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 :)
Ser Duncan the Tall x Female! farmer’s 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.
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 mind—his 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 ob—… 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 you—no 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 scent—wet 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.
He was blushing.
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.
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 door—a sharp clack of finality—and 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 cock—the 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 table—this 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 there—the 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 honor—and 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 placid—a 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 shoulder—not quite as close, but close enough to feel the weight of his gaze.
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 name—just 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.”
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.
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 him—hot, 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 you—a 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 proclaimed—a 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 Elmar’s 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 Anya’s 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 man’s 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 woods—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, her muffled whimpers, his low, guttural groans—were 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 woodcutter’s 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, Duncan’s 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 throat—a 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 woodcutter’s 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.
"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 ruin—his 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 worship—a 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. Dunk’s 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 tongues—a 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.
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. "I—fuck—I 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!! ᥫ᭡
the wood was alive with the scent of the lover’s bloom, those delicate, violet flowers that bloomed only under the light of the moon. it was a scent meant to drive the fiercest lion mad with desire.
and now you were burning up. not from a fever, but from something far more primal.
"ser duncan," you whined, your voice small and breathless. you kicked at the furs, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that made the coarse fabric of your dress stick to you. "it is suddenly far too hot to sleep…"
dunk sat on the other side of the fire, his massive frame tense. he was staring at you with eyes so dark they looked like pools of molten iron. he was trying to be a good knight. he was trying to keep his distance, to protect you from the dangers of strange men and evils of the woods. but the air between you was thick, electric, charged with the scent of your arousal mixed with the intoxicating perfume of the flowers.
he hadn’t known, truly. if he had, he would have never suggested resting here. but it was now far too late, and before he could understand what was happening, he too felt his own body temperature rise with a pulse throbbing in his breeches.
"m’princess," he rasped, his voice gravelly and deep. "you must attempt to rest, we have a long road ahead in the morrow."
"i can't sleep," you said, rolling onto your side to face him fully. you could feel the heat radiating from your body, the fire and his own body a solid wall of comfort. "it's too hot, ser duncan. i need..."
"water?" he offered, reaching for his canteen.
"no," you whimpered, the word barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
you pushed yourself up from the furs, your legs trembling slightly. you walked toward him, your eyes fixed on the massive figure sitting by the embers. the ground seemed to stretch endlessly beneath your bare feet.
you needed him. you needed the feeling of his skin, the strength of his arms, the way he looked at you like you were the only star in the sky.
dunk watched you approach, his jaw tightening so hard you could see the muscle working beneath the skin. he shifted, his boots scraping restlessly on the dirt, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, as if he were fighting an internal battle.
"you are burning, m’lady," he rasped, his voice rougher than before. the air around him was thick with the scent of musk and wildflowers. he couldn't hide it anymore. he was sweating, his tunic damp at the collar. "the bloom...it is in the air. it is making you feverish."
"i cannot feel my own face i am so flushed," you breathed, stopping right in front of him. you reached out, your fingers brushing the hard line of his chest through his shirt. the contact sent a jolt of electricity through both of you. "i am...i am so empty, dunk."
his eyes snapped down to your hand, then back up to your face. the restraint he had been clinging to for days- the chaste knight, the guardian, the protector- shattered. he let out a ragged exhale, his hand flying up to cover yours, his grip desperate and trembling.
"gods," he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest.
you took his massive hand- palm rough with calluses, fingers long and capable- and guided it to your waist. you ran it down your side, over your hip, and pressed it flat against your stomach.
dunk froze. his eyes widened as he felt the heat of your skin through your thin shift. he looked up at you, his adam's apple bobbing.
"you want me to touch you?"
"yes," you cried out, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. the pollen was making everything hypersensitive, every touch a spark of lightning. "please, ser duncan. dunk…"
he didn't hesitate this time. his hand, rough and calloused, moved from your waist to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin like he was memorizing the sensation.
he moved his hand down your neck, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch reverent and worshipful.
he watched as you shivered under his touch, the firelight dancing across your skin. you reached up, your fingers fumbling with the ties of your bodice, and slowly, agonizingly, began to undress.
dunk watched you with rapt attention, his mouth slightly open, his chest heaving. the sight of you, exposed to the cool night air, made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. when the shift fell away, pooling at your waist, he let out a low, guttural sound.
"by the seven," he whispered, his hand moving to cup your breast, his fingers tracing the sensitive peak. "you are breathtaking."
you reached for him, your hands shaking as you pushed at his tunic. he sat back slightly, allowing you to pull the fabric over his head, tossing it aside. the air hit his skin, and he was revealed to you- broad, muscular, scarred, and magnificent. he looked like a warrior forged in the fires of battle, a god made flesh.
"you are so beautiful," you murmured, your hands tracing the hard lines of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.
he smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his rough features. he reached out, his hands gripping your waist, and lifted you easily, settling you on his lap. the contact was electric, your skin sticking to his in the night air.
he pulled you close, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent—the scent of sweat and pollen and you. he kissed you then, slowly and reverently.
it was a deep, soul-searching exploration. his lips moved against yours, slow and tender, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, tasting you, claiming you.
"you taste like honey," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. "i am a brute for wanting you like this. i am a heathen for thinking of you in my bed."
“you are a man, a sweet- gentle man and i do not fear you, dunk.” you whispered in his ear, pressing kisses to the skin below his earlobe.
his hands roamed your body, his fingers mapping every inch of your skin, his touch both gentle and demanding. he kissed you again, deeper, harder, his tongue tangling with yours. he pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with lust, looking down at you with an intensity that took your breath away.
"please, ser duncan. i need you to make me feel something other than this heat," you cried out, arching against him.
"tell me you want this," he growled against your lips, his huge hand squeezing your breast softly. "tell me you want your knight to take you."
"yes," you sobbed, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "yes, dunk. take me. make me yours."
he lifted you slightly, pulling his burning hot, leaking cock out of his breeches and slowly guiding himself to your entrance.
you were both radiating so much body heat that even your pussy was like an oven. he guided his tip past your tiny stretched hole, and it was searing warm inside you. slowly, agonizingly, he sank into you. you gasped, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders. he was huge, filling you completely, stretching you to your limits.
"gods above forgive me," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. "you're so tight. you're squeezing me so hard."
“it's because you are s-so huge, dunk. i always wondered if you’d fit!” you mewl, fingers gripping the sweaty hair at the base of his neck.
he began to move, his hips rocking against yours, slow and sensual. he watched you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your face, the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back. he wanted to map every curve, every sigh, every trembling breath.
"look at me," he commanded softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. his hands, slick with sweat, gripped your waist, holding you steady as he drove himself deeper, harder. “p-please look at me, sweet girl.”
his eyes dark and unfocused, drinking in the sight of your face flushed with heat. he shifted his angle, his hips angling downward to strike that spot that made you gasp and arch your back. your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.
"you are squeezing me so tight. it feels...it feels like i am drowning in you," he hissed, the sound strangled.
the heat was overwhelming. you were slick with sweat, your bodies sliding against each other with a wet, obscene sound. he watched you, his eyes hooded and heavy with lust, as he thrust into you, slow and deep, over and over again.
in your haze you reach for one of his hands to then guide him down to find your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, tight circles.
"there?" dunk murmurs quietly, his voice a ragged rasp as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his dark gaze searching yours for approval, for permission to continue.
"a bit- bit faster please-" you whine out, your voice trembling with need.
his hips snap up with sudden, brutal force and his fingers move faster against your sensitive bundle of nerves, a blur of motion that has you seeing stars.
you cry out his name, a broken, desperate sound. "dunk! oh dunk!"
"say it," he growls, his voice thick with need, his eyes dark and unfocused, burning with a possessive fire. "say you want me. say you are mine."
"i am yours," you sobbed. “i am yours, dunk. please, don't stop."
he leans down, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips, his breathing heavy and ragged, his chest heaving against yours. "you are so good for me. m’good girl. m’princess. you take me so so so well."
then, the wave hits. he works your clit furiously, his thumb and fingers rubbing in tight, desperate circles, feeling the way you clench around him. you scream as you come undone, a rush of wet heat clamping down around him, your body spasming in his arms.
as you ride out your high, he pulls back slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow. he looks at his hand, sticky with your juices, and then spits into his palm, mixing it with your essence to create a slicker, messier glide.
"hold on," he grunts, his voice thick with lust. he resumes the assault on your clit, using the spit to make it even better, his fingers slippery and warm. "i'm not done with you yet. you're going to take everything i have."
he thrusts again, harder this time, chasing his own release, his body aching with the need to fill you completely.
he kissed you again, a searing, desperate clash of lips and tongues, swallowing your moans. he couldn't hold back anymore. the pollen was too strong, the heat too high. with a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking up as he spilled himself inside you, filling you with his hot, thick seed.
he held himself there, his chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapped tight around you, as he rode out the waves of his pleasure. you could feel him throbbing inside you, pulsing with life, marking you as his own.
he pulled back slightly, looking down at where you were joined, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of his seed mixing with your own juices. he reached down, his thumb brushing through the mess, spreading it around.
he watched your face, his thumb pressing firmly against your clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles.
“d’you feel any better, m’lady?” he murmured, his voice a dark, husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "do you need more, sweet girl?…i vowed to serve you in every way, every life."
he didn't let you rest. the pollen was still humming in your blood, a relentless tide. his thumb still on your swollen nub, slick and warm, and he began to rub in tight, vicious circles.
“c’mon- c’mon m’love. one more, squeeze down one more time.”
the sensation was overwhelming, a second wave crashing over you before you were even ready.
you screamed. the pleasure was too much, too sharp, too bright. your body seized, your hips bucking uncontrollably as the second orgasm ripped through you, even stronger than the first. you saw white, your vision blurring as the world spun.
your eyes fluttered shut, your body going limp in his arms. the heat of the pollen, the exertion, and the sheer force of your pleasure overwhelmed you. darkness claimed you, and you slipped into a deep, exhausted slumber.
dunk kissed your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin. he gathered you into his arms, his strength unwavering.
he stood up, carrying you back to your makeshift tent and sleeping ground. the cold night air bit at his skin, but he didn't care. he walked with a steady, confident gait, the protector, the lover, the man who had claimed his runaway princess.
he laid you gently on the linens covering the grass, pulling the blanket up over your body. he slowly sat beside you, listening to your breathing slow down.
"you're safe now," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “my princess…”
His arms are fine, maybe some nail marks on his thighs. But his chest…
Gods it drives him crazy, bringing his eyes down and all those scratches on him like he’d 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 it’s nothing to him. But he enjoys the pain and how you keep scratching the shit out of him.
And when you’re both cumming and in bliss, you’d feel so bad after and give the red scars some kisses. You’d try to heal them but Dunk wouldn’t 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 he’s shirtless or fuel to get him off later when hes alone.
been thinking about dunk putting his entire weight on you while he fucks you……….
like you’re flat on the bed, and he’s 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 you’re crying out for him, hands against the sheets.
and he’s grunting like a bear on top of you. maybe he’s 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 won’t care.
you’re pinned beneath him, unmoving. skin on skin, sweat building. you smell him—his cologne and his shampoo and his sweat. it’ll make you dizzy, and he’ll call your name when he comes deep inside you as your own orgasm hits you like a freight train.
he won’t pull out. you’ll stay like this for a long time. just don’t let him fall asleep, or you’ll 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, “Moss grows where it pleases in a place like that.”
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.
“If we kill it, we can eat it,” you announce grimly.
“You cannot eat a crow,” he tells you. “It’s a bad omen.”
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.
“Oh?” you quip. “Worse than dying of hunger in the middle of the meanest fucking forest I’ve ever been to?” 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. “We’ll find something soon enough,” 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, “Forgive me, I—”
It makes you explode. “Stop this! We’ve found nothing for two days except for disgusting birds!” you yell at him. Or rather, your stomach yells at him, and there is a lot of space within it to draw air from. “We’ve passed the same split ash twice, and there’s no sky in here. Where is your north now, hm?” You move in, throwing your hands around. When he says nothing, you press on: “I told you we should’ve stayed at the inn. I told you we should’ve walked round, but you never listen. Ser Arlan this, Ser Arlan that, I’m sick of listening to the wisdom of that old fart! And quit standing there looking like I should pity you, it’s infuriating!”
His eyes jerk around, but his head doesn’t. “A-aye,” he stammers. Walks right past you. “As you wish.”
“Duncan, I’m—”
“Keep moving.” He cuts you off. Hurt. “Start marking the trees, and perhaps we will stop walking in circles.”
You know damn well you’ve 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 could’ve charmed the innkeeper. Could’ve haggled with the grain seller. Could’ve 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 wouldn’t 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 companion’s. 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 he’s well fed while his stomach could obviously host yours and his, and he’d 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 soul’s 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 forest’s 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.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Mushrooms,” you tell him, eyes fixed on whatever's before you.
He goes still. “Put them down.”
“They seem good enough.”
“Put them down,” he says again, and this time it lands as command. “You do not know what they are.”
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.
“Don’t,” 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. “Stop that! Spit them out!” 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. “Spit them out, I said. Seven hells, are you mad?”
You clamp your jaw shut.
“Open your mouth.”
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.
“D'you want to die?” he snaps. “Is that it? You want to make a corpse of yourself because I told you no?”
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. “Fuck,” he chokes, which would be deeply satisfying under finer circumstances. “Fuck—”
You lie there with your chest heaving, ground cold under your back, and watch him retch up a sorry fleck of pale cap. “You ain’t dead yet,” 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. “That was foolish,” he says, low and rough. “Cruel foolish.”
You push up on one elbow. “Duncan—”
“No.” He stands too quickly, sways, and pretends he has not. “Enough of this childish nonsense. Get up. Keep walking before we drop dead in this place and the ground eats what is left of us.”
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. “Duncan,” you say before you mean to.
He stops, and turns only half-way. “What?”
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.
“I—” You swallow. The hollow in your stomach twists, and lowers into a stranger ache. “Nothing.”
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 feel—"
"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 forest’s 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.
“I feel… something,” you say after a moment, small and ashamed, and Dunk’s head snaps to the side to glare at you properly.
“I told you.” His voice comes out sharp, and he scrapes a hand over his mouth as if he can wipe the tremor from it. “I told you not to eat them.”
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. “Do you feel it too?”
“I feel…” 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.
“Sick,” he says at last.
That throws you off enough to cool your face by one degree. “Sick how?”
His eyes shut briefly. “Wicked-sick.”
“Duncan.”
“Below the gut,” he grits out. “Aching.”
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. “Well then—”
“No.” 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. “No,” he says again, weaker. “I will not. I cannot throw all we have away for one witchcraft misery.”
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.
“But we’ve got nothing but each other,” 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.
“Duncan,” 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 arm’s length, and the distance feels tormentuous, heartending and warm all the same.
“Sit,” he says.
You stare at him.
“Please,” 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.
“We wait,” he says, breathing hard through his nose. “That is all. We wait it through.”
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, Duncan’s 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.
“Stop listening to me,” you say.
His mouth twitches into a strained smile. “I am tryin'.”
“You look like you are praying.”
“I am tryin' that too.”
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 Duncan’s 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. “Do not,” 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.
“Dunk,” you say, softer.
His shoulders climb.
“We could help each other—”
“No,” he grits.
“You did not even let me finish.”
“I heard enough.”
“You heard what you wanted.”
“I heard what I feared.” He swallows, and the sound arrives in you wet and close. “And I said no.”
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.
“It would be wrong,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because we are half mad.”
“We were half mad before.”
“This is different.”
“You mean easier.”
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.
“I would not have you come back to yourself and curse me for it,” 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. “Curse you.”
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, “I wanted you before I ate the bloody things.”
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. “W-wha—what?”
You lick your lips. His gaze drops there and returns with visible effort. “Y-yeah,” you say, now that it is out and steaming on the groundcover. “That.”
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.
“I mean—” Your voice catches. You hate it. “Never mind. I know you are trying to do right by me. I know. We can wait it through. Forget I said anything.”
Duncan’s 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.
“Say it again,” he says.
Your heart gives a foolish, violent knock. “What?”
His throat moves. “What you just said."
You stare at him. “Duncan—”
“Please.”
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.
“I wanted you before,” 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.
“I thought—” he chokes. “I thought it was only me.”
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. “Idiot,” you say, laughing, because the shake it gives to your shoulders at least loosens something up.
“Aye,” 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 Duncan’s 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.
“Duncan—”
“Yes—” he mumbles into your skin, uselessly. Then, because he's gone foolish: “You taste—Gods—like being let in. Like rain after I thought there’d be none. I don't know—”
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.
“You’re so pretty I could kill you,” 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.
“Undress me,” you breathe against him. Your hands clutch at his collar next, less patient than his. “And you. Take it off. I want to see you. Undress us.”
"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.
“Boots,” you tell him, because he has gone still under your looking.
“Aye. Boots.”
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."
"I—I know," he says. "I'm tryin' to be gentle."
“You can be quick and gentle.”
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.
“Do not look like that,” you say, though you want him to look exactly like that until the trees fall down.
His throat works once. “Like what?”
“Like it's a trickery,” 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, please—
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.
“There,” 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 anything—regroup, withstand, persist this unbearable wave of tenderness that thrashes in him—when 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 Duncan’s 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.
“Don’t do that,” he says, palms flexing in the dirt.
You pause. “Do what?”
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. “Look at me so,” he says. "As if I'm—"
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.
“Gods,” he says, strangled.
“Good?”
His answer comes late, dragged through the teeth. “Aye," 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.
“I ain't scared of you.”
“You are.”
His face twists, proud even now. “I’m scared of what I’ll do.”
“What will you do?”
"Shame myself," he says. "Fail you, I—"
"You won't," you tell him. "Is it shameful if we are both ruined? I just want to—" 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. “You’re beautiful,” you say into him.
He shakes his head hard. “N-no.”
“Yes.”
“No, girl, don’t—”
“Yes,” 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.
“You're so gorgeous,” you murmur, face lost in skin. “It makes me angry that you do not see it.”
"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.
“Please,” 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. “My girl—" he tries, voice cracking around it. "Wait. I'm—oh—”
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.
“I didn’t mean—” He swallows hard. “I should’ve held. I should’ve—”
“Stop,” 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.”
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. “Pretty,” you tell him. “Gorgeous. Sweet stupid man.”
“Do not call me sweet after that.”
“I’ll call you what I like.”
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.
“Tell me,” he says against your lips.
“What?”
“If I do wrong.”
“You won’t.”
“Tell me.”
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. “I’ll tell you,” you say. “And I’ll tell you when it’s right.”
His eyes close briefly. “Aye,” he breathes. “Do that.”
"And you tell me," you say, "what do you want."
“Your neck,” 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 want—Seven 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. “Then do it,” 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.
“Gods,” he says.
You brace yourself on both hands. “What?”
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 worse—seem 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 beast’s 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, cock—slick and warm—to ass, calves to your feet, and it thrills you that there is so much of him still going on when you yourself end.
“I want you like this,” he says, mouth to your ear.
Your arms weaken. “Dunk.”
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. “Can I? Have you like this?”
“Yes,” you near cry. “Yes. Take me.”
Duncan closes his eyes. Settles a bit heavier. “Too much?” he asks, wrecked.
“No.” You push back against him, furious with tenderness. “I swear to the Seven, I’ll bite you. More, Duncan. Give me more.”
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 tremendous—slick, 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.
“I want you,” he murmurs at your ear, words broken by the drag of his pelvis. “I want you so much. Wanted you—Gods, I wanted—”
“Then have me,” 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, oh—
"Fuck—" 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.
“Easy,” he pants, though there is nothing easy in him. “Easy, girl.”
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. “Duncan,” you whisper, pleading.
“I know,” he says. “I know.”
“You don’t.”
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. “Sweetheart,” he says. “You were to tell me.”
“I am telling you.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Yes." You swallow. Find his forearm and squeeze it meanly until your nails leave dents there. "Because you stopped.”
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.
“Keep going,” you say.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“N-no—it hurts wherever you aren’t,” you say, and he groans. “Please,” you say, needy, crazed, with your truth made fanatic. “Duncan, please. I need you. I need you, I need you—”
"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.
“There,” 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 so—" 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: "—tight."
"Gods, fuck me more," you say. "Dunk—"
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.
“Like this?” he asks, already doing it again.
“Yes," you breathe. "Jus' like that. Oh, fuck—”
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 man’s 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.
“Duncan,” you gasp.
He buries his face against the back of your neck. “Say it again.”
“Duncan.”
Gold, again. He groans, broken loose enough that his mouth starts working without permission. “You’re beautiful,” he says. "So beautiful."
You laugh, though it comes out ragged. “Now?”
“Aye, now.” His hips grind deep on the word. “Especially now.”
“Liar.”
“No.” 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. “You are. Gods, you are. I can scarce stand it.”
You shudder around him. That does him harm, too.
He drops his mouth to your ear. “If the sun never came up, I’d not care. If this wood kept us here and there was only this, only you under me, I’d—” His voice catches. He drives into you again, short and rough. “I’d be a worse man than I thought.”
“You’d be honest,” you say, smiling. Exhilarated. Turn your face enough that your cheek drags in the moss. “Tell me more.”
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. “I hate when men look at you,” he says.
Your breathing trips. “What?”
“I hate it.” His hand tightens on your ribs, then loosens quickly, remembering. “In inns. On roads. When you smile to get us bread cheaper. When some man thinks you soft because you’ve a soft mouth, or thinks you easy because you are kind, or thinks—” He thrusts harder, angry now, the memory of every look finding your body through his. “I know what they think.”
You push back into him, mean with pleasure. “How do you know?”
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.
“I am a man.”
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.
“Seven hells,” he chokes.
“Were you thinking too?” you ask, cruel because you need him to say it.
“Aye.”
“What?”
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.
“Your mouth," he says. "Your hands. How you’d sound if I—” He loses the sentence inside you and has to drag it back by force. “How you’d look under me. Over me. Anywhere. I thought of you so much I near made myself sick with it.”
“Good,” you pant.
“Good?”
“Yes. I wanted you sick.”
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.
“My girl,” he mutters.
“Yes,” you breathe.
“My girl?”
“Yes, Duncan, yours, just—fuck—”
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.
“There?” Duncan asks.
“There," you say. "There, don’t stop.”
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.
“I wouldn’t,” 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. “Close?”
“Oh, fuck, Dunk.” 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. “Fuck, my darling, I—”
His whole body stumbles at that. “Say that again.”
“Yes—” you breathe instead, uselessly, beautifully. Your thighs shake beneath his. “Darling, Oh Gods, yes—”
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. “Girl—”
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.
“Duncan,” 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.
“Fuck,” he bites out. “Fuck, fuck—Seven—”
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.
“My girl,” he cries into your hair, ruined with it. “Gods—my girl.”
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.
“Oh—” 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.
“Seven hells,” 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.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
You laugh. It comes out loose and pleased and completely unhelpful.
Duncan lifts himself enough to look at your face. “That is no answer.”
“I know.” You turn your head with difficulty, cheek streaked with dirt, eyes gone drowsy in a way that makes him ache all over again. “Ask me again when my bones remember their duties.”
His brow pulls, worried despite everything. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been taken apart and put back wrong.” Your smile curls, lazy and wicked at the edge. “Happy.”
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. “Oh, Gods,” 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. “Don’t worry,” you murmur. “I know how to make moon tea. Hush. Just—hush a moment.”
His hand hovers above your back, then settles, broad and shaking. “You are sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“And the itching?” he asks. “Is it still on you?”
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. “No,” you say. “All my itches have been scratched.”
Duncan nods, solemn as a septon receiving grave news, and draws you closer. You let him have that for three breaths. Then, you add: “Doesn’t mean I won’t itch again.”
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.
“I’ve got you all covered in dirt,” 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.
“Yeah, you brute,” you say. “Manhandling me like that. So unknightly—”
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. “Will you listen to me next time?” he asks.
You look down and trail your fingers through the hair on his chest, damp and curling under your touch. “No.”
His eyes open. “No?”
“I would go hungry another week if this is where it gets us.”
“Girl,” 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. “Hey,” he says quietly.
You shift against him. “What?”
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.
“Look,” 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 family’s pavilion stood among the royal tents at Ashford, raised as soon as your party arrived—your 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 cousin’s 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 out—plain enough, if not quite so plain as you might have liked—to 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 father’s darker coloring instead—though 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 “Princess” 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 tents—lions, towers, apples, stags—bright 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 out—broad-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.
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 boy’s head, shaved smooth and pale in the sunlight as he leaned forward, over the knight’s arm.
“Hold still.”
“I am holdin’ still!”
“You keep moving.”
“That’s because you keep pokin’ me.”
The boy gave one last tug, then straightened. He lingered for a brief moment with his back still turned before reaching for the mare’s reins.
“Well,” the boy said abruptly, “I should see to the horse.”
“What horse?” the knight asked.
“This one.”
Before the knight could protest, the boy was already leading the mare across the bridge.
“You just finished brushing her,” 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 distance—sun-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.
“M’lady,” he said, dipping his head in greeting. “Beggin’ your pardon.”
The words seemed to leave a small pause between you, just long enough for your gaze to travel upward once more.
“You are very tall,” you said at last, rather abruptly.
A faint flush crept up his cheeks. “I get that a fair bit.”
“I imagine you do.”
For a moment, your eyes lingered on the worn armor strapped over him.
“You’re riding in the lists?”
“If they’ll have me,” he said. “Name’s Ser Duncan…the Tall.”
You echoed it softly, and a small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
He blinked at you.
“Somethin’ funny, my lady?”
You shook your head quickly, though the smile was still there.
“No, no. It is simply… very direct.”
“Direct?”
“Yes.” You tilted your head slightly, amusement lingering in your eyes. “Most knights seem to favour grander titles.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Well… it weren’t meant to be grand.”
“I gathered that.” Your smile widened just a little. “But I do appreciate the honesty of it. It’s accurate, at least.”
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.
“And you, my lady?” he asked after a beat. “Might I know your name?”
You gave him your first name and nothing more.
“Truly?”
You laughed softly. “It has been known to be true, yes.”
His ears went a little pink. “No, I only meant—” He stopped himself, seeming to realize he was only making it worse. “It’s just… someone mentioned it earlier. That’s the same name as the Targaryen princess.”
You only smiled. “Yes, I am aware.”
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. “It is a very fine name. You need not look so stricken over it.”
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.
“You don’t look like the other knights here,” you said.
He gave a crooked half-smile. “That bad, is it?”
“Not bad…different.”
“Well… I reckon that’s about right.”
A small smile touched your lips. “I shall watch for you in the lists.”
“You will?”
“Perhaps. I do like to see how the stories turn out.”
“What stories?”
“The ones where princes and champions discover they are not the only ones worth watching.”
He blinked, clearly not expecting that. A faint flush crept up his neck as he tried—and failed—to think of something clever to say in return.
“Good luck, Ser Duncan the Tall.”
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.
“That was somethin’.”
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.
“M’lady?”
You stopped beside him, the faintest smile touching your mouth.
“Ser Duncan.”
“I was not expectin’ to see you again tonight,” he admitted, still sounding a little surprised.
“Should I take it you were hoping not to?”
“No, no that’s not— I only meant—”
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.
“I am only teasing you, Ser Duncan.”
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.
“I ain’t always the quickest with that sort of thing,” he muttered, glancing briefly toward the stage again.
“So I see,” you said with quiet amusement.
“What brings you out tonight?” he said after a moment.
“I was bored,” you said simply.
“It was entertaining for a time,” you added, nodding toward the tilts outside. “But not nearly as entertaining as the day had promised to be.”
His brow lifted slightly. “You mean the tourney?”
“I had hoped to see a certain knight ride today.”
“Well… there were plenty of them,” he said.
A quiet chuckle slipped from you at that.
“Yes,” you agreed. “There were.”
You let the words sit for a moment, studying him in the dim light.
“But I didn’t see you ride,” you said.
His expression shifted, the faintest hint of embarrassment touching his face.
“Well… you wouldn’t have.”
“No?”
“No.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “They’ve got the tilts set by rank. Knights with banners and proper standing go first.”
“Ah. Yes, that’s right.” You had known that, of course, it simply hadn’t occurred to you earlier.
“And Ser Duncan the Tall?” you asked.
He gave a small shrug.
“Still waiting his turn, looks like.”
“What a shame.”
Your gaze drifted past him then, toward the lantern-lit press of tents and pavilions beyond the crowd.
“Are you thirsty, Ser Duncan?”
“Thirsty?”
“Yes.”
“I… suppose so.”
“Good,” you said, already turning toward the glow of the tents. “Come along.”
He hesitated.
“M’lady—”
You glanced back over your shoulder. “Do you often protest refreshments so solemnly?”
He looked caught between caution and confusion. “It’s only…ought I to be goin’ anywhere with you?”
That made your smile return. “To get wine from a tent across, Ser Duncan. Not across the Narrow Sea.”
The answer seemed to fluster him more than it should have. His eyes flicked once toward the crowd, then back to you.
“I did not mean—”
“I know you did not,” you said lightly. “Are you coming?”
“Well… I suppose one drink couldn’t hurt.”
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 pavilion’s open flap. Inside, the air smelled of roasted meat and spilled wine and ale.
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.
“You do this often?” he asked.
“Drink wine?”
“Walk into lords’ tents like you belong there.”
You took a small sip.
“Only when I do.”
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 notice—or 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 Duncan’s 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.
“Careful,” he said.
“You’re the one who stepped on my foot.”
“That was not intentional.”
“You did it twice.”
The rest of the evening seemed to run together. More dancing. More drinks.
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. “I was beginning to think you’d escaped.”
You turned at the sound to find Ser Duncan stepping out after you, one hand still holding the edge of the tent.
“What? You didn’t think I’d leave you to suffer alone, did you?”
He snorted softly. “Would’ve been a cruel fate, that.”
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 you—faint 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.
“You’re not what I expected,” you said quietly.
At that, Dunk turned his head to look at you, a slight frown touching his brow. “What were you expectin’?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“No,” you agreed, your voice light as you turned to him. “But I do know this.”
He waited, watching as you faced him, his attention now fixed wholly on you.
“You are not much like the others here.”
“The others?”
“The knights. Most of them spend half their time trying to sound grander than they are.”
“And me?”
“You don’t.” A small smile touched your mouth. “It’s rather refreshing.”
He only looked at you, uncertain what to say.
“Perhaps that is why I noticed you at all,” you added.
“Because I wasn’t talkin’?”
“Because you weren’t trying so hard.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a generous way of sayin’ I’ve got no talent for showin’ off.”
“No,” you said softly.
You stepped a little closer, tilting your head back to meet his eyes.
“It is a generous way of saying I prefer you as you are.”
He didn’t answer right away. His breath caught, faint but visible, and something in his expression softened before caution settled over it again.
“M’lady,” he said carefully.
“Yes?”
“You’re standin’ very close.”
Your smile was small. “Am I?”
He nodded once, though his eyes had not left yours. “Aye.”
“And is that a problem?”
A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh. “It might be.”
“Why?”
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. He hesitated, as though reaching for the safest answer and finding none.
“Does your family know you’re out here?” he asked instead.
“No.”
Dunk glanced back toward the lantern glow of the tents. “You should probably head back before they start lookin’.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Are you sending me away, Ser Duncan?”
“I’m tryin’ to do the right thing.”
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. “Rememberin’ who I’m talkin’ to.”
“And who is that?”
“A noble lady,” he said simply. “And me… a hedge knight who ought to know better.”
Your voice softened. “So that’s all it is? Your better sense?”
“No.”
You held his gaze.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
He was quiet, the faint music from the pavilions drifting through the dark. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone lower.
“That I might forget my place.”
Something in that made your chest tighten.
“Perhaps,” you said, your hands lifting almost without thought to rest lightly against his chest, “you have been worrying over that all evening.”
He went still beneath your touch, breathing a little harder, his gaze fixed on your lips.
You leaned closer—slow enough that he could have pulled away.
He didn’t.
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.
“You’ve had wine.”
“A devastating observation, Ser Duncan.”
That drew a quiet chuckle from him despite himself.
“At this point,” he murmured, “you may call me Duncan. Or Dunk, if it please you.”
Then the amusement faded, and he looked at you more carefully.
“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Is your head clear enough for this?”
You held his gaze. The warmth of the wine still lingered pleasantly in your veins, but there was nothing uncertain in your thoughts.
“Yes.”
Your hand slipped from his chest to rest lightly at his waist, fingers curling against the fabric there.
“And you?” you asked softly. “Is your head clear enough, Dunk? Is this what you want?”
He drew a slow breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a moment before lifting again.
“Since this mornin’ I’ve wanted little else,” 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.
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.
“Duncan,” you breathed.
He answered with a low hum against your skin and kissed lower, lingering at the base of your throat.
“We’re… out in the open,” you whispered, fingers threading into his short, sun-streaked hair. “Anyone could see.”
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 wagon’s tailboard hung open, its worn wood faintly pale in the dark, and the space behind it lay deep in shadow—hidden 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.
“You are not so steady now,” you murmured.
His brow lifted slightly. “I was never steady.”
“You were trying very hard to be.”
He gave you a look that was almost pained. “You are enjoyin’ this far too much.”
“Perhaps.”
“Cruel thing.”
A quiet laugh slipped from you—cut 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.
“This is no place for you,” Dunk muttered, his words rough and half-spent between kisses, the warning meant as much for himself as for you. “You ought to be in a proper bed…”
His mouth pressed briefly to your skin again.
“Not out here with me losin’ what little sense I’ve still got.”
You smiled against the brush of his mouth, fingers curling tighter into the rough weave of his tunic at his shoulders.
“Then perhaps,” you breathed, catching his lower lip gently between yours before speaking again, “you should stop trying to make sense of it.”
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.
“That’s poor counsel, m’lady,” he rasped against your mouth. “If I don’t stop now… I don’t know that I shall.”
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.
“Tell me if I ought not,” he murmured right against your lips, barely breaking the contact.
You laughed softly, the sound swallowed by his next kiss.
“You ask that now?”
A flush climbed high on his cheeks, visible even in the dim lantern spill, though his hand stayed where it was—warm and possessive, trembling just enough to betray how hard he was holding himself in check.
“Aye,” he said, voice gravel-rough. “Now.”
You tipped your head, brushing your mouth over his once, twice, slow and teasing.
“No,” you whispered against the seam of his lips. “Do not stop.”
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 night—and 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 Duncan’s 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.
“Easy, I’ve got you,” 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.
Duncan paused there. The tip of his nose grazed the soft skin of your inner thigh. He looked up once more, eyes dark and unguarded—raw 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.
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 faltered—tongue 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 appeared—almost 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.
“Gods,” you whispered. “You are big everywhere.”
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 face—dark and heavy, fixed on every flicker of your expression as you explored him.
“Forgive me, m’lady,” he said hoarsely. “But I can’t wait a second longer.”
Before the words had fully settled between you, his hands found your shoulders. He pressed you back with eager strength—not 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 there—hot and insistent—parting your slick folds just enough to tease.
A smirk curved your lips despite the sudden rush of heat pooling low in your belly.
“Ser Duncan,” you began, voice low and teasing, “are you always so—”
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.
“Gods,” he rasped. “You feel… better than I dreamed.”
He did not move yet, giving you time to adjust to the overwhelming fullness, though the effort cost him visibly—muscles 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.
Duncan’s eyes snapped open at the motion. The blue had gone near black with hunger as a low growl rumbled through him.
“If you keep that up I won’t last long,” 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.
“I want to feel you lose yourself,” 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 movement—encouragement he could not ignore.
His 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. “Dunk,” you breathed, the name a broken prayer. “Yes…like that.”
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.
“Gods,” he growled against your mouth, voice raw and broken between harsh breaths. “So fuckin’ tight…”
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.
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.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse, then biting down—not 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.
“Duncan—fuck—I’m—”
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.
“Gods forgive me,” he murmured hoarsely. “I meant to be gentler.”
You smiled, lazy and sated, fingers tracing the fresh red marks you’d left on his neck. “Don’t you dare apologize, ser. I wanted every brutal inch of you.”
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.
“Ser Duncan?”
The call was young and uncertain, carrying from somewhere between the rows of pavilions.
Dunk went rigid over you.
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.
“Sevens help me,” he breathed under his breath.
“Ser Duncan!” 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.
“There you are,” the boy said with clear relief. “I’ve been looking every—”
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 him—then 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 boy’s gaze shifted past Dunk, and his eyes widened.
You froze the instant you recognized him.
“Aegon?”
He blinked at you in disbelief. “…Cousin?”
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. “What in the Seven Hells happened to your hair?” you asked, squinting down at him.
Aegon’s mouth fell open. “What happened to my—” He stopped himself, staring up at you more closely as suspicion crept across his face. “What happened to your hair?”
“Wait,” Dunk cut in, raising a hand slightly. “Hold on a moment. You two know each other?”
Aegon blinked at him, but Dunk was already frowning, glancing between you again. “How do you know my squire?”
Your head snapped toward him. “Your squire?”
Dunk nodded slowly, still trying to piece it together.
You stared at Aegon, then back at Dunk, disbelief slipping into your voice. “Your squire is the son of Prince Maekar.”
Dunk’s brow furrowed. “Prince—”
Aegon folded his arms with a small, miserable sigh. “…Yes.”
You gestured toward him helplessly. “Aegon Targaryen. My cousin.”
Dunk went very still.
Slowly, almost mechanically, his head turned toward you.
Aegon followed his gaze with grim satisfaction. “And you,” he said, looking back at Dunk, “are currently with the Princess—”
You sighed softly.
“Daughter of Prince Baelor,” Aegon added. “You know… Hand of the King. Next in line to the throne.”
hii lou💕, 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 ⊹ ࣪ ˖
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.
"…only goin’ 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.
"shhhh…"
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, i’ve 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.
𝔰𝔢𝔯 𝔡𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔩 & 𝔣!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 — in short; duncan just loves you so much, quite literally from your head to your toes.
𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱 ♱ 18+, rough sex, size kink, filthy talk, pet names, feet play, smallest bit of degradation (duncan receiving).
recently you’ve come to the conclusion that duncan is a pervert. there’s no gentle way to say it, you’ve already tried.
truthfully, you weren’t 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 suppose— it only solidified the fact that your dunk is devoted to you.
he’s helplessly in love with you, and you now know that his affection only fuels the wild fire burning within him, because he’s so much of a deviant that he’s constantly shocking you with what he’ll do next whenever you’re in the throes of messing about or rolling around in the linens. he doesn’t use his brain all that much, only bringing which ever dirty desire he’s been dreaming of to life when he starts to think with his cock.
or when he’s 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 hips— it’s obscene, both of you recognize that. he uses his size against you without even trying. it’s impossible for him not to when he takes up space so easily. it’s something he’s always hated about himself. but then he met you, and suddenly he loved taking up someone’s space, especially when that means stuffing them full of his cock just about whenever he wants.
“gods, sweet one,” he mutters and slurs while pounding into you like you’ve done something to properly piss him off maybe you have, you can’t remember. barely open and deep sapphire eyes meet yours beyond the scruffy blonde hair that falls in his face, “love y’so much, pretty. y’know that? my best girl— seven hells, you’re all mine… can’t fuckin’ believe it.”
“duncan—” 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. it’s 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.
“have you lost your mind?” you’re 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 they’re gone, “you’re being…”
“what?” he suddenly questions. he squeezes your ankle in his grip, eyes locked in on your outraged face. you’re putting on a good performance, he’ll give you that. it doesn’t stop the low rumble of his voice or his teasing, however.
“what am i being? tell me… cause i think i felt your lil’ cunt squeeze me— definitely did, definitely think she liked it.”
gods, he’s rambling again. and his giant hand that isn’t wrapped around your ankle like a cuff reaches down— his thumb dives between your glimmering folds to find that little bundle hiding there with ease, before rubbing in sweet circles.
“bein’ gross— perverted,” you manage to gasp out, but it’s no use. he’s 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 it’s really not your fault when you cum so hard you can barely see straight and your breathing stops. it couldn’t possibly be your fault, not when he’s 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 he’s gotten so used to— he’s not shocked. he’s not shocked when he feels your cunt hug him tight, either. all messy and velvety as you milk him for all that he’s worth while he’s drooling all over your soft skin and grunting like the brute he becomes in moments like this.
“good girl,” 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.
“can’t be that gross if you’re cummin’ like this, hm?”
what iffff it’s with dunk right, and instead of him being infected it’s her, and they’re not together yet so he’s like super shy and super scared to hurt her because he has a crush on her. he’s scared that she doesn’t actually want him and that she’s just drugged up and that she’ll 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 she’s all done they confess and stuff 😍
I LOVE UR WRITING SM 😭💕💕
ok so you're a genius
I’ll Help You
Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
✿ you’re infected with some kind of love potion, and you plead with dunk to make you feel better (or, a sex pollen fic but it’s you who’s afflicted).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 5k
✿ cw: fem!reader + reader is implied to be from flea bottom/dunk’s 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, they’re 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 doesn’t have the stomach to eat. He feels that it’s his fault that you’re like this: writhing like an animal in pain, whimpering in your sleep.
He wasn’t there to protect you when you wandered into the crowded markets. He wasn’t there when a mysterious healer foretold your future and urged you to sip from an ornate silver flask. He wasn’t there to protect you when the tonic you drank consumed you in a feverish delirium.
He still doesn’t 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. You’re muttering to yourself, and your hips twitch against the thin straw mattress. Dunk runs a hand down his face, not allowing himself to sleep. He’s 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 can’t 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.
Dunk’s on his feet before he can even think. He calls your name.
You look over at him, chest heaving. “Dunk?”
“Yeah,” he says gently, approaching the edge of the bed. “I’m here, it’s okay.”
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.
He coos softly, petting your hair with one hand, the other balled in a fist on his lap. “S’alright… s’alright, I’m here.”
“Dunk,” 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. “Dunk.”
“Wouldn’t get too close,” 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. “Haven’t bathed since yesterday’s swim in the river.”
You don’t reply. Your body is frighteningly hot against Dunk’s, and he wonders if you’re 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. You’re tugging upwards, as if you’re trying to urge him to take it off.
He freezes. “What’re you doing?”
“Too hot,” 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. He’s gentle, and he takes you away from him until there’s 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.
“Dunk,” you whine out, his hands large and completely engulfing your wrists. “Dunk, please help me.”
“What’s wrong?” 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.
“Need you,” 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. “Dunk, please. Thought y-you always want to help me?”
“You’re sick.” 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. “You need to rest.”
“M’not sick,” you tell him defiantly, your eyelids drooping as you look your friend up and down. He’s so big and so muscular and so thick. Everywhere. “M’not sick, Dunk, I swear it.”
“You are a poor liar.”
You whine like a child. “M’not lying.”
Dunk’s hand drops from your forehead. “Your body tells me otherwise.”
Tentatively, the hedge knight releases your wrists and allows you to sit before him, and you’re 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 you’re too busy thinking about his words to notice the slight furrow in his brows: your body tells me otherwise.
“You’re obviously not looking hard enough,” you say after a moment thick with tense silence. “My body can tell you other… other things, Dunk.”
You watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. You continue, drunk on lust and completely undeterred. “I had a love potion… or, s’pose it was like… like a sex potion or something… I dunno.”
Dunk blushes at your words.
“I’m only sick ‘cause I need—” you swallow, then slowly reach your hands out again. Your fingers skate along the covered muscles of his chest. “—need you to fuck me.”
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. He’s shaking his head as you sit, alone and a lot colder now, on the bed, staring at him helplessly.
“You’re ill,” 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. “Nuh-uh.”
“Then you’re drunk,” he says instead. “You’re—whatever you had has made you drunk.”
You pout, a little offended. “M’not drunk.”
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 core—which is flushing hot with blood beneath your skin, slick drooling from you almost painfully.
“I—” Dunk sucks in a deep breath. His big hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he screws his eyes shut. “I can’t.”
You continue to pout. “But… you’re meant to be looking after me.”
“I know, I know,” Dunk utters, running a hand down his face now. His eyes open hesitantly. “I just… this isn’t you. You’re not thinking clearly. I can’t… I can’t take advantage of you like this.”
“Dunk,” you whine, and you watch him screw his eyes shut again. “Dunk, please look at me.”
He cracks his eyes open.
“I’ve always wanted you,” you tell him, your stomach aflutter with butterflies. You’re nervous, but the fever the potion has you under is strong. Your boldness shines through. “Dunk, I lo—”
“No, no, no,” 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. “M’lady, I can’t—”
“It will cure me,” you decide to tell him, leaning back even further. Your chemise rides up again, and this time, you know your pussy’s on complete display. But Dunk doesn’t look down: his eyes remain on your face as you wet your lips with the point of your tongue. “All I need to… need to do is release a few times, and I’ll feel better.”
Dunk shudders around an exhale. “I… I can’t.”
Then, he’s 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.
“Dunk…” you whisper. “Please… I feel… it hurts.”
“You’re not thinking right,” Dunk replies, voice cracking. “And you’ll hate me if I do anything.”
“Never,” you reply, then curl your fingers around the hem of your chemise. You rip it over your head, and now you’re bare to the room. To Duncan. “I’ve always wanted you, Dunk. Y’just too bloody noble to see it.”
Dunk’s 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.
“I promise you,” 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. “I could never hate you. I’ve wanted you for as long as I’ve known you, Dunk. Since Dorne. Since the Stormlands. For goodness sake, since our days in Flea Bottom.”
Your clammy fingers part your silken folds. They’re 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 he’s chewing on his lip, and you can see the way one of his arms drops to cover the front of his trousers.
“Please, Dunk,” you plead as your fingers find your hole. Two draw a neat circle, before you push in and whine. You’re warmer than usual, slicker than usual. You hiccup around another whine, and finally, finally, Dunk’s eyes lift. You gaze longingly at him. “Need you to help me. Please.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes don’t leave your face. Your fingers crook deeper inside yourself, sinking down to the middle knuckle now, but he still doesn’t let his eyes wander. His eyes scan your face, looking for any signs of inebriation—any signs you might not mean what you say.
But he can’t find anything.
And he’s not sure why that scares him more.
“I’ll help you,” he whispers finally, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s saying.
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. You’ve sunken down even further, hand pressed to the curve of your arse, and Dunk’s cock hardens straight away. Blood rushes south, and it almost makes him dizzy with the speed in which his cock chubs up.
He doesn’t move from the chair though. Instead, he pulls his tunic over his head. You’ve 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.
“Come here,” 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. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “M’perfect, Dunk. Gods, you’re so handsome.”
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. He’s huge, which you already knew, but staring at it leaking in your hand, you’re not sure if it’s 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.
“Easy, easy…” 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. He’s soft and warm in your hand, and he paws at your hips as you rock against him.
“Dunk,” you whisper in his ear, biting his earlobe.
“Hm?”
“Kiss me.”
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 can’t 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. He’s 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.
“Need you inside me,” you whisper against his mouth, the point of your tongue touching a small scar at his Cupid’s bow. “Please, Dunk, please put your cock—”
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.
“M’too big,” 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.
“M’too big,” he repeats, stern this time as you wriggle in his grasp.
“Don’t care,” you huff, body shaking. You were slick with sweat and your heart was racing so fast you thought you were about to pass out. “Need it.”
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.
“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly,” Dunk tells you quietly, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to your lips. He pulls back before you can deepen it. “If you can take—” he’s so red in the face, you just want to kiss him all over. “—three of my fingers, then you can… you can have my cock. Okay?”
He’s trying his best to sound confident. If you weren’t so horny, it probably wouldn’t 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.
You’re impossibly tight around him. Your gummy walls are slick and warm, but they wrap around the digits like the leather of his sword’s sheath. You release a small breath as he pushes into the middle knuckle, then he withdraws. You don’t have time to complain though, since he’s 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, it’s 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 you’re 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 you’re leaving the kiss to mewl as he presses in further.
“Is this okay?” Dunk questions, kissing your jaw.
“Y-yeah,” you sigh out, delirious. “So good.”
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 it’s 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. “Please move.”
He does. He draws all three fingers out until just the tips sit inside you, before he’s 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 that’s 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. You’re practically bouncing on his lap as he fucks his fingers in and out, building a rhythm. The sound of your pussy squelching makes Dunk’s 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, until—
“Dunk,” you moan, tension snapping in your womb as you come around him.
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.
“There,” 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. “I did it. I did it, Dunk.”
“You did,” 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. Blindly—you can’t take your eyes off where his lips wrap around his fingers—you 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.
“Nice and gentle,” he tells you as the head of his cock notches. You suck in a breath, and Dunk soothes you, fingers swiping over your hips. “I know you need it, sweet girl, but we need to go slow.”
You huff, but do as he says. With his help, you gently sink down inch by inch. You can’t 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 don’t even register any pain. There’s little resistance too as you continue to slide down, eyes darting up to watch the hedge knight’s face contort in pleasure.
His brow pinches a little as he focuses on where your pretty pussy swallows his cock. He’s 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 can’t help but lean in for another kiss. You accept it gratefully, lips sliding together as you sink another few inches down.
“Being such a good listener,” 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. “Taking me nice and slow, just like I said. Never knew you were such a good girl.”
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.
“You’re so deep,” you tell him, and he nods dumbly. He’s not really listening, too busy focusing on not spilling directly into you right that second.
“M’so deep,” he somehow manages to echo around a murmur. Then, he whines. “Oh, my sweet girl. Can… can you feel me in your tummy?”
You moan, unable to answer with words. But you could feel him there.
You decide then to start moving, and Dunk’s 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.
“Gods, you feel so good,” 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. “Oh, gods, just like that—that feels so good, sweet girl, oh fuck.”
You pant loudly, the muscles in your legs and lower back beginning to ache. You’re 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.
“Dunk,” you mewl, taking him all and grinding your swollen clit against the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “Oh, fuck, Dunk, m’so close already.”
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.
“Yes, yes, yes,” 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. “Gods, Dunk, feels so good. M’gonna—fuck, m’coming.”
“Let me feel you,” Dunk whispers, and the dams burst.
Your orgasm floods you, then pulls you under. You can’t lift yourself up anymore as it surges through, and you can’t 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 you’ve ever felt before: he’s so deep inside you, so thick inside you, that you can’t help the way you writhe and call his name as if he weren’t 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.
“You okay?” He asks, panting. His big hands rub up and down your back, his cock still nestling deep inside you.
You nod. “I’m so good, Dunk. Thank you.”
Dunk looks bashful. “S’alright.”
“I mean it. Thank you for doing this.” 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, he’s looking at you with puppy-eyes that make you want to kiss him all over again. You reach up and cup his face.
“I love you,” you tell him.
His eyes go wide.
You giggle. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… I suppose I’ve been meaning to tell you that for a while.”
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.
“You’ve made me question everything I thought I knew about myself,” he tells you earnestly.
You cock your head, slightly apprehensive. “Is that a good thing?”
“Yes,” he eases your worries. “Because now I know how much I love you.”
You kiss him again, and again still, until the candle nearby almost runs out of wax.
———
gosh he’s 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!!
dunk’s 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 husband’s 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.
“y’ smell so nice, my lady,” 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. “i ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for y’r pretty skin.”
my lady. even after some moons of being each other’s 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 hadn’t 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. “do you wish for me, husband?”
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.
“g—gods, don’t,” the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boy’s, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. “i oughta not, m’lady. y’re tired, i know of it. you spent all day puttin’ those gentle hands of yours to work. i cannot just—”
and it was the truth. you were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husband’s flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.
“you can,” 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. “for i wish it, too.”
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.
dunk’s 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.
“you aren’t even ready f’me, m’lady,” 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. “your pretty cunt’s not loose enough to take me yet. you ought to know i have to stretch her out f’ me.”
and you knew it to be true. your husband’s 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 that—
“it’ll fit,” tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for dunk’s warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. “be gentle, and it’ll fit, husband—”
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.
“s’not right, m’lady,” dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. “‘s already late and ya need to rest. you were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.”
his words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until they’re 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. “you’re—m’lady, I,—gods, y’re drenchin’ yourself already.”
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 well—being, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.
“mhm, all for you, my love,” 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 didn’t 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.
“gods, look at that,” came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. “m’lady is so wet f’ me.”
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.
“look at her,” 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. “s’throbbing for me, isn’t she? m’lady gets dirty so fast. i barely touched her an’ look.”
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.
“but she’s not ready for me,” your duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesn’t 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. “she’s too small to take me right. can’t hurt you.”
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.
“need to feel you, duncan. want your cock, my sweet,” 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. he’s 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 husband’s 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.
“c—can’t, m’lady, can’t, won’t—”
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 husband’s 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. “gods, a—ah, don’t—” 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.
“feels good, husband,” you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips moved again. “give it to me like this, my love, please. m—make it good for your lady.”
those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint your duncan had. with rasped curses—sounding almost angry, at the end of his patience—his 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 husband’s 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. “m’lady’s so hungry for it. c—couldn’t wait until the morrow,” 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.
“you’ll have me on the morrow as well,” you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. “you’ll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.”
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. “a—anything m’lady wants. anything, anything. g—gods, i’ll give you anything y’want, my sweet lady, pretty lady—”
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 duncan’s 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.
dunk’s 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. “my perfect, precious lady,” he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. “s’good for me, always so good to me. lettin’ me have you like this. g—gods, i love you s’much.”
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.
“love you so much,” 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. “are you close, my sweet?”
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. “not gonna’ last. feels s’good. m’lady’s so warm and wet,” he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. “m’sorry, m’lady, gods—”
“give it to me, my love. your lady wants it,” you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twice—
and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that would’ve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didn’t feel so heavenly. you didn’t 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 hips—now massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your flesh—and 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. “my sweet wife,” he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. “my darlin’ lady,” he continued, and you couldn’t 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 you—,"
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.
summary: While bathing in the creek, your clothes mysteriously disappear. Luckily, a certain hedge knight is there to help.
words: 8.1k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, size difference, outdoor sex, teasing, semi switch!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, reader is ferally horny, guiding dunk through it, dunk has a big dick, naked female/clothed male, canon typical sexism, dunk calls reader 'my lady' and 'sweet girl', fairytale vibes, reader's clothes get stolen, egg the accidental wingman, an abundance of sword metaphors, i'm here to spread the pretty boy dunk gospel, dunk is my sweet himbo, not beta read, not proof read we die like [redacted targaryen prince]
a/n: do not look at me i blacked out and didn't read this after i finished it. thank you to @urhoneycombwitch and @runawaywerewolf my beloveds for indulging me while i screamed about this
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
"Apologies, m'lady. I did not know you were here."
You pause, your hand wrapped around the ends of your hair as you gaze at the strange man who just interrupted you. You had heard him tromping through the brush. He stomps like an ox— you're sure that half of the nine kingdoms could have heard him coming, but the most you could do to hide yourself was dip your chest beneath the surface of the water. Even then, the water is so clear that you don't think it would have hidden much. You figured that one person finding you bathing would make no difference in the grand scheme of things.
"That's all right," you say after a moment, and continue wringing out your wet hair. Water trails over your skin, dripping in long rivulets that the man is clearly trying very hard not to focus on. The man gazes down at the grass and turns his head away, as though he can somehow unsee you in your nakedness. In fact, he looks anywhere but at you; the tree line, the water, the rocks on the far side of the creek. You tilt your head, examining his demeanor, the way he holds himself stiff and straight, as awkward as can be at the sight of you. "What is your name?"
"Dunk— Ser Duncan the Tall. My lady." He shifts on his feet, and then makes an attempt to bow, a little too late. He still doesn't chance a look at you. "I am… a hedge knight, you see, and I have been sleeping under the tree over there—" he points at the elm tree in the glade, under which a palate has been laid, far enough away that you actually hadn't noticed it, "—for several days, now."
"Yes, I do see."
You snicker under your breath and look at him again, raking your eyes up and down his frame. He's huge, a giant of a man with strawberry blond hair that shifts in the breeze. Even from the side, his profile is handsome, his brow drawn with nervous tension. You figure you would have to look up at him if you were face to face with him, and yet he stoops bashfully as though he expects you to tear him apart just for looking at you. Biting your lip, you can't help the flirtatious smile that stretches across your face.
"Ser Duncan," you say, wading through the waist-deep water towards him. You watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows, moving as though he means to turn away from you. You introduce yourself to him, running your fingers over the surface of the water. "I apologize for my intrusion. I didn't know that this glade was in use. The error is entirely mine."
"No. No, with respect," he looks at you, and then his eyes widen as he remembers himself and averts his gaze again, "I have no claim here. I— I would leave you to your washing, but you are… terribly exposed here, I'm afraid."
"Yes, that usually happens when one bathes, Ser."
"No, I—" He puffs out his cheeks and blows out an exasperated breath. He thinks for a moment. "Begging your pardon, m'lady. What I mean to say, is that there are many people afoot who are not… not honorable."
"Honorable," you repeat, with an air of amusement.
"That would place you in jeopardy, I mean."
"And you would not?" You can tell just by looking at him that he wouldn't do anything to harm you; he looks like he's mortified just at seeing you naked.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he confirms, nodding his head, almost to himself more than to you.
You're almost immediately smitten with him. It takes you a second to come up with a response that won't come off as overbearing; but you can't resist teasing him, at least a little. A small smile stretches across your face as you muse, "Because you don't wish to see me naked, Ser?"
"What? No, I— I mean, I don't— I… I wouldn't—"
"You find me ugly, then?"
"No, ma'am, I—"
"Mhm. Horrid. Repulsive."
"No! No, by the gods, you're beautiful. I just mean—" He breaks off with a deep sigh, clapping his hands over his face. He shakes his head, as though chastising himself. "I am sorry, my lady. I've never been good with words. I would not presume to look upon you in any way that could be un— untoward—"
"Because you are honorable." You giggle at his distress over something so trivial, as you walk out of the water and face him. With a warm smile, you tell him, "I understand you quite well, Ser Duncan. Forgive me for teasing. I meant nothing by it."
He sets his lips in a firm line, shooting you a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you."
You nod at him encouragingly. "I will take my leave, as soon as I am dressed. If you don't mind?"
"No, please. Do as you like, I'll stand watch." And then he turns his back to you, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword with purpose.
You let out a soft laugh. "Quite right." There is a moment where you stand, watching his back, waiting for him to turn around again; he doesn't. You are not shocked, but you still smile to yourself as you turn to retrieve your clothes from where you left them, on the old stone wall.
What does shock you is that your clothes are not there. You had left them within plain sight, and they are nowhere to be seen— not on the ground, or behind the wall at all. They couldn't have been blown away in the wind.
"Ser Duncan," you say, and clear your throat as you turn towards him. "Where are my clothes?"
"Where—?" He glances over his shoulder, and then whirls away again. "How— how should I know?"
"Well, they didn't walk off by themselves." The night air is cool on your damp skin as you place your hands on your hips. "Clearly, someone took them."
All is quiet for a few seconds, and then: "You think I did?" He sounds utterly appalled.
You had, for only a moment— but now, you aren't so sure. You approach him slowly from behind, folding your hands and watching him curiously. He's so wound up tight that he holds his shoulders near his ears, his chest seemingly heaving. He won't even look at you. You have given him every opportunity to, and he won't. Why steal your clothes, and then refuse to reap the rewards?
"Ser Duncan, you may look at me. I don't mind."
You hear him take a shaky breath, and then he turns and looks down at you. His eyes are bright azure, positively glowing in the low evening light and so striking that you nearly recoil from the sight of them; but even so, they drop to the ground almost instantly.
The wind picks up just a bit, rustling his hair. You shiver in the breeze, squeezing your arms against the sudden cold. He immediately snaps to, untying his cloak before handing it out to you. "Here, m'lady."
You feel your heart swell at his gallantry, as he drapes the fabric over your shoulders. The linen is worn and soft on your skin, and warm in the shoulders from his own body heat. Unsurprisingly, it's so long that it pools around your feet, whereas it floats around his knees when he wears it. You're momentarily distracted by the sight of his large hands so close to your face, tying the cloak beneath your chin so that it remains secure.
Once you're covered, he doesn't seem quite so hesitant to look at you. He meets your eye with a gravely serious look. "I do apologize. I did not take your clothes, I assure you."
"No, I'm sure you didn't. Since you seem more concerned about it than I am." Concern is the kindest word you can come up with— really, he looked about to vomit at the prospect of your suspicion. You draw his cloak tight around you, the smell of loam and woodsmoke permeating the fabric. "At any rate, this does put me in a bit of trouble. I am a long way from my tent."
"Would you like me to accompany you back to camp?"
You let out a quiet chuckle, probably giving him a more affectionate look than you mean to. In a voice sweet as honey, you say, "I'm flattered, Ser, but I don't believe that walking through camp on the arm of a knight, dressed in nothing but his cloak, would reflect well on my reputation. I'm afraid I'm stuck here, unless I find some way to steal another change of clothes from someone else."
His head tilted down, he appears lost in thought. You stare boldly up into his face while he isn't paying attention, just simply… admiring him. How have you never seen him before? He looms over you, seemingly cut from marble and brought alive by sunlight. It's humbling, how lovely he is, even without all his chivalry.
Then, he snaps his gaze up to your face. "You could stay here, just for tonight. I'll keep you safe 'til morning, and then I can send my squire to fetch you some clothes from camp. No one need see you, my lady."
"Other than yourself, of course."
He closes his mouth swiftly, flushing red and looking away. You smile to yourself, having to hold yourself back from reaching out towards him.
"I only jest, Ser," you whisper conspiratorially. "I already told you, I don't mind if you see me."
"Right." He laughs weakly, still flustered. "I… I'll alert my squire, then?"
"Yes, I would be glad of it." You step back, trying not to trip on the frayed ends of his cloak. "I thank you for your kindness, Ser Duncan. You're a good man."
"Aye, well… thank you. My lady." He stares at you for a long time, and then seems to remember himself. "Ah… stay— stay here, and, ehm. I'll be back." He turns to leave, and then thinks better of it and turns the other way, before tromping back through the grass the way he originally came.
"Ser Duncan?" You call, just before he disappears from sight. When he turns, looking at you expectantly, you give him a sweet smile. "You're beautiful, too. By the gods."
You feel inordinately proud of yourself when he goes red up to his ears.
Dunk is fucked.
He spends a long time beating his head against a tree trunk. You know, for posterity.
He doesn't know what he's doing. Oh gods, he has no fucking idea. All he knows is that it's a terrible trick to play on a lady, to steal her clothes while she's vulnerable and leave her stranded. He doesn't even know if you're a lady of noble birth— you could be a bar maid, or from one of the brothels, for all he knows. It doesn't matter to him. Dunk would never say no to anyone in trouble, let alone anyone as beautiful as you. And you are. What was he supposed to do? You came out of the water like a vision, as splendid as a water nymph or a goddess. You took his breath away without even trying.
So. Dunk doesn't know how he's going to survive this. He probably won't.
"Egg?" Dunk rears back from the tree, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve and shaking his head. He might throw up from his nerves, but it wouldn't be the first time.
"Ser!" He hears the boy's tiny feet pattering along dirt path as he answers Dunk's call. Egg rounds the tree Dunk leans against, staring unseeing into the creek as the sun sets over the horizon. Egg pauses, standing with something clutched in his hands as he looks up at Dunk. "Are you well, Ser?"
"Ehm. Not sure, really." Dunk glances at the boy. "What… do you have, there?"
Egg holds it up— it's a bird. The little thing squirms in Egg's grip, and then blinks up at Dunk placidly. "Pigeon. Fell out of a tree, I think. I didn't want to leave it."
"Right." Dunk blinks, sucking on his teeth as he tries to think of a way to explain the situation. "Look, lad. I, eh, have matters to attend tonight. In a wee bit of a bind."
"Do you need help, Ser?"
"Well." Dunk tilts his head back and forth. "I— It's not me, really." Dunk sighs and flexes his shoulders, straightening his spine. "There's a lady will be sleeping with me under the elm, for tonight."
"Oh… oh." Egg hums, wiggling his blond eyebrows mockingly at Dunk.
"D'you want a clout in the ear?" Egg doesn't even flinch at the faux severity in Dunk's voice; he simply cradles the baby pigeon close to his chest and pets its head. Dunk sighs, trying not to show how hard he's blushing. "She's… the lady, she was bathing in the creek, and now… she doesn't have any clothes, see."
"She doesn't have clothes?" Egg echoes, screwing up his face.
"Aye, someone took them, it seems." A look of realization crosses Egg's face, but Dunk doesn't give him a second to respond. "And she can't be expected to walk into camp with no clothes on her back, because plenty of men would take advantage, and— and her reputation would be ruined, o' course."
"Of course." Egg frowns. "Ser, I wanted to tell you, I found some clothes—"
"So." Dunk swallows, nodding to himself resolutely and shooting Egg a silencing look. "So, what you'll do is take Thunder and Chestnut— and your bird— and you'll go sleep across the meadow. And you'll go to camp and fetch the lady some clothes on the morn. Is that clear?"
"But Ser—"
"No buts." He points one large, stern finger at the boy. "I'll hear none of that from you. There's a lady needs help, and you best not argue about it. We're meant to protect people in need, not turn them away."
Egg blinks his big violet eyes at Dunk, his mouth on sideways. "Is she pretty, Ser?"
"What?" Dunk does a double-take. He blusters like mad. "What matter is that of yours?"
"Well, it would just make sense, is all." Egg rocks on his feet. "Pretty girl in need of clothes, and a knight willing to defend her. Like they wrote about in the stories. Is she?"
Dunk sighs, knocking his head back against the tree in defeat. "Aye. She's a true beauty, so she is. But I'll hear nothing of it, now. Begone with you. And take the horses."
Egg looks as though he has more arguments to make, but saves them. His mouth ticks upwards, and then he turns, cooing down at the baby bird in his hands as he wanders off down the path. "Have a good night, Ser."
"Shut it."
Dunk bends down and braces his hands on his knees, trying to even out his breath. He takes a long, deep inhale, leaning into the breeze as if it can cleanse him. He's terrified. He's never been good with women, and you've already unraveled him, taken him completely by surprise.
He can't get the image of you, naked as the day you were born, water dripping over the curve of your breast and down across your belly from his mind. That very water drying on the linen of his cloak, wrapped around your body as you wait for him somewhere down the meadow path.
"Fuuuuck me." He drags his hands down his face. There's a place in the seven hells for him somewhere, he's sure.
He's going to die.
"Ser Duncan." He finds you in the glade, still wrapped in his cloak. You've started a small fire in the rudimentary pit near the elm tree. You smile up at him, glowing in the light of the flames, and Dunk temporarily forgets where he is. "I almost began to think that you'd left me."
"Never, my lady." He rests his sword against the trunk of the tree. "And… it's Dunk."
"… Sorry?"
"My— er, my name." He swallows, looking sort of like he wants to crawl into a hole and die. "Most people call me Dunk."
"Okay. Dunk." You smirk, endlessly charmed by him. Your hand drifts over the thin linen of his cloak on your shoulder, fretting about a threadbare spot. "I could mend this for you, if you'd like?"
"Thank you, but, ehm… that isn't necessary." He blinks, the corner of his mouth turning upward. "I do most of my own mending."
"You did these?" You fiddle with a few mended patches on the edges, where he has darned them with green thread. It's been done with very immense care; the weave is tight and strong. "This is lovely work. Where did you learn to do it?"
"Aye, well… I had a lot of time for practice, squiring for Ser Arlan of Pennytree."
"You have a delicate hand," you remark, and look up at him just in time to see him blush a pretty shade of pink. "Still, I think it's the least I could do, for you being so kind to me."
"M'lady, that's… you don't have to do anything." He tilts his head toward you. "I'm just glad of your company."
That makes your heart stutter in your chest. You blink down at the fire, not really seeing it at all. You search for something to say in reply, but you can't think of anything; you look back up at him with what you're sure is an adoring smile. "Will you please sit with me? Or am I to enjoy the fire alone?"
Dunk gives you a wobbly smile and sits beside the fire. He can't move on from the sight of you in his cloak— you've pulled it around you like a blanket, tucking it under your chin while you hug your knees to your chest. You're spellbinding, so small and swathed in orange fire and silvery moonlight, and Dunk can't help imagining you in ways that he ought not to. He imagines you sharing a bed with him in an inn, or tending a flock of sheep on a farm, with his babe in your arms.
Dunk clears his throat. "You look—" He stops as soon as you gaze up at him, an expectant gleam in your eyes. He was going to say 'good,' which is probably not the most proper thing to say to a lady, wearing naught but his cloak. So he swallows and says, "comfortable."
"Considering the circumstances, I suppose." You laugh. It twinkles like stars in the night. "Pleasurable company, good ale and warm tents… I guess I can see why you knights love these tourneys so much."
"Aye, it's not so bad. Though, I'm only a hedge knight. There's food and drink, a chance for a prize, but… we don't do much with tents. Can't afford one, really."
"I can't see how that would be much of a problem. I mean, maybe you get cold or wet sometimes, but… I think you're the fortunate one." You peer up at the stars, tilting your nose toward the sky. "A view of the infinite. It's good for you. Reminds you to stay grounded." You give him a look over the campfire; his blue eyes catch the flames and dance with them. "Have you jousted, yet?"
"Not yet, my lady. I hope to on the 'morrow." He shrugs. "At his lordship's pleasure, of course."
"Of course." You wink at him. "The lord does love to watch men knocking poles about, I hear."
"I guess," Dunk replies quietly, a blush upon his cheeks. He squirms under your scrutiny, and then to fill the silence, he says, "I… told my squire to fetch you some clothes, come morning. Let him know not to come 'round."
"I hope he wasn't too put out," you hum, picking up a stick to nudge the embers. "I'd hate to know I ruined his night."
Dunk shakes his head. "Nah, he's a good boy. He can take care of himself. Doesn't fuss about much."
"Mm, so you do all the fussing, instead."
"Me?" His eyes go round as saucers. "No— no, I don't— I don't fuss… not really…"
You peer up at him through your lashes, a devilish smirk plucking at the corners of your lips. Dunk's heart starts to beat faster— he knows that look. You're going to do something to completely unmoor him, and he'll eat his words as quickly as he says them.
True to form, you shrug his cloak aside and expose your chest. Dunk stares for a moment at your breasts, feels his face warm just at the sight of them— their soft curves, the peaks of your nipples in the cool night air. He takes a staggering breath and turns his eyes away when he feels his cock stir, his trousers tightening uncomfortably.
You huff a little laugh that makes him flush even redder. "See? Fussy."
"Must you be so… so wicked?" He mutters, casting you a despairing look.
"Wicked? No, darling, this isn't me being wicked." You tilt your head at him coyly. "This is me trying to fuck you. There's a difference."
"What?" That seems to rattle him even more. He stares at you, utterly bewildered. "Wh— you want to— why?"
"Why?"
You give him eyes like you want to ravish him where he sits, and by the gods, Dunk thinks he might let you. He shifts in his seat, believing that he might let you do anything that you want to him, if you just keep looking at him like that. But then you lower your knees and rock forward, crawling around the fire like an animal stalking its prey, and Dunk is so painfully hard it doesn't even occur to him to move away. He doesn't want to.
"Because you're beautiful," you tell him slowly, easing toward him on all fours. You watch him trailing you with his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching as you inch closer to him. "Because you are… so exceedingly wonderful, Ser Duncan. A good man is hard to find, these days."
"'S D—Dunk," he stutters, nearly jumping out of his skin when you crawl into his lap. His hands fly up of their own accord and snatch onto your hips, and his heart lurches at the feel of you, soft and hot beneath his fingertips.
"Ser Dunk. My apologies."
You smile at him, straddling him while untying his cloak from around your neck and letting it fall by the wayside. For all your bravado, you nearly tremble at just how imposingly big he is; your hand looks comedically small against his chest, your thighs parted unbelievably far to accomodate the width of his own. Still, you drag your hand down, down, down, until you palm him through his trousers— and then bite your lip as he hisses, jerking against you.
"Well," you gasp, trying not to gape at the size you feel beneath your hand. "A hard man is good to find, though. Isn't that right?"
"M—My lady, please—" He gazes at you wide-eyed, his lips parted. He digs his fingers into your hips so hard that you swear he might rip you in two.
"Please, what?" You lift your hand away and trail your fingers back up his stomach to his chest. "Want me to stop?"
"No. Please, don't—" He sighs, almost defeatedly, and closes his eyes. "Don't stop."
Still, you pause. You lift your hands and cradle his face, waiting for him to blink his eyes open and look at you. You stroke a lock of hair away from his forehead, and his brow knits in confusion.
"You must be the loveliest thing in all the nine kingdoms, Ser Dunk," you whisper to him, not even bothering to conceal the awe in your voice. "The gods must have made you, because I think you're too… bloody perfect."
"Me?" He takes a small, astounded breath, and then cracks a slightly humorous smile in spite of his nerves. He quirks a brow. "Shall I send for a looking-glass for you, as well?"
"Charmer." You trace your thumb across his lower lip and watch his eyelashes flutter. "You don't get many women throwing themselves at you, do you?"
"Not— Not really. No."
"Gods know why. You're really something to behold." You drag your knuckles down his cheek, bending forward to crush your chest up against his. You didn't expect him to be lecherous, but he's so tentative, you guess that he must be grievously inexperienced— possibly even a virgin. You can desire him, hunt him like some deranged beast, but you don't want to frighten him. "Mind if I throw myself at you?"
Dunk shakes his head, but leans forward and kisses you before he can say anything else. His arms come around you, wrapping you in an embrace that all but engulfs you. You are surrounded by warmth, and his lips taste like sweet spiced mead.
He breaks away from the kiss with a sharp gasp and stares down into your face with a mildly terrified expression. "'Pologies. Needed to do that 'fore I— I said something stupid."
You grin, leaning close to nuzzle your nose against his. "Never apologize for a kiss, Ser Dunk. You can have as many as you want, from me."
There's a bright pink blush beneath the freckles on his cheeks and his dimples when he cracks a smile. Dunk clears his throat, feigning composure. "Do you want to, uh… y'know…?"
"Fuck?"
"Yes, that." He laughs nervously. "What— what would you like me to do—?"
You hum in a low voice, reaching down to take one of his hands in yours. His palm dwarfs your own; the comparison of the two is enough to make you ache with want. He watches you closely as you lift his hand towards you, looking somewhat confused. That is, until you run your tongue along the length of his two fingers and take them into your mouth, and his confusion is rewritten into complete shock.
"My lady." Dunk blinks rapidly, speaking with a slightly chastising tone. That was the last thing he expected you to do, and it somehow feels more debased than having you sit on his lap entirely naked. His fingers come out of your mouth covered with your saliva, glistening in the light of the fire.
"No need to fret, Ser. I can guide you." You already sound a little breathy, the look in your eyes much darker than before. You drag his hand down between your breasts, his two fingers trailing wet along your skin. You lead him downwards until his fingers brush through your soft curls, while the breadth of his warm palm flattens over your lower stomach.
Dunk's breath hitches and his mouth drops open the moment his fingers dip into the soaking heat of your pussy, and a shudder flows through your body. A wrecked moan leaves you, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips from the single touch.
"Feel what you do to me?" You ask him, snatching onto his shoulder to prevent yourself from simply jamming yourself down onto his hand with your full weight. It's overwhelming— the warmth of his touch and the pressure of his naked skin on you, even if it's just a hand, a finger.
"Y—You feel—" Dunk sucks in air through his teeth, his eyes flicking frantically from your face to where his hand dips further between your legs, his fingers gliding through your wetness. The touch is intimate, exploratory. "Seven hells, you feel unreal."
"Oh, I'm very real." You cover his hand with your own— or, you try. You have to spread your fingers wide to even approximate the width and placement of his own. "Want me to show you how?"
He gives you the briefest little nod, like if he moves too far in any way you might disappear. You wrap your thumb and pinkie around the edges of his hand, lining up your two fingers with his own.
"It's not unlike shining a blade," you tell him softly, beginning to move his fingers with yours, rocking your hips as you do. "You keep— keep this amount of pressure. And you just move back… and forth… just like that."
Dunk's eyes widen at the sound of your moan, his entire body feeling as though it's filled with fire. The Targaryens might believe themselves to be dragons, but Dunk is sure that in this moment, he must be turning into one. Everything feels too hot beneath his collar, as though his skin might melt away and flay him bare. "How— How does it feel?"
You shiver, a smile curling at your lips. He's still so eager to please, even now. "Feels good. But it can feel better."
"Show me."
You swallow past the thickness in your throat, lifting his hand just the tiniest bit. "There's a spot on every woman— it's a… a sweet spot. You focus on it, and she'll sing to the heavens."
"Will you sing, my lady?" Dunk's deep voice is so much lower than you've heard it yet. He watches everything you do so closely, his free hand pressing into your lower spine to keep you steady, holding you fast against the hand that you guide between your legs.
"I will if you make me. If you focus… here." And you guide the calloused pads of his fingers over your clit.
Hot pleasure sweeps through you at the touch, making you gasp aloud. He keeps up the pressure and the movement that you've shown him, feels the swollen hardness of your clit and stays there. His pupils are so wide they nearly cover the beautiful azure of his irises, becoming two black mirrors to reflect the fire.
"Is that it?" Dunk's eyes are locked on yours, and you whine, hips twitching toward his touch. Something passes over his face— be it possession or resolution, you can't be sure. But his jaw sets and he adjusts the pressure of his fingers as he dips his fingers down to collect some of your wetness, and brings it back up to your clit. When you keen loudly, he hums, "Mm. There."
You nod, your hand slipping against his. It seems like you don't need to guide him anymore, but you keep it there anyway, just to feel the way that his knuckles tense and release, to feel the warmth against your own palm.
"Gods above, Dunk," you gasp, nearly launching forward into his chest when he traces a circle around your clit. You close your eyes, swallowing a sob. "You don't— don't need my help."
"I want it," he urges, his mouth watering at the sounds of the breathy moans that fall from your lips. His fingers never stop moving, even when he adds, "Want to hear you sing for me, m'lady."
You whimper and push on his hand, moving him downwards. Dunk follows your directions, letting you guide him, until his fingertips catch on your entrance. Without any further instruction, Dunk prods inside. The stretch to accommodate him is immense, even just with his two fingers.
Dunk is in agony. His cock is straining in his trousers, throbbing unbelievably hard at the smell of you, the feel of you, every gasp and moan that falls from your lips. Still, he grits his teeth, and he ignores it. His voice a quiet rasp held tight in his throat, he asks, "And now?"
You blink your eyes open, feeling yourself beginning to unravel at the seams. "Dunk…" You take a deep, sobering inhale, while he gazes at you like you hung the stars in the sky. "Shine your blade."
Dunk's lashes flutter, his breath still coming out in little pants between his lips, but he does as you tell him. He crooks his fingers just the way you showed him how, and the entire fucking world shatters.
With a cry of his name, you fling your arms around his neck. It's so abrupt— enough to make him falter and hug you to him with one arm, his big hand cradling the nape of your neck. The other has gone still, while he listens to you gasp and lets you press your forehead against his cheek.
"Have I—" Dunk turns his head a bit, wanting to look at you, but unable to. He murmurs your name, and you shiver in his arms. "Did I hurt yo—?"
"No." You're shaking your head before he can even finish the question, gripping at the ends of his shaggy hair. "No, Dunk, it's so— you— you're just so good."
He huffs a little sigh of relief, and feel him smile as his hold on your shoulder loosens just slightly. "You make it easy."
You shift your hips, and Dunk feels your lips drag against his cheek. He's almost scared to let you go, now, and strokes his thumb over the back of your neck just to soothe you. But then you whisper, "Don't stop," and he doesn't want to deny you.
His fingers slide into your hair, feeling it slip soft through his fingers as he holds you to him. Testing, he moves his fingers again, flexing them within you just to hear you gasp and feel you squirm against him. That same fire blooms in him, creeping up the back of his neck and deep into his chest— the fire that makes him dare to feel like the dragonborn— and he thinks that he may hold you for as long as you like. For as long as he can.
Moaning his name against his skin, you seek out his lips, turning your head just to capture him in an open-mouthed, desperate kiss. Dunk makes a noise of surprise, but keeps up his movements, plunging his fingers in and out and stroking you from the inside, feeling each pulse and flutter of your core like a punch to his gut.
He curves his fingers a particular way that sends a wave of euphoria shooting up your spine, and you moan pathetically loud into his open mouth. Dunk seems shocked by it, pausing for half a second, before doing it again, just to hear you keen.
"You do sing very pretty for me," Dunk murmurs against your lips.
The sound of his voice in that low register— like soft rolling thunder— does things to you that you never even thought possible. It bores a hole through you, melts everything within you. Then he grinds the meat of his palm up against your clit, and all your muscles seize up.
"Seven fuck— Dunk." You feel around for something else to grab onto, but only get his shoulder, his hair, his bicep. Your breath hitches, and then you cum with his name falling from your tongue, your hips bucking into his hand. Dunk marvels at the feeling of you spasming around his fingers, the flood of wetness that drips from you and coats his skin.
You hear him breathe your name. It sounds so sweet coming from him, a reverent prayer spoken in the night. Still trembling, you open your eyes to find that you've shifted— you've somehow lifted yourself with your hands on his shoulders, and his spine has bowed into an arc beneath your hold. You look down at him. Dunk looks up at you, like he's glimpsing the divine in your very face.
"Did you come off just then, my lady?" It's a quiet, almost too innocent question for the way that he's looking at you— like he could throw you to the ground and completely decimate you, if he was a little less controlled, a little less staunch in his respect for you.
"You know very well that I did, Ser." Your chest still heaves with the effort of your breathing.
His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. "D'you think I could make you do that if I put my mouth on you, too?"
Your mind reels around that. Dunk gazes at you with open hunger, flushed and almost as out of breath as you. The sight makes you dizzy.
"I'm sure that you could," you tell him. You hold the sides of his throat, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumbs. "But I want you too much right now. Must I beg you to take that beast out of your pants? Or will you leave me wanting?"
The thought of leaving you wanting for anything is enough to make Dunk balk. He withdraws his hand from you, and with it comes a dreadful absence, an ache where pressure should be. Instinctively, you want him back, carressing you and filling you as he had been, but he moves to untie his trousers.
"If I were a more noble man, I would lay you down in furs, as you deserve," Dunk confides in you, a touch of insecurity lacing his tone. "But I am only a hedge knight— all I can offer you is the tall grass."
"Then I'll be glad to have you in the tall grass," you say, feeling his pulse jump beneath your fingertips. "I don't want furs, I want you."
Impatient now, you reach down to untie his trousers yourself, and—
Well.
"Seven fucking hells, Dunk."
Gods above, he's going to die. He's going to die, you're going to kill him and it won't even be in combat. "What?"
You stare down at his cock, and feel the barest inklings of fear creeping in. You'd known just from the size of him and the barest touch through his clothes that he'd be big, but this… It's glorious. Thick and long, with a flushed red tip dripping with precum. He looks painfully hard, and the weight of it nearly drags it downwards.
"Nothing in the entire world needs to be this big."
The tips of his ears redden. "Well, I—I'm quite large—"
"Yes, I know that. I know that very well, indeed. You're magnificent." You chew on your lip, feasting your eyes upon it for a moment. With the lightest touch, you trace one finger up the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. Dunk gasps and twitches against you. "Mm. I can take it."
There is a concerning amount of resolution in your tone, as you shift your hips and hover over him. He snatches at your waist, practically holding you aloft without even trying. His eyes wide, he blurts, "M'lady, don't hurt yourself—"
"Shh. I do what I want. Right now, that's you." You lift your hips, lining him up where you want him. "Don't fuss."
"M'not fu—UCK!" Dunk growls the curse with his eyes closed tight. The head of his cock is engulfed in the sweet, excruciating heat of your pussy. He bares his teeth as he grits out, "Oh, fuuuck me."
"Mhm." You gasp, pausing and trying to acclimate to the stretch. Fuck, he's enormous. You rock your hips and try to shift your weight, adjusting to take more of him, despite the pain of the stretch.
Dunk squeezes at your waist, fingers digging into the curve of your back. You lift up and sink down again, slipping down further, and he's sure he's done for. He's sure that you could cut out his heart with a dinner knife, and he might thank you for it. He hangs his head, resting his forehead against yours. "You feel like heaven. I kn— I knew you would."
He groans softly as you seat yourself finally with one achingly slow push of your hips. It nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs, feeling him hit the end of you. He grinds up into you, not wanting to be rough, but gods. Each move, each small breath that falls from your lips against his feels like a dream.
"Told you I could take it," you whisper brokenly. You sound just about wrecked, your fingers tangling in his hair as you rock against him. It burns in the best way, stretching you so wonderfully, filling you to the brim. A pleasant tingling slinks up your spine. "You fit me perfectly, my knight."
The fire crackles. Somewhere across the creek, crickets sing in the brush. Perhaps back in the camp, lovers roll as one in the solitude and warmth of tents, but here in the glade you seat yourself upon the hedge knight, guiding him with one hand to squeeze at your breast, and you would not trade the night air for any tent or pillowed furs in the world. Be it rough, be it dirty and perhaps a bit animalistic, it is only as you want it to be.
Dunk's nostrils flare as he uses one arm to haul you up, lifting you like it's nothing, and he lays you down in the grass. Your head hits the wide palm of his hand, protecting you from knocking your head against the ground. And he slides back into you with one fluid motion, filling you again and making your toes curl. He groans obscenely loud, his eyes fluttering shut as he braces one enormous forearm against the ground beside your head.
You arch against him, his name caught in your throat as you clutch at his shoulders and neck. He looms over you, hulking and godly, and desire bubbles up like a torrent in your throat. Your eyebrows tilt upwards in earnest.
He makes you feel so small. Cages you in the shelter of his arms, keeps his weight from crushing you— but presses his warm chest to yours, so that your sensitive nipples scrape against the rough linen of his tunic. Your hands cup his shoulders, nails scratching at the fabric keeping you from feeling his skin.
"Dunk, please—" you hiccup, squeezing at the muscles beneath his shirt.
"What is it, sweet girl?" There is an edge to his voice hinting at desperation. Dunk thinks that he would give you anything you want. Money, fame, a life of beauty and devotion. There's no coming back. He would do anything that you ask, if only to stay in this feeling forever. Breathing in your air, feeling you quiver and tremble as you grind your hips against his.
You tighten your fists in the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up to tug at it. "Off."
Dunk plants his hips flush against yours, so deep that you can feel him in your throat. He dips his head and lets you pull at the fabric of his shirt, until it slips down his arms and his overheated skin meets the cool night air. Your hands glide along his strong biceps, smooth over the curves of his shoulders and down his chest.
"Kiss me," you breathe. "Dunk, kiss me—"
You gasp when he snatches you by the waist and lifts you, rocking back on his knees to seat you in his lap. Crushed up against his broad chest, you wrap your arms around his neck and push yourself down onto his cock, as far as he can go, moaning as he hits heaven up inside you. The coarse hair at the base of his cock grinds sharply against your clit, sending sparks of hot pleasure coursing through your veins.
Mouth open, he breathes in small, quick pants as he smoothes your hair away from your face, his large hand cradling your cheek. It's a tender touch, even while you feel like he could tear you to shreds from the inside out. You push your face into his palm, turning to pepper the breadth of his hand with kisses.
"Kiss me, please," you beg him again, and Dunk pulls you towards him, meeting you with a hot, open mouthed kiss. It sears you, makes you whimper onto his tongue.
"My lady," Dunk groans, tilting his head just slightly where it rests against yours. "I will not last."
"Then don't," you tell him. "And I'll love you a dozen more times before the night is out."
And then, so fast it's as though he's following your orders to the letter, he cums. Moaning as he jerks his hips up into yours, he shoves himself deep and cums so long and hard that he swears he sees stars behind his darkened eyelids. A ragged gasp tears from his throat while his hips twich and buck up into yours, muscles flexing and nearly throwing him off-balance.
Dunk blinks open his eyes, gazing at you with his brow furrowed in consternation. "But you— you didn't—"
You shush him, taking his hand to guide it between your legs. "Remember what I told you?"
Dunk hums, flicking his gaze downwards. His throat jumps when his fingers brush through your wet curls. "Yes, m'lady."
His breath catches in his throat when he touches your clit, and he feels you clench down on him. Oversensitive as he is, he doesn't think to pull out or refuse you— he stays there, deep in the heat of you, while he strokes you the way you showed him before.
With a feeble noise, you cant your hips further toward his hand. A pleased hum tears from your lips. "You learn fast, my knight."
Dunk blushes. It's the first time anyone has told him that. "I want to please you."
"You do," you whisper, holding his face in the cradle of your small hands. "You please me so well, Dunk."
The evidence of your words burns in your core, wound up more and more by the movement of his fingers over your clit. You rock against him and hear his slight hiss of breath, and you know that it won't be long. Your thighs twitch and your fingers dance through his hair while your breath mingles with his, washing over your skin.
Then your muscles clamp down tight as your orgasm washes over you, and Dunk nearly chokes at the feeling. "Oh, fuck," he grits out, feeling you pulse on his cock, clenching around him so hard that his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "Ah, gods above—"
It burns through you like fire, enveloping you in its grasp. You collapse against Dunk's warm chest, resting your head on his shoulder. As you tremble through the aftershocks, you giggle weakly, biting your lip when the feeling has him moaning again. You hum, sighing as you come down. "Beautiful thing, is it not?"
"Yes, you are," he chuckles, breathless. He meets your eye with a pleading, starry look. He traces his fingers down your spine, reveling in the warmth and softness of your body. "I would— I think I would like to, again…"
"Let me give you some respite, first." You lift off of him, hissing as he leaves you achingly empty. He squeezes at your hips, his fingers pressing into your lower back as he keeps you steady. You press a kiss to his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat on his skin. "Have some ale, my love. We'll go again when you're ready."
Dunk clears his throat, nodding. "Yes, my lady."
"And Dunk… take off your pants, this time?"
"…Yes, my lady."
In the morning, you rouse from beneath the shelter of Dunk's cloak, and find a pile of clothes set out on the wall that separates the glade from the meadow. You stare at it for a moment, recognizing the jewel toned embroidery on the dress, the tanned leather of the shoes. Beside you, Dunk shifts, pulling you closer by the hip. He'd put his clothes back on in the night, right before he swaddled you again in his cloak, preferring not to insense his squire whenever the boy came round.
"Dunk," you murmur, nudging him in the shoulder.
"Mmph."
"I thought you said you didn't know what happened to my clothes."
"I know not, m'lady," he slurs tiredly.
"Right." You click your tongue. "But it appears that your squire did."
Dunk's eyes fly open, giving you a wide, bright blue stare. You tilt your head at him, a smirk stretching across your face as you nod towards your missing clothes, perched on the wall. He looks at the pile of clothes for a moment, blinking sleep out of his eyes. And then, he screws up his face as something Egg said comes back to him.
"Seven fucks." Dunk scrambles up, remembering Egg's insistent and earnest face when he'd been silenced.
ser duncan the tall x female!reader, +18 (mdni), male!masturbation, yearning (so, so much yearning), slight pervert!dunk, a bit of obsessed!dunk, dunk is so in love!!
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: haven't wrote in so long but i hope i did dunk justice!! happy reading!! english is not my first language so i apologize for any mistakes!
dunk who cannot help but be aroused whenever you are of service to him.
it’s becoming a problem, and alarmingly fast.
he was ashamed down to his bones by the way his body reacted every time you offered him your kindness.
usually, when other people showed him benevolence, he felt warm and grateful, as anyone else would, he reckons.
but with you it’s different.
the blood in his veins sings an ardent tune, bringing a flush to the tips of his ears and the thick column of his neck—feverish and hot, the rough-spun clothes suddenly uncomfortable on his skin.
and the worst of it all? his blood has a mind of its own, going south between his legs so fast it leaves him dizzy and breathless, nostrils flaring, akin to a bull being taunted with flashes of crimson. if the gods would’ve given him a smaller cock, the issue would’ve been easier to solve, to keep at bay.
but their blessing seems more like a curse now when dunk has to excuse himself every time you mend his clothes, cook him and egg a hearty meal, or wash his clothes by the stream for him. his cock grows hard and thick, the print of it obvious through his breeches, tenting them obscenely, his large palms pressing onto his lap in an attempt to conceal it, to shield his shameful desire from view.
dunk can barely manage not to tumble to the ground from how fast he shoots up from his seat, mumbling excuses, his voice rough and gruff—nothing like the soft, gentle tone he usually uses with you—barely making it through the trees, ignoring the confused shouts from you and egg.
dunk’s back scrapes against the trunk of a tree as he is finally out of sight and earshot, strong legs feeling weaker than ever as he slides down, large palms still concealing his dishonor.
because that’s what this is. that’s what this feels like.
dishonor.
dishonor to you, the companion who has been nothing but kind, nothing but patient, and so, so beautiful—
the thought makes dunk moan. just remembering how radiant you are is enough to turn his thoughts to mush, scrambling them around until all he can think about is you.
he’s sure no one could ever compare to you, for you are akin to a dream made flesh, so soft and warm it makes all the knightly teachings from ser arlan turn asunder, leaving behind just the ache in his chest and the tightness in his loins.
he does not dare move his palms for relief yet, even though his cock throbs and leaks against the rough material of his breeches, staining it with his shame, with his guilt. for he should not think of a woman in this way, not one who has been nothing but precious to him.
but, gods, you are just too sweet—so sweet that not even honey could taste as saccharine as you—every gesture and every look of yours burning him from the inside, making the hunger in his chest claw to be let out.
taste.
his cock gives a pathetic twitch as the word flits through his mind, his head tipping back against the trunk. images of how you would taste, of how he could taste you burn behind his eyelids so fast he swears he is close to tipping towards the afterlife.
dunk remembers vividly how, a few days ago, he had you on his tongue, if only for a few moments—just a brush of it against your skin—but it was enough for the need for more to sprout, growing more ardent day by day.
he had always been a messy eater, the habit having given him earfuls from ser arlan and scowls from egg, but you didn’t mind, giving him a patient smile or a lilting giggle and pointing out the greasy mess on his lips in hushed tones.
except this time, you moved.
dunk wasn’t aware of the closed proximity yet, too busy digging into his hearty stew to see how one of your hands lifted towards his face, sleeve pushed down enough to clasp under your fingers.
“you ought to be more careful, ser,” you chided, albeit gently, as your sleeve wiped at the corner of his mouth, where broth was glistening as it trailed down to his chin and jaw.
the spoon between his fingers clattered back into the bowl as he froze, as still as marble, azure eyes wide as saucers, breath stalled in his broad chest.
you were cleaning him. you, dirtying your soft, modest dress for him as you brushed away the remnants of his sloppy eating with slow swipes to his mouth. so careful with him, as if he were but a babe who needed coddling.
by the mother, you were a vision of loveliness up close. he wished he could’ve focused on your pretty face or pursued plush lips, but your bosom was level to his face as you leaned to follow the trail of liquid down his jaw and neck, dabbing at it with the sleeve of your dress, and he was just a man.
a dumb man. a dishonorable man. a lecher of a man now, as he dared to let his gaze dip to your breasts, the flesh looking too soft and plush against the cloth of your dress. it was not a debauched sight by any means, for gods forbid he ever thought of you as anything but the very picture of saintly beauty.
the sight left him with a hunger that no stew could ever stave, tongue sticking out to lick at his lips unconsciously, but instead catching the tips of your fingers as you were brushing crumbs from his cupid’s bow.
that’s when he tasted your skin for the first time; the memory is replaying in his mind on a loop now, as if the flavor still resides on his taste buds.
even now, alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees way taller than him, he swears the memory haunts him so that he feels as if he were still there now. instead of backed up against a trunk, his hands pressed against the tent in his pants.
dunk is breathing hard, lungfuls of air that do nothing to stave the burning in his veins, the throbbing in his pants, or the ache in his chest.
it would be so easy to take his hard cock in hand and bring himself to climax as he thought of you.
but he cannot dirty you with his debauchery, even in thought.
countless of times he had found himself away from camp, away from you, hard and wanting, fingers itching to grip himself and rub as hard and fast as he could, just to get rid of his shame once and for all.
and each time, the remnants of his honor stopped him.
as they try to do now, but it is all in vain.
dunk’s thick fingers fumble with the ties of his breeches as he impatiently tugs them down, revealing his cock to the crisp air, hissing at the sensation. the flush on his neck blooms in haphazard splotches all the way down his chest as he looks down at himself, at the way the length bobs against the rough material of his tunic, smearing precum against the material.
gods, it’s so much, pearling obscenely at the tip of his cock and trailing down the thick shaft, all the way down to his heavy balls, which are already drawn tight.
he should not. he really, really shouldn’t.
shouldn’t wrap his hand around his cock and squeeze at the base, tugging upwards slowly towards the head, making more precum leak out, trickling down his knuckles now, lewd and dirty.
yet it feels so good—the sensation brings him so much relief he feels like the mother herself had blessed him with such solace.
his cock gives another twitch at the thought.
the mother.
dunk often thought you embodied her and had put you so high up on his pedestal that you resembled a saintly woman, so gentle and caring and good that it made him want to sink to his knees in front of you, kiss your feet, and pray for your favor like a worshiper.
just as he would for the mother herself.
gods, how depraved can he be, to think of such things and feel his cock harden and ooze around his fist as he tugs and tugs, squeezing at the hot, slick flesh with more fervor now. the sounds of his wanton act are sloppy and loud, muffled only by the swaying of the trees around him.
“m’lady, m’lady, —”
the words tumble from his mouth unbidden, wrapped around a pitiful whine, his mind too fuzzy with thoughts of you to be able to say anything else but this, not even daring to say your name in fear of dirtying it with his sins.
dunk’s face is flushed, sweat beading at his temple and trailing down his flushed cheeks, the pleasure melting him against the tree trunk, except his strong hips—which hump into the grip of his hand in earnest, snapping forward as if burying himself into a cunt and not his own fist.
fuck, but he wishes it was a cunt. your cunt.
wrapped around his cock, squeezing him for what he’s worth, sucking him inside your pussy like you never want him to pull out.
he imagines it’s warm and soft and so very pretty, just like you.
what he wouldn’t give to have you on his cock, watching as your folds part to let him in, so big and thick compared to you.
dunk closes his eyes just as he feels the ache in his loins spark, tingling down his spine and pooling low in his gut, so close to reaching his climax and yet so far away from what he truly wants.
you. all he has wanted for the past moons has been you.
he used to want your eyes on him, your lips curling into smiles because of him, and your soft giggles ringing through camp at his jokes or even your reprimanding tone when he was too big of an oaf to act right.
so when had his thoughts turned so depraved? when had his eyes strayed from your eyes to your lips, from the curve of your shoulders to the one of your breasts, from the arch of your spine to the slope of your rear?
when had his hands itched to grab at the fat of your hips instead of the delicate pads of your fingers? when had he dreamed of keeping his tongue pressed inside of your pussy instead of behind his teeth?
you’ve ensnared him so completely, bringing forth his ruin, making him nothing but a depraved man meant to take his pleasure alone, fucking into his fist with abandon. teeth snagging at his lips to stifle the pathetic whimpers and groans rumbling from his chest as his length throbbed insistently.
and may the gods damn him all the way to hell; he would trade all his honor just for a taste of you, just for the feel of your cunt, just for the sound of your moans as he makes you feel so, so good around his cock, rutting into you again and again and—
and he’s coming. thick ropes of cum painting his knuckles and tunic, his back bowing against the tree trunk, mouth falling open in a long, drawn-out groan. dunk swears he died, went to heaven, and now he’s back in his body, shaking and twitching as he continues to fist his cock, desperate for the pleasure not to end. for the images of you in all the lewd ways he always refuses to allow himself to dream of, never to cease.
there are tears in the corner of his eyes, the pleasure so good he feels like sobbing. the sheer relief of finally getting to cum after moons of pent-up frustration over you—over your gentle nature and caring gestures and, gods, your tits—it unravels him completely.
slowly, his hand slows, his cock softening. the mess left behind makes shame bubble into his chest, almost choking him as he tries to catch his breath.
what would you think of him if you saw him this way? spent and lecherous and so, so in love with you.
even now, even like this, even this sinful, the love he has for you is the sole denominator of his actions.
because dunk loves you. loves you so much that he cannot bear to let his wanton feelings corrupt you, too, no matter how much he wishes he could.
contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader, omegaverse AU (Alpha!Dunk x beta!reader), Dunk's POV, scenting, bj, a smidge of deep throating, face-fucking (but not like you think), coming on face and a lot.
synopsis: A small coda to part one & two of the main fic. They are having a slow morning.
word count: 5,7K
a/n: Dividers by @honeyluvsw! Anon made me do it, but I like them a lot, so... here's some 'just smut'.
Dunk wakes to one side of his face being warmed and lets his lids flutter against that warmth before they open. He lies in the unevenness of temperatures for a while.
The soles of his feet, gone past the lip of the bedroll, touch earth that keeps the cold. His back has drifted half out too, turned to the dark and its chill, shirt rucked high enough to bare the loins where the air’s with teeth. One shoulder feels it. The back of one thigh. A strip of skin at his side.
The rest of him is held in another country entirely.
His palms are full of back, broad enough to take near the whole span of it under linen, abundant, for it is linen from his back. Arms have gone round the whole frame of an expanding ribcage. His thighs make a cradle of another pair of thighs. Belly’s pressed to another belly. Then, there’s the heat at his face: the crook of your neck cupping cheek and mouth alike, and Duncan breathes in deeper for that. It says what home is in a language lower than thought, a scent that makes it feel safe under tree-crowns as long as you lay there with him.
At the lisp of dawn Duncan has the fleeting thought of the longest night in his life. How that was the dusk of the wounded animal in him. From poor boy to frightened man to a man owned in the most compassionate sense of the word, he has been remade by small dyings. Now, even when dawn finds him feverish and sickened with the inward pull of his nature, there are hands to soothe him and lips to kiss the sweat from his temple.
The mass of him rouses before the mind does. Mouth moves, only a little at first. Tremorous crawl along the tendon where it’s soft with your sleep, and the skin and muscle yields under the shape of his nose so he can wedge it deep and inhale. Below your ear the scent weaves its most balmy tale and he rubs there as if his face means to wear it of you better.
Your breathing changes. “Dunk,” you murmur with a voice that’s his favourite, for he’s the only one that gets to hear it. “What is this?”
“I just—” he says. Confounded, because his tongue is too busy musing about the taste to come up with sensible words. “You smell nice,” he says. Your laughter he feels in your ribs.
“Is that so?”
“Mm.” As if to prove it, he travels higher. Along your cheek to the hairline where you exist clearer, then down again, back to the throat that keeps him longer. Now, that his mind wakes, it just agrees with the body and whole of Dunk becomes intent. He knows it; the knowing helps little.
You turn in his arms, flat onto your back, and your face acquires a new shape. Eyes hooded with mirth, chin creasing where you’re crammed and he finds that most endearing. “Of what?” you ask him.
He blinks, caught, then tells the truth because he has no talent for anything else. “Resting with me,” he says. “My cloth. Woodsmoke, a bit.” He breathes at your neck again, deeper. “And you.”
“And what does that mean?”
Dunk thinks on it a moment. He only has images for it. Mornings after rain when the earth is cleansed and everything starts anew. Nights with stars in the sky. Streams. Fields with wheat. Moss beds. Dew weighting the grass at dawn.
His palm finds your belly warm from sleep and spreads there. “Jus’—” He frowns. “Skin. Warm,” he says, and you touch his cheek to ease him through the struggle. “A bit of last night’s rain still, I think.” He noses lower, to the hollow where neck becomes chest. “And me. You smell of me.”
You go softer in his arms at that. “Do I?”
“Mm,” he hums again, more certain. “Here most.” Presses his face to the top of your chest, less abashed, then slides lower as his hands ruck the shirt up by handfuls. They hold your ribs and the grooves between them. Your middle. He breathes at your belly like he is trying to get clear to the root of something.
“Duncan,” you murmur. Your fingers brush his hair and he realises his eyes have gone glassy. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm, there ain’t enough ‘ere,” he says. “Marking you over. So folks know you’re spoken for.”
“With your whole face?” you ask.
“With whatever I’ve got, girl,” he tells you. Tells you and shows you when his mouth opens on the planes upon planes of skin and he wishes he’s had a bigger mouth to span you better. With a small huff through the nose as though something in you has snagged him deeper, he nudges your arm up by the elbow and goes to the hollow underneath. Breathes there once, long and grave, till his whole chest shifts. The smell is wonderful. Warm salt. Sleep. Linen. You, again. He rubs his face into the dip of it in one blind, pleased motion before dragging his mouth down your side, more awake to the work than before. He pulls the shirt up and shields your breasts from cold. The air makes you tighten a little. Duncan answers at once, face lowering to your navel. He kisses it. His jaw loosens and tongue rolls out and he gives you one slow lick.
His whole set of nerves shudders at the taste. Still a little wet behind the ears with this sort of thing, he licks you like no human would ever another. Broad, wet stroke like he means to smooth his scent over yours and yours into his in the same pass.
Your belly jumps under him. He hums into you some more, then noses lower, breathing hard enough that each breath seems to move your skin. His upper lip drags over your stomach, cheek follows. The tip of his nose traces the soft inward dip of your waist with such grave attention it’s as if Duncan’s meeting it for the first time. “Here too,” he notes, half to himself.
“What do I smell like there?”
“Inside of shirt where it’s held you all night,” he says, eyes closed. “Sweat. Sweet kind. You’ve been dreaming hard on me, girl.”
His mouth returns to the belly, pressed open and hot. You laugh in a way Duncan knows is to cover the staggering of mind. “And here?” you ask.
He lifts his head enough to look at you. Your hair is sleep-messed. Mouth gummy and loose and slumber still crusts your eyelids. “You mean to make me tell all?”
“Aye,” you say.
His eyes narrow a little with the effort of thinking and feeling at once. Then his hand slips lower. Cups the side of your hip. His thumb strokes the bone there before he bows back down and rubs his face against the curve, slow and serious as a beast making a bed. “You smell like where I keep wanting to come back to,” he says.
Duncan does not know what he has just said. It spills out of him, unbidden. He cannot mend it now it is loose in the air. His mouth has gone lower to the place above the waistband, licking there in little distracted swipes that mean more instinct than kissing and more loving than either. Your hand finds his hair in what feels like helplessness. It threads through it, making him exhale hard and long.
“Dunk,” you say.
“Mm.”
“You’ve gone a bit strange.”
“Aye,” he says, content at the way it sounds, and does not stop. He follows the line where your body warms itself best. He’s got too much need in him and no hurry at all, and it makes him thorough. Once, he scrapes you bare with teeth, enough to make you suck a breath and tighten the hold on his scalp.
He stills and opens his eyes. “You like it,” he mutters and winces at sounding so pleased. There’s no answer so he lifts his head and looks. “You do,” he says, flushed and wholly serious with dawning wonder.
“I like you,” you say, opening his face cleanly. He feels some stupid tender brightness moving through the rough make of him.
Then, Duncan huffs a small thing and hides himself back into your stomach, letting the command of your touch nurture the old obedient parts of him that have gone underfed most his life. There’s no hiding from your eyes, though. They rest on him so heavy the weight makes him breathe harder. He lifts his eyebrows and glances up, and there you are, staring. “What?” Dunk asks.
You smile. “You went very solemn there.”
“Aye,” he says, near offended. Like a child would be if a thing of great matter to them gets mocked. “I’m carrying on with important work.”
That wins him a warmer smile. Then, a hand cupping his jaw. “Dunk,” you say and tug gently, and he doesn’t want to go anywhere. You look at him with a face that means you have thought a thing through and he is likely to be the last to know it. “Come up here.”
He goes, because he must. Comes on both elbows till his face is near yours and the whole span of him feels too large for bedroll and too wakeful for the hour. “Sit up,” you tell him, eyes glinting. Duncan grunts some. Bites his lip and tongue that yearns to tell you I don’t want to. All bothered and greenly upset, he grumbles under his breath, rolls off you, then pulls his great weight up and rests with his back against the tree.
You come up too. Sit on your heels beside him. The linen falls back down and Duncan mislikes it horrendously. He mislikes being so far from you after being so close to you. There’s always a moment between dawn and morning when he has to be the better man and let you go so you can both continue on the road. It makes him long for nightfall.
Your eyes sweep him over and land briefly on where he’s swelling with need already. You could go there at once. You choose not to, and Duncan can’t decide if it’s your hand on his cock or the absence of it that is worse. He feels you on his chest first. Flat and slow, you slide your palms toward the soft movement of his belly. Rub there, and make his thighs jump.
“Forgive me,” he mutters.
Your brows draw. “For what?”
There’s no answering without sounding the fool he is. For being easy. For being this touched by touch. For wanting too much from the wrong little acts. For the plain sight of himself in morning light, already thick with it and shamefully glad of your hand.
“There’s naught to forgive,” you say.
Duncan shuts his eyes. One hard swallow works through him when your palms slide to his hips in something he’d call preparedness, were he brave enough. You brace and he can feel your weight shifting. Then, warmth rests on his thigh. When he forces himself to look again, you’re curled on your side with your head pillowed on his legs.
“Is this all right?” you ask.
His first thought is that he has misunderstood you and ought to say so before he makes a greater fool of himself. The second is worse: that he has understood you perfectly and has no notion how to bear it. His thumb comes up to rub your cheek as if that touch might buy him one more moment before whatever this is asks to be named. He does not have the courage to ask what exactly you mean. So he only nods.
Your smile at that is small and knowing enough to make his stomach tighten. “And you’ve words for it, I’d reckon?” you ask.
Words. He thinks wildly of all the places where words should be and are not. His mouth has gone dry with the need to say something worthy of the weight of your head on him. He has no words for it. None fit to hand over clean. Still he says, “Aye. More than.”
That seems to please you. Or settle something in you. You shift closer still, circle his waist with your arms, and before he can work out what is there to do with his hands or face or breathing, you press your whole face, nose and cheeks and eyes, into his crotch. Every thought in him flies apart. “Tell me if it stops,” you hum, voice muffled into him.
Duncan goes hot to the roots of his hair. His hand is still at your cheek because he has forgotten to move it. The other grips at the bedroll so hard his knuckles pull.
You flatten him nearly whole to his groin. Chin on his sack, forehead to his crown, you breathe him all in and make the blood in him deepen for the looking alone. He fattens with wanting and has to tip his head back to not become too ready for disgrace.
Inhale. Exhale. Loud and warm, so warm on him. When he fills up enough, you give him a moment to man back up again, and look. He tries to not curl in on himself under that stare.
“Dunk,” you say quietly.
He drags a hand over his face. “Aye?”
“You’re staring at the sky as if it will open and save you.”
“It might.”
You’ve the gall to chuckle at him. “Has anyone ever—?”
No, and it makes something old and sore answer in him. He’s had his mouth on you plenty, and if a knight could choose a way to go that would be his first choice. The other way of it, Duncan knows from other men’s bragging and some women’s complaining. To him, it is a concept all too strange in its kindness. There’s naught use in it. The body he owns he was convinced is set on possessing and breeding only, until you came and showed him otherwise. From you, he’s had tender handling and palms that want to learn, instead of just getting through him. This seems almost too much to him. To be let in elsewhere than between the legs and with no purpose other than pleasing him.
“No one’s—” He grimaces, because he is a grown man and the words feel fifteen years too young in his mouth. “No one’s had me like this.”
Your hand rubs his belly. Too much. He nearly protests. Then your thumb strokes at the underside of him through cloth and all sense goes out under the morning like dew. “Would you like to be had like this?”
It sounds heavenly to be merely offered. Why you would, still eludes him. “You needn’t, girl,” he tells you. “There’s too much of me for it. And whatever for?”
You make a small offended sound at that. Your nose drags the length of him through the cloth. Then, your fingers find the waist of his breeches and begin working him loose of them. Duncan watches, tormented by the want of an answer, till it becomes plain you mean to give it in deeds before words. You tug. He gives in with a rough breath and lifts his hips enough for you to drag the linen down to mid-thigh.
Cool air finds him. So do your eyes, and before he can gather enough pride to cover himself, you bend and put one small kiss to the root of him. Duncan’s whole body jerks. His heel kicks hard against the bedroll. “S-seven—”
You tip your head. “Too much for whom?” Your hand settles along him, and mouth brushes the base again. There, you murmur, “I want you to mark me some more. You smell good here, Duncan.”
Wild things happen to him inside. You mean to wear him. The densest skin of him, and on your face, no less. When his eyes drop to you, he sees the size of him spanning you near chin to forehead, and he both can’t and can picture pressing himself into your mouth with absolute clarity. If only to slicken his cock enough so he can slide across your features with what carries his scent most severely.
His vision darkens, because the eyelids grow too heavy. Breathing proves difficult—Duncan has to let it come shallow and through the teeth only. He pants loudly, and licks his lips. Blood stumbles slow and dark through his temples and there, and lower, he throbs in rhythm with his heartbeat.
“T-take me,” he mouths. Nods. Swipes your hair to the side and holds it. Nods again, and clears his throat. “Take me,” he says again, bolder, covering your ear with his palm, and continues to nod.
Your mouth opens, and it becomes clear to Duncan that he knows nothing about his own body. The suckling at his base is so sweltering it borders oppressive. You make thorough work at the fold of skin that connects the root to sack and he experiences a phantom of sensation where he wants it most. In his mind, you’ve gone higher, while you haven’t moved an inch. Then, instead of licking upward his length, your mouth drops to the heft of his balls. You kiss them. Lick them. Let them rest on your nose and spill on either side of it. Take one wholly inside, then release as if he’s made of candy. Whatever blood was still lingering in the realm of thought, abandons it entirely.
“Sweetheart,” Duncan rasps. “My beloved—” Gasping as if air has thinned around him, he fights an impossible urge to take your face in both hands and drag himself across it raw. Mark you and have you scented with him. When he finds courage enough to look properly, he’s hit with a strange realisation that either he’s entirely comely looking between the legs, or it’s just your features that make everything around them prettier.
“You’re pretty,” he tells you. “You’re so pretty.”
He feels your smile more than sees it. It makes his cock jerk against the stomach. Then, once again, you rewrite what he knows: you come up with that terrible-for-dignity mouth of yours and slide it on his underside. He had expected teeth—mouths come with them. He’s apologised for his own scrape on you more than once, and thought, dimly, that this must be how softness pays the tax of meeting hardness. Yours come blunted by lips pulled over them and careful with it. They graze him only by accident, and each time so slight it leaves him none the wiser whether to mourn the loss of pain or thank every god that ever looked kindly on a fool. He cannot settle on either. There is no room in him for much besides this.
His skin pulls tight with the force of bliss. Whole of Duncan sets aflame where you touch him, and where you don’t, he ceases to exist. It is as though he has shrunk to the places where you choose to keep him and those alone remain alive. Every point you find rises up and batters him with pleasure till the rest of his body feels secondary, a crude frame only just sufficient to carry what is being done to him. And so, he’s currently living in the body of his own cock, licked thoroughly and lovingly, in the vein that pulses under the crown that you’re incredibly fond of, and finally the head comes to life too when you invite him inside.
“F-fuck,” he chokes. Loudly. Uselessly. It makes you laugh, and the whole thing worse.
Within a span of one shredded breath, he learns how sacrilegious mouths can be. How hot they can become. He sees what exactly it looks like when hard flesh fills soft one. Watches his girth vanish between your lips and it’s prurient and pure alike. The simple impossibility of being wanted like this makes all his blood turn over in one great wave. He had thought himself near tendered out already. He was wrong. There is more in him to break.
Your hand comes to aid you with the rest of him you can’t welcome and that too makes him thin out by degrees. All of the things nobody’s told him about. He’s associated hollowing cheeks with disgust and growing older. Mouths drooling out the corners with sickness. Glassy eyes and damp foreheads with fever. Clammy palms with nerves. And all of them, gathered here in you, amount to devotion so brutal Duncan would never have believed such a shape for it if you had not put it on before his eyes. It shakes him with the tenderness of it, with the wrongness of having gone so long without knowing that such sights could mean goodness instead of grief.
Before he gets to go all maudlin with it, you grow bolder, wicked creature. Take him deeper. An inch, then another, until he’s no longer just in the mouth—he’s traversing father, where it becomes throat. He feels the difference all through his thighs first. They jump and shake a little with the force of holding back from the spilling. The whole of his torso bows over you as if dragged on hooks. Both hands come to your face, cupping your jaw, temples, the back of your head, like he’d rather wrench you off himself than burst inside just yet.
“Wait,” he says. “Wait—oh, Gods—”
By the look in your eye Duncan guesses you’d chuckle if there were enough air in your lungs. But you do just what he asks for. You wait. Hold him there as if you mean to make him understand what he is to you by sheer force of taking. Then, your own medicine gets the better of you and by one arrogant swallow (that is by no means merciful to him), a gag catches you. The groan he responds with near splits his throat open.
You come off him to breathe, chin all drooled over and mouth glossy. Keep fisting him all the while, slow and sure and almost kindly in the aftermath of such violence. Duncan stares down, chest heaving. Your cheeks are damp with the spill of it too. You let your head stay in his hands as if it belongs there.
The trust of that turns him savage with want. He hauls you up. Simply transports your face close to his and then your mouth is back to being eaten cleanly off by him before you can say any wise thing against it. He kisses you hard and deep and half beside himself, takes the wet at you, the cold spit off you, the ghost of his own flesh left on your tongue. None of it wasted. He wants it all back and everywhere.
“Evil woman,” he rasps into you. Kisses you again. Rougher. More helplessly. “I want—I want—” Keeps kissing. It’s distracting—you smell of him, fully now. Of his cock, of the crease of his thigh and the hair that grows there. He’s possessed with it, and overjoyed all the same.
“What?” you ask, dazed. “What do you want?”
Duncan squeezes his eyes shut. Shakes his head once, the motion small and wretched in his great body. “I cannot say it.”
You study him for half a second. Then kiss him. A swift press, your teeth catching his lower lip at the end of it, enough to make him flinch and grunt in the same instant. “Then show me,” you say.
Your face slips from Duncan’s hands and they stay where they are, hovering uselessly in the air. Then, they fall. He watches you go, down the whole plane of his bowed chest, to return to your place on his thigh as if that is where you were meant to be all along. You kiss the little notch just below the tip and murmur again, “Show me, Dunk.”
He groans for it. Deep and put-upon and already half gone. “I’ll stop if you say it.”
You smile. Nod once. “I won’t. But aye, I will tell you.”
That gets a huff out of him, impatient and fond. He glances down at himself, then at you, then back again like he’s trying to line up some impossible act with enough care so it might come out nearer worship than filth. His hand closes round himself. He spits into the palm and onto his cock, watches it pearl and drag and run in crooked little lines to either side. Before he can smooth it proper, you do. Your mouth, your cheek, all of your face catches and spreads it better than his hand ever could.
“Whole of the Moon,” Duncan mutters, thick with wonder, “just for a fool like me.”
He bands his thumb below the head and fits himself carefully to your shape. The base comes to your mouth. The middle lies along your nose. The crown settles above your brow. He rests there two heartbeats, stunned by the sight of himself spanning you so wholly.
Then, he moves. Slow first. Hardly more than a rock of the hips. Yet every inch of him lights with it. He feels the difference of you all along his length in separate bright little shocks. Your cheeks, plump and tacky, give under the pass of thin skin and cling after. Your nose flattens some where he drags over it, then springs back when he eases down. The hollow over your eye catches him warmer than the rest and sends a fierce little pulse all the way up under his ribs. Your brow is coarser with the grain of hair there. It scuffs him sweet anyway. The whole of it flares him right up through the chest till he is breathing like someone coming uphill with a wound.
He keeps his eyes on it all. Cannot look anywhere else. Your face beneath him. The wet shine he leaves. The little shifts you make to fit him better. The way your lashes knock your cheek when you blink under the pass of his cock. Duncan has no thought in his head worth the name. Only the sight.
“Gods,” he says. “Gods.”
His hips move a little farther this time. He lets the head of him brush your hairline and come back down the bridge of your nose, then lower till the weight of him settles at your mouth again. The lower lip catches. Clings. He near loses all sense from that alone. Then you open.
Wide enough. Mouth parts under him, tongue rolling out slow and pink and glossy with the wet you have already made of him. It catches on his sack, and Duncan jolts.
Moans, filthiest he’s ever heard himself. He presses down by pure instinct, more into your tongue, the hot little stroke of it, and the world narrows further still. It glides at the root and the weight of him drags over your face, and he is suddenly split between two pleasures so base and so exact that he can only answer by giving himself to both.
He starts rocking proper. Always slow. Transfixed by every second. The base of him smears your mouth. His length slides along you in one long wet pass after another. The head leaves shining trails where it goes. Your tongue keeps finding him low, petting the heavy skin there, and every time it does his breath roughens into something near a sob.
“That’s it,” he mutters, voice gone low and thick. “Aye. Hold there. Let me—”
He cannot even say what he means to let. Let himself? Let the beast in him have this one foolish glorious thing? Let the scent of him go all over you till any fool with a nose would know you had been under a man’s hands and more gladly under his?
Whatever it is, he does.
His thumb keeps the head angled. His hips work patient and intent. Along him he feels every change in the map of your face and learns it with crude affection. Here your cheek swells softer. Here the line of your nose makes him draw a sharper breath. Here the corner of your mouth catches and sends a hot little stab clear through his gut. Here your tongue comes again to him and all his great rough body flinches like a weed of grass.
You make a small sound under him. Half hum. Half moan. It trembles through his cock and up his spine.
Duncan nearly bares his teeth for the force of what it does. “Sweetheart,” he says, brokenly. “You’ll have me clean mad.”
And you will, for he keeps giving himself to your features, painting your face with spit and scent and the whole blind need of him. By now you shine where he has been. He loves the sight so much it begins to hurt.
More than that, he loves that you let him see you in it. That you do not flinch away. That when he pauses from the sheer assault of feeling, your tongue reaches again and tells him without words to continue.
So he does, with less mercy than before. Only a little. Only enough that the drag of his cock grows firmer and more intent, until his breath is coming openly loud and his thighs have begun to tremble with the strain of imminent spending.
He looks down and sees you under him, eyes gone strange with it, mouth slack, and the tenderness of that almost unmans him worse than the vulgarity. “My girl,” he says, witless, and drags himself over you so perversely reverential it leaves him light-headed. Then more. Then more. Then more, and Duncan notices his own mouth is drooling, and his balls ache, and his belly is pulled taut and he’s gone so loud and grunting above you, he ought to stop now, or—
“I will—” he pants. “Oh, I will—”
You grab his wrist. Pin him where he’s pinned himself. “Gods, yes—” he wheezes. “M’girl, yes—”
The spill is wrenched out of him and does not look like it means to stop. Duncan comes with humiliating abundance, ropes after ropes of his seed painting you all milky. It hits your face warm. More lands at your throat. More at the corner of your eye. He keeps jerking through it, shudders running out of him so hard his teeth click, and all the while he has to watch what he is doing to you.
You lie there and take it. Still as a saint in a chapel painting, if saints were ever made for this sort of worship. Warm, shining, covered in him, and so beautiful under the mess of it that some deep squalid part of Duncan straightens with pride through the wreckage. There is no waste in it, if it ends on you.
Another pulse goes. Then another. Thinner. Meaner. His cock jumps against your face with each one till at last the force begins to ebb and leaves him hanging over you, trembling in every joint and too shocked by the extent of himself to move cleanly away.
You blink through it. Seed slips from your lashes. You go motionless for a beat, only breathing, and then—creature that you are—you put your tongue to your lip and taste what caught there.
Duncan makes a wounded sound. “You didn’t say,” he mutters, dazed. “You didn’t say—”
You only chuckle. Wipe at one eye with the heel of your hand and make the mess worse for a moment before the cloth of your sleeve catches any of it. Then you reach for him blindly.
That sobers him enough to act. He catches your wrists and draws you upright. One hand keeps you steady while the other gropes for the nearest bit of cloth with any decency left in it. He finds one of his shirts in a heap and puts it to you all with hands still untrustworthy. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Gods, I’m so sorry.”
That makes you laugh properly. Full and wicked and soft with it. Duncan looks up from the work of cleaning you and winces because there is still some of him clinging.
When he has wiped enough for you to see him proper again, you throw your arms round his neck and kiss him. He flinches. Lets you. Melts for it within the same breath.
You taste oddly, but he doesn’t mislike it. He goes still in your hold and then gives in, mouth parting under yours with all the caution of a man entering church after a long absence. One hand comes up to the back of your head. The other, still balled round the shirt, drops uselessly to his thigh.
“I’m not,” you tell him when you part. He stares. You stare back longer. Too long for innocence. The sun has climbed a little while he was busy making a disgrace of himself. It finds your face through the leaves and catches where you have dried with him and where you are still damp. Duncan’s eyes go to those places and stay there like a fool’s.
Then you ask, “How do I smell now?”
That question hollows him out. His lids lower. He leans in before answering, because there is no honest answer to be had from this distance. His nose finds your cheek first, then the side of your mouth, then your brow. He breathes once. Deep. Shudders for it.
“Like mine,” he says. “All over.” He noses at your throat next, slower. “Like morning after rain got dragged through a bed.” Another breath, this one against your temple. “Like trouble.” His mouth brushes the corner of yours. “Like something I’ll think on till I go mad.”
That seems to please you far too much.
Duncan sees the shape of the smile coming and gives up the last poor piece of dignity he has left. He hooks an arm round your waist, drags you into him, and buries his face in the side of your neck once more, breathing you in.
“Do not ask such things now,” he mutters there. “Or ask them. I do not know. Only do not look pleased when you do. It unmakes me.”
✿ your husband returns to you under the influence of a strange powder, and he needs you more than anything (or, a sex pollen oneshot with our favourite hedge knight)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7k
✿ cw: fem!reader + no y/n, reader isn’t physically described, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, outdoor sex, multiple orgasms (for both reader and dunk), praise!!, breeding!!, pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), slight overstimulation, slight painful sex in the beginning, needy + desperate dunk (he whinesss baby), fluff, strong language
Duncan lumbers through the crowded market streets, his large frame parting the tide of people who flow around him like water. He keeps one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other clutching a small pouch of sweets. Your favourite, he knows, coated in sugar with a treacle-sweet centre. He smiles to himself, imagining the look of joy that will pass over your face, seeing that your husband has brought you your favourite sweets, rather than the bread he claimed to have been craving.
Dunk ducks beneath a low-hanging awning as he winds his way between the stalls and through passageways between rickety buildings. The town reminds him a lot of Flea Bottom, and the shadows that dance through the walkways have a painful kind of nostalgia washing through him.
“Oi, watch it!”
Dunk startles, eyes shooting onwards where a market vendor, an angry vein bulging across his grime-coated forehead, points at an elderly woman wrapped in colourful shawls. Apples in reds and greens roll across the flagstones, a wooden box tipped on its side.
The vendor moves as though to strike the woman, but Dunk gets there first—somehow, he slips through the dispersing crowd and clamps a large hand around the vendor’s wrist. The vendor looks up, and up further, taking in the sheer size of Duncan, and the scowl on his face vanishes, melting back into the shadows.
“You will not lay your hand upon a woman,” Dunk growls, and then proceeds to shove the vendor away.
The vendor yelps, clutching at his bruising wrist—Dunk didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man that hard—while the hedge knight turns and squats, gathering the apples from the cobbles. When he returns them to the upturned box, he hefts it easily in one hand and peers down at the woman with a sympathetic smile.
“Are you alright?” He asks.
The woman smiles softly, reaching up to pat him gently on the forearm. “I am, my dear, thank you.”
Dunk nods to the box in his hand. “Does this belong to you?”
“I just purchased it,” the woman replies sheepishly. “But it seems my arms and hands do not work as well as they used to.”
“Well, my arms and hands work plenty fine,” Dunk says with a smile. “And my wife says I’m the best at carrying her things, so I shall carry the crate for you.”
The elderly woman smiles again, reaching up to pat Dunk’s cheek, before she turns, the pinks and greens and golds of her shawls swishing around her. She smells of powdery lavender incense and wax soap, and for the briefest of moments, Dunk is reminded of what little he recalls of his mother.
He follows her down the narrow lane after shooting one last threatening look at the vendor. She looks largely out of place amongst the common folk who traverse the market streets dressed in browns and greys, fraying cotton and stained linen. She is colourful, eccentric, her skin dark and clean of any age spots, the wrinkles shallow. She didn’t appear as old as Dunk first thought, but maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention.
After a few minutes of walking, the woman leads Dunk through a small, dark alcove, and stops outside a wooden door painted a forest green, a brass knocker resembling a lion mounted to the front. She unlocks and pushes open the door, and Dunk is hit with a thick aroma of herbs and flowers.
“May I bother you to bring them inside?” The woman asks softly.
“Of course,” Dunk replies instantly, and he stoops low to avoid the overhang of the doorway, following the woman inside, where the hall opens up into a room full of things.
Shelves line every wall, bottles and jars of liquids and powders filling them. They shine in different colours, different consistencies, and the smell that accumulates at Dunk’s head-height makes him slightly dizzy. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling—which the giant man finds out when he is smacked in the face by a bundle of desiccated spices.
Dunk places the crate of apples onto a table in the middle of the room, the wood clinking against several empty and half-filled bottles across the surface. When he rights himself, the elderly woman places her hand on his forearm once more. Her fingers are almost completely obscured by stacks of gold rings, and the bangles around her wrists jingle like chimes as she pets him like a child would a cat.
“I thank you for your kindness,” she tells him. “You will make yourself a fine knight one day.”
Dunk doesn’t think twice about the fact the lady knew he was to be a knight, but the compliment makes him burst with pride regardless. He dips his head respectfully, hand pressing to his chest in a sign of good faith.
“It was no problem at all.”
“Here, allow me to give you something in return,” the woman says, and turns to the lines of shelves behind her, fingers flitting across jars.
Dunk shakes his head, clearing his throat as his hand, once again, comes to rest against the pommel of his sword. He’s trying to appear more noble, but when he stands up straight, he hits the crown of his head on a low wooden beam, making him grunt.
“There is no need,” Dunk says around a hiss, rubbing the top of his head. “I do not—”
The woman points to a jar on the very top shelf, one she cannot reach, interrupting Dunk smoothly. “May you retrieve that one for me?”
Dunk bites his tongue and does what he is told. His large fingers pinch around the small jar the woman wants, and through the tempered glass he can see a yellow powder that seems to sparkle as it catches the low light of suspended candles. He hands it to the woman, who thanks him and pops the cork with a flick of her thumb.
She turns to face him. “When was the last time you lay with your wife?”
“I—” Dunk chokes on his spit. “I beg your—”
“I suppose we have seen the face of the sun many times since you have?” The woman taps the rim of the jar against her outstretched palm, collecting some of the powder. Dunk notices the traces of pink amongst the yellow. “Nearly twelve nights gone? You poor thing.”
Dunk stammers, but can’t articulate words.
Okay, maybe it has been that long, but only initially because your moon blood had arrived. The two of you usually had no qualms with being intimate whilst you bled, but you were particularly tender, and no amount of stretch from your husband’s tongue and fingers seemed to eliminate the ache, so you both decided against it.
Then, even when your blood had passed, the two of you travelling tirelessly for several days straight had meant Dunk did not want you to exert too much energy, even when you did plead with him.
The fact this woman knows that has suspicion, not quite fear, passing through him like a phantom.
“Your wife longs for you, and yet here you are, resorting to obtaining sweets to ease her qualms,” the woman says, and now Dunk is slightly creeped out. The bag of sweets hangs against his hip, fastened to the rope belt around his waist. The woman chuckles softly. “And that is why I believe this will be as good a reward as any.”
She lifts her palm and proceeds to blow the yellowy-pink powder directly into Dunk’s face. He sucks in a startled breath and it fills his lungs like smoke, his mouth tasting the sweetness of ripened grapes and honeyed wine. Quickly, he screws his eyes shut, but the powder lingers already in his lashline, and when he blinks, his vision seems brighter.
“What the—?” Dunk lifts his hand and wipes it down his face, stumbling back slightly.
“It is harmless to your overall health, and the effects will fade when you…” She hesitates, and then pats him on the chest. “Are satisfied, although that may take some effort. Now, be gone with you, Ser Duncan. You have a wife to return too.”
The woman, with surprising strength, spins Dunk around and pushes him out the door. It slams closed behind him, and he stands there with his head spinning, wondering how on earth she even knew his name.
In the shadows of the alcove, he catches his breath, which comes in increasingly laboured pants as his entire body begins to light up with warmth. His clothes feel too sticky against his skin, the back of his neck prickling, his temples dampening. The rope around his hips is too tight, the sword hanging there too heavy.
“Gods above, what is happening to me?” Dunk whispers to himself, looking down at his body as something stirs low in the pit of his stomach.
He thinks of you, waiting so patiently back at the campsite. He groans softly, reaching a hand down to press flat against his groin, where his cock is slowly beginning to harden in his breeches. The thought of you sitting against a tree, maybe mending one of his cloaks, or sharpening one of his blades, has a dizzy sort of pleasure seizing his brain.
Dunk whimpers your name, and stumbles out into the streets. He needs to get to you.
—✿—
The sky above is alight with oranges and pinks as the sun slowly begins to sink below the distant horizon. You watch it calmly, the forest around you quiet and serene, the sound of the nearby river washing through you and instilling a sense of calm. Your hand moves where you clutch your bone-handled blade, slicing it, bit-by-bit, through a small chunk of wood. It now resembles a horse, for the most part. You have taken up carving as a means of passing time, and selling the little statues earns you a bit of coin.
Your serenity is interrupted by the snapping of twigs and approaching footsteps. Several yards away, your horses do not startle, but you grip your knife tightly anyway as the footsteps encroach louder, then louder still. But you can hear the heavy thuds and the wide gait, and a small smile splits across your face when you recognise your husband’s footsteps.
You place your carving and knife aside, dusting the wood shavings from your hands as you get to your feet. Dunk appears through the tree line and your smile grows when you see him.
“Dunk!” You greet him. “I’ve been waiting…”
You take a moment to look at your husband as he walks towards you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a bright blush painting his cheeks. His eyes appear watery, and as he draws nearer, the hot skin of his face seems to shimmer with something iridescent.
He towers over you, and out of instinct, you reach up and cup your palms to his cheeks. His eyes fall closed and he groans, throaty and loud. He’s feverish, molten-hot. You smell overripe grapes, lavender and honeycakes as he shifts, ripping his cloak from his body and tossing it to the ground.
“What has happened to you?” You ask, concern overcoming you as your hands brace down his neck and chest now, feeling the rabbit-like thumping of his heart.
Dunk groans again, eyes opening to watch your hands work down his abdomen. A shudder racks through him when your hands stop at the waistband of his trousers, your eyes widening as you spot the straining imprint of his cock. Your eyes lift, sparkling in the evening light, and Dunk swears that look alone could have made him spill in his breeches.
“Have you taken something?” You question quietly, finding the knot of his rope belt. You unfasten and unravel it, hefting the sword too and placing it on the ground. Dunk watches with his hands balled into fists. He’ll tell you about the sweets later. You peer back up at him again. “Duncan?”
His name leaving your lips forces him to his knees. A whine rips from the back of his throat as he drops, and you gasp as his knees crackle through dried leaves. His hands reach out, encircling around your hips as he lines himself up with your abdomen, his mouth pressing to your stomach.
Your hands card through his hair, worried. “Dunk, my love?”
“A woman… she gave me something—blew a powder into my face,” Dunk gasps out, leaning his burning cheek against you, listening to your breathing. “Says I will… says it will feel better when I am sat–satisfied.”
You frown. “Satisfied?”
Dunk nods, nuzzling into you. His hips shift as well, and suddenly you feel the tent of his trousers pressing to your leg through your skirts. A soft gasp escapes you as you continue to card your fingers through his hair, tussling the longish brown locks.
You know what he means by satisfied, considering his cock seems to be burning hot through both the fabric of his breeches and trousers, and the material of your simple dress.
“It hurts,” Dunk mutters, mouthing at your dress now, lips pressing to the softness of your belly. The fabric wets with his saliva as his tongue darts out, dragging over the linen. You grimace and thread your fingers against his scalp, holding him firmly and dragging his head away. He whimpers loudly, eyes flying open as he whines out, “Hurts so bad, sweetheart.”
Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest, your stomach churning with worry. You don’t want your husband hurting, but what was really wrong with him? He had left to the market for bread or something of the sort, and returned, not only empty-handed, but flushed with desire with his trousers practically ripping at the seams.
“Duncan…” You continue to grip his hair so he can’t literally lick your dress. “What hurts? You need to tell me.”
Dunk groans as your other hand shifts back to his cheek, stroking the warmed flesh. He leans into the touch with drooping eyelids, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black in the fading light of dusk.
“My—” Dunk blows out a breath as if battling something in his brain. “My… oh gods, my love, I can’t say—I just can’t—”
You know what he wants to say. You know it when his hips twitch and he drags the imprint of his cock against your leg once more.
Something warm is blooming in your core now too. The sight of your husband on his knees before you, clutching you as if you were keeping him alive, feverish in his pleasure, has you starting to leak into the gusset of your smallclothes. Heat fills your tummy as you stroke his cheek, the tips of your fingers collecting a shimmering film of yellow and pink dust. It seems to be trapped in his pores, coating his freckles as he peers up at you.
You massage his scalp, which is damp with sweat. “Does your cock hurt, sweet boy?”
The words feel too alien coming from your mouth, much too crude for a lady, but the shock that passes over your husband’s face is euphoric to your slowly dampening core. His mouth drops open, his tongue practically lolling out like a tired hound, as a groan rumbles from his chest and he starts to nod. His cock presses to your thigh and he tries to grind himself against you, but you tug on his hair to get him to stop.
“Well, tell me what you need me to do,” you whisper down at him. “I can help you. You just need to be a good boy and tell me what you need, okay?”
Dunk groans. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—I can be good. I just—I just need you, pl-please, my love, I need you.”
You coo at him. “Need me? I’m right here, Dunk.”
“No,” he whines out, leaning his forehead against your stomach. You let him. He groans again, this time more high-pitched, bordering on a whimper. “Need your…”
“Need my…?”
“Gods, my heart is going to implode,” Dunk huffs as an aside. “Please—”
“What do you need, Dunk?” You ask firmly, gripping his hair and forcing him away from your stomach. The broken sound that leaves him almost makes you feel bad, but you need him to make some kind of sense before you give him anything. You know exactly what he wants, but he needs to work for it.
Dunk licks his lips, looking you up and down, and the words that leave his mouth sound like nothing you’ve ever heard from him in the entire time you’ve known him. His tone is dark with need, but still light enough to know his words are edging around a whine. “Need your pussy. Need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. Need to pump you so full that—”
He cuts himself off with a low moan as you push his head down, pinning him and muffling the rest of his rambling against the fabric covering your mound. His mouth laves over the linen straight away, and the heat that overtakes you threatens to burn you from the inside out.
“Come on then, my boy,” you whisper, rubbing his scalp gently, your other hand smoothing down the strong expanse of his shoulders. “Help me out of this dress and I can give you what you want.”
Dunk grunts in relief as he hurries to his feet and spins you around so fast you feel dizzy. He walks you back a few paces until you can brace your hands against the coarse bark of a tree as he pulls at the ties along the back of your dress. He rips the knots undone, large hands trembling as he makes quick work of unthreading the ribbons he himself had tied earlier that morning.
His movements are harsh. Gods, he’s trying to be gentle, but he just can’t help it.
“Duncan…” You grumble, jostled as he tugs and pulls.
“M’sorry,” he slurs as, giving up on the last few ribbons, he hooks his fingers beneath the silky strings and rips them. You gasp as he practically pulls your dress apart, the sound of material tearing filling the forest as your dress loosens around your shoulders and breasts. Dunk slurs again, “M’so sorry, sweet girl.”
He pulls you to him as he drags your dress from your body, leaving you in your smallclothes as you kick the mass of skirts away. The chemise follows—Dunk pulls it over your head and spins you around at the same time, and you yelp at the speed of it all. Your breasts spill out into the cool air of the forest and his head ducks immediately, mouth attaching to a hardening nipple as one of his large hands finds the other. He kneads it as he drops to his knees once more, sucking harshly whilst his other hand finds your smallclothes.
“Dunk,” you call for him through a whine as he tugs them down, and you barely have time to send them away from your ankles before he’s ripping your legs apart.
His mouth drops from your tits, skims briefly over the soft skin of your tummy, before his nose is dragging down your mound and burrowing between your legs.
You gasp. “Dunk, oh my—”
“Need this,” Dunk grumbles. “Gods, need this. Got to—y’gotta give it to me, sweetheart.”
He inhales deeply, and the sensation makes you squeal and squirm, your back arching against the tree. Your hands find his damp hair again, tugging. But it’s no deterrent—the giant inhales again, this time followed by a loud, unabashed moan that sends the birds above flying from their roosts. The forest seems to echo with it, and you can feel the heat of his face burning deeper as he buries himself against you. You feel his mouth split open, warm lips parting for his tongue to curl outwards. He licks through your folds as another groan spills, the vibrations buzzing through you like bees trapped in a jar.
Your hands shift from his head to his shoulders, and you tug at the fabric of his tunic.
“Dunk,” you say hurriedly. “Off.”
He removes himself from you with a grunt, letting you help him in flinging his tunic off. It lands somewhere in the distance. Dunk doesn’t care though, descending between your legs again and drawing your clit into his mouth with one harsh suck. It makes you yowl, fingernails biting crescents into the freckled skin of his shoulders. His skin is sticky with sweat and impossibly warm.
With another animalistic grunt, Dunk takes one of your legs and tosses it over his shoulder. The new angle allows him to drive his tongue into your drooling hole, and the abruptness makes you keen into him, hips twitching as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit. Blood pools low beneath the skin, simmering hot in your nerves as he ruts his tongue inside you, each movement eliciting a gravelly groan from the depths of his chest.
His other hand unties the knots of his trousers. He pushes the fabric away with fumbling fingers and pulls his aching cock out of his breeches, the material on the front wet with precum. When his fingers wrap around the length—hot iron wrapped in a sheath of velvet—and the sword callouses on his palm rub against a vein on the underside, his vision whites behind his eyelids. The pleasure is almost painful, the pressure pulling heavily at his cockhead, bruising a purplish-red. Precum leaks from the slit in a continuous rivulet that has his heart knocking against his sternum.
His balls are tight already, and as he tastes you, listening to the light whimpers that fall from your mouth, he realises he’s going to spill. He realises it as his precum wets his palm, his hand gliding without him even needing to spit on it. He realises it as his cock twitches heavily in his hand, again and again; that unmistakable pressure in his lower spine and belly building. He wants to let it happen—he rucks his hips, meeting the movements of his hand, fucking his fist. Grunts muffle in your wet pussy as he chases his high, your thigh warm on his ear.
The precipice of pleasure is right there, but he can’t reach it.
He strokes his cock, twists at the base, tastes the heady scent of you dripping down the back of his throat, but he can’t come.
“Dunk,” you call sweetly, tipsy on pleasure. “Oh, gods, Dunk, keep going.”
It feels like Dunk’s entire face is wet: the upper portion damp with sweat, the lower portion shining with your slick. His mouth moves against you like he’s kissing you, lips spreading and tongue curling. He breathes you in, moaning softly, head bobbing as he continues to fist his cock. It’s nearly trembling in his hand, and you can feel Dunk shivering as he chases a release that refuses to let go.
You can hear him fucking his fist over the wet slurps of his tongue against your pussy. As the forest darkens around you, your ears ring with it, your bare back scratching against the tree trunk as you rock your hips. His mouth is searing hot, forged from the very fires of Dragonstone.
Your thigh quivers over his shoulder as you speak. “Duncan, m’gonna come.”
Your only response is a deep grunt that vibrates your puffy clit, and that has your legs locking up even tighter. Pleasure takes deep root in the base of your spine, and it spreads as you take, take, take, until you topple into your orgasm. It rocks through you, and you hold him tightly, rocking your hips as you spasm around his tongue. Chants of his name roll easily over your lips, and he groans nicely against you as he fucks you through it.
Dunk pulls away after a couple of seconds. His breathing is ragged, lips wet, chest flushed red. He’s still fisting his cock, and you look down at him, meeting his round, watery eyes as he nuzzles against the thigh still draped over his shoulder.
“I…” He breathes in deeply. “I can’t—oh, fuck, I can’t—”
His hand is moving so fast. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, and you gingerly remove your thigh from his shoulder. Then, you tap his head.
“Stand up for me, Dunk,” you say gently, trailing a nail along the dip of his clavicle. “I’ll help you, I promise.”
Your husband springs to his feet before you even finish speaking, pushing his trousers and breeches all the way off.
He continues to grasp his cock. It leans forward under the weight of his pleasure, and you both groan when he rubs the head against the soft skin above your navel. Precum spreads across your skin, and when he pulls back, a sticky string connects you two for just a moment. You whimper his name when the string snaps, and he draws in a sharp, almost pained breath.
“Inside,” he whispers, more to himself than you. He drags the head of his cock down as he bends at the knee. “Need… yeah, need to be inside.”
The angle is slightly awkward—he’s just a bit too big—but he makes it work, stooping low as he angles your legs apart. The head of his cock finds the tight hole of your cunt, and he presses it there with surprising restraint.
“M’sorry,” Dunk breathes, leaning forward to mouth at your throat. You arch, and he purrs, pleased, as you willingly give yourself up to him. He kisses your jaw softly. “M’sorry, sweet girl, m’not gonna… I can’t wait. Jus’ need you, s-so jus’ be good, okay? I’ll try—I’ll try t’be gentle, my love. I’ll try for you.”
The head of his cock slips past the ring of your pussy, and you suck in a breath at the stretch. Wide, splitting, and no matter how wet you are, how long he took in stretching you open on his tongue or fingers, there was always a battle of bodies. Always a push to get him fully seated inside you, the tight walls of your cunt clutching around the thick intrusion.
You whimper his name again, nails needling into the tawny freckles along his shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Dunk chants, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel you tensing against him, but he doesn’t stop.
He’s overwhelmed: the heat of your pussy draws his cock in further, his mind going blank, the taste of grapes and lavender aromatic in the grooves of his molars, and leaking from his pores.
His cock slides in further, parting the wet walls of your pussy inch by inch. “Please take it, sweet girl. Please just—fuck, take it.”
It hurts. He’s too fucking big, and he knows it.
You writhe against the tree, standing on your tip-toes now as he drives slowly into you. You're thankful he’s at least easing in bit by bit. You’re not sure you would have survived if he simply took you in one fell thrust.
But at the same time, it feels incredible. The sting of the stretch is underlined by that usual, aching pleasure that festers deep in your pelvis. You feel it as the ridges of his cock run against your posterior wall, splitting you apart, rubbing you the right way. Your heartbeat thrums heavily in your clit, and your back arches against the tree, fingernails now scraping down his broad back.
“Dunk,” you whimper as he feeds his cock into you.
He groans against your throat, sucking harshly. The sound of his name on your mouth, so sweet, so beautiful, snaps whatever composure he had been holding onto. With another guttural groan, Dunk surges forward, jolting his hips inwards and stuffing the rest of his cock inside you.
You cry out, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. He’s rough, his pace coming in quick, brutal thrusts, and he’s panting against your dewy skin all the while. His body shakes against yours as he pulls his cock out, then shoves it back in. You yowl like an injured animal, and Dunk’s heart flutters in his chest.
“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry—” It rambles from him like a mantra but his hips don’t slow. He spreads you apart, girth still too thick, length still too long. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know, but just… gods, just stay like that. Please, sweet girl, be good for me.”
Your back scrapes against the tree as his movements propel you. You’re practically bouncing against him, barely even touching the ground anymore as he takes what he needs. The slide of his cock does hurt, but your walls mould around him like clay. Made for him.
The heat and wetness of your pussy sends him over the edge, and you feel it. You feel him go rigid against you, muscles stiffening as his hips buck. His thrusts grow sloppy, seconds blurring together as his balls tighten and his cock twitches deep inside you. You feel it, feel it nudging up against the plug of your cervix as his hips roll. Then, with a rasping moan of your name, he spills inside you. Deep inside you. Warmth floods your lower belly, through the hollow of your womb as his hips jerk, his mouth biting and sucking at your neck.
And he keeps spilling. It fills you to the brim, and you can’t help but whimper as it drools out from around his cock. With a slightly disgruntled huff, Dunk pulls out, leaning back to look at where his cock hangs, still stiff, between his legs. Cum seeps from the slit, spider-web strings drooling from you too, and the sight almost has him coming again.
But he’s still hard.
“S’not…” Dunk’s brows furrow, and he slants his hips forward to drag his cock against your thigh. You squirm and whine as he wipes his cum across your skin, and then moan when the head prods back at your hole. Dunk whimpers. “S’not enough, need more.”
Then, he’s thrusting back in again. The forest’s shadows engulf you both as he slots himself inside of you, the glide quick and wet and audible as he drives home. You choke on a gasp, hands clutching his shoulders. Your legs are cramping, your back stinging, your pussy aching—but it all softens around the edges as Dunk ruts into you again and again.
“Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, please.”
Your husband lifts his head and finally kisses you. For the first time tonight, he slots his mouth against yours. The moan that leaves him has your cunt clenching tightly around the thick of his cock, and one of your hands finds the back of his neck as your tongues meet. It’s an intricate dance, but Dunk's movements are just too desperate to stick to the practised moves—his tongue is breaching, too thick and too strong, flattening against yours roughly. You swap spit, and he pants into the kiss as he chases your tongue and licks over the points of your teeth. It’s sloppy and messy and everything Dunk needs.
His hands are on your waist. Big, encompassing, fingers dimpling the flesh. His cock stretches you open, his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your arse as he ruts you against the tree. The wet sounds of you coming together echo softly through the forest, the sun sunk beyond the horizon now, shadows stretching far and flitting across your connected frames.
“Being so good,” Dunk mutters, licking over your parted lips. It makes you whimper, and your bottom teeth catch his lip. He groans when you release him after a playful nip. “Gods, always so good for me. Needed this so bad, sweetheart. Needed you so bad.”
“Dunk,” you mewl, scratches red along his big shoulders.
Your cunt squeezes tightly around him, another release building deep in your stomach: that same feeling as minutes before, a traction building along your spine as he fucks you. Dunk mouths along your jaw, panting into your ear as his thrusts start to stammer, and before you can react, he’s pulling you away from the tree and manhandling you to the ground. His hard cock slips out of you, the sensation forcing you to suck in a breath as his seed all but drools from your gaping cunt, the cool forest air a sudden stimuli as you’re spun around.
You let out a light grunt as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, which find the wool of his discarded cloak. Leaves crinkle softly beneath your weight as your back arches and the warmth of Duncan appears behind you. Large, calloused hands trail up your sides, kneading your waist, before dragging back down and palming the curve of your arse.
Dunk gazes at you through the semi-darkness. “Prettiest girl in the realm, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”
He grunts, then grips the base of his cock. It shines with your slick, wet with his spend too, and he slaps the thick head against one of your arsecheeks. You huff, and he drags the tip down the split of your arse until it ghosts across your hole—just lightly enough to make you draw in an anticipatory breath—before it finds your pussy.
“This is mine,” Dunk utters, and you almost don’t hear him. Even in the relative silence of the forest, his words are so quiet you could have mistaken them for the nearby river. Dunk circles his tip through your soaking folds before notching it and pushing in again. The groan that leaves his mouth makes you shiver. “This—fuck—this fuckin’ pussy, s’all mine. Hey, sweet girl, isn’t that right? Yeah? Tell me this is all mine.”
He thrusts in and you shout, voice carrying through the forest.
“Huh?” Dunk thrusts again, hard and fast. The angle drives him deep against you, tip knocking against the plug of your cervix. He leans over you, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair messy, cheeks pink. His hands pull your arse back onto his pelvis, meeting you thrust for thrust. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Need—need you to tell me. Please.”
You don’t know what that woman gave him, but you can see what it’s done to him. You can hear what it’s done, and feel what it’s done.
His rutting is brutal, his cock driving deep towards your womb, your belly full of him. Your arms shake where you hold yourself up, sweat damp in the crook of your elbows as you fist his cloak. It smells like him, and that makes the whines trapped in your throat break free.
“It’s yours, Dunk,” you manage to say as he leans over you, his body hot and too fucking big pressed against your lower spine. You gasp when one of his hands wraps around your hip and heads south, a finger finding your swollen clit. “Oh, fuck, it’s yours.”
Dunk draws a tight circle over the bud, marvelling in the way your pussy immediately tightens around him. “Yeah it is. Gods, I’m the luckiest man in all the seven kingdoms.”
You don’t correct him.
Your body trembles beneath his, and it’s almost like you can feel his cock swelling inside you. He’s impossibly thick, the ridges and veins sliding against the velvet of your walls, the head nailing that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Dunk always knows how to make you feel good, can always get you to where you want to go, but this is something entirely different. There’s an intensity within him you’ve never seen before. A feverish need that’s overtaken him, that flows from his pores, that infects every fibre of his being.
It makes you keen, back arching, listening to the way he grunts with each of his movements, cock splitting you open, heavy balls slapping against your clit as his fingers work against it too. The meat of his muscles are warm against you, solid and sturdy, holding you in place. It all adds to the sensation.
Another orgasm is quickly pulled through your body, and Dunk praises you through it as it crests like a wave.
“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he coos as you come around him, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Your spine dips, hips stuttering, and Dunk removes his fingers from your aching clit to place a hand in the middle of your back. He forces you into a deeper arch, the new angle punching a scream from your throat as he coos again. “I know, I know, don’t make a fuss, sweet girl. You can do it. You can take me.”
Dunk’s breathing is laboured, and his stamina starts to falter as his cock twitches. Your cunt feels like heaven—a warm, silken heaven—and he screws his eyes shut momentarily, visions of him spilling deep inside you, straight into your womb, vivid in his mind. Maybe you shouldn’t drink the moon tea he finds you brewing during rest stops. Maybe he won’t have to spill across your stomach or tits or arse ever again.
He opens his eyes and grunts around a clenched jaw. “Ah—s’about time I breed—fuck—breed you, sweetheart. Huh? What do you think? Come deep inside this—ah, gods—t-this pretty pussy and give you my child. You’d look so beautiful all fat with my babe, wouldn’t you? Keep you n-nice and bred.”
“Yes, Dunk, fuck,” you moan. “Please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls out, fingers a vice on your hips. “Let me feel you. One more time, c’mon, my sweet girl. Let go for me one more time.”
You don’t know if you can.
Your body feels wrung out, like a dress soaked and dried by the river. Your heart clatters against your chest as your breasts push against the material of his cloak. There’s an uncomfortable pressure building in your lower tummy, mostly overwhelmed by overstimulation, but you can feel the remains of pleasure there too.
And Dunk knows you have it in you.
“One more,” he says. “One more, sweetheart, you can do it.”
Body on fire, nerves flaming at their ends, you meet his sloppy thrusts as best as you can. Your limbs tremor like a fawn, and your moans have long run dry: only hoarse whimpers roll from your tongue tasting lightly of honeyed wine.
And then you do give him one more.
Your body reacts to the manic pushing of his cock inside you, reacts to the thick of his cock splitting you open, reacts to the way he whispers your name like the sweetest kind of prayer. You come around him, arms collapsing as your pussy flutters around his girth. You topple forward, moaning his name while the ground shifts to meet you, and your legs seize, verging on a cramp.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I want,” Dunk babbles, a large hand wrapping around the back of your neck now and pulling you onto your knees. You’re boneless, and he’s so strong, so you can’t do much but let him haul you back against his broad, sweaty chest. He presses a hot kiss to the skin just beside your tragus. “Such a good girl—you did it. Gods, my sweet girl, my perfect girl. You did it, an’ you did so good for me.”
Bulky arms encircle you, bouncing you back against his cock. He grunts into your ear, ragged and bearish, as his entire body pulses with heat. He’s feverish, ill with pleasure, and you’re his soothing balm: the perfect remedy.
With one last pathetic whimper of your name, Dunk shoves himself to the hilt, as deep as he can possibly go, as his orgasm flows through him. His teeth sink into the skin on your shoulder as his cock jerks, hot spurts flooding thick into your womb. You sigh softly into the cool early night air, reclining back against your husband as he empties himself inside you again, your pussy milking him for all it’s worth. Dunk groans into your shoulder, fever finally breaking, his cock giving one last jolt before it slowly starts to soften inside of you. The feeling nearly makes his eyes roll into the back of his head, relief filling him.
You stay like this for a little while. He presses silent, delicate kisses along your bare shoulder and onto your cheek, his hands rubbing over your breasts and belly, but not in a sexual way. His big, rough hands are calming as you both fizzle down from your highs.
Soon though, Dunk realises the forest around you has grown too dark. Wordlessly, he helps you to your feet, bundling you in his cloak before guiding you towards the fire. It is made, but unlit, but it’s roaring in mere minutes as Dunk—who has hurriedly thrown his breeches and trousers on—adds more fuel to the flickering orange flames.
Then, beneath the firelight, Dunk cleans you up. You sit on a stump before him as he dabs a wet cloth between your legs, wiping his seed from your core. He presses tender kisses to the inside of your knees, and soon you’re dressed, and the two of you snack on salt beef, cuddling beneath the stars.
“Maybe you should go back to that woman,” you say jokingly, turning your head to find Dunk already looking at you. His eyes reflect the fire. You smile. “I like it when you’re needy. I wonder if she has a long-lasting one?”
Dunk flushes, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to have to go through that again. As much as it felt great, my cock also felt about ready to break in half.”
You laugh, and Dunk resumes watching you carefully. After a moment, something lights up in his eyes, and he gets to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of salt beef, and retrieves his rope belt from where the horses graze nearby. When he returns, you lean your head against the pillowy muscle of his upper arm, peering at his big hands as he plucks a small pouch from the belt.
“I got you these,” your husband says shyly, handing you the bag.
You beam when you open it and see your favourite sweets. You incline your head and urge Dunk down to you, drawing his mouth into a sweet kiss.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you more.”
Then, you laugh. “Oh, you poor boy. You went to the market to purchase some sweets, and instead you got poisoned—” you say that part sarcastically, “—by a little old lady. My poor, poor boy.”
You reach up and stroke his hair, watching with awe as his eyes fall closed and a deep purr leaves his chest. His arm wraps tighter around you, pulling you closer into his side.
He never wants to let you go.
———
god he’s so hot
describing his muscles as ‘pillowy’ really got to me i need to lie down
Olive Tree Hugger @olivetreehugger - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
