The way he fills you is surreal. The thickness of him makes your gummy walls stretch to their limit, warm and wet while they grip him tight.
He groans lowly once his hips are flush against yours, your thighs spread wide to make space for his huge body.
You're so full, pussy completely yielding around his heavy cock, and Clark can see that there's not a single thought left in that pretty head of yours.
He presses down on your lower belly and just grinds his hips against yours, rubbing against your g-spot, his fat head brushing your cervix.
You squirm at the feeling of him throbbing deep in you, breathlessly whining out, “Clark.”
“It's so much to take, baby, I know. But you're doing so good,” he assures, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “My good girl.”
Every thrust empties you completely before filling you to the brim again. Over and over, he fucks into you, feeling the way your body struggles to fit his girthy cock even though you’re delighted to have him in you.
“Breathe, baby, breathe,” he reminds you when your little whines and mewls turn into quick, shallow gasps. You try to obey but struggle a little because it feels like you’re so full of him that there’s no space left for air.
And when you two are done, you end up stuffed full of his cum, the thick, creamy liquid warm as it pools against your cervix. It coats your inner walls and drips out of you, dribbling down your ass to gather underneath you on the bed. Clark is quick to help you into a pair of panties so your sore pussy doesn’t waste a single drop of his sticky release <3
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
---
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
Clark who, after the tiniest of interactions with you, has to go jerk off in the bathroom before he literally jizzes his pants in the middle of the office.
He's locked himself in the bathroom, his breathing quick and labored.
He glances down at the tent in his pants, his cock painfully hard, and he groans, grabbing his face in his hands.
He can’t believe that just a conversation with you got him this aroused.
And now he has to fix it.
He shouldn't. He shouldn't even be thinking about it. He hates that this happens every time he talks to you. He wishes he was better than this, but he can't help it. He just likes you so much.
He tries to push down the guilt he feels by rationalizing that if he doesn't do this, he'll be hard all day in the office and everyone will see. It's not just him jerking off, it's him solving a problem so he can go back to work. Right?
He hastily undoes his pants, his heart beating hard and fast, more blood rushing south at the promise of release.
He pushes his pants and his boxers down, just past his hips, and his cock springs free. The tip is a dark, angry red, precum smeared over it. He spits on his hand before wrapping it around himself, feeling the way his cock throbs with need, and he starts out slow.
He feels guilty every time he does this, mostly because it makes him think about you and that makes him feel like a huge pervert. But he really can't help himself.
He likes the way you did your makeup today. The soft gloss on your lips was shiny and it smelled sweet, and he imagines it smearing on his cock while you suck him off.
He groans quietly. You'd look so pretty on your knees, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes, your mascara smudging as tears fall down your face.
He squeezes himself harder, jerking faster. Droplets of precum spill from him, landing on the floor. “Fuck,” he hisses quietly.
That skirt you're wearing is so pretty. He'd have it bunched around your waist, holding it there with one hand as he ate you out. Or maybe you'd let him hide under your desk, that skirt concealing his head while he lapped at your sweet pussy in the middle of the office.
His cock twitches in his hand, that searing heat in his lower abdomen growing unbearable, winding tight.
And that blouse of yours…fuck, he'd pop open the top buttons, just enough for your tits to spill out. He wants to bury his face in them, leave marks over their soft skin. He wants to suck on your nipples and bite them until the sensitive peaks are swollen. He wants to spill his cum on them and then lick it off. He wants to watch them bounce as you ride him, watch them jiggle as he fucks you…
Clark braces one hand on the wall as he jerks himself faster and harder with the other. Fuck, he's gonna come.
He can imagine your beautiful face caught in ecstasy, that perfect mouth open as you moan and gasp his name. He can imagine your soft thighs wrapped around his waist, your pussy tight and wet as he fucks into her.
You'd sound so sweet when you’d come, you'd look so beautiful. And you'd feel so good, wet gummy walls wrapped around him snugly and milking him. He'd fill you with his cum, spill all of it in you until it's dripping out of you. He'd keep you full of it until you got swollen with his baby. He'd make you his. Completely his.
He grunts, gasping as he comes, the white, sticky ropes of his release spilling onto his hand, coating the wall, dribbling down to the floor.
He's shaking from the force of his orgasm, sweat beading on his brow. It takes him a minute to come down, but when he does he's immediately cleaning the mess, embarrassed and guilty.
He walks out of the bathroom, his cheeks tainted a faint pink, and he hopes he manages the rest of the day without having to get off while thinking of you again.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
---
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
dunk whos soooo awkward and shy and has no idea what to do with himself when you start coming on to him.
dunk who would never ever intend to hurt you in any way but sometimes gets so lost in his pleasure that he gets a bit rough (not that you mind) apologising profusely while fucking you dumb.
dunk who has a crush on eggs sister and cant fight the blood rushing to his cock when he sees you wearing a dress that shows the smallest amount of cleavage.
dunk who gets hard very easily, but cant hide it cos his cock is stupid big.
dunk who just wants to be taken care of and loved, treating him gently, something which he hasnt been afforded much in his life due to his brutish stature.
dunk who looovveesss when you ride him- your boobs in his face is his version of heaven.
dunk who refers to you only by your title while you fuck because hes just so thankful that youre having sex with him and wants to stay respectful and noble.
dunk who cums basically immediately the first time you guys fuck (and kind of every time after that) or really do anything- he cums his pants during your first heavy make out.
dunk who tries to stop you from sucking his cock, because he cant really imagine anyone being able to fit him in their mouth and doesnt want you to hurt yourself.
the five times you try to break up with clark kent
—
14th February 2025
it wasn't working out with him.
clark was a great guy — patient, chivalrous and thoughtful, to name some. to most, his being superman would've been every reason to stay. who wouldn't want that?
you think you might've been nitpicking the very first time it clicked in your mind that you wanted an out. for the umpteenth time, you sat alone in the restaurant. across from you, a barely-eaten entrée. it'd been closing in on an hour now since he whisked away to attend to the shrieks he claimed to have heard a couple blocks away.
you hadn't fussed about it. the check was paid in the next five minutes, and in ten, a takeout bag hangs loosely from your wrists. the speech you had drafted sat in your notes application. but when you get to your apartment, he's already there. shirt skipped a button like it was put together hastily, hair all wind-swept. the translucent plastic is gently pried from your hands, not giving you a chance to protest before nudging you into the apartment.
he presses an apologetic kiss to the side of your head, offering you a promise to do better.
4th March 2025
unsurprisingly, it happens again anyway. in fact — you'd given him the green light to. this time, it was during a dinner with a friend. of course, she didn't have all the facts. but what she said to you stuck.
one day you're going to need him, and he's just not going to be there.
you boldly copy the drafted text, and send it.
this was something unprecedented for you. you believed in a face-to-face conversation. so there was something to be said about your exhaustion to have done it this way. it wasn't a long text either, paired with the assurance that you'd explain the next day.
as a cop out, you tell yourself, if he hadn't tried to come fight for you within the hour, you'd remain resolute on your decision.
he was stumbling into your balcony in less than 5 minutes, slamming your balcony door open until it'd nearly come off the hinges — completely out-of-breath, with the expression of a man who'd come undone.
"let's…talk about it. please."
you don't break up with him that evening.
16th April 2025
clark had never, ever been cruel to you. not by accident, or by anger or frustration. especially not in the way that people can be cruel without meaning to. he was unbelievably consistent, kind…basically the epitome of a perfect man.
and that was the problem.
you got the feeling that he wasn't allowing himself to be human. a trait he'd so clearly valued about himself. clark kent spent his entire life being what everyone needed him to be. but that was the thing, wasn't it? being in the presence of someone who seemed far too good, had only cast a mirror on the ugly, impatient monster that you, a regular woman of the 21st century, could be at times.
it'd gotten the better of you. the careless, annoyance, paired with the thrumming ache of your period cramps stabbing your lower abdomen. the words spill out of you before you can stop them.
"sorry i'm not so perfect like you."
he looks at you over the rim of his mug, wondering if his telling you that the coffee was slightly bitter warranted such a strong reaction.
"…where's this coming from?"
"nowhere. just. i feel like i'm fucking up constantly. and you're just there. doing everything right, and now i just look like a douchebag for nitpicking."
clark senses where the conversation is headed.
it was every girlfriend's favourite line after all. maybe you should just break up with me. you hate me, don't you. why do you not love me.
instead, he drags his gaze over you, eyes stilling at your belly, as though he's identified the problem. you stare at him in confusion when he gets up, lifts your breakfast before you get to finish it and hoists you to your feet.
within the next thirty minutes, he has you all bundled up in the sheets — arranged for an off-day for you with your boss, retrieved pain-killers, sweets, snacks, drinks and your favourite show all lined up on your laptop.
you're scooching back into the warm chest that causes a significant dip to the bed behind you. clark then lowers his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.
"i promise to mess up more."
20th May 2025
it was a perfect day.
a dinner he didn't have to leave half-way, paired with a long walk home through the park. his jacket sat and your shoulder — and you're looking upt at him mid-laugh. it's the quiet reminder that electrifies you every single time. and true to your nature, the thoughts flicker.
you know how this ends. it'll never work. you've been friends longer than you dated. get out of it now while you still can, before it gets too deep.
the courage eventually makes it out of your throat to be honest, genuinely. that you're not sure that you can do this, that you don't want to lose him and office-related breakups always led to one of them having to resign and —
he stops walking. the ghost of the smile that was a constant around you begins to falter slowly. he's thought about it far longer than you have — given the simple fact that he'd been in love with you. far, far longer than you'd even begun to like him romantically.
"i know," he admits, "i think about it too."
"….and?"
there's a long pause, and you frown when his shoes shuffle ahead. going at a slower pace. for you to get on the move too, albeit frustrated.
"and, it's not gonna happen." he says simply with a shrug. "you're never going to lose me."
you grunt under your breath, with an arm hooked around his.
"stupid, perfect, jerk."
14th April 2026
you'd watched the footage over and over like a crazed freak.
watched him go down, without getting up, before the cameras had lost sight of him. the clip ends the same way, with it being cut off and replaced by the news anchor's grim retelling of the current situation downtown.
he promised you, that no matter how much he'd gotten beaten down, he'd get back up. promised that you'd see it on the news that he would be on his feet, and all you had to do was wait for the knocks on the door.
but he hadn't gotten up. he doesn't come back home that evening either.
clark knew what was coming when he finally does, after recuperating in fortress. you break up with him right then. spills of your words coming out all at once — attempting to push him away through panicked, yet relieved cries — telling him, begging that you couldn't do this.
he holds you in place, right against his chest, so you could hear the steady thumps. it calms you for the time being, but doesn't stop the tremor in your hands. what he says after, however, does.
heavier, warmer palms cradle your cheeks. engulfing it entirely, with his thumbs wiping away the dried tears that remained. through it all, he's shaking his head insistently. lips pressed taut as he takes a long, good look at you.
"i can't live in a world where you don't love me."
you let out a sharp intake of breath, a full-bodied shudder taking you when he nuzzles his face into the crook of your shoulders.
"but…i can't stop you, if you want to leave."
"do you want to leave?"
the prospect of him, ever having brought it up himself made you feel sick. actually. months you'd spent, doing everything and anything to chase him away. the option, and the metaphorical open door he offered, pissed you off.
it served to make that blaring fear in your mind burn true.
you were irrevocably, devastatingly, in love with him.
instead, what you do is shove him backward. with a force that he stumbles like he'd been the weakest man alive. only to find the grabbable part of his cape, just by his shoulders, to kiss him before he can ever think to question you.
he responds instantly. one hand coming up to the side of your head, digits tangling through your hair to tighten it in his fists. the delicateness he often treats you with is long gone, replaced with a needy, tired grunt into your mouth.
"never again."
you briefly feel the rushed words he mutters into your lips to take a breath, "don't even — think," he pulls away once more, making sure you've properly heard him this time through your lusty gaze, "we're not breaking up. not now. not ever. you hear me?"
the words are paired with a fraction of a tightening of his fists, the delicious pressure easing your scalp.
"m-mhn. never."
it satiates him this time. he'd make sure to remind you just how much he loved you, however many times it took for you to etch that in your mind as he fucked you like a man starved.
summary: Sleep deprived at PTMC, you get into the on-call bed, realizing too late that Dr. Abbot is already in it.
warnings/content: colleagues to lovers, fingering, absolutely no plot, Jack is a menace
author's note: just your classic "I've got a big stupid crush on Jack Abbot and I'm making it everybody's problem" type of fic. barely proofread. this was written to procrastinate my wip lol; heart divider by me
It was an honest mistake.
It was before you were scheduled to start your double. You could have gone home, but you couldn’t justify the commute, only for you to turn back in a few hours. You could attempt to sleep at the hospital instead.
You walked, zombie-like, down the hall. You slipped into the on-call room without flipping on the light. The heaviness of your last twelve hours had come over you and you weren’t fully awake. It was a miracle you could put one foot in front of the other, let alone lift the blanket on the bed and slip under it.
Your eyes were already closed, and the sweet slumber awaited you… until–
There was an arm under your head, not a pillow.
You jolted, tumbling backwards and onto the linoleum floor with a shriek of:
“Jesus fuck!”
You scrambled to your feet, heart hammering, reaching for the light switch. The room was bathed in harsh fluorescent light, revealing Dr. Abbot.
“What?”
“Oh, my God!” Your hands flew to your mouth. “I’m so sorry. Did I wake you? I literally thought no-one was in here…”
He watched as you flailed, squinting under the light.
“Could you turn that off?”
“I’m so sorry!” you whispered, obeying him. “I thought you went home.”
“Nah, I didn’t see the point,” he mumbled. You heard the rasp of his hand rubbing his face. “I’m due back later.”
“Yeah, me too,” you muttered. “Figured I’d nap here if I could… I’ll leave you to it.”
Because it was Jack Abbot, it was mortifying, and yet he wasn’t making you feel more embarrassed. He seemed almost unfazed by your actions, even a little amused.
“You sure you weren’t trying to steal my bed? Or half of it?”
You stilled, unsure of how much of your face he could see in the dark. You could make the outline of him, leaning on his elbows, regarding you.
Your face felt hot.
“I was invading your space, I’ll go,” you said, attempting to leave again.
You made to scurry off, reaching for the door.
“You’re exhausted. Stay.”
You paused, your stomach flipping. This wasn’t harmless. You hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but he was your work crush. You lived for his smiles, his little looks. Every so often he’d tell you what a good job you’d done and you lost your mind over it, replaying it over and over later in the stretches of time between your encounters.
You loved when you shared stories and beers after work in the park. You liked it best when he chose to sit opposite you, eyes meeting yours more often than not. He made your stomach flip and he was kind to you.
“I’m not sure,” you said, choosing to be honest. “If I stay then…”
It would be the most amount of alone time you had with him, except when talking about cases together. There were eyes to see you, then. Here, in this room…
“Then?” he said, and you swallowed.
You faltered, and then he cleared his throat.
“Sorry, I just - I thought - I’ll go. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”
“You were here first,” you retorted. “So that’s hardly fair.”
“I don’t have to sleep, I’m good,” he said. “You take it-”
“I’m not going to be able to sleep because I’ll feel guilty about taking the bed from you, Dr. Abbot…”
“So then we can agree to disagree!”
You snorted, covering your eyes with a groan. You took a deep breath.
“Okay, fine. We can share.”
Your heart was still pounding as you joined him, slipping in beside him. He’d made room, his back against the wall. It was still cramped, your sneakers touching under the blanket.
You settled against the pillow, blinking at him in the dark. You could make out his eyes, just.
“This is a bad idea,” you whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back.
“But I’m not gonna leave.”
He nodded at that, and you watched him watching you. His hand moved, reaching out to touch your face. You pulled in a breath as he stroked a thumb over your cheek.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered.
You felt warm all over, cherished in a way that made sense with him. He was always so caring with you, patient in a way that you needed.
“I don’t want to,” you whispered back.
The space between you began to shrink, the time stretching. You shifted, leaning in. Whoever moved first, you didn’t know. But then you were pressing your mouth to his with a sigh, closing your eyes.
It was tentative at first, and then he drew you closer still, whispering:
“Still a bad idea?”
“Very,” you whispered back.
You opened your mouth to his and he swept his tongue inside, a greedy kind of kiss that grounded you, heat swooping down your front, pooling beneath your navel. Your hand went to his hair, finding those short curls to rake your fingers through.
He groaned against your mouth and then rolled you both, until he was on top of you, your hips cradling him. Kissing him, breathing him in, letting go of the world around you, you moaned beneath him.
It went like that for a while, and you knew there was little chance of sleeping anytime soon. Not with how needy you were between your legs. His lips moved down to your throat, teeth grazing skin.
“Jack…”
You gasped his name, and it was the first time you’d said it aloud. Every other time it was his title, his rank.
He came up for air, nose nuzzling your cheek.
“You’re incredible.”
“Stop it,” you whispered. “Just keep going…”
He chuckled, kissing you again, slowly and thorough. When he pulled back with a soft smack of your lips, his hand lay flat against your stomach, skin to skin under your shirt.
His fingers were just under the waistband of your scrubs bottoms.
“Can I fuck you like this?” he whispered, rough around the edges.
You thought you might die, your face burning as you nodded. You smiled shyly up at him, and he moved lower, fingers gliding over your soaked underwear.
“Fuck…”
“That’s…” You were going to say ‘embarrassing’ but then knew you weren’t at all, shaking your head.
He kissed you again, your tongues tangling as your mouths didn’t quite close. You gasped when he began to rub at the wet cotton. Your cunt practically ached.
“Keep… going,” you whispered.
You let out a little cry when he reached inside, fingers brushing your sex. You wrapped yourself as best you could around him, hips angling for him to rub exactly where you needed him. You rocked, and he moved in steady circles, watching you begin to keen.
“Shh,” he whispered against your lips, and then kissed you to shut you up.
You felt tight all over, the wetness of you loud in the dark, and you could smell it, how turned on you were. It was everything you’d ever wanted, him taking care of you.
“Wanna fuck you,” he whispered, and pushed one finger, then two fingers inside you, not quite to the second knuckle.
It wasn’t enough. You moaned, a needy kind of sound against his lips, hips undulating. And then he went still, his spare hand on your hip, pinning you there.
“Gotta be quiet, baby,” he murmured.
You were melting beneath him, wanting to whine and writhe.
“Hurry…”
He obliged, fucking you deep with his fingers, your cunt sucking him in with each stroke. The sound was obscene, your thighs beginning to tremble, and then he reached for your clit with his other hand, rubbing precisely.
“Jack…”
“You're so close, I’ve got you,” he whispered, peppering your face with kisses.
“Please, Jack. Please–”
You rocked against the grain, and then shuddered over the edge, toes curling as your back bowed. Your cunt gripped him, your vision whiting out as every tension melted away, every stress disappeared into the ether…
You did this all with your teeth in his shoulder, and he laughed softly, groaning when you milked his fingers. You wished it was his cock, but this was nice.
Actually, it was incredible considering it was his hands alone that got you off.
He kissed you, until your lips felt numb and you could barely keep your eyes open. He pulled his hand away, sucking his fingers in the dark. Your face burned as you buried it in the crook of his neck, Jack on his back now as you curled around him, his arm around your waist.
Your thigh moved up, brushing his hard-on.
“I can take you home and we can sleep over for real,” he whispered. “Later.”
You gave a happy little sigh, letting sleep take over.
—summary: you spend your days teasing dunk on purpose, brushing too close, holding his gaze a second too long, slipping into suggestive positions when you know he’s watching—until one day, his patience finally snaps and gives in to the temptation you’ve so carefully crafted.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!reader
—word count: ~5.4k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, outdoor sex, lots of body worship, praise, mutual pining, tension, reader loves to tease him, jealous!dunk, friends to lovers, inexperienced!dunk, needy!reader, dunk is down baddd. not proofread!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Ser Arlan is gone, no longer around to complain about your presence every chance he gets, or to remind Dunk that a man like him should not travel with a woman like you, whose past burns hotter than the Dornish sun.
What really burns is your presence, your company, your gaze.
Dunk has always believed that you are some kind of trial sent by the gods to tempt him, to test his self-control, his strength of will, and his sense of knighthood.
He also believes that you don't really do it on purpose, and that you are as pure and innocent as he is. But now that the old man is gone, you seem to have only gotten much worse.
Duncan can't help but glance at you when you're bathing in some lake, pretending to be mending a tear in some old piece of clothing or sharpening the blade of his sword. His eyes flick towards you every time he overhears a little splash, just like clockwork, followed by a sharp gulp.
The sound of water lapping against the rocks is the only thing that breaks the stillness of the forest. You’ve wandered just a few yards from camp, far enough to enjoy some privacy, but close enough to feel Dunk's protective presence.
You slide into the natural pool, gasping as the cold water embraces your bare body.
On the other side of the bushes, you hear the rhythmic “shhh-shhh” of the whetstone rubbing against the steel. Dunk is there, sitting on a fallen log, pretending to be deeply focused on his sword.
But you know that’s not really what’s going on.
From the surface of the water, you can see him through the branches. His jaw is clenched and his ears are tinged with a betraying shade of red.
Every time you emerge from the water and the sound of splashing reaches his ears, his shoulders tense. His pretty blue eyes, once brimming with a childlike sweetness, now scan for you on pure gut instinct, at odds with the decency that Ser Arlan so fiercely drummed into him.
“Dunk,” you call out gently, your voice drifting above the mist.
He flinches so violently that he almost lets the sword fall out of his hand. He clears his throat noisily, staring at some ants at his feet.
“Y–yes? Is something wrong? Is it—is it too cold?” he asks breathlessly, without turning his head even a fraction of an inch.
“It’s perfect,” you reply, emerging from the water with exaggerated leisure. You know he can hear the water dripping steadily down your body. “But I could use that old cloak you were mending. I left mine by the fire.”
You hear him getting up. His steps are heavy, purposeful, but when he reaches the edge of the thicket, he stops dead in his tracks.
“Here... here it is,” he tells you, blindly stretching out his arm through the leaves, offering you the fabric.
You step closer to the edge and, instead of taking the cloak right away, you brush his fingers with yours. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the rush of blood in his big hand. Dunk lets out a quiet gasp, and for a second, his self-control weakens. His eyes drift away, meeting yours.
“I–I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, covering his eyes with his hands to force himself to respect your boundaries. “So sorry”
That makes you smirk playfully, pulling the cloak up around your damp body. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, Duncan.”
You tell him that often. And every time, he is reduced to a blushing, stammering mess.
Sometimes, when he comes back from shopping at a nearby grocery market or roadside merchant, he is almost knocked off his feet when he finds you down on the grass, on all fours to look through the thick bushes for those berries you like so much.
But could they really be found so low to the ground?
His wide eyes are moving on their own before he can even think to try to control them, gliding over your hair, the stretch of your back, and then slowing down as they trace the curve of your bum, that looks absurdly more defined in that skirt.
With a little push you make forward, the fabric slides up a bit more, revealing more of the skin on your legs for his eyes only.
Your hips have widened, the shape of your waist is exquisitely defined, and your exposed skin seems to glow in the light of the spring sunshine.
Dunk feels his mouth go dry instantly and he just stands there, holding the handbag in one hand, his grip gradually loosening as the moment ticks by.
His dilated eyes roam the contour of your hips with an intensity that overwhelms him, a surge of arousal that makes him feel lightheaded with longing.
“Dunk?” you call out as you stretch a little further to reach a particularly red berry, without actually turning around. “Is that you?”
Of course you know it’s him and that he’s there; you’ve heard him approaching ever since he stepped into the woods. But you do like to have a bit of fun, to tease him.
Duncan is frozen in place, the sack of groceries hanging from his fingers as if it weighed a ton. The sound of his own breathing seems loud in the silence of the clearing.
He tries to articulate a response, but his throat feels as if he has been swallowing desert sand.
“Y–yes... it’s me,” he finally manages to squeak out.
He watches with a face bright red as you stretch again, how the fabric of your skirt is pulled tight against your curves and how the sunlight reflects off the softness of your skin.
It is an exquisite form of torture.
“Did you bring what I asked for?” you inquire innocently, arching your back just slightly enough that the motion is impossible to overlook.
“A–aye. I brought... apples. And some—cheese,” he swallows hard, muffling his wheezing voice and blinking sharply to try to snap himself out of the daze. “M’lady... you should—I mean, you could prick yourself on the thorns. It’s not safe to be like that... anyone could...”
You laugh softly, a vibrating sound that sends a chill down Dunk's spine.
“Anyone could...?” you repeat, feigning concern as you finally lean back up, slower than necessary. You turn just enough so that he can see your smile over your shoulder. “There’s no one here but you, Dunk.”
Duncan, just as you are turning your head toward him, forces himself to look everywhere but at you: at the trees, the sky, birds dancing and chirping in the branches above.
“You shouldn't tease like that,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “It's not… appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” you echo, rising to your feet at last, a berry crunching between your teeth.
You take a step toward him, then another.
Dunk recoils instinctively, stepping back from you as if you were a flame that could burn him if he got too close.
“You know what I mean,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t… move like that.”
You look down at your own body, pretending to examine yourself with utter confusion.
“Move how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently, biting your lower lip that’s still stained with the berries’ red juice. “I was just looking for berries.”
“You... you know how,” he manages to croak out at an unusually husky tone, his blue eyes blinking rapidly back down at you. “Like a... like a cat. Or like something from the songs that lures knights into the swamps to drown them.”
“I'm not a fairy tale witch, Duncan. I'm just a woman,” you reply quietly, drawing closer to him to be within arm's reach. Then you hold out your hand, offering him a single perfectly ripe berry. “And you're not a knight yet, are you? You're just a man.”
Dunk leisurely lowers his gaze to your outstretched hand, following the extent of your arm down to the berry, only to return to your eyes, entranced by the hypnotic magnetism of them.
His imposing physique recoils under the overwhelming weight of your attentive gaze and the sweet, alluring glint in your eyes—a gaze that entices him closer. Despite his massive body, Dunk is nothing more than a timid little mouse in your presence.
“Ser Arlan isn't here anymore, Dunk. What are you so afraid of?” You continue speaking so sweetly, attempting to coax him, using a voice as velvety as silk. You press the berry against his lower lip. “Eat now. You've been walking in the sun all morning. You must be hungry.”
Hungry, he certainly is. Just not exactly starved for some woodland berries.
Dunk doesn't take the berry with his hand, instead his lips fall open instinctively as he tilts his head closer to your hand. As his mouth closes over the little fruit in your palm, his tongue brushes against your skin—a flutter of accidental touch that sets off a ripple of heat through your body.
But you realize it was no accident when you catch sight of the way he's looking down at you now, licking the berry juice from his lips and humming in appreciation, reveling in the lingering taste of your skin on the tip of his tongue.
“Mhm, really good,” he drawls, lifting his eyebrows and nodding in approval.
That's the first time Duncan has ever gone along with one of your little flirtations, but that's all it is, nothing more. He doesn't tease you back, he doesn't ask you to give him another berry, he doesn't even bother to glance at you as he shuffles past you, practically stumbling back to camp.
It is a modest victory, but the fact that he has dared to touch your hand with his tongue is a sign that Ser Arlan's lessons are losing the battle against his own natural instincts.
The days go by and that little spark seems to have been extinguished. Dunk has put his walls back up, higher and stronger than ever.
Every time you try to brush his arm as you walk side by side, he finds an excuse to adjust Thunder's load. If you smile sweetly at him during breakfast, he suddenly focuses on a non-existent stain on his coat. It's like trying to melt a mountain with a firefly; completely hopeless.
You reach an inn on your way south, somewhere along the way. The place is crowded, filled with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale. Dunk sits in a corner, his gaze low as he drinks, carrying out his role as silent and boring guardian.
Tired of bumping into his armor of politeness, you decide you've had enough.
You get up and head to the bar and it takes less than a moment to catch the eye of a burly-looking mercenary with a scar on his cheek and an easy laugh. You lean against the counter, letting your shoulder brush against his, and let out a laugh that echoes above the din of the tavern.
“And you say you're traveling alone with that giant?” asks the mercenary, eyeing you up and down.
“He's been my friend for as long as I can remember,” you answer lightheartedly, making sure Dunk hears you, because of course he's listening and observing everything you do. “But he's a very... reserved man. I've almost forgotten what an interesting conversation is.”
The man bursts out laughing and tilts his head toward you, his face just inches from yours. Offering you a sip from his own mug, you lean in and accept, drinking slowly and staring at him with an intensity you've reserved exclusively for Dunk, until now.
The creaking of wood makes you flinch.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk spring to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a heavy thud.
He is standing behind you, his huge frame casting a shadow over your own. The mercenary glances up, turning pale at the sight of the tall figure menacingly looming in front of him.
“No more drinks,” Dunk growls. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a possessiveness you have never heard in it before.
“Hey, easy there, big guy, we were just…” the mercenary begins.
Dunk doesn’t let him finish.
He puts a hand on your waist and forces you to spin around to his side.
“We're leaving. Now,” he orders, looking you straight in the eye.
His jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth look like they're about to burst. His pupils are dilated, and for the first time, there is no trace of Ser Arlan in his gaze. There is only a jealous man who has reached his limit.
He doesn't even give you a moment to say goodbye to your new friend; Duncan is already dragging you out of the tavern with him.
The cold night air hits your face as soon as Dunk pushes open the tavern doors, but the heat emanating from his hand around your waist is all it takes to keep you burning.
“Let go of me, Duncan!” you exclaim, but there’s a hint of triumph in your voice that you can’t quite hide. You break free from his grip with a sudden movement and turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s wrong with you? I was having a pleasant conversation for the first time in weeks.”
Dunk comes to a sharp halt and turns toward you, his blue eyes glowing with anger in the darkness of the night.
“That conversation was not pleasant,” he snarls. “That man was looking at you as if you were a piece of meat at a banquet!”
“You don’t look at me, Dunk!” you fire back, waving your hands in exasperation. “You don't talk to me unless it's to tell me the road is long or the porridge is ready. If you don't want to appreciate what's right in front of you, don't complain when someone else decides to.”
“Seven fuck—you did it on purpose,” he gasps accusingly, his voice descending to a dangerously low murmur. “You knew I was watching. You knew I was going out of my mind sitting there while that fool was touching you—you're—fucking infuriating”
“Infuriating?” you repeat, breaking into a short, bitter laugh, feeling offended, and taking a step toward him until your shoes touch his leather boots. “What’s infuriating is having to seduce half the realm just to get you to stop looking at your own bloody hands and look at me instead!”
He keeps staring at you, catching his breath.
“I don't even know why you're whining so much. After all...” you make a dramatic pause, looking him up and down with a slow, disillusioned gaze, “it's not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”
You turn around with an graceful sway of your hips and make your way back to your camp, concealed in the woods, and don't look back.
Dunk arrives long after you, shifting like a clumsy shadow through the trees. You hear him collapse onto his bedroll across the dying fire, letting out heavy sighs that betray how far sleep is from his grasp.
You smile to yourself, tucked away in your little tent, relishing the chaos you’ve sown in his mind.
The next morning, the sun is just beginning to filter through the leaves when you decide you’re ready to step outside. You expect to find him getting ready for the road, maybe still grumpy or avoiding your gaze as usual.
But what you see takes your breath away.
Dunk is standing with his back to your tent, shirtless.
The fresh dawn breeze brushes against his sun-tanned skin, and his shoulders, broad and powerful, flex and relax rhythmically. He is chopping wood with a small axe, each blow sharp and forceful, causing the muscles in his back to ripple in the golden light. Sweat makes his skin glow, accentuating every scar and line of his muscular, massive build.
You are frozen in the opening of the tent, just standing there watching him.
All of a sudden, he ceases his work, sticks the axe into the log, and slowly turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see you; on the contrary, there is a fresh spark in his blue eyes, a look you haven't seen in him before—confidence.
“Good morrow,” he tells you. His voice is so deep, filling the clearing. He’s not in a hurry to get clothes on. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair and gives you one of those lazy, longing glances you usually give him. “You slept a lot. I thought maybe we should stay another day here, y’know?”
You linger there, your hand still gripping the fabric of the tent, suddenly feeling very small in front of his towering nude figure.
“Did the cat get your tongue?” he teases with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a motion that causes his biceps and pecs to flex in a very appealing way—one that makes your mouth water and your stomach flutter.
The tables have turned so fast you can practically feel the whiplash. Seeing Dunk like this—exposed, sweat-slicked, and radiating a sudden, quiet authority—is almost too much to handle.
You try to summon that playful, teasing voice that usually leaves him stammering, but your throat feels so tight.
“I... I was just going to the river to bathe,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to look unimpressed despite the way your eyes keep betraying you, darting down to the hard lines of his stomach. “Since you’re so busy playing lumberjack, I figured I'd give you some space.”
Dunk huffs out a quiet laugh, low in his chest.
“Space?” he repeats, almost amused. “You’ve never cared much about giving me that before.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other under that look of his.
It’s irritating.
And unsettling.
And strangely... thrilling.
“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, trying to recover your composure, “maybe I’ve grown considerate overnight.”
“Mm,” Dunk nods slowly, though his expression says he doesn’t believe a word of it.
A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the leaves and lifting a strand of your hair across your face. Dunk’s eyes follow the motion absentmindedly before drifting lower again—down your neck, the loose collar of your chemise, the bare curve of your shoulder and then, your breasts.
You feel it.
Seven hells, you feel it.
You cross your arms tighter, pretending it’s because of the morning chill and that you're not as lustful as a cat in heat, and that your nipples have stood erect ever since you saw the broad expanse of his back.
“Don’t stop working on my account,” you mutter. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”
That earns a crooked smile from him.
“River’s that way, my lady,” he says, nodding past the trees. “If you’re bathing.”
You hesitate, because now that sounds like a challenge.
“Oh, I know where it is,” you reply lightly.
Silence stretches between you, birds chatter somewhere in the canopy above, and the fire crackles faintly behind him.
Then Dunk says, casually:
“You’re not going?”
You narrow your eyes. “I said I was.”
“...but?”
Your cheeks warm, and you hate that he’s noticed.
“I was waiting for you to turn around,” you shoot back. “Some of us like our privacy.”
“You?” Dunk huffs, incredulous. “Privacy?”
You glare at him. “Yes, Duncan. Privacy.”
He lifts both hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face lingers. “Alright, m’lady. I’ll be a perfect gentleman for you, then.”
Then he makes a small, exaggerated show of turning around, presenting you with the broad expanse of his back again.
You slide the chemise down one shoulder.
Then the other.
The morning air kisses your bare skin, cool and bright beneath the rising sun. You step out of the garment and let it fall into the grass behind you.
Dunk exhales sharply and you smile to yourself.
“Thought you weren’t looking,” you say sweetly.
“I’m not,” he answers quickly.
The lie sits awkwardly in his voice.
You let out a soft, amused hum and continue down the narrow path toward the river, the morning grass cool beneath your bare feet. The trees thin as you approach the water, sunlight breaking through the leaves in bright golden patches.
You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him stepping through the trees after you, large and unhurried, his expression no longer shy or flustered but stubbornly resolved.
The river glimmers ahead, cool and clear as it winds between mossy stones. You step down into the shallows, the cold water climbing slowly up your ankles, your calves, your knees.
It makes you gasp softly.
Behind you, Duncan reaches down to pull off his boots, dropping them onto the grass with a dull thud. Then his belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft creak.
Your mouth opens slightly.
“Dunk—”
“You said it yourself,” he interrupts calmly, stepping closer to the water. “No one’s here but me.”
The water reaches his ankles, then his knees.
You can hear him exhale sharply at the coldness as he wades deeper.
His mouth tilts faintly, you can hear it in his voice.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice rumbling with quiet amusement. “You’ve been walking around me like a flame for weeks. Now you look nervous.”
You swallow, still with your back turned to him. “I’m not nervous.”
The words come out a little too fast.
Behind you, the river shifts softly around Dunk as he moves closer, the current curling around his legs. You can feel him there even without turning—his presence big and warm and just impossible to ignore.
For the first time in weeks, it isn’t him struggling to breathe.
It’s you.
“Mm,” he hums quietly, unconvinced.
You bend slightly, scooping a handful of cold water and letting it run over your arms, pretending to focus on the chill biting at your skin. The river only reaches your shoulders here, the surface rippling lazily in the morning light.
“Then why won’t you turn around?” he asks casually.
You swallow. “Because I’m bathing.”
“And I’m not?” he asks back.
You hear the faint splash as he dips his hands into the river, the sound of water sliding over skin. Your imagination, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the rest.
You force your tone to stay light. “You’ve bathed before without staring at me.”
“That was before,” Dunk says.
You finally glance back over your shoulder.
Big mistake.
He’s closer than you expected—standing waist-deep in the river, water streaming slowly down his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp where he’s splashed it, darker now, and his blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
Your heart stumbles.
“Well?” you say, forcing a teasing smile. “Enjoying the view?”
Dunk exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.
“You’ve been asking that question for weeks,” he murmurs.
“And?” you challenge softly.
For a moment he doesn’t answer.
His gaze drifts—over your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck where droplets of water slide slowly down your skin.
Then his eyes come back to yours.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I am”
“Well,” you manage, trying to recover your playful tone, “that wasn’t very difficult to admit, was it?”
“You have no idea how difficult it was.” Dunk huffs quietly.
You tilt your head. “Oh, I think I do—”
Suddenly cold water splashes against your side.
You gasp, jumping slightly.
“Dunk!”
He’s grinning now, wide and unguarded in a way you’ve rarely seen.
“You were getting too comfortable again,” he chuckles.
“Oh, is that so?” Your eyes narrow.
You scoop up water and fling it back at him and the splash hits his shoulder and chest, droplets flying everywhere.
Water pushes against his broad hips as he moves, sending small waves rolling toward you. His grin hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown softer, warmer, like he’s finally letting himself enjoy the moment instead of fighting it.
“You’re smiling,” you note suspiciously.
“Aye,” he says.
“That usually means trouble.”
“Only for you.”
You splash him again in retaliation, but this time he’s close enough that it barely slows him.
Now the river barely moves between you. His chest rises and falls slowly, droplets of water sliding down the planes of his shoulders.
You suddenly become very aware of how tall he is, how close. How warm the air feels between your bodies despite the cold river.
“You really thought I wasn’t going to do anything?” he asks.
Your heart beats faster.
“Well…” you murmur, trying to hold your ground, “you usually don’t.”
“You’re impossible,” he breathes out.
“And you're annoyingly boring,” you retort playfully.
“Gods help me,” he murmurs.
Then his hand lifts.
Big, rough fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, almost hesitant for half a heartbeat and he studies your face like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your lips part slightly.
That seems to be all the answer he needs.
Dunk exhales a trembling sigh, and finally, he leans down.
When he kisses you, it isn’t hesitant the way everything else about him has been. It’s warm and certain.
The kind of kiss that feels like something long overdue finally happening.
Your fingers curl instinctively against his chest, water shifting around you both as you lean into him, relishing in his taste, in his lips.
Dunk groans against your lips and his big hands explore your body with a wild desperation, one tangling in your wet hair, gently pulling to tilt your head, while the other slides down your wet back until it cups your bum with a firmness that makes you breathe out a muffled gasp.
“Tell me t–to stop,” he pants in between hot kisses, his warm breath clashing with the icy water that laps at your lower body. “Tell me to stop, my love, and I—I will.”
“Don't—don't stop. Take me, Dunk, oh please, just fuck me,” you cry out, clinging to his neck with your arms and pressing your bare breasts against his firm chest.
Dunk doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts you with astonishing ease, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you with one arm under your thighs, as if you weigh nothing, as his other hand roams your body, exploring every curve he had previously only dared to sneak a peek at. His rough fingers brush your waist, bringing a sigh from you that he devours with another kiss, one that is wilder and hungrier.
You feel his hard, demanding manhood pressing up against you through the water. Dunk buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nibbling you so hard you arch your back.
“Not here,” he hisses, his voice cracking with excitement. “The water’s too fucking cold.”
Still holding you, he emerges from the river with heavy, steady steps. Water drips from your bodies as he carries you toward the shore, and he stop at the grass and carefully sets you down on it.
As he takes his place above you, he covers your body with sweet kisses, lingering for a few precious moments to worship your breasts.
“Seven hells,” he groans, his body trembling with arousal as he watches your eyes roll back and your back arch for him. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve spent so many nights dreaming of this, you have no idea—fuck.”
He just won't stop talking sweet praises to your body as he covers it with kisses, sucks, and nibbles.
“So beautiful, so delicious, all for me, hm? You’re a dream. My dream.”
When his fingers reach your sex, already drenched by more than just the river water—and wetter than it at this point—you squeal out a little yelp that is lost in the forest and has him breathing heavily.
Dunk takes his time, savoring all of your reactions, tracing slow, purposeful circles that have you begging for more, arching your back off the grass.
“Did you just say something about me being boring?” he teases, his blue eyes burning with a new and dangerous self-confidence as he reaches down to kiss one of your knees, making himself a place in between them.
“Shut up and just get in already,” you whine out, one of your feet impatiently tapping against his backside to make him hurry up. “I’ve been ready for you for months, Duncan.”
You settle yourself more comfortably on the grass, drawing him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his hips. As he finally aligns himself with your pulsating, eager cunt, you feel him hesitate for a moment, awkwardly searching for the right angle in a way that is incredibly endearing, before he manages to find his entry into you.
He stays still for a moment, just as the head of his cock is stretching out into your wet folds, merely feeling your warmth, how you hold him tight and wrap around him from inside. It's a moment of pure lack of experience, where he doesn't know whether to move, how hard to push, or how to even breathe.
You help him, gently rolling your hips, urging him to thrust deeper, and Dunk stutters out a whimper, beginning to move on your lead.
His thrusts are gentle, tentative at first, and he watches your face closely, afraid you will show any sign of displeasure or disapproval. Every time you make a sound, he pauses for a moment, kisses you with an overwhelming tenderness, and then continues, growing more confident as he goes.
“Like this?” he shudders, as he leans down over you, his hips delivering a particularly deep thrust that knocks the life out of you. “Do y–you like it like t–this, m’lady?”
“Y–yes, Dunk, just like that, deeper... don’t stop,” you tell him, digging your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under your grip. “You’re doing so well, so big...”
Encouraged by your sweet praises, he picks up the pace, and even though his movements are a bit uncoordinated, there's an earnestness in his passion that trumps any expert lover.
His big hands reach down to support your hips firmly, holding you, as he learns along the way how to give you the maximum amount of pleasure. He's clumsy, he's intense, and he's absolutely perfect.
“Dunk, don't—don't stop, keep going, p–please,” you whimper, and he obediently thrusts again with the determination to bring you over the edge.
The finish comes really fast, an overload of sensations where he, unable to hold it in any longer, loses himself in the rhythm, crying out your name like it's a prayer. Your body is still shaking, and every time you shut your eyes tight, you keep seeing him, sparkling like stars in a night sky.
His cock goes all the way into your womb, painting your gummy, fluttering walls with his color and filling you up to the brim, seed gushing out of your clenched cunt and oozing down your inner thighs.
Duncan collapses on top of you, seeking solace in your embrace, burying his face in your neck as his breathing gradually steadies, still whimpering incoherent words and crying out your name with a broken voice.
He is still deep inside you, throbbing and still spurting drops of seed, but he hurries to prop his elbows on either side of your head so as not to crush you with his nearly seven-foot height.
His fingers, still intertwined with yours on the grass, tremble slightly.
“Are you... are you okay?” he eventually asks in a croaky whisper, with such genuine concern that it almost makes you laugh. “Did I hurt you? It’s just... seven hells, I’ve never... I just didn't know how to make it last longer. I was too... I couldn't think about anything else but you”
“It was perfect, Duncan,” you soothe him, raising a hand to caress his damp cheek. “You're perfect”
He releases a sigh of relief that seems to come from deep within his lungs and leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
“I was afraid of being... I don't know, too rough. Or too clumsy,” he admits with a sheepish smile.
He squirms a little, still feeling the intimate connection between your bodies, and a new rush of heat begins to climb up his neck. He looks so adorably clueless in the afterglow, not quite sure whether to stay like this or find something to cover you with.
“Do you think the gods will be angry?” he abruptly asks, rising enough to look down at you as if the closest thing to a god around there, is you. “For being a knight and... well, this.”
You giggle softly and pull him by the neck to give him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips.
“I think the gods have more important things to do than spy on a woman and her man in the middle of the woods, Dunk.”
When you speak in such possessive terms, he blushes once again, his smile quivering bashfully before he leans his head in closer to you and kisses your lips lovingly.
“Your man,” he repeats, sealing the promise with another sweet kiss. “Yours.”
── summary: During your travels, you and Dunk come across a pond. It is hard for him not to admire you when you bathe, you invite him to dip in with you
— fluff with smut, smut with feelings, first time, fem reader, PiV, sex in water, build up, light teasing, contemplation of knight vows, “subtle” ogling each other, mild idiots in love, hint of a praise kink, caring Dunk, stumbling Dunk, flustrated Dunk, Dunk is a little liar
Word count: 3, 3k, this took me too long to finish
─────────
The road could be cruel, with long, twisted paths, its cold weather, or the sun throwing its rays on the top of your head, burdening your shoulders.
No matter how kind Dunk could be, there were times he couldn't change. In merciless nights of the wind, he'd hold you close, shielding with only his body cupped around yours, legs and arms broad enough to be your blanket. In the breathless days of summer, he’d oftentimes make you drink water — despite his own throat burning and the last puddle having been left behind you miles ago. And in the night, he'd let you sleep against his chest when atop a horse, his own eyes sleepy and heavy in need of rest while he gently kicked Thunder onward.
He was tender and never wished for anything in return for his graciousness.
“Just stay alive for me,” he’d say, and get clumsy because of how sentimental that rang, quickly attending to something different entirely.
It could have been a blessing from the Gods when, after days of travel, you happen upon a pond, sweeping and clear, hiding among the trees. You couldn't contain your enthusiasm, tumbling off the horse’s back amid-trot and rushing to the waters with pure joy as you left Dunk to watch you off.
“Be careful,” he called out behind your shoulder, loosening the reins as he tipped with Thunder’s last steps, “we don't know if it’s safe out here.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, ser!” you said when reaching the edge of the pond, gathering its gift into your hand to drink.
“That’s the best place for trouble.”
Dunk explored the surrounding woods with his eyes, ever so careful, only then jumping off Thunder with a grateful pat on the stallion’s side. Soon, he began to unravel the humble gear you carried, while you supped the water with any dignity forgotten, lying on the grass at its edge. After filling your flask, you scraped up, dusted off the dirt that clung to your clothes, and dared to sniff the fabric by the way. Wrong decision — the odour of sweat, blood, horse, mud, shit, and the Gods know what else, stung at your eyes, dizzied your head, and made you swallow down your breakfast curling up in your throat.
“Oh- Gods be good… I need a wash.”
Dunk glanced your way at your words, only for his eyes to find the garments gliding off your body, baring smooth skin to glimmer in the glow. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, breath stilled to a shallow huff in his mouth.
It wasn't the first time, far from it, yet his being froze into place as if enchanted. He knew it wasn't proper to stare, and he didn't most of the time, but glimpses of your form were enough to waver him. The sight should be desensitised to him by this point, Dunk was aware, but what could cease that pang in his soul that called out every time he saw you?
His head turned to the other side when his senses returned, looking at the foliage instead while his heart thought of you. Strong hands worked on whatever they could reach; his chest ached with the knowledge of you there, sinking into the waters as their waves echoed against the walls of the enclosing trees.
“You can look.” Your voice startled Dunk despite its gentleness. “It’s not as though you haven't seen a naked woman before.” The sound of your nonchalance made him shake his head low.
“Or have you, ser?” you asked as you led your gaze over your shoulder towards Dunk on the grass, sudden uncertainty slinking into your judgment. His silence and the harsher pull of his grasp on the packs were the only responses you got, his focus seemingly elsewhere. A merry curl stretched upon your lips.
“Perhaps not.”
“That’s enough,” he called, his tone firmer in his fluster when he accidentally glanced at you again. He saw your nude back staring back at him, the water tall enough to cover places that might have distracted him more. He forcefully set his eyes on yours and nowhere else, his mouth writhing restlessly as you smiled at him.
“It’s not the first time you have seen me,” you elaborated as if that were a reason, causing Dunk to twitch on his legs. His head shook once more, lips pursing hard and eyes trailing downwards.
But the murmur of the water pulled Dunk’s gaze up again, falling on your hands moving upon your body. He allowed himself to look, even for a brief moment, watching you smooth your arms with dampness, droplets drippling down the arch of your spine, following its path. He traced the curves of your shoulder blades, his eyes coming to touch at your waist, your hips drenched beneath the surface — Gods, you were a pretty one, he couldn't resist the thought, and his body seemed to agree by the warm bloom that poured over it.
You weren't oblivious to his attention, smiling to yourself away from him. It was only natural for a man to be curious about the woman he was travelling with so close. But what made Dunk a better man was his courtesy.
He never touched you when you didn't wish to, didn't try to; his gaze was harmless even when he looked at you like that. It was as if he didn't lust after you, even if he might, but admired the work of the Gods before him.
“Have you been with many women, ser?” you asked, words flowing from your lips all too easily. You heard him hesitate to answer, the rustling of him unfolding the bags returning as if he tried to deflect the question.
“Not many,” he replied after a longer while, preparing the camp for today.
“You’re a good lad then, Dunk,” you mused, “some men can't stop themselves from misleading girls.”
“Hm, some men are idiots.”
You laughed at that.
The water fluttered around you, accompanying the following question spilling out of your heart.
"Would you ever have me?"
Dunk's silence replied to you first, even if the answer was a painful, lasting yes. He felt it crawl at his throat, and he swallowed it down hard enough for it to hurt. He was a good knight, and good knights didn't stray because of their cocks.
The hefty exhale that left his nostrils made you look back at him, witnessing the sheer struggle in his taut frame.
"You shouldn't ask things like that," he rumbled gently, despite the dismay in the shake of his head, "it might make me less of a good man."
"To desire would make you human, ser," you replied, tone measured in your truth. "It is not an insult to me."
"It is a broken oath," he defended and met your gaze frankly, not as skittish as before you noticed. His eyes were earnest, soft even when he scolded you, and made you feel strangely timid under their honesty. Your hands came to clasp over your breast, and he was quick to look away if his stare brought you shame.
With a tight jaw, Dunk began to prepare the bonfire for the night, his tall build reaching down for branches of weight that some men might have trouble lifting. You found yourself looking, taking in each shift of his muscle beneath his modest clothes, the bulging of his forearms exposed by pushed-up sleeves, the faint grunts rolling deep within his chest. And yet, his face appeared so delicate, the carvings of his features mild in the setting sun's glow in a way that made you think of kissing his lips.
"Are you willing to dedicate your own feelings to pledges forced upon by men who don't obey them?"
"What else is there for me to do?" Dunk murmured as he let the wood fall on the grass near a tree, "I don't know anything else. That's all Ser Arlan has taught me." He crouched down, weight pressing on his strong thighs, and pulled out a handy flint and steel often present in his pocket.
"And did Ser Arlan follow those oaths?"
Dunk wavered, the flint almost aiming at his fingers. His eyes flickered towards you, trying to hide the uncertainty in his stare with more defensiveness.
"Let's not talk about that. Not disrespect the bygones."
"You're too good, Dunk."
The hiss of the fire breaking aflame filled the silence between you, a burning beam settling over the dimming ground. You watched Dunk sitting at the fire, its heat dancing on the planes of his face as a solemn expression settled in his features.
"Aren't you going to bathe, ser?" you asked meekly, fingers nibbling at the ends of your hair.
"Hm? Later," he dismissed you in goodwill, even if any other man would read your seemingly innocent question in any way he wanted to. You weren't certain if you found his obliviousness endearing or maddening.
"Duncan."
"Mhm?"
"Come join me."
He flinched as if scorched, and you saw the turmoil of conflict storming through his eyes — shock, fear, restraint, duty.
"My lady..."
"You have to wash too, don't you?" you asked, smiling in the coyness of your excuse for something so scandalous. "There's enough space for both of us."
A slightly amused breath left him in reluctant entertainment at your antics, a smile ghosting his lips in return.
"I... couldn't possibly..." but he paused when he looked at you again, saw your body soaring over the calm surface of water, standing there like an invitation. So many thoughts passed through his mind, but he couldn't focus on any of them when the aching turmoil grew within him. It's just a wash, he thought, trying to justify the fact that he stood up and began to peel off his humid shift.
Fresh waves pushed at your back when you heard Dunk stride into the pond behind. Your heartbeat skipped. You dared not look behind you just yet, but you knew he was there, just as bare as you. A moment or two passed by where you didn't move, listening to every splash of water that might be coating his skin.
Slowly, your gaze moved towards him, finding him standing at a distance that should stay respectful — strapping back, muscles piled with strength, yet tenderness of his smooth flesh, besides a few scars fading in. Dunk’s physique, though undeniably powerful, was so gentle as well, curved and bulbous enough to make you want to squeeze.
His hands spattered water on his face, and you heard him groan in a way that splattered your thoughts to wander even more than before. His hair was wet, perfect for running your fingers through or pulling at.
Without you noticing outright, Dunk peeked through his fingers in your direction, just out of curiosity, to see you looking at him so intently through the dim light of the evening sun.
Gazes met, everything stilled, breaths seemed to shrink to a tremble.
“I should go,” Dunk uttered through his haze, blinking away the lust fogging his eyes as he moved through the waters in a few steps.
“Dunk.” Your call bewitched him in place, mighty in its quietness. He waited; his heart fluttered. “Stay.”
“My lady,” he warned, and you saw the sprang of his shoulders, the twitch in his neck lines. He wanted you, and you knew you wanted him.
You were the one to move now, making the waves stir around your thighs as you approached him and nearly made the poor hedge knight flinch. Soon, he found you before him, and Dunk swore that his head got light as he looked at you there, so unapologetic for the flush of your chest, the shape of your waist. You smiled at him, kind but knowing; the glimmer in your stare was heavier than usual, he observed.
“My lady-” he spoke again, this time almost in fear when you dared to lean closer. But he didn't run away, despite the emotion spilling on his face, “I have lied…”
“Oh?” you mused through the dense heartbeat in your chest. Dunk appeared to squirm.
“I have not been with a woman before. A mere kiss as a lad is all I know…”
Dunk wasn't certain what to expect as your reaction, guessing that you might laugh like those girls who could see through his clumsiness. Yet, you didn't giggle, didn't scrunch your nose in disbelief, or overly praise his virtue. You looked at him just as you looked at him before — fondly, warmly. And he stopped being scared.
“Do you wish to change that, ser?”
“With you, yes-” he blurted out with a shaky exhale. “But… won't I be misleading you then, like all those lords and men?”
A smile pulled on your lips again.
“Not if I’d want it.”
Dunk nodded slowly with the most seriousness, and it looked awfully handsome on his face.
“And… you want it.”
“Yes.”
With that answer, hovering over the waters, Dunk’s frame relieved just a little, and he accepted the ache within him, let it guide him as he bent to you. His hands found your cheeks, stable in their quiet tremble. Holding them so carefully, the waves swirled around him as he closed the remaining distance between you, closing your bodies in a whispering cage. His warmth streamed into you, just as unpretentiously as his touch, a lingering presence that brought you protection.
The look in his eyes made you shiver, deep concentration coiling in the reflections of his gaze. His hands were naive when they began to descend over your body, little kinks of his fingers burying into your flesh, but just as honest when he caressed you. He found the path of your neck, the slope of your shoulders, the shape of your chest as he touched its curve. A small breath parted his lips, and he allowed himself to look at you without turning away, without shame eating at him.
“How did the Gods send something so beautiful my way…” You heard him utter, and those words stroked you from within.
“Dunk.” Your voice passed by as a sigh when you reached for him, hands cradling the strong contour of his face. Your eyes urged him, quietly but desperately enough for him to understand.
He kissed you, as well as he could. You tasted salt on his lips, drips of water soaking into your skin, and the softness he gave you. It was gentle, clumsy at times when his mouth didn't follow yours.
“I’m sorry, my lady…” he whispered into your mouth when his teeth accidentally grazed your lip, embarrassment creasing his face.
“Don’t be,” you cooed, feeling your skin prickle where his nose brushed yours, his forehead almost sealed against yours. “I liked it.”
Dunk’s breath hitched, his heart beat harder than before as something tensed his being and narrowed his hands upon you. You felt the wet press of his body against yours when he leaned closer, flesh tightly laced together, and the growing strength behind his lips. A small sound clogged the back of your throat at how his mouth began to work, how his form pushed into yours as if he wanted to merge into you. His hands grew braver, almost frantic, as they travelled from your waist, to your back, your nape, and burned you with heat. Your own hands moved, and he couldn't hold back the low groan he spilt into your mouth when your fingers splayed across his chest.
A brisk splash of water broke the smooth surface of the pond when his arm hooked around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, the petal of your ass cheek filling Dunk’s hand so perfectly. He squeezed, you whined and bucked into him with the strain growing in your roots. You felt him curse against your lips, grind almost instinctively against you in kind with his thickening cock. Your hand slipped down, embracing his width to draw a gasp from his mouth as his lips shattered away from yours with a backwards tilt of his head. He breathed your name out, looking down at you in a plea too sweet to ignore.
His size drowned between your thighs with a slow glide, torturous for both of you. Dunk watched closely as he faded within you, awed at the pliant nature of your slick folds. The moment he sank entirely in your warm cunt, he sighed in relief.
“I hope I'm not hurting you, my lady.”
“No.” You shook your head lazily. Locking your gaze with his, you felt yourself flutter around him. And so did he, moving his hips ever so slightly in an excuse to adjust himself. “You’re perfect.”
He met your words with a whimper, unable to deny how he twitched when buried deep in your slit. His hand squeezed your plump again, thumb smoothing across your flesh as his hips began to roll — slowly at first, cautious as the new sensation settled within him. Every thrust steeped in your sap felt overwhelming, and the little gasps you let out only overtook him more.
Dunk had tried moving harder, pushing into you with more force, as the mild tingle inside his stomach became familiar — he wanted more. With a few rigid snaps of his pelvis, your breath hitched, your cunt pulsed around him as if this was exactly what you needed all along. He had you mewling by the time he set a steady pace, observing how your body trembled, how he drove himself over and over again inside you.
Dunk’s other hand wandered between your forms, just like when he caught Ser Arlan doing to a whore once, his fingers petting over the pearl his cock couldn't reach. His breath caught as he watched you arch into his touch, your moan dropping into the water around you.
“Duncan…”
“Am I pleasing you, my lady?” he huffed through repeated jabs of his hips, his thumb beginning to circle your swollen nacre in tender rings.
“Gods, yes…”
The encouragement seemed to provoke Dunk more, and you felt his cock riding deeper into you, more persistent. Waves crashed against your tangled bodies as he went faster, short and deliberate thrusts jolting pleasure through your roots while he chased the climax with you. Your arms closed around him tightly, his face nestled in the crook of your neck as he softly chanted “my lady, my lady, my lady,” like a prayer into your skin.
A cry broke from Dunk’s throat, planted in your neck, when he spilt into you, warmth dribbling into your cavenrs in streams. Tight around his stuttering length, you couldn't open your eyes for a long moment in your heightening delight, your fingers cutting into his skin.
It was silent afterwards, your breaths echoing over the pond in union. You felt Dunk shivering against you, still sealed so close to you with his sighs melting on your flesh. The movement of his thumb lasted in the stillness, caressing you gently as if to comfort. Slowly, his head lifted, his face came to yours as your gazes caught each other in the haze. A dear blush dusted his complexion, his lips parted perfectly for you to close them with a light kiss.
"I think we should go dry," Dunk whispered into your mouth; you nodded.
Adorned in your clothes again, you sat before the dancing bonfire, watching it flare and curve with Dunk. You rested against his shoulder, just like many times before, a solace settling within you. You felt the weight of the glances he stole your way, something unspoken present in his eyes.
"Do you think... that I will ever get to do that again?" he asked, voice no louder than a rumble of the flames. A smile came to rest on your face, only for his eyes to see.
"I think you will get to do it more than once, ser."
Dunk shared a smile with you, leaning his head gently against yours, as a shade of contentment settled in his features.
-18+, dunk realizes you need accommodate his size, little bit of dummy!dunk which is honestly just regular dunk lol. p in v, spit play, he talks you through it, fingering, handholding, dirty talk dunk??? creampie, you are both virgins! ᥫ᭡
the failure was...awkward.
you had tried, dunk had tried, and you had both ended up in a tangled heap of frustration and mild discomfort.
dunk had looked at you with those wide, guilty eyes, scratching the back of his neck. "i'm sorry, sweetling. i'm just too big. i don't know why you're so tight."
you had just smiled and kissed his cheek, too embarrassed to admit you didn't know what you were doing either.
the first time was a disaster, mostly because neither of you knew what you were doing. you lay there in the bed, your legs tangled with his, your heart hammering against your ribs. you were nervous, sure, but you were also ready. you wanted to feel him inside you, wanted to be one with this giant of a man.
"relax sweet girl," dunk murmured, his hand resting heavily on your hip. he was positioned between your thighs, his cock flushed purple at the tip, already hard and heavy, resting against your leg.
he lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds, moving up and down, not pushing in. the sounds were deliciously obscene, the shlick shlick of wetness ringing in your ears.
"i believe you have to go in me, dunk," you whispered, your voice trembling.
he nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "aye, i knew that." he pushed forward, just an inch, and froze. he tried again, harder this time, but the resistance was immense. it felt like he was trying to force a giant stone through a keyhole.
"it's too tight," he grunted, his jaw clenched. "i can't...it hurts you."
you winced, the stretch burning. "maybe...maybe if we go slower?"
"it's not working," he said, pulling back with a frustrated sigh. he looked at you with those dark, earnest eyes, full of guilt. "i'm sorry, my precious girl. i'm jus’ too big. i'll only hurt you."
he rolled off you, defeated, and buried his face in his hands. you felt terrible. you didn't know what to say. you thought maybe if you just tried harder, it would work. "i can bear it. we can try again tomorrow then?"
that's when dunk went to find lyonel.
lyonel was in his tent when dunk burst in, looking like a scolded puppy. "m’lord, may i ask a question on something to do with… you know," dunk started, his voice grave.
lyonel dropped his polishing cloth. "i know…?"
"making love," dunk sighed embarrassedly.
"ah! sex! right then, go on."
"i need your advice. my lady, my girl...she is too tight. i cannot enter her fully. i fear i am too big for her?"
lyonel’s eyes went wide with genuine appall for a moment. he looked from dunk to the door, as if checking if anyone could hear him, before his gaze snapped back to the knight, his expression shifting from shock to a look of baffled disbelief.
"are you really that big, boy?" lyonel asked, his voice dropping to a scandalized whisper laugh as he gestured vaguely at dunk’s massive chest and shoulders. "you're a literal mountain, duncan. a giant. and she..." he looked back toward the room where you were, shaking his head. "she's very much not! of course it's not gonna fit!"
"did you prepare her, ser duncan?" he asked, his tone playful.
"prepare?" dunk blinked, confused. "i...i just got on top of her. i made sure she was comfortable first, ‘course."
lyonel let out a long, suffering sigh that finished with a laugh. "good god, man. desire is not enough. a woman must be... ready. she must be well wet."
"wet?" dunk’s eyes went even wider. "she was wet…"
"very wet," lyonel elaborated, standing up and pacing the room. he stopped in front of dunk, looking him up and down with a mixture of baffled disbelief and exasperated pity. he shook his head, his expression shifting to one of pure incredulity as he took in the sheer scale of the knight before him.
"do you think you can just shove a warhorse in a chicken coop? of course she needs to be prepared. you need to oil the blade before you try to strike. you need to get her slick, duncan. use your mouth. your hands. she must drip before you even think about putting that thing inside her."
dunk slumped in his chair, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. he looked down at his own hands, then at his boots, and finally up at lyonel with a pained expression. "i never thought of it that way," he muttered. "i just...i want to be inside her. i want to be close. to give her pleasure."
lyonel proceeded to give him a crash course that had dunk hanging on his every word. he explained the importance of patience, the art of foreplay, and the specific techniques for making a woman "dripping with need." he even drew diagrams in the dirt (which made dunk snort with laughter).
"so," lyonel finished, looking at dunk with a mixture of pity and pride. "you go back to her. you take your time. then, and only then, you try again!"
"right! right…thank you," dunk said, saluting. "i shall learn!"
the next night, dunk came to you with a look of intense determination in his eyes. he didn't just climb into bed, he practically tackled you with affection. you were just standing by the wash basin, wringing out a cloth, when he scooped you up off the floor with a grunt of effort, making you yelp in surprise.
"dunk! what's gotten into you!" you laughed, your arms flying around his neck to steady yourself as he carried you effortlessly to the bed. he didn't answer, just pressed a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses to your cheek and jaw. he laid you down on the furs with surprising gentleness, his large body hovering over yours, his eyes burning with a fire you hadn't seen before.
"i was thinking today," he said, his voice a low, serious rumble that vibrated through your chest. "about all the time we lost. all the nights you spent alone, or scared. and i decided... i'm going to make up for every single one of them."
your breath hitched. his hands, which were usually so careful, almost hesitant, now moved with a new, confident purpose. he found the hem of your thin nightgown and, with one smooth motion, pulled it over your head, leaving you bare to his gaze. he didn't stare for long before he was moving, kissing a path down your body, over your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach.
he settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. he looked up at you from there, his expression raw and open. "is it okay like this?" he asked, his voice thick with a vulnerability that belied the intensity in his eyes. "i want to taste you. i need to."
you could only manage a frantic nod, your throat too tight to form words.
he smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips, and then lowered his head. he didn't start where you expected. instead, he began pressing soft, wet kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. you squirmed, your hands tangling in his thick, dark sandy hair. he took his time, worshiping the skin there, leaving a trail of fire that made your pussy pulse with need.
he spent the entire evening worshipping you. he used his mouth in ways that made you gasp and moan, as he whispered praises against your skin.
by the time he finally positioned himself between your thighs, you were a trembling mess, your body arching up to meet him.
with a low growl, dunk leaned down. he spat down. a hot, wet shock right onto your hot, wet cunt, using his own saliva to ready you, too eager to find anything else.
it's filthy, primal, and so utterly dunk. a man who takes what he wants with his bare hands, who uses what he has. the sound of it, the soft, wet pat against your skin, is obscene in the quiet room, and it sends a jolt of pure lust straight to your core.
the filth of it made you gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing.
before the heat of his spit can even begin to cool, he's using it. he presses the wide, calloused pad of his thumb against your slick, swollen clit, using his own essence to slide over you in a perfect, firm circle. "gods above," you whimper, your hands flying down to hold his free hand out of habit. "dunk!"
he groans watching you. he's utterly mesmerized. he watches his thumb, slick with his spit and your arousal, as it circles your clit. he watches the way your hips twitch and cant upwards, begging for more. he has a look of pure, masculine satisfaction, one of a man who has discovered exactly how to unravel his girl.
he leans in closer. "do you like that?" he rasps, his voice thick with lust. "hmm?"
you can't answer, only moan, a high, desperate sound. he takes that as encouragement. he slides his thumb down to your entrance, gathering more of the combined wetness, and then pushes two thick fingers inside you, slowly. the slick, wet sound is loud, lewd, and beautiful.
"i know what to do now," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a hungry glint. "lyonel says a woman must be… dripping. and now i believe you are, pretty girl. you're leaking everywhere."
his fingers stilled inside you, leaving you pulsing and empty, aching for more. he pushed himself up, kneeling between your spread thighs. his chest was heaving, his muscles taut with a barely restrained tension. you watched, your breath held in your throat, as his hands went to the laces of his breeches.
he fumbled with them for a moment, his large fingers made clumsy by his haste. then the leather ties were undone, and he freed himself.
the sight of him stole the air from your lungs.
he was thick and heavy in his own grip, a hard, imposing length that rose from a thatch of dark curls.
the color was breathtaking… the same deep, ruddy pink as his lips, flushed and darkening at the head to a nearly purple hue, already beading with a clear, pearly drop of fluid.
he gave it a slow, firm stroke, and another bead of pre-come welled at the tip, glistening in the candlelight.
he shifted forward, settling his hips over yours. the hot, heavy weight of his cock rested against your slick folds, and you both groaned at the contact. he notched the head at your entrance, a perfect, searing pressure that promised everything you'd ever craved.
he paused, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his body a cage of warm muscle and raw power. he looked down at you, his blue eyes dark with lust, but also with a fierce, unwavering tenderness.
"look at me," he commanded softly. "look here, my love."
when your eyes met his, he continued, his voice a low, ragged murmur. "i'm going to push in now."
he began to press forward, a slow, inexorable pressure that made your body stretch, a sweet, burning ache blooming as you opened for him.
"breathe for me," he coached, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "just... breathe. that's it. gods, you're so— fuck— tight! so so fucking perfect."
he pushed in another inch, and you cried out, your nails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders. he stopped instantly, letting you adjust, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"shhh, i've got you," he soothed, pressing a soft, almost chaste kiss to your lips, contrast to the lewd way his body was claiming yours. "it's just me. it's just your dunk. feel me? feel how much i want you? m’right here."
he rocked his hips slightly, a shallow, grinding motion that had you seeing sparks behind your eyelids. he let your body get used to his size, watching you take the overwhelming sensation of being so filled by him.
"one more," he grunted, his voice strained. "just take one more for me."
and then, with a final, powerful roll of his hips, he sheathed himself fully inside you. you gasped, your entire body arching off the bed as he filled you completely, stretching you to your limits, the head of his cock pressing deep against a place inside you that had never been touched. he was buried to the hilt, his balls snug against your ass.
"there," he breathed, his voice a harsh, triumphant whisper against your ear. "there you go. took all of it, brave girl."
he moved slowly at first, savoring the sensation of being inside you, before gradually picking up the pace.
he looked down at you, a grin spreading across his face that was bashful and loving. "this is...incredible."
you wanted to giggle at how endearing he was, this giant of a man looking so boyishly pleased, but you could barely make out a word. high-pitched whines spilled out instead, incoherent little sounds of pleasure that were completely beyond your control.
he seemed to understand. he saw the strain in your legs as you tried to meet his powerful thrusts, and his expression softened with that tenderness you adored.
he slowed his movements, and before you could ask what he was doing, he hooked his hands behind your knees. with a strength that still stole your breath, he hiked your thighs up, draping them over his hips. the new angle was immediate and devastating. it opened you up completely, allowing him to sink even deeper.
your hands, which had been clutching his shoulders, flew to his forearms. he captured them in his own, lacing his fingers through yours and pinning your hands to the bed on either side of your head.
with your legs now hooked over his strong, solid frame, every powerful inward thrust of his hips brought the soft, firm plane of his lower belly and the slight, rounded softness of his groin crashing directly against your swollen, aching clit.
it wasn't really a focused, targeted touch. it was an on-and-off, rhythmic torment that was driving you insane.
on the thrust in, a perfect, grinding pressure against your clit as his cock filled you to the hilt. on the pull out, a moment of desperate aching before the cycle began again.
"dunk," you gasped, trying to see below your belly to watch him go in. "oh, gods, dunk."
he adjusted his angle slightly, leaning forward more, and the pressure intensified. he was using his entire body to pleasure you, using his weight, his strength, his very flesh to wring pleasure from yours.
the coil in your belly tightened with terrifying speed. it was a different kind of buildup than the sharp, focused one from his fingers. you were completely trapped, held down by his hands, impaled on his cock, and ground into by his body with every relentless stroke. you couldn't move, couldn't escape, could only take it.
"come on," he urged, his voice a low chant against your lips. "come for me, let me feel it. give it to me. please? please…"
the pressure, the fullness, the sound of his skin slapping against yours, the sight of his face, contorted with pleasure and effort.
it was all too much.
with a sharp cry, your orgasm shattered through you. it was a violent, convulsive crash.
your cunt clenched down on him like a vise, your back bowed off the bed, and a high, thin keen tore from your throat as the pleasure ripped through you, leaving you a shaking, sobbing mess beneath him.
he didn't stop, fucking you through it, prolonging the ecstasy until you were begging him to stop, to never stop.
he finally slowed, burying himself deep inside you as you trembled, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps.
"there she is," he murmured, his voice full of awe as he pressed a soft kiss to your sweat-slicked forehead. "there's my girl."
he stayed buried deep inside you, his body a heavy, comforting weight as you trembled through the aftershocks. your inner walls were still fluttering, clenching around him in rhythmic little pulses, and you could feel his cock twitching in response, a deep, thudding presence that told you he was holding on by a thread.
he lifted his head from your forehead, his blue eyes dark and intense, searching yours. "you feel that?" he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly sound. "you did this to me, love…"
"i want it, dunk. finish inside, i want to feel it…" your hands still pinned by his, your body pliant and boneless beneath him. he slowly began to move again, not with the hard, punishing rhythm from before, but with deep, grinding rolls of his hips.
"gods, i'm going to fill you," he growled, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were joined. he watched himself disappear into you, his slick shaft glistening in the firelight as he pulled out, only to be swallowed again by your heat, your lower belly presenting him with an imprint bulge of his own cock in you. "i'm going to fill this perfect little- with all my seed-"
your hips tilted up to meet his, a silent, eager invitation.
he let out a harsh groan. "that's it. that's it!" he released your hands, only to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you even tighter against him.
the new angle allowed him to go impossibly deeper, and he began to chase his release in earnest.
you wrapped your legs around his waist, hooking your ankles together at the small of his back, holding him to you, wanting all of him.
"look at me," he demanded, his voice strained. "eyes on me when i spend for you."
you locked your gaze with his. his lips parted, his eyes burning with an intensity that was almost frightening.
"fuck...fuck," he snarled, his hips slamming into you one last time. he buried himself to the hilt, his entire body going rigid as a bowstring.
you felt him pulse inside you, a deep, throbbing spasm, and then a flood of intense, wet heat as he spilled himself into you. it seemed to go on forever, each pulse of his cock accompanied by a guttural groan torn from his chest.
he collapsed onto you then, his full weight crushing you in the most delicious way, his face buried in the crook of your neck. he was shaking, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. you held him, your hands stroking his sweat-slicked back, whispering nonsense words of comfort and love into his hair.
you've got this sprawling farmhouse he built with his own two hands, a wrap-around porch he designed specifically so you could sit in your rocking chair with a glass of iced tea and watch him work the fields shirtless and sweaty...yum
he’s the backbone of the small town. when old mrs. gable’s fence breaks, he’s there with his tools and a charming, shy grin, refusing any payment!!! when the town needs to raise money for the library, he donates whatever he can and offers some beef cattle and works the grill at the fundraiser all day. all the little ones know you by name and bring you pictures of 'mr. dunk's big tractor'...
he comes in, covered in dust and sweat, his muscles aching from a 12-hour day and smelling like sun, sweat and soil. he finds you in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and baked apples. you hand him a cold beer, and press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.
AND after he's wrestled your toddler into bed and read them three stories because he's a total pushover, he comes back downstairs.
he finds you clearing the table, doesn't say a word, just walks up behind you, his large hands gripping your hips, and bends you over the dining room table. He pushes your skirt up, pulls your panties aside, and fucks you dumb right there in your little kitchen whispering sweet nothings. the window shades wide open!!!
clark kent x younger!reader ୨ৎ ‧₊˚⊹ warnings: teasing, bigdick!clark, pwp, age gap, size kink, she's a virgin, unprotected sex, ignore typos.
After your late night activity, he was exhausted especially from work all day. But he still had a boner, and you, of course we're still starving for him.
When Clark put you to bed you couldn't keep your hands off of him when he had laid you down. Your hands go beneath his shirt, damp with sweat and the scent of his musk made you react distinctively.
You pull him down on top of you and he grunts. "Darling, I said it's time for bed."
You shook your head in protest against his words. You ran your hands up and down his back, pulling his shirt over his head and revealing his body to you once more.
He sighs and grips your cheeks with his hand, squeezing them with some gentle force. He was a little mad at you, but he couldn't deny the way he felt. His arousal went beyond how tired he was.
"You're a brat." He said sternly.
You knit your brows trying to mumble an apology but he wouldn't let your face go. He chuckles deeply and let's go to take off his belt and pull it through the loops.
Clark held the leather in his hand and watched your reaction to it. You were nervous, he could tell. But also so turned on. The way your thighs tighten around his torso and the way your tongue darts out to wet your starving lips.
"I won't use this on you, angel." He tossed it off the bed and leaned down to kiss you gently. Mumbling something, "I have my hands for a reason."
A soft whine had escaped you by accident. A strong reaction to his words due to how fast your heartbeat was going. How tight your chest felt.
Clark kisses you down, praising your body and smelling his cum against your skin as he gets lower. His hands gently rocks you when he grabs at your thighs and pushes them forward, guiding them to fit in his one hand while the other presses against your wet panties.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You're wet again."
You nod softly and nibble on your inner lip anxiously. You trusted Clark but sometimes he was unpredictable. His strength was how he took advantage of you.
He could part your thighs forcefully and you couldn't even fight it. He could squeeze you in places to the point where it hurts good. Even then, you wouldn't want to fight it.
He pushes your panties to the side and takes a deep breath. You were sticky sweet, a scent only he could smell from a mile away.
He gets lower and drags his tongue against your glistening folds making your body jerk. His grip tightened beneath your legs, keeping them up together and still.
He hums, "that's it." He muttered between licks. "Feel that, baby?"
You moan and grab at what you could. A pillow, sheets, you were too pleased to reach around to grab his hair. But the need to control something, you wiggle your hips against the bed and try to ease the pressure of his tongue.
He pulls back and licks his lips, "too much?"
You shake your head, lying of course. Clark knew and shook his head, moving both you and him in a position a little more comfortable.
He got off the bed and took off his jeans, letting them pool at his feet. He spoke in a deep sensual tone, "you be honest with me, angel. I don't want any accidents."
You sit up to watch him and to hear him better. To show some respect to the conversation. You understand the stern look in his eyes...he's serious.
"Sorry."
A small murmur.
Clark shook his head and approached the bed. He slowly took off your gown and kept his eyes on yours. "For what? You're doing fine."
He soothes you—running his hands up your thighs to your hips, taking off your panties and tossing them aside without even looking away.
He grabbed your thighs again and pushed them up so he could get on top again. He leaned down and kissed your chin, your neck, then your collarbone at a slow pace.
"You tell me what you need." He whispers. "Want me to use my mouth again...my hands?"
Your body shivers at the thought of both. But you only needed one thing...
"Your hands... please." You're getting shy now. Clark found this adorable. He definitely took advantage of it.
He slides his hands between your legs and pushes his middle finger inside of your heat. You let out a small gasp before closing your eyes.
He groans at the feeling, "so tight, how are you supposed to take me like this?"
You mumble beneath your soft hums of pleasure, "I- I can, Clark. I can."
"No. You can't." He chuckles. "You were begging for it an hour ago, I knew better than to give it to you, didn't I?"
He adds another finger.
"C-Clark!" Your thighs shake against his hand. "I don't wanna cum yet."
He shook his head, "you won't, darling."
Clark curled his fingers into your good spot and pushed his hard cock against your thigh. You bit your lip but couldn't help but moan aloud at the feeling.
"I don't think it'll fit." The teasing tone was also coated in some concern. He didn't even try to be patient, he was patient.
You shake your head, "please...try. I need it badly."
He laughs softly, "badly? Bit of an exaggeration."
You whine, "I'm serious. I've been trying not to do anything while you're at work. I'm trying to save it all for you."
Clark's eyes soften when he hears all the effort you've put in for this moment. He tilts his head and looks down at you. He saw your desperate expression and felt your needy movements below him. The way your pussy squeezed his fingers made him bite back a groan.
"Promise you'll be gentle with yourself, don't take more than you can take. It won't bother me." He reassured you.
You nod desperately, "I will..."
He held back a chuckle. He found your desperation adorable—how needy you were for him.
He leaned down between your legs and brushed his cock against your cunt, wetting it with your juices.
"Baby." Clark moans quietly. "You're so beautiful like this."
You move your hands and gently grip onto his big arms. The feeling of his member against your throbbing cunt made you huff, breathing rough due to eagerness.
He leaned down and kissed your cheek, "shh, take some deep breaths and focus on me."
He pushes himself inside you slowly. His cock twitches against your insides when he feels how tight you are...
"Right there!" You flutter your eyes and try to slow your breathing.
Clark nods, "is that what you want, baby?" While thrusting softly, only the amount he had put in was just enough to hit your good spot repeatedly.
He wasn't upset about you not taking all of him, he felt good none the less. The feeling of you trying not to cum right now made his arms shake on either side of you while he tried to keep himself up.
"Mmh, more please."
He was shocked to hear you beg for it. He could see how little he had put in and it worried him.
Clark kisses your earlobe. "Are you positive?" He asks. You nod and squeeze your eyes shut to brace yourself.
While this was a little rough, you both needed it.
He pushed in, more and more. He felt your nails digging into his arms, he paused each time he heard you wincing.
"Too much?" He pants.
"No, mm I want all of you." You mumble.
When he heard your exhausted voice he felt defeated in stopping and giving you what you wanted. If anyone could care for you, it was him. So he kept going, studying your face and watching for any signs of pain or pleasure.
Once he bottomed out he gently rocked his hips. So slow, it was almost infuriating for you. But you knew you needed time to adjust.
Clark moans, "fuck, baby. You barely fit me."
"Mmh!! Please, there." You warned him, moaning beneath your heavy breaths.
"I know, darling. I know."
His pace went up gradually until he couldn't feel his hands anymore, until he could only feel being inside you. He was gentle, but he went gut deep making you moan loudly.
The feeling of your cunt squeezing around him, he could feel everything. He could feel how close you were, and so he'd slow down just to hear you whine at him.
He smiles, "what, still impatient?"
"I'm gonna cum!" You warn.
He shook his head and practically mocked you while his hips slow down and speed up at an unrecognizable pace.
Clark watched your eyes shift from frustrated to pleased within seconds. He knew how to keep you waiting, and you let him play these games with you.
"Ohh fuck!" You yelp.
He groaned repeatedly when he felt his high coming closer. The feeling of your hot breath against his chest and your hands gripping his shoulders as you try to ground yourself was all he could understand in the moment.
You let out a little gasp before freezing for a moment. Your orgasm approached with his, you both climaxed on each other. You felt him fill you up, making your belly bulge a bit when he pushed it deeper.
He groaned, "look at you. You take me so fucking good."
it's 3am.. I am so sorry I have to end it here. I'm exhausted!! // part one
dunk x reader where they're each other's first time. dunk is so eager to please and has no idea what a reasonable number of times it is to go at it, so he'll keep going until you're both absolutely exhausted and can't continue. he wants you fully satisifed, is five orgasms enough? ten? he can do more please let him give you more? you're so spoiled and you don't even realize it. maybe you have an inkling that dunk has got more stamina than the average man, but you've no real idea because you've only ever been with each other.
and dunk is still worried it's not enough or he's not doing it right. so he asks raymun. and raymun nearly falls out his chair when dunk, with utmost sincerity, asks him if he thinks a man cumming four times is enough for his partner's satisfaction.
"you made her cum four times?"
"no, that's how many times i...you know. lost count o' hers."
and of course raymun tells red. he tells his wife everything. and obviously red is immediately looking for you and without a hint of shame is asking you how many times dunk usually makes you cum. call it professional curiosity.
"well, after around five or six times, it...blends together," you answer.
"right, but how many of those are faked?" red asks.
"what?"
"those can't all be real. you must at least ...exaggerate, for his benefit."
and you tell her that no you've never done that. never even thought of it. why, do most men not last that long? you know dunk is sweeter and stronger than most men but you reason the average man must still be able to go at least two rounds and can make his partner cum at least a handful of times, if he isn't selfish or lazy.
red thought she'd seen everything in her former line of work but she's never able to look at dunk the same way again. and more benefit for her that her sweet raymun steps up his game after talking to dunk.
ser duncan the tall x female reader | explicit/ 18+
sunday mornings are for imagining ser duncan next to you. his breath is hot in your ear, his big hands holding your hips in a slow, possessive rhythm. you are riding him slowly, taking your pleasure as the sun filters through the cheap curtains of the inn.
he is always such a good man to you, so honorable in the way he lets you ride his face first thing in the morning, his big hands palming your ass cheeks to spread you open for him. he worships you with his tongue, the scrape of his stubble a delicious friction against your thighs. he likes when you pull his hair, tugging him closer, grinding against his mouth until you're shaking above him.
he likes it when you moan his name, all broken and breathy, when you come all over his face.
only then will he flip you over, all that knightly strength he usually keeps so carefully leashed, and press you into the mattress. he'll settle between your legs, his heavy cock sliding through your slick folds, not yet entering, just teasing.
he likes to watch you squirm, to see the desperation in your eyes as you try to arch up to take him inside. he'll pin your hands above your head with one of his, the other wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel held, to make you feel possessed.
but you will always feel safe and loved even when he fucks you. especially then. he'll fill you completely, stretching you until you're aching with the size of him. his hips will snap against yours, a perfect rhythm that builds a fire in your belly. he'll bury his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, murmuring praises about your tight heat, about how good you feel milking his cock. he'll tell you how beautiful you look spread out beneath him, how he's been thinking about this all week, how you're his good girl, his sweet girl, taking him so well.
only with you shall he talk filthy, only for you shall he lose control.
you will bite his shoulder to muffle your cries as he drives into you harder, faster, the bedframe groaning in protest. he can call you a greedy little thing for wanting more, for clenching around him so tight he sees stars. he can spank your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the room, leaving a stinging heat that makes you gasp. he'll mark you with his teeth, with his hands, with his seed, and you'll wear his possession like a badge of honor.
you are obsessed with the corded muscles of his forearms when he's holding himself above you. the deep, rumbling laugh in his chest when you do something particularly wicked. the way his throat works when he swallows, especially when he's watching you strip for him, piece by agonizing piece. the trail of dark hair that leads from his navel down to the thick cock that fills you so perfectly. the calloused pads of his fingers, so rough against your skin, yet so gentle when they trace your curves. you love the weight of him on top of you, the solid reality of him anchoring you to the earth as he sends you flying.
after, you'll lie tangled in the sheets, heavy with satisfaction. he'll spoon you from behind, his arm wrapped around your waist, his softening cock still nestled inside you. he'll press soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear. he’ll kiss your face, too, and your hands, and every place he can reach.
he'll murmur about how much he loves you, how he can't imagine his life without you, how you're the best thing that's ever happened to a simple hedge knight like him.
there’s no man like him in the world. he would fight dragons for you, he would face down armies, he would walk through fire if you asked him to. but he'll also cook for you, even if he burns the porridge more often than not. he'll mend your clothes with clumsy but earnest stitches. he'll listen to you talk about your day, his full attention on you as if you're the most important person in the world.
he is a contradiction in the best possible way. a killer with a gentle soul. a warrior who would rather spend his days with you than on the battlefield. a man of few words who speaks volumes with his eyes, his touch, his heart.
the sun is already starting to set on the hills, so you’re turning in for the night while he stays alert. you both scrapped the idea of finding an inn ages ago, you had to give up on the fleeting dream after the woods and farmland seemed never ending the farther you went on. he’s set up your camp beautifully, under a tree with his blankets and linens laid out on the ground for himself while you get the coziest bed of all: his broad chest, complete with his strong arms enveloping you.
a fire crackles beside you, warmth radiating from it in waves. the flames brighten up your area as the sky becomes indigo. you’ve grown to love the heady scent of smoke— it helps you relax.
“y’look more than weary,” he mumbles tenderly as you finally settle, crawling up his form on exhausted limbs. his gaze is soft, full of molten affection and pure fondness. when you press yourself into him, melding your form to his own like he’s the ultimate comfort to you, he drapes his cloak over your body. his hands find the small of your back, keeping you secure on him while his nose nuzzles against the top of your head. he breathes in your scent, because it’s more than enough to calm him down even when you’re both out in the open like this.
you sigh out something incoherent in return, something that makes his chest vibrate and rumble underneath you with a laugh. his gentle voice meets your ears, his dialect heavier as his own tiredness and everlasting affection for you grows— “hush now, sweet one. get some rest before light.”
his big hands rub your back soothingly as your eyes finally shut, and he can’t help but stare as your lashes fan over the tops of your cheeks and your lips form a sleepy little pout.
you don’t hear it when he mutters to himself (“seven hells”). you miss the exact moment he realizes he’s a sucker for you.
he's always been nervous and struggled with social cues. and he's always been made very aware of his height and build and that's made him self-conscious. like yes, he's a big lad, and that's good for being a knight, but he feels so awkward and clumsy and lumbering when it comes to romantic affairs. so he often doesn't get when reader is flirting with him. even if it does occur to him that something you said or did seems flirty, he either convinces himself he's mistaken or it takes him so long to work up the confidence to respond in turn that the moment's passed. think pirates of the caribbean "if you were waiting for the opportune moment, that was it" with lyonel speaking to dunk after he's missed his chance to kiss reader.
that being said he also would give you whiplash coming out of nowhere with the most romantic or accidentally suggestive lines. watching a tourney and you and egg are talking about who you think will be crowned queen of love and beauty and you ask dunk and he shrugs and goes "course it'll be the host's sister, but it should be you. you're the prettiest." and doesn't even seem to have registered what he said. and when he apologizes to you he always kneels and oh his eyes are so earnest and blue. also he's definitely gotten annoyed with you before and you're both arguing over something small and he goes "don't make me put you over my knee" and you stop arguing and stare like 👀 but he panics and walks away.
dunk who even once you're together he struggles to understand when you want him. you have to be very direct and obvious. though this can become fun and be used for your advantage if you spend an entire day teasing him trying to see just how much you can get away with before he realizes and when he does dunk is SHOCKED he has been BAMBOOZLED you were turning him on on purpose.
dunk who can accept that you like him and can accept that you're horny but it takes him some time to accept the idea that you're horny for him. you want sex with him. it helps when you later admit all the times he turned you on and how you struggled not to jump him before you got together (tell him you got off for weeks just to the suggestion he wanted to spank you).
dunk who asks if he's not too big and hulking and you tell him you think it's the sweetest and hottest thing you've ever seen when you can see him being so careful to stay gentle with you. not to crush you or grab too hard or hurt you with his giant cock. only thing that's hotter to you is when he stops trying to maintain control and just fucks you and overwhelms you with his strength and size.
dunk who loves it when you say his name in bed or tell him he's doing a good job or what you like or anything to convey how much you want him. it flips a switch in his head and suddenly he's able to be so confident and have you squirming from pleasure. and afterwards he's so sweet and bashful all "was that alright? did i hurt you? was that good for you?" like he didn't just make you cum five times and you're absolutely limp lying curled into his side and ready for bed.
masturbation, caught in the act, oral sex (f!receiving), outdoor sex, size difference, praise kink (good girl), double entendre (thanks Egg), mutual pining
word count: 7.3 k
Ser Duncan the Tall is a knight of spotless honor, sworn to chivalry and restraint. Unfortunately for both of you, he also has eyes. And when he finds you beneath his favorite elm, skirts rucked up, fingers buried deep, his name spilling from your mouth like a shameless little prayer — the knightly composure cracks in half.
Caught red-handed, you expect shame. Judgment. Maybe a lecture about propriety. Instead you get the man behind the armor: big, breathless, and suddenly starving. Dunk doesn’t just want to protect you anymore; he wants to drag every needy sound from your throat, bend you over the moss and prove exactly what happens when a loyal warhorse finally snaps his reins.
And really, the Maester did say a good, hard ride was the only cure.
A/N: i’m usually my own toughest critic, but i have to say, i especially enjoyed writing this one. as a side info, i’m working on yer requests and a few other fics so i’ll keep you well-fed in the following days and weeks. love you all 🩷
The wind rustled through the leaves of the old elm, the same one Dunk favored for his quiet moments. You leaned your back against its rough bark, the texture a grounding sensation against the thin fabric of your gown. The afternoon sun slanted through the branches, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of light and shadow. It was here, in this quiet solitude, that your mind began to wander, unbidden, toward him.
A familiar heat bloomed in your belly, a slow, insistent flush that had nothing to do with the sun's warmth. You squeezed your thighs together, a futile attempt to quell the sudden, sharp ache that had taken root there. You shouldn't be thinking of him like this, not here, not now. The thought was a spark of shame, but it was quickly smothered by a wave of need.
You pictured him, fresh from the practice yard, his linen shirt plastered to the broad expanse of his chest, dark with sweat. You imagined the way the muscles in his back would ripple as he swung that massive sword of his, a fluid, deadly dance that never failed to steal your breath. But it was the thought of him after a real fight, blood-splattered and panting, that truly undid your composure. His blue eyes, dark with something more than just exhaustion, pinning you in place as if you were the only person in a crowded tourney ground.
"Gods," you whispered, the word barely a puff of air in the rustling leaves.
Your corset suddenly felt impossibly tight, the laces digging into your ribs, constricting your lungs. Each breath was a struggle, a shallow gasp that did little to ease the frantic beating of your heart. You needed more air, more space, more him.
Your hands, acting on their own volition, rose to your breasts. They were heavy and tender beneath your palms, the peaks already pebbling into tight nubs that strained against the layers of your clothing. You cupped their weight, your thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips, a faint, frustrating pressure through the fabric. A soft whimper escaped your lips.
"Gods, Dunk, Seven fucks," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut. "I need you."
The image in your mind sharpened: him, striding towards you, on his face untamed desire. You imagined the texture of his rough hands on your skin, the heat of his body pressing you against this very tree. You pictured his mouth, that rare, genuine smile replaced by something that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure. You could almost feel the weight of him, the solid, grounding presence that aroused you and scared you in equal measure.
You squeezed your breasts again, harder this time, your fingers digging into the soft flesh. The ache between your legs intensified, a throbbing, relentless pulse that demanded attention. You felt shameless, lost in a fantasy of your own making.
The wind picked up, whipping your hair across your face, cool against your flushed cheeks. You were exposed, vulnerable, and yet utterly, completely alive. So lost in your fantasy, so consumed by the fire you'd stoked within yourself.
Your hands moved with a desperate urgency now, one still cupping your breast, the other sliding down, past the constriction of your corset, over the curve of your belly. You lifted the velvet of your skirts, the fabric bunching in your fist as you sought the heat between your thighs. The air was cool against your bare skin, in contrast to the fever that raged within you.
Your fingers found the slick folds of your cunt, and you gasped, a needy sound that was swallowed by the wind. You were so wet, so ready for him — because of him. You dipped a finger inside, then another, the stretch such a sweet pleasure. Your thumb found your clit, a tight, aching pearl of nerves, and you began to circle it, the rhythm frantic.
Your moans grew louder, uninhibited, raw cries that echoed in the quiet of the grove. You were no longer aware of the world around you, of the tree at your back or the sun on your skin. There was only this, this feverish chase for release.
And in your mind's eye, he was there, not blood-splattered and fierce, but naked and glorious, standing in the river, the water sluicing over the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. You'd seen him a few days ago, a stolen glimpse that had haunted your dreams ever since.
"Dunk," you cried out, his name a prayer on your lips. "Oh, gods, Dunk."
You imagined the water beading on his skin, tracing the path of the dark hair that tapered from his navel to... You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers working faster, deeper. The image was so vivid, so intoxicating. You pictured the thickness of his cock, the way it would feel inside you, filling you completely.
A wave of shame washed over you, hot and suffocating. But the shame was fleeting, drowned out by the rising tide of your desire. You didn't care. You would burn in all seven hells for this, for the thought of him, for the memory of his body glistening in the sunlight.
Your thumb pressed harder against your clit, your fingers curling inside you, seeking that secret spot that would send you over the edge. You were so close, so painfully close. You could feel the tension in your lower belly, the muscles in your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Your breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps.
"Mmmm Dunk," you sobbed, the sound broken and desperate. "P-please... gods... please."
It was a cruel, wicked thing, this fantasy, this stolen pleasure. He had no idea, no inkling of the thoughts that plagued you, the desires that consumed you. You pictured him, so earnest, so honorable, completely unaware of the depraved fantasies you spun around him. The thought made you ache, made you burn. You were a sinner, a seductress in your own mind, and you loved every second of it.
Your fingers worked faster, the slick sounds of your pleasure mingling with your cries. You were a mess, your mind a whirlwind of erotic images. Him, above you, inside you, his name a constant chant on your lips. You were lost, completely and utterly lost, to the sensations that consumed you.
The world around you had faded to a blur of green and gold, the wind a mere whisper against your fevered skin. You were deaf to everything but the frantic beating of your own heart, the rush of blood in your ears, the pants of your breath.
You didn't hear the snap of a twig, didn't register the heavy footfalls that crunched on the fallen leaves.
You were so close, so agonizingly close. The pressure was building and building. You threw your head back, your neck arching, your body taut as a bowstring. Just a little more, just a little...
But in a second he was there, a silent, towering presence behind you. His shadow fell over you, a sudden darkness in the dappled sunlight. You froze as a low, rumbling growl of your name cut through the haze of your pleasure.
"What in the seven hells..."
Your fingers buried deep inside you, your body locked in a state of suspended animation. The voice, gravelly and warm, was unmistakable. Ser Duncan. It was a dream, a hallucination brought on by your feverish mind. It had to be.
You didn't dare turn around. You couldn't. The shame that had threatened to consume you earlier now washed over you in a crippling, all-consuming wave. You were caught. Red-handed, flush-cheeked, and utterly, completely compromised.
A large, calloused hand came to rest on the trunk of the elm, right beside your head, caging you in. The sheer size of it, the sheer presence of him, was overwhelming. You could feel the heat radiating from his body.
Your fight or flight instinct screamed at you to run, to bolt into the woods and never show your face again. You tried to yank your hand from beneath your skirts, to smooth down your dress and pretend none of this had ever happened, but his other hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist with a gentleness that belied its strength.
"Hold now," he rumbled, his voice still close, still impossibly deep. "None of that."
You struggled against his grip, a pathetic, frantic attempt at escape. "Let me go," you choked out, your voice thick with unshed tears. "Please, just let me go."
"Easy," he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of your wrist. "Easy now. It's... it's alright."
"It's not alright!" you sobbed, the tears finally breaking free, hot tracks on your cold cheeks. "It's not... I wasn't... Oh, gods." You couldn't form a coherent sentence, your mind a jumble of humiliation and shame.
You buried your face in your free hand, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs. How much had he seen? How much had he heard? The thought was a fresh agony, a new wave of mortification that left you gasping for air.
He didn't say anything for a long moment, just held you, his presence an unwavering force at your back. Then, he spoke..
"Look at me," he said, his tone gentle but firm.
You shook your head, refusing to turn, to face the judgment you were sure to see in his eyes.
“I can't."
"Yes, you can." He shifted, moving to stand in front of you, blocking your path. He still held your wrist, but his grip was loose, a suggestion rather than a command. He used his other hand to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.
His face wasn't a mask of disgust or anger. It was... complicated. There was a faint blush high on his cheekbones, a telltale sign of his own discomfort, but his eyes were soft. So soft. They held a mixture of concern, and something else, something you couldn't quite name.
"It's not a big deal," he said, his words slow, as if he was choosing them with care.
"It is!" you cried, trying to wrench your chin away. "It's a huge deal! It's... it's indecent!"
A faint smile touched his lips, a wry, self-deprecating thing. "Aye, maybe. But it's also... human." He paused, his thumb brushing away a tear. "And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered."
You stared at him, your tears momentarily forgotten. "Flattered?"
He nodded, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Aye. Flattered." He took a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your face. "To hear you say my name like that..." He trailed off, a muscle working in his jaw.
Then he leans in, his deep blue eyes darkening with emotion. He was so close, so unbearably close. You could see the faint lines around his eyes, you could smell him, a heady mix of sweat, leather, and something that was deliciously him.
You tried to pull away again, a fresh wave of mortification washing over you as you remembered the slick heat on your fingers. But he held you fast, his grip gentle but unyielding. "Don't," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Don't be ashamed. Not with me."
You shook your head, a fresh sob catching in your throat. "But I... you heard... I was..."
"Moaning my name?" he finished for you, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Aye, I heard."
You could have died. Right there, under that old elm, you could have simply expired from sheer humiliation. "I'm so sorry," you whispered, your eyes squeezed shut.
"Don't be," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Don't you dare be sorry." He brought your hand to his lips, but instead of kissing your knuckles, as you expected, he turned it over, exposing your palm. Your fingers were still glistening, the evidence of your desire obvious in the afternoon light.
Your eyes flew open, a gasp of protest dying on your lips as you watched, mesmerized, as he brought your slick-coated fingers to his mouth.
"Dunk... no," you breathed, but it was a half-hearted plea, your body already betraying you, a fresh wave of heat gathering in your belly at the shocking intimacy of the gesture.
He ignored you, his gaze never leaving yours as he slowly took your middle finger into his mouth. His tongue swirled around it, a slow, sensual exploration that made your knees weak. He tasted you, tasted your desire, and the look in his eyes, that unbridled hunger stole the air from your lungs.
"Mmm," he hummed. "Sweet as a summer berry."
He released your finger, but he wasn't done. He leaned in, his face so close to yours that you could count the individual whiskers on his jaw. He kissed the tear tracks on your cheeks, his tongue lapping at the salty moisture, a tender, cleansing gesture.
"There now," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "No more tears. Not for this."
You were trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shudder that wracked your entire body. You were a mass of conflicting emotions, a tangled knot of shame, desire, and a bone-deep awe at the masculinity of the man in front of you. He wasn't Ser Duncan the Tall, the gallant hedge knight, the embodiment of all that was good and honorable. He was just Dunk, a man of earth and muscle and need, and he was looking at you as if you were the only woman in the world.
"Please," you whispered. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he rumbled, his thumb stroking your tear-damp cheek. "Don't taste you? Don't want you?"
"I'm... I'm a mess," you sobbed, the words a pathetic excuse.
"Aye," he agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. "A beautiful, desirable mess." He brought your hand to his face again, burying his nose in your palm, inhaling deeply. "And you smell like heaven."
You tried to pull away again, but it was a token resistance, a half-hearted struggle that you both knew was futile. "It's indecent," you whispered, the words a last, desperate attempt to cling to your crumbling decorum.
"It's natural," he corrected. "It's what happens when a woman wants a man. And you," he paused, his gaze dropping to your lips, "you want me.
The world tilted, the green leaves blurring into a dizzying whirl of color. You felt a strange, floating sensation, as if your feet had left the ground. Your knees buckled, and you would have fallen if not for the solid arm that shot out to wrap around your waist, pulling you against him.
"Easy now," his breath felt warm against your hair. "I've got you."
And you did. You had all of him. The hard planes of his chest pressed against your soft breasts, the solid muscle of his thighs cradling your own, and, most undeniable of all, the heavy, rigid length of his cock, straining against the fabric of his breeches, pressing into your belly. He was hard. So hard. For you.
The last vestiges of your shame burned away, consumed by a fire so hot it was a wonder you didn't go up in flames. You looked up at him, truly looked at him, and what you saw made your heart hammer against your ribs. He was flushed, a deep, dusky red that stained his neck and crept up to the tips of his ears.
"Gods," you breathed, the word a reverent whisper. "Dunk."
A smile spread across his face.
"Aye.” His gaze dropped to the place where your body pressed against his, to the proof of his desire. "Apologies," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Didn't mean to... interrupt you. But I heard every sweet, filthy word." He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath a moist caress. "And I'd be a cad and a fool to stop a lady from her pleasure."
He shifted, his thigh pressing firmly between yours, a delicious, tantalizing pressure. "But since I'm here," he continued, "perhaps you'd allow a humble knight to... assist?"
Before you could answer, he swooped down, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck. He held you against him, your body flush with his, your skirts bunched around your thighs. He was so strong, so solid, a mountain of a man who held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
Then he kissed you. It was a wet, messy, utterly filthy kiss that stole the breath from your lungs and made your toes curl. His lips, warm and firm, slanted over yours, a perfect, intoxicating fit. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, possessing you in a way that felt overwhelming yet right. You could taste yourself on him, a sweet, musky flavor. The act sent a fresh gush of heat between your legs, a wet warmth that soaked your smallclothes and made you moan into his mouth.
You kissed him back, a desperate thing, your hands tangling in his thick hair, your body arching against him. You wanted to crawl inside him, to merge with him until there was no telling where you ended and he began.
He broke the kiss as he set you back on your feet. His hands, those wonderful big hands, went to the laces of your corset, his fingers fumbling with the intricate knots with a surprising dexterity. "Easy, girl," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. "Let me have you."
The laces gave way with a soft sigh, the tight constriction around your ribs loosening. He wasted no time, his hands slipping inside the loosened garment, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the already-peaked nipples.
"So beautiful," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "Gods, you're so beautiful."
He leaned down, taking a nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. You cried out, your head falling back, your hands fisting in his hair.
But even as you lost yourself to the pleasure, a small, nagging voice of reason intruded. "Dunk," you gasped, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders. "Someone might come."
He grunted, a reluctant sound of agreement. "Aye. Egg might come looking for me." He straightened up, his eyes dark with frustration. "Or worse, some squire with more eyes than sense."
He looked around, a considering gleam in his eye. Then, with a decisive nod, he scooped you up again, this time settling you on a broad, moss-covered branch of the old elm, just out of sight of the main path. He stood between your parted legs, his hands braced on the branch on either side of you, caging you in.
"This'll have to be quick," he said. "And quiet. Can you be quiet for me?"
You nodded, your eyes wide with anticipation, your body thrumming with a need that bordered on pain. You could try to be quiet. You could try to be very, very quiet.
He smiled. "Good girl."
He knelt before you and his hands, rough and warm, slowly gathered the fabric of your skirts, pushing them up, over your knees, past your thighs, until the cool air kissed the heated skin of your core. He then looked up at you.
"Dunk," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.
He didn't answer, not with words. Instead, he leaned in, inhaling deeply, a low, guttural groan rumbling in his chest. "Gods above," he murmured, his breath a warm, moist puff against your aching cunt.
His breath was a physical caress. You were so wet, so ready, you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your smallclothes, the fine silk a fragile barrier between you and the pleasure he promised. He pulled them down, slowly, the fabric whispering against your skin. As he drew them away, a gossamer thread of your arousal clung to the silk, a shining, shameless testament to your need.
You wanted to die. You wanted to disappear into the tree, to be swallowed whole by the earth. But you also wanted to spread your legs wider, to offer yourself up to him, to let him do whatever he wanted, however he wanted.
He held the damp fabric up to the light, a small, wicked smile playing on his lips. "Soaked through.” His gaze dropped back to your glistening cunt. "A right little mess you've made, girl."
You whimpered, a pathetic, pleading sound. "Dunk, please... I... I won't last. I feel like I'm going to burst."
"I know," he said, his voice a soothing murmur. "I can see it. I can feel it." He leaned in, his nose nuzzling the damp curls at the apex of your thighs. "And I want you to."
Before you could process his words, before you could even draw a breath, his mouth was on you. His tongue, broad and wet, swept through your folds, a slow exploration. He lapped at your entrance, gathering your slickness, before moving up to circle your clit.
A white-hot explosion of pleasure ripped through you, a wave so intense, so all-consuming, that it stole the very air from your lungs. You cried out, a sharp, unrestrained cry. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the thick, dark strands, holding him to you as if your life depended on it.
He didn't stop. He growled, a low, possessive sound. His lips closed around your clit, suckling greedily, his tongue flicking against the sensitive nub in a maddening rhythm."Dunk!" you gasped, your hips bucking against his face. "Gods! Oh, gods!"
You were coming, and you couldn't stop. The pleasure, a force that crashed over you again again, left you breathless. You flooded his mouth, a gush of hot, slick fluid that he drank down with a guttural groan of satisfaction. He rode out your orgasm, his tongue and lips working you through, until you were a trembling, whimpering mess until your body remained pliant against the rough bark of the tree.
When he finally pulled back, his face was glistening, a self-satisfied, utterly male smile on his lips. "Told you," he murmured, his voice a husky rasp. "Told you I wanted you to finish in my mouth."
You could only moan in response, your head lolling against the tree, your eyes fluttering shut. You were completely spent. But as he stood, his hands going to the laces of his breeches, you felt a familiar stirring, a renewed ache deep in your belly.
"My turn," he said, his eyes dark with a hunger that was far from sated.
He freed himself, his cock springing forth, heavy and thick and impossibly hard. He wrapped a hand around his length, stroking himself slowly, his gaze locked on yours.
Your breath hitched, a strangled gasp at the sheer, overwhelming sight of him. He was massive, a monument of flesh and desire, and for a dizzying moment, you wondered how in the seven hells he would ever fit inside you. A primal, instinctual fear warred with an equally primal, instinctual need. You wanted him. You wanted all of him.
As if sensing your trepidation, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and demanding. It was a kiss that said, "I know," and "Trust me," and "I'm going to fuck you." He tasted of you, of your pleasure, of your surrender, and the intimacy of it was dizzying.
"You took my fingers so well," he murmured against your lips. "You'll take my cock just as good."
He shifted, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance, a tantalizing, maddening pressure that made you whimper. He was there, right at the threshold, and you were ready, your body willing...
"Look at me," he commanded.
You obeyed, your eyes locking with his. He held your gaze as he pushed forward, a slow invasion that stretched you to your limits. It was a burning, pleasurable ache, a fullness that was both agonizing and exquisite. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a cry, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was so big, so impossibly big, and the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, was almost too much to bear.
"Fuck," he rasped, his forehead resting against yours. "You feel... so good. Better than I ever... ever imagined."
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust felt measured, a slow, delicious torture that built the pressure in your belly, coiling the tension tighter and tighter.
"Quiet now," he grunted, his hips snapping forward, a little harder this time. "Remember? Quiet."
But it was impossible. The sounds were torn from your throat, a litany of whimpers and moans that you couldn't contain. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your teeth sinking into the salty skin, a desperate attempt to muffle the cries of pleasure that he was wringing from your body.
He couldn't stay quiet either. His breath was ragged in your ear, a series of harsh, guttural grunts and low, desperate whispers. "Wanted you," he breathed, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Wanted this for so long. So many nights... thinking of you... touching myself... pretending it was your hand... your mouth... this sweet, tight cunt."
His words were a dirty, intimate confession, a glimpse into a fantasy you never knew he had. They fueled the fire in your belly, the need for him, the need for this, a desperate, all-consuming thing.
"Wanted to bend you over every table we've ever sat at," he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. "Wanted to lift your skirts and have you right there, in front of the gods and everyone. Wanted to hear you scream my name as I filled you."
He was losing control, the solid, steady rhythm of his hips devolving into a frantic, desperate pounding. His grip on your hips tightened, the bruises he was leaving a sweet, satisfying ache.
"Gods, I might die for it now," he panted, his forehead still pressed against yours. "If Egg walks up that path... if anyone sees... I swear, I don't think I could stop."
Your nails raked down his back, the thin linen of his shirt no protection against the sharp points of your need. "Then don't," you gasped. "Don't stop, Dunk. I don't care if the entire tourney ground watches. Fill me. I want to feel you so deep I can taste you. Let me die with you inside me."
He buried his face in your neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. "You say such wicked things," he growled, his hips slamming into yours, the tree groaning in protest. "Such sweet, wicked, perfect things."
He pulled back, just enough to look at you. "And what kind of knight am I?" A bitter, self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. "What manner of chivalrous fool is so lost to a woman's heat that he'd tup her against a tree like a common dog? I'd fuck you anywhere, anytime you asked. On a throne, in a stable, in the mud. I have no honor when it comes to you. None at all."
The words were a confession and they broke something open inside you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, taking all of him, every last inch.
You seized the moment. With a strength born of desperation and a fury of need, you pushed against his chest. He stumbled back, caught off guard, and you went with him. You landed on top of him, the mossy ground a soft, welcoming cushion beneath you.
For a heartbeat, you stared at each other, both panting, both wild-eyed. He was beneath you, this mountain of a man, this knight who had faced down foes in the tourney ground without a flicker of fear, and he was looking at you as if you were the most wonderful woman he had ever seen.
"Your turn to be quiet, ser," you panted, a wicked, triumphant grin spreading across your face.
You didn't wait for a response. You rose up, positioning yourself over his magnificent cock, and then you slammed down, taking him to the hilt in one movement.
A scream was torn from your throat. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, a solid, unyielding pressure that hit a place inside you that you never knew existed. It was pleasure so sharp, so intense, it was almost pain.
"Ahhh hells!" he roared, his hands flying to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, bruising, claiming. "You... you mad, wicked girl!"
You began to ride him, a wild, frantic rhythm that was more animal than human. Your body was moving on instinct, a desperate chase for the pleasure that only he could give. You threw your head back, your hair a wild curtain against the dappled sunlight, your breasts bouncing with each powerful downward thrust.
You were completely exposed. Anyone could stumble upon you now, could see you, this wild woman riding a knight as if he were a prize stallion. The thought was a fresh jolt of arousal, a wicked thrill.
Your words came out in a stream of half-formed blasphemies and desperate pleas. "Dunk! Gods, Dunk! Your cock... you're splitting me... it's so good... harder... make me take it..."
His control, already frayed to breaking, finally snapped. With a guttural roar, he surged up, covering your mouth with one huge, calloused hand. The other hand clamped onto your hip, a band of iron that guided your movements, forcing you to take him harder, deeper.
"Quiet," he grunted, his voice a raw, desperate command. "For the love of the seven, woman, be quiet!"
You whimpered against his palm, the sound muffled, desperate. But you didn't stop. You couldn't. The feeling was too all-consuming. You were lost in a haze of sensation, your mind a blank slate filled only with the overwhelming reality of him inside you.
In a fit of wicked inspiration, you leaned forward, smothering his face with your breasts. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt his other hand move from your hip to grip your ass, pulling you even tighter against him. His thighs, bunched with powerful muscle, began to piston upwards, meeting your downward strokes with a force that made you see stars.
He was fucking you now, truly fucking you, a relentless rhythm that pushed you both towards the edge.
"Faster," he panted, his words muffled by your flesh. "Gods, we have to finish. They'll be looking for me. They'll be looking for you."
You obeyed, your body moving in a frantic, desperate dance. There was no grace and no finesse, only a raw, primal need for release. The sounds were wet, sloppy, debauched. The moss beneath you was damp, the scent of earth and sweat and sex the only perfume that filled the air. You were a mess, a glorious, shameless mess, and you loved every second of it.
His hands were everywhere, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you were sure you'd have bruises in the shape of his fingers. He was guiding you, commanding you, using you for his pleasure, and the thought, the submission, sent you towards your own release.
"I'm close," he grunted, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Gods, girl, I'm so close."
His fingers tightened in your hair, a sharp, insistent pull that forced your head back, your back arching. He used his other hand to push at your hip, trying to lift you off him.
"Get off," he panted, his voice a raw, desperate command. "Get off now. I'm going to... ah, gods... I'm going to spend."
But you didn't move. You stayed there, a stubborn, unyielding weight, taking him deeper, forcing him to the very brink.
"Girl," he growled, a warning in his tone. "I'm warning you. Get off."
You just shook your head, a wild, reckless grin on your face. "Then I'll have your babe, ser knight," you gasped, your words a breathless, wicked challenge. "I'll have a part of you inside me always."
He pulled you off him then, a rough almost violent movement. Then he immediately came, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat. It was a primal, possessive sound, and it made your skin crawl, a delicious, tingling sensation that shot straight to your cunt.
You felt the hot, wet gush of his release on your inner thighs. He spilled onto the mossy ground, a pearly, life-giving fluid that seemed to soak into the very earth beneath you.
You were not one to let such a thing go to waste. Before he could even catch his breath, you reached down, your hand closing around his still-hard, still-sensitive cock. He flinched, a sharp intake of breath, a look of pain and pleasure warring on his face.
"Easy, girl," he grunted, his hands flying to your wrist. "Easy now. That's... that's enough."
But you didn't let go. You squeezed him, your thumb stroking the sensitive head, milking him for every last drop. You watched, fascinated, as another pearly bead of fluid welled up at the tip.
"Ahhh," he breathed, his head falling back, his eyes squeezed shut. "You're trying to kill me. I swear it.”
"I'm just collecting my due, ser," you purred. "A knight shouldn't waste such a fine offering."
He laughed, a weak, breathless sound. He watched you, his eyes soft, a small, fond smile playing on his lips as you released him, bringing your slick-coated fingers to your lips.
"Sweet," you murmured, tasting him.
"Aye," he agreed, a flush creeping up his neck. "So you've said."
You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his chest, and kissed him. It was a slow, lingering kiss, a taste of shared pleasure and unspoken promises. When you finally pulled back, he was looking at you, his expression unreadable.
"Come here," he said. He shifted, pulling you into the circle of his arms, your head resting on the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat, a slow, steady rhythm, was a comforting sound beneath your ear.
Then you helped each other dress, a slow, unhurried process sprinkled with soft kisses. His hands lingered on your hips as he tied the laces of your gown, and you couldn't resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair, now hopelessly disheveled.
"You look like you've been tumbled in a haystack," he rumbled, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dirt from your cheek.
"And you look like a well-satisfied stallion, ser knight," you retorted, a wicked glint in your eye. "Or a dog who's had his way with a willing bitch."
He laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "Only with you," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "Only ever with you."
You were still leaning against him, your head on his chest, when you heard it. A distant call, a young, clear voice cutting through the quiet of the grove.
"Ser Duncan! Ser Duncan, where are you?"
You froze, your eyes flying to his. He looked like a deer caught in a hunter's trap, his face a mask of comical horror.
"Egg," he breathed, his voice a panicked whisper. "Gods be good, he's looking for me."
You scrambled to your feet, smoothing down your skirts and trying to tame your wild hair. You were a mess, a glorious, well-fucked mess, and there was no hiding it. The flush on your cheeks, the swollen state of your lips, the twigs in your hair... it was all a blatant advertisement of your recent activities.
Dunk was no better. His tunic was askew, his hair a tangled mess, and he had a very distinct, very suspicious grass stain on the knee of his breeches.
"What do we do?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Act natural," he said, his expression so comically serious that you had to bite back a laugh.
"Ser Duncan!"
The voice was closer now, accompanied by the crunch of leaves underfoot. A moment later, Egg himself appeared, a small, squire-like figure with a thatch of blond hair and a perpetually puzzled expression. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him. You, leaning against the tree, looking thoroughly ravished. Dunk, standing beside you, looking like he'd been wrestling a bear and lost.
"Ser Duncan," Egg said, his voice laced with a concern that was so genuine it was almost painful. "I was worried. You've been gone a while. And... your horse."
Dunk blinked, a slow, confused look on his face. "My horse?"
"Aye," Egg said, nodding earnestly. "I went to the stables to check on Thunder, and he's... well, he's very worked up. And sweaty. I thought he might have colic, but Maester says it's... something else."
Dunk stared at the boy, a slow, dawning horror creeping across his face. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the connection being made between the sweaty horse and the... activities... that had just transpired.
"He's been... restless," Dunk managed, his voice a strangled croak. "Pacing in his stall."
"I know!" Egg exclaimed, relief washing over his features. "That's what I said! But Maester said he just needed to... ah... 'run off some excess energy.' He said it's natural for a young, virile stallion. Said a good, hard ride will do him a world of good."
Dunk's blush, which had just started to recede, returned with a vengeance, a deep, fiery red that crept from his neck to the tips of his ears. He looked like he might actually spontaneously combust.
"A good, hard ride," Egg repeated, nodding sagely. "That's what the Maester said. So I came to find you. Thought you might want to... ah... take him out again. Before dinner."
You pressed your lips together, a desperate, futile attempt to stifle the giggle that was bubbling up inside you. You failed. A small, undignified snort escaped.
Dunk shot you a look, a mixture of panic and mortification. You just shrugged, a picture of innocence, a small, wicked smile playing on your lips.
"I... uh..." Dunk stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think... I think Thunder's had enough... exertion... for one day."
Egg frowned, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Are you sure, ser? He seemed... quite eager. Very... spirited."
That was it. The dam broke. A great, whooping laugh escaped your lips, a loud, unladylike sound that echoed through the quiet grove. Dunk, after a moment of stunned silence, joined in, his deep laughter mingling with yours, a chaotic, joyous symphony. You clutched your sides, tears streaming down your face, the absurdity of the situation washing over you in waves.
Egg just stood there, looking from one of you to the other, a look of complete and utter bewilderment on his young face. "I... I don't understand," he said, his voice small. "What's so funny?"
"We're... we're just..." you gasped, trying to get the words out between fits of laughter. "We're just... appreciating the... the wisdom of the Maester."
Dunk, wiping tears from his eyes, managed to straighten up, a wide, goofy grin still plastered on his face. "Aye. Very... insightful."
Egg shrugged, clearly deciding that the antics of adults were a mystery best left unsolved. "Well, if you'll excuse me, ser, my lady," he said, with a bow that was surprisingly graceful for a boy his age. "I promised young Lord Ashford I'd show him how to skip stones by the river."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at you. He gave you a small, shy smile, a flicker of understanding, or perhaps something else, in his bright violet eyes.
"My lady," he said, his tone serious and sincere. "You look very beautiful today. No wonder Ser Duncan gets all... spirited... around you. Just like his horse."
And with that, he turned and scampered away, leaving you and Dunk staring after him, the silence of the grove suddenly feeling very, very loud.
Dunk was the first to break it. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated mortification, and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, gods," he mumbled, his voice muffled by his palms. "The boy knows. The gods be good, he knows everything."
You just laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that was full of affection and a wicked sort of glee. You reached up, pulling his hands away from his face. "He's a clever boy, our Egg," you said, your fingers intertwining with his. "And he's right."
"Right about what?" Dunk grumbled, though a small, reluctant smile was already tugging at the corners of his lips.
"About me being beautiful," you said, leaning in to kiss him. "And about you being... spirited."
He kissed you back, a slow, lingering thing that was full of unspoken promises. "Aye," he murmured against your lips. "Spirited. That's one word for it."
He pulled back, his gaze serious, his eyes soft with an emotion that made your breath catch. "But you have to know one thing.”
"What's that?" you asked.
"You," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "You were out here, needing me, and you had to... take matters into your own hands." He paused, a look of genuine remorse on his face. "That should never have happened."
Your blush, which had just started to fade, returned with a vengeance, a deep, fiery red that crept from your neck to the tips of your ears. You felt a fresh wave of shame, a hot, suffocating wave that threatened to pull you under.
"I... I was..." you stammered, your eyes downcast, unable to meet his gaze.
"Hey," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. "No. None of that. It's not you I'm angry with. It's me. I'm your knight. I'm supposed to be here for you. To take care of you. In all ways."
A smile full of heat and promise spread across his face. "So, listen to me, and listen good. You'll never have to do that again. You'll never have to be alone with a need like that. You'll come find me. In the training yard, in the stables, in the gods-damned privy if you have to. You'll find me, and I'll take care of you. Do you understand?"
You could only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs, your body thrumming with a renewed need.
"Good," he said, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Because, you wicked, beautiful girl, I'll be wanting you to."
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a final, searing kiss. As you pulled away, your lips still tingling, a thought struck you, a wicked, mischievous glint in your eye.
"And what if you're busy, ser knight?" you asked, your voice a low, teasing purr. "What if you're in a council with lords, or polishing your armor for a tourney? What if you can't just... drop everything?"
He blinked, a slow, considering look on his face. "Then I'll make an excuse. I'll say I've seen a ghost. I'll say the seven hells have frozen over and the dead are walking. I'll say whatever I have to say to get away."
A shiver ran down your spine, a delicious, tingling sensation. You were lost, completely and utterly lost, to this man, to his words, to the promise of his touch.
He leaned down one last time, his forehead pressing against yours in a moment of quiet, heavy intimacy, those deep blue eyes burning with clarity.
“Let them have their songs of chivalry and blood," he breathed, his voice a honest vow against your lips. "I’d trade every scrap of my honor just to see that look in your eyes again, and to hear you scream my name against the trees until the sun goes down."
I like to think that you had seduced Dunk into your bed one evening when you were both lonely in an inn. Complete strangers, of course. Somehow you had convinced him to fuck you in doggy style, despite that endearing nature of his that thought it only just to take you on your back. And after that night, you sought out that feeling in every other partner. You tried the biggest men. The hairiest men. Soldiers and knights. The occasional farmer from time to time. But none of them seemed to match the weight of Ser Duncan the Tall’s body or the heft of Ser Duncan the Tall’s cock… and neither did they make you feel all soft and red like a schoolgirl. It was all so.. minuscule in comparison. Until one night, you’re visiting a distant cousin in Ashford…. And what do you know? Perhaps it’s fate. He’s there, stuffing his pretty mouth with tarts. He has a beautiful face, of course, but the sheer size of him is what has you warm all over. Had he gotten taller since you saw him last? You don’t know… it’s been about six months since the two of you had shared a bed. Maybe more. But you’d recognize that familar head of hair anywhere.
And it’s no surprise (as we’ve seen in canon), that Dunk fell head over heels in love that night all those months ago. He saw you in every girl, every maiden who had a love for the lyre and a tendency to cry during sex— when he left the inn that morning, finding you had been swept away by your group of eager traveler friends, he felt lost. He had had no way to contact you, and he had never felt so thick headed. Why hadn’t he asked to send you letters? No, no… that would be crazy… stupid… you were just a lover for the night.
Still, Dunk was fully convinced that he had lost the love of his life.
Until one night, he’s searching for a tourney in Ashford… and what do you know? Perhaps its fate. There you are, across the tent, drink in hand. And you are looking at him. And Dunk knows that the seven themselves have blessed this union.
So naturally, the two of you find yourselves in bed again. This time with sweet confessions, a promise to write, and your ass and back sore the next day. Dunk staying a few days longer so the two of you can do more talking and less fucking… and then maybe some more fucking. And you decide to depart with your group for a temporary trip with him. And you find that you both are quite similar. And that Duncan is very, very kind.
Needless to say that the two of you become attached, and you become his pretty wife that he absolutely worships and adores!! And all because of doggy style on a stormy night in June. You never know, ladies.
titsay
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
romaincrisis
2087
gracieabrams
