trying on a metaphor
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
noise dept.
Cosmic Funnies
Mike Driver
untitled
$LAYYYTER
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Andulka
tannertan36
blake kathryn
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
★
Kiana Khansmith
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cherry valley forever
Cosimo Galluzzi
@theartofmadeline
Fai_Ryy
seen from United States
seen from Pakistan
seen from Italy
seen from Sri Lanka
seen from Iraq
seen from Germany
seen from Philippines
seen from Nepal
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Brazil
seen from Nigeria
seen from France
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@roarofthefire
𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢 .✦ ݁˖𖤓⋅⋆
.☘︎ ݁˖ kenny. 19. she her. bisexual. est.
“ . . . with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet”
team black. snowstorm lover. multi. asoiaf focused. lovergirl. lannister defender. youngest daughter. dragon rider. house dayne stan. dany is the azor ahai. swiftie. renaissance baby. sleeping beauty. angst luvr.
𑣲send a raven , links below!
CASTERLY ROCK — req rules & asks
STORM’S END — my asoiaf masterlist
KING’s LANDING — my misc. masterlist
STARFALL — carrd link !
𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 @𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
i love how everyone in this show is everyone else. aemond is quite literally daemon. daemon wants to be rhaenyra. rhaenyra wants to be daemon and is supposed to be viserys but shes actually rhaenys. aegon wants to be rhaenyra. jacerys is no one that he wants to be. rhaena wants to be baela. baela wants to be her father. alicent wants to be anyone but who she is and instead shes all of her children at once and thats why she cannot stand to look at them and thinks maybe if she saves helaena she can save herself
if you’ve got a bone to pick with me
pairing: jon snow x fem! baratheon! reader
word count: 2.9k words
warnings: sort of book! jon, bratty reader, classism, anti bastard sentiment (as she should), manipulation, bullying, incorrect archery terminology, underage drinking but who cares, violence, teenage squirmishes, no ages specified but picture like 17?, angry make out, fingering, brief handjob, unprotected sex, cum eating, tit sucking 😙, he gets his feelings hurt, let me know if i missed any!
part 1
summary: in which… jon’s rivalry with the crown princess continues.
kenn’s notes: #yourbrotheroryourlover! not proofread! reader is nondescript but has dark hair! i’m not sure if i prefer writing 2nd or 3rd person POV; let me know! me 🤝 naming jon fics after TGD lyrics
𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 @𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
3 days.
it had been three days of persistent complaints and shrill cries from the princess. three days since his attempt to stand up to her. she had looked at him like he was less than the dirt at the bottom of her pretty foot. her gowns of crimson and gold were embossed with pretty designs, lace and silk and stags antlers. they were probably more expensive than anything his sisters wore.
him and robb are training with their bows when the princess walks past with her sister. the younger of the two, golden haired myrcella, was quiet. she reminded jon of sansa, with her girlish demeanor and her dolls. when the two stride past the boys, myrcella seems pretty keen on getting away as quickly as possible. the dark haired girl, however, was not.
jon had his arrow cocked back, one dark eye squinted as he focused on the bullseye. before he can release, she appears before him, blocking the target. her arms are crossed over her chest, brows arched and lips pursed into a scowl.
“aye—!” he barks, throwing the bow to the ground, “get out of the way, you stupid girl! i could ‘ave taken yer head clean off!” he stomps up to her, glaring. they see eye to eye, which frustrated jon even more— he couldn’t even have been taller than her?
she smirks at him, cocky. “it’s not like you were to make a bullseye anyway.” he must have the restraint of warrior because he manages to not reach up and choke her.
she continues, hands placed firm on her hips. “you didn’t tell me the other day. when your help spilt wine on me,” she smirks. “you didn’t tell me you were a bastard.” she says the word like her voice was etched in fire, and the weight of it hits him in the chest. beside him, robb shifts awkwardly.
“so?” jon mutters, glaring at her, “your father must have bastards too— every noble lord has them.” the irony of his words isn’t lost on him; a true and noble lord would father no children outside his marriage.
she scowls, her expression souring. “well— even if he did that’s different.” she rises her chin in the cold air, uppity.
“yeah? and how would it be different, princess?” he grins, finally feeling like he’s got her— but she responds quickly.
“it just is! my father is the king! yours is just the warden of the north!” she raises her voice, scowling at him. her dark brows are furrowed, and she’s frowning. seeing her so angry makes jon smile.
his smile makes her even more furious— her fists clenching at her sides. “don’t smile!” she barks angrily. “atleast i am true born!” she snarls, “you are but a plain faced northern bastard! my mother is the queen and my sons will be lords and knights! you’re the spawn of a whore and a feeble minded northman!”
silence stills over the courtyard. robb winces, one eye shut as he peers at his brother. young myrcella stands beside her sister, meek and squirrelish.
in the blink of a second, jon steps closer to her. he shoves her backward and she lands flat in the cold mud. robb yells from behind him, dashing forward- “are you daft? jon—! you’ve just struck a princess!” the words from his brother shake him from his daze. oh no.
myrcella has scrambled over, helping her sister out of the mud. the dark haired girl stands, a crazed look in her eyes. jon thinks she looks much like her mother like this, angry and almost beautiful. she has brown mud smeared on her cheek and in her hair. she’s pointing at him, hand shaking slightly.
“i will have your head for that you bloody moron!” she shrieks, her skin hot with humiliation. jon swallows back a retort as her mother and uncle, jaime lannister, come rushing over. queen cersei is fussing over her pretty daughter, looking back at the dark haired boys angrily.
“well— speak up.” she said, angry, “tell me the truth of it; why is the princess soiled with mud.” jon parts his lips to speak, but robb grasps his arm firmly. his words are silent: don’t.
cersei’s gaze then shifts to myrcella, then to the brunette princess in question. myrcella’s pink lips open to talk, no doubt to tattle, but her sister cuts in before she gets the chance. “it was nothing, mother.” she glares at jon as she speaks. “i just tripped, that is all.”
jon’s eyes widen. he hadn’t expected that. why did she lie? she could’ve told her mother what he’d done and ser jaime could have chopped his head from his body right then and there. jon watches as both princesses are turned away and matched back to the castle by their mother and uncle. the older girl turns back and glares at him as she goes.
robb turns to him then, astounded: “what the bloody hell is wrong with you!”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
throughout dinner that evening, she glares at him from the high table. her gown has changed- now she wears a pretty gold gown with a square cut around her chest. she has red rubies dangling from her neck and ears. on her head is her golden tiara; antlers fastened to it.
jon shifts awkwardly, trying to drown his worries in his cups. he hadn’t forgotten about that morning; how she had lied to her mother, seemingly sparing his life. it’s late when he pushes away from the table, the elk on his plate left untouched. he’d felt too sick to eat it.
he slips out of the great hall, heading straight for his chambers.
he doesn’t get far before he hears insistent steps and skirts whispering against the stone floors. he doesn’t need to hear them speak to know who it is. “don’t think i’ve forgotten, snow.” she scoffs, standing in the orange glow of the torches perched on the walls. she looks pretty, as much as he hates to admit it.
“why?” he demands, arms loose at his sides. “why did you lie? it’s escaped me.” his curiosity gets the better of him. her expression hardens again, but she smirks.
“if i told the truth, i wouldn’t get what i wanted.” it was as simple as that. she was using him to get whatever it was she wanted. he steps closer to her, his presence looming in the cramped hall.
“what is it you want? if you mean to have me wait on your hand and foot i would prefer you take my head.” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. she was stood right infront of his chamber door, he couldn’t get past— unless he wanted to throw her to the ground again.
he’s tired of this charade, glaring down at her; the princess speaks before he can. “i want you.” she smirks up at him. jon’s cheeks burn bright, but he doesn’t fall for her words, continuing his stony glare.
“do you think i’m stupid, girl?” he grunts, looking away from her. the princess reaches forward, grasping his cloak between her fingers and tugging him closer. he chokes a breath out, watching her. she’s just staring up at him, dark eyes lidded and lips curled into a sly smile.
he waits for a moment, trying to keep his head— but he has never been patient.
her gasp is quick and sharp as he shoved her into his chambers. the room was simple, his bed and chest— the fireplace burning low and a small window. she grabs his cheeks, pressing her warm mouth against his. she tastes like cider and spit and warmth. jon had never been kissed so angrily.
his hands are everywhere; grasping at her gowns, waist, hips, yet she slaps them away when he attempts to settle them on her breasts. she kicks off her lace flats and shoves away from him. he stumbles back a step, watching as she settles herself on the edge of his bed.
jon stares dumbly at her for a moment, before she snaps him out of his daze. “i don’t have all night! hurry along, snow!” he nods stupidly, stumbling over his feet as he steps closer.
“yes, m’lady.” he bows. she rolls her eyes, pulling his mouth back to hers. her tongue slips between his cracked pink lips; it hits jon suddenly how he’s out of his depth, she’s far more experienced at this sort of thing than he is.
she seems to sense this feeling in his kiss, and pulls back. her pretty lips are swollen now, pride coils in his belly knowing he’s the cause. she huffs, arms winding around his neck. “don’t look like that. i’ve had my practice on stable boys and servants sons.” she scowls.
“i didn’t say nothin’, princess.” he whispers, leaning in to kiss her again. his fingers, usually so deft, fumble stupidly with the laces of her corset. jon half expects her to have a snarky retort ready, yet her lips stay glued to his.
when the garment finally falls away from her torso, she lets out a deep breath she’s been holding in all night. jon pulls back, his fingers moving over her ribs— counting each one once, then again. she watches him impatiently, but doesn’t slap his hands away like she had previously. his fingers pause over her beating heart.
her stern voice cuts through the peaceful silence; “just take the bloody gown off—! i’m getting impatient.” jon’s grey eyes look up at her, unsure. had she been serious? “you heard me!” she whines, hips shifting as she waits.
jon doesn’t have to think twice. his hands come up, pulling at her gold gown; she stands to step out of it, and her dark eyes lift to meet jon’s. he feels his mouth swell with spit as he stares. she’s stood before him in her undergarments and wool socks.
jon all but pounces on her, tackling her into the furs of his bed. pressing his warm mouth to hers again; her hands lift, unbuckling his cloak and letting it fall away from his body. her nails dig into the firm olive skin of his biceps, exploring as much of him as she can get her hands on.
he shifts, pressing into her. her legs lift up, wrapping around his hips; his big hands rest on her thighs, keeping her close. his mouth travels lower and lower, over her jaw, throat and collar. he pauses at the swell of her breast, peering up at her. wordlessly, she nods, fingers pulling at his dark hair.
he pulls the linen away from her breast, her nipples peddling in the cold air. his mouth latches on to one, tongue swirling. jon’s left hand lifts, cupping and squeezing the other. her head tilts backward, a small moan crackling from her lips.
jon’s free hand shoots up, palm smothering the tail end of her pleasured cry. “quiet—” he mutters, pupils blown wide. “you ‘ave to be quiet, princess. can’t be caught gettin’ dirtied by the likes of me.” he pulls his hand from her mouth, and smiles down at her.
she nods, hips lifting to meet his. her fingernails are sharp, digging into the ripple of slim muscle on his shoulders. jon was thin, but due to training, had built some lean muscle on his back and abdomen. she pulls at his dark linen pants, impatient.
when there’s no layers of clothing between them, jon licks his fingers, bringing them to her her slick cunt; she’s been dripping from the minute he brought her inside. he steals a look up into her eyes, but her dark ones are focused on his hand. he presses two fingers inside of her, careful.
she huffs, muttering breathlessly. “get a move on— you need not to prepare me so delicately.” that makes him scoff, arching a brow and looking up at her.
“why would that be?” he bites at her neck, teasing. “you want me to split you open?” he had honeyed up his tone, as if speaking to a dog.
she glares all pretty at him. “i’ve had my experience.” she crosses her arms, defiantly. “you won’t split me open, you fool.”
jon barks out a laugh; “yeh? with who? the stable boy?” he smirks before continuing, “hardly a man, princess. y’need stretchin’— believe me.” the cocky tone in his voice makes her eyes roll, but she concedes nonetheless.
quiet whimpers and moans tumble from her lips as he works her open with two fingers, then three. she was soaking, dripping down the base of his fingers to his palm; even in his bed she was carefree, unashamed.
“don’t make me wait.” she nods, fingers making purchase on his shoulders. “i’m ready for you.” jon simply nods, pulling his fingers from between her thighs and sucking each one clean; pulling them from his mouth with a pop!
one of his hands steadies his weight beside her head, the other holds her legs open. her hands, smaller than his, reach down, giving him a few firm strokes from base to tip. he was heavy in her palm, a grunt falls from his lips as she swiped a quick thumb over the slit at the tip.
she maneuvers awkwardly, pressing closer until he’s lined up to her entrance, with a firm push, he’s sunken fully into her, the length of him sheathed inside of her like a sword in its scabbard. her hand rests on his belly, not quite ready for him to move. he hadn’t meant to slide in all at once, she was just that bloody wet.
finally, when he starts to move his hips against hers, she pulls his face back to her own. hot, needy breaths leave her mouth and tumble into his waiting lips. whatever she said now, he would drink like honey, gone for her.
her nails, more like claws, dig into his back as he pushes further inside— each stroke, each press of their pelvis’ together, a quiet whine falls from his lips. jon tries his hardest, to maintain his pace and not just finish deep inside her.
he doesn’t last long, however. he kisses the swell of her breasts, drool pooling in the corner of his lips. “gonna— where, princess, where—?” jon grunts. part of him was embarrassed, to be on the brink so quickly.
“not inside, you lunatic—!” she bites, “i don’t wish to be fat with a bastard any time soon,” her words would upset him if he wasn’t buried inside of her right now; yet they do make sense. he pulls out, and with a tight stroke of his sword hand, his seed spills out onto her belly and tits. the princess scowls in disgust.
jon just gathers some on his finger, and forcefully presses it between her waiting lips— she accepts, but runs her sharp teeth along the side of his pointer. “yuck!” she yells, “is it meant to taste that way?” wordlessly, she brings her own finger down, collecting some of his seed before licking it clean.
jon falls into the space beside her, elbow propping him up on his side. her chest was rising and falling quickly, her mouth open. she was utterly knackered— because of him. pride burns in his belly.
the moment is broken when she quickly sits up and slides out of his bed. he’s too stunned to react for a moment, watching as she quickly pulls her wool socks and slip back up her body, still slick with sweat.
“what’re you doin’?” he calls, confused. it hadn’t even been five minutes since they both finished. she doesn’t reply immediately, yanking her gold gown up her body and quickly tying the laces of her corset.
“i’m a princess. i’m to be expected in my chambers.” she responds curtly, practiced. part of him wonders if she had done this before— to other boys.
he feels disappointed: “we— yer in no state to go somewhere like this, we just—” he tries to argue, reaching for her wrist. she slaps his hand away.
“there is no we, snow.” she mutters, glaring back at him. “i’m not to fall into this— and be your lady.” before jon can even blink again, she turns on her heel and marches out of his chambers, the door slamming shut behind her. just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.
jon pauses, before falling back into his bed. he pulls the furs up, over his head— trying to ignore the little ache in his chest.
smoosh
easy to forget but book jon snow is great actually. he gets so drunk he cries in his first chapter. he's 16 years old and laser focused on loan negotiation. he keeps getting promoted against his will. he's the chosen fantasy protagonist with the worst genre awareness ever. he implements pro immigration social reforms. he has a giant albino pet wolf. he cuts a guy's head off. he thinks he invented cunnilingus. he's been dead for 15 years.
holdin’ out for a hero
pairing: ser duncan the tall x fem! targ! reader
word count: 1.7k words
warnings: yearning, fluff, slight angst (?), violence, arranged marriage, blood, animal death, naïve princess angel, shame, guilt, etc. classism, targcest, lmk if i missed any!
summary: in which… ser duncan the tall falls for the dreamy eyed princess of the crown
kenn’s notes: not proof read! i <3 dunk
𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 @𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
even before egg was his squire, dunk had always heard mumblings about the crown princess. the rumor amongst small folk was that prince maekar’s eldest daughter wasn’t all there. loopy, dotty. things of that sort. he’d imagined her before, silver haired and small— the typical targaryen princess.
he first lay eyes on you in ashford. the black and red sigil of the crown family waved high above the rest of the small folk. dunk was standing idle in the courtyard as the princes baelor and maekar were led inside by the fat old lord ashford.
“could you see to my horse?” a soft voice called out beside him. dunk startles, turning to search for the voice. still sat on the tawny horse— the princess. you were almost exactly how he imagined. pretty, silver hair, soft skin and voice.
he glances up at you, before quickly lowering his gaze to the ground. he could feel his cheeks flush at your simple mistake. “m’lady— i, i am no stable boy. i have the honor to be a knight.” in pairing with the words, he lifts his chin proudly.
your violet eyes widen as big as saucers. he watches you tilt your head thoughtfully. “oh, my apologies, ser!” you unhook your feet from the saddle, and struggle to land both boots on the ground. you lift a hand to your face, teeth closing over the rough riding gloves as you tuck them into your pockets.
stupidly, dunk grabs the reins of the pretty horse and brings it into the stable house. you follow beside him, silver head bobbing around his shoulder as you walk with a certain amount of energy in each step.
his rough hands work to tie up your horse. the mare is young, light brown with a cream mane. her brush is braided intricately, small flowers amongst the pattern. he can only assume the young princess before him is the one who has done it. he peers over at you, eyes not quite meeting yours yet. “and the mares name, m’lady?” he brushes a firm hand over the horses back.
you smile up at him, fingers curling in your pretty silver hair. “her name is buttercup, ser!” buttercup. that wasn’t the kind of name he’d imagined for a targaryen horse. dunk had expected something that struck fear into the hearts of small folk. a name fit for a creature that two hundred years ago breathed fire. he can tell the young princess had an affinity for horses.
he realizes now what those old whispers meant. the princess was a dreamy girl. who moved day by day with your pretty head up in the clouds, dreaming of prancing horses and beautiful flowers. you look up at him, tilting your head slightly. to dunk, you look curious: “where are you from, ser? what lord do you serve?”
dunk sighs, turning to finally look into your eyes. your silver eyelashes are long, and your pupils widened dramatically as you await an answer. he crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling quite small for such a large man.
“i am from kings landing, princess. i am a hedge knight.” he isn’t proud of the title— but he was a defender of small folk, hedge knights like him were crucial, especially for the nobles like her. it dawns on him, however, this princess doesn’t seem like the type of noble to disregard him for being a hedge knight.
your eyes widen impossibly larger, and you clasp your hands together happily. “i’m from kings landing as well, ser!” you beam, pretty lips curved up into a smile— a genuine smile. the princess was harmless. and dunk is overwashed with the need to look out for you.
duncan shakes his head, smiling politely at you. “no, m’lady— i am from flea bottom.” he mutters the words quietly. ashamed of coming from the depths of small folk hell. he’d grown up on the smell of rotting fish on boiling days and the smell of feces in the street. you grew up far above that, looking down at people like him.
you nod thoughtfully, continuing to brush the horse's back. you had dismissed it as if you held no nasty opinions on his home. or maybe you were one to mind your manners and kept your internal dialogue to yourself.
you opens your lips to speak again, but you’re interrupted by someone clearing their throat. at the entrance of the stables stands your brother, aerion. egg had told him about this prince— how he was a nasty, mean boy. his shrill voice cuts through the peace.
“sister! father has been looking for you- and you’ve been here, soiling yourself with the small folk?” he gives duncan a snarl, before turning to glare at you. who shrinks back, meekly.
you mumble out a soft reply. “aeri— i was just seeing to buttercup-” it doesn’t take a genius to see that you were terrified of your elder brother. it hurts dunk to see you shrink back, as if aerion were dimming the light you shone so bright.
the prince barks out a scoff, reaching forward and clasping his hand tight around your forearm. “the beast is fine here with the peasant, you stupid girl.” he scolds, before continuing, “now come before i send the animal to the butchers— father and uncle are expecting you.” his nails dig into your skin and you frown, nodding.
aerion wrenches you forward so quickly you nearly lose your footing. you turn to give duncan a sorry glance before focusing ahead on aerion. you hadn't even been able to ask for his name.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
that night, over hard salt beef and a shared emu egg, duncan asks egg if he knew anything about you. the boy had grown up in kings landing, mayhaps he knew more of the girl plaguing dunk’s thoughts.
egg tilted his head, confused. “why do you want to know about the princess?” the boy’s tone was suspicious. he lifted an eyebrow, looking up at dunk.
dunk shrugs. “what’s it to you, boy?” he huffs, crossing his arms. “now— do you know anything?”
from what egg tells him, you were the kind of girl who, when not accompanied, would be scammed of a golden dragon by shady vendors at the market. you only saw the
best in people, and no matter how many times you would get burned by your naïveté— you never lost faith in those around you.
it made him soften— you were a smart, capable girl, often taken advantage of by anyone looking to get a quick coin. he felt the need to protect you, especially after seeing how you were treated by your own brother that morning.
then, egg breaks to him that you were to marry that rotten brother of yours, aerion. it makes dunk’s fists clench, the idea of such a soft, sweet little thing confined to a marriage with someone so coarse and cruel.
the next day, egg accompanies him to watch the crown prince aerion joust— sons of noble houses often got first dibs to the pot of fellow nights. as the silver haired prince pranced atop his war horse, dunk’s eyes are focused on you, sat in the box with your uncle prince baelor.
dunk watches as the silver haired pest pranced around the jousting grounds, before stopping at the prince valarr’s pavilion. he gives some mocking words before yelling out for ser humfrey hardyng— the small man tumbles out of the tent.
when aerion’s lance rides up and struck deep within the horses strong body, the princess flinches— your hands come up to cover your face in horror. she loved animals, she had told dunk that. aerion’s smug expression makes his blood boil; especially when he lifts his chin to smirk at his sister. he’d done it to upset you.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
at the puppet show that evening, dunk has egg on his shoulders— so the young boy can see over the vast crowd of onlookers. you sat on a plush pillow on the floor, right in the center of the room, watching in a trance.
duncan can only see the back of your silver head, but you’re sat so politely; legs crossed and fingers interlocked. beside you, a mother in tattered clothes sits with her chubby toddler in her lap. the other side is an old knight, his disfigured hand resting in his lap. you appear completely unthreatened by the small folk.
duncan’s mesmerized daze ends soon after when the prince storms into the tent, searching in a panic. when his eyes land on you, say quietly in the front row, he marches up angrily. dunk is forced to watch as aerion wrenches you off the ground and pulls you angrily off the ground and out into the night.
dunk is quick on his feet, following after the nobles without even pulling egg off his shoulders. aerion is screaming at you, hot breath and spit flying in your face; it was clear the prince had spent the night in his cups. you look meek, ashamed. duncan steps closer just as aerion’s firm palm smacks you across the cheek.
he leaps into action, slamming the prince into the mud and giving him a firm punch or two the the mouth. beside him, egg shouts in his shrill little voice: kill him, kill him! on the other side, the princess cries out. dunk gives pause at that, turning to look at her. your lip is split, and your hands are covering your eyes.
there’s something so gutwrenching about the fact that the female characters in obsession have real dreams and wishes but never get the chance to see them realized, while both male characters waste their wishes on short-term selfish satisfaction. they were complex, free-spirited young women who just wanted to create art, and they were destroyed by a man determined to confine them to his superficial perception of them. nikki wanted to be a writer, sarah wanted to be a tattoo artist and now neither of them will get to be anything at all
Everything I Can Give You
Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
✿ dunk has always been such a good friend to you (inspired somewhat by this ask). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 7.8k ✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically defined, friends to lovers, brief violence + blood description, protective!dunk, implied inexperienced!dunk, implied inexperienced!reader, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, creampie, praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), reader gets foldeddd, yearning and fluff and all that, dunk is in LOVE with you, strong language
a/n: the gif….. the shoulders….. the back….. THE BACK !!!
Golden afternoon sunshine glitters across the river’s surface, mottled between the gently swaying leaves of the willow above. The branches skim the water, a brush against canvas, as you lather honey wax soap between two wet hands. You hum quietly as you place the soap bar amongst the shingles before running your fingers over Dunk’s hair, threading bubbles through the lightly knotted strands.
The knight’s eyes are closed as he sits in the river’s shallows, water lapping around his bare hips. You kneel on the bank, his thick woolen cloak softening the press of stones beneath your legs as you extend your arms and scrub your fingers against his scalp.
“Hair like a horse’s,” you remark, taking a good fistful of his tawny brown hair and pulling it out, admiring the length of the soapy strands. “S’gotten long, hasn’t it?”
Dunk leans back into your touch, your other hand working at the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “You can cut it if you want.”
You laugh softly, twirling the thick lock around your finger. You give it a little tug, a small grunt leaving the back of his throat.
“No, I like it,” you mutter, before wiping the remaining suds across his freckled shoulders. You pat him firmly on the back, the slap of wet skin loud through the woodland around you. “Rinse, boy.”
Dunk does what he’s told and bends his large body forward. He dunks his head beneath the water, hands finding his hair to wash the soap away. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine, the muscles across his back and shoulders, but you make good work of ignoring the dip in his lower back and the curve of his arse. Instead, you watch a misty cloud of white float away downstream, before Dunk is pulling himself out of the water.
And you realise you didn’t get out of the way.
“Shit!” You exclaim, attempting to fall to the side, but to no avail. Dunk whips his head back, cold river water dashing across your face and chest as he shakes his head like a dog. You groan, slapping his shoulder as you get to your feet, other hand wiping down your face. “Every fucking time, Dunk.”
“Then you should expect it by now,” Dunk says, smiling up at you as you wring excess water from your sleeves. You shoot him a pointed look and he laughs. He wades out further into the river, turning and floating, watching you carefully. “Are you bathing too?”
You nod, already untying your dress. You shed your layers until you’re bare atop his cloak, bending to fold your clothes neatly atop the spun wool. It’s a juxtaposition to his own belongings, which are strewn haphazardly across the bank. Carefully, you toe the water and despite the pleasant spring air glowing warm around you, the water bites cold.
“It’s not bad,” Dunk tells you. He’s looking in your direction, but those sky-blue eyes of his are squarely on your face. Countless times you’ve been bare before him in manners like this, and countless times his eyes have never strayed from the lines of your face. He brings a hand out of the water, cupping some in his palm. “See?”
“Says the walking furnace himself,” you mumble as you take a deep breath, realising slowly wading in wasn’t going to do you any favours. So, you take a few large steps until you’re knee deep in the river, before diving straight in. Cold water rushes around you, and when you break the surface a few feet from Dunk, you gasp. “Ah! Dunk, you prick, it’s freezing!”
You splash him then, and he takes it with a wide grin split across his face. You splash him again, and he chuckles, reaching one strong arm out and taking hold of your wrist. Your other hand splashes too, water flying around you, and he grabs that wrist with his other hand. He holds you firmly, and before you know it, he’s dunking you under the water.
You’re under for barely a second, and he hoists you out, laughter echoing loudly through the clearing, glancing off the river’s surface like a skipping stone.
“I hate you,” you spit, but you don’t mean it.
You regain control of your arms—he lets you go, not that you have to fight him—and you grab the nape of his neck. He laughs while you shove him beneath the water, holding him there like you mean to drown him. The knight lets you, of course, considering he gives you a victorious four seconds before he easily rights himself and comes up for air. You let out a playful yelp, swimming away as he takes a swipe at you. You kick yourself off the stony bottom, paddling away, but he gets a hand on your ankle and yanks you back so firmly that a wake pushes out around you, sending the water lapping higher up the shingled bank.
“Dunk!” You shout as you thrash about the water. You look around the forest, dappled sunlight passing across your eyes in short, golden bursts. You smile as you shout, “My closest friend is drowning me! A knight is drowning me! Help!”
Dunk smiles, rolling his eyes. “Oh, hush. You deserve it.”
That night, beneath the ever-reaching cloak of darkness, you huddle by the fire, gnawing on a slightly stale roll of beef-stuffed bread. You had been reading your book—the only book you had, and which you had read eight times over yet—which now sits at your feet. There’s a slight chill in the air that licks at the flames in such a way they look to be dancing atop the gathered branches. Dunk approaches from tending to the horses, pulling his thick cloak from his shoulders. You look up, mouth full and cheeks protruding, as Dunk bends and wraps his cloak around your body.
“Y’do’ h’v t’do dat,” you say around your dinner, and he looks at you strangely as you chew.
“D’you just cast a spell on me?” He asks, shaking his head as he settles down beside you.
You slap his thigh, chewing and finally swallowing. You shrug your shoulders, gesturing to the heavy cloak now shrouding you. “You don’t have to do that,” you repeat, clearer now.
“Right, then I’ll take it back.” Dunk reaches a hand out, but you lean away.
“No, no, whatever, thank you,” you say quickly, enjoying the added layer and the heat as the nightly chill rustles the dead leaves on the ground around you. Dunk just huffs, amused, reclining back against the trunk of the willow. You look down at your half-eaten roll then, sighing through your nose before offering it to him. “You can have the rest.”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, you need to eat.”
“This is my second roll.”
“Exactly,” Dunk says, eyes flitting down your covered frame for just a second, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks back at you. “You need to eat. I’d make you a third if we had any rolls left.”
You shake the bread roll in front of his face, a strip of salt beef hanging out the bitten end. “I’ve eaten. Have the rest.”
“No, you need to eat.”
“Dunk, I’ve eaten. I’m full.”
“No, you’re not.”
You roll your eyes. “Take the fucking bread.”
Dunk eyes the food sceptically for a moment, then looks back to you. “Are you sure?”
“Take the bread or I’ll throw it at your big head.”
Dunk takes it without another word, his sword-calloused fingers brushing yours. He takes a large bite, chewing contently as you lean back against the tree as well. Your shoulders knock together, and you feel the heat radiating off of him despite his thin tunic and fraying summer cloak he insists he mends himself—despite your sewing skills being considerably better than his (which, in itself, is not difficult considering his are… poor).
You take the corner of the cloak, your thumb immediately poking through a hole there. He watches you, eyes wide and glistening. There are crumbs around his lips.
“You need to let me mend this,” you tell him, wiggling your thumb for emphasis.
“I can do it.”
“I’ve mended every cloak you’ve had since we were children,” you say pointedly, tugging on the hole. It rips a little bigger, and he makes a face. You hide your smile. “My needlework is much better than yours.”
He huffs. “I mended my trousers just this morning.”
In the semi-darkness, your eyes find a patch of poorly stitched fabric beneath his right knee.
You laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Dunk takes a rough bite of the bread roll, shaking his head as he chews. “Some friend you are.”
—✿—
Four days later, you and Dunk ride your horses along a well-trodden path. It rings around a dense thicket of woodland, and you listen to the way in which the trees jostle their leaves and branches together as the breeze blows through them. Birdsong filters out between the canopy too. You close your eyes, seated comfortably in your saddle as you ride Chestnut.
Ahead of you however, several hooded figures jump out onto the dirt road, brandishing jagged daggers. Dunk reacts before you, one strong arm shooting out to seize hold of Chestnut’s reins and pull you to an abrupt stop. Chestnut huffs in protest as Dunk manoeuvres himself and Thunder in front of you, the sturdy warhorse barely blinking as the three men advance.
“Pretty horse y’ve got,” one of the men says, gesturing to Thunder with the point of his dagger. The man’s eyes lift over to you a moment later, and he smiles a mouth full of silver as he gestures at you next. “Pretty wee lady y’ve got, too.”
Dunk’s face is set in stone, a steely flash in his eyes as he dismounts. All three men snap their eyes away from you to peer up at the hulking mass of a man standing before them. Dunk stands taller than Thunder’s withers, and he isn’t a small horse by any means.
One of the men falters on his sentence, concern flashing across his face, but the man who had first spoken takes a brave—or, you think, rather foolish—step forward, dagger outstretched. Dunk’s hand is balled tight on the pommel of his sword, which rests faithfully at his hip.
“Coin,” the man instructs simply. His eyes shoot up to you again, and you feel a worried chill creep up your spine. A sickly sort of nausea spindles through your diaphragm too. The man looks back at Dunk, dagger brandishing. “Or we can take the lady—”
Dunk rips his sword from its rope sheath and points it at the man. The other two take a few large steps back. Dunk grips the sword, the blade unwavering as he angles it directly at the man’s face.
“Speak one more word and you lose a hand,” Dunk grits out, the muscles in his jaw working. You watch, slightly helpless, from your saddle. Dunk nods towards the other two men, who still clutch their daggers in dirt-stained fingers. “Well? Anything to say?”
The first man scowls. “You—”
Dunk spins his wrist and shifts forward, blade of his sword coming down hard on the man’s hand. Blood splatters outwards in stripes of red silk, painting the earth like a bug squashed beneath a thumb. The man lets out a harrowing scream, his dagger hitting the reddened earth with a dull thud as he backs away, cradling his hand now. A large, deep gash splits across the side of his hand, cutting beneath the thumb knuckle in a bloody display of muscle and bone.
“Fucking hell!” One of the other men shouts, before proceeding to sprint back into the shadows of the forest alongside his friend, scarpering like a pair of rats. The injured man stumbles back, sending Dunk a look of pure fright, before vanishing into the woods, leaving a dotted trail of blood in his wake.
Dunk kicks the dagger away, watching it skitter off into the woodlands underbrush, before turning to you. He approaches slowly, placing a gentle hand on your calf.
“Are you alright?” He asks, wiping the tip of his sword through the dirt.
“Fine,” you tell him. Your eyes find his, which are brimming with worry, before you allow yours to rise to the forest line. You sigh. “You should’ve cut his hand off.”
Dunk sheaths his sword, frowning. “I was… I was trying to be intimidating. I didn’t—I mean, if he tried to get to you, I would’ve… I would’ve maybe, you know—”
You reach down and pet your friend gently on the top of his head. “Too noble for your own good, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, and he’s still holding your calf. “Thieves like that are mostly harmless. I didn’t…” He looks up at you then. “Should I have…?”
You shake your head. “You did great, Dunk. Very brave, and very strong.”
Dunk bows his head, bashful. He gives your calf one last firm pat before pulling himself up and into his own saddle. He offers you one last glance over his shoulder.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
You nod, smiling softly. “I’m fine, Dunk.”
He nods too, turning. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, still smiling as your eyes find his shoulders and back. You see the mass of muscle beneath the material that covers him, and you can’t help the weight of your smile and the warmth in your chest that quickly replaces your feeling of nausea.
—✿—
Two days after that, the springtime sun shines warmly against your back as you and Dunk traipse the sun-soaked cobbled streets of Oldtown. The towering knight loiters close behind you as you browse the market stalls, air swimming with flowery incense and freshly baked breads. Dunk lugs a few linen sacks of supplies in his arms, carrying them easily, as you give him yet another parchment-wrapped parcel of who knows what.
He lets you slip it into one of the sacks. “What is that?”
“Cake,” you say simply.
The frown that graces his face is light as he fights a smile. “You can’t keep buying cake. Our coin is scarce, and should be spent on things we need.”
You shoot him a pointed look over your shoulder, replying light-heartedly, “Well, it’s my coin and I need cake. Shut up.”
Dunk doesn’t argue, and instead follows you through the crowd. You linger ahead though as Dunk lags behind, hyper-aware of his large size taking up a considerable amount of the thoroughfare. He apologises under his breath as he accidentally bumps someone, and he tries to keep his arms tucked in as he holds onto all the produce you had insisted on purchasing.
When he finally catches up to you, after being cursed at by an elderly woman, you’re standing before a market stall with a wide grin split across your pretty face. Dunk watches you laugh softly at something the vendor says—the vendor, who happens to be a very attractive man around your age—before offering a response. And whatever you say makes the vendor smile even wider, a mouth full of flashing ivory.
Something solid churns deep in Dunk’s chest. It settles deep in the chambers of his heart.
He sidles up to you as casually as possible, body casting a long shadow across the stall. The vendor looks up, and Dunk almost feels guilty in the delight that greets him when the vendor’s smile vanishes.
You lift your head, smiling at your companion. “Dunk, what do you think?”
His eyes pull away from the vendor to where you’re showing him… another cake.
He huffs. “M’lady.”
It’s small, probably an easy fit in the palm of your hand, decorated with segments of blackberries and dusted with glittering sugar. His eyes flit from the little cake to your face, where you look at him with glossy eyes he swears he can see his reflection in—all pleading and begging and looking just the way you did when he met you all those years ago. Except now, you’re no longer surrounded by the grime of Flea Bottom. You’re here, together, in a tightly-packed market in Oldtown, clean and well-fed and smelling of honey and horse.
“One more,” you whisper. “This one looks good.”
“I’m certain you said that earlier,” Dunk mutters, but doesn’t argue.
He nods at the vendor, who hurries to offer you a square of parchment to wrap the little cake in. You beam, and Dunk feels something glowing from his chest, warm against the bone of his sternum. He hands the vendor the right coin before the two of you move off, heading back through the market, footsteps audible against the cobbled ground.
“Thank you,” you say suddenly, shifting to the side to lean your cheek against his arm. The muscle of his bicep is pillowy and warm against your face, and you peer up at him as you take a gentle hold of his wrist as he hefts the loot of the trip. “Thank you, Dunk.”
He smiles down at you, a few strands of hair framing his face. “Y’welcome.”
—✿—
Evening falls in a curtain of pale oranges and yellows as you lounge across the mattress. The inn room around you is lit up in those colours, sunlight streaming in through the small window that overlooks one of Oldtown’s many winding alleys. You lie comfortably in your chemise, candles burning near the iron-framed bed, deflated pillows piled behind you. Paper rustling is all that fills the room as you read, the book resting in your lap.
The room’s door opens and Dunk ducks in. You greet him.
He stands over the bed and holds something out to you. “Here.”
You place your book aside, taking in his slightly flushed appearance. “What…?”
The knight holds a book out towards you, leather-bound and clean of wear and tear. Your mouth parts into a small gasp as you gently take the book, admiring it and hefting its weight in your hands.
“Dunk,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Where did you get this?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’ve read your book a hundred times over by now, so I thought a new one’d suit you well.”
You brush your fingers down the neatly bound spine. “Dunk…”
Tossing it aside, you all but throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him to you. He laughs at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around your middle, cheeks heating as you murmur thanks into his shoulder. You pull back after a moment, but his hands rest on your hips and your fingers remain interlinked behind the column of his neck.
“You’re too good to me, y’know that?” You mutter, cocking your head and appraising the pink tint across his lightly freckled cheeks.
It flushes to his ears. “You deserve it. That and more, t’be fair.”
You chuckle at that, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. You thread them slowly, scratching against his scalp, and the sound that leaves his throat is nothing less than a purr as his eyes close and he leans his head back into the contact. The grip he has on your hips tightens. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.
“Like what?” You query, your other hand resting high on his shoulder, toying with the seam of his tunic.
Dunk opens his eyes. “Huh?”
“You said I deserve that and more,” you tell him. “Like what? What else do I deserve?”
He groans quietly, warring with himself as his eyes, lids half-lowered and sluggish in their movements, trace the features of your face.
“So much more,” he whispers. The hold on your hips draws firmer and you feel a giddy sort of heat take over you, settling in your stomach and between your thighs. Dunk continues, corner of his mouth curling up into a shadow of a grimace. “More than I can give you.”
You pout at his words, fingers in his hair taking the strands firmly between knuckles and tugging. He sucks in a breath, and you hold him as you speak.
“Don’t act the fool,” you say. “You give me everything I want, Dunk.”
He frowns.
“You do,” you challenge, hand not in his hair coming to cup his cheek now. His skin is warm and slightly dewy to the touch, testament of a man having spent the last hour searching the warm, narrow streets of Oldtown for a book. A book for you. You swipe your thumb along his cheekbone. “Now tell me: what else do I deserve?”
Dunk opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes sweep down your face again, lingering on the shape of your lips, then the lines of your nose. They reach your eyes and he releases a pained sound—a sound punched from his gut, dragged across a whimper so intimate that it settles your heartbeat between your thighs.
“You deserve everything,” he whispers finally, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. Touching, a nervous movement, before his lips close and he’s trapping a grunt between his teeth as you scratch at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, speaking like your touch might put him to sleep. “Everything I can give you.”
The hand you have on his face shifts to his jaw and you work the muscle and bone beneath the pads of your fingers. “And what can you give me?”
Dunk groans, head lolling to the side, resting against your forearm while you continue to rub at the nape of his neck, hair between your fingers. You let go of his jaw and swipe your hand across his forehead, pushing loose strands away so you can get a good look at his face. He’s redder now, his blush coloured darker in the shadows of the room. His freckles blur together beneath the flickering candlelight too, and you allow yourself to feather the tips of your fingers across the ones high on his cheekbones. You map them like the stars as he rubs his head against your forearm like a cat.
“Anything you want,” Dunk whispers finally, and it’s broken around a whine. Heat prickles at the back of your neck, blood pumping hot in your core as your body reacts to his audible need. Beneath the thin material of your chemise, you’re on fire. Dunk finally opens his eyes, observing you when the silence stretches for just a moment too long. He says your name, soft, tender, before he speaks. “Please.”
You smile, tucking a few thin locks of his hair behind his ear. You lean in, lips ghosting across the warm skin of his cheek. “I want you.”
A rumbling groan is ripped from his throat as he shifts his head to the side, chasing your words before they can disappear into the candlelit air. His mouth slots to yours so easily as you turn your head too, and another deep sound leaves his mouth as your lips work together. You grip his hair tightly, angling his head back so you can draw him in even closer.
Your name falls from his mouth, followed by a whisper of “my sweet girl,” before your tongues draw together. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, clutching firmly, fingers flexing as if you would draw away from him. You whimper in response, tugging at his hair.
“C’mon,” he mutters against your mouth as his hands find your hips again. He shifts you backwards, hefting you like a sack of grain until your head hits the stack of pillows. You smile into the kiss, pulling his hair into a closed fist at the back of his head. He groans, teeth catching on your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”
You sit up slightly, forcing him to back up. Tugging your chemise off, the amber-lit warmth of the room greets your bare tits, and you toss the garment aside as Dunk gapes at you, eyes firmly on your chest.
“Dunk,” you chuckle, taking in his shocked—pleased—expression. “You’ve seen me bare before.”
“Not like this,” he utters, voice dark. He leans in then, and you suck in a gasp as he presses his face between the valley of your breasts. His hands find the small of your back, hugging you to him, and the skin of his face is burning red-hot against your chest. His mouth opens and he groans loudly, holding you tightly. “Oh gods.”
You seize his head and pull him back to you. You kiss him hard this time—it’s not gentle, and it’s not tender. It’s teeth and tongue and spit and fuelled by everything pent up inside you. A glass bottle uncorked, liquid need overflowing as you lick the salt from his tongue. His clothing comes next: blindly, you work his tunic over his arms and shoulders, pulling away from him so he could throw it across the room. He’s on you like a leaping hound, pinning you back against the pillows while your hands find the ties of his trousers.
There’s a molasses-thick desire seeping into your belly as you untie his trousers. It consumes you, hot and sticky, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth as your fingers brush across the tent in the material of his trousers. He groans in return, the sound breathless and almost embarrassed, as you shuck his trousers down and start tugging at his breeches.
He pulls back. “Sweet girl, hold on—”
You pause, panting, fingers on the knot at the band of his breeches. “Are you okay?”
“M’so good,” Dunk whispers, kissing you one last time on the lips. It’s chaste, almost polite, something akin to an apology before he leans back. A pout is halfway formed across your lips, nipples hardening at the loss of warmth against your front, before you feel his hands run down your back to the bunched fabric of your smallclothes. His eyes find yours as he slowly, slowly begins guiding them down. “Is this okay?”
You nod, admiring the shadowed lines of his face in the candlelight. A small dip in his brow draws his face into a mask of disbelief as he gently draws your smallclothes down your hips, over the curve of your arse, and then down your thighs. You lift yourself to aid him, eyes on the way his tongue finds the corner of his mouth again, his pupils blown wide. Soon, your thin linen undergarments are discarded and you lie completely bare before him.
“Here she is…” Dunk whispers, and it’s so quiet you’re certain it wasn’t meant for you.
His large hands find the plush of your thighs, kneading the flesh there as he parts them. His movements are unhurried as he brings them wider, and wider still, until the slick heat of your core glistens wet in the flickering candlelight. The sound that leaves him is pained, stretched thin across a moan as his fingers ghost down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He traces circles as he looks.
Your heart clatters against your ribcage like a marble in a jar and you swear you’re losing your breath. A hand you barely register as yours reaches out, feeling along the line of hair above his breeches. The muscle is cloaked in a layer of fat that you dig your fingers into, and you taste that molasses-thick desire between your teeth as his name rolls over your tongue.
“Put your mouth on me,” you say when you draw his attention away from your core. Your fingers dip, tracing the line of hair, brushing over the tent in his breeches. There’s a jerk of mass beneath the fabric. It sends your heartbeat straight between your legs.
The small dent in his brow deepens as he shudders out a breath, eyes on yours. “I’ve never…”
“S’alright,” you tell him, other hand finding his face. You pat his cheek tenderly. “We’ll learn—we’ll learn together, okay?”
His lips part, but he nods. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes as he settles further onto the bed, mattress and bedframe groaning. You can feel the callouses on the top of his palms against you, and his hands twist from your inner thighs to the backs of them. You yelp when he suddenly pushes your thighs up, thumb and fingers on either side of your knee’s undersides. He bends them up until they rest against the softness of your belly.
The angle is exposing, and there is a fleeting moment of fear that passes through your mind. It is squashed immediately when a boarish grunt leaves Dunk’s throat as he bends forward, squeezing your legs to anchor himself, before his breath is ghosting across you.
You writhe, gasping out, “Dunk, Dunk, please—”
His eyes appear black in the dim light as he peers up at you, hair damp on his forehead already. He watches you carefully as he blows out a breath—the sensation against your slick folds slicing your sentence mid-air. You moan softly and Dunk repeats the action, tepid air a finger-like stroke against the blazing warmth of your cunt. You manage to wriggle an arm between the fold of your legs, your fingers threading through his hair again.
He takes the encouragement: still looking up at you, Dunk gently presses his mouth to your core. It’s a kiss, a press of lips against velvet warmth, before they part. His tongue follows, a tentative split between your folds as his head shifts. His nose bumps your clit, and when a short “ha-ah” slips over the point of your tongue, he chases—tongue finding, searching, until you call a stretched-out whine of his name when he finally gets it.
“Dunk, yes, fuck,” you ramble, fisting his hair when he flattens his tongue. Something electric fizzles down your spine, shoulders to hips, as he works with a pressure just slightly too little, but somehow it works. It works because it’s him, and it works because you cant your hips and gently urge his head forward. And because he’s a good knight, your good knight, he listens, his lips drawing around your clit in a wet suction that punches a moan from you. “Du–uh–nk, oh gods.”
A thick grumble vibrates against you, his eyelids fluttering. His mouth shifts, tongue splitting back down your folds as you pant. He continues to watch you, eyes glassy. You nod, imploring, when the point of his tongue finds your hole, and you tighten your grip on his hair when he presses in. Like everything else about him, his tongue is thick—a thick press inside you that pulls you apart. It draws a pressure into the base of your belly as he licks into you, the line of his nose pressing deep against your puffy clit.
You wriggle beneath him, trapped under the fold of your own thighs as he pins you to the mattress and takes what he wants—gives you what you need. And he gives it to you, ever the quick-learner, with his tongue pulling and pushing in broad strokes. In, out, curling inwards as his head shifts. He chases the gasps that fall from your mouth, the little whimpers you try and quell as his tongue flicks in. He hums, pleased at the way your body heats up beneath him, and he feels his cock jerk in his breeches when the vibrations of his hum travel straight through you. You keen, holding his head tighter against your core. He breathes deeply, smelling and tasting you, face slick and flushed.
Is this good? he wants to ask. Am I making you feel good? teeters painfully on his tongue, but he keeps them locked in. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. Not now, not ever. The sounds you make spur him on, ignite a spark deep in his chest. His closest friend. His. His sweet girl writhing and moaning for him.
Sickly sweet now, the molasses-thick need crystalises in your womb, and you feel something tugging. A deep-seated pressure that rocks your heartbeat through your core, blood pumping hot in your veins. There’s a tension in your thighs too, and they tremble in his hold as his tongue splits you apart. The sounds are wet, and Dunk is grunting, and you’re trying not to fall too deeply into it—but you can’t help it. All you can think of, all you can hear, all you can taste is Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, and that pressure inside you builds to its breaking point. Your fingers grip his hair tightly as you attempt to grind yourself against his face.
“Dunk,” you whine, calling for him as your body shakes. “Dunk, s’good—m’gonna—”
You burst apart when his tongue dips deep inside you and he groans into your heat. The pressure inside you fissures and your cunt clenches tightly around him, heartbeat spiking as you call for him over and over, strung across breathy whimpers that seem to rise into the ceiling. He licks you through it, face unyielding as you tremble under the weight of his palms.
After a long moment, pleasure spiking sharp in the pit of your stomach, you pull him away from you by his hair. The knight groans, eyes finally closing, his face slick with you, lips kiss-bruised and wet as he whispers your name. He squeezes your thighs too, before gently placing your legs back against the sheets.
“Did I… was that okay?” Dunk can finally ask, eyes roaming down your naked form. They fall from your face, to your chest and stomach, to where you drool out between your thighs. The sight makes him moan, one hand resting over his lap.
“So good,” you assure him, picking yourself off the pillows now. Dunk swallows, watching you as you close the gap and kiss him. He’s shocked, frozen for a split-second as you lick yourself from his lips. The loud moan you offer him quickly pulls him back to solid earth, and he opens his mouth to kiss you back. You mutter against his lips, “You did so well, Dunk.”
He preens beneath the praise, ears burning hot as your tongues meet. He huffs into the kiss, his own pleasure thick in his trousers, the taste and smell and heat of you swimming in his head. But you seem to know exactly how he’s feeling, and your hand finds the ties of his breeches once more. You pull them loose as your mouths move together.
You dip a hand in and wrap your fingers around his cock. Dunk breaks the kiss with a low groan, forehead resting against yours as you pull him from the linen of his breeches. He’s warm and solid in your hand, velvet skin across steel as he pumps hot in your hand. Both of you look down.
“Gods…” You whisper, giving him a little stroke. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. But here, in the privacy of this little inn room, bathed in ichored candlelight, it’s so much different. Your fingers work lightly, feeling the subtle give of skin. There are soft, shallow ridges and a vein you can feel working up the back of his shaft, and he’s so warm and so real against you. You whisper again, “So pretty, Dunk.”
He offers you a whiny breath as your fingers press beneath the dip of his cockhead. It’s blushing a deep pink and pearling wet at the slit and he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he’s frowning like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your hand is so much smaller than his—the sight of it wrapped around his cock making it jerk.
“So big…” You think aloud as your fingers move gently.
Dunk breathes deeply, chest heaving. His hands are on your hips, gripping you firmly, smoothing stuttering circles with his thumbs.
You pull away from him. He looks at you, eyes nearly black.
“Want you,” you tell him simply, fingers wrapping around the base of him now. You give him a tight squeeze. “Need you.”
“Gods above,” Dunk gasps out, but he’s already nodding. A thick, viscous heat clings to his ribs, pulls at the strings of his heart as he lets you work your fingers around the thick of his cock. He dips and kisses your forehead—he can’t help it. “Okay, sweet girl, I’ll give it to you.”
You smile then, retracting your hand. He hisses at the lack of contact, watching you shuffle back until you’re lying amongst your throne of pillows. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen. His sweet girl, spreading her legs with a smile on her pretty face. All for him.
The thoughts make him dizzy as he quickly shucks his clothing down his legs, kicking it away. He kneels on the bed, bedframe creaking beneath the weight of his body, but he ignores it. He draws in close to you, large hands finding the backs of your thighs and folding you again. The sound it pushes from your chest—“ha–uh–fu–uck, Dunk,”—is breathy and sweet in the amber-lit air between you. It has his cock jerking where it sits heavy and leaking against the mass of his thigh as he settles before you.
It’s easy to fold you like this. He leans over you, abdomen contracting as he holds himself up enough not to crush you. Up enough, too, to take one hand and clutch the base of his cock, guiding it to your cunt. You whimper his name and the sound goes directly to his brain, fills his lungs like a puff of smoke. It’s heady and dizzying and he can’t help but moan as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit.
“Dunk,” you whine, the pressure between your folds sparking something in your lower belly again. Your cunt flutters around nothing when he taps the head against your swollen clit, then slowly drags it back down to notch at your hole. You suck in a breath. “Please.”
He doesn’t say anything. But he’s listening. He clutches himself in a lightly trembling hand and carefully, almost too slowly, pushes in. Your pussy opens up for him, slick and warm, sucking in the head with a wet clutch that has him losing his breath. It’s tight and unlike nothing he’s ever experienced before.
You whimper, hands gripping the sheets beside you. “Dunk, please, keep going.”
He hadn’t realised he’d stopped.
“M’sorry,” he whispers, then shifts his hips. Such a good listener.
He leans in, cock splitting you apart. He’s thick and heavy, dragging against your walls in one solid movement. It’s intoxicating, and you whine, the sound rattling your teeth as it’s wrenched from the back of your throat. You’re so full, and he’s still moving.
Dunk mutters your name like a prayer as he feeds his cock into you, marvelling at the way you open for him. Deeper and deeper. He holds you firm, folding you into the mattress, pinned beneath his strong chest. The heat that envelops him, he’s certain, burns hotter than any flame in Westeros.
He stills after a moment. The head of his cock is wedged right up beneath the plug of your cervix, and there’s a slowly soothing ache somewhere in your pelvis. You can feel it, feel it festering like a bruise. Dunk’s cock gives a feeble jerk inside you, and you wince just slightly, so full, reaching so deep.
His face drops. Worried. “Are you—?”
“M’okay,” you whisper. The pain is slowly dissipating as your cunt flutters around him. You see him bite back a groan, pleasure fighting against concern. You smile at him softly. “So good, Dunk. You feel so good inside me.”
Dunk’s still frowning, but you can tell your words have hit him square across the face. He releases a shuddering breath, and his cock twitches inside you again.
“Please move,” you tell him, purposefully tightening the muscles of your core, sucking him in even tighter. His eyes flutter, and you finally get to hear that groan he had been wrangling with. It’s hoarse, flung through gravel. You huff loudly. “Please, Dunk.”
“Okay, okay,” Dunk utters, soothing.
Holding your thighs, he pulls out until just the head rests inside. He takes a deep breath, then pushes back in, and his composure shatters completely when you attempt to arch, moaning. He’s making you feel like this. He is. He hounds after that feeling, pulling his cock out again and repeating the movement until he settles into a pace he didn’t know he could keep.
“That’s it, just like that,” you ramble, tits bouncing against your chest as Dunk’s thrusts lean heavy. Your knees near your head, the pressure on your belly making him feel even deeper. The ache inside you has completely vanished, replaced now by that viscous heat you’ve come to love. “Dunk, fuck, so—so good.”
The bed creaks in protest as he drives you deeper and deeper into the mattress, his strokes becoming more confident. He’s a quick learner, you already know, and you can feel the pride leeching from him as he breaks you apart from the inside out. He’s basking in the little sounds that fall from you as the head of his cock nudges deep. Thick, stretching, rolling.
You’re so tight around him. Warm and slick and everything he’d dared to imagine late at night, bent against a tree with his cock in hand. And you take him so well, sucking him in as his hips roll, skin-slapping-skin. The iron headboard knocks against the wooden wall, but he pays it no mind, thoughts only of you, you, you. His girl. His perfect girl.
“Harder,” you moan, fisting the sheets.
Dunk listens.
He wrestles your legs onto his shoulders, angling himself even deeper now and thrusting deep. You yelp, then moan, at the angle and the fact he nails that perfect spot inside you on the third thrust. He hears it, hears the shift in your moans, feels the clench of your pussy, all hot and vice-like around him. And he follows it, tracing it like a line to treasure. Rolling hips, creaking bed, bear-like grunts.
“Like that?” He utters, but he knows. He’s folding you in half and he knows.
You can barely answer, pressure tight in your womb. His cock drags you closer to another release, bubbling hot as he pins you beneath the thick, muscled mass of his body. He’s a walking furnace, and you feel it closer now. Fire seeps from his skin. Sweat traps along your front, along your back, building beneath the joints of your knees as he fucks you.
“Y–yeah,” you manage to reply, but that’s all you have energy for. Your pleasure is stacking deep inside you and you’re losing your ability to form proper words.
Dunk grunts in response.
Hair hangs over his forehead, some tacked to his skin with sweat. The muscles in his arms work as he holds himself over you. He’s so thick, so strong. You manage to lift an arm to squeeze at his bicep, fingers indenting flesh. You want to bite it, but he has you trapped so firmly against the mattress that you’re sure you couldn’t move an inch if you tried.
Your pussy squeezes around him again as pressure builds. It’s familiar now, and you know where it comes from, and where it’s going to lead you, as it crawls down your spine and spans out across your womb.
You clutch Dunk’s arm with one hand, the other useless at your side, limbless and pleasure-lax. “Dunk.”
“Yeah?” He looks down at you, a light furrow in his brow. “You’ve got something for me?”
You nod. “M’so close.”
Dunk huffs, pace remaining. Firm and even, cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you. His hips roll, the mattress shifts, the bedframe groans and knocks heavy against the wall. Candles flicker around you, white wax dripping, rolling in pearls. His eyes are on you, blue smothered beneath black. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.
That makes you moan. A feather-soft “Dunk,” followed by a louder, more desperate, “Oh, gods, Dunk—!” You shatter for a second time then, body giving in. Your cunt clutches tight around his cock, slick gushing as he fucks you through it, dribbling out and down the curve of your arse as he rocks in, in, in. His movements falter, just slightly, as you cry out for him, release pressing heavy on your belly as he folds you.
“M’here, m’here,” Dunk coos, bending to kiss you. Your legs press even deeper, and you whine into the kiss. Trembling, legs shaking, heart seeping deep into the marrow of your bones. Dunk pulls back, thrusts slowing by a fraction as his cock jerks. He moans like a wounded man, “Oh, sweet girl, I’m—I’m—”
It’s a sudden, solid heat in his pelvis. His cock jumps where it’s seated against the base of your cervix, and his balls draw tight where they rest against the curve of your arse. His hips stutter, thighs tensing, then he’s spilling. Inside you.
It feels thicker, hotter. It knocks through his diaphragm and he groans through it, jaw working as he shoves himself to the hilt inside you. He feels the way your pussy wraps to take him, sucks him in even deeper as he empties himself in white-hot stripes. The force in which it leaves him is dizzying, and his eyes drop closed, mouth parting.
And he can’t help himself.
“I love you,” he breathes out as he comes, spilling hot. It leaves him in shudders as he holds himself over you, trapping you, keeping you. He huffs, fending off a groan as he rolls his hips to a stop. “Gods above.”
Neither of you speak for a long moment after that. The mattress settles as you still. You pant, and so does Dunk, as pleasure fizzles like the bubbles of ale.
Dunk flushes even deeper when he shakes himself from his haze. He opens his eyes properly, peering down at you as if he’d caused you injury.
“M’sorry,” he says quickly, scanning your face. “My sweet girl, I’m—”
You shake your head, heartbeat calming. “S’okay—oh, Dunk, it’s okay.”
You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing.
“I love you,” you tell him through a whisper. There’s a quiet in the room that feels warm against your skin. You can hear music somewhere below you: the muffled plucking of strings, the clamour of singing voices. You stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. “More than anything.”
His reply is to bend and kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, but there’s a strength behind it that tastes of the knight you know.
“You’re too good to me,” Dunk mumbles against your lips, echoing your words from earlier. “My sweet girl. Too good for me.”
You smile and kiss him harder.
———
big man fold me please i’m begging
tags 🌿
@ghostlybfgf @brutalizermp3 @targlocket @sweetpeaapplepie @sedonasummer @pinkdoeweirdo @silkaurum @starxs-s @goldenhoneyedwine
DUNCAN WHO FUCKS YOU IN A HEADLOCK
ooo this gentle giant … gimme that cookie right now
“i’m sorry. i’m sorry, m’lady. so fucking sorry.”
the position dunk had you in was brutalizing, your hands clawing at his forearm as he held you in a headlock, his other arm splayed across your stomach, pushing your back into his front. you both were kneeled on his bedroll, the fire light dancing across tree bark and soft grass as your moans echoed throughout the air.
duncan had pounced on you the second you came back from cleaning off in the stream, a little shy in the fact he watched the water trickle down your breasts as you washed yourself, yet unabashed in the way he fucked you relentless. his oversized cock split you in a half, each rut of his hips leaving you a whimpering and mewling mess.
“o-oh god,” you cried, dunk’s hold getting softer as gasps of air spit from your lips. all though he couldn’t help his desires, this was still dunk — your dunk, and he would never hurt you.
breath tickling your neck, duncan’s moans were loud in your ear, the sounds of his pleasure stirring you on further. you loved the way he fell apart, each fibre of his being submitting to you as he made his only goal to make you feel good.
“i swear on my honour,” dunk whispered, his voice coarse with pleasure. “that i will never hurt you. you’re my girl, okay? remember that.”
you can have my absence of faith
pairing: aemond targaryen x sister! reader
word count: 1.2k ish?
warnings: TARGCEST! obsessive behavior, unrequited love, reader is 3 years older than aemond, yearning, choking, dark romance, domestic violence, angst, male masturbation, creepy behavior, stalker-esque behavior, she’s mean (i luv her), man hating activities from this beauty
summary: in which… for as long as he could remember, aemond yearned for his sister; much to her dismay.
kenn’s notes: happy season three of HOTD friends! i am torturing myself and watching this dumpster fire of a show; as always team black till i die. listened to closer by NIN on repeat while watching. written in app! not proofread! i would love to write more of them (:
𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 @𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
it made aemond feel pathetic, really. the memories of how he had once acted around his sister— you were older than him, between aegon and helaena. and to aemond— perfect, even at your cruelest moments.
as a boy, before he’d lost his eye, he remembered following you around from your lessons with the septa to your time spent with ladies and waiting. you would lash out at him, demand he’d stop following you— to stop being creepy and just leave you be!
the burn of humiliation that rippled up his spine after was a feeling he chased. yet no matter how much he had tried to impress you— you never seemed to crack. you continued to meet with your suitors, men old and young. from dorne, the north, the vale. as aemond was forced to watch you mingle.
his attempts weren’t halted when he lost his eye on driftmark those years ago— if anything, they intensified.
you hadn’t been there when your nephew stabbed aemond, but were indeed present for the fallout. you watched beside aegon as your mother screamed at rhaenyra. and you, along with aegon, held fast and true in the belief that the brown headed boys were bastards. yet, you did not coddle him that night. did not offer sympathies for his lost eye. giving him nothing but a half hearted glance and a murmur:
“you shouldn’t have meddled. yet i shouldn’t have expected much else from you, brother. meddling is all you seem to be good at.”
the words ring in his head even now, years past. yet they have never stopped his passion. everything he did was for you, no matter how big or small. he would bow his head to your knees, and mutter pathetically of what he’s done. beg for approval, like a man bowed before an altar.
and it never came. you never so much as graced him with a smile. mocking and insulting him whenever he so much as breathed in your presence. to you, your brother was a fool. perverted- you had seen him. when he tried to catch a glimpse of you bathing, or changing your gowns in your own bed chamber. he was always a queer boy, he unsettled you.
sat now, at your fathers great table— surrounded by family, you could feel him. aemond’s gaze was heavy, boring into the softness of your cheek from his position on the opposite end of the table. you sat to the right of your siblings, picking at the food on your plate. your nephew, jacaerys on the other side of you.
you were painfully bored. finding the company rather lacking. jace rose from his chair, the legs creaking against the floor. you don’t lift your eyes until his shadow appears over your plate. his hand is outstretched toward you, gracefully you took it.
jace was a handsome boy. he always had been. with brown curls and freckles across his nose and cheeks. you met his height and followed his footsteps as the two of you danced; he was nervous. stepping on your toes every few steps.
aemond watches from the table, fist curled angrily around his goblet. eye focused on your face, each expression. his jaw was tight, and he sat so still it was as if he was carved in marble. when you finally returned to you seat, aemond stood— reaching his goblet toward jace. internally, you groan.
“a final tribute.” aemond starts, voice taught and posture straight as his sword. “to the health of my nephews: jace, luke, and joffrey.” he makes direct eye contact, with none of the boys— but with you.
he continues. “each of them handsome, wise,” a brief pause. “strong.”
“aemond,” your mother warns, yet he interrupts her once more: “come. let us drain our cups— to these three strong boys.”
“i dare you to say that again.” jacaerys cuts in, still standing beside you.
“why? it was only a compliment.” aemond replies, playing the fool. yet everyone at the table knows the context he means— he was calling the boys bastards. “do you not think yourself strong?”
he’s cut off by jace’s palm crunching against his cheek. he is hardly moved, shoving the brown haired boy to the ground.
when rhaenyra’s boys retire to their chambers— the tense silence settled over the room. and you take it as your que. you turn on your heel, retreating back to your chambers on the opposite end of the keep. yet no matter how desperately you try to move, he catches up with you.
“mandia—” the valyrian is cool as it rumbles from his lips. sister. he calls after you, hand reaching to grasp your forearm. his voice is desperate, a depth it seems only reaches for you.
you whirl around to face him, expression stony and serious. “why must you continuously make a fool of me?” you bite, wrenching your arm from his hand. you were sick of it— being made out to be more of a pampered girl and less of an honorable princess.
he falters, mouth opening and closing. he had not seen it that way— “a fool? i am showing you my determination,” he grunts, fists clenching at his sides. “i am devoted to you, sister— and you reject my advances at each turn. you treat me as a commoner when we very well share the same blood!” his voice raises at the end, and it just makes you angrier.
“can’t you understand what i lay out before you—?” you pull at your hair, glaring up at him. “i am not interested— not now, not ten years ago. it would be best for both of us if you were to just lay this all to rest!”
he opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off: “no! aegon’s fascination with me ceased with adulthood yet you are relentless! how many times must i say it for you to understand—? i have no interest in you!” your words are sharp, final. you could’ve softened the blow, made your words easier for him to swallow, but you don’t. tired of the charade.
aemond falters— but he glares at you, his nails digging into your forearm. “you know i could treat you better than any of those suitors who follow after you. they do not have my brain or looks or ability to protect or please you. yet you dismiss me.”
you glare. “why can’t this get through your thick skull? you are a craven! i can hardly stand being left alone with you— and you mean to be my lord husband? through our childhood i had shown you nothing but cold politeness!” aemond’s shoulders drop. your words, as cruel as they are, were true. your younger brother had always unnerved you. tall, quiet, and solemn. he moved silently, and his gaze was creepy. his presence made you feel dirty. you’d had to beg your mother not to betroth you to him.
aemond’s hands close around your throat, and the air in your lungs is suddenly snuffed out. he looks angry, the most angry you’ve seen him since he lost his eye. “that’s a lie— you love me!” he yells, slamming your body into the wall behind you, pictures clattering in their frames.
“say it— say it, please.” he pleaded, voice shaky. hands tightening so hard you swear you see stars. “tell me you love me— i need to hear it. now—!” he barks.
you open your mouth, words crawling from the depths of your windpipe— croaky and low: “i love you.” his grip loosens, hands falling back down to his sides, eye fixed on you.
you stare back at aemond. you’d be a fool if you thought he were incapable of violence, you’d seen it. but never had it been levied against you. aemond reaches for you again, but you withdraw- taking off down the corridor. this time, he doesn’t follow.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
sleep doesn’t find him that night— he’s busy thinking of you. the look on your face, fearful, as his hands closed around your throat. that look. gods be good. he pictured it staring at the ceiling, hand closed around his cock. over and over.
he could never understand it. he had showered you in gifts and affection for as long as he could remember. dedicating his victories to you, gems and jewels from essos. yet your cold demeanor never ceased. you laughed alongside aegon as they gifted aemond a pig, chuckled quietly as they tripped and taunted him. you had given him no reason for such deep devotion, yet it never went away.
it was as if you had sunken your claws into his heart and refused to let up. aemond entered rooms and looked for your face, listened at the edge of a crowd for your laugh. you’d exit your chambers for midday tea and he would sneak in behind you— pressing his face against your pillows and furs.
he makes his mind up that night— he’ll make nice with you in the morning; apologize, grovel.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
the next morning, you’re dressed and done up before dawn. gulls flock and coo outside your window as your handmaidens fret around you— clasping your gown and clicking on your gold earrings.
the events of last night aren’t lost on your however. aemond’s hands closed around your throat and his hot breath fanned over your cheeks. your hand lifts, pressing against the forming bruise on your throat.
sima, one of your handmaidens speaks from beside you: “what’s happened, my lady? must i cover this?” she speaks. sima was an older tyroshi woman, pinkish hair curled around her face. she’d served your mother before you and seemingly only had your best interest at heart.
you dismiss her with a wave of your hand. “no, no. it was just an incident. i’ll wear the purple like a crown.” you smile at her, turning and gazing into the mirror.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
you descend the steps quick, flats clicking quietly against the marble as you make your way to breakfast. aemond is waiting outside the great doors, pacing. instinctively your jaw tightens.
“move.” you mutter, forcing your eyes down. you won’t give him the dignity of gazing upon your face this morning. “you’re blocking the doorway, aemond.”
his expression hardens. “won’t you stop being stubborn and listen?” he looks exhausted, eye bleary. his voice is desperate. the desperation you often seek in his tone— it makes you feel good, knowing a man is as pathetic in his attempts to court you.
you dismiss him, scowling as you slide between him and the arched door frame, trudging your way to the table. you feel him on your back the whole way.
targtower! reader x criston cole {MDNI}
the weight of his shame lingered in silence and dark corridors. he’d known it was wrong— gods, of course he did. he was sworn not only to chastity but to protect you. alicent and viserys’ youngest daughter- rebellious and sneaky. just like your eldest sister.
he’d done the same thing with rhaenyra— been seduced from his duties and fallen into the same trap, your bed. had the righteous white cloak pulled over his eyes. it was a terrible feeling: knowing no matter what he would always be pulled back in by that harlot.
yet that angry guilt never dissipates— and he follows you to bed each night none the less, and sits idle as you slowly undress and climb into his lap, thighs bracketing his own; violet eyes never leaving his own as you fall apart above him.
and each night is the same: after you both cum, he’d stare at the canopy ceiling of your bed and drown in his guilt. this was a princess he was meant to protect;yet he continuously defiles her innocence. but— shouldn’t it be him? has he not earned the right? rather than some tavern whore in the brothers of flea bottom?
the guilt curls hot in his belly each morning, as you walk past him with your handmaidens— hardly sparing a glance for the man you let see you, touch you, at your most vulnerable.
the spite came next— the angry names murmured in drunken hazes with his fellow kingsguard knights, to the bottom of goblets. haughty words with weights so heavy they had the ability to send him to his execution. slut. whore. trollop. it’s angry jealousy, he knows it. and the guilt of the words resonates worse than the angry daze they’re often said in.
he was a pathetic man; and you know it.
you should’ve listened to rhaenyra.
hiii i love your work ♡ I see that you’re team black! 😻 wonder who’s your favorite fire and blood characterr!!! (if you ever read it)
tysm anon! i love you & this question 😙
yes i read fire & blood and i need the next book immediately. i need it.
i would say my favorites are daella targaryen (daughter of jaehaerys i), rhaena targaryen (daughter of aenys i) and of course my sweet prince jacaerys 🥹
nsfw | mdni | jon snow x reader
imagining jon snow who had just been resurrected a few days prior and needs you to feel alive. he fucks you raw and hard, taking you from behind as he pulls your hair. his cock is pounding into you, drilling you like there’s no tomorrow, and your back is a perfect arch as he fucks you into the mattress. no words are spoken, they don’t need to be spoken, because all jon needs is to feel your tight wet cunt around his cock to feel alive once again.
safe & sound
pairing: dad! spencer reid x fem! mom! reader
word count: 1.4k words
warnings: vomit, sickness, fluff, domesticity, non descriptive reader, nurse! reader, reader & spends are sleep deprived, inaccurate medical information, icky kids, germs,
summary: in which… you & spencer take on double duty when both kids come down with the stomach flu
m’s notes: not proofread !! this is inspired by the stomach flu being passed around the pre school class i intern in right now ^_^ posts for spence & mom are under the tag jellybean universe ꨄ
all rights reserved @backtoarkansas
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
early wednesday afternoon
it all started when quinn came home from preschool early whining about a fever. spencer had picked her up, saying he wasn’t busy— it was only paperwork, it was no biggie. i got her.
you got home from the hospital a few hours later. mid afternoon. quinn was asleep propped in spencer’s lap, her tiny head on his shoulder; little arms wrapped around his abdomen. one of your husband’s hands rests on her back. calvin is kneeling at the coffee table, playing with lego’s mindlessly.
calvin looks up and beams when the door clicks shut behind you. you toe off your shoes, walking closer to the four of them. spencer looks up when you stop in front of him, he smiles.
“hi, honey.” you smile, lifting a hand to brush through his curls. “how’s quinny?” he hums, leaning into your hand.
“better. fever’s still there,” his free hand lifts, clutching your wrist gently, bringing it up to quinn’s tiny forehead. she’s definitely warm.
she whines in response, snuggling closer to him. calvin reaches up for you, a smile inches onto your lips. “just a sec, munchkin. mama’s gotta shower.” your pointer boops his nose, your boy whines— turning back to his legos.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
when you walk back into the living room, quinn’s awake— she looks all pale and groggy like a little zombie. she lifts her head to look at you, arms lifting up toward you.
you sit beside her, smiling at her r2-d2 pajamas faintly. your palm rubs her belly. “hey jellybean. you feelin’ yucky?” quinn nods, bottom lip sticking out.
“yeah. real yucky, huh?” you hum softly, pressing your lips to her sweaty hairline. “but daddy took real good care of you, hm?” spence looks up from his place on the rug with calvin and smiles. quinn nods.
you smile down at her. brushing her hair back, her eyes drop closed and you sigh, sitting down on the carpet with spencer and calvin. “hey cal. you have fun with daddy today too?”
calvin nods, smiling up at you. he has spencer’s eyes and little smile. “mhm, mama— quinny feels yucky though,” he leans up to whisper in your ear “daddy says we gotta be quiet.”
you chuckle, nodding. calvin was real smart like his daddy. he spoke often, and loudly. your two year old has no filter.
you look up at spence and smile. he’s already looking at you, with those big eyes. “missed your medical prowess today, honey.” he speaks softly, warm palm running over calvin’s back.
“i’m sure you managed just fine, spence.” you smile, chuckling softly. he grins. he did manage just fine, after all.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
one fourty five am thursday morning
the vomit startled, quinn stumbled into your bedroom, crying and your husband had the peace of mind to deal with it himself— without waking you up.
you woke around 5:30, to calvin’s chubby finger poking at your belly. you walk downstairs, the toddler chattering away on your hip; you catch spencer red-handed in the kitchen— a plastic bowl in his hands, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
“hey spence—” you rub your eyes, looking over at him. he hums, “why’ve y’got the puke bowl?” your husband smiles sheepishly. that’s all the answer you need.
you huff, and spence grins— looks just like quinn when she gets angry at him. “you promised you’d wake me up if anythin’ happened, baby—”
he nods, lifting his hands in surrender. “i know, just— you need your sleep,” his eyes lift to yours, “you haven’t been sleeping, on average, adults need—” you interrupt:
“7-8 hours of good quality sleep, i know, spence. i’ve heard this one before.” you smile, pinching his cheek.
you lean into his side, and his arm loops around your waist, hand laid flat on your hip, he kisses calvin’s forehead.
“how is she? still throwing up?” spencer sighs, pulling back from calvin. he looks worried, in a way he only ever is for the kids. he nods, fingers tapping your hip in three’s.
“vomiting still, just not at frequently. i’ve been giving her liquids and she’s had crackers but no other food yet— don’t wanna risk it.” his expression is grave, and that’s all you need to know she’s thrown up on him atleast once in the four hours you were asleep.
you open your mouth to reply, but a tiny voice cuts you off:
“daddy!” quinn cries from the living room, you turn to spencer with a smile. “princess is callin’ you, daddy.” you pat his shoulder, he sighs.
the living room is a mess, blankets and pillows thrown about, cartoons blubbering on the tv, spencer’s books are pulled on the coffee table, with water, pedialyte and crackers, quinn’s stuffed animals lay askew on the carpet. amidst the mess, your flu ridden three year old lies on the couch. her pajamas have changed since you last saw her, and her hair is messy, little curls mussed up at the back of her skull.
he sits beside her on the couch, pausing the tv. “what’s up, jellybean? what do you need?” he brushed her hair from her face. his palm bracketed her cheek, his thumb pressed against her temple.
quinn points at the tv, sniffling— “daddy, i hate this episode.” spencer sighs, patting her head and changing the episode.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
four pm thursday afternoon:
calvin has a fever too. quinn cries for twenty minutes about getting baby calvin sick! it takes you offering her applesauce to calm her down.
the four of you are sitting on the couch, spencer’s put some quiz show on. calvin’s laying on his chest, asleep. spencer’s palm rests on his back.
quinn’s head rests on your belly, she’s deadlocked on the TV, she’s always loved daddy’s nerdy shows. she’s been relatively quiet, only thrown up three times since twelve. you’re nervous about calvin, though. spencer can tell.
“hey.” his free hand nudged your shoulder “he’s fine. just a fever. all kids get them, sweetheart. they’re okay.” you trust him, you’d trust his word if your life depended on it— but since becoming a mother, you’d leant more on your maternal instincts.
you smile at him softly. “i know, spence. i just get nervous.” your fingers weave through quinn’s little curls mindlessly.
spencer nods. “mother’s intuition.” his lips quirk up.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
ten am friday morning:
calvin started vomiting at 6, and since then, at least one of the two kids has been crying or throwing up. the two of you are exhausted.
you’re rocking quinn back and forth in your lap, her fever’s gone down a good amount, and she’s gone an hour without throwing up— you don’t want to jinx it, though.
spencer walks back into the living room with calvin on his hip. the boy’s hair is wet, slicked back. he’s wrapped in his little duck towel— if he hadn’t been vomiting for the past four hours, you’d wrap him in your arms and kiss his little round cheeks.
spencer plops down beside you, he’s exhausted. you can see it in his droopy eyes.
you look over at him, speaking quietly “hey spence.” he hums, eyes closed. “i think we ran out of pajamas.” he’s still for a minute, before sliding calvin into your arms.
he presses a kiss to your head, sighing: “i’ll go start the washer. be right back.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
nine am saturday morning
you wake up abruptly, quinn’s little fist knocking against your nose. she was a bad sleeper, she kicked, punched.
spencer was already awake beside you, running a finger across calvin’s face while mumbling about what bone it was. calvin was giggling softly, chubby hands covering his lips.
spencer looks over at you. calvin does too, with the same big brown eyes. “hey mama.” he smiles. “you’re awake.” you nod, sitting up carefully, remembering quinn is asleep between you.
“it’s been twelve hours without vomit.” he says matter of factly. “we may just be in the clear.” you let out a heavy breath, grateful.
“fucking— finally.” you lean up, and press a kiss to calvin’s head, then spencer’s lips. he draws back abruptly though, you look up at him confused.
“spence—? what?” his palm rests against your forehead, and he sighs.
“you feel warm, honey.” you whine, flopping back against the pillows.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
give it a read !
posting non-asoiaf fics on @backtoarkansas <3
check it out friends!
your due diligence
pairing: daeron i targaryen x fem! martell! reader
word count: 609 words
warnings: arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, war crimes, older sister syndrome iykwim, problematic age gap (he’s 17, she’s 21), loveless marriage, he’s a brat, she’s grumpy
summary: in which… after his conquest of your home, your father offers your new king your hand in marriage.
kenn’s notes: based on this req! i loveeee the young dragon </3 if you want more, just lmk!
𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 @𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
whenever you told foreigners about your home, sunspear, you’d tell of how your ancestors resisted the invasion from the conqueror. unbowed, unbent, unbroken— the words of house martell. these words stayed true until your twenty first birthday.
king daeron the first. he was four years your age. the boy king your father would murmur bitterly. he was a picture of the conqueror, long silver hair flooding down his back, often braided with neat precision. the sheep of westeros called him the young dragon.
he was smart, read the histories, heard the tales. the failed conquests, the mistakes, the inaccuracies. he learned— what to do, what not to do. within a year, your home, sunny and free, was subjugated by targaryen rule.
by the end of a particularly hot dornish summer, you were betrothed; due to the fact that your father, prince nymeros martell, was one of the first to bow in submission— and part of you resented him for it.
the boy king stands before you now. he’s only slightly taller than you, sizing you up. myriah was always rebound for her beauty, and ideally, she’d marry the king. but she was young— so you’d volunteered instead. glaring daggers up at the silver headed pest. he speaks:
“the wedding will be held here, and then you’ll return to the capitol with me to greet the small folk. man and wife.” he was always so cordial, so polite. it made you hate him even more.
yet you nod, eyes focused on your reflection in the mirror. your fingers are dexterous, braiding your hair quickly. daeron turns to you, eyes catching yours in the mirror. “would you give me your due diligence and respond?” he sasses, “i don’t ask you for much. it is the least you could provide me with.” you drop your hands, rolling your eyes.
“if you wanted me to coddle you, your grace, than i am afraid you have married the wrong woman.” you huff, turning in your seat to look at him— your arms crossed over your chest.
instead of lashing out, your husband grins. his nimble fingers reach forward, caressing your cheek lightly. you smack at his hands, but he catches your wrists in his hands, grinning.
“not so fast, princess. this angry facade of yours is cute but you shall learn your limits. i am your king.” his tone is sharp, but his eyes never leave yours. if you were any other woman, you’d shrink beneath his purple gaze.
but you were not any other woman. you huff at him, turning back to your mirror; grumbling under your breath. daeron situates himself in bed behind you, his eyes tracing over you in the reflection of the mirror.
you stand, nudging your seat back in with your foot, turning to the bed. his hands are crossed behind his head, smiling up at you. he looks more like a seventeen year old boy than a king now. it makes your skin crawl.
you sit beside him, nudging the covers over. daeron looks expectant:
“must you make me wait for our wedding night? he smirks, proudly. his pointer finger reaches out, tracing your arm— goosebumps rise in its wake.
“yes, boy king.” you grumble. “i am an noble princess, you are waiting.” beside you, daeron huffs, throwing his arms up.
“must you always call me that? not husband?” he smirks, “not love?” you glare at him. daeron smiles.
“you pretend, little dove, but you’re not as repulsed by me as you may act.” with that, he turns away from you, taking half the duvet with him. you roll your eyes, turning away from him in return.
hi! i really like your works <3 i know he's not on your master list, but i've absolutely never seen anyone write about daeron i so could you write about him and the martell girl? anything from enemies to lovers?
hi anon!!!
thank you so much for the req!
here’s the fic! 💌
