how would modern!aerion react to find ls masturbating
18+ (smut). mdni. good morning to me! i missed them!
three things happen in very quick succession.
first: offense.
genuine, petty, sexual offense. because he is right there. he exists, he's within a five-mile radius of you, he fucked you this morning in his shower with your back against the tile and his hand over your mouth purely to piss you off, and now, six hours later, you're in his bed touching yourself like he's dead? like he doesn't have a tongue? hands? a perfectly functional cock that is demonstrably interested in helping you with this?
he stands in the doorway for a full three seconds just staring at you with this look of pure affront on his face. mouth open. rings glinting as his hand tightens on the doorframe. you haven't noticed him yet (your eyes are closed, head tipped back into his pillows, your hand moving between your legs in slow, distracted circles) and the sight of it does something complicated to his brain chemistry, but the first thing it does is piss him off.
"are you serious right now?"
your eyes fly open. you freeze, hand still between your thighs, and the look on your face makes him even more annoyed because you shouldn't look smug. because clearly you've decided he's not enough for you, clearly he's failed some crucial fucking metric if you're—
"i'm here," he says, gesturing at himself with the kind of theatrical irritation only aerion can manage. "i'm—i fucked you this morning, you were literally still shaking when i got you your coffee, and now—what, i'm obsolete? you've moved on? should i leave you and your hand alone?"
you blink at him. then, slowly, you smile.
and that smile (god, that fucking smile) flips something in his brain from offended to oh no.
second: he wants to watch.
the offense was performative, a thin crust over the actual reaction happening underneath, which is that aerion targaryen has just walked into his bedroom and found you (his wolf, his nightmare, the only person alive who makes him feel like he's coming apart at the seams) touching yourself in his bed, and he didn't get to see it from the beginning.
he should have been here for this. he should have gotten to watch your face when you started, should have seen the exact moment you slid your hand down, the first catch of your breath. the way your hips shifted against his sheets. and he missed it, and that feels, somehow, like a personal slight.
"how long have you been—" he starts, and his voice has gone quieter now, lower, the performance dropping. he's still standing in the doorway but his weight has shifted forward. his eyes have gone dark, pale lashes lowered, fixed on your hand. "how long?"
you don't answer immediately. just hold his gaze, your hand still resting between your thighs, not moving. waiting.
"were you thinking about me?" he demands, and it comes out rougher than he meant it to. needier.
you hum. noncommittal.
his jaw tightens. "were you saying my name?"
"...maybe."
"maybe." he laughs, but it's not a joyful laugh. it's the laugh that means he's about to make you regret being coy with him. "show me, then. i want to see what i missed. i want to hear you say it."
and here's where whole thing tilts from offense into something else entirely. because aerion could fuck you right now (he wants to fuck you right now, you can see it in the way he's looking at you, the tension in his shoulders, the way his rings catch the light as his hand flexes against the doorframe) but he doesn't move. he stays where he is. watching.
"go on," he says quietly. "finish what you started."
third: mutual masturbation. or he just fucks you. he's no saint.
aerion tries.
he genuinely, earnestly tries to be patient, to let this play out, to talk you through it the way he's been fantasising about doing since the second he walked in and saw your hand between your legs.
he leans against the doorframe. he watches you touch yourself. he tells you (voice low, mean and shaking slightly at the edges) exactly what he wants you to do. "slower. no, slower, don't finish yet, i didn't say you could finish."
and it works. for maybe ninety seconds it works. you follow his instructions, your hand moving the way he tells you to move it, and he watches with this focused, predatory intensity, and his own hand drops to the front of his jeans (just resting there at first, palm pressing against the obvious line of him) and you can see him fighting it, see him trying to be good, to make this last.
but then you say his name.
just a soft, breathless "aerion" as your hips lift off the bed, and that's it. that's the end of his self-control. his hand is already working his jeans open as he crosses the room, and by the time he reaches the bed he's shoving them down his hips along with his briefs, and he's crawling over you with and his mouth already finding yours.
"you're impossible," he mutters against your lips, one hand batting yours away so he can replace it with his own, fingers sliding into you without preamble. "actually impossible. i was going to—i had a whole—fuck, you're so wet—"
"you were going to what?" you manage, gasping as he curls his fingers.
"i was going to watch," he bites out, sounding genuinely aggrieved about it even as he's sinking two fingers deeper, his thumb finding your clit. "i was going to be good, i was going to let you finish like this and then fuck you after, but you—you said my name—"
"sorry," you lie, not sorry at all.
"no you're not." he pulls his fingers out, and before you can complain he's lining himself up, the head of him pressing against you. "you're never fucking sorry, you do this on purpose, you—"
he sinks in.
all at once. just one smooth brutal slide until he's buried completely, the stretch of him a punishment, and you're making a sound into his mouth that he swallows like he's starving for it.
"there," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes gone lavender-dark and slightly wild. "there, fuck, this is what you needed, wasn't it? not your hand. me."
and he's right, obviously, he's always right about this even when he's insufferable about it, but you're not going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. you just wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper, and aerion makes this low, broken sound and starts moving.
he fucks you mean. he fucks you like he's annoyed about it, like you've personally inconvenienced him by being so fucking hot that he couldn't keep his hands to himself for two full minutes. his rhythm is rough and uneven, chasing his own pleasure more than yours because he's petty and you ignored him in favour of your own hand, and he's going to make sure you know exactly what you were missing.
except—
except he can't help himself. halfway through he slows down, his forehead dropping to yours, and his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit again because aerion targaryen is incapable of fucking you without making you come. it's a point of pride. and he'd rather die than let you finish yourself off when he's right here.
"say it again," he demands, voice rough.
"say what?"
"my name. say it the way you were saying it when i walked in. i want to hear it."
you smile against his mouth. and then, because you're generous, because he's fucking you so perfectly you can barely think, you give it to him.
"aerion."
he shudders. full-body. his hips stutter, rhythm faltering for half a second before he catches himself and drives back in harder.
"again."
"aerion—"
"fuck, yes, like that—"
and when you come, it's with his name in your mouth and his hand between your legs and his cock buried so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins. and aerion follows maybe ten seconds later, finishing inside you with a low, guttural sound and his teeth in your shoulder and his rings digging into your hip hard enough to bruise.
afterward, when you're both catching your breath and he's collapsed half on top of you, still inside you because he's clingy even when he pretends he's not, you run your fingers through his sweaty pale hair and murmur, "you know, i was thinking about you."
he lifts his head. eyes narrowed. "obviously you were thinking about me."
"the whole time."
"i know."
"you didn't know. you asked."
"i was—" he stops. recalibrates. "i was confirming."
you grin. "you were jealous of my hand."
"i was not—"
"you absolutely were."
aerion glares at you. then, because he's a bastard, he shifts his hips just enough to make you gasp, still sensitive, and smirks when your nails dig into his shoulders.
"next time," he says, voice low and smug, "you wait for me."
"or what?"
"or i'll make you wait." he kisses you, slow and wet, sucking on your bottom lip. "and i'll make you watch while i finish myself off. see how you like it."
you both know he's lying. you both know he could never have that level of discipline when it comes to you or his pleasure. but you let him have it anyway, because he's pretty when he's pretending to be in control, and because he's going to fuck you again just to prove a point.
Friend-of-a-friend Soap who’s always set you a little on edge. You know he’s got a crush on you, and at the moment you decide to reach out for a favour—something he’s assured you over and over is okay, you’re not even in dire straits, just in need of a ride and being pestered by some rando outside of a bar. This text message could have probably been a ride-share order and a quick chat with the bouncer if you’re being honest with yourself.
‘lol I told this guy my boyfriend is coming to pick me up can you come get me?’
It’s entirely too soon after his ‘👍’ and a confirmation of your location that his work truck pulls up, and with a disgruntled, meek “that him?” the guy is already well on his way back inside.
The poor vehicle’s driver side door nearly flies right off its hinges in Johnny’s race against the retreating man that’s given him a misbegotten reason to stick his tongue down your throat.
“Got tae sell it right?” He puffs into your open mouth, long after the man is gone.
Thinking about @ceilidho ‘s tomodachi life post and I think Johnny is constantly getting his feelings hurt via gaming
Like imagine he walks in on you playing stardew valley and he’s like “who is that guy in your house” and you’re like “that’s my husband Shane” like not only is he offended that some virtual bastard popped the question before he did (and you said yes!!!) but also he’s like what do you see in him??? He’s nothing like me!!
He introduces you to overwatch thinking you’ll like hazard cause he’s this ripped Scottish bad boy with a mohawk and you’re like “heehee reaper is cute. He kinda reminds me of Simon” like you’re literally making your boyfriend throw himself upon his own blade in utter despair
And yes he does get mad when you have dreams you’re with someone else. You’re cheating on him in dreamland!!!
Daeron The Drunken Gets Whiskey Dick Sometimes. it should come with the territory, you’d think. It’s avoided him an impressively long time, the countless times he’s stumbled into smokey brothels utterly wrecked, words hardly coherent and vision so blurry he can’t make out the face of the woman on top of him- he could still manage a hard cock.
that is-a few times a year it fails him. now that you’re married, he just can’t bring himself to let you know when it happens, afraid that you would take it personally, that it would hurt that bleeding heart of yours, as if you haven’t made him finish in his trousers before just from sitting in his lap. so when he climbs into bed tasting of wine as he always does- hazy but mostly undrunk- and you’re covering his heated skin in kisses, sucking at his pulse just where he loves it, just for him to reach down and find nothing, he wants to curse the gods.
he refuses to deny you, especially after you’ve worked yourself up all panting and skin alight, so he holds your wrists behind your back so your hands don’t go wondering, forcing you down on your back so he can kiss down your body messily but agonizingly slow, even slower with the wine that flows through his veins. he spreads your thighs and locks his arm around your hips before he’s wrapping his lips around your clit and he swears he’ll give up wine forever if he has to choose between the two. never being good at sword or lance, he was good at this, the one thing he knew he could do, with his wine flushed cheeks shoved between your tensing and trembling thighs- nodding into your wetness as you grow louder and louder. he makes you come one, two, three times before you fully surrender and you fall limp, drifting off to sleep no sooner than you can fully catch your breath.
it’s here now, when you’re laying next to him sated and nearly drooling on the pillow-dead to the world- daeron realizes that his cock is now hard.
Daeron Targaryen + Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
✿ you and dunk are tasked with escorting prince daeron from king’s landing to summerhall. the journey is long, and you are all quick to become more than just travelling companions.
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 13.4k (omfg)
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader can be read as plus-sized (mentions of larger thighs, tummy, etc) but is otherwise physically undefined, reader is dunk’s best friend/travelling companion, some plot (a lil slow burn), yearning, SMUT, threesome, slight voyeurism?, oral (f&m!receiving), brief face-fucking, m!masturbation, fingering, unprotected piv, spanking, multiple orgasms, cum-play/eating, praise, pet names (sweet girl, pretty girl), breeding, praise, dirty talk, overstimulation, lowkey soft dom!dunk, but also soft dom!daeron too so idk, strong language, dunk is very protective, daeron is a cocky little shit, reader is exactly where she wants to be >:)
a/n: straight up long as hell lmaooo but you can all thank lovely @ladythedrunken for this <3
DAY ONE
You sit idly atop Chestnut, stroking your fingers through his dark mane as Ser Duncan fusses over the front cinch of your saddle. You watch him curiously, his big hands tugging at the leather strap and ensuring it sits snugly against the bay horse.
“Must you do this every time?” You ask him, cocking your head as you watch his dirt-stained hands work.
He looks up at you with those watery blue eyes you have become increasingly fond of during your time with him. He stares at you as if only just noticing your presence.
“Yes,” Dunk replies simply. “If the saddle doesn’t sit right—”
“I’ve been tacking my horse since I was ten and two,” you remind him with a subtle smile, unhooking your foot from a stirrup and nudging Dunk’s side with the toe of your boot. “Even more, I’d say I saddle better than you do.”
Dunk’s hands drop from the cinch strap, but not before he takes hold of your ankle. His hand covers the joint completely where it’s obscured by the worn hide of your boot. He holds you firmly, gently guiding your leg away from his side and back towards your stirrup. You feel the heat of his hand against you, breaking through the barrier of your boot, and you find yourself biting your lip as he sits your foot back against the steel of the stirrup.
“Ser Arlan taught me to saddle,” Dunk says, planting a couple of firm pats against your calf. His hand waits there, cupping the flesh. “Do you think you are better than him?”
You smile down at him. “Yes.”
He lets out a dry laugh, before suddenly noticing he still has his hand on your calf. Cheeks tinted pink, he withdraws his hand and steps away, but not before giving Chestnut a gentle stroke down the neck.
You watch the hedge knight turn then, and your gaze rises to the horizon. King’s Landing sits framed by the sea, the early morning sun bright behind the stone spires of the Red Keep that jut towards the sky. You notice a group of men approaching then: riding black palfreys down the trodden dirt road, cloaks pulled low over their heads. Dunk stands beside Thunder, fingers stroking the warhorse’s nose as he assesses the approaching troupe.
“I must admit,” you begin, the dull echoing of hooves on earth reaching the still air around you. “I’m surprised he didn’t flee.”
Dunk offers you a huff. “There’s still time.”
The group of riders reach you and Dunk in less than a minute, and they pull to a stop several yards away. You watch a few of them pull down their cloaks, revealing somewhat familiar faces of the kingsguard. You recognise Roland, who leaps from his horse with a pained grunt. He turns to a hunched, hooded figure after he’s dismounted.
“Off,” he instructs firmly, tugging the hem of the figure’s cloak.
The figure groans, slumping over further in his saddle. “No.”
Roland frowns, shooting you and Dunk an apologetic look. Dunk waves his hand, and Roland takes a step back, gesturing to the hooded figure.
“His grace has been rather reluctant, as you can probably imagine,” Roland says to Dunk, before his eyes find you. You smile at him, and he returns it. If Dunk clocks it, he doesn’t let on, but you know him better than that, for the way he clears his throat is anything but casual. Roland continues, his eyes on you still, “His palfrey is loaded with supplies. Food, water, coin. Enough for the weeks ahead.”
“Thank you, Ser Roland,” you say politely, bowing your head.
Ser Roland turns and thumps the reluctant royal on the leg. “Prince Daeron, behave yourself, for Ser Duncan and his lovely companion will not be as forgiving as I if you attempt another escape.”
Daeron finally sits up, and his hood falls away from his head. You watch him carefully. His blond hair is a scraggly mess atop his head, framing his paled face like strings of gold. His eyes, a misty violet-blue in the early morning sun, are framed by dark circles, and the lines of his nose and lips are pink, as if he had just been plucked from his sleep. Despite his post-drunken, dishevelled state, you can’t help but notice the prince’s obvious beauty.
“I do not doubt that,” Daeron drawls, eyes sinking to find Ser Duncan standing beside his horse. He looks the giant man up and down, and a small smile stretches across your lips as you watch the prince’s eyes linger on the strong expanse of Dunk’s muscled shoulders. Daeron sighs through his nose. “How is it that you have gotten bigger since I last saw you?”
Dunk shrugs, the movement drawing his cloak tight around his shoulders. Daeron watches it closely as Dunk speaks, his tone even. “M’not sure, your grace. But m’lady feeds me well.”
Daeron looks up then, as if only just noticing you were there. His eyes find yours and you offer him a small smile. Something tight knots in the base of your stomach as you watch a thin smile creep across his face, his eyes soft but searching. Searching for something—you’re not sure what—in the pools of your irises as he sits up a little straighter in his saddle, gloved hands ringing around the reins.
“I see,” he says, still looking at you. “Lady…?”
You give the prince your name.
He repeats it like he can taste it.
Dunk turns to Ser Roland then, and the knights shake hands. “We shall disembark, ser.”
“Take care, Ser Duncan,” Roland tells him, before clambering back onto his horse. He offers Dunk one last sympathetic look. “Please keep the prince out of trouble. Prince Maekar awaits his arrival at Summerhall.”
With that, Ser Roland and the surrounding kingsguard take off back towards King’s Landing, leaving you and Dunk in the presence of Prince Maekar’s eldest son. Dunk walks forward and takes hold of Daeron’s horse’s halter, his other hand petting the black stallion soothingly. Daeron watches this happen from atop his horse.
“He looks fit,” Dunk utters, directing his words to you. “We will aim to journey until the sun begins to set.”
You nod.
Daeron frowns. “Surely you do not expect me to sit astride for that long? My father does expect heirs of me, believe it or not.”
You can’t help but chuckle, and Daeron’s eyes sparkle as they find you. Dunk huffs, giving the royal horse one last pat before retreating back to Thunder. He addresses the prince as he boosts himself into his saddle.
“We will take rest when I say we will take rest,” Dunk informs, offering the prince one last pointed look before he turns to you. His eyes immediately soften, and you nudge Chestnut forward until the two of you stand abreast. “Shall we take leave?”
You nod, wriggling a little in your saddle to get comfortable. “Yes.”
“I will take lead,” Dunk says, urging Thunder forward. You pull Chestnut in beside Daeron, and he glances at you with a surprisingly sober smirk on his handsome face. Dunk looks at the two of you over his shoulder. “M’lady, you will ride beside his grace. Please use your dagger if he attempts an escape.”
You laugh as Daeron gapes.
“I distinctly remember the orders from my father were to deliver me to Summerhall unharmed,” Daeron says, eyes flicking from the solid mass of Dunk’s back to your pretty face. “And as for the image of a beautiful woman driving her blade into my thigh… well, that’s not as much of a deterrent as you think it is.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk bristle as he nudges Thunder into a brisk walk. You do the same, with Daeron mimicking your movements. As you settle into the beginning of your journey, you raise a brow in the prince’s direction.
“You speak quite openly for a prince,” you tell him.
He reaches up and pushes a strand of blond hair away from his face. He looks at you with eyes that seem to pierce straight through. “So I’ve been told.”
You can’t hide your smile.
He cocks his head. “Do you find it improper?”
“Quite the opposite,” you reply, gloved fingers stroking the thin leather of Chestnut’s reins. “I find it rather endearing.”
Daeron lets out an abrupt laugh, head falling back until his hair disappears into the cloak’s hood that gathers at his shoulder blades. “I don’t think my manner of speaking has ever been described as endearing, but thank you.”
You shrug, then reach across the small gap that separates you. Daeron watches you carefully as you gently take hold of his cloak’s hood and pull it over his head. You watch his smile vanish behind the dark material as you pull it tightly over his head and face. You laugh when you realise he’s essentially riding blind.
Dunk looks over his shoulder at the sound. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine,” you say, withdrawing.
Daeron adjusts his hood so it sits perfectly: obscuring most of his head and shadowing his face just enough, but the glint of his violet-blue eyes is hard to miss.
That night, after several upon several hours of riding—and several more breaks for Daeron who, rather unsurprisingly, has the bladder of a common child—Dunk decides it is time to retire for the night. The sun has just slipped beneath the distant hills, and the sky is alight with hues of pink and orange that fill the forest clearing with a kaleidoscope of bright colours. You take the liberty of tying all three horses up beneath the branches of a towering ash before dashing a line of oats across the ground for them to snack on. A few yards away, Dunk has sat Daeron down on a bedroll—physically sat him down, pushing the prince onto his arse with two strong hands on his shoulders—and now hefts a pile of branches in his arms. He drops them on a flat piece of ground.
“I’ll tend to the fire,” Dunk says, looking up as you approach.
You place a gentle hand on his back, a silent thank you, before you walk around him. You breeze past Daeron, who sits cross-legged on the thinning bedroll like a sulking child. He looks up at you with watery eyes, his pale features bathed in the ichor of the sunset.
He calls your name. “Will you sit with me?”
You ignore him as you open one of the sacks tacked to your saddle. You pull out a loaf of bread, wrapped in clean linen, then a pouch of salt beef. Daeron frowns as you approach with the food, kneeling beside him whilst Dunk finishes up the fire. You hear it begin to crackle as you settle the loaf of bread across your lap and tear it apart.
“What is this?” Daeron asks, a deep dent in his brows as you hand him a generous chunk of bread and a handful of hard salt beef. He takes the food as if it were poisonous, peering at it and waiting for his fingers to start withering.
You hear Dunk sigh through his nose as he dusts his palms across his thighs. “Supper.”
“Supper is supposed to be edible,” Daeron mutters. The point of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, and he brings a strip of beef to it. He licks it, then pulls his tongue back into his mouth, smacking his lips. His frown deepens. “This is horrid.”
“You will eat what is given to you,” Dunk says.
With the fire roaring now, he lumbers over and sits beside you and across from Daeron. He watches with rapt attention as you split open a chunk of bread and stuff a bundle of salt beef between the pieces. You hand it to him, and Dunk hefts it gratefully in his hands.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Daeron scoffs, still looking at his bread and beef. “I thought you said your lady feeds you well? I’ve fed better to the dogs that roam Rhaenys’ hill.”
Dunk scowls. “Don’t you—”
But you laugh. “Well, my prince, please feel free to forfeit your meal. I’m sure I can go and find a hungry dog to feed it to.”
Daeron goes quiet. You hum to yourself, enjoying the heat of the fire on your back as you stuff your own segment of bread with beef. You take a bite, and by the time you chew and swallow, Daeron has mimicked you and raised the stuffed bread to his mouth. He eats without another complaint.
DAY FOUR
“Might we stay at an inn tonight?” Daeron broaches, calling to Dunk who rides a few metres ahead. “My back pains me.”
“No,” Dunk replies simply.
Daeron groans, tipping his head back until his hood falls. “Please.”
“No.”
Daeron turns to you, pouting. “M’lady—”
“No,” you say.
“Please.”
“Ask again and I shall confiscate your bedroll,” Dunk grumbles ahead. “Your back will pain you more if you have to sleep amongst the dirt and rocks.”
Daeron rolls his eyes, and looks at you. His eyes are soft in his sobriety, and they appear clearer as they drag across your body. The smile that crosses his face is nothing short of satisfying as an obviously pleasing thought crosses his mind.
“I’m sure the lady would share hers with her prince,” he utters, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes.
You notice that Dunk doesn’t react with words, but you recognise the way the muscles of his back shift as he stills in his saddle, shoulders hunching as his grip goes white-knuckled on the reins.
You reply to Daeron to ease your poor knight. “I will gladly give mine up. I will share Dunk’s—it would be a tight fit, but I think we’d manage.”
Dunk’s ears go bright pink.
Daeron runs the point of his tongue across his bottom lip, saying nothing more.
DAY EIGHT
The three of you pass through a small village to replenish your inventory. Dunk heads into the market, and you sit with Daeron on a hill overlooking the open field dotted with stalls. He yawns and tips to the side, resting his cloaked head against your shoulder. Birdsong fills the air overhead, the sky a brilliant blue and the grass beneath you soft and lush with drying dew.
Daeron’s body is warm beside yours, and you feel your body sway with each of his inhales and exhales as Dunk’s large figure vanishes from view. You should tell the prince that what he is doing is considerably improper, that he shouldn’t be resting his head against the shoulder of a common woman. But, as you sit atop the grassy hill, you realise that he is as much a common man with the cloak over his head as you are a common woman. So you stay silent.
“You smell heavenly,” Daeron suddenly says, and the abrupt break in silence nearly makes you jump in fright. “Like… honeycakes.”
You scoff, rather unladylike, but it settles and you don’t feel guilty about it. “I haven’t bathed in eight days.”
“You bathed in the river two days ago.”
“Without soap,” you reply, then nod towards the market. “Dunk is getting me more.”
Daeron hums. “Does he know which kind you like best?”
The question feels odd. It feels as though it had been pushed out into the open after a long period of sitting in the shadows.
“Dunk knows everything about me,” you whisper, fidgeting with the rope belt that hangs from your waist. The fibres are soft and well-spun beneath your fingers compared to the coarse thickness of Dunk’s belt. When Daeron doesn’t respond, you continue. “I have known him for many years, your grace.”
“So you must know he cares for you?”
There’s a tight knot in your belly. It’s so heavy you feel you might sink into the soft grass beneath you; you might fall back into the dirt and it will consume you like flesh from a carcass.
“Of course,” you say quietly. “He is my closest friend.”
“Ah.” Daeron clears his throat, still leaning against your shoulder. “He cares for you more than that, m’lady. I know it.”
“You know nothing.”
Daeron peels himself away from you, his eyes finding yours and mirroring the bright blue of the sky above. He peers at you like he’s known you all his life. There’s a comfort that crosses between you, and he leans back on his hands, eyes never leaving yours.
“I know plenty,” he says. “I have spent years frequenting the Street of Silk. I know what lust looks like in the eyes of men, m’lady, just as much as I know what love looks like.”
You feel yourself growing hot beneath the low collar of your dress. You look away. “You cannot speak of such things with me. It is improper.”
Daeron laughs. “I recall it was you who found my openness endearing.”
You suck your teeth, withholding a scornful reply.
The prince continues, undeterred. He says your name, soft as silk. “The hedge knight is in love with you.”
You don’t look at him. Or maybe you can’t.
“I know what love looks like,” Daeron echoes his earlier words. “And that man… looks at you how my father looked at my mother.”
You finally turn to him then. His eyes are cast downhill and there’s an almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. Ivory teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip as he loses himself in thought, and you go against all of your common sense and place a comforting hand against his knee. That breaks whatever stupor he was in, for he looks over at you as if you’d just saved him from drowning.
“Dunk is in love with you,” Daeron says like the words hurt coming out.
You nod.
It’s not as though you didn’t notice the way the hedge knight reacted to you: the way he reacted to your touch, to your attention, to your words. You knew how red he got when you insisted you bathe together, and you knew how hard it was for him to keep his eyes rooted to the riverbed as the water flowed around you. You knew how much he liked it when you complimented him, when you praised him, and you knew he keened like a proud dog when you applauded his strength or his bravery. You knew how obsessed he was in making sure you were safe, how consistent he was in checking your saddle before each ride, or sweeping the inn before your sporadic stays.
“I know.” You finally find your voice. “I suppose it sounds strange coming from another person. Especially…”
Daeron grins. “A prince?”
You chuckle. “Yeah.”
Daeron hums, and you realise your hand is still on his knee. You remove it, and you could have sworn he almost looked offended.
“So… what does lust look like?” You decide to ask, the question almost too loud in the natural silence that fell between the two of you.
Daeron looks you up and down, smile slowly slinking away. He meets your eyes. “You’d know.”
DAY NINE
You wash yourself the next morning with the honey wax soap Dunk had brought you—the soap you always sought out each time you found yourselves perusing stalls of village markets. You are by yourself in the slow-moving stream, willows framing the banks with their low-hanging branches, their sage-coloured leaves brushing the clear water. You can hear the low voices of Dunk and Daeron a little upstream, who are lounging half-naked against the shingled bank.
The water is cool around your waist as you lather the soap across your arms, beneath them, then over your breasts. Yellowish bubbles cover your skin as you scrub yourself with a pumice next, then dip yourself beneath the surface to rinse. When you rise and wipe the water from your eyes, you find Dunk approaching along the bank with his head lowered.
“Hi, Dunk,” you greet him, wading towards the bank, the waterline sinking lower, lower, and lower still.
Dunk clears his throat. He holds your fresh clothes in his hands, folded neatly. He holds them out to you, his eyes on the rocks at his feet as his cheeks slowly turn pink. You smile when you leave the stream, bare to the forest around you.
You stand right in front of him, just as you always did. “Thank you, Dunk.”
“S’alright,” he mutters. His ears were pink too. No matter how long you had known each other, he still found himself heating up each time you approached him like this. He holds your clothes out. “I’ve washed your other dress and the lot. They’re drying.”
“Thank you,” you say again, taking your chemise from the top of the pile. You shake the excess water off yourself, feeling almost foolishly like a dog, before unfurling the garment.
“Dunk, I lost your soap in the stream,” came Daeron’s voice, and you yelp as one of Dunk’s hands shot out to grab your upper arm.
He settles you directly in front of him, shielding you from the approaching prince with the mass of his body. Still holding your dress in one hand, he holds you firm with the other as he tosses his head over his shoulder, watching as a stark-naked Daeron stumbles over the rocky shore. You giggle, catching a brief glimpse of the prince’s pale body before Dunk is shifting you closer to his chest, hiding you.
“Well, dive down and get it,” Dunk says a bit too roughly.
“Your grace,” you greet, unable to see him, but you stick a bare arm to the side and offer him a wave from behind the wall of Dunk.
Dunk pulls you closer until you’re pushed right against him. You suck in a breath, your bare tits squishing against the strong pudge of his abdomen.
“I will get the soap, just wait downstream,” Dunk growls out, and you feel the reverberations through his body as it passes through your bones.
You can’t see the prince, but he’s smiling. The smile on his face is so brazen that Dunk feels the need to haul a large rock in his direction. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds you to him until the prince turns on his heel and retreats back around the willow, his bare arse on show.
Only when Daeron has disappeared does Dunk realise how he’s handling you. His ears go even redder—if that was even possible—and he immediately guides you away from him. He drops his arms, but doesn’t move, his eyes on the stream.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean—”
“Do not apologise.” You slip your chemise over your head and let it settle against the curves of your frame. “You saved my decency.”
You take your dress from him next, and he waits patiently, listening as you pull yourself into it. After a moment listening to you huff as you tug the material to sit on your body the way you want, he feels a hand on his chest.
“Dunk,” you say gently, turning to show him your back. He finally looks at you. “Can you tie my back please?”
Dunk has done this a million times. He might just be better than any lady in waiting. Besides, you feel more like a princess with him anyway.
You wait, the soles of your feet resting against rocks as you feel his hands descend on you, taking the ribbons of your dress. He slowly begins to thread them, following the pattern. With each curl, his fingers brush against you, and you purse your lips, Daeron’s words echoing around your skull like the bells of a sept.
Love. That single word sticks to the grooves of your brain as Dunk’s fingers warm against the covered skin of your back.
After a moment, he finishes and ties the ribbons off, taking a deliberate step back.
“There,” he announces as you spin back around. He can look at you now. “Perfect.”
DAY ELEVEN
“Surely we can reward ourselves with a night in an inn?” Daeron queries, both hope and fatigue noticeable in his words.
The day had been particularly strenuous. You had reached the Stormlands, and Dunk was insistent on pressing on for as long as possible.
The morning had started freezing and wet: rain lashing the earth, sky heavy with clouds that would alight periodically with white flashes of lightning. Dunk had opted to remove Thunder’s saddle then, storing it on Chestnut and pulling you to sit before him—much more comfortable bareback than to attempt to squeeze the both of you between the saddlehorn and the firm lip at the back. His thick body shielded you from much of the rain that flailed in from behind, and he bundled you against his chest, warming you as much as he could.
By midday, the clouds had cleared but the wind had found you. Strong gales blew through the valley, and Dunk kept you in the fortress of his arms. Daeron groaned as he rode beside you both, complaining as the wind billowed his cloak and pushed his hair into his eyes. He was wet and cold and princes shouldn’t get wet and cold, he had argued.
The wind thankfully died by the afternoon, but the rain sought you all out again. The droplets were thin but icy, and poor Thunder looked miserable with his mane flattened across his face and his hooves caked in mud. The kingsroad had long churned to mud and the journey seemed to drag on and on forever.
Evening passed and the rain ceased, and when night fell and a small scattering of illuminated buildings appeared out of the gloom, Daeron almost shouted with joy.
“It’s been a long day,” Daeron continues, casting Dunk a pointed look.
Dunk sighs through his nose, sparing a look down to where you are slumped against his chest. You wear his cloak over top of your own, bundled beneath the thick fabric. Your eyes are closed and you breathe softly, one of his strong arms wrapping around your middle.
Almost in agreement, both Thunder and Chestnut let out simultaneous snorts.
And when he feels you shiver against him, his mind is made up.
“Fine,” he says, and Daeron beams in the semi-darkness. But he’s not doing this for him. He’s doing it for you.
A few minutes later, Dunk is gently shaking you awake as Thunder trots towards the inn’s stables. You stir with a little whine, and Dunk feels something lurch in his chest.
And in his trousers.
“What’re we doing?” You ask, sitting up slightly and rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. You blink and look around, noting the inn and the wafting aroma of a warm cooked meal.
Dunk carefully extracts himself and slips off of Thunder, Daeron gladly dismounting his own palfrey as a stableboy approaches. Dunk turns and lifts his arms as he so often did when the two of you rode together. You offer him a lazy smile in thanks, your hands finding the pillowy muscles of his biceps as his hands find your waist.
His hands are strong and wide against you. He hefts you like you weigh little more than a babe, bringing you down to earth as your dress and cloaks billow around you. Daeron watches the interaction from afar, leaning back against his horse as Dunk’s hands remain on your sides and yours remain on his biceps. The knight’s eyes flit across your face and land on your mouth for a second too long, your bodies a hair’s breadth apart.
Behind Dunk, Daeron groans. He hands the reins of his horse to the stableboy and tosses him a dragon. The stableboy’s eyes widen as he clasps the coin in one dirty hand, and Dunk turns to shoot Daeron an incredulous look.
“Should you be flashing that kind of coin ‘round here?” Dunk hisses. His hands leave your waist, but you tiredly chase the contact: your arms wrapping around one of his, face smushing into his upper arm.
Daeron casts the stableboy a bored look, who is now taking both Thunder and Chestnut as well. Daeron points between the horses as the stableboy looks up at him, eyes wide. “Make sure they all get oats. And an apple—” he turns to Dunk. “—Do horses eat apples?”
You hum, too tired to respond, but Dunk does anyway. “Yeah, I’spose, but—”
Daeron’s already turning back to the stableboy, who looks no older than ten. “Yes, make sure they get oats and an apple.”
The stableboy nods and hurries away with the horses, and Dunk can’t help but watch them go with guilt lodged in his throat.
Daeron saunters towards you, and the knight startles when the prince hooks his hands around his free arm.
“C’mon then, Ser Duncan,” Daeron drags out, tugging the knight along. “I long for an actual mattress.”
Inside, Dunk makes it apparent that Daeron was not leaving his sight, no matter how much the prince begged for his own room. To Dunk, he would rather sleep on the floor whilst the prince got a comfortable bed, than risk sleeping in another room and allow the prince a chance of escape.
“You treat me like a prisoner,” Daeron grumbles as Dunk shoulders open the stiff door to your room for the night.
“You run, I chase,” Dunk says. “And I really don’t feel like chasing you.”
The room is cramped but warm. The ceiling is low, which Dunk found out too late when he bumped the crown of his head against a wooden beam. Two beds are crammed into the small space: one with a wrought-iron frame and a plush straw mattress, big enough for two people, and another tucked in the corner which was short and narrow and obviously intended for a child. On the other side of the room, a crudely made wooden chair with a singular pillow placed on the seat.
Dunk says your name gently, and you stir where you continue to lean into the softness of his arm. “You’ll take the large bed.”
Daeron gapes as he sheds his cloak. He then gestures to the child’s bed. “I am not sleeping on that.”
Dunk grunts. “You’ll sleep where I tell you.”
Daeron huffs and crosses the room. He sits on the edge of the larger bed and crosses his arms over his chest.
You giggle, unwinding yourself from your hedge knight and slipping off both his cloak and your own that obscure your body. You place them both on a hook near the door. You turn to Dunk, offering him your back after slipping your shoes and stockings off.
“May you untie me, ser?” You ask him quietly, and Daeron’s eyes snap over to you both.
Dunk ignores the prince and gets to work. Tenderly, he undoes the ties at the back of your dress, and you hum to yourself all the while. Daeron’s stopped sulking, and he observes the blush high on Dunk’s cheeks as the hedge knight loosens your garment. He also notices the way the dress’ collar slips down, revealing more of your chest and the upper slope of your breasts. He swallows thickly, and feels something stir deep inside him as your dress falls away and you are left in your chemise.
“Thank you,” you say, bending to gather your dress. Your arse is so close to brushing Dunk’s pelvis that his breath hitches and he nearly chokes on it. When you right yourself and cross the room to hang up your dress, Dunk shoots Daeron a look. The prince just smirks. You return. “I don’t mind sleeping on the smaller bed.”
Dunk shakes his head. “No. You’ll sleep here. The prince is fine on the child’s bed.”
“No, I am not.” Daeron lies back on the large bed.
Dunk scowls as you giggle and approach the bed. You crawl onto it until you’re lying beside Daeron, and the prince turns his head to watch you clamber beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. Gritting his teeth, Dunk sits down in the old wooden chair. He should rip you away from the prince, scold you for being so close, banish the dreamer to the corner of the room like a petulant child.
But he doesn’t. He just watches.
“We can share,” you mutter, laying on your side.
Dunk’s heart tightens, and his jaw works as the muscles there tense. “No, you will not.”
Daeron mirrors your position, eyes glimmering in the candlelight as he blatantly ignores the larger man. “How kind of you.”
Dunk leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. “Daeron, get off the bed.”
Daeron’s eye flick over to Dunk. “Oh, the first name. Am I in trouble?”
“You’re about to be. Get off the bed.”
You sit up a little and look over your shoulder at your hedge knight. His cheeks are pink, there’s a light sheen of sweat glistening high on his forehead, and you note the shuddering in his shoulders as he sucks in a deep, calming breath. He looks even larger in the shadows: tall and wide and so, so big.
“The lady said we can share,” Daeron says, and you support his statement with a nod. If Dunk didn’t love you so, he would have reprimanded you too. A cat-like smile creeps across the prince’s face after a moment of tense silence, and Dunk’s heart leaps into his throat when Daeron’s hand closes around your chin and forces you to look at him. “We can share, can’t we?”
You nod. “Yes.”
Daeron mock pouts, thumb stroking the soft curve of your jaw. “Well… what about Dunk? Can he share with us too? We both know that bed will be much too small for him.”
You nod again, humming. “Mhm.”
Daeron turns back to Dunk, still holding your chin. “There we go, ser. She says we can all share the bed. How lovely is that?”
Dunk’s half hard.
He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does. He can see every curve of your body as you lay on the bed in your thin chemise, and he can see the way you react to the prince’s touch. His cock stirs in his breeches, and the prince’s soft goading is not helping. That scares him a little, and he suddenly feels the need to drink several pints of ale.
Daeron shifts to look at you. His pupils are so wide his eyes appear black, and there’s a flush on his cheekbones that gives you butterflies. He doesn’t look like a prince, with his hair tucked out of his face, a healing scar dashed across his cheekbone. You want to touch it.
So you do.
You raise a hand and bring your fingers to his cheek, feeling the raised skin there. Behind you, Dunk growls out your name, but it feels less a warning of don’t touch and more a warning of be careful. Daeron’s eyes droop, blond lashes fluttering as you run your thumb over the healed laceration. A small sound leaves him, and you catch his throat bobbing as his head chases the contact of your fingers.
Dunk should rip the two of you away from each other. He’s fighting with himself, fighting with his duty. He should be protecting your honour, your virtue as a lady, but he should also be protecting whatever honour a prince like Daeron has left. That crosses his mind, and he frowns, then his thoughts shift. Daeron has been in more whore houses than Dunk has slept in hedges—he’s slept in a lot of hedges—and suddenly, he feels queasy. The prince is dirty. Surely he’s diseased. Surely if you touch him, you will—
He hears you whimper.
He snaps himself from his daze, and his heart drops into his stomach.
You’re kissing the prince.
Still cupping Daeron’s face, you both move at the same time. When your mouths meet, you whimper, and a whine-like noise slips from Daeron’s throat too. His lips are warm and surprisingly plush, and they move against yours like he’s done this a thousand times. His tongue flicks across your lips, and you part for him, allowing him to lick into your mouth and slide his tongue across your own. You whimper again, and one of his hands finds the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.
The chair groans as Dunk springs to his feet.
Daeron pulls away, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his body as Dunk looms over the bed. The prince smiles as you pant, and Dunk’s fury is reflected in his blue eyes.
Dunk’s fists clench at his sides. “Stop.”
Daeron dips his head and kisses you again. You whine, and the sound spears right through Dunk’s heart. You kiss Daeron and taste the salt of dinner and the lingering wine from his flask. He licks over your teeth, and you try to keep up, something hot and honey-thick pooling in the base of your belly as you press against him.
Dunk calls your name. You pull out of the kiss and Daeron peppers kisses from the corner of your mouth and down your throat as you peer up to look at your knight.
“Please,” Dunk whispers, knees knocking against the mattress where he stands. “Please don’t do this.”
You pout as Daeron sucks harshly at a particularly soft spot at the hollow of your throat. “Dunk, I… I want this.”
Dunk chews his lip, brows furrowing. “But… I…”
That makes your heart stutter. You use all your strength to push Daeron away from you, and you roll towards Dunk, your chemise riding up the thick of your thighs. You kneel on the mattress, ignoring Daeron’s whines as your hands find Dunk’s chest. His fingers wrap around your wrists. He’s burning hot.
“Dunk,” you whisper, craning your head.
Dunk goes shy under your gaze. You look at him like he’s so much smaller, so much more noble, so much less of the giant oaf he’s always been told he was.
You look at him like you love him.
“Dunk,” you repeat, and he finally meets your eyes without breaking. You give him a soft smile and he swears he may melt. “Dunk, my sweet knight. Please let me have this.”
Dunk frowns. “I’d let you have anything, just… not this. Not him.”
Daeron lets out a small noise of offence.
You caress Dunk’s chest, feeling the soft muscle and the rapid beating of his heart. “I know, I know, but Dunk, my sweet boy, please. I want this, okay? I want this… and I want you, too. I want—gods, I want both of you.”
You don’t need to turn around to know Daeron is smiling like a dragon atop a horde of gold and glitter.
Dunk seizes like he’s been struck. “What?”
You don’t back down. You’re too far in to retreat like some fair maiden. “I love you, Dunk. And I want you. I want you, and I want Daeron.”
“Where…?” Dunk frowns, shaking his head. “Where is this coming from?”
“From deep within, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chimes in behind you, and you glance back to see how he’s lounging against the bed like a cat. He gives you a wink, one of his hands pressed flat to the front of his trousers, barely concealing the pitching tent there. He continues smoothly. “Your pretty lady is not the maiden you think she is.”
Dunk scowls at the prince. “Do not speak of her as if she is one of your whores.”
Daeron laughs, and you soothe Dunk with more pets to his chest.
“I do not kiss my whores, ser,” Daeron says, sounding bored. “I do not kiss them, nor do I particularly like them. They are convenient. Our pretty lady on the other hand…”
Our hits Dunk across the head like a blow from an axe.
He growls, and his hands shoot down to grasp your hips. You suck in a startled gasp as Dunk pulls you into him, your hands pinned against his chest. A pleasant heat is filling your core, and your thighs squeeze together as your heartbeat seems to travel south.
“There is no our,” Dunk spits, and it’s the gruffest you’ve ever heard him. “She is mine—she is my lady, and I will not allow you to treat her like the women in the brothels you frequent.”
Daeron rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, Ser Duncan, I will not speak to her like a Silk Street whore,” he says, looking you up and down. His smile is sinister and it makes you whine, the sound making Dunk’s eyes widen. “But I will fuck her like one.”
Dunk’s eyes flash. “How could—?”
“Dunk,” you plead, and his eyes are on you in an instant. “Please let… let me have you.”
You don’t mention the prince, but Dunk already knows he’s a part of it.
He’s scared. Dunk is scared of whatever the hell he is about to do. He’s scared of whatever he’s saying yes to when he dips his head and slots his mouth to yours, his arms tight at your waist. But you moan into his mouth—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard—and suddenly he’s not scared anymore.
Dunk’s mouth is rougher than Daeron’s. Less coordinated, a bit sloppier, but he’s eager and it makes your cunt clench around nothing as he holds you to him. You lick the seam of his lips and he groans, his mouth opening. Your tongue finds his and they smooth together so naturally it makes you feel faint.
The mattress sinks behind you, and suddenly another warm body is pressing to your back. You whimper into Dunk’s mouth when Daeron’s hands ghost around your ribs. He cups your tits through the material of your chemise, his thumb and forefingers finding where your nipples harden beneath the fabric. His mouth draws against the curve of your shoulder, tongue licking the neckline of your chemise. You feel his hard cock against you, the tent in his trousers pushing tightly against the plush curve of your arse as your hands work across Dunk’s chest.
You drag your hands down Dunk’s soft belly, finding the hem of his tunic and tugging on it. Dunk extracts himself from the kiss with a disgruntled huff, pupils blown wide as he yanks his tunic over his head one-handed. You bite your lip, smiling as you drag your hands across his stomach, beneath the curve of his pecs, up and over his freckled shoulders, then all the way back down. Dunk bends to kiss you again. This time, it’s him licking forward, tongue passing heavily over yours, tasting honey on your gums.
Daeron grinds himself against you, and you can’t help but moan at the warmth of him pressing against the split of your arse. Your chemise rides up, revealing the backs of your thighs, and Daeron takes that as an invitation to slip the hemline up, up, up until he can settle the bare material above your arse.
He groans, one hand moving to cup one of your arsecheeks as he ruts himself against you. You pull away from Dunk’s mouth to sigh out and lean back into the contact. Dunk huffs and shifts, noticing the prince’s actions.
Fuck it.
He takes your chemise and rips it over your head. You yelp as it flies over your head and disappears somewhere in the room, leaving you completely bare and pinned between the two men. They’re both mostly clothed and searing hot against you. It makes you dizzy.
Dunk doesn’t avert his eyes like he usually does. He takes a step back and allows his eyes to rake down your body, following the dips and curves. He groans, falling to his knees, and you gasp out, taking hold of his shoulders as he kneels beside the bed.
He presses a kiss to your stomach. To the spot above your navel. Then he heads lower, with his hands on your hips, and kisses down your navel and along the curve of your lower belly. You whimper, Daeron still kneading your tits and grinding himself against the cleft of your arse as Dunk’s breath fans across your stomach before he’s kissing directly over your mound.
You keen, head bent to watch Dunk sink even lower.
He moans, eyes finding yours through his lashes. His eyes find your thighs next.
“Can I?” He asks around a whisper, and you reply by spreading your thighs. Daeron helps you, holding you steady as your legs part and your slick core meets the warm air of the room. Dunk moans again as his eyes find your slit. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”
Daeron hums in agreement, still rocking his hips against your arse, his fingers rolling your nipples in small circles. You’re leaning back against him, neck craned for him to lick and suckle at the sensitive skin between your neck and shoulder.
Dunk angles his face forward, and you squirm when his nose presses between your folds, followed closely by the warm press of his lips. He splits you and breathes in, his own exhale hinged around a whine that vibrates through you. You grip his shoulders tightly.
Daeron chuckles, leaning his chin on your shoulder and looking down at the big man hunched before you. “You ever eaten pussy, ser?”
The crudeness of it has heat flaring through you, and you have half the mind to close your thighs around Dunk’s face. Dunk ignores the prince as his tongue unfurls and slides between your silken folds, sliding up and down. You cry out his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth before letting it go with a slick pop, only to follow the movement with a few chaste kisses, then he’s dragging his tongue back down again. He repeats this several times until you’re trembling, and he finally, finally, curls his tongue around your hole.
You suck in a breath, and Daeron chuckles again. “Clearly you have.”
Dunk pulls back, lips ghosting over you, just enough to mutter out, “I‘ve never,” before delving straight back in.
Your head falls back even further as your moans fill the room. Most of them writhe around the syllables of Dunk’s name. A stuttered whine of “you’re doing so good” has his cock tugging painfully at the seam of his breeches, pre-cum wetting the fabric.
Meanwhile, Daeron is back to licking and biting across your shoulder. He’s switched sides now, and the hand which had been fondling the fat of your arse shifts. It curls, like a serpent, around your hip then over your lower belly. It passes across your mound, then dips lower until a finger presses to the puffy bead of your clit.
Your eyes fly open. “Daeron.”
“S’alright…” He whispers, kissing the pulse beneath your ear as he wriggles his finger between your pussy and Dunk’s face. He hears Dunk grunt, but ignores him. Instead, the prince slowly starts rubbing firm circles against your clit. “This feel good?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, Daeron’s finger on your clit and Dunk’s tongue sliding into your cunt. Heat fills your stomach, sweat building along your spine, your hips twitching.
Dunk’s hands on your thighs find your hips as his mouth moves against your pussy. He holds you upright, stopping you from toppling off the bed. You anchor yourself on his strong shoulders too, and you find yourself closing your eyes as your body begins to thrum with pleasure. That familiar feeling begins to build inside you: tight in your abdomen, surging down your spine and weaving between vertebrae. Building, building, heat blooming in your belly, a teeth-splitting tightness that stretches across the front of your womb.
Daeron’s long hair tickles your shoulder and the side of your face. You feel his heart hammering between your shoulder blades, and you suddenly realise he’s half-naked. You don’t recall him ever taking his shirt off.
He grinds his cock against you, panting against your neck as his finger works circles across your clit. “You feeling good, sweet girl? Is Dunk making you feel good?”
“Uh-huh,” you breathe, stiffening in his arms. Dunk’s tongue shoves deep inside you, the thick muscle splitting you open. His mouth is burning hot against you too. And Daeron’s finger is incessant on your clit, your hips bucking to meet the movements. “Oh, gods, fuck, m’gonna—m’gonna—”
“That’s it,” Daeron whispers. “That’s it. Let it happen.”
The tightness in your belly snaps clean in half. Heart stuttering in your chest, you release with a sob of both of their names. It fills the space like a chant as you come, your fingers digging deep into the freckled flesh of Dunk’s shoulders as his tongue laps up the slick that threatens to drool out of you. Daeron strokes you through it too. Your body shakes against his, pleasure white-hot at the ends of your nerves as he gently rocks his cock against your plush arse. Your thighs clamp around Dunk’s head, and a deep moan rips out of his chest. He pulls away from you, kissing your thighs as he retreats. Daeron slips his hand away.
Dunk’s face is slick with you. “Gods, sweetheart…”
Daeron grins down at the knight over your shoulder. “Good?”
Dunk doesn’t respond. He sits higher on his knees and spreads your thighs once more. Two thick fingers swipe through your slick folds, splitting your pussy open. You whine, arching against Daeron as Dunk’s fingers find your hole.
And sink inside.
There’s a small aching stretch, and you hiss around the intrusion. Dunk mutters a sincere apology, kissing your stomach, but his fingers don’t relent. He pushes them in, stretching you open, curling and flicking and sinking deep. You take him to the knuckle, and he coos at you. Daeron kisses you on the cheek, feeling your body tighten.
“Easy, easy…” Daeron says against the warm skin of your cheek. He kisses you there again, his stubble scratching the soft skin.
Dunk sucks in a deep breath. “Gods, you’re so tight.”
He pulls his fingers out, then gently pushes them back in.
“F-fuck,” you curse, fingernails pressing crescents into Dunk’s shoulders. “Dunk, oh my gods—”
Daeron grabs your chin and twists your head around. He slides his mouth against yours then whines into the contact, and you mirror the sound with heat returning to your womb. Dunk watches your mouths connect with his brows knitting together and a solid weight in the base of his tummy. As your mouths move together, he catches glimpses of tongue, pushing and pulling, and his cock jerks in his breeches. He groans low as his eyes find your pussy again, and he focuses on where you take his fingers.
He leans forward then, fingers crooking deep inside you, and presses his mouth back to your clit. He suckles gentle, watching you the entire time, and he relishes in the way your hips buck and you pant into the prince’s mouth. A low whine flees the confines of your mouth, and it makes Dunk’s cock leak against the material of his breeches. But Daeron is quick to chase your noises, his tongue bullying between your lips and licking the sounds from you.
Daeron serves the blistering heat in your belly: his teeth drag along your lip, his tongue sliding along the points of your teeth; he clutches your jaw in a warm hand, and his chest is just as warm pressed against your bare back. His cock strains heavily in his breeches, and he’s positive that if he doesn’t free himself in the next few minutes, the fabric will rip open.
“Ser Duncan,” Daeron addresses the hedge knight when he pulls back from the kiss.
Dunk looks up, two thick fingers continuous in their movements. You feel the sword callouses at the base of his inner knuckle and the rub makes you keen.
“Might we bring this to bed?” Daeron asks, rubbing his hand down your side in soothing strokes. “I think our lady is ready for us, don’t you think?”
Dunk grunts, begrudgingly sliding his face out of your pussy. He slowly pulls his fingers from you too, then gives your clit one last pet as he slides them across your folds. You whine at the loss of contact, pussy fluttering around nothing as the hedge knight gets to his feet, the floorboards beneath him groaning.
Behind you, Daeron squeezes the fat of your hips before the warmth of his body retreats. He shuffles up to the head of the bed, resting himself amongst the fraying pillows. You let him sit for a moment, focusing on your knight. Your valiant, noble knight.
Your hands find the thick mass of his shoulders as he hulks over the edge of the bed, and you whine as you tug him down. He obeys without a second thought, allowing you to slam his mouth onto yours. You moan, tasting yourself on his tongue, his lower face sticky with your remnants. Dunk’s hands find your back and he pins you to him, groaning low in his throat as he kisses you. Gently, he rubs his clothed cock against your pelvis, and the weight and shape has you stilling, body on fire.
“Dunk,” you whisper against his mouth, one of your hands finding his hair and taking a fistful. “I love you.”
Dunk shudders as you scratch his scalp. His heart leaps out of his chest at your words, and he can’t help the string of whimpers that escape him knowing that you love him. You love him.
“I love you,” he says, then kisses you. It’s sloppier and meaner in a way he didn’t intend. He tries to pass on all of his feelings, but they’ve been bottled up for so long that your teeth clink together and your tongues mash without rhythm. It still makes you moan though, and he pulls out of the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “I love you.”
That makes you giddy.
Behind you, Daeron moans. It’s hinged half on pleasure and half on impatience.
“I could watch the two of you kiss all evening,” the prince drawls, palming himself through his breeches. When did he take his trousers off? “But I really, really don’t want to wait any longer. I have been told patience is not my strongest attribute—”
You tune him out, turning your body, then looking back over your shoulder at Dunk.
His ice-blue eyes are on you, but they’re dark with desire. His hands fidget with the ties of his breeches, as if warring with himself. But he can’t hide the large imprint of his hard cock in his breeches, and he can’t hide the fact he’d kicked his trousers off some time ago. His eyes roll down your naked back and a small sigh leaves him. He looks over at Daeron next, who is unlacing the ties of his own breeches as he watches the scene in front of him unfold.
You face Daeron. He looks especially regal against the pillows: his golden locks spread around his head like a halo, or maybe a crown, his bare chest bathed orange by the candlelight. But his eyes are almost animal with the way his pupils dilate and the irises all but vanish.
“How do you want me, my prince?” You ask him as he shucks his breeches off.
His hard cock falls free, slapping back against his stomach when he fists himself, fingers wrapping around the base. The head is ruddy and flushed red with blood, and your eyes trail along a prominent vein on the underside.
Daeron moans in response, eyes flitting between you and the towering mass of man behind you. The surface of his chest flushes with his arousal as his heart rate increases. He sits up further against the pillows, then pats his thigh.
“You’re going to be good and come and take your prince’s cock,” he says, then looks at Dunk. “And you’re going to open your mouth nice and wide for Ser Duncan, okay?”
You bite your lip as you smile and crawl across the bed to him, your tits swaying as you do. Daeron groans at the sight, twisting his hand around his cock, base to tip a few times, before you close in. He dips his head to kiss you, his free hand seizing the base of your jaw as his tongue bullies past your lips. When you break the kiss, the room around you glows with candlelight. Orange, amber. Shadows distort around you in an almost dream-like state.
Then, Daeron spins you. He manoeuvres you until your back is to him, and you kneel between his spread legs. You lock eyes with Dunk now, who slowly clambers onto the bed. The mattress protests beneath his weight, but he slides over the sheets until he’s kneeling in front of you. Daeron hums, obviously pleased, and leans forward.
He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of your shoulder in a playful bite as he drags the head of his cock down the split of your arse. You yelp at the contact, but something clenches in your belly.
“Daeron,” Dunk warns, his voice an even timbre in the relative silence of the room.
Daeron groans his response, then laves his tongue across the little indents he had bitten into your shoulder. His other hand clasps his cock tightly before he leans back and gathers saliva in the front of his mouth. With a gentle hand to the middle of your back, he carefully bends you forward until you fall into Dunk.
Dunk’s next movements are automatic: he holds you tenderly, large hands massaging your sides. He does this while Daeron leans back and spits down the crack of your arse, the sensation sudden and surprising and forcing a moan from the depths of your chest. Daeron smiles to himself as you whine, nuzzling your face between Dunk’s pecs as he presses the head of his cock against your cunt.
Your hole is slick and glistening, wet with your arousal and the remnants of Dunk’s spit. It makes his cock twitch, and he circles the fluttering hole a few times before he gives it a few solid slaps with his tip.
“Such a pretty girl,” Daeron whispers, running the head of his cock through your folds as you squirm in Dunk’s hold. He rubs your back, then takes hold of your hip. “Now be a good girl and help Ser Duncan out of his trousers.”
You do as you’re told.
With Dunk supporting you, blush sticky on his cheeks, you untie the knots at the top of his breeches. When you loosen the strings, you help the large man shuck them down past his hips until his cock can fall out. You whine, hard cock flopping against his thick thigh, slit wet with pre-cum and a lurid red that makes desire coil tightly in your gut. Sure, you’ve seen Dunk’s cock before, but it’s a whole lot different when you’re about to suck it.
You lean in and wrap a hand around the base.
Dunk’s breath hitches, his entire body shuddering. “Oh, gods, sweetheart.”
The tip of Daeron’s cock pushes in, and you mewl loudly. It pulls you apart in the best way and you find yourself becoming dizzy with need as Dunk’s warm cock rests against your cheek. It pumps hot with blood, and you angle your head to press a line of lazy kisses up the shaft, over the dip of his frenulum, and onto the head. He hisses at the exact time Daeron groans, the head of the prince’s cock swallowed by the wet clutch of your cunt.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the prince rambles, pausing momentarily. This reprieve gives you the chance to dribble across the head of Dunk’s big cock and chase it. You tongue the weeping slit, and the shaky moan that leaves the hedge knight’s mouth has your pussy clamping vice-like around Daeron. The prince breathes out, gripping your hip before slowly feeding more of his cock into you. “That’s it, that’s it, here we go…”
Dunk sucks in a breath, a large hand finding the back of your neck as your lips suck around the tip. “Easy, easy, sweet girl, be gentle…”
You hum, looking up at your hedge knight with glassy eyes. He returns the watery gaze and groans again, and you take the opportunity to hollow your cheeks and drag your mouth down his cock. Dunk’s chest shudders as he holds you, the muscles of his soft abdomen contracting. Behind you, Daeron holds your hips as he slowly pushes in. Deeper than before.
Dunk down your throat, you choke on a moan. Daeron’s smiling to himself as he splits you apart, cock spreading your pussy open with each pull outward. On the outstroke, Daeron keeps just the head of his cock inside you, waiting for just a second too long before pulling you back on to him. He does this a few times, and it has your body burning hot beneath your skin, that knot in your lower belly reappearing.
The bed creaks softly, the poorly-made frame scratching against the wooden floor. Daeron grunts and groans behind you, one of his hands reaching forward to run up and down your spine, feeling the dip and the sweat-slick skin there. His other hand pulls you back against his cock, which punches up towards your cervix as you arch, taking him deeper.
You slide your tongue along the vein on the underside of Dunk’s shaft, and you look up when he moans your name. You exchange another look, each mirroring each other’s desperation—feelings long withheld as you suckle around the head before forcing yourself back down. You taste the musk of his precum dribbling along the flat of your tongue. His cock twitches too, as if he’s been on the edge of release since the moment you put your mouth on him.
Daeron shoves into you, his rhythm firm but unhurried. So princely, resting up against the pillows, legs spread, one hand on your hip as he helps you fuck yourself onto him. The fat of your arse moves with you, and the hand once on your spine finds one of your arsecheeks. He grabs the flesh, kneads it between pale fingers, before pulling the hand back and bringing it down with a loud smack.
That earns a reaction from both you and Dunk.
You pull off the bigger man’s cock with a slick pop, a moan falling from your lips straight away as your spine dips. Dunk’s cock slaps against your cheek as your eyes close, and he hisses at the sudden lack of contact, the hand on the back of your neck tightening. His eyes shoot up, finding Daeron already looking at him.
There’s a fox-like smile on his blushed face, and Dunk watches with furrowed brows as the prince lands another audible smack to the flesh of your arse, still rolling you back onto his cock.
Dunk growls. “Do not put your hand—”
“She likes it, Ser Duncan,” Daeron utters, his hand rubbing soothing circles across you.
You respond with a small mewl as you desperately shift back to meet Daeron’s thrusts. Dunk’s frown deepens, but he can’t help the way his cock jerks and dribbles against your cheekbone. As he looks over at Daeron, Dunk’s hips jerk involuntarily, his cock sliding wet against your warm cheek. The friction makes him whimper, lips parting, balls drawing tight.
Daeron smiles, watching Dunk rut his cock against your face. He looks down at you next, seeing the pleasure distorted across your features as his cock pulls you closer and closer towards your release. His own pleasure is hot in the pit of his stomach, and he feels it tugging at the base of his spine as his breathing picks up.
“Want to spill inside you,” Daeron whispers suddenly, head falling back, hair brushing his shoulders as he continues to bring you against him, again and again. His words make you moan, eyes fluttering open as you attempt to press kisses to Dunk’s cock—but the giant holds your head still, continuing to ruck his cock across your cheek, making a mess of your face. Daeron hisses, righting his head once more. “Cunt’s so fuckin’ tight—it’d be a waste not to fill it. A waste—a waste of dragon seed to spill—fuck—spill anywhere else.”
You pant. “Daeron, my prince—”
Daeron ignores you. “Come on her face, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk groans. “I—”
“Do what I tell you,” Daeron grits out before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s got his hands on your hips now, squeezing the flesh as he drives you onto his cock.
You moan, your entire body shaking. Your arms have long given up on you as you rest against your forearms, mostly atop Dunk as he rubs his cock against you. It’s warm and wet on your face, and the whiny little pants falling from his lips have pleasure tightening in your belly. Daeron seems to nudge against that knot, over and over again. He’s so deep, the angle sucking him right in, that you can’t help the tears that bead at the corners of your eyes as you whine his name, his title, into the thick warmth of the room.
Dunk comes first. His fingers on your neck squeeze you like the grip of a sword, and the sudden pressure traps your moan in your throat. He calls your name as his cock jerks. Thick ropes of cum splatter over your cheek, dashing high over your forehead as well as he groans and rocks, mattress protesting beneath him. You close your eyes, whining around a whisper of his name, as his seed paints the warmth of your face, and you feel it dribbling when your own orgasm hits you.
You’re not sure how long it’s been since you’ve come this hard. Daeron’s cock deep inside you, the pressure snaps hard in your belly and shoots pleasure right down your legs. You tremble as it overtakes you, back dipping even further as you fall into Dunk’s hold. You knees ache where they bend in the sheets, and a fizzing heat sprints down the cable of your spine while Daeron fucks you through it.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Daeron rambles, movements slowing. He’s barely thrusting anymore, just grinding himself against you.
He groans, and you think it’s supposed to be your name, but it’s lost in his own pleasure. You whisper his name as Dunk pets you, simmering down from his own release, and Daeron groans once more before he’s coming. Just as he said, he spills inside you, shoving himself so deep you swear you can feel him spilling into your belly. It’s hot and thick and almost uncomfortable as you bend and take it, his hips stalling completely and his cock pumping with the beating of his heart.
The prince pulls out after a minute.
As soon as he parts from you, Dunk’s hands are shifting, and he’s pulling you away from Daeron and between his legs as he sits on the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight him off, and you allow him to cradle you to his chest. He kisses the top of your head, but you feel his half-hard cock against your tummy as one of his big hands slides down your back. He palms your arse as he holds you.
“Sweet girl?”
“Hm?”
Dunk places a kiss to the top of your head. “You think you can take my cock?”
The earnestness in his question makes you giggle, and he huffs against you. His hand squeezes the fat of your arse hard, and you yelp, before the world shifts around you once more. You spin until you’re facing a grinning Daeron, who strokes his cock lazily as it hardens in his palm. Dunk grunts as he pushes you back down, and you giggle again as you accept your fate and keel over. Your head finds Daeron’s lap.
“Hi, pretty girl,” he greets you, then bends.
He licks a fat stripe over your cheek, licking Dunk’s seed from your warm skin. You want to squeal, to wiggle away from him, but Dunk is holding your waist as he forcibly pins you into an arch, marvelling at Daeron’s seed dribbling from the clutch of your cunt. Daeron groans low in his throat as he licks, then pushes his tongue into your mouth. One hand finds your jaw and holds you while you kiss. It’s more tongue than anything else, and you taste Dunk. That makes you whimper.
Suddenly, you feel the thick head of Dunk’s cock drag up and down your slit. You pull out of Daeron’s kiss to gasp Dunk’s name, sparing a look over your shoulder. Dunk’s in a trance: his eyes drawn to where your pussy flutters, gaping as Daeron drools from you, down the curve of your inner thigh. His cock is fully hard now, bruising red at the tip as he smears Daeron’s seed through your folds.
The hand on your jaw draws your attention from the hedge knight. Daeron guides the tip of his cock to your mouth.
“Tongue,” he whispers. An order.
You oblige, poking your tongue out just as Dunk notches himself inside you. It’s a tight burn, a pulling intrusion in the base of your womb as your walls part for him. Your tongue slips back into your mouth, pressing to your bottom teeth as you groan. Your entire body shakes, and Daeron huffs above you.
He slaps his cock against your slightly parted lips. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, stick your tongue—oh, yeah, that’s it… good girl.”
You stick your tongue out for him mid-sentence, and he beams. Smile wicked on his face, he slaps the head of his cock against your tongue. It lands heavy and with a loud plap, the sound drawing Dunk’s eyes away from where he’s slowly feeding his cock into you.
Daeron’s head shoots up. Both men freeze.
Dunk’s cheeks are flushed a brilliant red as he and Daeron look at one another. Then, Daeron slowly slides his cockhead along the bumps of your tongue, and he moans ridiculously loud as he slips into the heat of your mouth. At the exact same time, Dunk pushes forward: spearing you on his cock, holding your hips tightly as your pussy opens up around him, walls silken smooth and tight. Both men enter you at the exact same time, eye-contact loud in the silence of the room.
You mewl like a kitten, lips wrapping as your nose is brought flush with the neat thatch of blond hair at the base of the prince’s cock. At the same time, you feel Dunk’s hips come to rest against your arse. They both still again, and you almost pass out.
Dunk breaks the silence first. He groans, and it’s broken around the vowels. “Oh, gods.”
“Can’t believe we waited this long,” Daeron utters, petting your head. He’s still talking to Dunk. “She’s fucking tight, isn’t she?”
Dunk’s brows pinch as he fights to stay still. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you. It makes you whimper, the vibrations thick around Daeron’s cock.
“Y–Yeah,” Dunk stutters.
“Bet she’s wet too, huh?” Daeron cocks his head.
“Yeah,” Dunk whispers, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I can…”
He stops himself with a bashful shake of his head. He’s trembling.
Daeron smiles. “You can what?”
Dunk groans. “I can feel… I can feel her drooling around me.”
You close your eyes, jaw aching as you hold your teeth away from Daeron’s cock. Dunk’s words flush a heat through your veins that makes you dizzy, and you swear you can see tiny little fires igniting, flashing in the black of your closed eyelids.
Dunk decides to move then: he pulls his cock out of you until he’s completely out. He watches, whispering your name like he can’t quite believe it, as your slick dribbles out of you, milky-white with the remnants of Daeron.
The prince watches the knight carefully. He slowly guides your head backwards, then forwards. With surprisingly gentle movements, he moves you up and down. You open your eyes then, gazing up at him as he watches Dunk.
“I want to come before you do,” Daeron says, then suddenly snaps his hips. He shoves himself down your throat, and you choke on it—gagging loudly enough for Dunk, half way inside you again, to freeze. The prince grins. “So be a good lad and hold off, will you?”
Dunk’s top lip curls. “Do that again and you’re out.”
“I don’t know what you mean…” Daeron knows exactly what the knight means.
Dunk pushes in and out, giving a little thrust that drags the prominent vein nicely along your posterior wall. You mewl around Daeron’s cock.
Dunk nods at the prince. “You know what I mean. Do it again and you’re out.”
“Oh, you’d kick a prince out? Into the cold, dark night? That’s not very knightly of you, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chides, then repeats his actions. The flushed tip of his hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears wet along your lower lashes.
“Daeron,” he hisses. “I’ll tie you to that bed and make you watch.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad.”
Dunk pushes in. You whine, suffocating. Daeron feeds his cock right to the back of your throat again, and Dunk feels your cunt clamp tight around him, your entire body descending into shivers as you struggle for air.
That’s it.
With a growl, Dunk hauls you off of the prince and yanks you directly into his lap. You gasp, choking on your own spit, as your back lands hard against Dunk’s warm chest.
Daeron pouts. “That’s not fair.”
Dunk snaps his hips, the angle driving him right against that perfect spot inside you. It knocks a mangled cry from your throat, the noise reverberating off the walls as Daeron watches from his throne of pillows, a heavy dip in his brow. Dunk starts a rhythm, and you can’t do anything but take it. He pulls you down onto his big cock over and over, manhandling you, squeezing the fat of your hips, your thighs, your waist—he’s everywhere and it’s intoxicating.
Daeron sits against the head of the bed with his cock leaking in his hand and a frown etched onto his face. But you know it’s superficial. You can see the glimmer in his eyes as he observes where Dunk’s cock bullies into you. There’s a thick white ring around the base of Dunk’s cock, and the mixture of your slick and the prince’s release dribbles out of you like honey.
There’s a storm brewing in your belly. It’s fiercer than before.
Dunk’s big arms wrap around you. The skin there is mottled with a mosaic of scars and bruises that seem to glow in the orange candlelight. Daeron traces them momentarily before he finds your tits, bouncing as Dunk fucks you, then your face.
“This isn’t fair…” Daeron whispers, but he doesn’t really mean it. He strokes his cock, his movements paced perfectly with Dunk’s thrusts. The prince gazes at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “Look at me, pretty girl. Please.”
Your eyes, previously unfocussed and fluttering as you battle towards your release, find his. His pupils are so wide and the blush on his cheeks has spread to his ears.
“Dunk’s so big, isn’t he?” Daeron whispers.
Dunk groans and you nod desperately. The giant buries his face against your shoulder, sucking and biting, tasting the salt of your skin.
“Yes,” you reply. You feel him so deep, you’re taking him so deep. “Yeah, he is.”
“Where do you feel him?” Daeron asks, and Dunk groans again, almost embarrassed.
You reach a shaky hand down and press a palm flat to the curve of your belly. Daeron follows the movements. He hums around a whine as you press down a little.
“There?” Daeron chokes out as he twists his wrist. “You’re feeling Dunk in your tummy?”
You curse. “Fuck, yeah—yes.”
“You like him there? You want him to fill you?”
Dunk’s entire mass shudders, his hands vice-like on your hips.
You moan, fighting to keep eye-contact with the prince. But it’s proving difficult, pleasure sticking to every fibre of your being. “Daeron.”
“Answer your prince, sweet girl,” he orders softly. “D’you want him to spill inside you? You want him to fill you like I did? You want his cum, don’t you?”
You feel like you’re on fire. Daeron’s words scorch hotter than the flames mounted to the walls of Dragonstone, and you find yourself sparking the embers of your release. Smoke billows, flames rise, your body sets alight.
“Yes.” You feel like you’re begging him, when it’s Dunk fucking you. “Please.”
Dunk groans, nuzzling the skin below your ear. “I’ll give it to you, I promise.”
Across the bed, Daeron smiles. “That’s it…”
You release with a moan, and you’re thankful the strong knight has such a fierce grip on you.
The flames inside overwhelm you and you tumble into your pleasure, body shaking, skin slick with sweat. Your pussy grips tight around the thick of Dunk’s cock, and the sensation knocks the air from your lungs. You pulse around him, hips jerking as he drives into you. He mouths at the skin of your neck, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as you shudder, your eyes falling closed as the energy is sapped from your body.
Dunk and Daeron both spill at the same time. You don’t know it, lying with your eyes closed in Dunk’s muscular arms, but they know it.
Daeron spills across his knuckles with your name on his lips, little whimpers following as he ruts into his fist and chases the tail of it. Splatters streak across his abdomen too, his abs contracting with each small jerk of his fingers. Strands of hair cling to his dewy forehead, and he pants like a dog when his pleasure finally crests and settles.
Dunk comes with a guttural groan. It’s more animal than man, and it vibrates through you, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones. His cock fits deep against the plug of your womb. He’s mumbling something as his hips stutter—take it, take it, sweet girl, jus’ be good and take it—and he completely empties himself inside you.
Before he stills completely, he whispers a whiny “I love you,” straight into your ear.
His hands stroke your sides as you emerge from your bliss. He mouths along your neck, then kisses your cheek, holding you firmly against him as you all settle and the room seems to settle with you. Daeron reclines against the pillows, softening cock slick and resting against one of his strong thighs.
After a moment, he sinks until he’s laying flat on the bed. You open your eyes fully now, blinking away the exhaustion, as you catch the glimmer in the prince’s eyes. He crooks a finger in your direction.
Dunk holds you and answers. “No.”
Daeron scoffs. “I wasn’t asking you.”
“No.”
“S’alright, Dunk…” You turn your head to press a tender kiss to his lips, and he whimpers when you slowly extract yourself from him.
You offer him a similar sound as your pussy gapes, leaking, as you shuffle back up the bed. Dunk gingerly lifts himself off the bed, heading to collect his clothes from the floor, as you clamber over to Daeron, who guides you in straddling his face.
You grip the headboard with a weakened arm. “Daeron, I can’t—”
“It’s okay, sweet girl, m’not gonna be mean,” Daeron coos, taking a gentle hold of your hips and pulling you down. His breath ghosts against your wet core. “Just want a taste, okay? I’ll be so gentle, I promise.”
He watches him and Dunk ooze from you for a second too long—a second too long, because his cock gives a feeble jerk against his thigh—before he brings you down atop his mouth. His tongue licks through your folds once, and when you tell him off through a flurry of high-pitched whines, he drags his tongue down to your hole. He laps up what he can, tasting the dull salinity and the musk and the fresh water. It makes his eyes roll, and he can’t help himself, stuffing his tongue inside you.
Sensitive, you try to sit up. “Daeron.”
Daeron grumbles something against you, his hands tight on your hips. He licks he and Dunk’s spend from your cunt, his nose pressing against the swollen pearl of your clit. He rocks his face into you, and you whine again, bordering on a squeal.
Thankfully, two warm hands find your armpits and hoist you up as if you weigh nothing. Daeron’s eyes snap open, and he watches as if he’s had something stolen from him as Dunk pulls you off the bed. You settle on your feet, panting as the hedge knight plants a kiss to the top of your head before urging your chemise back over the curves of your body.
Daeron complains with a petulant huff. “I could accuse you of treason for that.”
Dunk rolls his eyes, hugging you as you adjust the way your chemise sits on your body, skin sticky with sweat.
“You’re too spoiled for your own good,” Dunk mutters. “Too used to getting what you want.”
Daeron rolls his eyes. “So what?” I want her, so I should—”
“Shut up.” Dunk feels the need to throw something at the prince as you cling to his strong body. He holds you like he never wants to let you go again.
DAY SEVENTEEN
Prince Maekar greets the three of you as you dismount your horses before the grand doors of Summerhall. Daeron stumbles slightly as he hits the loose stone, and you giggle as he reaches a hand out to you to steady himself.
Dunk bows his head before Maekar, and Daeron continues to cling to you as you both approach the white-haired prince.
Maekar offers Ser Duncan a polite smile, then casts a look towards his son. Something flickers across his face, Daeron watching you closely.
Maekar clears his throat. “Thank you for returning my boy to me, Ser Duncan. Once again, I am thankful for your loyal service.”
Dunk straightens. “It was an honour, your grace.”
“I trust he behaved himself?” Maekar asks, looking around the hedge knight to where Daeron smiles at you as you speak to him in a hushed whisper.
Dunk spares a look over his shoulder. He turns back to Maekar.
“Mostly,” Dunk answers. “M’lady kept him in line.”
You try not to roll your eyes, the memories of how you were awoken that very morning—with Daeron’s head between your legs and one of Dunk’s rough fingers on your clit—heavy in your memory as the prince looks up as Dunk turns again.
They exchange a knowing smile.
———
genuinely the longest one shot i’ve ever written lmao sorry for any mistakes
I love the duality between apocalypse!Soap and apocalypse!Ghost because they’re both ditching their humanity but it’s like that bus meme with one side frowning (Ghost) one side smiling (Soap)
The main difference though, is Ghost rejecting society instantly to lone-wolf it vs Soap trying to play apocalypse tv drama hero for a while before he eventually goes off the rails.
There wasn't much that was able to settle the dreams that ailed him, except a good arbor red and the occasional dreamwine. That is, until, he tastes you.
ft. daeron x whore!reader
genre/warnings: prostitution (obviously), crying, mommy issues, no use of y/n (honey as a nickname), 69, sub!daeron, overstimulation, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), bush lover!daeron, silk fetish, mentions of grooming, mentions of familial rape, mentions of underage sex and mentions of daeron seeing his parents have sex. song at the end is hildegard von bingen - favus distillans.
wc: 7.5k. not proofread.
exclusively 18+.
"Oh, fuck." Daeron groans, his hand reaching up to push his sweaty locks away from his forehead. "So loud."
"It's a feast," Aerion snorts. "It's going to be loud. If you don't like it, fuck off to your chambers, brother." He slams his goblet onto the table, only making the pounding in Daeron's head get louder.
The elder groans again, scrunching his eyes. Part of him hopes that if he tries hard enough, he could will his brother away with his mind.
The hall was filled with lords and ladies, the whole spectacle arranged as a marriage mixer. Apparently, noble houses across Westeros had gathered to negotiate alliances and secure matches for their sons and daughters, each hoping to earn favour, power, or secure their family's standing for another generation.
Daeron isn't entirely sure why he or Aerion got an invite, or why their father insisted they go, but he sensed it mattered, some silent test or reminder that he was expected to shape the family's legacy with every move. Expectations hung over his head like a sword, sharp and ever-present, the urge to rebel clashing with the heavy pull of duty.
Sometimes he resented being a pawn in their family's endless strategies, even as he understood that he was more than just a son—he was currency to be spent for power, favour, or a tenuous sort of love he was never sure he'd earned. Still, maybe he’d only been brought here to give Aerion someone to bother instead of leaving him to take out his frustrations on some unfortunate lord’s daughter.
Despite his previous prayers, Aerion lingers. "Whose idea was this?" He scoffs, cracking open a nut with the butt of his dagger. "No entertainment. I may just join you in your drinking."
Daeron leans forward, resting his head on the wooden table. "The entertainment is dancing."
"Was that your attempt at a joke? I would rather choke than dance with any of these…" Aerion looks around the room with a disgusted expression. "These foul-blooded ladies."
"Then choke."
"Funny. Perhaps I should take myself to the Green Dragon and find myself a dragonseed whore to fuck. Care to join me?" Aerion gulps down the remaining wine that was in his goblet. "Ugh, disgusting."
Daeron contemplated his offer. It had been a while since their family had travelled to King's Landing, and lately, the weight of duty, the endless expectations, and the constant noise in his head had pressed heavier than ever. He ached for a distraction, something to pull him out of himself, if only for a night.
Maybe a partner would do him good, or maybe just the illusion of being wanted; he wasn't sure which he craved more. Sometimes it felt like there was a hollowness inside him, a quiet ache that never left, no matter how many times he told himself it didn't matter.
It wasn't about the act, not really—it was something deeper, a need to be held and seen, to feel desired even for just a fleeting hour. The whores near Summerhall had all been sent away by their father, and the maids knew him far too well to ever think about sleeping with him.
Loneliness clung to him like sweat, sharpest in the moments after laughter faded and he was left with nothing but silence and a pounding headache. "Mmh, I'll join you." He mumbles, pushing himself up with a grunt.
The evening had been slow, even for the Green Dragon. Knowing how King's Landing is only meant that the busyness would kick up just after the hour of the bat.
Aerion had been quick to swipe a silver-haired girl from the floor, dragging her to who knows where. Daeron, however, found himself relaxing into the pillowed seats. There were half-naked girls sashaying across a small stage, shy smiles on their cheeks as they teased glimpses of their bodies.
He let his head fall back, exhaling as he sank into his seat. The smell of incense and sex melted his brain, his eyelids fluttering shut.
"You'll get robbed if you're not careful, m'lord." A sweet voice curls into his ear, making him sit up properly. He groans, palming his temple as he gets a little dizzy from the speed at which he moved. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I scare you?"
Daeron turns his head, eyes landing on the girl at his side. You're young, and honestly, he isn't entirely convinced you look old enough to be in a brothel. Eyes round like a fawn, skin unmarred by age or scars and… Oh, you were certainly a woman, he thinks as his eyes travel down your body.
"M'lord?" You question softly, genuine worry in your eyes.
"Ah… Yes, I'm fine." Daeron clears his throat, adjusting his seat. He watches as you relax, sighing in relief. He takes the moment to look at your body again, the sheer Qaarthen silk leaving little to the imagination.
You tilt your head, catching his gaze with a giggle. "Were you looking for company tonight, m'lord?" You lean into him, fingers grazing his thigh.
He finds himself humming, reaching up to thumb your cheek. "You're very lovely," he murmurs, watching you lean into his palm like a kitten. "You're going to cost me a pretty penny, aren't you, darling?" His eyes draw over your figure again. Silk wasn't uncommon among more popular whores, but yours in particular was… expensive.
"Don't you worry 'bout that," You nuzzle into his hand. "Shall I show you my room? I think you'll love it." You grin, hands finding his and squeezing. You pull him up, giggling as he stumbles after you. "Oh, are you drunk?"
Daeron finds his lips curling at your airy laugh. "Is that against the rules?" He feels as though he is ablaze, inhaling deeply through his nose and nearly audibly reacting to your scent. It's the incense from before mixed with something sickly sweet, like spiced honey biscuits or a fruit tart that had been drenched in sex.
"No," you breathe, tugging him through a beaded curtain and up the stairs. "There are no rules, m'lord. So long as you don't fall asleep with your cock in me."
Daeron has to hold back a laugh as you turn, giving him a cute smile as you walk the pair of you backwards into the room.
It's lavish, a large bed draped in a dark red lace canopy in the middle of the room, covered in pillows and blankets. The glow of numerous candles casts a sultry ambience, while the familiar incense lingers, filling the air.
He blinks slowly, feeling as if his body was moving seconds behind his mind, exhaling as he falls back onto the bed and letting his eyes fall shut. There's heat on his thighs; a pressure he recognises as someone on top of him.
"Hey, don't leave before the fun has started," Daeron's eyelashes flutter, his eyes opening to see you inches from his face with a soft pout. Gods, you were even prettier up close. "You'll stay right, m'lord?"
"Daeron," he corrects you, his voice gravelly. He watches as you pause, recognition flashing through your eyes with a pre-speech inhale. "Please," he sighs, stopping you before you can address him with his proper title, "just Daeron. None of that."
You soften, your lips pursed together as you reach up to cup his cheek. "Course. Daeron, s'a fitting name for a handsome man like you." He almost rolls his eyes when your hips roll into his, forcing a hiss from his throat. "How do you want me?" You lean forward to whisper into his ear, goosebumps rippling on his body.
"This is good," he almost moans, his hands finding your hips as you start peppering kisses on his jaw. "What's your name, sweet girl? Surely there is something I can call you."
You grind down into him again, sitting up properly and leaning on his stomach. His tunic had risen a little in his descent to the soft sheets, allowing you to worm your fingers under the material to graze his bare skin. He inhales sharply as you slide your hands up, nails grazing over the soft skin and fair hair, intending on stripping him.
"You needn't worry about my name," you grin, "but if you must, I suppose honey'll do."
Daeron lets you pull his clothes off, entranced by your silky-smooth voice. He is quick to sit after, hands finding your waist and creeping up under your silks. His calloused fingers grace the underneath of your breast. "Honey?" He questions, breath hot on your neck.
Your fingers are quick to tangle in his hair, using it as leverage to grind against him. "You don't like it? It's- it's what everyone calls me around here." You stutter, nipples pebbling under his touch. He watches your reactions with blown pupils, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip.
Daeron’s eyes roll back at a particularly slow thrust, his cock throbbing in his breeches. “Gods, you’re making me feel as if my blood is aflame.” He moans, tilting his chin up to kiss you.
You are quick to turn your head, his lips finding your cheek instead. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you as you accept the movement.
You found yourself surprised that the prince wasn’t forceful—he allowed you to move at your own will, allowed you to stay above him.
Your fingers press against his chest, giving him a lidded stare as he lowers to the bed again. “Let me take care of you, Daeron.”
He could’ve died a happy man hearing his name roll off your tongue.
You toy with him, licking over his chest and stomach and grinning at the shaky, half-muffled whimpers he tries to hold back. Daeron can only watch as you move down to hover over his clothed cock, a hand coming up to caress your cheek.
Your gaze is intoxicating, your skin soft against the palm of his hand as you kiss him through his breeches.
“Oh, fuck-“ he chokes out. He reasons insanity: no other person had lit him up like this, you hadn’t even gotten his cock out yet, and he felt like he was ready to burst.
Daeron paused. As a child, he had walked in on his parents often before his mother died, and one time in particular stuck in his head. His mother is hovering over his father, his head between her thighs and her head bobbing.
He swallowed, looking down at the sweet girl whose cheek was pressed against his prick.
Expensive girls meant clean girls.
“Come here,” His voice is raw, “up, please.”
“Up?” You question, not sure what he means.
“Please,” he repeats, throat bobbing. “I want your cunt on my mouth while you swallow me down.”
It wasn’t an unusual request—you just hadn’t expected a prince to be interested in it. You slide up his body again, coiling your fingers up and around his arms like a serpent.
“You wish to taste me?” You whisper, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Where did you learn of such a thing?” You begin to peel the silks from your body, the thin skirt being the last thing to go.
He tries to look down, but you tip his chin up, cupping his cheek. “I asked you a question.”
“My mother…” Daeron swallows, eyes drawn in by your gaze again.
You have to purse your lips to hide your smile. “Oh, I see. Is that why you came with me? Do I look like her?”
“What?” He blinks. “No, I-“ he almost chokes as you crawl up, leaving him face to face with your cunt. He has to swallow a sob as you move away from him, turning and straddling his face.
Daeron is on fire. He's sweating, panting, trembling. Something must be wrong with him- perhaps the wine at the feast was off.
Gods, your cunt was gorgeous, coarse hair framing your folds, wetness peaking out from between them—he has to close his eyes, the sight of your pussy almost too much for him.
Your fingers find his hips again, pushing his trousers down just enough for his cock to come out. The tip is a furious red, foreskin pulled tight around the glans. He’s pretty, hay coloured hair framing his pinkened skin, a vein throbbing on his underside.
Daeron can feel you. The heat of your wet cunt, can taste you in the air, nose mere inches from burying in your folds. The heat of your breath on his tip and- “Oh, fuck,” he whines, shaking under you. “Wait, wait- please. Gods, I’m-“
“You said you wanted to taste me, Daeron.” He keenly listens to his name on your lips.
“I did, I- I do.” He opens his eyes, met with that delicious sight again. He moves out of instinct, using his thumbs to pull your folds apart.
His breath is hot, fanning over your wetness, making you clench. It prompts a moan out of him, seeing your hole close up around nothing.
Daeron licks through your cunt, starting at your clit and dragging all the way up, dipping slightly into your hole. The taste on his tongue is nothing he has ever known. He does it again, this time taking a moment to circle your button once, twice, then swiping up.
Your own mouth finds purchase at the base of him, licking and lavishing where his balls meet his length, dipping down to suckle on one gently.
His stomach tenses under your tits, cock throbbing against your cheek as he whines into your cunt. It vibrates through your body, your skin feeling like it was tingling from every noise he made into your folds.
A crude slurp echoes through the room, his lips suctioning around your clit and sucking. Daeron feels like a man possessed, nose digging into your heat while he works at your nub, hands tight on your hips to keep you pressed against his face.
“Do you think you could find your release like this?” You ask shakily, finding that vein and lapping over it. All Daeron can do is whimper into your pussy, nodding. He would rather die than part from your wetness, would happily drown down there.
All it takes is the flick of your tongue at his tip for him to crumble. The first bit of his orgasm surprises you, spurting against your cheek before you wrap your lips around the head and suck. Your arms are around his thighs and hips, keeping him from bucking up into your mouth.
Daeron’s vision goes blank, stomach cramping from the intensity of his peak as he cries into your cunt, unwilling to part with it as you grind your hips against his face.
You swallow him down eagerly, riding him through his orgasm. His eyes are rolled back, tongue impossibly deep in your hole, when one of his hands parts from your hip to find the back of your head, tugging on your hair to pull you off.
“Seven fucking hells,” Daeron wheezes, finally pulling back from between your thighs to lay his head on the silk pillow beneath him. You go to move, wanting to turn and face him, but his trembling hands find purchase on your hips again, tugging you back to almost be seated on his face. “No, I am not done.”
“Oh, you do not need to-“
“I will be paying you, will I not? So I will do as I like.” He grumbles before pulling you down, slurping at your heat again.
He could never imagine such a thing could exist, such sweetness, such addiction. He realises this is how men must have gotten swept away in war, not lost to battle but lost to foreign cunts that tasted finer than any wine he had drunk.
His soft cock twitches against his stomach, between your moans and the noise of his tongue fucking you, there's no shock he can get hard again, even if the air felt like it was prickling his skin. He licks into you like a man starved, as if your pussy would bring him some sort of relief from the tortures of his mind. He almost sobs when you fall forward, moving away from his mouth.
“What are you—” Daeron pants, palming your thighs. “Did you…?” His gaze drifts down.
You were trembling, your whole body heaving with breaths as you tried to recover from his ministrations.
He can’t help but bring a hand up, spreading your juices over your mound and parting your folds again. “Gorgeous,” he mumbles, head still fuzzy. He steadies you with his hand as you move, turning to face him while straddling his thighs.
Your hands glide up and down his stomach, catching your breath. You do not miss the tensing of his muscles, his own body still wired. "If I did not know better," you purr as you steady yourself on his chest, his heart racing beneath your palm. "I might think our positions flipped." Your head tilts with a soft smirk, reaching up to drag a nail along his jaw.
Daeron has this almost… begged expression, clinging onto every word that came out of your mouth like it was a scripture from the Gods. He's incredibly pliant, melting at your touch and receptive to the slight adjustments you make to his form. His fingers squeeze your hips, one hand drawing down to your mound and cupping, thumb swiping over the hair that lies at the peak of your thighs.
"How is it that every part of you is so soft?" He whispers. "And sweet. Mmh, I am seeing now why people have likened you to honey."
The hesitation you felt about kissing him earlier seems to have dissipated as you let him lift his head to yours, taking your bottom lip between his teeth with gentle pressure. His tongue is next, and you can taste yourself as he licks yours with a gentleness you have never experienced. Every part of you takes him incredibly well, your mouth soft as his fingers creep down to your cunt again.
"No," you whisper against his lips. "I want your cock, Daeron."
He wheezes at your words, kissing you once more before burying his face into your neck, planting a few kisses there. "Take me then, honey." His slide down to your thighs, lying back against the bed to watch you.
Your body is lit up by the few candles around the room, casting a golden glow onto your skin. He watches as you lift yourself, a slight shake in the muscle of your thigh from the previous exertion, delicate fingers reaching down to hold his length steady.
You take a moment to rub him against your slit, a quiet moan on your lips as his tip presses to your clit. You repeat that a couple of times before letting his cock slip into your warmth.
Daeron's reaction is instant, his hips bucking with a gasp. "So hot," he chokes, fire burning through his veins, feeling like he was melting. "Ah, wait a second- please…" He whimpers, nails leaving definite crescent moon-shaped indents on your thighs.
You lower yourself further, letting out a satisfactory sigh once you have taken him all the way. His tip just about grazes a spot at the front of your walls, and if you grind down harder, it's enough to hit it fully.
You find yourself distracted, focusing on your own pleasure. He has a good length and thickness, the vein on the underside rubbing deliciously inside of you. You move faster, chasing the heat that rises within your loins.
A warmth spreads in your stomach, followed by a sudden cry that jolts you back to reality. Daeron's back arches beautifully beneath you, an arm thrown over his eyes, his bottom lip between his teeth. You slow your hips, and his arm moves, revealing wet lines from his eyes to his temples.
Daeron is breathtaking like this. A little pathetic looking, wet eyelashes and a bitten lip to go with his flushed chest. You rock forward, and he sobs, one hand flying up to grip your waist. "Please," he sniffles, "just- a moment, please. I'm sensitive."
You hum, reaching down to wipe away a tear. "Too much for you?" You coo, slowing your pace but still moving. He hiccups through a whine, scrambling to halt your hips, but he doesn't have the strength in him.
His second orgasm had taken a lot out of him, and you were pushing him through to a third. "I know," you whisper, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. "S'okay, let me make you feel good."
Daeron's whole body hurts.
He groans, lifting his head from the pillow and blinking. The sun was ruthless, pouring in through the window and warming his arse. He rolls over with a huff, reaching up to rub his sore jaw. His free hand pushes on the bed, straining as he sits up. He doesn't remember exactly what happened the night before, but his muscles sure did.
He rubs his face and looks around the room. His clothes are all over the place, and part of your clothing was tied around his wrist. Fucking hell, he could feel his prick stiffening despite his soreness, the silk soft against his skin.
Daeron stumbles out of bed, limping as he gathers his clothing and dresses himself.
Of course, you had helped yourself to his gold pouch, but he couldn't blame you. Whatever you had done to him was enough to offset his nightmares for the night, and that to him was worth way more than 3 gold dragons.
The door to the room had slammed open as Daeron pulled on his boots.
"Brother," Aerion speaks. He opens his mouth to continue before pausing and tilting his head, looking his elder up and down, noticing the strange gait he had. "Did you get beaten?"
Daeron scoffs, plopping back down on the messy bed. "No, I did not get beaten."
Aerion frowned, confused. "Then what? Did you take a man to bed instead of a whore?" He scoffed.
"Gods, Aerion. No, I did not- I did not bed a man." Daeron hissed, rubbing his forehead. The younger brother looked him up and down once more before inhaling.
"Right. Well, hurry. Before we are late to break fast and have to explain to Aegon what a whorehouse is."
Two days. That is how long it took for Daeron to recover after you fucked him to near-death. Even then, he wasn't fully sure he had recovered. He felt like a degenerate, his eyes lingering on any silken dresses worn by court ladies that he passed by, having to pinch himself to keep down the bubbling feeling in his blood.
At least he was walking normally now, your… expert skills having left him feeling like he had ridden a horse for a week straight. That morning, he’d slipped a silken sash from your room into his pocket, later tucking it under his pillow to reach for in the still hours, pressing it to his nose as he ground his aching hips into the bed.
Gods, he was a fucking pervert.
Even now, just thinking about it, he could feel himself stiffening in his breeches, having to shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.
Dinner that evening had been incredibly long; his knee shaking as he waited for the opportunity to excuse himself for the night. He had gulped down the remainder of his wine and parted from his family. They were due to leave for Summerhall on the morrow, and Daeron could not leave without seeing you once more.
He’d spent much of his youth wandering the Red Keep before the move to Summerhall, and even after that, they visited often. So it was fair to say Daeron knew the unguarded ways out of the keep. All he needed was a hooded cloak to hide his face, and he headed straight for the Street of Silk the moment he was free.
The Green Dragon was busy, to say the least. Daeron caught too many glimpses of common cock for his liking, darting for the familiar face of the madame.
"My prince," the older woman smirks. "How may I help you this fine night?"
Daeron swallows, a hand smoothing over his stomach. "Honey."
The madame arches her eyebrow, leaning back into the wall. "What about her?"
He let out a quiet breath, grateful to his past self for managing to get her name. "I need to see her. Please." He grimaces at his plea, fearful of looking desperate. "I have something of hers that I would like to return."
"If that's all there is, I'm sure I can pass it on to her. Unless you plan on staying longer?" The older woman questioned, crossing her arms.
He let out a sigh, glancing around to make sure no one had recognised him. "Yes, that is the plan."
With a smirk on her face, she juts her chin at the stairs. "Go on. Last door at the end of the left hall, if you don't remember." She snickers as Daeron darts off, already feeling a pinch in his head.
He lets his feet carry him through the familiar corridor, swallowing as the memories from two days ago swarm through his head. He's at your door before he realises it, hand raised to knock when it opens.
A girl- not you- scurries past him, darting her head down with a murmured apology on he lips. He takes the moment to step into the room, breath shuddering at the sight of you lounging effortlessly on the bed.
Silk, again. He had to resist the urge to hit himself.
"Well, look who it is." You smile and roll over, settling comfortably on your stomach. "What a pleasure it is to see you again, my prince."
Daeron closes the door behind him and takes a couple of steps toward you. "I… yes, hello." You grin at his awkwardness, giving the bed beside you a friendly pat.
"Relax and come and sit. I don't bite, in fact, I believe the biting was all you." You tease, giggling as he flinches, yet complies, settling in beside you. "How are you? Sore, I imagine. I am quite shocked you lasted so long, honestly." You poke his thigh, leaning your chin on your free hand.
"I am fine, not- not sore. Not anymore, anyway." He clears his throat. Gods, what is wrong with him? He was a man grown, yet here he was stuttering before a whore like a maiden. "I… must confess that I did not leave empty-handed." Daeron reaches into the pocket of his doublet, pulling out the silk sash.
Your eyes widen slightly in disbelief. "Oh, I was wondering what happened to that. It served you well, I imagine?" The wink you shoot his way makes him swallow rather loudly.
"I am a little surprised you were bold enough to bring it back. Or, perhaps it has served its purpose, and you wish to find another keepsake?" You tease, gently tugging the sash from his grip.
"If not to return the sash, I fear I may not have had an excuse to see you again," Daeron speaks before he can even stop himself. "Is that okay?"
You hum, leaning forward to rest your cheek on his thigh with a soft tilt of your lips. "You do not need an excuse to see me, you know. I am a whore, not some lord's daughter." He finds himself a little taken aback by the forwardness of your words, but you speak the truth.
"Perhaps so," Daeron says quietly, swallowing as he reaches forward to thumb at your earrings. Pretty things, they were. Suited you well. "But an excuse makes me feel at ease." He finds himself relaxing in your room, the incense from the previous night still lingering in the air, as if you hadn’t lit it fresh for the evening.
You hum, amused. "Let's you pretend this isn't a brothel, hm?" Your fingers find his hip, poking at the bone. "Shall we do some more pretending?" Rolling onto your side a bit more, you playfully tease him. "What shall it be? Perhaps… us as King and Queen?"
"That is treason, honey."
"You bore," you huff. "What about newlyweds?"
Daeron pinches your cheek with a deadpan expression as he looks downward at you. "Stop that. I did not come here to… pretend. I came to see you." He watches as your eyelashes flutter slightly.
"Wow, if I were your future lady wife, I'd have demanded to marry you on the spot for that." Daeron shakes his head at your jest, the corner of his lip curled up.
“What if I wanted to talk?” He says next, finger curling to rub at your jaw.
“Talk? To me?” You ask. “About what?”
“Anything.” his hand finds your hair, brushing through the strands.
You purse your lips, rubbing circles into his hip. “Okay, why do you drink?”
“Oh, straight to the point.” Daeron snorts. “Well, if you must know, I tend to have horrible dreams. They haunt me, showing me Summerhall in flames and my brother burning green.”
You hadn’t expected such an answer, so you sat up and crawled onto his lap. “Sounds awful.” You hum, reaching up to card through his hair. “Does it work?”
“Oft enough for me to keep doing it, yes.” He can’t help it as his gaze is drawn towards your lips, the soft pout you always wear making you look just the sweetest.
He finds his hands on your back, stroking through your scant clothing. “Am I interrupting your work?” He whispers, the silk beneath his hands making him sweat a little.
“Not unless you plan to leave with your coin pouch intact.” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it as you lean in to kiss the bridge of his nose. “Which I hope isn’t the case, my prince. You are the most fun I’ve had in years.”
At times, Daeron looked like a child walking through a sweet shop, now especially. Even with the dark under his eyes, you can see his anticipation, the excitement in his eyes and in his shaking breaths.
He lets you push him back, falling upon that familiar bed that had brought him such a pleasant night only two days prior.
The kiss starts slow, wanton and teasing until you lick over his bottom lip. He shivers, whining when your tongue intrudes into his mouth, tangling with his own. He tastes of arbor red, you of a cheap ale common among smallfolk.
His palms slide down to your behind, pulling your hips tight against his. "Need to- to taste you again," he pants into your mouth, already trembling under your touch. "Like before, please."
You pull back from the kiss with a breath, fingers running across his cheekbones. "So sweet, aren't you?" Your voice is quiet, so much so that he fears he is imagining your praise. You plant one more kiss on his cheek before pulling back and climbing off him, tugging at his clothes. "Take these off, and I'll let you do whatever you like."
Truth be told, you’d never seen a man undress so fast. With a teasing smirk, you hooked your thumbs into your clothes, sliding off your silky bra (not that it had covered much) and had just started on your skirt when he caught your wrists, stopping you.
"Wait…" Daeron whispers, chest already flushing pink. "Leave it." He drags you closer once more, fingers bunching the silk as he trembles, eyelids flittering.
You let him pull you down, kissing once more. One hand of his is palming a tit, the other reaching down to find its way under your silken skirt. The moan he lets out into your mouth when he touches your cunt is sickening, the noise of a desperate man who has finally found salvation.
He hadn't expected you to be so wet, slick folds parting as he thumbs at your clit, his other hand at your chest pushing, forcing you upright so he can lean in to wrap his lips around a nipple. Such actions together make you gasp, head thrown back.
You were so beautiful, a silken dream for him to drown in, salvation. He rolls the two of you, peppering your sternum with kisses and nips, trailing down to the hem of your skirt. He licks a line over the silk, nibbling on your hip through the fabric.
"Daeron-!" You gasp his name as he ducks his head, nuzzling into your mound. He inhales with a groan and rolls his hips into the bedsheets, your smell sending ripples of pleasure down his spine.
His hands find their way around your thighs, keeping them tight to his ears. He licks at your clit, nose still buried in the soft hair just above. Sucking, licking, drooling into your cunt like it was his last meal, eyes rolling back as your hands found his tawny locks. You tug, a moan vibrating into your folds as he lowers his lead, tongue finding your entrance.
His head is throbbing, all of the blood in his body having gone south. His hips are wild, all of his senses overwhelmed. The silken skirt under his fingers, the brush of your pubic hair against his face, the taste of your insides as he tongue fucks you, the smell of your skin, your moans and cries muffled by your thighs.
Daeron isn't sure exactly when he reaches his peak, only that his chest feels like it is caving in from lack of air, his hips stuttering into the bed. His nails dig into your thighs, and his vision becomes starry, his hearing dull. He has to pull himself back, fearful he would pass out if he left himself buried in your cunt any longer. Two fingers replace his tongue as he rests his cheek on your thigh, watching you with lidded eyes.
The trembled hand that was in his hair falls upon his face, stroking his cheekbone before finding your clit and rubbing, your other pinching at your own nipple. Your cheeks were red, chest heaving as you approached your own peak at his actions.
"Curl your- ah…" You choke out, your back arching and hand falling away from your chest in favour of fisting a pillow beside you. He does exactly as you ask, curling his fingers upwards while still attempting to catch his breath.
He nudges his head closer to your mound, breathing your smell in again, while his free hand creeps down between his body and the sheets, finding his sticky cock. If he were anywhere else, with anyone else, he might have had a little shame. But with you, he just cannot seem to help himself. He's so sensitive, almost painful, but unable to stop his fingers from rubbing his tip.
Your fingers cramp, thigh tensing under his cheek as you arch, sobs filling the air. He feels your cunt clamp around his digits, eyes shooting up to watch you fall apart. Your vision flashes white, gasping for air into your lungs as your release crashes over you, your hands and feet curled.
You barely register as Daeron crawls over you, gently kissing your neck and face. "So beautiful," a voice whispers in your ear, low and gravelly. A palm presses to yours, intertwining your fingers and lifting, a kiss pressed to the back of your hand before it's brought down, wrapped around a twitching cock. "Fuck," a choked sob muffled against your throat.
Your eyes open, meeting his pale shoulder. Your neck twists, fingers flexing. He sobs again, shaking above you, before you feel a warmth on your stomach. You're gentle, letting him grind erratically before he shooes your hand away, trembling so much you fear he may fall apart before he collapses onto your chest, sniffling and catching his breath.
Neither of you are quite sure how long you’ve been lying there, the only clue being the candles burned low and ready to be replaced.
You hold him, one arm around his shoulders to scratch his back, and one hand brushing through his sweaty hair.
He moves slightly, nose, grazing your throat. "Tell me," he whispers. "How did you get here?"
"Are you asking for my life story?" you whisper with a grin.
Daeron lifts his head to look at you, leaning on his elbow with a hum and a nod. Your hairline was damp, cheeks still a little pink from the earlier endeavour. "Go on, I'd like to know."
Your grin softens into a purse. "It is not as pretty as I." This makes him stifle a laugh, reaching up to touch your earrings as he did earlier. "My mother caught a sickness and passed in her sleep," you start. "My father oft said I looked like her." Daeron's jaw tenses. "He was a drunk and did not notice the shard of glass I had in my hand one evening. After, I snuck onto a ship, and ended up in Blackwater Bay, and then Flea Bottom."
"How old were you?" He whispers.
"Three and ten," you reach out and curl a stray piece of his hair around your finger. "The madame saved me from getting my hand chopped off by gold cloaks after I pinched a drunk's copper pouch." You reminisce, smirking. "Worked the bar downstairs for a year and then started doing… this."
Daeron gives you a look that you can't quite discern. "Do not look at me like that," you exhale, letting his hair fall away from your finger.
"I am not looking at you any particular way." He is quiet when he speaks.
"You feel sorry for me. I could've left, but I chose not to. I make good money." Your argue.
"I did not say otherwise." His thumb moves away from your lobe to your bottom lip. "What did you buy with what you took from me?"
"You speak as if I did not deserve what I took."
"You do a lot of assuming, honey." Your breath hitches, forgetting for a moment that he only knew your work name. "Answer my question, I find myself to be a curious man when it comes to you." His thumb smooths from your bottom lip and down, finding its resting place at the base of your neck.
"I have yet to spend it," you admit reluctantly.
"Why?"
"Because, if you must know, I am a responsible woman and I am saving."
"For what?"
"Gods, I don't think there is another man in the whole world that is as curious about a whore he has only met twice as you are." You snort, poking his forehead. "I do not know what I am saving for, perhaps to buy myself a fancy horse and tour the realm. Is that good enough for you?" A laugh ripples up from your chest.
He gives a half-smirk, leaning in to kiss your jaw. "A tour of the realm?" Kiss. "Where would you go first?" The next kiss is on your neck. "Dorne?" The next is on your collarbone. "Could come visit me at Summerhall."
"Mmh, I was thinking somewhere further north." Daeron scoffs at that, biting at your skin before descending to your chest.
He mouths at your nipples, letting his teeth graze the sensitive flesh before moving to kneel, your thighs resting on top of his. Hands smooth up your skin, his fingertips grazing at your pelvic bones- petruding from the angle he had your hips at.
"If you came with me to Summerhall," he begins, voice barely above a whisper, "you'd need not worry about gold."
He can only watch as you slide a hand down your stomach, finding your apex and spreading yourself with two fingers. "And what is there for me in Summerhall?"
He swallows hard. Has to fight to tear his eyes away from your centre, his mouth twitching. "Me."
Your hand falls to the bed beside you, seconds passing before you push yourself up, inches from his face. "You?"
His nails bite into your flesh again, mirroring the past marks he had made, gaze drawn to your swollen lips. "No one would blink if I were to take you as a paramour."
Your head tilts, eyebrows slightly raised. "A paramour."
Daerons eye twitches, huffing through his nose. "Stop repeating me and give me a real answer."
An amused expression washes over your features, and he feels a hand on his neck, your thumb stroking his jaw. "I would prefer it if you buried your cock in my cunt, my prince."
He nudges forward and you lean back on your remaining hand, watching as he slots himself through your folds. You exhale, lifting your hips slightly to make it easier for him. The hand on his neck slips down to his chest, the pounding beneath his ribs serving as a grounding.
A choked moan fills the air, your warmth finally swallowing him as he buries himself balls deep. Your feet dig into his spine, keeping his hips pressed snuggly to yours.
You can already feel him trembling inside of you, his eyes closed and mouth open, a pinch in his brow as he tries to focus on not releasing.
You know it's cruel, but you can't help it when you clench around him. You can only watch as he bows forward, one hand squeezing your waist while he keens and the other landing on the bed beside yours, shaking. "You- hah…" Daeron pants, his chest flushing that pretty pink for the second time this night. "You are evil," he whispers, "the most wicked woman in the seven kingdoms."
"You may find your peak within me if it tortures you so," you whisper back, an amused lilt lingering on your tongue. Your fingers find the back of his head, gripping and pulling him up to look at you. Or I could leave you to find it with just your hand, if you would like."
"No," he rushes out, swallowing down a whimper, "I would like to… inside. Please." He whispers the plea, tongue flicking out to lick over his bottom lip.
You roll your hips again and he whines, eyes rolling back into his head. "Please," he whines, shivering as your grip in his hair only gets tighter. "I- I made you feel good, did I not? Please, let me…" he cuts himself off with a choke, hips twitching uncontrollably.
Tears prick at his eyes again, wetting his lashes. He was truly beautiful like this, teetering on the edge of sanity. You dig your feet further into his back, making him arch. His nipples brush against yours as he sobs, whole body shaking. You lessen your grip to cup his cheek, brushing over a wet eye.
"Let go, Daeron."
It's all he needs to crash, head buried in your neck as he comes deep within you, cries of gratitude muddled onto your skin. You lower both of you to the bed, legs relaxing from his back to rest over his again, hands coming up to rub his back.
Daeron feels for a moment as if he would die, enveloped in flashes of hot and cold like a plague-ailed man. He is brought back by the circular shapes you trace on his shoulder blades and the smell of your skin, tremors slowing down to the occasional quiver.
If he had any sense, he might feel a lick of embarrassment for releasing as soon as you had given your word, but he is exhausted. His hearing is the last thing to clear, a hummed tune vibrating through your throat.
You are warm- impossibly so, and he is hesitant to move in fear of losing the moment.
"Think about it," he whispers, voice broken. "About Summerhall."
"I will think about it." You murmur into his hair before humming again. It rings familiar through his mind, but he isn't sure where from. It takes him drifting off, a memory nipping at the base of his skull.
"Again, mama!" He giggles, fingers clutching his mother's silken dress. "Please, it is my favourite song!"
Dyanna smiles, reaching down to brush his messy hair back. "Is five times not enough to sate you, sweetling?"
"No!" he whined beneath his laughter. "Please, please, mama! Just once more!"
"Okay!" The woman laughs, picking up her son and putting him on her hip as she begins to sing, swaying.
"Honey and milk beneath her tongue,
for she gathered around her,
in a crowd of virgins,
a fruit-bearing orchard
and a garden in bloom.
Therefore rejoice in the noblest dawn,
O' daughter of Sion."
ser duncan the tall x wife!reader, +18 (mdni), domesticity, manhandling, size difference, praise praise praise!!, pussy pronouns, intercrural sex, dry humping, dirty talk, strength kink, dunk is so in love!!, cuddling, (3.5k).
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: i believe dunk calls his wife m'lady when he wants to have his way with her(maybe calls her pussy that too oops)!!! i'm sorry for any mistakes i wrote this out of nowhere in the dead of night lol!! i might rewrite this one if i find i still feel like it's not good enough but maybe im just overthinking!!
dunk’s embrace was warmer than the embers from the hearth could ever be. your husband, broad, solid, and sturdy against your back, muscled arms like vices around your middle as he held you securely on his lap.
it has been a ritual of sorts between you two: to hold one another tightly at the end of the day, undisturbed by anything but the crackling of the fire and the whispers of your voices as you discussed the chores that needed to be handled tomorrow around your humble abode.
you felt so safe in your husband’s arms. gods, there was no better place to laze around and get drowsier than wrapped up in him after a tiring day spent puttering around your shared home. he runs as hot as a furnace, your duncan. there was never a need for a blanket, for if you were cold, his big, calloused hands would rub and massage the chill away, so gently and tenderly, melting you even further into the cradle of his arms.
like now, those same broad palms were pressing into the give of your hips, slowly dimpling the clothed skin as he listened to you list off the livestock that needed to be taken towards the hills for grazing. his face was tucked into the crook of your neck, nuzzling the skin there, taking slow lungfuls of your scent, nosing along your throat, pleased to find remnants of lavender and soap from your earlier bath still clinging to the flesh.
“y’ smell so nice, my lady,” he rumbled against your skin, pressing closer, muscles and sinew tightening around your middle, perching you higher onto his lap until you are flush against his broad chest, your rear snug on top of his crotch. “i ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for y’r pretty skin.”
my lady. even after some moons of being each other’s in front of the gods, your duncan still called you my lady. not all the time, no.
only when he felt the need to fuck you.
you thought it was endearing. your duncan, so big, so broad, as tall as oaks and as strong as steel, getting so overcome by the feeling of want, of need for you, that he blurts out such formalities still.
the sweet name rolls off his tongue anew, just a few after, more a strangled noise than anything, akin to a wounded beast as you feel a familiar thickness poking against the small of your back, barely grazing between your clothed buttocks.
it was truly a blessing how easily dunk got aroused. you hadn’t even meant to do anything to entice him, but it seemed just having you close was enough to have him hard and wanting under you.
with a soft sigh, you lean your head back, his broad shoulder cushioning your nape as you peer up at him sweetly, voice but a whisper as you coax, testing the waters. “do you wish for me, husband?”
the swiftness with which callouses bite into the fat of your hips was all the confirmation you needed. your duncan was so precious, so easily unraveled. it made you smile.
“g—gods, don’t,” the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boy’s, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. “i oughta not, m’lady. y’re tired, i know of it. you spent all day puttin’ those gentle hands of yours to work. i cannot just—”
and it was the truth. you were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husband’s flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.
“you can,” you insisted, fingers lifting to cradle his chiseled jaw and lure his gaze towards yours, letting him see the same ardent desire reflecting back at him. the touch was tender but purposeful, making sure he could not look anywhere else but at you as you spoke. “for i wish it, too.”
his pupils blew wide, the baby blues you so loved now darker, dropping to your mouth, as if debating on closing the distance, of tasting the words you spoke with his tongue and teeth to make sure you spoke truth.
you could tell the restraint was still warring within him, the concern regarding your fatigue from the labor of the day not quite vanquished. but it was no trouble, for you were as stubborn as he was, and even more relentless.
slowly, your hands touched his, soft against rough, guiding them up your knees, under your chemise, pressing broad palms against your thighs, letting him feel the warmth there as it beckoned him higher, towards the heat between them.
dunk’s jaw ticked, something akin to equal despair and desperation twisting his expression as he realized his resistance was crumbling. you could feel the harsh exhale through his nose against the top of your head, a hiss of surrender as his fingers squeezed at the flesh of your thighs, dimpling it as he hoisted you flush against him. his chest rumbled, the sound reverberating from the top of your spine and down to your very toes, something animal and carnal that brought gooseflesh all over your skin.
“you aren’t even ready f’me, m’lady,” your duncan exhaled shakily against your throat, the sound almost a moan as his fingers itched higher towards the apex of your thighs, where slickness already pooled unbidden. “your pretty cunt’s not loose enough to take me yet. you ought to know i have to stretch her out f’ me.”
and you knew it to be true. your husband’s cock was too big for you to take without the help of his fingers first, no matter how wet you were and how much you whined that—
“it’ll fit,” tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for dunk’s warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. “be gentle, and it’ll fit, husband—”
but your duncan would never put himself in the position to hurt you. no matter how molten the heat in the pit of his stomach got or how incessant your need to throw caution to the wind and see how well your pussy can stretch around his girth was.
his lips pressed fervently to your temple in an open-mouthed kiss, panting against the skin as he trailed more down to your rosy cheek, your jaw, placating you, trying to keep himself and you from doing something reckless.
“s’not right, m’lady,” dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. “‘s already late and ya need to rest. you were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.”
his words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until they’re brushing against the slickness smeared onto the inside of your thighs, making him pause for a tense moment.
dunk is so still, your gaze turning to him just as a groan parts his lips, the sound torn painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. “you’re—m’lady, I,—gods, y’re drenchin’ yourself already.”
you feel heat flood your cheeks at his crude words, tilting your face up until it's pressed into his throat, a tad bashful at being caught so undone by your duncan. but who could blame you? having his solid frame hold you so tightly, hands roaming, and mouth kissing heated paths down your skin was enough to have your core slick and throbbing.
and yet, he was still trying to do right by you, by his lady, for his fingers were stagnant now, just rubbing into the soft flesh of your thighs in desperate strokes, the tips barely grazing against your soaked cunt.
it drove you mad, this husband of yours. always thinking about your well—being, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.
“mhm, all for you, my love,” you encouraged, your hips rolling into the phantom of his touch, making your rear grind against the bulge in his breeches. you felt the way his throat bobbed until under lips, the vibration of yet another groan making you hum. your duncan was slowly giving in, slowly letting go.
as much a man of honor as he was, he could never deny you for too long, especially with how good it felt to have you grinding back onto his lap like this, the ridge of his cock humping the cradle of your rear again and again, making his mind turn to mush. his hands dug into the fat of your slick thighs, broad hands encompassing each one, guiding you properly against his crotch, moving you slowly back and forth, making your body slide lightly against his broad chest.
a gasp slipped past your lips, core throbbing at the feeling of your husband using his strength in such a way. gods, it made you wetter than a maiden on her first night, no matter how many times your duncan moved you as he pleased, his brawn being used for pleasure instead of fighting.
he was getting pent up, puffs of air rustling the top of your head, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs as he ground you faster against his crotch, the friction delicious and raw, like animals rutting together in their carnal desires. his grip was so strong, so steady, that you didn’t even have to move anymore, letting him push and pull you against him, melting like drizzling honey into his strength.
dunk could barely think like this, with the whisper of her heat brushing against his clothed crotch, her chemise being damned to all hell for keeping the warmth he knew resided between those thighs. in his desperation, he kept one hand anchored to her, the other one fumbling with his breeches enough to free his aching cock from its confines, a sigh of relief following.
you wasted no time in hitching up your chemise, letting it pool around your hips, letting his glazed, unfocused eyes feast on the dampness between your legs, the folds of your pussy drooling slick along your thighs where his fingers still gripped.
“gods, look at that,” came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. “m’lady is so wet f’ me.”
and the way his gaze was fixated on your mound made you believe he was addressing your cunt, not you in that moment, which only made you wetter, to have your duncan call your pussy in such a way.
his hand rejoined the other, gripping higher up your thighs, at the apex of them, his thumbs now brushing over the dripping folds, making your breath hitch noisily, hips chasing the touch helplessly, begging silently for more.
the touch was reverent. thick, calloused thumbs outlining the flesh, parting it lewdly to reveal your puffy clit and fluttering hole, bringing a rosy flush of embarrassment to your face. your duncan loved seeing how much you wanted him, the pads of his fingers exposing you even more, letting cool air brush against your cunt, like a caress.
“look at her,” he whispered against your jaw, his chin now hooked onto your shoulder to have a better view of how his thumbs were spreading you open. “s’throbbing for me, isn’t she? m’lady gets dirty so fast. i barely touched her an’ look.”
he juts his chin lightly, coaxing your gaze to shyly flit down to where his is, and a whine falls from your lips as his words ring true. you were so wet, already making his fingers glisten with your juices as he slowly starts to rub along your folds, gathering more, greedy with the feel of the smooth slide.
“but she’s not ready for me,” your duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesn’t even sound like a reproach as his touch lingers onto your clit, swiping over it gently, giving you a smidge of the pleasure you seek. “she’s too small to take me right. can’t hurt you.”
it is too late to care for such things. you are desperate for more, already overwhelmed from his slow touches, rolling your hips to encourage him to rub your clit faster, to give you anything but this torturous indulgence.
“need to feel you, duncan. want your cock, my sweet,” you plead, resuming the grind of your hips, feeling the thickness of him under you fully now, only fueling the molten heat in your veins. he’s so hard against your buttocks, and you shuffle enough to perch against his navel instead, letting his cock spring free between your thighs, bobbing against your slick flesh obscenely.
it makes you gasp, and you hear an even louder one above you. no wonder your husband’s eyes are glued to the way the thick length looks framed by lush, slick flesh on either side. the tip of it is oozing precum along heated flesh, and you watch with bated breath as it gives little throbs and twitches.
you have half of your mind to not seem frenzied with lust, but your body has no such qualms. one of your hands moves to palm his cock, lining it flush against your wet slit, folds parting against the girth of it, plump and soft. it looks sinful, clawing a groan out of your husband, whose hands now grip hard enough to leave marks behind on the fat of your hips, wishing to hold you in place, to still the hunger in your movements.
“c—can’t, m’lady, can’t, won’t—”
but you are done listening, squeezing your thighs, cushioning his cock between the apex of them, snug and so, so wet with slick, glistening, and beckoning towards sin.
the sound that tumbles from your husband’s mouth is more beast than man, his grip trembling now to hold you, moments from tipping over the edge of something delicious and heated, something you both desire so ardently. “gods, a—ah, don’t—” your duncan is trying his hardest to keep his wits about him and failing miserably, just as you want him, just as you need him.
he was so hard and throbbing in the cradle of your thighs, encouraging you to squeeze his cock between them again, slow, hips rolling upwards, until only the flushed tip was poking through, your folds gliding wetly over the length.
“feels good, husband,” you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips moved again. “give it to me like this, my love, please. m—make it good for your lady.”
those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint your duncan had. with rasped curses—sounding almost angry, at the end of his patience—his broad palms circled your hips, so big his fingers spanned across your belly, and yanked you down against his lap.
tandem moans fell from both of your mouths as his cock slid between your thighs with the motion, your hand keeping it snug against your mound, the drooly tip bumping against your puffy clit with every upward rut of your husband’s hips.
your duncan was moving you on its own, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were nothing but a feather in his grasp, bound to bend to his will. and gods, did you love it. you loved when dunk manhandled you, when he forgot just how strong he was, how much he could do with the muscles and sinew he possessed, bouncing you effortlessly onto his lap, his cock sliding between your tightly squeezed thighs from base to tip.
once again, his gaze was trained solely onto where the cockhead poked between your plush flesh, making a mess of both of your juices, coating your thighs, making the rock of his hips smoother. “m’lady’s so hungry for it. c—couldn’t wait until the morrow,” it sounded like he was chiding you, but the dampness of his breath against your neck as he groaned and moaned unabashed told otherwise. he loved it. he loved it when you wanted him so much that all sense of propriety flew out the window, and all that remained was his lady. his lady, who would do anything to get her way.
“you’ll have me on the morrow as well,” you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. “you’ll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.”
a punched out moan fell from his lips, nodding feverishly as he whined, face aflame and a little drool at the corner of his mouth from having his lips parted by pleasure. “a—anything m’lady wants. anything, anything. g—gods, i’ll give you anything y’want, my sweet lady, pretty lady—”
the slide felt so good. he started babbling, praise so sweet it pooled in the pit of your belly, rapid and curling. your hand never straying from keeping his length flush against your slick folds, loving to watch the way they parted around the girth, the way the flushed tip grazed your clit with each rock of duncan’s hips.
you were pliant and melting in his hold, letting him do all the work, to bounce you harder and faster along his cock, feeling the way it throbbed and twitched, already close to his peak. your poor duncan.
dunk’s grip onto you was like a man clinging to the edge of something sinful, fingers flexing firmly against your flesh, squeezing more with each bounce, rhythm starting to falter the closer he got.
his lips were drooly and wet as they met the skin of your temple, your cheek, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, desperate and frantic. “my perfect, precious lady,” he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. “s’good for me, always so good to me. lettin’ me have you like this. g—gods, i love you s’much.”
all you could do was smile, dopey and soft, turning towards his kisses, catching his lips with yours, letting your moans mingle between your tongues as you chased your peaks together.
“love you so much,” you mewled against his mouth, tongue swiping the roof of it, eliciting a wounded, whining sound, his hips stuttering. so, so close to the edge. “are you close, my sweet?”
your duncan could only nod, fervent and clumsy, barely able to reciprocate your kiss from how hard he was panting and keening against your lips. “not gonna’ last. feels s’good. m’lady’s so warm and wet,” he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. “m’sorry, m’lady, gods—”
“give it to me, my love. your lady wants it,” you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twice—
and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that would’ve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didn’t feel so heavenly. you didn’t let up either, letting your husband clumsily bounce you a few more times, his throbbing cock sliding against your folds and clit so perfectly, enough for you to tip over the edge as well with his name on your lips, wanton and heated.
breathing seemed like a luxury now, both of you so spent and sweaty, your body melting against his sturdy, broad chest, thighs shaking with the remnants of your climax, small, pitiful whines falling from your lips as you settled.
your duncan had to catch his breath, before he slowly maneuvered you, hands easing up around your hips—now massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your flesh—and tucked you against his chest, turning you gently so you were facing him, your legs dangling over the side of the armchair.
head tucked under his chin, ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart loud and slowing from the heat that transpired between you. “my sweet wife,” he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. “my darlin’ lady,” he continued, and you couldn’t help but smile, bashful and content, snuggling closer to to the warmth of his frame, turning your head enough to press a smooch against where his heart was beating. "thank you, thank you—,"
your duncan was so lovely, especially spent and tender like this, broad hands easing you into drowsiness as he murmured sweet nothings into your hair, as if he hadn't taken you apart moments prior.
sighing softly, you hoped he would hold up his end of the bargain and take you properly tomorrow, or you would have to take what you wanted again.
been thinking about this scenario w dunk where he’s hauling around wood logs or his armor or whatever, so he can’t use his arms. and reader taking advantage of it and raining affection on him. kissing his face and complimenting him. sneakily running a finger under his tunic to scratch over his belly lightly. then agreeing to let him go only if he confesses how handsome he is.
eventually he mumbles out “i’m so handsome” at her persistence and he’s overly flustered.
then she says “maybe i should try tying u up” just to tease him more. and she walks away but neither of them are forgetting about it all day. 😵💫
ser duncan the tall x wife!reader, +18 (mdni), domesticity, manhandling, size difference, praise praise praise!!, pussy pronouns, intercrural sex, dry humping, dirty talk, strength kink, dunk is so in love!!, cuddling, (3.5k).
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: i believe dunk calls his wife m'lady when he wants to have his way with her(maybe calls her pussy that too oops)!!! i'm sorry for any mistakes i wrote this out of nowhere in the dead of night lol!! i might rewrite this one if i find i still feel like it's not good enough but maybe im just overthinking!!
dunk’s embrace was warmer than the embers from the hearth could ever be. your husband, broad, solid, and sturdy against your back, muscled arms like vices around your middle as he held you securely on his lap.
it has been a ritual of sorts between you two: to hold one another tightly at the end of the day, undisturbed by anything but the crackling of the fire and the whispers of your voices as you discussed the chores that needed to be handled tomorrow around your humble abode.
you felt so safe in your husband’s arms. gods, there was no better place to laze around and get drowsier than wrapped up in him after a tiring day spent puttering around your shared home. he runs as hot as a furnace, your duncan. there was never a need for a blanket, for if you were cold, his big, calloused hands would rub and massage the chill away, so gently and tenderly, melting you even further into the cradle of his arms.
like now, those same broad palms were pressing into the give of your hips, slowly dimpling the clothed skin as he listened to you list off the livestock that needed to be taken towards the hills for grazing. his face was tucked into the crook of your neck, nuzzling the skin there, taking slow lungfuls of your scent, nosing along your throat, pleased to find remnants of lavender and soap from your earlier bath still clinging to the flesh.
“y’ smell so nice, my lady,” he rumbled against your skin, pressing closer, muscles and sinew tightening around your middle, perching you higher onto his lap until you are flush against his broad chest, your rear snug on top of his crotch. “i ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for y’r pretty skin.”
my lady. even after some moons of being each other’s in front of the gods, your duncan still called you my lady. not all the time, no.
only when he felt the need to fuck you.
you thought it was endearing. your duncan, so big, so broad, as tall as oaks and as strong as steel, getting so overcome by the feeling of want, of need for you, that he blurts out such formalities still.
the sweet name rolls off his tongue anew, just a few after, more a strangled noise than anything, akin to a wounded beast as you feel a familiar thickness poking against the small of your back, barely grazing between your clothed buttocks.
it was truly a blessing how easily dunk got aroused. you hadn’t even meant to do anything to entice him, but it seemed just having you close was enough to have him hard and wanting under you.
with a soft sigh, you lean your head back, his broad shoulder cushioning your nape as you peer up at him sweetly, voice but a whisper as you coax, testing the waters. “do you wish for me, husband?”
the swiftness with which callouses bite into the fat of your hips was all the confirmation you needed. your duncan was so precious, so easily unraveled. it made you smile.
“g—gods, don’t,” the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boy’s, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. “i oughta not, m’lady. y’re tired, i know of it. you spent all day puttin’ those gentle hands of yours to work. i cannot just—”
and it was the truth. you were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husband’s flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.
“you can,” you insisted, fingers lifting to cradle his chiseled jaw and lure his gaze towards yours, letting him see the same ardent desire reflecting back at him. the touch was tender but purposeful, making sure he could not look anywhere else but at you as you spoke. “for i wish it, too.”
his pupils blew wide, the baby blues you so loved now darker, dropping to your mouth, as if debating on closing the distance, of tasting the words you spoke with his tongue and teeth to make sure you spoke truth.
you could tell the restraint was still warring within him, the concern regarding your fatigue from the labor of the day not quite vanquished. but it was no trouble, for you were as stubborn as he was, and even more relentless.
slowly, your hands touched his, soft against rough, guiding them up your knees, under your chemise, pressing broad palms against your thighs, letting him feel the warmth there as it beckoned him higher, towards the heat between them.
dunk’s jaw ticked, something akin to equal despair and desperation twisting his expression as he realized his resistance was crumbling. you could feel the harsh exhale through his nose against the top of your head, a hiss of surrender as his fingers squeezed at the flesh of your thighs, dimpling it as he hoisted you flush against him. his chest rumbled, the sound reverberating from the top of your spine and down to your very toes, something animal and carnal that brought gooseflesh all over your skin.
“you aren’t even ready f’me, m’lady,” your duncan exhaled shakily against your throat, the sound almost a moan as his fingers itched higher towards the apex of your thighs, where slickness already pooled unbidden. “your pretty cunt’s not loose enough to take me yet. you ought to know i have to stretch her out f’ me.”
and you knew it to be true. your husband’s cock was too big for you to take without the help of his fingers first, no matter how wet you were and how much you whined that—
“it’ll fit,” tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for dunk’s warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. “be gentle, and it’ll fit, husband—”
but your duncan would never put himself in the position to hurt you. no matter how molten the heat in the pit of his stomach got or how incessant your need to throw caution to the wind and see how well your pussy can stretch around his girth was.
his lips pressed fervently to your temple in an open-mouthed kiss, panting against the skin as he trailed more down to your rosy cheek, your jaw, placating you, trying to keep himself and you from doing something reckless.
“s’not right, m’lady,” dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. “‘s already late and ya need to rest. you were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.”
his words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until they’re brushing against the slickness smeared onto the inside of your thighs, making him pause for a tense moment.
dunk is so still, your gaze turning to him just as a groan parts his lips, the sound torn painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. “you’re—m’lady, I,—gods, y’re drenchin’ yourself already.”
you feel heat flood your cheeks at his crude words, tilting your face up until it's pressed into his throat, a tad bashful at being caught so undone by your duncan. but who could blame you? having his solid frame hold you so tightly, hands roaming, and mouth kissing heated paths down your skin was enough to have your core slick and throbbing.
and yet, he was still trying to do right by you, by his lady, for his fingers were stagnant now, just rubbing into the soft flesh of your thighs in desperate strokes, the tips barely grazing against your soaked cunt.
it drove you mad, this husband of yours. always thinking about your well—being, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.
“mhm, all for you, my love,” you encouraged, your hips rolling into the phantom of his touch, making your rear grind against the bulge in his breeches. you felt the way his throat bobbed until under lips, the vibration of yet another groan making you hum. your duncan was slowly giving in, slowly letting go.
as much a man of honor as he was, he could never deny you for too long, especially with how good it felt to have you grinding back onto his lap like this, the ridge of his cock humping the cradle of your rear again and again, making his mind turn to mush. his hands dug into the fat of your slick thighs, broad hands encompassing each one, guiding you properly against his crotch, moving you slowly back and forth, making your body slide lightly against his broad chest.
a gasp slipped past your lips, core throbbing at the feeling of your husband using his strength in such a way. gods, it made you wetter than a maiden on her first night, no matter how many times your duncan moved you as he pleased, his brawn being used for pleasure instead of fighting.
he was getting pent up, puffs of air rustling the top of your head, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs as he ground you faster against his crotch, the friction delicious and raw, like animals rutting together in their carnal desires. his grip was so strong, so steady, that you didn’t even have to move anymore, letting him push and pull you against him, melting like drizzling honey into his strength.
dunk could barely think like this, with the whisper of her heat brushing against his clothed crotch, her chemise being damned to all hell for keeping the warmth he knew resided between those thighs. in his desperation, he kept one hand anchored to her, the other one fumbling with his breeches enough to free his aching cock from its confines, a sigh of relief following.
you wasted no time in hitching up your chemise, letting it pool around your hips, letting his glazed, unfocused eyes feast on the dampness between your legs, the folds of your pussy drooling slick along your thighs where his fingers still gripped.
“gods, look at that,” came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. “m’lady is so wet f’ me.”
and the way his gaze was fixated on your mound made you believe he was addressing your cunt, not you in that moment, which only made you wetter, to have your duncan call your pussy in such a way.
his hand rejoined the other, gripping higher up your thighs, at the apex of them, his thumbs now brushing over the dripping folds, making your breath hitch noisily, hips chasing the touch helplessly, begging silently for more.
the touch was reverent. thick, calloused thumbs outlining the flesh, parting it lewdly to reveal your puffy clit and fluttering hole, bringing a rosy flush of embarrassment to your face. your duncan loved seeing how much you wanted him, the pads of his fingers exposing you even more, letting cool air brush against your cunt, like a caress.
“look at her,” he whispered against your jaw, his chin now hooked onto your shoulder to have a better view of how his thumbs were spreading you open. “s’throbbing for me, isn’t she? m’lady gets dirty so fast. i barely touched her an’ look.”
he juts his chin lightly, coaxing your gaze to shyly flit down to where his is, and a whine falls from your lips as his words ring true. you were so wet, already making his fingers glisten with your juices as he slowly starts to rub along your folds, gathering more, greedy with the feel of the smooth slide.
“but she’s not ready for me,” your duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesn’t even sound like a reproach as his touch lingers onto your clit, swiping over it gently, giving you a smidge of the pleasure you seek. “she’s too small to take me right. can’t hurt you.”
it is too late to care for such things. you are desperate for more, already overwhelmed from his slow touches, rolling your hips to encourage him to rub your clit faster, to give you anything but this torturous indulgence.
“need to feel you, duncan. want your cock, my sweet,” you plead, resuming the grind of your hips, feeling the thickness of him under you fully now, only fueling the molten heat in your veins. he’s so hard against your buttocks, and you shuffle enough to perch against his navel instead, letting his cock spring free between your thighs, bobbing against your slick flesh obscenely.
it makes you gasp, and you hear an even louder one above you. no wonder your husband’s eyes are glued to the way the thick length looks framed by lush, slick flesh on either side. the tip of it is oozing precum along heated flesh, and you watch with bated breath as it gives little throbs and twitches.
you have half of your mind to not seem frenzied with lust, but your body has no such qualms. one of your hands moves to palm his cock, lining it flush against your wet slit, folds parting against the girth of it, plump and soft. it looks sinful, clawing a groan out of your husband, whose hands now grip hard enough to leave marks behind on the fat of your hips, wishing to hold you in place, to still the hunger in your movements.
“c—can’t, m’lady, can’t, won’t—”
but you are done listening, squeezing your thighs, cushioning his cock between the apex of them, snug and so, so wet with slick, glistening, and beckoning towards sin.
the sound that tumbles from your husband’s mouth is more beast than man, his grip trembling now to hold you, moments from tipping over the edge of something delicious and heated, something you both desire so ardently. “gods, a—ah, don’t—” your duncan is trying his hardest to keep his wits about him and failing miserably, just as you want him, just as you need him.
he was so hard and throbbing in the cradle of your thighs, encouraging you to squeeze his cock between them again, slow, hips rolling upwards, until only the flushed tip was poking through, your folds gliding wetly over the length.
“feels good, husband,” you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips moved again. “give it to me like this, my love, please. m—make it good for your lady.”
those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint your duncan had. with rasped curses—sounding almost angry, at the end of his patience—his broad palms circled your hips, so big his fingers spanned across your belly, and yanked you down against his lap.
tandem moans fell from both of your mouths as his cock slid between your thighs with the motion, your hand keeping it snug against your mound, the drooly tip bumping against your puffy clit with every upward rut of your husband’s hips.
your duncan was moving you on its own, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were nothing but a feather in his grasp, bound to bend to his will. and gods, did you love it. you loved when dunk manhandled you, when he forgot just how strong he was, how much he could do with the muscles and sinew he possessed, bouncing you effortlessly onto his lap, his cock sliding between your tightly squeezed thighs from base to tip.
once again, his gaze was trained solely onto where the cockhead poked between your plush flesh, making a mess of both of your juices, coating your thighs, making the rock of his hips smoother. “m’lady’s so hungry for it. c—couldn’t wait until the morrow,” it sounded like he was chiding you, but the dampness of his breath against your neck as he groaned and moaned unabashed told otherwise. he loved it. he loved it when you wanted him so much that all sense of propriety flew out the window, and all that remained was his lady. his lady, who would do anything to get her way.
“you’ll have me on the morrow as well,” you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. “you’ll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.”
a punched out moan fell from his lips, nodding feverishly as he whined, face aflame and a little drool at the corner of his mouth from having his lips parted by pleasure. “a—anything m’lady wants. anything, anything. g—gods, i’ll give you anything y’want, my sweet lady, pretty lady—”
the slide felt so good. he started babbling, praise so sweet it pooled in the pit of your belly, rapid and curling. your hand never straying from keeping his length flush against your slick folds, loving to watch the way they parted around the girth, the way the flushed tip grazed your clit with each rock of duncan’s hips.
you were pliant and melting in his hold, letting him do all the work, to bounce you harder and faster along his cock, feeling the way it throbbed and twitched, already close to his peak. your poor duncan.
dunk’s grip onto you was like a man clinging to the edge of something sinful, fingers flexing firmly against your flesh, squeezing more with each bounce, rhythm starting to falter the closer he got.
his lips were drooly and wet as they met the skin of your temple, your cheek, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, desperate and frantic. “my perfect, precious lady,” he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. “s’good for me, always so good to me. lettin’ me have you like this. g—gods, i love you s’much.”
all you could do was smile, dopey and soft, turning towards his kisses, catching his lips with yours, letting your moans mingle between your tongues as you chased your peaks together.
“love you so much,” you mewled against his mouth, tongue swiping the roof of it, eliciting a wounded, whining sound, his hips stuttering. so, so close to the edge. “are you close, my sweet?”
your duncan could only nod, fervent and clumsy, barely able to reciprocate your kiss from how hard he was panting and keening against your lips. “not gonna’ last. feels s’good. m’lady’s so warm and wet,” he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. “m’sorry, m’lady, gods—”
“give it to me, my love. your lady wants it,” you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twice—
and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that would’ve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didn’t feel so heavenly. you didn’t let up either, letting your husband clumsily bounce you a few more times, his throbbing cock sliding against your folds and clit so perfectly, enough for you to tip over the edge as well with his name on your lips, wanton and heated.
breathing seemed like a luxury now, both of you so spent and sweaty, your body melting against his sturdy, broad chest, thighs shaking with the remnants of your climax, small, pitiful whines falling from your lips as you settled.
your duncan had to catch his breath, before he slowly maneuvered you, hands easing up around your hips—now massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your flesh—and tucked you against his chest, turning you gently so you were facing him, your legs dangling over the side of the armchair.
head tucked under his chin, ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart loud and slowing from the heat that transpired between you. “my sweet wife,” he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. “my darlin’ lady,” he continued, and you couldn’t help but smile, bashful and content, snuggling closer to to the warmth of his frame, turning your head enough to press a smooch against where his heart was beating. "thank you, thank you—,"
your duncan was so lovely, especially spent and tender like this, broad hands easing you into drowsiness as he murmured sweet nothings into your hair, as if he hadn't taken you apart moments prior.
sighing softly, you hoped he would hold up his end of the bargain and take you properly tomorrow, or you would have to take what you wanted again.
The girl that they once cheered as the Realm’s Delight had grown into a grasping and vindictive woman, men said, a queen as cruel as any king before her. One wit named Rhaenyra “King Maegor with teats,”
— commission done by Hazel O’Connell on facebook ⚔️🥀
“You want to suck it?” Maekar asks, voice dark. He doesn’t wait for a reply before his thumb presses to your closed lips, waiting.
Your response is to open your mouth. You part your lips, allowing the prince to slide the pollen-coated digit past the ridges of your teeth and onto the flat of your tongue. You whimper as your lips wrap around his knuckle, tongue laving across his thumb and tasting the sweetness of the pollen. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.
“There we go,” Maekar utters, running his thumb along your tongue. “What a good girl. Bet that taste’s real good, doesn’t it?”
You nod.
“Yeah… yeah it does.” His eyes are black with lust and it makes your stomach flip.
His gaze is predatory, and you’re completely pliant beneath him. Vulnerable. His thumb pushes further, the base knuckle bumping against your lips, and he presses down, making you gag. He appears transfixed as he repeats the actions, making you gag again, and then once more after that, until tears build in your lash line.
“Y’know what else’ll taste good?” He whispers, almost to himself then to you, but you know it’s for you by the way he drags his thumb until he can hook your bottom teeth.
You yelp around his thumb as he pushes firmly, pressure on your jaw, other hand still on the back of your neck. He carefully guides you down until you understand what he wants, and you drop to your knees on the worn Myrish carpet beneath you.
im thinking about pornstar!ghost fucking us so good that we end up just completely goin off script and moaning his name 🙂↕️
oh i love pornstar!ghost fics. him deciding you’ll never work with another man after he hears you break script for him. him suggesting you practise together off-camera for “better chemistry”. him only letting you cum—conditioning you, really—when you cry out his name, begging, so you break for him every recording. him ignoring your calls for weeks after he finds out you’ve worked with someone else. him being cold and overly rough on your first shoot back together. him genuinely making you cry on camera from overstimulation as some sort of punishment. him folding you in every position, letting the camera get a shot of your swollen cunt from every angle, showing you off to the ex-co-star he knows you’ll never work with again. him finally finishing up, breeding your womb—the one thing he never does in his shoots—to mark you as his from the inside out.
captain PLEASE aerion smut where he is mean but also completely pussy drunk but like crazy whiny
oh hell yeah
18+ (fem!reader + no y/n, SMUT, he’s not superrr mean but he’s a whiny little shit and he’s aerion soooo)
he’s been in a foul mood all day.
yelling at servants, snapping at your chamber maids, berating the minor lords who request a word with him. he’s a snake on the hunt: slithering through the halls with his eyes sharp and fangs bared.
and having been married to the man for a considerable amount of time, you know just what he needs, even if is he reluctant to admit it.
“gods, look at you. such a filthy fucking whore for your prince,” aerion utters as his hands clamp down on your hips, your core hovering just inches from his face. you grip the wood of the headboard, your legs trembling as you hold yourself up, aerion’s words thick with lust. “pussy’s dripping all over my fucking face.”
he groans as he pulls you to him, gluing his mouth to the slick slit of your core and curling his serpentine tongue against you. you huff out a breathless moan of his name, the heat of his mouth blistering against you.
aerion licks through your folds before delving deep into your drooling hole without any warning. a rumbling purr leaves his chest, and you can’t help but rock your hips, chasing the vibrations where the slope of his nose meets your clit.
he pushes you up slightly, warm air fanning over your core, making you keen, fingers tight on the headboard.
“needy girl. she’s drooling for it, isn’t she?” aerion speaks into you, his tone sharp and condescending as his eyes fix on your cunt. “s’just pathetic. so desperate for my mouth.”
you whine when his mouth is back on you, tongue stuffing deep inside you in one unfurling thrust. he guides your hips, grinding you down onto his face as he takes what he needs, eyes fluttering closed as the taste and smell of you completely overwhelm him.
you’re hot and wet and sweet on his tongue, your thighs bracketing his head are plush and warm, the sounds falling from your mouth are airy and melodic. his cock jumps against the fabric of his breeches, quickly growing hard.
you gain a slight bit of autonomy when aerion’s cock hardens and the blood seems to rush from his head. he moans loudly into your cunt as his breeches tent, fingers pushing indents into the flesh of your hips. but you begin grinding yourself harder against him, his nose a firm push against your swollen clit, his tongue thick and deep inside you.
he’s grunting against your core, the vibrations settling a deep-rooted pleasure inside of you, but you can’t let it overwhelm you. not when he has been such a brat today, especially.
behind you, you know he’s bucking his hips, chasing the rub of his linen breeches on the sensitive, leaking head of his cock. his chest rises and falls rapidly, and he’s panting like a dog, the sounds mostly swallowed by the slick squelches of his tongue shifting in and out of you.
so with as much strength as you can muster, you lift yourself from his face.
aerion’s eyes snap open, pupils blown wide, irises dark with need. his face is shining with your slick, and his eyes dart from your pussy to your face.
“what the fuck are you doing?” he growls, hands tight on your hips. “sit down.”
you release a shaky sigh. “n-no, aerion. you need to ask nicely.”
the corner of his mouth curls into a snarl, and he tries to pull you back onto his mouth. but you resist, legs trembling either side of his head, fingers straining on the headboard. aerion lets out a low grumble, more animal than human, and it makes your breath hitch.
“you disobedient little—” he takes a deep breath. “sit on my fucking face or i’ll—”
“you’ll do nothing,” you retort, dropping just a fraction so the tip of his nose brushes against you. he surges upwards, his mouth meeting your slick folds for a moment, but you quickly rise out of the contact. he groans, brows furrowing as you tut at him. “you’ll get nothing until you ask nicely, aerion.”
one of his hands moves from your hips, as if to reach up and grip your arm, but you slap it away. he lets out another growl, but his hand returns to your hip as he stares up at you.
“i am blood of the dragon,” he seethes before licking his lips, tasting you there. “if i want my wife to sit on my face—”
“then you will ask nicely. you are my dragon, aerion, do not forget that,” you remind him coyly, growing braver with each word you speak.
you wriggle your hips above him, and he groans, watching your slick seep from your pussy, your inner thighs damp and glistening. he needs you so bad—his cock is too hard in his breeches, and sweat beads on his forehead.
after a tense moment, his jaw clenches. “please.”
you peer down at him, rocking your hips slightly. his eyes flit to watch the movement, then flick back up when you begin to speak. “please, what? what do you need?”
a loud, desperate groan finally rips free of aerion’s throat, his hands tightening on your hips. “fuck, fuck—okay, okay, please. i need you. i need you to sit down.”
“sit down where?” you question, and delight in the frustration and desperation that passes over your husband’s slick face.
“my face,” aerion whines. “please, my love, please let me—let me put my mouth on you. i need it.”
you coo down at him as you sink. “aw, but only because you asked so nicely, my prince.”
when his mouth makes contact with you again, his eyes roll and a reverberating whine passes through him. his tongue curls inside you, bullying into your cunt with only a couple of thick, fast thrusts. you rock yourself against him, soft moans of his name making his cock twitch behind you.
“gods, aerion, so good. you’re doing so good,” you praise him, and his mind goes blank.
Summary: Starved for your husband’s presence, you find unexpected courage in forbidden books. And find the courage to ask a Crown Prince and Hand of the King to surrender to you… just once.
Word count: 4K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, porn without plot, explicit smut, unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m receiving), Baelor is a soft dom but lets his wife lead this time, and ride him, age gap (reader is at least in her early 20’s, Baelor in his late 30’s/early 40’s), second wife reader, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, English is my second language, proof read once.
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
A/N: The picture that inspired this whole thing! Hope you all enjoy it! I had waaay too much fun writing this. Thank you as always for all the follows, likes, reblogs and comments! <3 <3
P.S. Used this valyrian translator! I hope it spouted correct translations haha
You were married to Baelor long enough to know the difference between the prince and the man.
The prince belonged to the realm, to the council chambers and the endless petitions, to the burden of judgment when no answer was ever simple. He belonged to the people who looked to him for justice, to the lords who measured his each and every word. He belonged to the crown that would sit upon his head, but now always was upon his shoulders. Even now, in the silence, in the stillness, he carried it. The expectation, the responsibility, the unyielding duty that shaped every breath.
The realm claimed him first.
But the man…
The man belonged to you only, for you alone were meant to know him.
To know the softness in his voice when he said your name, as though it was something to be handled with all the care in the world. To know the warmth in his blue and brown eyes when they rested upon you, not as a prince observing, but as a man truly seeing his wife.
To know the love he carried for you, steady and certain, and the desire he had for you day and night. Never careless, never fleeting, always present in the touches he bestowed upon you, always reluctant to let you go.
To know the closeness he gave you when the world allowed it. And when it did, he made you feel cherished in ways you never imagined possible before. Wanted, not out of duty, but with love and selfish desire. Seen, not just as a wife placed beside him, but as you, wholly and completely, his.
There were nights when you laid awake beside him, long after sleep should have claimed you.
Your eyes traced the lines of his face, his nose, the strong set of his jaw that softened, the faint crease between his brows that never fully faded, even in sleep. You would follow the scars earned during battles, each a story you were told in fragments before.
And every time, you would sigh and wonder.
How could such a man belong to you at all?
But lately, he belonged to the realm more than to you.
You tried to reason with yourself, to quell the sadness and jealousy that settled deep within your chest. This was no surprise, this was to be expected. It was what you had known and what you had accepted, the moment you agreed to be his wife.
For Baelor was no simple lord, who could set aside his duties at dusk.
He was the Crown Prince and the Hand of the King. You told yourself this often, repeated it like a prayer, as though that alone could soothe your feelings.
But it did not.
Because you still missed him.
The days stretched long and slow, and thus the nights came later.
He missed meals with you more often than not, his place at the table untouched. The silence grew heavier with each passing day. There were nights when he returned so late, he found you sleeping, curled next to his spot in the bed. It never went unnoticed.
And there were other nights, where you laid awake, staring at the empty space before you.
The times he would return while you were awake, you would immediately notice the heaviness of responsibility still clinging to him. It clung to him like armour he had yet to set aside, invisible but unmistakable. In the set of his shoulders, in the quiet heaviness of his breath, in the way his thoughts seemed to linger elsewhere even as he stood before you.
Even then, especially then, he would never fail you.
He would always come to you.
His tired hands would always find you with the same care. He always drew you close, as though ground himself in your presence, as though he could finally then remove the armour and ignore what the realm demanded of him.
And when he did, he gave himself to you completely.
The distance, the loneliness would be forgotten in those moments. There was nothing restrained in his need of you. He would take care of you. He would make love to you, he would cherish you, make you feel complete. He would remind you, in every way he knew how, that you were his. He would own your body and soul.
And no matter how oftentimes the Crown and the realm would claim him, there were parts of him that would solely and always remain yours.
Those nights he would leave you breathless, with scattered thoughts, your body echoing with the memory of him and his touch. Even as sleep would claim you both, you found yourself with the quiet aching want for more time, more of this, more of him.
Yet, you still felt his absence. It lived in the spaces between those moments. In the way your thoughts turned to him without warning, as though reaching for something beyond your grasp. In the way you found yourself listening to footsteps in the nights he did not come.
You did not resent him, you never would.
But that did not stop you from missing him.
It was on one such late afternoon, as the sunlight softened and stretched across your chamber, you were preparing for another meal to be eaten alone. A knock sounded at your door, echoing in the quiet that had begun to settle.
One of your dearest and most favourite ladies-in-waiting entered your chamber, with a wide smile and a carefully wrapped bundle in her arms.
“My lady.” She said, dipping into a brief and elegant curtsy. “I have something for you. To keep you company when his Grace cannot.”
She placed the bundle in your hands.
“That is a bold promise.” You said while accepting it with a raised brow, suspicion flickering across your face.
Her smile only deepened. And curiosity stirred within you.
Crossing to the nearest table, you placed the heavy bundle down and unwrapped the cloth.
There were books. Five of them, each bound in different shades and sizes, their presence immediately telling. They were not histories or religious texts. They were not the kind of reading befitting a woman of your station.
Their titles were bold, making your breath hitch. You knew exactly what they were. Tales of fierce love, of unshaken devotion. Of unbridled lust…
You glanced at her. She was still smiling.
“They are quite popular, I heard.” She said, with far too much innocence.
“You heard?” A soft laughter escaped you, for you knew it was otherwise. “They are not to be read aloud in court, I imagine.”
“Not unless you wish to cause a scandal, my princess.”
You laughed, loud and genuine.
And kept them.
It was on one such lonely and long night, while Baelor remained occupied in the Hand’s tower, you decided to give one a try, out of curiosity.
You did not expect to be so taken by them.
At first, you read them cautiously, but the stories drew you in. They were filled with longing and the kind of love and closeness that was and felt chosen. In these tales, love was not something endured in absence or silence. It was loud. It was spoken. It was chosen and guided. And the guidance was often most led by the lady herself.
You found yourself pausing often, your fingers brushing lightly over the pages as your thoughts drifted away from the words and toward him.
To Baelor, your beloved husband. To the way he carried his duties and the realm on his shoulders. To the way he set them down, though never entirely, when he was with you.
To a thought, to an idea. What if, perhaps just once, you might be able to take the weight entirely off of him? Even if it was for only a moment, only one night.
Those thoughts lingered with you long after. They followed you into the next day, and the next. Until they no longer felt like a passing fancy, but something you wanted. Something you needed.
And so, on one of those lonely nights, you waited for him.
The chamber was dim, lit by candles that flickered softly against the walls. The books presented nearby, no longer hidden or unfamiliar.
Time stretched unbearably, but you did not mind. You would wait for him, as long as it took, as long as you had to.
Even till the end of time, till the end of the world, if loving him required that.
Baelor came to our shared chambers close to midnight, shoulders tense, the weight of the day still evident.
He paused just inside the chamber, surprised flickering across his features when he found you still awake. The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
“You should be resting, ñuha jorrāelagon.” He said gently. “The hour is late.”
Even in those few words, you could hear it, the weariness in his voice.
“I wished…” You took a small step toward him. “I needed to see you, my love.”
Those words softened him instantly. You saw it, the subtle shift, as the prince gave way to the man slowly. You closed the distance between you, the soft fabric of your shift whispering as you walked towards him. His gaze warmed as you approached, and when he reached you, his hand rose instinctively to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin.
“Then I am glad you waited for me.” He murmured.
You smiled faintly, before you rose slightly, closing the small distance to press your lips to his.
Baelor answered at once. A quiet hum left him as though the kiss was something he was waiting for all day. His hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as he drew you closer. There was nothing hurried in him, there never was. Every movement was deliberate, every touch purposeful. It was as though he refused to let even a single moment with you pass unnoticed.
A quiet moan escaped your lips as he tilted your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to feel you, to memorise the shape of your mouth against his. His tongue prodded your lower lip coaxing rather than demanding. You obliged, your hands clutched his doublet, whimpering as his tongue pressed against yours, his presence surrounding you completely.
And still, he did not rush. He savoured you.
“Baelor…” You whispered, voice softer than you intended.
Your heart beat loudly against your ribs, not from the kiss alone but from what you had yet to say. You pressed lightly against his chest, just enough to push him back. If you did not speak up now, you were unsure when you would find the courage to do so. He stopped, long enough for you to say:
“There is something… I wish to speak to you about.”
His attention sharpened at once, concern clouding his features. “What is it?”
You reached for the Hand’s pin at his chest, your fingers fiddling with it more for courage than purpose. A faint blush crept up your neck, as you hesitated for a moment.
“I… have been doing some… reading.”
One brow lifted, curiosity replacing concern. He said nothing, but his gaze urged you on.
“One of my dear ladies brought me books.” You explained. “As a gift, to ease my mind from missing you.”
“I see.” Something sharp crossed his eyes, and his jaw tightened slightly. Quickly, you took his hands in yours.
“It is not what you think.” You said, a small, reassuring smile forming. “But, they are not what I expected either.”
“No?”
“My love, they speak of trust.” You paused, considering your next words carefully. “And of… closeness, in ways I had not considered before."
He studied you carefully, head tilting to the side, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles.
“Is this what you wished to speak to me about, dearest?”
“Yes.” You nodded fervently, looking into his perfect eyes.
“I thought…” You continued, voice softer but not your resolve. “I thought that perhaps you would allow me to help you rest. Properly.”
His expression shifted again, not in confusion or concern, but in a gentle and attentive interest.
“You already do so, ñuha jorrāelagon.” He said, a faint smile touching his lips.
“Not like this.”
Gently leaving his grasp, you walked over to the vanity. Opening one of your jewelry boxes, what you pulled out were strips of soft, blood red silk you had asked your lady-in-waiting to help you procure.
When you returned to him, you presented them to him. Baelor’s gaze dropped to the silk, then it slowly rose, back to you.
“I would ask that you trust me.” You said, voice barely above a whisper. “I would like to blindfold you, and help you set aside everything else. Just for a little while.”
A moment of silence passed between you.
Baelor looked at you as though he was seeing you anew, from a different light. Not unfamiliar, but newly revealed. He saw the courage it took you to ask this, saw the care and intention behind it. He saw the quiet longing.
“You have been reading very interesting books, my dear.” He said, a hint of amusement softening his voice.
Your blush deepened. “You could say that..."
He stepped closer. “What else have they taught you?”
Your breath caught slightly, but you did not look away. “I would like to show you…”
Baelor was quiet for a long moment. You closed the distance between you once more, cupping his face with your free hand, thumb brushing lightly along his cheek.
“I know it is not how we do things, but…” You murmured, your voice a gentle caress. “But, let me help you unwind, my love.”
Something in his gaze deepened then, pride, warmth, something quieter and more intimate beneath it all. He was utterly yours, and you his.
He leaned into your touch.
“How can I deny you…” He pressed a kiss to the palm of your head. “When you ask me so sweetly, ñuha prūmia?”
What followed between you felt almost reverent.
Slowly and carefully, you helped him out of his layers. The weight of his duty made tangible in every piece you removed. His doublet first, heavy with the day’s burdens. Then his undershirt, your fingers steady now despite the way your heart still raced.
Baelor said nothing, for he simply watched you. Trusted you. When at last he stood undressed completely before you, freed of the symbols of his office, something in him already seemed lighter.
You guided him gently toward the bed. He sat at the edge of it, steady and composed, for once not leading. His hands rested loosely at his sides, and his gaze remained on you, waiting.
Not as a prince, but as a man ready to follow your command.
A new thrill coursed through you at the sight of him yielding to you so beautifully, his shoulders now taut with anticipation. You let one of the silk strips fall from your hands to the bed, the fabric cool and smooth in your palm
“Trust me…” You whispered, though you knew he did.
You stepped between his legs, tilting his chin up to meet your eyes one last time. He nodded, a soft smile on his lips, as his multicoloured eyes gleamed with pride and lust.
You draped the blindfold over his eyes, tying it securely behind his head, the silk whispering against his skin. Darkness enveloped Baelor, but it sharpened his other senses. He could smell your scent, could feel the warmth radiating from you.
“Hands behind your back, my love.” You instructed, taking the other strip.
He complied without an ounce of hesitation, crossing his wrists at the small of his back. You bound them gently but firmly, the knots tight enough to ensure he would not escape them, yet loose enough to remind him that this was play.
Baelor’s breath hitched as the restraints settled against his wrists, a low hum of approval escaping his thoughts.
“Iksā sīr kraj hae bisa…” He murmured, his voice rich with praise, even when blindfolded and bound. “Taking what you want from me… you are intoxicating, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
Your pulse quickened at his words, heat pooling low in your stomach, your core aching as he so willingly surrendered to you.
Cupping his face, you leaned down to claim his lips in a deep, devouring kiss. Your lips parted his, your tongue sweeping inside his mouth to brush and tangle with his own in a slow dance. You nipped at his lower lip before sucking it gently, drawing a muffled groan from him. He responded with equal fervour, his tongue yielding to yours, letting you lead the rhythm.
“My love, you are driving me wild.” He groaned against your mouth. “Do not stop.”
His plea was soft, laced with a gentle command that nonetheless escaped him, his body arching towards you.
You pressed open-mouthed kisses to his jaw and neck, trailing your fingers down his chest. You felt his rapid heartbeat under your palm, before pressing a kiss on his chest. Sinking to your knees between his strong thighs, you continued to kiss your way down. His cock was already hardening, thick and begging for your attention.
You wrapped your hand around his base, giving him a slow stroke that made him buck. Leaning in, your tongue darted out, licking a broad stripe from his balls to the tip. Baelor shuddered, his hands flexing uselessly behind him.
“Fuck…” He cursed.
You took him in then, lips stretching around him as you lowered your head. Taking him as deep as you could, your lips slid down his length as your throat relaxed to accommodate him.
“Gods, your mouth feels like heaven.” He rasped, the praise spilling from him like a prayer.
Bobbing your head with deliberate slowness, your tongue swirled around the underside, tracing every ridge, drawing a desperate moan from his throat.
“You are so good at this…” His voice was strained, hips twitching but barely held in check by his own restraint. “Verdagon nyke ache syt ao…”
Emboldened, you relaxed your throat and took him fully, before pulling back with a wet pop. You gave him a few strokes, watching in awe at Baelor becoming undone by you, his mouth open in pleasure. You dove in again, your hand moving in tandem with your lips. The room echoed with obscene sounds, the slick glide of your lips and his ragged groans.
Baelor tensed, muscles coiling like a spring. His breath came in sharp bursts.
“Gods, ñuha jorrāelagon, iksā vok…” His voice trailed low, High Valyrian falling from his lips.
You felt the telltale throb against your tongue, the way his cock swelled. Just as release hovered on the edge, you removed your lips with a final teasing lick, your hand slowing down to a light stroke. He groaned loudly in frustration, something he had never done before. His head fell back, chest heaving.
“Not yet, my love…” You murmured, your own arousal throbbing between your legs at the sight of him so wrecked.
Releasing him, you stood, lips curving into a smile as you watched his body tremble from the denial, his cock twitching.
Reaching behind him, you untied the knots of the silk with light fingers, freeing his wrists.
“Lay down for me, husband.” You instructed, your voice filed with desire. He complied eagerly, moving up before stretching out onto the soft sheets.
You stood there for a moment, watching him, before your fingers hooked under the hem of your shift, peeling the fabric up and over your head. It felt somewhere behind you, leaving you bare, skin flushes and nipples already hardened. Climbing onto the bed, you straddled his hips, hissing as the heat of his body seeped into your thighs, his hard cock pressing insistently between your wet folds.
“Grip the sheets if you must, but do not touch me love. Not yet.”
Baelor nodded, lips pursed in determination, and he settled his palms flat against the sheets, before the fingers curled into the fabric as if to anchor himself.
You shifted forward a little, aligning yourself better over his throbbing length. A shiver ran through you as you rocked your hips gently, sliding along his cock without fully taking him, coating him further with your arousal. You moaned a little at the friction against your swollen clit, sparks of pleasure igniting low in your stomach.
With trembling thighs, you rose, grasping him and aligning it to your entrance. A loud moan escaped your lips, as you lowered yourself just enough to let the tip slide inside, stretching you slowly.
“Gods, Baelor…” You whimpered as you took him in more. “You are so big…”
Your walls stretched in a mixture of pleasure and pain, your soft gasp echoing in the room.
Baelor groaned beneath you, his hips lifting instinctively before he caught himself, forcing them back down.
“You feel incredible like this, so wet and tight around me.” His praise washed over you like a caress. “Gūrogon skoros ao jorrāelagon, iksan aōhon…”
His words encouraged you to begin riding him in earnest, sinking down inch by inch until he filled you completely. Your walls clenched around his girth, adjusting to the fullness, and you started a slow rhythm, lifting and dropping with deliberate rolls of your hips.
The pace built gradually, your movements fluid and sensual. Your hands braced on his chest for leverage, nails scraping lightly over his skin, leaving faint red trails that made him hiss in pleasure. You were chasing your own release, one hand slipping between your legs, rubbing tight circles over your clit, just as you knew Baelor would do. The added pressure sent jolts through your core.
“You are doing so well, my love.” You breathed, your voice soft.
Baelor’s breaths came ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly under your touch.
“My fierce wife, riding me so perfectly.” He groaned loudly, fists tightening on the sheets.
The words spurred you on, your hips rising and falling faster, your walls fluttering around him as the tension coiled tighter. Your release crashed over you like a wave as you screamed his name, your walls spasming hard and griping his cock in a vice.
Your energy faltered in the aftershocks, limbs trembling as you slowed into a gentle sway. Breathless, you reached down to grab the blindfold, whimpering as your hardened nipples pressed against his chest. Tugging at it, you let it fall away.
Baelor’s eyes blinked open, dark and filled with lust, locking onto yours with raw hunger.
“Baelor…” You whispered, pressing a kiss against his lips. “Take me, please.”
He did not hesitate, his hands immediately grabbing your hips. Fingers dug into your flesh with possessive strength, pulling you down as he thrust up sharply. His hips pounded into you with relentless force, each snap of his hips burying him in you to the hilt. You gasped at the intensity, your body jolting with every plunge. One of his hands slid to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you to him. Your lips met his with a breathless urgency, him holding you firmly as your mouths moved together. It was messier now, less composed, more felt. Your breaths mingled, warm and unsteady, as the kiss deepened again and again.
Baelor fucked into you harder, grunting against your lips as he chased his own release. His thrusts faltered, pace stammering as he was close. With one final, deep thrust, he came with a loud groan. His cock pulsed as he spilled within you, filling you to the brim. You shuddered together, his grip tightening as waves of release washed through him.
Panting, he eased his hold on you, thumbs stroking your skin soothingly as you laid on top of him. Neither of you moved at all, basking in the afterglow, your breaths slowly evening out.
“Thank you, ñuha prūmia.” He murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “This… you were exquisite.”
You looked up at him, a bright smile upon your lips, pleased with yourself. “Do not make me spend so many nights without you, my love.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just a moment against them.
“If this is your way of asking…” He whispered, voice low and warm. “Then I will always find time to oblige you, dearest.”
–
ñuha jorrāelagon - my love
ñuha prūmia - my heart
iksā sīr kraj hae bisa - you are so powerful like this
verdagon nyke ache syt ao - making me ache for you
iksā vok - you are perfectgūrogon skoros ao jorrāelagon, iksan aōhon - take what you need, I am yours
