your husband, whose hands now grip hard enough to leave marks behind on the fat of your hips, wishing to hold you in place, to still the hunger in your movements.
âcâcanât, mâlady, canât, wonâtââ
but you are done listening, squeezing your thighs, cushioning his cock between the apex of them, snug and so, so wet with slick, glistening, and beckoning towards sin.
the sound that tumbles from your husbandâs mouth is more beast than man, his grip trembling now to hold you, moments from tipping over the edge of something delicious and heated, something you both desire so ardently. âgods, aâah, donâtââ your duncan is trying his hardest to keep his wits about him and failing miserably, just as you want him, just as you need him.
he was so hard and throbbing in the cradle of your thighs, encouraging you to squeeze his cock between them again, slow, hips rolling upwards, until only the flushed tip was poking through, your folds gliding wetly over the length.
âfeels good, husband,â you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips moved again. âgive it to me like this, my love, please. mâmake it good for your lady.â
those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint your duncan had. with rasped cursesâsounding almost angry, at the end of his patienceâhis broad palms circled your hips, so big his fingers spanned across your belly, and yanked you down against his lap.
tandem moans fell from both of your mouths as his cock slid between your thighs with the motion, your hand keeping it snug against your mound, the drooly tip bumping against your puffy clit with every upward rut of your husbandâs hips.
your duncan was moving you on its own, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were nothing but a feather in his grasp, bound to bend to his will. and gods, did you love it. you loved when dunk manhandled you, when he forgot just how strong he was, how much he could do with the muscles and sinew he possessed, bouncing you effortlessly onto his lap, his cock sliding between your tightly squeezed thighs from base to tip.
once again, his gaze was trained solely onto where the cockhead poked between your plush flesh, making a mess of both of your juices, coating your thighs, making the rock of his hips smoother. âmâladyâs so hungry for it. câcouldnât wait until the morrow,â it sounded like he was chiding you, but the dampness of his breath against your neck as he groaned and moaned unabashed told otherwise. he loved it. he loved it when you wanted him so much that all sense of propriety flew out the window, and all that remained was his lady. his lady, who would do anything to get her way.
âyouâll have me on the morrow as well,â you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. âyouâll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.â
a punched out moan fell from his lips, nodding feverishly as he whined, face aflame and a little drool at the corner of his mouth from having his lips parted by pleasure. âaâanything mâlady wants. anything, anything. gâgods, iâll give you anything yâwant, my sweet lady, pretty ladyââ
the slide felt so good. he started babbling, praise so sweet it pooled in the pit of your belly, rapid and curling. your hand never straying from keeping his length flush against your slick folds, loving to watch the way they parted around the girth, the way the flushed tip grazed your clit with each rock of duncanâs hips.
you were pliant and melting in his hold, letting him do all the work, to bounce you harder and faster along his cock, feeling the way it throbbed and twitched, already close to his peak. your poor duncan.
dunkâs grip onto you was like a man clinging to the edge of something sinful, fingers flexing firmly against your flesh, squeezing more with each bounce, rhythm starting to falter the closer he got.
his lips were drooly and wet as they met the skin of your temple, your cheek, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, desperate and frantic. âmy perfect, precious lady,â he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. âsâgood for me, always so good to me. lettinâ me have you like this. gâgods, i love you sâmuch.â
all you could do was smile, dopey and soft, turning towards his kisses, catching his lips with yours, letting your moans mingle between your tongues as you chased your peaks together.
âlove you so much,â you mewled against his mouth, tongue swiping the roof of it, eliciting a wounded, whining sound, his hips stuttering. so, so close to the edge. âare you close, my sweet?â
your duncan could only nod, fervent and clumsy, barely able to reciprocate your kiss from how hard he was panting and keening against your lips. ânot gonnaâ last. feels sâgood. mâladyâs so warm and wet,â he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. âmâsorry, mâlady, godsââ
âgive it to me, my love. your lady wants it,â you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twiceâ
and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that wouldâve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didnât feel so heavenly. you didnât let up either, letting your husband clumsily bounce you a few more times, his throbbing cock sliding against your folds and clit so perfectly, enough for you to tip over the edge as well with his name on your lips, wanton and heated.
breathing seemed like a luxury now, both of you so spent and sweaty, your body melting against his sturdy, broad chest, thighs shaking with the remnants of your climax, small, pitiful whines falling from your lips as you settled.
your duncan had to catch his breath, before he slowly maneuvered you, hands easing up around your hipsânow massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your fleshâand tucked you against his chest, turning you gently so you were facing him, your legs dangling over the side of the armchair.
head tucked under his chin, ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart loud and slowing from the heat that transpired between you. âmy sweet wife,â he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. âmy darlinâ lady,â he continued, and you couldnât help but smile, bashful and content, snuggling closer to to the warmth of his frame, turning your head enough to press a smooch against where his heart was beating. "thank you, thank youâ,"
your duncan was so lovely, especially spent and tender like this, broad hands easing you into drowsiness as he murmured sweet nothings into your hair, as if he hadn't taken you apart moments prior.
sighing softly, you hoped he would hold up his end of the bargain and take you properly tomorrow, or you would have to take what you wanted again.
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