𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 | ser duncan the tall
| gif credits: @alicentive |
—summary: you spend your days teasing dunk on purpose, brushing too close, holding his gaze a second too long, slipping into suggestive positions when you know he’s watching—until one day, his patience finally snaps and gives in to the temptation you’ve so carefully crafted. —pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!reader —word count: ~5.4k —content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, outdoor sex, lots of body worship, praise, mutual pining, tension, reader loves to tease him, jealous!dunk, friends to lovers, inexperienced!dunk, needy!reader, dunk is down baddd. not proofread!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Ser Arlan is gone, no longer around to complain about your presence every chance he gets, or to remind Dunk that a man like him should not travel with a woman like you, whose past burns hotter than the Dornish sun.
What really burns is your presence, your company, your gaze.
Dunk has always believed that you are some kind of trial sent by the gods to tempt him, to test his self-control, his strength of will, and his sense of knighthood.
He also believes that you don't really do it on purpose, and that you are as pure and innocent as he is. But now that the old man is gone, you seem to have only gotten much worse.
Duncan can't help but glance at you when you're bathing in some lake, pretending to be mending a tear in some old piece of clothing or sharpening the blade of his sword. His eyes flick towards you every time he overhears a little splash, just like clockwork, followed by a sharp gulp.
The sound of water lapping against the rocks is the only thing that breaks the stillness of the forest. You’ve wandered just a few yards from camp, far enough to enjoy some privacy, but close enough to feel Dunk's protective presence.
You slide into the natural pool, gasping as the cold water embraces your bare body.
On the other side of the bushes, you hear the rhythmic “shhh-shhh” of the whetstone rubbing against the steel. Dunk is there, sitting on a fallen log, pretending to be deeply focused on his sword.
But you know that’s not really what’s going on.
From the surface of the water, you can see him through the branches. His jaw is clenched and his ears are tinged with a betraying shade of red.
Every time you emerge from the water and the sound of splashing reaches his ears, his shoulders tense. His pretty blue eyes, once brimming with a childlike sweetness, now scan for you on pure gut instinct, at odds with the decency that Ser Arlan so fiercely drummed into him.
“Dunk,” you call out gently, your voice drifting above the mist.
He flinches so violently that he almost lets the sword fall out of his hand. He clears his throat noisily, staring at some ants at his feet.
“Y–yes? Is something wrong? Is it—is it too cold?” he asks breathlessly, without turning his head even a fraction of an inch.
“It’s perfect,” you reply, emerging from the water with exaggerated leisure. You know he can hear the water dripping steadily down your body. “But I could use that old cloak you were mending. I left mine by the fire.”
You hear him getting up. His steps are heavy, purposeful, but when he reaches the edge of the thicket, he stops dead in his tracks.
“Here... here it is,” he tells you, blindly stretching out his arm through the leaves, offering you the fabric.
You step closer to the edge and, instead of taking the cloak right away, you brush his fingers with yours. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the rush of blood in his big hand. Dunk lets out a quiet gasp, and for a second, his self-control weakens. His eyes drift away, meeting yours.
“I–I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, covering his eyes with his hands to force himself to respect your boundaries. “So sorry”
That makes you smirk playfully, pulling the cloak up around your damp body. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, Duncan.”
You tell him that often. And every time, he is reduced to a blushing, stammering mess.
Sometimes, when he comes back from shopping at a nearby grocery market or roadside merchant, he is almost knocked off his feet when he finds you down on the grass, on all fours to look through the thick bushes for those berries you like so much.
But could they really be found so low to the ground?
His wide eyes are moving on their own before he can even think to try to control them, gliding over your hair, the stretch of your back, and then slowing down as they trace the curve of your bum, that looks absurdly more defined in that skirt.
With a little push you make forward, the fabric slides up a bit more, revealing more of the skin on your legs for his eyes only.
Your hips have widened, the shape of your waist is exquisitely defined, and your exposed skin seems to glow in the light of the spring sunshine.
Dunk feels his mouth go dry instantly and he just stands there, holding the handbag in one hand, his grip gradually loosening as the moment ticks by.
His dilated eyes roam the contour of your hips with an intensity that overwhelms him, a surge of arousal that makes him feel lightheaded with longing.
“Dunk?” you call out as you stretch a little further to reach a particularly red berry, without actually turning around. “Is that you?”
Of course you know it’s him and that he’s there; you’ve heard him approaching ever since he stepped into the woods. But you do like to have a bit of fun, to tease him.
Duncan is frozen in place, the sack of groceries hanging from his fingers as if it weighed a ton. The sound of his own breathing seems loud in the silence of the clearing.
He tries to articulate a response, but his throat feels as if he has been swallowing desert sand.
“Y–yes... it’s me,” he finally manages to squeak out.
He watches with a face bright red as you stretch again, how the fabric of your skirt is pulled tight against your curves and how the sunlight reflects off the softness of your skin.
It is an exquisite form of torture.
“Did you bring what I asked for?” you inquire innocently, arching your back just slightly enough that the motion is impossible to overlook.
“A–aye. I brought... apples. And some—cheese,” he swallows hard, muffling his wheezing voice and blinking sharply to try to snap himself out of the daze. “M’lady... you should—I mean, you could prick yourself on the thorns. It’s not safe to be like that... anyone could...”
You laugh softly, a vibrating sound that sends a chill down Dunk's spine.
“Anyone could...?” you repeat, feigning concern as you finally lean back up, slower than necessary. You turn just enough so that he can see your smile over your shoulder. “There’s no one here but you, Dunk.”
Duncan, just as you are turning your head toward him, forces himself to look everywhere but at you: at the trees, the sky, birds dancing and chirping in the branches above.
“You shouldn't tease like that,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “It's not… appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” you echo, rising to your feet at last, a berry crunching between your teeth.
You take a step toward him, then another.
Dunk recoils instinctively, stepping back from you as if you were a flame that could burn him if he got too close.
“You know what I mean,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t… move like that.”
You look down at your own body, pretending to examine yourself with utter confusion.
“Move how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently, biting your lower lip that’s still stained with the berries’ red juice. “I was just looking for berries.”
“You... you know how,” he manages to croak out at an unusually husky tone, his blue eyes blinking rapidly back down at you. “Like a... like a cat. Or like something from the songs that lures knights into the swamps to drown them.”
“I'm not a fairy tale witch, Duncan. I'm just a woman,” you reply quietly, drawing closer to him to be within arm's reach. Then you hold out your hand, offering him a single perfectly ripe berry. “And you're not a knight yet, are you? You're just a man.”
Dunk leisurely lowers his gaze to your outstretched hand, following the extent of your arm down to the berry, only to return to your eyes, entranced by the hypnotic magnetism of them.
His imposing physique recoils under the overwhelming weight of your attentive gaze and the sweet, alluring glint in your eyes—a gaze that entices him closer. Despite his massive body, Dunk is nothing more than a timid little mouse in your presence.
“Ser Arlan isn't here anymore, Dunk. What are you so afraid of?” You continue speaking so sweetly, attempting to coax him, using a voice as velvety as silk. You press the berry against his lower lip. “Eat now. You've been walking in the sun all morning. You must be hungry.”
Hungry, he certainly is. Just not exactly starved for some woodland berries.
Dunk doesn't take the berry with his hand, instead his lips fall open instinctively as he tilts his head closer to your hand. As his mouth closes over the little fruit in your palm, his tongue brushes against your skin—a flutter of accidental touch that sets off a ripple of heat through your body.
But you realize it was no accident when you catch sight of the way he's looking down at you now, licking the berry juice from his lips and humming in appreciation, reveling in the lingering taste of your skin on the tip of his tongue.
“Mhm, really good,” he drawls, lifting his eyebrows and nodding in approval.
That's the first time Duncan has ever gone along with one of your little flirtations, but that's all it is, nothing more. He doesn't tease you back, he doesn't ask you to give him another berry, he doesn't even bother to glance at you as he shuffles past you, practically stumbling back to camp.
It is a modest victory, but the fact that he has dared to touch your hand with his tongue is a sign that Ser Arlan's lessons are losing the battle against his own natural instincts.
The days go by and that little spark seems to have been extinguished. Dunk has put his walls back up, higher and stronger than ever.
Every time you try to brush his arm as you walk side by side, he finds an excuse to adjust Thunder's load. If you smile sweetly at him during breakfast, he suddenly focuses on a non-existent stain on his coat. It's like trying to melt a mountain with a firefly; completely hopeless.
You reach an inn on your way south, somewhere along the way. The place is crowded, filled with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale. Dunk sits in a corner, his gaze low as he drinks, carrying out his role as silent and boring guardian.
Tired of bumping into his armor of politeness, you decide you've had enough.
You get up and head to the bar and it takes less than a moment to catch the eye of a burly-looking mercenary with a scar on his cheek and an easy laugh. You lean against the counter, letting your shoulder brush against his, and let out a laugh that echoes above the din of the tavern.
“And you say you're traveling alone with that giant?” asks the mercenary, eyeing you up and down.
“He's been my friend for as long as I can remember,” you answer lightheartedly, making sure Dunk hears you, because of course he's listening and observing everything you do. “But he's a very... reserved man. I've almost forgotten what an interesting conversation is.”
The man bursts out laughing and tilts his head toward you, his face just inches from yours. Offering you a sip from his own mug, you lean in and accept, drinking slowly and staring at him with an intensity you've reserved exclusively for Dunk, until now.
The creaking of wood makes you flinch.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk spring to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a heavy thud.
He is standing behind you, his huge frame casting a shadow over your own. The mercenary glances up, turning pale at the sight of the tall figure menacingly looming in front of him.
“No more drinks,” Dunk growls. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a possessiveness you have never heard in it before.
“Hey, easy there, big guy, we were just…” the mercenary begins.
Dunk doesn’t let him finish.
He puts a hand on your waist and forces you to spin around to his side.
“We're leaving. Now,” he orders, looking you straight in the eye.
His jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth look like they're about to burst. His pupils are dilated, and for the first time, there is no trace of Ser Arlan in his gaze. There is only a jealous man who has reached his limit.
He doesn't even give you a moment to say goodbye to your new friend; Duncan is already dragging you out of the tavern with him.
The cold night air hits your face as soon as Dunk pushes open the tavern doors, but the heat emanating from his hand around your waist is all it takes to keep you burning.
“Let go of me, Duncan!” you exclaim, but there’s a hint of triumph in your voice that you can’t quite hide. You break free from his grip with a sudden movement and turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s wrong with you? I was having a pleasant conversation for the first time in weeks.”
Dunk comes to a sharp halt and turns toward you, his blue eyes glowing with anger in the darkness of the night.
“That conversation was not pleasant,” he snarls. “That man was looking at you as if you were a piece of meat at a banquet!”
“You don’t look at me, Dunk!” you fire back, waving your hands in exasperation. “You don't talk to me unless it's to tell me the road is long or the porridge is ready. If you don't want to appreciate what's right in front of you, don't complain when someone else decides to.”
“Seven fuck—you did it on purpose,” he gasps accusingly, his voice descending to a dangerously low murmur. “You knew I was watching. You knew I was going out of my mind sitting there while that fool was touching you—you're—fucking infuriating”
“Infuriating?” you repeat, breaking into a short, bitter laugh, feeling offended, and taking a step toward him until your shoes touch his leather boots. “What’s infuriating is having to seduce half the realm just to get you to stop looking at your own bloody hands and look at me instead!”
He keeps staring at you, catching his breath.
“I don't even know why you're whining so much. After all...” you make a dramatic pause, looking him up and down with a slow, disillusioned gaze, “it's not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”
You turn around with an graceful sway of your hips and make your way back to your camp, concealed in the woods, and don't look back.
Dunk arrives long after you, shifting like a clumsy shadow through the trees. You hear him collapse onto his bedroll across the dying fire, letting out heavy sighs that betray how far sleep is from his grasp.
You smile to yourself, tucked away in your little tent, relishing the chaos you’ve sown in his mind.
The next morning, the sun is just beginning to filter through the leaves when you decide you’re ready to step outside. You expect to find him getting ready for the road, maybe still grumpy or avoiding your gaze as usual.
But what you see takes your breath away.
Dunk is standing with his back to your tent, shirtless.
The fresh dawn breeze brushes against his sun-tanned skin, and his shoulders, broad and powerful, flex and relax rhythmically. He is chopping wood with a small axe, each blow sharp and forceful, causing the muscles in his back to ripple in the golden light. Sweat makes his skin glow, accentuating every scar and line of his muscular, massive build.
You are frozen in the opening of the tent, just standing there watching him.
All of a sudden, he ceases his work, sticks the axe into the log, and slowly turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see you; on the contrary, there is a fresh spark in his blue eyes, a look you haven't seen in him before—confidence.
“Good morrow,” he tells you. His voice is so deep, filling the clearing. He’s not in a hurry to get clothes on. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair and gives you one of those lazy, longing glances you usually give him. “You slept a lot. I thought maybe we should stay another day here, y’know?”
You linger there, your hand still gripping the fabric of the tent, suddenly feeling very small in front of his towering nude figure.
“Did the cat get your tongue?” he teases with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a motion that causes his biceps and pecs to flex in a very appealing way—one that makes your mouth water and your stomach flutter.
The tables have turned so fast you can practically feel the whiplash. Seeing Dunk like this—exposed, sweat-slicked, and radiating a sudden, quiet authority—is almost too much to handle.
You try to summon that playful, teasing voice that usually leaves him stammering, but your throat feels so tight.
“I... I was just going to the river to bathe,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to look unimpressed despite the way your eyes keep betraying you, darting down to the hard lines of his stomach. “Since you’re so busy playing lumberjack, I figured I'd give you some space.”
Dunk huffs out a quiet laugh, low in his chest.
“Space?” he repeats, almost amused. “You’ve never cared much about giving me that before.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other under that look of his.
It’s irritating.
And unsettling.
And strangely... thrilling.
“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, trying to recover your composure, “maybe I’ve grown considerate overnight.”
“Mm,” Dunk nods slowly, though his expression says he doesn’t believe a word of it.
A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the leaves and lifting a strand of your hair across your face. Dunk’s eyes follow the motion absentmindedly before drifting lower again—down your neck, the loose collar of your chemise, the bare curve of your shoulder and then, your breasts.
You feel it.
Seven hells, you feel it.
You cross your arms tighter, pretending it’s because of the morning chill and that you're not as lustful as a cat in heat, and that your nipples have stood erect ever since you saw the broad expanse of his back.
“Don’t stop working on my account,” you mutter. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”
That earns a crooked smile from him.
“River’s that way, my lady,” he says, nodding past the trees. “If you’re bathing.”
You hesitate, because now that sounds like a challenge.
“Oh, I know where it is,” you reply lightly.
Silence stretches between you, birds chatter somewhere in the canopy above, and the fire crackles faintly behind him.
Then Dunk says, casually:
“You’re not going?”
You narrow your eyes. “I said I was.”
“...but?”
Your cheeks warm, and you hate that he’s noticed.
“I was waiting for you to turn around,” you shoot back. “Some of us like our privacy.”
“You?” Dunk huffs, incredulous. “Privacy?”
You glare at him. “Yes, Duncan. Privacy.”
He lifts both hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face lingers. “Alright, m’lady. I’ll be a perfect gentleman for you, then.”
Then he makes a small, exaggerated show of turning around, presenting you with the broad expanse of his back again.
You slide the chemise down one shoulder.
Then the other.
The morning air kisses your bare skin, cool and bright beneath the rising sun. You step out of the garment and let it fall into the grass behind you.
Dunk exhales sharply and you smile to yourself.
“Thought you weren’t looking,” you say sweetly.
“I’m not,” he answers quickly.
The lie sits awkwardly in his voice.
You let out a soft, amused hum and continue down the narrow path toward the river, the morning grass cool beneath your bare feet. The trees thin as you approach the water, sunlight breaking through the leaves in bright golden patches.
You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him stepping through the trees after you, large and unhurried, his expression no longer shy or flustered but stubbornly resolved.
The river glimmers ahead, cool and clear as it winds between mossy stones. You step down into the shallows, the cold water climbing slowly up your ankles, your calves, your knees.
It makes you gasp softly.
Behind you, Duncan reaches down to pull off his boots, dropping them onto the grass with a dull thud. Then his belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft creak.
Your mouth opens slightly.
“Dunk—”
“You said it yourself,” he interrupts calmly, stepping closer to the water. “No one’s here but me.”
The water reaches his ankles, then his knees.
You can hear him exhale sharply at the coldness as he wades deeper.
His mouth tilts faintly, you can hear it in his voice.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice rumbling with quiet amusement. “You’ve been walking around me like a flame for weeks. Now you look nervous.”
You swallow, still with your back turned to him. “I’m not nervous.”
The words come out a little too fast.
Behind you, the river shifts softly around Dunk as he moves closer, the current curling around his legs. You can feel him there even without turning—his presence big and warm and just impossible to ignore.
For the first time in weeks, it isn’t him struggling to breathe.
It’s you.
“Mm,” he hums quietly, unconvinced.
You bend slightly, scooping a handful of cold water and letting it run over your arms, pretending to focus on the chill biting at your skin. The river only reaches your shoulders here, the surface rippling lazily in the morning light.
“Then why won’t you turn around?” he asks casually.
You swallow. “Because I’m bathing.”
“And I’m not?” he asks back.
You hear the faint splash as he dips his hands into the river, the sound of water sliding over skin. Your imagination, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the rest.
You force your tone to stay light. “You’ve bathed before without staring at me.”
“That was before,” Dunk says.
You finally glance back over your shoulder.
Big mistake.
He’s closer than you expected—standing waist-deep in the river, water streaming slowly down his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp where he’s splashed it, darker now, and his blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
Your heart stumbles.
“Well?” you say, forcing a teasing smile. “Enjoying the view?”
Dunk exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.
“You’ve been asking that question for weeks,” he murmurs.
“And?” you challenge softly.
For a moment he doesn’t answer.
His gaze drifts—over your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck where droplets of water slide slowly down your skin.
Then his eyes come back to yours.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I am”
“Well,” you manage, trying to recover your playful tone, “that wasn’t very difficult to admit, was it?”
“You have no idea how difficult it was.” Dunk huffs quietly.
You tilt your head. “Oh, I think I do—”
Suddenly cold water splashes against your side.
You gasp, jumping slightly.
“Dunk!”
He’s grinning now, wide and unguarded in a way you’ve rarely seen.
“You were getting too comfortable again,” he chuckles.
“Oh, is that so?” Your eyes narrow.
You scoop up water and fling it back at him and the splash hits his shoulder and chest, droplets flying everywhere.
Water pushes against his broad hips as he moves, sending small waves rolling toward you. His grin hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown softer, warmer, like he’s finally letting himself enjoy the moment instead of fighting it.
“You’re smiling,” you note suspiciously.
“Aye,” he says.
“That usually means trouble.”
“Only for you.”
You splash him again in retaliation, but this time he’s close enough that it barely slows him.
Now the river barely moves between you. His chest rises and falls slowly, droplets of water sliding down the planes of his shoulders.
You suddenly become very aware of how tall he is, how close. How warm the air feels between your bodies despite the cold river.
“You really thought I wasn’t going to do anything?” he asks.
Your heart beats faster.
“Well…” you murmur, trying to hold your ground, “you usually don’t.”
“You’re impossible,” he breathes out.
“And you're annoyingly boring,” you retort playfully.
“Gods help me,” he murmurs.
Then his hand lifts.
Big, rough fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, almost hesitant for half a heartbeat and he studies your face like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your lips part slightly.
That seems to be all the answer he needs.
Dunk exhales a trembling sigh, and finally, he leans down.
When he kisses you, it isn’t hesitant the way everything else about him has been. It’s warm and certain.
The kind of kiss that feels like something long overdue finally happening.
Your fingers curl instinctively against his chest, water shifting around you both as you lean into him, relishing in his taste, in his lips.
Dunk groans against your lips and his big hands explore your body with a wild desperation, one tangling in your wet hair, gently pulling to tilt your head, while the other slides down your wet back until it cups your bum with a firmness that makes you breathe out a muffled gasp.
“Tell me t–to stop,” he pants in between hot kisses, his warm breath clashing with the icy water that laps at your lower body. “Tell me to stop, my love, and I—I will.”
“Don't—don't stop. Take me, Dunk, oh please, just fuck me,” you cry out, clinging to his neck with your arms and pressing your bare breasts against his firm chest.
Dunk doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts you with astonishing ease, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you with one arm under your thighs, as if you weigh nothing, as his other hand roams your body, exploring every curve he had previously only dared to sneak a peek at. His rough fingers brush your waist, bringing a sigh from you that he devours with another kiss, one that is wilder and hungrier.
You feel his hard, demanding manhood pressing up against you through the water. Dunk buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nibbling you so hard you arch your back.
“Not here,” he hisses, his voice cracking with excitement. “The water’s too fucking cold.”
Still holding you, he emerges from the river with heavy, steady steps. Water drips from your bodies as he carries you toward the shore, and he stop at the grass and carefully sets you down on it.
As he takes his place above you, he covers your body with sweet kisses, lingering for a few precious moments to worship your breasts.
“Seven hells,” he groans, his body trembling with arousal as he watches your eyes roll back and your back arch for him. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve spent so many nights dreaming of this, you have no idea—fuck.”
He just won't stop talking sweet praises to your body as he covers it with kisses, sucks, and nibbles.
“So beautiful, so delicious, all for me, hm? You’re a dream. My dream.”
When his fingers reach your sex, already drenched by more than just the river water—and wetter than it at this point—you squeal out a little yelp that is lost in the forest and has him breathing heavily.
Dunk takes his time, savoring all of your reactions, tracing slow, purposeful circles that have you begging for more, arching your back off the grass.
“Did you just say something about me being boring?” he teases, his blue eyes burning with a new and dangerous self-confidence as he reaches down to kiss one of your knees, making himself a place in between them.
“Shut up and just get in already,” you whine out, one of your feet impatiently tapping against his backside to make him hurry up. “I’ve been ready for you for months, Duncan.”
You settle yourself more comfortably on the grass, drawing him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his hips. As he finally aligns himself with your pulsating, eager cunt, you feel him hesitate for a moment, awkwardly searching for the right angle in a way that is incredibly endearing, before he manages to find his entry into you.
He stays still for a moment, just as the head of his cock is stretching out into your wet folds, merely feeling your warmth, how you hold him tight and wrap around him from inside. It's a moment of pure lack of experience, where he doesn't know whether to move, how hard to push, or how to even breathe.
You help him, gently rolling your hips, urging him to thrust deeper, and Dunk stutters out a whimper, beginning to move on your lead.
His thrusts are gentle, tentative at first, and he watches your face closely, afraid you will show any sign of displeasure or disapproval. Every time you make a sound, he pauses for a moment, kisses you with an overwhelming tenderness, and then continues, growing more confident as he goes.
“Like this?” he shudders, as he leans down over you, his hips delivering a particularly deep thrust that knocks the life out of you. “Do y–you like it like t–this, m’lady?”
“Y–yes, Dunk, just like that, deeper... don’t stop,” you tell him, digging your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under your grip. “You’re doing so well, so big...”
Encouraged by your sweet praises, he picks up the pace, and even though his movements are a bit uncoordinated, there's an earnestness in his passion that trumps any expert lover.
His big hands reach down to support your hips firmly, holding you, as he learns along the way how to give you the maximum amount of pleasure. He's clumsy, he's intense, and he's absolutely perfect.
“Dunk, don't—don't stop, keep going, p–please,” you whimper, and he obediently thrusts again with the determination to bring you over the edge.
The finish comes really fast, an overload of sensations where he, unable to hold it in any longer, loses himself in the rhythm, crying out your name like it's a prayer. Your body is still shaking, and every time you shut your eyes tight, you keep seeing him, sparkling like stars in a night sky.
His cock goes all the way into your womb, painting your gummy, fluttering walls with his color and filling you up to the brim, seed gushing out of your clenched cunt and oozing down your inner thighs.
Duncan collapses on top of you, seeking solace in your embrace, burying his face in your neck as his breathing gradually steadies, still whimpering incoherent words and crying out your name with a broken voice.
He is still deep inside you, throbbing and still spurting drops of seed, but he hurries to prop his elbows on either side of your head so as not to crush you with his nearly seven-foot height.
His fingers, still intertwined with yours on the grass, tremble slightly.
“Are you... are you okay?” he eventually asks in a croaky whisper, with such genuine concern that it almost makes you laugh. “Did I hurt you? It’s just... seven hells, I’ve never... I just didn't know how to make it last longer. I was too... I couldn't think about anything else but you”
“It was perfect, Duncan,” you soothe him, raising a hand to caress his damp cheek. “You're perfect”
He releases a sigh of relief that seems to come from deep within his lungs and leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
“I was afraid of being... I don't know, too rough. Or too clumsy,” he admits with a sheepish smile.
He squirms a little, still feeling the intimate connection between your bodies, and a new rush of heat begins to climb up his neck. He looks so adorably clueless in the afterglow, not quite sure whether to stay like this or find something to cover you with.
“Do you think the gods will be angry?” he abruptly asks, rising enough to look down at you as if the closest thing to a god around there, is you. “For being a knight and... well, this.”
You giggle softly and pull him by the neck to give him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips.
“I think the gods have more important things to do than spy on a woman and her man in the middle of the woods, Dunk.”
When you speak in such possessive terms, he blushes once again, his smile quivering bashfully before he leans his head in closer to you and kisses your lips lovingly.
“Your man,” he repeats, sealing the promise with another sweet kiss. “Yours.”
