—summary: you and steve pick up dustin from college in a winnebago to embark on your first family roadtrip and to give him the surprise of a lifetime: he’s going to be an uncle!
—pairing: steve harrington x female!henderson!reader
—word count: 1.2k
—content: pregnant!reader (5 months along), married couple, pregnancy reveal, suggestive dialogue, domestic fluff, roadtrip vibes, soft!steve, future family themes, steve being completely whipped, sunshine!reader, just pure tooth-rotting sweetness, protective!steve, dustin being the best brother and uncle!, steve and the reader are happily married.
writer’s note: im afraid im in my steve harrington era (˶˃𐃷˂˶) english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“How do you think he'll react?” Steve asks for what feels like the fifth time in the last twenty minutes, turning his head to look at you from the driver's seat of the Winnebago, his brown eyes flashing nervously even through the shade of his sunglasses. “Will he punch me?”
You roll your eyes, taking them off the map of Indiana you're holding in your hands so you can throw him a gentle look that verges on scolding, considering your husband's overflowing anxiety. “Steve, he won't punch you. He's your best friend.”
“And he's your brother,” he retorts in an obvious tone. “And now he's an uncle, and he's cranky, and he must be under a lot of stress with his college stuff—”
“Everything will be fine, honey,” you try to reassure him once more, reaching out to place your hand on his thigh and giving it a soothing squeeze, which he takes more as a 'you'll have to be strong and endure this, you got yourself into this.'
Steve grabs your hand as he focuses on the road ahead and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a loving kiss on your knuckles. Then he brings your joined hands back to you, placing them on your growing belly.
Your cute little bump is now visible, and it's at the point where everyone can tell that you're definitely pregnant.
“Will he notice?” Steve bites his lower lip, visibly agitated.
“He’ll definitely notice, daddy,” you reply with a giggle, intertwining your fingers over his on your five-month baby bump.
Steve beams at the title, the nerves momentarily eclipsed by pride.
“God,” he exhales with a goofy smile. “Don't say that, it makes me so happy and horny.”
“Steve,” you call out disapprovingly, even the way you say it is so mom-like that it drives him crazy, with that unforgettable smile curving your lips covered in that cute lip gloss he loves.
“I'm just joking—I'm nervous,” he shrugs and shakes his head. “I just… I really want him to be happy for us.”
You turn your body toward him as much as the seatbelt—and your baby bump— allows, studying his face, the crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightens when he’s nervous. You’ve seen Steve face monsters, literal ones, without flinching. But this? This matters in a way Demogorgons never did.
“He loves you,” you say gently. “He always has. You’re not stealing anything from him. You’re just… joining the family.”
That gets his attention. He looks at you fully now, sunglasses pushed down his nose so you can see his eyes, glossy and sincere.
“What if he thinks we rushed things?” he blurts out. “Or that I’m not ready? Or that I’m gonna screw this up somehow? I mean, my dad was—he is kind of a jerk to me. I don't want Dustin to think that I—”
“Steve, baby, you are already an amazing husband,” you say, voice steady and warm. “And you’re going to be an incredible dad. Dustin knows you. He’s not going to think any of those things. We're family.”
“Family,” he repeats, tasting the word. Then he swallows and nods, like he’s committing it to memory. “Yeah. Okay. Family.”
The massive tires of the Winnebago crunch against the gravel of the university parking lot. Steve kills the engine, but his hands remain white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath, looking at you with a mix of terror and excitement.
Steve gets out of the driver's seat, adjusting his sunglasses with that characteristic confidence of his, although his smile suggests that he is more nervous than usual. He walks around the vehicle and opens the passenger door with exaggerated delicacy.
“Careful, sweetheart. Slowly,” he reminds you, offering you his hand as if you were made of porcelain.
“Steve, I'm just pregnant, I haven't broken my leg,” you chuckle, holding his hand and stepping down from the motorhome.
“Hey, you're carrying a national treasure, so you have to be careful, baby” he answers in an affectionate tone, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before turning toward the big building of the Purdue University.
Not a minute goes by before Dustin runs up through the crowd of college students, carrying a huge backpack and a huge smile lighting up his face, so happy to see you two after months of phone calls, letters, and postcards.
“Hey, buddy—oh! ” Steve greets him, hugging Dustin with joy, and Dustin hugs him back tightly, giggling in delight.
“Harrington, you're here!” the young man exclaims excitedly, “You're both here.”
His eyes wander from the huge camper behind you both and finally come to focus on you. His eyebrows furrow for a second, momentarily confused by the extra volume in your midsection, until the realization finally sinks in.
And his mouth drops open, dumbfounded, stammering your name.
“Oh shit, is that... a baby?” His voice rises three pitches. “Is there a baby in there?!”
You can't hide your excitement and open your arms, fully revealing your pregnancy state. “Surprise, Dusty! You're going to be an uncle.”
Dustin drops his backpack, which hits the ground with a thud.
“Oh shit! Are you kidding me?!” he lunges toward you, carefully wrapping you in a hug that avoids putting pressure on your belly but transmits all his emotion.
His hands tremble slightly as he gestures toward your cute bump.
“May I...?” he requests with sparkling eyes.
You nod gently and Steve draws closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and looking at Dustin with a huge smile, his lips trembling with happiness.
Dustin places a hand on your bump with near-religious reverence. Right then, you feel a little kick, as if the baby is greeting his favourite —and only—uncle.
“Oh my God! It moved!” Dustin leaps back, half scared, half euphoric. “My niece or nephew just communicated with me via tactile vibration!” he chirps enthusiastically. “That’s a sign of high intelligence, definitely a Henderson trait!"
Steve finds himself relaxed at last, realizing that Dustin isn't upset, but rather the opposite, beaming with happiness for the baby.
He lets out a huff of laughter, “I'm pretty sure all babies do that, buddy.”
You laugh as well, leaning back into Steve’s chest and admiring the scene with soft eyes. “We wanted to tell you in person.”
Dustin looks back at you, his face softening. “I can't believe it. This is going to be the best road trip ever! I already have a list of books we need to read to the bump. Starting with The Hobbit, obviously."
Steve rolls his eyes but pulls you both closer. “Alright, Uncle Genius. Load your gear. The passenger VIP is getting hungry, and we have a long drive ahead.”
As Dustin climbs into the camper, already rambling about "prenatal brain stimulation" and the specific frequency of music he’s going to play for the baby, Steve pauses at the door.
He turns back to you, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head, revealing eyes that are shimmering with tears he’d never admit to.
“We did it,” he whispers, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “He’s happy.”
“I told you he would be,” you say against his mouth.
“You’re always right, babe,” he admits with a smirk, helping you back into the passenger seat with that same ‘national treasure’ level of care.
—summary: you despise adrian, and adrian adores you. it's as simple as that. until he saves your life.
—pairing: adrian chase x female!reader
—word count: 4.3k
—warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), smitten!adrian, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, adrian being THE consent king, some porn with some plot, body worship, pussy pronouns, praise kink, sub!adrian, adrian being a slut for the reader as he should be, blood, killing, shooting, mentions of injuries, yk usual peacemaker stuff
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
The first time you saw Adrian Chase, you thought it was a joke. No, not a joke in the sense that it wasn't real, but a joke that fate had pulled on you. The man in the Vigilante suit, who sang hair metal ballads in the car and dropped facts about owls mid-mission, was your new teammate.
Peacemaker trusted him, and you trusted Peacemaker, so naturally you really had no choice but to work with him.
His first reaction? Big, bright eyes flashing through his mask, and a fall to his knees at the sight of you snapping some criminal's neck.
Your first reaction? A sigh and a look that promised doom.
You, who were used to discipline and seriousness, couldn't understand how someone like him could be part of such an important operation. He had literally been one of the people who had saved the world from being dominated by a bunch of alien bugs.
He, for his part, looked at you as if you were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.
He smiled at you in that silly, genuine way that got on your nerves. He talked nonstop about things you didn't care about, his life as a vigilante, his intimate friendship with Peacemaker, his passion for birds.
“Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?” he asked you one day while you were on patrol. “They can turn them like 270 degrees in a circle without moving their shoulders. Can you imagine if I could do that?”
You ignored him and kept looking through your binoculars. “I'm not in the mood to talk about birds, Adrian,” you said, your voice as cold as usual.
He didn't give up and tried to rotate his neck, very awkwardly due to his mask. “I could just rotate my neck like this and—”
“Adrian, please shut up,” you interrupted him, finally turning your head so you could look at him. “We have work to do. Stop being a fucking freak for a minute.”
He fell silent, and for a moment, you felt a little bad. But then you thought about all the times he had pissed you off, and you got over it.
Still, it was strange.
Despite your constant rejections, your constant unkind looks, he always came back. He always smiled at you. He always offered you one of his homemade cookies —which, much to your chagrin, were incredibly good.
He extended that extra special treatment to you and only you.
Adrian treated you as if you were the most important person in the world. And that, in a twisted way, made you feel like you were the freak in the situation. He adored you.
Although, deep down, you found him ridiculously cute. He was damn attractive when he shut his mouth and obeyed you in everything.
You would never accept it, of course.
Chris, on his part, tried way too hard to make you like him. Every time you guys hung out, he would mention how good of a friend Adrian was, how good he was at killing people, as if that would somehow impress you—which it did, of course—and how big his dick was.
He literally just mentioned it like that, without further explanation or any context, as if it were a piece of information you would be interested in knowing.
He took special care to pair you with Adrian for assignments, leave you alone together, send you to buy food for Eagly together. He was a kind of fucked-up Cupid.
“I don't need to know that,” you would say with disgust, trying very hard not to envision Adrian's dick.
And Chris would just nod his head, leaning in close to you as if he were revealing a top secret, “You need to know, dude. Honestly, I don't think Adrian likes sex that much. But his dick is big, I can assure you that.”
You didn't even want to know how he even knew that.
You didn't even like Adrian that way.
At least that's what you thought.
Until now.
You were on a regular night of surveillance; preventing a crime of some criminal gang that you had been tracking.
Everything was going well until the hallways filled with armed men, and a flurry of bullets struck near you.
Before you could react, one of the masked men shot you in the shoulder.
You feel a sharp pain that shoots through your entire arm, and then blood began to flow.
“Shit!” you cry out, retreating.
Adrian, who had insisted —begged— to accompany you that night, turn around when he hears the scream. You can scarcely see how his eyes panic, desperately searching for you through all the chaos.
He moves faster than you had ever seen him move before.
Then, he throws himself on top of you, covering you with his body, and drags you to a safe corner behind a wall of boxes.
“You're bleeding!” he gasps, his voice tinged with panic.
The pain makes you grit your teeth and the way he looks at you knocks you off balance. “I'm fine, it's just a scratch.”
“It's not fucking a scratch!” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his suit to cover the wound. “You got fucking shot, Lynx!”
The use of your vigilante name makes you finally look at him, dragging your gaze away from your bleeding wound. You can see the concern in his eyes through his mask, and he doesn't have to take it off for you to know that his lips are pursed in a pout.
His touch is gentle and careful, which surprises you. The adrenaline prevents you from thinking clearly. You'd never imagine that Adrian would be so... gentle.
While he is bandaging your wound, another man peers down the hallway. Adrian pushes you further back.
“Stay here!” he whispers, and without a second thought, he stands up to confront him.
The shooting intensifies and then you hear the sound of a chainsaw igniting, followed by a flood of screams of pain.
Just a couple of minutes later, Adrian appears in your field of vision, his suit covered in blood.
He looks so fucking hot that you couldn't even suppress the thought, in all the haze of hurt you are feeling.
“We have to get out of here,” Adrian claims, returning to your side. “you need a doctor.”
You shook your head, the pain throbbing in your shoulder. “My car is a couple of blocks away. We can go there, but no doctors.”
He looks at you disapprovingly for a moment before sighing and help you up, supporting your weight against him. Together, you sneak out of the market, leaving the entire criminal gang slaughtered behind and the owner of the store with a horrified look on his face, calling the police.
When you reach your car, you struggle to open the door. Adrian gently pushes you aside and does it for you.
You sit in the passenger seat, feeling the sting in your shoulder with every movement.
“Where are we going?” Adrian asks, starting the engine right after you toss him the keys.
“My house,” you reply. It is the closest and safest option, although the idea of being alone with him makes you uneasy.
Adrian already knew your address, of course; he had been there several times, showing up with his homemade cookies, sometimes with new weapons to show you, and other times with clues about some criminal you were hunting.
The journey is silent, except for the sound of the engine, some Frank Sinatra album playing on the stereo and your ragged breathing. Adrian glances at you from time to time, his eyes displaying full concern once he takes off his mask and throws it on the back seat. You don't dare look at him directly, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion.
“Frank Sinatra?” he inquires a in a teasing, incredulous tone, without looking at you. This time, it is you the one staring at him, at his side profile, the line of his strong jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes barely brush his cheekbones with each blink. Looking at the undercut of his hairstyle makes your stomach turn. He certainly is so cute. “The most ruthless assassin I know listens to Frank Sinatra?”
He looked odd without his glasses, maybe even more gorgeous, which was ridiculously beyond belief that it was possible for him to be.
“I'm not a ruthless assassin,” you mumble, looking away from him and feeling your cheeks flush, suddenly hot all over. You assume it is because your body is starting to healing itself. Or at least that's what you want to believe. “And Sinatra is a classic.”
“He is, I guess.” Adrian snorts softly, looking at you for a couple of seconds before shifting his gaze back to the road ahead. “For old people.”
“What?” you ask, looking at him again, your eyes trailing over the bend of his nose from his side profile, feeling a heat spread up from the lower part of your belly as you picture all the things you could do with that nose. You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your trance and snap back to reality. “I’m not old.”
A smile curls on his lips as he turns his head to look at you again, his eyes gleaming under the subdued lights inside the car. His gaze is soft, and caring, and warm.
But even so, Adrian seems a little flustered and nervous, overwhelmed by your presence right next to him, your scent, your breath, your voice. You.
When you arrive at your house, he helps you walk up the stairs at the entrance, holding you firmly. Once inside, he guides you to the sofa, always holding you close to him and handling you with care, touching only the necessary parts. He does not allow his hand to wander.
“I'll go get the first aid kit,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.
You lie back on the sofa, feeling tired and in pain. He returns with the first aid kit and kneels down in front of you, carefully opening the supplies.
He removes the makeshift bandage from his suit, his gaze fixed on the wound.
“I'm sorry,” he utters softly, with evident guilt in his voice. “If only I had been quicker...”
“Don't be silly,” you interrupt him, trying to keep yout voice quiet. “It wasn't your fault. And in fact, you prevented any more bullets from hitting me. So...” your voice trails off and you blush lightly, “you saved my life, Adrian.”
He looks you in the eyes, and for the first time, there is not a trace of his usual antics. Only concern and a tenderness that makes you feel vulnerable.
And he doesn't encounter the usual coldness and detachment in your gaze; no, this time he finds softness and closeness.
“And it's already healing. So don't be dramatic,” you add, trying to brush off the real gravity of everything you just said to him.
“Sometimes I forget you have those creepy powers,” he says softly, looking up at you from his spot right in front of your knees. “It’s so fucking cool... and scary as shit. And hot.”
Still, Adrian disinfects the wound with steady but gentle hands, bandaging it again with clean gauze. Every touch is delicate, every movement calculated. His closeness, his scent, his gaze, the soft expression on his face... everything blurs your mind and leaves you dizzy.
You feel vulnerable, but strangely safe by his side.
When he finish, his hands go down to your knees and linger there. The sheer heaviness of his touch and the way he looks at you as he kneels in front of you makes you gulp.
At that moment, you just know that his feelings for you are real. He really likes you. And he had put himself in danger to protect you.
A cold fear ran through you as you thought about what could have happened.
Suddenly, you realize you don't want to live in a world where you couldn't hear his off-key singing or his comments about birds.
“There you go,” he finishes treating your wound with a smile, his fingers caressing your collarbone before he pulls away from you.
Driven by a feeling you've never experienced before and profiting from his closeness, you take his chin in one hand, look him straight in the eyes, and kiss him.
Surprised, he just stands very still for a moment, then closes his eyes and kisses you back with a passion that makes you feel like you had never kissed anyone in your life.
Adrian kisses you as if he had been waiting and dreaming for this moment his whole lifetime.
When you separate from each other, Adrian's breathing is heavy, and yours isn't much better.
His thumbs caress your cheeks and his eyes drifts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, with a silent question. He don't need to say it out loud really.
Adrian leans up again, close to you, this time deliberately slowly, his lips brush yours, his nose affectionately caressing yours, before deepening the kiss.
His kiss is hungrier now, more desperate. His hands moves from your cheeks to your waist, barely lifting himself up a little so he could be closer to you.
Both of you know it.
It isn't just a kiss; it is a declaration, a release of all the tension that had built up between you through all this time.
“This is only because you saved my life,” you whisper in between kisses, attempting to convince yourself more than him.
Adrian is ecstatic, kissing you as if there were no tomorrow, hungry and desperate, like a lion that had just been released from a cage.
A smile curved his lips, reddened from so many kisses, murmuring against your mouth, “I'll save you every fucking day then, if this is how you'll repay me.”
You try to suppress a smirk, your arms around his neck pulling him up, closer to you. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Shut me up,” he challenges you.
And you shut him up with a kiss, letting yourself be carried away by the thrill of the moment and your instincts, your body acting on its own, controlled by a carnal desire that you had tried so hard to suppress.
Until now.
“Let's go to my room.”
Adrian obeys instantly, picking you up as he stands up and carrying you to your room, without even taking his mouth off yours. It is the perfect excuse to press you against him, his hands running over your thighs and backside, grinding against you with every step he takes.
“Can I touch you everywhere?” he asks, desperate and pleading, detaching himself from you for just a moment, his hands holding you under your thighs, pressing you against him and making you feel the prominent bulge in his crotch.
“I thought you already are,” you reply, panting for air, your hands around his neck, your fingers lacing through his hair.
His voice lowers sheepishly, very uncharacteristically in him, “I'm a gentleman. Consent is very important.”
You offer him a little sincere smile, kissing him again, “Yes, Adrian. You can touch me everywhere.”
He gently lays you down on the bed, positioning himself directly above you, his lips moving down your jawline, pressing a wet trail of kisses across your neck.
“Fuck yeah,” he hisses against your skin, right after placing a love bite near the junction of your neck and shoulder—the one uninjured. “You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”
His mouth suck, his teeth nibble, his lips press kisses, claiming your skin as his own.
“You feel much better than any dream.”
“Adrian,” you moan out his name, arching your back as you feel his mouth reach your collarbone.
He pauses for a moment, lifting his head to look at you, allowing you to see his fully dilated pupils. “Can I take this off?”
You nod instantly, biting your lower lip.
His hands settle on the fabric of your suit on your chest, frantically opening it and tearing it apart, always careful not to cause further damage to your wound.
That makes you gasp.
“Adrian!” you disapprovingly shout his name.
But he is mesmerized by your tits, which bounce free once he ripped your suit open, your nipples perking up at the feel of the cool air in the room.
“Motherfucker,” he curses, leaning down further to kiss one of your breasts, making you sigh. “You're not wearing a bra under this suit?”
“No panties either,” you confess with a hiss, closing your eyes when you feel his wet tongue leisurely flick one of your nipples.
“You're such a freak,” he whispers against your skin, mesmerized. “You act like a good girl, but you're so bad, hm? You do bad things like this and still act like little Miss Perfect.”
You bite down on your lower lip, holding back a moan as he sucks on the nipple, his fingers playing with the other, giving both of your tits his undivided attention.
“Adrian...”
“If you keep saying my fucking name like that, I'm gonna cum,” he rasps against the warm skin between your breasts, moistening it with his saliva.
He begins to descend further through your body, kissing your stomach, marking your skin with kisses, bites, and hickies. He is opening your suit as he roams your body, igniting your skin and sending shivers throughout your spine.
Adrian pulls your ruined suit down over your legs so he could remove it completely, taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss your knees and ankles before moving back up.
“Did you know this would happen?” he asks against the skin of your inner thigh, forcing your legs apart when you try to close them, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the way he looks down at you, adoringly. “Or you'd go for someone else?”
You try to smile through all the desire, offering him a crooked, lazy smile, “Don't be jealous.”
He gaze at you with eyes hazy with desire as he pulls himself up and begins to take off his suit with trembling, clumsy fingers.
“I'm not fucking jealous,” he mumbles, watching the way your eyes drift down his body, passing over the width of his shoulders, his pecs, his abs.
“You're staring,” then he remarks the obvious, trying to conceal the way he puff out his chest to look even bigger. With the movement, a silver chain hanging around his neck shimmered under the dim light of the room.
“So are you,” you snap back in a broken whisper, feeling your cheeks flush.
And of course you are cheking him out.
He is fucking ripped.
And so big that even his bulge under the fabric of his white briefs looked massive once he strips off the lower part of his suit.
He is so hard that it looks painful.
So what you had been hearing was real, so fucking real.
“Can I eat you out?” Still, he asks, eager to make you feel good, as he shook his head, causing a couple of curls to fall messily across his forehead. “You're so fucking beautiful, holy shit. I need to taste you or I'll actually have a stroke.”
Adrian return to his position between your legs, his hands delicately caressing your thighs as he waits patiently for your response, your consent.
You look down at him with half-closed eyes, your head clouded by the desire to reach any kind of pleasure.
He is carefully placing your legs on his shoulders, staring in awe at your pussy, dripping wet and so ready for him, when you click your tongue, “Can you stop talking and just get to it, Chase?”
“So mean even when I got you fucking-- dripping for me,” he quietly says, looking up at you once more just before nestling between your legs and leaning close to your cunt, his warm breath and the raspy tone of his voice makes you clench around nothing. And he just gawked, smiling as joyfully as if he were standing at the gates of heaven, wide open for him, “Pussy is so pretty too, look at her— fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby"
The pet name makes you swoon and fucking fold.
“Adrian—”
Your voice chokes off as you feel his tongue trace your slit, scooping up all the arousal that is leaking out of your hole and savoring it as if it were the most delicious meal he had ever tasted in his entire life.
The sounds of his mouth slurping and licking your pussy flood the room, so filthy and messy that it makes you feel a heat wave from head to toe.
You can't control the way your body yields to him, as if your whole life had been longing just for this moment, as if tailor-made for him.
A righteous and sloppy suck on your clit has you promptly reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess.
One of your hands lands on his head, fingers sinking into his curly locks and pulling them, drawing a hoarse groan from deep within his throat.
The vibration against your cunt has you rolling your eyes back.
“You smell so good,” he hums into your splashing pussy, which is throbbing harder and faster, your heartbeat pulsing right against his lips. He can feel it. “Cum on my tongue, baby. I want to drink everything this pretty pussy has to give me—”
But your hand on his head tugs him back, detaching him from your clenching hole.
He looks up from between your legs with squinted eyes, his lips, drenched with your own arousal, curl into a pout.
He looks so pussy drunk and pathetic for you that you could cum just by watching him looking like that.
“Oh, baby, don’t be mean now—”
You interrupt him, your thumb lazily stroking curls away from his forehead, “I want to cum around your dick, Adrian.”
Your words leave him dumbstruck for a few seconds. And the next second, he's peeling off his briefs as fast as a flash, and the next he's climbing on top of you, nice and slow.
He leans down to kiss you, preventing you from staring in awe at his dick, now held in his own hand, so hard and angry red that it has you drooling, “Holy motherfuck, that has to be the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.”
“Put it in, Adrian,” you whine, begging for him, squeezing your eyes closed and arching your back for him, looking for any kind of friction that helps you gett off, “Please, baby—”
The pet name rolls off your tongue so naturally, lace with so much pleasure and warmth that it had an immediate effect on Adrian, who fucking whimpers, kissing your lips sloppily.
Even so, he has the strength to stop and look you in the eyes, all flustered, “I didn't bring any condoms— fuck”
“No? Why?” you ask in a choked, whiny voice.
He looks at you with a face that conveys puzzlement and hopelessness, “Because I’m on patrol. I’m supposed to be fighting, not fucking—”
You interrupt him again, kissing him once more and staring straight into his eyes, “Fuck me raw, Adrian. I don't care. But fuck me now.”
And he can actually feel himself melting against your body, you can sense how he's trembling right under your fingertips, squeezing his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours.
He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin, pumping himself as he lines up the plump tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing it along the wet folds.
“I'll be gentle,” he promises, breathing shakily, though his hips tremble as if he might lose control at any second.
“Don't be,” you correct him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me. Hard.”
The growl he lets out when he hears you has something animalistic, primitive about it. Adrian finally pushes himself inside you with a slow but powerful movement,deeply carving a way into you.
“God, you're so tight...” he cries out, his eyes tightly shut, as if the pleasure is too much to process. He's only halfway inside your squeezing pussy. “So fucking warm— I'm gonna cum, damn it—”
“Don't even think about it,” you cut him off, digging your nails into his shoulders to force him to open his eyes and look at you. “Hold it for me, yeah?”
Your words set him on fire. Adrian begins to move, erratically at first, then with more force, each thrust slamming you against the bed. You you scratch his back, pull his hair, grasping any part of him you can hold on to, as the wet sound and rhythmic thrusts fill the room.
“So pretty...” he hiss in a broken voice, choking on his own whimpers and kissing you between each word, his hungry mouth tracing your neck and jaw, drooling on your skin. “So pretty for me— fuck, sweetheart.”
He's so dizzy with you, overwhelmed that everything is you, everything around him. Adrian is in love, thrusting into you with a force that makes you gasp, moving with raw desperation, as if his whole world depended on making you feel good. Your moans mingle with his panting, with the dull thuds of his skin against yours, with the creaking of the poor bed shaking under you.
Your legs squeeze him closer to you, trapping him inside, and when your nails dig into his back, Adrian almost splits the air in two with his broken moans.
“Can I— Can I cum n-now?” he asks like the good boy he is.
“Do it,” you whisper, already losing yourself on the edge of climax. “Cum for me, baby”
“W-where?”
“Inside,” you whine, frantically gasping for breath, feeling like the world is shrinking and slipping away from you with every thrust Adrian pushes into you, the tip of his cock hitting that spongy spot over and over. “Mhm! --Fill me up”
The rhythm becomes wild and brutal until your orgasm overwhelms you, making you cry out his name against his mouth. Your walls squeeze him tightly and Adrian can't hold back any longer, spilling inside you with an agonizing moan, torn apart by pleasure.
The sounds of your two fluids mixing inside you are so obscene that they make you tremble.
Adrian stays right there, trembling, and still cumming inside you, twitching occasionally, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing as if you had been running for your lives.
“Holy fuck, babe,” he groans, cracking his eyes open to look at you, a goofy, lazy smile curving his lips. “We made a fucking mess.”
Very carefully, he pulls out of you and your pussy squelches, gaping and oozing with your mixed cums.
“Look at that” he coos, lifting himself slightly off you so he can look down, gazing at your abused pussy in awe.
“Adrian—”
Too late, he already has one hand reaching down between your bodies, swiping his index finger through your folds, scooping up the fluids and plunging them back into your cunt, making you pant from the overstimulation.
When he makes sure that not a single drop of his cum is wasted outside of you, he brings his hand back up, holding it to his mouth to savor the remains left on his finger, making eye contact with you as he sucks his index finger.
“Delicious” he delights, leaning down to kiss you, making you savor the mixture of the two of you together through his lips.
“You're so weird,” you whisper against his mouth, kissing him again.
Adrian flops down next to you on the bed, letting out a sigh he had been holding in his lungs.
“And yet my cum is still inside you,” he replies, smiling contentedly. His smile suddenly fades, as if he's come back to reality. “Wait, can you get pregnant from this?”
You snort softly at his worried face, your hand gently brushing his still-flushed cheek.
“People usually get pregnant like this,” he nuzzles close to your caress, looking at you in awe as you talk. “That’s why you have to go to the pharmacy and buy me the Plan B pill.”
“Did you know that swans mate for life?” he asks afterwards, out of fucking nowhere, pressing a soft kiss on your fingers cradling his cheek as he snuggles closer to you. “And that they die of love if their partner dies?”
“What’s your point?” you inquire back, looking at him with curious, gentle eyes.
It's the first time you are showing genuine interest in his bird facts. And he is so happy he could burst with excitement.
“We're like swans, babe,” Adrian replies in an obvious tone, affectionately intertwining his feet with yours. “Well, at least I feel like a swan. If you left me after this, I'd kill myself.”
—summary: your ex shows up at your house and steve is so jealous that he wants to get you pregnant!
—pairing: steve harrington x female!henderson!reader
—word count: 3.5k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), the photos do not visually portray the reader at all!!, established relationship, coach!steve, oral sex (female receiving), smitten!steve, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, some porn with some plot, big dick!steve, really passionate sex, unprotected sex, creampie, a lot of body worship, praise kink, breeding kink.
ᯓ♡ part one ── part two
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
The world doesn’t end.
That’s the strange part of it all.
Vecna is gone now. The Upside Down sealed, quiet at last. Hawkins still bears the scars — cracked roads, abandoned storefronts, memories stitched into every corner — but life insists on going on. It always does.
So do you.
It’s a calm afternoon when it happens. One of those slow, golden Hawkins afternoons that feel earned after years of chaos. Sunlight spills through the windows of the house — your house — warming the hardwood floors, catching dust motes midair like constellations.
Steve’s house.
No — your house. Together.
It’s small, cozy, nothing fancy. A soft blue exterior, a creaky porch, a backyard Steve swore he’d “fix someday” and never quite does. Wind chimes hang crookedly by the door. There are plants you keep alive against all odds. A framed photo of the kids — not kids anymore — on the hallway wall.
You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, flipping through a book you’ve read a dozen times already.
Your eyes keep checking the clock near the fireplace every ten minutes, and your fingers tap impatiently at the open page in your book. Just five more minutes and Steve should be here.
Everything feels peaceful.
Real.
And then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound doesn’t belong.
It’s sharp. Insistent. Out of place. Disturbing the tranquility of the atmosphere.
You know it's not Steve, because you know his mannerisms, his movements, his gestures. You know him. So you're sure it's not him standing behind the door.
You open it anyway.
And there he is.
Your ex.
Patrick.
Older. Rougher. Thinner somehow. His hair is unkempt, his eyes glassy, his breath heavy with alcohol, you can smell it from where you're standing.
He’s leaning just slightly to one side, like gravity doesn’t quite work right for him anymore.
“Hey,” he slurs, blinking like he’s surprised you’re real. “Hey… wow. You— you look good.”
You don’t smile, you don’t flinch either. And most definitely, you don't greet him back.
“What are you doing here, Patrick?” instead, you ask calmly.
Patrick’s gaze flicks past you and he can get a glimpse of how lovely your house looks from the inside, as much as from the outside, warm and cozy.
He swallows.
“I just… I needed to see you,” he mumbles, words tumbling. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I said I wouldn’t come back. I just— I messed up. I keep messing up.”
“Yes,” You answer him, nice and patient. “You did.”
He nods too quickly, like a desperate dog.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’ve said it before, I know— I-I know, like a hundred times— but I mean it. I was scared. I was jealous. I was stupid. I ruined everything.”
“Patrick—”
“I can change,” he interrupt you, voice cracking and trembling with remorse. “I did change. I swear. I stopped drinking— well— I mean, mostly—” He laughs bitterly. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I just— I loved you.”
You inhale slowly through your nose, steadying yourself.
“Patrick,” you say again, firmer now. “It's been years. You have to move on from the past and get on with your life.”
He looks at you like you’ve struck him, literally like you had just punched him in the chest.
“I was young,” Patrick insists. “I didn’t know how to— how to handle it. You were… intense. Everyone wanted you. And then there was Harrington, always hovering—”
And speaking of the devil, that’s exactly when you hear it.
The unmistakable sound of tires crunching against gravel.
A familiar engine.
You don’t turn around right away — you don’t need to. Your body recognizes it before your mind does. The tension in your shoulders eases, just a fraction.
Patrick hears it too and that's why he rushes to say the bullshit he has planned.
“I know you’re with him now,” he just keeps going, oblivious to his likely doom if Steve sees him there. “I know. I just needed you to know that if you ever— if things ever—” his voice drops to a whisper. “I’d still be here.”
“You need to leave,” you raise your eyebrows, suggesting rather than threatening.
Because you know how overprotective Steve has been lately. Seeing Patrick at the front door of your house, with you standing in front of him, wrapped in that silk robe... you don’t even know how he could react.
The truck door slams shut behind Patrick's back.
Footsteps on the porch, confident, tired, unhurried.
Steve appears right at your side, still wearing his blue baseball cap, white t-shirt clinging to his body with the buttons open on his chest, a whistle hanging loosely around his neck.
There’s a faint smear of dirt on his jeans, sun-kissed skin, the quiet exhaustion of a man who’s spent hours yelling encouragement at teenagers who barely listen.
He's looking as hot and sexy as always, but there's something about him that afternoon that's got you feeling all tingly down in the pit of your belly.
Steve takes in the scene in half a second.
Patrick. Too close.
Your posture —calm, but guarded.
“Hey,” Steve says, tone neutral but unmistakably firm. He steps fully beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours. “Is there a problem here?”
You nod immediately, looking up at him with softening eyes.
Your hand rests on his lower back as he casually wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him intuitively and with a purpose of protection. His fingers gently grasp your shoulder, reassuringly caressing the fabric of your cute light blue robe.
“Yeah,” you answer. “He was just leaving.”
Patrick stiffens.
“I wasn’t—” he starts, then stops right there when Steve finally looks directly at him.
“You didn't hear that, man?” he asks, with his voice dropping to a rasp when he addresses the light-haired man directly. “She asked you to leave.”
His voice is calm. Steady. Unshakeable. And primitively territorial. That makes you even hotter.
Patrick seems to grumble something—possibly profanities—but then he looks at you one last time before turning around, and stumbles down the steps of the porch, disappearing into the street without another word.
Steve waits until Patrick is out of sight before turning to you. Both of his hands reach out to you now, one caressing your face and the other your hip, his eyes as soft as his hands as they lock with yours.
“You okay?” he asks, very softly.
You nod, leaning into his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, strong and familiar, his chin resting on the top of your head.
“I am,” you whisper.
He exhales, relief softening his features and presses a kiss to your hair.
“What the hell is his problem? Seriously, can't he just move on from the past?” Steve admits quietly. “I’m proud of you.”
You look up at him, leaning your chin on his chest, your big eyes lighting up upon hearing his praise.
“For what?”
“For not letting him take up space he doesn’t deserve anymore.”
You smile teasingly, “Coach Harrington getting all wise on me?”
He chuckles, trying to hide the fact that you say his job title and you already have him rock hard in his boxers.
“Occupational hazard,” Steve replies with his voice lowering tenderly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Teenage boys make you philosophical.”
You laugh softly, and Steve leans down to kiss you, slow, gentle, yet possessive.
The kiss lingers, but the sweetness of it begins to shift. When Steve pulls back just an inch, his eyes aren't soft anymore. They’re dark, dilated, and fixated on the way your silk robe has slipped slightly off one shoulde, and reveal the strap of one of your lingerie sets, his favorite.
Hurriedly but carefully, Steve brings you inside the house, drawing a giggle from you as he picks you up with urgency in his motions.
“You opened the door of our house to your ex wearing this?” Your man gasps in disbelief, emphasizing the words with a high-pitched voice. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly as he looks down at you, holding you close to his chest as he walks you to your shared bedroom.
He kicks the door open with his foot and sets you down on the bed. His hands stay on you though — firm, warm, grounding — one braced on the mattress beside your thigh, the other sliding under the hem of your robe to find the bare skin of your thigh, dangerously teasing you into tearing off the delicate robe, which obstructs the view of your beautiful body from his eyes.
The sunset light filters through the curtains, bathing his body in golden tones as he tosses his cap aside. His messy hair falls over his forehead, and you reach out to run your fingers through it, pulling him in for a cute little kiss.
“I was waiting for you,” you jump on your own defense between soft giggles.
“Yeah?” he coaxes, voice low, textured with something dangerous and tender all at once. “You were waiting for me, baby? Not another man?”
“Nuh-uh, only you, Coach,” you hum contentedly, flashing a playful smile.
Because you know what you do to him every time you say that. It's like letting the monster out, unleashing chaos.
His touch lingers on the bare skin of your plump thigh, warm and gentle, sending little shivers down your spine and ripples of pleasure rush to your core, you're already pulsating for him, pussy wet and ready, greedy. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you... it makes your heart do crazy things in your chest.
You tilt your head up, brushing your lips against his jaw in a soft, teasing kiss.
“Steve...” you call out to him with a disapproving and whiny pitch in your voice, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The silk robe slips off your shoulder, and you feel the cool air kiss your skin, but his warmth chases it away quick as he kiss the skin.
“So what’s that look for, huh?” he teases as he kiss down from your neck to your collarbone, gradually removing the silky clothing from his path. His voice is all husky now, like he knows exactly what you're thinking and what you want.
In a moment, he is kissing your hand with appreciation, specifically your ring finger, where the small diamond sparkles under the afternoon sun.
You bite your lip, feeling that familiar heat pooling low in your belly. “Just... missed you today, baby”
Your words come out all soft and needy, with a little pout that always gets him.
To tell the truth, you've been horny all day. You blame the havoc of hormonal swings that have been going through your body since you moved into the house. You've been horny every day since then. Seeing Steve blossom into the shared life you have is truly a privilege, and you feel so lucky to have him as your boyfriend—your fiancée.
Of course, the fact that he's the coach of the school fills you with pride. However, witnessing his body develop into a more domesticated, husband-like form, has you truly reduced to a beast in heat. His hair is still just as glorious, with its iconic tousle, his eyes just as warm, his shoulders just as broad, but the muscles of his teenage self have smoothed out, his pecs are bigger than before, his abs mellowed into a small belly.
He looks so… big, so husband, so daddy.
Naturally, Steve with a dad bod has you drooling at the mouth.
And he knows the power he has over you, how he practically has you crawling behind him.
He cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Aw, yeah? Missed me a lot?”
Before you can even formulate an answer, he's kissing you—deep and slow, like he's pouring all his love into it. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, claiming you, and you melt against him with a tiny whimper. Because his kisses always make your knees go all wobbly!
You tug at his shirt, wanting skin on skin, and he helps right away, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion and the whistle goes away too. His chest is right there, all beefy and warm from the sun, and all for you to touch and kiss and bite, so you press your palms flat against it, feeling his heartbeat race under your touch.
“God, you're so beautiful,” he groans, his mouth moving back down to your neck, sucking lightly on that spot that makes you gasp.
“You are,” you correct him, biting your lower lip and arching your back for him.
Steve huffs out a quiet laugh against your skin, warm breath raising goosebumps along your neck. You're always saying that. That he's beautiful, that he's sexy, that he's everything you could ever want.
And he keeps giggling and blushing like a teenager in love every time you say it.
The robe falls open a little more, and his hand dips right inside, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it's hard and aching.
“Mmm, Steve... please,” you whine, arching into him. Your fingers fumble with his belt, desperate to feel him, all of him.
He chuckles low against your skin, nipping gently. “So greedy, sweetheart. Patience, we have all night.”
But he's just as eager and horny, helping you undo his jeans, shoving them down with his boxers. His cock springs free, already painfully hard and thick, leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around it, stroking slowly once, and twice.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he hisses, hips bucking into your touch.
One hand he needs to pull the robe off your shoulders completely, letting it pool onto the bed under you. Now you're in nothing but that tiny piece of lingerie, and his eyes rake over you like you're the only thing in the world.
Steve takes a moment to gaze down at you in awe. That piece of lingerie is gorgeous because you are wearing it, because it is clinging to your body so perfectly, and that color works deliciously with your skin.
“Thinking about getting home. About you,” he confesses against your skin. “All day”
You smile, breathless. “You’re home now.”
He looks at you, all warmth and possession, and leans down until his lips brush your ear.
“Not yet,” he whispers, and the word vibrates through you.
His mouth leaving a trail of fire down your neck, over your collarbone, to the swell of your breasts. He pushes the lace cup down with his chin, and his hot, wet mouth closes over your nipple.
You cry out, back arching off the bed. The sensation is electric, sharp and sweet, pulling a direct line of heat to your core. He sucks, hard, then soothes with his tongue, his teeth grazing lightly. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, while his hand palms the first, squeezing gently.
Steve spends a long time worshiping your skin, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your hip bone, the soft curve of your belly, adorned with delicate lacy details, whispering sweet praises into your skin, like he has a whole special language just for your body.
You do understand some of them.
“So pretty for me. My girl, my pretty girl.”
His hips grind against yours, the thick, hard head of his cock rubbing against the damp fabric of your panties.
“Stevie, please,” you beg, voice ragged and trembling with arousal.
“I know, baby,” he coos, understanding you perfectly. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He finds your pussy, slick and hot, already dripping wet for him. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. “God, you’re so wet. All for me, mhm?”
He strokes you, once, twice, his thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure. You whimper, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing after his touch. But he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty and fucking throbbing.
“Baby” you whine out, pouting.
He smiles, a dark, tender thing. He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down your legs, tossing them aside. He shifts back, kneeling between your thighs, and just looks. His gaze is worshipful, hungry.
He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher. And another, a little bit higher. His breath ghosts over your folds, and you tremble under him.
“Gotta taste you,” he says, voice thick with eagerness. “I have to prep you first, pretty girl, you know that”
And then his mouth is on you.
You gasp, fingers flying to his hair and pulling hit. His tongue is broad and flat, licking a slow, thorough stripe from your entrance all over to your clit.
Steve moans against you, the vibration making you jerk and arch so prettily for him. He settles in, feasting on you like you’re his last meal. His tongue flicks and swirls and rolls, his lips suck, his stubble of days scratches deliciously against your tender flesh.
The pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly. You’re babbling, words that make no sense, just his name and yes and more. He slides two fingers inside you alongside his expert tongue, curling them, finding that perfect spot on the spongy walls inside you as his mouth works your clit.
It’s too much. He's too much!
You cum with a sharp cry, hips lifting off the bed, your body clenching and splashing around his fingers as waves of pure, blinding pleasure crash through you. He gentles his mouth, licking you through it, drinking every drop you give him, until you’re a trembling, boneless heap on the sheets.
He crawls back up your body like a pirate does with a treasure map, recognizing, admiring, appreciating, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your lips. You can taste yourself on him, salty and sweet, and it’s the most yummy thing.
“Ready for me?” he whispers, his cock nudging against your soaked entrance, leaking and throbbing urgently for your attention.
You nod, breathless. “Always.”
He pushes in.
Slow. So impossibly slow. You feel every inch, the thick stretch, the perfect fullness as he sinks deep, deep, until his hips are flush with yours. His tummy presses down on you, his big, beefy biceps bulging on either side of your head.
He is so big—every part of him. It's overwhelming. He's everywhere. In every breath you take, in every beat of your heart, in every inch of his heavy build molding itself deep into your gut, in every blink of your eyes, there he is. Glorious, heavenly, out of this world.
Steve stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. His breath comes in ragged puffs and when you squeeze around his length, you get a hoarse whimper out of the depths of his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathes out shakily. “You feel… perfect. You take me so good, honey. S-so good”
He begins to move. Long, deep, measured strokes that make you see stars every time he bottoms out.
It’s definitely not frantic. It’s making love.
Every thrust is a promise, a reclamation, a craving for life. His eyes never leave yours, dark brown pools of adoration and longing.
Steve soon shifts his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hits a spot that makes you sob and whine under him. Pleasure, sharp and bright, sparks through your veins.
“Right there,” you moan. “Oh, Steve, right there!”
You feel another orgasm building, deeper this time, starting in your toes and climbing up your spine. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, taking him so profoundly that you feel you must be meant to take him.
“There you go, baby,” he coaxes, voice strained with emotion. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his temple.
His voice lowers filthily and you love it when he gets like that. Pussy drunk, filthy, wild.
“All day thinking about this— filling you up. Gonna give you all my babies, huh—” Steve is babbling out words, the first ones that cross his mind blurred by pleasure and by you, drooling on your skin as he speaks. “You're gonna take my babies, right, sweetheart? That way everyone will know once and for all who you belong to, right? Mhm! You'll look so beautiful pregnant, fuck—” One of his hands moves up to your face, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Oh—oh, you'll be the prettiest momma”
His words push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits, a rolling, endless wave that brings a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clamp around him, milking him dry, and with a broken shout, he soon follows you.
His thrusts become short, desperate jerks as he pours himself into you, hot and so fucking deep. You feel every pulse, every shudder of his release, your pussy swallows every spurt of semen that comes out of his cock, so much of it that it soon overflows, spilling a few globs of the hot milky liquid out.
Steve collapses on top of you, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in your neck.
Afterwards, he doesn’t pull away. His cock stays plugged balls deep inside you as he lays on top of you, pressing a lazy kiss into your neck.
“Do you think it worked?” he asks after a brief moment of silence, snuggled up against your body, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your chest and one of his hands caressing your stomach affectionately.
“I’d be surprised if it didn’t work, honey,” you reply with a lazy smile on your lips, your eyes still closed as you focus on stroking his hair.
Steve lets out a breathy, contented hum, the sound vibrating through your chest. He shifts just enough to prop himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a gaze so thick with affection it’s almost overwhelming.
His face is flushed, his hair a catastrophic mess of brown waves, and his eyes are shining with a quiet, domestic sort of triumph.
“Patrick fucking Miller,” he spits out the name as if it were deadly poison, humorless and rolling his eyes. “I’d like to see his face when he realizes I’m the one who knocked you up."
A giggle bursts from his mouth when you playfully smack his head.
—summary: steve plays it a little too charming with a stranger to fix the wsqk van, sparking a little of jealousy in you. but don't worry! he’s more than happy to spend the next hour proving that he’s your man and only yours
—pairing: steve harrington x female!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), established relationship, jealous!reader, minor king steve behavior, heavy make out, jealousy-to-smut, praise, car sex, oral sex (female receiving), steve being a total flirt, praise, bit of bratty!reader, light hair pulling, lovesick steve, "tell me i'm yours" trope, slightly toxic but ultimately soft!
writer’s note: wishing you all a merry Christmas and a new year full of health and happiness! english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
You're staring at him through the windshield with narrowed eyes, a pout, and crossed arms.
You see the way the girl is looking back at him. She blinks very slowly. One blink, then another. Fluttering her eyelashes as if somehow this would seduce your boyfriend.
And Steve is offering her that grin that's too charming for your liking, talking to her in a voice that's too scratchy.
You do understand that he's being friendly so she'll help start Squawk's van shitty engine. It just needed a little boost to get it going again. It wasn't the first time it had happened.
But anyway, does he really have to let her flirt with him so shamelessly? Definitely not.
And all that is pissing you off? Absolutely.
“How long is this going to take, hm?” the girl asks him, flashing him a smile and batting her eyelashes once more. She moves a little closer.
Steve clears his throat, still leaning back against the front of the van, where the hood is wide open. His arms are crossed, displaying a closure, placing a limit, yet his face tells a different story. He is smirking at her.
“Not long. We just have to let this thing charge for a few minutes,” he replies, shaking his head a bit awkwardly, taking a second to glance back at you still sitting in the passenger seat. He gulps when he catches sight of your pretty face all frowny and pouty and still, he shifts his gaze back to the girl, “then hopefully... vroom, vroom.”
Oh, he knows what he's doing.
Ten whole minutes later, Steve is saying goodbye to the girl with a noisy kiss on the cheek, thanking her once again for the help.
And she smiles right back at him, winking. She winks at him.
When he scoots back inside the van and settles into the driver's seat, he still has that cocky grin on his face. It brings you flashbacks of the old Steve, the douchebag, smug, playboy Steve Harrington.
His eyes are so familiar, though, softening all around when they lock with yours. His entire face seems to shift the instant he gazes back at you. It's as if he's literally melting right there.
Suddenly, Steve comes back to you. Your Steve.
“Vroom, vroom?” you crack against the silence, raising a single eyebrow. Your voice sounds more incredulous and ironic than you meant it to.
“What?” he asks back, frowning slightly, genuinely confused. He still doesn't try to start the van's engine again; instead, all his attention is drawn to you.
You huff ungracefully, still a little annoyed-jealous. “You were flirting with her?”
Steve quickly denies with his head, causing his hair to swish with the motion. He is quick to pick up on the reason for your attitude.
“Wow!” He's gesturing with his hands, turning to face you directly, but you avoid his gaze, looking ahead, where the red lights of the girl's car are disappearing into the distance, fading away into the shadows of the night.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can sense that Steve is offended.
“I was just being nice so she would help us. I didn't want us to be stuck here in the middle of nowhere at night with a dead engine.”
You remain silent, ignoring him, and Steve sighs, reaching out a hand toward you, cupping your cheek to make you look at him. His thumb caresses your skin delicately, touching you as if it were the first time he had ever done so, as if he didn't already know every inch of your complexion by memory.
“Sweetheart, you're being crazy,” he murmurs, struggling to hold back a smile at the sight of your cute, frowning face. “And jealous. You're never jealous.”
You raise your eyebrows, offended now. “Oh? I'm being crazy?”
You try to pull away from his grasp, but Steve is quicker, leaning toward you with a soft chuckle and kissing your cheek, the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, and finally your lips. That manages to shut you up.
Your irritation subsides a little. Just a little.
“Steve—”
“Shh,” his hand moves down from your cheek to your neck, sliding his thumb across your mouth. He's smiling seductively, his breath grazes your lips before he kisses them one more time. “Let me apologize, hm? I don't want you to get upset, baby”
“Steve...” you breathe out his name, closing your eyes as you feel his lips latch onto your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your skin, sending shivers through all of you. “You're being mean.”
His response is closeness.
Steve leans in closer, so close that you feel surrounded, pinned down in that small passenger seat, locked in by him. One of his knees brushes your thigh, gently pushing it to the side. The space in the van becomes smaller.
His scent, his breath, his warmth. Everything is consuming you.
“Baby,” he coos, his voice deeper, huskier, more yours, “do you really think I could flirt with someone else?” He reaches up, and kisses you under your ear, leisurely. “When I have you right here looking like this? All pretty, waiting for me.”
He's really good at flirting and seducing, you know it.
His hand slips to your waist, fingers tightening just a little, possessive without thinking, like he's trying to remind both of you that you're his.
“You really think I'd want anyone else?” he whispers against your ear, the words sinking into you. “Sweetheart... I barely survive ten minutes not touching you.”
He smiles against your neck when you gasp for air —for him— proud, arrogant, starving.
“I saw your face,” he keeps talking right into your flesh, pressing a slow kiss in your collarbone, his thumb stroking your hip, fingers sneaking beneath the fabric of your skirt's hem. “All pouty and jealous...” His teeth scrape you gently, and your knees almost buckle even while sitting. “God, you're so hot, baby. You drive me insane.”
You feel his nose trace your neck again, slow and dizzying.
And then, his mouth finds that one spot he knows makes you melt.
Your hand shoots up to grab his shoulder.
He smirks into your skin. “There she is.”
You glare at him, even though your pulse is hammering against your ribs.
He can sense it, the beating of your heart just beneath his fingertips as his digits trace upward along the curve of your waist.
“You kissed her.”
“On the cheek,” Steve corrects instantly, but his voice is softer now. Not defensive, regretful. “But I understand your point. I shouldn't have. It was uncalled for on my part.”
He brings a hand to your chin, gently tilting your face toward his. His eyes lock with yours, warm and intense and hopelessly full of you.
“Is this really how you used to flirt?” you inquire after a brief moment of silence in which he is just looking at you in awe. His fingers move up across your chest, up to your face, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Like, that was your game? Silly talk, cocky smiles, kisses on the cheeks?”
“Now you're being mean,” he rolls his eyes, offended, yet that lovesick grin is indelible from his lips.
“That was King Steve?” you ask, both curious and teasing. Now you're smiling mockingly, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt on his chest.
He nudges your nose with his now, teasing as well.
“That is your man,” he corrects you in a promising whisper, kissing your lips again, insatiably. “Only yours. But I guess lately I haven't had much time to stick that in your pretty little head, hm?”
His words hang in the air, warm and smug and deliciously provoking, the kind that crawl down your spine and settle low in your stomach. Igniting sparks of heat and desire deep within you.
You pull back just an inch, enough to breathe, enough to glare at him properly.
“Oh?” you scoff softly, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you meant. “And what is that supposed to mean, Harrington?”
Steve leans back a little, just enough so he can look at you fully-your flushed cheeks, the stubborn fire in your eyes, the way your chest rises and falls faster than before. He licks his bottom lip, slow, contemplative, and it's ridiculous how that motion alone steals your breath.
“It means,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the corner of your mouth as if wiping away a pout he secretly loves, “that maybe I've been too easy on you.”
You blink. “Easy?”
“Mm-hm.” He nods, confident. “Letting you forget who you come home to. Who you get all soft for.” His hand travels down, thumb ghosting over the quickened beat in your throat. “Who you get jealous for.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, refusing to let him see how that hits you. But he sees anyway. Of course he does.
“You don't have to remind me,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected, looking anywhere but his eyes.
Steve hums knowingly. “Hm, I think I do.”
Before you can protest, his fingers slide down your belly, slowly but heavily moving past the fabric of your skirt and trailing in between your thighs, which shiver at the devastating touch of their pace, firm enough that you feel owned, soft enough that you melt.
Your breath stops and he catches it, breathing in your air as if it holds him alive.
“Because ten minutes of some girl batting her eyelashes got you all worked up,” he continues, leaning in until your noses touch again. His fingertips fiddle with the already soaked fabric of your panties. The friction has you nibbling your bottom lip, biting back a moan. “So pretty, but so dumb sometimes.”
You swat his chest with a weak, flustered push. But you don't want him to pull away, you don't want him to stop touching you.
One sweep of his fingers across your folds and you're already clutched like jelly in his arms.
Steve doesn't let you speak either, he captures your mouth in a kiss that is nothing like the one he gave the girl. Nothing quick or polite or meaningless. This one is slow, claiming, possessive, devoted, threaded with apologies and want and pure selfish affection.
A kiss that leaves you breathless.
His lips travel down into your neck again, marking the skin they had already marked before, “I've been taking you for granted. Been neglecting you, sweetheart.”
Two of his digits slide into your pussy, fingering the warm, squishy flesh inside you.
You spread your legs wider on instinct, allowing him easier access to your crotch. Steve is pressing his lips down your neck as he pushes the seat all the way back, causing you both to recline on it.
The sound of the seat gliding along the floor rails is muffled by your choked gasp as Steve begins to move above you like fucking God, pumping rhythmically his fingers inside you.
“Steve— oh!” you mewl out his name, no longer certain whether you're scolding or begging him.
You're utterly swooning, your eyelids fluttering shut from the sheer, delightful sensation of him all over you, all the while your head tilts to one side, allowing him better access to your neck and collarbone.
At first, he doesn't respond with words, but with the intensification of his fingers' motion, not faster or harder, but leisurely and gentle, expert on every inch of you. A deep, steady pace that seeks to pull an orgasm from you, a pace that elicits small, ragged moans.
“You're so wet, baby,” he groans against your chest, lapping at the spot where your heart beats, rampant. One of his fingers strokes circles on your clit while he bathes your breasts with kisses all over your clothes. “So tight, so pretty. This all for me, hm?”
“Mhm!” you whine just as your hand rises to his hair, tangling your fingers in his soft brown strands as the wave of pleasure hits you with the force of a fucking truck. You're close, and he can feel it, right in his fingers. “Stevie...”
You gasp, a futile plea as your hips instinctively rise again to meet the pressure of his fingers, seeking more, crying out for the release that only he can give you..
“I want you to cum in my mouth,” he quietly hisses, gazing at you with blown out pupils as he barely towers over you and moves his way down your body, kissing all he can kiss. He keeps his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt. “Can you do that for me, sugar?”
His mere words manage to push you further over the edge. He can see it in the way you're blubbering his name, your hands reaching for him through the darkness, grasping his forearms in complaint when he pulls his fingers out of you, only to lift them to his mouth and taste them as if it's the sweetest treat in the world. You are, to him.
Steve sucks on his fingers without breaking eye contact with you. His orbs glow even within the darkness of the night, sparkling in love, pleasure, in you.
“Can you?” he asks again, shifting and settling himself as best he can so that he's kneeling in front of you, caressing your thighs as he slowly spreads them for him, licking his lips in anticipation.
He pats the plumpness of your right thigh, gently trying to get your attention amidst your haze of pleasure and overstimulation. Carefully, he lifts the fabric of your skirt, gazing lovingly up at you.
“Baby, come back to me,” Steve chuckles hoarsely, leaning down to kiss your knee, then pressing a sloppy kiss on the inner side of your thigh. “I need your words.”
You grunt softly, arching your back, “Just eat me out already, Harrington.”
He keeps smiling, you can catch it in the dark, the way he looks at you, as if you were his whole universe, the most precious thing he has, even when you're all worked up and bratty.
His hands are two entities that are adoring you in their own way and pace, pawing at your bare thighs, sliding up your flesh to caress your hips, pressing and groping everything in their path.
“First I need you to tell me something, okay?” Steve coos, leaning so slowly closer to your core, his fingertips teasing your panties. He appears almost as desperate as you are, but he knows how to behave for you. His breathing grazes against your bare pussy, aching for him, luring him in.
You stare down at him apprehensively, nearly in disbelief, just waiting for him to say whatever it is he wants to blab about in the middle of the best head you'll probably ever experience.
“Tell me I'm yours.”
“W–what?” you blurt out, half-closing your eyes as he teasingly drags his tongue up and down your slit.
His chuckle is warm against your pussy, which is fucking buzzing with eagerness.
“Tell me I'm yours. I want you to be sure of it,” he demands again, good and patient.
“You're mine, Steve,” you tell him, your voice barely a quivering, broken breath. The words are genuine, but right now, they're also a kind of surrender. “You're mine.”
Steve purrs with satisfaction when he hears you, a deep sound that vibrates right where you need him most.
“That's my pretty girl,” he praises you.
He leans in closer and, with a purposeful, slow movement, flicks his tongue over the slit of your sex, a hot, thrilling touch that makes you gasp and grip his hair tighter.
“I'm yours”
Then he begins to work.
His mouth is expert on you, demanding, possessive. Steve makes sure every inch of you knows that you are his universe. His lips are soft and firm, his tongue is agile and precise, thrusting, licking, tracing circles. He goes even deeper, sucking with an intensity that makes you lift your hips off the seat and press against his face.
The air inside the van grows heavy, thick with your passion and the wet, rhythmic sound emanating from it.
“Oh, God, Steve,” you moan his name over and over, the plea becoming a mantra.
He is fucking God. He's everywhere.
His mouth, his tongue, his hands, the way he's grinding his hips as he kneels, fueling his own arousal by giving you pleasure.
One of his hands reaches up across your stomach, gripping one of your breasts, the other presses against your thigh, controlling the angle, making sure you don't drift away from him. He would never let you spoil his all-time favorite meal, after all.
You feel the pleasure building up in the pit of your stomach, faster, stronger than before, a pressure that inexorably sweeps you towards the depths of your climax. Your fingers dig into his hair, and pull, not wanting to hurt him, but rather seeking to anchor yourself to the sensation.
Steve's tongue slurps deep between the soaked folds, wetting his chin as he pushes his nose further into your pussy, brushing up against your clit.
He's looking at you, his gaze burning with passion and pure, ravenous longing, a pair of tears brimming in his eyes.
“Cum for me, baby”, he urges you, just before diving back in, his tongue whirling rapidly and fiercely at that most sensitive spot.
The command in his voice is the final spark to the fuse. Between the heat of his mouth and the intensity of his gaze, your world narrows down to the point of contact between his tongue and your clit. The way it sucks, slurps, licks, sticking his fingers in deep enough.
You let out a broken, high-pitched cry that echoes against the van’s metal roof as your body finally gives in. Your hips jerk upward, pinning his face against your pussy as the first wave of the climax hits, hot and ravaging.
And Steve doesn't pull back; instead, he moans into the friction, his tongue never slowing down, greedily drinking you in just like he promised he would. He swallows every drop, his throat moving against your sensitive skin, ensuring he claims every bit of the release he drew out of you.
Your hands, which had been clutching his hair, go limp, sliding down to rest heavily on his shoulders as the aftershocks tremble through your legs. You’re panting, your chest heaving, and the silence of the street outside feels deafening compared to the roar of blood in your ears.
Steve lingers right there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your pelvis as he catches his own breath.
When he finally pulls away, he looks completely wrecked, his hair is a mess, his lips are swollen and wet with your cum, and that 'King Steve' smirk has been replaced by a look of sheer, vulnerable adoration.
He climbs back up, hovering over you in the cramped space, and uses the pad of his thumb to wipe a stray tear of overstimulation from your cheek.
“That's my girl,” he purrs his praise before kissing your lips, making you taste yourself spread all over his mouth. “You taste so good, baby.” He is kissing you again, loud and sloppy, “You feel better, hm?”
You can only nod, still too dazed to form a coherent sentence, looking up at him with big, sparkling eyes. The jealousy from earlier feels like a lifetime ago, a silly, distant memory.
Why did you even get jealous in the first place? You can't remember. All you can think about is him. It's always him, him, him.
“Good,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before settling into a soft, lingering kiss. “I love you so much.”
He seals his promise with another kiss.
“I love you too, Stevie,” you respond, smiling sheepishly, brushing strands of hair off his forehead.
He plants another kiss on your lips before helping you adjust your clothing, setting your panties properly and smoothing your skirt back down your thighs.
Then adjust the passenger seat, returning it to its previous setting, carefully, of course.
Steve reluctantly pulls back, shifting to sit in the driver's seat properly, though he keeps one hand firmly planted on your knee as he does. He takes a deep breath, smoothing back his hair with his free hand, bringing his mental focus back to the current circumstances. The end of the world, Vecna, the Upside Down, all that shit.
“Now,” he says, reaching for the keys in the ignition with a playful glint in his eyes. “Let’s see if I can actually get this piece of junk to…”
He turns the key. The engine sputters, coughs, and then roars to life with a triumphant rumble.
Steve lets out a silly giggle, glancing over at you with a wink that makes your heart skip a beat all over again.
—summary: you are the people’s princess, adored by many, owned by duty; as a targaryen, your hand is a prize, your heart a war. two men are willing to fight the world for it, two opposites, two sides of the moon. but it is your loyalty that will decide which man you stand beside… and which one you stand against.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!targaryen!reader ─ aerion targaryen x female!cousin!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: targcest, love triangle!!! jealous and manipulative!!aerion, aerion has been in love with the reader since forever but he is very mean as you know, kind of dreamer!reader, complicated family dynamics (💀), power imbalance, dunk and reader want each other sooo bad, past life lovers trope!! aerion being his usual self, a little mention of reader's hair length.
⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ ｡ 1 / 7 ── series masterlist here!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. this will definitely be a series! 🤭 hope you like it!
You, as was well known, did not fit the mold of the typical Targaryen. You didn't have an evil character, nor were you possessed by the fervent rage of the dragon fire running through your veins. And you weren't detached from the ground like most members of your family, who elevated themselves to the skies, rising up like gods.
For that, the Gentle Dragon, the people would call you. But you were nowhere near being gentle as your father, you believed.
You sure were charming, a seductive force of nature, who had men falling under your spell wherever you went. And you would pretend to be oblivious, brushing off their awful attempts to conquer you as if they meant nothing beyond a bit of fun.
Long before you were old enough to consider wedlock, noblemen and knights had been swarming around you with marriage proposals and negotiations with Prince Baelor for your hand. A castle, they would offer, an ancient treasure, an entire army. But never true and loyal love.
That was, until you met Ser Duncan the Tall.
The first time you saw each other; the afternoon sun was falling heavily on Ashford Meadow. Unlike your cousin and brother, you found no enjoyment in cruelty or status games, but since you were now of age to seek a husband, you had to attend such events, only after much persuasion had your father allowed you to attend with them.
A tournament was no place for a princess; there was blood and carnage everywhere, but blood and carnage coursed through your veins, after all. Your House had been built on that. And your womanhood came with it as well.
You had finally arrived at the place with your family, and your cousin Aerion, impatient and angry as ever, was pulling on his mare's reins with unnecessary force. The animal, a beautiful specimen but exhausted from the journey, whinnied with wide eyes.
You were already on the ground, gratefully petting the horses that had dragged your carriage all the way from King's Landing. Your handmaidens were carefully adjusting your dress and hair, standing all around you in the mud.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.” Aerion sneered contemptuously at the towering man standing by the entrance to the keep at Ashford Meadow, who was watching the scene with wide, amazed eyes, his lips parted as he kept admiring your dress and your silver hair, long and radiant under the cloudy and somber atmosphere of the place.
And at the sight of the prince addressing him, the tall blond man cleared his throat in discomfort. “I'm— I'm not a stable boy, m'lord.”
Aerion clicked his tongue, unimpressed, “not clever enough?”
Before the hedge knight could give him a proper answer, the Targaryen boy cut him off, waving his hand dismissively. “Well, if you can't manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.”
“Oh, m'lord, pardons,” from your distance, you could hear how the man sounded so small in front of Aerion, in spite of his impressive height. Somehow, that made you feel a sense of sympathy. “I'm n–no serving man, either. I–I have the honor to be a knight.”
His voice was so respectful and patient, and incredibly deep. A tingling sensation coursed through your belly as you somehow recognized it, like a faint and remote reminiscence, yet vividly present.
“My lady, your quarters are all set for you,” a maid approached to inform you, interrupting your little gossip session.
You turned to look at her, bowing your head elegantly in gratitude, “thank you, I will be there shortly.”
Your maids bowed to you and rushed to assist the other girl.
Your expression shifted completely the moment you noticed Aerion walking by your side, his face stone-cold and arrogant.
“Behave yourself, Aerion,” you scolded your cousin as he stormed past you, as angry as a caged lion. “We're not at home.”
He simply shot you a dark look, signaling you to be quiet and to walk with him, but you just rolled your eyes, ignoring him and making your way toward his agitated mare, which had been led away by the kind man from before towards the stables.
“There you are, girl. Far too many people around,” he was speaking gently to the mare, seeking to calm her. “Yeah, I don't like it either”
“Thank you,” you expressed your gratitude to the stranger, approaching him from behind and walking towards the mare, which was visually much calmer now. “She's very skittish.”
The man, taller than the animal by his side, turned toward you and, as he recognized you, his face broke into a look of shock. He let go of the mare's reins so he could face you and offer a clumsy bow.
“Your highness,” his blue eyes were sparkling nervously as they looked at you from his height. “I didn't mean to intrude. I beg your pardon.”
He was used to stables jus like that one, mud-covered roads, and the roughness of hedge knights, but he had never been so close to a member of the royal family. Much less one who looked at him with such kindness instead of disdain.
“It's just me, please,” you rushed to clarify with an embarrassed smile, as you reached out to caress the mare's muzzle and she gave in to your gentle caress. “'Your highness' is for my grandsire or my father or uncle. And you don't have to apologize for having a kinder heart than my cousin.”
He slowly straightened up under your attentive gaze, although he still hunched his shoulders slightly, as if trying to take up less space in order not to intimidate you.
He was absurdly tall, and his hands were so big that you wondered briefly if they would be able to wrap around your entire waist if he clasped them together around you.
And he wasn't ugly at all; in fact, you reckoned that with a good wash and some fresh, decent clothes, he'd be more handsome than any other man you'd likely ever see there.
“I'm— I'm Ser Duncan the Tall.” He stammered his own name as he introduced himself, offering you a weak smile that looked more like an involuntary nervous grimace on his lips. “It is an great honor to meet you, my princess. You are as beautiful as the stories tell.”
You could feel the heat rising up your neck at his sudden flattery.
A second after the words rolled off his tongue, Duncan seemed to realize what he had just said, for his big ears turned scarlet red with embarrassment.
“Why thank you, Ser Duncan,” you smiled, savoring the name on your tongue as if it were sweet honey. You knew you had heard it before, read it somewhere, or perhaps in a dream, but it didn't feel like the first time your lips had shaped the words. “You're very... tall”
As you glanced over him from head to toe, you noticed that he wore no badge on his old tunic, nor jewels on the pommel of his sword. On the contrary, you smiled sweetly when you realized that his sword belt was a mere piece of rope.
He smiled back at you, blushing. “Heh— I've been told that.”
“Ser Duncan the Tall...” you repeated his name slowly, lost in thought now, and he held his breath when you called out to him, watching you from above with curious eyes. “I believe I’ve heard that before, now that I think about it.”
His auburn eyebrows arched up on his forehead, looking incredulous, “Really?”
“Does that surprise you, Ser?” you asked back, holding back a giggle as you considered his expression.
That made Duncan blush even more. “No! I mean, aye—I have yet to begin my journey as a real knight. I will begin at the tournament here.”
Your head cocked in earnest interest, “Is this your first tournament, then?”
“It is, my princess,” Duncan confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. “I was knighted not long ago. By Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He passed on the road, and before he died… he made me a knight.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said softly, meaning it. “He must have been a good man, if he raised you.”
Duncan swallowed, visibly moved by your words. “Aye. He was good”
“You don’t look like the other knights here,” you observed quietly just after that.
Duncan frowned slightly. “Is that a bad thing, my princess?”
“No. It’s a good thing.”
You took another step closer, ignoring the protocol that dictated that a girl of royalty like you should not be in a dusty stable talking to a commoner like him.
But there was something about him, though, a purity that contrasted with the cruelty you usually saw in the men of your family.
“I know many knights. My cousin, for example, has the temperament of a wounded dragon, but none of its wisdom,” you admitted in a quiet tone, looking toward where Aerion had gone. “Don't take his insults personally. He despises everything he cannot dominate.”
“You don't have to apologize for him, princess. I'm used to that sort of treatment, unfortunately,” Dunk replied, looking down at you.
His blue eyes were clear, deep, and oddly sweet.
As a born empath, his words struck you with a pang of sadness. The idea that someone so noble of spirit and gentle was used to being treated as less than nothing by men who were not even worthy of being considered his equals was beyond your comprehension.
“Well, you shouldn't be,” you declared firmly. “Steel can make a knight, but it is the heart that keeps him standing. And from what I can see, Ser Duncan, you have more heart than half the lords at Ashford today.”
Dunk blinked, overwhelmed by your candor.
“You are... you are very kind, your Highness,” he was able to say, and this time his voice did not falter as much, although the blush remained bright on his cheeks.
From across the yard, you could hear Aerion’s sharp, impatient voice barking orders at some poor squire. The sound made you wince.
“I fear my cousin will make enemies wherever he goes,” you clicked your tongue in disapproval. “He always does.”
Duncan hesitated, then said carefully, bending down just a bit closer to you so he could confide an important truth, “Begging your pardon, but… he doesn’t seem the sort to win many friends.”
You laughed softly, covering your mouth with your hand. “That may be the politest insult I’ve ever heard, ser.”
That earned you a shy grin from him, crooked and boyish.
Gods, he really was handsome now that you were seeing him up close like that, with that little smile on his lips.
His back was broad, and his immense figure blocked your view like an imposing and majestic tower. You could climb him up like a mountain if you could...
The sudden, inappropriate flash of thought made you blush deeply and you lowered your gaze in shame, feeling hot all of a sudden.
Ser Duncan noticed it, of course, as he couldn't stop ogling at your face in such close proximity, and he caught sight of the dilation of your pupils as you looked up at him, and that also made him flustered, forcing himself to take a step back and regain his composure.
He cleared his throat, his face flushed with worry, “Are you alright, my princess?”
That emerging connection, so unusual between a princess and a knight, was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. A maid, breathless and pale with worry, appeared at the entrance to the stables.
“Princess!” gasped the girl, curtsying quickly but with some trepidation. “I've finally found you. Prince Maekar has been asking for you. He says it's time to go inside the fortress and that it's not fitting for someone of your rank to be out here alone.”
Dunk, on hearing your uncle's name, seemed to shrink a couple of inches in utter fear at your side. The mention of Maekar Targaryen, a man known for his severity and strong hand, was enough to intimidate anyone, especially a knight who barely owned the clothing he wore.
“I must go,” you said with a sigh of resignation, though your eyes remained fixed on the man in front of you. “My uncle is not a man who cares for waiting, much less when it comes to formalities.”
You turned to the maid to indicate that she should follow you, but before leaving, you gave Dunk one last look filled with a warmth he clearly did not expect.
“Ser Duncan,” you bowed gracefully. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“I... I hope so too, Your Grace,” he blurted out, bowing his head as he watched you walk away from him.
“I've told you countless times that you can't just wander off and strike up conversations with the first person you come across, cousin.” Aerion was giving you one of his usual scoldings as he walked alongside you through the main hall of the keep. “It's dangerous for a woman like you to wander around alone. Do you realize what you're exposing yourself to out there? All those men...”
You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest, “I was just comforting your mare, Aerion. She was terrified, and that tall kind knight was— he was just there too.”
The blond furrowed his brow, making a big effort to remember that he too had seen the same man before. “The dirty-clothed beast that was in the stables?” Realization washed over his face as he considered that your silence affirmed his judgment, “don't tell me—”
“He's good, Aerion. And his name is Ser Duncan the Tall,” you rolled your eyes, trying to pacify him. “It's one of the first times in a long time that I've been able to hold a good conversation with a man that isn't about titles or reprimands or power or marriage.”
Aerion let out a dry, humorless laugh, stopping abruptly under one of the stone arches of the fortress. He looked at you with that mixture of possessiveness and jealousy that always made your skin crawl, and not in a good way this time.
“A good man? That clumsy giant?” he mocked, drawing another step closer to you like a predator to its prey. “He's just cannon fodder, a nameless man who will die in the mud before the sun sets tomorrow. Men of his kind don't have conversations, my sweet cousin; they only have needs. Be careful, lest your ‘kindness’ be mistaken for something more vulgar.”
You felt a spark of indignation ignite in your chest at the offensive remarks aimed at your newest friend. “None of the men I speak to are to your liking, Aerion.”
“You have terrible taste, that's why. All I do is to protect you, my sweet dragon. None of those men are good enough for you, least of all that lout who reeks of horses and despair,” Aerion spat, narrowing his violet eyes. His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “You must know your position. You are supposed to stand by your family, by me.”
You were about to respond with the sharp tongue you had been given by your lineage, but your uncle's deep, resonant voice cut through the air like an axe.
“Aerion. Stop tormenting your poor cousin.”
Maekar Targaryen strode toward you, dressed in dark clothes and bearing that look of perpetual disappointment that seemed to be carved permanently into his face.
His mere presence made Aerion straighten up, though it did not entirely wipe the smug smile from his face.
“Father,” Aerion greeted him with a lazy bow. “I was just reminding my dear cousin that stables are no place for a Targaryen. Apparently, she has a new friend... a certain Ser Duncan the Tall. A commoner knight with more dirt than honor.”
Maekar stared at you, his dark eyes scrutinizing you with an intensity that made you want to shrink back, though you forced yourself to hold your chin high.
“Is this true, niece?” Maekar demanded, dismissing his own son. “Have you been associating with the commoners?”
“I was tending to the mare that Aerion nearly mistreated to death, uncle,” you came in your own defense in a firm voice, though your heart was pounding. “Ser Duncan was the only one who had the decency to help, unlike the servants who fled in terror from my cousin's temper.”
Your uncle was silent for a moment, looking past you toward the courtyard where the tournament activity continued unabated.
“Ashford Meadow is full of desperate men seeking glory at the cost of our blood,“ Maekar finally concluded. “I don't care if he's a giant or a dwarf; keep your distance, girl. The tournament begins tomorrow, and I don't want any distractions from the fact that you're supposed to be here to seek a husband.”
He noticed the way you exchanged a complicit glance with Aerion, and that made him squint his hawk-like eyes.
“You behave like little children. Go to your chambers now,” Maekar ordered you both, though his tone was a little less stern and more tired. Upon seeing both of you resume your walk side by side, he sighed, utterly exhausted, “separated.”
Aerion’s lips twitched in irritation, but he obeyed. “As you wish, Father.”
Once in your chambers, as your handmaidens helped you out of your gown, chattering nervously about the morrow’s festivities, your mind was elsewhere.
With Ser Duncan.
Your maids spoke of silks and suitors, of alliances and advantageous matches, of which lord had looked at you for too long and which knight had nearly been unhorsed in practice that afternoon.
But you heard none of it.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
You were sure you had heard that name before. And that you had seen that face somewhere. But where?
In dreams, perhaps.
In another life.
Your hands trembled slightly as a maid loosened the last ties of your gown.
“Are you nervous for tomorrow, princess?” one of them asked, curious and enthusiastic. “So many fine knights will ride for your favor.”
You swallowed.
“I am never nervous for the knights,” you replied truthfully. “But for the horses”
They laughed softly, taking it for girlish shyness.
“Tell me something,” you called very softly, as casually as you could manage. “Have any of you heard of a knight named Ser Duncan the Tall?”
The room stilled for just a fraction of a second.
You had never asked for a man's name before. He must've been significant.
One maid frowned slightly, tilting her head. “Ser Duncan… the Tall?”
Another shook her head. “I don’t believe so, my princess.”
Another maid, older than the rest, pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I know most of the notable knights here,” she said. “At least the ones with banners or lands. I have not heard that name.”
“No sigil, then,” a third concluded. “He must be a hedge knight, Your Grace. One of no great standing.”
A hush fell over the chamber as you let yourself drift away into your deep thoughts.
One of the younger maids shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “Prince Aerion will be riding tomorrow as well, Your Highness.”
You did not look at her, but you felt the weight of the words.
“He always does,” another maid added, huffing lightly. “He has entered nearly every tourney since you came of age, princess.”
“For your favor,” a third said, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves might listen. “It is well known at court.”
The oldest maid sighed quietly. “The prince has never hidden it. He rides harder, fights fiercer when you are watching.”
“Prince Aerion will expect your favor,” the youngest maid whispered. “He always does. He will be furious if you deny him.”
“No,” you denied.
The room seemed to draw in a collective breath.
“No?” one maid echoed. “You have never denied him before, Your Grace. Prince Maekar will be displeased as well.”
“I will give my favor to Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The words settled into the chamber like some declaration of war.
A hedge knight.
Against a prince.
“My princess…” the oldest maid said carefully. “Do you understand what this will mean?”
“Yes,” you answered, certain.
Your voice did not tremble.
It surprised even you.
The feeling wrapped around your heart like a promise.
You would simply do what you had already done once in a dream.
—summary: lord lyonel has a hawk's eye for detail, and he’s set his sights on the hedge knight lingering too close to his daughter. so he decides to interrogate him about his intentions, letting slip how carefully you choose your lovers and stirring a spark of jealousy in dunk.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 4.8k
—content: smut / NSFW, minors dni!!!; oral sex (male receiving bc lord knows duncan deserves the sloppiest, most mind-blowing head ever), marking, lots of kisses, jealous!dunk, sassy & flirty reader, sexual tension, inexperienced dunk, praise, corruption kink, size difference, protective dad!lyonel, forbidden romance.
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: this will be the last chapter of this little series; i am extremely thankful for all the love you have given it, i’m so honored. hope you like it!
A day had passed since that encounter on the riverside, and for Dunk, time seemed to have stretched like metal in a forge. At sunset, he always seemed to find you in the same place—caught in the soft, molten gold of the dying sun, light spilling over the grass and dancing upon the river’s skin, warming even the dampest, most shadowed hollows of Ashford Meadow.
And when that twilight warmth touched his own skin, it was always you he felt —your cheek near his chest, your fingers looped around his arm as you walked together, as if such closeness were the most natural thing in the world.
He could not shake it.
He could not shake you.
So at last, he stops fighting the part of himself that tells him to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and people like you. But there is another part—louder and more stubborn—that knows fleeing from you would only bring him deeper trouble.
And trouble? Ser Duncan the Tall already has more than enough of it.
That morning, Duncan washes in the cold river near his camp, scrubbing away sweat and dust. He runs his hands through his bronze hair, slicking it back with river water, trying— and failing —to tame it into something resembling a knight fit to stand before a lord’s daughter. Not just some lord’s daughter, you.
Before he goes, he hesitates.
From his pack, he takes out a small stoppered vial, bought cheap from a market peddler, a simple little thing, no bigger than his thumb, filled with pale oil that smells sharply of crushed mint. He dabs a little at his wrists, then, awkwardly, at his neck, hoping the clean, green scent might chase away the river’s chill and the stink of travel.
It feels foolish.
But he does it anyway.
It is Egg who notice the flowers first, of course.
He walks along the edge of the camp where the grass grew tall and wild, dotted with small yellow blossoms that bent in the soft sunrise breeze.
“Those look like her colors,” Egg remarks, plucking one of the little yellow flowers and holding it up between his fingers to show them to Dunk. “Baratheon gold.”
But Duncan frowns. “They’re just weeds.”
“Not to a lady,” Egg reply, with the solemn certainty of a boy who thinks himself far wiser than he is. “You can’t go see her empty-handed.”
Dunk shifts his weight, suddenly awkward, conceding—however reluctantly—that the boy has a point. “I ain’t bringing her weeds.”
Egg snorts, really impressed by the ignorance a man so big can have. “They’re flowers, Ser. That’s different.”
He begins gathering them anyway, quick and efficient, handing them up to Dunk one by one. Before he quite knows how it had happened, he is holding a small, uneven bundle of yellow blooms, their stems damp with sap, their scent sweet.
Dunk stares at them as if they might bite him.
“She’s a highborn lady,” he mutters, genuinely failing to understand the whole concept of romance that Egg perceives. “What’s she want with field flowers?”
Egg just looks up at him, pale head tilted. “Better than nothing. Tell her you picked them yourself. That will count for something.”
Dunk knows better than to argue with Egg when he use that tone.
So he ties the stems together with a strip of twine, clumsy fingers fumbling as he does, and carry them in his hand as carefully as if they are made of glass.
Ser Duncan set out with long, determined strides toward the great yellow tent of House Baratheon.
He has scarcely reach the entrance when a familiar, thunderous voice stops him cold.
“My daughter appears to have lost the silk ties from her cloak.” Lyonel Baratheon greets him unexpectedly at the entrance to his tent, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Curiously, they are the same shade of gold that peeks out from the edge of your doublet, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk feels as if the ground has suddenly turned into thin ice. His heart hammers against the very silk that is betraying him.
He stands there, towering over most men but feeling small under Lord Lyonel’s piercing, dark gaze. His gaze lingers on the flowers a heartbeat too long.
The Laughing Storm isn't laughing now. He is sitting on a heavy wooden chair, nursing a cup of thick blackberry wine, his eyes tracking the sliver of gold fabric like a hawk watching a field mouse.
“I… I, uh…” Dunk stammers, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the Baratheon wine. He instinctively claps a massive hand over his pocket to hide the favor, which only makes him look more guilty. “It’s just a bit of… cloth, my lord. To, uh, mend a tear in my… m–my horse’s blanket?”
“A horse’s blanket?” Lyonel repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. He stands up, his height no match for Duncan's, but even so, he stands firmly in front of him. “You’re telling me my daughter’s personal silk is being used to patch up some dusty palfrey?”
The tension is thick enough to choke on. Dunk’s mind went completely blank. He is a man of his word, and lying felt like trying to swallow a mouthful of dry wool.
“Father, do not frighten my friend.”
Your voice cuts through the air like a silver bell, and Dunk feels a wave of relief so strong he nearly sags where he stands. You step out from behind the inner curtain of the tent, radiant in a gown of deep charcoal and amber, your presence breaking the storm before it can truly fall.
“I didn't lose it,” you say, walking over to your father and placing a steadying hand on his arm to calm him down. You give the tall man a look that is both sweet and sharp. “I gave it to Ser Duncan. As a reward.”
Lyonel’s eyebrows shots up so high they nearly disappear into his dark hairline. He crane his head, thankfully withdrawing his intent gaze from Duncan and looking at you, unimpressed. “A reward? For what? Did he slay a fucking dragon while I was napping?”
You let out a soft, musical laugh and turn your eyes to Dunk. The look you give him is heavy with that same secret intimacy of always, a look that make his knees feel like water.
“He did something much rarer, Father,” you explain, stepping toward Dunk until you are close enough to smell the sweet river water on his skin. “He offered me his friendship. And since you’re always complaining that I’m too ‘reckless,’ I thought it wise to have a man of his… stature… keeping an eye on things. On me.”
Lord Lyonel lets out a sound that was half-scoff, half-grunt. He looks up at Dunk, then at you, then back at the golden silk peeking out proudly on the hedge knight's pocket.
“Friendship, eh?” Lyonel finally barks, a small, begrudging smirk forming on his lips.
His dark eyes flick between you and Dunk, sharp as ever, missing nothing, the way you stand just a bit too close, the way Dunk looks like a man trying very hard not to breathe too deeply of your perfume.
“Well,” Lyonel goes on, rolling the word around like he’s tasting it, “if my daughter has decided you’re her new companion, I suppose I ought to see what sort of man I’m trusting her to.”
Dunk straightens instinctively, shoulders back, trying to look every inch the honorable knight he wishes he were.
“I’d give my life to protect her, my lord,” he says, earnest and simple, the truth ringing in every word.
That earns him a long, measuring look.
“Hmph!” Lyonel snorts. “Seven save me, you hedge knights and your big fucking words.” Then, to Dunk’s surprise, he steps aside and gestures into his tent. “Come. Have a cup of wine with me.”
Dunk blinks. “My lord?”
“A cup,” Lyonel repeats, smiling way too much. “Unless you’re afraid of Baratheon wine?”
That, at least, draws a crooked grin from Dunk. “No, my lord. Not afraid of wine.”
You hide your smile behind your hand, suppressing a laugh. Dunk shoots you a helpless look, and you answer with a small, apologetic smile that somehow makes his chest ache even more.
Inside the tent, the air is thick with the scent of leather, smoke, and crushed berries. Lyonel pours two cups of the dark, heavy wine and thrusts one into Dunk’s massive hand.
“To knights who know their place,” Lyonel says dryly, lifting his cup.
Dunk raises his own very awkwardly, his mind going too fast with nerves to prevent the very first thoughts forming on his lips. “To… your daughter.”
Dunk freezes the instant the words leave his mouth.
The tent seems to go very, very quiet.
Lyonel Baratheon slowly lowers his cup, dark eyes narrowing just a fraction. For one terrible heartbeat, Dunk is certain he has just signed his own death warrant with a mouth full of blackberry wine.
You, however, tilt your head and study him with something dangerously close to fondness.
“My daughter,” Lyonel repeats after him. “Not knights. Not honor. Not the Seven. My daughter.”
Dunk clears his throat, ears burning. “I meant— I just— she’s important, my lord. To you. And… and to me. And to the... realm.”
It is the simplest truth he knows how to give.
For a long moment, Lyonel only stares at him. Then he lets out a loud bark of laughter, slapping a heavy hand against the table.
“Gods be good,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re either the bravest man in this camp or the stupidest.”
Dunk manages a sheepish half-smile. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Could be both.”
The wine burns its way down Dunk’s throat, bold and strong — much like the man standing before him.
Meanwhile, you hover near the tent’s opening, your fingers worrying at the edge of your cloak. You meet Dunk’s eyes, just for a heartbeat, and in that look is everything unspoken: come find me.
And Lyonel follows his gaze to you.
“Oh no you don’t,” he says, catching on far too quickly. “You think I don’t see what’s going on here?”
Dunk nearly chokes on his second sip.
Lyonel leans back in his chair, studying you both with an expression far too knowing. “My daughter disappearing into spontaneous walks with a young, big knight? With no guard or chaperone?” He clicks his tongue, “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy”
Your cheeks warm. “Father—”
“Relax,” Lyonel cuts in, holding up a hand to silence you. “I’m not saying anything improper is happening.” His eyes flick meaningfully to Dunk, “Yet.”
“Yet...” Lyonel repeats, savoring the word far too much for Dunk’s comfort.
He sets his cup down with a soft thunk and folds his arms over his broad chest, studying Dunk like a commander sizing up a new recruit.
Ser Duncan is desperate to pour himself a little more wine to fill the now empty cups, consciously turning his eyes down to the cup and praying he were able just sink himself into it and be absorbed in the deep red liquid.
Dunk stiffens, opening the blue-colored eyes wide.
“In horses,” Lyonel goes on, eyes glinting. “In wine.”
A long pause.
“In men.”
Dunk's face is equally vibrant red as the beverage, close to choking as he drinks yet another big sip of it.
“She doesn’t take just anyone into her confidence,” Lord Lyonel adds casually, far too casually. “Or into her tent, for that matter.”
Dunk nearly drops his cup at that.
You make a small, scandalized sound. “Father!”
The man only smirks. “What? It is true, my love. You’ve never been one for dull company. Just like me.”
He looks back at Dunk, dark eyes sharp and amused.
“My daughter chooses her lovers with care,” Lyonel explains to him, the word heavy with implication. “And she’s never lacked for suitors. Knights, lords’ sons, even a prince or two who thought themselves charming enough.”
Something tight and ugly twists in Dunk’s chest at that.
He hadn’t known that.
He hadn’t wanted to know that.
“I—” He swallows, not knowing really what to say to that exactly. “I’m honored, then, my lord.”
Should he feel honored? Special?
Undoubtedly, Duncan feels anything but those things.
Lyonel studies him for a long beat, noting the obvious way his broad shoulders have sagged, just a little, under the weight of everything he has just said.
Then, unexpectedly, he snorts.
“Hells. You actually care.” A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s new.”
He gestures vaguely toward the tent opening, deciding the poor knight has been tested enough.
“Go on,” Lyonel urges. “Before I decide your head would look better mounted on one of my bedposts.”
“M’lord”
Dunk does not need to be told twice. He follows you away from the main tent, your personal guard already dismissed, his long strides a little less steady than usual.
“You survived,” you tease softly, glancing back at him with playful eyes.
“Barely,” Dunk admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your father’s a fearsome man.”
“He likes you,” you say, eyes bright. “That’s worse.”
He laughs, low and nervous. “That so?”
For a heartbeat, he hesitates and then he clears his throat and holds out the small, uneven bundle of yellow flowers, suddenly very interested in the ground at his feet.
“These are for you,” he says, voice rough with sheepishness. “I… I picked ’em myself. They— they reminded me of you.”
Your smile widens at once, warm and teasing.
“How very thoughtful of you, Ser Duncan,” you say lightly, accepting them. “They’re beautiful.”
With your other hand, you reach for his, your fingers slipping easily between his calloused ones, warm and loving.
Dunk swallows, looking down at you in awe.
Pulling his hand, he lets you lead him, because he is not certain his legs would remember how to move on their own.
Dunk stands awkwardly once inside, too big for the space, hands unsure of what to do with themselves.
He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing sideways as you pace around, reaching for a glass of sweet wine from the table, placing down the flowers gently.
“I don’t like thinking of other men looking at you the way I do,” Dunk admits quietly.
Duncan looks like he wants to swallow the words the moment they leave his lips, his large frame tensing as he awaits for your reaction. He feels like a fool—a hedge knight with no lands to his name, begrudging princes and lords their gaze.
You pause, the glass of wine halfway to your lips, and turn to look at him. The golden light filtering through the yellow silk of the tent walls bathes you in a warm, ethereal glow, making you look like the very goddess he sees in his dreams.
“The way you look at me, Ser?” you ask softly, setting the glass down. You take a slow, deliberate step toward him. “Ow, don't tell me you're jealous now”
Dunk’s large hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into his palms as if trying to grasp for a composure that has completely abandoned him. He looks down at his boots, then up at the yellow silk ceiling, doing anything to avoid that knowing, astute gaze of yours.
“Your father is right. You have excellent taste, and,” he gulps down nervously when you look up at him like that, as you face him standing right in front of him. “I… I’m just a man who happened to be tall enough for you to notice.”
You reach out, your fingers feather-light as they brush against the back of his hand. Dunk flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away; instead, he turns his hand over, his palm catching your delicate fingers.
“Is that what you still think?” you ask, stepping so close that the charcoal silk of your skirts rustles against his legs. “That I only noticed you because you’re tall? There are plenty of tall men in Ashford, Duncan.”
Certainly not as tall or as handsome as him, though.
Dunk’s breath hitches. His hand, so much larger than yours, trembles as he raises it to your face. He hesitates for a second, his thumb hovering just over your cheekbone, before he finally finds the courage to touch you. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the smoothness of yours.
He sighs tremulously, gathering the courage he requires to look you in the eye and utter a reply, it's so hard when you are gazing at him with such longing.
“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick and vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity, his breath catching as you slide your hand up to the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. “I know there are other men—”
You rush to interrupt him, denying with your head, “There are no other men.”
You tug gently, pulling his head down. Dunk obeys instantly, his body acting on instinct, his large hands coming up to hover uncertainly at your waist. He looks at your lips with a hunger that makes your stomach flip, yearning.
And then you lift your other hand, bringing the cup of wine to his mouth so he can take a drink.
Dunk blinks, startled for a second, and then leans down just enough to obey like the good boy he is. The rim of the cup brushes his lips, and he takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. The wine stains his mouth darker, and you can’t help noticing it, the way his breath comes a little heavier afterward.
After that, you take a small sip yourself, savoring the delightful taste of the wine and also the taste of his lips at the spot where he touched the rim of the glass.
“There,” you murmur, alluringly licking your lips under his attentive gaze. “For courage.”
Dunk’s pupils dilate until his eyes are as dark as the blackberry wine he just tasted. He watches your tongue dart out to catch a stray drop on your lower lip, and the wet sound he makes is half-groan, half-prayer.
“I don’t think I've ever lacked for courage, my lady,” he rasps, his voice trembling as his hands finally find purchase on your waist. His fingers are so long they nearly meet at the small of your back, pulling you flush against the solid, warm wall of his chest. “I’m going to do something very stupid.”
He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours and you're truly surprised by his sudden boldness.
“I certainly hope so, Ser Duncan,” you whisper back and then, you reach up, your fingers tangling deeper into the thick, sun-kissed hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him that final agonizing inch down.
Dunk kisses you with a desperate, honest hunger, his large hands sliding up your back to cradle your head, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
The kiss is heavy, unpracticed, and utterly devastating. Duncan groans into your mouth, a low, animalistic sound that rattles through your chest.
And his strength is staggering. As he pulls you closer, your feet nearly leave the ground and with a boost from all the pent-up desire you've been repressing, you hop onto his body, climbing him like a mountain.
Dunk’s breath hitches in a sharp, jagged gasp as your weight settles against him. His hands, previously hesitant, now slam against your thighs to hold you in place, his fingers digging into fancy silk with a desperate grip, your legs wrapping around his waist with the same desperation his hands reach through your skirts, groping for your skin.
You don't give him a chance to breath as he walks backwards, towards the large, fur-covered bed.
You trail a line of biting kisses along his jaw, moving toward the sensitive skin of his ear, while your hands frantically work at the laces of his doublet.
And you kiss him again. As you deepen the kiss, the distinct, refreshing scent of mint rises from his skin at the base of his neck, driving you even wilder.
Once he is seated on the edge of the bed, with you straddling him, Dunk helps you, his big, calloused hands far less coordinated than yours as he tugs at his own clothes, desperate to shed the layers between you.
And when his upper body is bare for you, you can't help but gaze at him with your breath quickening and your lips slightly parted. You can feel yourself getting so wet as you feast your eyes on his big pecs and those stomach muscles, with hairs curling on his chest. Your eyes drift down, taking in his abs, your mouth watering at the sight of that little happy trail down his belly, leading to his prominent erection hiding under his pants.
There's no reason to waste any more time when you have him right there. You push him down onto his back, arching slightly as you bend down, covering his chest and stomach with hot kisses.
“I–I've dreamt of this,” He pants, his voice cracking into a small mewling sound that crawls up his throat when you press a sweet kiss right over his heart. “Every night since the river, the night at the tent… I thought— I thought I was losing my mind.”
His hands, so big and eager, grasp your backside, pressing you down against him.
“It is not a dream,” you assure him, raising yourself up just enough above him to be able to whisper in his ear. “You have me right here to take, my love.”
He may feel that he could cum just from the way you pronounce the term of endearment, and how your teeth catch his earlobe in a nibble that teases the edge of pain, tugging at it playfully, proving to him that he indeed was not dreaming.
Duncan fumbles with the amber silk ties of your gown, his breathing coming in harsh hitches.
When the fabric finally gives way, revealing your shoulders and the swell of your breasts, Dunk freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with a worship that borders on the sacred.
He seems to have forgotten how to breathe. His hands tremble against your skin as the gown falls, baring your shoulders beneath the golden light of the tent. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, you lean forward, letting your hair brush over his bare chest before drifting up to his neck.
“You smell so fucking good, Dunk…” you whisper against his warm skin, your warm breath sending a shiver like lightning down his spine. “Is it mint?”
He is red-faced and breathless, lifting his chin to grant you full access to his neck, “A–aye, I thought you'd like it”
“I love it,” you recognized, pleased.
You trail your nose to the hollow of his collarbone, where the mingled scent of mint and man is strongest.
It is not enough for you to only breathe him in; you let the tip of your tongue glide slowly, drawing a wet, burning line from the base of his throat up to the shell of his ear. You taste the salt of his skin, the raw trace of desire that seems to rise from every one of his pores.
The man lets out a broken groan, his head falling back against the furs of the bed as his fingers dig hard into your thighs. He feels as though he might come apart only from this alone.
Your tongue keeps exploring, licking with deliberate wetness along the tense muscle of his neck, marking your claim upon that colossal body that now feels entirely yours under you.
“Seven hells…” he pants, his voice fracturing as all semblance of composure deserts him.
Your lips find the frantic thrum of the pulse in his neck, and you suckle softly at the skin before dragging your tongue once more over the mark you are leaving through his skin. He arches beneath you and you can feel him throbbing, pressing up against your inner thigh.
“Do not stop, f–fuck—” he pleads, the words thickening into a low roar as his hands slide up your back to crush you against him. “Please, love… don’t stop.”
A playful, wicked curve touches your lips as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye.
“Love...” you relish the word as if you were relishing him.
Duncan is sprawled across the bed, looking up at you with glassy eyes, “Is it okay? I don't intend to cross...”
“Shhh...”
With a flirtatious smile that promises both heaven and hell, you reach for the loosened laces of your bodice.
You don't take your eyes off him for a second, savoring the way his breath hitches as you shrug the amber silk from your shoulders. The gown slides down your curves in a soft hiss of fabric, passing down around your hips until you sit before him in nothing but the golden glow of the tent.
Dunk’s mouth hangs open, his throat working as he tries to swallow the sudden dryness there, taking in the breathtaking sight of you bare upon him.
Your hands do not hesitate to reach for his breeches, tugging playfully at the waistband. Without breaking eye contact, you pull them down his legs; as you do, his manhood leaps free from its confinement, so big, leaking, and utterly desperate for you.
“What do you do to me those dreams of yours, Duncan?” you ask, your fingers tracing a slow path up his thick thighs, grazing the sensitive skin with the sharp, teasing edge of your nails.
“In my dreams…,” he rasps, his hoarse voice fracturing into a small, broken moan as he feels your fingers drumming against his skin, inching ever closer to his leaking cock. “I–I dream of your heat, and— and of the sounds you might make when I finally find my way inside. And of how I ruin you for everyone else.”
As you look up to him, Dunk’s pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue of his eyes, leaving only a dark, shimmering hunger.
And then, your fingers finally close around him, firm and knowing, he let out a choked, desperate whimper.
You shift your weight, sliding down his body until you are kneeling between his thighs. The smell of him, raw and masculine, is overwhelming, mixed with the sharp scent of the mint on your own breath.
“Then ruin me, Ser Duncan.”
You don't hesitate; you lean forward, taking him into your mouth with a deliberate, slow suction around the tip that makes his pretty eyes roll back in his head.
“Fuck—” he cries out, his hands slamming down to grip your hair and guide you as your pretty lips attempt to swallow his head.
You take him deeper, your tongue tracing the length of him, savoring his salty taste through his leaking seed.
Dunk’s hips buck off the furs, his breath hitching into a series of broken, jagged sobs as you work him with skilled movements of your tongue and mouth. Your own moans vibrating around him as you take him deep in your throat.
“I cannot…” he groans at that, his fingers tighten in your hair as the world begins to dissolve around him. “I can’t hold, love… p–please…”
He thrusts his hips upward with a sudden, desperate strength, driven by a lifetime of repressed longing. You don’t pull back; instead, you use your hands to steady his thick thighs and take him even deeper, your throat tightening around him in a way that sends him over the precipice.
You feel the hot, heavy pulse of him against your tongue, the salty heat of his release flooding your mouth as he spills himself down your throat. So much that you struggle a little bit to swallow it all.
When you finally pull back, a thin, milky thread of him still connects with your plump lips.
Looking down at you from above, his eyes clouded with pleasure, Dunk feels his cock twitching, hardening once more at the overstimulating, overwhelming sight.
He reaches down with a trembling hand, his thumb catching the stray drop at the corner of your mouth, before slowly tracing his finger in between your lips, refusing to let any of him be lost anywhere but in your throat.
You eagerly suck on his finger, swallowing everything he gives you as if it were the finest wine.
“Come here,” he commands gently, his voice so hoarse, guiding you as you climb over his body so he can draw you closer and claim your mouth in a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.
You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, still tasting the lingering scent of mint on his skin.
“My father was lying, you know?” you confess, your thumb brushing over his cheekbones, tracing away a few drops of sweat off his flushed skin. Your tone is light, but your eyes are serious. “When he said all that about me having so many lovers.”
Dunk’s hand, which had been idly stroking your back, freezes. His eyes go wide, the blue returning to them as the pupils finally contract. “You mean… there weren't… princes? Lords?”
“Oh, there were suitors,” you laugh softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the tip of his nose. “Dull, preening men who bored me to tears. But there were no lovers, Dunk. Not until a certain a big hedge knight sneaked into my tent.”
You watch the realization wash over him, the way his shoulders lose their tension, the way a flush creeps up his neck.
Your mouth find his once again. “I wanted you to know. I didn’t want you carrying that in your silly head.”
Duncan breathes heavily, resentfully patting your ass with his palms. “You Baratheons are wicked.”
Your cheeky laugh warms his bones.
“Needed something to happen so I could finally do this.”
He kisses you, needing nothing more, crushing you against his body in a tight embrace, “You didn't need to do anything. You always had me ”
Whatever catastrophes could arise, he knows that none can be as devastating as this storm. You.
And for Dunk, that feels like more than he ever dared hope for.
—summary: trapped in a radio station with the world about to end, you and steve decide there’s no better time than now to give in to desire, curiosity, and years of unspoken yearning —and because you need to know if the rumors about his measurements are true!
—pairing: steve harrington x female!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), friends to lovers, established pining, idiots in love, suggestive banter, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, some porn with some plot, big dick!steve, p in v sex, radio booth sex!!!, unprotected sex, creampie, body worship, praise kink, size kink, aftercare, steve being cocky and shy
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“It's too big, it won't fit” Dustin openly expresses his disagreement with Hopper's absurd plan to fly a whole helicopter into the center of the wormhole.
“Steve hears that all the time, and he goes in anyway,” Robin remarks in a suggestive tone, smiling knowingly at her friend, “don't you, Steve?”
After that, she winks at you.
Steve is frowning, baffled and entirely dissatisfied with what Robin just said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Murray, sitting on the couch right in front of him is smirking, his eyes wandering between yours and Steve's, and vice versa, puffing out a knowing chuckle.
“It's funny,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
You bite your lower lip, struggling to hold back laughter, feeling your cheeks grow warm as you sense Steve's gaze on you now.
So you just choose to play dumb. As usual.
You've heard about it, of course, many times before. Robin has told you over and over how over-sized Steve is, emphasizing that he would be exactly what you need, ever since you told her about your miserable and unsatisfying sex life.
The best fuck of your life, possibly.
“Ten out of ten,” she would say, shrugging her shoulders at your face, all contorted with skepticism and flushed with embarrassment. “That's what I heard.”
And unable to really say anything in his own defense, he smacks Murray on the shoulder, trying to get the man to stop giggling like a witch, but instead, he laughed even harder.
Steve's mouth opens and closes, stammering out a response.
“It's very funny,” he repeats, glancing at you this time and nodding his head.
Steve doesn't deny it either, you notice.
The conversation about the final plan against Vecna and the end of the world carries on all around you, but you can no longer really focus on that.
Instead, all you can concentrate on is Steve's scent invading your nose, the perfect opening in his sweater neckline that wraps around his neck, his left hand twitching on his knee, and his other hand reaching across the backrest of the couch where you are seated to support his own weight. But his fingers seem to have a different purpose and they graze your shoulder. Intimate, complicit.
One touch of him has you as horny as the fucking midsummer sun.
How could you possibly pause to think about the potential apocalypse in six hours when you're falling downward in a spiral from the slightest touch of his fingertips on your shoulder?
His closeness is suffocating, his body heat mingling with yours, making the room feel unbearably hot.
It's not until about forty minutes later that Steve is bold enough to look at you again, offering you a small, sheepish smile and sweeping his hand across his neck as he walks toward you with purposeful little steps.
He looks so good with that ridiculous backwards trucker cap that you have to physically restrain yourself from bouncing on him right there.
“Hey, look, I—I'm sorry about Robin. She's been acting weird about—” His voice falters as the air is knocked out of his lungs the moment you lock eyes with him, looking up at him so intensely that he is literally left speechless for a long moment. “About– about us. I've been telling her to stop sticking her nose in, but she's—well, she's Robin, you know her and—”
He keeps chattering uncontrollably, his brown eyes wandering down to your hips, appreciating what a great fit those jeans are on you. You look so hot in your monster-slaying outfit that it's making his face turn bright red and distracted.
“Is it true?” you interrupt him right there, because you don't have more time to waste. I mean, time is running out for all of you right now.
But you need to know.
His mouth gapes open in confusion. “W–what?”
“Is it really that big?”
Steve's brain short-circuits.
Completely. Catastrophically.
His jaw doesn't just drop; it hangs there as he stares at you, his eyes darting to your lips and then back to your eyes, searching for the slightlest hint that reveals that you're really joking.
But you aren't. And he just realizes it.
He glances around to see if there is anyone nearby, but fortunately for both of you, you are all alone. Finally.
Then Steve steps closer to you, his face morphing into one that expresses complicity and yearning and need.
“You really want to talk about this right now?” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through you. “With the world ending in, like, six hours?”
“Especially because the world is ending,” you consider, your voice surprisingly steady despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. “When then, if not now, Steve?”
Steve reaches out, his thumb finally finding the skin of your neck, tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing slowness.
“You want it now?” he has the nerve to ask, when you're looking at him like that, as if he were the center of the entire universe, as if the world weren't ending, as if everything weren't collapsing around you. “You want me?”
Twenty minutes later, he is only just pushing the swollen tip of his massive cock into you and you already have tears brimming in the corners of your pretty eyes.
He has you sprawled out on the desk in the radio booth—his idea, since no one could hear you there even if you screamed, which you would, he had promised.
Your shirt is tossed somewhere, along with your jeans and panties and bra. You don't even know where your shoes might be.
You're too busy trying to let your body relax and let him in. Because, holy shit, he's big. Big, big.
“F–fuck,” you whine out, feeling his pulse thrumming wildly under your palm clutched to his shoulder. “It's too big, Steve—”
“Shh, you've got this, princess.” He soothes you, pressing little loving kisses on your flushed cheeks, his lips wiping away every trace of tears. “Aw, it's okay. You're doing so well, so well.”
Steve groans as he pushes forward, just a little, because you're already crying into his neck, big tears falling down your cheeks now. The air leaves your lungs with every ragged whimper that crawls up your throat, every time he forces another inch deeper into your tight pussy.
“Hmm—!” you moan, your head thumping back against a radio monitor. “Oh my fucking God...”
You look heavenly under him him, with your legs spread, the gates of paradise wide open for him.
And he's massive, filling you so perfectly that you feel your insides stretching to their absolute limit.
“I know, I know,” he coos into your ear, his voice strained and thick with the effort of holding back. He is being so patient and good to you. “Just breathe for me, baby— fuck— just breathe. Let me in, yeah?”
Because he knows he can't just dive in. He needs to open you up, that you adjust to his size, to make sure this doesn't hurt you, Steve wants to make things right with you after all.
With a shaky motion he pulls back just an inch and slides down a little more, his knees opening yours wider.
“Doing so well for me, baby. So good, I–I'm halfway there,” he's praising you in soft, trembling whispers, placing gentle, affectionate kisses all over your tear-stained cheeks. “I'm going to go in a little deeper, o–okay? Just a little more, mhm...”
You nod your head eagerly, gripping his shoulders, clawing at his back, and forcing him closer to you. Your legs wrap around his hips, urging him to thrust deeper.
He sinks in deep —all the way to the hilt— in one smooth, heavy thrust. Your eyes roll back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.
He's so big you can feel him in your fucking throat. You can feel your guts rearranging to fit his shape, molding and squeezing him so deliciously that you've got Steve whimpering on your chest, soaking your skin with drool and tears.
“There you go,” Steve whispers, his forehead dropping against your tits, “I'm all yours now. Taking me so fucking good, like no one else, f–fuck, baby. Still so fucking tight— fuck”
Steve's hands are shaking as they grip the edge of the desk on either side of your hips, his knuckles white as he tries to anchor himself. The feeling of being entirely encased by you, of your warmth and your tightness clamping down on his length, has his self-control hanging by a single, frayed thread.
“Steve...” you sob out, the sensation so overwhelming it's almost dizzying. “Don't... don't stop. Move— please, ohh—”
He is a good boy, so pulls back very slowly, just a little. The friction make your hips hitch off the desk, and then—he drives right back in.
Steve isn't just fucking you; he's claiming you, taking everything he possibly can of you, reaching your soul and lifting you to unknown heights. Every inch of him slides against your gummy walls with a perfect fit, hitting that special sweet spot of yours every time he bottoms out.
“You're... I—” he chokes, his voice breaking as he starts to pick up the pace.
Every time he bottoms out, his hips slap against yours with a wet, filthy sound that echoes off the metal equipment in such a pornographic way that has you all worked up and shivering.
Slap, slap, slap!
“I— I can't— you're so t-tight,” he slurs, his eyes blown wide and glassy with pleasure. “So perfect”
He looks perfect. For some absurd reason, his hair looks flawless, even though you're constantly pulling, ruffling, and tugging at it. His hands, big and veiny and craving you, cling to your flesh, marking it, claiming it, pawing at your hips, your ass, your waist. He's out of control, he finally has you there, all for himself, at his mercy and will. To touch, to kiss, to fuck, to claim as his own.
His hands caress a path down to your thighs, hiking them higher onto his shoulders to get an even deeper angle. Although his eyes display a sense of uncontrolled ferocity, his treatment is careful and gentle.
The shift allows Steve to bury himself to the all the way into the deepest part of your core, his pelvic bone grinding against yours as he sinks inside you. You let out a broken, high-pitched cry, your fingers tangling in his hair once again, pulling him down so you can find his mouth.
When your lips meet, the kiss is messy and desperate. It tastes like salt and heat and longing and love.
Steve moans right into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound that you feel in your chest. He's moving faster now, his breaths coming in short, jagged hitches.
He's hitting that spot again, more firmly, more determinedly—the one that makes your vision go blurry and your toes curl into the air.
“Steve—” you gasp into the heat of his mouth, your body vibrating with the intensity of it all. “I need— I need more!”
“More?” he purrs, incredulous and playful.
He pulls out of you with a wet, loud pop that makes you whimper at the sudden coldness and emptiness he left behind, but before you can even protest and whine about it, his big hands are on your body again, hoisting you up.
“There you go, sugar,” he coos softly, “Yeah, mhm, just like that.”
He spins you around, your palms slamming onto the cluttered surface of the desk. You lean forward, your chest almost touching the wood, scattering papers and radio logs as you find your footing.
You're bent over, your spine arching perfectly, presenting yourself to him in a way that makes Steve let out a low, animalistic growl.
From this angle, he can see everything—the plumpness of your ass, open for him, the line of your spine, the gaping hole of your pulsating pussy, the wreckage that he himself has made in there.
“Look at you,” Steve breathes out in awe, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, before tentatively slapping one of your ass cheeks, grunting at the sight of the jiggling under his palm.
He hisses as he slides a teasing finger along your folds, your pussy responding instantly to him and sucking him in on instinct.
“Look at her. You look so fucking good like this.”
Steve doesn't give you a chance to bitch about it, stopping your ass from wiggling back in search of him ravenously and just lines himself up and lunges back into your pussy, his massive length sliding back inside you in one devastatingly deep stroke.
He gazes at the way your folds stretch around his bulbous head, drool dripping from his half-open lips.
At the new position, he’s hitting your cervix with every thrust, sending jolts of pure electricity straight through your spine up to your brain.
“Oh! Steve!” you babble his name over and over, with your voice cracking. You grab whatever you can over the desk so hard your knuckles turn white, your head hanging low as you watch your own reflection blurred in the glass of the radio monitors. You're a mess. “Baby, fuck— right there!”
He’s relentless now. With his hands firmly anchored on your hips, he uses you as leverage, pulling you back onto him every time he drives forward.
“I've got you,” he answers your cries immediately, kissing down the point where your ass meets your back, “I've got you, baby.”
He's looking in awe the way your body is reacting to him, lowering his gaze to the space where his body connects with yours, admiring the sight of your pussy stretching out all around him, forming a white, creamy line around the girth of his cock.
You're taking every inch of him as if you were made for this. For him.
“You like that?” Steve snarls cockily, one of his hands landing on your lower back and forcing you to arch it for him as he notices that you are begin to squeeze impossibly. You are close. “Is it big enough for you, hm?”
“Yes—yes, please— oh, Steve!”
He obviously has you cumming sooner than you can blink. And it's a earth-shattering, soul-shaking, life-changing orgasm.
Your breath comes in ragged sobs, your vision spotting with white crazy shapes, you feel like you're floating off into the distance.
“Baby,” Steve is calling your name in a breathless whispers behind you, noticing you're still on cloud ten, shaking like jelly underneath him, so much that he has to hold you tightly by your hips, “where—”
“Inside,”you manage to croak. “Cum inside, I need it, please. Cum in me—”
You're hardly finished formulating the words when he delivers one brutal, final thrust, sinking so so hard inside you the desk groans under the weight of his force. He's growling, sobbing, praying your name, and cursing, all at the same time.
“Oh, God—” he chokes out, his body seizing.
It is God. The way your pussy is clenching him, milking out every drop he has for you.
And he is cumming so much that his seed starts to leak out around the base of his cock. He is filling you to the absolute brim, spurting ropes after ropes. Then he lets out one last, shuddering breath of your name, burying his face between your shoulder blades,kissing your sweaty skin appreciatively.
Steve is whispering sweet words of praise, repeating over and over how good and perfect and gorgeous you are.
“Is this a terrible moment to ask you out for dinner?,” he sheepishly asks after just a few seconds of silence, a moment that feels comfortable and heartwarming.
His hands are caressing your sides reassuringly, fingers trembling as he waits quietly for a response from you and pulling away from your back, not without first pressing a shy, soft kiss upon your shoulder.
Shy. As if he weren't literally buried balls deep inside you, his cum oozing out of your pussy after filling you to the fucking brim.
You let out a low, dazed laugh that vibrates through the desk, your cheek still resting against it as you try to remember how to breathe. The contrast between the animalistic intensity of the last ten minutes and his sudden, boyish vulnerability is almost enough to make you cry all over again.
“Dinner?” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper, raspy from all the moans and cries and whimpers he got out of your throat. “Steve, if we survive tonight, you can take me wherever the hell you want.”
He lets out a relieved, shaky breath, almost too shy to look you in the eye. “It's a date then. Enzo's?”
He finally begins to withdraw, the sensation of him sliding out of you leaving you feeling cold and so empty that you have a sudden urge to start complaining. You can feel the warmth of his seed beginning to trickle down your thighs.
Steve is quick to help you up, his hands steadying your waist as your knees threaten to buckle. He cleans you up with a fresh towel he finds in a nearby drawer, his gestures and gaze full of concern and care.
“You okay?” he asks so gently.
His hands lingering on your waist to make sure you’re steady before he starts frantically scanning the floor for your clothes. The air in the booth is thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of what just happened, but the ticking clock of the apocalypse is finally starting to penetrate the bubble you’ve been in
“I've never been better,” you admit, smiling. You watch him getting dressed now while you sit on the desk. “So... Enzo's?”
“Enzo's. I’m gonna wear a suit. I’ll even get the hair extra perfect for you,” a goofy, lopsided grin spreading across his face at the mere possibility of a date with you. “You don't know how long I've waited for this.”
Steve draws back toward you, like a force of nature, and you reach out to him, your hands coming up to his neck. He watches you fix his jacket, his gaze softening.
You kiss him on the cheek and he is left breathless, with that goofy little smile on his lips. Your hands caress his chest affectionately, “Robin was right. Ten out of ten.”
His smile just keeps getting bigger, that classic, cocky Steve Harrington smirk returning to his face as he adjusts that trucker cap back over his hair. “Only ten? I'll have to try harder next time.”
—summary: as you continue courting him, dunk gets jealous of prince valarr, so you have to prove to him with a little gift that he's the only one you really want.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 3.6k
—content: fluff, slow burn romance, dunk is so pathetic for the reader😭, egg's appearance, intense sexual tension, jealous!dunk, a LOT of yearning, they want each other so bad, but dunk has to work for it, manipulative!reader (not malicious really), knight x princess trope, they hug!!!
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Dunk can't forget you.
You are everywhere.
In every flower that blooms among the grass, in every shooting star that lights up the dark night sky when he gazes at it from his camp, in every bright yellow flame of the fire, alive and blazing. Even when he closes his eyes— when he blinks or sleeps; there you are behind his eyelids, a celestial goddess, beautiful and eternal. So far away and yet so close.
He is clearly spellbound. And he wonders, basically every few minutes, if there are other men out there around the world dealing with exactly the same situation as him. Because the Stormflower is as charming as she is gorgeous. Any man would swoon at your feet.
Even him.
And it's been barely a day since he last spoke to you.
And since that, Ser Duncan has been desperate, searching for you in crowds, in the darkness of night, through countless forgettable faces.
At the jousts, at the market, in places where he and the Seven know you would not be. But still, he keeps looking for you.
From his position among the standing crowd of commoners, Dunk looks up at the royal pavilion. And this time, he doesn't have to struggle to catch sight of your face; his eyes are instantly drawn to you, magnetized.
And there you are, radiating beauty, a shining jewel wrapped in silk with the proud, glorious Baratheon colors.
And by your side, stands Prince Valarr Targaryen.
Valarr had just stepped down from his horse after a mediocre performance in the tournament's first joust. He has removed his helmet, setting his pretty dark hair loose.
You are watching him laugh at something you have said, consoling him over his poor display and for that, with a confidence that only birthright can afford, he reaches for your hand and presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His two-toned eyes burn with an elegant timidity as he whispers something in your ear that makes you tilt your head toward him, smirking.
Dunk clenches his fists and can vaguely hear Egg nagging him about how stiff he has become, but he just ignores him. He feels a stinging, bitter ache in his gut that has nothing to do with hunger. Hunger surely doesn't hurt as much.
Because Valarr seems like the perfect match for you. A prince for a lady. Gold for gold.
“Looks like the Stormflower has found herself a dragon to pollinate her,” a heavily drunk man beside him teased, nudging Dunk. “What a pair they make, eh, big guy?”
Duncan doesn't respond to the drunk. He doesn't even look at him.
His eyes remain fixed on you.
And the way Valarr leans his head toward yours. The way his hand lingers a second too long on your own.
All of it sticks in Duncan like a splinter under his skin.
This isn't his place to feel this, he tells himself. This isn't his world. You belong in the high courts, to silk, to a prince.
Dunk clenches his jaw so tightly that he feels his teeth grind together, and watches as Valarr, the Young Prince, the pride of the crown, flashes a smile that seems to contain all the sunshine of Westeros.
“Let's go, Ser,” Egg urges, tugging impatiently at his tunic. “If you stand there any longer, you'll put down roots, and we need to see if the horses have eaten.”
What right does he have to feel hurt just because a prince kisses a lady's hand?
The next day, whitin the main dining tent there is a chaos of thunderous singing and clinking mugs.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon is at the center of it all, dancing on a table and clinging to a lamp hanging from the ceiling to keep from losing his balance. His dark beard stained with wine and a mug full of ale in his other hand, his crown of antlers is perched on his head and he bare from the waist to the neck.
He's so drunk that it's almost shameful. But it's better this way, you try to reason with yourself, as he barely pays any attention to you and you can pretty much do whatever you want.
He and his drunken crowd are singing some song about a crippled girl named Alice. It's as scandalous as it is obscene, although you're not paying much attention to the lyrics the drunks are slurring all around you.
From a distance, you observe that Ser Duncan is doing his best to pass unnoticed, seated at one of the tables, while simultaneously scanning through the sea of unfamiliar and irrelevant faces, searching for a glimpse of you.
Beside him sits a young bald boy, talking to him about something, but your big man seems not to be very interested in his conversation.
A moment later, you decide to appear among the crowd like a ray of serene light in the eye of the storm.
Without saying a word, you walk up to the big knight and gently touch his shoulder.
“I found you, Ser Duncan,” you greet him, with a smile of complicity.
“My lady!” he exclaims, putting down his mug of ale on the table and offering you a quick bow and as he does, he almost knocks over the bench, making a couple of noble folks look at him with displeasure.
The boy sitting next to him looks at you with wide, amazed eyes, clearly surprised.
“Oh my, so the love story you told me was real, then—?”
Dunk nudges him so hard that the poor boy almost gets knocked off his feet, and he remains rubbing his side with a grimace of pain, but quiet.
“Lady Baratheon, this is my squire, Egg,” Duncan announces in a peculiarly high-pitched voice that causes the young boy to look up at him in curiosity and then, he lightly pats him on the shoulder, “Egg, stand up, lad”
Egg gracefully bows, offering you a small, shy smile. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Baratheon.”
You smile back at him, “It's a pleasure, Egg. I hope you're being treated well.” You give a courteous bow to him. “You seem hungry, darling. I informed the cooks to bring you a big plate of food. It should be here shortly.”
The boy nods enthusiastically, delighted with your kindness, “Thank you very much, my lady.”
Your gaze then returns to Ser Duncan, who has been looking at you in awe practically since you appeared in his line of sight. “Come with me, Ser Duncan. Let’s find some peace while we leave Egg to eat undisturbed, shall we?”
Dunk just stands there, looking at you dumbfounded, his bright blue eyes coming down to the hand you are holding out to him.
“Don't just stand there looking like a fool, go!” Egg says to him under his breath.
And then, he nudges the tall man with his little foot to make him accept the hand you are offering to him.
“V–very well,” Dunk finally stammers, smiling goofily at you, and he follows you like a loyal little dog, of course, as obedient as ever. “My— my lady”
You guide him through the crowd, walking past your father, who doesn't even spare a glance to notice that you're heading out with a man twice his size clinging to your hand like a lost puppy.
Instead of questioning anything at all, Lord Lyonel just points at Dunk and bursts out laughing, making the young knight blush.
You walk together beside a branch of the river, far from the noise of everyone else at Ashford Meadow.
Your dress is stunning today, dark in color and accented with glimmering golden details on your shoulders and down your back. Your skin reflects the sun's gentle glow, looking so ethereal that Dunk simply can't help but sneak glances at you every time he takes a small step or two to match your own pace.
“My lady,” Duncan struggles to form words, which come out as a strange, deep croak. “About the other night, I–I wanted to apologize. I had been drinking and eating a lot, and— and I did not mean to cause any trouble at all. To you or—or to your father.”
You let out a soft giggle, and the sound pierces Dunk like the most accurate arrow. He blinks, confused and pathetically hopeful.
“There's nothing to apologize for, Ser Duncan,” you reassure him sweetly, motioning for him to come closer, and trying to encourage him to be more relaxed now that you're just the two of you in the woods. “I just wanted to see you again. I really enjoy your company.”
“My company?” he echoes, huffing softly, clearly unable to believe it. “Prince Valarr… he seemed very interested in you yesterday. You seem perfect for each other. He can offer you castles, lands, and… and noble titles. He’s a good knight.”
The sudden switch in the conversation has you intrigued, and you glance up at him with a glimpse of a playful smile.
“Yes, and yet he's terrible with lances,” you joke lightheartedly, bringing a chuckle out of him with your frankness. He knows it's true. “But he gives me what is expected of him. And I have plenty of lands and titles already, Ser.”
You can sense the way his blue eyes wander down your body as you walk by his side, marveling at the perfect fit of that dress, the fabric hugging your curves so perfectly. His pupils dilate as they pass over the sway of your hips and the contour of your bust.
You know it's something he does out of primal instinct, as he clears his throat, forcing his eyes back up to your face.
“He... he is a prince,” Dunk eventually manages to say, his voice even deeper with nerves. “I am just a hedge knight. From nowhere.”
“Valarr is a charming prince, it's true,” you acknowledge with a gentle smile. “But princes already have everything they need. I prefer to invest my attention in someone who truly deserves it. Someone who protects others even when they have nothing but their honor.”
“You kissed him…” he suddenly accuses, regretting it immediately.
You release a bright laugh that makes his heart skip a beat. “He kissed my hand, Dunk. That's what princes do when they want something.”
You come to an abrupt halt, and that causes him to stop as well, turning his body to face you, looking genuinely perplexed.
“What do you want from me then, m’lady?” he asks in a husky whisper. “Why is it that I am here and not the prince?”
“You know why, Ser Duncan,” you answer, looking up at him with knowing eyes, bright with longing. “We're friends, remember?
His lips pronounce your name with no formality for the first time, barely a whisper, close to a prayer, a plea for mercy.
“And if you're so jealous of princes, why didn't you come looking for me then?” you ask in return, raising an eyebrow.
Dunk blushes, caught off guard by your question. For a moment, it looks like he's going to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat.
Because of course he has been looking for you, ever since he last saw you. He has been looking everywhere for you.
“Because... because I didn't know if I had the right,” he finally confesses, sheepishly lowering his gaze, as if ashamed of his own thoughts, but you step closer to him, enough to make him look up again and meet your eyes. “I didn't want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
“And you think I'm not already uncomfortable?” you ask. “I saw you looking at me from afar, Dunk. I'm not blind.”
Duncan nervously rubs his neck with his big hand beneath your attentive gaze. It's impossible to hide anything from you, not when you look at him like that, with that dangerous combination of sweetness and cunning. You're sharper than anyone he's ever met, quick-witted and perceptive.
Quite the opposite of him, who considers himself a big, foolish brute.
“I... I didn't mean to disrespect you,” he blurts out, defensively, like he's guilty of a crime made up in his head. “A lady like you shouldn't be pursued by a man like me.”
“Pursued?” you exclaim, placing a hand on your chest in exaggerated alarm. “Good Seven! Ser Duncan, is that what you believe we are doing here?”
Before he can even formulate some sort of convincing rebuttal, you're already speaking again. And Dunk remains perfectly silent, content to listen to you talk and even happier that you're talking to him at all.
“I'd say you're avoiding me,” you correct, tilting your head, with a little pout on your lips that makes you appear upset. “And that's much crueler, don't you think, my sweet Dunk?”
Duncan is overwhelmed. He absolutely loves the way you say that lovely term of endearment. He would have beaten up anyone else who dared to call him such a name, but you, Seven Hells, it's a dream come true. The most beautiful dream.
“Cruel?” He raises his eyebrows as he denies with his head, gulping loudly, “No! No, I–I would never do anything to make you feel hurt, m–my lady”
“But you did,” you argue, looking up at him through your long lashes. “You left me searching for you in the crowds. You left me wondering if I had said or done something wrong.”
That hits him right in the heart. As he opens his eyes wide, they become a deeper shade of blue—filled with remorse and despair.
It's like a little game for you. Teasing him like that, luring him in, lifting him up in the air and then letting him fall into the palm of your delicate hand.
Because last time, you told him you'd find him, and now you're reproaching him for not finding you.
Dunk is falling into a spiral, not understanding you at all. And still, he's quick to apologize.
“No!” he gasps, unconsciously taking a small step toward you, his fingers hesitating to reach for your arm to comfort you. “Never. I would never think that of you.” His face is as red as the crimson flowers blooming around you. “It’s just that... when I see you with princes and lords, I feel out of place. Like I'm watching a story that doesn't belong to me.”
You bite your lower lip, holding back a smile as you turn away, pretending to be more interested in watching the river flow than him.
“And who decided that?” you demand to know, turning your back on him, interlacing your hands below your stomach. “The king? The Seven? Or just you, Duncan?”
“I just know my place, my lady,” he tells you, with that near-painful honesty. You hear his feet barely stumble as he stands beside you, studying your side profile, “And it’s not next to a woman like you.”
“What a silly thing to say,” you eventually look at him, a little smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Because here you are. By my side. Without anyone kicking you out.”
He is looking at you like you're the eighth goddess of the world, his eyes catching the light reflecting off the waters of the river and capturing the radiance of your energy, of your beauty, absorbing it all in.
“Besides,” you continue, playfully, “if princes are so wonderful... why do you think I rejected the wonderful Prince Valarr? And why do you think I escaped from a tent full of drunken nobles just to come walk with you by the river?”
If it's a kind of puzzle, he's hopeless. Duncan is terrible at puzzles.
“B-because... because you're very kind,” he attempts to give you the answer you expect, his voice breaking pathetically.
You chuckle under your breath, holding his gaze, “Well, I'm not kind to everyone. Only the ones who are lucky enough.”
As you finish speaking, you hook your arm through his and pull him along beside you, snuggling happily up against his bicep. You can feel how muscular he is beneath the thin, cheap fabric of his shirt.
For some reason, that makes you blush, and you try to hide it by admiring the beautiful forest scenery around you.
“My lady, I—I shouldn't—”
“I shouldn't what?” you cut him off, amused. “Enjoy my company? Walk with me?”
Defeated, he sighs tremulously, bending his arm to allow you to be comfortably leaning up against him as you walk together. As you get closer, he can smell the sweet scent of your hair, feel the skin of his hand brush against yours, the fabric of your dress brushing against his leg.
A tingling sensation runs up his thigh all the way to—
“Tell me something, Ser Duncan,” your voice once again cuts through the growing tension that reigns between you, a tightness that hangs over your shoulders and makes your belly flutter. “A knight as... impressive as you, how many ladies are waiting for him? How many favors do you already have tied to your armor for this tournament?”
He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, and the movement causes the muscles in his arms to flex, attracting your eyes to them.
“Favors?” he stammers. “I... I don't have any, my lady. No lady has ever given me anything, unless you count an old woman at a tavern who gave me an extra piece of bread for moving a barrel. But I don't think that counts for the tournament.”
“None? In all of Westeros?” you tease sweetly, clicking your tongue skeptically. “I don't believe it. With that size and those eyes... any lady at court would be delighted to have you wear her colors.”
“I'm not elegant, my lady,” he scoffs with bitter humor, looking down at you, clinging to his arm, so pretty and so small next to him that the thought makes his head spin. “You must know that. And a man like me can't just wander around begging for a lady's favor”
“You don't have to beg, Dunk,” you taught him, bringing your hand to your own neck, where severeal small golden silk ties held your black cloak in place. “You just have to know how to ask for it.”
You untie the small golden silk bow that holds your cloak closed, letting the fabric slip slightly off your shoulders, and hold the cloth between your fingers, right in front of his eyes.
As you do all that, he stands still once more, but he doesn't step away from you. Instead, he just remains there, open-mouthed, marvelling at your actions.
“Say it, Ser Duncan,” you whisper, leaning in so close that your breath brushes his arm. “A knight cannot be shy if he wants a lady to give him her heart. Ask me.”
Dunk swallows loudly, and you see his Adam's apple rise and fall with difficulty, trapping the hasty words that are rushing up his throat. His blue gaze fall to the silk and then rises to your eyes, finding in them an invitation that no one had ever made to him before.
“My lady... would you—would you do me the honor of... of granting me your favor?” He is so obedient to you, such a good boy. “I will defend it with my life, I swear. I shall not bring you dishonor.”
“Much better,” you praise him in a velvety voice and he buzzes as he hears it.
Then you slip closer to him, carefully folding your golden silk cloth and tucking it into one of his vest's pockets, never breaking eye contact.
When you finished, you don't let go of him just yet, instead, you move your hand up his chest, smoothing the pocket close to the place of his heart, until you reached the nape of his neck, forcing him to lower his head toward you and then you bring your hand up to his face and gently brushing a strand of his sun-kissed hair away from his forehead.
He snuggles up against your gentle touch, letting his eyes close for a moment and bending down as much as necessary for you to reach him easily.
“You make me feel special,” his lips pronounce your name with more certainty now, a greater sense of belonging and love.
He's so sweet to you. It almost makes you feel bad for teasing him so much. A trait you inherited directly from your father. To tease and joke.
“Dunk...” you murmur, and there is no mockery or trickery in your voice. Only warmth. “You already are special. Not because I say so. Because you are. Different. I knew it from the first time I saw you in my father's tent."
He takes a deep breath, as if he needs courage for what comes next. His large hands hover in the air, awkward, uncertain, as if they don't know where to go next.
“My lady,” his voice is low and shy, yet he is courageous enough to hold your gaze, “may I?”
You only nod, accompanied by a soft smile.
And upon your approval, Dunk carefully pulls you close in a warm embrace with his strong arms.
His arms close around you with such gentleness that it is surprising for someone so big. He pulls you close to his chest, with the same delicacy a gentleman would treat his most precious possession.
Naturally, you hug him back, pressing your face against his chest. That allows you to hear his heartbeat. It's fast. Strong. Nervous.
Dunk lowers his head slightly, resting his cheek close to your hair, breathing in your scent as if he wants to engrave it in his memory forever.
It gives the feeling of a forbidden and dangerous act, yet at the same time, it feels so right and warm.
It feels right, to be safe in the arms of him, with your cheek snuggled against his body. His pecs press against your face, his back is broad under your grasp, his muscles tense as you let your hands explore his body.
His own hands roam over your body, gliding over the curve of your waist, sliding up your spine, bringing chills of pleasure along their tender path.
At that moment, you realize that you shall not endure a single day without feeling the arms of your sweet knight all around you.
