a lovely anon requested "feral dunk having something animalistic cracking out of him because reader has needed to wear his clothes for some reason"... content tags are size difference (obviouslyyyy), reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader's features, allusions to choking, mild smut, discussions of hand jobs, dunk is rough and feral but reader is exactly where she wants to be... thank you for reading <3
Laundry day. It was one of your favorite days, when your felt freshest and prettiest. At the end of laundry day all your clothes smelled of lavender soap and clean linen dried in the sun. Travelling with Dunk meant you were often dusty from the road and sweating in the sun. Not that you would trade it for anything, but sometimes you wanted to feel a little freshened up, not like a weary traveler.
Your dress was still damp from after the thorough scrubbing, so you laid it across the chair in the inn's room you were staying in for the night. Wearing Dunk's shirt suited you well enough while your dress dried. It practically fit you like a dress, loose and baggy, hanging down to the tops of your knees. The collar was wide, and kept shifting off to the side. Even after you adjusted it, it managed to slip off your shoulder. But you were only staying in the room to read, then to retire to bed shortly after. Your dress would be dry by morning, so you only needed to wear his shirt for the night.
Sitting in the bed, engrossed in your book, you hardly noticed Dunk's heavy steps down the hall, returning from feeding the horses one last time before nightfall. You only glanced up from your book when he entered the room and knocked his head on the top of the door frame.
"Arse." He muttered to himself, always controlling his language in the presence of you.
"Horses tucked in?" You ask, flipping a page, hardly looking up at Dunk.
Dunk doesn't answer you, but instead counters with a question. āWhat are you doin'?ā
āReadingā you hold out your book.
āI can see that." he retorts "I meant, what are you wearin'?"
You set your book down to look at Dunk, still standing at the door, a flush rising up his neck, color blooming at the tops of his ears. "Your shirt." You pull the material sheepishly. "My dress is still drying. Don't worry you'll have it back on the morrow."
"-m not worried about that." Dunk breathes, crossing the room to stand at the edge of the bed.
You scoot closer to him, sitting cross legged at the edge of the mattress, and look up at Dunk.
āYou look soā You watch Dunkās chest heave, rising and falling with each labored breath āSo small in my clothes. My pretty girl.ā Dunk's callused hand rests on your cheek, cupping the whole side of your face in his palm. You gravitate to his warm touch, nuzzling into his hand, and Dunk's heart pounds at double speed inside his chest. He is thinking things an honorable knight should not be thinking at the moment. The way you look up at him, so far below, dwarfed by his height. And the way you're swimming in his shirt, the material pooling at your bare thighs. He pets the top of your head, running his hands over your incredibly soft hair. He wondered if this what you would look like choking on his cock. Would his view be the top of your head, or your wide eyes when you craned your neck up to look at him? His cock throbs in his pants. Even though he knows this train of thought leads down a dangerous road, he cannot seem to stop the observations.
Dunk had always enjoyed observing your figure, and the size difference between you two. He liked your petite hands, when he guided them across his cock, the way your slender fingers smeared precome down the length. The first time it happened, he finished in record time, covering your hand in ropes of spend. He liked when you got nervous and stepped behind him instinctually. It made him feel important - useful to you. He could shield you from any danger, blocking out anything bad so your view was only him. Dunk could protect you with his massive frame from prying eyes, and he liked to keep you only to himself anyways.
His hand travels lower, brushing across your jaw, then wrapping around your delicate neck. "Everythin' about you is so small." He murmurs, more to himself than you.
But still, you reply "Am not! It just seems like that in comparison to my giant travelling companion." Under his touch, he feels the muscles jumping in your throat when you speak, the pulse of a vein. Physically, it would be so easy to wrap his hands around your neck, crushing your windpipe. It would be like breaking a twig. But you trust him completely, letting him hold a firm presence over your neck, meaty fingers wrapping possessively around your trachea. And you're not afraid; you're teasing him.
You lay back on the bed, and Dunk follows. Hovering over you, blocking your view of the ceiling with his wide shoulders, so your only view above is him. Dunk palms your chest with his massive hand. Kneading, massaging your breast, his fingers desperately searching for your nipple. He is groping at your curves, handing you rougher than ever before. His hands scramble for purchase on your hips, arse, and pulling the small of your back so you arch up, flush against him. He handles you with a fervor youāve never experienced before. And now you understand how much he had been restraining and holding back his full strength before. Your whole body hums with anticipation, a needy pulse gathering between your thighs, intensified every time his erection prods you.
Just the other day, he helped you comb your hair, and apologized profusely when his fingers worked out a knot. He didnāt want to cause you an ounce of pain. But now that same Dunk was no where to be found. He pins you into the bed, his body an immense weight on top of you. One of his hands holds both of your wrists, and grips them above your head. A ragged moan escapes Dunk; his pupils have widened so far that his eyes appear black instead of their usual bright blue. "My little one. My pretty girl. You can never wear my clothes again. I can't seem to help myself." He pleads. "Seven above. I don't want to hurt ya. My little lady. Donāt know how youāre gonna take it, but ya always do.ā
His cock is leaking into his pants, the ones you had just washed. You can feel the dampness as his weight blankets you. But you don't mind. Laundry day would come next week.
"It's okay, Dunk. I'm not afraid." You kiss his warm lips softly. "I trust you." And whatever self control Dunk had before, melts away, like snow in summer.
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warnings & tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, a little suggestive but nothing explicit, rated T, fem!reader, kissing, mentions of small wounds, dunk is self-depreciating, dunk is oblivious, reader is a woodswitch/healer, reader travels with dunk and egg post trial of seven, no use of y/n, no physical description
"By the old Gods, what happened to you?"
Dunk nearly jumps out of his skin when you walk into the room he's had the coin to rent for the night, for once. Half-naked, he tries to cover his torso with his shirt, like he is some blushing maiden. You cross the room to get to him in a few quick strides, eyes roaming over his body with professional expertise, and he feels silly enough to let it fall down onto the bed.
"It's nothing," he mumbles. "Just a scratch."
"Scratches, surely," you correct, shaking your head. There are a handful of fresh wounds over his arms, chest and face, but they pale in comparison to old scars. Your gaze lingers on the nasty one on his stomach, where Aerion's war lance caught him during the fateful trial.
"Aye," he shrugs. "There was a skirmish in the inn; I put an end to it. 'twas nothing. I've seen far worse."
You frown.
"Is the innkeeper at least giving you free lodgings for your troubles?"
"Couldn't accept it," he mutters, averting his eyes. "Tables and chairs were broken during the fight. She'd lose good money."
He braces himself as he waits for your biting remark. He's seen you do much the same, mind you, for people who couldn't pay the right price for your services, but he knows what you'd say. I only take payment people can afford. It's a gift of yours to know what that is, a gift he, big oaf that he is, does not possess.
You simply sigh.
"You are too kind, Dunk," you say, and the softness in your voice nearly undoes him.
Uncomfortable, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"Ah, well, I took an oath, did I not? It wouldn't be right to make the smallfolks pay me for fulfilling it."
He'll take coin from lords who want to hire his services, but the innkeeper was an innocent. Not her fault if a bunch of drunken idiots refused to pay her and started trashing the place. He'd just done his duty in lending her a helping hand.
"At least let me take a proper look at you," you say, shaking your head.
Dunk swallows. He has been on the receiving end of your healing hands plenty of times. He isn't certain they truly possess power, but he knows they feel soothing and soft on his skin and he thinks of them more often than he would ever admit to you.
He lets himself fall down onto the bed, which creaks dangerously under his weight. Don't go breaking it now, you lunk. Wouldn't help the innkeeper one bit, that.
"Good."
As always, your hands handle him delicately, as soft as your words can be cutting. He doesn't think anyone has ever touched him like that, like he is precious jewelry in a noble lady's hands. He's told you before that you need not be so careful, that you couldn't break him if you tried. He's sure now that it was a lie. You could break him, you're just more likely to do it with a brush of your fingers than if you tried using strength.
You look at the scratches and new bruises blooming over his skin, brow furrowed, concerned expression on your face. There's an agony to watching you do it, for Dunk, even if he wants to abandon himself to the sensation of your touch over his body. He hates knowing he caused it, hates that he makes you worry. If he trusted himself more, he'd reach out and wipe the line between your eyebrows with his thumb.
"Does this one hurt still?" you ask, tracing the one on his stomach.
Your cold hands feel particularly nice on the tight skin. They also make him even more nervous than usual when they start traveling down his torso, dangerously close to a place he's dreamt you'd touch and woken up all sweaty and shameful afterwards.
"Aye," he admits. "Under the sun, mostly."
He keeps it covered when he can, but with this hot summer and the drought, it's been quite a hassle lately.
"I can think of ointment for that. I'll get it to you."
"Dunno that I could afford it," he grimaces. You use expensive ingredients.
"You're escorting me free of charge, aren't you? It's the least I can do."
"You let Egg sleep in your wagon. That's payment enough."
"Don't be stubborn," you say sternly, and he is stubborn, but somehow he knows this is an argument he won't win.
Not that he usually wins arguments against you. You're clever, that you are, and he loses his words too easily when you're looking at him with your hands balled up into fists on your hips, telling him how he ought to behave.
"What about these?" you continue, taking his hand in yours.
It takes him a second to realize what you're talking about. He opened his knuckles on the face of some particularly virulent drunkard; it barely even registered.
"It doesn't feel good, but it's not that bad. Nothing to be done about it anyway."
He knows you have balms for such things, that lords and ladies buy for ridiculous prices to make the small pains in life easier. He, for one, would never waste them on such things ā that was, if he'd been able to afford them in the first place.
You sit down next to him, not letting go of his hand. It's sending pleasant tingles through his entire arm. Lower, his thigh is on fire where yours brushes against it, and that's through your skirts and his pants. He can't imagine what it would feel like ifā
No. He cannot allow himself to go there. Not when you're sitting right there. Maybe, maybe, if he truly cannot help himself, he'll let the thoughts replay in his mind, leaning against a tree on a cold, lonely night. Until then, he swallows and hopes he's not blushing too much.
He's still trying to chase the thoughts away when you bring his big hand to your lips and blow on the wounds. Plenty of kids would recognize the gesture right away. Dunk just stares without the faintest idea of what you're doing. It feels nice, being taken care of for once, that's for sure, butā
And then. Then you lean down to press a kiss to his knuckles, and his mind just. Goes blank. Fully. Everything vanishes. He registers the softness of your lips still, because, much to his shame, he cannot help himself ā though to be fair, he thinks he would have kicked himself 'til the end of times if he hadn't remembered what it felt like to be kissed by you.
"How about now?" you ask him, and he blinks.
"Uh," he says, "what'd you do that for?"
You give him a smile that makes him wonder if you're mocking him. You're not the type, he doesn't think. You've never even called him dumb, and people usually don't spare him the comment. Justā sometimes he cannot figure you out at all.
"I'm kissing it better," you answer like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He glances down at his hand, just checking to see if it was meant to be magic, but no, the wounds are still there, red and starting to scab.
"Kissin' it better," he repeats.
You tilt your head to the side, playful mischief in your eyes.
"Did it not work? Should I try it again, then?"
Before he can answer, your lips are back on his skin, and they linger this time, three consecutive kisses over his knuckles. He can't help but wonder if this is how ladies feel when lords and knights kiss their hands. He'd certainly never thought such a simple gesture could ever make him feel like this ā so lost and at your mercy.
Truth be told, he can hardly feel the wound anymore.
"That didā that feels better," he admits around the knot in his throat.
"Good. I'll keep going then."
He forgets how to breathe when you turn his hand in yours to look at his palm, and follow over his forearm until you land on a small nick, right under the crook of his elbow.
"That's nothing," he's quick to say. "It's not even from the fight, I think it was a branch where Thunder stopped to drink."
It doesn't stop you. Your forehead comes to rest against his bicep for a moment, and he's certain you'll be the death of him. He fists his other hand into the sheets. Get a damn grip, you lunk.
"Now, let me seeā¦"
Your hand trails over his arm, then his shoulder, and everywhere it touches he's set ablaze. He's certain he's blushing, doesn't see how it could be any other way. When it settles on his neck, he's sure you can tell just how his heart is hammering in his chest. He knows the blush must be obvious too, burning his ears and flushing his neck as well. He supposes he's thankful you're not saying anything about it, but he also wishes you'd put him out of his misery once and for all.
"A guy jumped on my back and tried to strangle me," he explains, trying his best to stick to the point. If he loses his words now, he doesn't think he'll ever find them again.
You click your tongue, and he thinks, surely, surely you won'tā
But you do. This time, it's your entire body and all its curves and softness that presses against him, with your mouth on his neck, leaving a trail of kisses all over it. You're being soft with it, too, careful not to apply any pressure on it; just feather-light touches and the delicate sounds of your mouth, driving him clean out of his mind.
Against his better judgment, his hand comes to your waist ā to hold you or to pull you closer, he's not quite sure himself.
"Ah, th-thatā isn't that quite improper?"
He curses himself when your clever mouth stops working his neck and you go still in his arms. They were right to say you're as thick as a castle wall, you lunk. He takes some comfort in the way you've slumped against him, your breasts flush against his chest, even with your clothes in between, your nose tucked under his chin.
With a sigh, you tear yourself from him, and he thinks he lets out a very undignified whine, like that of a kicked dog. You just had to open your mouth, didn't you, Dunk?
"Yes," you say, "quite improper," and this time he's pretty sure you are mocking him, and he can't even fault you for it.
But you go still when you stand up, looking down at his face. You're standing between his legs now, his hand remaining on your waist. Your hand travels to his face, traces his jaw carefully, and a keening sound forms in the back of his throat. He might have managed to hold it back, had your thumb not come to stroke his bottom lip. Someone had punched him there during the fight, he recalls belatedly, the hit barely registering because the man couldn't reach him there comfortably.
"How about this last one?"
You don't wait for an answer before you lean in, mouth closing around his lip, soft and sweet. You taste of mint, he discovers, the paste he's seen you use on your teeth after eating. You kiss him like he's fragile, like he'll shatter if you don't, and despite your best efforts, he thinks that's exactly what happens to him in this moment. He stays very still under you, just basking in the moment.
Until you step away.
"One of these days, ser Duncan," you say, breath suspiciously short, "one of these days, you should join me in my wagon."
Dunk frowns.
"There would never be enough space for the three of us in there."
You look confused, before you let out a quiet laugh.
"That might be true," you sigh, a little crestfallen. "Well then, I will see you at dinner."
You're gone before he can stutter out an answer.
That night, after eating in the inn where a table was still missing, you take his hand in yours again and, authoritatively, you rub one of your most expensive balms gently into his knuckles, before applying just a dot of it to his lip. Then you smile at him like he's hung the moon and, not for the first time, certainly not the last, Dunk thinks you will be the death of him.
Mannn I just love Dunk so much. Had the idea for it because I thought Dunk wouldn't have had anyone to ever kiss his wounds better as a child and I wanted to give him that :') Also he's very self-deprecating because I'm reading the novellas and damn that man is mean to himself. Hope you liked it! Your comments and reblogs are an author's bread and butter, so don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts and to share this piece <3
The flames of the fire swayed in the subtle breeze flowing through the forest, the kindling popping and cracking behind you as the heat consumed them. You layed on your bedroll next to Dunk, head resting on your arm as your tired eyes met his sweet blue ones.
āWhat does it feel like?ā Dunk asks, voice soft as ever as his fingers toy with a loose strand of your hair.
āMmh, like ive swallowed a boulder.ā You mumble and move a hand down to caress your protruding belly. āAnd put two in my tits.ā The laugh you huff out is laced with irritation at the state pregnancy had made your body. You were excited to meet your baby- and to no longer have them weighing down your aching body constantly.
āRight,ā Dunk mutters realising how silly the question was. āMāsorry.ā
āFor the question or for getting me pregnant?ā You jest but he shakes his head. āIm joking, my love.ā
āThe answers both.ā Pause. āI dont like seeing you in pain.ā You let his words linger in the quiet of the woods accompanied by the chirping of crickets and popping from the fire. You shuffled a little closer to him- as much as your stomach will allow -and cup his cheek.
āI know, but you shouldnt feel guilty. You didnt inflict this on me. We both decided on this- together. I knew what I was getting into.ā You kiss his nose softly and feel the tickle of his eyelashes against your cheeks as they fluttered shut. One of his large hands rests of your hip careful not to squeeze like he usually would, but you grab it quickly and bring it to your stomach. āCan you feel that?ā You place your hand over his and hold it there until a flash of recognition comes over his face. An impossibly small foot kicking against his hand.
āY-Yeah I can.ā
āSheāll be here soon.ā You whisper.
āShe? You think its a girl?ā Dunk asks with wide eyes.
You shrug. āI dont know just- a feeling I guess.ā
"I can hardly say no to you let alone a tiny version of you. Ill be outnumbered.ā He laughs softly, thumb rubbing over the taught skin of your belly. Dunk notices how you fight against your heavy eyelids and sits up on his elbow. āCome, you should sleep.ā
You sigh and begin to shift appreciating how your husbandās strong arms assist the motion. You settle back into his broad chest, pulling the scratchy blanket over the both of you and feeling the warmth of the fire on your face.
āThank you for looking after us Dunk.ā You whisper, lacing your hand with his and giving in to the exhaustion wracking your bones.
āDont need to thank me. Ill always be here for you.ā
hiiii, any thoughts on dunk looking after his pregnant traveler companion (maybe the baby is hisā¦maybe it isnāt *and maybe itās even sweeter of him if it isnt*)
do i have thoughts... does a bear sh*t in the woods? LOL... thank you for the request i have many things to say on this topic! content tags for pregnancy, discussion of pregnancy symptoms, emetophobia, very brief mention of sex, dunk is incredibly down bad for reader and has breeding kink obviously
In the beginning of your term, Dunk in worried sick. Almost as sick as you. Like clockwork, you are nauseous in the morning, turning away any bit of food he offers. After loosing any breakfast you manage to force down, Dunk paces in front of you, hunched over as you heave. Dunk is about ready to do the same. He rubs your back, places a cold, wet cloth on your neck. "Oh little lady, 'm so sorry." He doesn't know exactly what he is apologizing for, but he wants to take away your suffering. He mummers comforting words into the back of your head, trying to do anything in his power to make you feel better. He bends to your whims of your cravings. One day you crave salty cured meats, then wave them away the next. Dunk is patient and understanding through it all. You are exhausted, your body going through so many foreign changes at once. Dunk lays down next to you, earlier than you would normally retire to bed. He will assume your chores, giving you ample time to rest. He does not want you overexerting yourself in the slightest.
In the middle, Dunk is feral. Your stomach has started to pop, a noticeable swell in your middle making the perfect bump in your dress. Your clothes fit differently; your breasts have increased in size, straining at the fabric so much you've had to refit the seams. Your hips and arse take on a bit more weight too. Every time Dunk sees you, his mouth instantly starts watering in a pavlovian reaction. To him, you exude the most holy image of the mother, with your glowing skin and newly ample curves to grab onto. You and Dunk are stopping at an inn for the night, and he pulls a chair out for you to rest, while he speaks to the innkeeper. After a short time, he returns to find you holding a baby, he judges to be half a year old. Not your own of course, but the inn keeper's. You had offered to hold the child for a short time to give the frazzled mother a break. The babe bounces in your arms, smiling and cooing at you, delighted to be meeting a new face. The babe's pudgy fingers clumsily pull at your dress, searching for your breast to feed. The tiny thing is not fully capable in holding her own neck up, but follows the sweet scent of milk, and the warmth of your body to nuzzle into your chest. "Oh I'm sorry little one" you giggle at the baby's cheery gurgles and flailing limbs, "There's nothing for you there. Not yet anyways" Dunk chokes down a groan, all the blood rushing out of his brain and into his cock. He is rendered stupid and speechless, seeing you with the little babe. You look so nurturing and beautiful. The smile on your face is undeniable as the child clings to your softness. Dunk's face is tomato red as he tears his gaze away. If he looks any longer, his erection threatens to tear through his pants. He grumbles some excuse about tending to the horses, then exits the inn quickly. If you hadn't already been with child, Dunk would have put one in you that night.
In the end of your term, Dunk is protective. You are past walking, your stomach protrudes so much, it's more of a hobble now. You hold your belly-balance off center- as Dunk follows closely behind you. His hand hovers over your elbow, ready to catch you the moment he judges you to be unsteady. Dunk never lets you out of his sight for a moment, never letting you go into town or near the horses unaccompanied. He must make sure you are safe and looked after. Nothing could matter to him more than your safety. He rubs your aching back with his massive hands. It's impossible not to lean into his touch as he digs deliciously into your muscles. Dunk's hand rests gently on your middle at all times, but especially in the presence of others. A simple hand on you to let others know you are under his protection, and will be the subject of no prying eyes. The king's road can be a treacherous place, but you never spare a worrying thought when you know Dunk is watching over you.
suggested by the lovely, sweet @cntloup (i changed some little things but i hope i honored the spirit of your request enough <3) content tags are fluff, minor angst that gets resolved, hurt/comfort, husband dunk, domestic dunk, descriptions of blood and injuries, nonconsensual drugging (reader does it for his own good lol!)
The floors needed swept, the clothes needed washing, clean bedsheets should be hung on the line. There were eggs to be collected, goats to be fed, and a garden to be tended. Managing your household kept you busy from dawn until dusk, but you wouldn't trade it for anything. It was the home you shared with your husband, Dunk, and you were so proud to call the cottage your own. Dunk was often gone serving the realm and helping the innocent, doing what any good knight should. He returned home with coin to show for it. You missed him dearly when he was gone, but being a knight was what gave Dunk purpose. His very nature prevented him from standing by when there was injustice in the world. You knew he would always return to you, wrapping you into the tightest embrace, dirtied from road dust, but otherwise wearing a giant grin on his face. You would sit him down in front of supper and listen to his report of what he encountered on his travels. But this time was different; Dunk retuned to you battered and bleeding.
āDunk!ā You gasp as he limps in the front door. One eye is blackened, and nearly swollen shut. Various cuts and scrapes cover the exposed parts of his skin. Your stomach turns at the sight, but you push the fear aside to rush to help your gentle husband. Easing him gently down onto your shared the bed, you help him out of the blood crusted shirt and suck in a breath. There are cuts across his torso that now bled freely, likely aggravated by the movement of lifting his arms. They werenāt deep wounds, but the sight of the injuries make your heart crumple inside your chest. "Gods, what have you done?" you cry.
"-t's not that bad." He sheepishly hangs his head in shame as you assess the state of his body, running your small hands over his arms and back to check for any other damage.
āThis pains me, my loveā You voice cracks as you take in his state.
āI never want to hurt you." He shakes his head, the thought distressing him. "It's nothin'."
You click your tongue and decide the first step is to clean the wounds, and then you will bandage them. You turn to the small kitchen to fetch clean water and rags. Dunk watches you busying yourself in the kitchen, and notices you stepping around a bucket on the floor. It's half full of water, from a drip in the roof directly above it - your makeshift solution when he was gone. Dunk groans āThat blasted roof. I can repair it on the morrow.ā Your husband never let up his fight with the cottage's leaky roof. He was determined to patch it into submission one day.
You return to Dunk's side and start washing the dirt away from the cuts. āYou will do no such thing." You press a clean linen into a cut, earning a wince out of your husband. Your anger melts immediately when he lifts his blue eyes up to yours. "I don't want you working on the roof like this. I need you in one piece my love."
Dunk leans into your touch, even after all the time you have known him, he still soaks up all the physical touch your give him. You gently add bandages to his skin, and wipe away the road dust from his forehead, fingers ghosting over soft, blonde eyebrows. The initial shock of his condition has worn off, and now you are just so grateful he is home. "You need to mend, get better. Youāve been away and putting me through so much worry." You murmur.
"'m sorry, I love you sāmuch. You know I'd die for you.ā He takes your idle hand, pressing it into his mouth, giving soft kisses to apologize.
āI want you to live for meā you snap. And after you've said it, you hate yourself. He was only trying to do good. The best way he knew how. He needs to rest and recover - to mend his body, not other people, and definitely not the damned roof. You ran through your to do list in your head. Wash the bloody rags, change the bandages, brush down the horses. And make your husband some tea.
You werenāt proud of it, but at the last minute, you add a drop of milk of the poppy from your medicine cabinet. It wasn't enough to sedate him, being a very large man, it is just enough to make him rest and relax.
"This is good, my love. Thank you." He grumbles, as you bring the cup up to his lips, and finishes the last dregs of tea. "It's sweeter than usual."
"Is it?" you ask innocently.
Dunk hovers in a sleepy, blissful state. His limbs are heavy, practically melting into the mattress, and his brain feels even heavier in his skull. He watches you bustle around the cottage, busying yourself with chores, and then coming over to the bedside to check on him. His skin tingles pleasantly every time you brush your fingertips across his knuckles, his jaw. "I missed you so much." He hears you say, sounding far away even though you stand right next to him.
You pull up a chair to sit next to him while you mend the holes in his shirts. Gods you are so pretty when you were concentrating, he thinks. He thinks about how brave you are to take care of him, patch up his wounds, and keep a household running all at the same time. His heart swells every time you squeeze his hand, impossibly soft and small in his. He reminds himself to tell you how grateful he is for you, his perfect wife, as soon as he finds the words.
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Idea of a little fic: while traveling with Ser Duncan reader gets very ill. He has to pull together some coin to get them a room at a inn for a few nights to nurse you back to health!
oh he really would!! i wrote some tooth rotting fluff because one hug from him could cure me <3
The first cough had been nothing of note. A simple tickle in your throat that you could clear with an ahem. Over the course of the morning, that tickle became a persistent scratch that just wouldnāt go away, no matter how many times you cleared it. As you brushed the horses, tacked them up, and packed your bedroll into your saddle bag, you noticed a dull ache welling in your temples. Dunk rode ahead of you on Chestnut through the morning. Usually you rode side by side if the width of the road allowed it, but today you never urged Sweetfoot faster to trot next to Dunk. The effort to kick your horse felt too immense, and giving a little click with your mouth hurt, so you just let the palfrey trail behind Dunk at a leisurely pace.
"You all right back there?" Dunk turned so he could look back at you from Chestnut's saddle.
"Yes" you called back, but doing so caused you to cough, a harsh hack that you couldn't suppress "Road dust in my throat, I think".
Dunk furrowed his brow in concern, but did not call you out on your lie. He noticed slump in your shoulders, and when he passed some hard salt beef to you, and you refused, he knew something was wrong. In the time you had been travelling together you had never once turned down a snack.
Later that afternoon, Dunk noticed he hadn't head a cough from you in a while. He turned again in his saddle and let you catch up to his horse. Your head hung forward as you sat loosely atop Sweetfoot, and he realized you had actually dozed off while riding your horse. Sure, the palfrey's gate was smooth, but only someone with extreme exhaustion could manage to sleep while riding. He nudged your knee with his own, causing you to wake with a start. "Oh, gods, I was really out" you rubbed your watery eyes "I must admit, Dunk, I don't feel well."
"Iām cutting this day short." He said. "Not five miles from here there is a town. We will make it there before dark. You need a proper bed under a roof tonight" You were too tired to even protest. You just noted your mouth feeling impossibly parched and even though it was a warm summer day, a chill ran through you.
As soon as you entered the inn, Dunk sat you down at a table before speaking to the innkeeper. You gratefully slump down, as you couldn't even hold a conversation to ask for a room to save your life right now. Exhaustion overcomes you as you sit down and feel like you might fall asleep again right here on this bench.
"I need two rooms for the night" Dunk tells the innkeeper "And supper. And the horses will be needing oats too."
"Fifteen coppers, ser" the innkeeper tells him, not even bothering to look up from the mug she is drying. Dunk studies the twelve coppers in his hands. All the coin he has in the world right now. His stomach sinks. He glances over to you, using your sleeve to muffle a cough, and then looks back to the coins in his hand. If he stares at them long and hard enough, maybe the coins could multiply in his hand?
"Ser?" prompts the innkeeper, who is now looking at him expectantly.
"How much for the one room?" Dunk says.
"That would be ten copper, ser"
And Dunk wordlessly passes the innkeeper the coins.
Dunk follows closely behind you as you climb the stairs up to your room, his hand hovering over your elbow to make sure you don't lose your footing in your weak state. As soon as he closes the bedroom door behind you, he blurts "You may take the bed for tonight."
The sight of a soft mattress and pillow nearly make you cry with relief. Or maybe it's the fact that you don't feel well. Or maybe it's that your sweet knight has given up so much for you to be comfortable, and the limits of his kindness seem unending. You throw your arms around his middle and sag your weight into him. The tears are actually coming now. Hot tears leaking from your eyes, hiccupping that only makes you cough more. Your feverish skin burns into his rough-spun shirt. "Seven above, little lady you're burning up" he presses the back of his hand onto your cheek. "Let me get you some supper from downstairs. Chicken broth with vegetables. And I'll bring it up to you. Jus' get into bed and I'll worry about the rest." He removes your arms from around him and scratches the back of his neck nervously.
"Okay" your voice is watery and weak. "I'm so sorry that this derailed our progress, please forgive me."
"Dry your eyes, now. Thereās nothing to give to forgive."
You make your way over to the bed, fingers beginning to unbutton your dress, so you can be more comfortable for sleep.
"Erm right. Supper." Dunk awkwardly makes his way to the door, keeping his eyes averted at the floor.
Just as he is darting out the door to give you your privacy, you croak "Wait Dunk, thank you. You take such good care of me."
He stammers something incoherent as he closes the door and stumbles down the steps in a daze. He knows that your travel progress is delayed, and he is going to have to sleep in a chair by the bed tonight, and on the morrow he will wake with an awful crick in his neck, but it was worth every ache to hear those words from you.
