°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞

Golden afternoon sunshine glitters across the river’s surface, mottled between the gently swaying leaves of the willow above. The branches skim the water, a brush against canvas, as you lather honey wax soap between two wet hands. You hum quietly as you place the soap bar amongst the shingles before running your fingers over Dunk’s hair, threading bubbles through the lightly knotted strands.

The knight’s eyes are closed as he sits in the river’s shallows, water lapping around his bare hips. You kneel on the bank, his thick woolen cloak softening the press of stones beneath your legs as you extend your arms and scrub your fingers against his scalp.

“Hair like a horse’s,” you remark, taking a good fistful of his tawny brown hair and pulling it out, admiring the length of the soapy strands. “S’gotten long, hasn’t it?”

Dunk leans back into your touch, your other hand working at the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “You can cut it if you want.”

You laugh softly, twirling the thick lock around your finger. You give it a little tug, a small grunt leaving the back of his throat.

“No, I like it,” you mutter, before wiping the remaining suds across his freckled shoulders. You pat him firmly on the back, the slap of wet skin loud through the woodland around you. “Rinse, boy.”

Dunk does what he’s told and bends his large body forward. He dunks his head beneath the water, hands finding his hair to wash the soap away. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine, the muscles across his back and shoulders, but you make good work of ignoring the dip in his lower back and the curve of his arse. Instead, you watch a misty cloud of white float away downstream, before Dunk is pulling himself out of the water.

And you realise you didn’t get out of the way.

“Shit!” You exclaim, attempting to fall to the side, but to no avail. Dunk whips his head back, cold river water dashing across your face and chest as he shakes his head like a dog. You groan, slapping his shoulder as you get to your feet, other hand wiping down your face. “Every fucking time, Dunk.”

“Then you should expect it by now,” Dunk says, smiling up at you as you wring excess water from your sleeves. You shoot him a pointed look and he laughs. He wades out further into the river, turning and floating, watching you carefully. “Are you bathing too?”

You nod, already untying your dress. You shed your layers until you’re bare atop his cloak, bending to fold your clothes neatly atop the spun wool. It’s a juxtaposition to his own belongings, which are strewn haphazardly across the bank. Carefully, you toe the water and despite the pleasant spring air glowing warm around you, the water bites cold.

“It’s not bad,” Dunk tells you. He’s looking in your direction, but those sky-blue eyes of his are squarely on your face. Countless times you’ve been bare before him in manners like this, and countless times his eyes have never strayed from the lines of your face. He brings a hand out of the water, cupping some in his palm. “See?”

“Says the walking furnace himself,” you mumble as you take a deep breath, realising slowly wading in wasn’t going to do you any favours. So, you take a few large steps until you’re knee deep in the river, before diving straight in. Cold water rushes around you, and when you break the surface a few feet from Dunk, you gasp. “Ah! Dunk, you prick, it’s freezing!”

You splash him then, and he takes it with a wide grin split across his face. You splash him again, and he chuckles, reaching one strong arm out and taking hold of your wrist. Your other hand splashes too, water flying around you, and he grabs that wrist with his other hand. He holds you firmly, and before you know it, he’s dunking you under the water.

You’re under for barely a second, and he hoists you out, laughter echoing loudly through the clearing, glancing off the river’s surface like a skipping stone.

“I hate you,” you spit, but you don’t mean it. 

You regain control of your arms—he lets you go, not that you have to fight him—and you grab the nape of his neck. He laughs while you shove him beneath the water, holding him there like you mean to drown him. The knight lets you, of course, considering he gives you a victorious four seconds before he easily rights himself and comes up for air. You let out a playful yelp, swimming away as he takes a swipe at you. You kick yourself off the stony bottom, paddling away, but he gets a hand on your ankle and yanks you back so firmly that a wake pushes out around you, sending the water lapping higher up the shingled bank.

“Dunk!” You shout as you thrash about the water. You look around the forest, dappled sunlight passing across your eyes in short, golden bursts. You smile as you shout, “My closest friend is drowning me! A knight is drowning me! Help!”

Dunk smiles, rolling his eyes. “Oh, hush. You deserve it.”

That night, beneath the ever-reaching cloak of darkness, you huddle by the fire, gnawing on a slightly stale roll of beef-stuffed bread. You had been reading your book—the only book you had, and which you had read eight times over yet—which now sits at your feet. There’s a slight chill in the air that licks at the flames in such a way they look to be dancing atop the gathered branches. Dunk approaches from tending to the horses, pulling his thick cloak from his shoulders. You look up, mouth full and cheeks protruding, as Dunk bends and wraps his cloak around your body.

“Y’do’ h’v t’do dat,” you say around your dinner, and he looks at you strangely as you chew.

“D’you just cast a spell on me?” He asks, shaking his head as he settles down beside you.

You slap his thigh, chewing and finally swallowing. You shrug your shoulders, gesturing to the heavy cloak now shrouding you. “You don’t have to do that,” you repeat, clearer now.

“Right, then I’ll take it back.” Dunk reaches a hand out, but you lean away.

“No, no, whatever, thank you,” you say quickly, enjoying the added layer and the heat as the nightly chill rustles the dead leaves on the ground around you. Dunk just huffs, amused, reclining back against the trunk of the willow. You look down at your half-eaten roll then, sighing through your nose before offering it to him. “You can have the rest.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No, you need to eat.”

“This is my second roll.”

“Exactly,” Dunk says, eyes flitting down your covered frame for just a second, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks back at you. “You need to eat. I’d make you a third if we had any rolls left.”

You shake the bread roll in front of his face, a strip of salt beef hanging out the bitten end. “I’ve eaten. Have the rest.”

“No, you need to eat.”

“Dunk, I’ve eaten. I’m full.”

“No, you’re not.”

You roll your eyes. “Take the fucking bread.”

Dunk eyes the food sceptically for a moment, then looks back to you. “Are you sure?”

“Take the bread or I’ll throw it at your big head.”

Dunk takes it without another word, his sword-calloused fingers brushing yours. He takes a large bite, chewing contently as you lean back against the tree as well. Your shoulders knock together, and you feel the heat radiating off of him despite his thin tunic and fraying summer cloak he insists he mends himself—despite your sewing skills being considerably better than his (which, in itself, is not difficult considering his are… poor).

You take the corner of the cloak, your thumb immediately poking through a hole there. He watches you, eyes wide and glistening. There are crumbs around his lips.

“You need to let me mend this,” you tell him, wiggling your thumb for emphasis.

“I can do it.”

“I’ve mended every cloak you’ve had since we were children,” you say pointedly, tugging on the hole. It rips a little bigger, and he makes a face. You hide your smile. “My needlework is much better than yours.”

He huffs. “I mended my trousers just this morning.”

In the semi-darkness, your eyes find a patch of poorly stitched fabric beneath his right knee.

You laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Dunk takes a rough bite of the bread roll, shaking his head as he chews. “Some friend you are.”

—✿—

Four days later, you and Dunk ride your horses along a well-trodden path. It rings around a dense thicket of woodland, and you listen to the way in which the trees jostle their leaves and branches together as the breeze blows through them. Birdsong filters out between the canopy too. You close your eyes, seated comfortably in your saddle as you ride Chestnut.

Ahead of you however, several hooded figures jump out onto the dirt road, brandishing jagged daggers. Dunk reacts before you, one strong arm shooting out to seize hold of Chestnut’s reins and pull you to an abrupt stop. Chestnut huffs in protest as Dunk manoeuvres himself and Thunder in front of you, the sturdy warhorse barely blinking as the three men advance.

“Pretty horse y’ve got,” one of the men says, gesturing to Thunder with the point of his dagger. The man’s eyes lift over to you a moment later, and he smiles a mouth full of silver as he gestures at you next. “Pretty wee lady y’ve got, too.”

Dunk’s face is set in stone, a steely flash in his eyes as he dismounts. All three men snap their eyes away from you to peer up at the hulking mass of a man standing before them. Dunk stands taller than Thunder’s withers, and he isn’t a small horse by any means.

One of the men falters on his sentence, concern flashing across his face, but the man who had first spoken takes a brave—or, you think, rather foolish—step forward, dagger outstretched. Dunk’s hand is balled tight on the pommel of his sword, which rests faithfully at his hip.

“Coin,” the man instructs simply. His eyes shoot up to you again, and you feel a worried chill creep up your spine. A sickly sort of nausea spindles through your diaphragm too. The man looks back at Dunk, dagger brandishing. “Or we can take the lady—”

Dunk rips his sword from its rope sheath and points it at the man. The other two take a few large steps back. Dunk grips the sword, the blade unwavering as he angles it directly at the man’s face.

“Speak one more word and you lose a hand,” Dunk grits out, the muscles in his jaw working. You watch, slightly helpless, from your saddle. Dunk nods towards the other two men, who still clutch their daggers in dirt-stained fingers. “Well? Anything to say?”

The first man scowls. “You—”

Dunk spins his wrist and shifts forward, blade of his sword coming down hard on the man’s hand. Blood splatters outwards in stripes of red silk, painting the earth like a bug squashed beneath a thumb. The man lets out a harrowing scream, his dagger hitting the reddened earth with a dull thud as he backs away, cradling his hand now. A large, deep gash splits across the side of his hand, cutting beneath the thumb knuckle in a bloody display of muscle and bone.

“Fucking hell!” One of the other men shouts, before proceeding to sprint back into the shadows of the forest alongside his friend, scarpering like a pair of rats. The injured man stumbles back, sending Dunk a look of pure fright, before vanishing into the woods, leaving a dotted trail of blood in his wake.

Dunk kicks the dagger away, watching it skitter off into the woodlands underbrush, before turning to you. He approaches slowly, placing a gentle hand on your calf.

“Are you alright?” He asks, wiping the tip of his sword through the dirt.

“Fine,” you tell him. Your eyes find his, which are brimming with worry, before you allow yours to rise to the forest line. You sigh. “You should’ve cut his hand off.”

Dunk sheaths his sword, frowning. “I was… I was trying to be intimidating. I didn’t—I mean, if he tried to get to you, I would’ve… I would’ve maybe, you know—”

You reach down and pet your friend gently on the top of his head. “Too noble for your own good, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, and he’s still holding your calf. “Thieves like that are mostly harmless. I didn’t…” He looks up at you then. “Should I have…?”

You shake your head. “You did great, Dunk. Very brave, and very strong.”

Dunk bows his head, bashful. He gives your calf one last firm pat before pulling himself up and into his own saddle. He offers you one last glance over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m fine, Dunk.”

He nods too, turning. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, still smiling as your eyes find his shoulders and back. You see the mass of muscle beneath the material that covers him, and you can’t help the weight of your smile and the warmth in your chest that quickly replaces your feeling of nausea.

—✿—

Two days after that, the springtime sun shines warmly against your back as you and Dunk traipse the sun-soaked cobbled streets of Oldtown. The towering knight loiters close behind you as you browse the market stalls, air swimming with flowery incense and freshly baked breads. Dunk lugs a few linen sacks of supplies in his arms, carrying them easily, as you give him yet another parchment-wrapped parcel of who knows what.

He lets you slip it into one of the sacks. “What is that?”

“Cake,” you say simply.

The frown that graces his face is light as he fights a smile. “You can’t keep buying cake. Our coin is scarce, and should be spent on things we need.”

You shoot him a pointed look over your shoulder, replying light-heartedly, “Well, it’s my coin and I need cake. Shut up.”

Dunk doesn’t argue, and instead follows you through the crowd. You linger ahead though as Dunk lags behind, hyper-aware of his large size taking up a considerable amount of the thoroughfare. He apologises under his breath as he accidentally bumps someone, and he tries to keep his arms tucked in as he holds onto all the produce you had insisted on purchasing.

When he finally catches up to you, after being cursed at by an elderly woman, you’re standing before a market stall with a wide grin split across your pretty face. Dunk watches you laugh softly at something the vendor says—the vendor, who happens to be a very attractive man around your age—before offering a response. And whatever you say makes the vendor smile even wider, a mouth full of flashing ivory.

Something solid churns deep in Dunk’s chest. It settles deep in the chambers of his heart.

He sidles up to you as casually as possible, body casting a long shadow across the stall. The vendor looks up, and Dunk almost feels guilty in the delight that greets him when the vendor’s smile vanishes.

You lift your head, smiling at your companion. “Dunk, what do you think?”

His eyes pull away from the vendor to where you’re showing him… another cake.

He huffs. “M’lady.”

It’s small, probably an easy fit in the palm of your hand, decorated with segments of blackberries and dusted with glittering sugar. His eyes flit from the little cake to your face, where you look at him with glossy eyes he swears he can see his reflection in—all pleading and begging and looking just the way you did when he met you all those years ago. Except now, you’re no longer surrounded by the grime of Flea Bottom. You’re here, together, in a tightly-packed market in Oldtown, clean and well-fed and smelling of honey and horse.

“One more,” you whisper. “This one looks good.”

“I’m certain you said that earlier,” Dunk mutters, but doesn’t argue. 

He nods at the vendor, who hurries to offer you a square of parchment to wrap the little cake in. You beam, and Dunk feels something glowing from his chest, warm against the bone of his sternum. He hands the vendor the right coin before the two of you move off, heading back through the market, footsteps audible against the cobbled ground.

“Thank you,” you say suddenly, shifting to the side to lean your cheek against his arm. The muscle of his bicep is pillowy and warm against your face, and you peer up at him as you take a gentle hold of his wrist as he hefts the loot of the trip. “Thank you, Dunk.”

He smiles down at you, a few strands of hair framing his face. “Y’welcome.”

—✿—

Evening falls in a curtain of pale oranges and yellows as you lounge across the mattress. The inn room around you is lit up in those colours, sunlight streaming in through the small window that overlooks one of Oldtown’s many winding alleys. You lie comfortably in your chemise, candles burning near the iron-framed bed, deflated pillows piled behind you. Paper rustling is all that fills the room as you read, the book resting in your lap.

The room’s door opens and Dunk ducks in. You greet him.

He stands over the bed and holds something out to you. “Here.”

You place your book aside, taking in his slightly flushed appearance. “What…?”

The knight holds a book out towards you, leather-bound and clean of wear and tear. Your mouth parts into a small gasp as you gently take the book, admiring it and hefting its weight in your hands.

“Dunk,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’ve read your book a hundred times over by now, so I thought a new one’d suit you well.”

You brush your fingers down the neatly bound spine. “Dunk…”

Tossing it aside, you all but throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him to you. He laughs at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around your middle, cheeks heating as you murmur thanks into his shoulder. You pull back after a moment, but his hands rest on your hips and your fingers remain interlinked behind the column of his neck.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that?” You mutter, cocking your head and appraising the pink tint across his lightly freckled cheeks.

It flushes to his ears. “You deserve it. That and more, t’be fair.”

You chuckle at that, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. You thread them slowly, scratching against his scalp, and the sound that leaves his throat is nothing less than a purr as his eyes close and he leans his head back into the contact. The grip he has on your hips tightens. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.

“Like what?” You query, your other hand resting high on his shoulder, toying with the seam of his tunic.

Dunk opens his eyes. “Huh?”

“You said I deserve that and more,” you tell him. “Like what? What else do I deserve?”

He groans quietly, warring with himself as his eyes, lids half-lowered and sluggish in their movements, trace the features of your face.

“So much more,” he whispers. The hold on your hips draws firmer and you feel a giddy sort of heat take over you, settling in your stomach and between your thighs. Dunk continues, corner of his mouth curling up into a shadow of a grimace. “More than I can give you.”

You pout at his words, fingers in his hair taking the strands firmly between knuckles and tugging. He sucks in a breath, and you hold him as you speak.

“Don’t act the fool,” you say. “You give me everything I want, Dunk.”

He frowns.

“You do,” you challenge, hand not in his hair coming to cup his cheek now. His skin is warm and slightly dewy to the touch, testament of a man having spent the last hour searching the warm, narrow streets of Oldtown for a book. A book for you. You swipe your thumb along his cheekbone. “Now tell me: what else do I deserve?”

Dunk opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes sweep down your face again, lingering on the shape of your lips, then the lines of your nose. They reach your eyes and he releases a pained sound—a sound punched from his gut, dragged across a whimper so intimate that it settles your heartbeat between your thighs.

“You deserve everything,” he whispers finally, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. Touching, a nervous movement, before his lips close and he’s trapping a grunt between his teeth as you scratch at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, speaking like your touch might put him to sleep. “Everything I can give you.”

The hand you have on his face shifts to his jaw and you work the muscle and bone beneath the pads of your fingers. “And what can you give me?”

Dunk groans, head lolling to the side, resting against your forearm while you continue to rub at the nape of his neck, hair between your fingers. You let go of his jaw and swipe your hand across his forehead, pushing loose strands away so you can get a good look at his face. He’s redder now, his blush coloured darker in the shadows of the room. His freckles blur together beneath the flickering candlelight too, and you allow yourself to feather the tips of your fingers across the ones high on his cheekbones. You map them like the stars as he rubs his head against your forearm like a cat.

“Anything you want,” Dunk whispers finally, and it’s broken around a whine. Heat prickles at the back of your neck, blood pumping hot in your core as your body reacts to his audible need. Beneath the thin material of your chemise, you’re on fire. Dunk finally opens his eyes, observing you when the silence stretches for just a moment too long. He says your name, soft, tender, before he speaks. “Please.”

You smile, tucking a few thin locks of his hair behind his ear. You lean in, lips ghosting across the warm skin of his cheek. “I want you.”

A rumbling groan is ripped from his throat as he shifts his head to the side, chasing your words before they can disappear into the candlelit air. His mouth slots to yours so easily as you turn your head too, and another deep sound leaves his mouth as your lips work together. You grip his hair tightly, angling his head back so you can draw him in even closer.

Your name falls from his mouth, followed by a whisper of “my sweet girl,” before your tongues draw together. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, clutching firmly, fingers flexing as if you would draw away from him. You whimper in response, tugging at his hair.

“C’mon,” he mutters against your mouth as his hands find your hips again. He shifts you backwards, hefting you like a sack of grain until your head hits the stack of pillows. You smile into the kiss, pulling his hair into a closed fist at the back of his head. He groans, teeth catching on your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

You sit up slightly, forcing him to back up. Tugging your chemise off, the amber-lit warmth of the room greets your bare tits, and you toss the garment aside as Dunk gapes at you, eyes firmly on your chest.

“Dunk,” you chuckle, taking in his shocked—pleased—expression. “You’ve seen me bare before.”

“Not like this,” he utters, voice dark. He leans in then, and you suck in a gasp as he presses his face between the valley of your breasts. His hands find the small of your back, hugging you to him, and the skin of his face is burning red-hot against your chest. His mouth opens and he groans loudly, holding you tightly. “Oh gods.”

You seize his head and pull him back to you. You kiss him hard this time—it’s not gentle, and it’s not tender. It’s teeth and tongue and spit and fuelled by everything pent up inside you. A glass bottle uncorked, liquid need overflowing as you lick the salt from his tongue. His clothing comes next: blindly, you work his tunic over his arms and shoulders, pulling away from him so he could throw it across the room. He’s on you like a leaping hound, pinning you back against the pillows while your hands find the ties of his trousers.

There’s a molasses-thick desire seeping into your belly as you untie his trousers. It consumes you, hot and sticky, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth as your fingers brush across the tent in the material of his trousers. He groans in return, the sound breathless and almost embarrassed, as you shuck his trousers down and start tugging at his breeches.

He pulls back. “Sweet girl, hold on—”

You pause, panting, fingers on the knot at the band of his breeches. “Are you okay?”

“M’so good,” Dunk whispers, kissing you one last time on the lips. It’s chaste, almost polite, something akin to an apology before he leans back. A pout is halfway formed across your lips, nipples hardening at the loss of warmth against your front, before you feel his hands run down your back to the bunched fabric of your smallclothes. His eyes find yours as he slowly, slowly begins guiding them down. “Is this okay?”

You nod, admiring the shadowed lines of his face in the candlelight. A small dip in his brow draws his face into a mask of disbelief as he gently draws your smallclothes down your hips, over the curve of your arse, and then down your thighs. You lift yourself to aid him, eyes on the way his tongue finds the corner of his mouth again, his pupils blown wide. Soon, your thin linen undergarments are discarded and you lie completely bare before him.

“Here she is…” Dunk whispers, and it’s so quiet you’re certain it wasn’t meant for you.

His large hands find the plush of your thighs, kneading the flesh there as he parts them. His movements are unhurried as he brings them wider, and wider still, until the slick heat of your core glistens wet in the flickering candlelight. The sound that leaves him is pained, stretched thin across a moan as his fingers ghost down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He traces circles as he looks.

Your heart clatters against your ribcage like a marble in a jar and you swear you’re losing your breath. A hand you barely register as yours reaches out, feeling along the line of hair above his breeches. The muscle is cloaked in a layer of fat that you dig your fingers into, and you taste that molasses-thick desire between your teeth as his name rolls over your tongue.

“Put your mouth on me,” you say when you draw his attention away from your core. Your fingers dip, tracing the line of hair, brushing over the tent in his breeches. There’s a jerk of mass beneath the fabric. It sends your heartbeat straight between your legs.

The small dent in his brow deepens as he shudders out a breath, eyes on yours. “I’ve never…”

“S’alright,” you tell him, other hand finding his face. You pat his cheek tenderly. “We’ll learn—we’ll learn together, okay?”

His lips part, but he nods. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes as he settles further onto the bed, mattress and bedframe groaning. You can feel the callouses on the top of his palms against you, and his hands twist from your inner thighs to the backs of them. You yelp when he suddenly pushes your thighs up, thumb and fingers on either side of your knee’s undersides. He bends them up until they rest against the softness of your belly. 

The angle is exposing, and there is a fleeting moment of fear that passes through your mind. It is squashed immediately when a boarish grunt leaves Dunk’s throat as he bends forward, squeezing your legs to anchor himself, before his breath is ghosting across you.

You writhe, gasping out, “Dunk, Dunk, please—”

His eyes appear black in the dim light as he peers up at you, hair damp on his forehead already. He watches you carefully as he blows out a breath—the sensation against your slick folds slicing your sentence mid-air. You moan softly and Dunk repeats the action, tepid air a finger-like stroke against the blazing warmth of your cunt. You manage to wriggle an arm between the fold of your legs, your fingers threading through his hair again.

He takes the encouragement: still looking up at you, Dunk gently presses his mouth to your core. It’s a kiss, a press of lips against velvet warmth, before they part. His tongue follows, a tentative split between your folds as his head shifts. His nose bumps your clit, and when a short “ha-ah” slips over the point of your tongue, he chases—tongue finding, searching, until you call a stretched-out whine of his name when he finally gets it.

“Dunk, yes, fuck,” you ramble, fisting his hair when he flattens his tongue. Something electric fizzles down your spine, shoulders to hips, as he works with a pressure just slightly too little, but somehow it works. It works because it’s him, and it works because you cant your hips and gently urge his head forward. And because he’s a good knight, your good knight, he listens, his lips drawing around your clit in a wet suction that punches a moan from you. “Du–uh–nk, oh gods.”

A thick grumble vibrates against you, his eyelids fluttering. His mouth shifts, tongue splitting back down your folds as you pant. He continues to watch you, eyes glassy. You nod, imploring, when the point of his tongue finds your hole, and you tighten your grip on his hair when he presses in. Like everything else about him, his tongue is thick—a thick press inside you that pulls you apart. It draws a pressure into the base of your belly as he licks into you, the line of his nose pressing deep against your puffy clit.

You wriggle beneath him, trapped under the fold of your own thighs as he pins you to the mattress and takes what he wants—gives you what you need. And he gives it to you, ever the quick-learner, with his tongue pulling and pushing in broad strokes. In, out, curling inwards as his head shifts. He chases the gasps that fall from your mouth, the little whimpers you try and quell as his tongue flicks in. He hums, pleased at the way your body heats up beneath him, and he feels his cock jerk in his breeches when the vibrations of his hum travel straight through you. You keen, holding his head tighter against your core. He breathes deeply, smelling and tasting you, face slick and flushed.

Is this good? he wants to ask. Am I making you feel good? teeters painfully on his tongue, but he keeps them locked in. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. Not now, not ever. The sounds you make spur him on, ignite a spark deep in his chest. His closest friend. His. His sweet girl writhing and moaning for him.

Sickly sweet now, the molasses-thick need crystalises in your womb, and you feel something tugging. A deep-seated pressure that rocks your heartbeat through your core, blood pumping hot in your veins. There’s a tension in your thighs too, and they tremble in his hold as his tongue splits you apart. The sounds are wet, and Dunk is grunting, and you’re trying not to fall too deeply into it—but you can’t help it. All you can think of, all you can hear, all you can taste is Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, and that pressure inside you builds to its breaking point. Your fingers grip his hair tightly as you attempt to grind yourself against his face.

“Dunk,” you whine, calling for him as your body shakes. “Dunk, s’good—m’gonna—”

You burst apart when his tongue dips deep inside you and he groans into your heat. The pressure inside you fissures and your cunt clenches tightly around him, heartbeat spiking as you call for him over and over, strung across breathy whimpers that seem to rise into the ceiling. He licks you through it, face unyielding as you tremble under the weight of his palms.

After a long moment, pleasure spiking sharp in the pit of your stomach, you pull him away from you by his hair. The knight groans, eyes finally closing, his face slick with you, lips kiss-bruised and wet as he whispers your name. He squeezes your thighs too, before gently placing your legs back against the sheets.

“Did I… was that okay?” Dunk can finally ask, eyes roaming down your naked form. They fall from your face, to your chest and stomach, to where you drool out between your thighs. The sight makes him moan, one hand resting over his lap.

“So good,” you assure him, picking yourself off the pillows now. Dunk swallows, watching you as you close the gap and kiss him. He’s shocked, frozen for a split-second as you lick yourself from his lips. The loud moan you offer him quickly pulls him back to solid earth, and he opens his mouth to kiss you back. You mutter against his lips, “You did so well, Dunk.”

He preens beneath the praise, ears burning hot as your tongues meet. He huffs into the kiss, his own pleasure thick in his trousers, the taste and smell and heat of you swimming in his head. But you seem to know exactly how he’s feeling, and your hand finds the ties of his breeches once more. You pull them loose as your mouths move together.

You dip a hand in and wrap your fingers around his cock. Dunk breaks the kiss with a low groan, forehead resting against yours as you pull him from the linen of his breeches. He’s warm and solid in your hand, velvet skin across steel as he pumps hot in your hand. Both of you look down.

“Gods…” You whisper, giving him a little stroke. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. But here, in the privacy of this little inn room, bathed in ichored candlelight, it’s so much different. Your fingers work lightly, feeling the subtle give of skin. There are soft, shallow ridges and a vein you can feel working up the back of his shaft, and he’s so warm and so real against you. You whisper again, “So pretty, Dunk.”

He offers you a whiny breath as your fingers press beneath the dip of his cockhead. It’s blushing a deep pink and pearling wet at the slit and he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he’s frowning like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your hand is so much smaller than his—the sight of it wrapped around his cock making it jerk.

“So big…” You think aloud as your fingers move gently.

Dunk breathes deeply, chest heaving. His hands are on your hips, gripping you firmly, smoothing stuttering circles with his thumbs.

You pull away from him. He looks at you, eyes nearly black.

“Want you,” you tell him simply, fingers wrapping around the base of him now. You give him a tight squeeze. “Need you.”

“Gods above,” Dunk gasps out, but he’s already nodding. A thick, viscous heat clings to his ribs, pulls at the strings of his heart as he lets you work your fingers around the thick of his cock. He dips and kisses your forehead—he can’t help it. “Okay, sweet girl, I’ll give it to you.”

You smile then, retracting your hand. He hisses at the lack of contact, watching you shuffle back until you’re lying amongst your throne of pillows. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen. His sweet girl, spreading her legs with a smile on her pretty face. All for him.

The thoughts make him dizzy as he quickly shucks his clothing down his legs, kicking it away. He kneels on the bed, bedframe creaking beneath the weight of his body, but he ignores it. He draws in close to you, large hands finding the backs of your thighs and folding you again. The sound it pushes from your chest—“ha–uh–fu–uck, Dunk,”—is breathy and sweet in the amber-lit air between you. It has his cock jerking where it sits heavy and leaking against the mass of his thigh as he settles before you.

It’s easy to fold you like this. He leans over you, abdomen contracting as he holds himself up enough not to crush you. Up enough, too, to take one hand and clutch the base of his cock, guiding it to your cunt. You whimper his name and the sound goes directly to his brain, fills his lungs like a puff of smoke. It’s heady and dizzying and he can’t help but moan as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit.

“Dunk,” you whine, the pressure between your folds sparking something in your lower belly again. Your cunt flutters around nothing when he taps the head against your swollen clit, then slowly drags it back down to notch at your hole. You suck in a breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he’s listening. He clutches himself in a lightly trembling hand and carefully, almost too slowly, pushes in. Your pussy opens up for him, slick and warm, sucking in the head with a wet clutch that has him losing his breath. It’s tight and unlike nothing he’s ever experienced before.

You whimper, hands gripping the sheets beside you. “Dunk, please, keep going.”

He hadn’t realised he’d stopped.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, then shifts his hips. Such a good listener. 

He leans in, cock splitting you apart. He’s thick and heavy, dragging against your walls in one solid movement. It’s intoxicating, and you whine, the sound rattling your teeth as it’s wrenched from the back of your throat. You’re so full, and he’s still moving.

Dunk mutters your name like a prayer as he feeds his cock into you, marvelling at the way you open for him. Deeper and deeper. He holds you firm, folding you into the mattress, pinned beneath his strong chest. The heat that envelops him, he’s certain, burns hotter than any flame in Westeros.

He stills after a moment. The head of his cock is wedged right up beneath the plug of your cervix, and there’s a slowly soothing ache somewhere in your pelvis. You can feel it, feel it festering like a bruise. Dunk’s cock gives a feeble jerk inside you, and you wince just slightly, so full, reaching so deep.

His face drops. Worried. “Are you—?”

“M’okay,” you whisper. The pain is slowly dissipating as your cunt flutters around him. You see him bite back a groan, pleasure fighting against concern. You smile at him softly. “So good, Dunk. You feel so good inside me.”

Dunk’s still frowning, but you can tell your words have hit him square across the face. He releases a shuddering breath, and his cock twitches inside you again.

“Please move,” you tell him, purposefully tightening the muscles of your core, sucking him in even tighter. His eyes flutter, and you finally get to hear that groan he had been wrangling with. It’s hoarse, flung through gravel. You huff loudly. “Please, Dunk.”

“Okay, okay,” Dunk utters, soothing.

Holding your thighs, he pulls out until just the head rests inside. He takes a deep breath, then pushes back in, and his composure shatters completely when you attempt to arch, moaning. He’s making you feel like this. He is. He hounds after that feeling, pulling his cock out again and repeating the movement until he settles into a pace he didn’t know he could keep.

“That’s it, just like that,” you ramble, tits bouncing against your chest as Dunk’s thrusts lean heavy. Your knees near your head, the pressure on your belly making him feel even deeper. The ache inside you has completely vanished, replaced now by that viscous heat you’ve come to love. “Dunk, fuck, so—so good.”

The bed creaks in protest as he drives you deeper and deeper into the mattress, his strokes becoming more confident. He’s a quick learner, you already know, and you can feel the pride leeching from him as he breaks you apart from the inside out. He’s basking in the little sounds that fall from you as the head of his cock nudges deep. Thick, stretching, rolling.

You’re so tight around him. Warm and slick and everything he’d dared to imagine late at night, bent against a tree with his cock in hand. And you take him so well, sucking him in as his hips roll, skin-slapping-skin. The iron headboard knocks against the wooden wall, but he pays it no mind, thoughts only of you, you, you. His girl. His perfect girl.

“Harder,” you moan, fisting the sheets.

Dunk listens.

He wrestles your legs onto his shoulders, angling himself even deeper now and thrusting deep. You yelp, then moan, at the angle and the fact he nails that perfect spot inside you on the third thrust. He hears it, hears the shift in your moans, feels the clench of your pussy, all hot and vice-like around him. And he follows it, tracing it like a line to treasure. Rolling hips, creaking bed, bear-like grunts.

“Like that?” He utters, but he knows. He’s folding you in half and he knows.

You can barely answer, pressure tight in your womb. His cock drags you closer to another release, bubbling hot as he pins you beneath the thick, muscled mass of his body. He’s a walking furnace, and you feel it closer now. Fire seeps from his skin. Sweat traps along your front, along your back, building beneath the joints of your knees as he fucks you.

“Y–yeah,” you manage to reply, but that’s all you have energy for. Your pleasure is stacking deep inside you and you’re losing your ability to form proper words.

Dunk grunts in response.

Hair hangs over his forehead, some tacked to his skin with sweat. The muscles in his arms work as he holds himself over you. He’s so thick, so strong. You manage to lift an arm to squeeze at his bicep, fingers indenting flesh. You want to bite it, but he has you trapped so firmly against the mattress that you’re sure you couldn’t move an inch if you tried.

Your pussy squeezes around him again as pressure builds. It’s familiar now, and you know where it comes from, and where it’s going to lead you, as it crawls down your spine and spans out across your womb.

You clutch Dunk’s arm with one hand, the other useless at your side, limbless and pleasure-lax. “Dunk.”

“Yeah?” He looks down at you, a light furrow in his brow. “You’ve got something for me?”

You nod. “M’so close.”

Dunk huffs, pace remaining. Firm and even, cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you. His hips roll, the mattress shifts, the bedframe groans and knocks heavy against the wall. Candles flicker around you, white wax dripping, rolling in pearls. His eyes are on you, blue smothered beneath black. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

That makes you moan. A feather-soft “Dunk,” followed by a louder, more desperate, “Oh, gods, Dunk—!” You shatter for a second time then, body giving in. Your cunt clutches tight around his cock, slick gushing as he fucks you through it, dribbling out and down the curve of your arse as he rocks in, in, in. His movements falter, just slightly, as you cry out for him, release pressing heavy on your belly as he folds you.

“M’here, m’here,” Dunk coos, bending to kiss you. Your legs press even deeper, and you whine into the kiss. Trembling, legs shaking, heart seeping deep into the marrow of your bones. Dunk pulls back, thrusts slowing by a fraction as his cock jerks. He moans like a wounded man, “Oh, sweet girl, I’m—I’m—”

It’s a sudden, solid heat in his pelvis. His cock jumps where it’s seated against the base of your cervix, and his balls draw tight where they rest against the curve of your arse. His hips stutter, thighs tensing, then he’s spilling. Inside you.

It feels thicker, hotter. It knocks through his diaphragm and he groans through it, jaw working as he shoves himself to the hilt inside you. He feels the way your pussy wraps to take him, sucks him in even deeper as he empties himself in white-hot stripes. The force in which it leaves him is dizzying, and his eyes drop closed, mouth parting.

And he can’t help himself.

“I love you,” he breathes out as he comes, spilling hot. It leaves him in shudders as he holds himself over you, trapping you, keeping you. He huffs, fending off a groan as he rolls his hips to a stop. “Gods above.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment after that. The mattress settles as you still. You pant, and so does Dunk, as pleasure fizzles like the bubbles of ale.

Dunk flushes even deeper when he shakes himself from his haze. He opens his eyes properly, peering down at you as if he’d caused you injury.

“M’sorry,” he says quickly, scanning your face. “My sweet girl, I’m—”

You shake your head, heartbeat calming. “S’okay—oh, Dunk, it’s okay.”

You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing.

“I love you,” you tell him through a whisper. There’s a quiet in the room that feels warm against your skin. You can hear music somewhere below you: the muffled plucking of strings, the clamour of singing voices. You stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. “More than anything.”

His reply is to bend and kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, but there’s a strength behind it that tastes of the knight you know.

“You’re too good to me,” Dunk mumbles against your lips, echoing your words from earlier. “My sweet girl. Too good for me.”

You smile and kiss him harder.

———

big man fold me please i’m begging

tags 🌿

dunk has you on your back—cushioned by all of his clothes and blankets along with yours—with your knees hooked over the bend of his elbows on either side of you. his body completely blanks yours, not an inch of sweat-slicked skin left untouched by him, and his hips rolling and grinding into yours. the dark hairs that frame the cock that's hardly even leaving your slick, oversensitive cunt are creating an addictive friction against your swollen, twitching clit. his hips don't even lift up, they just flex back and forth, dragging against your puffy centre and his thick cock keeping you nice and full as he rocks into you.

he's made you cum twice already like this. with his face pressed into your hair, breathing the scent of you in with every gasp and pant, and his hands under your shoulders to press you against him tighter. you have your arms wrapped around his neck. sometimes you thread your fingers through his hair and scratch his scalp the way you know drives him crazy, but you mostly lazily hold onto him, trying with all your might to press him closer as well. he's so close, pressed so tightly to you that you don't even have to lift your head to rest the bridge of your nose against his collarbone. his big, hairy thighs shift under the swell of your hips with every rolling thrust, cradling your hips that lie elevated for him by the blankets he placed you on.

the sounds you both make are as soft as the rain around you. tender sighs that whisper across his skin, and sweet hums that roll down each dip and divot of his back. he noses his way further into your hair, presses long kisses to the sensitive skin above your ear and whines your name as if he can't find you.

the slow, steady grind of his hips kindly stokes the fire within you. there's no building tension that demands to be seen to, only the feeling of your sweat-slicked bodies moving against one another in the humid rain under a great tree keeping you safe.

you can hardly keep your eyes open at the feeling of his thick cock—consistently, steadily, with a breathtaking precision—hitting the entrance of your womb, still managing to stretch you out no matter how many times he takes you. there's no burn, only a fullness that has your head spinning from how little he's pulling out before shoving himself back in again. despite the slow and steady pace, he manages to knock the breath out of you in a way that's had your eyes rolled back since he made that first delicious thrust into you.

the fire he's been feeding and been paying close attention to has slowly started to build. the warmth growing as if you had started to simmer, getting close to a boil, and he can feel it in the way your hips start to rock into his from where he has you pressed into the pile of blankets that have become damp from how long he's had you like this, and how many times he's made you cum. you let out a long and satisfied hum when you feel the boil, feel the sweat on your forehead and brow run down into your hairline, and you mouth at the flushed and freckled skin of his neck with your teeth. dunk whines, m'darlin', and keeps his pace the same even though you've started to clench around him like a vice.

he presses you closer, his lips at your ear making you shiver when you feel him pant and gasp. you're both usually so loud when he's making you feel good, debauched sounds filling the forest or the shitty room of an inn while chasing your highs, but right now, you're addicted to the delirious, quiet sounds that escape you both without permission. it's not often he gets to have you like this, soft and relaxed with hours of you, you, you. your soft skin pressed to his as he lies on top of you, the taste of you on his tongue as he swipes at the skin behind your ear, the honey-sweet sounds you make when you start to tremble—he wants all of you, all the time.

you clutch him tighter and angle your head up to him blindly with a low, near-feverish moan in the vague shape of his name, and he turns to meet you. kiss-bitten lips slot against one another with moans, hums, and sighs spilling from the cracks the longer the boil goes on for. the kiss is sloppy and wet, just like everything else about you both right now. his tongue in your mouth, pressing in and making a mess, making your combined spit dribble out of the corner of your mouth, much like his cock was doing the same with your cunt and mixed releases.

you can feel the sweat from him mix with yours on your face, and you bring a hand up to his face. you cup his cheek, then run your fingers through the wet hair on his forehead to pull it out of the way, then you trace his face down to his jaw. you press your fingers into one cheek and cup his jaw with your thumb on the other side, holding him firmly against your mouth as that boil starts to grow hotter.

those quiet, content noises have grown into low moans muffled by your smacking lips and tangled tongues. dunk knows to keep the pace steady, knows how wrecked you'll be afterwards, and doesn't change a thing despite how you're now rocking back and forth with him.

just like the build-up, your release is drawn out. you want it so bad, you were clenching so hard. yet when it hits, your whole body—even your poor cunt—goes completely lax for a whole second before you're tensing and clenching so hard that it punches a half-sob, half-moan out of you. you're shaking so hard that a low, drawn-out groan starts, shaking along with you.

you've got dunk by the throat now, fingers squeezing and releasing the sides of his neck in a way that makes him lightheaded from the rush of blood that keeps coming in waves. you don't even realise you're doing it, and he lets out a broken, high-pitched moan right after you cum. a whine is pressed into the side of your face as your cunt milks him for all that he has, and his thighs shake at the feeling of you twitching as you come down.

you move your hand from his throat eventually, threading your fingers through his hair as you calm down from shaking to a slight tremble. you've got your face turned slightly to press against his that's turned to you on the bundle of clothing he made as a pillow for you, both of you slowly and sweetly nuzzling into one another like cats.

the summer sun still shines through the clouds, it's still humid, it hasn't stopped raining, and you both can't stop smiling.

couldn't stop thinking about this fic by @captainfern 😵‍💫

Golden afternoon sunshine glitters across the river’s surface, mottled between the gently swaying leaves of the willow above. The branches skim the water, a brush against canvas, as you lather honey wax soap between two wet hands. You hum quietly as you place the soap bar amongst the shingles before running your fingers over Dunk’s hair, threading bubbles through the lightly knotted strands.

The knight’s eyes are closed as he sits in the river’s shallows, water lapping around his bare hips. You kneel on the bank, his thick woolen cloak softening the press of stones beneath your legs as you extend your arms and scrub your fingers against his scalp.

“Hair like a horse’s,” you remark, taking a good fistful of his tawny brown hair and pulling it out, admiring the length of the soapy strands. “S’gotten long, hasn’t it?”

Dunk leans back into your touch, your other hand working at the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “You can cut it if you want.”

You laugh softly, twirling the thick lock around your finger. You give it a little tug, a small grunt leaving the back of his throat.

“No, I like it,” you mutter, before wiping the remaining suds across his freckled shoulders. You pat him firmly on the back, the slap of wet skin loud through the woodland around you. “Rinse, boy.”

Dunk does what he’s told and bends his large body forward. He dunks his head beneath the water, hands finding his hair to wash the soap away. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine, the muscles across his back and shoulders, but you make good work of ignoring the dip in his lower back and the curve of his arse. Instead, you watch a misty cloud of white float away downstream, before Dunk is pulling himself out of the water.

And you realise you didn’t get out of the way.

“Shit!” You exclaim, attempting to fall to the side, but to no avail. Dunk whips his head back, cold river water dashing across your face and chest as he shakes his head like a dog. You groan, slapping his shoulder as you get to your feet, other hand wiping down your face. “Every fucking time, Dunk.”

“Then you should expect it by now,” Dunk says, smiling up at you as you wring excess water from your sleeves. You shoot him a pointed look and he laughs. He wades out further into the river, turning and floating, watching you carefully. “Are you bathing too?”

You nod, already untying your dress. You shed your layers until you’re bare atop his cloak, bending to fold your clothes neatly atop the spun wool. It’s a juxtaposition to his own belongings, which are strewn haphazardly across the bank. Carefully, you toe the water and despite the pleasant spring air glowing warm around you, the water bites cold.

“It’s not bad,” Dunk tells you. He’s looking in your direction, but those sky-blue eyes of his are squarely on your face. Countless times you’ve been bare before him in manners like this, and countless times his eyes have never strayed from the lines of your face. He brings a hand out of the water, cupping some in his palm. “See?”

“Says the walking furnace himself,” you mumble as you take a deep breath, realising slowly wading in wasn’t going to do you any favours. So, you take a few large steps until you’re knee deep in the river, before diving straight in. Cold water rushes around you, and when you break the surface a few feet from Dunk, you gasp. “Ah! Dunk, you prick, it’s freezing!”

You splash him then, and he takes it with a wide grin split across his face. You splash him again, and he chuckles, reaching one strong arm out and taking hold of your wrist. Your other hand splashes too, water flying around you, and he grabs that wrist with his other hand. He holds you firmly, and before you know it, he’s dunking you under the water.

You’re under for barely a second, and he hoists you out, laughter echoing loudly through the clearing, glancing off the river’s surface like a skipping stone.

“I hate you,” you spit, but you don’t mean it. 

You regain control of your arms—he lets you go, not that you have to fight him—and you grab the nape of his neck. He laughs while you shove him beneath the water, holding him there like you mean to drown him. The knight lets you, of course, considering he gives you a victorious four seconds before he easily rights himself and comes up for air. You let out a playful yelp, swimming away as he takes a swipe at you. You kick yourself off the stony bottom, paddling away, but he gets a hand on your ankle and yanks you back so firmly that a wake pushes out around you, sending the water lapping higher up the shingled bank.

“Dunk!” You shout as you thrash about the water. You look around the forest, dappled sunlight passing across your eyes in short, golden bursts. You smile as you shout, “My closest friend is drowning me! A knight is drowning me! Help!”

Dunk smiles, rolling his eyes. “Oh, hush. You deserve it.”

That night, beneath the ever-reaching cloak of darkness, you huddle by the fire, gnawing on a slightly stale roll of beef-stuffed bread. You had been reading your book—the only book you had, and which you had read eight times over yet—which now sits at your feet. There’s a slight chill in the air that licks at the flames in such a way they look to be dancing atop the gathered branches. Dunk approaches from tending to the horses, pulling his thick cloak from his shoulders. You look up, mouth full and cheeks protruding, as Dunk bends and wraps his cloak around your body.

“Y’do’ h’v t’do dat,” you say around your dinner, and he looks at you strangely as you chew.

“D’you just cast a spell on me?” He asks, shaking his head as he settles down beside you.

You slap his thigh, chewing and finally swallowing. You shrug your shoulders, gesturing to the heavy cloak now shrouding you. “You don’t have to do that,” you repeat, clearer now.

“Right, then I’ll take it back.” Dunk reaches a hand out, but you lean away.

“No, no, whatever, thank you,” you say quickly, enjoying the added layer and the heat as the nightly chill rustles the dead leaves on the ground around you. Dunk just huffs, amused, reclining back against the trunk of the willow. You look down at your half-eaten roll then, sighing through your nose before offering it to him. “You can have the rest.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No, you need to eat.”

“This is my second roll.”

“Exactly,” Dunk says, eyes flitting down your covered frame for just a second, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks back at you. “You need to eat. I’d make you a third if we had any rolls left.”

You shake the bread roll in front of his face, a strip of salt beef hanging out the bitten end. “I’ve eaten. Have the rest.”

“No, you need to eat.”

“Dunk, I’ve eaten. I’m full.”

“No, you’re not.”

You roll your eyes. “Take the fucking bread.”

Dunk eyes the food sceptically for a moment, then looks back to you. “Are you sure?”

“Take the bread or I’ll throw it at your big head.”

Dunk takes it without another word, his sword-calloused fingers brushing yours. He takes a large bite, chewing contently as you lean back against the tree as well. Your shoulders knock together, and you feel the heat radiating off of him despite his thin tunic and fraying summer cloak he insists he mends himself—despite your sewing skills being considerably better than his (which, in itself, is not difficult considering his are… poor).

You take the corner of the cloak, your thumb immediately poking through a hole there. He watches you, eyes wide and glistening. There are crumbs around his lips.

“You need to let me mend this,” you tell him, wiggling your thumb for emphasis.

“I can do it.”

“I’ve mended every cloak you’ve had since we were children,” you say pointedly, tugging on the hole. It rips a little bigger, and he makes a face. You hide your smile. “My needlework is much better than yours.”

He huffs. “I mended my trousers just this morning.”

In the semi-darkness, your eyes find a patch of poorly stitched fabric beneath his right knee.

You laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Dunk takes a rough bite of the bread roll, shaking his head as he chews. “Some friend you are.”

—✿—

Four days later, you and Dunk ride your horses along a well-trodden path. It rings around a dense thicket of woodland, and you listen to the way in which the trees jostle their leaves and branches together as the breeze blows through them. Birdsong filters out between the canopy too. You close your eyes, seated comfortably in your saddle as you ride Chestnut.

Ahead of you however, several hooded figures jump out onto the dirt road, brandishing jagged daggers. Dunk reacts before you, one strong arm shooting out to seize hold of Chestnut’s reins and pull you to an abrupt stop. Chestnut huffs in protest as Dunk manoeuvres himself and Thunder in front of you, the sturdy warhorse barely blinking as the three men advance.

“Pretty horse y’ve got,” one of the men says, gesturing to Thunder with the point of his dagger. The man’s eyes lift over to you a moment later, and he smiles a mouth full of silver as he gestures at you next. “Pretty wee lady y’ve got, too.”

Dunk’s face is set in stone, a steely flash in his eyes as he dismounts. All three men snap their eyes away from you to peer up at the hulking mass of a man standing before them. Dunk stands taller than Thunder’s withers, and he isn’t a small horse by any means.

One of the men falters on his sentence, concern flashing across his face, but the man who had first spoken takes a brave—or, you think, rather foolish—step forward, dagger outstretched. Dunk’s hand is balled tight on the pommel of his sword, which rests faithfully at his hip.

“Coin,” the man instructs simply. His eyes shoot up to you again, and you feel a worried chill creep up your spine. A sickly sort of nausea spindles through your diaphragm too. The man looks back at Dunk, dagger brandishing. “Or we can take the lady—”

Dunk rips his sword from its rope sheath and points it at the man. The other two take a few large steps back. Dunk grips the sword, the blade unwavering as he angles it directly at the man’s face.

“Speak one more word and you lose a hand,” Dunk grits out, the muscles in his jaw working. You watch, slightly helpless, from your saddle. Dunk nods towards the other two men, who still clutch their daggers in dirt-stained fingers. “Well? Anything to say?”

The first man scowls. “You—”

Dunk spins his wrist and shifts forward, blade of his sword coming down hard on the man’s hand. Blood splatters outwards in stripes of red silk, painting the earth like a bug squashed beneath a thumb. The man lets out a harrowing scream, his dagger hitting the reddened earth with a dull thud as he backs away, cradling his hand now. A large, deep gash splits across the side of his hand, cutting beneath the thumb knuckle in a bloody display of muscle and bone.

“Fucking hell!” One of the other men shouts, before proceeding to sprint back into the shadows of the forest alongside his friend, scarpering like a pair of rats. The injured man stumbles back, sending Dunk a look of pure fright, before vanishing into the woods, leaving a dotted trail of blood in his wake.

Dunk kicks the dagger away, watching it skitter off into the woodlands underbrush, before turning to you. He approaches slowly, placing a gentle hand on your calf.

“Are you alright?” He asks, wiping the tip of his sword through the dirt.

“Fine,” you tell him. Your eyes find his, which are brimming with worry, before you allow yours to rise to the forest line. You sigh. “You should’ve cut his hand off.”

Dunk sheaths his sword, frowning. “I was… I was trying to be intimidating. I didn’t—I mean, if he tried to get to you, I would’ve… I would’ve maybe, you know—”

You reach down and pet your friend gently on the top of his head. “Too noble for your own good, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, and he’s still holding your calf. “Thieves like that are mostly harmless. I didn’t…” He looks up at you then. “Should I have…?”

You shake your head. “You did great, Dunk. Very brave, and very strong.”

Dunk bows his head, bashful. He gives your calf one last firm pat before pulling himself up and into his own saddle. He offers you one last glance over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m fine, Dunk.”

He nods too, turning. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, still smiling as your eyes find his shoulders and back. You see the mass of muscle beneath the material that covers him, and you can’t help the weight of your smile and the warmth in your chest that quickly replaces your feeling of nausea.

—✿—

Two days after that, the springtime sun shines warmly against your back as you and Dunk traipse the sun-soaked cobbled streets of Oldtown. The towering knight loiters close behind you as you browse the market stalls, air swimming with flowery incense and freshly baked breads. Dunk lugs a few linen sacks of supplies in his arms, carrying them easily, as you give him yet another parchment-wrapped parcel of who knows what.

He lets you slip it into one of the sacks. “What is that?”

“Cake,” you say simply.

The frown that graces his face is light as he fights a smile. “You can’t keep buying cake. Our coin is scarce, and should be spent on things we need.”

You shoot him a pointed look over your shoulder, replying light-heartedly, “Well, it’s my coin and I need cake. Shut up.”

Dunk doesn’t argue, and instead follows you through the crowd. You linger ahead though as Dunk lags behind, hyper-aware of his large size taking up a considerable amount of the thoroughfare. He apologises under his breath as he accidentally bumps someone, and he tries to keep his arms tucked in as he holds onto all the produce you had insisted on purchasing.

When he finally catches up to you, after being cursed at by an elderly woman, you’re standing before a market stall with a wide grin split across your pretty face. Dunk watches you laugh softly at something the vendor says—the vendor, who happens to be a very attractive man around your age—before offering a response. And whatever you say makes the vendor smile even wider, a mouth full of flashing ivory.

Something solid churns deep in Dunk’s chest. It settles deep in the chambers of his heart.

He sidles up to you as casually as possible, body casting a long shadow across the stall. The vendor looks up, and Dunk almost feels guilty in the delight that greets him when the vendor’s smile vanishes.

You lift your head, smiling at your companion. “Dunk, what do you think?”

His eyes pull away from the vendor to where you’re showing him… another cake.

He huffs. “M’lady.”

It’s small, probably an easy fit in the palm of your hand, decorated with segments of blackberries and dusted with glittering sugar. His eyes flit from the little cake to your face, where you look at him with glossy eyes he swears he can see his reflection in—all pleading and begging and looking just the way you did when he met you all those years ago. Except now, you’re no longer surrounded by the grime of Flea Bottom. You’re here, together, in a tightly-packed market in Oldtown, clean and well-fed and smelling of honey and horse.

“One more,” you whisper. “This one looks good.”

“I’m certain you said that earlier,” Dunk mutters, but doesn’t argue. 

He nods at the vendor, who hurries to offer you a square of parchment to wrap the little cake in. You beam, and Dunk feels something glowing from his chest, warm against the bone of his sternum. He hands the vendor the right coin before the two of you move off, heading back through the market, footsteps audible against the cobbled ground.

“Thank you,” you say suddenly, shifting to the side to lean your cheek against his arm. The muscle of his bicep is pillowy and warm against your face, and you peer up at him as you take a gentle hold of his wrist as he hefts the loot of the trip. “Thank you, Dunk.”

He smiles down at you, a few strands of hair framing his face. “Y’welcome.”

—✿—

Evening falls in a curtain of pale oranges and yellows as you lounge across the mattress. The inn room around you is lit up in those colours, sunlight streaming in through the small window that overlooks one of Oldtown’s many winding alleys. You lie comfortably in your chemise, candles burning near the iron-framed bed, deflated pillows piled behind you. Paper rustling is all that fills the room as you read, the book resting in your lap.

The room’s door opens and Dunk ducks in. You greet him.

He stands over the bed and holds something out to you. “Here.”

You place your book aside, taking in his slightly flushed appearance. “What…?”

The knight holds a book out towards you, leather-bound and clean of wear and tear. Your mouth parts into a small gasp as you gently take the book, admiring it and hefting its weight in your hands.

“Dunk,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’ve read your book a hundred times over by now, so I thought a new one’d suit you well.”

You brush your fingers down the neatly bound spine. “Dunk…”

Tossing it aside, you all but throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him to you. He laughs at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around your middle, cheeks heating as you murmur thanks into his shoulder. You pull back after a moment, but his hands rest on your hips and your fingers remain interlinked behind the column of his neck.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that?” You mutter, cocking your head and appraising the pink tint across his lightly freckled cheeks.

It flushes to his ears. “You deserve it. That and more, t’be fair.”

You chuckle at that, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. You thread them slowly, scratching against his scalp, and the sound that leaves his throat is nothing less than a purr as his eyes close and he leans his head back into the contact. The grip he has on your hips tightens. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.

“Like what?” You query, your other hand resting high on his shoulder, toying with the seam of his tunic.

Dunk opens his eyes. “Huh?”

“You said I deserve that and more,” you tell him. “Like what? What else do I deserve?”

He groans quietly, warring with himself as his eyes, lids half-lowered and sluggish in their movements, trace the features of your face.

“So much more,” he whispers. The hold on your hips draws firmer and you feel a giddy sort of heat take over you, settling in your stomach and between your thighs. Dunk continues, corner of his mouth curling up into a shadow of a grimace. “More than I can give you.”

You pout at his words, fingers in his hair taking the strands firmly between knuckles and tugging. He sucks in a breath, and you hold him as you speak.

“Don’t act the fool,” you say. “You give me everything I want, Dunk.”

He frowns.

“You do,” you challenge, hand not in his hair coming to cup his cheek now. His skin is warm and slightly dewy to the touch, testament of a man having spent the last hour searching the warm, narrow streets of Oldtown for a book. A book for you. You swipe your thumb along his cheekbone. “Now tell me: what else do I deserve?”

Dunk opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes sweep down your face again, lingering on the shape of your lips, then the lines of your nose. They reach your eyes and he releases a pained sound—a sound punched from his gut, dragged across a whimper so intimate that it settles your heartbeat between your thighs.

“You deserve everything,” he whispers finally, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. Touching, a nervous movement, before his lips close and he’s trapping a grunt between his teeth as you scratch at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, speaking like your touch might put him to sleep. “Everything I can give you.”

The hand you have on his face shifts to his jaw and you work the muscle and bone beneath the pads of your fingers. “And what can you give me?”

Dunk groans, head lolling to the side, resting against your forearm while you continue to rub at the nape of his neck, hair between your fingers. You let go of his jaw and swipe your hand across his forehead, pushing loose strands away so you can get a good look at his face. He’s redder now, his blush coloured darker in the shadows of the room. His freckles blur together beneath the flickering candlelight too, and you allow yourself to feather the tips of your fingers across the ones high on his cheekbones. You map them like the stars as he rubs his head against your forearm like a cat.

“Anything you want,” Dunk whispers finally, and it’s broken around a whine. Heat prickles at the back of your neck, blood pumping hot in your core as your body reacts to his audible need. Beneath the thin material of your chemise, you’re on fire. Dunk finally opens his eyes, observing you when the silence stretches for just a moment too long. He says your name, soft, tender, before he speaks. “Please.”

You smile, tucking a few thin locks of his hair behind his ear. You lean in, lips ghosting across the warm skin of his cheek. “I want you.”

A rumbling groan is ripped from his throat as he shifts his head to the side, chasing your words before they can disappear into the candlelit air. His mouth slots to yours so easily as you turn your head too, and another deep sound leaves his mouth as your lips work together. You grip his hair tightly, angling his head back so you can draw him in even closer.

Your name falls from his mouth, followed by a whisper of “my sweet girl,” before your tongues draw together. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, clutching firmly, fingers flexing as if you would draw away from him. You whimper in response, tugging at his hair.

“C’mon,” he mutters against your mouth as his hands find your hips again. He shifts you backwards, hefting you like a sack of grain until your head hits the stack of pillows. You smile into the kiss, pulling his hair into a closed fist at the back of his head. He groans, teeth catching on your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

You sit up slightly, forcing him to back up. Tugging your chemise off, the amber-lit warmth of the room greets your bare tits, and you toss the garment aside as Dunk gapes at you, eyes firmly on your chest.

“Dunk,” you chuckle, taking in his shocked—pleased—expression. “You’ve seen me bare before.”

“Not like this,” he utters, voice dark. He leans in then, and you suck in a gasp as he presses his face between the valley of your breasts. His hands find the small of your back, hugging you to him, and the skin of his face is burning red-hot against your chest. His mouth opens and he groans loudly, holding you tightly. “Oh gods.”

You seize his head and pull him back to you. You kiss him hard this time—it’s not gentle, and it’s not tender. It’s teeth and tongue and spit and fuelled by everything pent up inside you. A glass bottle uncorked, liquid need overflowing as you lick the salt from his tongue. His clothing comes next: blindly, you work his tunic over his arms and shoulders, pulling away from him so he could throw it across the room. He’s on you like a leaping hound, pinning you back against the pillows while your hands find the ties of his trousers.

There’s a molasses-thick desire seeping into your belly as you untie his trousers. It consumes you, hot and sticky, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth as your fingers brush across the tent in the material of his trousers. He groans in return, the sound breathless and almost embarrassed, as you shuck his trousers down and start tugging at his breeches.

He pulls back. “Sweet girl, hold on—”

You pause, panting, fingers on the knot at the band of his breeches. “Are you okay?”

“M’so good,” Dunk whispers, kissing you one last time on the lips. It’s chaste, almost polite, something akin to an apology before he leans back. A pout is halfway formed across your lips, nipples hardening at the loss of warmth against your front, before you feel his hands run down your back to the bunched fabric of your smallclothes. His eyes find yours as he slowly, slowly begins guiding them down. “Is this okay?”

You nod, admiring the shadowed lines of his face in the candlelight. A small dip in his brow draws his face into a mask of disbelief as he gently draws your smallclothes down your hips, over the curve of your arse, and then down your thighs. You lift yourself to aid him, eyes on the way his tongue finds the corner of his mouth again, his pupils blown wide. Soon, your thin linen undergarments are discarded and you lie completely bare before him.

“Here she is…” Dunk whispers, and it’s so quiet you’re certain it wasn’t meant for you.

His large hands find the plush of your thighs, kneading the flesh there as he parts them. His movements are unhurried as he brings them wider, and wider still, until the slick heat of your core glistens wet in the flickering candlelight. The sound that leaves him is pained, stretched thin across a moan as his fingers ghost down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He traces circles as he looks.

Your heart clatters against your ribcage like a marble in a jar and you swear you’re losing your breath. A hand you barely register as yours reaches out, feeling along the line of hair above his breeches. The muscle is cloaked in a layer of fat that you dig your fingers into, and you taste that molasses-thick desire between your teeth as his name rolls over your tongue.

“Put your mouth on me,” you say when you draw his attention away from your core. Your fingers dip, tracing the line of hair, brushing over the tent in his breeches. There’s a jerk of mass beneath the fabric. It sends your heartbeat straight between your legs.

The small dent in his brow deepens as he shudders out a breath, eyes on yours. “I’ve never…”

“S’alright,” you tell him, other hand finding his face. You pat his cheek tenderly. “We’ll learn—we’ll learn together, okay?”

His lips part, but he nods. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes as he settles further onto the bed, mattress and bedframe groaning. You can feel the callouses on the top of his palms against you, and his hands twist from your inner thighs to the backs of them. You yelp when he suddenly pushes your thighs up, thumb and fingers on either side of your knee’s undersides. He bends them up until they rest against the softness of your belly. 

The angle is exposing, and there is a fleeting moment of fear that passes through your mind. It is squashed immediately when a boarish grunt leaves Dunk’s throat as he bends forward, squeezing your legs to anchor himself, before his breath is ghosting across you.

You writhe, gasping out, “Dunk, Dunk, please—”

His eyes appear black in the dim light as he peers up at you, hair damp on his forehead already. He watches you carefully as he blows out a breath—the sensation against your slick folds slicing your sentence mid-air. You moan softly and Dunk repeats the action, tepid air a finger-like stroke against the blazing warmth of your cunt. You manage to wriggle an arm between the fold of your legs, your fingers threading through his hair again.

He takes the encouragement: still looking up at you, Dunk gently presses his mouth to your core. It’s a kiss, a press of lips against velvet warmth, before they part. His tongue follows, a tentative split between your folds as his head shifts. His nose bumps your clit, and when a short “ha-ah” slips over the point of your tongue, he chases—tongue finding, searching, until you call a stretched-out whine of his name when he finally gets it.

“Dunk, yes, fuck,” you ramble, fisting his hair when he flattens his tongue. Something electric fizzles down your spine, shoulders to hips, as he works with a pressure just slightly too little, but somehow it works. It works because it’s him, and it works because you cant your hips and gently urge his head forward. And because he’s a good knight, your good knight, he listens, his lips drawing around your clit in a wet suction that punches a moan from you. “Du–uh–nk, oh gods.”

A thick grumble vibrates against you, his eyelids fluttering. His mouth shifts, tongue splitting back down your folds as you pant. He continues to watch you, eyes glassy. You nod, imploring, when the point of his tongue finds your hole, and you tighten your grip on his hair when he presses in. Like everything else about him, his tongue is thick—a thick press inside you that pulls you apart. It draws a pressure into the base of your belly as he licks into you, the line of his nose pressing deep against your puffy clit.

You wriggle beneath him, trapped under the fold of your own thighs as he pins you to the mattress and takes what he wants—gives you what you need. And he gives it to you, ever the quick-learner, with his tongue pulling and pushing in broad strokes. In, out, curling inwards as his head shifts. He chases the gasps that fall from your mouth, the little whimpers you try and quell as his tongue flicks in. He hums, pleased at the way your body heats up beneath him, and he feels his cock jerk in his breeches when the vibrations of his hum travel straight through you. You keen, holding his head tighter against your core. He breathes deeply, smelling and tasting you, face slick and flushed.

Is this good? he wants to ask. Am I making you feel good? teeters painfully on his tongue, but he keeps them locked in. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. Not now, not ever. The sounds you make spur him on, ignite a spark deep in his chest. His closest friend. His. His sweet girl writhing and moaning for him.

Sickly sweet now, the molasses-thick need crystalises in your womb, and you feel something tugging. A deep-seated pressure that rocks your heartbeat through your core, blood pumping hot in your veins. There’s a tension in your thighs too, and they tremble in his hold as his tongue splits you apart. The sounds are wet, and Dunk is grunting, and you’re trying not to fall too deeply into it—but you can’t help it. All you can think of, all you can hear, all you can taste is Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, and that pressure inside you builds to its breaking point. Your fingers grip his hair tightly as you attempt to grind yourself against his face.

“Dunk,” you whine, calling for him as your body shakes. “Dunk, s’good—m’gonna—”

You burst apart when his tongue dips deep inside you and he groans into your heat. The pressure inside you fissures and your cunt clenches tightly around him, heartbeat spiking as you call for him over and over, strung across breathy whimpers that seem to rise into the ceiling. He licks you through it, face unyielding as you tremble under the weight of his palms.

After a long moment, pleasure spiking sharp in the pit of your stomach, you pull him away from you by his hair. The knight groans, eyes finally closing, his face slick with you, lips kiss-bruised and wet as he whispers your name. He squeezes your thighs too, before gently placing your legs back against the sheets.

“Did I… was that okay?” Dunk can finally ask, eyes roaming down your naked form. They fall from your face, to your chest and stomach, to where you drool out between your thighs. The sight makes him moan, one hand resting over his lap.

“So good,” you assure him, picking yourself off the pillows now. Dunk swallows, watching you as you close the gap and kiss him. He’s shocked, frozen for a split-second as you lick yourself from his lips. The loud moan you offer him quickly pulls him back to solid earth, and he opens his mouth to kiss you back. You mutter against his lips, “You did so well, Dunk.”

He preens beneath the praise, ears burning hot as your tongues meet. He huffs into the kiss, his own pleasure thick in his trousers, the taste and smell and heat of you swimming in his head. But you seem to know exactly how he’s feeling, and your hand finds the ties of his breeches once more. You pull them loose as your mouths move together.

You dip a hand in and wrap your fingers around his cock. Dunk breaks the kiss with a low groan, forehead resting against yours as you pull him from the linen of his breeches. He’s warm and solid in your hand, velvet skin across steel as he pumps hot in your hand. Both of you look down.

“Gods…” You whisper, giving him a little stroke. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. But here, in the privacy of this little inn room, bathed in ichored candlelight, it’s so much different. Your fingers work lightly, feeling the subtle give of skin. There are soft, shallow ridges and a vein you can feel working up the back of his shaft, and he’s so warm and so real against you. You whisper again, “So pretty, Dunk.”

He offers you a whiny breath as your fingers press beneath the dip of his cockhead. It’s blushing a deep pink and pearling wet at the slit and he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he’s frowning like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your hand is so much smaller than his—the sight of it wrapped around his cock making it jerk.

“So big…” You think aloud as your fingers move gently.

Dunk breathes deeply, chest heaving. His hands are on your hips, gripping you firmly, smoothing stuttering circles with his thumbs.

You pull away from him. He looks at you, eyes nearly black.

“Want you,” you tell him simply, fingers wrapping around the base of him now. You give him a tight squeeze. “Need you.”

“Gods above,” Dunk gasps out, but he’s already nodding. A thick, viscous heat clings to his ribs, pulls at the strings of his heart as he lets you work your fingers around the thick of his cock. He dips and kisses your forehead—he can’t help it. “Okay, sweet girl, I’ll give it to you.”

You smile then, retracting your hand. He hisses at the lack of contact, watching you shuffle back until you’re lying amongst your throne of pillows. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen. His sweet girl, spreading her legs with a smile on her pretty face. All for him.

The thoughts make him dizzy as he quickly shucks his clothing down his legs, kicking it away. He kneels on the bed, bedframe creaking beneath the weight of his body, but he ignores it. He draws in close to you, large hands finding the backs of your thighs and folding you again. The sound it pushes from your chest—“ha–uh–fu–uck, Dunk,”—is breathy and sweet in the amber-lit air between you. It has his cock jerking where it sits heavy and leaking against the mass of his thigh as he settles before you.

It’s easy to fold you like this. He leans over you, abdomen contracting as he holds himself up enough not to crush you. Up enough, too, to take one hand and clutch the base of his cock, guiding it to your cunt. You whimper his name and the sound goes directly to his brain, fills his lungs like a puff of smoke. It’s heady and dizzying and he can’t help but moan as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit.

“Dunk,” you whine, the pressure between your folds sparking something in your lower belly again. Your cunt flutters around nothing when he taps the head against your swollen clit, then slowly drags it back down to notch at your hole. You suck in a breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he’s listening. He clutches himself in a lightly trembling hand and carefully, almost too slowly, pushes in. Your pussy opens up for him, slick and warm, sucking in the head with a wet clutch that has him losing his breath. It’s tight and unlike nothing he’s ever experienced before.

You whimper, hands gripping the sheets beside you. “Dunk, please, keep going.”

He hadn’t realised he’d stopped.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, then shifts his hips. Such a good listener. 

He leans in, cock splitting you apart. He’s thick and heavy, dragging against your walls in one solid movement. It’s intoxicating, and you whine, the sound rattling your teeth as it’s wrenched from the back of your throat. You’re so full, and he’s still moving.

Dunk mutters your name like a prayer as he feeds his cock into you, marvelling at the way you open for him. Deeper and deeper. He holds you firm, folding you into the mattress, pinned beneath his strong chest. The heat that envelops him, he’s certain, burns hotter than any flame in Westeros.

He stills after a moment. The head of his cock is wedged right up beneath the plug of your cervix, and there’s a slowly soothing ache somewhere in your pelvis. You can feel it, feel it festering like a bruise. Dunk’s cock gives a feeble jerk inside you, and you wince just slightly, so full, reaching so deep.

His face drops. Worried. “Are you—?”

“M’okay,” you whisper. The pain is slowly dissipating as your cunt flutters around him. You see him bite back a groan, pleasure fighting against concern. You smile at him softly. “So good, Dunk. You feel so good inside me.”

Dunk’s still frowning, but you can tell your words have hit him square across the face. He releases a shuddering breath, and his cock twitches inside you again.

“Please move,” you tell him, purposefully tightening the muscles of your core, sucking him in even tighter. His eyes flutter, and you finally get to hear that groan he had been wrangling with. It’s hoarse, flung through gravel. You huff loudly. “Please, Dunk.”

“Okay, okay,” Dunk utters, soothing.

Holding your thighs, he pulls out until just the head rests inside. He takes a deep breath, then pushes back in, and his composure shatters completely when you attempt to arch, moaning. He’s making you feel like this. He is. He hounds after that feeling, pulling his cock out again and repeating the movement until he settles into a pace he didn’t know he could keep.

“That’s it, just like that,” you ramble, tits bouncing against your chest as Dunk’s thrusts lean heavy. Your knees near your head, the pressure on your belly making him feel even deeper. The ache inside you has completely vanished, replaced now by that viscous heat you’ve come to love. “Dunk, fuck, so—so good.”

The bed creaks in protest as he drives you deeper and deeper into the mattress, his strokes becoming more confident. He’s a quick learner, you already know, and you can feel the pride leeching from him as he breaks you apart from the inside out. He’s basking in the little sounds that fall from you as the head of his cock nudges deep. Thick, stretching, rolling.

You’re so tight around him. Warm and slick and everything he’d dared to imagine late at night, bent against a tree with his cock in hand. And you take him so well, sucking him in as his hips roll, skin-slapping-skin. The iron headboard knocks against the wooden wall, but he pays it no mind, thoughts only of you, you, you. His girl. His perfect girl.

“Harder,” you moan, fisting the sheets.

Dunk listens.

He wrestles your legs onto his shoulders, angling himself even deeper now and thrusting deep. You yelp, then moan, at the angle and the fact he nails that perfect spot inside you on the third thrust. He hears it, hears the shift in your moans, feels the clench of your pussy, all hot and vice-like around him. And he follows it, tracing it like a line to treasure. Rolling hips, creaking bed, bear-like grunts.

“Like that?” He utters, but he knows. He’s folding you in half and he knows.

You can barely answer, pressure tight in your womb. His cock drags you closer to another release, bubbling hot as he pins you beneath the thick, muscled mass of his body. He’s a walking furnace, and you feel it closer now. Fire seeps from his skin. Sweat traps along your front, along your back, building beneath the joints of your knees as he fucks you.

“Y–yeah,” you manage to reply, but that’s all you have energy for. Your pleasure is stacking deep inside you and you’re losing your ability to form proper words.

Dunk grunts in response.

Hair hangs over his forehead, some tacked to his skin with sweat. The muscles in his arms work as he holds himself over you. He’s so thick, so strong. You manage to lift an arm to squeeze at his bicep, fingers indenting flesh. You want to bite it, but he has you trapped so firmly against the mattress that you’re sure you couldn’t move an inch if you tried.

Your pussy squeezes around him again as pressure builds. It’s familiar now, and you know where it comes from, and where it’s going to lead you, as it crawls down your spine and spans out across your womb.

You clutch Dunk’s arm with one hand, the other useless at your side, limbless and pleasure-lax. “Dunk.”

“Yeah?” He looks down at you, a light furrow in his brow. “You’ve got something for me?”

You nod. “M’so close.”

Dunk huffs, pace remaining. Firm and even, cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you. His hips roll, the mattress shifts, the bedframe groans and knocks heavy against the wall. Candles flicker around you, white wax dripping, rolling in pearls. His eyes are on you, blue smothered beneath black. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

That makes you moan. A feather-soft “Dunk,” followed by a louder, more desperate, “Oh, gods, Dunk—!” You shatter for a second time then, body giving in. Your cunt clutches tight around his cock, slick gushing as he fucks you through it, dribbling out and down the curve of your arse as he rocks in, in, in. His movements falter, just slightly, as you cry out for him, release pressing heavy on your belly as he folds you.

“M’here, m’here,” Dunk coos, bending to kiss you. Your legs press even deeper, and you whine into the kiss. Trembling, legs shaking, heart seeping deep into the marrow of your bones. Dunk pulls back, thrusts slowing by a fraction as his cock jerks. He moans like a wounded man, “Oh, sweet girl, I’m—I’m—”

It’s a sudden, solid heat in his pelvis. His cock jumps where it’s seated against the base of your cervix, and his balls draw tight where they rest against the curve of your arse. His hips stutter, thighs tensing, then he’s spilling. Inside you.

It feels thicker, hotter. It knocks through his diaphragm and he groans through it, jaw working as he shoves himself to the hilt inside you. He feels the way your pussy wraps to take him, sucks him in even deeper as he empties himself in white-hot stripes. The force in which it leaves him is dizzying, and his eyes drop closed, mouth parting.

And he can’t help himself.

“I love you,” he breathes out as he comes, spilling hot. It leaves him in shudders as he holds himself over you, trapping you, keeping you. He huffs, fending off a groan as he rolls his hips to a stop. “Gods above.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment after that. The mattress settles as you still. You pant, and so does Dunk, as pleasure fizzles like the bubbles of ale.

Dunk flushes even deeper when he shakes himself from his haze. He opens his eyes properly, peering down at you as if he’d caused you injury.

“M’sorry,” he says quickly, scanning your face. “My sweet girl, I’m—”

You shake your head, heartbeat calming. “S’okay—oh, Dunk, it’s okay.”

You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing.

“I love you,” you tell him through a whisper. There’s a quiet in the room that feels warm against your skin. You can hear music somewhere below you: the muffled plucking of strings, the clamour of singing voices. You stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. “More than anything.”

His reply is to bend and kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, but there’s a strength behind it that tastes of the knight you know.

“You’re too good to me,” Dunk mumbles against your lips, echoing your words from earlier. “My sweet girl. Too good for me.”

You smile and kiss him harder.

———

big man fold me please i’m begging

tags 🌿

Maekar

The first time you suggested the idea, Maekar looked at you as though you were an idiot. He saw no point in using fancy products when lye soap worked just as well, and he certainly did not need you to wash his hair. To quote him, your idea was “the dumbest shit he’d ever heard.”

Did he sleep in the guest room that night? 

Yes.

Did that stop you from asking him again? 

“Fuck no,” as the Anvil would say.

The next time you brought it up, you wore the nightdress from your wedding night and suggested that the two of you take a bath together. Funny enough, Maekar was far more amenable to that proposal.

So here you were, sitting on the edge of your marble bathtub, with Maekar seated in front of you, the warm water reaching his chest.

“I still think this is dumb,” he mumbled, trying to save face, annoyed by your ability to play him like a fiddle.

“Don’t be like that. You’re going to love this,” you promised.

He grunted in response.

You poured some rosemary brew into his hair and thoroughly massaged his scalp, working it through the strands.

“Is that fucking rosemary?!” Maekar complained loudly.

You pressed a little harder against his scalp, rendering him momentarily speechless. A pleased groan escaped his lips as you picked up an ivory comb. The tool allowed you to properly massage his head.

The groan was the first of many, and before long, Maekar had forgotten all about the rosemary scent in his hair. Your prince became so lost in your touch that he complained loudly when you finally stopped.

“I thought this was dumb?” you teased, earning yourself a glare.

Maekar shrugged as though he did not care, but you did not miss the blush creeping across his shoulders.

“Well?” you pressed, keeping your hands folded in your lap.

He groaned again but eventually gave in.

“That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had...” the Anvil grumbled.

You chuckled, triumphant.

“Now, was that so hard?”

The teasing may have gone a little too far, for suddenly two strong arms wrapped around your waist, and before you knew it, you were falling into the bath. Your clothes were soaked, water splashed across the floor, and Maekar had the audacity to grin at you.

It was your turn to glare.

“Didn’t you promise to share a bath with me?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes but let him pull you against his chest nonetheless.

Valarr

You loved Valarr’s hair, perhaps even more than his eyes.

In a world full of white-haired Targaryens with purple eyes, with the occasional black-haired one like his father, your prince was one of the few to naturally sport two hair colors.

Alas, Valarr’s hair was not only different in color but also in texture. As a result, the products that worked wonders on his brown locks were harmful to his white streak. It pained you to feel the dry strands between your fingers.

It eventually reached a point where you could no longer sit idly by and watch him neglect his hair, so you decided to take the matter into your own hands. Though somewhat confused by your concern, Valarr agreed to let you wash it.

While he patiently sat in the bath, you skimmed through your herbology book, searching for the best brew to restore the white streak.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself over something so insignificant,” Valarr argued, absently playing with the bathwater. “Any concoction would suffice to wash it.”

You rolled your eyes and settled on a lavender brew.

“I know princes do not concern themselves with their hair as much as princesses do,” you conceded as you sat behind him. “Otherwise, Aegon would not have been so eager to shave his head.”

Valarr chuckled and leaned into your touch, allowing you to work through his hair, carefully washing every strand until his head smelled of nothing but lavender.

“Probably because our skills as warriors and diplomats are more useful to the realm,” he teased.

You gently tugged on his hair in reprimand.

“The realm has its priorities. I have mine,” you replied. “Tilt your head back, please.”

Valarr obliged, allowing you to rinse his hair with warm water. Only once every trace of the lavender brew had been washed away did you pour a few drops of lavender oil into your palms, warm it between your hands, and gently massage it into the young prince’s scalp.

“This isn't unpleasant,” he admitted.

You hummed in acknowledgment.

“According to my book, you're supposed to leave it in until your next bath.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“Are you telling me I'm going to smell like lavender during the Great Council, with all the realm's most prominent lords in attendance?”

You pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

“I’m sure you'll be great.”

“Seven save me...”

Daeron

Daeron hadn’t left his room in days and had forbidden any servant from allowing you past the threshold of his door.

Early in your relationship, you learned that the prince had a tendency to isolate himself whenever nightmares plagued him. No amount of pleading or blackmail would convince him to let you see him, let alone care for him. And so you remained powerless, watching from the corridor as a steady stream of wine and other spirits was brought to his chambers.

The procession eventually stopped on the fourth day of Daeron’s self-imposed quarantine, and the deafening silence coming from the prince’s bedchamber did nothing to soothe your anxiety.

The moment a servant stepped into the corridor, you ordered him to bring hot water and a few eggs for the prince’s bath. If the poor boy had any objections, your glare ensured they died on his tongue.

You entered as soon as the servant left and immediately covered your nose and mouth with the sleeve of your dress. The room reeked of spilled alcohol and sweat, so strongly that you resolved to give an earful to the incompetents who had dared leave a prince of the realm in such a state.

Fortunately, you had no difficulty finding him.

Daeron lay on the floor beside his bed, still wearing the clothes he'd worn three days earlier, a thin blanket draped over him. You knelt beside him and gently shook his shoulder in an attempt to wake him. He groaned in protest and weakly pushed your hand away.

“Just leave me be,” he slurred through his drunken haze.

“Daeron, it’s me,” you sighed, shaking his shoulder more firmly. “Get up.”

He turned his back on you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

Unfortunately for him, you had long since run out of patience for his self-destructive tendencies. Not after spending the last few days worried sick over him.

You shook him again.

“Get up, my love. The servant boy should be back any minute.”

“Whatever for?” he asked groggily.

“Your bath, dear. You reek.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, and at last he complied.

You helped him out of his clothes just as the servants returned. Once the tub had been filled with water and scented oils, you dismissed them, sending Daeron’s filthy garments away with them.

Your prince needed your help to steady himself as he climbed into the marble tub, and you gladly offered him your arm. Settling onto a wooden stool behind him, you watched as he groaned contentedly once his back rested against the ledge.

You poured rosemary brew into his hair and scrubbed vigorously, deaf to his complaints. His hair was a tangled mess, and it would take more than a single egg treatment to undo the damage. Once you deemed it clean enough, you gently cupped his jaw and tilted his head back.

“Close your eyes, dear heart.”

Daeron obeyed, and you used a small carafe to rinse the mixture from his hair. Only then did you crack a few eggs against the edge of the tub and work the mixture into his damp strands.

He shuddered at the strange sensation but remained silent.

Using your own comb, you carefully worked through the knots he had created, starting at the ends and working your way toward the roots to spare him as much pain as possible.

“I love you,” your prince murmured, slowly emerging from his drunken stupor.

“Then stop pushing me away and let me share your burdens, Daeron,” you scolded gently.

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken only by the soft sound of the comb gliding through wet hair.

“I dreamed you were dead,” he finally whispered, his voice strained with emotion. “And I cannot tell whether it was one of my dreams or a nightmare.”

You set the comb aside and moved to sit beside him. Taking his damp hand in yours, you pressed it flat against your heart.

“I’m here, Daeron. I cannot promise I’ll be here tomorrow or two weeks from now, but right now, I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes watered as a small smile crossed his face.

You returned to your stool behind him and resumed the patient task of untangling his hair.

Aerion

The prince was already in the bath when you walked in.

It was a golden bathtub with four dragon-shaped feet, large enough for six men to bathe comfortably at the same time. Aerion was an average-sized man—or so he proclaimed—but the enormous tub made him look smaller than he truly was.

You hid a smile as you approached him.

“You sent for me, my prince?”

The servants responsible for drawing his bath had thoughtfully added enough soap to conceal his nakedness. Aerion glanced at you as though you were merely another inconvenience, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

“Took you long enough, wench.”

You pulled a wooden stool closer and sat behind him.

“My apologies, Your Grace. I needed to gather my supplies before I could attend to you.”

He hummed and leaned back against the ledge, granting you easier access to his hair.

Wasting no time, you set to work on the royal mane, pouring a chamomile brew into your hands before massaging it into his scalp.

You remembered your confusion the first time you had been tasked with tending to the prince’s hair. The blood of the dragon was notoriously particular about such things, and no servant before you had lasted more than a month. To be fair, none of them possessed your knowledge of hair care.

You remembered when Aerion’s hair had been long enough to brush his shoulders. He would likely have grown it even longer had his father not objected. You did not mind caring for shorter hair, especially when the comb glided so easily through the silver strands.

The tension slowly left his shoulders beneath your touch.

“Why aren’t you using apple vinegar like last time?” Aerion asked, disguising a groan of pleasure as best he could.

“Because I do not wish to irritate your scalp further,” you replied indulgently.

He hummed in acknowledgment and left it at that.

You continued your work in silence, interrupted only occasionally by Aerion’s contented sighs.

Duncan

“You shouldn’t have wasted your money on me,” Dunk grunted when he spotted the wooden bathtub in your shared room.

Thanks to the hedge knight’s latest contract, you had enough coin to stay at the inn and rent two rooms: one for Egg, and one for you and Duncan. The little prince, whose voice had begun to break and whose legs seemed to grow longer by the day, had insisted on giving you some privacy.

Clever boy.

You rolled your eyes and urged Dunk to get into the bathtub before the water grew cold.

The hedge knight indulged you begrudgingly, and you turned around to give him time to undress and settle into the tub. A surprised gasp escaped him when he realized the basin was actually large enough to accommodate him.

“One of the many perks of staying in a region where giants are a common sight,” you explained, picking up a carafe of warm water and slowly pouring it over him.

His broad shoulders tensed at the contact.

“There’s no need for you to do that. I’m not so daft that I don’t know how to wash myself.”

You hummed in acknowledgment and began rubbing his back with a bar of lye soap. A delightful blush spread from his neck to the tips of his ears.

“You’re a wicked woman,” he exhaled in a strained voice, earning a chuckle from you.

“I’m only thanking you for your hard work,” you whispered, scrubbing the soap into his skin with a washcloth. “Don’t you enjoy it?”

He caught your wrist before the washcloth could wander any lower, the sudden movement sending water splashing onto the floor.

“I can take it from here,” he assured you, gently taking the washcloth from your hand.

“As you wish. I shall busy myself with your hair.”

Duncan knew how stubborn you could be and chose not to argue further.

A comfortable silence settled between you, accompanied only by the gentle slosh of water against the tub.

You poured a nettle brew into your hands and began massaging his scalp. Duncan stopped washing and leaned into your touch.

“It’s not so bad,” he finally admitted, settling comfortably against the ledge.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and continued your ministrations.

Lyonel

“Seven hells, woman! Don’t pull my hair so hard!” your stag hollered as you tried to comb through his unruly curls.

His sudden movements splashed water across the tiles and onto your dress.

“Might I remind you that you were the one asking for my help?” you groaned in exasperation. “Now stay still, or I’ll make you as bald as your brother!”

Lyonel scoffed indignantly but obediently leaned back against the ledge. You picked up the comb that had fallen to the floor and resumed the task of untangling his mane.

As you applied more shea butter to detangle his dark curls, you sighed at the absurdity of the situation. All of this because Lyonel’s brother was coming to Storm’s End. A man named Quentyn, who surpassed Lyonel in everything except hair—at least according to the Dowager Lady Baratheon, who made little effort to hide her favoritism toward her younger son.

Hence why you were currently in the bath chamber, helping Lyonel turn his hair into the most luscious, abundant curls in all the Stormlands. Only your stag would worry that his curls were not luxurious enough compared to a man with a bare scalp.

This sibling rivalry was as annoying as it was endearing.

“There,” you declared once his whole head was coated in shea butter. “Now it will need to sit for half an hour before we rinse it with cold water.”

Lyonel hummed in contentment.

“Can’t wait to show that son of a bitch my full head of hair.”

“You have the same mother, idiot.”

He waved a dismissive hand through the air.

“That’s irrelevant. I want the smug bastard to turn green with envy when he sees me.”

You nodded sarcastically.

“Serves him right for being your mother’s favorite.”

He turned toward you, a pleased smile stretching his lips.

“That’s why I love you—you get me.”

You rolled your eyes but pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"M'lord…" he bows and kneels before your father and you stop listening almost imediately. Something about hedge knights and vouching for him.

The first grape hits the hulking man on the forehead, causing him to shake his head and lose his line of thought. Stuttering as he starts over to plead his case. The next lands against his shoulder. Eliciting a quiet chuckle from your lips as to not interrupt your father to the point of harsher consequences than a reprimanding look. Dunk is almost through his speech when a third grape flies right past him. Yet, still it does the same as the others.

In return your father sighs, calling your name while running a hand over his beard. As if actually considering the request. You can't help but scoff at the thought. Who is this half giant? Who is this knight he talked about in a way as if it was the greatest affront to the Seven that no one claimed to remember him?

In a twisted way though, he is intriguing. Entertainment before the tourney started.

"Apologies, father." You mumble, turning to the pavilion with a lowered head instead.

The hedge knight however can't seem to stay away. Or maybe it is your subconscious that leads you back to him so frequently. Either way, your ways cross again and again around the camp grounds. And that's when, fed by the ale in Lyonel Baratheon's tent and and the recklessness of youth, you decide to give into the entertainment the Seven had been so gracious to provide. Come first light Dunk doesn't do a step that you don't do also. Silently at first. Unnoticed until a few hours in.

His quiet exasperation at the realisation, was a satisfaction you hadn't dreamt of receiving on this occasion. But of course he wouldn't say anything to anyone. What would he even say? So you continue following him around. A constant presence wherever he goes.

"Do you always slouch the that? Don't you know how impolite that is?" Uttered with a peal of laughter.

"M'lord…" Or "M'lady…" Voice lowered to a comical timbre and warped into his accent. of course followed by an entitled chortle.

Time makes you grow closer. Not so shy to stay at a distance anymore as you taunt. Pushing a hand between his shoulder blades to straighten is back to faking moving in his way to trip him.

Until he feels safe. Safe enough that one delicate, slipper-clad foot brings him to his knees. Mud splatters against the trim of your green dress and soaks through his clothes. None of it registers though through the laugh that bursts out of your lay with no chance to be held back even if you wanted to.

The sound breaks into a squeak when Dunk suddenly stands up. Entirely still, fists clenched at his sides until his knuckles stand out paler from the rest of his skin. He is entirely still, not just out of motion but like a statue.

"I've had fucking enough of you." He growls underneath his breath. The words just loud enough for you to hear over the chatter in the background.

Then one paw speeds forward to wrap securely around your wrist to pull you after him to a secluded corner by the stables.

Pushed down by one insistent touch, your knees hit the grass in front of the now even more hulking knight. Their pushed entirely out of your lungs, eyes darting around hidden spot only featuring the stable wall and a few bales of hay, before meeting the icy blue glare once more. But even with parted and quivering lips there is no sound coming out at the sight of the burning gaze coming from above.

"You are an insufferable brat." Dunk growls, stepping closer to firmly grab your chin to force your eyes on him. A rough thumb swiping just so over your trembling lower lip.

"Please…" The plead tumbles from your lips with shaky breaths and a split mind. Uncertain of what is about to happen next and at the same time there is a heat making your blood boil and urging you to find out.

However, whatever answer you expect, it is met with a mockingly sympathetic smile and a determined glint behind stormy pupils.

"P-Please…" He replies in a voice multiple octaves higher than his usual tone, coaxing a whimper from between your parted lips. "You had so much to say. Where has it all gone?"

Your mouth opens a little more in search of something to say, but no thought will materialise enough to make it out. At least not before two of Dunk's fingers push past. The digits laying heavy on your tongue, pushing it down and further yet until your throat constricts with a wet gagging sound.

The second it does, a wave of tears veils your own field of vision underneath fluttering lashes. concealing the glimmer that rises in his icy pupils. A twisted sense of enjoyment that makes is heart jump at the fully of your struggle to bicep your breathing calm.

The thick digits retract only to push in once more. A scoff sounding from above.

"Daddy never taught you how to handle the consequences of your actions? I'll teach you."

Dunk rips his fingers from your mouth, leaving a trail of saliva down your chin and a gasp on your lips as he doesn’t waste a moment to push you forward and bend you over the hay behind him. The rustling of clothes rings in your ears followed by the mud soaked hem of your skirt hurriedly being pushed upwards past your hips. The fabric cold and wet against your skin.

Yet the focus on the uncomfortable sensation is quickly diverted to the palm that makes harsh contact with your ass cheek. A cracking sound followed by a stinging pain through the right buttock. But Dunks palm doesn't stay on the warming flesh, doesn't rub over it to soothe it. Instead it pulls away to to be brought down on the left side as well. Sensitive skin burning and stinging just like the other side. Turning red under three more harsh spanks to each cheek and two more to the backside of each thigh for good measure.

With each of the spanks, your teeth sink deeper into your arm, trying to silence even the quiet whimpers that escape around the limb in an attempt to not give away what is happening to anyone walking close by. Leaving behind deep bite marks just shy of breaking skin. A trail of wetness creeping down the inside of your thighs glistens in the sun overhead and pulls a gruff sound akin to something close to a laugh.

With the tap of one foot, Dunk kicks your legs apart just enough to put the wetness on display even more.

"Getting wet from this?" He sneers and yet still when your head turns, out of the corners of widening eyes, you see him pull out his already hard cock. Giving it a few tugs as he kneels behind you to align himself with your core. A motion your body subconsciously leans into with a shock of heat through your core and up your spine. An almost pitiful whimper pushed out alongside it as he buries himself inside you without any further preparation.

Your teeth find your hand to stifle a moan while from behind you a groan is amplified in its volume by the silence of your location and the danger of being caught. Inner walls tightening and hips instinctively trying to lift off at the sudden intrusion. Easily pulled back by your waist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You want to answer something, say anything to make that smug look disappear from his face. But the thick length fills you out so well that any challenge gets stuck in the tightening of your lungs.

Dunk starts with fast, brutal thrusts. Pulling at the laces at the back of the dress to loosen them and release what lies bellow. Cupping and kneading the mounds laid bare underneath the bodice while you struggle to keep up with each movement. Brain growing more and more hazy from the sound of not slapping. Allowing the quiet whines and winces to penetrate the air every time your now even more sensitive than usual ass meets with Dunk's lower body. Hay pokes at your arms relentlessly and equally your cheek when a particularly impatient thrust knocks you from your hands to your elbows.

The breath gets knocked out of your burning lungs with the movement that pushes your hips back against Dunk's. A new angle that allows him reach even deeper and flips a switch in his brain. Snaking one big arm around your neck to pull your back against his chest.

Coarse hair scratches between your shoulders, rhythmically flexing muscles tighten against the sides of your neck until your eyelids flutter and you're only held up by the knights grip alone.

And then he falters as well. Falling forward barely caught by your hands, a cry as straws suddenly poke into your palms and forearms, grabbing onto it as you get pushed past discomfort by Dunk's weight pressing your body down into the ground. He isn't even thrusting anymore at this point, the motion has succumbed to simple grinding. Humping away at a warm, wet hole like a beast in heat with grunts and hot breaths filling your ear.

Your hands uncontrollably reach forward in search for something to grand you. Nails scraping against wood, peeling away paint as your voice cracks under the mewls that get shaken from you relentlessly. The mess between your thighs growing warmer and stickier steadily, a thick sheen of sweat covering your back where Dunk's body glides against yours, shared body heat as well as exertion driving the temperature ever higher.

"It's too much." You moan undisguised and unashamed, fully giving in to the shocks of pleasure chasing through your nervous system. Hips, now pressed securely to the patch of grass, bucking against the ground in search of more friction while simultaneously trying to lift off the thick shaft that is straining you cunt far more your fingers ever had in their nightly explorations. You are met with the sensation of teeth scraping against your shoulder, digging into the soft flesh that somehow still smells of what his subconscious assumes is the famed gardens of you home. Revelling in the cry that follows by pushing into you even deeper, grinding even faster.

Again the sting is left unsoothed. Instead Dunk finds a spot closer to your spine to leave another print of his teeth there.

"Please, Ser." Your voice crackles, finally finding purchase somewhere. But it is of little use anymore as your mind steadily floats away. Distracted by the task of helping your eyes open and longs filled with air.

"You're still getting more wet? You're enjoing this." Another bite mark finds your other shoulder. And then a scoffed almost mocking laugh. "Fucking disgusting."

And then his arm flexes around your throat, just a moment, just enough to send your heart into even more of a frenzy. Adrenaline chasing through your veins to make your eyes roll back into the back of your head. Hips starting to shake uncontrollably before the familiar feeling of a white hot rush bursts in the pit of your stomach. With Dunk still weighing you down there is little space but for your walls to clench and relax rhythmically around the twitching shaft keeping them spread wide open.

He is close too. Burying himself with his hips flush to your reddened rear and mouth pressed to your not yet bitten shoulder. Humping away at your overstimulated cunt disregarding of the way your whines morph into borderline cries of overstimulation the longer he keeps up. Arm muscles flexing one last time before releasing your throat and coming to rest beside your face. Immediately to be grabbed by one of your hands. Holding a so tightly that your nails dig shallowly into the flesh.

The bite of the touch elicits a groan from his lungs and sends Dunk reeling over the proverbial edge just as you manage to calm yourself from your fall. Filling you up with his essence. The seed spilling out around is cock and sticking to your inner thighs.

Mindless grinding takes form in small thrusts while Dunk rides out the peak, prolonging pleasure for as long as possible. Shallowly rocking his hips into yours until a deep breath expands his chest against your back and leaves his lungs huffed half into the air and half billowed hot against the shell of your ear.

One more moment he rests there. Peeling away with languid motions while you are helpless to watch your grip falling of without question and breath filling your own lungs a little easier now that there is no one weighing you down any more.

Dunks eyes burn over you slick, half exposed back while he tugs himself away and pushes the from sweat darkened strands of hair from his forehead. Taking in the bitemarks he had left behind, the faint tear tracks on your cheeks and drool down your chin. One last low, satisfied chuckle escaping at the state of your dress or rather half undress in which he leaves you behind.

A cool breeze swipes over your body then as your wind recovers enough to fuss hurriedly over the messy dress and hay sticking in your hair. Whincing at the feeling of the fabric handkerchief grazing your sensitive bottom white wiping away the remains of Dunk's spend. Searching for a place to wash it away from your fathers pavilion, all the while trying to think of a possible explanation should he ask questions and in the same breath making a plan on how to get the Hedge knight alone again before the festivities end.

You seem to notice it all. All of the little things he barely picks up on himself. Like the way his hand flinches when someone draws near, or the way his shoulders sag in company, only to be corrected around that of royals or nobles. That every touch — a practical, brotherly clap on the shoulder, Egg tugging at his sleeve, or townsfolk shoving by.

It’s far from gentle.

Because it’s something he’s never known. Something he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around.

So you ease him into it, with the small things, things less likely to frighten him off.

The first is when you began reaching for him more in crowds. Your shoulders brushing, arms touching, even holding on loosely to the corner of his cloak just to keep up with his long strides. He blushes at first, the tips of his ears turning pink at the sudden movement, but it was useful, nothing more, something to protect you.

And that he held onto.. that he reassured himself it’s all it was.

The time it happens again, is softer, quieter with you both lazing on the bank of the river. The night had been drawing in for some time, dusk crowding the countryside and a chill settling your bones. You had moved up to him a mere inch before he flinched away, nothing dramatic, but enough and by the slightest you had felt it. Dunk had thought had had taken up too much room, shifting sideways to give you more of it. But you stopped him.

“Stay put.” You wriggle backwards, easing into the side of his shoulder, and this time he doesn’t move a muscle, “It is far too cold.”

That he couldn’t argue with, and so he didn’t. Again he’s simply looking after you, providing, trying his best to ignore the ticking in his chest, the longing.

Then comes the hand holding, more intricate and more testing but you do it anyway. The market stalls are bustling, apple carts pulled by horses and sellers airing out their wears, he had slowed as much as he could so that you had kept up, but it was too much. Your hand reached as far as it could go in front of you until your fingers slipped through his. They stayed loose at first, large, calloused hands stuttering around ones smaller than his own.

A joke it must have looked like.

His hand stays there, closing around yours slowly, hesitantly just as you catch up, but neither of you pull away. Instead you take in the sights around you, striding beside him without a care in the world, like it’s normal, like it’s so simple. Like he isn’t darting his eyes back and forth every second to where you’re both connected.

And when you finally let go, his hand remains open, flexing his fingers around nothing, the foreign feeling of holding something so warm and soft.

And he’s already missing it.

Somewhat of a confession finally comes with a night under the stars. Spring had came and gone leaving summer in its way, the heat of it too and for once it wasn’t cold, the cloaks and ragged blankets were shrugged from you, and yet you found yourself cuddled up to Dunk, further by the hour.

The fire had burned low, the moon twinkling shadows from the branches overhead. A tiredness overwhelmes you, sleep clinging to your eyes as you lean back without another thought. A huff escapes his throat, chest jolting up behind you as you collide with it.

“Are you comfortable?” You call out through the dying light, hand splaying out onto his chest.

“Yes.” Dunk grits out carefully, so sharp you can feel the way he stares out into the treeline. You raise your head slightly to see him, blinking up at him as he looks wearily down at you.

“You look terrified..”

“I ain’t terrified, I just..” He pauses, stuttering before he can stop himself, and you urge him on, nodding your head carefully. “Nobody’s done this before.”

The words come out quietly, his body stiffening under you like the wound him even to say. Like it’s some shameful secret. And your chest tightens, heart breaking a little, because of course they haven’t. No one has given him this, even the time to, let alone to hold him, comfort him the way you have.

A hedge knight doesn’t get softness, he doesn’t get love. He gets a space on the ground surrounded by mud and stone, tourneys to compete in and duties to take care of. That’s it.

And so you made that difference. You made it your task to start teaching him. That it was alright, that he was deserving.. and most of all that you wanted to do it. But it wasn’t lessons or reprimanding that did it, it was patience.

Your hand brushing the hair from the sweat beading at his brow from practicing in the meadow. Or chopping wood on the bench.

A hand on his arm when he grows tense, stroking your fingers up and down the broad muscle, and feeling him ease in real time.

Your head resting against his shoulder as you both curl up on the far too small bed of an inn you had found from long days on the road. And he finally stops jolting, arms moving awkwardly to search for you, curling around you with a deliberate care. He starts reflecting you, searching for you as soon as you leave his side, hand pressing at the dip of your back as you stand in the tents.

And from then on, Dunk seeks it out. Some sort of seal is being broken and you realise further just how starved he’s been, because he wants that too. He wants to be relied on, to be touched by you, to be held and to hold you.

You are both walking up the path that leads to your family’s cottage. He pauses before the gate and looks at you, the look of utter terror in his wide blue eyes. He gets himself so worked up sometimes. You would think meeting your family wouldn’t have the same reaction of him being put to the sword, but it does.

“They are going to love you!” You stretch to stand on tip toe, so you can kiss him. “Just as I love you” A reassuring hand rubbing the front of his chest. He meets your kisses eagerly, as this takes his mind off the anxiety at hand.

Suddenly, he physically pushes you away. It stuns you. He has never done this. But a large hand on your shoulder has pushed you away from him.

“Stop” he groans “I’m getting...” he trails off, and casts his gaze down.

You look down to where he is growing stiff in his pants. It takes every ounce of your strength not to laugh at the situation. However, you can’t help smiling, and do your best to cover your smile with your hand.

“Oh Dunk” a giggle erupts “It’s my fault. I am sorry. Let’s sit here a while and wait. We don’t have to go in just yet.”

His face is tomato red as you both sit in the soft grass, waiting for his problem to go away.

“Making a right fool of myself already” he huffs.