you've got this sprawling farmhouse he built with his own two hands, a wrap-around porch he designed specifically so you could sit in your rocking chair with a glass of iced tea and watch him work the fields shirtless and sweaty...yum
he’s the backbone of the small town. when old mrs. gable’s fence breaks, he’s there with his tools and a charming, shy grin, refusing any payment!!! when the town needs to raise money for the library, he donates whatever he can and offers some beef cattle and works the grill at the fundraiser all day. all the little ones know you by name and bring you pictures of 'mr. dunk's big tractor'...
he comes in, covered in dust and sweat, his muscles aching from a 12-hour day and smelling like sun, sweat and soil. he finds you in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and baked apples. you hand him a cold beer, and press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.
AND after he's wrestled your toddler into bed and read them three stories because he's a total pushover, he comes back downstairs.
he finds you clearing the table, doesn't say a word, just walks up behind you, his large hands gripping your hips, and bends you over the dining room table. He pushes your skirt up, pulls your panties aside, and fucks you dumb right there in your little kitchen whispering sweet nothings. the window shades wide open!!!
Chubby!Dunk on his knees admiring your bush before looking up at you asking if he can bury his face in it. When you say yes, he eagerly presses his face right into your mound and inhales deeply. He groans, your intoxicating, distinctly feminine scent making him dizzy with lust. His mouth waters, fingers spreading your cunt open before the warm width of his tongue glides from your hole to your little nub. He laps your slick hole a few times, tasting your yummy pussy drool that he loves so much, before wrapping his lips on your clit and suckling at it.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ .
Note: MDNI! This dirty fantasy was plagueing me while napping and I had to get it out, hehehe…
so sorry if this is too freaky but jerking farmer!dunk into a milk pail. he just cums sooo much and it's always such a mess. maybe you even tie him up with one of your church ribbons so he can't fuss too much while he shoots blanks
ACTUALLY HELL YESSSS.
jerking farmer!dunk off into a milk pail! .☘︎ ݁˖
you had tied duncan to the chair with white ribbons snatched from our dresser drawer- crisp, pristine fabric wrapping around his wrists and ankles, holding him in place with a look that was equal parts helpless and aroused.
the milk pail sat on the floor between his spread legs, its metal gleaming in the dim light.
dunk was blushing beet red, his huge chest heaving as he tried to keep his hips still. he looked like a trapped beast, all muscle and power, but completely at your mercy.
"you're really going to make me do this?" he grumbled, his voice rough. "jerk me off into a pail of milk?"
"it's tradition," you teased, your small hands wrapping around his heavy, thick cock. it was already weeping pre-cum, a clear bead dripping down the veiny shaft.
dunk let out a low groan, his head falling back against the chair. "s'humiliating, sweetheart," he muttered, but his hips bucked into your hand, betraying him.
you didn't give him a chance to complain further. you started stroking him, slow and deliberate, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head.
he was a monster down there, thick and long, and the way he throbbed in your grip was incredible.
"my big strong man," you whispered. "so thick. so messy."
dunk groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. "don't stop," he breathed. "please."
you picked up the pace, your hands moving faster and faster, the sound of your fist slapping against his skin echoing in the barn. he was close, his whole body tensing, his muscles straining against the pretty ribbons that bound him.
"fuck here it comes," he gasped, his hips jerking off the chair. "'m gonna..."
he roared, a sound of pure release, as he came. and oh, did he cum.
it was a flood of white seed that shot from his cock with such force it splattered the bottom of the milk pail with a wet thwack. he kept cumming, spurt after spurt, filling the pail.
and with your hands guiding his cock as best you could, some of his cum ran down the sides of the pail and dripped onto the floor in a sticky mess.
dunk slumped back in the chair, his hairy chest heaving, completely drained.
you lifted the pail, showing him the sight of his seed mixed with some of the milk, swirling together. "look at that," you said, your voice light with amusement. "s'a lot of cum, honey!"
he opened his eyes, looking at the mess with a mixture of shame and satisfaction. "you're going to drink that," dunk said, his voice raspy but commanding even though his hands were tied.
he gestured with his chin toward the pail, a smirk playing on his lips. "c'mon now. all of it."
you let out a breath, looking at the metal pail. it was heavy and smelled slightly of him, salty and musky. you lifted it up, the liquid sloshing inside. dunk watched you with intense, dark eyes, his chest still heaving from his release.
you brought the rim to your lips and took a long, deep drink. the taste was thick and overwhelming, a mix of the cold milk and the hot fluid he had just deposited.
you swallowed, your cheeks flushing.
"aye, there you go." dunk groaned, watching your throat work. he shifted in his chair, his cock twitching slightly at the sight of you drinking his seed. "that's it. swallow every drop."
actually oh my goodness....he kisses so sweet and sloppy i loveeee this man okay so....
here are more of my thoughts and headcanons on that sweet farm-raised man. let me know if ya’ll would like me to elaborate on somethin!
modern!farmer!dunk hcs ୨ৎˎˊ˗
it's not a quaint little hobby farm. it's a serious operation. hundreds of acres of crops and a dedicated pasture for his small herd of beef cattle and horses. he's got a beat-up, mud-splattered 1970 ford f-250. the interior is surprisingly tidy though. his barn is a huge, well-kept structure, and his house is a sturdy, no-nonsense farmhouse that he built you with his own hands. it's clean, comfortable, and perfect for raising 7 muddy barefoot babies…
in town, he's known as "dunk the tank." he's a giant of a man, quiet and reserved, with a work ethic that's borderline legendary. he's underestimated, made to feel simple at times and maybe a little feared for his sheer size.
he's not a man of many words, but he's your good, honest man and he says a lot to you where it counts.
you had moved to the small town to escape the city. you find yourself in the little cottage on the edge of his property by the pre-school. your first meeting is him coming over to introduce himself because it's only neighborly to do so...and he did catch a glimpse of you moving in and it's not his fault his heartbeat rings in his ears every time he sees you tending to your garden!
so he's standing there, all almost 7'0" of him, looking like a brawny maypole in a flannel shirt, and says in a low rumble, "saw you got some trouble with the fence. i can fix that for you."
the talking stage…it's slow. so slow. he'll show up unannounced with a bag of fresh-picked vegetables and eggs or a cord of firewood "for the winter." he'll just lean against his truck, talking about the weather or the price of feed, while you try not to stare at the way his biceps strain against his sleeves.
his way of asking you out is, "the sweetpea diner's got good pie on fridays. i'll be there 'round seven. if you're...around." it's the most casual, non-committal invitation you've ever received, but the hope in his eyes is everything.
the first kiss… it happens on your porch swing after a dinner you had cooked for him as payment for fixing your fence…because he refused any sort of real payment.
you went for a sundown walk with him after dessert. and by the time he walks you back to your door, the silence is thick with unspoken things.
he stops, turns to you, and just looks at you for a long moment. then he leans down, and it's exactly as you imagine, sweet and sloppy. he's a little clumsy, like he's not sure of the angle, and his lips are soft and a little chapped.
he tastes like the cherry pie he had for dessert and black coffee. it's not a practiced, movie-perfect kiss, it's real and a little messy and so incredibly earnest it makes your heart ache. when he pulls back, his face is flushed and he looks so hopeful and nervous you have to pull him back down by his collar for another one.
once he's settled comfortably in the relationship, he's all about it. he's a man who works with his hands, and his love language is touch.
he's always got a hand on you. on the small of your back as you walk through the grocery store. on your thigh when you're sitting on the couch watching tv.
he'll come in from the fields, covered in dirt and sweat, and just wrap his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your neck and breathing you in. "you gotta shower dunk…" you smile and he replies with, "do you maybe want join me then?"
he loves to scoop you up. it's his favorite party trick. you'll be mid-sentence and he'll just hoist you over his shoulder like a sack of feed, laughing at your shrieks.
and in the bedroom…
oh, it's so good. he's all about giving pleasure. he could cum from watching you cum. you are like his own personal playboy centerfold.
he's strong and has insane stamina, but he's also surprisingly gentle. he's fascinated by your body, exploring every inch with his calloused hands.
he loves going down on you, and he's amazing at it, all sloppy and enthusiastic and completely dedicated to making you fall apart.
it takes you both a minute to work up to your pussy taking his cock fully. he's a talker in bed, all low praises and gruff commands. "that's it, take it," "that’s my fucking girl" "look at me pretty thing, look at me when you cum." all while clamping down hard cumming all over his girthy cock!!!
sooo dunk for sure has stretch marks from growing, naturally as anyone would if you grow pretty fast and of course muscle up, right? imagine tracing each others stretch marks while cuddling by the fire or in intimate moments.
I'm entranced by this big idiot I swear.
CUTEEE and absolutely!!! a man built like a mountain doesn't get that way without a few battle scars from his own body's rebellion.
you're curled up together on a thick fur rug in front of a crackling fire, the only light in the room. his shirt is off, and you're tracing the patterns on his skin.
your fingers find them first on his biceps, silvery, faint lines that run parallel to the muscle. they're almost invisible in the firelight, but you can feel the slight difference in texture. he's tense for a second, a reflex he can't quite suppress, when your touch drifts there.
"what are you doing?" he rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your ear.
"mapping you," you murmur back, your lips brushing against his shoulder.
you follow one line down his arm, then move to his shoulders where the marks are wider, more pronounced, like the earth cracking apart to make way for a mountain range.
"they aren’t strange to you?"
"they're not," you insist, your touch firm and sure. "they're proof. you grew so fast your own skin couldn't keep up. it tried, but you were just determined to become... this."
you trace the ones on his thighs, thick bands where the muscle and bone stretched towards the sky. he watches you, his dark eyes soft in the firelight, the perpetual furrow in his brow smoothed out by your gentle exploration. he's not used to being looked at with such care, especially not the parts of himself he sees as imperfect.
"and i love this…" you finish by pressing a sweet kiss to his neck,
then he surprises you. his large, calloused hand moves, not to stop you, but to find a faint, silvery line of your own on your hip. he traces it with a reverent touch, his thumb stroking the mark gently. "you have them too," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "i think it looks beautiful on a womans body…"
having sex with farmer!dunk in the giant rocking chair he built on the porch. a cigarette between his lips while you ride him, the steady sway of the chair only adding to the pleasure😛
actually obsessed with this thought
riding farmer!dunk on a rocking chair he built you! ݁₊ ⊹
okay so mini thought cause just the thought of that massive, hand-built rocking chair creaking under your combined weight while the evening wind brushes over the fields...
dunk would be sprawled out underneath you, his worn flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, showing off that thick, hairy chest and the soft belly he's earned from years of good living. his strong, calloused hands would be gripping your hips, not guiding you, just feeling you, thumbs pressing into your flesh as you set the pace. the cigarette dangling from his lips would glow red in the twilight as he takes a slow, lazy drag, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on you.
every rock of the chair pushes him deeper inside you. the back-and-forth motion is slow, deliberate, maddening. you'd brace your hands on his broad shoulders, leaning forward to kiss his stubbly cheek over and over.
he'd let out a low, gravelly chuckle, smoke curling from his mouth as he watches you. "greedy little thing, hmm?" he'd murmur, his voice rough with desire. he'd buck his hips up to meet you on the next forward rock, making you gasp and lose your rhythm for a second. the chair would groan in protest, a sound that mixes with the wet sounds of your bodies and your soft moans.
his free hand would come up to tangle in your hair, pulling you down for a kiss. "you're so pretty. you're so fucking pretty."
when you finally cum around him, he'd hold you tight, the chair still swaying gently as he grounds you through your orgasm, his own release following soon after with a deep, guttural groan muffled against your neck, pumping you full of his hot sticky cum.
afterwards, you'd just stay there, tangled together in the chair, watching the fireflies blink in the dark fields as the night air cools your sweat-slicked skin.
his way of saying "i love you" is in actions. he won't say it for a while. he'll show you. he'll leave a bucket of fresh-picked wildflowers on your porch step. when your car breaks down, it's in his shop before you can even call a tow truck. he just shrugs when you thank him, wiping grease from his hands. "needed a new belt anyway."
the first time he says it, it's quiet and unplanned. you're sitting on his porch steps watching the sunset over his fields. he’s eating a sandwich you made him after a day of work, and he just looks over at you and says, "you know, i... i love you." like it's the simplest, most obvious fact in the world.
"you do?" you smile, looking over at him, and he just nods, taking another bite of the sandwich. "i love you, dunk," you reply, restraining yourself from tackling your hardworking giant to smother him with kisses.
and when he proposes, it's not with some grand, flashy gesture.
one day, you're out helping him fix a tractor (mostly by handing him wrenches and trying not to get in the way), and he just stops, wipes his hands on a rag, and says, "we should just get hitched. make it forever and all."
"w-what?"
"o-only if you'd want to, i mean i want to definitely, and it doesn’ have to be right away—" he rambles on nervously, and you place your hand on his to get him to slow down for a second.
"dunk, it's okay! i do, i'd love to get married…"
he pulls a simple, worn, beautiful band out of his pocket. "been my grandma's. figured... it should be yours." and that's it. that's your whole future, right there in a muddy barn, and it's more perfect than anything you could have ever dreamed of.
tears welled in your eyes, blurring his earnest, anxious face. you couldn't speak. you could only nod, a frantic, joyous motion that felt like it might shake your head from your shoulders.
a grin, wide and blindingly relieved, split dunk's face. he let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated happiness and snatched you up, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around in a circle.
"i'll take that as a yes?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
you pulled back just enough to look at him, your face streaked with happy tears. "it's definitely a yes," you laughed, and then you were kissing him.
and when you are both finally married and start having babies left and right, your world starts to evolve in a way you could have only dreamed about.
in the fall, each kid picks a pumpkin bigger than their head, and dunk has to carry all seven back to the truck. and on snow days, they build the world's most lopsided snowman family and drink way too much hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
the kids have their own tiny garden plots where they mostly just dig holes and pour in random seeds, but dunk calls it "learning valuable life skills."
they have a pet mini pig who thinks he's one of the children and follows them everywhere. family photos are always chaos. at least one kid is crying, another itching to get out of the nice outfit they were forced into, and dunk is just beaming like it's the best picture ever taken.
his calloused farmer hands are surprisingly gentle when he's untangling hair or wiping away tears. he can fix anything with duct tape and "farm ingenuity."
and the kids have inherited his love for early mornings, often waking him up by jumping on the bed at 5 am, "ready for adventures."
-18+, reader is aerion’s sister, slight noncon! reader lowkey wants it cause shes mean on purpose, dunk is fed up, degradation, overstimulation, p in v, creampie, breast play, light hair pulling, light slapping, baby trapping, little bit of choking! ᥫ᭡
a targaryen princess did not attend a trial of seven disguised beneath a riding cloak. she did not push through the crowd, silver hair braided tight against her skull, to watch a hedge knight defend his honor against princes. she did not feel her heart lurch into her throat when he fell.
and yet you did.
you watched ser duncan the tall stand against your blood, against aerion’s cruelty, against the weight of dragonfire in human form and you felt something crack open in you.
after the trial, dunk lingered. he said it was to gather his bearings. to rest. to recover. aegon’s request. perhaps all of that was true, so he did not leave immediately and neither did you.
officially, you were there to console your kin. unofficially, you began appearing wherever he was. in the yard when he needed some air, in the stables, leaning against a post, watching him saddle his horse with quiet, deliberate hands.
you told yourself it was curiosity.
a common-born knight who had struck a prince, who had lived and you told yourself it was disdain. how dare he? how dare some hedge knight alter the fate of dragons? so you sharpened your words like daggers.
you mocked the swelling around his eye, still purple and yellow. you reminded him sweetly, softly that prince baelor was dead because he had raised a hand to royal blood. you told him, almost conversationally, that aerion had laughed while drinking wine in the courtyard afterward.
you watched his jaw tighten. you watched his hands curl. you watched the guilt hollow him out.
and gods help you, you could not stop.
because the truth was far uglier than hatred.
you were obsessed.
you had grown up among silk and prophecy, among men who bent the knee before your family and women who feared dragon tempers. you had never met a man who looked at a prince and chose defiance. who took the blow meant to protect a puppet girl. who fought not for glory, but because it was right.
he did not look at you the way other men did.
he did not fawn. he did not tremble. half the time, he looked irritated. and it drove you mad.
egg had begged that dunk remain at the castle a little longer for recovery or for reasons neither of you spoke aloud. so he stayed beneath the same roof as you. ate at the same tables. walked the same halls heavy with dragon tapestries.
you made it your mission to unsettle him.
if he was gathering his bearings, you would knock them loose. if he felt guilt, you would press on it until it bled. because if he hated you, at least he would feel something.
and if he broke you would be there to see it.
which is how you ended up in his room weeks later, fire dying low, the air thick with smoke and words neither of you should have said. you had followed him again. of course you had. you always did.
the air between you and dunk was crackling with tension. you had been poking at him all day, mocking his bruised eye, reminding him that prince baelor was dead because of him, and whispering how aerion had laughed about it while drinking wine in the courtyard.
"you're useless, ser dunk," you said, leaning back against the table, a cruel little smile playing on your lips. "a good-for-nothing hedge knight. you couldn't even keep your prince alive. aerion says you're just lucky he didn't have you executed."
dunk was sitting in the corner, cleaning his sword with slow, deliberate strokes. he didn't look up at first. the muscles in his jaw worked furiously, his grip tightening on the hilt until his knuckles turned white.
"you shouldn’t talk so," he said at last, his voice low and dangerous. "you think you’re so high and mighty."
his jaw clenched. "because you’re a dragon’s daughter. because you are princess."
you tilted your head, feigning innocence. "high and mighty?"
he stood abruptly, the chair scraping loud against the floor. he loomed over you, broad shoulders blocking the light. his shadow swallowed you whole.
you refused to shrink.
"you think i’m just a big, stupid oaf who likes to be scolded," he spat, his face inches from yours. his eyes were dark, burning with humiliation and rage.
"i never said that," you replied coolly.
"yes, you did," he shot back. "not with words. every time you look at me, i see it. you pity me. you look at me like i’m some kennel dog that’s tracked mud through your father’s hall."
"i do not pity you," you snapped. "but i do think you are quite egregious. you played the hero." you folded your arms. "and now you sulk about the cost."
his nostrils flared. "i don’t sulk."
"no?" you stepped closer deliberately, forcing him to either move back or stand his ground. he didn’t move. "prince baelor is dead. aerion is shipped off to lys. and you—you linger in corners like a man waiting for something that isn’t coming."
his hand shot out, rough fingers gripping your chin. not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that you could not look away.
"i am not waiting for anything," he snarled. "i’m calculating. prince aerion gets exile and i get the blame. the whispers. the stares."
his thumb pressed slightly under your jaw, tilting your face up.
"but you…" his voice dropped, rough as gravel. "you come to me every day with that smile. reminding me. poking at it like a bruise."
"get your filthy hands off me!"
his grip tightened, just slightly, and his eyes darkened further.
"you’re cruel," he breathed.
"am i?" your pulse was racing now, but you refused to let him see it. "i thought hedge knights liked pain. it makes for better songs."
that did it.
"you think this is a game?" he growled. "you think i don’t see what you’re doing?"
"and what am i doing, ser duncan?" you whispered.
"you come here like you hate me," he said, breath hot against your face. "but you follow me. you seek me out. you sit too close."
you didn’t answer.
his gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
"you want me angry," he realized. "you want me to snap."
"i want nothing of the sort-" you smack at his hand gripping your chin in hopes that it will get him to back off. his fingers only flex tighter for half a second before he lets go on his own terms.
you lift your chin immediately, pride stinging worse than his grip.
"do not touch me like that," you say coldly. "you forget yourself."
"forget myself?" he repeats.
"yes. you may have struck a prince, ser duncan, but that does not make you one." you smooth an invisible wrinkle from your sleeve, as though dismissing him entirely. "you are still what you’ve always been."
his jaw ticks.
"and what’s that?"
"a hedge knight who got lucky."
the words land like a slap.
you see it- the flare in his eyes, the way his shoulders square, the air leaving his lungs slow and controlled.
"you think it was luck?" he asks quietly.
"you were fortunate prince baelor tried to stop it," you continue, circling him now, deliberately reckless. "fortunate the gods chose to spare you. fortunate my family did not demand your head."
"you’re pushing me," he warns.
"oh?" you stop in front of him again. "i don’t believe you have the right to be cross with me dirty hedge knight."
he exhales through his nose, a sound more animal than man, and you can tell that his restraint frays visibly.
that does it.
he grabbed your wrist and hauled you toward the bed, throwing you down onto the mattress. you gasped as the soft furs hit your back.
"ow! dunk, wait-" you tried to sit up, but he was already on top of you, his weight pinning you down.
"stay down," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. he grabbed the bodice of your dress, his fingers digging into the fabric. with a rough yank, he tore it open, the ribbon torn lying beside you. his hands were everywhere at once, rough and demanding.
"look at you, is this what you wanted?" he growled, his eyes roaming over your breasts, now exposed to the cool air. "wanted someone to involve you in this? desperate for attention." he reached out and squeezed one breast hard, his thumb pinching the nipple until you cried out.
"you're hurting me-" you gasped, but he just laughed, a harsh, ugly sound.
"i thought you wanted to be hurt? just like the rest of us… don’t really seem fair that you are exempt from pain."
he shoved your skirts up, his hand coming down hard on your thigh, leaving a red handprint that bloomed instantly. smack. you yelped.
"such a pretty princess," he murmured, leaning down to bite your shoulder, his teeth sinking into the skin hard enough to bruise. "say such words to hurt me, but look at how wet you are."
he didn't wait for your retort. his hand, calloused and rough, gripped your waist with bruising force. with a grunt of exertion, he manhandled you, flipping you over onto your stomach with a harshness that left you breathless. you landed with a bounce on the mattress, your face pressed into the sheets, muffling a startled cry.
"hands and knees," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
you moved to obey, your body trembling, but he wasn't having it. he grabbed your hips, angling them up, and positioned himself behind you. he didn't want to see your face. he didn't want to see your pretty eyes or the smirk you usually wore when you thought you had the upper hand. tonight, he wanted to watch nothing but your back arching, your body surrendering to him.
"i don't want to see you," he growled, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back until your neck arched painfully. "i just want to fuck you."
he didn't give you time to adjust. he undid his trousers in one fluid motion, his cock springing free, thick and angry and already glistening with pre-cum. he didn't use spit. he just grabbed his shaft and positioned it at your entrance and with a brutal thrust, he impaled you, stretching himself deep inside you.
the angle was punishing, driving straight into your most sensitive spot with a force that made your toes curl and your eyes water. he set a savage pace immediately, his hips slapping against your skin with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the quiet room.
"look at you," he grunted, his hand landing hard on your ass, leaving another red mark. "a dragon's sister, and you're taking my cock like a common kitchen maid. aerion would be disgusted by how you're taking me."
he didn't let you speak, didn't let you defend yourself. he just fucked you with a ferocity born of weeks of pent-up anger and frustration. he knew you were close; he could feel your walls clenching around him, milking him greedily.
"say it," he demanded, his hand sliding down to your throat, applying just enough pressure to cut off your air slightly. "say you belong to me. say you're my highborn brat."
"i'm yours," you choked out, your voice muffled by the fabrics of the bed.
"that's right," he purred, though there was no warmth in it. he reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it harshly, overstimulating you.
you cried out, your body seizing up as the pleasure became too intense. he didn't slow down. he just fucked you harder, driving you toward the edge of madness. the friction was blinding, the pleasure mixing with the pain of the bruises blossoming on your skin.
"you're going to be sorry you spoke to me like that," he warned, his voice thick with lust and anger.
he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "you wanted to talk about being cast down? i'll show you what it means to be brought so low you can't get back up. i'm going to fuck a bastard into you right here on this bed. right now. and when your belly swells, and your fine silks no longer fit, everyone will see. they'll all know what you are. not a highborn lady, but my broodmare, filled with my seed."
his thrusts became punishing, each one a declaration of ownership. "you'll understand then, won't you? you'll understand what it's like to have your future stolen. they'll whisper about the fallen lady, the one who spreads her legs for a lunk with no name and no lands. but you won't care, will you? because you'll be too busy nursing my child, a constant, living reminder of the night i claimed you. the night i made you mine in truth."
he released your throat, only to grab a handful of your hair, pulling your head back. "tell me you want it," he snarled. "tell me you want my babes growing in your belly."
"n-no!" you whine, but the sound is weak, choked by pleasure and the brutal grip he has on your hair.
with a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you buck your hips back against him, hard. it's not an act of pleasure, but of defiance. the movement throws him off balance for a split second.
you twist, wrenching your head from his grasp, and manage to crawl away, slipping his cock out with a wet, obscene sound.
his face is a mask of disbelief, then fury, his cock still hard and glistening with your combined fluids. "get back here," he growls, his voice a low warning.
you didn't get far. just to the edge of the bed, your knees digging into the mattress as you tried to put some space between you. but he was on you in an instant, a mountain of enraged muscle. he didn't grab you gently. he lunged, his big hands wrapping around your ankles and yanking you back toward him with brutal force. you slid on the sheets, a cry of surprise escaping your lips as you were dragged back into his domain.
he flipped you onto your back with a single, powerful motion, looming over you, his expression thunderous. "you don't run from me," he snarled, his voice dangerously low. he wasn't asking. he was stating a law of nature.
"or what, you lunk?" you spat, your voice breathless but defiant. "i’ll scream- i’ll have you killed if you finish in me…"
before you could form another retort, he hooked his arms under your knees, folding you nearly in half and lifting your hips off the bed. the new position left you completely exposed, utterly vulnerable. he positioned himself at your entrance, not pushing in, just letting the slick head of his cock rest against you, a threat and a promise.
"you want to fight?" he grunted, his voice strained with the force of his exertion. "fine. let's fight."
with that, he slammed back into you. the angle was vicious, deep, and stole the air from your lungs. it wasn't about pleasure anymore; it was a battle of wills, waged with his body. he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a hard, deliberate statement of his dominance. the bedframe groaned in protest with every powerful movement of his hips.
"mine," he growled.
"yours?" you gasped, a cruel smile twisting your lips despite the overwhelming sensation. "you don't own me. you're just the brute who is warming my bed."
his other hand snaked down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. he didn't rub it gently; he pressed down, demanding pressure that sent a jolt of agonizing pleasure through you.
"feel that?" he growled, seeing your response. "your body is smarter than your pride." he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged. "you can fight me all you want, sweet girl. you want to be bred."
"never," you choked out, the word a lie even as it left your lips. "i'd rather die than bear your bastards."
he increased the pressure on your clit, his thrusts becoming erratic, more forceful. you couldn't speak. you could only moan, a mix of pain and pleasure and helpless fury. the pressure inside you was building, an unstoppable tide.
it triggered your own violent climax. your body convulsed beneath him, your walls clamping down around him as waves of pleasure washed over you, leaving you trembling and defeated.
"that's what i thought," he snarled, and with a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself deep inside you. the heat of his release was scalding, a possessive flood that seemed to reach up into your womb, claiming every inch of you. he stayed sheathed inside you, his weight a heavy, suffocating blanket as he rode out the last pulses of his orgasm. you could feel his heart hammering against your back, a frantic, wild beat that matched the frantic, wild pulse still fluttering between your own thighs. the room was silent, save for your ragged, mingled breaths.
slowly, he shifted, lifting his weight just enough to look down at you. his face was still a mess of bruises, but the fury in his eye had been replaced by a dark, possessive satisfaction. he reached out, not with violence, but with a strange, gentle reverence, and brushed a sweat-soaked strand of hair from your forehead.
"you can fight me. you can spit and curse and tell me you hate me."
his thumb lingered at your temple, brushing another damp strand of silver back into place. the touch was almost tender, and that frightened you more than his anger ever had.
"but you don’t," he continued quietly.
your breath was uneven, chest rising and falling beneath him. "i most certainly do."
a faint, crooked smile pulled at his bruised mouth. "no-"
your throat tightened.
"you presume much, ser," you whispered.
"and you provoke much, princess."
the room felt smaller now with the dying fire cast long shadows across the walls, gold light flickering over his battered face and your flushed one…just smaller.
