~*musings from the oyster*~

pearl🦪my writing blog! abstinent. seriously

[pearl-nouveau]

~masterlist~

author’s note: hello i am pearl! my entire blog is 18+ and is basically just fics i like or fics i’ve written<3 below is my masterlist!

~{comments/reblogs/asks welcome!}~

a knight of the seven kingdoms

all for some coin (ser duncan x reader)

sea air (ser duncan x reader)

simple on paper (modern au ser duncan x reader)

asked and answered (lyonel baratheon x reader) ~~ pt 2

house of the dragon

a woman's purpose (cregan stark x reader) ~~ pt 2 ~~ pt 3

[pluvial-lake]

Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.

[entitled-fangirl]

Southern rose.

Cregan Stark x Lannister wife!reader

Summary: Cregan's wife is a spoiled thing. He loves it.

Masterlist

.....................................................................

From the moment you stepped into Winterfell, you whined. 

He couldn't exactly blame you. The North isn't the most welcoming environment— especially for a more Southern grown flower like you. In fact, he starts to find it amusing. 

His little southern rose is too delicate for his homeland. 

"Why must the castle be made of such cold stone?" You whine. 

He pulls you in closer, spooning you in the bed with the furs atop the both of you. His hand is hot to the touch and large and firm against your stomach to keep you there. You have a tendency to squirm. 

"'S just an evening chill. It will pass," he murmurs low in your ear. 

"Every night?" You huff, emphasizing your point with a shift of your hips. 

He groans lowly when your ass presses against his length. His arm wraps around you tighter until you're utterly stuck in his hold. "If you'd hold still, I could share my warmth with you. As I do every night you whine."

Truth be told, he sweats under the heavy furs every night. You had insisted on them, and he wanted to sleep with you. Small price to pay, he tells himself. 

Especially when you'd finally fall asleep and unconsciously curl into his side. 

"I do not whine," you proceed to whine.

You go to say more, but you hear and feel his low chuckling. 

You huff, pulling his hand off of you. You make a dramatic show of scooting to the other side of the bed. It's cold. You ignore it at first. You can't show weakness. 

But his laughing doesn't stop. "My stubborn girl. C'mere."

But you don't move. You throw one glare his way then turn your back and pull the cold covers tight around you.

It's silence as his laughter settles. "C'mon," he finally settles on. "Don't want my southern flower wilting in the cold tonight. Come back now."

"I'm sleeping here."

He sighs, though it's full of love. "You're angry with me?"

"Yes."

"Mm. Cold?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Quite the predicament." He runs a hand over his growing stubble. "If I apologize, is that enough to make you come back over here?"

You pause. Turn to look over your shoulder at him. "Maybe."

"Forgive me then," he coos. 

Even in the dark, you can see the glimmer of amusement in his hazy colored eyes. But you have no fight left in you and you're cold.

So you let him scoop you back up and drag you across the bed until you're right back where you started. 

And now that you think about it, it is a lot warmer against him like this. 

What were you complaining about again?

You sigh in content and close your eyes. 

"'S what I thought," he says to himself.

Your eyes open. "What?"

He doesn't pretend. "Good night, my love." He kisses the side of your head. "Sleep well."

…

"Father wrote me," you chirp, inviting yourself into your husband's solar. A neat letter laid in your hand with a familiar Lannister seal broken atop it. "He told me that his lioness is expecting cubs. Isn't that wonderful?"

Cregan looked up at him you from his paperwork. He blinked once. Then twice. "'S alright," he settled on. In truth, he didn't care of the news at all. 

Your face fell a bit. "Did you not hear me? Cubs."

"My love," he says carefully. "I care not for matters of those against the crown. I have permitted your father's writings but I do not have to pretend I am overjoyed to hear of more lions that will be slaughtered should a battle commence."

You take a long time to think. You look back over the letter with a more tainted viewpoint than before. "They must be killed?"

"If he brings them into battle as Lannisters have done in the past, yes."

"Well." Your eyes water. "What if he does not? What if he keeps them hidden? Safe? As pets?"

"My darling love." He reached out his hand and drawls you to sit on his desk before him. He sighs and rubs at your hips. "A lion is no pet. They are unpredictable and dangerous. It is a strong house sigil. But to own them—"

"What of your direwolf?" You cry. "It is large and intimidating."

"Dark Night is uncaged. He proves no threat to me and my house. He can read me well. A lion cannot do that."

Big tears pool in your eyes and his heart immediately thumps harder. "My girl." He wipes them as they fall. "Ease your broken heart."

"They are only cubs." You hiccup and lean into his touch. "They have done no wrong."

"It is a curse, I know," he comforts. "Lots of things happen that way. Just the wrong place and the wrong time."

"Can I write? To Father. Can I tell him not to use them?"

Cregan knows exactly how this will go: You will beg Jason. He will lie and agree to ease your poor aching heart and to make Cregan no longer suspicious of the Lannister's war efforts.  Then, in battle, lions will be slain. 

It would happen regardless of what you wrote to your father.

He watched another tear fall down the tracks on your face from the previous ones. And he nods. 

You run off quickly to try to correct this and save the lives of innocent animals. 

He knows it's truly in vain. And when he or his men must kill them, he'll make sure you never hear of it.

But he knows it's the only way your little bleeding heart can sleep tonight.

….

Dark Night lays at your feet, nuzzling against your leg every now and then to get your attention. 

Cregan sits across from you. He's still looking over letters and pages, just in comfort outside of his solar. 

You still don't look up by the third time the dire wolf has nuzzled you. So he nips. 

You whimper. It didn't break skin or cause you tremendous pain. But it was a surprising prick.

Cregan barely looks at the thing and lets out a low growl from his throat to reprimand him.

Dark Night whines and lays down once more.

"Needy thing," he sighs with the shake of his head. "Scare you?"

You nod. "I do not like it when he does that."

"He's only playing. Is that right, boy?"

"Your Northern ideas of play are much harsher," you scoff. "I hate it."

He looks back to his letters. "You do not hate it."

"I do," you insist.

A small flicker of his eyes— swarming with mischief. "You do not hate Northern play."

You catch his meaning and flush. And he was right. This morning, you didn't seem to mind 'northern play' at all.

"You are all savages." You set your embroidery aside and stand. "Heartless and cold and… and…"

"Yes?" He grins.

"And… and I don't like it!"

You watch him do everything he can to hold back just how funny he thinks you are. He only gives a quirk of his brow. "You don't like it?"

"No," you snap. "And I don't like you! Or… your dog… or…" You look around. "Or this rug!"

"Oh?" He looks down at it— the bear skin rug from the animal he caught himself a few weeks after your wedding. "You told me you loved it."

"Well… I lied!" 

He watches you storm out, knowing you didn't mean a word you were saying. That was the Southerner in you talking. 

It made him want to coddle you more. Just to see what lengths you go to.

…

He let you sit and pout in your room for a while before coming to collect you.

He stood outside your closed door, sighing to himself. The things he did for love.

Opening the door, he saw you sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. You didn't look up at him. "And like that, the room is colder."

He scoffed. "Stubborn girl. C'mere and look at me."

"Why? So you can gloat?"

He stopped behind you. "You think I want to gloat?"

"No," you answer honestly. He'd never been one to think better of himself. That was one northern trait you did appreciate of him.

There's a tap of something hitting the table behind you and you turn.

There's a tray he'd just sat down. Lemon cakes and a nice glass of wine. Over the back of the settee he'd walked by was richly colored fabrics. 

"What is this?"

He shrugs. "If you don't want it, I can take it back—"

"Stop!" You sit up more now. "It can… it can stay."

His brow tilts. "Can I?"

You nod. 

He sits on the settee and waves his hand at you. You obey without a second thought, coming into his lap. 

"Thought about you," he admits, brushing your hair from your face. "I miss you during the day. Wish you'd visit me more often."

"They told me it was unbecoming of the Lady Stark to bother you while you work."

"Who told you that?"

You sigh. "Northerners. You know, my father let me speak to him at any time of the day in Casterly Rock."

"I know it," he agrees. "'S how you became so fucking spoiled." You grow defensive, but he quickly soothes it with a brush of his hand. "So are you going to visit me more or not, little garden rose?"

You hum in thought. "I will, but I have some requirements."

"Aye, I figured. Go on then. Name your terms." He pulls you closer, having a hand on your back to keep you from pulling away. "Tell me what you want."

"Well, I want a new dress to start. A brighter one of those fabrics. The colors here are too drab." 

He hums, nuzzling his nose against your neck now. 

"And I want… I want a horse of my own. I want to ride like I did at Casterly Rock."

"Too cold for you to ride," he murmurs. It makes a shiver go down your spine. 

"I want a northern horse and I want a heavy cloak so that I can, then." 

He lays a sloppy kiss against your throat. You squirm. "You're not listening to me," you whine.

"I am." He kisses. "Dresses and a horse." Another kiss. "A heavy cloak. What else?"

Your head grows dizzy when his scruff brushes against your skin. "I want…"

"Tell me what you want, wife," he whispers then kisses again. He nips lightly then soothes it with his tongue.

"I want… I want… new perfumes."

He groans at the thought and moves a meaty paw of his up into your hair to force your face up. "You'll have it."

He works across your neck and down to the place where it meets your shoulder. When you feel teeth there, you squirm and whimper. He groans out a 'good girl' when you let him finish the hickey you know will be there for at least a week.

He pulls his face away to look up at you now. His lips are swollen but there's a victory in his eyes. "Anything else?"

When you try to reach up touch the cooling spot at your shoulder, he intercepts and keeps your wrists in his hold. He looks the spot over. And at seeing the color beginning to pull, he grins. "Looks pretty," he tells you.

"And I want you to take me seriously."

The grin pulls into a knowing smile— bright and rare. "I take you very seriously, love."

"You don't! You… You're a brute."

"Mhm." He says as he looks you over.

"You're horrid. Just horrid."

"I know." He draws you in and slips his hands under you. 

You shriek when he picks you up suddenly. "And a barbarian!"

"The worst," he agrees as he carries you to the bed. "The worst I've ever seen."

"I hate the North!"

He plops you down on the furs, making you let out a small 'hmph.' Then, he knocks your knees apart with his own and leans over the bed until you feel his breath upon your face. "You don't hate the North," he purrs.

"No," you whisper back.

"You like the North very much, as barbaric as it is."

"I do."

He lays a kiss to your lips. "I know."

The horse, the dresses, all of it— yours.

He made sure you, his little sensitive southern flower, were the most spoiled thing in the Realm.

........................................................................................

Taglist: @alyssa-dayne @twinkletwinklenotastar @kidd3ath @yujyujj @misswynters @cosmosnkaz @sithapprentice @kaniromi @lovemesomevesey @its-jackie-bb @thorins-queen-of-erebor @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn @callsignwidow @a1lexh-blog @ethereal-athalia @ashovertheriver @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @dozcan123 @wangjiangelangel @kamitargaryen @aegonswife @lv7867 @helpmedecideaname @cherryheairt @classicsimpforaaronwarner @purple-1995, @raven-dor, @oohzkdlins, @lunaritychuwolf, @nlnny@silverlightsaber, @t958580, @fangirling-jess, @shesneverreallythere, @sw0rdmaiden, @xkatherinexo, @lady-dragon-rider, @unlikelyqueenninja, @phoebeselwyn, @northerncrypts, @littleblackcatinwonderland

[captainlunaxmen]

Tell Me a Story

Chapter 6 (finale)

Lyonel Baratheon x reader

Here we are! Last chapter!

Thanks, everyone, for the support you've shown to me and my story, I loved every single comment and reblog. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!

And, for one last time: let me know what you think, and I hope you like this.❤️❤️❤️

Tag list

@ellfucksup @goregal22-blog @totallyfriedbouquet @mrsptelford @goregal22-blog @rockandbird @divineslautr @mikariell95 @ody-see @simonedk @rhynell @eve-lie @bellaisasleep

You're standing outside Lyonel’s tent, deciding whether or not this is the right moment to enter.

He fought because you asked for his help and you didn't even go to see him right away, you feel bad.

You start hearing noises from inside, you recognise Lyonel’s annoyed voice scolding someone with him, you decide it's time to enter before that someone could end up bad.

"My Lord?" You softly calls as you slowly walk in.

As soon as he heard your voice he lifts his head to meet your eyes, ignoring the maester tending to the wounds on his face.

"My lady..." he breathes as the brightest smile you've ever seen appears.

"My Lord, please, stay still.." the maester tries to regain his attention, but fails, since all Lyonel can focus on is you.

"My Lord, you should listen to him." You tell him as you smile embarrassed.

It's like you reminded him of the other man's presence, he stands and roughly leads the maester out.

"Go and bother someone else."

"But, my Lord, you need..."

"I know what I need." He dismisses him again, opening the tent to let him out, "she's right here."

He turns to you, finally watching you properly. He walks toward you, itching to hold you.

"He's right, you know?" You say, "come."

You motion for him to sit again.

He complies and watches you attentively. How you move to wet the cloth to clean his face, how you kneel in front of him and gently move his face so you can tap his temple.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you." You softly ask.

"Manhandle me all you want." He grins, though his tone is soft.

You playfully roll your eyes, but keep cleaning his face. His grin turns into a genuine smile as he keeps his eyes on you, trying to catch yours.

"Stay still." You tell him, grabbing his chin to keep him still, not hard to hurt him, but for Lyonel is enough to make him heart beat faster than his horse, "you should let your maester do his work, I'm not a healer, my skills have limits."

"He's an incompetent, I'm sure you could do better anyway." He scoffs.

"Then find someone to replace him." You tell him, your hand still on him.

"Maybe..." he then takes your hand, stopping you, "though... having a beautiful lady tending to me is all I would ever need."

"Infuriating." You whisper with a grin, "let me finish this, I don't want your wounds to get infected."

He lets you go back to tend to his face, admiring you, then his eyes falls to your neck. Unbeknownst to you a bruise has formed from Aerion's hold.

"How are you?" He then asks.

"Me?" You ask back in disbelief, "you were the one unhorsed by the prince, not me." You chuckle.

"No, but you were the one kept in a cell." He reminds you, eyes trailing back and forth between your neck and your face.

"It wasn't as bad as you might think. I managed." You reassure him, though you feel him tensing up, you finish up quickly and look straight to him, "I'm alright. I promise."

"The thought of you alone there..." he clench his fists, he doesn't even know he's doing it until your hands are on his, "I'm sorry..." he whispers and you shake your head with a smile.

"I'm alright." You repeat, squeezing his hands.

"And Aerion?" He asks and you tense.

He notices.

"What about him?"

"What did he do?" He demands.

"He got what he deserved, my Lord." You put it simply, "for the puppeteers, for Dunk and for me."

"You know I won't rest until you tell me, don't you?" He norrows his eyes with a playful tease, "though I won't press, my lady."

You smile at him, grateful, and finish tending to him.

"There." You tell him, standing up to discard the dirt cloth. Lyonel follows immediately, take your hand to spin you around and against his chest.

"Hello." He smiles down at you, he gently start rocking you both to an imaginary tune, his hopes slowly getting reality.

"Hi." You chuckle, letting him lead the imitation of a dance.

"I'm glad you're alright." He says.

"I am you are." You reply, "thank you, I mean it."

"Aah, no need." He dismisses, "I'm always looking for a good excuse to beat up the Kinguards." He winks.

"I bet you are." You shake your head, amused.

"You're even more beautiful than I remember."

"You saw me yesterday." You remind him.

"So much time has passed?" He exclaims, holding you closer.

"I'm fully out of adjectives..." you giggle.

"I'll consider myself victorious for it."

"Oh, just give a moment, I'll come up with something." You glare at him, though you can't hold the laugh that long.

"Oh!" He spins you both aroumd, "exactly what I was expecting."

"Careful!" You tell him, "you just fought, Lyonel."

You said his name.

He suddenly stops, his gaze is right in your eyes, you look at him with a little bit of confusion, yet your features soften and your eyes stare at his lips, hoping he gets the hint.

Excitement rushes through him, he wants to contain himself, not scare you and definitely not ruin the moment he's been waiting from the moment he laid eyes on you.

"My Lord?" The guard outside calls and Lyonel’s shoulders drop, exasperated, making you let out a chuckle.

"What?"

"A Kingsguard is here to fetch the girl, prince Maekar wants to speak with her."

"Fucking..."

"I'll be out shortly, thank you." You tell the guard, you reluctantly pull away from him, "I... I shouldn't make the prince wait."

"A few more minutes won't hurt him." He keeps a gentle hold on your hand, pulling you back to him.

"It's probably for the best." You shake your head, forcing a smile, "this." You motion between the two of you, "this is not possible."

"Why not?"

"Lyonel, you're the heir of house Baratheon... I am a storyteller... not even that at the moment," you tell him, "you're supposed to marry and bring alliances to your house. I have nothing..."

"Alliances can be made in more way than one," he interrupts you, the sweetest smile you've ever seen appears, "and you have so much to offer. The way you see the world, the way your kindness makes you strong, and oh! The way you keep me in place." He almost growls the last part, making you laugh, " and your laugh captured my heart instantly."

"You're really adamant in turning it into one of my stories, aren't you?"

"Wasn't it obvious from the start?" He wonders, "fuck, I should've done more." He jokes.

"More than this?" You let out a surprised laugh, "is it possible?"

"Don't pretend you're not thrilled to find out." He winks at you, pulling you to him again.

"And give you the satisfaction?" You ask, "where's the fun in that?"

He's pleased with your answer, one of the things he loves the most about you is how you keep him in line. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, and just hold you tighter.

"You're torturing me." He tells you, he's silently asking you to put him out of his misery and kiss him. He's even ready to get on his knees and beg for it.

"That wad not my intention, my Lord." You chuckle and pull away again, "but I should go, I honestly don't want to keep the prince waiting mor than I already have."

He nods, letting you walk just enough, then his instinct gets the best of him and pulls you back suddenly. You let out a surprised gasp once you collide against his chest. He smirks, looks down at your lips and kisses you.

You recover immediately from the shock and return the kiss. You use your hands to cup his bearded chin, pulling him even closer. He wraps his arms around you, then move a hand on you back and up into your hair.

"My Lord?" The guard calls again, "the Kingsguard insists."

"Mh..I..." you pull away, Lyonel chasing your lips like a starved puppy, "I should go."

"Mmhh please." He whines, grabbing more of you. You chuckle, gently pushing his off, "alright..." he complains, letting you go.

"I... I'll see you later." You tell him.

"I hope so."

You turn to him to give him one last peck and rush out to follow the guard to the castle.

--------------

You're quite nervous as you follow the guard to see prince Maekar himself, you know you did no wrong, and yet you can't shake the feeling away. You even wonder if you should just run, just in case.

The guard stops in front of a big wooden door, enters for a moment before announcing you and lets you inside.

You take a generous breath and enter. The prince stands by the window, he turns when he hears your footsteps.

"I believe gratitude is in order." He looks at you, he shows no emotion you can't decipher, making you more confused.

"Gratitude?"

"For my brother." He specifies, "the maester said your quick thinking and intervention made a great difference." He walks to stand in front of you, "you saved his life."

"Oh..." You're not sure how to respond, "I'm just glad he's alright."

"The maesters talked about a long recovery, but they're positive about it." He tells you, "again, all thanks to you." And you nod, embarrassed by the prince's gratitude, "you fixed my stupid mistake and for that I am personally in debt."

"Oh no, no." You shake your head, "I... there's no need, your grace... it was an accident, you... you shouldn't blame yourself."

"You're kind, girl." He turns to look out of the window again, "Unfortunately it's a trait not shared by most."

"It is." You tell him gently, "it's just harder to see."

He observes you, trying to understand whether or not you believe what you just said.

"Regardless, I am in your debt, the kingdom is and..."

"The kingdom? Your grace, I promise there's no need." You assure him, though you realise you interrupted a prince of the blood and your eyes widen in shock.

"There is." He insists, "I might be stubborn, I admit, but you wouldn't want to deal with my brother on the subject of debts." You swear you saw a hint of a smile on him, "is there anything I can do for you?"

You're at loss for words, truly.

What could even you dare ask the prince himself?

Your mouth opens and closes multiple times, but Maekar doesn't urge you, he waits.

"I truly have no idea, your grace... I mean, I wouldn't even dare think of asking anything for myself..." A thought strikes you, "actually... uhm... my friend... is there anything you can do for him?"

"I told him he could become one of my sworn swords at Summerhall if he accepts Aegon as his squire."

"Really?" You exclaim, but quickly recollect yourself, "that's wonderful."

"If you think you can convince him, I'd agree." He bitterly mutters.

"He... he did not accept?" You're quite lost.

"He did not." He sighs, "I'm afraid he too feels the weight of what happened."

"I see." You nod, offering a smile, "maybe I can talk to him."

"Aegon grew very fond of him, and you. He wouldn't accept to serve any knights but him."

"I'll talk to him, your grace." You promise.

"Mere gossip usually doesn't concern me, but my guard told me he found you in the Baratheon tent..." he starts and you slightly turn away from his eyes, "anything I can do on that... subject?"

"I'm afraid, even if you were able to grant me a title... that wouldn't change who I am." You admit, "I would still be no one."

"A no one who saved the heir to the throne... I wouldn't call you no one." He assures you.

"That's kind of you, your grace." You smile, "Egg... I mean, prince Aegon did take after you, at least a little." You grin.

"I hope not." You hear him chuckle, you swear you did, he then takes your hand to leave a grateful kiss on it, "know you have the crown's gratitude, my lady. You'll always find a safe shelter within our walls, the least we can do."

"That is actually more than I could've asked, your grace." You nod.

"I hope your talk with your friend would be fruitful."

You take that as you hint to go, you nod once again and walk out, still trying to understand whether or not the interaction actually happened.

--------------

You find Dunk under the tree, staring into distance.

You gently kick his foot when he doesn't acknowledge you.

"Dunk..." you call, "Dunk, c'mon, stop wallowing."

"I'm not."

"I can see your brain self destructing." You inform him and sit beside him, "the prince is going to be alright. And you can't blame yourself for Beesbury and Hardyng. I know why you feel responsible, but you didn't force them to fight."

"How can I not?" He asks, "wherever I go I bring ruin."

"That is not true, don't you dare." You kneel in front of you, so you look directly at him, "don't you dare speak like that. You know why they fought for you? Because you are good man."

"Y/n..."

"No, I won't stay here listening to you bring yourself down like you purposely kill those men and injured another." You firmly tell him, then you soften with a sigh, shoulders relaxing when you see he's trying to believe your words, "prince Maekar told me he offer you a place in Summerhall, as sworn sword."

"He did." He confirms.

"And you didn't accept."

"I can't do that." He admits.

"Why not?"

"I'm just done with princes."

"Would you let Egg be trained by one of them?" You ask, "would you let them grow and risk him become like Aerion?"

"He won't..."

"Are you actually convinced or are you trying to convince yourself?" You counter, than sigh, "he's a good kid, you know that. You are the only one who can preserve it." You wait for him to reply, when he doesn’t you sigh defeated and stand to walk away, "think about it."

"I don't know how." He admits, preventing you from leaving, "I'm a no one from flea bottom, not the right choice to teach a young prince."

"I think you're wrong." You offer a reassuring smile, "you are the right choice for Egg."

"I still wouldn't know how, not there."

"Then offer the way you know." You wink, "I'll pay my respect to Beesbury and Hardyng. I hope to see you later."

"Thank you, Y/n."

"No need." You shake your head, "we're friends, Dunk. I don't want to see you miserable."

He smiles at you and with that you turn around heading to a remaining tent where you can pay your respect.

"Y/n!"

You turn and see Raymun waving at you.

"Fossoway." You nod in greeting, "are you feeling well?"

"I am, thanks."

"Tell me your cousin isn’t here, I wouldn't be able to contain myself if he is." You ask, feeling rage slowly growing in your body.

"Oh no, no, he left. Said I betrayed the the family, left me here with a small tent." He explains, no sign of remorse can be heard, which makes you glad.

"What a cunt." You smirk.

"I agree." He laughs, "but I'm rather proud. I stood up for myself."

"You did the right thing, Raymun, you should be." You smile, "so what is your plan?"

"Do something for myself and my wife."

"Oh." You can't help the surprised sound, "I didn't know you had a wife."

"I met her yesterday." He tells you, "her."

He points to a red-haired woman who sweetly waves at him and you, you think you recognise her, but say nothing. He seems happy and you know how hard life can be for a woman.

"Well, I'm happy for you, Raymun. You deserve it."

"Ser Lyonel is very fond of you, you know." He says out of nowhere, earning confused look.

"So...?"

"So, I'd say you deserve some happiness too." He nudges you.

"That would be... nice..." you look down, "but I don't know. I'm not a lady."

"I don't think he cares, and he's quite a stubborn man, I'm afraid." He chuckles.

"Yeah, I'm afraid you're right."

Like you summoned the very man, you see Lyonel walking around the camp, he seems like he's looking for something. You excuse yourself and walk to him.

His eyes lighten when he sees you.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, my lady." He tells you, "I heard you left the castle a while ago."

"Keeping track on me?"

"Absolutely." He says as a matter of fact, no ounce of shame in him, "is everything alright? What did he want?"

"Everything alright." You take his hand, almost on instinct, then remember your surrounded by people and let them go, he doesn't care and, gently and reassuringly, take your hands again.

"Come to Storm's End with me."

"What?" You almost exclaim.

"Come back with me." He repeats, "please."

"My Lord..."

"If you have to refuse, at least use my name." He grins, to hide his own nerves.

"Lyonel, I wish it could be that easy." You tell him, "no one will accept this."

"I don't care." He states.

"You're the heir, Lyonel, I shall remind you." You tell him.

"I." He steps closer, "don't. Care." He nudges your nose with his. You sigh. "If you don't share my feelings, I will accept it. But please, please, if you do, come to Storm's End with me. We'll figure something out there. I love you."

You scan his face with wide eyes, shocked and smiling, he looks at you, pleading you to be honest, regardless of the outcome.

"I..." you let out a breathy laugh, "damn you, I didn't want to agree with you so soon..."

His grin only grows and grabs you by the waist and brings you in, right against him.

"To make you happy, my lady, I'll let you disagree." He say, caressing your sides, "mostly because knowing I am right while you keep pretending otherwise is absolutely satisfying."

"Infuriating." You smile, softly playing with his beard.

"Mh yes, tell me again." He growls, holding you closer. You don't know it's even possible, yet Lyonel’s stubbornness would win and hold you closer and closer.

"Contain yourself, my Lord, I will not let you ruin me in the middle of the camp." You laugh.

"I only gather you'll let me ruin you somewhere else." He leans down ready to kiss you.

"Of course that's what you gathered." You give his lips a little peck before untangling yourself, earning a whine from the lord.

"So will you come with me?"

"Yes."

"Yes!" He shouts, many people turning their heads towards you, he doesn't spare them a single glance and lift you up and spinning you around.

"Lyonel!" You scold, unable to contain your own laughter.

He puts you down, with no hesitation he hold your face in his and kisses you all over your face. You can't even keep up with him.

"Oh! You made me the happiest man alive, you have no idea."

"I think I do." You giggle, "now, let me go. I have to tell Dunk."

"Ugh..." he groans, "I asked him to come as well, he declined."

"He still blames himself for what happened, he needs his time." You explain.

"Well, fuck him. My halls are always open for him anyway." He scoffs, still holding your face.

"Be nice." You tell him, moving his hands from your face, gently.

"I will once you're back into my arms." He tries to bring you in once again, but you escape him, walking backwards.

"Patience is a virtue."

"I'm not famous for my upstanding virtues." He reminds you, you roll your eyes playfully and walk away. He's left there, watching you go, not being able to stop smiling. He's excited to take you to Storm's End with him and show you every single room and hall, fill the rooms with your presence and your stories. He can actually see himself laying with you in front of the fire, his head in your lap hearing you talk and playing with his hair. The thought alone makes his patience grow thinner and thinner, he decides to go check if everything is set to leave.

--------------

You're glad you find both Egg and Dunk, even though it will only make your goodbye worse.

"My lady!" Egg excitedly.

"I see the counter offer was effective." You smile brightly.

"Indeed." Dunk give you a little smile, "we're ready to go, if you are."

"I... well..." it's even harder than you expected, "Lyonel asked me to go with him." You blurt out leaving Egg and Dunk speechless, "I... I can tell him no and just..."

"No." They say at the same time.

"Do... do you want to go?" Dunk asks, he wants to be sure it's your choice.

"I do." You shyly smile.

"Do you love him?" Egg suddenly asks.

"I'm fairly sure I do."

"Does he?" Dunk checks.

"Of course he does, have you actually seen how he looks at her?" The little Targaryen answers for you, making you chuckle.

"Yeah... he does."

"Then, if it makes you happy, you should go..." Dunk mutters.

"You don't seem convinced." You nervously smile. The last thing you want is lose his friendship.

"I am... I truly am... I just... I will miss you." He admit.

"Oh." You rush to hug him, he wraps his arms around you instantly, "I will miss you too."

"Me too." You feel Egg joining the hug.

"Oh gods... what will I do without you two?" You hold back tears as you pull away from the hug.

"We'll see each other again." Dunk says, wiping away his own tears, "I feel it."

"I'll make sure of it." You promise, "just don't cry or I won't be able to stop myself."

"I'm not crying." He clearly lies.

"Ser... you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Alright, alright," you shake your head, blinking away the tears even though they fall freely, "off you go. And take care of each other."

"We will." Egg promises you, quickly hugging you before hopping on the horse.

"If anything happens, if you don't feel safe anymore..." Dunk takes your hand, "send for me. I will come as quickly as I can, even quicker than that.

"I promise." You hug him one last time.

"Yhank you." He says

"Stop thanking me, Dunk, I should be the one thanking you." You reply, "write to me?"

"Of course."

"I'll wait." You smile through your blurry eyes as he ad well gets on his horse, starting to leave.

"Bye Y/n!" Egg shouts as the horse follows Dunk's.

"Bye!" You wave and watch them go.

You can't wait to find out what they will be up to. But, most of all, you can't wait to tell stories about them.

Epilogue

You're trying to untangle yourself from Lyonel’s grip, still sweaty and breathless from his own "breakfast". The fourth time this week and the countless time in the past few months.

"Lyonel, I can't do it anymore, let me breath." You chuckle, pushing his head from between your legs.

"Please..." he whines, still trying to keep you still.

"Oh no, no," you firmly say, "Besides you need actual food."

"I'm perfectly satisfied here, thank you very much, my love." He retorts, grinning.

"Would you let me catch my beath? Please?" You ask nicely, using that tone you know gets to him every time.

"Mmhhh" He whines but moves from his place between your legs and slide next to you on the bed, "it's not fair, you know? Using that tone."

"All is fair in love and war." You smirk, playfully patting the arm around your waist, you then move it away so you can stand and put your rope on.

"I adore it when you admit you're in love with me." He winks making you scoff a laugh. You reach for a slice of peach for yourself as you prepare a plate for Lyonel. "I also adore seeing you moving around my home so comfortably."

"You made me feel welcome from the start, and so did your staff." You explain, "I admit I was afraid they would treat me like your whore and look at me with judgment, but they never did."

"I can't wait to make you my wife." He says from right behind you, you didn't even notice him getting out of the bed, "you will be so beautiful in my house's colors. The thought of fucking you in those colors... oh!"

"You're insatiable." You laugh and turn around only to find him right in front of you, "and sneaky."

"For you? Absolutely." He pulls you closer by your waist, but before he can kiss you again, there's a knock on the door, "fuck... what?" He shouts.

"My Lord, a letter from the crown." The guard outside says.

"Shit." Lyonel mutters, "do come in."

The guard carefully opens the door and enters, you offer a kind smile as he stand straight in the middle of the room.

"From prince Baelor." He specifies.

"Gods... what does he want from me now?" Lyonel sighs.

"It's for Lady Y/n... actually." The guard corrects him.

You widen your eyes, almost choking on another slice of peach. Lyonel looks at the guard confused.

"Really?"

"Yes, my Lord."

You near the guard and gently accept the letter.

"Thank you." You say, still not believing the letter is for you.

"My lady." He nod towards you, "my Lord." And walks out of the room, leaving you and the Laughing Storm speechless.

"Well... open it." Lyonel is the first to snap out of the trance.

You open it and read it.

"He assures me he's fully recovered." You start, "he thanks me for my help, and he invited me... well, us, to Dragonstone. Along with Dunk and Egg!" You excitedly jump, "He also says he wishes to hear the story I promised him."

"You promised him a story?"

"Well... yes." You chuckle, "didn't think he would even remember me in the first place."

Lyonel smiles softly at your incredulous expression. He still can't believe how you can't seem to realise your own impact on people's lives, how important you truly are.

"Anything else?"

"He... well... shit... he offered to officiate our wedding." You reread that part over and over again to be sure you read it correctly.

"Way to make our day about him, uh?"

"Be nice." You laugh, still incredulous, "this is absurd."

"Should we celebrate?"

"As if you need an excuse to throw a party." You accuse.

He fakes offence and grabs you by your waist.

"You hurt me with such true accusation." He declares making you basically crack up, "you should apologise immediately."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"Get on the bed, spread those pretty legs and let me have breakfast... again." He promptly replies.

"No, absolutely not." You pull away, still laughing, "you drained me, my Lord."

"Oh I plan on it." He smirks and walks towards you.

You run away from him, making him cause you around the room which, unfortunately is not that big and Lyonel is quick to catch you and throw you on the bed, leaning down so your face are mere inches apart.

"Infuriating."

"Always." He pecks your lips, "but I'll behave, if... if you tell me a story."

"Oh now you want a story?" You raise your eyebrow.

"I always want a story." He smiles, "Besides, I'm helping you decide what story you'll tell our prince."

"I already know what story."

"Then I will simply test if it's right."

"You just want to hear it before he does."

"Is that a crime?"

You roll your eyes and kiss him.

"As you wish, you'll tell me if it's worthy of a prince."

He beams at that and gather the plate you prepared, some more cushions and sits on the bed with you.

"Ready." You love how excited he gets before hearing a story.

"Long time ago, the world witnessed the most romantic love story of all time..."

You speak softly, but solemnly, Lyonel listens closely ready to comment whatever picks his interest the most and, as always, you two got lost in your own world. The Laughing Storm cuddled up to you, his storyteller, and you telling your stories again, never tiring of his reactions, nor his requests for another story right after you finished one.

Everything is just as it was always supposed to be.

[captainfern]

Everything I Can Give You

Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader

✿ dunk has always been such a good friend to you (inspired somewhat by this ask). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 7.8k ✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically defined, friends to lovers, brief violence + blood description, protective!dunk, implied inexperienced!dunk, implied inexperienced!reader, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, creampie, praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), reader gets foldeddd, yearning and fluff and all that, dunk is in LOVE with you, strong language

a/n: the gif….. the shoulders….. the back….. THE BACK !!!

Golden afternoon sunshine glitters across the river’s surface, mottled between the gently swaying leaves of the willow above. The branches skim the water, a brush against canvas, as you lather honey wax soap between two wet hands. You hum quietly as you place the soap bar amongst the shingles before running your fingers over Dunk’s hair, threading bubbles through the lightly knotted strands.

The knight’s eyes are closed as he sits in the river’s shallows, water lapping around his bare hips. You kneel on the bank, his thick woolen cloak softening the press of stones beneath your legs as you extend your arms and scrub your fingers against his scalp.

“Hair like a horse’s,” you remark, taking a good fistful of his tawny brown hair and pulling it out, admiring the length of the soapy strands. “S’gotten long, hasn’t it?”

Dunk leans back into your touch, your other hand working at the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “You can cut it if you want.”

You laugh softly, twirling the thick lock around your finger. You give it a little tug, a small grunt leaving the back of his throat.

“No, I like it,” you mutter, before wiping the remaining suds across his freckled shoulders. You pat him firmly on the back, the slap of wet skin loud through the woodland around you. “Rinse, boy.”

Dunk does what he’s told and bends his large body forward. He dunks his head beneath the water, hands finding his hair to wash the soap away. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine, the muscles across his back and shoulders, but you make good work of ignoring the dip in his lower back and the curve of his arse. Instead, you watch a misty cloud of white float away downstream, before Dunk is pulling himself out of the water.

And you realise you didn’t get out of the way.

“Shit!” You exclaim, attempting to fall to the side, but to no avail. Dunk whips his head back, cold river water dashing across your face and chest as he shakes his head like a dog. You groan, slapping his shoulder as you get to your feet, other hand wiping down your face. “Every fucking time, Dunk.”

“Then you should expect it by now,” Dunk says, smiling up at you as you wring excess water from your sleeves. You shoot him a pointed look and he laughs. He wades out further into the river, turning and floating, watching you carefully. “Are you bathing too?”

You nod, already untying your dress. You shed your layers until you’re bare atop his cloak, bending to fold your clothes neatly atop the spun wool. It’s a juxtaposition to his own belongings, which are strewn haphazardly across the bank. Carefully, you toe the water and despite the pleasant spring air glowing warm around you, the water bites cold.

“It’s not bad,” Dunk tells you. He’s looking in your direction, but those sky-blue eyes of his are squarely on your face. Countless times you’ve been bare before him in manners like this, and countless times his eyes have never strayed from the lines of your face. He brings a hand out of the water, cupping some in his palm. “See?”

“Says the walking furnace himself,” you mumble as you take a deep breath, realising slowly wading in wasn’t going to do you any favours. So, you take a few large steps until you’re knee deep in the river, before diving straight in. Cold water rushes around you, and when you break the surface a few feet from Dunk, you gasp. “Ah! Dunk, you prick, it’s freezing!”

You splash him then, and he takes it with a wide grin split across his face. You splash him again, and he chuckles, reaching one strong arm out and taking hold of your wrist. Your other hand splashes too, water flying around you, and he grabs that wrist with his other hand. He holds you firmly, and before you know it, he’s dunking you under the water.

You’re under for barely a second, and he hoists you out, laughter echoing loudly through the clearing, glancing off the river’s surface like a skipping stone.

“I hate you,” you spit, but you don’t mean it. 

You regain control of your arms—he lets you go, not that you have to fight him—and you grab the nape of his neck. He laughs while you shove him beneath the water, holding him there like you mean to drown him. The knight lets you, of course, considering he gives you a victorious four seconds before he easily rights himself and comes up for air. You let out a playful yelp, swimming away as he takes a swipe at you. You kick yourself off the stony bottom, paddling away, but he gets a hand on your ankle and yanks you back so firmly that a wake pushes out around you, sending the water lapping higher up the shingled bank.

“Dunk!” You shout as you thrash about the water. You look around the forest, dappled sunlight passing across your eyes in short, golden bursts. You smile as you shout, “My closest friend is drowning me! A knight is drowning me! Help!”

Dunk smiles, rolling his eyes. “Oh, hush. You deserve it.”

That night, beneath the ever-reaching cloak of darkness, you huddle by the fire, gnawing on a slightly stale roll of beef-stuffed bread. You had been reading your book—the only book you had, and which you had read eight times over yet—which now sits at your feet. There’s a slight chill in the air that licks at the flames in such a way they look to be dancing atop the gathered branches. Dunk approaches from tending to the horses, pulling his thick cloak from his shoulders. You look up, mouth full and cheeks protruding, as Dunk bends and wraps his cloak around your body.

“Y’do’ h’v t’do dat,” you say around your dinner, and he looks at you strangely as you chew.

“D’you just cast a spell on me?” He asks, shaking his head as he settles down beside you.

You slap his thigh, chewing and finally swallowing. You shrug your shoulders, gesturing to the heavy cloak now shrouding you. “You don’t have to do that,” you repeat, clearer now.

“Right, then I’ll take it back.” Dunk reaches a hand out, but you lean away.

“No, no, whatever, thank you,” you say quickly, enjoying the added layer and the heat as the nightly chill rustles the dead leaves on the ground around you. Dunk just huffs, amused, reclining back against the trunk of the willow. You look down at your half-eaten roll then, sighing through your nose before offering it to him. “You can have the rest.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No, you need to eat.”

“This is my second roll.”

“Exactly,” Dunk says, eyes flitting down your covered frame for just a second, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks back at you. “You need to eat. I’d make you a third if we had any rolls left.”

You shake the bread roll in front of his face, a strip of salt beef hanging out the bitten end. “I’ve eaten. Have the rest.”

“No, you need to eat.”

“Dunk, I’ve eaten. I’m full.”

“No, you’re not.”

You roll your eyes. “Take the fucking bread.”

Dunk eyes the food sceptically for a moment, then looks back to you. “Are you sure?”

“Take the bread or I’ll throw it at your big head.”

Dunk takes it without another word, his sword-calloused fingers brushing yours. He takes a large bite, chewing contently as you lean back against the tree as well. Your shoulders knock together, and you feel the heat radiating off of him despite his thin tunic and fraying summer cloak he insists he mends himself—despite your sewing skills being considerably better than his (which, in itself, is not difficult considering his are… poor).

You take the corner of the cloak, your thumb immediately poking through a hole there. He watches you, eyes wide and glistening. There are crumbs around his lips.

“You need to let me mend this,” you tell him, wiggling your thumb for emphasis.

“I can do it.”

“I’ve mended every cloak you’ve had since we were children,” you say pointedly, tugging on the hole. It rips a little bigger, and he makes a face. You hide your smile. “My needlework is much better than yours.”

He huffs. “I mended my trousers just this morning.”

In the semi-darkness, your eyes find a patch of poorly stitched fabric beneath his right knee.

You laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Dunk takes a rough bite of the bread roll, shaking his head as he chews. “Some friend you are.”

—✿—

Four days later, you and Dunk ride your horses along a well-trodden path. It rings around a dense thicket of woodland, and you listen to the way in which the trees jostle their leaves and branches together as the breeze blows through them. Birdsong filters out between the canopy too. You close your eyes, seated comfortably in your saddle as you ride Chestnut.

Ahead of you however, several hooded figures jump out onto the dirt road, brandishing jagged daggers. Dunk reacts before you, one strong arm shooting out to seize hold of Chestnut’s reins and pull you to an abrupt stop. Chestnut huffs in protest as Dunk manoeuvres himself and Thunder in front of you, the sturdy warhorse barely blinking as the three men advance.

“Pretty horse y’ve got,” one of the men says, gesturing to Thunder with the point of his dagger. The man’s eyes lift over to you a moment later, and he smiles a mouth full of silver as he gestures at you next. “Pretty wee lady y’ve got, too.”

Dunk’s face is set in stone, a steely flash in his eyes as he dismounts. All three men snap their eyes away from you to peer up at the hulking mass of a man standing before them. Dunk stands taller than Thunder’s withers, and he isn’t a small horse by any means.

One of the men falters on his sentence, concern flashing across his face, but the man who had first spoken takes a brave—or, you think, rather foolish—step forward, dagger outstretched. Dunk’s hand is balled tight on the pommel of his sword, which rests faithfully at his hip.

“Coin,” the man instructs simply. His eyes shoot up to you again, and you feel a worried chill creep up your spine. A sickly sort of nausea spindles through your diaphragm too. The man looks back at Dunk, dagger brandishing. “Or we can take the lady—”

Dunk rips his sword from its rope sheath and points it at the man. The other two take a few large steps back. Dunk grips the sword, the blade unwavering as he angles it directly at the man’s face.

“Speak one more word and you lose a hand,” Dunk grits out, the muscles in his jaw working. You watch, slightly helpless, from your saddle. Dunk nods towards the other two men, who still clutch their daggers in dirt-stained fingers. “Well? Anything to say?”

The first man scowls. “You—”

Dunk spins his wrist and shifts forward, blade of his sword coming down hard on the man’s hand. Blood splatters outwards in stripes of red silk, painting the earth like a bug squashed beneath a thumb. The man lets out a harrowing scream, his dagger hitting the reddened earth with a dull thud as he backs away, cradling his hand now. A large, deep gash splits across the side of his hand, cutting beneath the thumb knuckle in a bloody display of muscle and bone.

“Fucking hell!” One of the other men shouts, before proceeding to sprint back into the shadows of the forest alongside his friend, scarpering like a pair of rats. The injured man stumbles back, sending Dunk a look of pure fright, before vanishing into the woods, leaving a dotted trail of blood in his wake.

Dunk kicks the dagger away, watching it skitter off into the woodlands underbrush, before turning to you. He approaches slowly, placing a gentle hand on your calf.

“Are you alright?” He asks, wiping the tip of his sword through the dirt.

“Fine,” you tell him. Your eyes find his, which are brimming with worry, before you allow yours to rise to the forest line. You sigh. “You should’ve cut his hand off.”

Dunk sheaths his sword, frowning. “I was… I was trying to be intimidating. I didn’t—I mean, if he tried to get to you, I would’ve… I would’ve maybe, you know—”

You reach down and pet your friend gently on the top of his head. “Too noble for your own good, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, and he’s still holding your calf. “Thieves like that are mostly harmless. I didn’t…” He looks up at you then. “Should I have…?”

You shake your head. “You did great, Dunk. Very brave, and very strong.”

Dunk bows his head, bashful. He gives your calf one last firm pat before pulling himself up and into his own saddle. He offers you one last glance over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m fine, Dunk.”

He nods too, turning. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, still smiling as your eyes find his shoulders and back. You see the mass of muscle beneath the material that covers him, and you can’t help the weight of your smile and the warmth in your chest that quickly replaces your feeling of nausea.

—✿—

Two days after that, the springtime sun shines warmly against your back as you and Dunk traipse the sun-soaked cobbled streets of Oldtown. The towering knight loiters close behind you as you browse the market stalls, air swimming with flowery incense and freshly baked breads. Dunk lugs a few linen sacks of supplies in his arms, carrying them easily, as you give him yet another parchment-wrapped parcel of who knows what.

He lets you slip it into one of the sacks. “What is that?”

“Cake,” you say simply.

The frown that graces his face is light as he fights a smile. “You can’t keep buying cake. Our coin is scarce, and should be spent on things we need.”

You shoot him a pointed look over your shoulder, replying light-heartedly, “Well, it’s my coin and I need cake. Shut up.”

Dunk doesn’t argue, and instead follows you through the crowd. You linger ahead though as Dunk lags behind, hyper-aware of his large size taking up a considerable amount of the thoroughfare. He apologises under his breath as he accidentally bumps someone, and he tries to keep his arms tucked in as he holds onto all the produce you had insisted on purchasing.

When he finally catches up to you, after being cursed at by an elderly woman, you’re standing before a market stall with a wide grin split across your pretty face. Dunk watches you laugh softly at something the vendor says—the vendor, who happens to be a very attractive man around your age—before offering a response. And whatever you say makes the vendor smile even wider, a mouth full of flashing ivory.

Something solid churns deep in Dunk’s chest. It settles deep in the chambers of his heart.

He sidles up to you as casually as possible, body casting a long shadow across the stall. The vendor looks up, and Dunk almost feels guilty in the delight that greets him when the vendor’s smile vanishes.

You lift your head, smiling at your companion. “Dunk, what do you think?”

His eyes pull away from the vendor to where you’re showing him… another cake.

He huffs. “M’lady.”

It’s small, probably an easy fit in the palm of your hand, decorated with segments of blackberries and dusted with glittering sugar. His eyes flit from the little cake to your face, where you look at him with glossy eyes he swears he can see his reflection in—all pleading and begging and looking just the way you did when he met you all those years ago. Except now, you’re no longer surrounded by the grime of Flea Bottom. You’re here, together, in a tightly-packed market in Oldtown, clean and well-fed and smelling of honey and horse.

“One more,” you whisper. “This one looks good.”

“I’m certain you said that earlier,” Dunk mutters, but doesn’t argue. 

He nods at the vendor, who hurries to offer you a square of parchment to wrap the little cake in. You beam, and Dunk feels something glowing from his chest, warm against the bone of his sternum. He hands the vendor the right coin before the two of you move off, heading back through the market, footsteps audible against the cobbled ground.

“Thank you,” you say suddenly, shifting to the side to lean your cheek against his arm. The muscle of his bicep is pillowy and warm against your face, and you peer up at him as you take a gentle hold of his wrist as he hefts the loot of the trip. “Thank you, Dunk.”

He smiles down at you, a few strands of hair framing his face. “Y’welcome.”

—✿—

Evening falls in a curtain of pale oranges and yellows as you lounge across the mattress. The inn room around you is lit up in those colours, sunlight streaming in through the small window that overlooks one of Oldtown’s many winding alleys. You lie comfortably in your chemise, candles burning near the iron-framed bed, deflated pillows piled behind you. Paper rustling is all that fills the room as you read, the book resting in your lap.

The room’s door opens and Dunk ducks in. You greet him.

He stands over the bed and holds something out to you. “Here.”

You place your book aside, taking in his slightly flushed appearance. “What…?”

The knight holds a book out towards you, leather-bound and clean of wear and tear. Your mouth parts into a small gasp as you gently take the book, admiring it and hefting its weight in your hands.

“Dunk,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’ve read your book a hundred times over by now, so I thought a new one’d suit you well.”

You brush your fingers down the neatly bound spine. “Dunk…”

Tossing it aside, you all but throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him to you. He laughs at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around your middle, cheeks heating as you murmur thanks into his shoulder. You pull back after a moment, but his hands rest on your hips and your fingers remain interlinked behind the column of his neck.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that?” You mutter, cocking your head and appraising the pink tint across his lightly freckled cheeks.

It flushes to his ears. “You deserve it. That and more, t’be fair.”

You chuckle at that, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. You thread them slowly, scratching against his scalp, and the sound that leaves his throat is nothing less than a purr as his eyes close and he leans his head back into the contact. The grip he has on your hips tightens. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.

“Like what?” You query, your other hand resting high on his shoulder, toying with the seam of his tunic.

Dunk opens his eyes. “Huh?”

“You said I deserve that and more,” you tell him. “Like what? What else do I deserve?”

He groans quietly, warring with himself as his eyes, lids half-lowered and sluggish in their movements, trace the features of your face.

“So much more,” he whispers. The hold on your hips draws firmer and you feel a giddy sort of heat take over you, settling in your stomach and between your thighs. Dunk continues, corner of his mouth curling up into a shadow of a grimace. “More than I can give you.”

You pout at his words, fingers in his hair taking the strands firmly between knuckles and tugging. He sucks in a breath, and you hold him as you speak.

“Don’t act the fool,” you say. “You give me everything I want, Dunk.”

He frowns.

“You do,” you challenge, hand not in his hair coming to cup his cheek now. His skin is warm and slightly dewy to the touch, testament of a man having spent the last hour searching the warm, narrow streets of Oldtown for a book. A book for you. You swipe your thumb along his cheekbone. “Now tell me: what else do I deserve?”

Dunk opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes sweep down your face again, lingering on the shape of your lips, then the lines of your nose. They reach your eyes and he releases a pained sound—a sound punched from his gut, dragged across a whimper so intimate that it settles your heartbeat between your thighs.

“You deserve everything,” he whispers finally, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. Touching, a nervous movement, before his lips close and he’s trapping a grunt between his teeth as you scratch at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, speaking like your touch might put him to sleep. “Everything I can give you.”

The hand you have on his face shifts to his jaw and you work the muscle and bone beneath the pads of your fingers. “And what can you give me?”

Dunk groans, head lolling to the side, resting against your forearm while you continue to rub at the nape of his neck, hair between your fingers. You let go of his jaw and swipe your hand across his forehead, pushing loose strands away so you can get a good look at his face. He’s redder now, his blush coloured darker in the shadows of the room. His freckles blur together beneath the flickering candlelight too, and you allow yourself to feather the tips of your fingers across the ones high on his cheekbones. You map them like the stars as he rubs his head against your forearm like a cat.

“Anything you want,” Dunk whispers finally, and it’s broken around a whine. Heat prickles at the back of your neck, blood pumping hot in your core as your body reacts to his audible need. Beneath the thin material of your chemise, you’re on fire. Dunk finally opens his eyes, observing you when the silence stretches for just a moment too long. He says your name, soft, tender, before he speaks. “Please.”

You smile, tucking a few thin locks of his hair behind his ear. You lean in, lips ghosting across the warm skin of his cheek. “I want you.”

A rumbling groan is ripped from his throat as he shifts his head to the side, chasing your words before they can disappear into the candlelit air. His mouth slots to yours so easily as you turn your head too, and another deep sound leaves his mouth as your lips work together. You grip his hair tightly, angling his head back so you can draw him in even closer.

Your name falls from his mouth, followed by a whisper of “my sweet girl,” before your tongues draw together. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, clutching firmly, fingers flexing as if you would draw away from him. You whimper in response, tugging at his hair.

“C’mon,” he mutters against your mouth as his hands find your hips again. He shifts you backwards, hefting you like a sack of grain until your head hits the stack of pillows. You smile into the kiss, pulling his hair into a closed fist at the back of his head. He groans, teeth catching on your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

You sit up slightly, forcing him to back up. Tugging your chemise off, the amber-lit warmth of the room greets your bare tits, and you toss the garment aside as Dunk gapes at you, eyes firmly on your chest.

“Dunk,” you chuckle, taking in his shocked—pleased—expression. “You’ve seen me bare before.”

“Not like this,” he utters, voice dark. He leans in then, and you suck in a gasp as he presses his face between the valley of your breasts. His hands find the small of your back, hugging you to him, and the skin of his face is burning red-hot against your chest. His mouth opens and he groans loudly, holding you tightly. “Oh gods.”

You seize his head and pull him back to you. You kiss him hard this time—it’s not gentle, and it’s not tender. It’s teeth and tongue and spit and fuelled by everything pent up inside you. A glass bottle uncorked, liquid need overflowing as you lick the salt from his tongue. His clothing comes next: blindly, you work his tunic over his arms and shoulders, pulling away from him so he could throw it across the room. He’s on you like a leaping hound, pinning you back against the pillows while your hands find the ties of his trousers.

There’s a molasses-thick desire seeping into your belly as you untie his trousers. It consumes you, hot and sticky, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth as your fingers brush across the tent in the material of his trousers. He groans in return, the sound breathless and almost embarrassed, as you shuck his trousers down and start tugging at his breeches.

He pulls back. “Sweet girl, hold on—”

You pause, panting, fingers on the knot at the band of his breeches. “Are you okay?”

“M’so good,” Dunk whispers, kissing you one last time on the lips. It’s chaste, almost polite, something akin to an apology before he leans back. A pout is halfway formed across your lips, nipples hardening at the loss of warmth against your front, before you feel his hands run down your back to the bunched fabric of your smallclothes. His eyes find yours as he slowly, slowly begins guiding them down. “Is this okay?”

You nod, admiring the shadowed lines of his face in the candlelight. A small dip in his brow draws his face into a mask of disbelief as he gently draws your smallclothes down your hips, over the curve of your arse, and then down your thighs. You lift yourself to aid him, eyes on the way his tongue finds the corner of his mouth again, his pupils blown wide. Soon, your thin linen undergarments are discarded and you lie completely bare before him.

“Here she is…” Dunk whispers, and it’s so quiet you’re certain it wasn’t meant for you.

His large hands find the plush of your thighs, kneading the flesh there as he parts them. His movements are unhurried as he brings them wider, and wider still, until the slick heat of your core glistens wet in the flickering candlelight. The sound that leaves him is pained, stretched thin across a moan as his fingers ghost down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He traces circles as he looks.

Your heart clatters against your ribcage like a marble in a jar and you swear you’re losing your breath. A hand you barely register as yours reaches out, feeling along the line of hair above his breeches. The muscle is cloaked in a layer of fat that you dig your fingers into, and you taste that molasses-thick desire between your teeth as his name rolls over your tongue.

“Put your mouth on me,” you say when you draw his attention away from your core. Your fingers dip, tracing the line of hair, brushing over the tent in his breeches. There’s a jerk of mass beneath the fabric. It sends your heartbeat straight between your legs.

The small dent in his brow deepens as he shudders out a breath, eyes on yours. “I’ve never…”

“S’alright,” you tell him, other hand finding his face. You pat his cheek tenderly. “We’ll learn—we’ll learn together, okay?”

His lips part, but he nods. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes as he settles further onto the bed, mattress and bedframe groaning. You can feel the callouses on the top of his palms against you, and his hands twist from your inner thighs to the backs of them. You yelp when he suddenly pushes your thighs up, thumb and fingers on either side of your knee’s undersides. He bends them up until they rest against the softness of your belly. 

The angle is exposing, and there is a fleeting moment of fear that passes through your mind. It is squashed immediately when a boarish grunt leaves Dunk’s throat as he bends forward, squeezing your legs to anchor himself, before his breath is ghosting across you.

You writhe, gasping out, “Dunk, Dunk, please—”

His eyes appear black in the dim light as he peers up at you, hair damp on his forehead already. He watches you carefully as he blows out a breath—the sensation against your slick folds slicing your sentence mid-air. You moan softly and Dunk repeats the action, tepid air a finger-like stroke against the blazing warmth of your cunt. You manage to wriggle an arm between the fold of your legs, your fingers threading through his hair again.

He takes the encouragement: still looking up at you, Dunk gently presses his mouth to your core. It’s a kiss, a press of lips against velvet warmth, before they part. His tongue follows, a tentative split between your folds as his head shifts. His nose bumps your clit, and when a short “ha-ah” slips over the point of your tongue, he chases—tongue finding, searching, until you call a stretched-out whine of his name when he finally gets it.

“Dunk, yes, fuck,” you ramble, fisting his hair when he flattens his tongue. Something electric fizzles down your spine, shoulders to hips, as he works with a pressure just slightly too little, but somehow it works. It works because it’s him, and it works because you cant your hips and gently urge his head forward. And because he’s a good knight, your good knight, he listens, his lips drawing around your clit in a wet suction that punches a moan from you. “Du–uh–nk, oh gods.”

A thick grumble vibrates against you, his eyelids fluttering. His mouth shifts, tongue splitting back down your folds as you pant. He continues to watch you, eyes glassy. You nod, imploring, when the point of his tongue finds your hole, and you tighten your grip on his hair when he presses in. Like everything else about him, his tongue is thick—a thick press inside you that pulls you apart. It draws a pressure into the base of your belly as he licks into you, the line of his nose pressing deep against your puffy clit.

You wriggle beneath him, trapped under the fold of your own thighs as he pins you to the mattress and takes what he wants—gives you what you need. And he gives it to you, ever the quick-learner, with his tongue pulling and pushing in broad strokes. In, out, curling inwards as his head shifts. He chases the gasps that fall from your mouth, the little whimpers you try and quell as his tongue flicks in. He hums, pleased at the way your body heats up beneath him, and he feels his cock jerk in his breeches when the vibrations of his hum travel straight through you. You keen, holding his head tighter against your core. He breathes deeply, smelling and tasting you, face slick and flushed.

Is this good? he wants to ask. Am I making you feel good? teeters painfully on his tongue, but he keeps them locked in. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. Not now, not ever. The sounds you make spur him on, ignite a spark deep in his chest. His closest friend. His. His sweet girl writhing and moaning for him.

Sickly sweet now, the molasses-thick need crystalises in your womb, and you feel something tugging. A deep-seated pressure that rocks your heartbeat through your core, blood pumping hot in your veins. There’s a tension in your thighs too, and they tremble in his hold as his tongue splits you apart. The sounds are wet, and Dunk is grunting, and you’re trying not to fall too deeply into it—but you can’t help it. All you can think of, all you can hear, all you can taste is Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, and that pressure inside you builds to its breaking point. Your fingers grip his hair tightly as you attempt to grind yourself against his face.

“Dunk,” you whine, calling for him as your body shakes. “Dunk, s’good—m’gonna—”

You burst apart when his tongue dips deep inside you and he groans into your heat. The pressure inside you fissures and your cunt clenches tightly around him, heartbeat spiking as you call for him over and over, strung across breathy whimpers that seem to rise into the ceiling. He licks you through it, face unyielding as you tremble under the weight of his palms.

After a long moment, pleasure spiking sharp in the pit of your stomach, you pull him away from you by his hair. The knight groans, eyes finally closing, his face slick with you, lips kiss-bruised and wet as he whispers your name. He squeezes your thighs too, before gently placing your legs back against the sheets.

“Did I… was that okay?” Dunk can finally ask, eyes roaming down your naked form. They fall from your face, to your chest and stomach, to where you drool out between your thighs. The sight makes him moan, one hand resting over his lap.

“So good,” you assure him, picking yourself off the pillows now. Dunk swallows, watching you as you close the gap and kiss him. He’s shocked, frozen for a split-second as you lick yourself from his lips. The loud moan you offer him quickly pulls him back to solid earth, and he opens his mouth to kiss you back. You mutter against his lips, “You did so well, Dunk.”

He preens beneath the praise, ears burning hot as your tongues meet. He huffs into the kiss, his own pleasure thick in his trousers, the taste and smell and heat of you swimming in his head. But you seem to know exactly how he’s feeling, and your hand finds the ties of his breeches once more. You pull them loose as your mouths move together.

You dip a hand in and wrap your fingers around his cock. Dunk breaks the kiss with a low groan, forehead resting against yours as you pull him from the linen of his breeches. He’s warm and solid in your hand, velvet skin across steel as he pumps hot in your hand. Both of you look down.

“Gods…” You whisper, giving him a little stroke. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. But here, in the privacy of this little inn room, bathed in ichored candlelight, it’s so much different. Your fingers work lightly, feeling the subtle give of skin. There are soft, shallow ridges and a vein you can feel working up the back of his shaft, and he’s so warm and so real against you. You whisper again, “So pretty, Dunk.”

He offers you a whiny breath as your fingers press beneath the dip of his cockhead. It’s blushing a deep pink and pearling wet at the slit and he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he’s frowning like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your hand is so much smaller than his—the sight of it wrapped around his cock making it jerk.

“So big…” You think aloud as your fingers move gently.

Dunk breathes deeply, chest heaving. His hands are on your hips, gripping you firmly, smoothing stuttering circles with his thumbs.

You pull away from him. He looks at you, eyes nearly black.

“Want you,” you tell him simply, fingers wrapping around the base of him now. You give him a tight squeeze. “Need you.”

“Gods above,” Dunk gasps out, but he’s already nodding. A thick, viscous heat clings to his ribs, pulls at the strings of his heart as he lets you work your fingers around the thick of his cock. He dips and kisses your forehead—he can’t help it. “Okay, sweet girl, I’ll give it to you.”

You smile then, retracting your hand. He hisses at the lack of contact, watching you shuffle back until you’re lying amongst your throne of pillows. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen. His sweet girl, spreading her legs with a smile on her pretty face. All for him.

The thoughts make him dizzy as he quickly shucks his clothing down his legs, kicking it away. He kneels on the bed, bedframe creaking beneath the weight of his body, but he ignores it. He draws in close to you, large hands finding the backs of your thighs and folding you again. The sound it pushes from your chest—“ha–uh–fu–uck, Dunk,”—is breathy and sweet in the amber-lit air between you. It has his cock jerking where it sits heavy and leaking against the mass of his thigh as he settles before you.

It’s easy to fold you like this. He leans over you, abdomen contracting as he holds himself up enough not to crush you. Up enough, too, to take one hand and clutch the base of his cock, guiding it to your cunt. You whimper his name and the sound goes directly to his brain, fills his lungs like a puff of smoke. It’s heady and dizzying and he can’t help but moan as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit.

“Dunk,” you whine, the pressure between your folds sparking something in your lower belly again. Your cunt flutters around nothing when he taps the head against your swollen clit, then slowly drags it back down to notch at your hole. You suck in a breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he’s listening. He clutches himself in a lightly trembling hand and carefully, almost too slowly, pushes in. Your pussy opens up for him, slick and warm, sucking in the head with a wet clutch that has him losing his breath. It’s tight and unlike nothing he’s ever experienced before.

You whimper, hands gripping the sheets beside you. “Dunk, please, keep going.”

He hadn’t realised he’d stopped.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, then shifts his hips. Such a good listener. 

He leans in, cock splitting you apart. He’s thick and heavy, dragging against your walls in one solid movement. It’s intoxicating, and you whine, the sound rattling your teeth as it’s wrenched from the back of your throat. You’re so full, and he’s still moving.

Dunk mutters your name like a prayer as he feeds his cock into you, marvelling at the way you open for him. Deeper and deeper. He holds you firm, folding you into the mattress, pinned beneath his strong chest. The heat that envelops him, he’s certain, burns hotter than any flame in Westeros.

He stills after a moment. The head of his cock is wedged right up beneath the plug of your cervix, and there’s a slowly soothing ache somewhere in your pelvis. You can feel it, feel it festering like a bruise. Dunk’s cock gives a feeble jerk inside you, and you wince just slightly, so full, reaching so deep.

His face drops. Worried. “Are you—?”

“M’okay,” you whisper. The pain is slowly dissipating as your cunt flutters around him. You see him bite back a groan, pleasure fighting against concern. You smile at him softly. “So good, Dunk. You feel so good inside me.”

Dunk’s still frowning, but you can tell your words have hit him square across the face. He releases a shuddering breath, and his cock twitches inside you again.

“Please move,” you tell him, purposefully tightening the muscles of your core, sucking him in even tighter. His eyes flutter, and you finally get to hear that groan he had been wrangling with. It’s hoarse, flung through gravel. You huff loudly. “Please, Dunk.”

“Okay, okay,” Dunk utters, soothing.

Holding your thighs, he pulls out until just the head rests inside. He takes a deep breath, then pushes back in, and his composure shatters completely when you attempt to arch, moaning. He’s making you feel like this. He is. He hounds after that feeling, pulling his cock out again and repeating the movement until he settles into a pace he didn’t know he could keep.

“That’s it, just like that,” you ramble, tits bouncing against your chest as Dunk’s thrusts lean heavy. Your knees near your head, the pressure on your belly making him feel even deeper. The ache inside you has completely vanished, replaced now by that viscous heat you’ve come to love. “Dunk, fuck, so—so good.”

The bed creaks in protest as he drives you deeper and deeper into the mattress, his strokes becoming more confident. He’s a quick learner, you already know, and you can feel the pride leeching from him as he breaks you apart from the inside out. He’s basking in the little sounds that fall from you as the head of his cock nudges deep. Thick, stretching, rolling.

You’re so tight around him. Warm and slick and everything he’d dared to imagine late at night, bent against a tree with his cock in hand. And you take him so well, sucking him in as his hips roll, skin-slapping-skin. The iron headboard knocks against the wooden wall, but he pays it no mind, thoughts only of you, you, you. His girl. His perfect girl.

“Harder,” you moan, fisting the sheets.

Dunk listens.

He wrestles your legs onto his shoulders, angling himself even deeper now and thrusting deep. You yelp, then moan, at the angle and the fact he nails that perfect spot inside you on the third thrust. He hears it, hears the shift in your moans, feels the clench of your pussy, all hot and vice-like around him. And he follows it, tracing it like a line to treasure. Rolling hips, creaking bed, bear-like grunts.

“Like that?” He utters, but he knows. He’s folding you in half and he knows.

You can barely answer, pressure tight in your womb. His cock drags you closer to another release, bubbling hot as he pins you beneath the thick, muscled mass of his body. He’s a walking furnace, and you feel it closer now. Fire seeps from his skin. Sweat traps along your front, along your back, building beneath the joints of your knees as he fucks you.

“Y–yeah,” you manage to reply, but that’s all you have energy for. Your pleasure is stacking deep inside you and you’re losing your ability to form proper words.

Dunk grunts in response.

Hair hangs over his forehead, some tacked to his skin with sweat. The muscles in his arms work as he holds himself over you. He’s so thick, so strong. You manage to lift an arm to squeeze at his bicep, fingers indenting flesh. You want to bite it, but he has you trapped so firmly against the mattress that you’re sure you couldn’t move an inch if you tried.

Your pussy squeezes around him again as pressure builds. It’s familiar now, and you know where it comes from, and where it’s going to lead you, as it crawls down your spine and spans out across your womb.

You clutch Dunk’s arm with one hand, the other useless at your side, limbless and pleasure-lax. “Dunk.”

“Yeah?” He looks down at you, a light furrow in his brow. “You’ve got something for me?”

You nod. “M’so close.”

Dunk huffs, pace remaining. Firm and even, cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you. His hips roll, the mattress shifts, the bedframe groans and knocks heavy against the wall. Candles flicker around you, white wax dripping, rolling in pearls. His eyes are on you, blue smothered beneath black. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

That makes you moan. A feather-soft “Dunk,” followed by a louder, more desperate, “Oh, gods, Dunk—!” You shatter for a second time then, body giving in. Your cunt clutches tight around his cock, slick gushing as he fucks you through it, dribbling out and down the curve of your arse as he rocks in, in, in. His movements falter, just slightly, as you cry out for him, release pressing heavy on your belly as he folds you.

“M’here, m’here,” Dunk coos, bending to kiss you. Your legs press even deeper, and you whine into the kiss. Trembling, legs shaking, heart seeping deep into the marrow of your bones. Dunk pulls back, thrusts slowing by a fraction as his cock jerks. He moans like a wounded man, “Oh, sweet girl, I’m—I’m—”

It’s a sudden, solid heat in his pelvis. His cock jumps where it’s seated against the base of your cervix, and his balls draw tight where they rest against the curve of your arse. His hips stutter, thighs tensing, then he’s spilling. Inside you.

It feels thicker, hotter. It knocks through his diaphragm and he groans through it, jaw working as he shoves himself to the hilt inside you. He feels the way your pussy wraps to take him, sucks him in even deeper as he empties himself in white-hot stripes. The force in which it leaves him is dizzying, and his eyes drop closed, mouth parting.

And he can’t help himself.

“I love you,” he breathes out as he comes, spilling hot. It leaves him in shudders as he holds himself over you, trapping you, keeping you. He huffs, fending off a groan as he rolls his hips to a stop. “Gods above.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment after that. The mattress settles as you still. You pant, and so does Dunk, as pleasure fizzles like the bubbles of ale.

Dunk flushes even deeper when he shakes himself from his haze. He opens his eyes properly, peering down at you as if he’d caused you injury.

“M’sorry,” he says quickly, scanning your face. “My sweet girl, I’m—”

You shake your head, heartbeat calming. “S’okay—oh, Dunk, it’s okay.”

You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing.

“I love you,” you tell him through a whisper. There’s a quiet in the room that feels warm against your skin. You can hear music somewhere below you: the muffled plucking of strings, the clamour of singing voices. You stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. “More than anything.”

His reply is to bend and kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, but there’s a strength behind it that tastes of the knight you know.

“You’re too good to me,” Dunk mumbles against your lips, echoing your words from earlier. “My sweet girl. Too good for me.”

You smile and kiss him harder.

———

big man fold me please i’m begging

tags 🌿

@ghostlybfgf @brutalizermp3 @targlocket @sweetpeaapplepie @sedonasummer @pinkdoeweirdo @silkaurum @starxs-s @goldenhoneyedwine

[sintaera]

6- Dunk

Devoted love, maybe a little jealousy, but girl, he's so in love.

𝐀 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 | 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐊.

I am so excited, my first request and it's for our baby, our little golden ray of sunshine, the Ser Duncan the Tall.

“Someone bring me a tall glass of water, cause' I am gonna need it!” Because I got carried away and this turned into a monster, I honestly don't know what came over me. I hope this is what you had in mind.

Thank you for requesting this, my sweet dragonling. I hope I didn't disappoint.

Requested Prompt;

6. “I’ve spent hours imagining exactly how you’d look pinned beneath me, and you’re even more beautiful in person.”

Warnings; fluff, too much fluff actually, brief flickers of jealousy, first time, gentle sex, maybe a little roughness thrown into the mix, so much cuteness, and hopefully a satisfied dragonling (the requestee.)

𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋

Nobody quite understands how a sweet thing like you ended up married to Duncan the Tall. Some say it should be the other way around—that a knight so impossibly kind somehow convinced you to stay, and not that you had threatened him with a spoon, amongst other things to make him stay.

Dunk is all awkward smiles, gentle hands, and a heart far too big for his chest. He trips over compliments, worries endlessly about your happiness, and looks at you as though you've hung every star in the sky yourself—

“That boy is all brawn and no brains,” Ser Arlan had once muttered to you, “I am old, might be turnin' blind in tha' one eye but any fool can see that the big oaf is smitten with you.”

—he isn't rich, noble, or particularly charming by his own reckoning. He's simply good. And in a world that rarely rewards goodness, that is exactly why you fell in love with him.

The wedding was so small that no singer would ever write a song about it.

There were no grand septs draped in silk, no noble guests crowding the benches, no feasts that lasted for days. Just a humble sept, a few witnesses, and an old hedge knight smiling proudly as he watched his squire become a husband.

Ser Arlan of Pennytree dabbed suspiciously at his eyes afterward and claimed it was dust.

Dunk didn't believe him.

A few hours later, the three of you sat inside a warm little inn along the road, sharing a meal that was far too expensive for your means and far too modest for Dunk's liking.

You sat beside him on the bench.

Or rather, squeezed beside him.

There was entirely too much Duncan the Tall for one seat. "I jus'..." Dunk rubbed the back of his neck for perhaps the hundredth time that evening. His ears were bright red. "I know it ain't much."

"Dunk—"

"It ain't." He looked genuinely distressed. "Ain't got a proper feast. Ain't got musicians. Ain't got flowers neither." You reached for his hand.

He immediately laced your fingers together, something that made your heart skip a beat, because now it was your turn to blush.

“But one day,” he continued stubbornly, squeezing your hand, “one day I'll have enough coin. Maybe win a tourney or summat. Then I'll give you a real wedding.”

“Dunk—”

“A grand one.”

His voice grew increasingly determined. “The grandest.”

"Dunk."

“Big feast. Roasted swan. Musicians. A proper dress.” You laughed softly. He looked almost offended by your amusement.

“I am serious.”

You nodded, leaning back in the chair that creaked beneath you, “I know, I am not mocking you, my love.”

“'Cause you deserve better.” The words came out so earnest that your heart squeezed painfully. Dunk had never understood that he was the better thing.

Not the feast.

Not the silks.

Not the coin.

Just him. You leaned over and kissed his cheek. The giant knight promptly forgot how to breathe. Ser Arlan groaned into his cup.

“Seven save me.”

A short while later, you rose to fetch another helping before Dunk could insist he wasn't still hungry. Which was ridiculous. The man ate enough for three grown men.

You were returning with a plate when a handsome young knight intercepted you near the hearth. “Forgive me, my lady.”

You paused politely, the knight smiled—not the dangerous kind, but the smile too much and I'll get what I want kind.

“I merely wished to say that you're the prettiest woman I've seen in weeks.”

“Oh.” No, this wasn't going to end well.

“And if you're travelling alone...”

His grin widened. “...perhaps I could convince you to share supper with me.”

You blinked and then glanced across the room. Dunk was easy enough to spot, mainly because he was a head taller than nearly everyone else present.

The knight followed your gaze and you smiled sweetly when you pointed at Dunk. “That giant over there?“

“The giant?”

“The very large man attempting to fit three loaves of bread onto one plate.” Dunk was, indeed, doing exactly that.

“Yes?”

“That's my husband.” The knight's smile vanished.

“Oh.”

You nodded. “As sweet as your offer is.”

The knight looked again. Dunk had noticed you now. And unfortunately for him, he had also noticed another man speaking to you.

His brow furrowed, slowly, suspiciously, like a large dog trying to determine whether someone was a threat.

The knight paled. “That's your husband?”

You nodded proudly. “Mmhm.”

The knight continued. “The enormous one?”

You nodded once more, glancing briefly towards the innkeeper that was trying his hard not to listen. “That's him.”

The knight stared.

Dunk stared back.

You could practically see the panic settling in. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Thank you.” You said with a voice filled with sincerity, love and unquestionable devotion.

“I shall be leaving now.”

“A wise choice.” The knight hurried away.

You returned to your table after one of the kitchen maids handed you a plate filled with roast beef, cheese and a steaming bowl of soup and bred.

Dunk immediately sat up straighter. “Who was that?”

You smiled at your husband, flushing slightly, because seven help you, you still could not comprehend how you were married to this kind, sweet man. “No one.”

“He were talkin' to you.”

“He complimented me.” Dunk frowned.

“Oh.”

Then frowned harder.

“Oh.”

You hid a smile. “He also asked me to share supper with him.” The loaf of bread in Dunk's hand nearly snapped in half.

“He what?”

You pointed directly at him. “I told him that the giant in the room was my husband.”

For a moment, Dunk simply stared, then his entire face turned scarlet, right up to the tips of his ears. “Oh.”

A helpless grin spread across his face. “Oh.”

Ser Arlan made a noise of profound suffering. Dunk looked at you as though you had personally handed him the moon.

And despite the tiny wedding, the humble inn, and the lack of coin in either of your pockets, you thought there had never been a bride more loved than you.

“You are both insufferable and I have had enough,” Ser Arlan muttered as he stood, grunting as several joints protested, “I expect you both to be up before the sun bleeds, so best not break your wife with your cock, boy.”

The latch clicked home behind you, and the inn room shrank around the sound. The single candle on the nightstand threw Dunk's shadow across the plaster wall—huge, wavering, a giant in miniature.

He stood with his back to you, his shoulders broad beneath the travel-stained tunic, his hands opening and closing at his sides. The straw mattress rustled as you shifted your weight, and he turned.

The candlelight caught his face. His hazel eyes were dark in the dimness, his jaw working. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. A flush crept up his neck.

“I—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I don't know how to start.” His hands lifted, hesitated, then reached for your face. His callused palms cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and he looked at you like you were a sunrise he'd only heard about.

“I've spent hours imagining exactly how you'd look pinned beneath me, and you're even more beautiful in person.”

The words hung raw and unguarded. His hands trembled against your skin.

Then he kissed you. It wasn't a gentle first kiss. It was hungry and desperate, his mouth slanting over yours, his breath catching. One hand slid into your hair, the other pressed flat against your lower back, pulling you against him. You felt the heat of his body through the tunic, the hard plane of his chest, the tremble running through his arms.

He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “Tell me this is real.”

“It's real.” He kissed you again, softer this time, and his palm guided you backward. Your heels caught on the rushes, then met the rough plank floor one step at a time until your calves hit the bed's edge. The straw rustled beneath you.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. The candlelight carved shadows into his face. His throat worked. He waited.

You nodded.

Something in his expression eased. He bent and kissed your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth.

“I'll try not to hurt you,” he whispered, and his hands found the lacings of your dress.

His fingers fumbled. He cursed under his breath—a low, sheepish sound—and you almost laughed. But his touch was reverent as the fabric loosened, sliding off your shoulders, pooling at your feet. The air kissed your skin.

He straightened, looked at you, and the breath left him in a hush.

"Seven hells," he breathed. "You're—" He shook his head, unable to finish.

You reached for the hem of his tunic. He helped you pull it over his head, and the candlelight showed you the breadth of his chest, the scars across his ribs, the thatch of brown hair spreading down his belly.

He stood before you, thick-limbed and uncertain, his cock already hard and straining against his breeches.

You unlaced him. He watched your hands, his breath shallow. When you freed him, his cock stood proud and thick, the head already wet.

He made a sound low in his throat. "Lie down," he said, the first command he'd given you. It came out soft, almost a question.

You sank back onto the straw mattress, the ticking rough against your bare skin. He followed, bracing himself above you on his forearms, his shadow swallowing the ceiling.

His weight settled between your thighs, the heat of him pressing against your sex, and you felt how slick you'd grown without meaning to.

He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. His mouth closed over your nipple, and you gasped as his tongue worked, slow and deliberate. His hand slid down your belly, fingers threading through the curls between your legs, finding you wet and ready.

He groaned against your skin.

"Tell me if I hurt you."

"You won't."

He shifted, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. He paused, his eyes meeting yours, and you saw the fear in them—not of the act, but of you. Of breaking something precious.

You lifted your hips, taking him an inch inside.He gasped, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word torn out of him. He pushed forward, slow and careful, the stretch of him filling you inch by inch. You felt every ridge, every tremor in his thighs, the way his breath hitched when he was fully sheathed.

He stayed still, letting you adjust. The straw rustled beneath his weight. The candle flickered.

"Look at me," you said.

He raised his head. His eyes were dark, his lips parted, his face flushed. He looked like a man at the edge of a precipice, waiting for the ground to fall away.

"I married you," you said. "Not a knight. Not a hedge knight. You."

He moved. A shallow thrust, then deeper. His rhythm was hesitant at first, like he couldn't believe he was allowed to feel this. But you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and his control cracked.

He began to fuck you in earnest. Long, deep strokes that rocked the bed frame against the wall, the straw rustling in a dry counterpoint. His hips slapped against yours, wet and urgent. He buried his face in your neck and moaned your name—not your title, not your house, just the name your mother gave you.

"Gods, I've wanted this," he gasped. "Wanted you—"

His hand found yours on the mattress, fingers lacing together, holding on like you were the only solid thing in the room. His rhythm grew faster, less controlled. His breath came in short, ragged bursts against your ear.

"Come for me," he said, the words a plea and a command tangled together. "Please—I need to feel you—"

You let go. The wave crested and broke, your cunt clenching around him, and he made a sound that was half-sob as he followed, his hips stuttering, his seed spilling hot and deep inside you.

He stayed buried, his body shuddering through the aftershocks, his face pressed into your shoulder.

For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the candle and the thud of his heartbeat against your chest.He pulled out slowly, wincing. The loss of him felt sudden, empty. He rolled onto his side, his hand finding your hip, tracing the curve of your waist.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was—I should've lasted longer."

You laughed, a low rasp. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

He lifted his head, searching your face. The candlelight gilded the edge of his jaw, caught the sweat on his brow.

His hand slid from your hip to your belly, splayed there like a brand. "I keep thinking I'll wake up. That I'll be back on the road, with Ser Arlan's voice in my ear and a cold fire, and this will have been a dream."

You covered his hand with yours. "It's not a dream."

"Then prove it." The words came out rough, needy. "Prove I'm yours." Something shifted in your chest. You pushed him onto his back—he went easily, startled—and swung a leg over his hips. His cock stirred against your thigh, half-hard already, and you reached down to guide him back inside you.

His breath caught as you sank onto him, taking him to the hilt. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, his eyes wide in the dim light.

"Like this," you said, and began to move.You rode him slow at first, savoring the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his hands tightened on your hips. The straw rustled beneath his back, and the candlelight painted his chest in gold and shadow. His mouth fell open, a low moan spilling out as you rolled your hips, taking him deeper.

"Look at me," you said.

His eyes opened. They were dark and dazed, full of wonder. You slowed your rhythm, almost to a stop, and watched the need rise in his face.

"Whose are you?"

The question hung between you. His chest heaved. His hands slid up your thighs, your waist, until they cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples.

"Yours," he said, the word raw. "I'm yours." You leaned forward, your palms flat on his chest, and began to move again. Faster now. Harder. The bed groaned beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall. His hands found your hips, guiding your motion, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise.

"Yes," he breathed. "Gods, yes—" His hips bucked up to meet you, driving himself deeper. The angle shifted, and you felt him hit a spot that made your vision blur. You gasped, your rhythm faltering, and he sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.His mouth found your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse, then soothed it with his tongue.

"Let me," he whispered against your skin. "Let me take you."

You nodded, and he rolled you onto your back. The straw mattress caught your weight, and he followed, settling between your thighs, his cock sliding home again. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, and began to move with a steadier rhythm than before—long, deep strokes that seemed to reach something vital inside you.

He kissed you. Soft, then harder. His tongue slid against yours, and you tasted yourself on his lips. He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, and pressed his forehead to yours.

"I never thought—" He stopped. Thrust again. "I never thought someone like you would look twice at someone like me."

You lifted your hand, cupping his jaw. "You're a knight."

"I'm a hedge knight." He laughed, a broken sound. "I'm an orphan from Flea Bottom who got lucky with a sword. I don't have lands. I don't have gold. I don't have anything except a horse I don't own and a shield that's been repainted seven times."

"You have me." His eyes glistened in the candlelight. He kissed you again, fierce and desperate, and his rhythm grew faster. His breath came in ragged gasps against your mouth.

His hand slid between your bodies, finding the place where you were joined, his thumb pressing against your clit in tight circles.

The sensation built like a wave, cresting, breaking. You cried out, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him. He followed with a groan, his hips stuttering, his body shuddering as he spilled into you.

He collapsed onto you, his weight a comfort. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. You felt his heart hammering against your ribs, felt the sweat cooling on his skin.

After a long moment, he lifted his head. "I think I broke the bed." You laughed. The sound startled you—bright and unguarded.

"It held."

"Barely." He eased out of you, wincing, and rolled onto his side. His hand found your hip, tracing lazy circles on your skin. "I should have—" He stopped. Swallowed. "That was—"

"Good?"

"More than good." He met your eyes, and the vulnerability there made your chest ache. "You're more than I ever dreamed of. And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to tell me I don't deserve this."

You reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Who gets to decide what you deserve?"He was quiet for a long moment. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But I'm glad it's not me." He pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin. His arms wrapped around you, strong and warm, and you felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back. The straw rustled as he shifted, settling deeper into the mattress.

"We should sleep," he said. "Ser Arlan will want us up before the sun."

"In a moment." He kissed the top of your head. "In a moment."

His hand found yours on his chest, fingers lacing together. The candle sputtered, the flame shrinking to a blue point before it guttered out, leaving the room in darkness. His arm tightened around you, and you felt his breath slow, felt the tension leave his body as sleep began to pull him under.

You lay awake a little longer, listening to the sounds of the inn settling around you—the creak of timbers, the distant murmur of voices from the common room, the soft rhythm of Dunk's breathing.

His hand hadn't let go of yours.

You lay there, wrapped in his arms, listening to his breathing slow. The darkness pressed in, warm and close, and you felt the tension leave his body one muscle at a time as sleep reclaimed him.

You didn't sleep. Not yet. You lay still, your hand in his, and listened to the inn settle around you—the creak of timbers, the distant drip of water somewhere, the faint sound of wind against the shutters.

His hand tightened on yours, even in sleep. Holding on. You smiled in the darkness. It was real. It was all real. Through the shutters, the first gray hint of dawn began to bleed into the night.

You lay still, watching the gray light seep through the cracks in the shutters, painting thin stripes across the rough floorboards. Dunk's arm was heavy across your waist, his breath warm and even against your shoulder.

The straw rustled as he shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, and his hand tightened reflexively on yours before relaxing again.

You turned your head, trying to make out his face in the growing light. The shadows were retreating, revealing the line of his jaw, the sweep of his brow, the slight part of his lips as he breathed. In sleep, he looked younger.

The worry that creased his forehead by daylight was smoothed away, leaving something open and almost boyish.Your fingers traced the curve of his cheek, feather-light. He stirred, a soft sound escaping his throat, and you watched his eyelids flutter.

The gray light caught the stubble along his jaw, the faint scar that ran from his temple into his hairline—a souvenir from some forgotten skirmish, some hedge knight's brawl that had left its mark.

His eyes opened.

For a moment, he was disoriented, blinking against the pale light. Then his gaze found yours, and something in his chest seemed to unlock. His hand came up, cupping your face, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"Still here," he said. Not a question this time. A statement, soft with wonder.

"Still here." He smiled. It was a slow, sleepy smile that transformed his face, reaching his eyes, crinkling the corners.

"I didn't dream it."

"You didn't."

He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. His legs tangled with yours beneath the rough blanket, and you felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your chest. The dawn light crept across the floor, touching the edge of the bed, climbing the wall.

"We should get up," he said, but made no move to release you.

"We should." You didn't move either.

A bird called somewhere outside, a sharp, insistent trill. From somewhere deeper in the inn, you heard the clatter of pots, the murmur of voices—the innkeeper's wife, probably, already at work. The day was beginning, whether you were ready or not.

Dunk sighed, a long, reluctant exhale. "Ser Arlan will be up. He'll have the horses saddled before we've broken fast."

"Then we'd best not keep him waiting."He pulled back, his hazel eyes finding yours in the growing light. The vulnerability was back, a flicker of it, but softer now. Less desperate.

"Tonight," he said. "When we make camp. Will you—" He stopped, his jaw working.

"Will I what?"

"Will you let me hold you again?" The words came out in a rush. "I know it's foolish. I know we're married, and I shouldn't have to ask, but I—"

You pressed your fingers to his lips, silencing him. "You don't have to ask."

He kissed your fingers, his eyes holding yours. "I'll always ask."

The words settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and solid. You kissed him, soft and slow, tasting the morning on his lips. When you pulled back, the gray light had warmed, taking on a golden edge.

"We should find our clothes," you said.

He groaned, but let you go, rolling off the bed with a grunt. The straw rustled as he stood, naked in the pale light, his back a landscape of muscle and old scars. He bent to retrieve his breeches, and you watched the play of light across his shoulders, the way his spine curved, the strength in his thighs.

He caught you looking and flushed, a red that crept up his neck. "What?"

"Nothing." You smiled, reaching for your dress. "Just looking."

The flush deepened, but he smiled too, a shy, crooked thing. "You'll make me vain."

"Good."

You dressed in the growing light, the fabric rough against your skin, still carrying the scent of the road. Dunk laced his tunic, his fingers quick and practiced, then turned to help you with the ties at your back. His knuckles brushed your spine, and you felt the warmth of his hands through the cloth.

"There," he said, stepping back. "Presentable."

You turned, and he was looking at you with that same expression—like you were something precious, something he still couldn't quite believe was his. The morning light caught the brown of his hair, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes.

"Ready?" he asked.

You took his hand. "Ready."

He squeezed your fingers, then released them to open the door. The hallway beyond was dim, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He looked back over his shoulder, a question in his eyes.

You nodded.

He stepped into the corridor, and you followed, the door swinging shut behind you.

The inn was waking around you—voices from the common room, the smell of cooking oats, the distant sound of a horse stamping in the stable. The world was waiting, and Dunk was walking beside you, his hand brushing yours with every other step.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped. He turned, his face serious in the dim light.

"Thank you," he said. "For last night. For this morning. For—" He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything. "For not waking up and finding it was a dream."

You reached up, touching his cheek. "It's not a dream. It's real." He covered your hand with his, pressing your palm against his skin.

"I know." He smiled, and it reached his eyes. "I'm starting to believe it."

He held your hand a moment longer, his thumb tracing the valley between your knuckles, before releasing it with visible reluctance. The stairs creaked under your feet as you descended, the sounds of the common room growing louder—the clatter of wooden bowls, the low rumble of men's voices, the sharp hiss of something frying.

The smell of oats and bacon wrapped around you as you reached the bottom, warm and ordinary.The common room was half-full, a handful of travelers hunched over their breakfasts, a merchant arguing with the innkeeper over the price of a room.

Ser Arlan sat at a corner table, a bowl of porridge steaming before him, his weathered face unreadable. He looked up as you approached, his grey eyes flickering from you to Dunk and back, a faint crease appearing at the corner of his mouth.

"You're alive, then." His voice was dry as old leather. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd need to find a new squire."

Dunk flushed, the red creeping up his neck. "Ser."

Ser Arlan grunted, lifting his bowl. "There's porridge. The bacon's gone, if you're late for that too." He took a spoonful, chewed, swallowed. "Sit. Eat. We've a long day's ride ahead."

You slid onto the bench across from Ser Arlan, and Dunk settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours beneath the table. The innkeeper's wife appeared with two bowls, setting them down with a grunt before disappearing back toward the kitchen. The porridge was thick and plain, a drizzle of honey darkening its surface, and you were hungrier than you'd realized.

Dunk ate in silence, his gaze fixed on his bowl, but his hand found your knee beneath the table. His palm was warm, his fingers stilling against the fabric of your dress. He didn't look at you, but the touch was deliberate, grounding.

Ser Arlan finished his porridge and set down his spoon with a clank. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand and fixed Dunk with a look that was equal parts exasperation and fondness.

"I'll see to the horses. You've got—" He paused, something shifting in his expression. "A moment."

He rose, his knees popping, and walked out into the morning light without looking back.

The common room felt smaller without him. Dunk's hand tightened on your knee, then withdrew. He reached into his tunic, fumbling at something, and when his hand emerged, it was closed around a small object.

He set it on the table between you. A ring—plain silver, slightly misshapen, as if it had been hammered by an unsteady hand. A small stone, deep blue, caught the light from the window and threw it back in a faint glimmer.

Dunk's jaw worked. He didn't meet your eyes. "It's not much," he said, the words coming out rough. "I know it's not what you're used to. I had it made—before the wedding. There's a smith in Duskendale who does decent work for cheap."

He swallowed. "I couldn't afford proper gold. Or a bigger stone. But I wanted you to have something that was—" He stopped, his throat working. "Something that was mine to give you."

You picked up the ring. It was warm from his pocket, the silver slightly uneven where the hammer had slipped. The stone was small but clear, a deep blue that reminded you of the sky just after sunset, when the last light turned everything soft and bruised.

"I'll get you a better one," he said, his voice dropping lower. "When I've got more coin. When I've won a tourney or two, or—" He gestured vaguely. "—whatever comes. I'll find you a proper ring, with a proper stone. One that matches what you deserve."

You slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly.

Dunk's eyes finally met yours, and the hope in them was almost too much to bear.

"Does it—do you like it?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but something caught in your throat. A warmth, rising from your chest, spreading through your face. Your vision blurred, and you felt the hot slide of a tear down your cheek before you could stop it.

Dunk's face crumpled.

"Seven hells, I've made you cry—" He reached for you, his callused hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing the tears away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—it's a poor gift, I know, I should have waited until I could afford—"

"Dunk." Your voice came out thick. You caught his wrists, holding him there. "It's perfect."

He stared at you, his hazel eyes searching yours. "It's not—I know it's not—"

"It's perfect." You squeezed his wrists. "Because you had it made. Because you thought of this before we even—" You stopped, laughing through the tears.

"Because you're you."

His expression cracked open. Something raw and vulnerable passed across his face, and then he was kissing you, right there in the common room, his mouth warm and desperate against yours. He pulled back a moment later, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven.

"I'll give you everything," he said, the words a promise. "Everything I have, everything I earn. It might not be much, but it'll be yours."

You looked down at the ring on your finger. The blue stone caught the light, throwing a faint star across the table. It was imperfect and small and clearly made by hands more accustomed to swords than jewelry—and it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever worn.

"A tourney," you said, your voice steadier now. "When you win your first tourney, you can buy me a castle."

He laughed, a startled, bright sound. "A castle?"

"A small one." You smiled, touching his cheek. "With a garden."

"I'll build it myself if I have to." He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "A castle with a garden and a dozen horses and a bed so large you'll lose me in it."

"Just one?"

"A dozen beds. One for every day of the week."

You laughed, and the sound felt good—light and free, the last shadows of the night burning away in the morning light. Dunk was smiling at you, his face open and young, the worry briefly smoothed from his brow.

"I love you.”

“Say that again.”

“Dunk, my sweet, sweet Dunk. I love you.”

“Aye,” he smiled with a blush, “I love you too, my flower.”

.✦ ݁˖ — sintaera, 2026

[escapic-mezzanine]

Mediations

Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader

summary: There is no such thing in the world that would cool down Lyonel's spirit, but when intercession is needed and his lady wife has to put up a good word for him – well, then even the Laughing Storm can sense the seriousness. Who would have guessed that the spooked deer he married would turn not only into his true friend, but also the closest advisor?

word count: 3.8k

Tags: age gap, arranged marriage, Lyonel and reader are shameless brats together but I find them adorable, implied cheating, a husband that ACTUALLY LIKES his wife, Lyonel is a great husband but only in terms of asoiaf marriages, heavy drinking and partying, misogyny (not Lyonel),

a/n: I had the fun of my life working on this, I SWEAR. It was like listening to medieval techno playlist while being tipsy and forgetting about having to wake up early the next day (or is that just what happened? who knows)

continuation

Lyonel looked almost peaceful when he stirred out of deep sleep. Even if the movement around the tent sent him into a state of mild alertness, he still seemed at ease. Like his mind was for once completely calm, mostly thanks to his recent drunkenness. It wasn’t often that a fierce man like him allowed void to creep in his life.

You tried to move as carefully as you could, leaving your boots by the bed, alongside your cloak.

“Don't move”, you hushed as you crawled over your husband to lay behind him, and nuzzle your face in his bare neck.

He mumbled something incoherent, now drunk on sleep. He probably couldn't move even if he wanted to. Mead and ale were simple weapons that could knock down any man much better than a sword or a hammer. Even a man as big as Lyonel. He wasn’t huge like the knight that he partied with tonight, but he could still take most of your bed and still be uncomfortable. Now he didn't seem to care.

“You know,” Lyonel found his voice with difficulty, and threw a hand over his face for a moment to sober up a bit, “I never asked you for a dance tonight.”

It made you snicker warmly, since sleep seemed to deny you its mercy.

“Tonight is not the last chance for it. There will be plenty more,” you assured him jokingly.

“But that’s something to grieve about,” he scoffed almost seriously.

None of you broke the quietness of the night in the next few moments, but you could tell he woke up completely. Despite his close to pathetic state, somewhere between lingering intoxication and already being hungover, he knew you had something to say. He started to mindlessly play with the hem of your sleeve, hoping that you won’t scold him for whatever he did, not that he remembered. What cheered him up, was that he knew his wife – he knew how merciful you could be when it came to his frame of mind and body after a good party. Well, you usually suffered the same consequences side by side.

“I spoke with this lord that you slapped,” you finally admitted.

Oh, right, the lord that he slapped. If it was a serious matter, he would now feel the ache in his hand, perhaps see bruising in the morning, but he didn’t. It was really a harmless slap, playful even, just to bring the poor fool back to his senses… Well, at least in Lyonel’s consciousness.

“You have my undying gratitude,” he claimed as he turned to you, yet still unserious and joking. It made you shake your head in disbelief, even if it was exactly what you expected. “Aren’t you a great attorney? Alongside being an adviser, spouse, confidant, lover… Yes, a magnificent lover you are.”

“Lyonel.” Your stare made him sigh, displeased that his charming nonsense worked nothing on you. “This man has challenged you to a duel. I think it deserves at least a bit more of your notice. While being serious, preferably, but I know it’s too much to ask for.”

“Ah, so what? He’ll have what he wants,” he exclaimed, like he was tired of the fussing. “I can entertain some folk by beating this bastard’s ass. What’s his name, Eric?”

“Emmerick. Well, he no longer wants that. I made him change his mind,” you confessed, truly proud of yourself, but you didn’t allow it to show too much.

Parlay with men was hard labor, even more so with drunk men. Your accomplishment was built on patience, an amount that you didn’t know you had in yourself, assertiveness, some superiority, and patience again. It felt like a grand war success, and considering how difficult it was, you could be named Hand of the King at this very moment.

Lyonel, on the other hand, was one of the men that parlaying with was close to impossible. Especially when his mind got suddenly clouded by all that he drank that night.

“What did you offer him then? Will you warm his bed, perhaps?”

You looked at him coldly, winking and considering if you could now use the opportunity of the situation. If you broke his nose right now, you could blame it on the man who you convinced to change his mind, and Lyonel wouldn’t say anything out of shame. Lucky for him, his mere expression convinced you out of the viciousness. It was barely visible, but he flinched like the words shocked him as well. He was obviously too proud to correct it.

You were far too weary to rush into blaming him. Instead, you decided to elbow him straight in the ribs.

“Move, I can’t breathe here,” you demanded, before curling into his chest. Just before laying your head down, you looked him straight in the eyes with the smile that made him shiver. “I'm not the strumpet of this marriage, though.”

He didn’t dare argue. Even lords like him sometimes knew better than to disagree with their wives.

“Think about the tournament,” you spoke up again, knowing that he could still try to provoke the man.

“What about it?”

“If you perform with broken limbs from an idiotic duel that you called upon yourself, you will embarrass the both of us.”

His bright smile made you roll your eyes. You were tired, and a wish for some pragmatism crawled up your spine. Still, Lyonel was a man fond of teasing and being teased.“Ohh, so it's not my health you care about. It's your own honor."

You brushed one of his curls before sighing.

"Yes, all I care about is my honor. Oh, and wealth, mind you," you stated ironically, but too sleepy to play along with his smile. "I'm a heartless woman, don't you know me?"

“You are, aren't you? Come here…”

Placing a kiss on your hair, he moved the two of you into a more comfortable position.

“Being defeated in a fight like that would indeed be pathetic,” he murmured, face already smashed into the pillow. Still, after a moment of silence, you felt the tenacious stare of his eyes on you. “If I at least fall at a tournament…”

“Well, I would like to not be widowed at a young age no matter where you plan to fall.”

“I could die now by your side and I would be happy, you know?”

“Go to sleep right now or stop lying. I can imagine your ghost haunting me for letting you die in bed.”

He laughed with his whole strength. You couldn’t help but smile, when you felt his chest vibrating.

When you first met the Lord of Storm's End, you didn’t take him for a man who would allow you to tease or bicker with him, let alone that he would be fond of that. He was much older than you, and there was something rough or even purposely savage about him, that perfectly mixed with the fashionable sense you could see on him. Fashionable in terms of… well, everything.

You thought him to be interesting, to say the least. Truth be told, you found yourself absolutely enamored by him, but you were raised in the conviction that restraint was the greatest of woman’s virtue. Your new husband quickly started the battle of changing your mind.

You could remember the first feast he threw in Storm’s End after introducing you to his people.

“Don't give me that look,” he said, opening his arms like he wanted to gather you at the mere sight of your unpleased face. “You make me rethink everything I've done in the day just for your sake.”

Even when you sat in silence, which wasn’t so common with a man like Lyonel – his talkativeness actually made you less anxious – bored, or forced to remain quiet, he found ways to direct his attention towards you. He brushed his thumb over your knuckles whenever you kept your hands on the table, the armrests, or on your lap, it didn’t matter.

“Look at you. Piercing eyes, lips formed in this heartbreaking grimace…” he whispered teasingly, leaning to your side. The feasting lords no longer occupied his mind.

“Oh, enough. Stop it.”

“You stop it. I'm the one suffering under your look of judgment.”

“I wasn't aware that I have a look like that,” you tried to defend yourself, slowly relaxing because of his own ease.

“You do. Every time when I do something you don't like. You don't want to impose or be taken as a demanding woman, but at the same time, you can't fake a smile and move on.”

It was scary how he could see right through you.

“I am a demanding woman.”

“Yes. Then so be it!” He raised his cup of wine like it was a matter worth toasting for. “There’s no harm done in it, is there?”

So you were, but not to him. Lord Baratheon was the one you could sacrifice night sleep for, recall alliances and old friendships just to show him in a good light.

“Now, can you spare your husband a moment of your time, or are you too busy sulking in solemnity?”

“I am not sulking,” you argued, seriously touched, “I didn't mean to offend you…”

Instead of telling you that you didn't, he simply winked and extended his hand to you. He nodded to the dancing people and smiled.

“Prove it.”

In the first weeks, it truly seemed like his main goal was to… befriend you. You have heard enough about the game of taming most men played, shaping their newlywed wives into obedient followers, unseen until they are requested. Lyonel – he was so much different than you expected.

In your first days in Storm's End, you were given an amount of freedom you never knew before, and it didn’t look like it was about to be taken from you anymore. Lyonel demanded that you abandon calling him lord and have access to every corner of the castle anytime you want. There was no place considered improper for a lady in his eyes. You were the Lady of this cold pile of bricks, after all!

You were told as a young woman that contests and gambling were only man's entertainment. Well, your husband held a different opinion on that as well.

He pleaded so beautifully that you would be on his team in a shooting competition, and his smile didn’t fall even when you told him not to expect much. Lyonel's retinue settled in a camp while on a hunt, and people grew bored with the waiting – and no one was allowed boredom on an event hosted by Lord Baratheon.

The crossbow weighed heavy in your hands, but it was familiar. You risked training in the barn as a child, against your lord father's wishes. You were swept out of your feet and spun around in your husband's embrace as the bolt hit the main target. It was like true love and admiration enveloped you. Even when cheering calmed down, Lyonel kept kissing your cheeks and temple and showed you around in pride.

“My wife is more of a man than you cunts ever will be!”

For the rest of the hunt, he was even more eager to keep you by his side than usually. Every time you shot him a questioning look or openly mentioned that he held your hand like you were a kid that he was afraid to lose in the crowd, he let out a guttural laugh. “It’s exactly the other way around, you see. I hope that you will save me from being bothered by any of those fools. My vigorous, shrewd wife…”

He was a lucky man, who within months found himself with a responsible woman by his side, with whom he could share duties. Your marriage seemed controversial to most, and the trust your husband gave you was considered unwise, especially given your young age. It was a union built on interest and regard right from the start, and even if endless devotion wasn't something you or your husband were willing to offer hastily, you found yourself happy with each other.

You were a sort of business partners long before you learned how to be real spouses. A lord and his advisor, rather than a man and his wife. But any complex feelings you held for each other with time didn't take your position away.

Lyonel was a good lord, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he didn’t look for chances to get away from Storm's End. He didn't share his duties with you out of incompetence, but boredom and trust… and your pleading, of course.

You were both known from your balls and parties. After years of cold upbringing spent in deafening silence, you weren't a spirit of arrangements like that at first, but Lyonel made sure to introduce you to it. In truth, it seemed like you were his project, someone to change into his backbone in this matter as well. He succeeded greatly. People cheered your ideas, even if the union between the couple remained ununderstood.

That’s why your tent filled so quickly the night before the Tourney at Ashford Meadow.

Still, you sometimes called for a break. Lyonel gained strength from the crowds, the music, and drinks. You, on the other hand, need to step outside, feel the rushing wind on your hot skin, and stretch your limbs.

What you didn't expect to come back to was a conflict struck between your husband and his vassal, who was held back by two men, all standing in the middle of the dance floor. The tables were moved already, and you regretted you missed it. It was a grand feeling when your husband swooped you up your feet and swayed you around, not in show for others, not to declare his feelings or prove something, but simply to have fun. It was clearing, dancing with this man without any expectations.

Now, it didn’t surprise you if he took it too far, especially since he was swallowing drink after drink tonight.

It seemed like alcohol also took over the smaller lord, bringing out the worst in him.

“A duel is what I demand! A satisfaction for my daughter!”

“Do you understand what it means to challenge your own lord?” asked one of Lyonel's advisors, who quickly showed up, before you could make your way through the crowd.

The man mumbled something indifferently, making no sense in his words but repeating demands for a duel. It made you frown, and stop excusing the crowd to listen carefully.

“Well, if he…” Lyonel looked around, and everyone could guess he was searching for his wife. In this state of insobriety, he was very proud of himself, and who wouldn't want to flex in front of their woman a bit? “If the man demands, then he shall have what he asks for. A duel it is, then!”

“Straight in the morrow!” yelled the man, somehow angered by the agreement.

“Morrow. You name it, friend!”

“My lord… Why agree if there was no offense made to the girl, this man's daughter?” asked the poor ignored advisor.

“You're welcome to try and explain it to him, friend, but prepare yourself to talk with a man dumber than a rock,” he mumbled to his man.

The older concomitant looked tired, out of place, and clearly disorientated. He was surely glad that Lyonel decided to ignore him further and stepped away, still mumbling to himself. “I prefer to knock some teeth out of his mouth rather than lose my breath on speaking with a fool… Oh, there you are!”

He smiled upon seeing you and rushed you close to his side.

“What was that?” you asked, keeping your voice considerably calm despite that you had to yell over the music.

“Nothing, my darling wife, nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, I don't worry,” you assured him, patting his chest like you would to an unruly teenager. “I plot how to get you out of this.”

The whole thing made him sober up a bit, and tiredness appeared on his face as he led you to the main table. You took your regular places, and he offered you another drink.

“So?”

“What? I thought it's settled,” he argued, throwing his head back dramatically.

“As long as you have an arranged duel right in the morning, nothing is settled, lord husband.”

“I sometimes wonder if you're a witch with all of your persuasions…”

“A mediator, maybe?” you offered

“Fine. The man accused me of offending his daughter. While dancing, can you imagine? With everyone's eyes on my back.” He scoffed like it was truly ridiculous.

“And did you?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Hm, my husband, who places fun over everything else and gets bold when drunk?”

“Please, I'm always bold. And no, I didn’t. In fact, I didn't even know which one that was until he dragged that poor wasted thing in front of my eyes.”

You hummed, clearing your mind even more and already back on your feet. You had to have a talk with the angered father then, if he didn't pass out already.

“Swear it, so I don't make a fool out of myself,” you demanded not very seriously but to bicker with Lyonel. He tended to be overly dramatic in a state like this.

“I was looking for you! You think I grabbed a random wench, some lord's daughter, for a dance just because I couldn't find my wife close enough?”

“Sounds likely.” You could see he was now almost gravely offended by the playful implications, so you placed a hand on his shoulder, which he immediately took and intertwined your fingers. “I believe whatever you say. Now let’s hope the lord will too…”

“Don’t leave yet. I don’t want the bastard to take from me the opportunity to dance with me wife,” he said, imitating the voice of the man.

You were adamant this time. You could only hear him groan about your cruelty as you left him behind, escaping from the commotion in the tent.

It was late in the day when you woke up. Well, not on your own. More like you were brutally torn from your peaceful sleep by a muffled thud and a following curse.

“Apologies, fuck.” Lyonel muttered quietly when he saw you stir and raise your head from the pillows. “I didn’t mean to…”

His voice was raspy from sleep and the drinking. He must have been terribly hungover, and his displeased expression confirmed it.

The sunlight that forcefully entered the tent irritated your tired eyes, but the sight of your husband was too suspicious for you to turn to the other side, silently telling the world to leave you alone for a few more hours of sleep.

“What are you up to, Lyonel?” you asked weakly. Thankfully, your eyes worked better when you rubbed them and sat up in the satins.

Lyonel stood in the middle of the tent, clearly having issues with keeping his own balance. His shirt was untied; yesterday’s clothing hurriedly thrown over his shoulders. He blew the hair out of his eyes to focus his gaze on the sword he held. The same that was accidentally smashed over a wooden commode that stood nearby. The blade cutting the piece of furniture was what woke you up.

“So, the duel…”

“The duel is cancelled due to,” you started, falling back to the bed with a soft thud, and stared at the ceiling, “well, your opponent being dispositioned, and not even so sure if any wrong was done anymore.”

“Oh”.

You looked up.

“Happy?”

“Not until I hear it from him. He offended me, by implying that I offended him.”

“Lyonel, you slapped the man,” you tried to reason, but it was truly not something you wanted to talk about first in the morning.

“Because he deserved it!”

The only option was to groan, get up, dress, find the lord and have this matter settled for good. The pair of you must have looked comically, as you strolled with your hands intertwined to keep your steps more steady. You didn’t remember drinking much yesterday, but now your head now spun like hell, proving something else. Well, at least Lyonel was glad about having a companion in his misery.

“Do you have something to say to my lord husband?” You demanded, standing over Lord Emmerick of… whatever he was from, you never thought to ask.

You and Lyonel stood still, shading him from the sun, and he seemed to appreciate that. He was even more hungover than the two of you, so you granted him the mercy to remain sitting.

“I do, yes. I…” He turned pale and green, like he would throw up. When his head fell a little, Lyonel covered you with his arm, like a nauseous man could be a real danger. Emmerick spat on the ground, immediately raising his arms to tell he meant not to offend. “I apologize, Lord Baratheon. I am truly sorry.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” claimed Lyonel, apparently very content with the outcome. He slammed a hand on Emmerick’s back, making the man choke a little. “Drunken encounters sometimes just happen.”

“Aye, my lord.” He took a deep breath, then looked your way. “She is a convincing woman, your lady wife, my lord.”

“She is indeed,” Lyonel agreed, but quickly frowned, reminding himself what even strikes this conflict. “Now, I hope you can imagine that I only have eyes for my wife.”

Lie, you thought, but what the lord didn't know that couldn't hurt him.

After another unnecessary apology, you were off on your way. All you could dream about was going back to your tent and hiding from the sun that irritated you and worsened your headache. Lyonel seemed to be on the same page.

“It all made me think… Is there any legal office that I could name you to increase your position as my right hand?” He wondered out loud, pulling you close to his side.

“I’m afraid ‘lady wife’ is the highest office on the list that a woman like me can reach.”

“Shame. A woman like you,” he hummed, and his face bloomed with a spark of well-known shameless happiness, “a woman like you should rule all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Alright, let me stop you right there before you get beheaded for treason and plotting.”

a/n: just imagine lyonel and his wife wobbly strolling through the camp to get their delusional revenge, like the meme the blind leading the blind

[entitled-fangirl]

Northern courting.

Cregan Stark x reader

Summary: Cregan is a man of action, not words. He assumes you know you're courting. He'd be quite wrong.

Masterlist

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Cregan Stark was known around Winterfell for never resting. He never sat down, never relaxed, never quit his work, and seemingly never took a deep breath.

When you and your family showed, that's when the staff of the castle knew you were important.

A two week trip your father brought you along for. He'd spoke about the importance of good impressions and keeping up good relations with the northerners. You had been day dreaming but conscious enough to nod along with his words like a good daughter.

Today— eight days into your stay in Winterfell—  the two of you are sitting inside, playing a game of cyvasse. Cregan had taught you on the second day. By the sixth, you were a natural. 

If only your opponent wasn't seasoned from the war he'd just won at age 23. 

"'S a good move," his head tilts. "If I hadn't already planned for it." He moves a piece, easily blocking everything you had set up for.

You scoff slightly, slumping in your seat in thought. 

While you glare at the board in hopes it will give you answers, Cregan's eyes are on you. He looks over your shoulders, your neckline, your lips, that crease between your brows. He thinks you're beautiful. 

"Gold and silver are uncommon up here, but what do you think of beads carved of weir wood branches?"

The line between your brows only deepen as you move your attention to the Northman. "What?"

He shrugged. "Was only a thought. Would that suffice?"

"I… yes. I saw a woman with stitching on her cloak and white beads. Would that be those?" At his eager nod, you continue. "It was beautiful. I thought of it the rest of the journey. Any woman would be lucky to have such a thing."

You accepted defeat this time and the two of you moved to separate for the rest of the day. 

He took your hand in his own large one. He bent down and pressed the back of your hand to his forehead. You told yourself it was more polite than a kiss would be. 

You would be wrong. 

But you gave him a nod. "Good day, Lord Stark. I shall see you at supper."

His eyes twinkled. "I eagerly await it, my lady."

When you left, you missed the way his eyes followed you until you were blocked from his sight. 

Gods, he was utterly smitten.

…

After supper, your father had insisted you go to your chambers early. It was a bit unlike him, but the two men were going to Cregan's solar to discuss business. Perhaps he just wanted to know you were safe in bed. 

You sit in the guest room Cregan had prepared for you. It's very nice— much better than yours at home. The hearth burns brightly. And for such a cold place, you were warm. It was pleasant. 

You'd brought all of your thread and cloth for stitching, much to the chagrin of your father. He didn't approve of your habit of daydreaming and this was your next best option. 

Cregan had noticed by the second day. On the fifth day, you had new colors of threads you could only find in the North. 

He was so kind to notice such little things.

You'd been working on a Stark direwolf sigil. You'd started it the day you got here— half stitched on a handkerchief. The sigil was everywhere so it was easy to imagine.

You're working with this deep gray. A Stark gray thread you hadn't seen until it was left in your chambers by Lord Stark. The direwolf was coming along nicely. 

Your handmaiden entered in a rush with a broad smile. "My lady, I have just heard the most wonderful news."

You set your stitching aside and stand as she chatters and rushes around the room to ready you for bed. Your mind is still on finishing that direwolf stitching. 

"I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I will not say that I regret it," she quipped as she spread out a nightgown. "Oh, I rushed here immediately when I heard of it. It will be so wonderful, truly—"

You tried to listen. You wanted to. Your handmaiden was a kind girl, albeit one that loved to gossip. But your mind was too far gone.

She helped you dress to your night clothes, continuing her chatter. "I would not have considered you as a woman that could like the cold, but there are ways to keep warm here," she flushes. "Especially with someone like that." She pauses and grabs your arm. "What color shall your dress be?"

You blink, finally hearing the words. "My dress? For what?"

She scoffs like you're messing with her. "For the wedding, of course."

A wedding? Father has not mentioned a wedding. Your younger brother was growing in age— perhaps there was a worthy match for him and there would soon be a wedding. But that felt so odd for your handmaiden to mention now. So surely not that.

Your mother had passed years ago, but your father was not adamant on marrying again. So not that either.

"What do you believe Lord Stark shall wear?" She asks. "Do you think he owns different fur cloaks for special occasions?"

Ah. Lord Stark's wedding. That would make more sense. 

You did not know he was courting anyone. But then again, you often did not pay attention to little details. And he wasn't one to talk in great detail. Maybe it was rude that you never asked. 

"And his bride shall be beautiful!" The handmaiden almost squeals, tugging you this way and that in excitement. "You do not seem joyful at this. What is the matter?"

"No, I… I do love weddings," you defend. And that was true. You loved to daydream during the ceremonies. 

"That's the spirit!" She claps. "We'll discuss all of it in the morning. But try to get some sleep tonight— if you can. I know how excited you must be."

She finishes up, wrapping you in your robe before retreating to the door. "To marry the Lord Stark? What a dream."

It shuts behind her, leaving you standing in the middle of your room in confusion. 

…

You sleep as well as ever, for you still did not understand her words. She wakes you in the morning just as excited. "He wants to break fast with you," she smiles. 

You rub your eyes and brush your hair from your face. "Father?"

"No! The Lord Stark! Hurry, though. I've heard from the Winterfell servants that he's been up for hours. He's most likely starving."

You reluctantly get out of your warm bed. You usually took lunch or supper with Cregan. Breaking fast was unusual. 

You leave your room with one of your nicer dresses on (you didn't question why that one was chosen), and your hair nicely done. Your eyes were still puffy from sleep, but that would fade as you walked. 

A servant escorted you through the vast halls of the castle until he stopped before a large door. "Lord Stark's solar, my lady. Shall I announce your presence?"

You were friends enough with Cregan that you surely did not need that. So you dismissed him and opened the door yourself.

Broad shoulders blocked the light coming from the only window. He looked out in clear thought. His head barely turned as he heard the door open. "Has she accepted?" He asks softly. 

"Lord Stark?"

He turns now, eyes wide. His light lips part in surprise. "My lady, I did not know it was you. Forgive me."

You shrug. "'Tis alright. I understand how full your mind must be with things as of now."

He nods along. "Yes, yes, of course. But, please." He gestures down to the small table set up just beyond his desk. Two chairs and light foods to start their day. 

Cregan was nervous today. In the last nine days, you had not seem him like this. The wedding business must really be affecting him. His hands shook lightly. His eyes glanced at you then away. He would open his mouth to speak, then retreat. 

You were good friends with him, surely. Perhaps he would speak to you of his problems if you asked. 

You pop a grape into your mouth. "You do not seem excited."

His brows pull up. "I assure you, my lady, I… I am."

You don't believe him. "Then why do your hands shake?"

He looks defensive. But when he glances down and sees that you were right, he doesn't fight it. "I am… I speak poorly," he settles on. "For important matters."

"You are a northman. They are mostly men of action, are they not?"

"They are." His tension eases slightly when he sees you understand. "We are not the best at poetic words, but we make up for it. I hope."

You nod, continuing to lazily eat your breakfast. 

He's a bit better now, though his own food sits untouched. But he can at least look at you now without growing nervous.

"Is she pretty?" You ask.

"Whom?"

"Your bride," you smile teasingly. "She must be beautiful if you are this nervous."

He blinks. You're teasing him? Over this? Something greatly eases over him. You look so natural, so easy going. Why would he be so nervous then? He meets your eye strongly now. "She is the most beautiful woman in the Realm," he assures.

You hum, continuing to eat. Cregan's a handsome man. His bride is supposedly pretty. That would make for a good daydream to imagine later. You store it in the back of your mind. 

The rest of breakfast goes quietly. Cregan does not have much to say after that, and you don't want to make him any more nervous.

But this bride must be lucky to get a man so worried to please her. 

He invites you for a walk outside which you accept. You weren't all knowing in affairs of the heart, but perhaps he wanted to ask your opinion on things. You were a woman after all. And though you adored Cregan, he knew nothing of the gentler sex. 

The winter was over in the North, but every season was a various kind of cold. At least in this one, you did not need to hide from snow. 

"Is this spring?" You ask him as your feet crunch on dead grass.

"Almost. This should be the last week of winter before there is life in the plants again. Do you have a favorite flower, my lady?"

You shake your head. 

"A favorite color then?"

You shake your head again. 

He sighs softly, getting nowhere. "Is there…" He pauses. "Is there anything you want at the wedding? I know girls dream of this since they were young."

Asking your advice? That you could supply. "Well, if your bride isn't of the North, you could pick specifically northern things to help her see how well living here could be. Northern plants or such?"

He stashes that for later. "And there is truly nothing you've always wanted at your wedding?"

"At mine?" You ask. "Well, I have imagined it many times."

"Yes?" He hangs on.

"It's outside. My family is there. My husband is handsome and his cloak weighs heavy on me. He's tall… and kind." You look over at him. "Maybe as tall as you. That could be nice." 

He flushes. "Right. But… the wedding details."

"Mm." You close your eyes. "Blue. I've always imagined something blue."

"Blue," he breathes. "I can do that. And… your gown. What does it look like? Is it a northern fabric, or…?"

"In my dreams, it is usually just a dress I already own," you smile. "But if I close my eyes now… perhaps a silver gray. With lots of colorful embroidery details that I do myself."

"That sounds beautiful. I'll have the fabric found soon so you may start."

You frown, opening your eyes. "Am I making your bride a dress?"

His head tilts as he tries to understand your teasing behavior. "You are. It is in your dreams, is it not?"

It seems a bit rude that he didn't even ask if you would do that for him. But no matter.

"I understand your beliefs in the new gods, but a northern wedding is to be before the old. We could have a second ceremony for your faith. If it pleases you."

"Why would what I think matter?"

He squints as if you just disgusted him. "What kind of man would I be if I did not indulge my own bride in her thoughts?"

You pause. "Your bride?"

"Yes. Yes, my bride." He sets his large hands upon your shoulders respectfully, yet firm. "I care for you greatly. Anything you want, I would give to you. We could have seven outlandish ceremonies for each of your gods if it made you smile. Why do you think I do not care?"

My bride, it rings in your head. Cregan Stark's bride. You are marrying Cregan Stark?

"Are… are we courting?" You stutter.

His hands fall as if you burned him. "My lady. Please stop jesting. Forgive me, but I do not understand your quips."

"I am not. I… You are courting me?"

His lips pull in a tight line. "I have been. For a while now. Why did you believe your family came to Winterfell? And that I spent time with you?"

You wring your hands together. "Father said we had to keep good relations with the North." 

"What did he say exactly? The words he used?"

"He said to pack nice dresses to make a good first impression. That the North needed to like me. There was this odd thing…"

Cregan's eyes stayed firmly on you, watching the way the cloudy sky still made your features light up beautifully. 

"Well, after I met you, the day you taught me cyvasse, he was very happy. After dinner, he couldn't stop smiling."

"I told him I liked you," he explained. "That I… I wanted to court you."

"You've been courting me since then?"

He smiles lightly. "I would have courted you years ago if I'd known you."

"I still don't understand. Yesterday, my handmaiden came in and said she overheard you speaking of your wedding to another woman."

"Last night?" At your nod, he rushes to explain. "I told your father my intentions to marry you. That today, I would…" he stops himself short. "We were discussing matters of your dowry and how I could ensure your happiness here."

"My dowry?" You frown. "Lord Stark, forgive me, but my family is quite poor. We do not have money for a dowry, not really."

"I know," he eases. "Do not worry about the details. It has been taken care of. I suppose I did all of it but the most important part."

"And what would that part be?"

Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North, lowers himself before you. He kneels down on one knee, tall and proud, stiff as a true northerner. He takes your hand in both of his. 

"I am poor with my words. But I know what I think and what I feel. And I… I believe you would make a well off Lady Stark. The North would prosper with your soft hand to compliment my harsh one." He stops himself, forcing him to think— for once— of what he wants, and not the North. "I have fallen in love with you, my lady. Very much. Winterfell warmed when you stepped into it, and I refuse to let it grow cold again. Say you will stay. That you want me. I am trying to speak clearly now, for I've done it so poorly thus far. Our wedding will not have to be for some time, so I may properly court you with your knowledge. But say you will let me. Please."

His hands are callused, rough against yours. But warm. Safe. The same man that noticed your love for embroidery. The same man that taught you cyvasse. The same man that loves you. The same man who is currently looking at you like you are the sunshine the North lacks. 

"I always wanted a handsome husband," you admit sheepishly. 

His face falls a bit. "Is that… would…"

"You are very handsome, Lord Stark."

For a moment, he looks as if he doesn't believe you. But then he smiles. "You accept then?"

"I do."

He kisses your hand once, twice, then stands in excitement. Northern excitement looks different. He doesn't spin you around, or yell his love from the rooftops. Instead, his shoulders broaden proudly and he offers you his arm. 

That gray fabric you imagined lays on your bed by the end of the day. Next to it, weir wood beads and multicolored threads to decorate it. 

Your family suddenly became wealthier. You believed that it was because there was one less daughter to care for. But the servants' whispers told you that Cregan had denied a dowry and instead paid your father to ensure your family stayed comfortable. He didn't want you to worry for them. 

A month passes, and spring was in full bloom— at least, what spring was in the north. 

You had just beat Cregan had cyvasse finally. His eyes twinkled with amusement, a smile trying to be held back as well. 

That's what you knew.

"When is our wedding?"

"When you are ready," he answers without missing a beat. 

"I am." You stretched and stand. "I am ready to marry you." You kiss his cheek and walk off.

He sits in that chair for the next two hours, silent and blushing a profuse pink. 

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Taglist: @alyssa-dayne @twinkletwinklenotastar @kidd3ath @yujyujj @misswynters @cosmosnkaz @sithapprentice @kaniromi @lovemesomevesey @its-jackie-bb @thorins-queen-of-erebor @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn @callsignwidow @a1lexh-blog @ethereal-athalia @ashovertheriver @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @dozcan123 @wangjiangelangel @kamitargaryen @aegonswife @lv7867 @helpmedecideaname @cherryheairt @classicsimpforaaronwarner @purple-1995, @raven-dor, @oohzkdlins, @lunaritychuwolf, @nlnny@silverlightsaber, @t958580, @fangirling-jess, @shesneverreallythere, @sw0rdmaiden

[captainlunaxmen]

Tell me a Story

Summary: Reader is travelling with Dunk, she accompanies him to the tourney, where a certain storm can't contain himself once he sees you.

Warnings: (for future chapters) harassment, blood, it's Westeros... I mean..

Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[goat-limbs]

Where Does The Nose Go? | part two

contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!reader, inspired by HCA’s The Little Mermaid, switching POVs (indicated with dividers), medieval rom-com, love at first sight, mutual pining, yearning, caretaking, wound tending, awkwardness, angst that resolves, fluff, first kiss, lots of kissing actually, love confessions, body dysmorphia, body worship (feet and legs), cunnilingus, mild biting and marking, hair pulling, size difference, size kink, explicit consent, loss of virginity, pain during sex, riding, breast play, nipple play, coming inside, aftercare, protective!Dunk, virgin!Dunk, soft!Dunk, bittersweet ending.

<- part one

synopsis: A mermaid falls in love with a knight praying on her riverbank. A witch gives her legs and three days to make him love her back.

word count: 21,2K (I don't even know guys)

a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @strangergraphics and @honeyluvsw! Thank you lovely humans for giving it a read before publishing (@lateknightbites, @hextoken and @siliceousooze)!

When you wake the sword rests exactly where it was put in the evening, as if its weight disregards night-time shuffling. You study it from your side of the bedroll, baffled by the patience of it. Perhaps it is only a symbol, one of those man-made rules given shape in iron. Perhaps Duncan would have struck you with it had you rolled too far in your sleep and crossed into whatever danger he believes lives on the other side. The thought has no sense to it. The sword does nothing to quell you. In the night he is warm through cotton and blanket, broad back turned to you. His hair is curled soft at the nape where sleep has dampened it. You fell into slumber looking at that small dark place beneath his skull. You wake to his side empty and sunken into the ground.

So he has kissed before. Says he enjoyed it, or supposes he has. You are thoroughly torn on the matter. On one hand, it is good that at least one of you might know what to do with hands and tongues and teeth. On the other, it ires you greatly that someone you have already marked as your man has rested his mouth on another—and more than one, you presume, from the way he speaks of it—and found pleasure there. You wonder if the women he kissed bore any likeness to you. If he would find it agreeable to kiss you. If all that blushing and hiding of his face comes from the abashment of wanting, or if he is plainly too polite to tell you to stop. If two remaining days are enough to charm him, or if the witch tricked you to get her fill of a soul.

Trying to rise finds you stiff all over. Sleep in water gives the body constant motion. It hones you into fluid, graceful softness, even in dreams. Sleep on land is a meaner thing. The ground holds you in one shape and punishes you for keeping it. Your wretched legs have forgotten everything they learned the day before and returned to being useless logs, long and dumb beneath you. The cut across your foot pulses with a dull little heart of its own.

You push yourself up on your arms. Try to bend one knee. Then the other. Nothing comes kindly. Your joints pull, thighs ache, feet sit at the end of you, inert and limp.

Duncan comes back from the stream with the waterskin filled and dark at the seams. The moment he sees you struggling, he hastens over, nearly sloshing water down his leg.

“Hallo, m’lady,” he says, breath touched with worry. He bends, and his hands hover a moment, large and useless in the air. You make the choice for him, seizing his forearms and grunting angrily as you haul yourself toward him.

“Are you in pain?” he asks.

“No, it is only—” You huff, because the lie is poor and the truth is stupid. “I have gone stiff in the night.”

His grip steadies. “Aye. It happens so to folk unused to sleeping on the ground.” He bows his head a little with plain and honest regret, as though the hardness of the earth were some failing of his hospitality. “Forgive me for not giving you better rest.”

“I enjoy the arrangement,” you say, and mean it more than he can know. “Just my legs seem to disagree.”

He helps you out of the bedroll and onto the grass. At once, your knees show their feeble loyalty. One gives, then the other threatens. Duncan catches each stumble before it can become a fall, swift and careful. His hands close round yours until you are held between him like something being taught to stand by force of kindness.

“Easy,” he says. His eyes are lowered to the ground between you, watching your feet as if they are creatures likely to calm under his gaze. “Hold to me.”

So you hold. He steps back. You step forward, or try. He faces you all the while, walking backwards with a patience that ought to shame the road. His palms stay firm around yours, drawing you neither too fast nor too far. “Put your weight here," he says. Corrects, "No, not so much," when you get that wrong too. "Heel first. Then let the rest follow. Aye, that’s better.”

“It feels worse,” you say.

“Aye, well. Better things often do,” Duncan replies, which sounds to you like another of those human miseries dressed up as wisdom.

After a few steps, his brow furrows. “Were you hurt, then? Is that why it comes so hard?”

You nod quickly, because it is easier than explaining the truth and close enough to keep from being a lie. You hope he will not prod at it, and he does not. He only adjusts his hold and lets you try again.

“I’d wager you are used to softer beds,” he says, likely meaning to ease whatever discomfort has grown between you.

You think of weed-beds and wet sand. Of tree roots stretching their long limbs down into the water, making cradles in the dark. Of sleeping where the current runs over your back and little fish nose curiously at your hair. None of it is soft in the way he means. All of it is gone from you.

“Not exactly,” you say.

Duncan looks at you for half a breath. Then, he mumbles, “Right.” He keeps safeguarding you across the grass, step after strenuous little step. After a while, he clears his throat. “So. Are you seeking to reunite with kin in Riverrun, or—?”

Your brows rise. For a moment you cannot tell what he is asking. Whether he has found some crack in you. Whether he is trying to pry loose the fib you have not quite told. Whether he only wishes to make talk because your hands are in his and silence has begun to notice.

Your folk come to mind with no gentleness at all. There is no coddling among them. No teaching of the young beyond what hunger teaches. You are spat into the world, and if the bodies that made you survive their coupling, they become only two more mouths in the same water. Two more foes over food, territory, warmth, the shadowed places where a creature might sleep without teeth finding her. “I am seeking a fuller life,” you say.

The sadness in your own voice surprises you.

Duncan’s hold changes. Softens at the edges. His thumbs brush over your sleeves, and one finds the bare skin at your wrist by accident. Instead of pulling away, he stays. For a heartbeat, he only stands with you held between his hands, looking down as though some answer might be written in the grass.

You are unaware that it indeed is. When your foot skids back a little, Duncan gasps quietly. “Oh, heavens,” he mutters. His whole frame dips, and he sets your palms on his shoulders so you do not stumble. You cling there, confused, while he lowers himself before you and looks at the grass.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, and there is a soft tsk in it. “M’lady, you’re bleeding still.”

“Oh?” You look down as if the foot belongs to someone else. “I thought—”

“Hold to me.” Then, he takes you by the ankle before you can ask why. Warm fingers, broad enough to meet round the bone. The touch startles more than the pain. He lifts your foot with such care that the rest of you must lean harder into his shoulders, then sets his palm flat to the sole. When he draws it back, red has smeared bright across the heel of it.

Duncan frowns up at you. “Why did you not tell me you were wounded?”

You stare at the blood on his skin. “I thought it would close.”

It should have. Your old body sealed itself quickly. Slashes, bites, the ragged marks left by shell or tooth—by morning they would be shut, tender at the seams perhaps, but no longer asking anything of you. Certainly not for a knight crouched in the grass with your ankle in his hand and alarm in his face. The witch has given you legs and human weakness with them. Flesh that opens and stays open. Flesh that must be begged back together.

“I thought it would just—”

“It needs tending,” Duncan says. His voice gentles, as if he has heard some of what you cannot say. “We’ll see to it. Aye?” He lets go of your ankle and rises with your hands still on his shoulders. “May I carry you?”

You nod and put your arms round his neck, ready for the old manner of being lifted. Instead, his hands come to your waist. The blush returns to him fierce and pink, but he endures it. He simply braces you there, lifts, and carries you back over the grass with your feet held clear of the ground.

His face is close. Too close for the shape of him to stay sensible. He looks you in the eye, searching for protest or hurt, but the looking itself becomes unbearable. You draw a larger breath into your lungs, and your chest expands against his. Duncan closes his eyes for a brief moment. His breath smells of crushed mint.

“There we are,” he mutters when he reaches the bedroll.

He sets you down as if the earth might bruise you further, then reaches for waterskin and turns to his sack. Begins pulling things from it: a strip of cloth and a little packet of something dried and green.

“I’ll clean it first,” he says. “Then bind it. It may smart.”

You give him your foot when he reaches for it. His thumb brushes your toes by accident, and the whole limb twitches under the tickle. There's a tiny squeal, and Duncan's face cracks into a smile that seems impossible to withhold. He looks dear with it.

He wets a clean cloth and wipes away the blood that has started seeping again under the pressure of walking. You watch him in silence. His head is bent, hair falling forward, mouth set in focus. “Thought it would close,” he murmurs once, almost to himself, and huffs through his nose as if the notion offends him.

When he presses harder, you hiss and jerk your leg. His grip holds firm enough that you only thrash a little. “Beg pardon,” he says. “Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you. I’ll be gentler.”

You bite the inside of your lip. He is so lovely to you that it empties your head. There is no answer fit for it, so you close your eyes and let the touch happen. Cloth over sole. Fingers at ankle. Palm holding your calf when he forgets himself in the work. He handles pain as if it is something that can be negotiated with, made smaller by tender perseverance.

When he binds the foot, he sets your heel against his thigh to check the tightness. “Too hard?”

You shake your head.

He tears the remaining tongue of bandage with his teeth, then secures it with a bow. The bow only makes things worse in your heart. A man knowing how to tie one. That fact that his hands can hold sword and rein and still make this small, neat kindness at the end of your body.

“You’ll be glad,” he says, sitting back. “No shoe for this one.”

“How will I walk?”

“You won’t.” He gives the bandage one last look, then lifts his eyes to yours. “Let it seal. I’ll carry you to Chestnut and off her again, if you’ll let me.”

"I'll allow it," you tell him, and Duncan snorts through his nose.

“That is kind of you,” he says with his mouth pulled shyly at one corner.

He packs the camp with the care of someone used to owning very few things and losing none of them. Oilcloth rolled, wool shaken out, bowls wiped with grass, and fire killed under his boot until smoke gives up in sullen threads. He loads the horses, checks straps, checks them again, then comes back to you as if lifting a girl on and off beasts has become one more road-task his hands are meant to know.

When he sets you on Chestnut, your arms go round his neck and he bears it with the same amount of colour proximity always seems to paint him. “There ye are,” he says, and steps back once you are sat properly.

The day grows warmer than the one before. At first you think the heat is only the sun choosing to dislike you more openly. Then your new body begins casting out its own water. It gathers at your neck, under your arms, between your breasts, slicking you in a thin unpleasant film. Sweat, you remember. Humans leak themselves when the air grows heavy. Understandable why they are so fond of cloth. It gives the body somewhere to be ashamed.

Ahead, Duncan rides with his shoulders set beneath his shirt, and soon the linen darkens down the column of his spine. It clings there, marking the long line of him. His back is broad enough to resemble one of those softer beds he keeps apologising for failing to provide. You think it would be a better one than the ground, and likely kinder.

Chestnut begins blowing through her nose, impatient with the heat. Duncan turns in the saddle. “Aye,” he tells her. “We ought to cool off somewhere.” Then his eyes come to you, expectant now in a way that pleases you. “Any water near?”

You look around. Wait. Listen past the horse-breath and tack-creak and road dust. There. “A little further ahead,” you say, pointing. “There should be a stream.”

Duncan nods this time without that careful pity from yesterday. Soon enough the road bends and forks into a smaller path toward the trees you chose. Beneath the leaves, water susurrates over stone, plain as speech.

He stops in a green hollow where the stream runs slow and bright. First he helps you down from Chestnut, hands steady, then settles you in the shade on a soft bed of grass.

“Would you mind if I tend to the beasts first?” he asks.

It endears you that he calls them what you call them, and you nod with great solemnity. Duncan leads the horses into the water, murmuring to them as they drink.

You sit where he has placed you and watch him, only a little. He steps in barefoot, water up to his knees, breeches darkening where they drink the river. When he bends to wash his face the sound he makes is so relieved it nearly has shape. Then, his body shifts as if he might turn, so you lie back quickly and pretend great interest in the sun glittering through the crown of leaves overhead.

For a second, or maybe two, you are interested. Light breaks itself on leaf-edge and comes down green-gold and restless. But in the corner of your eye Duncan pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it onto the bank, inadvertently impoverishing your attention.

It shrinks to his back, shining with sweat and riverlight. Large shoulders become larger bare. The hard-working breadth of him slopes down into a waist that seems almost shy for belonging to such a man. Water skids from the back of his neck and runs between the moving shelves of muscle. His arms gleam where the hair on them catches sun, each strand lit briefly as mosquitoes are lit in evening air. Lower, the ridges at the base of his spine look softer than they ought to, plush little marks above the band of his breeches, a place made by the gods for the pressing of a mouth and then hidden from decent folk by linen.

Duncan forgets himself for one blessed moment. He lowers into the stream with a groan, then lies back where the water is deep enough to take some of his weight. His chest comes into view. No wonder it is so broad if it must hold the sort of heart he has.

His ribs expand slowly and crown the upper swell of his stomach. The whole front of him looks safe. Pliable. Opulent with flesh, with strength, with the dark scatter of hair that begins across him and gathers itself into a neater line below his navel, leading somewhere your thoughts visit, and you don't even care to leash them. The little cup of his belly looks tender enough for a cheek. For a kiss, perhaps. For asking forgiveness of whatever part of him you have offended by wanting so much.

You watch him through leaf-shadow and sun-break, hunger loosening warm in your mouth. It is the looks, yes. You are young enough and living enough for beauty to matter. But the beauty wounds because it is his. His shoulders that carried you. His hands that tied the bandage. His mouth that stammered around kindness. His generous body laid briefly open in the water, while the heart inside it has been nothing but careful with you.

Then you notice the dark brand of mortality spoiling what is dear and fair and supple. A wound at his side, ugly with bruise-bloom and old blood, the flesh round it gone a deep wine-dark colour that makes your teeth meet. That is what has made him wince and grunt whenever he has pretended effort is a stranger to him. Someone put that there. Someone opened your knight and left him to ride on with pain hidden under cloth and courtesy.

Whoever hurt your beloved becomes at once your beloathed.

You want to tend him. Cure him. Put your mouth to the slash and draw the pain from it. Lick it clean. Pack it with moss and bitter green things. Seal him with leaf and mud and charm and the old patience of riverbeds. Hide him somewhere cold and safe where no sword can find him and no lord can send him back out to be struck again. Then you remember that whatever powers lived in your old body have been taken from you with your gills and your tail. All that remains is knowledge. Root, herb, current, and small useful things land and water will still confess if you ask properly.

Heat climbs through you, anger and want together, so fierce the stream begins calling harder. To you, it is communal. Water is company, cleansing, and peace. A place where bodies are honest and the world knows how to hold them. You begin undressing before sense catches up, fingers already at the borrowed linen. Then Duncan’s red ears return to you. His stricken crouch over firewood. The way he begged you to spare him from some bare skin as if you had raised a blade.

Whether that was true misliking or liking too much, you still have no clear answer. Men have a great many words for lying softly.

So the shift stays on. This, you think, is decorum.

You rise with care and make your wobbly way to the bank, each step placed as though the earth may change its mind beneath you. Duncan lies with his ears under the stream, face turned to the sky, and does not stir. The first touch of water over your bandaged foot is bright enough to steal your breath. Cool. Familiar. Wrong only because your body receives it poorly now, through skin instead of gill, through ache instead of ease. Still, it welcomes you better than road and saddle ever did.

You step knee-deep. Then further. The stream dips there into a dark little hollow beneath the willow roots, and the water climbs your thighs, your hips, your waist. Your shift billows round you and then clings. Duncan floats an arm-length away, chest moving slow, the gash ugly at his side like an insult left unanswered.

“You are hurt,” you say.

He jerks so hard his head goes under. For one sharp instant his limbs thrash and water breaks. Then Duncan surges upright, coughing badly, droplets streaming from his hair into his eyes. Water reaches his waist. His mouth opens on a half-strangled oath.

“Seven bloody hells!” he bellows, making the horses lift their heads from drinking. Drags a hand down his face and finds you standing there in your soaked shift. The cloth has gone thin and faithful to every line beneath it. His gaze strikes you once, panics, and bolts upward to the trees. “M-m’lady,” he rasps, still coughing. “Gods. You near frightened the soul out of me.”

“Let me tend to you,” you say, reaching. Your fingers brush his ribs and—oh, gods. He flinches. Flinches as if you have burnt him, near stumbling back on the pebbles.

“N-no,” he stammers. “No, there’s—” Another step back. “There’s no need. I, uh—I’ll let you bathe. Forgive me, I—”

“Ser Duncan?” You only blink at him, stunned. He stays where he is, eyes down. “Ser Duncan, you mustn’t be so foolish," you say. "It is only tending.”

“Please,” he says, and the word comes out almost a whine.

You come closer despite it. Set your fingers to his side again, gentler this time, and find the flesh above the cut warmer than the rest of him. “You’re in pain.”

“It looks worse than it feels,” he says. “Hah—” His breath hitches when your thumb brushes the soft of his belly. “Please,” he says, lower now. “Don’t… don't touch me.”

The hurt of it lands before you can reason with it. Your hand retreats. Your jaw sets tight. “As you wish,” you say, and dip wholly underwater and let the current take you a little way from him.

Duncan starts the day perturbed and only grows more and more mortified during the course of it.

First, sleeping next to you proves shallow and restless, for you keep making soft sounds in the night and moving under the blanket. Your body seems to disregard the steel barrier entirely and every now and then one of your limbs brushes him. Fingers on the hem of his shift. Foot nudging his low on the bedroll. Duncan sleeps terribly.

Then he is shamed for the hurt on you, and rightly. He had been so fixed on keeping his eyes clean and his hands honourable, so addled by the bareness of you, that he had given your bad walking some name out of fear and pity and left the simplest answer underfoot.

A cut. A cruel slash across the sole. Even close, even with your hands in his, it takes the red smear on the grass to make him see it, and the sight puts a shudder of anger through him so sharp he nearly speaks too harshly. After that comes worse: your ankle warm in his hand, your heel on his thigh, the soft give of your calf under his palm while he cleans what he can. You trust him through it. Squeal when it stings, then bite yourself quiet and try to be brave for no reason he deserves. Your skin imperils him by seeming new-made, tender in a way ordinary skin is not, without the leathering of road or work or weather. Dunk binds the foot as gently as he knows how and keeps himself from lifting it to his mouth and kissing it better only because that would mean bringing your leg higher, opening you by accident or design, and he is certain as sunrise that he would not survive the sight.

He contemplates this predicament of knightly challenge while floating on his back, body idle where his mind is restless, and gets startled by your voice. Then haunted by the same fingers that brushed him in the night and the shape of you, plain and vulgar and hallowed all the same under the shift clinging to you. He mumbles his futile excuses, manages to offend you by trying to maintain his honour, and stumbles out of the stream burnt up to his ears and heavy between the legs. Gods have mercy on him, Duncan has a few more nights with you ahead of him and faith in himself near shredded to scraps.

For another hour or so, he is quiet as a dead man. Sets you onto Chestnut with his eyes barely open, and rides in suffocating silence. At camp his heart inevitably melts back to warmness, because you try to feed Sweetfoot an apple you have chewed yourself first, and for it the horse adores you so much that Duncan almost chars the bread he is trying to make less stone-like. You squat too close to the fire and near singe the hem, making him certain you are not road-wise at all, then gut a fish he has caught in tremendous efforts with such unnerving competence Dunk has to revise his whole sense of your shelteredness.

Once he loosens enough to laugh and make talk with you again, the questions return. Seven hells, they never end, and Duncan scowls at each and every one of them. Do 'married things' feel better once people are married? Is it always a man and a woman who do 'married things'? Do folk kiss only on the mouth? Where else can one kiss? At which point Dunk contemplates pouring boiling water from the pot over his palm just so he is spared.

You seem oblivious. Charmingly so, because every inquiry leaves your face adorned with child-like curiosity, and the things you speak of having nothing child-like about them makes you only that much purer and more disarming in his eyes.

“How do I know a man would like to kiss me?” you ask, blinking at him wide-eyed and hopeful.

He is thankful the bite he took has already gone down his throat before that one lands. Duncan considers it gravely, though not without a fresh wave of shame, because while he means to answer you truthfully and as best he can, he need not bare himself doing it.

“It depends on the man,” he says, vague as a coward, and is met with another blink. “He might, uh—” Duncan tries. “Some men would gape at you outright, mayhaps. Some would try to steal looks and turn away when you caught them at it. Some might go nervous round you. Blush some. Look at your mouth and then wish they hadn’t, because—” He exhales hard through his nose. “Gods. I don’t know. Forgive me, m’lady, I've no proper answer for that one.”

You sit across from him with your face set carefully, taking each word in as if it has been given for study. Only then does it dawn on Duncan that he may have given himself away after all.

At nightfall, he prepares the bedroll again and sets the sword down, doubting its use. What he named protection that first evening serves tonight as the restraint he needs so dearly, and there is something wholly unknightly in that.

As if for punishment, he wakes hot and clammy, half-rolled off the wool, his side aching badly. When he opens his eyes, you are perched on one elbow with your hand hovering over his forehead. “Ser Duncan,” you say. “You’re burning up. Let me clean your wound, or you’ll go stiff as a dead fish.”

His mouth is parched. He fights himself a moment, tries to move, and when he finds it painful beyond keeping his face straight, Duncan nods, wincing. “A-aye,” he rasps. “Aye, all right then.”

You get to work at once. Even through the blear in his eyes he sees that you limp less than yesterday. Slow, still, and careful with the foot he bound, but less at war with the earth. You move from the bedroll to the fringe of grass near the stream, bending over plants, touching leaves, bringing them to your nose. Some you take. Some you let fall again with a little dismissive flick of your fingers. Moss from the wet bank. Green things he cannot name. A strip of bark peeled from a low branch after you press your face close to it and seem to listen. You come back with all of it gathered in your skirt, along with clean water from the stream and the bandages pulled from his sack.

Then, you sit on your heels beside him and roll his shirt up. Duncan hisses. “Ah—”

“Ser Duncan, we should not travel today,” you say.

“I’m bound for… for Riverrun soon, ah—” His breath catches when you peel the linen from his side. The cloth gives with a mean little tug. “There is business there.”

“You’ll be more useful to them sound than fevered, Duncan.”

You say it while looking where he cannot see. He looks where he should not. The furrow between your brows, the fall of your hair, and your pretty mouth tightened in focus, and oh—your lips part round a twist of bark and bitter leaves, and thought leaves him in one shameful rush. You chew them all together with grave purpose.

Duncan watches, transfixed enough that the first spill of stream-cool water over his ribs catches him unprepared. His stomach jumps. You take the sound for pain and murmur something under your breath, sweet and wordless, as you pat the wound dry. He is grateful for the mistake. Grateful too that your eyes keep going to his face and the blanket lies over him from the waist down, because your hand is braced low on his stomach and his body has begun turning traitor in ways fever cannot excuse.

“Is this too much?” you ask.

He shakes his head for the lump in his throat makes speech a poor wager.

You pack the wound with moss and the green pulp you have made, careful as any septa laying cloth over the dead. Sphagnum, he knows dimly, from old hedge lessons and worse roads. The rest is beyond him. He must be looking at it strangely, because you pause with your fingers at his side.

“I vow to you, this is safe,” you say. “It is what my people know of healing. I would not harm you.”

“I… I know that,” Duncan says. The answer comes quickly, because it is true before he has time to dress it better. He covers the hand you have set on his stomach. Your skin is cooler than his, cool enough to make him ache toward it.

“I beg your pardon for my weakness, m’lady.”

“I’ll grant you no pardon for that, ser,” you say. “For it needs none.” Your mouth curves a little, thoughtful rather than cruel. “The foolishness, well. That one I might grant pardon for.”

Despite the pain, something near a laugh moves in his chest.

You reach for the clean bandage and begin to bind his waist. He has to raise himself for it. The doing hurts badly enough to sour his breath, but he does it all the same, one arm locked beneath him while you pass the cloth under his back and round again. Your hands move with surprising certainty. All the awkwardness with laces and shoes gone from you the moment flesh is the thing in need.

When it is done, you tie the bandage firm and check the edge with two fingers. “Too tight?”

“No.”

It is, a little. But he would sooner bite his tongue than make you fuss over him again.

You seem to know that somehow, or else you have learned his face too well already, because you loosen it by the smallest measure before he can protest. Then you lean in, set a wet cloth over his forehead, and smooth it once over his brow. The touch quiets him worse than sleep could.

“Rest, Ser Duncan,” you say. “Riverrun may wait a day.”

It is as though you have put a spell on the world, because Duncan’s eyes grow heavy and everything seems set on peeling the fever off him. The air cools during his sleep and billows with loud howling through the trees, making breath come easier into his lungs. By the time he wakes, the mean bite in his side has dulled to a steady ache, and the heat in him has lessened into something nearer the natural state of a body than the foul blaze of sickness.

For a moment he does nothing but lie there, listening. You are humming beside him. The sound is low and strange and threaded so gently through the wind that he almost thinks he has dreamt it. When he opens his eyes, he finds you curled near the fire in a small, careful shape, arms tucked round yourself as if trying to keep what warmth you have from fleeing. Your hair moves across your cheek. Your face has gone solemn in sleep or thought; he cannot tell which.

He clears his throat and pushes himself up. The movement hurts, but only in the way of a wound that means to remind him it exists, rather than one trying to split him open. “Are you cold, m’lady?” he asks.

You turn your head toward him. Duncan looks round before you can answer and sees at once that a great part of the day has been stolen from him. The shadows have shifted long across the ground. The light has taken on the thinned, slanting look of late afternoon.

“How long was I out?”

“A few hours,” you say. “Do you feel better?”

“Aye.” He presses one hand carefully near the bandage and finds it firm. “Aye, I do. You’ve got my thanks.” He makes himself stand, slower than he likes. “I’ll start the fire proper, so you can warm up.”

You only nod. That troubles him a little.

He works at the kindling with hands that feel almost his own again and urges the fire into steadier life. When it takes, he motions you closer to it. You come, but even with amber light painting your face and the flame catching in your eyes, you keep your arms around yourself. Duncan watches that a moment, then rises and goes to his things. He finds a spare shift that does not shame him too badly for smell, shakes it once, and brings it back to you.

You look up at him. “Do I need more layers for your comfort?” you ask, mild.

“N-no,” he blurts, and then wishes he had managed it better. “No. This is for you. To get warmer.”

You take it after a pause. “Thank you.” Then you pull it over your head.

It unmakes him some, seeing you in something that came from his back. The cloth sits loose on you, too large in the shoulder, the sleeves falling past your wrists, and for some reason that is worse than all your wet linen had been. Worse in a different way. Quieter. It puts a claim in his mind he has no right to make and no courage to name.

He passes you water. Food. What little there is. You take both, but without the bright delight of the nights before. The silence in you discontents him. It sits between the pair of you heavier than his sword does at nights.

You both wait through the sinking of the sun with no moon rising after it. The sky grows dark by degrees and stays that way, blind and deep.

Duncan’s mind, made foolish by fever and wanting, begins to search for crimes. Mayhaps he snored like a pig. Mayhaps he spoke in his sleep. Mayhaps some foulness of the body escaped him while he lay senseless, and you are too gentle or too strange to name it. Then worse thoughts come. Mayhaps you have remembered some home you do not wish to speak of. Mayhaps the road has frightened you. Mayhaps he has touched too much, or withheld too much, or made some fresh error in the long ledger of not knowing how to be with you.

At last he cannot stand it. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “Have I frightened you somehow?”

What he means is, Were you frightened for me? Did my sickness put fear in you? Did you sit here humming me back from fever while I slept like a lump and gave you no thanks worth the doing? He does not ask that, of course.

You look at him across the fire. “Is your fever gone?”

“Aye. I think so.”

Then, you reach out and set your hand to his forehead. Duncan decides to let you. After all his defending himself from your touch, the yielding feels almost humiliating. Your palm is cold. Cool enough that he leans a fraction into it. “It is a wonder, what you did,” he says. “Truly.”

You stay there a moment longer. Then slip, not away, but to the side of his face.

“Are you cold still?” he asks.

You nod.

There is something changed in you now. He cannot say what. You are quieter, but the quiet has gone sharp and watchful. Closed in a way your face has never much managed before. It leaves him with the queer sense that he has done wrong and is only waiting to learn the charge.

“We’ve another blanket,” he says. “You may have it.”

You shake your head. Your hand moves from his cheek to his neck. His breath forgets itself.

“Would you hold me?” you ask and the question leaves him with no ground beneath him.

He wants to. Gods, he wants to. Wants it with such simple force that for one foolish instant his arms open before honour can set a guard over them. To hold you and warm you and give back a little of what you gave him. To fit you against him and learn the shape of your weight with nothing between but cloth and breath. To stop being careful long enough to stop aching.

You come into him as if you had only been waiting for the smallest leave.

Your body moulds tight to his chest. One hand slides behind his neck and into the hair at his nape; the other settles carefully near his side, avoiding the wound with a tenderness that cuts him deeper than a careless touch would have. Your face turns against his throat. Scent comes up with the heat of you—river-cold still, and green, with a foreign worry underneath it that seems made to ruin him.

He sits rigid at first, then lowers his arms around you. He circles your back with great care, as though the wrong pressure might break whatever spell has allowed this. His palm moves once between your shoulders. Then again. A slow, broad pass, the way he soothed you by the bank, only now there is no panic in your breathing. Only the nearness of you. The trust of you. The soft press of your shirt against his chest.

He says nothing. He does not trust his voice. Instead, he closes his eyes.

“Ser Duncan?” you ask.

“Mm?”

“When people kiss—” you start, lancing him with relief so strangely he almost laughs outright. Another question. Another weird, killing little question, but a question all the same. Something with words on it. Something safer than the warm mouth of you near his throat and the hand at the back of his neck making a weak man of him.

“Where does the nose go?”

A huffed chuckle leaves him. He has never once thought on it, which seems impossible now that you have asked. His chin lowers by a little. The dark gives him no help at all. “Wherever it can go,” he answers.

You shift against him, and crane your head back to look at him. “Would you show me?” you ask. Duncan near stops breathing altogether.

If time were a pocket full of stones to be thrown into water, yours would be light now. Between startling him in the stream on the second day and the morning of the third, you are nearly out of pebbles, and nowhere near certainty that what sits so swollen in you has found its likeness in him.

You tend him because pain on Duncan seems an offence against the order of things. Your hands know more than the rest of your borrowed body does, because the old small wisdoms of healing remain when all your better gifts are gone.

Then he sleeps. If you had all the time in the world, it would be a blessed thing. To sit with him through the day and look your fill without having to steal it. To learn his face by light rather than glances: the slope of his nose, the soft fall of his mouth, the worried place between his brows that seems carved by use. But every hour that passes comes down with a weight in it. Doom pressing thumb by thumb upon the tender back of your neck. You have hardly thought of the other choice. You do not know yet if your heart has turned vicious. You do not know what would prove easier in the end: longing or death. You do not even know whom you love more—him, or yourself.

So you hum, for it comes from somewhere old in you. Habit before speech. A small line thrown back to the creature you were so eager to cast off the moment a knight knelt bloodied at your riverbank and broke your life in two by praying. The song is low and almost without shape, but Duncan’s face softens beneath it in unspeakable measure. Sleep takes the worry from him first. Then pain. Then the lines around his mouth ease as if the song has set careful fingers there and smoothed them flat.

When he wakes, your nerves stir again. You have spent hours with him, but he has not spent them with you. He returns from slumber healthier, clearer, less fever-taken, and a bitter thought slips through unbidden: you ought not to have helped so eagerly. A fevered man is easier. Easier to seduce. Easier to kill.

Both notions sadden you in equal measure. If you were willing to win a weak version of him, you may as well have lured him with song the first day and let the river take the rest. As for killing—well. You came hoping for something to begin. Not end.

You cannot decide whether the air has chosen to be ally or enemy. Yesterday, heat helped very little. Duncan took great offence at you bathing near him, though your shift had stayed on like a banner of hard-won virtue, and afterwards he rode ahead in his breeches still dripping, neck blazing red. You still have no clue whether the sun kissed him so passionately there or whether his own blood had run faster from mortification. If the latter, you might almost take comfort. It would mean skin alone does not imperil him, but the shape of what it is stretched over does too.

Now the day has turned cold. All the small ends of you stiffen with it: toes, fingers, nose, the delicate rims of ears you have only just begun to understand. When Duncan gives you his shift, it helps little and wounds much. You eat the food, and it is still good, but doom dulls even salt and fat. You sit by the fire, which burns hot and warms everything except the parts that matter.

The only improvement is his scent. It gathers in the cloth he gives you, in the space around him, in the place where days have drawn the truth of his body closer to the skin. Earth after rain, almost. Warm ground turned by a hand. The deep, honest rot of flesh worked hard and loved too little. It is inviting in the way banks are inviting after too long in flood-water. Safe. Pure in a manner nothing you have known as pure before, because it belongs to a creature who has had every chance to harm you and kept choosing not to.

It makes you want to try harder. So you ask to be held, plainly and bravely, because every subtler method has failed you.

And somehow, blessedly, that works. Duncan opens his arms as if forgetting himself for one breath, and you go into him before he remembers any reason to stop. He is warm. Broad and rigid at first, all restraint and alarm, then his arms lower around you with a care that makes your throat ache. One hand moves over your back. Slow. Heavy and kind. The other stays mindful of his wounded side, and you press yourself where you may without hurting him, cheek near his throat, hand at the back of his neck where his hair curls soft against your fingers.

His scent is stronger here. His breath too. His ribs lift against you once, held too long, and you feel the panic in him before he makes any sound of it.

Emboldened, foolish with nearness, you crane your head up to look at him. “Would you show me?” you ask.

At once, Duncan locks himself in his stringent state of lungs filled with fright. For one breath he only looks at you. Mouth parted, eyes dark and wide and wretched with wanting he seems determined to suffer through rather than obey. His hand moves from your back to your shoulder, then stills there, made smaller and shaking in some deep part of him.

“M’lady,” he says, and the title sounds scraped from him. “You do not know what you ask.”

“I ask for a kiss.”

“Aye,” he says, almost pained. “That is the trouble of it.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair. He swallows. You feel it against your wrist, that small motion of life going down through him, and it draws you closer without thought. Your mouth is near enough now that his breath moves over it. Warm. Uneven. Human.

“Please,” you say, because pride has begun to feel like a thing for creatures with more time.

Duncan shuts his eyes. When they open, there is something terrible in them. Kindness, of all things. “I mustn’t,” he says. “Not like this.” Then he peels you from him.

Gently. Carefully. As if your arms are brambles he means to free himself from without breaking a leaf. That gentleness finishes what the refusal began. His hands leave you with honour in every finger, and you hate the honour so sharply you feel it in your teeth.

“We should rest,” he says, voice low. “You’ve had a hard day. Both of us have.”

You sit back on your heels and look at him. “I will be right there,” you say.

Duncan nods once. He looks as though he wants to say more and knows better than to trust his mouth. Then he lets you go.

The dark receives you with no comfort. No moon has risen. The sky hangs black over the trees, and every small night-sound seems to have sharpened itself for your hearing. The fire cracks behind you. Water calls ahead. You walk toward it with your arms wrapped around yourself, feet wet already from the grass, the bandage gone cold and weighty against your sole.

Stream takes your ankles first. You stand there a while, letting it worry the hurt in your foot, and sing softly because there is nothing else in you large enough to hold the ache. The song comes out thin. Sadder than you mean it to. A thing for deep places and lost skins, for girls foolish enough to think love would explain itself before the third night came hunting.

He has no love for you. That is what the witch’s voice says inside the dark.

He is kind. He is tender. He looks at you as if looking pains him. He has warmed you, carried you, fed you, let you touch his fevered body. He has given you his shirt and his fire and his poor sleeping place. Everything in him leans toward you.

Still, he will not give the proof.

The contradiction scrapes through you until you could scream. He has chosen fear. Virtue. Whatever cold, shining thing men put between their bodies and the bodies that want them. He has chosen the sword.

Something knocks softly against your bad foot, so you look down.

The dagger lies in the shallows, dark blade nosing against the stone as if the river has carried it back in its mouth. Returned from the mud where you left it to rot.

You stare at it first, then bend and take it. The hilt fits your palm with malicious ease.

When you return, the camp is nearly spent. The fire has sunk to a red eye. Duncan sleeps on his back with his face turned toward the dark and the sword laid down between you, steel dull and matted in the thin light. It looks and feels, to you, like an insult.

You kneel beside him with the dagger in your fist and learn again how human bodies rid themselves of water. Your eyes cloud. Your throat swells shut around breath. Tears fall hot down your cheeks and onto his forearm, though he does not wake.

He is very large in sleep. Very warm. His side lies beneath the blanket, bandaged where your hands have worked mercy into him. You know where he is weakest. Where to put the blade. How to turn the hand so it goes under the rib and up. The thought of all that warmth spilling out of him sickens you so badly you nearly retch.

“Forgive me,” you choke, and turn the dagger toward yourself.

Your hand shakes. The blade catches clumsily in the cloth, then slips, and in your blind effort to right it you snag his forearm. Duncan's eyes open.

It must be raining, he thinks at first. Droplets hit his wrist, then his cheek. But when something stings his skin with its sharp tooth, Duncan is alert through knightly instinct, or the instinct that let him survive Flea Bottom as a lame boy, or it is merely the Warrior watching over him. Which one, he does not know.

He knows only enough to move fast when a blade is being turned near where he is weak. His body acts before his mind can give the order. He is battle-trained and large. To seize the perfidious wrist, to roll over a deceitful body and pin it, to bash the weapon from the hand that nursed him away from fever only to break faith with him now—it is all nothing. It is but a blink.

To look into your wet, frightened eyes is everything. Everything that destroys him.

Duncan wants to scream, yet what leaves him is a foolish little thing, near too small to live inside him without getting lost.

“Tell me why,” he breathes over you. The sorrow in it he despises. “Speak, girl!” he says, louder, trying not to sound so heartbroken.

Since now he is sinew and bone first and everything else later, he notices things in scraps. Wretchedly, your spread legs below him. Woefully, your fast-beating heart under his, distraught in the same measure. Lustfully, your mouth, for he is only a man who has yearned for a woman for three days that felt like three lifetimes. Then, dreadfully, the way the mouth cuts itself into a lopsided sickle and begins to wobble. He finds your eyes again, and they are overpouring.

“Why?” he cries. “I’ve nothing for you to rob me of, and I’ve tried to do right by you. To keep my promise, to keep you safe, to—”

His grip tightens as he drags through the miserable list of his own reasons, your wrists caught in both his hands. He feels the small bones under his fingers and catches himself in anger. Loosens. His face cannot decide what shape to take, anguish or ire, so it hangs between them in some ugly misery.

“Why would you betray me?” he whispers.

“It’s—” Your voice breaks before it begins. “It was not meant for you. The w-witch… the witch said a soul, she did not say whose—”

Duncan stares.

“She—she gave me three days,” you sob, words tumbling over themselves, half-choked and damp. “And it has been three days, and I—I would not— I would never, not you—”

Your chest hitches under him. You try to pull one hand free, fail, and only curl your fingers in the air as if reaching for words that keep slipping from you. “It was for me. I was going to—”

He understands naught of it. “Girl, what is this nonsense that you speak of?” he asks, desperate. “What witch? What soul?”

You blink at him through the tears. For a long moment you only gape, and the fear in your face goes strange, as if some part of you had expected him to know the tale already.

“You’ve no love for me,” you say, so quietly he almost misses it. Your fingers flex above the wrists. Duncan lets go.

The instant he does, you take his hands and set them at your throat. Your own close over his, pressing them there, begging with them. He feels how feeble that column is beneath his palms. The hard swallow of it. The frantic life inside. How easily his thumbs could end you. How surely it would end him too.

“You’ve no love for me,” you say, “and it means I cannot go back. I cannot go home, and I cannot take your life, so it has to be mine. Please, please—”

Duncan sees part of it plain, and another part not at all. Your palms squeeze round his, eyes leaking plea after plea. He is certain that if you could reach it, you would hand him the dagger and point its tip to your own neck. How this would ensure his sparing, he does not comprehend. What he recognises is the devotion of putting oneself at the edge of the blade if that means your beloved lives.

“M’lady—” he mouths, stunned by the discovery.

All of the teasing, all of the questions—none of it was malevolent. None of it was oblivious either, or meant to make him stray off his path, use him, seduce him for sport. It was you speaking I want you to him in a language he used to know and misplaced when he found folk scarcely so openly honest.

“Calm yourself. Calm yourself now,” he says, terrified at being the cause of your sorrow. “Oh, girl. Hush now, hush.” He removes his hands from your throat and brings them to your swollen cheeks. “Tell me plain,” he says. “Slowly. Don’t be afraid.”

Your sobbing eases. “I saw you on the bank lancing a man through and praying for him a minute later. You—” Your fingers come up to his cheeks, damp and trembling, and the touch strikes him so softly he can hardly bear it. “You bewitched me.”

Duncan sucks in a breath.

“So I went to a crone and struck a deal. To get legs. So you—” You swallow. “So you could love me.”

“Legs?” Duncan huffs. “Girl—”

His mind begins to move, slow and fearful, through every half-remembered tale old women or some Flea Bottom drunk or hedge septon ever muttered near a fire. Water-wives. River maids. Green-haired things who drowned men by kissing them. Old gods in stones and streams. Stories, he had thought. Ways for folk to dress up queer happenings so the world seemed less wide and hungry than it was.

Yet he thinks of you in the willow-shadow, floating as if the stream had been made to hold you. Of your strange wisdom with water and wound and herb. Of your dread of shoes. Your open face. Your body new to its own legs.

“Where’s your home?” he asks.

You look at him, and he holds his breath without meaning to. Then, you say, “The river.”

The way you looked hugged by water suddenly makes sense. “River-folk,” he mutters. “I was right, then. You’re no human girl.” Your face changes at that, guilt passing plain over it, and the sight only settles the truth harder in him.

“Gods,” he says, hushed. “You’re a river maid. Some old god’s daughter, mayhaps. Holy thing of the water.” It's all muttered half to himself, as if wagering with his own mind whether such a thing can be possible, but awe gets into him anyway. Awe and fear. Awe and the brutal knowledge that he has had a holy thing weeping under him with his hand at her throat.

Your eyes widen. Confused, mayhaps. Hopeful too, in some small wounded way. “What say you to me, knight?”

Duncan shifts. Sets himself firmer on one elbow, then bends one knee and hooks it carefully against your leg to keep you open beneath him. Closer now. More intimate than the pinning had been when his body only knew defence. His hands slide to the back of your head, thumbs settling where your jaw hinges, close beside your ears. He presses there gently.

“What did the witch tell you to do?” he asks.

Wariness moves over your face, but you answer. “She said to bring her a soul if you did not fall for me within three days.” Your eyes drop. “Otherwise I am cast out and trapped in this ugly body.”

The shape of it becomes clearer. Witch-craft with its fangs hidden until the mouth shuts. A sworn sword and a maid from the water. A bargain made to rot between them. How easy to mislead you. How easy to make failure look like virtue and restraint look like scorn.

His body understands some ruinous part of it before his mind is finished. The angle has him feeling you everywhere that matters: your breath hot over his face, the soft give of you under his weight, your fingers brushing shakily beneath his eyes and near his mouth as if you want to touch and are afraid. His groin fills out against sense, against decency, against every terrified plea he has made to the Seven in three days. Reprehensible, mayhaps. True all the same.

For desperate want of proof, he manages to ask, “And how were you to know if I had fallen or no?”

You move a little beneath him. It pains him terribly. “When you want between my legs,” you say. “That is why I needed them in the first place.”

Duncan laughs then. Breathless. Broken by it.

You frown. “What?”

“Wee thing,” he says. “Oh, Gods—” His eyes close.

“Duncan?”

He rubs at the base of your skull. “Hush, sweet thing. Only tell me if I wrong you.” Then he lowers his face slowly to yours.

“There ain’t nowhere for the nose to go,” he says.

First, he fits himself beneath you, clumsy with care. The tip of his nose fills the warm curve above your upper lip, where your mouth rises into that soft little bow. When he speaks, his mouth frames your lower lip so closely that the words seem to move against it. “It just goes here,” he murmurs.

Then he shifts higher, until your mouths face one another and his nose wedges beside yours, dipping into the slope where cheek begins. Nearer now. Close enough that, if your lips were not stunned and motionless beneath his, it would already be a kiss. “Or here.”

He presses in by the smallest measure. “Or flattens some,” he breathes, “when it’s more ardent.”

Duncan wants to kiss you ardently. He also wants to tell you this is not how love works, but he catches himself knowing naught of it. He's been charmed by women, by their voices and breasts and the napes of their necks, thought of them for days upon days, and inevitably, forgotten most of the maids for the sake of his pliant heart remaining whole. You, he's certain, he'd never forget. Despite his body being crude and primal around you, he thinks, innocently, that it is the heart that animates his blood to go where it goes. He presses down on you with ingenuity between the shoulders and lust between the hips, and the lust is pure too, for it comes from affection.

Your leg hitches higher on him and fingers find some valour in their groping. You take a clean hold of his face and trap him there, in the in-between kiss state, and look at him with the sort of plain youthful hope that keeps unearthing him.

"What are you saying?" you ask.

Duncan’s hands come up to answer first. Where you keep him, he cradles you back, careful thumbs, fingers spreading into your hair. There. There is the shape of it. Want met with want, fear met with shaking, your breath touching his and making no wound of it.

“I am saying,” he murmurs, moving the words against your mouth, “that the witch has been proven wrong already. You had my heart before you had legs steady under you.” Your eyes search his so closely he feels near flayed by the looking. “But if you need proof in the flesh,” he says, rougher, shame and hunger dragging at the same rope inside him, “I would be honoured to give it. Gods help me, I would. Only you should know I may be poor at it.” His breath hitches. “You would be my first.”

You consider him calmly. “I don’t need it,” you say, making his whole chest suck in on itself. Then, Duncan breathes again, when you add, “But I want it.”

Finally, the holding concludes. You kiss as if the thing has angered you by staying unknown so long. Your mouth opens wide and catches his lower lip between yours, soft first, then with teeth. Duncan makes a sound into you. He cannot tell whether the bite is artless or bold already, whether you have stumbled into hunger or known the road to it all along. This, at least, he can teach. When the cloth comes off, when bodies are bare and honest and frightening in the dark, both of you will be green as spring branches. But kissing—kissing he knows enough to begin.

So he shows you. Shows you how the nose can fit beneath yours, how it can slide along cheek and breathe there, hot and loud. Shows you how a mouth may press and soften and press again, how teeth need not wound to be felt, how the lips can ask twice before taking. Then his tongue finds the seam of you, and when you open, he slips inside.

He discovers that you must be finding that pleasurable because you moan softly and bend beneath him and fit yourself firmer to his cock, making him ache more. Your fingers climb to his hair and tug, and some helpless part of him near thanks you for it.

You learn fast, too—answer his tongue with yours, and they press each other and taste each other, and to Duncan you taste like blessed water and flesh made open. He kisses you deeper for it, ardent at last, enough that his nose flattens against your cheek, and the nonsense of it is so small and heartbreaking the clothes start itching him unbearably.

“I wanted you,” he whispers. “Gods, I wanted you.”

For a moment you stop kissing in favour of laughing sweetly, so he, in his ardour, pulls the shirt off his back, bearing himself to the night and your eyes. You stop laughing then and fix your pupils somewhere below his chin, and Duncan sees a glimpse of what he presumes lesser creatures see before you seize their throats and snap their spines. Lowering lids and lashes gone droopy over them, you breathe out, set your forefinger to the hollow of his throat, collect the dampness there, and bring it back to your mouth.

“And I wanted you,” you say.

Duncan leans in to kiss you some more. The dagger lies abandoned in the grass.

Your knight loves you. He is kissing you, and for a man who only supposes he likes it, he is incredibly fervent about it. Obedient too: he rises when you all but press your fingers to his bicep and lets you climb him a little. He sits on his heels and lowers his head for you to reach. His mouth tastes clean and cold of crushed mint. His hands on you are warm, warming up with every pass. They hold your neck first, then slide down your shoulders, pause briefly at your elbows, and continue lower. You are lost in it, learning how to do this thing called kissing and where the poking parts of the body go during, when desire emboldens him enough to stray beneath your skirt.

You catch his wrist unconsciously, mouth curbing. Before, his touch was medicinal. And rightfully so, since there was nothing else you'd rather have done to your legs than fix them. Heavy, graceless logs beneath you with one foot mangled, the mending of which, despite being mildly titillating for his gentleness, heralded no perfervid development and remained purely sanative. Now, there is intent in it. Now he's looking at your thighs, and regardless of him being a different kind of folk, a kind of folk who likely enjoys thighs, you wish, terribly, for your tail to be back in its rightful place. For the thing of poise and cordiality you could show him. For the thing that makes you beautiful in the water and in sunlight, smooth and shiny and worth seeing, instead of bruised knees and prodding ankles and dirty shins and the sole gone plump with its cut and blood dried round the cut's edges.

When your eyes meet he looks very concerned. His touch stalls. "Have I… have I wronged you?" Duncan asks. He lifts his hands a hairsbreadth off you and murmurs, "Do you want me to stop?"

"N-no, no," you tell him. "No, I don't, just—" Your eyes drop to where he's hovering. You cringe. "Just do not look at me so."

"How did I look?" His fingers curl, then retreat completely to rest on his knees. "Have I looked wrong?" Dunk asks.

"No, I just… don't like them."

Duncan sags a little. When you look up, he's blinking at you, baffled. His mouth moves while he's chewing his own tongue, and finally, he stammers, "Y-your legs?"

You nod. Sit back, pull the skirt over the knees for the lack of a better shield, and hug the whole bundle to hide it from being perceived. "They're ugly," you tell him.

At that, his face breaks open with fondness and ache. Duncan breathes around something that looks like exasperation, though gentler than any you have known. Plainly, he seems to not know what is meant to be said to a girl who tells him she hates a part of herself. So he says nothing at first. Only comes to you, slow on his knees, until he is close enough for the heat of him to reach through the miserable pile you have made of your limbs.

His hand finds your cheek. He turns you toward him by a little, thumb rubbing along your jaw as if coaxing the bone to unclench. “They brought you to me,” he mutters at your ear. The words go through you strangely.

“They bled and still carried you.” His fingers nose, tender and frightened, beneath the edge of your skirt, finding the place where your hip creases under cloth and the guard of your folded arm. He brushes there and goes no farther than you allow. “You’ve had them three days, and they’ve already learned the road so well.”

At that, something in you loosens. Your arms slacken by a measure. Enough for him to slide down to your knee, where the fabric bunches under his broad palm.

“I adore them,” Duncan says, simply enough to make mockery impossible. His eyes lift to yours, serious and shy both. “Would you let me show you?”

You are apprehensive still, but you look at him properly then, and his face is so genuine it gives you no clever place to hide. So trustworthy. So pure in its truth-telling. For a moment you think that perhaps love can be graceless. Perhaps here, with him, it may be youthful and ebullient and still be love. Perhaps the grace you were robbed of has no bearing on your worthiness of it. His hands are clumsy too, trembling and bashful, but eager in the way they touch you, forthright in their care. He seems to pay no mind to his own awkwardness. Only to you. To the careful unpeeling of you in a way that does not leave the parts beneath raw and aching.

“How?” you ask.

Duncan smiles as if something has just been answered for him. “Tell me no at any moment,” he says.

He goes to the lacing at your waistband and pulls at it slowly, eyes fixed on yours. Then his fingers hook between fabric and skin and he begins guiding the skirt down. You prop yourself on his shoulders and lift for him. The cloth passes your hips and drags down your thighs, and you close your eyes briefly so you do not have to see the hated shape of yourself being bared.

Chill kisses your ankles and calves, then deserts them once Duncan’s hands find you. He goes to sit farther away, facing you, and places your feet with their soles to his stomach. Your shift falls loose between your thighs and gathers there, covering you only to the middle of them. You lean back on your elbows and finally open your eyes.

He sits on his heels again, thighs flattened and filling his breeches until the side seams seem fit to complain, so abundant there his knees knock apart naturally. Between his legs he is curiously swollen. You want to touch there. To see him. To learn what it is that makes a man breathe faster and blush the way he does. He is pink up to the temples and sweating round there. Beneath your soles, his stomach ripples now and then. His fingers curl round either of your ankles, eyes fixed on the dorsums of your feet, thumbs brushing where your toes ladder into five thin, twig-like bones.

He unwraps the bandage gently. Checks you for wincing, and when he sees you only staring with your lids nearly disappearing into their sockets, the colour on him deepens.

Then, he lifts your foot to his face, and you learn where else people can be kissed.

He slots his mouth to the hollow where the cut had been. It is barely a brush of lips. A small thing. Soft enough that it should hardly matter. Yet he does it with such care that the warmth of it travels up your throat from the inside, humiliating and near hallowed. Duncan swallows as if bracing himself, then sets his tongue to the sealed line of it and licks across.

The wound has closed. Tender still, and puffed at the edges, but closed. It receives his affection with a strange little pulse that runs the whole length of you and lands low in your belly like kindling catching.

You go very still when he kisses it again. Then the arch, then the heel, then the place below your toes where the skin is softer than you expected it to be. His hand holds the whole weight of your leg as if it weighs nothing at all. You let it rest there, pliant and cradled, and he seems to like the trust of it. Seems to grow gentler and more intent for having it.

When his mouth reaches your toes, he hesitates. His eyes lift to yours. Deadly honest. Pinked still, mouth damp from you, breathing with the rough care of a man at the edge of his own courage.

Then he closes his lips around you, and the sound you make is pulled clean out of you.

He smiles. You feel the shape of it more than see it. The small wickedness of it startles you worse than the mouth does, because he has spent three days shy as a colt and now there is this on him too, some pleased knowledge that he has made you louder. His tongue moves over your toes in a slow pass. His lips draw, soft and firm together. The pressure is nothing like kissing. You cannot answer it except by breathing harder and letting your head tip back, by spreading your fingers on the wool and trying to understand why a useless little toe should have any road at all to where pleasure lives.

The angle opens you by a little, making you learn, once again, how human bodies lose moisture. This one is known to you and strange all the same. You have felt your slit weep at the sight of folk tumbling in the tall grass by your bank, but this is warmer. Thicker. It pearls at the centre of you and pulses there, as if bidding him to come closer.

Duncan releases your foot and turns to the other. “Should I stop?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head.

He nods as if you have given him some important charge, then bends again. Kisses the second foot with equal devotion. Along the ankle, over the knob of bone, up the calf where his nose stirs the soft hair covering your skin. His breath follows after, hot in places the night had cooled. His lips travel slowly, learning you with more patience than skill, though the patience is its own skill, perhaps. You cannot decide. You only know that each place his mouth has been feels newly awake when he leaves it.

At your knee, he lowers himself. The breadth of his shoulders knocks your legs further apart without hurry and without force. As though both of you were made for this particular placement. He settles on his stomach between them, enormous and careful, and begins again above the knee. Mouth open now. Breath heavier. The kissing grows less neat. At the inner soft of your thigh his eyes cover themselves with the thick row of lashes, and for one moment he seems to forget the mild kind of gentleness in favour of a hungrier one. His jaw opens, then closes with teeth.

Your head lolls back with the force of the moan breaking out of you, and Duncan freezes.

The absence of him is immediate and cruel. You lift your head and find him staring up at you, stricken, his mouth still near the mark he made.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Do it again,” you breathe.

His face does a strange, blissed out thing. He nods, snakes one arm under your leg and sets his palm to your hip. Mouth returns to the same place. Teeth first, as asked. Then lips. Then a slow draw of suction that makes your spine change its mind about what shape it wants. His nose dents the skin beside the bite. Each puff of air from him lays heat there. You watch, fascinated and stunned, because this feels good and the witch never spoke of it. She spoke of being opened. Of men putting themselves where they wished to go. She spoke as though the act were a blade and a body only the place it entered.

She said nothing of this. Nothing of mouths on knees and thighs. Nothing of being marked with blunt, crooked fangs and of brands they leave being so pretty you wish for them to be permanent. Nothing of a large knight lying between your legs with zeal shaking through him and of pleasure arriving before proof.

Your hands move without your leave, rolling the shift up for the cloth to gather over your belly. The apex of your thighs is bared to the night. Duncan groans so loudly it startles you.

“Have I done wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head at once, almost violently. His hand tightens at your hip, fingers pressing in. “N-no,” he says. “No, sweet thing. Gods, no. Only—”

His free hand comes up slowly. It stops at the curls there, hovers, then dips with two fingers as though he expects you to vanish if touched too boldly. “May I kiss you?” he asks. His voice has gone rough enough to catch. “Here?”

You look down and realise he is nervous. For some reason that steadies you. “Have you kissed there before?”

The colour deepens on him. “No.”

“Is that where folk kiss too?”

“Some,” Duncan says. He swallows. “If they are let.”

His fingers rest in you lightly, barely a touch at all, but your body answers with a soft wetness that reaches him anyway. You see when he feels it. The way his mouth parts. The way his brow draws tight, as if want has put its hand round the back of his neck.

He looks up at you. “Talk to me,” he says. “If I do wrong, tell me. If you want me stopped, tell me. If it is good—” His thumb moves, shy and uncertain, and you draw breath through your teeth. “Tell me that too.”

Then down he goes, and with it something in you drops so low it near shackles you to the ground. It is unimportant at first whether he lands aptly or not, for just the idea of being kissed like this, right there, has already begun to derange you. Another mouth-place, another gate and a room this body contains that can, and deserves to be treated with the same fervour he's given your lips. It makes you forget you own legs whatsoever.

It is but a blunder consecrated by pure intentions. He intends, purely, to show you how pieces of you that you've disregarded and treated as means to an end are also part of the beloved. A little over-eager when his mouth finds you too high and drifts as if listening with tongue instead of ears, but at least honest about his greenness. His nose presses into curls on your mound, and you watch him there, the low-hanging lashes, the blood-filled cheeks, and hair falling loose over his brow and this whole great body brought down to its knees by the smallest knot of nerves you possess. Something absurd lives within it, and something magnificent too, making you want to laugh, or seize him, or ask him if he understands he is doing something to you no one explained. Something outside the cruel little law you've been given, one that doesn't mention being searched by a mouth so loving the searching becomes more devastating than force.

Before he licks you, he hums. The sound buries itself in the flesh of his throat, and then his tongue follows, making the strangest disorder happen. Too much earnestness, broad and hard enough to make white light snap through you with benevolence, so you yelp and drag at his hair.

He stops. Lifts his face, and there he is with his mouth shining and eyes stricken, mumbling, "No?"

"Softer," you tell him, feeling weird for demanding around something that's been gifted.

Duncan only nods, swallowing. Grateful for the doctrine, he gets back to learning you with the same studiousness he's given to the walking lessons, all of it made dangerous by how badly he wishes to do it well.

You bend your knees to make the spread of his shoulders more agreeable, but it only makes you open wider like you're an awkward, frog-like thing with human joints. He takes the leave of it and slides his hands under your thighs as though this is too dear. Makes a cradle of his arms and lifts you into it, saving you from the labour of your own legs. The hated things go light. Your calves rest against his shoulders, heels find his back. The position splits you and steadies you both, and a hot, startled pride moves through you when his breath hitches at the sight.

“Here,” you say, gathering his hair into your fist. You guide him lower by little pressures. “Like you kissed my mouth.”

Obedient still, he tries again. Lets his breath soften you first. Then, a brush. A press and retreat of lips. Underneath it your body is trying to make sense of a feeling that has no mate in memory. It is a kiss, yes, but one that cannot be returned by the same road. You can only suffer the pleasure and be enlarged by it. The passivity maddens you. It makes a queen and a fool of you together. You lie there growing wetter, thinking, wildly, that this must be what land does to rivers when it forces them into beds and banks and makes them learn a new shape by pressure.

“There?” he asks against you. The word itself touches.

“There,” you say. "Please, again."

His tongue returns, gentler, and your mind begins to come apart in layers. First, the ordinary mind that knows cold air and sharp grass, then the clever one counting for proof, and the old water-mind too, with remembrance of lost fins and sealed gills and split tail. Beneath all of them lies this new thing, this land-flesh, this warm, weeping, treacherous little mouth of the body opening under another mouth.

Duncan hums once, and the vibration enters you. Your head falls back. The sky above has no moon, no witness, only a depth of blackness so complete it feels like the world has closed its eyes. You begin to grasp that he is teaching himself by the breaking of breath, the little disloyalties of your spine, and the way your thighs tremble when he loses the right place, and part when he comes near it. Warmth opens there. Thickens. Pearls for him and makes him groan as if the taste of you has struck some hidden bell in his chest. You give more and more of it until there is too much. Until it slicks and drips on your skin, and threatens to waste itself on wool, and Duncan, oh—

He slips his tongue inside. Ladles it cleverly to drink from you, and suddenly your body feels more yours. Alive and awake. "Oh—" you say, and he lifts his eyes without parting you. Tries to fit himself deeper, and in the trying his nose brushes the place that seems to have been waiting for him to discover it. You'd laugh at the sweet lesson of it. At the versatility of destinations bodies hold for noses, if only your muscles wouldn't tense like that, if only teeth weren't busy mauling your lower lip and your eyes weren't rolling back from the euphoria of this little accident.

And Duncan is no master of anything except attention, it would seem. He does it again, slower. Meaner, you'd think, if he were someone else. The arms under your thighs tighten while his tongue slips in with a firmer, deeper thrust. This time his nose finds you on purpose. Rubs you small and blunt, and all of you answers in a vicious little flood. Your hips buck into his face and he groans as though he has been granted something by it.

Again—more, bolder, stronger. Mouth open and breath loud, he makes the double sensation catch you so oddly you cannot tell whether you are being entered or kissed or spoken to. No matter the direction your body chooses, he loves it into splendour by the inch. A living thing throws itself against the inside of your skin, and when you look down you fingers make a mess of his hair and he's there, stubborn and panting, poor sweet creature driven half out of himself by the need to bring you fully past this threshold. You realise then, with a kind of rage, that this body has kept secrets from you.

The witch gave you legs and pain and a wound in the foot. She gave you shame, knees, ankles, the absurdity of toes. She gave you the fear of being split by love or killed by its absence. Yet here is a secret she either did not know or refused to tell: that the body can be opened without being invaded, that a man may go down rather than in, that wanting may have humility in it, that Duncan’s mouth can make a sanctuary of the very place she named as doom.

The thought breaks something, or something he does breaks it. "Yes," you breathe. "Oh, Duncan, yes—"

The pleasure keeps almost arriving. Almost, almost, until the almost becomes its own country and you are trapped there, flooded and furious, hearing yourself make sounds no trout, no eel, no seal-slick thing in the water ever taught you. Human sounds. Girl sounds. The foolish, broken music of having flesh that can beg without words.

He stops at no point, and somehow it works. Or perhaps works is too clean a word for it, for no grace is returned to you in triumph. The body simply takes command with the crude authority of something older than self, and you go with it because there is nowhere else to go. A bright, prickling tug gathers low in your groin, sharp as a hook caught in something living, and then it pulls. You choke on the first sound of it. Bend up so hard your belly creases and your mouth opens wide to the dark, all the while Duncan stays there, caught under you, grunting into the convulsion—pleased, most likely proud, very likely simply surprised that his mouth has become such a mighty tool. Your thighs try to close round his head and cannot, because he is too broad and too fixed and too willing to be crushed there. The bliss grows fangs, pointed and sharp, and when he keeps at it with the same obedience, you pull him off with actual force.

He comes away on the strength of your fist in his hair. For a moment you forget the feeling in yourself because of what has been done to him. He looks changed by it too. Made a man fully, if he had been hovering on the edge of it before, glassy-eyed and glossy-mouthed, lips plumped by labour. His lashes are damp. The skin of his cheeks has risen with blood so deeply it seems lit from underneath. Still large. Still tremendous. Shoulders filling the space between your knees, body hot and weighty against the earth. Yet he lets himself hang from your clenched fist as if he is a head severed clean and kept alive only by the mercy of your grip.

“Too much?” he rasps.

“Enough,” you say, though the word comes out wrecked and fond.

Duncan nods.

His hair slips from between your fingers, and he drops forward as if the cut strings of him have remembered gravity. Down onto your belly, where he turns his face into the soft, creased place below your ribs and lies there breathing hard with arms thrown around you. You listen to him dragging air in and out as if he has been the one carried to some violent height and dropped from it.

Then he asks, muffled, “Did I please you?”

The tenderness of it nearly undoes what the pleasure left standing. “Gods, yes,” you say.

He breathes again, deeper this time, and his cheek shifts against you. You feel the absurd bashfulness returning to him now that his mouth has finished its brave work. His hand moves on your thigh. “Do you still hate them?” he asks.

You look down. There is he, and there are your legs, still strange. Still graceless. Still jointed wrong for a creature born to move as one sleek muscle through water. But his hands have held them. His mouth has blessed them. His shoulders have borne their weight. Shame, you discover, cannot keep its shape where Duncan has put his devotion.

Your fingers slide back into his hair. “I don't think I can hate anything you’ve touched,” you say. His mouth quirks, boyish again.

Duncan thinks, dimly, that he has been allowed too much. He lies on the soft bed of your stomach with his cheeks full of your sweet sap and his scalp scratched by your fingernails, wondering when the gods mean to smite him for a fool like himself daring to touch a holy creature like you.

To think you forsook your home for him. To think you almost passed from the world because he was too much of an imbecile to swallow down the price, the inadequacy, the fear of being too much and too little and simply unworthy.

He looks at your thighs and loves them dearly. One bears the brand of his uneven teeth, a ring like the rings of boulders set into loose soil by men who believed in old gods. It is a place only for him. If anyone else strayed there and saw it, he would have to make them a head lighter.

That is the sort of thought he should turn away from, and quickly. Carnal things have been running him ragged for three days, and now his mind seems determined to drag him through every mire it can find. Nothing about where he is helps. Nothing below him helps. His cock had been hard before his mouth ever reached you, and only turned harder, meaner, more convinced of itself as you softened and opened and shook above him. The ground hides the worst of it well enough, but it pacifies poorly. Each small shift is deadly, especially for a man who has known mostly the mean kind of friction. Solid surfaces and his own hand now and then, when loneliness or some insistent memory of breasts, throats, legs—legs, precisely—made an animal of him in the dark.

And there he is back at the legs.

Yours, with what lies between them still fresh on him, warm and slick and living, a taste so strange and cleanly foul it seems to have made a new chamber in him. He relives the feel of you under his tongue. Of what your body did when he licked properly, when he hummed deep enough, and your fingers turned cruel in his hair. That pulling ought to have hurt more than it did, or shamed him into sense at least. Instead it had near humbled him completely. There seems, to his great peril, to be some direct and wicked road between the roots of his hair and his loins, for when you yanked him up from you with that fistful of him, Duncan had come so close to spending that his whole being narrowed to the crude effort of refusing it. He does not know if that is a thing in him entire, the general affinity for receiving some manhandling, or only another power you have over him. Girlhandling, perhaps, but performed by you.

All of it helps very little. The belly under his cheek and your scent smeared across his face and the hand in his hair, they all help naught. Duncan smacks his lips once, then stirs.

It takes a mean little grunt to rise. His side has drunk some cold from the earth, bandage stiffened where it wraps him, and when he pushes himself up onto his hands the wound pulls as though remembering it has been slighted by all this pleasure around it. Duncan sits back on his heels slowly. Has to set his knees wide as he does, for there is no seemly arrangement left in his breeches. His cock is stranded there, neglected, thick with complaint, as if some part of him expected reward for honest labour and cannot be made to understand that love is no tally of services. He looks at you instead. “Are you well?” he asks, voice rough.

You prop yourself on your elbows, knees knocking together after all that boldness, and nod. You look changed. A little hollowed, though sweetly, in the manner of a body given just enough nourishment to keep wanting and nowhere near enough to be sated by it. Your mouth is damp. Your eyes keep their dark, inward shine. “Yes,” you tell him.

Then, to his utter horror, you scramble up too. Your thighs twitch with the movement, and Duncan has to close one hand on his own knee to stop himself from reaching out and putting you back into decency. His gaze drops, shamelessly, shamefully, to where he has made you glossy. He drags his eyes higher in penance and finds no mercy there either, for you cross your arms, seize the hem of the shift, and pull it upward.

The cloth lifts first over the lower belly he has just lain upon, skin giving way to the shadow below your ribs. Then sternum, then the underside of your breasts, and his cock kicks so hard it seems to have taken a separate oath against him. Your face disappears behind linen for one blind second. All he sees is your torso stretched in the act of undressing, your breasts prickling against the cold, the lifted arms, the night making an open country of you. His mouth goes dry enough for prayer.

By the time the shift drops beside you, words have gone useless in him. Which leaves him wholly defenceless when you take his hands.

You guide them to your chest with solemn purpose, as if returning some misplaced thing to its rightful shrine. His palms meet warmth and weight. He sits petrified while your thighs part again, while you climb him with no more grace than you have had all along and no less power for the lack of it. You settle across him, bare, pressing your cunt to the length of him through wool, and Duncan has great trouble finding the road by which he arrived here. From a girl on the skirts of battle, a crying maid in his cloak to a water-spirit. A sacred thing. Now this same impossible creature sits naked on him, offering him her tits and seeking his mouth as if all of it follows plainly from the first mercy he ever thought to show you.

You kiss him slower this time. Deeper. With the new patience of someone who has discovered there are pleasures that improve by circling.

Duncan lets it happen for a beat because he is weak, because his hands are pleasantly full, because the weight of you has turned his thoughts into warm mud. You draw back by a little, tongue touching your own lip.

“You taste different,” you say.

“Mm.” It is a poor answer. It is the best one he has. Still, your brow furrows. “It’s yourself you taste,” he says then.

You blink at that, and grow delighted in a way so sudden and frank it frightens him. “Do you like it?”

“Mm,” he tries, or means to. Aye, of course. Aye, I like everything. His body answers instead with a hard, hungry throb under you and an involuntary squeeze of both hands round the fullness of your chest.

Your lashes lower. “You do like it.”

“M-m’lady,” Duncan strains.

You kiss him again before he can gather honour into a shield. He manages half a breath against you, then turns his head with some grim effort. “I—I—we needn’t,” he says. “We do not have to. I only wanted—”

You cradle his whole head in your arms and draw him in, mouth close to his ear. “I want to make you feel as you made me feel,” you whisper. “To see you in it too.”

That stills him. For three days he has been thinking in terms of rescue and ruin, sin and restraint, oath and breach. He has been trying to place his body somewhere outside the matter. But your heart is hammering and your hands are in his hair and your cunt is hot for him, and there is no bargain in the looking.

You want. He wants too. At last, even Dunk the Lunk can read a thing so plainly written.

He starts fumbling at the front of his breeches since this is likely what you want, then stops himself halfway through, red to the scalp, and checks anyway. “You wish to see?” he asks. Against his ear there is a breathy yes, so Duncan sets his mouth tight and pulls the waistband away from himself.

His cock comes out, barely half of it, with a weeping eye at the top and blood vessels girdling down the flesh like roots bulging out of the earth. He closes his eyes and seeks asylum in your neck, so the next thing that happens Duncan only feels.

A finger, curious and subtle, teases the meeting of nerves below the crown, then goes up towards the slit. Much like with his throat, you gather and take, and when his eyes open you've got that finger in your mouth and your tongue around it. You seem spellbound. Enchanted, if Duncan believed such thing could be felt about him. "Show me more," you tell him, and he only realises that what you mean is for him to stand and present himself when you slide off him and sit on the bedroll cross-legged. Shameless.

He's battling the opposite. Shame-full, he nods. Even manages to mutter a miserable, "Aye," and stands with one hand braced at his bandaged side, the other just holding the breeches up, uselessly so, for of all things his thighs need no shielding. He lets the linen drop and, with a sombre kind of horror, waits for judgement. Looks down only to not see your face, and that turns against him too.

Between the legs he sways heavy, standing up from himself with more confidence than his mind owns. He has disliked his size before because it made him clumsy, conspicuous and wrong for rooms, so he's made it useful in labour and steel. When he finally harbours the courage to find your eyes, you're wearing the most bizarre expression. All soft-edged and melting with wonder, you are looking as though excess is the blessing.

Your teeth reveal themselves in a sweet, beaming smile, and your hands come out to wrap round his wrists. You pull him back down, and he barely gets his knees under him before you are on him again, kissing, touching, arranging by instinct and no wisdom. So he has to become useful in a new kind of way.

Where friction lived there is now a slide of skin on skin, and Duncan nearly loses the whole of himself to the difference. Your belly moves against him, your breasts flatten to his chest and drag there. Between you, his cock is trapped upright in the soft of both your stomachs, rubbed by every wriggle you make by accident and purpose in turns, and every rub comes barbed. You are kissing him eagerly, messily, trying to find some road forward by moving, by grinding. He can feel how quickly this will become end. You will pant and twist and grow no nearer to what you asked for, while he spends himself like a green fool against your belly and leaves you with his shame cooling on you.

“Sweet thing, please—” he grits, catching your hips. “Slow. Let me be of use to you. I’m… I’m big, and—”

You still for him, though your breath keeps coming hard. Those aspectabund eyes fasten on his face, obvious enough to make hiding useless. “Will you hurt me?” you ask.

“No,” Duncan says, hurt by the very shape of the question. “No, never. I only mean—we go slow. Aye? Slow.”

Your face calms as if he has laid a hand over troubled water, and the trust of it harms him in some deep place. To have someone look at him and believe him so easily. To be taken as a safe thing by a creature who had teeth enough to open throats and the foolish courage to turn a dagger on herself rather than on him. He presses his forehead to yours and breathes there, rough through the nose. “Lift for me?” he asks. “Only a little.”

You brace your hands on his arms and rise. Duncan looks down to guide himself and is bludgeoned by what he finds there. Slick has slipped down your inner thigh in a shining track, catching the dark like some private river. He groans and closes a fist round the base of himself with more force than required and steadies there, feeling the whole of him jump in his hand.

“Do you want me?” he asks into your mouth, legible with the need to hear it. You nod, but that is not enough when his heart has become a greedy thing too. "Tell me," Duncan says. “Please, tell me.”

“Yes,” you say. Your mouth goes wandering over him. “Yes, I do. I want you in me.” Your hips sink once, eager but aimless. “Take me.”

A fierce, impossible belonging spreads through him. He aligns himself and slips twice for the jerking blood in him. You make a small impatient sound and he near smiles despite the terror. Then he gets it right enough for the first touch.

Only the head of him drags through you. A kiss of a different kind. His cock has known linen, callus, mean hurried pressure, and now this unbelievably soft, hot, living mouth of the body. He rubs through it, barely, and his hips lock with the effort of keeping still. Again, slower, collecting what both of you have made, spreading it over himself until the slide turns slick. The intimacy of it is nearly worse than being taken inside would be. This staying at the gate. This being allowed to touch the edge of you and feel you open by a fraction under him. This kiss below kissing, where neither mouth speaks and both bodies answer anyway.

Then it is you who grows greedy. Your weight comes down, and Duncan recognises the change before he can speak to it. He becomes held where he has only been sliding, then feels the first giving inch. Your face breaks into a wince, then a gasp, so he reaches round you hard enough to stop both of you where you are.

"Easy," he says. "Sweetheart, easy."

The tightness has him by the root. All the soft has turned gripping and small on him, shocking his spine so quickly he has to shut his eyes for a moment. Yours are wide and scared in front of him, and the pleasure becomes a rotten thing with guilt in it.

"Why does it hurt?" you ask, voice thin. "You said—"

"I know," Duncan says. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He presses one hand flat between your shoulders and holds you while his cock throbs like a wound. "Shh. Breathe with me. Breathe—"

You stare at him, doubtful and pained, but try. He draws breath in through his nose, slow enough to make an example of it, then lets it out against your cheek. You follow poorly at first, catching on the inhale, shuddering on the release. He keeps you still with both arms, though the stillness near murders him.

There is some mercy in it too. The worst of the first push hangs there between your bodies, neither taking nor retreating, and Duncan’s mind runs through every filthy scrap of knowledge folk have ever thrown into the air near him. It should ease. It should get good. Use spit. Women like this or that. Noise from those who made knowing sound like conquest and left him with nothing useful but the fear of damaging you.

“We can stop,” he says. “We can stop here, m’lady. I’ll not—”

Before he can make a noble mess of rising you away from himself, your breath changes.

Only a little. The next exhale leaves lower in your chest. Your hips soften by a measure, and the flesh around him gives its small, unwilling quarrel with his size. You notice it too. He sees the fright shift in your eyes and your body listening under the hurt, finding some other report beneath it. You breathe again, this time because you want the breath, and your fingers come to his shoulders.

“There,” he says, relieved. “Good, gods. Just so.”

Your brow stays pinched, but your mouth parts around a sound that has less grievance in it. Duncan does not move. He only holds you, forehead set to yours, the whole of him turned toward patience. Another breath. Another. Under him, inside you, the grip changes by degrees. Less like refusal. More like a fist slowly learning how to open without letting go.

“Oh,” you say, very quietly. It makes him put his teeth together.

“Aye?” he asks, and hates how much hope gets into it.

You nod once. Small. Fierce.

So he keeps holding. He has never been so deep in anything. He is barely in you at all, and already there is that terrible gladness in his sack, akin to one that comes when his cock starts threatening a scrape too raw. He does his best to throttle it, for despite you saying you wish to see him, he's convinced he wishes to see you harder.

You sink on him, stubborn-faced and quiet. Duncan feels each small victory in his muscles, while his mind remains oblivious to the thaumaturgy allowing it. Your brow is set hard at first, then anger at the pain cuts across it because ache has got between you and the thing you want. After, comes the stern listening. You go still around him, eyes lowered, as if this new flesh has answered in some difficult tongue and you mean to learn it properly. He lets you use him as you need, though the need itself is killing work. More of him goes into you. Inch by inch, all of them so alive and close his own breath begins to come wrong.

“Gods,” you say, and then, with a sort of insulted wonder, “You are large.”

Duncan goes hot to the roots of his hair. “I know,” he says, because there is no use pretending otherwise. Worried, he asks, “Does it trouble you?”

You huff through your nose and consider him, sitting there skewered on the question and on him both. “No.” Your hand comes up to his neck, fingers digging briefly as you deepen another little way. “I like that you are an effort.”

A sound gets out of him, small and strangled. He sets one palm to your cheek because he needs somewhere decent to put it and because your face has become dearer to him than life.

“It feels full,” you say. His cock gives a hard throb. “I can feel you—" You take his hand and guide it low to your underbelly.

There he is. Invasive and indeed, large enough to make himself known from the outside. It is foully private. Wonderful. So much so that Duncan whines, “Seven save me,” and hides in your throat.

You are on him, completely, and he stays frozen, stunned stupid by it. Your voice finds him, hushed. "What do I do?"

He near laughs. An odd sense of camaraderie spreads in him because, gods, he knows naught. He never thought getting this far possible at all. "I—" He swallows. Looks at you. "I dunno." Then, helplessly honest, “Whatever feels right.”

Your mouth curves. He knows then that he is in peril.

Flesh squeezes around him fiercely, and as if it is not humbling enough you tease, “This?"

The groan comes out of him as though struck from the gut. “Hah—oh, Seven, this—this feels right, aye.” He pants, staring at you as if you have found a latch in him and pulled it open. “Do that again.”

You do, smaller this time, watching his face as you learn him. Dunk puts his hands to your ribs and awaits another ripple when he remembers he's needed here too. “What… what do I do?” he asks lamely.

The pain has gone from your eyes. For a moment you merely observe him, sat, and he's struck by your beauty in it. Oh gods, he's managed this. Brought you through unease into this quiet wanting. Somehow, by some mercy, he is the man under you.

Then, you tell him: “Whatever you want.”

And for once, Duncan finds some selfish wickedness in himself.

He bows his head to your chest. Breathes out quietly, "This?" and before you can answer, his mouth closes over your nipple.

“Oh—” you moan. Loud. Arch some too, seven fucks. Gods, you arch for him, spine bending as you offer more of your tits. Your arms go behind you, hands brace on his knees. He takes the weight gladly, the shift round his cock graciously, because when your hips roll by accident or discovery the movement carries all the way down and wrings him near inside-out.

Duncan groans into your breast and sets his tongue to work. You grind on him in short, close strokes, hardly lifting, making a mill of your hips and his cock. Whole of him sits inside rubbed alive, worked into small cruel space until his thoughts blunt at the edges. He keeps his mouth on you, because he wants it, and because it gives him a task. In a useful order of things he sucks, breathes, then sucks again. Your nipple hardens under his tongue and he takes it in deeper, hollows his cheeks into a jaw that starts aching sweetly. His hands ride up your back to where spine bends for him. Skin wrinkles there under his fingers and he holds that kink, trying to retain exactly the places where pleasure seems to fold you.

This, he thinks, dazedly, must be being fucked. Men call it fucking. Men call everything fucking when there is ale in them and a chance of dying soon. They talk as if women are tavern benches with cunts, as if the doing is a matter of putting a thing where it goes and rutting till pride spills out. He has heard enough to last a lifetime. Women taking a cock to the root without a sound, as though maids are all built like sheaths and men all swords worth taking. Some girl against a stable door. Some widow with her skirts up in a ditch. Some camp follower who took three men and begged the fourth. A thousand lies told by mouths with grease in the beards.

This bears no kin to those stories. You are whispering his name as if it is helping you take him, and it rolls lovely off your tongue. You are trying to make yourself come on him, and Duncan has his mouth full of your tit, working at it with fixed devotion of someone given one good thing to do and determined to do it well. That, to him, seems closer to the truth. This awkward holy labour. This sweating. This being used sweetly and trusted through it. This is lovemaking, right here, with wanting you vivid under his hands more than he wants his own ending.

Your rhythm finds itself crookedly. Then loses itself. Then finds another way. Duncan follows what he can. Pants though his nose. Groans when you bear down. Grows bold enough once to nip you with his teeth, and you seem to adore it down to your tightening cunt. So he does it again, softer, and your body grows snugger, wetter, meaner around his cock. When he licks over it, you exhale the strangest little oh.

“Gods,” he mutters into you. “Gods, girl.”

The change starts plain. It's less orderly. Your body has its mind elsewhere now, and that mind has no use for manners. The strokes go crooked, breath starts jumping. The hands on his knees dig in until he feels the half-moons of your nails and hopes they stay. Pain would be proof come morning. A mark of where he was when you needed somewhere to put your strength.

Then you push off his legs and catch his head between your arms.

Duncan leaves your breast with a wet sound and lifts as far as you allow. Your forearms yoke him close. His nose fits beside yours almost by habit now. Your eyes are dark and open and half-wild.

“Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me—”

“I love you,” Duncan bursts, with no search needed for the answer. “Gods, I love you. I love you. I love you—”

Your mouth trembles near his. “I love you,” you say. “You’re mine and I love you. I was right about you, oh gods, I was right—”

In all your mumbling, you ride him hard enough that he feels the signal in it. More. Deeper. More room, more of him given up to you. His hands go to your arse and grip there, sudden and rude enough to make his ears burn, but you give a sharp glad sound and bear down again. That decides him. He braces, lifts you with him a little, and unfolds his knees from under himself. The shift wrenches both of you. He falls back flat with a grunt, side burning, cock dragged deeper by your weight.

The sky opens above him, black and moonless. And you.

That is all there is for a breath. You astride him, hair loose, thighs going badly and beautifully, hands on his chest as if he is ground and beast and lover together. Duncan catches your hips, then lets them go because you seem to know more when he does less. You lean down to kiss him and your face breaks in the middle of it. He feels it seize you.

Your hands find his cheeks. Nose knocks beside him. Your muscles grip him so hard his vision blanches, and then you are coming with his name caught in your teeth and love spilling out in pieces. I love you Duncan, I love you, and he just grips your shoulders and holds on, holds on and on, because if he moves wrong he will lose everything at once. The luck of being the thing inside you when it happens is unbearable.

“My girl,” he gets out. “My girl, my—”

Then, he's ripped in half. It starts low and pulls everything with it: thighs, sack, belly, chest, throat. It frightens him how good it is. How deep it seems to go from him. He has spilled before with his face hot from shame and hand slick round himself, but this is nothing like those past miseries. He's being drawn out and kept. He fills you in hard pulses and lets his body believe it has come home, foolish as that is, dangerous as that is, true as anything he has ever known. Lucky, he thinks, with what little mind remains. Lucky, lucky, lucky. To be wanted. To be held there. To spend in a creature who loves him and says so.

He keeps saying, "My girl, gods, my girl," because there is nothing else in him.

You take each spill with a gasp, and then a smile begins to sprout on your face. You're smiling while he's being torn asunder.

After, the world grows smaller. Deafer, as if great hands have closed over its ears. Duncan hears himself muttering things into the little space between you, broken stammers and poor scraps of prayer and slur. Gods, and Seven, and yes, still, still, as if he is trying to tell you you have done well and make certain he has done well too. You sag on him. Your arms wedge themselves beneath his neck, baring his throat, and your mouth comes there. It is hardly a kiss. More the arrival of a mouth too tired and too fond to do more than rest.

He turns to the side with you wrapped round him. You squeal some, as though you have forgotten his strength, or forgotten that he has been pliant beneath you because you asked him to be.

Something enormous has been done to him. Duncan comes out the other side of it a full man, and thinks, dimly, that full men do not brag about this sort of thing.

Then he notices you are trembling differently. When his cock shifts inside you, bathed in himself, he feels the scrape of soreness against it. It sobers him at once.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me—”

He holds you close and draws back with as much care as he has left. Your body resists round him, tight and displeased, then gives him up with a low, unhappy sound that makes his stomach pull. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

He looks down and sees the oddest medley of the body’s humours. Milk tainted red, gone pink where it oozes out of you. His cock smeared along the length with blood and spent. It all sobers him tenderly.

“Let me see,” Duncan says, and dips between your legs as if there is something his hands may yet fix.

He knows it is virgin blood. Something old and primal flickers in him, a brief possessive pride at being the proof of your first, and then it dies under the weight of your hands finding his cheeks. You guide him back up to your face, and he goes.

On the way, he thinks how unjust it is that women must bleed so boys can grow into men.

Then he sees your worry. At first he's certain it is pain troubling you, but your eyes move from his face to his groin and back again. “Have I damaged you?” you ask, with honest dread.

It hits him then that you understand as little as he does. Mayhaps less. You have done some violent inland magic with a body you barely know and come away afraid you have broken him by it.

“No, m’lady,” he breathes. “I ain’t so easily damaged.” Then he winces, because his side pulls when his arms try to hold you, and he ruins his case entirely.

You laugh, damp and small, and begin to fuss over him. “Oh, my sweet,” you murmur, touching his face, his shoulder, the binding. “Oh, my love.”

Duncan fusses back, trying to look you over while you try to look him over, until it becomes a strange little quarrel of hands and fret, each of you meaning to tend the other first.

When it's over, when wet cloth has been found and put to swollen parts, when hair has been brushed off slick foreheads and knuckles have been kissed, Duncan pulls you to him, cages you in him, and breathes so deep it feels like a first honest breath of his life. "I love you," he says to your temple. "Thank you. Thank you, my love."

You say it back. I love you into his throat. I love you against his jaw, and then I love you put to his cheek and preserved there. He keeps kissing you until his mouth goes tired and then his eyes grow heavy and then Duncan falls asleep with his beloved safe next to his heart and blades thrown away to lie useless in the grass.

Cold moves down your skin correctly. Your lungs feel heavy and full and familiar. When you open your eyes, the vision comes warped and magnified, and at once you understand you're floating in water.

It is hard at first to assess anything. You remember him under you. You remember his mouth, his hands, his flesh, warm and abundant, splitting you and filling you until body has torn itself to pleasure and blood.

But when you look at yourself, there are no legs he's ventured between. You're made whole again, with your old grace returned which feels like theft, somehow. Your tail glimmers in morning sunlight. Hands, panicked, come to your sides to find skin sliced back into gills and the palms themselves are scaled and fingers connected with thin, translucent webbing.

She tricked you. She gave you a quest and a man and told you all about what would happen if you failed, and naught of what comes of success. Now, you've regained yourself right after making peace with feeble knees, so it feels more like a loss. When you break the surface another loss lies still where you've left him, large and sleeping and oblivious.

Duncan looks peaceful. He's on his side on the bedroll, breathing calmly and his arms are thrown around a space where a body is missing. It seems that some lessons of humanity remain, for tears push themselves violent and hot into your eyes. They add to the river, salt into sweet water, and you're crying audibly, sobbing and hiccuping, because it all comes down on you, unkind and sad and miserable. He's right there and you cannot touch him. He's right there and you cannot hold him, because once again you've been made to belong somewhere where he doesn't.

"Duncan!" you call. It comes less as a call for him than a wail after something already lost.

He wakes badly. Jerks in the bedroll, one hand to the empty place under his arm. He looks there first, sleep-stupid and stricken, at the flattened hollow where your body ought to be.

Only then does his head turn. You see the first thing his face does: smile.

That wounds worse than anything. He cannot see you properly yet. He is still thick with slumber, hair mussed and mouth soft, looking at you as if this is only another of your oddities. Bathing at dawn. Calling for him from water. Waiting for him to come.

He rises slowly, muttering something you cannot hear. Finds his breeches. Pulls them on with one hand braced to his side, half awake and half fond, and comes barefoot over the bank with grass stuck to his soles.

The waiting lacerates. You are submerged to the waist, though waist is no honest word for you now. Beneath the surface the tail hangs in one long weight, scales catching and throwing the sun in broken pieces. You keep as still as you can, as if stillness might delay his seeing. It does not, of course.

His steps slow. Then stop. The colour drains from his face.

“M’lady—” he says, and the word fails. A breath goes into him sharply. He comes down to crouch at the bank, staring as if the world has put a second world inside it while he slept. “What has happened?”

“She tricked me,” you say, and once you begin the words come in scraps. “Wicked thing, wicked old thing, may she choke on peat and fishbones, may her teeth fall out, may the bog take her house and all her foul eggs—she tricked me, Duncan, she tricked me—”

You curse until the anger frays and leaves fear showing through, all the while he is staring.

It dawns on you then. He must be frightened. Repulsed. Cheated. A night ago he had a girl with legs, a girl who could sit astride him and bleed and laugh and walk badly into his hands. Now there is this creature before him, river-made and scaled, and made of different cloth from him.

You break into sobbing. Hide your face in your hands. “Forgive me,” you say. “Forgive me, I did not know. I did not know— I would never have, if I—”

“Gods be good,” Duncan breathes. His voice makes you freeze.

You lower your hands by a little. His eyes are wet. His mouth is parted. There is no disgust in him that you can find, only shock, and awe so plain it seems almost childish.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” he says.

A sob gets trapped in your throat. Mistrustful. “You said the same of the other body.”

“Aye,” he says.

“You needn’t make mercy of it.”

Realisation moves over his face. That you think this is the loss of him. That you think your shape has become a problem to solve or pardon. He softens entirely. “My sweet girl,” he says. “It is all true.”

Your tail twitches. His eyes go to it and you hate yourself for that too, for still wanting him to see and still wanting to hide from the seeing.

“Wilful girl,” he says under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart. Believe me. Please, believe me.”

Then, he steps into the water without bargaining or careful testing of whether the magic might stain him. Only comes, with his legs wide for balance, slipping once on the shallow stones, hissing when the cold gets him, and still coming. Water darkens his breeches and climbs his thighs. The bandage at his side drinks at once and is ruined, but he pays it no mind. His eyes stay fixed on you. Awed, devoted, and so full of purpose there is no spare room in his face for doubt.

His arms come for you. At first the holding is awkward. Your body is heavy in a different way now, long and slick with no knees to bend around him. His hand finds where your waist remains and the other comes to your cheek. He adjusts when you move toward him. Learns the weight of you without complaint, frowning only with the effort of keeping you close.

“It matters naught,” he tells you. “It matters not at all, my sweetheart.”

“How will we be?” you ask, disbelieving.

Duncan looks at you as if the question is large but the answer is simple. “I’m a hedge knight,” he says. “It is no great hardship to sleep under the stars. Rivers, then. Streams and lakes and ditches, if I must. I’ll find you.”

“Will you?”

“Aye,” he says. “Always.”

It strikes you that he offers no solution because he needs none. He does not speak of witches or bargains, of throttling the crone into giving the legs back, of fixing what has been returned to you. You cannot tell if he is so kind or simply stupid. Mayhaps both.

“I have no legs,” you insist.

Duncan laughs softly. “Aye, I see that.” You glare at him through tears, so his face comes close to yours. “You’ve a heart I adore, though,” he says. Softer, with the shyest wickedness tucked beneath it, “And you still have a mouth.”

He kisses you once. Small and careful. Then murmurs against you, “No matter the rest, this is where the nose goes. Always.”

And he shows you: his nose finds the side of yours. His mouth follows. The kiss is shy first, then surer when you clutch at him and kiss back. Around you, the river carries morning light over the lovers.

It is an old tale. A girl loves a boy, and a boy loves a girl. Big things, ancient things come between them, but youth pays no mind to the impossibility of worlds colliding. It regards naught the steel of propriety or the dull blades of daggers hungry for souls. With fear dressed as arrogance, youth traverses bridges invisible to the faithless, and so the mermaid falls for a hedge knight, and the hedge knight falls for her back.

[knightofcassiopeia]

Hi! I saw your post about angst and was wondering if you could write something about a reader that sees Dunk kiss Rohanne, is absolutely heartbroken, and tries to leave think she’ll never be good enough for him? Love the way you write hurt/comfort!

Broken Down And Hungry (For Your Love)

synopsis; after parting from the grasp of the red widow, dunk must face the risk of losing you. genre; angst (hurt/comfort) pairing; ser duncan the tall/traveling companion!reader warnings; drama drama drama a/n; clock how i'm always apologizing for taking so long to complete a fic...i'm sorry. i need to manage my time better. anyways, last fic for the week because i need to recharge and work on more requests. PLEEEASE enjoy!

word count; 1.8k

Sleep eluded those who knew when peace had been disrupted.

Dunk awoke to rustling. Not the sort of someone tossing and turning throughout the night, nor did it sound like a thief going through the packs strapped to the horses. He was hazily aware of the presence of Egg at his side, seeking to share warmth despite always having you to curl into. It's what made his head turn.

Through the slow drag of his thoughts, Dunk noticed your absence immediately. A sickening panic rushed into his head, seizing his body and making him jolt violently.

He nearly stumbled as he stood and picked up his sword. You were nowhere to be seen. The fire still crackled; the wind still howled below the stars as if calling your name. You were always there, solid as the beat of his heart.

Yet at this very moment, you were nowhere in sight, and it was wrong.

He stalked to the horses, drawing his sword and dropping the scabbard, ready to fight off the one who disturbed the peace and had taken you. His head was in the clouds, for he was sure that was the only explanation for your absence.

“Who goes there?” He demanded, rounding Thunder with pounding steps. “Move slow, or—"

Dunk stopped, the order dying in his throat at the sight of you tightening a leather strap around your hips. Relief flooded momentarily, yet confusion flushed him entirely.

Stunned, he uttered your name, softer than his declaration before. Then came the question that haunted your mornings and nights. “What—what’re you doing? It’s late.”

You kept to yourself, moving with a reckless grace that had him completely entranced. No matter what you did, he always found himself taken by you. Your hardened gaze, your trembling body—Gods, you trembled all over when you got upset.

Dunk forced the thought out of his head. He called to you again, hoping to coax an answer. Whatever it was, he needed to know. Needed to help.

“I was a fool to stay this long.” The shakiness in your voice was undeniable. “I was a fool to…to grovel at your feet.”

It left a bitter taste in your mouth to say such a thing to him. What worth did you have? What could you ever offer when you were nothing more than a traveling companion, strolling along only by an ache in your heart for a man so blind and yet so deserving of more?

You were nothing.

“What?” He croaked, and again, the devastating beauty of your name uttered past his lips. His head was thickened by sleep, leaving him with too many questions and not a moment's mercy of answers. “What is going on?”

You hissed, irritated by his confusion. How could he be so lost? “I must leave.”

“Have I done something?” Dunk stepped closer, his grip loosening on his long sword. “Who’s upset you? Talk to me. I’ll handle it."

“Is it not exhausting?” You snapped, finally looking at him in a blurred gaze. The words that slipped from your mouth felt like a blade slicing out from your stomach, ripping through the skin until there was only the bitter smell of jealousy seeping out. “Always playing the fool, Duncan. Always being so noble when you’re nothing more than a man born of mud?”

For that, the hedge knight had nothing to say. In his silence, your heart ached.

“I saw you,” you confessed, and to your embarrassment, your tears began to paint your skin. “I saw you in the stables. Or will you deny that, too?”

"The stables?" He echoed, his brows furrowing at the memory. The pain was dull by now, and the touch of the Red Widow had long faded. Dunk then swallowed, a chill creeping up his spine. He remembered it clear as day, much to his regret, and he knew there was no comfort he could give in his defense that would ease your pain.

You were in pain. He’d hurt you, and he never meant to. He never wanted to, never thought he was capable despite his thick skull and made poor choices—but even in his caution, he was merely human.

“Say something!” You nearly shouted, your arms moving quicker than your rationality. Dunk flinched as your leather bag came hurling at him, striking him in the chest and falling to the grass with a pathetic thump.

"You thick-headed fool," you cursed, your body desperate to go over and punish him. Strike him, kiss him, make him see the torment that had taken over you. "How was it...? Was there not a dance between you and I?"

“I cannot deny it,” he whispered, hands itching to pick up your bag, to give it back—to reach for you, pull you close. “Is that what you wish to hear?”

“Say you love her,” you blurted out. “Say you wanted her. Say you desired her.”

“It would be a lie.”

“Which of it?”

“All of it,” he ground out, finding himself more tense the longer this went on. “I was—“

“Merely kissing a woman who cared little for you? Giving yourself a proper send off?”

“It was a mistake.”

“You had quite the grip on her braid,” your harsh words stung you deeper the further you pushed. “Where is it now?”

“It was a mistake.”

“That seems to be what you do best!”

Dunk moved along like the force of a swinging hammer. He stalked over, nearly colliding into you had you not moved in time. Opening one of the smaller packs on Thunder, he pulled out the Red Widow's braid and closed the leather flap with brute force. He walked past you, carrying her braid to the fire, and throwing the twisted piece into the flame.

A rush of fresh tears threatened to soak more of your face as the heavy scent of burning hair filled your senses. The braid he’d so furiously claimed, the woman he longed to remember by her fiery spirit—he’d cast her aside.

“It changes nothing,” you forced out, speaking as if it were a curse. “What’s been done—“

“I thought of you,” he hissed, the rumble deep in frustration and shame. “I grabbed her, and all I could think of was you.”

Dunk turned back, finding you frozen at Thunder's side. Your rage had fizzled, leaving a quiet resentment and shock that paralyzed even your mouth. It made his own anger burn brighter because you should've been furious. You needed to be, for he didn't deserve anything more.

His hands curled into fists, and he looked back at the fire.

“Aye, I kissed her in the stables,” he muttered. “I liked the thought of her. She was pretty, and…she showed her interest…”

He heard you move. The rustle between your skirt and the grass was the price for his admittance.

Dunk closed his eyes, fighting the heat that spread over his skin. He sounded heartsick, “but I didn’t want her. I certainly didn’t love her.”

When he looked past his shoulder once more, he found you with your bag across your chest.

"She asked me to stay," he continued, and in no attempt to think twice, he slowly came back to you. "She offered me a position. She wished to give me her finest horse..."

Dunk sounded as if he would collapse onto his knees. He reached out, needing to hold you, but his hands shook too much. His voice wavered, "I wanted none of it. I couldn't...I refused to consider. I belong out on the road, training the boy and—and being with you. Can't you see any truth in that?"

Before his fingertips grazed your face, you turned your head. You refused to look at him, refused to fall captive to his wide-eyed stare and clumsy words, no matter how much it tore at your heart.

"I won't make excuses," he vowed quietly with a hesitant hand that brushed your hair back behind your ear by the tips of his fingers. "I did a wicked thing. I tried to put it behind me, I..."

He couldn't finish when you took the chance to meet his gaze. You and he stood so close now, and lately, self-control hadn't been his strongest trait. His hand lingered at your cheek, not quite touching, but the warmth that radiated from his hand was enough.

Only the stars knew who leaned in first. Dunk was weak against you, his body moving by your command as you took his face into your grasp. He staggered down, his lips crashing into yours with bruising force. Your charge was aggressive; your lips moved like you wished to pour all your hurt onto him.

And Dunk, being the fool he was, would desperately take it.

He braced himself for you to break first, to be helpless against your will and the distance you wanted to build. If you left, there was nothing he could do. Dunk wouldn't allow himself to make you stay because staying by his side wasn't always the safest choice. It wasn't the easiest, and it certainly would never be the smartest.

You broke away, your soft breath ghosting his lips as you filled your lungs. Dunk found himself stuck, unable to straighten his posture or let you go. His arms were around your body, holding onto you in quiet hope that you wouldn't demand release.

The world around you was too still. His thoughts were melting into one, and his mouth moved before he was even prepared.

“I cannot make you stay,” he whispered, gaze shifting down as the tip of his nose brushed against yours. “But I ask…I plead to you, don’t go. Please don't go."

A tear fell onto your cheek, and it hadn't been yours.

Dunk pulled back from the heat, his head turning to hide himself sooner than you could blink. The loss of an arm around you was replaced by something colder, and you watched him wipe at his eyes to rid himself of the tears that refused to be bound.

You reached out, prompting him to stop touching his other side and turn to face you. He didn’t move, didn’t push or reject. Dunk simply obeyed, his tired, wet eyes meeting yours in the dark.

Don't go, he wanted to say again, yet his throat felt too tight. Don't leave me where I'll only ever see you in dreams.

"And if another comes along, Duncan?" You dared to ask.

"I promise you," he vowed, the words sputtering out, "Only you. Gods, only you..."

Dunk captured your lips again and again, kissing you until sunk into him completely. He was messier—softer all at once to prove his devotion.

"Duncan," you tried to say, only for him to swallow your sounds and the taste your tears. You spoke his name as though it were a prayer, and maybe for tonight, it was.

He wanted no one but you, and under the crescent moon, you came to believe him.

[pearl-nouveau]

truth or dare (modern au)

“Truth.”

Daeron let out a groan and a massive eyeroll at his tall friend’s answer.

“Of course you would choose truth, you’re absolutely no fun.” He complained, Duncan couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed, not with the weight of your hand draped on his thigh in support. Fingers squeezed gently around the muscles. He always felt your touch, no matter how small.

“Or he just has dignity,” you defended in addition to the physical affirmation. “And he’s a good boy, he’s got no secrets.”

“But you do,” Daeron’s eyes lit up with realization, his lips twitching mischievously. “Tell me, honorable Duncan, what does she sound like in bed?”

“Hey!” you exclaimed, halfway exhaling a laugh with it, knowing the type of line-toeing banter that Daeron usually liked to engage with while drunk.

Duncan, beside you, didn’t seem so amused. He didn’t laugh, he merely stared daggers at the offending mouth. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low. Daeron got the message and muttered out an awkward apology to you. “Besides, that’s about her, not me. Doesn’t count.”

“Okay then….” Daeron continued to think, eyebrows scrunched in tipsy concentration. He snapped. “Ah. How about, what’s the thing you’re the worst at in bed? I want to know where a stature such as yours fails.”

Duncan blushed, looking at you. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say — it was that he feared dishonoring you by describing it. But your eyes just looked back at him in pure amusement and anticipation, nodded for him to go on. Still, his mouth opened and closed awkwardly, unable to spit out the truth.

“I’ve no idea what you’ll say, because I haven’t any problems to report,” you giggled in encouragement. That, and looking at your face, the perfect face he had the good grace to wake up next to most mornings, emboldened him to speak.

“I finish too quickly,” he blurted out. “I can’t help it, I love her so much, every time I put it in… Even just the tip, it’s enough to make me cum… Like I’m a virgin every time.” Dunk’s voice faltered at the end, even with your warmth still against his skin.

Daeron let out a low whistle. “That’s…. disappointingly romantic. Honestly I thought you’d say that you have a secret micropenis.”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” you piped in. Duncan flushed something fierce as Daeron laughed and laughed, but soon enough the drunkard stumbled off to the bathroom and your boyfriend finally had you alone. Dunk pulled you into his lap, sighing in relief at the familiar proximity. His hands ran up and down your body, reintroducing himself. The way he gazed at you, you’d think it was the first time you two were in this position.

“I just can’t help it,” he echoed his words from earlier, with more earnestly this time. He was always his most honest self when he talked to you, no truth or dare necessary. “Every time is like the first time, because every day I’m more in love with you than the day before.”

You leaned into his chest and he felt you laughing. For a moment he felt like perhaps he’d said something stupid. But when you gathered yourself and met his eye again, he could see tears forming under your lids. Happy tears.

“How’d I get so lucky to stumble across you?” you asked, leaning in for a kiss. He hummed against your lips, smiling into you.

“Dunno,” he answered breathily, “but please keep me around, I’ll never get off again without you.” He was already hard under you, already eager to buck into your steady weight on his lap. You indulged him, rocking slightly. Duncan moaned. He was right, really. It was far too easy for you to get him going.

“I’d be an idiot to let you go.” you whispered, enclosing him once more in a kiss.

a/n: silly late nite fun i came up with in the car before meeting my friends for backrooms idk

[entitled-fangirl]

Meek.

Cregan Stark x Baratheon!reader

Summary: Cregan is determined to be a different man for his betrothed than the men in her family.

Warnings: poor treatment of women, sexism, cursing, talks of sex, making out

A/N: Based on TWO asks!!!! Also--- not proofread😯

Masterlist

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Everyone knew the absolute torment that house Baratheon put their women through.

They were cruel to them, not caring for anything but their own pleasure. That was well known.

When Cregan was betrothed to Lord Baratheon's second eldest daughter, he wondered how she'd fair under the Northern weather.

Lord Baratheon didn't even bother to see her go, sending her off to the Wolf with just her handmaidens and guards to see her safe to Winterfell.

Cregan stood at the doors, his shoulders back in a display of northern pride. He was beyond grateful to rid the sweet woman from the ungrateful Baratheons.

The moment her horse stepped through the gate, his people were attentive to her, taking her belongings and beginning to carry them into the castle.

She watched them with widened eyes, confused by their kindness. Cregan quickly stepped down the stairs to her, "Welcome, my lady."

Her head snapped to him and looked down at him from her horse. She said nothing in fear of saying the wrong thing.

He reached up and gently pulled the reigns from her hands. The leather slid from her grasp slowly. She dared not to intervene. 

Once he had the reigns in his hand, he pulled on them, walking the horse further into the yard and closer to Winterfell.

She merely let him as she held to the saddle. 

Cregan felt a small smile grow on his face. She was a curious thing. It was too bad she wouldn't voice her thoughts. 

As he looked up at her, he decided then to change that. He would get her to open up one day.

He tied the reigns off and held out his hand to her. "Let me help you." She reminded him of a skittish doe, ready to run at any sign of danger.

Her shaky hand reached out, and she swung her leg over the horse. She stared at him expectantly.

He let go and grabbed her waist, holding her as he slid her down the horse's side and placed her on the ground.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," her soft voice finally spoke.

He swore he'd never heard anything sweeter.

How the Baratheons could bare to mistreat her, he'll never know.

…

He told the North that he was in no way going to rush the marriage. So she stayed in the Winterfell walls unwed so he could understand her more before becoming one.

He felt like he owed her that. 

She deserved to be known. 

She had become a little more comfortable around him, beginning to slowly speak to him about only the things that were essential to say aloud.

The two walked the grounds together, a routine they had developed over time. 

"I wish you'd speak about things that don't matter," he finally mentioned. He peeked over to her to see her reaction.

Her brows furrowed as she stared in front of her, "I don't understand."

"I didn't mean it in that sense I suppose." He reached up with his free to stroke the hair on his chin in thought of what to say. "I want to know the things that you worry I'll find unimportant. Does that make sense?"

She hesitantly shook her head.

He sighed softly at how to correct his words. Finally, he shrugged. "I want to know you."

"You do," she countered quietly. 

"I don't," he smiles as he brushed hair behind her ear, "but I'd like to."

She sucked in a sharp breath at his touch to her face. The men in her family were far from this gentle. "I assure you there is nothing of interest to me."

"There is, I'm sure. I'll find it."

She nodded, "Whatever you wish, my lord." She began to walk again.

He pulled her back, "Not so quickly." He reached down and pulled both of her hands into his. "Don't say what you wish me to hear. Say what you are thinking."

"Why would I do that?" She asked innocently. 

He cursed under his breath but didn't let her see the way his jaw clenched. "It matters to me. Your thoughts, I mean."

She stared at their intertwined hands, "Even the unpleasant ones?"

"Especially the unpleasant ones."

It was a strange concept for her, but she nodded as her brain began to truly consider what he was asking for. 

He smiled in relief, still holding one hand and beginning to walk again. "Let us start with simple matters. Perhaps… your favorite novel?"

Her head snapped to him, "I don't… I…"

His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, "I know you have one. I've seen the way book pages soak you in like water."

The question had been a sensitive one. She shrugged in a fake nonchalant fashion and kept walking, "I don't have one."

He hummed lowly, a small warning. "Don't lie. Just say what it is."

"I… I don't remember the name of it," she finally admitted. 

He accepted that answer. "I see. What was it about?"

Her big eyes looked up at him, debating what to say. "It was… a fiction."

He smiled, "I see. There can be enjoyment in fictional novels, can't there?" He waited to say what else she would say. Each new piece of herself she revealed to him, he treasured like a precious stone.

"Well… it is the only one I've read, I'm afraid," she smiled weakly, eager to change the subject.

"The only?" He asked in pure shock. "The only one?"

She nodded, keeping in a certain side of herself. "It was left behind. Father has it."

"Ah," he said finally. 

…

That evening, he wrote to Lord Baratheon, urging him to send her favorite book. He was straight to the point, telling the man he could send the novel to earn Stark's forgiveness for avoiding the wedding.

…

A few weeks later, a letter arrived addressed to Lord Stark. He almost ripped it out of the maester's hand in concern when he saw the Baratheon sigil in the wax. It was a thick roll, only making his concern spike.

He pulled it open, revealing a few pages that fell from his hand. 

Book pages.

Ripped book pages. 

He picked up one with a shaking hand. He began to see red as he looked back up at the maester. "What is the meaning of this?"

The maester held out his hand, "Allow me to read this for you, my lord."

Cregan handed the letter to him as he began to gather the few book pages that were sent to him.

The maester's face turned white. "He dares to disrespect you."

"Do not tell me these are what I believe them to be," he growled lowly.

"I'm afraid they are."

Cregan's hand slammed the papers onto the desk in pure rage and stormed out of the room.

…

Cregan swung his sword with a fury. His sparring partner could hardly keep up, but he knew his Lord just needed to get out his anger.

His partner was grateful when Cregan's betrothed interrupted them.

"Cregan?"

Cregan faltered, freezing in place and turning his head to her. "Yes?" He asked with a surprisingly soft voice.

She wrung her hands nervously. "I… Forgive me. I shouldn't have interrupted."

He stood up tall, handing his sword off to his partner and waving him off. "No. Please. Tell me what you need."

She hummed and let out a deep breath. "I've been thinking."

He nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Aye…"

"I'm ready to marry you."

He sucked in a sharp breath. "What?"

"I- I want to marry you, Cregan."

He saw the absolute nervousness that radiated through her frame to admit that to him.

He stepped to her, "You're sure?"

She nodded. "If you still want me."

He stepped further to her in urgency, "Of course, I do. Never think that I wouldn't."

She stared at him, now unsure of where to go from there.

Cregan smiled. "Shall I set a date for the wedding then?"

Her eyes lit up. "Would you?"

"I would. And I shall. We shall have it two weeks before Winter strikes. I will leave for the Wall not long after. Would that suffice?"

She looked down at her hands. 

"What?" He tilted his head down, hoping to get her to look at him. "Did you wish for after winter? That could be quite a while."

She had worked herself up just to admit wanting to marry him. How could he expect her to do more?

"Talk to me, pretty girl."

She'd never been called that before. It made something inside of her stir. 

"It's so far," she whispered.

He felt a chill down his spine at her small confession. He gulped as the anger left him completely. "Sooner then?"

"Sooner."

He nodded, biting his lower lip in deep thought. "Aye. Soon then."

A bright smile pulled at her lips. "Thank you, Cregan."

He grinned back. "Of course. Now, go on," he tutted playfully, "Your betrothed must finish his spar."

Red came to her cheeks, "Right. Right, of course. Excuse me, Lord Stark-"

"-Cregan," he quickly corrected.

"Cregan."

He watched her leave. There was a slight skip to her step now that he hadn't noticed about her before. 

Perhaps she was finding happiness in Winterfell.

…

The wedding was a large northern celebration. The bannermen and families came  from miles around to witness their Warden's wedding.

Everyone was too kind. It was beginning to worry her.

"Quite the feast, I'd say," Cregan smiled at her as the two sat at the high table. 

Her hands immediately reached for her chalice of wine.

And she didn't stop for the entire night.

…

"Let us retire," he suggested when she tried to refill her cup again. His hand reached out and gently placed it over hers. "It is getting late. And before you fret, the bedding ceremony will not happen. It is only you and I."

Her eyes softened in surprise, not expecting him to say that. "One more glass for courage?" She slurred slightly.

His brows ticked down for only a second before he composed himself. "Courage isn't needed for this. Are you truly this nervous?"

"I'm perfectly content," she huffed. 

The crease between his brows returned. That was uncharacteristic of her to speak in frustration. Had the wine affected her? "Then let us go, hmm?"

She nodded, setting her cup down. "Very well."

He stood, offering his hand out to her. She took it and stood, trying to hide the slight falter in her first step. She moved her hand up to his bicep, letting him lead her from the banquet hall.

Entering their chambers, she sat on the bed. "Will you have me on my back or shall you take me from behind?" She asked bluntly, no hint of embarrassment or hesitation to her.

Cregan hand on the doorknob faltered. He locked the door and turned to her with shock on his face, "What was that?"

"Which way do you fuck, Lord Stark?" She asked in the same tone.

He shook his head with an amused chuckle. He stepped to her, reaching down and pushing her chin up to look at him. "I will not be fucking you tonight." He watched her posture change, a relaxation coming to her. "Why would you ask something so crude? It's unlike you."

"You wanted me to speak my mind, and I have," She stated in frustration. 

"You certainly have," he commented. "But I have a feeling that the wine is twisting your words. Tell me why you indulged in so much wine tonight."

She shrugged, "Why do you care?"

He gently pulled her chin back up, "I care about you."

"There it is." Her nose twitched. "I don't know what to do when you say things like that."

He stood straight, "You didn't answer the question."

"Fine!" She stood up and stepped around him, "I drank so much because I have never known a man to be as kind as you and it frightens me."

"Frightens you? How so?" Cregan was beyond confused. He turned to watch her.

She stepped to the fireplace and buried her hands in her hair in frustration. "I've never wanted to speak my mind to anyone until I met you, and now I fear I'll say something I shouldn't and ruin it all. Do you know what that feels like? To know that one wrong word could send you back to…" Her voice faded off. 

"I don't. And neither do you, because regardless of your words, I'm not going to send you back there. You're a Stark. The Baratheons are only a name now- if you want them to be, that is. If you want to truly be a Stark in name and heart." He offered. His calculating eyes watched her closely now, frowning at the tugging of her hair.

"Even after I've indulged myself in wine and ruined our wedding to the point that you refuse to consummate the marriage with me?" She turned to him and only then did he see the glimmer of the tears that sat in her eyes. 

"You did not ruin anything. But I will not sleep with you as long as you are not fully aware of your actions."

"I am aware," she huffed.

"We shall see in the morning." The slightest amused smile come over him. "I promised to take you to bed one way or the other. Perhaps tonight, it is only to sleep and nothing more." He walked to her. "Turn around. Let me undo your laces, stubborn woman."

She did as he asked, pulling her hair over her shoulder. "Will I regret this tomorrow?"

"The marriage or this particular conversation?" He asked. "If it has to be one, I hope it is the latter. I personally enjoy the former."

She hummed, pulling her outer dress down once Cregan had untied it enough. Layer by layer, she threw each piece to the cloth chair not far from the fire. 

Cregan's careful hands untied each string they came across. 

Silence filled the room, and she broke it with a small sniffle. Her voice was much softer now, "Do you believe my father didn't want to be here? Is that something you believe?"

Of course, he believed it, but he wouldn't say it. "I'm not sure. Do you, sweet girl?"

She hummed, "I do."

That surprised him. "Ah. Do continue speaking your mind, please. Do not let me stop you."

"He has a particular hatred for women. I'm not sure where it started. When he had a firstborn daughter rather than son, my mother was fearful for the girl. I was second. He married us off without a second thought. Dare I admit to you that he signed me away to you without truly reading the document?"

Cregan placed his hands on her clothed hips and spun her to face him.

No wonder she came here so fearful. She was mistreated from the beginning. He stared into her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle. He reached up and brushed his fingers on her cheek. "How could a man ever hate you?" He asked with a barely heard voice.

Her heart jolted, "I have never felt love before. Is it supposed to feel this warm?"

Cregan let out a joyful laugh as he ran his hands through her hair. "I want to say yes, but you're near the fire. And the wine is coloring your cheeks. We shall revisit this when you are well. Let us get you to bed."

"Bed? Right." She pulled herself from him and moved to the bed. She tucked herself under the covers.

Cregan's smile stayed. "Are you warm enough for the night?"

"Yes, but… are you not staying?"

He shook his head. "I don't want you to wake in a fright if tonight's details blur in your mind. Waking beside me may be startling for you."

"No! I-" she looked around the room in thought. "I want you to stay. I want that."

His head tilted. "Alright. If you want this. But know that nothing will happen to you while I stay here tonight."

"I can live with that," she admitted as she laid on the bed completely.

Darkness filled the room with Cregan blew out the candles, and the bed dipped down as he laid on it. 

…

In the morning, she awoke with a groan. The sun was burning her eyes. 

"Ah, you're awake," Cregan's voice commented from across the room.

She sat up and rubbed at her eyes until they were raw, determined to get the feeling to fade. When she did, a headache began to erupt.

"Easy," he chided as he walked to her. He reached to the nightstand and held a cup out to her. "The maester made a tea to help with the pain."

She sipped it gratefully. "I had the strangest dream that I'm fearing is true," she said with a groggy voice.

He watched her with a glimmer in his eyes. His hand reached to her and smoothed her hair down.

She peered up at him. She wondered how someone could be so thoughtful.

"Tell me something," he said as sat down at her side. "If that's alright."

"Anything," she whispered. Her eyes flickered to his lips. 

"Is the warmth still there?" 

He watched her face began to near his. She placed her hand on his leg to help her lean over to him. "I believe I love you," she admitted gently.

He smiled and leaned the rest of the way to her. His lips kissed her softly and slowly. 

Before she could truly react, he pulled away again. The grin on his lips returned, as were his hands in her hair, "I was going to gift this to you yesterday, but I believe today is a better day for it."

"Oh," her shy demeanor returned and she set the cup down.

"Don't fret. You'll adore it. Or… I hope you do."

She watched him get up from the bed, beginning to dig though a drawer in his closet. 

He returned with a book in his hand. "It took some time, but I believe it was worth it."

She reached out and took it, examining the cover. She only stared at it for a moment before her eyes lit up. "Is this-?"

"Your favorite novel? It is." His head tilted back and forth, "Or, at least, I believe it is."

"This isn't the same copy as the one with my Father," she remarked.

"No, it's not. I tried to recover it but was unsuccessful. I hope this copy with be worthy of your happiness."

"Oh, Cregan," she mused. "It's… it is too much. I don't understand."

"It is a wedding gift. Do not think twice about it. You haven't the feignest idea of how far I would go to please you," he admitted.

"I've never had someone do something so selfless on my behalf." She hugged it to her chest, "Tell me how you managed it."

He smiled, content with the way she cherished the book. "I admit that I wrote a letter to your father, asking for the book. I was sent ripped pages in return-"

He faltered at the way her face fell.

"-But," he continued, "I sent the pages off to three well-read men and promised them anything to the man who found the novel it belonged to. It took a while, and I feared I would not have it in time, but alas, one of them found it. And here it is."

"What did he wish for?"

He frowned slightly, "Don't fret over that. Just know that it is all handled accordingly."

She pulled it from her chest to look at it again to guarantee that it was indeed real. "You are the most spectacular man I've met." She looked up at him. "I don't know what I have done to deserve you, but I shall spend my entire life thanking the gods for you."

"It is only a novel, my girl."

"It is much more than a novel."

"Then you'd hate to see what else I'd get you to only see a smile come to your lips."

She leaned over to him again as before, "May I kiss you?"

"Of course," he smiled. 

She grinned and pushed herself into his lap completely, pulling her body as close to his as she could, careful to not hit him with the book still in her hand. 

She finally connected their lips with a heavier intent than they had shared before.

He groaned against her and wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm certain," she panted against his lips, "I love you."

"My girl, I've loved you since the moment you arrived in Winterfell."

She pulled away from him completely. "W… What?"

"Since that day," he said as he brushed his thumb over her cheek. "I've been quite sure that I love you."

"You feel warmth when you are with me?"

"When I see you, I want to keep you beside me. I want to hold and kiss you until you're dizzy. I want to watch you sit and read until you become one with the sofa," he chuckled, "I want to see your joy as much as I can. I want you."

"You're unlike any man I know."

"That's alright. Isn't it?"

She chuckled as full relief flowed from her, as if only now accepting that she was safe here. "What a silly question, my lord."

He tilted his head playfully. "My lord?"

"It was my attempt at a jest," she admitted sheepishly. "Was it a poor one?"

"No," he countered. "I was just not expecting it from my meek wife. Perhaps she is not as meek as I once thought."

She laughed again, "Perhaps. We'll see, won't we?"

He kissed her cheek, "I cannot wait." He spoke in her ear, "But for now, be gone. You have a novel to read, don't you?"

Her eyes lit up and she clambered out of his lap. "I do! Oh, I do!"

Cregan watched the woman run to the cloth chair by the fireplace and sit, pulling her book open in a rush to absorb its words.

He chuckled and stood as he began to dress, "I'll fetch you for dinner. There's breakfast on the table from earlier. I expect you'll be content until then," he teased.

She looked up and nodded, "I will."

"Read closely. I expect to hear a summary at dinner of whatever chapters you consume."

She grinned from ear to ear as he left.

………………………………………………….

Taglist: @twinkletwinklenotastar, @kidd3ath,@yujyujj, @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @8812-342, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn, @callsignwidow, @a1lexh-blog, @alyssa-dayne, @ethereal-athalia, @ashovertheriver,

[pearl-nouveau]

Foolish Knight

~{Ser Duncan the Tall x Traveling Companion!Reader}~

author’s note: short traveling companion reader x dunk lolzzz it’s the only fic ive been able to finish in a while i’m low on inspiration

plot description: after traveling with Dunk so long, you’d think that he’d want to return your friendship. But the man will hardly talk to you, and you begin to wonder if the foolish knight even wants you around at all.

warnings: none, lil suggestive as always

word count: ~1,600

enjoy!

Silence with Duncan was easy and familiar. Sitting across the fire, taking turns sparing glances at the other, that was the language you two communicated in.

Ever since he and Ser Arlan had found you alone on the road and let you join their party, Dunk had always been reserved in his interactions with you. Polite, impersonal greetings and necessary dialogue. You reasoned that he felt awkward around women, or found you difficult to converse with. But as the years passed and he still seemed to find no peace in your presence, you believed him to despise you for intruding upon his life. Perhaps his silence was a punishment, and he resented you. Nevertheless, Duncan never said a mean word, so you supposed his sullenness should be a relief if hatred was really what he felt for you.

Sometimes, when you caught his eyes on you, the softness made you think that it wasn’t hatred. When he gave you the larger portion at supper, or mended your cloak without request, or looked after you on nights when Arlan went to the brothel. Maybe he just couldn’t figure you out. After so long, perhaps he simply didn’t want to, because despite these small kindnesses, he never engaged with you beyond pleasantries.

His impassivity was exacerbated by fact that you were harboring an unfortunate crush on him, but how could you help it when the man was gentle and good and soft-spoken?

When Arlan passed, you were terrified that Dunk would leave you, but he said nothing to indicate he wanted you gone. Ashford nearly killed him, which made you eager to get on the road again. Even though you were unsure how the knight felt about you, the prospect of losing him had terrified you. When he lay recovering, you hardly left his side. He still said nothing; but he’d watched you through a swollen eye, and never asked you to leave, nor did he pull away when you held his hand for comfort.

Finally, a new trio rode out on Chestnut and Thunder, you sharing a saddle with Egg. Having someone to converse with was a welcome change, and Egg had plenty of knowledge of Westeros to keep you entertained on long days of riding. Duncan often listened in, sometimes chiming in. Something about the boy eased the quiet that had always settled between the two of you.

The three of you set camp upon a hill overlooking a nearby town, and Dunk had allowed Egg to go off and play with the children in the village, with the promise that he’d return before sunset. Watching him run off excitedly, you’d turned towards Dunk.

“He really brightens things, doesn’t he?” you inquired. Duncan had pressed his lips together in a thin line, humming in response.

Your heart had tugged with the realization that he still wouldn’t engage with you. The disappointment simmered as he moved to tend to the fire absently, and his nonchalance caused the sensation in your stomach to bubble with a vengeance until you were storming after him. You yanked the stick from his hand that he used to poke the coals and pointed it at him accusingly.

“I’ve been perfectly helpful and pleasant for all these years I’ve traveled with you,” you seethed, “and yet you snub me at every opportunity. If you find me so insufferable, I might as well just branch off here and leave you to enjoy conversation with Egg, since you won’t have one with me.”

With that, you stomped off, barely gathering the courage to look him in the eye as you blew past him. His brow was furrowed in what looked like fear, or confusion. It didn’t matter to you.

Down by the river you tried to cool off by pacing along the bank, muttering to yourself angrily. How could he still refuse your friendship after so many years of trust built between you? It had you wondering what could possibly be wrong with you that made him hate you. Still holding the stick from earlier, you poked at the soft mud beneath your feet. The rustling of leaves signaled the emergence of Duncan from the woods a few minutes later, and he approached you.

“I don’t want to talk now,” you huffed, refusing to meet his gaze. You looked across the water, but could feel his presence a few feet behind you. The warmth of his body shielded you from the late afternoon breeze.

“Aye, I know, so just let me talk.” he requested. You heard the man take a breath and murmur out a curse before beginning. “I’ve been a fool. A cowardly fool. All these years, I never found the courage to say it, and so I said nothing. It’s on the tip of my tongue whenever I speak to you, and so it’s easier… it’s better to say nothing. Fuck, I didn’t want to ruin anything. But now I’ve gone and ruined it anyways.”

You listened to his words carefully, turning slowly so that you could read his expression. He was finally looking you in the eye. Cerulean pools searched yours for a reaction. His chest was heaving with effort, or fear, or something of the like. But certainly not hatred. Now that you looked at him, he stepped closer. Closer than he’d ever willingly come to you, unless he was helping you from your mount.

“I want to speak to you, more than anything, only I cannot without risking telling you how I feel. And I’ve been afraid. But I am more afraid of losing you.”

You stared at him, a challenge. He accepted willingly, reaching out to grasp your hand. After so long holding back, he couldn’t help but tremble at the contact.

“Why have you been afraid of me?” You needed him to say it, out loud.

“Because every time I open my mouth around you, I chance spewing out how I want you to come closer.” he blurted, “be near me. I want to hear you laugh — I want to be the cause of it.”

“You’ve done a piss-poor job of making an effort to jest with me.” you bit back. And yet, you obliged his request for you to be nearer, and leaned into the warmth of his towering figure.

He laughed at that, an exhale of slight relief as he felt you squeeze his hand, an encouraging gesture that softened his shaking. “I feared you’d never return my affections so I stayed quiet.” he admitted earnestly. “But… I cannot have you interpret my silence as indifference. That is the furthest thing I feel for you.”

“Then what do you feel for me? I want you to tell me. I deserve that.” you urged him.

His jaw tightened. “It’ll change things.”

“Duncan.” you begged. He pulled your hands, enclosed in his giant ones, towards his lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, whispering the ghost of a kiss into your knuckles. “Gods, I love you. Every day I wish you were mine to hold, but I couldn’t imagine a world where I was worthy of ye. So I stayed quiet. I’m sorry for that, I’m sorry for the misery I’ve caused.” He searched your eyes. “Please forgive me. Please. I’ll be yours however you want me, even if it’s to be your manservant.”

“My manservant.” you said blankly. He flushed, thinking he’d gone too far. Until finally, finally, the smile he constantly sought to catch sight of crossed your lips. “I’ve never had one of those.”

“I’ll wash your clothes, and cook your meals, and protect you from harm.” he promised shyly.

“You already do those things, Dunk.”

“Well then… suppose I already am your manservant,” he pondered, the grin on your face emboldening him to push further into your space, enclosing you in his massive arms. “Maybe it’s time we became something else.”

“Have something else in mind?” you tugged at his shirt, pulling him towards your lips.

“I’ll be yours. I’m already yours. And if you want to be mine…”

“I’m already yours too, Duncan.” you swore, blinking at him expectantly. The way you pressed into his chest on the tips of your toes was enough permission for the man. His fingertips grazed up your spine and tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head up properly. His hands were so large and warm, cupping around your entire head, encompassing your in a delicate hold that felt so right.

When Dunk’s lips finally closed over yours, the kiss came suddenly, like he couldn’t hold himself back any longer, thumbs stroking the apples of your cheek fondly. In your dreams, you’d imagined him to be timid — the reality was that he moved with practiced care, so tenderly did he find the seam of your lips waiting to be opened by his tongue. His boldness made you gasp and he hastily pulled away.

“Too much?” He apologized, examining your flushed face with concern. You shook your head and surged upward, throwing your arms around his thick neck. It was his turn to grunt with surprise as your weight fell into him, although he caught it without effort. His arms found the crook of your waist and lifted you with ease, allowing the kiss to deepen. Instinctively, your legs encircled his back to draw him closer. Duncan was slower to pull away this time, but he eventually sought air. “We ought to have enough to talk about now that we’ve cleared the air,” he smiled at you, pecking your lips a few more times. “Do you think?”

“I think I’m still a bit angry at you,” you teased, licking at his jaw. “I’m still not sure I want to talk.” Duncan suppressed a groan as you pressed yourself even closer against his body.

“Aye, I was never so good with words anyhow.” You took a moment to look at the way his eyes sparkled with a new emotion you’d never seen him show so freely. He watched you examine him and raised a brow, grinning contentedly. “Enjoying the view?”

“Just kiss me, foolish knight."

Your knight wasn’t foolish enough to refuse that order.

[eupheme]

— favors bestowed beneath the stars

ser duncan the tall x f!reader

rated e - 3k

tags: idiots (friends) to lovers, sex/kissing lessons, mutual pining, sorta corruption kink, making out, dry humping, outercourse, touching, coming in pants

a/n: a little side quest for an idiots/friends-to-lovers dunk fic, he's got that sweet earnest vibe I love so much

“Just… don’t have much experience,” Dunk admits, “Any, really. You know that.”

A long-held sigh released, “Ahh, probably make even more a fool of myself.”

Something glimmers like a jewel, hope perhaps, and you’re snatching it without thinking.

“I could show you.”

“Where’d you find that?”

There’s awe in his voice - the mending dropped, as Dunk reaches for the bundle of heavy canvas you’ve dragged back from the main camp.

The afternoon had carried the promise of a heavy rain in the air, and despite his enthusiasm for the massive elm in the clearing and the soft bed of grass and pale blue forget-me-nots you had found yourselves in - you had doubted the canopy’s breadth when it came to a true storm.

It’d taken a good portion of your afternoon, a fair amount of filthy arguing over the card table, and almost all of your stags , but it had all been worth it to see the look on his face right now.

“Oh,” You answer breezily, “Found it. Wasn’t wanted, something about a tear?”

Dunk smiles then - soft and bright as his fingers trace the seams, “Well that is lucky.”

“We can fix that,” He turns to the young boy, with his own matching needle, “Can’t we?

It’s only then that Egg’s eyes lift from the tent - smart creases still marked from a long journey, wrapped up tight in a chest. Thunder rumbling overhead, fat drops of rain slipping off the black and purple waxed canvas.

“Lucky.” The boy echoes, with a grin.

Yours matching it.

Luck indeed.

Your fingers twist the loaf of bread, later - breaking it first in two, and then three, in the torchlight. A cup of mead half-drunk, tucked between your boots on the seat of the bench and elbows digging into your thighs.

Hunger had nipped at you, after the length of time it had taken to set up the tent. Needing to source branches from the nearby forest for poles. It had not been a large thing - you are certain a squire will be tucked amongst the stables tonight for shelter - but it was enough for three bedrolls and a canopy to cover the fire pit.

But now, it sits like a stone in your stomach.

Egg joins you, weaving through the crowd. Perching by your side on the wooden table - still drawn to the puppets, though this is the second time you’ve seen the show.

For him, it must be at least the fourth.

The stories had seemed much more fun, before you’d noticed the way Dunk seemed to linger. Caught on the pretty Dornish puppeteer, and as much as it makes your heart ache - you couldn’t blame him.

She swirls on the stage, as Egg takes the portion you offer him - turning the loaf over twice before taking a too-large bite.

“He’s going to ask for her favor.” It’s mumbled out, around a mouthful of bread.

“So I’ve heard.” A sigh slips from you, as you try to rally, “They suit each other. Make a fine match.”

It’s easy to imagine how it would go. Mumbled, earnest words and a fine piece of teal silk fixed about his gorget on the morrow. He’d been lost without Ser Arlan, despite your efforts, and even youknew it was easier to fight when there was someone worth fighting for.

And how a heart might soften, under a kind smile and kinder words.

Egg’s face tips your way, nose scrunched and eyes narrowed.

“Well?” He drags the word out, “Aren’t you going to tell him?”

That catches your attention. You’d forget sometimes, how much the boy saw. Observations that even you sometimes missed, and opinions of someone far older and wiser.

But it doesn’t mean that you’re not clever on occasion, as well.

“Tell him what?”

Egg blinks up at you, brows raised.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him.” He says simply.

The stone in your stomach rolls.

“How’s that?”

His head dips towards the stage, knowing, “Like the way he looks at her.”

The tug of your lips is wry.

Of course, you’d been obvious. So used to Dunk not getting it - seeing you - that you’d become careless. Forgetting that someone’s eyes might find you, all while yours were long drawn somewhere else.

You still try to pivot - your brows rising this time.

“Aren’t you a little young to notice those things?” Egg’s frown is indignant, “I’m nine.”

A laugh slips from you, unbidden. Unable to help it, even as you sigh. If something were to happen, it would have been long ago.

You’d missed your chance, and as much as it ached - as much as you hated to lose - you wouldn’t stand in the way of his happiness.

Not after everything.

“No,” It’s almost wistful, “I’m not going to tell him.”

Silence lulls, swept up in the music and the bright stream of fire from the puppet. Even after two it still makes you jump, the heat wafting back through the rows.

Egg shifts beside you, as applause comes in waves from the crowd in front of you.

“Well, are you going to tell him about the tent?”

And again you glance down, tongue tucked between your teeth.

“And what would you know about that?”

You knew you hadn’t been followed. Slipping out while the other two dozed in the warm sunlight. Buying your way into one round of cards and then another. Finding patterns with a sharp mind and clever fingers, all while while those around you were lost to ale. Making sure you came out ahead no matter the cost, like you always did.

A tucked-away secret that had kept food on the table for months with Ser Arlan and Dunk.

“It had House Dondarrion colors,” Egg points out, helpfully, “Brand new, it was.”

You hum. A hand raising at the blue eyes that search for you in the crowd. Unable to help softening at the smile and the way he parts the crowd.

Sparing a quick, sideways glance at his squire, just before Dunk reaches you.

“I know you must have secrets of your own, little lord.” You murmur, the edges of your lips curving at the way Egg’s widen.

“Best you keep yours, and I’ll keep mine.”

Dawn pours over the horizon, inky indigo fading into grey.

The tent held true in the storm - the breadth of Duncan’s back blocking the brunt that slipped in through the front flap. Leaving you and Egg tucked away, warm in the back.

His eyes open to find yours, soon after you’d risen. Head lifting to peer behind you, as your head shakes.

“Practicing with Thunder.”

Even as careful as the boy was, you had still stirred at the shift of fabric and the cool, early-morning breeze, “Be a while, yet.”

They make a fine pair as well, in their own way. Equally earnest, Egg’s chin jutting out when you had caught him lifting lances in the clearing - as if daring you to stop him.

Another secret you were happy to keep.

Dunk hums. Shifting onto his back - the worn blanket dipping to expose the bare curve of a shoulder, a damp shirt shucked off in the night. You’re content to trace the contours of muscle in the quiet - to slip back into sleep - before he’s adding, “You think I can do it?”

A mark deepens between your brows, “Win the tournament?”

He could. You’re sure Dunk could do anything he set his heart to.

His expression changes, unease slipping into dread, “Seven hells. That too.”

You push yourself up on an elbow, missing the way his eyes snag on the loosened collar of your tunic - the shadow of curves beneath.

“Well, what do you mean?”

A hand scrubs over his face, the faint pink blooming across his cheeks just visible in the early light.

“I thought I’d-, I meant to-“ He tries, a frustrated groan muffled into a palm.

You’d always been able to read him.

“Tanselle.”

“Yeah.” Something like relief floods his features, “You… you think I should? Ask her?”

Those eyes find you - bright blue as a cloudless, summer afternoon. Bouncing back and forth between your own.

Your own slide away, fingers twisting in the foot of grass that separates you, “You going to run off with her, Dunk?”

“No.” His head shakes - emphatic, with his furrow of his brow, “I’d never leave you. And we’ve got Egg now. Just thought maybe if she wanted-, for a night, I mean.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long, almost of waiting desperately for something. A breath, before his head turns. Caught on the pale printed stars above.

“Just… don’t have much experience,” He admits, “Any, really. You know that.”

A long-held sigh released, “Ahh, probably make even more a fool of myself.”

Something glimmers like a jewel, hope perhaps, and you’re snatching it without thinking.

“I could show you.”

It slips from you, even as your heart grows to stone. You own favor, if he wishes so badly for another. Selfish and greedy, but you’d grown up scrounging to survive. Learned how to take anything you could get, even if you have been trying to do better lately.

Ironic that the man in front of you was the cause of that.

The mark between his brow eases, your eyes caught on the way Dunk’s tongue peeks between his lips to wet them.

“You’d do that for me?” It comes slowly, almost hopeful. ”Sure,” You breathe, “I mean, you’d owe me. Of course.”

You’d do - had done - anything for him. This would be everything and nothing, all at once.

“’Course.” He echoes, as if that made sense. As if you hadn’t dreamed about this, him, for ages.

A knight to you long before Ser Arlan bestowed it. Taking up far too much of your heart.

Shifting onto his side again, as you inch closer. Leaving your bedroll for his - his arm automatic in the way he lifts the blanket for you to slip under. Nights before spent the same to keep warm, yet none quite held the charge of this one.

Turning still as stone, as you settle against him. Chest rising and falling with the cadence of his breath, waiting for you to take the lead.

Eyes going half-lidded, and then closed, as he waits. A sharp breath as your hand slips along his jaw to angle him down, before your lips tilt to press carefully against his.

You have a handful of experience - stolen kisses and fumbling touches in the stables of King’s Landing, a handful of bawdy songs from the road - but you still don’t expect the groan that rumbles in his chest.

How he leans into you immediately - a hand slipping to curve against your hip, already bruising. How his lips part the second you add pressure, the way he melts as your fingers twist into his golden strands.

Another moan as your tongue dips out to lick into his mouth. How he eagerly follows, letting you taste him before he becomes bolder. Leaning into the growing hunger, tugging you closer as he deepens the kiss - each press of his lips less clumsy than the last.

Always was a fast learner, when it was something he found worth doing.

“Good.” You murmur, heat coiling in your belly, “Just like that.”

Embers coaxed into a fire, with way he fits against you. It has your heart pounding as you press your chest to his, then your hips. Rubbing yourself up against something thick and hard that presses into your belly, and there’s a desperate, wounded sound that slips from him.

You find yourself flat on your back a second later. A hand planted by your head as your thighs spread to make room for him. A startled gasp that he swallows, as he rocks down, his thick length rutting against your hip. Shifting until he rubs against your core, and a sweet sound pulls from your lungs.

“Feels so good.” It’s slurred out - rough and low, already drunk on you. Another press of his lips and a curse gritted out, when your legs hook around his hips.

The kiss breaking so your tongue can drag against the curve of his jaw. A shiver running down his spine as your nails bite into his shoulders.

He eclipses you. The painted stars blurred out by the breadth of his shoulders. The hand at your waist slipping up until they’re curved around your ribcage - hesitant.

“Can I-?“

The question sends a rush of relief. The small flicker of second-guessing slipping away with the way he groans when you nod. Tugging at the strings of your top when you move too slow for him. The sound turning ragged when the fabric pools away - a large palm curving around your breast, the peaked flesh pressed into his skin.

“Gods, you’re-.” Dunk’s hips jerk, his words rough against your skin, “Perfect. Just perfect-“

Your own hunger swells. Dripping and slick between your thighs, hips moving until he’s catching up - learning himself, matching your rhythm. His weight keeping you pinned against the bedroll and it’s bliss, your body moving on its own and his following.

Grinding, panting. His forehead pressing to yours, eyes bringing in the storm with the way they darken. Something winding tight inside you, your small clothes damp with your need.

“Is this good?” He husks, even as he’s ruining you. Mindless in the way his clothed cock nudges against your core. Grinding against your clit, as his mouth maps your throat.

Testing the edge of his teeth, before kissing the burn away.

“Yes,” You coo, “Can kiss me anywhere, Dunk. Anything you want.”

There’s a sharp exhale of breath, as he presses more kisses like you had. To your jaw, and then lower. Collarbone, shoulder. Propping himself on a forearm, shifting down until his lips drag against the curve of your breasts and the valley between.

Peppering kisses against soft skin, cataloging the places that make goosebumps rise.

Your moan is throaty and you feel the way his cock jerks, caught behind the thin fabric. How his hand bunches in the loosened fabric at your thigh, as if anchoring himself. Fingers flexing, unconscious of how they stroke against skin.

So close to where you ache, and it’s that deep throb that has you adding, “Can touch me, too. If you want.”

The heated look he gives you is the same as when you brought the tent to the camp. Like he can’t believe his luck, palm slow as he moves to cup between your thighs. To feel the heat of your core pressed snug against his palm.

Forgetting himself as his fingers slip beneath the loose cloth, the rough exhale of breath when he finds you slick and soaking.

“Is this for me?” There’s a hesitance to the way Dunk touches you. Slow and reverent, lingering at the spot that makes your hips jerk into his touch. Coming back to rub the tips of his fingers over it, again and again.

“Not a bad kisser.” It comes out breathless. It’s morethan that but it’s enough - his mouth finding yours again with the low huff of his laugh, eager to please. Letting your fingers drift down to map his - three of yours to his two. Pressing and circling until the movement feels familiar.

Your own begin to wander. Over his chest and across the trail of golden hair that leads down. Fingers curving around the thick press of him over his trousers - massive as he is, he’d surely split you open - and the thought sends a shudder of thrill down your spine. His hips bucking into your touch, even as he hisses.

“Don’t.” He croaks, as your hand lifts. “I’d be done in a second.”

You want to see him finished. Want him a mess like you are, but perhaps he already is - the fabric damp and dark near the ties of his breeches.

All for you. You let yourself pretend, as he winds you higher and higher, until everything threats to break inside you.

The world narrows. The elm, the tent. Him.

“Oh Gods,” You pant, clinging to him, “Dunk, please-“

He’d stay here forever, if you asked. Rhythm stumbling with the way his hips move against yours, matching the slick press of his fingers. Catching up again when you whine, aching to hear his name on your lips again.

Bringing you to the edge as you curl into him, and then suddenly - tumbling over.

Stars burst behind your eyelids, your sounds bitten back and caught between clenched teeth. But he still hears the sigh he’s been desperate for, and the way you tremble in his arms - and then, he’s right there with you.

Face buried in the crook of your neck, a moan drawn out with the rut of his hips. Panting as his cock jerks, pressed snug against your thigh and echoing your name as he spills into his breeches - an arm curled around you, keeping you held close.

Your pulse thunders, as you cling to him. It was unlike anything you’d felt before and more that you possibly had ever imagined, the way you fit beneath this mountain of a man so perfectly.

A low groan as he shifts, easing you both onto your sides - though neither of you make to part.

“She’ll be happy with that, I expect.” You’re first to break the silence. Stacking your walls neatly back into place, donning your own armor.

“Gods, I wish it were you I was learning this for.” It’s murmured out in reply - in the soft afterglow when words often slip, unbidden.

A heartbeat before he’s catching himself. Those blue eyes opening as his expression turns stricken, and your heart catches.

“What do you mean?” You breathe, “You do?”

But he’s never been one to lie to you. Not even now.

“Course I do.” It’s so quiet, you almost miss it. His eyes won’t meet yours, even this close.

“It’s just, well, some things you know you can’t have.” He tells the false stars above, “So you don’t even put your mind to it.”

You’re left staring at him, scarcely able to believe. Voice soft, when you can finally answer.

“You really are daft, sometimes.”

A hurt look crosses his features, but then you’re closing the space - lips pressing hard against his again, his palm molding you to his chest.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time. You.” It’s confessed, between stolen kisses, “Thought I couldn’t have you, either.”

His answer comes roughly.

“Always been yours.”

It’s like a weight has been lifted. That mark between his brow worn smooth. Those blue eyes growing stormy once more, when they sweep over you. Less than half-dressed and disheveled, and the look he gives you tells you he’s thought of a few more places he’d like to kiss.

“Maybe,” Dunk hedges, “Maybe there’s a little more you can show me. If you wanted to.”

The ache inside you has eased to something molten. Your answer something hushed, as you close the space again, “You’d still owe me.”

“’Course.”

You can feel the curve of his mouth against yours. A groan rumbled out with the sigh of his words, as he hauls you to straddle his hips. How they lift - seeking you out already.

“Anything for you.”

That afternoon, when Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire made for the tilt, everyone in the crowd could see the crown of woven forget-me-nots nestled against his brow.

thanks so much for reading! 💖💖 part ii is up here!

[knightofcassiopeia]

Hii maybe i could request a wrestler!dunk x reader late night phone call. Maybe she had to stay home while he's away, could be a little angsty, a little fluff whatever you'd like <3

dunk's calls always came late at night.

he tried to call when you were still awake, when he could imagine you still sitting on the couch and watching one of those late-night television shows. you never told him why you ever stayed up for it; television had never held your interest. not like the movies he often took you to when he had nights off and got a moment's rest. it was less intimate in the theater, people crowding every seat, and someone a few rows down was always sipping their coke a little too loudly.

you never admitted it was to keep yourself up, to catch the telephone ring before your eyes closed. from the moment he left home, sleep refused to come as easily. dunk was farther than he'd ever been, and you'd forgotten what a night without him was like. your body was intolerable, thoughts constantly on him rather than the life in front of you.

it felt wrong. wrong, wrong, wrong. and you felt pathetic.

and still, as soon as the telephone rang, your hand shot over to pick it up.

"hello?"

"hey," dunk's low voice crackled through the line, and your eyes closed with utter relief. "that was quick...you're still up?"

you could hear the cogs in his head turning, no less picture his nails scratching at his scalp in embarrassment. that's the best you can start off with? you almost heard him say to himself. she picks up the phone and you ask if she's still up? how many times do you need to be concussed for this to fix itself?

"it's saturday night," you said before the quiet stretched for too long. you spent all day fabricating conversations with him, and now he was there, most likely had already eaten supper and showered. you could see him in the motel room, lying back to let his body decompress.

dunk hummed from the other side, the whirlwind of his own imagination stirring in his head. "yeah? anything good on?"

"you want to talk about what's showing?" you smiled, and how he wished he was able to see it.

"...no. no, i just.."

"mmm, thought so."

a quiet groan slipped from him.

“are you okay?” you asked, sitting up some and scooting closer to the telephone. your elbow came to the armrest, easing you down as you listened.

“yeah,” he answered, “yeah. i…”

his grumble was too unintelligible for you to comprehend.

"what?"

"i said," he took a deep breath, "i miss you."

your heart skipped a beat, the obvious little thing. "oh."

"everybody is louder," he confessed, a grunt escaping him as he pushed up to sit. "everything hurts more, and...and everybody stinks. god, if—if it's not the locker rooms—it's the bus..."

"i could've told you that," you murmured, voice softer at the notion that traveling on his own wasn't easy. part of you wanted it to be harder. you wanted to be needed, even to just hold him at night. too many horror stories went around about wrestlers sleeping with ring rats. most had families to go home to, wives and children that went three hundred and sixty days without ever seeing their husbands and fathers.

dunk would never hurt you that way. he was fiercely loyal, helplessly devoted since the moment he bought a hat at that little clothing store just to talk to you. he had five dollars to last him for the week, and there he was, at your counter with his wide-eyed stare and numb tongue.

"it's terrible, dove," dunk reached for the icepack on the end table. he pressed it onto his lips, then to his knee. "i don't remember it being this way."

"where have you been all this time?" you forced a laugh.

dunk couldn't help the shy grin that appeared at that sound. real or not, he couldn't tell. "what? here!"

"oh, dunk."

"...i suppose it's you."

"me?"

dunk hummed, "never had the time to focus on it when you were here."

it made your heart ache all over again.

"i forgot what it was like, doing this on my own," he muttered, taking the conversation somewhere else. somewhere familiar, when all you did was go day by day, only thinking about him. "i knew you made it easier. just...regret agreeing to this. i thought it was better—knew it was. let you stay home and get away from all this..."

you swallowed, vowing to silence or else you'd openly weep.

"it's selfish," he spoke so quietly, you nearly missed it. "i wish i said no. not—not no, love, i'm sorry. i wish we had talked about it more, yeah?"

dunk waited, realizing a little too late you had became too quiet.

"...love?"

"sorry," you managed, and pulled the telephone away to take a shaky breath. when you brought it back to your ear, you said, "got...caught up on the news."

"the news? something happen? should...we don't have to stay long. i can call in the morning—“

oh, you sweet man. you closed your eyes, squeezing them tight in an attempt to control yourself. "no, dunk, no...please stay with me."

dunk repositioned himself, his hand still holding the ice pack on his knee as he lined up with the bed. the pillow beneath was stiff, but he’d manage. nothing mattered more than talking to you, even for only a minute longer.

"i miss you, too," you finally admitted.

"you do?"

"of course i do."

dunk wet his lips, tongue swiping out as he forced himself to think a little faster. those few words offered more comfort than he thought possible. he knew you loved him, you had to or else he’d stop breathing altogether. yet…

all of it was still hard to believe. the existence of you was hard to believe; you stayed and put up with the life he lived.

“the pantry is too full…”

“is it?”

“i can’t stop going to the store.”

a pause, “…i’ll see something and think of you. you know, like doritos.”

dunk snickered, the sound bubbling into a soft wheeze. “i—i think i’m flattered, dove.”

the conversation faded into the night, following the clouds until splotches of orange and pink begun to ascend. your laugh made his heart stutter throughout. he strung along word through word even as he began to nod off. you always had to hang up first, or else he would’ve stayed until the bus roared from the parking lot.

dunk’s calls always came late at night, but he always stayed long enough to make up for it.

i’m so so happy you guys love wrestler!dunk. i tried to mix some fluff, some angst…a LOOOTT of yearning. thank you, anon <3

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'