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Dunk, who cannot help but be aroused whenever you are of service to him.
It’s becoming a problem, and alarmingly fast.
He was ashamed down to his bones by the way his body reacted every time you offered him your kindness.
Usually, when other people showed him benevolence, he felt warm and grateful, as anyone else would, he reckons. But with you it’s different.
The blood in his veins sings an ardent tune, bringing a flush to the tips of his ears and the thick column of his neck—feverish and hot, the rough-spun clothes suddenly uncomfortable on his skin. And the worst of it all? His blood has a mind of its own, going south between his legs so fast it leaves him dizzy and breathless, nostrils flaring, akin to a bull being taunted with flashes of crimson.
If the gods had given him a smaller cock, the issue would’ve been easier to solve, to keep at bay. But their blessing seems more like a curse now when Dunk has to excuse himself every time you mend his clothes, cook him and Egg a hearty meal, or wash his clothes by the stream for him. His cock grows hard and thick, the print of it obvious through his breeches, tenting them obscenely, his large palms pressing onto his lap in an attempt to conceal it, to shield his shameful desire from view.
Dunk can barely manage not to tumble to the ground from how fast he shoots up from his seat, mumbling excuses, his voice rough and gruff—nothing like the soft, gentle tone he usually uses with you—barely making it through the trees, ignoring the confused shouts from you and Egg. Dunk’s back scrapes against the trunk of a tree as he is finally out of sight and earshot, strong legs feeling weaker than ever as he slides down, large palms still concealing his dishonor.
Because that’s what this is. That’s what this feels like.
Dishonor.
Dishonor to you, the companion who has been nothing but kind, nothing but patient, and so, so beautiful—
The thought makes Dunk moan.
Just remembering how radiant you are is enough to turn his thoughts to mush, scrambling them around until all he can think about is you. He’s sure no one could ever compare to you, for you are akin to a dream made flesh, so soft and warm it makes all the knightly teachings from Ser Arlan turn asunder, leaving behind just the ache in his chest and the tightness in his loins.
He does not dare move his palms for relief yet, even though his cock throbs and leaks against the rough material of his breeches, staining it with his shame, with his guilt. For he should not think of a woman in this way, not one who has been nothing but precious to him.
But, Gods, you are just too sweet—so sweet that not even honey could taste as saccharine as you—every gesture and every look of yours burning him from the inside, making the hunger in his chest claw to be let out.
Taste.
His cock gives a pathetic twitch as the word flits through his mind, his head tipping back against the trunk. Images of how you would taste, of how he could taste you burn behind his eyelids so fast he swears he is close to tipping towards the afterlife.
Dunk remembers vividly how, a few days ago, he had you on his tongue, if only for a few moments—just a brush of it against your skin—but it was enough for the need for more to sprout, growing more ardent day by day. He had always been a messy eater, the habit having given him earfuls from Ser Arlan and scowls from Egg, but you didn’t mind, giving him a patient smile or a lilting giggle and pointing out the greasy mess on his lips in hushed tones.
Except this time, you moved. Dunk wasn’t aware of the closed proximity yet, too busy digging into his hearty stew to see how one of your hands lifted towards his face, sleeve pushed down enough to clasp under your fingers.
“You ought to be more careful, Ser,” you chided, albeit gently, as your sleeve wiped at the corner of his mouth, where broth was glistening as it trailed down to his chin and jaw.
The spoon between his fingers clattered back into the bowl as he froze, as still as marble, azure eyes wide as saucers, breath stalled in his broad chest. You were cleaning him. You, dirtying your soft, modest dress for him as you brushed away the remnants of his sloppy eating with slow swipes to his mouth. So careful with him, as if he were but a babe who needed coddling.
By the Mother, you were a vision of loveliness up close. He wished he could’ve focused on your pretty face or pursued plush lips, but your bosom was level to his face as you leaned to follow the trail of liquid down his jaw and neck, dabbing at it with the sleeve of your dress, and he was just a man.
A dumb man. A dishonorable man. A lecher of a man now, as he dared to let his gaze dip to your breasts, the flesh looking too soft and plush against the cloth of your dress. It was not a debauched sight by any means, for Gods forbid he ever thought of you as anything but the very picture of saintly beauty. The sight left him with a hunger that no stew could ever stave, tongue sticking out to lick at his lips unconsciously, but instead catching the tips of your fingers as you were brushing crumbs from his cupid’s bow.
That’s when he tasted your skin for the first time; the memory is replaying in his mind on a loop now, as if the flavor still resides on his taste buds. Even now, alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees way taller than him, he swears the memory haunts him so that he feels as if he were still there now. Instead of being backed up against a trunk, his hands pressed against the tent in his pants. Dunk is breathing hard, lungfuls of air that do nothing to stave off the burning in his veins, the throbbing in his pants, or the ache in his chest. It would be so easy to take his hard cock in hand and bring himself to climax as he thought of you. But he cannot dirty you with his debauchery, even in thought.
Countless times, he had found himself away from camp, away from you, hard and wanting, fingers itching to grip himself and rub as hard and fast as he could, just to get rid of his shame once and for all. And each time, the remnants of his honor stopped him. As they try to do now, but it is all in vain.
Dunk’s thick fingers fumble with the ties of his breeches as he impatiently tugs them down, revealing his cock to the crisp air, hissing at the sensation. The flush on his neck blooms in haphazard splotches all the way down his chest as he looks down at himself, at the way the length bobs against the rough material of his tunic, smearing precum against the material. Gods, it’s so much, pearling obscenely at the tip of his cock and trailing down the thick shaft, all the way down to his heavy balls, which are already drawn tight.
He should not. He really, really shouldn’t. Shouldn’t wrap his hand around his cock and squeeze at the base, tugging upwards slowly towards the head, making more precum leak out, trickling down his knuckles now, lewd and dirty. Yet it feels so good—the sensation brings him so much relief, as if the Mother herself had blessed him with such solace.
His cock gives another twitch at the thought.
The Mother.
Dunk often thought you embodied her and had put you so high up on his pedestal that you resembled a saintly woman, so gentle and caring and good that it made him want to sink to his knees in front of you, kiss your feet, and pray for your favor like a worshiper. Just as he would for the Mother herself. Gods, how depraved can he be, to think of such things and feel his cock harden and ooze around his fist as he tugs and tugs, squeezing at the hot, slick flesh with more fervor now. The sounds of his wanton act are sloppy and loud, muffled only by the swaying of the trees around him.
“M’lady, m’lady,” the words tumble from his mouth unbidden, wrapped around a pitiful whine, his mind too fuzzy with thoughts of you to be able to say anything else but this, not even daring to say your name in fear of dirtying it with his sins.
Dunk’s face is flushed, sweat beading at his temple and trailing down his flushed cheeks, the pleasure melting him against the tree trunk, except his strong hip, which hump into the grip of his hand in earnest, snapping forward as if burying himself into a cunt and not his own fist. Fuck, but he wishes it were a cunt. Your cunt, wrapped around his cock, squeezing him for what he’s worth, sucking him inside your pussy like you never want him to pull out. He imagines it’s warm and soft and so very pretty, just like you.
What he wouldn’t give to have you on his cock, watching as your folds part to let him in, so big and thick compared to you. Dunk closes his eyes just as he feels the ache in his loins spark, tingling down his spine and pooling low in his gut, so close to reaching his climax and yet so far away from what he truly wants.
You.
All he has wanted for the past moons has been you. He used to want your eyes on him, your lips curling into smiles because of him, and your soft giggles ringing through camp at his jokes or even your reprimanding tone when he was too big of an oaf to act right. So, when had his thoughts turned so depraved? When had his eyes strayed from your eyes to your lips, from the curve of your shoulders to the one of your breasts, from the arch of your spine to the slope of your rear? When had his hands itched to grab at the fat of your hips instead of the delicate pads of your fingers? When had he dreamed of keeping his tongue pressed inside of your pussy instead of behind his teeth?
You’ve ensnared him so completely, bringing forth his ruin, making him nothing but a depraved man meant to take his pleasure alone, fucking into his fist with abandon. Teeth snagging at his lips to stifle the pathetic whimpers and groans rumbling from his chest as his length throbbed insistently.
And may the Gods damn him all the way to hell; he would trade all his honor just for a taste of you, just for the feel of your cunt, just for the sound of your moans as he makes you feel so, so good around his cock, rutting into you again and again and—and he’s coming.
Thick ropes of cum paint his knuckles and tunic, his back bowing against the tree trunk, mouth falling open in a long, drawn-out groan. Dunk swears he died, went to heaven, and now he’s back in his body, shaking and twitching as he continues to fist his cock, desperate for the pleasure not to end. For the images of you in all the lewd ways he always refuses to allow himself to dream of, never to cease. There are tears in the corner of his eyes; the pleasure so good he feels like sobbing. The sheer relief of finally getting to cum after moons of pent-up frustration over you—over your gentle nature and caring gestures and, gods, your tits—it unravels him completely.
Slowly, his hand slows, his cock softening. The mess left behind makes shame bubble into his chest, almost choking him as he tries to catch his breath. What would you think of him if you saw him this way? Spent and lecherous and so, so in love with you.
Even now, even like this, even this sinful, the love he has for you is the sole denominator of his actions because Dunk loves you. Loves you so much that he cannot bear to let his wanton feelings corrupt you, too, no matter how much he wishes he could.