Mari, 29, Australian, x Reader & OC/Canon Fic Author. My old blog was @jamiewintons, you can find my earlier fics there! Please read my rules and the list of characters I write for before requesting. Thank you! I am trying to get my inspiration back so requests/posting could be slow. MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH MY NSFW POSTS!!
what iffff it’s with dunk right, and instead of him being infected it’s her, and they’re not together yet so he’s like super shy and super scared to hurt her because he has a crush on her. he’s scared that she doesn’t actually want him and that she’s just drugged up and that she’ll be pissed at him and never want him around anymore (but ofc she does she loves him too they just are both dumb) but it starts really sweet and then they get crazy and then when she’s all done they confess and stuff 😍
I LOVE UR WRITING SM 😭💕💕
ok so you're a genius
I’ll Help You
Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
✿ you’re infected with some kind of love potion, and you plead with dunk to make you feel better (or, a sex pollen fic but it’s you who’s afflicted).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 5k
✿ cw: fem!reader + reader is implied to be from flea bottom/dunk’s childhood friend, no y/n + reader is physically undefined, sex pollen, SMUT, brief f!masturbation, fingering, finger-sucking, unprotected piv, riding!!, praise, dunk is such a gentleman, they’re both so desperate for each other, strong language, fluff, confessions of love, mention of the dear bald child.
He feels helpless as he watches you toss and turn, the thin material of your chemise clinging to your sweat-soaked skin, the bed sheets a tangled mess at your feet. Your eyes are closed, but small, breathy whimpers leave your cracked lips as whatever is pumping through your veins burns through you like a fever.
Dunk sits on a wooden chair in the corner of the room. It is much too small for him, and his knees are practically at his chest as he keeps an eye on you. Guilt churns in his stomach, and his dinner sits untouched near the door. He doesn’t have the stomach to eat. He feels that it’s his fault that you’re like this: writhing like an animal in pain, whimpering in your sleep.
He wasn’t there to protect you when you wandered into the crowded markets. He wasn’t there when a mysterious healer foretold your future and urged you to sip from an ornate silver flask. He wasn’t there to protect you when the tonic you drank consumed you in a feverish delirium.
He still doesn’t know how you managed to find your way back to the inn, but you did, and he was quick in hauling you up the stairs and straight into bed.
The fever seems to have worsened. You’re muttering to yourself, and your hips twitch against the thin straw mattress. Dunk runs a hand down his face, not allowing himself to sleep. He’s not sure what time it is, but all he knows is that the sky outside is pitch black, and Egg has been sound asleep in the next room for a long time.
Despite his guilt, the hedge knight can’t help the way his eyes linger. The clean white linen of your chemise clings to the curve of your hip as you lie on your side. It sits high on your thighs too, and his eyes travel down the expanse of your legs. Your chest rises and falls quickly, the neckline having dipped to expose the top of your chest. The skin there is dewy with sweat, collecting between the mounds of your breasts.
He shakes his head to himself as his eyes find your face, tracing the lines of your closed eyes and fluttering eyelashes, the slope of your nose and the contours of your parted lips.
Dunk shakes his head again, groaning inwardly and running a large hand through his hair. The room is thick with heat, and he finds himself leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his tunic damp along his back and under his arms.
Suddenly, you make a little squeaking noise. Dunk sits up straight, drooping eyes now snapping open. He observes you startle yourself awake, sitting up as though possessed, eyes wild with confusion as you stare around the candlelit room like a cat in a trap.
Dunk’s on his feet before he can even think. He calls your name.
You look over at him, chest heaving. “Dunk?”
“Yeah,” he says gently, approaching the edge of the bed. “I’m here, it’s okay.”
He allows himself to sit on the very edge of the mattress, and it dips heavily under his weight. You whine out, body falling into his as you wrap your arms around his thick middle.
He coos softly, petting your hair with one hand, the other balled in a fist on his lap. “S’alright… s’alright, I’m here.”
“Dunk,” you whisper, broken around the vowel. You turn your head, and Dunk feels you press your nose directly into the side of his pectoral, dangerously close to his armpit. It makes him jolt, and you whine out, nuzzling your face into the heat of the muscle. “Dunk.”
“Wouldn’t get too close,” he jokes, shifting his arm to rub a hand down your back. He is hyper-aware of the thin material that clings to you, and the way he can feel the dip of your spine as his palm flattens against you. “Haven’t bathed since yesterday’s swim in the river.”
You don’t reply. Your body is frighteningly hot against Dunk’s, and he wonders if you’re going to cook yourself from the inside out. He can see the perspiration beading like little gems on your forehead, reflecting the nearby candlelight.
You rub your face against him, inhaling. You whine out, and suddenly, Dunk feels your fingers grip the fabric of his tunic. You’re tugging upwards, as if you’re trying to urge him to take it off.
He freezes. “What’re you doing?”
“Too hot,” you whimper into his side, hands dropping to the hem of his tunic. Dunk sucks in a breath as your warm fingers slide beneath the material, finding the bare skin at his hip, skirting along the band of his trousers.
His arms move from around you, and he quickly takes hold of your arms. He’s gentle, and he takes you away from him until there’s a good foot or two of space between you now. But the whine you let out is heartbreaking, and Dunk bites down on his lip to stop himself from giving in and saying something stupid.
“Dunk,” you whine out, his hands large and completely engulfing your wrists. “Dunk, please help me.”
“What’s wrong?” He asks.
His eyes momentarily drop to where your loose chemise has fallen. More of your breasts are on display, and your nipples are hard beneath the material. He swallows thickly, noting too the way you wriggle against the mattress.
“Need you,” you murmur, leaning down to press your lips to his knuckles where he holds your wrists. You plant a kiss to a scar across the middle knuckle on his pointer finger, and he retracts as if your touch burned him. You pout. “Dunk, please. Thought y-you always want to help me?”
“You’re sick.” Dunk takes the hand you had kissed and instead places it against your forehead. Hot steel, a blade left in the sun. You groan at the contact but he ignores you. “You need to rest.”
“M’not sick,” you tell him defiantly, your eyelids drooping as you look your friend up and down. He’s so big and so muscular and so thick. Everywhere. “M’not sick, Dunk, I swear it.”
“You are a poor liar.”
You whine like a child. “M’not lying.”
Dunk’s hand drops from your forehead. “Your body tells me otherwise.”
Tentatively, the hedge knight releases your wrists and allows you to sit before him, and you’re left swaying like a drunkard as your gaze rakes down his body. He feels a little self-conscious at the way your eyes linger across the strong stretch of his arms. But you’re too busy thinking about his words to notice the slight furrow in his brows: your body tells me otherwise.
“You’re obviously not looking hard enough,” you say after a moment thick with tense silence. “My body can tell you other… other things, Dunk.”
You watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. You continue, drunk on lust and completely undeterred. “I had a love potion… or, s’pose it was like… like a sex potion or something… I dunno.”
Dunk blushes at your words.
“I’m only sick ‘cause I need—” you swallow, then slowly reach your hands out again. Your fingers skate along the covered muscles of his chest. “—need you to fuck me.”
Dunk gapes, then recoils, practically leaping off the bed. You whimper, arms dropping uselessly in front of you as he pins himself to the far wall. He’s shaking his head as you sit, alone and a lot colder now, on the bed, staring at him helplessly.
“You’re ill,” he says slowly.
You shake your head, tugging at the neckline of your chemise, trying to filter air between the material and your damp skin. “Nuh-uh.”
“Then you’re drunk,” he says instead. “You’re—whatever you had has made you drunk.”
You pout, a little offended. “M’not drunk.”
Dunk continues to shake his head, but his breathing is laboured. You whine, sitting further back and spreading your legs just enough so your chemise rides further up your thighs. If he looks down, he will surely catch a glimpse of your core—which is flushing hot with blood beneath your skin, slick drooling from you almost painfully.
“I—” Dunk sucks in a deep breath. His big hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he screws his eyes shut. “I can’t.”
You continue to pout. “But… you’re meant to be looking after me.”
“I know, I know,” Dunk utters, running a hand down his face now. His eyes open hesitantly. “I just… this isn’t you. You’re not thinking clearly. I can’t… I can’t take advantage of you like this.”
“Dunk,” you whine, and you watch him screw his eyes shut again. “Dunk, please look at me.”
He cracks his eyes open.
“I’ve always wanted you,” you tell him, your stomach aflutter with butterflies. You’re nervous, but the fever the potion has you under is strong. Your boldness shines through. “Dunk, I lo—”
“No, no, no,” Dunk interrupts quickly, crossing the room in two wide strides to press a hand to your mouth. His palm presses to your face, and the contact makes you moan against him. He jerks back as if you had bitten him, staring down at you with furrowed brows. “M’lady, I can’t—”
“It will cure me,” you decide to tell him, leaning back even further. Your chemise rides up again, and this time, you know your pussy’s on complete display. But Dunk doesn’t look down: his eyes remain on your face as you wet your lips with the point of your tongue. “All I need to… need to do is release a few times, and I’ll feel better.”
Dunk shudders around an exhale. “I… I can’t.”
Then, he’s retreating. You nearly shout in frustration, pleasure searing the inside of your chest as you watch him back away. He sits back on the chair in the corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest as he averts his eyes from you.
“Dunk…” you whisper. “Please… I feel… it hurts.”
“You’re not thinking right,” Dunk replies, voice cracking. “And you’ll hate me if I do anything.”
“Never,” you reply, then curl your fingers around the hem of your chemise. You rip it over your head, and now you’re bare to the room. To Duncan. “I’ve always wanted you, Dunk. Y’just too bloody noble to see it.”
Dunk’s eyes widen as your breasts spill free. With a small sound of surprise, he drops his head and stares down at the creaky wooden floor.
“I promise you,” you begin, leaning back on one arm, the other trailing down your body as you look over at your brave, noble knight. Your fingers trail over the softness of your belly, then down over your mound. You let out a whiny little whimper as your fingers make contact with your core, brushing the swollen pearl of your clit. “I could never hate you. I’ve wanted you for as long as I’ve known you, Dunk. Since Dorne. Since the Stormlands. For goodness sake, since our days in Flea Bottom.”
Your clammy fingers part your silken folds. They’re slick to the touch, and you spread them between two fingers, the warm air of the room bracing against you. With hooded eyes, you watch Dunk squirm in his chair, his big shoulders heaving. He refuses to look up at you, but you can see the way he’s chewing on his lip, and you can see the way one of his arms drops to cover the front of his trousers.
“Please, Dunk,” you plead as your fingers find your hole. Two draw a neat circle, before you push in and whine. You’re warmer than usual, slicker than usual. You hiccup around another whine, and finally, finally, Dunk’s eyes lift. You gaze longingly at him. “Need you to help me. Please.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes don’t leave your face. Your fingers crook deeper inside yourself, sinking down to the middle knuckle now, but he still doesn’t let his eyes wander. His eyes scan your face, looking for any signs of inebriation—any signs you might not mean what you say.
But he can’t find anything.
And he’s not sure why that scares him more.
“I’ll help you,” he whispers finally, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s saying.
That earns him a beautiful moan, a melodic singing of his name as your head tips back. His eyes drop now, down the curves of your body, to where you split yourself open on your fingers. You’ve sunken down even further, hand pressed to the curve of your arse, and Dunk’s cock hardens straight away. Blood rushes south, and it almost makes him dizzy with the speed in which his cock chubs up.
He doesn’t move from the chair though. Instead, he pulls his tunic over his head. You’ve seen him bare like this many times before, but it never gets old. His shoulders are so wide, and so strong. His chest is wide and muscular, and his stomach is tense with thickly corded muscle, but the layer of fat there makes you salivate. You yearn to scrape your nails along the freckles across his shoulders, or mouth along the thick trail of hair that disappears into his trousers.
You pump your fingers in and out, hips bucking to match the movements. The bed creaks loudly, which Dunk had feared from the beginning, the straw mattress groaning beneath your desperate movements.
With one hand pulling the ties of his trousers, the other crooks a finger in your direction. Your eyes light up, your ministrations pausing.
“Come here,” he instructs, tone soft as if coaxing a timid horse. It makes your pussy flutter around your fingers before you pull them from you with a huff and get to your feet. You teeter towards him on shaky legs, and he catches you before you can fall across his lap. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “M’perfect, Dunk. Gods, you’re so handsome.”
Dunk blushes deeper than before, cheeks a brilliant pink as he finally gets the ties of his trousers undone. You help by pulling the fabric apart and reaching down with a quick hand. You grab his cock with your slick fingers, and he hisses as you pull him out of his trousers. He’s huge, which you already knew, but staring at it leaking in your hand, you’re not sure if it’s going to fit.
He pulls you into his lap until his cock rests against your belly. The chair is surprisingly solid beneath your combined weight.
“Easy, easy…” He murmurs, watching the way your fingers struggle to wrap around his girth. The size difference makes his cock jerk against your palm, a desperate groan stuck in his throat.
You stroke his cock a few times, lifting your face to run your nose along the side of his neck. You inhale, taking in his scent as you rock your hips, dragging your bare cunt against his thigh. He groans in your ear, and you suck the skin of his jaw between your teeth, nibbling lightly as your hand works his length. Your fingers barely touch as you wrap your fingers around him, twisting near the base. He’s soft and warm in your hand, and he paws at your hips as you rock against him.
“Dunk,” you whisper in his ear, biting his earlobe.
“Hm?”
“Kiss me.”
Dunk releases a breath and turns his head at your request. Your mouths slot together easily, and he tastes of cheap ale. His lips are just as soft against yours, and you can’t help the way you pant into his mouth as you part willingly part for him. Tongues clash, and his is just a bit too clumsy, but it makes you whine. He’s desperate for your pleasure, and he holds you firmly against him as you lick into his mouth.
Simultaneously, you angle your hips enough to drag the heat of your pussy over the length of his cock. His breath hitches, and you steal his moan from between his teeth as a vein on the underside of his shaft rubs against the slick heat of your folds. Your hips roll against him, the fat tip of him nudging against your swollen clit, sending little shocks through your nerves.
“Need you inside me,” you whisper against his mouth, the point of your tongue touching a small scar at his Cupid’s bow. “Please, Dunk, please put your cock—”
Dunk groans, head falling back. You take the opportunity to suck at the shifting lump in his throat, then lick along the muscles that end at the strong line of his jaw.
“M’too big,” he says to the ceiling.
You grumble, lifting yourself in his lap. He gasps, holding your hips and catching you before you can sink down onto him. You groan, your hands flying up to his shoulders to pinch at the freckled skin, the head of his cock just kissing your leaking hole.
“M’too big,” he repeats, stern this time as you wriggle in his grasp.
“Don’t care,” you huff, body shaking. You were slick with sweat and your heart was racing so fast you thought you were about to pass out. “Need it.”
Dunk grunts, then sits you on his lap. His cock rests back against his stomach as he takes two fingers and, without warning, swipes them through your folds. You yelp, then moan as he collects the slick there. The two blunt tips find your hole and tap, making your hips buck.
“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly,” Dunk tells you quietly, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to your lips. He pulls back before you can deepen it. “If you can take—” he’s so red in the face, you just want to kiss him all over. “—three of my fingers, then you can… you can have my cock. Okay?”
He’s trying his best to sound confident. If you weren’t so horny, it probably wouldn’t have worked. But instead, you whine and nod enthusiastically. He huffs, amused, before his two fingers slowly, slowly breach inside you.
Maybe he should have started with one.
You’re impossibly tight around him. Your gummy walls are slick and warm, but they wrap around the digits like the leather of his sword’s sheath. You release a small breath as he pushes into the middle knuckle, then he withdraws. You don’t have time to complain though, since he’s pushing in once more, this time to the very bottom knuckle. He splits you open, fingers moving gently as he crooks them enough to make you yowl.
He shushes you with a kiss. This time, it’s his tongue slipping into your mouth. He licks the spit from your tongue as he rucks two fingers into the tight clutch of your cunt, feeling the wetness drool out of you and run down the inside of his wrist. The whiny little whimpers you’re breathing into his mouth add fuel to the fire, his cock twitching against his abdomen as he increases his speed. He hits deep, and finds a gummy spot inside of you that makes you arch into him, your mouth growing lax as you moan his name.
You kiss for a while before he presses his ring finger to the rim of your cunt. He feels you stiffen as the tip breaches in alongside the other two, and then you’re leaving the kiss to mewl as he presses in further.
“Is this okay?” Dunk questions, kissing your jaw.
“Y-yeah,” you sigh out, delirious. “So good.”
The third finger sinks deeper, past one knuckle and then the next. Your walls part for him, and you moan loudly in his ear when it finally settles alongside the others. He keeps still for a second, marvelling in the heat of your body, the way you burn up against him, and the heat of your cunt and the slick that drips from you. He wonders if this is how wet you usually are, or if it’s a result of the potion
The thought has a flush creeping up the back of his neck.
You whine, hands squeezing the fat of his pectorals, hips bucking. “Please move.”
He does. He draws all three fingers out until just the tips sit inside you, before he’s slowly pushing them back in. Your head drops back again and you moan into the quiet room, nearby candles flickering. Dunk leans forward again and trails a line of kisses over your shoulder and up your neck until he can suck on the pulsepoint beneath your ear.
Three fingers curl inside you, stretching you open. He reaches deeper than you ever could, seeking the spot inside you that’s going to make you scream. And when he does find it, with a slightly graceless press of his knuckles to your folds, you kiss him to stop yourself from crying out. Instead, you moan his name, slurred as your teeth clash and your tongues flick against each other.
You move your hips, meeting the rucking of his fingers with each thrust. You’re practically bouncing on his lap as he fucks his fingers in and out, building a rhythm. The sound of your pussy squelching makes Dunk’s ears burn, and your stomach clenches. That sends you right towards the edge: your first release crawling down your spine and spreading low in your womb as his fingers pry you apart, piece by piece. Your mouth drops to suck on his neck again, and you feel the vibrations of his groan as your pussy clenches around his fingers. Again and again, until—
“Dunk,” you moan, tension snapping in your womb as you come around him.
He groans towards the ceiling at the feeling of you pulsing around him, and his fingers stutter, but continue their movements, as more slick dribbles down the inside of his wrist. Your orgasm racks through you in tremors, and your teeth scrape against his sensitive skin as you try to dictate your volume, small whimpers escaping your throat as you rock in his lap.
“There,” you whisper, pulling back. A string of saliva connects your lips with the mark you had sucked onto his neck, and it snaps when you speak again. “I did it. I did it, Dunk.”
“You did,” Dunk coos, pressing a kiss to your warm cheek as he pulls his fingers from you.
You whine, and watch with stars in your eyes as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, his blush still high on his cheeks. His pupils grow wider in the shadowed darkness of the room, and you run your fingers along his chest as he tastes you. Blindly—you can’t take your eyes off where his lips wrap around his fingers—you clasp his cock in your hand and guide him back to your entrance. You sit up a little, legs trembling, as you tap the head against your drooling hole.
Dunk rips his fingers from his mouth, two hands coming to rest on either of your hips. He kneads the flesh there a few times.
“Nice and gentle,” he tells you as the head of his cock notches. You suck in a breath, and Dunk soothes you, fingers swiping over your hips. “I know you need it, sweet girl, but we need to go slow.”
You huff, but do as he says. With his help, you gently sink down inch by inch. You can’t help the reverberating moan that leaves you as the girth splits you open. He feels so much wider than his fingers already, but your pussy is so wet and your head is so cloudy that you don’t even register any pain. There’s little resistance too as you continue to slide down, eyes darting up to watch the hedge knight’s face contort in pleasure.
His brow pinches a little as he focuses on where your pretty pussy swallows his cock. He’s never seen anything like it.
Then, when your whimpers go a little too quiet, he looks up at you. Your eyes meet and he whines deep in the back of his throat. You look stunning taking all of him like this, and he can’t help but lean in for another kiss. You accept it gratefully, lips sliding together as you sink another few inches down.
“Being such a good listener,” Dunk murmurs against your mouth as he catches your bottom lip between his teeth. You whimper in response, and he plants a solid kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Taking me nice and slow, just like I said. Never knew you were such a good girl.”
His sentence finishes when he bottoms out and the curve of your arse rests comfortably on his thighs. His trousers are slightly rough on the supple skin at the back of your thighs, but as you grind your hips experimentally against him, it adds to the sensation. You shiver as the head of his cock prods against the entrance to your cervix.
“You’re so deep,” you tell him, and he nods dumbly. He’s not really listening, too busy focusing on not spilling directly into you right that second.
“M’so deep,” he somehow manages to echo around a murmur. Then, he whines. “Oh, my sweet girl. Can… can you feel me in your tummy?”
You moan, unable to answer with words. But you could feel him there.
You decide then to start moving, and Dunk’s mind goes blank. He helps you rise and fall, cunt milking around the thick of his cock like it was made for him. Forged for him, only for him. He watches the fat of your breasts bounce as you shift against him, and he listens to the breathy little whimpers you release as he fills you over and over.
“Gods, you feel so good,” Dunk moans, the back of the wooden chair digging into his bare skin. It creaks quietly, but nothing severe, as you bounce in his lap. Your pussy takes him well now, stretching perfectly around him. Your hands slide around his shoulders as you anchor yourself to him, and you hold on for dear life as you take what you so badly need. Dunk moans again. “Oh, gods, just like that—that feels so good, sweet girl, oh fuck.”
You pant loudly, the muscles in your legs and lower back beginning to ache. You’re just too hot, and you can feel your second orgasm building up quickly. It surges within you like water, and the intensity of it has you clinging to him, nails dimpling his flesh.
“Dunk,” you mewl, taking him all and grinding your swollen clit against the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “Oh, fuck, Dunk, m’so close already.”
Dunk huffs, leaning forward and mouthing at the curve of your breasts. He drags his tongue between the mounds, collecting the sweat that trails there. The sensation makes you whimper, a hand shooting down to collect a fistful of his hair. You grip his scalp as his warm mouth wraps around the bud of your nipple, and the feeling is so sharp with pleasure that you jerk against him, tears pricking in your eyes.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble as he switches to your other nipple. His teeth graze you, and you buck wildly in his lap. When he pulls away, he finishes with a wet kiss to your mouth. Your hand leaves his hair and finds his throat, holding there gently as you moan. “Gods, Dunk, feels so good. M’gonna—fuck, m’coming.”
“Let me feel you,” Dunk whispers, and the dams burst.
Your orgasm floods you, then pulls you under. You can’t lift yourself up anymore as it surges through, and you can’t help the cry that falls from your lips as pleasure zips down your spine and splinters in your core. Your blood boils hot beneath your skin as you shiver against him, pussy clenching around the thick of his cock. It feels realm-shattering, like nothing you’ve ever felt before: he’s so deep inside you, so thick inside you, that you can’t help the way you writhe and call his name as if he weren’t mere inches from you.
He watches you in absolute awe.
Taking over, he snaps his hips upwards, chasing his own high in the midst of yours. As you fizzle down, his balls draw up tight, and a guttural groan is ripped from him as he hugs you to his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His cock barely moves as he rolls his hips, thrusting desperately once, twice, thrice more before he comes.
You think you hear your name muffling against the damp skin of your neck as he spills inside of you, flooding your womb. Goosebumps rise across his back as you drag your nails across the freckles there, breathing deeply as he empties himself, then stills. He gasps against your neck, mouthing the skin there before you gently urge him away.
Your mind feels clear, and Dunk notices the glaze over your eyes has vanished.
“You okay?” He asks, panting. His big hands rub up and down your back, his cock still nestling deep inside you.
You nod. “I’m so good, Dunk. Thank you.”
Dunk looks bashful. “S’alright.”
“I mean it. Thank you for doing this.” You kiss his cheek, then the other. His blush is as hot as embers as you kiss along the few freckles there. When you pull back, he’s looking at you with puppy-eyes that make you want to kiss him all over again. You reach up and cup his face.
“I love you,” you tell him.
His eyes go wide.
You giggle. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… I suppose I’ve been meaning to tell you that for a while.”
Dunk rushes forward and slams his mouth to yours, hugging you so tight to his body you fear the two of you may become one. Your hearts beat in sync as you kiss him, his hands all over your back, yours still on his face. When he pulls away, his pupils are still blown so wide his eyes appear black in the candlelight.
“You’ve made me question everything I thought I knew about myself,” he tells you earnestly.
You cock your head, slightly apprehensive. “Is that a good thing?”
“Yes,” he eases your worries. “Because now I know how much I love you.”
You kiss him again, and again still, until the candle nearby almost runs out of wax.
———
gosh he’s so noble and kind and sexy and beautiful and
✿ your husband returns to you under the influence of a strange powder, and he needs you more than anything (or, a sex pollen oneshot with our favourite hedge knight)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7k
✿ cw: fem!reader + no y/n, reader isn’t physically described, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, outdoor sex, multiple orgasms (for both reader and dunk), praise!!, breeding!!, pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), slight overstimulation, slight painful sex in the beginning, needy + desperate dunk (he whinesss baby), fluff, strong language
Duncan lumbers through the crowded market streets, his large frame parting the tide of people who flow around him like water. He keeps one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other clutching a small pouch of sweets. Your favourite, he knows, coated in sugar with a treacle-sweet centre. He smiles to himself, imagining the look of joy that will pass over your face, seeing that your husband has brought you your favourite sweets, rather than the bread he claimed to have been craving.
Dunk ducks beneath a low-hanging awning as he winds his way between the stalls and through passageways between rickety buildings. The town reminds him a lot of Flea Bottom, and the shadows that dance through the walkways have a painful kind of nostalgia washing through him.
“Oi, watch it!”
Dunk startles, eyes shooting onwards where a market vendor, an angry vein bulging across his grime-coated forehead, points at an elderly woman wrapped in colourful shawls. Apples in reds and greens roll across the flagstones, a wooden box tipped on its side.
The vendor moves as though to strike the woman, but Dunk gets there first—somehow, he slips through the dispersing crowd and clamps a large hand around the vendor’s wrist. The vendor looks up, and up further, taking in the sheer size of Duncan, and the scowl on his face vanishes, melting back into the shadows.
“You will not lay your hand upon a woman,” Dunk growls, and then proceeds to shove the vendor away.
The vendor yelps, clutching at his bruising wrist—Dunk didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man that hard—while the hedge knight turns and squats, gathering the apples from the cobbles. When he returns them to the upturned box, he hefts it easily in one hand and peers down at the woman with a sympathetic smile.
“Are you alright?” He asks.
The woman smiles softly, reaching up to pat him gently on the forearm. “I am, my dear, thank you.”
Dunk nods to the box in his hand. “Does this belong to you?”
“I just purchased it,” the woman replies sheepishly. “But it seems my arms and hands do not work as well as they used to.”
“Well, my arms and hands work plenty fine,” Dunk says with a smile. “And my wife says I’m the best at carrying her things, so I shall carry the crate for you.”
The elderly woman smiles again, reaching up to pat Dunk’s cheek, before she turns, the pinks and greens and golds of her shawls swishing around her. She smells of powdery lavender incense and wax soap, and for the briefest of moments, Dunk is reminded of what little he recalls of his mother.
He follows her down the narrow lane after shooting one last threatening look at the vendor. She looks largely out of place amongst the common folk who traverse the market streets dressed in browns and greys, fraying cotton and stained linen. She is colourful, eccentric, her skin dark and clean of any age spots, the wrinkles shallow. She didn’t appear as old as Dunk first thought, but maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention.
After a few minutes of walking, the woman leads Dunk through a small, dark alcove, and stops outside a wooden door painted a forest green, a brass knocker resembling a lion mounted to the front. She unlocks and pushes open the door, and Dunk is hit with a thick aroma of herbs and flowers.
“May I bother you to bring them inside?” The woman asks softly.
“Of course,” Dunk replies instantly, and he stoops low to avoid the overhang of the doorway, following the woman inside, where the hall opens up into a room full of things.
Shelves line every wall, bottles and jars of liquids and powders filling them. They shine in different colours, different consistencies, and the smell that accumulates at Dunk’s head-height makes him slightly dizzy. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling—which the giant man finds out when he is smacked in the face by a bundle of desiccated spices.
Dunk places the crate of apples onto a table in the middle of the room, the wood clinking against several empty and half-filled bottles across the surface. When he rights himself, the elderly woman places her hand on his forearm once more. Her fingers are almost completely obscured by stacks of gold rings, and the bangles around her wrists jingle like chimes as she pets him like a child would a cat.
“I thank you for your kindness,” she tells him. “You will make yourself a fine knight one day.”
Dunk doesn’t think twice about the fact the lady knew he was to be a knight, but the compliment makes him burst with pride regardless. He dips his head respectfully, hand pressing to his chest in a sign of good faith.
“It was no problem at all.”
“Here, allow me to give you something in return,” the woman says, and turns to the lines of shelves behind her, fingers flitting across jars.
Dunk shakes his head, clearing his throat as his hand, once again, comes to rest against the pommel of his sword. He’s trying to appear more noble, but when he stands up straight, he hits the crown of his head on a low wooden beam, making him grunt.
“There is no need,” Dunk says around a hiss, rubbing the top of his head. “I do not—”
The woman points to a jar on the very top shelf, one she cannot reach, interrupting Dunk smoothly. “May you retrieve that one for me?”
Dunk bites his tongue and does what he is told. His large fingers pinch around the small jar the woman wants, and through the tempered glass he can see a yellow powder that seems to sparkle as it catches the low light of suspended candles. He hands it to the woman, who thanks him and pops the cork with a flick of her thumb.
She turns to face him. “When was the last time you lay with your wife?”
“I—” Dunk chokes on his spit. “I beg your—”
“I suppose we have seen the face of the sun many times since you have?” The woman taps the rim of the jar against her outstretched palm, collecting some of the powder. Dunk notices the traces of pink amongst the yellow. “Nearly twelve nights gone? You poor thing.”
Dunk stammers, but can’t articulate words.
Okay, maybe it has been that long, but only initially because your moon blood had arrived. The two of you usually had no qualms with being intimate whilst you bled, but you were particularly tender, and no amount of stretch from your husband’s tongue and fingers seemed to eliminate the ache, so you both decided against it.
Then, even when your blood had passed, the two of you travelling tirelessly for several days straight had meant Dunk did not want you to exert too much energy, even when you did plead with him.
The fact this woman knows that has suspicion, not quite fear, passing through him like a phantom.
“Your wife longs for you, and yet here you are, resorting to obtaining sweets to ease her qualms,” the woman says, and now Dunk is slightly creeped out. The bag of sweets hangs against his hip, fastened to the rope belt around his waist. The woman chuckles softly. “And that is why I believe this will be as good a reward as any.”
She lifts her palm and proceeds to blow the yellowy-pink powder directly into Dunk’s face. He sucks in a startled breath and it fills his lungs like smoke, his mouth tasting the sweetness of ripened grapes and honeyed wine. Quickly, he screws his eyes shut, but the powder lingers already in his lashline, and when he blinks, his vision seems brighter.
“What the—?” Dunk lifts his hand and wipes it down his face, stumbling back slightly.
“It is harmless to your overall health, and the effects will fade when you…” She hesitates, and then pats him on the chest. “Are satisfied, although that may take some effort. Now, be gone with you, Ser Duncan. You have a wife to return too.”
The woman, with surprising strength, spins Dunk around and pushes him out the door. It slams closed behind him, and he stands there with his head spinning, wondering how on earth she even knew his name.
In the shadows of the alcove, he catches his breath, which comes in increasingly laboured pants as his entire body begins to light up with warmth. His clothes feel too sticky against his skin, the back of his neck prickling, his temples dampening. The rope around his hips is too tight, the sword hanging there too heavy.
“Gods above, what is happening to me?” Dunk whispers to himself, looking down at his body as something stirs low in the pit of his stomach.
He thinks of you, waiting so patiently back at the campsite. He groans softly, reaching a hand down to press flat against his groin, where his cock is slowly beginning to harden in his breeches. The thought of you sitting against a tree, maybe mending one of his cloaks, or sharpening one of his blades, has a dizzy sort of pleasure seizing his brain.
Dunk whimpers your name, and stumbles out into the streets. He needs to get to you.
—✿—
The sky above is alight with oranges and pinks as the sun slowly begins to sink below the distant horizon. You watch it calmly, the forest around you quiet and serene, the sound of the nearby river washing through you and instilling a sense of calm. Your hand moves where you clutch your bone-handled blade, slicing it, bit-by-bit, through a small chunk of wood. It now resembles a horse, for the most part. You have taken up carving as a means of passing time, and selling the little statues earns you a bit of coin.
Your serenity is interrupted by the snapping of twigs and approaching footsteps. Several yards away, your horses do not startle, but you grip your knife tightly anyway as the footsteps encroach louder, then louder still. But you can hear the heavy thuds and the wide gait, and a small smile splits across your face when you recognise your husband’s footsteps.
You place your carving and knife aside, dusting the wood shavings from your hands as you get to your feet. Dunk appears through the tree line and your smile grows when you see him.
“Dunk!” You greet him. “I’ve been waiting…”
You take a moment to look at your husband as he walks towards you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a bright blush painting his cheeks. His eyes appear watery, and as he draws nearer, the hot skin of his face seems to shimmer with something iridescent.
He towers over you, and out of instinct, you reach up and cup your palms to his cheeks. His eyes fall closed and he groans, throaty and loud. He’s feverish, molten-hot. You smell overripe grapes, lavender and honeycakes as he shifts, ripping his cloak from his body and tossing it to the ground.
“What has happened to you?” You ask, concern overcoming you as your hands brace down his neck and chest now, feeling the rabbit-like thumping of his heart.
Dunk groans again, eyes opening to watch your hands work down his abdomen. A shudder racks through him when your hands stop at the waistband of his trousers, your eyes widening as you spot the straining imprint of his cock. Your eyes lift, sparkling in the evening light, and Dunk swears that look alone could have made him spill in his breeches.
“Have you taken something?” You question quietly, finding the knot of his rope belt. You unfasten and unravel it, hefting the sword too and placing it on the ground. Dunk watches with his hands balled into fists. He’ll tell you about the sweets later. You peer back up at him again. “Duncan?”
His name leaving your lips forces him to his knees. A whine rips from the back of his throat as he drops, and you gasp as his knees crackle through dried leaves. His hands reach out, encircling around your hips as he lines himself up with your abdomen, his mouth pressing to your stomach.
Your hands card through his hair, worried. “Dunk, my love?”
“A woman… she gave me something—blew a powder into my face,” Dunk gasps out, leaning his burning cheek against you, listening to your breathing. “Says I will… says it will feel better when I am sat–satisfied.”
You frown. “Satisfied?”
Dunk nods, nuzzling into you. His hips shift as well, and suddenly you feel the tent of his trousers pressing to your leg through your skirts. A soft gasp escapes you as you continue to card your fingers through his hair, tussling the longish brown locks.
You know what he means by satisfied, considering his cock seems to be burning hot through both the fabric of his breeches and trousers, and the material of your simple dress.
“It hurts,” Dunk mutters, mouthing at your dress now, lips pressing to the softness of your belly. The fabric wets with his saliva as his tongue darts out, dragging over the linen. You grimace and thread your fingers against his scalp, holding him firmly and dragging his head away. He whimpers loudly, eyes flying open as he whines out, “Hurts so bad, sweetheart.”
Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest, your stomach churning with worry. You don’t want your husband hurting, but what was really wrong with him? He had left to the market for bread or something of the sort, and returned, not only empty-handed, but flushed with desire with his trousers practically ripping at the seams.
“Duncan…” You continue to grip his hair so he can’t literally lick your dress. “What hurts? You need to tell me.”
Dunk groans as your other hand shifts back to his cheek, stroking the warmed flesh. He leans into the touch with drooping eyelids, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black in the fading light of dusk.
“My—” Dunk blows out a breath as if battling something in his brain. “My… oh gods, my love, I can’t say—I just can’t—”
You know what he wants to say. You know it when his hips twitch and he drags the imprint of his cock against your leg once more.
Something warm is blooming in your core now too. The sight of your husband on his knees before you, clutching you as if you were keeping him alive, feverish in his pleasure, has you starting to leak into the gusset of your smallclothes. Heat fills your tummy as you stroke his cheek, the tips of your fingers collecting a shimmering film of yellow and pink dust. It seems to be trapped in his pores, coating his freckles as he peers up at you.
You massage his scalp, which is damp with sweat. “Does your cock hurt, sweet boy?”
The words feel too alien coming from your mouth, much too crude for a lady, but the shock that passes over your husband’s face is euphoric to your slowly dampening core. His mouth drops open, his tongue practically lolling out like a tired hound, as a groan rumbles from his chest and he starts to nod. His cock presses to your thigh and he tries to grind himself against you, but you tug on his hair to get him to stop.
“Well, tell me what you need me to do,” you whisper down at him. “I can help you. You just need to be a good boy and tell me what you need, okay?”
Dunk groans. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—I can be good. I just—I just need you, pl-please, my love, I need you.”
You coo at him. “Need me? I’m right here, Dunk.”
“No,” he whines out, leaning his forehead against your stomach. You let him. He groans again, this time more high-pitched, bordering on a whimper. “Need your…”
“Need my…?”
“Gods, my heart is going to implode,” Dunk huffs as an aside. “Please—”
“What do you need, Dunk?” You ask firmly, gripping his hair and forcing him away from your stomach. The broken sound that leaves him almost makes you feel bad, but you need him to make some kind of sense before you give him anything. You know exactly what he wants, but he needs to work for it.
Dunk licks his lips, looking you up and down, and the words that leave his mouth sound like nothing you’ve ever heard from him in the entire time you’ve known him. His tone is dark with need, but still light enough to know his words are edging around a whine. “Need your pussy. Need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. Need to pump you so full that—”
He cuts himself off with a low moan as you push his head down, pinning him and muffling the rest of his rambling against the fabric covering your mound. His mouth laves over the linen straight away, and the heat that overtakes you threatens to burn you from the inside out.
“Come on then, my boy,” you whisper, rubbing his scalp gently, your other hand smoothing down the strong expanse of his shoulders. “Help me out of this dress and I can give you what you want.”
Dunk grunts in relief as he hurries to his feet and spins you around so fast you feel dizzy. He walks you back a few paces until you can brace your hands against the coarse bark of a tree as he pulls at the ties along the back of your dress. He rips the knots undone, large hands trembling as he makes quick work of unthreading the ribbons he himself had tied earlier that morning.
His movements are harsh. Gods, he’s trying to be gentle, but he just can’t help it.
“Duncan…” You grumble, jostled as he tugs and pulls.
“M’sorry,” he slurs as, giving up on the last few ribbons, he hooks his fingers beneath the silky strings and rips them. You gasp as he practically pulls your dress apart, the sound of material tearing filling the forest as your dress loosens around your shoulders and breasts. Dunk slurs again, “M’so sorry, sweet girl.”
He pulls you to him as he drags your dress from your body, leaving you in your smallclothes as you kick the mass of skirts away. The chemise follows—Dunk pulls it over your head and spins you around at the same time, and you yelp at the speed of it all. Your breasts spill out into the cool air of the forest and his head ducks immediately, mouth attaching to a hardening nipple as one of his large hands finds the other. He kneads it as he drops to his knees once more, sucking harshly whilst his other hand finds your smallclothes.
“Dunk,” you call for him through a whine as he tugs them down, and you barely have time to send them away from your ankles before he’s ripping your legs apart.
His mouth drops from your tits, skims briefly over the soft skin of your tummy, before his nose is dragging down your mound and burrowing between your legs.
You gasp. “Dunk, oh my—”
“Need this,” Dunk grumbles. “Gods, need this. Got to—y’gotta give it to me, sweetheart.”
He inhales deeply, and the sensation makes you squeal and squirm, your back arching against the tree. Your hands find his damp hair again, tugging. But it’s no deterrent—the giant inhales again, this time followed by a loud, unabashed moan that sends the birds above flying from their roosts. The forest seems to echo with it, and you can feel the heat of his face burning deeper as he buries himself against you. You feel his mouth split open, warm lips parting for his tongue to curl outwards. He licks through your folds as another groan spills, the vibrations buzzing through you like bees trapped in a jar.
Your hands shift from his head to his shoulders, and you tug at the fabric of his tunic.
“Dunk,” you say hurriedly. “Off.”
He removes himself from you with a grunt, letting you help him in flinging his tunic off. It lands somewhere in the distance. Dunk doesn’t care though, descending between your legs again and drawing your clit into his mouth with one harsh suck. It makes you yowl, fingernails biting crescents into the freckled skin of his shoulders. His skin is sticky with sweat and impossibly warm.
With another animalistic grunt, Dunk takes one of your legs and tosses it over his shoulder. The new angle allows him to drive his tongue into your drooling hole, and the abruptness makes you keen into him, hips twitching as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit. Blood pools low beneath the skin, simmering hot in your nerves as he ruts his tongue inside you, each movement eliciting a gravelly groan from the depths of his chest.
His other hand unties the knots of his trousers. He pushes the fabric away with fumbling fingers and pulls his aching cock out of his breeches, the material on the front wet with precum. When his fingers wrap around the length—hot iron wrapped in a sheath of velvet—and the sword callouses on his palm rub against a vein on the underside, his vision whites behind his eyelids. The pleasure is almost painful, the pressure pulling heavily at his cockhead, bruising a purplish-red. Precum leaks from the slit in a continuous rivulet that has his heart knocking against his sternum.
His balls are tight already, and as he tastes you, listening to the light whimpers that fall from your mouth, he realises he’s going to spill. He realises it as his precum wets his palm, his hand gliding without him even needing to spit on it. He realises it as his cock twitches heavily in his hand, again and again; that unmistakable pressure in his lower spine and belly building. He wants to let it happen—he rucks his hips, meeting the movements of his hand, fucking his fist. Grunts muffle in your wet pussy as he chases his high, your thigh warm on his ear.
The precipice of pleasure is right there, but he can’t reach it.
He strokes his cock, twists at the base, tastes the heady scent of you dripping down the back of his throat, but he can’t come.
“Dunk,” you call sweetly, tipsy on pleasure. “Oh, gods, Dunk, keep going.”
It feels like Dunk’s entire face is wet: the upper portion damp with sweat, the lower portion shining with your slick. His mouth moves against you like he’s kissing you, lips spreading and tongue curling. He breathes you in, moaning softly, head bobbing as he continues to fist his cock. It’s nearly trembling in his hand, and you can feel Dunk shivering as he chases a release that refuses to let go.
You can hear him fucking his fist over the wet slurps of his tongue against your pussy. As the forest darkens around you, your ears ring with it, your bare back scratching against the tree trunk as you rock your hips. His mouth is searing hot, forged from the very fires of Dragonstone.
Your thigh quivers over his shoulder as you speak. “Duncan, m’gonna come.”
Your only response is a deep grunt that vibrates your puffy clit, and that has your legs locking up even tighter. Pleasure takes deep root in the base of your spine, and it spreads as you take, take, take, until you topple into your orgasm. It rocks through you, and you hold him tightly, rocking your hips as you spasm around his tongue. Chants of his name roll easily over your lips, and he groans nicely against you as he fucks you through it.
Dunk pulls away after a couple of seconds. His breathing is ragged, lips wet, chest flushed red. He’s still fisting his cock, and you look down at him, meeting his round, watery eyes as he nuzzles against the thigh still draped over his shoulder.
“I…” He breathes in deeply. “I can’t—oh, fuck, I can’t—”
His hand is moving so fast. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, and you gingerly remove your thigh from his shoulder. Then, you tap his head.
“Stand up for me, Dunk,” you say gently, trailing a nail along the dip of his clavicle. “I’ll help you, I promise.”
Your husband springs to his feet before you even finish speaking, pushing his trousers and breeches all the way off.
He continues to grasp his cock. It leans forward under the weight of his pleasure, and you both groan when he rubs the head against the soft skin above your navel. Precum spreads across your skin, and when he pulls back, a sticky string connects you two for just a moment. You whimper his name when the string snaps, and he draws in a sharp, almost pained breath.
“Inside,” he whispers, more to himself than you. He drags the head of his cock down as he bends at the knee. “Need… yeah, need to be inside.”
The angle is slightly awkward—he’s just a bit too big—but he makes it work, stooping low as he angles your legs apart. The head of his cock finds the tight hole of your cunt, and he presses it there with surprising restraint.
“M’sorry,” Dunk breathes, leaning forward to mouth at your throat. You arch, and he purrs, pleased, as you willingly give yourself up to him. He kisses your jaw softly. “M’sorry, sweet girl, m’not gonna… I can’t wait. Jus’ need you, s-so jus’ be good, okay? I’ll try—I’ll try t’be gentle, my love. I’ll try for you.”
The head of his cock slips past the ring of your pussy, and you suck in a breath at the stretch. Wide, splitting, and no matter how wet you are, how long he took in stretching you open on his tongue or fingers, there was always a battle of bodies. Always a push to get him fully seated inside you, the tight walls of your cunt clutching around the thick intrusion.
You whimper his name again, nails needling into the tawny freckles along his shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Dunk chants, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel you tensing against him, but he doesn’t stop.
He’s overwhelmed: the heat of your pussy draws his cock in further, his mind going blank, the taste of grapes and lavender aromatic in the grooves of his molars, and leaking from his pores.
His cock slides in further, parting the wet walls of your pussy inch by inch. “Please take it, sweet girl. Please just—fuck, take it.”
It hurts. He’s too fucking big, and he knows it.
You writhe against the tree, standing on your tip-toes now as he drives slowly into you. You're thankful he’s at least easing in bit by bit. You’re not sure you would have survived if he simply took you in one fell thrust.
But at the same time, it feels incredible. The sting of the stretch is underlined by that usual, aching pleasure that festers deep in your pelvis. You feel it as the ridges of his cock run against your posterior wall, splitting you apart, rubbing you the right way. Your heartbeat thrums heavily in your clit, and your back arches against the tree, fingernails now scraping down his broad back.
“Dunk,” you whimper as he feeds his cock into you.
He groans against your throat, sucking harshly. The sound of his name on your mouth, so sweet, so beautiful, snaps whatever composure he had been holding onto. With another guttural groan, Dunk surges forward, jolting his hips inwards and stuffing the rest of his cock inside you.
You cry out, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. He’s rough, his pace coming in quick, brutal thrusts, and he’s panting against your dewy skin all the while. His body shakes against yours as he pulls his cock out, then shoves it back in. You yowl like an injured animal, and Dunk’s heart flutters in his chest.
“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry—” It rambles from him like a mantra but his hips don’t slow. He spreads you apart, girth still too thick, length still too long. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know, but just… gods, just stay like that. Please, sweet girl, be good for me.”
Your back scrapes against the tree as his movements propel you. You’re practically bouncing against him, barely even touching the ground anymore as he takes what he needs. The slide of his cock does hurt, but your walls mould around him like clay. Made for him.
The heat and wetness of your pussy sends him over the edge, and you feel it. You feel him go rigid against you, muscles stiffening as his hips buck. His thrusts grow sloppy, seconds blurring together as his balls tighten and his cock twitches deep inside you. You feel it, feel it nudging up against the plug of your cervix as his hips roll. Then, with a rasping moan of your name, he spills inside you. Deep inside you. Warmth floods your lower belly, through the hollow of your womb as his hips jerk, his mouth biting and sucking at your neck.
And he keeps spilling. It fills you to the brim, and you can’t help but whimper as it drools out from around his cock. With a slightly disgruntled huff, Dunk pulls out, leaning back to look at where his cock hangs, still stiff, between his legs. Cum seeps from the slit, spider-web strings drooling from you too, and the sight almost has him coming again.
But he’s still hard.
“S’not…” Dunk’s brows furrow, and he slants his hips forward to drag his cock against your thigh. You squirm and whine as he wipes his cum across your skin, and then moan when the head prods back at your hole. Dunk whimpers. “S’not enough, need more.”
Then, he’s thrusting back in again. The forest’s shadows engulf you both as he slots himself inside of you, the glide quick and wet and audible as he drives home. You choke on a gasp, hands clutching his shoulders. Your legs are cramping, your back stinging, your pussy aching—but it all softens around the edges as Dunk ruts into you again and again.
“Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, please.”
Your husband lifts his head and finally kisses you. For the first time tonight, he slots his mouth against yours. The moan that leaves him has your cunt clenching tightly around the thick of his cock, and one of your hands finds the back of his neck as your tongues meet. It’s an intricate dance, but Dunk's movements are just too desperate to stick to the practised moves—his tongue is breaching, too thick and too strong, flattening against yours roughly. You swap spit, and he pants into the kiss as he chases your tongue and licks over the points of your teeth. It’s sloppy and messy and everything Dunk needs.
His hands are on your waist. Big, encompassing, fingers dimpling the flesh. His cock stretches you open, his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your arse as he ruts you against the tree. The wet sounds of you coming together echo softly through the forest, the sun sunk beyond the horizon now, shadows stretching far and flitting across your connected frames.
“Being so good,” Dunk mutters, licking over your parted lips. It makes you whimper, and your bottom teeth catch his lip. He groans when you release him after a playful nip. “Gods, always so good for me. Needed this so bad, sweetheart. Needed you so bad.”
“Dunk,” you mewl, scratches red along his big shoulders.
Your cunt squeezes tightly around him, another release building deep in your stomach: that same feeling as minutes before, a traction building along your spine as he fucks you. Dunk mouths along your jaw, panting into your ear as his thrusts start to stammer, and before you can react, he’s pulling you away from the tree and manhandling you to the ground. His hard cock slips out of you, the sensation forcing you to suck in a breath as his seed all but drools from your gaping cunt, the cool forest air a sudden stimuli as you’re spun around.
You let out a light grunt as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, which find the wool of his discarded cloak. Leaves crinkle softly beneath your weight as your back arches and the warmth of Duncan appears behind you. Large, calloused hands trail up your sides, kneading your waist, before dragging back down and palming the curve of your arse.
Dunk gazes at you through the semi-darkness. “Prettiest girl in the realm, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”
He grunts, then grips the base of his cock. It shines with your slick, wet with his spend too, and he slaps the thick head against one of your arsecheeks. You huff, and he drags the tip down the split of your arse until it ghosts across your hole—just lightly enough to make you draw in an anticipatory breath—before it finds your pussy.
“This is mine,” Dunk utters, and you almost don’t hear him. Even in the relative silence of the forest, his words are so quiet you could have mistaken them for the nearby river. Dunk circles his tip through your soaking folds before notching it and pushing in again. The groan that leaves his mouth makes you shiver. “This—fuck—this fuckin’ pussy, s’all mine. Hey, sweet girl, isn’t that right? Yeah? Tell me this is all mine.”
He thrusts in and you shout, voice carrying through the forest.
“Huh?” Dunk thrusts again, hard and fast. The angle drives him deep against you, tip knocking against the plug of your cervix. He leans over you, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair messy, cheeks pink. His hands pull your arse back onto his pelvis, meeting you thrust for thrust. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Need—need you to tell me. Please.”
You don’t know what that woman gave him, but you can see what it’s done to him. You can hear what it’s done, and feel what it’s done.
His rutting is brutal, his cock driving deep towards your womb, your belly full of him. Your arms shake where you hold yourself up, sweat damp in the crook of your elbows as you fist his cloak. It smells like him, and that makes the whines trapped in your throat break free.
“It’s yours, Dunk,” you manage to say as he leans over you, his body hot and too fucking big pressed against your lower spine. You gasp when one of his hands wraps around your hip and heads south, a finger finding your swollen clit. “Oh, fuck, it’s yours.”
Dunk draws a tight circle over the bud, marvelling in the way your pussy immediately tightens around him. “Yeah it is. Gods, I’m the luckiest man in all the seven kingdoms.”
You don’t correct him.
Your body trembles beneath his, and it’s almost like you can feel his cock swelling inside you. He’s impossibly thick, the ridges and veins sliding against the velvet of your walls, the head nailing that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Dunk always knows how to make you feel good, can always get you to where you want to go, but this is something entirely different. There’s an intensity within him you’ve never seen before. A feverish need that’s overtaken him, that flows from his pores, that infects every fibre of his being.
It makes you keen, back arching, listening to the way he grunts with each of his movements, cock splitting you open, heavy balls slapping against your clit as his fingers work against it too. The meat of his muscles are warm against you, solid and sturdy, holding you in place. It all adds to the sensation.
Another orgasm is quickly pulled through your body, and Dunk praises you through it as it crests like a wave.
“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he coos as you come around him, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Your spine dips, hips stuttering, and Dunk removes his fingers from your aching clit to place a hand in the middle of your back. He forces you into a deeper arch, the new angle punching a scream from your throat as he coos again. “I know, I know, don’t make a fuss, sweet girl. You can do it. You can take me.”
Dunk’s breathing is laboured, and his stamina starts to falter as his cock twitches. Your cunt feels like heaven—a warm, silken heaven—and he screws his eyes shut momentarily, visions of him spilling deep inside you, straight into your womb, vivid in his mind. Maybe you shouldn’t drink the moon tea he finds you brewing during rest stops. Maybe he won’t have to spill across your stomach or tits or arse ever again.
He opens his eyes and grunts around a clenched jaw. “Ah—s’about time I breed—fuck—breed you, sweetheart. Huh? What do you think? Come deep inside this—ah, gods—t-this pretty pussy and give you my child. You’d look so beautiful all fat with my babe, wouldn’t you? Keep you n-nice and bred.”
“Yes, Dunk, fuck,” you moan. “Please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls out, fingers a vice on your hips. “Let me feel you. One more time, c’mon, my sweet girl. Let go for me one more time.”
You don’t know if you can.
Your body feels wrung out, like a dress soaked and dried by the river. Your heart clatters against your chest as your breasts push against the material of his cloak. There’s an uncomfortable pressure building in your lower tummy, mostly overwhelmed by overstimulation, but you can feel the remains of pleasure there too.
And Dunk knows you have it in you.
“One more,” he says. “One more, sweetheart, you can do it.”
Body on fire, nerves flaming at their ends, you meet his sloppy thrusts as best as you can. Your limbs tremor like a fawn, and your moans have long run dry: only hoarse whimpers roll from your tongue tasting lightly of honeyed wine.
And then you do give him one more.
Your body reacts to the manic pushing of his cock inside you, reacts to the thick of his cock splitting you open, reacts to the way he whispers your name like the sweetest kind of prayer. You come around him, arms collapsing as your pussy flutters around his girth. You topple forward, moaning his name while the ground shifts to meet you, and your legs seize, verging on a cramp.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I want,” Dunk babbles, a large hand wrapping around the back of your neck now and pulling you onto your knees. You’re boneless, and he’s so strong, so you can’t do much but let him haul you back against his broad, sweaty chest. He presses a hot kiss to the skin just beside your tragus. “Such a good girl—you did it. Gods, my sweet girl, my perfect girl. You did it, an’ you did so good for me.”
Bulky arms encircle you, bouncing you back against his cock. He grunts into your ear, ragged and bearish, as his entire body pulses with heat. He’s feverish, ill with pleasure, and you’re his soothing balm: the perfect remedy.
With one last pathetic whimper of your name, Dunk shoves himself to the hilt, as deep as he can possibly go, as his orgasm flows through him. His teeth sink into the skin on your shoulder as his cock jerks, hot spurts flooding thick into your womb. You sigh softly into the cool early night air, reclining back against your husband as he empties himself inside you again, your pussy milking him for all it’s worth. Dunk groans into your shoulder, fever finally breaking, his cock giving one last jolt before it slowly starts to soften inside of you. The feeling nearly makes his eyes roll into the back of his head, relief filling him.
You stay like this for a little while. He presses silent, delicate kisses along your bare shoulder and onto your cheek, his hands rubbing over your breasts and belly, but not in a sexual way. His big, rough hands are calming as you both fizzle down from your highs.
Soon though, Dunk realises the forest around you has grown too dark. Wordlessly, he helps you to your feet, bundling you in his cloak before guiding you towards the fire. It is made, but unlit, but it’s roaring in mere minutes as Dunk—who has hurriedly thrown his breeches and trousers on—adds more fuel to the flickering orange flames.
Then, beneath the firelight, Dunk cleans you up. You sit on a stump before him as he dabs a wet cloth between your legs, wiping his seed from your core. He presses tender kisses to the inside of your knees, and soon you’re dressed, and the two of you snack on salt beef, cuddling beneath the stars.
“Maybe you should go back to that woman,” you say jokingly, turning your head to find Dunk already looking at you. His eyes reflect the fire. You smile. “I like it when you’re needy. I wonder if she has a long-lasting one?”
Dunk flushes, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to have to go through that again. As much as it felt great, my cock also felt about ready to break in half.”
You laugh, and Dunk resumes watching you carefully. After a moment, something lights up in his eyes, and he gets to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of salt beef, and retrieves his rope belt from where the horses graze nearby. When he returns, you lean your head against the pillowy muscle of his upper arm, peering at his big hands as he plucks a small pouch from the belt.
“I got you these,” your husband says shyly, handing you the bag.
You beam when you open it and see your favourite sweets. You incline your head and urge Dunk down to you, drawing his mouth into a sweet kiss.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you more.”
Then, you laugh. “Oh, you poor boy. You went to the market to purchase some sweets, and instead you got poisoned—” you say that part sarcastically, “—by a little old lady. My poor, poor boy.”
You reach up and stroke his hair, watching with awe as his eyes fall closed and a deep purr leaves his chest. His arm wraps tighter around you, pulling you closer into his side.
He never wants to let you go.
———
god he’s so hot
describing his muscles as ‘pillowy’ really got to me i need to lie down
Can we get some headcanons with Dunk and his first time with reader and him learning how to please a woman?
Your first time with Ser Duncan The Tall headcanons:
Pairing: Ser Duncan The Tall X fem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, kissing, size kink, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, mention of hair pulling , cuddling and aftercare.
His touch would be extremely light and gentle as he undressed you for the first time, his lips rarely leaving yours, treating you as if you were made of the most fragile glass. Truth be told, he'd want to be more passionate and rough but considering his size and strength, he'd be scared of possibly breaking one of your bones or bruising your skin if he gave into his desires. Once you're fully naked under him, his breath would hitch in his throat and he'd become completely still over you, feeling shocked by how ethereal and gorgeous your body is, making it harder for him to hold himself back. He'd only give into his desires when you tell him that you want him to be rough with you. But even so, he'd need you to tell him what to do since this was his first time with a woman.
Only wanting to make you feel good, he'd listen closely to your every command, considering how inexperienced he is, and be very observant of how your body reacted to everything he did. Ever the quick learner, it wouldn't be long before he'd be making you moan and clutch his hair in your hand while he ate you out. With your instructions, he'd first make you cum on his tongue and fingers, which would easily cause him to become obsessed with the pretty sounds you make and how you arch into his touch. But even though you'd told him what to do, he'd still check in every few minutes to make sure he was doing everything correctly.
When it comes to his own pleasure, if you even tried to return the favor by offering to give him a handjob or blowjob before he got the chance to fuck you for the first time, he'd refuse. Your pleasure is always 100% more important to him than his, he'd rather make you cum 5 times in one night then have you worry about making him feel good. Watching and feeling you cum is more than enough for him.
The first time you saw him completely naked during all of this, your jaw basically dropped as you admired his large, thick cock, already imagining how he'd feel inside of you. With your instruction, he'd line himself up with your entrance and slowly push himself inside of you, earning a soft moan as you let your back drop back onto the bed/bedroll. Once he's fully inside you, your eyes would briefly roll back into your head and you soon encouraged him to start moving.
He'd go slow at first, so slow to the point where it was almost unbearable and he had you begging him to go faster, his self-control going out the window. The sight of you under him in this state ignited something in him, especially when he noticed the way your stomach seemed to bulge every time the tip of his cock kissed your cervix. Out of curiosity, he'd press down on your stomach, letting out a low groan at seeing just how deep he was inside you.
He'd then briefly slide out of you, causing you to whine at the loss while he quietly apologized and place you on all fours before you could truly process what we was happening. This man is an ass grabber!!!! Once he was inside you again, he wouldn't waste anytime squeezing your ass in his freehand while he held onto your hips with the other and fucked you in this position like he was going to die tomorrow, adoring the way your ass rippled every time it made contact with him.
But again considering that this would be his first time ever being with a woman, it wouldn't take long before he'd cum. "Please, m'lady, 'm so close." he'd tell you as if he was asking for your permission to cum. The second that he got the confirmation that you were also on the edge and he heard your pleas to finish inside you, he'd speed up his thrusts and fall apart against your now sweaty back within moments as soon as you came around him with his name falling from your lips and your pussy started to squeeze his cock like a vice. And as he came, he'd mumble compliments into your skin, unable to shut up about how much he loves you and how good you feel wrapped around him.
Afterwards, he'd slowly pull out of you and once more with your instruction, retrieve a towel, wet it with his flask full of water and gently wipe your pussy, eliciting a quiet gasp from you. "Sorry, m'lady. I'm almost done, promise." he'd say. When that was settled, he'd pull the blankets that covered the bed/bedroll over the two of you and pull you closer to him, encouraging you to intertwine your naked body with his. "I love you, more than you know, sweet girl." he'd tell you with a slow kiss to your lips, making you blush while you told him you loved him back and the exhaustion that came with sex washed over you.
bro i’ve been obsessing with the thought of riding dunk’s thigh and he’s just so infatuated with you and so so desperate.
18+ (fem!reader, dunk is so needy for you [slightly… subby? idk but he whimpers ok], thigh-riding, reader is sexy + undefined).
his hands are just so big, and his thigh is just so strong and so wide that you can’t help yourself—clambering into his lap one evening, the forest quiet around you.
and you just take what you need.
your warm core pressing to the material of his trousers, your hands squeezing at the fat of his pectorals through his tunic, or running over the muscular curves of his shoulders.
god, you’d been dripping all evening. pussy soaked, thighs clenching as you watched him tend to his sword, polishing with strong hands and flexing arms, leaning it against one thick thigh, the blade appearing impossibly small.
and now, he’s got his hands on your hips, big and encompassing, a warm pressure as he holds you down onto him. he’s panting as you rock yourself back and forth, your bare cunt rubbing over his thigh. he can feel how warm you are, how wet you are through the fabric.
he tenses his thigh and you whimper, your head falling forward as you roll your hips, puffy clit dragging across his trousers and sending bolts of pleasure into the base of your spine.
then, it’s dunk’s turn to whimper as you press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his neck. he’s flushed and tacky with sweat, and when you press your tongue to his pulse and skim your thumbs over his covered nipples, you feel him shudder beneath you, a low whine escaping him.
“ah, gods,” he mutters, eyes dropping as he cranes his head back. his cock is painfully hard in his trousers, leaking into breeches, and it twitches as you suck a mark onto the hollow of his throat.
you kiss his bobbing adam’s apple, and then kiss his jaw, finally kissing the corner of his mouth as you grind yourself down harder onto him. you moan quietly against him, pussy clenching around nothing, slick soaking his trousers. dunk’s drawn to the sound, and with a breathless groan he chases your mouth with his own. your lips slot together and he groans again, tongue unfurling along the mounds of your teeth as you continue to rock your hips.
his thigh is warm and taut beneath you, and the slight scratch of his trousers against your clit has something pinching in your lower belly. his grip on your hips is unrelenting, and he gasps into your mouth when one of your hands finds the imprint of his thick cock straining at the seams.
“you feel so good,” dunk whispers to you, head falling back as you bite your bottom lip between your teeth, whimpers trapped behind. “gods, you’re so wet and warm. can feel you soakin’ me.”
you palm his cock, your other hand finding the back of his neck as you hold his head still. you bring him down to press your forehead to his and your speed increases, hips stuttering against his thigh, pussy slick and throbbing with each movement. you breathe into each other’s space, punctuated only by your desperate panting and his airy whines.
“feels so good, dunk,” you practically purr, and you catch his cock twitching beneath your palm, warm and solid. “s’just so big—so strong, ser. you’re always so good for me. my big boy.”
dunk’s mouth drops open again, blue eyes glossing over, fingers tightening into the flesh of your hips. he forces you down harder onto his thigh, and you toss your head back to moan as the pressure sends a deep-seated pleasure spreading through your core. your toes curl, legs twitch, and something heavy builds in the base of your belly.
“come on,” he whispers his plea. “be good—be a good girl and—ah fuck—c-come on my thigh. need to feel you soak me. please.”
he tapers off in a low groan, and the sound pierces through you and pushes an involuntary moan from deep in your chest. you rock yourself on his thigh, once, twice, three more times, pussy slick and wet and hot, before the pressure inside you breaks. you come over his thigh, his name a honey-sweet mewl from your lips while you hold his shoulder and palm his thick length.
“o-oh gods,” dunk groans quietly, and as you shudder against him, your head now on his shoulder as the movement of your hips slow to a stop, you feel a wet warmth spread beneath your hand. “oh gods, oh fuck—”
he’s spilled inside his trousers.
you lift your head and pout at him, a low, languid murmur of “oh, duncan, my sweet boy,” falling easily from your lips as you continue to palm him through it, his body trembling, hands impossibly tight on your hips.
“i didn’t—“ he swallows thickly. “i didn’t mean to—”
you press a soft kiss to his lips and he melts beneath you.
“dunk,” you say quietly. “it’s okay. that, honestly, may have been the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.”
your poor hedge knight blushes a deep scarlet, hair at his temples damp with sweat as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. his large hands circle around you, his arms following, and he hugs you to him tightly, unrelenting.
“you just felt so good,” he mutters against you, and you can barely make out what he’s saying as you stroke his hair. “always feel so good… so good for me.”
Dunk definitely loooooooves to eat pussy… the first time he makes you squirt he’s so amazed that HE did that to the woman he loves more than anything in the world and he cums so hard in his pants 😵💫
HE IS OBSESSED, loves the mess of it all and how drippy you can get, hes eating that upppp.
dunk eating pussy so sloppy it makes you squirt .☘︎ ݁˖
the first time he did it, it wasn't even a conscious decision. it was a warm summer night in a quiet inn, the sheets clean and the air thick with the scent of honeysuckle from the open window. you were lying on your back, his head between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. he was so diligent, so focused. his tongue traced every fold, every sensitive ridge, learning what made you gasp and what made you sigh.
he'd been at it for what felt like blissful hours, building you up with a patience that was both maddening and divine. his large hands held your hips steady, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there as his mouth worked its magic. he'd found a spot, just inside, that made your toes curl and your breath hitch, and he was exploiting it mercilessly, sucking and flicking his tongue, so wet and sloppy.
"dunk," you whimpered, your hands tangling in his thick, sandy hair. "i... i don't know... something's different..."
he just hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight through your core, and doubled his efforts. he could feel you tensing, your thighs beginning to tremble around his head. he looked up, his eyes dark with adoration and fierce concentration. he wanted to see you. he needed to see you fall apart.
that was all it took. with a sharp cry, your back arched off the bed. a wave of pleasure, more intense than anything you'd ever felt, crashed over you. and then it happened. a sudden, gushing release that you couldn't control, soaking his face and the sheets beneath you. it was messy and shocking and utterly overwhelming.
for a moment, dunk froze. he pulled back slightly, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated astonishment. he looked at the wetness on his own fingers, then back at you, still trembling and gasping on the bed. a slow, wondrous smile spread across his face, transforming it.
"gods above," he breathed, his voice thick with awe. "did i... did i do that?" he sounded like a man who had just witnessed a miracle, which, in his mind, he had. he, ser duncan the tall, had made his love, his lady, feel something so powerful it manifested like this.
he surged up the bed, not to claim his own pleasure, but to gather you in his arms. he kissed you, a deep, messy kiss that tasted of you and of his own profound joy. "can we do that again, please?" he whispered against your lips, his hands roaming your body as if trying to memorize the moment, squeezing at your tits and rubbing your wet, bare pussy against his clothed cock. "i would like to feel that whilst yer sitting on my—"
"dunk!"
and then you felt it. pressed against your hip through his breeches, a sudden, intense heat followed by a shudder that wracked his entire frame. he went rigid against you, a deep, guttural groan escaping his throat as his face buried in the crook of your neck. he was cumming. hard. just from the sheer, overwhelming pride and love of having brought you to that peak. he hadn't even been touched, but the sight and feel of you, so completely undone by his mouth, was more than enough to undo him completely.
when he could finally speak, his voice was hoarse. "c’mon now, on yer knees, sweet girl…"
Request for duncan and his wife having nice quiet dinner together in their chambers of the palace after hes all moved in. They're both quiet, and theres a lot of tension in the air. Then, out of nowhere, duncan starts saying all the dirty things hes been thinking about doing to her and will do to her once they're finished eating. It takes her by surprise at first but obviously reader doesnt mind it either.
hi! i adjusted this prompt slightly, so that dunk has been away for a few weeks and comes home to you for the first time in your new chambers and he's got imposter syndrome and is awkward. but then you make it clear just how much you've missed your husband and how much you want him to take what's his. also there's going to be a part 2 with him making good on his promises teehee.
1.2k+ words — minors dni.
cw: fem!reader, no y/n, insecure!dunk turned dom!dunk
dunk had been away for the first few weeks as you'd settled in to your new rooms. he'd only returned to you a few short hours before and you'd wanted everything, including yourself, ready for the occasion. you'd requested a nice meal for the evening and had worn a new dress, low cut and made of soft material you knew he'd like. you'd watched his face light up when he saw you again and felt how he smiled when he kissed you, but other than that, he had been unusually...quiet. you assumed at first he was simply taking it all in. but he seemed uneasy and it made you feel awkward.
dunk had offered earlier to go to the kitchens to ask after your dinner and you'd had to gently remind him that servants would be bringing you your meal. now you sat across from him at a long table too big for the two of you. he was wearing his new clothes and shifted uncomfortably in them. if you hadn't suspected something was wrong before, you knew it was now, because your husband was hardly eating.
"dunk, is something wrong?" you asked, setting down your fork.
"wrong? no" he answered simply.
"do you not like the rooms? or what i've done with them?" you pressed on.
"no? i've slept in far worse."
"right."
"no, wait, that's not what i meant—" he backtracked.
"i guess i was hoping i'd impress you. so you'd be happy to be home," you said, eyes on your suddenly unappetizing plate.
"what? no. hey." his voice went all soft and gentle. "hey, come 'ere."
dunk pushed his chair out. you rose from your seat and crossed over to him. he pulled you into his lap.
" 'course i'm happy to come home to you. was so happy to see you in the courtyard, thought i was gonna start crying in front of everyone. it's just...all this...it's a far cry from flea bottom. and i can't believe it's real. you're real and you're my wife and this is our home."
you wiped at your eyes.
"you don't hate everything, then?" you asked.
"no. i don't hate it. i love it cause it's somewhere you can be comfortable and safe and i can be with you. just this...none of it feels like mine. feels like i'm borrowing another man's boots and eating his dinner and any moment now he'll come thundering in and demand to know why i've got his wife in my lap."
you couldn't help laughing at that.
"dunk, i'm yours'," you said sweetly. "all this is yours'. you've earned it. you deserve to enjoy it."
he hid his face against your neck.
" 'm sorry for being an ass" dunk murmured against your skin.
"it's alright. now go back to your dinner."
you felt his mouth start to press kisses against the curve of your neck. you grin.
"unless my husband is hungry for something else..." you tease.
"'m always hungry for you," he breathed as his hands began to rub your sides.
"didn't seem like it earlier. thought that would be the first thing on your mind."
"who says it wasn' on my mind?"
"you didn't do anything about it, then. you've been gone for weeks and i've been waiting" you draw out in a whine that makes him groan. you adjust your position so you're straddling him and his hands go right to your hips. "waiting for you and you finally come home and all you do is kiss me and go quiet. bet every other knight had his lady bent over within the hour of his arrival."
dunk's ears went red.
"just didn' want to be rude. didn' want to be gone for so long and come back and start expecting and demanding—"
"dunk." your hands go to his shoulders. his blue eyes fix on you with such intensity that you know in that moment he'd do anything you asked of him. "start. demanding."
all his quietness and awkwardness vanished. his hands gripped your thighs and he easily lifted you up and onto the table. you could hear silverware hit the ground and a cup spill, but you didn't care. his hands yanked up your skirt high enough that he could slot himself between your legs. he then returned one hand to anchor against your hip and the other took a fistful of your hair, not pulling (never pulling), but holding and using it to angle you just right. he kissed you, hard and needy.
"missed you so much", he panted against your lips. "missed your warmth. softness." he groaned. "missed the taste of your cunt."
you whined and gripped at his broad shoulders and back.
"got so used to having your thighs around my head every day. then i leave and...felt like i was starving without it. couldn' even touch myself much with the others about, so i was just hard and thinkin' of you all the time."
dunk ground his covered cock against your core. you keened and tugged at his shirt, but he wasn't letting you have it yet, no matter how much he wanted it too. he'd been desperate for you for weeks, he could withstand a little longer if it meant seeing you needy for him.
"thought about you riding...riding me...just making yourself feel good until you were too tired to keep going. then i could hold your hips and fuck you just right until you were shaking and collapsing on top of me. thought about how i was going to get back and—"
he broke off and moved his hand to your chin to ensure you kept eye contact with him.
"'m gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture."
you couldn't take any more. your hands dropped down to yank at his belt. he moaned as your fingers made contact with his neglected cock and pulled him out from his trousers.
"you can start with the table" you panted and began to line him up with your centre.
"wait" he hissed. "need to get you ready f'me."
"i'm ready, dunk."
he was breathing heavy and struggling to maintain control.
"need to take care of you first. 'm not gonna last—"
you squeezed his cock. he whined and bucked into your hand.
"i. need. my. husband. now." you punctuated each word with a stroke of his cock.
it had been weeks, and you were begging for him, and he was only a man. dunk pulled your thighs further apart and pushed himself inside.
you moaned and clung to him. he started thrusting, hard and deep and so, so good. it shook the table.
true to his word, your poor deprived husband couldn't handle the sweet relief of your cunt for long. he pulled out, and just as you started to whine his name, he came on your thigh.
dunk leaned into you and hid his face against your neck, the much larger man just clutching on to you and trembling. you ran your hands soothingly up and down his back and played with his hair. when he finally seemed to gather some control of himself, you pulled back to look at him and pouted.
collection of scenarios with dunk and travelling companion reader and sexual tension because the man is just so 🥵 big and strong 🥵 and you both have a size kink and are pining
scenarios — minors dni.
cw: fem!reader, no use of y/n, sexual tension but no smut, size kink, 'good girl' (dunk is unfortunately speaking to the horse not you)
you're watching the tourney with dunk and egg when fighting breaks out with the spectators. dunk's got a hand on egg's shoulder steering him out and you're following behind holding dunk's hand, but you get shoved away and he loses you in the crowd. dunk's got to get egg out first but soon as he's deposited somewhere safe and told firmly not to move, dunk's going back for you. and he's not losing you again so soon as he finds you he's pulling a harwin strong and tossing you over one shoulder like it's nothing.
***
dunk who offers to help you on to a horse and you think he's just going to give you his hand but instead he puts his hands on your hips and lifts you directly onto the horse without a second thought.
***
riding a horse with dunk and you're in front with him pressed behind you and you are aware the entire time how Big and Tall he is. distracted the entire ride thinking about how if you just angled your hips a bit you could feel him rub against you. it Does Not Help when one time he instinctively bucks his hips to direct the horse to go, accidentally humping you (you're both blushing hard). also does not help that he keeps calling the horse a good girl breathing all deep and low in your ear (he's oblivious).
***
you needing to wash your dress and let it dry so he gives you his shirt to wear. so now he's shirtless and you're absolutely swallowed up by his much bigger shirt and neither of you can look at the other. he gets his shirt back later and gets hard when he realizes the collar now smells like the herbs you wash your hair with. and then he's imagining the shirt material being rough against your nipples and soft skin and body hair and now dunk is having to go for a "walk" from camp.
***
dunk and having his hand rest on the small of your back to guide you or help keep you sheltered in a rowdy joust crowd. the sweet part of me envisions it similar to the 2005 p&p darcy hand touch where it's the first time he's touched you and man is Overcome or him absent-mindedly stroking a ribbon tied around your waist aka like bingley with jane at the ball. the slut in me thinks dunk puts his hand flat against your back very innocently to guide you when you're walking in front of him, but he suddenly notices how small you are compared to his hand. and he knows roughly what the size of his cock is like compared to his hand (man is lonely ok) and now all he can think about is the size of his cock against you.
***
continuing above (slutty version): dunk who gets a fairly good idea from his hand placement how far his cock would go into you and gods, would he even fit? and he would never want to hurt you but the idea of you struggling to take his cock but still begging for it, oh that does something to him. the fact his hand had been on your back makes it even worse because he's imagining taking you from behind. but then that makes him imagine it from the front and how soft your thighs would be and how he'd be practically in your belly and how your breasts would bounce. and dunk feels horrible because he shouldn't think of you that way so he ignores you (can't even look at you) and spends the whole day training until he's too exhausted to have dirty thoughts (jokes on him he falls asleep and has dirty dreams all night).
dunk who is simultaneously the most aware and completely oblivious to his strength. he's so careful and gentle with you to the point you have to tell him you need more. but then he'll pick you up like it's nothing and move you into place (under him, against a tree, on his face) so easily and while he's still careful not to hurt you, it still takes you a few seconds to mentally catch up.
he can fuck you standing up, no wall or anything, just holding you.
dunk has a hard day and likes to relax by eating you out. makes him feel better to know he can do something right. but if you offer to use your mouth on him, well he's only a man and he won't say no.
your legs having to stretch so wide to fit his massive frame between your legs when he eats you out. and he's easily strong enough to keep you open and in one place despite your squirming.
he has a thing for long hair. he would never pull on it because he'd be scared of hurting you, but he'd want to see it or pet it or have one of his hands just holding it (not tugging, holding). meanwhile, his hair? PULL IT. PULL IT AND PUSH HIS HEAD EXACTLY WHERE YOU WANT HIM.
praise!! him!! tell that man he's doing a good job!! he'll come about it
call him a good boy oh gods he'd cum so fast
alternatively: call him 'ser'. he's usually more of a sub but you call him ser in bed and it Awakens Something In Him. still gentle even as a dom, but he'd be so much more confident and actually able to verbalize or just take what he wants.
ser duncan the tall uses his size to his advantage. he doesn’t press up behind you while you’re reaching for something out of your reach, far too respectful to impose on your space.
instead he uses those broad shoulders to shield you from the pushy, jabbing elbows of the tourney audience. dips his head low to hear you better, utterly unaware of how your cheeks flush when his hands fall to your hips to gingerly angle your body away from the crowd. inadvertently drawing you closer—only so he can better keep you safe, of course.
follows a short ways behind as you and egg make your way through the market. jaw set and eyes narrowing at any leering glance thrown your way. his frame looms in your periphery — a hulking, watchful shadow while you exchange coin for supper.
he takes the bundle from your arms easily, hushing your protests with a hand on the small of your back as he guides the three of you back to camp. you try to listen to egg’s excited chatter, humming in all the right places but all you can focus on is the splay of his long fingers on your cloak.
night falls, and your tent is left empty after egg runs off to play with the other squire boys. dunk remains glued to his spot in the corner, hunched instinctively under the low ceiling, watching — waiting.
he stares from across the short distance, as you let your hair down and unlace your dress. it’s pavlovian, the way his breeches tighten and his fists curl into his knees. even so, he remains still, only his eyes tracking your every move until you’re standing between his spread thighs and your dress is pooling at your feet.
he takes you then, letting you settle atop his lap and sink down slow. one rough hand rests on your hip, the other pawing at the fat of your ass as you drag yourself against him at a torturous pace. still, dunk stays good.
doesn’t buck, doesn’t thrust when gods know he wants to, because the urge to be good wins out. he pants, open mouthed and near slobbering on your tits as you pick up the pace.
you’re mewling so pretty in his ear, clawing at his back when his fat cock bullies that spot inside that makes you choke on a gasp. your fingers drift to his arms, nails digging into his biceps when he takes a nipple in his mouth, blue eyes rolled back at the heavenly heat sucking him in with every shaky jerk of your hips.
you whimper, face tucked into his thick neck when your thighs begin to burn from the effort. “please, dunk–”
he nods, eyes half-lidded as he draws your face to his, catching your lips in a messy kiss. dunk locks those brawny arms around your waist, plants his feet and begins to fuck you in earnest, just like you asked.
the wicked sounds of slapping flesh meet your ears, and when you try to squirm away from the blinding pleasure, dunk drags you back to his lips with a pleased grunt.
“‘re you close, m’lady?” dunk has the mind to ask, like he can’t already tell, with your eyes clamped shut and your walls fluttering erratically around his length. there’s a hint of teasing in his breathless voice, so you clench tight on the next stroke.
dunk’s answering groan, punched out and broken is worth the way he slides a hand down between your bodies and flicks at your clit. the surprise of it has your high cresting, burying your teeth in the meat of his shoulder as your body trembles atop him.
dunk cums like that, with you locked to him and his skin between your teeth. the sharp sting in his shoulder throbs in time with his cock spilling inside you.
when you draw back, spent and hazy-eyed, you see the twinkle in dunk’s own, just a little too proud for a knight. the lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips only grows when your knees buckle as soon as you stand.
Hiii i have a dunk request! just something cute and sweet like a series of firsts, your first time meeting, physical touch, confession of feelings, kiss, etc! ty❤️
And so I fall in love just a little, oh, a little bit every day with someone new ! | Ser Duncan.
( Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!reader )
résumé: Ever since Ser Duncan met you, he has been utterly captivated by you and seems unable to let any opportunity pass to place his hands upon you. Of course, you allow it, from the simplest brush of shoulders to the most hungry, stolen kisses in secret.
warnings: None. It is purely fluff.
word count: 1.3k !
author's note: I hope I have met your expectations and that this is what you meant. If not, I am sorry. Tell me and I will try again as best as I can. Even so, I hope you like it. Forgive me if it feels a bit off, I am sleep deprived… sorry.
The first time you met, Duncan immediately bows his head toward you in greeting, feeling unworthy of your mere presence. You were the daughter of the Lord who owned the very lands where he and Egg sought refuge.
He was on the verge of dropping to one knee if it had not been for your gloved hand resting firmly on his shoulder, stopping him short. He lifted his gaze toward you and was left utterly speechless by the sweetness of your beauty. By the Seven! It was as if an angel walked among simple mortals like him.
“Ser Duncan the Tall”. Oh gods, your voice was even sweeter. Your friendly smile rendered him wordless, still staring at you in awe. “… have I made a mistake? Is that not how they address you?”
“No! No, no. No mistake at all,” Duncan clarified quickly upon seeing the confusion cross your face. “Aye, that is me. Ser Duncan the Tall. Indeed.” He affirmed, trying desperately to ignore the sensation of your touch.
You could not help but let out a small laugh, politely hiding it behind your free hand, never once withdrawing it from his shoulder.
“Quite heroic, is it not?” you said, batting your lashes at him with playful curiosity.
“Heroic? Well, If you should need me, I will of course be entirely at your service, my lady,” Dunk assured you, a dazed smile forming on his face at your remark. “Anything.”
“Very well, then,” you replied, pleased though slightly overwhelmed by such devotion. “Could you walk with me?”
At such a simple request, Duncan immediately extended his arm toward you.
And of course, that was the beginning of everything. This knight became your faithful guardian, eager to be of use in every possible way, even though your requests were usually for something far simpler. His company.
You almost always summoned Duncan to be with you, even if only for a few minutes. You knew it was selfish, yet you could not help it. There was something about him that made you feel less alone within the towering walls of the castle.
For Duncan, however, these were never duties or obligations, but pure delights. You, a noble lady, opened doors for him and even invited Egg along to afternoon tea, to walks by the nearby lakes. He knew well your fondness for wandering, and you granted him the pleasure of listening to your voice as you recited poetry, with him seated beside you beneath the trees.
It could be said that you both knew much of one another. You had confessed your dreams and fears, the pressures that came with nobility, your favorite flowers and your fascination with the stars. In turn, he spoke of his vows, his fantasies of gallant knighthood, and, to fully enchant you, his belief in shooting stars capable of granting wishes.
Duncan felt at ease by your side. He did not have to pretend to be anything he was not. In fact, his longing to be an exemplary knight only captivated you further. He was just like the knights sung of in songs, those who protected the innocent and crowned the keepers of their hearts.
Naturally, the first subtle contact between you, beyond the polite and formal act of walking arm in arm, came soon enough. Ser Duncan often found your shoulder brushing against his as you sat together, but the first moment he truly noticed was when you nudged his boot with your shoe beneath the table.
He always reacted the same way to even the slightest touch. Duncan would scratch at his neck, avoiding your gaze as he turned his head aside, stumbling over his words until he ended with a nervous cough, covering his mouth with his fist. Even the tips of his ears turned red. You found it adorable, which was precisely why you kept provoking such reactions.
Without a doubt, the first time your hands brushed together, you wasted no time slipping off your gloves, removing them swiftly. At that, Ser Duncan lifted his hand but did not dare touch you, only tried to stop you.
“You will get dirty, my lady,” he murmured, slowly shaking his head. “My armor is not polished.”
Yet that mattered to you not at all. “It is, because it is worn by the brightest knight,” you replied, placing your hand over his.
Duncan released a shaky breath, looking into your eyes as though asking permission. When you nodded, he quickly interlaced his fingers with yours.
“Forgive the calluses on my palms. Forging a sword can be hard work,” he admitted, embarrassed as he felt the softness of your skin warming his own.
“Your touch is nothing but pleasant,” you assured him, guiding his hand to your lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “It does not bother me in the slightest,” you added, holding his blue eyed gaze.
In that very moment, Duncan completely melted. Now it was he who brought your hand to his mouth, lingering as he placed several kisses along your skin.
Of course, you did not expect that one day Duncan would gather just a bit more courage. Afraid of ruining the intimacy between you, he leaned down slightly to your height, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The caress lingered along your jaw until he gently lifted your chin toward him.
“Tell me not to do this,” Duncan whispered, his face close, clumsily brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Ask me to step back and remember my place.”
All you could do was close your eyes and lean toward him, brushing your thumb over his lips before finally pressing yours to his. A soft groan escaped Duncan, allowing you to deepen the kiss, slowly exploring his mouth with your tongue. It was not hungry, but slow and languid, an eternity spent imagining this moment.
Duncan soon pulled you closer, one hand threading into your hair, gripping a generous handful to anchor himself to you. The instant he realized what he was doing, he broke the kiss, accidentally biting his lip.
“… forgive me. Please forgive me, are you certain that…?” But he had no chance to finish, as you chased his lips again, kissing him softly, if only briefly.
“Gods,” Duncan breathed, returning the kiss before finally pulling away to look at your face. Something else then caught his attention. “My lady! Standing like that will make your feet ache.”
“Ser!” you frowned slightly, placing your heels flat on the floor, no longer standing on tiptoe. “I would rather that than have your back hurt later.”
“I am accustomed to pain. I promise,” he said, still leaning down to place a kiss on your cheek. “Besides, it is worth it.”
From that moment on, Duncan could not stay away from your lips, always sneaking off to some hidden corner of the castle to steal at least a brief peck. Not that you ever objected. You were just as quick to push him against a wall or a tree trunk to return the favor.
This time, though, there was something different. His kisses were not as desperate as before. Gone was that feverish need to devour you completely. Instead, he was reverent, softly scattering kisses along your neck, tracing a path to your cheek, pulling back only to smile at you in that foolish, boyish, lovestruck way.
“I adore you beyond reason,” Duncan confessed, stealing a quick peck from your lips before pulling back again. “My heart pounds so fiercely it feels as though it is spelling out your name, my lady.”
Dazed, you instinctively brought your hands to his chest, feeling how it fluttered beneath your palms. Was he nervous?
“I wish I were a noble, so I could speak to you in poetic verses of my love. Believe me, if I could, I would recite them before all,” he declared, cradling your face in his hands, holding you as though you were the most precious thing in the world.
“Do you wish to court me?” you dared to ask, astonished.
“If you will allow me, yes. Understand there is no way I could live without you.”
You nodded quickly, unable to form words, your voice failing you entirely.
warning(s): sweetness and fluff because we need it here
a/n: i’m here writing a little fic ahead of tomorrow of reader and dunk and egg, and this had me thinking.. 🥹💗
first and foremost, dunk is the man who treats your marriage like a vow he renews daily. there is no honeymoon “phase” or where things wear out over time and he knows it, because everytime seeing you, being with you.. is just like the first, and he shows it not only in that dumbfounded face he pulls, but in the little things. like the way he holds you from behind, pulling you into his arms in surprise, or mending the latch on the outside gate before you’re even able to ask. cradling you in his arms as he carries you to bed, peppering kisses to your forehead.
and because of this, he’s still always faintly surprised you chose him, sinking into deeper thought than he means to when he looks at you. even years gone by with that ring on his finger and many memories, he still feels as if he’ll wake up from a dream and you’ll vanish..
and speaking of rings, whether you are highborn or lowborn like him, before you were ever married he made you both promise rings. it’s a rather sappy thing he often thinks but it’s one of his most prized possessions, thick sweetgrass and a reed from the nearby river and a twig, all harshly pressed and weaved together around his finger and eventually around yours. for a while it was all he could afford and though he wanted to impress you, he didn’t want to, couldn’t, leave you without either. and when you were granted that beautiful silver, engraved and gleaming and just as special, underneath his and your own still sat your very own twine ring. and it’s the one he fiddles with..
he is hopelessly gentle in love, as that much is very well clear, those big hands bring careful touch. and he is constantly checking in with you, your breath, your eyes, the way your body leans toward or away. always there to pull you into that bone crushing hug, the kind that seems to melt the anxiety and upset away just by pressure and his warmth. he is also a good reader of people, at least when he knows you well enough and loves you like he does you. his mere presence curing the ills before you voice them.. or even those times when you get needy and wanting, he isn’t as sly as he tends to be, when he wants you, which is always, it’s written all over him— but he never rushes, ever.
“I’m here love, just tell me what y’need.”
dunk still blushes when you compliment him, please compliment him.. he goes so red and he loves it, he can’t deny it and he wouldn’t. to be loved by you is a gift in itself. years married and down the line he’s still rubbing his hand over his face to hide his flush when you call him handsome.
he has a tendency to carry you places without thinking. over puddles when the over the path and it’s raining, or where the dirt road gets that a little too dirty sometimes. and when you’re feet ache after a long day he takes no time in scooping you up either into his lap to doze, rubbing at them softly, or across the room to simply hold you. he even makes excuses to do it, even when the weather isn’t that bad or you protest you can walk, he slings you over his shoulder though you weigh nothing with a smile tapping a light hand to your backside.
his way of clumsy is endearing, because he means well and he is constantly trying new things.. like recipes he picks up from the road or new ways to garden he overheard at a market stall. though the bread burnt in the oven and the apple tree from last season didn’t quite ripen and grow, he still tries again, and you are most definitely the test subject to be beside him.
dunk kisses your knuckles at any given time, it’s his way of relieving stress, other than holding you of course.. before tourneys, before difficult times and talks, before leaving for the road for a little while though he dodges it as much as he can.
he likes (loved) being bossed around, he lets you do it because it’s the security he is used to but with the love he hasn’t received. and hearing your little commanding voice is if not the sweetest and most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard.
no matter where you both end up nor where you come from, he has never and will never hesitate to stand up for you, even in a room full of lords and swords, with more standing than himself. he could care less if it came to you being in harms way, he is unmoving and certain, proud in the way he talks about you, nodding to you from across the room, “That’s my wife.”
he laughs louder around you, smiles easier, because there is nothing around past or present that could make a living so simple and worthwhile than with you.
dunk would fight armies for you— but would rather spend a quiet evening by the fire with you curled against his chest, attempting to read a book you’re still teaching him to read sentence by sentence.
and he feels like home, wherever you are, his scent his smile, his way too big tunic draped over your body. he makes sure he finds a way to make it that way..
yes you may anon.. we need more dunk up in here, my sweet boy 🥹💗😫
ser duncan’s nsfw alphabet
warning(s): breeding kink, big ol’ softie showing love
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
okay, our knight ser duncan is the sweetest after sex. he is prepared to do anything he can to make you comfortable, grabbing you a cloth or a drink, massaging the parts of your body that aches, or simply holding you in his arms until you both fall asleep. however he does have a small ritual, everytime he’s taking care of you, after laying you down onto the sheets properly, he’s giving you a kiss to the forehead and nose, whispering sweetly at you, “What can I do, love?”
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
on your body, if you ask him at least it would be everything, every part of you he can see, touch, hold and love is the part he treasures most. but if you were to ask him specifics, particularly in this sense, it would be your eyes, thighs and breasts. no matter the size, the curve, the anything he is all over it. being able to look into your eyes while wrapping you in his arms and fucking you deep enough they roll back, or look up at him sweetly. the way he can pick you up and tangle your legs around him like it’s nothing, kissing down your thighs and sucking on your nipples as you moan. they all work in tandem.. and it drives him mad.
and therefore on him, it’s got to be his hands. there’s so much he can do with them, even everyday work and combat he feels lucky enough to have the strength he does, even if most of the time it’s clumsy work.. it’s what he used to pull you close, his own anchor to you.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
now dunk is careful with this because he doesn’t want to do anything you won’t like, and if any idea or way worries you, he wouldn’t do it without permission. especially when you first begin to be intimate he tries to clean himself off mostly when he does, but his favourite place to cum, if he could indeed choose would be inside of you. there’s no mess of course, but it’s also being that close to you and being able to keep you there that he loves.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
dunk likes when you’re bold and boss him around.. it doesn’t have to be overly dominant, just moving him where you want him, or tugging his hair, telling him what you want or being bossy. it sends straight to his core..
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
sweet man isn’t that experienced, at least not by the time you’re together. he’s had his few share of maidens come his way simply out of intrigue of his size, but he’s always kept mostly to himself. a few times he’s had with the odd woman, and that time when ser arlan bought him a prostitute for the night, which was an.. interesting time he doesn’t speak of. but he’s careful, and he takes his time, and he is a fast learner. 👀
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
missionary and cowgirl without a doubt. it goes without saying that he wants to be able to see you, look into your eyes and hold you close to him while feeling you. and either having you spread on the bed or tight in his lap is what he thinks of, dreams of even..
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
he can be goofy, but most of the time it’s without meaning to. it’s the way he trips as he stalks over to the bed, or accidentally flips you a little too fast in his arms when you both get eager. he is serious about loving you and making you feel good, but once you let out a giggle or laugh he can’t help himself.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
the carpet does match the drapes indeed. he has quite a thick amount of darker/dirty blonde hair, it’s curlier than his hair and he does attempt to keep as trimmed as he can but he’s never seen the need to. though if you ask him, he will without question.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
he is clumsy chivalry personified best believe this man is going above and beyond. running you baths or lighting candles as best he can without burning his hands. kissing up on you and drawing you closer to the bed as you start to get hot.. he is big on romance and if a softie for you.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
because he didn’t have much experience even on the road, he did jack off more than he did bed anyone. but even so he never felt much need, though if he is pulled away from you for a long time he may, and best believe he’s thinking of coming home to you again.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
okay he’s got quite a few.. his size is one for him, he’s aware of it, not in a cocky way but more in a way he want to protect and lift you with ease, and he finds it sexy that he can.
he also has a heavy praise kink.. to know he’s doing well, making you feel good, please praise this man LAWD. and he likes giving praise to, whispering how good you feel, how beautiful you are.. it does things to him.
a breeding kink, especially if you are trying at any point, pumping you full and keeping you there is something he won’t admit loudly but turns him on..
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
anywhere in the private of your home, or space. mostly the bed, simply because it’s better access and the most comfortable, but the counter, or the floor, or just hoisted up into his arms are good too. he also does like having sex outside, still somewhere quiet and private, but taking you on the grass under the stars is something he thinks of often.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
you. i wish there was more that could be said but it’s you. all of you, seeing you, hearing your voice, seeing you naked, seeing you laugh, helping him with garden work.. anything.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
anything to hurt you, or something you don’t like. much like before he listens to you, and if it’s not a little bit of play rough and tumble or something that puts you in danger it’s a no.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
he’s a giver, all the way. it’s just in his nature, having your taste in his lips and your hands tugging at his hair for more is the way he would spend his days if he could. though he wouldn’t say no to you giving either, any touch of yours is enough to make him explode.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
it is mostly sensual, because of his size alone he worries about going to fast or being to much as to not hurt you. but things can get a little rough, especially when you’re both close and your heels are digging into his ass to drive him deeper. but he’s still worshipping every inch of you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
he doesn’t mind them, but he prefers to take his time, to kiss up and down your body and draw you close to your edge over and over again, he can’t do that if you’re rushed. and even if he is turned on, he’s a yearner, he likes to wait for it..
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
dunk doesn’t take many risks because he fears of hurting you, though the furthest he could go comfortably would probably a bit of outside/public sex, though it would still be private.. but the thrill and being surrounded by nature he doesn’t mind.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
he can withstand quite a bit, dunk’s got enough steam in him to go a few rounds until you’re both spent, but he does get tired eventually. the later rounds normally pressed deeper into you, sweaty bodies colliding as he nest collapses onto you (gently)
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
i don’t believe he does, he’s pretty vanilla when it comes to things like that and they’re pretty hard to find in westeros, though if you brought them in? he wouldn’t say no.. he would just take his time working it out.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
he doesn’t tease all that much, he wants to make you feel good and doesn’t want to keep you waiting long for that. but sometimes he does like to draw out both of your orgasms just a little to cum together. but contrary to popular belief he does like to rile you up a bit before hand, kissing up on you etc..
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
he can be quite vocal in bed, gruff mumbles into the neck and groans as he’s close do get louder. he’s not the biggest talker but dunk can contain it, it rumbles through his chest and right into your own. he also whines..
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
he’s a lil fruity, i said it because it’s true, have you seen him and lyonel in a room? doesn’t fantasise or isn’t something he talks about often unless you did, but he wouldn’t be opposed.. to anyone for that matter.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
okay, the big question. he is a big boy through and through okay i said what i said. he’s packing enough to do some damage if he’s not careful, i’m thinking at least 7 1/2 to 8 inches when hard and not only that but he’s thick, like more girth than he is long.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
his sex drive isn’t crazy, but it is high enough he wants you constantly . he is the yearner after all and will work around wherever yours is and how you’re feeling, but there isn’t a time where he isn’t wanting you.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
now dunk puts his all into intimacy, after he’s cared for you and knows you’re alright, he can fall asleep very fast. normally staying awake until you fall asleep and having you wrapped in his arms before he closes his eyes but after that he’s snoring..
thinking bout dunk... my sweet boy who has never done anything wrong ever, being shoved into the largest bedroom of a brothel by Lyonel's incessant hands. Of course he blushes like a madman and tries to turn, leaving the house, but forward he goes. Lyonel chuckles, "Don't be so red, you giant ! You've earned this, fairer than any man has before you." He pats Dunks chest before closing the door with an evil wink. Dunk stays facing the door as he listens to the drunkards laughs slowly fade down the hallway. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and he forces himself to take a breath before turning.
Then he sees you, sat atop the plush bed made just for him. His eyes find your form peaking out through your robe as you stalked towards him. "Congratulations Ser." He shivers a bit at your voice, forcing himself to look away. " 'm sorry bout this, he insisted." he let out a small chuckle, "Nothing needs to happen, really. I'm not that type of lad-" You cut him off, a mere foot from his broad form. "Just come, sit on the bed with me." Swallowing, he hesitantly took your hand held between you two, allowing you to pull him further into the room. You pushed him onto the bed, his head against the headboard as he softly panted.
Most of the men that came through this house had trouble getting it up. He was hard the moment your robe dropped, and you realized why you were the one tasked with 'Ser Duncan the Tall'. This gargantuan, doe-eyed man that was about to split you in two. It was almost laughable. You straddled his legs, tip leaking against your stomach as his hands nervously held your hips. His soft features were soaked in worry, size difference wildly noticeable. But he couldn't keep his eyes from your face as you sunk down on him, nails digging into your hips as your expression shifted. You had only taken it halfway before his mouth feel agape, and by the time you'd taken him fully, he was panting like a dog. He held you there for a moment, unmoving so he could catch his breath. As it returned, you started to rock your hips, grinding against the dirty blond patch of hair above his cock.
It started with you bouncing on his lap, but eventually led to him gaining confidence and taking you from behind. A mirror was placed on the wall opposite the bed, and you fought to keep your head up to look at him. You watched as his arms flexed, how he looked from where you were joined, to your face, and back down, how his stomach would tighten when you clenched around him. You could tell he was close, but he was a gentleman after all. His arm crossed your chest to pull you against him as his other hand slid down to your clit, rubbing it haphazardly. It felt as though you'd been thrown into the sun, so hot and overwhelmed. You couldn't keep your noises down if you tried, and neither could he. You felt your cunt begin to clench, moaning his name like a prayer as he groaned into your ear. "Ah fuck... look at me, please" , ever so polite as he pounded into you. Your eyes were glazed over as they found your forms in the mirror. You realized that if someone were to look at this scene from behind, they probably wouldn't even be able to see you. He dwarfed you in a way that made you dizzy. Once you came around him, he was quick to follow. You watched as his cock bobbed between your legs, pulling out at the last moment so he painted the bed infront of you.
And yet again, unlike usual, he took to cleaning you after. Layed you down gently, balled up the stained sheets, and rubbed at your thighs with a warm towel. He'd gotten his pants on before you'd realized, but kept his tunic off. Your fingers grazed at the skin of his abdomen littered in hair. Once he felt content with your cleanliness, he picked your robe up from wherever you'd thrown it to pull it back over your shoulders. The act filled you with warmth that was rare to find in this line of work. As his tunic flopped back over his body a loud knock rang out. He looked to you, tying your robe and nodding towards the door, before opening it to see Lyonel, somehow more drunk than before but still upright. "Have fun, boy ?" he grabbed his collar, leaning up to slap Dunks cheek before pulling him out of the room. "C'mon, we have the rest of the night ahead of us !!" Dunk gave you one more look as he was dragged out, a soft smile followed by a small wink.
hope u liked tehe I havent written in a minute but this came to my head last night so I just had to share, not beta-read, we die like men
Hi! If requests are still open, could you please write something about how the Lotr Characters (or just the men of Middle Earth) would react to their s/o being really easily flustered? They're not particularly shy or anything, but they do get super red in the face and start stuttering when receiving romantic affection.
I hope you had a good Holiday experience, and I love your writing so much!! Take care
Thank you very much! So happy to hear you enjoy this blog ♡ From your other ask I inferred that you mean “men” as a race, which I found interesting to work with. I hope you enjoy your post! Take care!
･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.
Seeing you easily flustered – even over the smallest of attentions – surprises Aragorn at first. When he romantically confessed his feelings to you during a starry night, holding your hands in his, seeing you become so red has taken him aback. However, he does not find this quirk of yours strange or tiresome, and he will defend you in front of others making fun of your stutter, naturally. In fact, seeing you easily flustered makes him feel better about his own insecurities as well. He loves your blushing cheeks!
.
･ﾟ✧ Boromir.
Here’s a truth Boromir would never admit to out loud: He has a lot of fun making you blush and stutter – and he knows how to do it, from a well-timed glance, over romantic handholding, all the way to grand declarations of love. He adores the way you avert your eyes and stumble over your words and loves to use the opportunity for quick kisses. This is all in good fun though, as Boromir would never intentionally try to embarrass you. He’ll pull you in for a warm hug afterwards.
.
･ﾟ✧ Éomer.
When Éomer had first touched your wrist to check if it had been broken after you fell from a roguish horse, your heart had jumped out of your chest, blood rushing to your head. Initially, Éomer had thought he did something wrong or, even worse, hurt you. This causes things to slow down between the two of you. But eventually, the man realises that you simply blush easily when you are around someone you love – which, as he understands as he’s stroking hair out of your red face, is great news for him!
.
･ﾟ✧ Éowyn.
Éowyn is fascinated by how easily you blush and stutter, even when she simply calls you “my love”. She has never been with someone so receptive to her romantic advances, which she regards as a great honour and privilege. She is adamant about you never apologising for your quirk. Because she herself tends to stumble over her words when she is excited, you feel comforted around her, further falling in love with this Shieldmaiden who is wearing her heart on her sleeve ♡
.
･ﾟ✧ Faramir.
You and Faramir truly are a special match: While he usually falls quiet when you give him romantic attention, like holding his hand or pulling him in for a kiss, you start bubbling excitedly whenever he does the same for you. Faramir smiles and kisses you then. The truth is that your adorable reaction makes his heart skip a beat – he loves the way your cheeks colour and how you speak your mind, no matter how small the gesture between you two. With Faramir, “I love you”s come easy and in all kinds of forms.
This piece portrays Boromir as a passionate yet attentive lover: dominant and strong, but always deeply in tune with his partner’s pleasure and boundaries.
It’s not just about sex — it’s about desire, care, intimacy, and the quiet vulnerability that lies beneath all the steel and honor.
Note:
I came across a similar NSFW Alphabet for Boromir on AO3, and noticed that under Dirty Secret it mentioned multiple encounters with Aragorn. While I respect different interpretations, I personally don’t ship Aragorn/Boromir — and in my version, this pairing is not part of Boromir’s story. I follow a different take on his character, one that aligns with a different kind of intimacy, background, and emotional truth.
AO3
A = Aftercare (what he likes to do after sex)
Boromir is a mix of rugged strength and quiet tenderness. He doesn’t let go right away — he likes to hold his partner close, stroke her hair or back, often keeping one hand resting on her chest, as if to silently say, “Mine.”
He rarely talks in these moments, preferring the language of touch. But inside, his mind is a storm of questions:
“Did she enjoy it?”
“Was it too much?”
“Should I keep going?”
He loves the feeling of closeness — slow kisses that stretch on and on. At first deep and heated, then softer, gentler, until the final ones are barely brushes of lips, as if he can’t bear to break the connection. If the world allowed it, he could lie like that forever, holding her in silence.
He makes sure she’s comfortable: gets her something to drink, pulls the blanket over her if it’s cold.
But he doesn’t fall asleep easily — the habit of staying alert never quite leaves him, even in moments like this.
B = Body Part (favorite body part)
On himself: His chest and shoulders. He knows they’re broad and powerful — and he takes pride in that. He feels his strength most vividly when he’s holding his partner close, carrying them, or pinning them beneath him.
On his partner: Hands. He loves being touched, gripped, clawed at in the heat of passion. When his partner digs their nails into his skin or clutches him tightly, it drives him wild.
C = Cum
Boromir is a man who likes control. He’s not the type to finish quickly — he knows how to hold back, how to bring both himself and his partner to the edge and keep them there until the tension crests and crashes in perfect unison.
He prefers to finish inside. For him, it’s not just physical — it’s intimate, instinctual, almost sacred. The act speaks to legacy, to connection, to the raw closeness of shared breath and heat. He wants to feel her body taking him in fully, to be surrounded by that warmth even in the final moments.
If the moment calls for something else — if she asks, if they’re experimenting — he’ll finish on her belly or mound, but it’s never his first choice.
Firstly, he doesn’t like the mess. Seed on the skin feels misplaced to him, almost wrong. It belongs either within himself or within her — anything else feels like a disruption of the natural order.
Secondly, it distances him from the moment. Without that final deep joining, without her muscles clenching around him, it feels incomplete.
But what turns him on most isn’t the release itself — it’s her reaction. The way her body trembles, the sharp catch in her breath, the small involuntary sounds she makes when she feels him inside — that’s when he knows he has her fully, utterly, and completely.
D = Dirty Secret
He sometimes fantasizes about sex in partial armor — leaving on a few leather straps or a piece of his gear. The clash of steel and flesh, the primitive edge it adds, the way it highlights his strength — it all feeds something dark and primal inside him.
But he would never bring it up first. If his partner makes the move, hints at it, he’s more than willing — but he’ll never be the one to initiate.
E = Experience
He’s experienced, but not promiscuous. In Gondor, pre-marital relations — even for men — are frowned upon, and he’s not one for flings.
Still, he knows what he’s doing. He listens to his partner’s body, pays attention, and takes his time. He’s not spoiled, not jaded, but he’s attentive and intuitive.
And if his partner wants to explore something new — he’s open to learning, as long as it feels natural and doesn’t go against his instincts. His pleasure is rooted in giving, in closeness, and in mutual desire — not performance for the sake of novelty.
F = Favourite Position
Boromir loves positions that give him full control without sacrificing closeness. His favorites are the ones where he can see his partner’s face, read every reaction, and hold them close. The classic missionary — her body beneath his — or lying on their sides, where he can easily caress her and keep her pressed to him, are what he truly enjoys.
But it’s not just about eye contact. For him, being able to kiss is essential. Kissing is the thread that ties the whole act together — deep, slow, lingering kisses that pull him into the moment and keep him there. Without them, the intimacy feels broken.
That’s why he absolutely refuses any position that takes that closeness away — especially doggy style. Taking a woman from behind, like some brothel whore? Unthinkable to him. Even if she enjoys it, even if it’s brought up again and again — his answer will always be a quiet but firm “no.”
When she’s on top, it’s mostly for her. He likes watching her move, watching the pleasure take over her face — but it’s not ideal for him. He rarely reaches climax that way. It’s more about prolonging the moment, letting her lead, and giving her all the space she needs to enjoy herself. He loves seeing her unrestrained, feeling her take control — but deep down, he’ll always prefer to be the one setting the rhythm.
G = Goofy
Boromir is generally serious in bed — just as he is in life. But with trust and comfort, he can loosen up. If they get tangled in clothing, someone stumbles, or a dramatic strip turns awkward — he doesn’t freeze or get flustered. Instead, he might huff a short laugh under his breath and press on with even more enthusiasm, like the messiness excites him.
But there’s one thing he can’t joke about — losing his erection. Even if it’s brief and he recovers quickly, the simple fact that his body betrayed him gnaws at him. He may continue, but he won’t be relaxed. His expression tightens, his movements sharpen — like he’s trying to wrest control of the moment back from himself.
If the problem lingers but the desire remains, his hands turn desperate — gripping her thighs, her waist, her back with almost obsessive heat, like he’s pleading with his body to respond. He’ll run his palms over her skin, breathe her in like she’s the answer — and try again. But even if he succeeds, there will be a flicker of self-directed frustration in his eyes.
If she’s able to gently reassure him, he might calm down. If not — he’ll carry that moment with him through the rest of the night.
H = Hair (Hi @emmathefanficgal , we talked about this letter earlier, and I promised to share my take on it — so here it is! 😅)
Thanks to his Númenórean blood, Boromir’s facial hair grows a little differently — barely anything on his cheeks, but his beard is thick, dark, and well-kept. He takes pride in it, believes a man should look groomed. After all, who wants the sting of post-shave stubble? A neat beard is far better than irritating scratch.
His arms and legs are naturally hairy — as expected from a man of his world. His pubic hair is also untouched. Grooming down there isn’t something he even considers — in his culture, and in his sense of masculinity, that would be unnecessary at best.
As for his chest? Barely any hair at all. A few light strands, maybe, but that’s it. He doesn’t think much of it — his body is what it is, and he sees no reason to change it.
He’s a man of a harsh world, where function comes before vanity — and his attitude toward body hair reflects that.
I = Intimacy
Boromir is a sensual lover, but he expresses emotion through action, not words. His affection is felt in the way he holds his partner — how long he keeps her close after, how deeply he kisses her, as if trying to steal a piece of her breath and keep it for himself.
He rarely speaks sweet nothings, but his gestures say everything. A slow trace of his fingers along her skin. The way he goes still just to listen to her heartbeat. How he buries his nose in her hair and breathes in like he’s trying to memorize her with every sense.
He’s especially tender when it comes to her comfort. If he senses tension, he’ll pause to slide a pillow under her head or support her gently. He treats her like something delicate, almost sacred — with a carefulness you wouldn’t expect from a warrior his size. Don’t let such beauty break, the thought flickers through his mind more often than he’d admit.
J = Jack Off
Boromir is a man of action, not fantasy. Masturbation isn’t a ritual or habit for him — it’s a release, something natural. If he has a partner, he’ll always choose her over his own hand. But if the desire builds and there’s no one to share it with, he won’t deny himself.
Most often, it happens in moments of extreme tension — after battle, on the road, when exhaustion and adrenaline blur into hunger. It’s physical, instinctual — his body’s way of shedding the weight of stress.
Sometimes it helps him reset. When something frustrates him, when his temper flares — this simple act brings him back to himself. But it’s never about fantasy or indulgence. Just need, met quietly.
K = Kink
Power & Control
Boromir needs to lead — to feel that he’s guiding the rhythm. But it’s not about dominance through force. What excites him is knowing she gives in out of trust, not fear. He craves the way she clings to him, how her nails dig into his skin, how her body yields and responds to his. Her reaction fuels him like nothing else.
Scent
Scent stirs something primal in him. Not perfumes — her. Her natural warmth, the faintest musk of her skin after a bath or sleep. That quiet, misty scent makes his blood rush. He buries his face in her neck, her hair, inhaling as if he could burn the memory into his lungs.
Boots & Riding Gear
Her riding boots drive him mad. Soft, high leather hugging her calves — the way they shape her legs, hinting at strength and grace. And because he most often sees them when she’s in the saddle, that image becomes inescapably tied to his desire.
When she’s on horseback, in those boots, wearing her riding cloak with slits at the sides — he’s undone. He imagines her wearing only those boots and that cloak, no skirt beneath. If she came to him like that, he wouldn’t speak. He’d just look. Let the need consume him. Then take her — wordlessly, urgently.
Climax Touch
At the height of release, his instinct is always the same — bury his face in her neck and breathe her in. It’s reflexive. He needs that closeness, her warmth, her scent in his lungs.
He also loves interlacing their fingers — feeling her squeeze his hand, sensing her pleasure through her grip. That single touch makes it all feel deeper, as if what they’re sharing goes beyond just flesh — into something sacred.
L = Location
Boromir is a man used to the hardships of travel, but when it comes to intimacy, he values comfort. He prefers a bed: soft, warm, and reliable. There, nothing distracts him. He can fully focus on his partner, knowing they’re safe, undisturbed.
Yet there’s something primal in him, a wild call that sometimes makes him yearn for something different. He’s drawn to places where he can feel nature around them — by a fire on a chilly night, in a forest, a tent, or even a stable, where the smell of wood and warm hay mingles with their breath. The feeling of cool air, the scent of rain, the crackle of fire — it heightens everything.
Still, that’s more fantasy than habit. Finding a place that can accommodate his size and give them privacy isn’t easy. Sure, he’d try sex outdoors if the moment was right. But if he could choose, nothing beats her bed. Her bed isn’t just about comfort — it’s about trust, peace, belonging. There, he can let go of war, duty, and all thoughts of tomorrow. There, he feels at home.
M = Motivation
His biggest trigger is the need to protect — and to possess. Seeing his partner reach for him, seeking his warmth, his strength, ignites a deep, primal desire.
But the real switch is the idea of claiming. If he so much as thinks about leaving a mark, about making her the mother of his children — he hardens instantly. That thought alone is enough to undo him, even if things were only meant to stay playful.
N = NO
Doggy style. Not just a position to him, but a symbol — one he rejects. It turns the woman into something used, faceless. He needs to see her, touch her, feel the full intimacy of the moment.
Humiliation. He won’t tolerate it — not toward himself, and never toward his partner. He can dominate, yes, but only if it comes with trust, not degradation. And he would never allow himself to be treated with disrespect in turn.
Faking it. If he senses she’s pretending — fake moans, forced responses, doing things just to please him — the fire dies instantly. He picks up on dishonesty fast, and it ruins everything for him.
Public play. A hard no. Sex is too personal for him to turn it into performance. The thought of someone hearing or seeing them doesn’t excite him — it repels him. He wants total focus on his partner, without fear or shame.
Receiving oral. A blowjob, to him, feels degrading — for her. He won’t accept it, won’t ask for it. He sees it as dirty and undignified.
And yet… kissing her between her thighs? That, to him, is sacred. Somehow, he doesn’t see it the same way. Perhaps it’s a contradiction, but it’s real — in his mind, those acts are worlds apart.
O = Oral
Giving:
Here, Boromir has no doubts or restrictions. He loves to kiss, to feel skin under his lips, to trail his tongue along sensitive places while watching how his partner reacts. To him, it’s not just foreplay — it’s another way to fully connect, to give her pleasure, to witness her trust bloom under his hands.
The first time he kissed her lower lips, he hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much. He’s utterly captivated by her response — how she softens under his touch, lets him lift and part her thighs, accepting him fully. To him, it’s not just an act of desire, but of devotion.
He’s intuitive — he can sense what she wants, and often teases, slowing down intentionally until she’s writhing beneath him, begging for more. And in that moment, he locks eyes with her, as if reading every flicker of emotion, absorbing her pleasure until she unravels completely.
Receiving:
This one’s trickier. Boromir believes oral sex — on him — is degrading and dirty for her. But deep down, that belief is more inherited than self-formed. Something heard, seen, or impressed upon him earlier, not something he’s really thought through.
This block in his head may not be permanent. With enough trust, affection, and clear desire from his partner — if she wants it, not out of duty but out of joy — it could shake his foundations. He doesn’t get turned on by the act itself so much as by her eagerness to be close to him in that way. If he sees her enjoying it? That could undo him entirely.
However, even in such a case, there’s one unbreakable rule: only after bathing. Boromir is pragmatic. No matter how passionate he may be, he won’t consider oral without absolute cleanliness. If the moment isn’t right, the thought makes him more awkward than aroused.
P = Pace
He’s not the type to rush headlong into passion. Boromir always starts slow — almost lazily — as if waiting, letting her adjust, feel him fully. His initial thrusts are gentle, exploratory, letting her set the rhythm. If she moves faster, he follows. But he never hurries.
As arousal builds, so does his intensity. His movements grow stronger, more deliberate — but still controlled. He tunes into every reaction, every shift in her breath or muscles. Sometimes he’ll slow down again on purpose, drawing out the moment, edging her until she’s nearly begging for release.
But when his own climax nears, his control starts to fray. His thrusts become quick, shallow, body taut with tension. His rhythm falls apart — no longer smooth or measured, but raw and driven by pure need.
When he comes, he continues to move — slow, deep thrusts — drawing out the feeling. Then he stills, staying inside her for several long seconds. He wants to feel her around him, clenching, pulsing, warm. It’s in that stillness he finally lets go — no battles, no duty, no fear. Just her. Her breath, her warmth. And the sense that, for a moment, he belongs wholly to something beyond himself.
Q = Quickie
If there are no other options and it’s the only release available, Boromir won’t refuse. But in his ideal world, intimacy should be done “with care, purpose, and depth” — not rushed, but slowly, so he can truly savor his partner.
Ideally, he prefers to be fed, rested, and unhurried. Rushing kills the beauty of the act for him, so he always favors long, deliberate moments of connection over quick flings.
R = Risk
He’s used to taking risks on the battlefield, but in bed, he’s rather conservative. Stepping outside the familiar isn’t something he actively seeks — he finds deep satisfaction in intimacy itself and the trust that comes with it.
He rarely initiates experiments himself, simply because he doesn’t feel the need. However, if his partner brings it up, he won’t dismiss it. He’ll listen carefully, think it through, and if it feels right, he’ll try — but only with full seriousness and intention.
S = Stamina
Boromir has impressive stamina — he can hold back for a long time, carefully controlling the pace, taking his partner right to the edge before letting himself go.
If he feels he’s close to climax while his partner isn’t there yet, he’ll stop rather than finish too early. In such moments, they might lie together while he shakes, gripping at random parts of her body, trying to steady himself and not fall into the abyss of release too soon.
These touches aren’t soft, like afterglow caresses — they’re frantic, needy, as if he’s trying to anchor himself. He especially tends to grope her breasts or stroke her mound, as if trying to resist, even though each touch makes it harder to hold on.
T = Toy
He’s not particularly interested in toys — he prefers using his hands, his body, and raw passion. Of course, in Middle-earth, the concept of toys is practically nonexistent, but he’s discovered he really enjoys sex with a blindfold — it heightens sensation, turning the moment into something more intense and immersive.
Immobilization also excites him, but never with force — more like pinning her wrists or gently restricting movement, just enough for her to surrender to the moment.
He absolutely refuses anything that causes pain. Spanking, hitting, harsh punishments — these are hard nos. The idea of violence, even in play, repels him. If his partner asked for such things, he’d decline firmly but kindly.
U = Unfair (Teasing)
He can tease intentionally, especially if he’s in a playful or dominant mood — slowing down just to hear her beg, drawing out the tension until she’s trembling. He enjoys the buildup, not to be cruel, but to make the eventual release that much more powerful.
At the same time, he loves when she turns the tables — when she teases him until he loses all control. After such nights, his partner might find bruises from his grip or dark marks from his mouth — and he never quite knows how to feel about them. Part of him feels guilty, but another part is secretly thrilled. They’re proof of just how deeply the moment took him — and that thought excites him all over again.
V = Volume (Sounds)
Boromir doesn’t stay silent, but he’s not loud either. His sounds are deep, restrained rumbles — heavy breathing, low, almost vibrating groans that only escape him at the height of tension. Sometimes, he’ll hold his breath for a few seconds before letting out a harsh, controlled exhale, as if trying to keep himself in check.
He’s not fond of loud moaning from his partner — it feels theatrical, artificial, too over-the-top. But soft, suppressed sounds — especially when she tries not to make a sound — drive him insane. If he feels her tense beneath him, biting her lip to stay quiet, he’ll slow down even more, going deeper, savoring every twitch and tremble until she simply can’t keep silent anymore.
When he nears climax, his breathing becomes ragged, his chest heaving — and sometimes, at the peak, a single, torn groan breaks free. Not a moan, not a cry, but a sharp, low exhale filled with the raw power of release.
W = Wild Card (Random headcanon)
After a battle, his adrenaline spikes so high he becomes ravenous and insatiable.
He might barge into his partner’s chambers without waiting for the right moment — unwashed, still slick with sweat, the scent of steel and blood clinging to his skin. Or he might grab her right there in the armory, driven by nothing but primal need.
Normally, he’s the master of control — taught from boyhood to restrain his voice, his strength, his emotions. Especially sound. Any creak of a bedframe, rustling curtain, or distant footstep puts him on edge. Even in perfect safety, his senses are tuned to listen — always translating noise into threat or no threat.
He doesn’t “lose himself” easily.
She comes first. He only takes when he’s sure he can give.
But… there are exceptions.
When she pushes him — slowly, deliberately, with that smile of hers. When she arches her back just so, pretending not to know what it does to him. When she moans — just once — in that particular way that breaks something inside him.
Sometimes he’s held back too long.
And then — to hell with caution.
He grabs her tighter. His hands become possessive.
If she’s angled wrong — he’ll fix it. With his hands. With force. He’ll place her where she needs to be.
He might mutter an apology, half-laughing, half-pleading: “Just… I need this. Say I’ve earned it — please.”
And after?
Silence. Heat. He buries his face in her neck, breathing hard, holding her like she’s the only solid thing in a burning world.
She is his peace.
And his madness.
All at once.
X = X-Ray (Size)
Let’s just say… Boromir does not disappoint. Everything is proportional to his broad, powerful frame — not a giant, but that perfect balance between impressive and comfortable.
He’s not the kind to overwhelm with sheer size, but far from average. At rest, there’s not much difference — but once things get going, his presence and strength become impossible to ignore.
Y = Yearning (Libido)
Boromir’s libido is moderate — but when he desires someone, it becomes an obsession. He knows how to keep control, but the desire doesn’t fade; it simmers, building slowly until it consumes him from the inside out.
Sometimes, it strikes at the worst possible times. He might be sitting in a council, listening to talks of war strategy, but his thoughts are nowhere near Gondor’s politics. Frustration brews — because right now, his priorities lie elsewhere.
When is he most in the mood?
🔹 Midday — this is his peak energy. If he could choose the perfect time, it would be during the day. Responsibilities often get in the way, but if there’s a rare break? A quickie becomes a very appealing option.
🔹 Evening — when there’s no rush, when the world is quiet. If neither of them is too tired, it’s the perfect way to end the day — slow, unhurried, deeply present.
🔹 Morning — he’s not opposed, especially if she initiates. But he hates getting up early. If there are duties ahead, it’s hard to balance sex and proper rest. So he’s on board… as long as morning starts late and there’s no need to hurry.
Z = ZZZ (Sleep)
Boromir never falls asleep right away — not even after the most intense night. He stays close, running his fingers along her skin, savoring every moment. He kisses her for a long time, touches her gently, soaking in the closeness until he’s finally at peace.
But before he allows himself to drift off, his sense of order kicks in. First, the mess — clothes that were tossed aside get folded, any obvious signs of their night are quietly cleaned up. Not immediately, of course — only after he’s had his fill of cuddles and kisses. Then comes water — a quick wash, a freshened face, the need to feel clean before rest. And finally, a mental checklist: is everything ready for tomorrow?
By the time he’s done with his routine, she’s usually fast asleep. He’ll gently tuck her in, slide into bed beside her, and wrap himself around her.
And may the Valar help him if he wakes her.
Because if she opens her eyes, she’ll start biting, licking, demanding attention — and he’ll be too far gone to stop her.
Could I please request 🍷 for something smutty with Ned Stark? Thank youu!
Absolutely!! And, I know i've been promising smut, this isn't full smut. Just sort of, the lead up to it? Idk. Hope you like it tho :3 🫶
🍷 — A Short Drabble
synopsis: replying to a raven was what your husband was supposed to be doing, but after tugging you into his lap, his hand begins to wander.
tw: smutish 18+, fingering (f receiving), low dialogue, light power dynamics? Honestly this isn't truly bad.
Ned’s study was bathed in a soft glow of orange as the hearth fire burned low. The paned windows were drawn shut, yet you could still feel the breeze breaking through the cracks of the stone walls. You must have shivered from the spot beside his desk where you stood because Ned took no hesitation of snaking an arm around your waist and drawing you into his lap.
For a moment, you froze. Cheeks colouring with a red hue and hands fumbling to find a respectable spot to rest, you glared up at him with a faux annoyed glare. Ned reposed with naught but a chuckle, seemingly pleased with the flustered state he’d gotten you in.
“You’re quite lucky your thighs are cozy, husband.” You grumble, shifting to lay your legs over one arm of the chair, whilst resting your back against the other. The breath of his chuckle fans against your hair, stirring a few stray strands.
"is that so?"
You nodded. His voice was rough, words stirring something inside you.
The scratch of his quill against parchment filled his study, mixing with the low crackle of the hearth — of which was slowly beginning to dull out. He was replying to a raven that arrived from South earlier that day. For a moment all was calm. All was peaceful.
The cold of a hand — his hand — ghosting up your thighs had you realising peace with him could not last all too long. Goosebumps pricked along your skin and a shiver travelled up your spine as his hand drifted higher, dragging the fabric of your skirts with them.
For a moment Ned’s hand stilled against your thigh, resting on the tousled fabric whilst his other dipped his quill in the inkpot. You thought he might just leave it at that. A small innocent touch of affection. Glancing up at him, his features betrayed none of what he was planning. He remained aloof to his own actions, staring down at the raven he’d been replying to.
The words scribbled on the parchment were a blur to you as you peered down at them. Not that you were entirely interested in reading them. You were too distracted by the need that climbed ever so higher, even as his hand remained still.
Finally, after you glanced away, watching the flame of a candle dance as it rested on his desk, you felt his hand move. It slipped beneath your skirts, palm meeting the soft of your thigh. It travelled higher than before, coming to still just against the crease of your hip. Your breath hitched.
A sound so quiet you’d hoped he’d miss it slipped from your lips as his thumb soothed a circle on the skin there, almost idly. Without thinking fully, you shifted in his lap, the movement shifting the placement of his hands. Without a word passed and a side-long glance of want that you thought he missed — which, apparently he didn't, you felt him smirk ever so slightly into your hair.
With a squeeze of the plush flesh of your thigh, the warmth of his hand moved and you felt his thumb finally press against where you had been throbbing with need since he’d pulled you into his lap.
A sound so soft you tried muffling against his chest, a breathy moan you knew he would have heard anyway.
"Ned..."
You heard him say something, but the words sounded almost unintelligible as that familiar prickle of pleasure pulled at you. Your hips bucked and your lips parted in another moan. His other hand stilled you, having dropped the quill at some point — you swear you could hear the droplets of ink dripping from the tip, no doubt staining the wood of the desk.
All the while, his thumb never stilled against your clit. Even still as his lips crashed against yours. The only time it stilled was to gather your slick before he pushed two gentle fingers knuckle deep.
You were already gone by then — moans muffled against his lips and body trembling against his. You knew you'd be far gone before he took you proper.
ellievsbear
baratheonpilled
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
