physical touch comes to benjamin poindexter as easy and as natural as breathing. whether it's a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or a pinky hooked 'round yours mid conversation. fingers intertwined with yours as you walk outside, of course, is normal for him. and at home, when he's navigating around you, even though he has ample space, his hand falls to the small of your back as he moves you gently to get around. there's a lazy arm slung over your shoulder, a finger drawing distracted patterns across your skin, his head heavy on your chest at night when he's asleep. and that's just the things he's not really aware he's doing.
sometimes, when he's in a particularly good mood, he'll kiss your lips until you're dizzy and laughing and breathless, then move onto the rest of your face while you catch up on oxygen and your surroundings.
"doin' too much, poindexter," you'll laugh, and he'll lean back in to lick a broad stripe up your cheek, because he's nothing if not unconventional, and if you even try to wipe it away, he'll just lick your hand too. or maybe you're not giving him enough attention, maybe you're busy working—most times, you don't even notice him, because of his training. not until he's sinking his teeth into your limb of his choice anyway. on luckier occasions when your camera's off in a meeting, you stifle your surprise until you're able to mute yourself and complain; on important calls, though, he's sitting on the floor by your legs, and you don't even feel his hand wrapping around your ankle, or his breath ghosting over your skin before pain shoots up your leg. on more than one occasion, you've been asked if everything's alright, and when you glare down at him later, all he does is grin back up at you. the worst part is you can't even stay mad at him when he's so beautiful and you're so in love.
the biting also continues… elsewhere, like he's determined to mark you as his territory. even if he's careful to make sure that all of them—okay, most of them—are hidden, he revels in the thought that your knowledge of them will remind you of him, regardless of where you are. oh, and the dull ache of the bruises left in his wake that are totally by accident because he definitely doesn't know his own strength is nice to think about too—even though you both know better than that.
and then there are the bad days. he'll walk in, silent, and you don't say anything, either. you know him too well for that—if he doesn't want to speak, he won't, and if you keep asking you'll just make it worse. so you wait, and he pulls you onto his lap and buries his face in your neck, and your hands are in his hair, and he just stays like that until he feels better—your weight on top of him is more comforting than he'd ever admit. rarer events are when you lose track of time, pass out without realising, and wake up hours into the night, a cramped tangle of limbs. but your shared warmth is more comfort in one sitting than he's felt in his life before you, so who is he to complain?
he wakes up before you almost every morning, but even then, you're conscious enough most of the time to feel his fingers trace over your face, like he's trying to memorise you, like he hasn't a million times over already. and when you pad into the kitchen, still half-asleep, he lets you drape yourself all over him and catch a few more minutes while he cooks breakfast.
you've changed his routine; he's always hated change, but he'll be lying if he says he's not grateful for it this time.
you nudge him with a toe, he lifts you up effortlessly into his arms and doesn't put you down, your feet are in his lap as you watch a movie while he traces those same idle patterns across them—you ask him, "what's that supposed to be?"
he pauses, smiles in the way he does when he knows something you don't.
"i'm sure you'll figure it out," he says unhelpfully. and it's simple—too simple, maybe, 'cause you feel stupid when you figure it out. i mean, you should've known what it was, because obviously—
it's a bullseye.
hi guess who. 0.7k words i think i died and went to hell except hell is being obsessed with this man. i actually hated him so much the first time i watched daredevil (~6 years ago) lol guess this is karma. pls reblog to support ur authors !!
Fern I adore your Dex writing oh my gods. Have you seen the pic of him with the sniper rifle in the like last episode or something with the fake bullseye fight??? where you see his big ass bicep? You KNOW he’d eat up fucking someone in a chokehold fr
oh my fucking god the armsss
dex fucking you in a headlock (18+)
your chin rests just above the crook of his elbow, the top of your neck pinned on either side by the muscles of his bicep and forearm. his skin is warm against you, and you smell his cologne as he holds you tight.
you can’t move. dex has got you in a firm chokehold, a constricting headlock as he fucks into you from behind. his hips slam against your arse, your back dipping where you arch for him, his cock splitting you open.
he reaches so deep like this, and with each flex of his bicep against your throat, your pussy flutters around the thick of him. he groans, his breath ghosting across the shell of your ear as he ruts his hips, his body a second-skin atop yours.
“just try an’ fight it,” dex mocks quietly, goading as you attempt to wriggle around beneath him. the arm on your neck tightens, your breath catching in your throat as he chuckles low in your ear. “yeah, tha’s right. you’re right where you want to be, huh?”
you moan, but it’s strained as it falls from your lips. the coil in the base of your belly pulls taut as he fucks into you, the fat of your arse rippling as his hips slam against you and his cock nudges deep inside the heat of your cunt.
fisting the sheets, you take what he gives you, whiny breaths all you can manage as you feel his muscles around you contract as he adjusts his grip. it’s unrelenting—the pressure has the edges of your vision blurring and a tingling sort of pleasure passing down your spine. the mattress groans beneath you both as he rocks himself against you, sweat building between your bodies.
dex’s smug smile presses to your ear as he speaks. “d’you like when i fuck you like this, pretty baby? you like takin’ my cock while i hold you like a little slut?”
his movements don’t relent despite the dull ache coursing through his vertebrae. his pace and rhythm remain even as his cock slides in and out of you, and he relishes in the high-pitched moan you give him as he speaks.
“y-yeah,” you manage to stutter out, eyes dropping closed as pleasure grows dizzy in your skull. the tightness in your belly triples, and your legs begin to quiver where you hold yourself in a practised arch.
dex kisses your cheek, and it’s the most tender gesture of the night. he tightens his arm around you, and you choke on a yelp when he manhandles you up and backwards. his cock buried inside you, dex sits up until you’re practically on his lap, his arm still around your neck while the other wraps around your tummy and waist.
your back presses firmly to his, and the angle drives his cock deeper against that perfect spot inside you. it makes you yowl, eyes rolling, when dex snaps his hips and resumes his rutting. he bounces you against him, your body completely at his mercy as he pins you to him.
“how’s this?” he whispers, the bed creaking as he thrusts up, bottoming out again and again until sweat beads on his forehead and something pops low in his back. he licks your cheek as he holds you still, ignoring the way you squirm in his arms. “you like it like this too?”
“y-yeah,” you squeak out, entire body buzzing with pleasure. dex knows you’re teetering on release too. he can feel the way you begin to stiffen and shake, the way you heat up against him and the way your heart rate rises until it’s a hummingbird-like thrum against your ribs.
dex groans, balls twitching as your pussy clutches tight around him. “fuck, pretty baby, you’re fuckin’ perfect, aren’t you? takin’ my cock like you’re made for it. ah—uh, shit—d’you wanna come? wanna come while i fill this pretty pussy?”
you respond with a whine as the tightness in your lower belly stretches out then snaps. you moan his name as your orgasm hits you by force, hands shooting up to clutch at his arm as your cunt clenches tightly around the thick of his cock. you tremble, clit heavy with your heartbeat as you come, and dex counters it with a moan of his own and a couple more solid thrusts.
then, he spills inside you. he calls your name, as if you’re not locked right up against him, as he buries himself deep inside you to come. the warmth that floods you makes you want to keen forward, eyes blurring now as you blink through the haze of your orgasm.
dex whimpers as his cock jerks, and when it gives one last twitch before it softens, the arm around your throat loosens and you suck in a deep breath of cool air. but even that doesn’t last long—dex falls forward, pushing you with him, slamming you down onto the bed with his body smothering yours.
he rolls his hips, semi-hard cock rubbing against the slick heat of your walls. you mewl, and he grunts like he doesn’t know what you’re reacting to. but he knows. the lazy smile on his face would suggest just that.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; A bit of Dex's sadism shows through despite his best efforts.
⋆ tags/warnings. benjamin poindexter x female reader. SMUT!!!! PURE PORN. im so tired of the "bullseye is innocent" crowd, that man is a SADIST, so warnings for sadism, lowkey sheltered dex, slightly rough dex, insecure dex, obsessive dex, you're his north star, he's having sex with the love of his life and lowkey doesnt know what to do, some HEINOUS things, dex is probably a virgin but knows how to use his talents during sex LMAO, swearing. i love this man, but he's such a hard character to write for. I hope i did him some justice.
♫ “What is mine, What is all mine. / Ain't a man in this world who can pull me down from my dark star. / Hold you just a little while, i'm gonna give her all my life.” Dark Star by POLICA
"Don't. Move."
The low, husky baritone of his voice commands just above a whisper. There's a tense expression on his face, one of his hands brought up to hold you still. Despite the bark in his words, the hold he has on you is weak. Like a fumbling boy trying not to damage a prized vase. A prized vase he just wants to throw against a wall and break.
Two of his fingers come up to spread the lips of your pussy with a swallow. His jaw is clenched so tight it might crack. His focus is unwavering, unable to be split on anything else other than that little sensitive bud of nerves of yours.
Intrusive thoughts rear their way through his head.
Touch her. Lick her. Fuck her. Shove your fingers down her throat. Take out your cock. Line it up like a shot. Just up until the head pops past that tight little ring of hers, and she spasms like you pulled the trigger.
His thumb brushes over your swollen clit- once, feather-light- and your hips twitch involuntarily.
There it is. No guesswork. Always so easy to find. You could pinch it until she screams. You could rub it until she blacks out. You could slap it raw. You could suck it between your teeth and finger-fuck her until she twitches. He thinks and thinks and thinks.
He doesn't register your pleas at first, trying to focus. Push these thoughts out of his head. But when he does, Dex’s eyes snap up to yours, dark and fixated.
“I said. Don’t. Move.” The words come out rough, but the warning is soft, almost gentle. It's that strict familiar edge underneath that makes your stomach flip. “You’re dripping down my fingers. And I’ve barely touched you. Look at this...mess.”
He says it like he's annoyed- but he's not. Not in a million years. But he takes the opportunity to degrade you, knowing it's one of the few times he'll allow himself to. God, if only he didn't feel guilty. He wars with himself most nights.
You are his North Star. He would kill any man, any woman, any child that looked at you wrong. He protects you. And you protect him from all these...impure thoughts.
So why is it, the more time he spends with you, all he wants to do is use that perfect aim of his to fuck you out so filthy he feels sick after?
The thought sits there, ugly and heavy. Dex hates it. He hates how hard his cock is, how his fingers are already soaked past the knuckle, how his mouth is watering at the thought of destroying the only person he’s sworn to keep safe.
His thumb stays glued to your clit, pressing with that terrifying accuracy. No wasted movement. He starts rubbing tight, mean, perfect circles that make your legs jerk.
“Stop twitching,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “I told you not to move. You can’t even do that right?”
Fuck. It gets him hot, talking to you like that.
His fingers curl hard inside you, stroking that same devastating angle with machine-like precision. The wet, obscene squelching fills the room.
"Look how easy you open up for me." He scoffs, but his lips twitch into a crooked smile. His voice drops even lower. “I could aim my cock right here-” he presses viciously against your g-spot, and out comes a groan from him.
He begins to abuse the spot uncontrollably, not even looking at his fingers ramming into that perfect place. No, his eyes are all on you, his breathing heavy and his teeth gritting, fighting for some semblance of composure. To make you proud.
But you're squeezing him so tight. And you're arching into his touch. And he's fucking his North Star. The thought makes his eyebrows pull together and a ragged breath fall from his lips.
“You want me to lose it? Huh?”
His thumb rubs your clit faster, merciless and accurate. Deep down, somewhere inside him, he knows you can't answer. He knows you can't do anything to resist even if you wanted too. And he likes that.
“Answer me.”
He pushes. Harder. Rougher. He hopes you know how sorry he is for this. But he knows that it would be all a lie. How can he feel sorry, when you're trapped up against him like this?
“Thought so.”
He yanks his fingers out, flips you onto your back with rough hands, and shoves your thighs wide apart. His cock is flushed dark and leaking as he lines himself up. No more waiting. He pushes in with one rough, thick thrust, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps as he stretches you open.
“Don't… don’t move,” he hisses through gritted teeth, repeating, voice strained and mean. “Just take it. Take it.”
Every time you cry out, he has to close his eyes, still buried deep inside you. His intrusive thoughts tell him if he gets one more look at you, he might just give in and fuck you like the animal he really is.
Vtm Bloodlines 2: a timeline and an initial background for Phyre
by: Tim Turner
A special thank you to @safia-ulusoy for helping me extract dialogue from the Bloodlines 2 game. I've been gathering some quotes about Phyre's background to study the possible implications of their life throughout the centuries (and write copious amounts of fanfiction when the time is right).
It will take me a while as I go through the dialogue files and The Art of Bloodlines 2. Feel free to reach out with questions, add your own thoughts or challenge my notes anytime, there's still a long way to go before I can finalise a decent timeline.
In this analysis, we will consider the First Night to be the start of the actual story, i.e., Phyre's awakening from torpor.
BEWARE OF SPOILERS
Context
It's was a little difficult to figure out how much time passed between Phyre waking up in the basement and their frenzy killing spree. There's a few clues here and there, but it's in fact Lou Graham that gives us one of the first indications of how to sketch out a proper timeline during her first meeting with Phyre:
Lou: “Two nights ago, my poor childe was found outside of Weaver Tower missing something rather vital: his head.”
Phyre: “There was a killing spree last night?”
Lou: “A figure in a bloodied white gown, so I hear. Running rabid through the streets, trailing gore and Dior knows what else (...) Oh, the wayward childe's all over their "television news and social media". Mortals call them "Hashtag Vampire Bundy. Nobody's taking it seriously, of course."
This means that Phyre is on their third night after waking up from torpor. We don't know the exact date, but we do know that the story happens during Christmas time in Seattle, 2024.
I've attempted to make a timeline for the first 3 nights, to set myself with some context:
First night
In an attempt to get some leverage with the Camarilla court, Katsumi tips off Campbell that the Anarchs intercepted a weapons shipment at a Seattle warehouse [(and, subsequently, kidnap Safia's ghouls while they were moving Phyre into the underground)].
(...) For whatever reason, a pact existed between Prince Campbell and Katsumi, a respected figure in the Anarchs (...)
— The Art of Bloodlines 2, p.79
Campbell goes check the warehouse.
Fabien arrives at the warehouse, intent on recording Campbell's confession that he and Lou were responsible for the original Rebar killings. When the plan fails, Fabien sacrifices himself and gets revenge for Gideon by waking up the Elder in torpor, who will kill everyone in the vicinity. Fabien gets diablerised.
Campbell is killed by Phyre, his head severed from his body.
Campbell's body is dropped near Weaver Tower by either the Anarchs or Safia's Sabbat.
Phyre starts a frenzy rampage kill, suffering from intense hunger after having been in torpor for 100 years.
Second night
A Kindred stirs in an abandoned apartment, deep in an unfamiliar suburb of an unknown city. They've been unconscious for a century — and now, suddenly, they're awake. Disoriented. Alone. Hungry. Before they can uncover who put them here, or why, they must feed.
— The Art of Bloodlines 2, p.75
Note: As far as we've seen in-game, Phyre feeds from exactly 2 people during frenzy: Fabien and Richie, the guard. I wonder whether they killed or drained others, though perhaps not necessarily — as they might've regained control of their actions sooner.
Phyre's frenzy continues, as they're still unable to control the Beast.
Eventually, Phyre wakes up, having fed enough to get their Hunger sated and the Beast under control [(this translates to the vampire achieving Hunger 1 or 0, according to vtm rules, which pacifies the Beast)].
Fabien's conscience (essence? soul?) awakens in Phyre.
We know it’s around 2AM:
Radio host: "Hello Seattle, this is your 2AM weather and traffic update. We're still under a severe storm warning and it's cold, cold, cold out there."
Fabien leads Phyre to a makeshift haven.
Extra:
Bet of Night (ep.2): "Before you open yourself up to me Seattle, I do have some tragic news: J.J. Campbell, head of DotGEO Futures has unexpectedly passed away."
Bet of Night (ep.2): "J.J. was a noted entrepreneur who did a lot of good for the city, or so I hear. Rest in peace, Mr. Campbell, Seattle will miss you."
Episode 2 of Bet of Night (fourth, fifth night?) has a brief update about Campbell, former Prince of the Camarilla, entrepreneur extraordinaire. Which is supremely ironic, given that official sources tell us the following:
(...) Campbell started out as a mobster in the 1920's.
— The Art of Bloodlines 2, p.94
Third night
The Nomad wakes up in a makeshift haven—an apartment Fabien leads them to, somehow knowing that the previous owner doesn't need it anymore. From there, the two begin to piece their situation together. Questions stack up. Why is Phyre covered with markings, and who marked them? How come Fabien appears to be stuck in Phyre's head?
— The Art of Bloodlines 2, p.85
During the third night, Phyre meets several power players from Seattle's Camarilla court and begins their investigation into the marks. I was most interested in obtaining an overview of each possible background at this stage, and understand what lies beneath Phyre's caution, as they're more cautious with words than usual at this stage.
Fabien: "Some have you as a destroyer, others an omen of doom. But er...what would you say?"
There's 3 possible backgrounds: survivor, traveller and warrior. I've yet to deepen which options belong to each category, but there's some digging to be done and conclusions to be drawn from this start alone.
"I am a survivor."
Phyre: "Where I travel, disaster follows. When I war, it is against misfortune. If I am anything, I am a survivor."
Fabien: "Oh. That's not what I expected to hear. But if that's the truth, that's the truth. And I'm rather fond of surviving, myself."
Fabien: "Well then. What's the most dangerous thing out there, in your experience?"
[mid/endgame]
(...) Safia: "So you escaped. And you've been running ever since."
(...) Safia: "You are no mere survivor. You are the plague rat, the harbinger of wretched misery."
Safia's taunts might hold a glimmer of truth. That being said, I wonder whether what she's learned about The Nomad was based in books or from a warped view fed by the Sabbat.
Phyre cuts off Fabien when it gets too personal. This happens in every background, and eventually we figure out that most of their misadventures are related to the Sabbat, somehow.
01: Mortals that hate
Phyre: "I saw the Witch Trials as they played out across Europe. They slew many of our kind - I barely escaped."
Phyre: "But in fear and hate, they also slaughtered the ones they loved."
Phyre: "Mortal hate is the danger. And there are forces who harness it. If they could burn the whole world, they would."
Fabien: "Bad news. In 1945 they figured out how to, uh... Never mind. Good news: Despite it all, we're still here."
Fabien: "You'll forgive me for asking, I hope, but I can't help but wonder... How did you fall into mortal hands?"
Fabien: "It just doesn't seem your style. Something more happened. Didn't it?"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "The Black Hand set a ring of flames around you in England, and the people drove you through them in hatred and fear. You bore weeping scars for months."
02: Ideals that demand blood
Phyre: "I was in France during the Reign of Terror. At first, I admired their work. They killed every enemy of the people."
Phyre: "And then, they did something remarkable: They made more enemies of the people. And more."
Phyre: "Ideals that demand blood are never satiated. They are the danger. Many I knew died their final deaths. I nearly died mine."
Fabien: "Were you on the original list? Or the expanded edition?"
Phyre: “I am on the list of those who survived, and that is all that matters."
Fabien: "You'll forgive me for asking, I hope, but I can't help but wonder... How did you fall into mortal hands?"
Fabien: "It just doesn't seem your style. Something more happened. Didn't it?"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[mid/endgame]
(...) Safia: "Your escape from Paris, from Moscow! You seem the very herald of devastation. Not in a bad way - I mean..."
(...) Safia: "The Black Hand locked you behind iron doors under Paris, and you only escaped the blade by crawling through sewage."
03: The fight for power
Phyre: "I have escaped wars over the mortal crowns of Spain, England, Poland, Austria."
Phyre: "So too have I escaped purges, plots, and persecutions in the Courts of our kind."
Phyre: "Whether mortal or not, it is the same. When it is uncertain who holds power, knives come out."
Fabien: "Interesting times, for certain... have you ever lived in an uninteresting time?"
Phyre: "No. There are always those who sow confusion and sharpen knives. We do what we must."
Fabien: "Well, Seattle has both confusion and knives aplenty. But you weren't just running - you helped out, right?"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "For fear of the Black Hand, you saw knives in every shadow. Every time a hand was held out to you, you bit it, and fled for fear of chains."
"I am a traveler."
Phyre: "I have journeyed across centuries and continents. I am a traveler."
Fabien: "The stories sure do have you on the move.”
Phyre: "Stagnation is corruption."
Fabien: “"Amen. If you don't mind me asking, was there anywhere, anywhen, that just clicked for you?"
[mid/endgame]
(...) Safia: "So you left. And you never looked back."
(...) Safia: "You are no mere traveler. You are cowardice in the form of a Cainite."
01: Buying dreams in Constantinople
Phyre: "Constantinople. Four hundred years ago. My mortal home. My home afterward, too, for a time."
Phyre: "My favorite place was the Grand Bazaar. The colors, the vitality. Air heavy with perfume and spice from lands that I then only dreamed of."
Fabien: "I'm no wanderer, but the world's a lot smaller now than it was. Getting smaller, too. How big it must have been, back then..."
Phyre: “Not big enough.”
Fabien: "You'll forgive me for asking, but... there's more to the story. Something else - someone else - happened, right?"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "The shadow of the Black Hand drove you from the New Rome."
02: The Masquerades of Venice
Phyre: "I used to roam the calli of Venice, La Serenissima, late at night."
Phyre: "We all wore masks then everything was an intrigue, a romance. We played such beautiful, deadly games."
Fabien: "Sounds a little too sophisticated for me, and a little too stabby. I favor a simple city of thugs and coffee."
Phyre: "It was amusing. Until it wasn't. But there we are."
Fabien: "You'll forgive me for asking, but... there's more to the story. Something else - someone else - happened, right?"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "The shadow of the Black Hand stalked you through Venice."
03: The libraries of Prague
Phyre: "I remember Prague, with its hundred spires. And its libraries. Places of terror and delight."
Phyre: "I read ancient books that were printed when I was young. And I read many secrets. Invaluable and unutterable."
Fabien: "A reader, huh? I like a good mystery myself. Tangled webs that work to a simple solution. What real life should be like but so rarely is."
Phyre: Ah. Fiction. Most of the two thousand books I read claimed to be fact. Very few told the truth."
Fabien: "You'll forgive me for asking, but... there's more to the story. Something else - someone else - happened, right?"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "You fled through the streets of Prague from the Black Hand."
"I am a warrior."
Phyre: “I am a warrior."
Fabien: “"Well, your reputation holds up. My own philosophy is: when they throw a punch, be somewhere else. Preferably a different city."
Fabien: "But while we're killing time, did you have a favorite time killing?"
[mid/endgame]
(...) Safia: "You must have fought your way out. You've been fighting ever since."
(...) Safia: "You are no true warrior. You are an opportunist, a dilettante, a coward."
01: Spoiling Napoleon’s ambitions
Phyre: "I aided Cadiz, when Napoleon invaded after his exile."
Phyre: "It was the only city that never fell to him. I spoiled the ambition of a tyrant and... others."
Fabien: "Huh. So why stand up to him, then? Political ideals? Or did he just look at you funny?"
Phyre: "No mortal has the right to be monarch."
Fabien: "I believe you. And yet, there's more to the story. You mentioned 'others...'"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "The Black Hand were at your throat when the British made their blockade."
02: Bringing terror to the ocean
Phyre: "Three hundred years ago, I had a ship and a crew. We wrought such beautiful horrors."
Phyre: "Merchant ships, naval vessels, and others. We did not discriminate."
Phyre: "We would board. Stain white sails red. Turn entrails to rigging. How free we were, then."
Fabien: "I believe you. And yet, there's more to the story. You mentioned 'others...'"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "The Black Hand shredded your sails and drove you from the sea."
03: Defending my homeland
Phyre: "The Russian Tsar waged war on my homeland, hundreds of years after I left. The Crimean War."
Phyre: "I had long kept out of the country's struggles. But not this time."
Phyre: "We were not unsuccessful against the Tsar and... others."
Fabien: "I believe you. And yet, there's more to the story. You mentioned 'others...'"
Phyre: "I have said all I desire to say about myself."
[endgame]
(...) Safia: "The Black Hand forced you to flee from Sevastopol, your tail between your legs."
I wonder if most (if not all) of these can be considered canon. The choice of background (and, possibly, clan?) seems to branch out into the following, as acknowledged by Safia:
"The Janissary deserting the Sultan's house guard."
"The Vizier exiled from the Sultan's palace."
"The child born to the silver spoon, fleeing their family's disgrace."
"The criminal fleeing the consequences of their actions."
"The desperate rebel, exiled from Anatolia."
"The false prophet in the Sultan's court."
"The pathetic hostage fleeing the Kafes."
But that will be for another analysis. I hope this was enlightening, it certainly helped me understand the timeline of B2 a little better. Merry Christmas to everyone!
i think after zuko finds out you’re pregnant he’s so careful with you. your bump is small still but it’s there and zuko cannot stop looking at it. he touches it constantly like he can’t help himself. you’ve caught him just staring at it with an expression on his face that he doesn’t bother hiding anymore.
which is very sweet. but currently it’s very frustrating.
because you’re in his lap, his cock buried fully inside you, and he has his hands on your hips holding you completely still and the look on his face is so genuinely earnest and careful that you almost feel bad.
almost.
“we can just stay like this,” he says, tucking your hair back, pressing his forehead to yours. “this is good. this is enough.”
it is not enough.
“zuko.”
“you feel so good,” he says, like that’s an argument for not moving. “we don’t have to—”
“zuko i need you to fuck me.”
his jaw tightens. you feel it, the way his cock twitches inside you, his hands flexing on your hips. he wants to. you can feel exactly how much he wants to.
“i don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “or the baby—”
“you won’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
“zuko—”
he shushes you by kissing you, deep and slow, and before you can pull back and argue his thumb finds your clit and presses in gentle devastating circles and the whine you let out is completely humiliating.
“slow,” he murmurs against your mouth. “let me do it slow.”
and he rolls his hips up—just slightly, just enough—and his thumb keeps moving and you clutch his shoulders and decide that you can argue with him later.
Dunk really is the himbo of all time. He's sleeping under a tree, caked in filth, and can barely afford a set of armor and he not only genuinely thinks a lord would look to him for financial help but also looks so earnestly sorry that he can't help them.
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).
pairing: dunk x reader, raymun fossoway with a crush on reader
you've been travelling on the road with ser duncan and other knights. however, dunk accidentally gives raymun fossoway the wrong impression of your...arrangement. aka dunk accidentally implies you're his whore.
1.2k+ — minors dni.
cw: fem!reader, travelling companion!reader, no y/n, no smut but sexual tension and themes, raymun asks if you'll sleep with him (not in a creepy way he's a good lad and it's off page but he was definitely respectful) and quickly realizes there has been a Miscommunication
dunk sat by the camp fire, lost in thought. it was a quiet evening for the group — himself, egg, you, and a few knights and squires travelling the same direction. dunk could see egg a little further down the hill leading the horses to drink at the brook. his peace was disturbed by the sound of scuffling from the nearest tent. raymun fossoway stumbled out, hand to the side of his face. his eyes set on dunk.
"what the fuck did ya do that for?"
dunk looked around to be sure raymun was talking to him. raymun came closer to the fire and in it's light dunk could see he had a large red mark on his cheek.
"do what?" asked dunk.
"set me up like that," raymun said.
the tent flap rustled.
"if she's mad at me, she'll be furious with you. you'll be glad you're tall now. she slaps hard," raymun spoke but his words made no sense to dunk. "just tell 'er i meant no disrespect, right?"
raymun made a quick escape into the darkness just as you emerged from the tent. raymun was right: you looked angrier than dunk had ever seen you.
"what in the seven hells?" you demanded as you stormed over.
"what did i do?" he asked, hopelessly confused.
"just now. what did you say to raymund?"
"nothin'!"
he wanted to ask why you were angry, but even he knew asking a lady why she was mad was more like than not to make her more mad.
"dunk, what exactly did you say?"
***
dunk had just given egg the horses' reins and told him to take them to the stream. he sat down by raymun at the camp fire. raymun's eyes were on you, watching you busy about your chores a short distance away.
"it's strange, travelling with a woman," raymun spoke. "nice, but strange."
"don't i know it," dunk replied. "n'er paid much attention to my clothes. now she rubs something in it and makes it smell sweet. rosemary, i think."
"she's nice. and pretty."
"she is."
you finished what you were doing and entered the tent. raymund leaned in closer to dunk.
"so what exactly is the, uh, arrangement?" raymun asked.
"she's safer travelling with me and egg than on her own. and she keeps me from stinkin' too badly and cooks and does other things f'me."
"other things?"
dunk nodded without giving it much thought. "other things."
"like...what?" raymun asked.
dunk thought he sounded unusually interested but he didn't mind.
"you've been on the road. you can probably guess what needs tending to," he shrugged. "it helps her stay safe and it means i don't need to stop at inns along the way, not when i've got her to look after me."
if dunk was being honest, it was more than transactional. he liked having you travel with him and egg and he hoped you would continue to do so for a long time.
"tell you the truth, she does most everything for me," dunk said.
"anything you want?" asked raymun, looking surprised and a little in awe.
"well, you have to ask her, course. why? there something you want her to do for you?"
raymun looked embarassed.
"i...i wouldn't overstep, not when she's with you."
"she's free to do what she wants. if you want something, just ask her," dunk said.
"you...wouldn't mind?" raymun asked.
"course not."
"d'ya know what she might want in return?"
dunk shrugged. he didn't understand why raymun had so many questions.
"she'd probably do it as a favour. she's easy and happy enough to help. just ask her."
***
"...so see, all i said was if raymund wanted some cooking or clothes mended, or anything, he ought to just ask you and you'd like as not be happy to help," dunk finished explaining. "'m sorry if i shouldn't have said so, but 'course i told him he'd have to ask you—"
he looked up from the fire. he couldn't read your expression, but at least you didn't look furious any more.
"dunk. you realize now what raymun thought you meant, don't you?"
"...no?"
"dunk." you stared at him a long minute waiting for him to realize. he didn't. "dunk, you told raymun i was your whore."
"what?" he sputtered, nearly falling to one side. "no i didn'!"
"you told raymun that travelling with me is convenient because you don't have to stop at inns to find a whore since you've got one with you, that i do whatever you want, that you didn't mind if he lay with me, and that i'd probably lay with him for nothing because i'm easy to get into bed."
"i didn', i wouldn', i—" dunk sputtered. but the conversation replayed in his mind. how curious and nervous raymun was, how odd his questions and....oh. oh no. "seven hells."
dunk groaned and hid his face in his hands. his face burned hotter than it ever had in his life. he was the biggest fool in the seven kingdoms. absolutely thick-headed. he felt mortified he had embarrassed you like that. causing any question to your honour was enough to make him wish the ground would swallow him up, but even worse was the dirty thoughts it had put in his head. the ones that had already been there were bad enough: thinking about how nice you smelled (and made his clothes smell), how gentle and soft you were, how close you would sit to him at night, how much smaller you were than him, how like a wife you were when you looked after his things or scolded him when he was an idiot.
he couldn't help remembering all the times he'd dreamed about you naked. you bathing in a river and splashing him with water, calling him in. you lying naked beside him on warm furs.
the idea of him not needing to feel guilty for thinking of you that way, because you were his. his to do what he wanted with. learning what you liked and making sure to give it to you every time. not just keeping you safe but keeping you satisfied, too.
he dragged his hands down his face and closed his legs to hide that he was hard. utterly miserable, dunk forced himself to look at you.
"i know. i slapped him and he immediately started apologizing," you recalled.
"d'ya want to slap me?"
"yes, for being a fool, but i won't."
"'m sorry." he knelt down in front of you. he wanted to take your hand, but he didn't dare. "'m so sorry. i n'er meant to embarrass you."
the sight of ser duncan the tall kneeling for you and begging your forgiveness was enough to make any lady swoon. you'd have forgiven him anything in that moment and it was a struggle for you to pretend otherwise.
"i know. it's alright," you said softly.
"i'll do anything to make it up to you."
you paused, thinking. "dunk," you began. "have you...had any of the other men asking about our...arrangement."
secret perv!dunk who insists on helping you off your horse every single time without fail. makes your heart flutter with it too, how he’ll stumble over the footholds of his ride just to make it over to you before you can even think of dismounting on your own.
none the wiser to the fact that this gentleman — so far and few between in westeros— kind, considerate dunk just really, really loves getting to look down the top of your dress.
when you lean over to put your hands on his shoulders, he’ll scarcely blink because for a split second, your tits are just a hair’s breadth from his face and he can feel them, soft and plush, dragging down his front as he lowers you to the ground.
he never gives you any reason to question his intentions. by the time you get your bearings, dunk’s already tying your horses to the post, leaving them with a gentle brush across their manes and the barest hint of an all-too-pleased grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
—
when you need to bathe, who else would you ask to stand guard, but your loyal hedge knight? he’ll follow you to the river, an obedient, steadfast watchdog who turns to give you privacy as soon as your hand lifts to the laces on your dress.
he holds his breath when the sound of heavy fabric hitting the earth reaches his ears. they burn with the knowledge that all he needs to do to see you is to turn around.
but he couldn’t. it would be an utter betrayal of your trust, of his honour. so he keeps a lethal grip on the hilt of his sword, ears straining as if listening to the sounds of you bathing was the next best thing to looking upon your bare form.
until, of course, you ask him to hand you the cloth you’d prepared to dry off with. it’s just out of your reach on the river bank, so dunk supposes he has no choice now.
he keeps his gaze trained on the ground, and by some luck you don’t notice when it flickers lightning quick, back and forth as if to piece a mosaic image of you in his mind for later.
you’re still in waist-deep water, back turned from him, but he’s close enough to see the divots along your spine and the beads of water trickling down the line of your neck.
dunk swallows, tracing their path with wide, hungry eyes.
the river laps just above the bend of your lower back, and when the current calms for a moment he gets a glimpse of the smooth curve of your ass, but it’s gone just as quick.
dunk has to snap his head to the side when he realises you mean to turn around, and he does so, a tad too quick.
but just in time to hide the way his cheeks burn as red as his ears. it shouldn’t affect him this way, knowing how much trust you have placed in him to keep him around even at your most vulnerable. especially then.
he tries not to wonder if that means he makes you feel safe, protected, because the thought alone is enough to make dunk’s head spin.
—
dunk likes to keep you and egg close. always within arm’s reach, despite how much the latter grumbles and groans.
dunk notes, with pride and something warmer settling in his belly, that you don’t seem to mind nearly as much.
especially now, at this crowded tavern, where the air is thick and everything is just this side of too-loud. you sit squashed to dunk’s side, thighs pressed far too closely together than what would be deemed proper in any other circumstance. but with the steady incoming stream of patrons, you don’t have much of a say.
dunk’s preoccupied with scarfing down his second plate of dinner, grumbling his assent when egg asks for the third time, “please, may i join the other squires, ser?”
“stay where i can see you,” dunk sighs into his mug. the man rolls his eyes half-heartedly when egg flashes you a bright grin before running off in a direction dunk decidedly can’t keep an eye on.
dunk turns his attention to you — seemingly just now noticing how much you’ve been leaning into him, the grimace you make when the woman sitting beside you uncaringly juts her elbow into your ribs.
he frowns, and tugs you with a gentle hand, only meaning to pull you away from the discomfort. though, between his strength and how precariously you’d been perched on the bench, you practically fly into dunk’s lap.
you blink up at him owlishly, because you already knew it but, seven hells, he’s big. you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, and your thighs sat over the large expanse of his own, firm with muscle and yet, soft beneath you.
“‘re you alright, m’lady?” dunk’s voice is a deep rumble now that you can feel it, and it sends shivers down your spine when you turn your head to meet those crystal blue eyes. all you find is concern.
“i am,” you say, hoping your voice isn’t as airy as you feel.
with one last contemplative look, dunk shrugs, and goes back to his meal — one handed. the other comes up to curl around your waist, anchoring you more firmly atop him.
you watch him chew, entirely undeterred, as if having you sitting on his lap wouldn’t get you any points and whispers. it certainly would, elsewhere, but it’s late, and everyone in this tavern is drunk or halfway to it, with surely much worse going on in dark corners.
so you settle into him with a sigh, nudging your half-finished plate over just as dunk cleans off his own. he takes it with a hum, fingers rubbing just under your rib cage in thanks.
the tip of his pinkie brushes the curve of your breast, and it makes you twitch. the slightest jolt, your core warming further when you realise the rest of his fingers splay over your abdomen. one large paw right over your middle, almost possessive.
your wide eyes shoot to his, but he makes no indication of anything amiss, sipping his ale as he watches the crowd.
he wonders if you can feel it. feel him. he’s been half-hard in his trousers since the first press of your leg to his, but as soon as your rear planted snug above his length, he went lightheaded with just how fast his blood rushed south.
he’s grateful for the excuse of dinner, busying his mouth and hands. one of them, at least. he tries his luck, stroking his thumb over your stomach and smiling into the rim of his ale when you shiver.
he watches you out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to search for egg. you use his lapse of attention to adjust yourself, hand braced atop one thick thigh, and that’s when it happens.
dunk knows you know.
he hears it in the way your breath hitches, fingers digging in just a little harder into the muscle of his leg. your ass falters midway, only for a heartbeat, before you’re planting yourself back down again.
this time, he can feel you. the heat between your legs, somehow through the layers separating you. dunk’s eyes widen, a choke lodging in his chest because he’s always been a little imaginative, but dunk swears he can feel the seam of you hugging his cock.
he wills himself to breathe normal, not to act. he’ll allow himself this, as long as there’s nothing else. he’ll stay like this until you inevitably get up, and this will be like all the other times — stored in his memory for when he’s got his fist curled around his cock behind a tree somewhere, hot and aching, with nothing but the recollection of you to bring him to his peak.
your hand remains, fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers. you lean back, nuzzling into his sturdy chest. he can smell your hair, the herbs and flowers used in your wash, and it goes straight down to the pulsing mess between his legs.
dunk knows he’s not imagining your hips twitching. he sees the quickening pace of your breaths by the rise and fall of your shoulders, swallowing the urge to curl his own around you, wrap his arms around your waist and manhandle you the way he wants.
then there’s a slow, deliberate drag when you straighten, craning your neck as you pretend to spot something in the distance. he wonders what’s going through your mind. surely, you know what you’re doing? though a proper lady such as yourself might not—
dunk fights back a pathetic groan at the notion that you’ve no idea the effect you have on him, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep his own hips still. as much as he wants to buck, the roaring chaos of the tavern keeps his mind in check.
he realises too late that he needs you off. he can’t think like this, can’t protect you the way he ought to — not when the idea of you taking his cock just like this is running through his head as clear as day. would you want that?
dunk thinks he gets his answer when your fingers curl between his own that have been clutching your front.
he thinks he hears the tail end of a mourning sigh, and realises it had come from his own lips when you slide off his lap, back onto the now freed-up bench.
he’s confused, because just as much as he’d wanted you off seconds ago, he needs you back where you were now.
he spares a shy glance when your hand creeps back onto his thigh, much higher than it had been.
he only gets a split-second glimpse of your expression, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as your eyes twinkle up at him with a newfound mischief within.
egg comes bounding into view, quickly stealing your attention with a rapid, inaccurate retelling of a pentoshi tale.
you stand when the boy drags you outside the tavern, leaving dunk alone at the table with the ghost of your touch and a big, big problem.
