𝓜𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪

“dex,” you had giggled as he all but squeezed you to himself, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to blend your body into his own.

you raised your hands to his shoulders. he was still clad in his bullseye suit — the dark blue material feeling strangely artificial under your palms.

he smelled of sweat and dust, and you swore you’d noticed a speck of blood somewhere on him when he first came inside, though it was gone now. ever since the two of you had started dating seriously, you’d noticed he always cleaned himself up after coming back from… work. if you could even call what he did work.

he no longer came home covered in grime and someone else’s coppery, crimson blood. he knew you always worried it was his, even if most of the time it wasn’t.

but still, the heavy suit trapped his body heat, and the sweat that came with the adrenaline couldn't be helped.

“what is it?” he grumbled, noticing the way you knit your brows and tried to pull away from his grip. not that the iron embrace he had on your hips would have let you move anyway.

“you smell,” you pointed out, suppressing a laugh at his instantly irritated expression.

all he wanted to do was hold you and kiss you stupid after another successful mission, and here you were — complaining about something he couldn’t control.

“what do you want me to do?” he muttered, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck like a clingy animal. “'s not my fault.”

“benjamin,” you warned, cradling his head as he all but whined. here he was— a grown man, an infamous vigilante who had people shaking in their boots at the mere mention of his name—whining in your arms like a child. “i love you. but please, for the love of god, go shower.”

he sighed, knowing those three words were the exact key he could never resist. he melted every single time you said it, whether it was the first or the hundredth time.

and you were right… he did kind of stink.

so that was how you ended up laying on your bed in nothing but a t-shirt, waiting for him to finish. all the dirt and soot and gore of his day washing down the drain with the hot water.

the door creaked on its hinges as he stepped out, a slight mist rolling out behind him. his blonde hair was damp and ruffled where the water had undone his styling, and he had nothing but a towel loosely wrapped around his hips.

you subconsciously bit your lip at the sight, your breathing stuttering at his appearance. you felt your pupils dilating as your thighs involuntarily squeezed together.

he didn't seem to notice your staring at first, intent on grabbing a shirt and a clean pair of boxers from the dresser.

you admired the hard strain of his back muscles, the perfectly sculpted slope of his shoulders and abs as he turned around, grumbling softly as he sifted through his clothes.

you scooted closer to the edge of the mattress, getting closer to where he stood. up close, he looked even more dangerous, even more gorgeous.

“you’re staring,” he pointed out, and you could hear the smug smirk in his voice.

“is it a crime for a woman to admire her boyfriend’s stunning physique?”

“stunning?” he turned around sharply, a little breathless from the massive grin spreading across his face.

he was still only sporting that towel loosely draped over his hips… if it slipped just a fraction…

“yeah,” you breathed, standing up. your fingers traced over the ridges of his abs, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin. he tensed instantly under your touch. “stunning.”

you didn’t notice the way dex looked at you with a sudden, dark hunger — you were too caught up in admiring him.

it was one thing for him to worship you all the time, constantly repeating how much he loved you, how obsessed he was.

but it was a completely different beast when you were the one doing it, showing your raw devotion to him openly.

it did something lethal to his brain, cracking open his fragile skull and making his spine tingle right where the scar from his injury lay.

your lips parted as a quiet giggle involuntarily escaped you.

“what is it?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he suppressed the urge to shove you onto the mattress and kiss you senseless.

“you’re just so…” your brain searched for the right word. “large. like… in a really good way. it’s hot.”

his mind completely short-circuited at that, your words echoing through his skull like a broken, beautiful record player.

“i like how,” your hands dragged up to his shoulders, “how wide your shoulders are. your chest is so broad… your arms, your abs. your belly.” you spoke of him like he was the most precious thing on earth. like his body was a shrine you were destined to worship. him. “your thighs.”

him, who others feared or viewed as nothing but a monster. a murderer. a tool simply utilizable before discarding. but you… you looked at him like he hung the stars on the sky.

“you’ve been eating more,” you noted matter-of-factly. but before his deep rooted insecurity could surface, you cut it off. “i like that. i like you. i like how you’re…”

you grabbed his hands, pulling his massive frame closer to yours. he made a low, wrecked noise in the back of his throat, every ounce of his self-restraint faltering by the second.

“i like how you have enough muscle for the both of us,” you finally whispered, looking up into his eyes.

and all you found there was purely unfiltered love, adoration, and dangerous lust.

it made your heart skip a beat. your dex, looking down at you like you were the center of his universe. because to him, you absolutely were.

“you can’t just say shit like that to me…” he whispered, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek. “and expect me to be normal.”

“i never said i wanted you to be,” you shot back, and dex was immediately reminded exactly why you were his.

“show me dex…” you whispered, slipping your fingers between your bodies and carefully undoing the knot holding together the towel. “show me everything you want to do to me.”

you could feel the groan vibrating through his chest as all self-restraint perished and he pushed you towards the bed.

and showed you… he did.

you can’t see his face from where your head is tucked beneath his chin, propped against the steady, rhythmic thrum of his chest. you’ve been like this for hours, drifting through conversations that feel like everything and nothing at once.

dex mostly just likes the sound of you. he’d never say it out loud, but your voice is the only thing that keeps the white noise in his head from turning into a storm. it doesn’t matter if you’re complaining about the neighbor or whispering half-formed thoughts; he’d listen to your breath if it was the last thing he ever did.

some would call that insane, but you thought it was sweet.

the thought (the question) hits you while you’re bending his fingers, rolling them over in your palm. these are the same hands that belong to bullseye. the same hands that turn ordinary items into lethal weapons.

he could pick up something as futile as a pencil and end a life with it. you wonder, suddenly, how many souls have been extinguished by this same grip. how many throats he’s crushed. how much havoc he’s wreaked.

yet those same hands treat you like you’re made of the finest glass. as if you’re the only thing benjamin poindexter hasn't been ordered to break.

you swallow hard, dropping his hands as if the heat of the realization burned you.

dex shifts immediately, his head lifting from the pillow with a sharp, wounded sort of confusion. “why’d you stop?” he asks, his voice low and slightly offended by the sudden absence of your touch.

you stay quiet, turning your neck to meet his gaze. you trace the furrow in his brow, the genuine panic flickering in his dark eyes.

“did i do something—”

“dex,” you cut him off, shifting until you’re sitting up, adjusting your weight on his lap. “can i ask you something?”

“… sure.” he responds, though his tone is guarded, tight with the suspicion that he might not like what comes next.

“would you kill for me one day?” the question seeps out before you can second-guess the sheer madness of it.

“yes. of course.” the answer comes too fast. no hesitation. absolutely no moral friction.

it makes your stomach flip— the terrifyingly beautiful certainty of it.

“but why are you asking me this? has someone—” he sits up fully now, a predatory edge sharpening his movements as he looks for a target that isn't there.

“like, you would genuinely… unalive a man for me?” you press on, needing to hear the depths of it.

“a man, a woman, a child,” he says, staring at you without blinking. “anyone.” he says it like he’s reciting a law of nature. as if it’s the most natural thing in his world. to extinguish a life for the sake of yours. like it’s not even something up for argument.

“oh…” you breathe out, the word caught in your throat.

“why? has someone threatened you? do i need to take care of—”

“thank you,” you finally manage let out, cutting off his bewildered inquiries.

“thank you?”

“yeah… i think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” you hum, sinking back onto his chest as you press a kiss to his cheek. finally content now that you’ve seen the darkness he keeps reserved for your protection.

he sighs, though you know he isn't truly annoyed. not with you. never with you.

he lets his body go heavy again, reluctantly laying back down. “you’re insane…”

“hey, i’m not the one who said they’d kill a person.”

“true.” he shrugs, his fingers finding the small of your back. “but i would. for you.”

“i meant it,” he adds, more forcefully this time, tightening his grip on your body as if to accentuate his point.

“i know…” and perhaps that is what should scare you the most.

"Lord Tyrell's second son has eyes for you, sweetie," your mother would hiss over breakfast, her voice sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. "He's got lands in the Reach that stretch farther than you can ride in a day. And don't slouch—gods, you're twenty now, not some green girl. Smile more; men like a woman who looks eager to please."

You would nod, your eyes downcast, biting back the retort that burned on your tongue. Eager to please? You'd sooner shove a tourney lance up your arse than wed some perfumed peacock who saw you as a broodmare with a dowry. Your family didn't know the truth; that your heart, and more, belonged to someone else entirely. Ser Duncan the Tall, the hedge knight with his lanky frame and unpolished charm, had stolen into your life like a light in the night. They'd met in secret during the tournament's chaos, stolen kisses behind tapestries and whispered promises under the stars. He was no lord, no heir to vast estates, but he saw you, not just the highborn lady with dark hair cascading like midnight silk and eyes that held the depth of storm-tossed seas.

The pressure had built like a kettle over flames. One evening, after your mother had paraded you before a leering Lord Bracken who'd eyed you like a prize heifer, you had snapped. You'd slipped away in the dead of night, a cloak over your fine gown, a small bundle with some clothes under your arms, your heart pounding with a mix of terror and exhilaration. Duncan had been waiting at the edges of the camp, his blue eyes wide with worry but alight with that quiet courage that made your knees weak. "Are you sure, my lady?" he'd murmured, his voice rough as gravel, his large hand engulfing yours.

"I'm no lady tonight," you'd whispered back, pressing against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest through his worn tunic. "Just Y/N. And yes, Dunk…. Let's get the fuck out of here before my mother realizes I'm gone."

Joining him and his young squire, Egg—a boy with a shaved head and a sharpness that belied his years—had seemed like the perfect escape. They'd ride the roads, free from the court's suffocating intrigues, sleeping under the stars and living on what the land provided. It was a romantic notion, born of stolen moments and the thrill of secrecy. But reality, as you quickly learned, was a harsh mistress.

The camp they made that first week was a far cry from the silken pavilions of Ashford Meadow. Nestled in a copse of ancient oaks along the Goldroad, it consisted of a single weathered tent pitched between two boulders, a fire pit ringed with stones, and their mounts tethered to a low branch. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingled with the faint metallic tang of the nearby stream. You had traded your embroidered kirtles for simpler woolen dresses, but even those felt inadequate against the chill that seeped into your bones as autumn whispered its approach.

Traveling with Duncan and Egg was an education in humility. Egg, ever the eager lad, chattered about the tourney's highlights while he tended to the horses or fetched water. He was oblivious to the undercurrents between you and his knight, or so you hoped; the boy was sharp, but Duncan had sworn him to secrecy about your presence.

Duncan himself was a pillar of quiet strength, his short, shaggy brown hair tousled by the wind, his blue eyes often flicking to you with a mix of protectiveness and that endearing shyness that made you want to pull him close.

But the road's freedoms came with chains you hadn't anticipated. The food was plain, hardtack, salted meat, and whatever berries or roots they foraged, nothing like the spiced wines and honeyed pastries of the Keep. Washing meant dipping into icy lakes or streams, the water so cold it stole your breath and left your skin prickled with gooseflesh. And then there was your moonblood, arriving like an unwelcome guest just days into their journey.

At court, your moonblood was a minor inconvenience, tended by maids who brought hot compresses, herbal teas, and fresh linens scented with lavender. They'd draw steaming baths in copper tubs, the heat seeping into your abdomen to ease the twisting cramps that felt like a fist clenching around your womb. But out here? The pain was a relentless beast, gnawing at your lower belly with sharp teeth, radiating down your thighs in waves that left you doubled over. You'd bleed through rags torn from an old shift, the sticky warmth between your legs a constant reminder of your vulnerability. No hot baths, no soothing potions….just the cold ground and the endless plod of the road.

Duncan noticed, of course. He wasn't the fool he sometimes called himself. "Thick as a castle wall," he'd mutter under his breath when he fumbled a task, but his eyes missed little. That morning, as they broke camp, you'd winced while mounting your palfrey, a sharp stab making you gasp. He'd been at your side in an instant, his large hand steadying your elbow, voice low and concerned. "You alright, luv? You look pale as milk."

You'd forced a smile, your hair falling across your face like a curtain. "Just... woman's troubles, Dunk. Nothing you can mend with that sword of yours."

His cheeks had flushed a faint pink, that shyness creeping in, but he hadn't pressed. Instead, he'd taken to hovering like a mother hen. When the chill wind bit through your cloak, he'd drape his own over your shoulders. At midday, when they stopped to rest, he'd insist you sit by the fire while he fetched water or gathered kindling, his tall frame bending awkwardly as he worked. And when the cramps twisted hardest, he'd pull you into his arms, his body a warm shield against the misery, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

"You're too good to me," you'd murmured once, your head tucked under his chin, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek.

He'd chuckled softly, self-deprecating as always. "Nah, I'm just... trying not to muck it up. You're the one putting up with a lout like me on the road."

Egg, bless him, had been an unwitting buffer. The boy scampered about with boundless energy, regaling them with tales from his "travels" or practicing his swordplay with a stick. But as the days wore on, even he flagged, the wanderings taking their toll.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the hills in a blaze of orange and purple, they made camp in a sheltered glade. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and fallen leaves, the ground soft with moss underfoot. Egg had wolfed down his dinner, (a stew of rabbit and wild onions that Duncan had cooked over the fire), and collapsed onto his bedroll by the embers, snoring softly within minutes.

You had retreated to the tent early, the canvas walls flapping gently in the breeze. It was a humble shelter, just big enough for two, with a pallet of furs and blankets that smelled faintly of horse. You'd stripped down to your shift, the thin linen clinging to your skin, and crawled under the covers, curling into a ball against the persistent ache in your belly. The cramps came in pulses now, hot and insistent, making your thighs clench and your breath hitch. You pressed a hand to your abdomen, feeling the subtle swell, the warmth of your own blood seeping onto the rag between your legs. Gods, how you missed the luxuries of home. But at least here you had Duncan. That was worth every discomfort.

You heard him before you saw him: the crunch of boots on leaves, the soft thud of firewood being set down outside. The tent flap lifted, and there he was, silhouetted against the fading twilight, his tall frame ducking to enter. His shaggy brown hair was disheveled, bits of bark clinging to it, and his blue eyes had softened as they landed on you.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver through you; not from cold, but from the way it wrapped around you like a caress. He set aside his cloak, revealing the simple tunic and breeches beneath, the fabric stretched taut over his broad shoulders and lean muscles honed from years of knighthood. "Fire's banked high now. Should keep us warm through the night."

You shifted under the blankets, your eyes tracing the lines of his face. "You didn't have to fetch more wood, Dunk. Egg's out cold already."

He shrugged, that humble awkwardness creeping in as he knelt to remove his boots. "Aye, but you were shivering earlier. Can't have my... well, you getting chilled." He hesitated on the word, as if "lover" felt too bold for their secret bond. His cheeks colored again, and he busied himself with folding his cloak, his big hands clumsy in the task.

You watched him, a fond ache blooming in your chest amidst the physical pain. He was so careful with you, always, like you were spun glass despite knowing you could hold your own. They'd shared intimacies before—stolen nights in hidden alcoves during the tournament, his hands tentative at first, exploring your curves with a reverence that made you feel worshipped. Once, in a moment of bold curiosity, you'd guided your hand to his cock, showing him how to stroke himself while you also whispered encouragements, his gasps hot against your neck. It had been his first time with such things, he'd confessed, red-faced and breathless. But trust bound them like iron chains; you knew he'd never push, never demand.

As he slid under the covers beside you, the pallet dipping under his weight, you turned toward him, seeking his warmth. His arm came around you automatically, pulling you close, his body heat seeping through your shift like a balm. You nestled against his chest, inhaling his scent. His hand settled on your hip, thumb tracing lazy circles that sent tingles across your skin.

"You still hurting?" he asked softly, his breath stirring your hair. There was no judgment in his tone, just that protective concern that made your heart swell.

"A bit," she admitted, voice muffled against him. "The cramps... they're like a damn vise. Wish we had a hot bath or something."

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers stilling on your hip. You could feel the tension in him, the way his mind worked. "I've heard... things, on the road," he said finally, voice dropping lower and laced with that shyness that made him stammer. "From midwives in villages, and... well, travelers talk. About how to ease a woman's moonblood pains."

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his blue ones in the dim light. Curiosity sparked through the haze of discomfort. "Oh? And what do these wise travelers say?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and you felt the heat rise in his cheeks against your forehead. "It's... intimate. Involves, uh, pleasure. The kind we share." His hand slid lower, resting on the curve of your ass, gentle but insistent. "They say the release—it helps. Loosens the muscles, floods you with good feelings. Endorphins, or some such word one maester used. I ain't no healer, but... if you trust me, m’lady, I could try. Gentle-like. Wouldn't want to hurt you."

Your breath caught and a flush creeping up your neck. The idea was strange, taboo even—fucking during your blood? You've never even thought about such a thing in your life. But gods, the pain was wearing you down, and the thought of his touch... it stirred something deep in you. You'd bled a little during one of their previous trysts, and it hadn't fazed him; he'd just cleaned them both with a tenderness that melted you. "You'd do that? For me?"

"Aye," he whispered, his blue eyes earnest. "Only if you want. I'm no expert—thick as a post, me—but I care for you. More than I know how to say."

You searched his face, seeing the anxiety there, the self-doubt he always carried like a shield. But beneath it, that tenacious courage shone through. Slowly, you nodded, your hand sliding up his chest to cup his jaw. "I trust you, Dunk. Very much."

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that started soft, but as you responded, parting your lips, it deepened; his tongue exploring with that unassuming hunger. His hand ventured under your shift, callused fingers tracing the soft skin of your thigh, sending sparks through your veins. You arched into him, the cramps momentarily forgotten in the building heat.

Carefully, he rolled you onto your back, his tall frame hovering over you, mindful of his weight. "Tell me if it hurts," he murmured against your neck, breath hot and ragged. His fingers found the hem of your shift, pushing it up, exposing you to the cool air. You felt vulnerable, the rag between her legs damp with blood, but his gaze held only desire, no disgust.

He tugged the rag away gently, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you. "Beautiful," he breathed, and you believed him. His hand cupped your mound, thumb circling your clit with slow pressure, drawing a gasp from your lips. The sensation was strange at first, the slickness of your blood mixing with your growing arousal, warm and viscous.

You arched slightly into his hand, craving more of that warmth. "Dunk," you whispered, your eyes searching his, seeing the flicker of anxiety there; the worry that he'd bungle this, that his "thick-headed" ways would fail you. But gods, it was that very humility that drew you to him, made you feel safe in a world full of grasping lords and scheming courtiers. "You're not going to break me. Just... touch me, ok? Like you mean it.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly in the dim light, and nodded, a small, determined smile tugging at his lips. "Aye, like I mean it."

His fingers inched higher, parting your thighs with infinite care, the muscles in his arm tensing under your hand as you gripped his bicep. The texture of his skin was rough, scarred from old fights and the rigors of the road, but his touch was velvet-soft, circling the apex of your legs without diving in. He teased the edges, thumb brushing the soft folds again, slick with blood and the first stirrings of arousal. The sensation was odd at first but his patience turned it into something intimate, almost reverent. "Does this help?" he asked, his voice husky, his eyes lifting to meet yours again, searching for any sign of discomfort. "Or should I... slower?”

Your head fell back against the furs, a soft moan escaping your lips as his thumb found your clit, circling it with deliberate pressure. The nub was swollen, sensitive from the moonsblood, and each pass sent sparks shooting through your veins, loosening the knots in your abdomen bit by bit. "Gods, yes," you breathed, hair fanning out like a halo on the blanket. "Just like that. It... it eases the ache." The cramps were still there, a background thrum, but his touch layered pleasure over pain, the endorphins he'd mentioned earlier beginning to flood your system like a gentle tide.

He shifted lower, his tall frame folding awkwardly in the confined space, but he managed it with that tenacious grace he showed in combat. His lips trailed down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your sternum, the valley between your breasts. The shift rode up further, exposing you to the chill air, nipples pebbling into hard peaks that begged for his attention. Duncan obliged, his mouth closing over one, tongue swirling in lazy circles that mirrored his fingers below. The dual sensations crashed over you; the wet heat of his suckling, the faint scrape of his teeth, combined with the insistent rub at your core. You could taste the salt of your own sweat on your lips, hear the soft, wet sounds of his ministrations echoing in the tent, amplified by the night's quiet.

"You're so warm here," he murmured against your breast, his voice muffled, vibrating through your skin. "Like holding fire in my hands. Tell me if it's too much—I ain't clever with words, but I listen." His fingers delved deeper now, one slipping inside you with exquisite slowness, the blood providing a slick sheath that made the intrusion effortless. No sting, just a fullness that built gradually, his digit curling to stroke that spot within you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The texture was intimate, the warmth of your flow coating his hand, but he didn't pull away; instead, he added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb never ceasing its rhythm on your clit.

Emotion swelled in your chest, a tangled knot of love and lust and gratitude. This man, this hedge knight who'd doubted his worth from the moment they met, was worshipping you in the most vulnerable state, his shyness melting away in the face of your need. Tears pricked at your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming tenderness of it all. "Dunk," you gasped, hand fisting in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. Their mouths met hungrily, tongues tangling in a slow dance.

He groaned into the kiss, his body pressing closer, the hard length of his cock nudging against your thigh through his breeches. The cramps dulled further, replaced by a liquid heat that pooled in your belly, spreading outward like molten honey. Your hips rocked instinctively, seeking more friction, the furs bunching beneath your ass as you moved.

After a moment of coaxing you with his fingers, he moved to the side a bit, the loss of touch made you groan softly in disapproval, which he quickly silenced with a sweet kiss.

As he positioned himself at your wet entrance, his now free cock was half-hard and throbbing faintly against your thigh, he paused, blue eyes locking on yours. "Slow, alright? Like this." He guided himself in, inch by inch, the stretch both odd and exquisite—the blood easing the way, a natural slick that made him groan low in his throat.

Your breath stuttered the moment Duncan settled fully inside you.

No need for spit or oil; nature had provided more than enough. And you felt every ridge, every vein. The blunt head of his cock nudged against places inside you that sent tiny shocks up your spine even through the dull throb of your cramps. When he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, coarse curls at the base of his cock tickling the swollen lips of your cunt—you let out a long, trembling exhale that sounded almost like a broken sob.

Duncan froze.

His forearms bracketed your head, corded muscle standing out beneath freckled skin. Sweat had begun to bead along his hairline despite the cool night air leaking through the tent flaps. His blue eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide, the color swallowed until only a thin ring of iris remained.

“Still good?” he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word. “Tell me true, m’lady. I’ll stop this second if—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you whispered fiercely, eyes were closed as you tried to regulate your breathing. The cramps were still there, unfortunately, and you hoped they would end as soon as you orgasmed. Or Dunk would have problems.

A startled huff of laughter left him, warm against your mouth. He stroked your cheeks, gently brushing the hair away from your sweaty skin. “Gods. Alright. Alright. As m’lady wish.”

He didn’t thrust right away. Instead he stayed buried to the hilt and simply rolled his hips in the smallest, tightest circle imaginable. The motion dragged the thick base of his cock across your clit, (already puffy and oversensitive from his earlier thumb), and sent a white-hot flare of pleasure-pain straight through your abdomen. The cramp that had been gnawing at your left side loosened, like a fist slowly opening. Thank gods. You gasped, hips jerking upward on instinct, trying to search for more of this little relief.

Duncan groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating where their chests pressed together. “There,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s the spot where the gold is hidden, huh?! Anoted.”

He did it again; another slow, grinding roll. Then another. Each one dragged the ridged crown of him along the front wall of your cunt, pressing relentlessly against that spot that made your toes curl into the furs beneath them. The blood made everything slicker, louder; you could hear the filthy sound of their bodies meeting every time he shifted, could feel the warm trickle of it escaping around his shaft and smearing along the insides of your thighs. It would be disgusting if you weren't so damn aroused right now.

Your hands clawed at his back. Nails digging crescent moons into the muscle above his shoulder blades. You dragged your palms downward until you could grip the firm swell of his arse, urging him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

“Dunk,” you breathed. It came out more plea than word. You'd die of embarrassment later, but now? No judgment until you reach your fucking orgasm.

He dropped his forehead to yours. Their noses brushed. “I’ve got you, m’lady,” he whispered. “Just… let it happen. Let me take it away for a bit. Relax for me, ok? No worries here, just feel how I make you feel good.”

He said that as he drew back until only the head remained inside you, the sudden emptiness making you whine. Then he sank back in, one long, inexorable slide that filled you so completely your eyes rolled back. The drag of him against your sensitive walls was exquisite torture. When he bottomed out again he circled his hips once more before repeating the motion.

Out.

In.

Grind.

Out.

In.

Grind.

Each withdrawal pulled a fresh gush of warmth from you; each re-entry pushed a little more of the pain outward, replacing it with liquid heat that pooled low in your belly. Your clit throbbed in time with your heartbeat, trapped between their bodies, rubbing against the coarse hair at his groin every time he seated himself fully.

You could feel the tremor in his arms, the way his biceps shook with the effort of holding himself back. His breathing had gone ragged, each exhale punched out of him like he’d been struck.

“Look at me, m’lady,” he murmured suddenly. Thumb gently squeezing your jaw, trying to recapture your attention and bring it back to him and to the moment.

Your lashes fluttered open. His face was inches from yours; cheeks flushed dark, mouth parted, eyes glassy with something close to awe. For a heartbeat you saw the boy beneath the knight: uncertain, anxious, terrified of doing the wrong thing. And yet here he was, buried inside you, determined to try to alleviate your pain and lessen your suffering.

“You feel…” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands gently held your head, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You feel like heaven, m’lady. And I'm glad that I can help you with that. Ease your pain a little.”

The words hit you harder than any thrust could have.

You surged up to kiss him—messy, open-mouthed, teeth clacking once before they found the right angle. He groaned into your mouth, hips stuttering for the first time. The kiss turned sloppy, desperate; tongues sliding together.

He hooked one of your knees over the crook of his elbow, opening you wider. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper; you felt the blunt head nudge your cervix and whimpered at the bright burst of sensation. Your other leg wrapped around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back.

This time when he thrust it was firmer. You could feel the tremor that ran through him every time he bottomed out, could feel the way his cock twitched and swelled inside you, thickening even more as his own pleasure built.

The cramps were distant now; dull echoes rather than sharp knives. In their place was a molten coil tightening low in your pelvis, winding tighter with every measured stroke. Your clit ached, oversensitive and throbbing; each grind of his pubic bone against it sent aftershocks racing up your spine.

You were close…

…and so was he.

His rhythm became shallower. His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “M’lady…ah! I’m so close. But I want you to come first. Need you to.”

You slid a hand between them, fingers finding your clit. The touch was almost too much; two quick circles and your back arched off the furs, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking over stone: slow at first, then all at once. Your cunt clamped down around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him, pulling him deeper. Heat exploded through your body; pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain raced through every nerve. You felt the fresh gush of warmth between your legs—more blood, more slick, more of fucking everything—and heard Duncan’s strangled moan as it coated him.

He tried to hold on. Really did. Because now was your moment, all of this was for your pleasure and only yours.

But the rhythmic squeeze of your walls, the way you trembled and keened beneath him, shattered what little restraint he had left.

With a low whimpered sound he buried himself to the hilt and came—hard, pulsing, flooding you with heat that mingled with your own wetness. Each spurt dragged another aftershock from you, prolonging your climax until you were shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

They stayed locked together for long moments afterward, breathing in harsh tandem. His weight pressed you into the furs. You could feel the slow softening of him inside you, the warm trickle of their combined release seeping out around his softening cock and pooling beneath you.

Eventually he lifted his head. His eyes were soft again. No longer the bolder version from moments ago, but the gentle Duncan.

“Did it… help?” he asked quietly. Almost shy. As though he hadn’t just fucked you through the worst of your pain with a tenderness that stole your breath.

You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the faint scar on his cheek. “More than help,” you whispered. “You made it disappear. I'm very grateful, my love. Thank you.”

He exhaled and pressed his forehead to yours once more. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s… that’s all I wanted.”

The tent felt smaller now, the air inside heavy with the mingled smells of their bodies. Your skin was damp everywhere they touched—your breasts pressed to his chest, the soft inner curve of your thigh slick against his hip, the small of your back where his palm still rested, wide and steady.

Neither of them moved to separate.

Duncan’s cock had softened inside you, but he hadn’t pulled out yet. The lazy, half-hard fullness felt strangely comforting, like an anchor keeping the world from spinning away. Every few heartbeats you felt the slow, residual twitch of him, a gentle aftershock that made your inner walls flutter in answer. Each flutter sent a tiny ripple of warmth through your lower belly, loosening what little tension the cramps had left behind. It was as though your body was still drinking him in, greedy even after the peak had passed.

You shifted—just the smallest rock of your hips—and felt the wet slide of their combined release leak out around him, warm and slippery, trickling down the cleft of your arse to soak into the already-stained furs beneath you.

Duncan made a content rumbling sound in his chest and finally eased himself free with careful slowness. The sudden emptiness made your cunt clench reflexively around nothing; you whimpered at the loss, thighs trembling. A fresh gush followed his withdrawal; thicker now, a warm rush of blood-tinged spend that pooled beneath you, sticky against your skin.

He hissed softly through his teeth at the sight.

“Gods be good,” he muttered, voice wrecked. His gaze was fixed between your legs. “Look at you… all of you.”

You felt heat crawl up your throat, not quite embarrassment—more like raw exposure. You started to close your thighs on instinct, but his big hand caught the inside of one knee, gentle but firm, keeping you open.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Please. Let me see ya.”

There was something almost pleading in it. Not command but naked want. Like looking at the mess they’d made together was a privilege he didn’t want to be denied.

You swallowed and nodded once, cheeks burning with a sudden shyness.

He reached down with careful fingers, gathering some of the slick mixture on his fingertips. The sight of his long, scarred digits coated in red and white made your belly tighten again, fresh heat curling low despite how thoroughly you’d just come. He brought his hand up slowly, watching your face the whole time.

He painted a deliberate stripe of their combined wetness across the flat plane of your lower belly, just below your navel. The touch was cool against your flushed skin.

“Mine,” he whispered, so soft you almost missed it. “You’re mine like this. All slick and open and… fucked full of me.”

Your breath caught hard. You’d never heard him speak like that—crude, possessive, stripped of his usual shy stammering.

“Dunk…” Your voice cracked. And you just stare at him for a moment, feeling your chest swell with so much love for this man who holds your heart in his hands.

He leaned down and kissed the spot he’d marked, open-mouthed, tongue flicking out to taste what he’d smeared there. The wet heat of his mouth dragged a full-body shudder out of you. When he lifted his head his lips were shiny, stained a faint rose from your blood.

“Never thought anything could taste so good, m’lady.” He said hoarsely, thumb caressing your hip in lazy circles.

You reached for him, fingers threading into his shaggy brown hair, tugging him back up until their mouths met again. This kiss was slower, deeper, less frantic than before. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

When they parted you rested your forehead against his, breathing him in.

“The pain’s gone,” you whispered. “Not just dulled. Gone.”

Duncan exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for hours. “Good,” he said simply. “Was scared I’d make it worse. Scared I’d hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” You traced the line of his jaw with your thumb, feeling the faint prickle of stubble. “You made everything better.”

He ducked his head, cheeks flushing that familiar pink even after everything they’d just done. The shyness was creeping back in now that the urgency had faded, now that he had time to think and second-guess himself.

“Still,” he muttered. “Should clean you up proper. Can’t have you lying in a wet spot all night.”

Before you could protest he was already moving. He reached for the small pile of clean rags they kept near the bedroll, dampened one with water from the skin hanging on the center pole. The cloth was cold; you hissed when he pressed it gently between your thighs.

“Easy, m’lady,” he murmured, steadying your hip with his free hand. “Just cleaning you.”

He worked with the same focused tenderness he used when polishing his sword or brushing Thunder down after a long ride. Slow strokes along your folds, wiping away the worst of the mess, then pressing the cloth gently against your entrance to catch what still leaked out. Every pass made you twitch but the cold soothed the slight ache that lingered.

When he was satisfied he set the soiled rag aside and reached for a dry one, patting you dry with careful dabs. Then he cleaned himself too, efficient swipes along his softening cock and the thatch of dark hair at his groin, before lying back down beside you.

He pulled you close immediately, arranging you against his chest so your head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curled around your back, the other hand splayed protectively over your lower belly. The warmth of his palm seeped into your skin like a living hot compress.

They lay quiet for a while, listening to the sounds outside: the low crackle of the dying fire, the occasional rustle of leaves, Egg’s faint snores from his spot near the embers. The night felt softer now, less sharp-edged. The cramps were a distant memory; in their place was a bone-deep languor, the kind that only comes after real relief.

Duncan’s fingers started moving again—not sexual this time, just slow, absent stroking along the curve of your spine. Up and down, tracing each knob of your vertebrae like he was memorizing them.

“Was thinking,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low and a bit hesitant. “About tomorrow. And the day after. And… however long this lasts.”

Your heart gave a painful thump. You didn't like to think too much about the future because the future was always uncertain, and you didn't know how long you could stay with Duncan until your mother finds you.

He went on, words careful, like he was stepping over thin ice.

“I know you can’t stay forever. Got a family, a name, a place. They’ll come looking eventually. Probably already are.” He swallowed, the words slowly building up in his throat, hesitant to come out. “But while you’re here… while you want to be here… I want to take care of you. Proper. Not just when you’re hurting. Every day. Want to keep that look on your face—the one you get when the world feels right.”

You lifted your head so you could see his eyes. They were fixed on the canvas ceiling, but you could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his hand had stilled on your back. He felt it just as much as you did.

“Dunk,” you said softly. He finally looked at you and the vulnerability there nearly undid you.

“I don’t know how long I can keep you safe,” he admitted. “I’m no great lord. Got no castle, no lands, barely two coppers to rub together most days. But I swear on my sword—on my honor—I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got. Long as you’ll let me.”

Your throat closed and you had to blink hard against the sudden heat in your eyes. That goofball would really make you cry one of these days.

“I don’t need a castle,” you whispered, breathing slowly through the nose, keeping your emotions and thoughts in check. “I need this.” You pressed your palm over his heart, feeling it race beneath your fingers. “And I need you.”

He exhaled shakily, then leaned down to kiss your forehead, lingering there like he was sealing a vow.

“Then you’ve got me,” he said against your skin. “All of me. However long the road lasts.”

you stood before the mirror in your plush white bathrobe, skin still glowing and damp from the shower. with practiced rhythmic motions, you began dabbing face cream onto your cheeks.

across the room your husband offered a distracted hum, the sound of a page turning from where he held a book in his hand.

he was propped up against the headboard, deep into his current read.

"yes, my love?" he replied, his gaze finally flickering away from the text toward your silhouette.

from his vantage point on the marital bed he watched the careful, almost meditative way you lathered your skin.

"do you ever feel… bothered? that i am so much younger than you?"

the question caught him entirely off guard and his eyes paused on the passage he was reading.

your tone was awfully casual; the kind of forced nonchalance that suggested this wasn't a passing thought. but a seed that had been growing for some time.

he didn't answer immediately. instead, he closed his book and set it aside on the satin sheets. he padded across the floor; leaning his frame against the doorframe to bridge the distance between you.

your eyes met his through the glass for a fleeting second before you quickly snapped them back to your own reflection.

it was a classic deflection technique.

but baelor’s greatest asset had always been his ability to read people. a skill honed in high stakes environments that now served a much softer purpose: understanding the silent language of his wife.

"and what would make you think that?" he asked softly, crossing his arms over his plain white t shirt.

you shrugged, trying to act as unbothered as possible. your focus was suddenly very intent on twisting the lid off a bottle of lotion.

"i don’t know. just a thought." your voice trailed off into a whisper.

baelor didn’t move; he simply watched you with those piercing, mismatched eyes until the weight of his stare became too much to bear.

you finally turned, huffing a small, breathless laugh at the amused tilt of his head.

"what?" you asked, defensive but softening. he always had this effect on you.

"you are a terrible liar, my heart," he chuckled.

"it's not funny," you muttered, turning back to the counter to tidy your bottles with unnecessary precision. "now you’re just making fun of me…"

you tried to brush past him into the bedroom, feigning offense. but his arms caught you. his hands — steady and grounding, circled your hips to anchor you in place.

"baelor let go. i need to change," you chided; alas your tone lacked any real authority, sounding more like a fond complaint than a command.

"and i need to know why my beautiful wife thinks she is 'too young' for me." a persistent smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

he wasn't going to let this go.

you groaned, leaning your head back against his chest.

"or is it mayhaps that i am too old for her?" he countered, arching a brow and giving your hips a playful squeeze. you giggled, the ticklish sensation breaking your resolve.

"baelor targaryen, please." you leaned forward, trying to slip his grasp. to no avail — he was utterly immovable.

"no," he stated calmly, shaking his head. "i will not let you go until you tell me what it is that occupies your mind."

you opened your mouth to speak, but he cut your short.

"the truth please. and not the version of it you think I want to hear."

you sighed, your posture finally slumping in his embrace. there was no point in lying to him. he always knew.

"fine. i was talking to a colleague today..."

baelor’s expression tightened instantly. hanging onto your every word. "and?"

"she brought up our marriage. i told her it was unprofessional and none of her business,"

you explained, watching his expression relax into a flicker of pride.

"but then I heard her at lunch... she was telling the others... awful things. that i was a gold digger. that I had 'issues…''"

you swallowed hard, the sting of the words returning. "she said you were dishonorable. for taking a second wife." the words stumbled from your lips in a whisper. there was no taking them back now.

the room grew silent for a moment as Baelor took a sharp breath, processing the insult.

"i know it’s stupid," you hurried to add, "it just got under my skin—"

"these people do not know us," he interrupted, his voice firm and resonant. if slightly irritated.

he reached out, his large hands framing your face. "they do not know our history. they do not know our souls . or the quiet moments like this. their need to comment on our lives says everything about their character and nothing about us."

the muddy uncertainty that had clouded your day finally began to settle. your baelor had a way of returning the world to its proper axis just by speaking.

"i love you baelor." you whispered, your fingers brushing through the coarse grey-white hairs of his beard.

"and i you, my heart," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours. in his embrace, the outside world simply withered away.

"now... will you let me change?" you asked with a small smile.

he finally stepped back, though his eyes followed you with unabashed interest as you swapped your robe for silk pajamas. you caught him staring and shot him a pointed look over your shoulder.

"i am merely admiring my wife," he defended innocently, retreating to his side of the bed. "hardly a crime."

"excuses baelor. always excuses."

"it's not like i'm looking at anything i haven't seen before…"

"baelor!"

you softly climbed into bed beside him, clicking off the overhead light. the bedside lamps remained, bathing the room in a warm, honey-colored glow that made the shadows dance. you tucked yourself against his side, resting your head on his chest while he picked his book back up.

for a while neither of you spoke. the only sounds were his steady heartbeat and the rhythmic turning of pages. your eyes grew heavy by the moment. the fatigue and emotions of the day finally catching up to you.

"baelor... i'm turning out the light," you announced quietly, reaching for the switch. he hummed a soft affirmation, though he was clearly lost in his prose.

as the room plunged into darkness, you settled into the pillows. you knew the ritual. and a moment later, you heard the soft thud of his book hitting the nightstand and the click of the final lamp. the bed shifted as he slotted himself against your back, pulling you close. his arms encapsulating you from behind as you melted into his embrace.

"goodnight my love." he whispered into your hair.

"goodnight baelor." you breathed, finally drifting off to the land of dreams in the safety of his arms.

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