The Weight of Being Seen
hi babies,
i'm not even gonna lie. i cried a lil writing this. its soft and sweet and turned out so well. and now i need dunk or my bf to bend me over and crack me like a glowstick. i hope you enjoy, i do think this will become a fan favorite. based on this ask by @realmofsolitaire. if anyone complains about length, you will find the wrath of ten thousand dragons upon you. love you!
📖 masterlist
🖊 ao3
🗒 wip list
🔥 discord server
Summary: Removed from court and expectation, two people find a gentler kind of closeness. In what follows, certainty proves more powerful than desire alone.
WC: 9.6k
Warnings: 18+, Sex (p in v), fingering, soft dom dunk, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, virginity loss (presumably), no use of y/n, smuff
Ser Duncan the Tall x Curvy!Highborn(Tyrell)!Reader
The solar sat apart from the rest of the keep, tucked above a narrow stair that few bothered to climb unless sent. Its windows were tall and thin, cut deep into stone, and the glass had been colored long ago with a pale wash of green and amber that softened whatever light dared enter. By candlelight, the room seemed smaller than it was. Closer. The shadows gathered gently in the corners, as if they had learned not to intrude.
You had been told to wait.
Not long, they said. Just until the hall quieted. Just until the press of bodies and voices thinned enough that you might return to your chambers without drawing notice or comment or the careful looks that had begun to linger too long of late.
You stood near the hearth, hands folded, spine straight out of habit more than necessity. The chair beside the table remained empty. You did not sit. Sitting felt like settling, and you were not meant to stay.
The door closed behind you with a soft, final sound.
Ser Duncan the Tall remained near it, as if unsure whether he was meant to cross the room or guard the threshold. He had been assigned to you as an escort, the word delivered with a politeness that suggested it was also a favor. Someone owed someone else something. Your name had been used to smooth the exchange.
He was very tall.
That was the first thing you noticed, though you had known it already. Stories had a way of exaggerating, yet even so, the reality of him filled the small solar in a way few men ever did. Broad shoulders, long arms, a presence that drew the eye whether he wished it or not. His cloak had been brushed and mended, but it still carried the memory of roads and weather, of open sky and miles walked honestly.
You were accustomed to men watching you. As a Tyrell, it was expected. A woman’s worth was measured and discussed as openly as harvest yields and tourney odds. Most gazes slid over you with practiced ease, noting your clothes, your bearing, your suitability.
Dunk’s did not slide.
His eyes caught and held, then flicked away, then returned again, as if pulled by something he had not meant to touch. There was no appraisal in it, no calculation. Only awareness. Immediate and unmistakable.
You felt it like warmth.
It unsettled you, though you told yourself it should not. You assumed it was accidental, the way one might look too long at a flame or a moving shadow. He was not a court knight. He would not know how to manage his attention.
Still, when you shifted your weight, his gaze followed. When you turned slightly toward the window, he adjusted without thinking, angling his body so you remained in his line of sight. You became aware of the way your skirts brushed the floor, of the way the candlelight softened the curve of your arms, your throat, the line of your jaw.
He had to look down to meet you.
You had to look up.
The difference in height created a strange gravity between you. It pulled at the air itself, bending it. When your eyes met his, the world seemed to narrow, as if the rest of the keep had been quietly locked away.
“They said you would see me safely returned,” you said at last, because silence left too much room for thought. “I did not realize safely involved waiting in solitude.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I was told to remain,” he said. “Only for a short while. Until things settled.”
Things were always settling at court. Never settled.
You nodded, accepting the explanation because it was easier than questioning it. “Then we will wait,” you said. “It seems we are both practiced at that.”
He shifted, clearing his throat. “You may sit, my lady.”
“So may you,” you replied gently. “Unless you have been instructed otherwise.”
He hesitated, then moved to the chair by the hearth, lowering himself with care, as though the furniture might protest his weight. He set his helm on the floor beside him, fingers lingering on the metal for a moment before letting go.
You remained standing.
From here, you could see him clearly. The rough honesty of his face. The way his hands rested on his knees, large and unadorned, bearing old scars. He was looking at you again, openly now, and the awareness in his eyes had sharpened into something almost uncomfortable in its intensity.
You felt suddenly, acutely present. The softness of your body within the stiff lines of your gown. The warmth beneath your skin. The space you occupied.
It had been some time since anyone had made you feel as though you filled a room rather than merely adorned it.
“You asked for someone you trusted,” he said, carefully. “I was told that was the reason.”
“I asked not to walk alone,” you corrected. “Trust was their addition.”
His brow furrowed. “You do not trust me?”
“I do not know you,” you said. “That is not the same thing.”
He considered that, then nodded once. “Fair enough.”
Silence returned, heavier now, weighted with things unsaid. You found your gaze drifting to the window, to the faint outline of leaves pressed against the glass. Outside, life went on. Music would be starting. Laughter. Conversations that led nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Here, the quiet pressed in.
You had never been particularly clever at speaking your mind. You could manage the currency of polite court talk, the gentle deflections and practiced self-abnegation, but the language of want was not one you had ever been permitted to learn. Still, the words rose up and pressed against your teeth, restless as wind at a shutter. You let them out.
“I do not think,” you said, your voice higher and clearer than you meant it to be, as if it belonged to a younger, softer girl, “that any man truly wants a woman like me.”
The words echoed, foreign and familiar all at once, and settled between you like a challenge thrown down and left unanswered. Beyond the windows, someone had begun to play a lute, the notes drifting along the corridor, but in here the sound barely reached.
Dunk blinked. His hands, still resting on his knees, flexed as if uncertain whether to clench or fold themselves in prayer. He looked at you as though he were seeing you for the first time, and perhaps he was, not like this, not with your guard so plainly lowered.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
You considered letting the question die. Instead, honesty, sharp and unaccustomed, took hold of you.
“I mean that I am… soft,” you said, and forced yourself not to look away. “That I am broad where other women are narrow. That I take up space in a way that is remarked upon.” You swallowed. “I am agreeable. Presentable. I am told I have a face that is not displeasing.” The words gathered speed, tumbling now. “I have learned how to listen. How to stand still. How not to draw the eye to what cannot be made smaller.”
You were aware of your own voice, how it wanted to tremble but did not.
“I am suitable,” you went on. “That is the word they use. Suitable for alliance. Suitable for duty. Never spoken of as something to be desired.” Your mouth tightened. “I am told I would do. Like a seat in the hall. Or a cushion. Something meant to be useful. Comfortable. Easily overlooked.”
You fell silent, startled by the taste the words left behind. It was not relief. It was not shame. It was something new and raw, unnamed.
Dunk rose so abruptly that the chair scraped across the flagstones. He crossed the room before you could think to step back. There was something startling in the movement, the restrained violence of a man who had spent his life refusing his own strength, a carefulness so ingrained it shaped every step. He did not touch you. He did not even reach for you. But he stopped close enough that you caught the faint sharpness of sweat, the worn leather of his belt, the clean soap from the keep’s washroom.
“Do not say that,” Dunk said.
His voice was not loud, but it carried. The words hung in the air, vibrating. For the first time since he had entered the solar, he was not merely present within it.
He owned it.
You straightened, more from instinct than defiance. You had not meant to bare yourself so completely. “I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He drew a deep breath, steadying himself, and you saw then how tightly he had been holding something in check. “But it is not true.”
You almost laughed, the urge hot and absurd. “You do not know what men want,” you said, gently.
“That is true,” he said. “I do not know what all men want.” His jaw set. Then he hesitated, and you saw the moment he crossed something internal, released a restraint he had never planned to surrender. “I only know what I see.”
His gaze did not waver.
“I see you.”
The words were plain. Unadorned. Offered not as comfort, not as flattery, but as fact.
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped. A part of you wanted to ask what he saw. You did not. No one ever did.
Dunk lifted his hand, stopping short of your shoulder. The space between you felt charged, delicate. If you leaned forward even slightly, your bodies would meet. He held still, waiting, as if the next moment depended entirely on you.
“Look at me,” he said.
You hesitated.
“Please,” he added, and the word landed with unexpected weight.
You lifted your eyes to his.
They were not remarkable eyes. Not the green sung of in Reach ballads, nor storm-blue or Dornish dark. They were hazel, ordinary. But the focus in them was absolute. He had the look of a man for whom seeing had always mattered more than speaking.
“You are not a piece of furniture, my lady,” he said. “You are not a tapestry to be hung and dusted. You are not meant to be endured.”
You could not speak. The words struck something deep and long buried, swelling inside your chest until it pressed against your ribs.
“You fill this room,” he continued, voice low and steady. “You do not fade into it. Any man who tells you otherwise is either a liar or a fool.”
You stood very still, afraid of what might happen if you moved. The old lessons in your head recited themselves: Do not draw attention. Do not contradict. Do not let your face give you away. But they scattered, disorganized, before the truth of Dunk’s gaze. You searched for something to say that would return them to a safe distance.
“You are a knight,” you managed, after a long moment. “You have taken vows. You must say things like this.”
He shook his head once, so firmly that the candlelight danced on his cheekbones. “My vows are to protect. Not to flatter.” He smiled, unexpectedly. It was a small, private thing, as if he were amused by his own ineptitude at persuasion. “And I am not clever with words, as you must know by now.”
You blinked. You did not know whether to be pleased or abashed. “You are clever enough,” you said, and heard the note of gratitude that slipped in.
He was very close now. For a moment, the air between them shimmered with possibility. You saw the pulse at the base of his throat, strong and steady. You saw the way his hands, so large and battered, curled at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her.
“You are wanted,” he said. It was almost an accusation. “You do not know it, because they have taught you otherwise. But you are.” You felt as if she had been struck, not physically, but with the force of certainty.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
“No one has ever spoken to me that way,” you admitted.
“Then they should have,” he said. “And you should not speak against yourself as though it were truth.”
The silence that followed was different from before. It trembled. You were suddenly aware of how close he stood, of how easily he could have reached out, of how carefully he chose not to. He did not touch you.
That, more than anything, told you this was different.
Dunk took a breath, deep and steady, as if setting his feet on solid ground before crossing a river. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, not rough but certain, the sound of a man who knew exactly what was required of him.
“Come here,” he said.
Not sharply. Not unkindly. Just sure.
You moved without thinking, the command settling into you as naturally as breath. The space between you closed until you stood within arm’s reach, aware all at once of your body in a way you had been trained not to be. The weight of your skirts. The softness at your waist and hips. The way you filled the narrow space between you and him without apology or concealment.
You were close enough now to see the faint scar near his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows across his cheek when he blinked.
“Turn a little,” he said, guiding with words alone. “So the light hits you.”
You obeyed, angling toward the nearest candle. Warmth brushed your skin, catching on the curve of your shoulder and throat, lingering where flesh was fuller, softer. You felt suddenly, acutely present. Not arranged. Not diminished.
His gaze followed the movement, unhurried, reverent, as if he were taking in what others had taught you to disguise.
“There,” he murmured. “That is better.”
The approval in his tone loosened something deep inside you, as though a knot you had carried for years had been quietly cut.
He stepped closer, near enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back, the solid presence of his body like a wall behind you. Still, he did not crowd you. He left space, though you were aware that your body filled it easily, naturally.
You did not wish to move away.
“Stand still,” he said.
You did, hands resting at your sides, heart beating hard enough that you wondered if he could feel it too. The quiet of the solar seemed to bend around you both, candle flames steady, shadows held in place.
Dunk lifted his hand slowly, giving you time to follow the motion with your eyes. He paused just short of your arm, just shy of where flesh softened beneath silk.
Waiting.
The choice was yours. That, too, you understood.
You nodded once.
Only then did he touch you.
His fingers closed gently around your wrist, warm and sure, thumb resting against your pulse. The contact was simple, almost chaste, yet it sent a shiver through you all the same. Not from fear.
From relief.
“You feel that?” he asked.
“Yes,” you whispered.
“Good,” he said. “That means you are here. With me.”
He guided your hand upward, careful and deliberate, then placed it flat against his chest. The solid truth of him met your palm, the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath worn fabric. You were suddenly aware of the contrast between you. His strength. Your softness. How easily your hand fit there.
“Leave it there,” he told you.
You did.
The certainty in his voice wrapped around you, easing the doubt that had lived beneath your skin for so long. You did not feel examined or judged. You felt held, even without his arms around you.
His other hand came to rest at your back, just between your shoulders, not pressing, only present. A point of grounding. You found yourself leaning into it without realizing you had done so.
“That is it,” he said quietly. “You do not need to disappear. You do not need to make yourself smaller.”
The words sank deep, settling somewhere behind your ribs.
You swallowed. “I do not know how to be anything else.”
“You are already enough,” he replied. “You have just been taught not to trust it.”
His thumb brushed once, a subtle stroke meant more to reassure than to claim. The touch sent a low ache through you, unfamiliar and welcome.
“Look at me again,” he said.
You lifted your eyes, meeting his without hesitation this time. Something passed between you then, unspoken but clear. Want, yes, but also trust. The rare kind built not on promises but on presence.
He searched your face as though committing it to memory, then nodded to himself.
“You are safe here,” he said. “I will not take what you do not offer.”
“I know,” you said.
The certainty of it surprised you, but it rang true all the same.
Dunk exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath longer than he realized. His hand at your back slid down just enough to rest at your waist, fingers spread, grounding you there.
“Stay,” he said.
Not forever. Not beyond this room. Just here. Just now.
You stayed.
Outside, the keep continued on, unaware of the quiet shift taking place in a candlelit solar. Inside, you stood with a man who asked nothing of you except that you be present, who led not by force but by faith in his own steadiness.
For the first time, you did not feel like something waiting to be chosen. You felt yourself drawn to him like a moth to flame. Candlelight painted shadows beneath his jaw, highlighted the curve of his cheek. You had been taught your whole life to keep your distance, to maintain proper space, especially from men who were not family. Yet with each breath, you found yourself leaning closer.
His hand at your waist steadied you, neither pulling nor pushing. Just holding. Grounding.
“I should not be here with you like this,” you whispered, though there was no conviction in your voice.
“Do you wish to leave?” he asked.
You shook your head, a small movement that felt enormous.
Dunk’s eyes softened. “Then stay.”
A clock somewhere in the keep struck the hour, the sound distant and muffled by stone walls and tapestries, as if it belonged to another world entirely. Perhaps it did.
He did not rush the moment.
That, too, felt deliberate.
Dunk remained where he was, hand firm at your waist, your palm still resting over his heart as though it belonged there. His breathing stayed even, deep in his chest, a steady rhythm you found yourself unconsciously matching. He let the silence stretch, not empty but full, like a held note that had not yet resolved.
“Good,” he said quietly, as if you had done something right simply by staying. The word was not praise as court offered it. It carried no expectation of performance. Only acknowledgment.
His thumb pressed again at your side, slow and grounding. Not a caress meant to take, but a reminder.
Here. Now.
“You listen well,” he said.
You laughed softly, breathless. “I have been taught to.”
“I do not mean obedience,” he replied at once, gentle but firm. “I mean that you hear what is being asked of you. And you choose.”
The distinction settled over you like a mantle. You had been obeyed all your life by servants and deferential knights, yet rarely offered true choice without consequence.
Dunk’s hand shifted, not lower, not claiming. Instead, he guided you half a step, angling your back toward the hearth. Warmth met your spine at once, comforting, as if he were arranging the world to better hold you.
“Here,” he said. “You look steadier like this.”
You did not question him. You trusted the way he saw space, the way he understood where you belonged within it. His certainty was not sharp. It did not cut.
It held.
He lifted your hand from his chest only long enough to reposition it, fingers closing briefly over yours to turn your palm upward. He set it again, slower this time, higher, just beneath his collarbone.
“Feel,” he said.
You did. The strong beat beneath your hand. The way his body responded to your nearness, not with urgency but with awareness. You swallowed, throat tight.
“You are not too much,” he continued, voice low, steady as iron sunk deep into earth. “And you are not something to be managed carefully lest you break. You stand where you are told because you believe it is safer for others.” His gaze lifted to yours. “But you do not need to protect me from yourself.”
Something inside you loosened. A long-held tension you had never learned to name.
“I am afraid,” you admitted.
“I know,” he said simply. “Stay anyway.”
It was not a demand. It was an invitation shaped like trust.
His other hand rose, slow enough that you could have stopped it. He brushed his knuckles along your forearm, testing, waiting. When you did not pull away, his hand settled there, warm and solid.
“Breathe,” he said.
You did.
“That is it,” he murmured. “Let me set the pace. You do not need to decide anything else tonight.”
The relief was almost dizzying. To be led without being erased. To be held in a moment without being consumed by it.
You leaned into him, just slightly, your forehead near his chest, close enough that the world narrowed to the quiet crackle of the hearth and the steady certainty of his presence. His arm came around you, not enclosing, but bracing, like a wall built not to trap but to shelter.
“Dunk,” you said, the name leaving you before you could stop it.
His breath shifted. “Say it again.”
You did.
The response was subtle. A tightening of his hold. A deeper breath drawn deliberately. His chin dipped, not touching your hair, but close enough that you felt the promise of it.
“You are doing well,” he said, and this time the words carried weight. Not approval given lightly, but assurance meant to anchor you. “I will tell you when to move. I will tell you when to stop.”
“And if I wish to?” you asked quietly.
“Then you will tell me,” he answered without hesitation. “And I will listen.”
Outside the solar, the keep breathed on, unaware. Time passed. Bells rang. Somewhere, laughter rose and fell.
Inside, Dunk adjusted his stance, drawing you closer by degrees, his guidance so gentle you barely noticed until you were there. The shift was unmistakable now, the promise clear without a single explicit word spoken.
You rested your hand against him. He steadied you. The balance between you felt natural, earned, as if it had been waiting all along.
Dunk did not hurry what followed.
He guided you back slowly, not in a single step but by degrees, his hand steady at your waist as he steered you toward the low chair set near the hearth. There was no pressure in it, no urgency. Just direction, offered with quiet certainty, certain you would follow.
When the backs of your knees met the edge of the seat, he paused, checking your balance before easing his grip.
“Sit,” he said. The word carried weight. Not command sharpened into cruelty, but certainty shaped by care. You obeyed without hesitation, skirts whispering against the stone as you settled into the seat. Dunk remained standing between your knees, close enough now that the heat of him felt undeniable. He did not touch you at once. He moved forward, not to crowd but to inhabit the space around you. His knees nearly touched yours, a presence both intimidating and reassuring in its solidity. You watched as he knelt, a slow, deliberate movement that brought his eyes level with yours.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked.
The question was simple, but it carried layers. You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment. The height difference had shifted; now you looked slightly down at him, and the change altered something in the air between you.
"Good," he said, and the approval in his voice sent warmth blooming beneath your skin. "I am going to touch you now. Your hands first. Is that acceptable?"
The formality of the question made it easier somehow, as if he were offering a dance at court rather than this intimate moment in a candlelit solar. You nodded again, then found your voice.
“You are doing well,” he said again, lower this time. “I know this is new.”
You nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of your gown. “I trust you.”
Something darkened gently in his eyes at that. Not hunger alone. Responsibility. “I will be worthy of it,” he said. His mouth brushed your temple first, a restrained, grounding gesture, as if he were reminding himself to stay steady. Then his lips traced slowly along your cheek, not claiming, only testing. When he reached the corner of your mouth, he paused.
“May I?” he asked.
“Yes,” you whispered. He kissed you then. Not rushed. Not consuming. His mouth was warm and careful, his hand returning to your waist to keep you from tipping forward as your body responded instinctively. The kiss deepened only slightly, enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your hands rise to his chest without conscious thought. Dunk broke the kiss before it could tip into something sharper. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing evenly.
“Easy,” he murmured. “We have time.” The promise in the words sent a slow, aching warmth through you.The words unfurled something tight within you. Time. The concept seemed foreign in this small room where candlelight and shadow merged, where the outside world had receded to nothing more than distant echoes. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic, feeling the solidity beneath.
"I have never—" you began, then stopped, uncertain how to shape the admission.
"I know," he said, and there was no judgment in it. His thumb traced a circle at your waist, a gentle, grounding motion. "That is why we go slowly."
His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache. The touch lingered, his calloused fingertips grazing your cheek before sliding to the nape of your neck.
"May I continue?" he asked.
"Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible even in the quiet room.
His hand tightened slightly at your nape, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you as his mouth returned to yours. This kiss was deeper, more deliberate. His lips parted yours with gentle insistence, and you felt yourself yield to it, opening beneath the careful pressure. The taste of him was clean, faintly sweet, like rain-washed stone.
When his tongue touched yours, you gasped against his mouth. The sound seemed to affect him; his breathing roughened, and his hand at your waist flexed once before steadying again. He did not rush, though. Each movement remained measured, each touch controlled.
He drew back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark in the candlelight. "Tell me if it becomes too much," he said.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. His fingers moved to the lacing at the back of your gown, hovering there, a question in the touch.
"I can stop whenever you wish," he said.
The words shivered through you. Not because they promised safety—though they did—but because they acknowledged desire. Your desire. As if it were a living thing that deserved care and attention.
"Don't stop," you said.
His hands were surprisingly gentle for their size, working the laces with careful precision. Each loosened tie sent a whisper of cooler air against your warming skin. You felt yourself trembling slightly, not from fear but from the newness of it all—the deliberate way he undressed you, as if unwrapping something precious.
When the gown loosened enough to slip from your shoulders, he paused again, his breath warm against your neck.
"May I?" he asked, his voice low and roughened at the edges. When you nodded, his fingers slid beneath the fabric, easing it down with careful reverence.
You had been undressed before—by handmaidens, by attendants, by women who saw your body as something to be wrapped and contained. Never like this. Never with eyes that lingered on each new inch of skin revealed, as though memorizing it. Never with hands that trembled slightly despite their strength.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and there was nothing practiced in the word. It fell from his lips like a truth long held, not a courtesy offered.
You felt heat rise to your face, but you did not look away. His gaze held yours, steady and certain, as his hands continued their careful work. The gown loosened further, slipping to pool around your waist, leaving only the thin barrier of your shift between his calloused hands and your skin.
"Still with me?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes," you answered, surprised by the steadiness in your own voice. His hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over the curve where neck met collarbone. The touch was reverent, exploring rather than claiming. You shivered beneath it, unable to hide your response as his fingers traced patterns on your skin.
"Cold?" he asked, though his eyes suggested he knew better.
"No," you admitted. The single word felt like confession.
Dunk smiled then, a brief flash that transformed his face. You hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding himself in check until that moment of release. His palm slid down to rest just above your heart, not quite touching your breast, but close enough that you felt the promise of it like heat.
"Your heart is racing," he observed.
You swallowed. "Yes."
"Mine too," he said simply. He guided your hand back to his chest, letting you feel the strong, steady rhythm there. His hands slid up your arms, a grounding touch that lingered at your shoulders before moving to frame your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing softly over your skin.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
The question caught you off guard. No one had ever asked before. You had been taught to anticipate needs, to fulfill expectations, to shape yourself around others' desires. To be asked directly for your own felt almost like a transgression.
"I don't know how to answer that," you admitted.
His expression softened. "Then I will show you possibilities," he said, "and you will tell me when something feels right."
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, then your temple, then the curve of your cheek. Each kiss was brief, gentle, a question rather than a demand.
When his mouth found yours again, it was deeper than before, his tongue slipping past your lips with deliberate intent. His hands moved to your waist, fingers spreading wide to span the softness there. He didn't shy away from the fullness of your body; he sought it out, his palms curving to fit the shape of you as if it were made precisely for his touch. "Tell me if I go too far," he murmured against your lips, and you nodded, unable to form words as his mouth trailed down your neck.
His breath was hot against your skin, his kisses leaving a path of warmth that made you shiver. When he reached the curve where neck met shoulder, he paused, inhaling deeply as if committing your scent to memory. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and you gasped, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. The sound seemed to affect him; you felt a subtle tension ripple through his body, like a man holding himself carefully in check.
The tension in his body was a revelation—that this man, so powerful and controlled, could be affected by you. His restraint was evident in every careful movement, in the deliberate way he held himself back. It made something warm unfurl inside you, a strange new confidence blooming where doubt had always lived.
"May I?" he asked again, his voice rougher now, though no less gentle.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. His fingers caught the thin fabric, easing it down just enough to expose the swell of your breast. The air felt cool against your heated skin, but his breath was warm as he lowered his head.
The first touch of his lips against the soft curve made you gasp.His mouth was gentle but purposeful, pressing a series of slow kisses along the curve before his tongue traced a path that made you arch slightly against him. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath the worn fabric. He hummed against your skin, a low sound of approval that vibrated through you.
"That's it," he murmured. "Don't hold back."
His hand slid up to cup your breast fully, thumb brushing across the nipple with deliberate pressure. The sensation sent a jolt through you, sharper and more immediate than you had expected. A small sound escaped you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you felt him smile against your skin.
"Good," he said, the word warm with approval. "I want to hear you."
His hand continued to move, mapping the contours of your body with reverent attention. When his mouth closed around your nipple, warm and wet, a moan escaped you—louder than you'd intended, honest in a way you'd never allowed yourself to be. Your back arched involuntarily, pressing more of yourself into his touch.
He shifted, adjusting his position without breaking contact. His other hand slid up your thigh, bunching the fabric of your skirts, but stopping respectfully at your knee. Even in this moment of passion, he maintained boundaries, waiting for permission before proceeding further.
"May I touch you here?" he asked, his voice husky with restraint.
You nodded, then remembering his earlier guidance, found your voice. "Yes," you whispered. "Please."
His hand moved higher, fingers skimming along your inner thigh with deliberate patience. The fabric of your skirts bunched further, exposing more of your legs to the warm air of the solar. Your breath caught as his touch traced patterns on your skin, each circle drawing closer to where heat pooled between your thighs.
"Tell me what you feel," he murmured against your breast, his lips still pressed to the sensitive skin. "Warmth," you whispered, the word catching in your throat. His eyes darkened at your response. The candlelight caught the planes of his face, highlighting the intensity of his focus. His fingers continued their slow ascent, tracing patterns that made your breath quicken. His fingers found the edge of your smallclothes, pausing there with a gentleness that made your heart clench. The deliberate patience in his touch spoke volumes—this was a man who understood the value of restraint, who knew that power lay not in taking but in waiting.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
"Yes," you breathed, surprised by your own certainty.
His touch was feather-light as he slipped beneath the fabric, finding the slick heat that had been building since he first looked at you with those honest eyes. You gasped at the contact, your body arching instinctively toward his hand. Dunk made a sound—half groan, half approval—when he discovered how ready you were for him.
"You're so wet," he murmured, the words reverent rather than crude. His fingers moved with deliberate skill, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your thighs tremble. The sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before—not the fumbling, hurried touches you'd imagined in the privacy of your own thoughts, but something measured and attentive. Each stroke was purposeful, his eyes never leaving your face as he gauged your reactions.
"That's it," he encouraged when you couldn't hold back another soft moan. "Don't hide from me."
Your head fell back, exposing the column of your throat to the cool air. Dunk leaned forward immediately, his mouth hot against your pulse point as his fingers continued their slow, maddening circles. The dual sensations—his lips on your neck, his hand between your thighs—overwhelmed you, pleasure building in waves you couldn't control.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as the pleasure intensified. His fingers moved with precision, finding a rhythm that made your thighs quiver. When he slipped one finger inside you, the stretch was unfamiliar but welcome, your body yielding to his touch as if it had been waiting for this moment.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze. The connection intensified everything—the pressure of his hand, the heat of his breath, the way he watched your every reaction with unwavering attention.
"Beautiful," he murmured again, adding a second finger with careful deliberation. The fullness made you gasp, your hips rising instinctively to meet his hand. "That's it. Take what you need."
His thumb circled that sensitive bundle of nerves as his fingers curled inside you, finding a spot deep within that sent lightning through your veins. You cried out, unable to hold back the sound as pleasure built within you like a wave gathering force. Your hips moved of their own accord, seeking more of his touch, more of that delicious pressure that threatened to unravel you completely.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let go for me."
His fingers moved with greater purpose now, curling and stroking in a rhythm that seemed perfectly attuned to your body's needs. Your breath came in short gasps, your chest rising and falling rapidly as tension coiled tighter in your core.
"Dunk," you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
"I'm here," he answered, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between. "I've got you." The pressure built within you like a gathering storm, your thighs trembling as his skilled fingers worked their magic. His touch was deliberate, purposeful—each stroke and curl precisely calibrated to your responses. You felt yourself climbing higher, closer to some precipice you'd only imagined in the privacy of your most secret thoughts.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Don't fight it."
Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, seeking purchase as the pleasure intensified. The heat of his palm against your core, the stretch of his fingers inside you—it was overwhelming in its intimacy. No one had ever touched you this way, with such focused attention to your pleasure.
When it finally broke over you, the sensation was shattering. Your back arched, your body tensing as waves of pleasure radiated outward from your core. A sound escaped your throat—something between a cry and a moan—as your inner walls clenched around his fingers. Dunk's mouth covered yours, swallowing the sound as his hand worked you through the waves of pleasure, never stopping but gentling his touch as the sensations crested and began to ebb.
"Breathe," he murmured against your lips, his fingers slowing but not withdrawing completely. "Just breathe."
You obeyed, drawing in shuddering breaths as aftershocks of pleasure rippled through your body. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes half-closed as if he were experiencing his own kind of release simply by witnessing yours.
When your breathing steadied, he carefully withdrew his hand, the loss of contact making you whimper softly. He pressed his lips to your temple, a gesture so tender it made your chest ache with something beyond physical desire.
"You are magnificent," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Do you understand that now?"
You couldn't answer, your body still trembling with aftershocks as reality slowly reassembled itself around you. His arms encircled you, pulling you against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath your cheek. The rapid rhythm was oddly comforting—proof that he was affected as deeply as you were.
"I didn't know," you murmured against the worn fabric of his tunic. "I didn't know it could feel like that."
His large hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "That is only the beginning," he said, the promise in his words sending another shiver down your spine.
You became aware of the hardness pressed against your thigh, the evidence of his desire contained but not hidden. Yet he made no move to seek his own pleasure. He held you, patient and steady, as your breathing gradually returned to normal.
"What about you?" you asked softly, your hand hesitantly moving to his thigh.
His larger hand covered yours, neither pressing it closer nor pushing it away. "This was for you," he said simply. "To show you what desire truly feels like when it's focused on your pleasure."
The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and unexpected. You shifted in his arms, turning your face up to his. His expression was open, unguarded—a rare sight in a world where men were taught to hide vulnerability as skillfully as women were taught to cultivate it.
"I want..." you began, then faltered, still unaccustomed to stating your own desires so plainly.
"Tell me," he encouraged, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
You swallowed, "I want to touch you too," you finished, gathering courage from the tenderness in his eyes. "I want to learn what pleases you."
His breath caught, a subtle hitch that revealed more than words could. "Are you certain? You don't need to—"
"I know," you interrupted, the boldness surprising even you. "That's why I want to."
Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability that transformed his features. His hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that sent renewed heat spiraling through you.
"Then I will guide you," he said, his voice low and steady despite the desire evident in his eyes.
He adjusted his position, moving to sit on the edge of the chair and drawing you gently onto his lap. The new arrangement brought your bodies closer, your skirts spreading across his thighs as he settled you against him. His hardness pressed more insistently against your thigh now, impossible to ignore in this new position. A flush spread across your cheeks as you realized how intimately you were connected, how the thin layers of fabric seemed suddenly inadequate barriers between your bodies.
"Don't be nervous," he murmured, his hands steady at your waist. "We'll go as slowly as you need."
You nodded, gathering courage from the gentleness in his voice. Your hand moved hesitantly to his chest, feeling the strong, rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. The rhythm matched your own, quick with anticipation and desire.
"May I?" you asked, your fingers drifting lower, tracing the line of his stomach through his tunic.
His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remained. "Yes," he answered, the single word rough with restraint. Your hand moved with more confidence now, trailing down to the laces of his breeches. His breath caught as your fingers fumbled with the knots, inexperienced but eager. When you looked up at him, questioning, he covered your hand with his own.
"Let me," he said, guiding your movements with gentle pressure.
Together, you loosened the ties until the fabric parted. Your heart hammered against your ribs as he guided your hand beneath the rough cloth, your fingers encountering hot, velvet-smooth skin stretched taut over hardness. He was larger than you had imagined, thick and heavy in your palm.
"Like this," he murmured, adjusting your grip with careful patience. His hand enveloped yours completely, showing you how to stroke, how much pressure to apply, when to twist slightly at the top. The sound he made when you followed his guidance—a low,broken, half-swallowed groan—sent a renewed surge of heat through your body.
"Is this good?" you whispered, watching his face for signs of pleasure.
"Yes," he managed, his voice strained. "Very good."
His eyes held yours as your hand moved more confidently now, learning the rhythm that made his breath catch and his muscles tense. There was something powerfully intimate about watching his control slowly fracture, knowing you were the cause. His hand eventually fell away, letting you set the pace, trusting you to learn what pleased him.
The candlelight caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, highlighting the tension in his jaw as he fought to maintain his composure. His hips lifted slightly into your touch, a subtle movement that spoke of carefully restrained desire. You were fascinated by the contradiction of him—so powerful yet so vulnerable beneath your inexperienced touch. His eyes closed briefly when your thumb traced over the sensitive head, a bead of moisture making the glide easier. His vulnerability in this moment struck you deeply—that this strong, careful man would allow you to see him like this, would trust you with his pleasure.
"You're trembling," you observed softly, surprised by your own boldness.
"Yes," he admitted, his voice rough-edged. "It has been... some time. And never like this."
The confession made your heart swell. Your movements grew more confident, your grip firmer as you found the rhythm that made his breathing ragged. His hands had settled at your waist, fingers flexing against the fabric of your gown with each stroke of your hand.
When his eyes opened again, the intensity in them nearly stole your breath. Gone was the careful restraint, replaced by raw, unfiltered need. His hands tightened on your waist, a subtle shift that betrayed his growing need. You continued your strokes, emboldened by the way his breathing hitched when you twisted your wrist just so. The hardness in your palm throbbed, hot and insistent.
"I won't last much longer if you continue like that," he warned, voice strained. The admission thrilled you—that you, who had been taught your body was something to minimize, could reduce this powerful man to such vulnerability.
"Is that bad?" you asked, genuinely curious.
His laugh was brief, breathless. "No. But I would rather—" He hesitated, then cupped your face with one large hand. "I would rather be inside you, if you'll allow it."
The words sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs. You nodded, then remembering his earlier guidance, found your voice. "Yes," you whispered, the word carrying more certainty than you'd felt about anything in a long time. "I want that."
His eyes darkened further, but his movements remained controlled as he shifted you in his lap. With gentle hands, he guided you to straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his powerful thighs. The position brought your bodies flush together, the heat of him evident even through the remaining layers of your clothing.
"We'll go slowly," he promised, his hands steady at your waist. "Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable."
You nodded, suddenly aware of your inexperience. But there was no judgment in his gaze, only patience and a desire that matched your own. His fingers found the hem of your shift, drawing it upward with careful deliberation. You raised your arms, allowing him to pull the garment over your head. The air left your lungs in a rush as you sat exposed before him, your shift gone, nothing but the bunched fabric of your skirts at your waist preserving any modesty. You expected to feel vulnerable, perhaps even ashamed, but the way Dunk looked at you—as if witnessing something precious and rare—banished any thought of covering yourself.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. His hands, so large they nearly spanned your waist, steadied you as you balanced above him. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," you answered, surprising yourself with the steadiness in your voice.
His thumbs traced small circles on your hipbones, grounding you as he guided you forward. You felt the blunt pressure of him against your entrance, hot and insistent. Your breath caught as he positioned himself, the anticipation nearly unbearable. "Easy," he breathed against your neck as he began to enter you with exquisite slowness. "Breathe through it."
You gasped at the unfamiliar stretch, your body tensing instinctively at the intrusion. His hands tightened on your hips, not forcing but steadying, as he paused to let you adjust.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Take your time."
You focused on your breathing, on the warmth of his skin against yours, on the way his thumbs traced soothing circles on your hipbones. The initial discomfort began to fade, replaced by a fullness that bordered on pleasure. When you shifted slightly, testing the sensation, a groan escaped him.
"Gods," he whispered, his forehead pressing against your collarbone. "You feel incredible." The sensation of him filling you completely made your breath catch in your throat. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as you slowly lowered yourself further onto him. The stretch was uncomfortable at first, a burning fullness that made you bite your lip to keep from crying out.
"There," he whispered, his voice strained with the effort of remaining still. "That's enough for now. Just breathe."
You did as he instructed, drawing in deep breaths as your body adjusted to his size. His thumbs continued their soothing circles on your hips, his patience unwavering despite the tension evident in every line of his body. When the discomfort began to fade, replaced by a curious warmth that spread from your core, you shifted slightly, testing the sensation.
Dunk's head fell back, a low groan escaping him. "Gods be good," he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. "Move when you're ready. But slowly."
You lifted your hips experimentally, feeling him slide partially out before lowering yourself again. The sensation sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your body, different from what his fingers had done but no less intense. A small sound escaped your throat, something between a gasp and a moan.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with restraint. "Find your rhythm."
Your movements were hesitant at first, uncertain. But as your body adjusted to his size, you found a slow, rolling pace that made your breath catch and his hands tighten on your hips. Each downward motion seated him deeper within you, the slight discomfort giving way to a building pleasure that made your thighs tremble.
Dunk watched your face with unwavering attention, reading every flicker of expression. When you winced slightly at a particular angle, he shifted immediately, his hands guiding you to a slightly different position that eased the pressure. His consideration—even now, when his own desire was evident in the tension of his body—touched something deep within you.
"Better?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
"Yes," you whispered, finding the confidence to move more purposefully now. The drag of him inside you created a friction that built the pleasure higher with each movement. Your hands braced against his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath as he fought to maintain control.
When his mouth found yours again, the kiss was deeper than before, hungrier. His tongue slid past your lips in rhythm with the movement of your bodies, a dual claiming that made you moan against him. One of his hands moved from your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak in a way that made your inner muscles clench around him. The sensation overwhelmed you—his hardness stretching you, his thumb circling your nipple, his mouth devouring yours. Your hips moved with greater confidence now, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spiral through your core. Each time you sank down on him, he filled you completely, touching places inside you that sent sparks dancing behind your eyelids.
"That's it," he groaned against your mouth. "You're doing so well."
His praise washed over you, warm and intoxicating. You had never felt so powerful, so desired. The fullness of your body, which you had been taught to minimize and hide, now moved with purpose, taking and giving pleasure in equal measure. Dunk's eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of sensation with reverent attention.
When his hand slipped between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves above where you were joined, your rhythm faltered for a moment. Your head fell back as dual sensations overwhelmed you—the fullness of him inside you and the precise circles of his thumb against that sensitive point. He steadied you with his other hand, ensuring you didn't lose your balance as pleasure threatened to unmake you.
"I can't—" you gasped, your thighs trembling with the effort of maintaining your position.
"You can," he assured you, his voice rough with desire. "I've got you."
His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, supporting your weight as your movements became less coordinated. The pressure of his thumb increased slightly, perfectly calibrated to the rhythm you had established. Your inner walls clenched around him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
"That's it," he encouraged, his breath hot against your throat. "Let go."
The release, when it came, was more powerful than before—a wave that crashed through your entire body, leaving you gasping and shaking in his arms. Your inner walls pulsed around him, the contractions drawing a strangled groan from his throat. His hips jerked upward, meeting your downward motion with a force that sent another shock of pleasure through you.
"Duncan," you cried out, no longer caring about propriety or restraint.
His control finally broke. His arms tightened around you, holding you firmly against his chest as his hips drove upward in short, powerful thrusts. The change in position seated him even deeper within you, touching places that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You clung to his shoulders, face pressed against his neck as he chased his own release.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "I want to see your eyes when I—"
You lifted your head, meeting his gaze as his movements grew more urgent. The intensity in his eyes stole your breath—desire mixed with something deeper, a connection that transcended the physical joining of your bodies.
"You're perfect," he groaned, his rhythm faltering as his release approached. His fingers dug into your hips, not painfully but with enough pressure to ground you both in this moment.
When he finally shuddered beneath you, his face transformed with pleasure, you felt an unexpected sense of power. That you—with your soft curves and untutored movements—could bring this strong, controlled man to such abandon seemed like a revelation. His forehead pressed against yours as he pulsed inside you, his breathing ragged against your lips.
For several heartbeats, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the solar were your mingled breaths and the soft crackle of the dying fire. His arms encircled you completely, one hand stroking gently along your spine as you both trembled with aftershocks. His lips brushed your temple, a gesture so tender it made your throat tighten with emotion.
"Are you all right?" he murmured, his voice rough-edged but gentle.
You nodded against his shoulder, unable to find words for the tangle of sensations coursing through you. Your body felt both weightless and impossibly heavy, satisfied in ways you had never imagined possible. The fullness of you, the softness he had touched with such reverence, no longer felt like something to apologize for or conceal.
"Yes," you finally managed, the word barely more than a whisper against his skin.
His hand continued its soothing path along your back, neither demanding nor retreating. Just present. The quiet intimacy of the moment felt almost more significant than what had preceded it—this gentle aftermath where your bodies remained joined, your breathing gradually synchronizing.
"I did not expect this," you whispered against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean sweat and leather and something uniquely his own.
His chest rumbled with a soft laugh. "Nor did I." His fingers traced idle patterns on your skin, mapping the contours of your back as if committing them to memory. "Though I cannot claim I did not hope."
The confession surprised you. "You hoped for this? With me?"
He drew back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. The intensity of his gaze hadn't diminished, though it had softened into something warmer, more intimate. His hand shifted to your face, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "Yes. With you." His thumb traced your lower lip, still swollen from his kisses. "Not like this—I would never presume. But I noticed you. How could I not?"
The simple honesty in his voice undid something in you. There was no artifice in his words, no courtly flattery designed to achieve an end. Just truth, offered plainly.
"What did you notice?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.
He smiled, the expression transforming his face into something boyish and open. "The way you move. Like you're trying not to disturb the air around you." His hand slid to your shoulder, then down your arm, fingers tracing the curve with reverence. "The kindness in your eyes when you speak to the serving girls. How you listen more than you speak." His thumb brushed your cheekbone. "The softness of you—not just your body, but your manner. Your patience."
You lowered your eyes, overwhelmed by the unexpected praise. His finger tipped your chin back up, gentle but insistent.
"I noticed," he continued, "how others look past you, and I could not understand it." His voice deepened, roughened at the edges. "I wanted to know what thoughts you kept behind that careful mask. What desires."
Heat bloomed in your cheeks again, but you did not look away. The intimacy of the moment—your bodies still joined, his heartbeat steady against yours—gave you courage you hadn't known you possessed.
"And now?" you asked softly.
"Now I know," he answered, his eyes darkening slightly, "that you are even more than I imagined."
tips are never expected, but if you’d like to support my writing, you can do so here
