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Dunk’s mouth was drier than it had ever been in his entire life. Drier than the days where water was a luxury and the creek was too far. Drier than when Ser Arlan would threaten to give him more than just a clout in the ear for his idiocy. Drier than the precious few times he’d had to stand before some high-ranking Lord or Lady and make his case for service, their unimpressed gazes raking over him and his dirty clothes.
Strangely enough, his current dry mouth was also the fault of a Lord.
A Storm Lord, at that.
Funny.
Dunk was on his back in Lyonel Baratheon’s tent, the sweat of it soaking into the plush furs that covered the bed. They—he and the Lord—had run across each other several months after Ashford, at some other sort of bloodsport-based celebration of history and culture. It seemed a little more jovial than that nameday tourney but with far less walking room in the massive crowd. How he’d even found Lyonel was something of a wonder—though he often failed to take his own height into account.
Lyonel had been in the center of a throng of men and women, regaling them all with a filthy tale that had Dunk blushing for Egg’s sake. The child made himself scarce quickly after catching sight of the Baratheon. He had no ill will toward him or his house—he just thought Lyonel was terribly annoying and didn’t understand Dunk’s desire to make amends for the way the two men had parted.
Despite Dunk’s agonizing over the situation, Lyonel seemed only too happy to see him. He was wearing some fine black and gold garments fit for sporting, but also the usual adornments like his jewelry and earring. He was on the grounds to spectate and award for bravery and might, not to compete, so it didn’t really matter if the two of them stole away to Lyonel’s tent for a reunion drink or two.
That’s what Dunk had been led to believe anyway.
That was two hours ago.
An hour and fifty-five minutes ago, Dunk was struggling not to choke his drink while Lyonel all but crawled into his lap and kissed the living daylights out of him. Wine drooled out of Dunk’s suddenly open mouth as Lyonel licked inside it, his own cup forgotten on the floor. Dunk’s cup joined it, clumsy hands spasming and indecisive about where to touch Lyonel. The Lord had no uncertainties about where his hands were going. They gripped the sides of Dunk’s face firmly and fiercely, not daring to give Dunk an option to break the kiss. He didn’t have to worry either way though; Dunk was more than enjoying the deep, wet slide of their mouths and tongues together, especially as the dark, heady flavor of the wine melted away.
“Mm,” Dunk grunted, trying to find his wits. His hands had settled on Lyonel’s upper back with his fingertips pushed possessively against the firm muscle. Lyonel broke the kiss for just a moment, enough for Dunk to manage a word out, “What?”
“What, what?” Lyonel panted back. He gave Dunk another inch of space to catch his breath.
“What’s going on?”
Lyonel regarded him with the same unimpressed stare as every other Lord and Lady had met Dunk with in his months roaming as a hedge knight. Dunk returned the frown.
“I’m fucking kissing you,” Lyonel sat back fully. His hands slid down to the sides of Dunk’s neck and his thumbs rubbed over his skin appraisingly.
“Oh really, I’d no idea,” Dunk groused and rolled his eyes. Lyonel stopped, his wide brown eyes locking on the younger man with an expression that could only be described as excited indignation.
“Who’s this then?”
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” Dunk mumbled, less bold by the moment. It was difficult to maintain the sarcasm with Lyonel’s gaze pinning him in his chair—not to mention the hot weight of him in his lap. With this weakness exposed, Lyonel snickered and moved his hands to Dunk’s shoulders. He gave them a greedy squeeze.
“Right. Well, Ser Duncan the Tall,” Lyonel purred as he leaned back in to graze his lips against Dunk’s, “I’m Lord Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, and Lord of Storm’s End. And I have missed you so fucking much.”
The purr melted into a growl at the end of his sentence, and that was the last word spoken inside the tent for quite some time.
–
Lyonel was relentless.
He’d already brought Dunk off twice by the time Dunk was bonelessly sprawled out on the soft furs of the bed, his chest heaving with great, panting breaths. He’d thought his second crisis—the waves of it abating only minutes ago—would surely signal to the other man that Dunk was well and satisfied but he’d only been spared so long before Lyonel resumed kissing down his body, lapping up sweat like a cat to cream, and settling between his spread thighs. Dunk let out an uncomfortable whine, trying to knock Lyonel away with one leg, but it was ignored. Lyonel continued on his descent, tongue gently lapping and kissing Dunk’s spent member, cleaning away evidence of both men's releases and the musk accumulated with it. Dunk’s nerves felt flayed and raw, and the scrape of the Lord’s soft tongue against him was teetering between wonderful and too much.
“Lyonel, stop,” Dunk wheezed as the tongue laved over the head of his cock, which was trying to shyly tuck away under its hood. Lyonel hummed—it sounded deceptively like he might take pity on the younger man and relent, but he instead took the sensitive tip between his lips and kissed it. Dunk shivered violently. His cock twitched with reluctant interest.
“There’s my man,” Lyonel purred against the soft flesh. He nudged the base with his nose and inhaled indulgently, “We’ll have some fun with you yet.”
Dunk wheezed a broken noise. As if the last two rounds had been boring!
On their first encounter, not quite making it to the bed, Lyonel had touched him with such expertise that Dunk thought he might’ve been mortally wounded at some point and this was the blessed afterlife. His fingers had curled around him with rapturous worship while the Lord muttered an unending stream of praise into his ear, periodically stopping to kiss and bite at the earlobe and Dunk’s neck. It was very quickly too much and Dunk spilled messily over Lyonel’s ringed hand, gasping thanks and apologies in the same breath. Lyonel continued his tirade of praise, now pausing to lick Dunk’s release from his own fingers. He even pushed some into Dunk’s panting mouth a few times. It had been odd, and a little more than gross, but Dunk accepted it.
He had to blame the novelty of the situation for his ability to then rise again so quickly. Lyonel was still hard and wanting against him and the insistent weight of his cock against Dunk’s hip was enough for his own to respond. The two men fell into lazy rutting, breathing against each other’s mouths between messy kisses and letting the tension and pleasure build unhurriedly. Hands wandered over hot flesh and lips met whenever they could, wherever they could. Dunk was leaving open-mouthed kisses and bites to Lyonel’s neck when his second crisis overtook him suddenly, sending his uneven teeth sinking into the vulnerable flesh beneath it. Lyonel choked on a shocked noise and followed him over, covering both their stomachs with it.
It did seem to Dunk then, with both men spent and sweaty, that surely this was the natural conclusion to their romp. He’d rest and clean up with Lyonel, perhaps even share more wine, have supper… But then they really should get back to the tourney. Dunk worried for Egg, precocious as the child was (and capable to take care of the horses) and Lyonel was an officiant in some capacity. Surely his absence was noticed by now, even if Egg was getting along alright without his knight. Dunk made to voice these thoughts when Lyonel began his third assault on his body, and every single thought the younger man had ever had dissipated like steam.
Impossibly, Dunk’s cock rose for the third time, all thanks to the careful and reverent worship of Lyonel’s lips and tongue. He carried on with these adoring little ministrations, nosing against the firm flesh and kissing every inch of it like some precious thing. Dunk panted, mouth as dry as it could be without crackling away into dust, and hazarded a look down the line of his body.
That was a mistake.
Lyonel was watching him with the darkest eyes he’d ever seen on anything but a wild animal, tongue lapping at his hot flesh like it had never done anything else. He seemed utterly enraptured by the very concept of Dunk’s cock, so much so that Dunk felt as though the two of them would never leave this bed ever again. The thought terrified him as much as it made him throb with need against Lyonel’s hot, soft mouth.
A hand joined Lyonel’s mouth, positioning Dunk’s piece just so. It was getting to the point it was threatening to flop backwards against Dunk’s belly, and Lyonel seemed to find that disagreeable. The graze of his fingers against Dunk’s sensitive flesh had him shivering, especially as Lyonel began to stroke him with his hands as well as his tongue. It was overwhelming. Dunk found himself gripping the furs beneath him like his life depended on it.
It may as well have, because then Lyonel began to talk.
“The fucking size of you,” Lyonel panted, though it was nowhere near as desperate as Dunk’s parched ones, “I’ll never get over it. Fucking beast you are. Gods, I could…” he trailed off with a filthy moan, rubbing his cheek against Dunk’s cock, a dab of precum sticking to his sweat-matted curls, “Seven above save me, should I ever stop servicing this fucking gorgeous cock.”
“W-what…” Dunk managed pathetically. His head was swimming and his cock was aching, but not as it usually did when he was this hard. No, this hurt. It hurt to be erect like this. His stones felt as though they’d met the wrong end of a horse’s hoof and every time his cock throbbed, they pulled a bit more, deepening the agony.
“What, what?” Lyonel stroked the length of Dunk with a maddening, feather-light touch, and then leaned in and quickly swiped a bead of moisture from the dark head of Dunk’s cock with his tongue, eliciting an agonized cry from the man.
“W-we have to stop,” Dunk felt tears welling in his eyes as Lyonel resumed the worshiping nuzzling and licking up and down the entirety of him, “Th-the tourney…!”
“Fuck the tourney,” Lyonel growled at the base of Dunk’s cock. He ran the flat of his tongue back up the length of it, memorizing every curve and vein on the way. Dunk choked and outright sobbed when Lyonel dropped back down to suck gently at his stones.
“Lyonel!” Dunk pleaded, his head pushed back into the furs as far as he could, “It’s too much, I can’t—”
“Of course you can’t,” Lyonel replied easily, though it was a bit muffled, “I don’t expect you to.”
What? Dunk didn’t say.
He didn’t understand. His mind, as best it could, raced to solve the Storm Lord’s riddle, and came up with nothing helpful. Could it really just be that he wanted to mouth and suckle at him, unheeding Dunk’s agonized cries and whimpers, simply because… Because?
It seemed to be the case. Lyonel was nearly purring as he continued to kiss and lick every inch of Dunk’s undercarriage, his own flat stomach pressed into the fur bed covers so Dunk had no idea if he was even aroused by all this. He assumed he was. But he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Lyonel was in control and Dunk was supposed to lie back and let him cover every inch of his cock with his mouth, like it or not. And he did like it, he supposed, but it also just fucking hurt. It was so strange. It felt so good that it hurt and it hurt so much that it felt good. Or something to that tune.
Exhaling hard through his nose, Dunk grit his teeth and struggled through long minutes of silence punctuated by Lyonel’s huffing breaths and the wet clicks of his tongue against Dunk’s flesh. He’d mumble more filthy praise about Dunk’s cock between sucking kisses, making sure not a single inch was spared of his wicked, beautiful, disgusting, glorious mouth. Dunk felt tears sliding down from the corners of his eyes, and let out pained sobs whenever Lyonel ran his tongue up and around the extra skin at the head of his member. His thighs shook terribly and more than once bucked hard enough to jostle Lyonel. He ignored it easily, pushing the offending leg open wider, giving him that much more access to everything. Fucking Gods, Dunk may very well die this way. His stones contracted desperately, but simply could not end this euphoric misery for him.
Mercifully, though not soon enough, Lyonel backed off and gave Dunk a break to breathe. His cock was darker than he’d ever seen it and it was leaking miserably against his stomach. His body was also covered in a noticeable flush and layer of sweat. His arms and legs felt like they didn’t belong to him. They disobeyed badly as he attempted to sit up and see where Lyonel had disappeared to.
His answer came as quickly as the question crossed his mind. While still struggling to right himself, Dunk was suddenly smacked in the face by a wineskin held out to him by Lyonel. The Lord was standing next to the bed, still naked as a jaybird and half-hard. Dunk didn’t know what to make of that information. He took the wineskin and drank greedily.
Slaking his thirst hurt in much the same way as Lyonel’s relentless tonguing had. It existed as a parody of satisfaction and left Dunk feeling worse for it. Coughing and trying not to retch as his body greedily accepted the cool watered-wine, he felt Lyonel’s dark gaze on him again.
“All well?”
“Ugh,” Dunk coughed again and attempted another sip, “Yes, ‘m fine.”
Lyonel regarded him levelly, “I’d like to continue sucking your cock.”
Dunk shivered and his member gave a pathetic twitch.
“I’m not sure I can… finish.”
“I know.”
Dunk hazarded a look up to Lyonel, whose face was only slightly unreadable. There was a hint of perverse excitement hidden in the corners of his lips, but there usually was one anyway.
“What?”
“What, what?”
“Gods’ sakes,” Dunk growled and fell back against the bed. Lyonel laughed and joined him again, taking his place between Dunk’s lightly furred and freckled thighs. He rubbed his hands over the tops of the thick muscle, another purr-sounding-hum quietly escaping him. Dunk’s cock, which had not flagged in their reprieve, twitched slightly. It seemed that was all it was good for now, signaling interest in a pathetic death throe; a last gasp at life and lovemaking. Lyonel grinned and sunk down to his elbows. Where he’d been teasing Dunk before with kitten licks and kisses, he now fully wrapped his mouth around Dunk’s aching member and sucked.
It sounded like Dunk had been hit square in the chest with a lance. All air escaped him at once and his eyes—huge, watery, and blue—stared into nothing as his body grappled with the sensations assaulting it. Lyonel’s hot, soft, wet mouth was bobbing up and down as much of Dunk’s member as he could comfortably manage, occasionally pushing further to accept the tip of him against his throat. Lyonel gagged sharply each time but refused to accept failure and Dunk shook like a fledgling weathering its first storm. Bravely—or quite stupidly—Dunk looked down the line of his body once more.
The sight of Lyonel was a wonder.
His dark, salt-and-pepper curls were partially matted with sweat and the single earring dangling from his left ear caught the candlelight as his head bobbed in Dunk’s lap. His mustache concealed the exact stretch of his lips around Dunk’s piece but he could still make out the swollen and bruise-red color of them if he really craned his head. Lyonel’s hands, beautifully nimble and still adorned with his rings, were massaging and squeezing the mound of his groin, nails gently scratching at the coarse hair there, as if to soothe himself or Dunk. It wasn’t clear which.
His face…
Dunk huffed a small, appreciative noise that was lost under the obscene noises that Lyonel was making.
Lyonel’s face was one of intense concentration and devotion, as if this were a communion for him. His eyebrows were drawn together—a picture of deep prayer—with his dark eyelashes fluttering where they lay closed. The flush of his own face was enough to rival Dunk’s full-body blush, and it occurred to Dunk then how much of an effort this was for Lyonel as it was for him. But he moved like a man compelled by powers outside himself, physical toil be damned.
The realization of how badly Lyonel needed to worship him (and his piece) caught Dunk in the rib cage and drew another soft, adoring noise from him.
Focusing on all of this helped drive away the rawness of his cock, and Dunk found himself reveling in pleasure once more, rather than fighting to find it in the thorns. He was propped up on his elbows now, watching Lyonel and panting excitedly. The man between his thighs was too focused on working his cock down his throat to notice the change. He was outside of Dunk’s reach, a willing disciple supping his communion. Time and again, Dunk felt the Lord’s throat struggle against the head of his cock, and heard Lyonel’s frustrated grunts. It conjured an indescribably sympathetic pang in Dunk’s chest as much as each constriction elicited his need to fuck into that wet heat. And so, Dunk found himself in a position to assist his Lord.
It would only be chivalrous to do so, anyway.
One large hand suddenly gripped Lyonel’s wild curls and pulled him fully onto Dunk’s cock, his lips kissing the hairy mound of his pelvis and the head of his piece breaching easily into Lyonel’s throat. The older man gagged roughly, flailing, and Dunk shivered at the convulsions.
“Easy,” Dunk groaned. Lyonel choked wetly in response.
With a handful of hard and deep thrusts, Dunk finally met his third crisis, spilling into Lyonel’s throat with a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making. He released his grip on the other man’s hair quickly, even before his climax was done, and Lyonel lurched back with a loud retch and cough, Dunk’s release spilling from his mouth. Dunk shot one last load across Lyonel’s bruise-red and open lips, and collapsed backwards, chest heaving.
The world came back to him with uneasy clarity. Lyonel was still between his thighs, hunched over and one hand flying over his cock. Dunk watched him, feeling drunk and dumb off pleasure, and attempted to pet the older man’s sweaty curls. His clumsy hand instead gripped his hair and tugged, and Lyonel shuddered and climaxed with a loud and pathetic cry. His release joined the considerable mess across Dunk’s groin. At last, it seemed the Baratheon had no energy left, and he bonelessly collapsed against Dunk’s propped-up thigh. After a moment, it was clear that wouldn’t do, so he slid himself up the length of Dunk’s body to rest his head on his shoulder. Lyonel slung both an arm and leg over the larger man and sighed contentedly.
“Please,” Dunk rasped after a long moment, “For the love of all Seven, tell me we’re done.”
“Not on your fucking life,” Lyonel mumbled, falling asleep.
End.