Wither You Go, May You Find Light

"I'm serious!" Steve says, snatching the popcorn back and placing it on the coffee table before shifting on the sofa to look at you properly. "This is—this is abhorrent. Do you exclusively date selfish assholes or something?"

If you hadn't had a mouthful of popcorn, you would have probably argued with him. But instead you settle for sending him a glare as you chew what was left of the salty popcorn in your mouth.

"Do you finish when you touch yourself?"

You nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.

"Jesus Christ, Harrington!" you gasp out, your face now so hot you were surprised that steam wasn’t rising from your skin. “You can’t just ask me that—”

“—what?” Steve asks, seemingly confused why you were so taken aback by his question. “I’m trying to help—”

“—by asking me about masturbation?”

“I’m just trying to understand the situation!”

You huff because you knew deep down Steve had good intentions. You knew he wasn’t asking to be a creep—he was asking because he genuinely cared about you and wanted to help you with the situation. But talking about something so intimate with Steve made you feel a lot of things that you weren’t quite sure what to do with.

“Yes,” you say finally, determinedly not looking at Steve as you answer. “Yes, I um, I finish when I—you know—”

“—touch yourself?” Steve finishes for you and the words send heat coursing through your entire body. You shift on the couch beside him, eyes on his TV that was currently playing some sitcom you were no longer paying attention to. “C’mon, don’t be coy about it! Masturbation is normal! I do it at least three times a—”

“—Steve!” You scold him, your face somehow even hotter as you turn to glare at him. “I don’t need to know about how many times a week you jerk off—”

“—actually, I was going to say that I do it three times a day.”

You look at him and suddenly, any intelligent thought you had disappears. Because now all you could think about was Steve and what he’d look like fucking his fist with his cock. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about Steve in that way before. He may be a good friend of yours but he was also stupidly attractive and wore jeans that hugged his lower half a little too well. Sometimes, if you had a chance to look at him for long enough, you could see the imprint of his thick cock over the denim. And his ass—

“You know I’m kidding right?” Steve asks you, seeming to take your lack of response as disgust—when in reality it was anything but. “I don’t—that’s just excessive. Few times a week is enough for me—”

“—okay, okay! I get it!” You interrupt, wanting him to stop talking because his words were going straight to your core and you didn’t want your traitorous eyes to shift down to his lap. “I don’t need to know your…schedule.”

Steve smiles a little before nudging you with his elbow. “It’s pretty rigorous, I’ll tell you that—”

“—Steven—”

“—sorry,” Steve grins at you before he finally looks away from you. You pray that he drops the entire conversation, that he doesn’t ask anymore questions so that you could finally take moment to relax—

“So, it’s not you—it’s just the guys that you’re seeing?”

“Steve, can’t we just—”

“—no, we can’t,” Steve says, sitting up and looking at you with a careful expression. “Listen—I know you feel awkward talking about this with me but—I just—I care about you and I care about the way guys treat you. And if they’re not making you come, not taking the time to work out what you want, then they’re not treating you right. I—I just want to make sure that you know it’s not you that’s the problem here. It’s them.”

You swallow because, god, why did he have to be so caring? Why did he know the exact right thing to say? And why did you have the sudden urge to press your thighs together?

“I dunno,” you say finally, your throat a little dry for reasons that had everything to do with the man sitting right beside you. “What if—what if guys just can’t make me come? Like I’m too complicated down there or—”

“—stop right there,” Steve interrupts, not unkindly but in a firm sort of way that shuts you up almost instantly. “What did I just say? It’s not you. You said you can make yourself come so I promise you—you’re not the problem. They are. They’re being selfish. They need to—they need to take the time to learn what your body needs. Ask you what you like, how you respond to what they’re doing to you.”

It was good advice, genuinely. But all you could think about as you listened to Steve was what he’d be like in bed. If he would take the time to learn what your body needed, if he would ask you what you liked, if he’d watch—lips parted and eyes wide—as your body writhed beneath him, as your plushy walls squeezed around his—

“I don’t know Steve,” you say quietly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to think too hard about the image you had of Steve’s head between your thighs, of his lips wet with your slick dripping down to his chin. “I don’t know if it’s just that. I mean—it’s not like what they’re doing is really bad because I get close, I—it’s like right before I get there—I just seize up or something.”

Steve listens carefully, his attention solely on you as you try your best to explain the issue and when you’re done, he takes a few seconds to mull over what you had just told him.

“These guys,” Steve begins, hazel eyes flickering between yours as he studies your expression. “Do you trust them?”

“What?” You ask, a little confused at the question. “I don’t know what you—”

“—do you trust them?” Steve repeats the question, not elaboration or clarification—just a small quirk of his brow as he waits for you to respond. “Do you trust them enough to let yourself go completely?”

The question takes you by surprise and you want to say yes—but the word dies on your tongue and the lack of a response was enough of an answer for Steve. He looks at you for a moment too long, hazel eyes studying you as though he was trying to look inside your brain.

“Do you trust me?”

You don’t even think as you nod—because of course you trusted Steve. You trusted him with your life. After everything that had happened in Hawkins, it was hard not to.

“Of course I—”

“—then make yourself come in front of me.”

The silence that greeted Steve’s words was deafening. You stare at him, eyes wide as you let his words truly sink in. You let yourself come to terms with the fact that you weren’t having some strange sex dream. That your good friend and guy you occasionally had inappropriate thoughts had just asked you to make yourself come in front of him.

“Why?” You ask him finally because though you were shocked—there was a large part of you that didn’t want to say no to his offer.

“I just—I think it might help,” Steve shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you notice the way the tips of his ears redden. “I mean sex is pretty fucking vulnerable so you might just need an experience with someone you trust who cares about you. So you know it’s okay to—to let go in front of someone.”

The way he says it—with so much care in his voice that it almost makes you forget about the whole making yourself come in front of him thing. He makes it sound so sweet that you find yourself lost for words again.

“You think it’s weird,” Steve says, shifting away an inch or so away from you on the couch—in your state of shock you had barely noticed that he had begun to inch closer to you. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have—”

“—n-no, no, no,” you stutter out before you could stop yourself with a subtle shake of your head. “I mean—yeah, it’s weird but—as you said I-I trust you.”

Steve blinks and then—seems to realise that you weren’t completely disgusted by his proposal and sits up a little straighter on the couch. 

“Really? You—you’d want to try and—”

“—yes,” you say before he could finish his sentence because you were feeling incredibly turned on by the thought of Steve watching you touch yourself and you didn’t want to let rational thought creep in now. “It could help and if it doesn’t then—”

“—then we just forget it ever happened,” he finishes with a quick nod. “Yeah, totally. Like it never happened.”

You look at each other then, apparently both waiting for the other to back out. But when neither of you do, Steve visibly swallows as he stands up from his couch, holding out his hand out for you to take..

“You wanna—go somewhere more comfortable?”

Steve’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy considering the fact he hadn’t been expecting company. Still, there’s some clothes strewn across his bed that Steve makes quick work of tidying up.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he dumps the clothes onto his desk before gesturing towards his bed for you to sit down.

You glance down at his bed before you look back at him. Because now you felt nervous—now you were thinking about lying on his sheets and fingering yourself in front of him. And perhaps you were just starting to realise how insane that would be and—

“Hey.”

You feel one of Steve’s large hands on your arm and it pulls you back to reality. You hadn’t even realised that you had been staring blankly down at his plaid sheets, already too in your own head about what was about to happen. Steve’s gentle touch, his fingertips brushing over your skin help to ground you—remind you that this wasn’t a stranger you had met at a bar or someone you had been set up with by a mutual friend. This was Steve. Your good, totally platonic friend, Steve.

“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin and unknowingly turning your insides into goo. “I’m gonna put on some music, okay? Help you relax a bit. Just take a seat.”

You listen because you did not know what else to do, sitting on the very edge of his bed and watching as he walks over to his vinyl player perched on top of a chest of drawers. You continue to watch him from the back as he sorts through the small stack of vinyls he had, apparently trying to find the perfect record. 

A few moments later, the sound of Baby Now That I’ve Found You by the Foundations starts to play and you feel your shoulders visibly relax before Steve turns around to look at you.

“Really?” You ask him with a faint smile. “Is this you trying to set the mood?”

“That obvious, huh?” Steve asks you as he steps towards the bed—towards you.

You watch him, your lips parting as he stands a foot or so away from you now. The room feels five times smaller as Steve’s eyes are on you.

“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask Steve suddenly. “What if there’s something wrong if me or—”

Steve cuts you off by saying your name and the way he says it steals the air from your lungs.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve says firmly, as though he believed every syllable. “Absoluetly nothing.”

You nod, choosing to believe him as you look at his face, the smooth voices of the Foundations putting you a little more at ease. “Okay so—we’re doing this. Okay. Are you just going to watch me or—”

You stop when you see Steve shaking his head. Your body suddenly feels hot, as though all the blood in your body had been replaced by fire. It was almost as though it seemed to know what Steve was going to say before he said it.

“No,” Steve says in a low voice that goes straight to your aching centre. “You’re going to show me. And I’ll show you.”

Everything became very still after that. The both of you just looked at each other—your chest heaving and his eyes flickering over your face as though trying to find any hint of uncertainty. You wanted to be the one to make the first move and you almost do, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you as you build up the courage to do so. But before you could find the hem of your t-shirt, Steve begins to lift up his top.

The first flash of his soft stomach, of his happy trail and you seemed to forget how to breathe. God, he was gorgeous. Moles and freckles were dotted over his skin, there was a generous smattering of hair over his chest that made your thighs press together and you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it. In truth, you could have looked at him for hours. 

But instead, you take a deep breath before you very slowly get to your feet.

Steve is watching you carefully as you begin to lift up your own shirt. His eyes on you should have made you feel self conscious, should have made you think twice of the very unsexy bra you were wearing, should have made you think of all the parts of yourself you didn’t like. But there was something about the way he was looking at you as you let your shirt fall to the floor that made you feel the very opposite of self conscious.

And so, before you could second guess yourself—you made the next move before him.

Your fingers fiddle momentarily with the button of your jeans before you unzip them, the sound making Steve’s eyes widen slightly. And when you begin to tug your jeans down over your hips and then your thighs, leaving you in just your mismatched underwear, you watch in fascination as a faint blush creeps up Steve’s neck.

You step out of your jeans, not looking away from Steve for even a second so you didn’t miss a single facial expression. So that you didn’t miss the way the flush had crept up his cheeks and right up to the very tips of his ears, how his breathing had started to become shallow.

“You look—”

“—don’t,” you say, surprised to find that your voice was barely a whisper. 

“Why not?” He asks gently, head tilting to the side as he begins to unbuckle his belt.

You lick your lips, eyes still on his face but desperately wanting to shift lower to watch as he unzips his jeans.

“Becuase I might think that you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” you say. “Considering what we’re about to do.”

“I would never lie about how beautiful I think you are,” Steve says simply, his eyes still on you as he finally pulls his jeans down.

You barely have a moment to comprehend Steve calling you beautiful before you catch sight of him in only his boxers. He was—shit, he was perfect. You let your eyes dip down to feast on his delicious thighs, his boxers that had a large, noticeable tent in them that made your core throb.

Your throat felt dry, you didn't quite know what to do. All you knew is that Steve Harrington was hard just by looking at you. The thought sends a hot surge through your body, as though every damn nerve was suddenly burning beneath your skin. And perhaps it was that thought—the idea that you had made Steve hard without really doing anything—that you reached carefully behind you to unclip your bra.

Steve visibly swallows as your breasts spill out, finally seeing your hardened peaks as you let your bra fall to the floor alongside your t-shirt and jeans.

There was a beat and then—

He begins to tug down his boxers.

You had imagined what Steve Harrignton’s cock would look like more times than you cared to admit. But every mental image you had conjured up was nothing—nothing—compared to what was standing to attention right in front of you. His cock was long, thick and heavy, so heavy in fact it had made an audible sound when it had slapped against his soft tummy. His cock was beautiful—he was beautiful. Slightly curved in a way that you knew was made for hitting that spot inside of you just right. The ruddy tip of his cock was already leaking precum, which you shamelessly watch drool along a vein bulging along his length. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you ogled the sheer size of him, imagining what it would be like for his thick cock to split you open—

You come to your senses just enough to discard your panties. They stick to your cunt briefly due to how fucking drenched you already were and Steve notices—his bottom lip between his teeth as he marvels at how your lips cling to the fabric before giving way, his cock twitching when he sees the damp patch your wetness had caused.

And there you both were, both finally completely bare in front of one another for the first time. Both looking shamelessly at the other’s body, both clearly desperate to touch the other but not dare to do so.

And then, without a word to each other, you sink back down onto his bed while Steve reaches blindly behind him to pull out his desk chair.

It was only now beginning to feel real, as you look at Steve’s face at the same time he looks at you.

“Still with me?” He asks you breathlessly.

You take your time to answer, spreading your legs a little wider and watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes flicker down to your soaked pussy. Another surge of something hot like molten lava surges through you as you notice the way his hand twitches towards his cock.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Still with you.”

You could have looked at each other for hours, days even. But your pussy was clenching around nothing and more precum dribbled out of Steve’s cock and you both knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

Steve moved first, one of his large hands wrapping around his thick cock before giving himself one, two gentle strokes. The sound of his own precum wetting his cock was obscene and it was that noise that made you trail your fingers delicately over the skin of your inner thigh before making contact with the soaked, sensitive flesh between your legs.

The relief was instant. You felt your entire body relax, your eyelids flutter for a brief moment before you made sure to look back at Steve. He was already watching you and for a moment you just smile at each other—almost shyly despite the situation—before you both focus back on pleasuring yourselves.

Your fingers glide easily through your folds, your slick allowing you to plunge two fingers inside of yourself. A breathy moan left your lips before you could stop it. You were almost embarrassed by it but then you notice the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the sound, the way he squeezes his cock a little bit tighter.

“God, you’re fucking soaked,” he grits out. “You sound—fuck—you sound fucking incredible. Please don’t stop.”

His words—his filthy fucking words—go right through you. Your cunt clenches around your fingers and you briefly wonder if you had died and gone to heaven, if Steve Harrington was really dirty talking to you right now.

“C’mon pretty girl,” Steve grits out as he pumps his dick that little bit faster, eyes not leaving yours. “Don’t hold back. Please, baby. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”

You could barely believe it, the words that were falling from his lips, the pet names he had just called you. But you didn’t question it—too busy fucking yourself with your slick fingers as you let out another soft, almost pornographic moan.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, the schlick, schlick, schlick of him fucking his fist filling the room as he watching your soaked fingers move in and out of your needy hole like it was the best damn thing he had ever seen. “Soak your fingers f’me. That’s so fucking hot.”

You let out a whimper at that, his words having such an impact on you that your hips buck upwards to meet your fingers, your eyes fluttering again as pleasure floods into every pore over your skin.

“Steve,” you mewl out as your fingers pump in and out of your hole, your breasts bouncing with each and every thrust. “Fuck, Steve. Feels so fucking good.”

Steve hadn’t been expecting you to dirty talk but god, had it been the most welcome surprise.

“Yeah? Gonna make yourself come for me, sweet girl?” Steve asks you, now pumping his dick frantically as he watches you roll your hips against his bed—your slick soaking his sheets. “Gonna get my bed all wet? Make me smell you on my sheets for days?”

You whimper and nod desperately as you curl your fingers, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that had you mewling out yet again. 

“Gonna touch your clit for me?” Steve asks you, breathing heavily as he tries to hold back as the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his bed was suddenly becoming too much for him. “C’mon, please. Wanna see you lose it, baby.”

It was like Steve knew exactly what you needed, almost as though he knew your body better than you did without even touching it.

Your other hand—the one that had been curled into the sheets beneath you—journeys to between your legs. And that first brush of your fingertip over your swollen, arching clit had you seeing stars. You’re pretty sure you moan out Steve’s name but it also could have been nonsense. All you could focus on was Steve’s own pleasure dancing across his face and the dual sensation of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt and the other that was circling around your clit.

Pleasure was consuming you—it was white hot and you could feel it pulsing in every nerve in your body. You could feel the blood in your veins burning as the coil in your gut was pulled tighter and tighter while you played with your swollen clit.

“That’s it,” Steve gasps out, his eyes only on you as you neared the edge. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come for me. You can do it, I know you can.”

You wish that you could have held on, that you could have prolonged your pleasure by a few more seconds. But your orgasm had snuck up on you—crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook, your toes curled and Steve’s name fell from your lips as you came all over your fingers, your juices soaking Steve’s bed.

And it was that—watching you finally trusting him enough to let yourself go completely that made Steve follow along right behind you. You watch in awe as his toes curl, as his stomach clenches and how his head tilts back against the back of the chair in ecstasy, his release spilling all over that soft tummy of his. Steve lets out a loud groan, followed by your name and you swear, you could have come for a second time from that sound alone. 

You withdraw your fingers as you catch your breath, your chest heaving and body still buzzing after the intensity of your orgasm.

Finally, after taking a moment or two to prepare yourself, you finally look at Steve’s face. He was already looking at you and smiling.

“See,” he breathes out. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s all about trust.”

“Steve Harrington being right for once?” You say, smiling. “It must be a miracle.”

You both laugh and though you both clean up, get dressed and promise each other nothing will change between you—deep down you both knew that after tonight? Things would never be the same again.

dividers by @starrliqhtt

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The first thought is his first hangover. This one does not get even close to it, but the memory comes unbidden. He was fifteen and Rafe had found a stash in Uncle Arlan’s desk at the office—two half-drunk bottles of scotch pushed to the back. They stole both and took off to the hill beyond the orphanage, where the grass was always flattened by somebody’s wrongdoings before theirs. There they sat shoulder to shoulder, daring each other on, drinking to never getting adopted, because getting adopted meant being split apart and that was reason enough, at fifteen, to make a ceremony of poison. Before Dunk twigged that Rafe was cheating, tipping less down than she claimed, he had swallowed near half a bottle and felt it bloom right behind his eyes.

Rafe died of pneumonia not long after. Dunk, bitter with it, decided then that he would never again toast anything before the thing was sealed and certain. The universe, if his life had taught him anything at all, was the sort to hear the hopeful lift a glass and answer, hold my beer.

When they staggered back into the ‘home’ that night, hanging off each other and burping and laughing fit to wake the dead, Uncle Arlan was waiting with another bottle. He marched Dunk to the sink, made him drink water, then poured three more gulps of whisky into him for punishment or cure or some mixture of the two, and after that Dunk remembered nothing. He woke what felt like a week later with a hole in his head and a foxhole full of chickens in his stomach. The next time he drank was after he left the orphanage at eighteen, when Uncle Arlan had died too.

He blinks the flashback away. His head hurts, yes. His stomach has complaints of its own. He very possibly has heartburn. But the worst of it is in his eyes and, once again, he curses Raymun for telling him to look proper. Dunk wonders what could be worse than forgetting to take his contact lenses out before sleeping and comes up with no worthy contenders. His eyes are so dry he can feel the things drag against his lids every time he moves them.

Then, the night starts returning in order. Raymun. The ring. The cider bargain. The Laughing Storm sign in neon. Dancing. His toes getting crushed. More drink. Burning his tongue. Your shoe. You.

His heart swells. He chuckles to himself, rolls onto his stomach and inhales your scent from the sheet. Clementines still. In a boyish, unhygienic fit of fuck it, he digs thumb and forefinger into each eye, plucks the offensive silicone out, and flings the sticky discs somewhere beyond the bed. He promises himself a heroic amount of eye drops later, just so he can have this moment uninterrupted by pain.

And there, relieved of it, he goes through everything beat by beat. Kissing you and the taste of you. Your ass in his hands—his palms seem to remember the weight of it so clearly they almost burn. His mouth between your legs, tongue still tingling as if memory alone has a texture. Your fingers in his hair. Your face, your gorgeous face, right in front of him through so much of it. Your neck under his mouth. Your breasts, even prettier than he had imagined, and in the state he is in now he can finally admit he has imagined them more than once. Your thighs. The way you felt around him. The way you went wet for him. The way you came on him. His orgasm after, so strong and insane his bones still seem lit from within by it.

He is getting hard from the memory alone.

Certain now that all he needs is a shower after you’ve had yours, and then coffee, and then a look through the kitchen to see whether he owns anything fit to be turned into breakfast for you, Dunk pushes himself up. He cannot see for shit, so he gropes across the bedside table for his glasses. When he gets them on, something is wrong: your things are gone.

He stares first, as if the missing dress might reappear. Then he says your name once, still hoarse with sleep. Louder the second time. Nothing. He checks the bathroom. Empty. Kitchen. Empty. Hallway. Empty too, save for the ordinary little pettiness of his own belongings.

For a strange, stretched moment he does not let himself believe it. Because last night had felt too large for leaving. It had felt like one of those things a man does not simply get up from and continue being the same size afterwards.

Then a chill licks his spine and he starts reassessing the damage. Maybe he is remembering it wrong. Maybe he hurt you. Maybe he did something. Maybe you had not wanted it at all and the drink had carried the both of you clean past whatever should have stopped you. His stomach turns over so hard it nearly makes good on all that old whisky memory. With trembling hands he reaches for his phone and hangs there for a full minute, unable to decide whether to call, text, or forget both and just go to see you.

In the end he types: you okay? Then he stares at the screen, holding his breath, eyes stinging, and tells himself the sting is all Raymun’s fault.

Yeah, you? You text back. He breathes again, but then more comes: Sorry, I still have to get that thing done with Lyonel today. Crazy night, right? I can barely remember anything…

And Dunk, being Dunk, believes you. In a plain way. He believes the thing he has been given because he does not know what else he is meant to do with it. You know you slept together, that much is clear from the shape of your message and the carefulness of it, but the rest—how it happened, who said what, whether it had meaning while it was happening or only afterwards—has evidently gone blurry on your end. Or worse, not blurry at all, and this is simply you being kind enough to hand him a version he can survive.

He stares at the screen a long time. Reads crazy night twice. Then I can barely remember anything enough times for the words to start looking cheap and strange. Something dies in him very quietly.

A small part, but central enough that the rest has to rearrange around the vacancy. Last night took a seat in him like revelation. This morning, even after you’d gone, some part of him had still been stupid enough to think the size of it must have reached you too. Then, that you had gone because you were frightened, maybe, or hungover, or embarrassed, but not because what happened had been small. Not because it had dissolved into a general category of mad things done under the influence.

Now he feels like an idiot. A huge, naked idiot who had lain there getting hard over the memory of a thing you are already filing under mishap. He types and deletes three replies before settling on something short and harmless, because apparently he is going to help you pretend this did not split him open.

Then the hangover comes for him properly, or so he tells himself. His stomach drops sick and sour. His head starts hurting in earnest. The burn rises hot behind his breastbone.

Right. Heartburn. That will be what this is.

It’s noon when his text finds you. You are sat by the bedroom window, not doing anything useful enough to call interrupted. Just messages from Rowan (all along the lines of omg I think he’s going to propose and you going nooo, you’re kidding!) and Lyonel, who apparently regenerates in sleep like some ancient deity and is ready to get back to earning money first thing in the morning.

There’s a caterpillar outside, hanging behind glass under the little rain guard. Yesterday it swayed there, shaped like a letter J, and you thought about cleaning the windows over the weekend. Today it’s Sunday, and it reminds you that you haven’t. 

The message lights your screen. Where Duncan’s name blinks there is also a risk of combustion in the chest and queasiness in the stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. The thing outside is splitting.

The skin has gone slack and wrong-looking, as if the creature has outgrown itself in the night. Near the top, just behind where the head was, the casing has begun to crack. A fine break, entirely undramatic and non-biblical, widening by effort so steady it almost fools the eye. The body beneath is a colourless, wet-looking green, ridged and tender as something newly unwrapped.

It takes ten minutes, maybe thirteen, for the caterpillar to turn properly into a chrysalis. You know this for no respectable reason. The old skin keeps wrinkling upward in increments. The thing inside keeps working free, contracting and suspending and becoming less like an animal than an object. It all looks like what you feel like doing. Oh, to go hard around the edges and let the red, tender body inside rest.

The first text back is normal enough for you to spot an opening in it right away. It is sent by the splitting thing, one that’s swollen enough to be on the verge of crawling out of its own flesh. Before Dunk gets to squeeze himself through that opening, the carapace grows around you. It seals all the endless possibilities that hang in the air for a second before one message and the next. He might’ve said I had a good time. He might’ve asked to see you. He might’ve dismissed it. You will never know, because you dismiss it first, because that’s sane and safe and saves him the trouble of backing out from something awkward and difficult to manage.

The second it goes, your stomach coils as if you have thrown not words but crockery. You sit there with the phone in your hand and feel the small, sick pleasure of having made the first cut. Clean. Efficient. Merciful, if one is generous, though you are not in a generous mood towards yourself and so call it what it more likely is: cowardice with punctuation. People are most convincing when they misname their own fear.

Then, you wait for the reply with your whole body. While you do, the remnants of him keep turning up in you. Memory comes in rags, so not that exactly, but some knowledge hidden within the body. There is a sweet, mean ache low in you that makes the walk from kitchen to sofa feel faintly lewd. He had taken up space—that much remains beyond dispute. Whatever your mind has misplaced, your cunt has kept better minutes. It throbs once, as if to make a point, and you press your thighs together hard enough to feel insulted by yourself.

He texts back. No bother, lass. I’m rough as arseholes myself. Good luck with Lyonel.

You read his answer once. Then again, because the first pass leaves meaning behind in favour of harrow. It is kind. Funny. Painfully normal. And of course decent, because Duncan would find a way to be decent while being flayed.

For a moment you imagine the other versions of this. The worse one, where he says nothing and lets silence do the work. The more dangerous one, where he says he remembers perfectly, that he meant it, that he wants to talk. Your whole system reacts to the latter like a horse shown fire: no. You are not doing that again. Not taking one night, one man, one dangerous amount of wanting, and turning it into proof of something bigger. Not with Duncan. The cost of being wrong there would have a headcount too large.

So you put the phone face down and tell yourself the matter is, if not settled, at least stapled shut for the day. It holds weakly.

When you stand, the ache deepens. Begrudgingly, the opposite of awful. A private soreness, warm at the centre, the sort a younger woman might have strutted about with in triumph. On you it feels less triumphant than compromising. You can nearly map him from it. The breadth. The moment of being too full and wanting more. You shut your eyes briefly and lean against the bed frame because self-respect is taking the scenic route today.

You need water. A shower. Concealer. Clothes that imply managerial competence. You need food too, though the thought of food turns your stomach in theory while your body, rude and basic, keeps reminding you it has been running on lager fumes.

Lyonel sends another message: Running twenty behind.

You push off the bed. The shower helps only in the most crude sense. It gets you clean. It does nothing for the fact that under the water your body keeps offering up pieces of him out of sequence: his mouth at your throat; the weight of his hand at the back of your thigh; the rough, wrecked sound of his voice. You wash your hair twice as if that might get the night to stop clinging. By the time you step out, the mirror gives you a woman who still looks suspicious but at least no longer criminal.

You dress for competence. Put on your face with a steadier hand than you feel. Drink water. Find half a banana. Hate it. Eat it anyway. Then you pick up your phone again and stare once at Duncan’s thread without opening it, as though proximity alone might tell you what sort of day he is having. The screen tells you nothing. Right, then.

When you get to the meeting, Raymun looks, for a change, pale. “Oi!” you call out to him.

Raymun looks up at your call and tries for one of his usual grins, but it comes out thin and badly fixed. When you get close enough to throw your arms round him, the whole of him gives a little shake under the hug.

You pull back and look at his face. “You didn’t ask her yet—”

“I mean to do it proper,” he says, smoothing a hand over his tie. In Raymun’s mouth the nerves come out dressed as indignation. “None of this half-arsed business. Wanted the ground under me first, dint I.”

You pat his back twice, firm enough to count as instruction. “After this, you have to.”

“Aye, well.” His eyes travel over your face, pause there. “After lookin’ at you, I’d say there’s no point either of us delayin’ things. Christ, what hit you? You look as if somebody kept you in a drawer overnight.”

“Something large and blond,” you mutter, realising too late that the thought has actually left your mouth.

Raymun blinks.

“Hangover,” you say briskly, already turning. “Obviously. Come on.”

He squints after you, not wholly convinced, but his own nerves are doing too much work for him to pick that thread up and pull. So he only mutters, “Right,” and falls into step beside you.

Lyonel’s office is on one level less extravagant than the party had been and on another considerably more so. Instead of theatrical effort, it’s just old money—and that never needs to announce itself twice. The room is high-ceilinged and quiet, dark wood, deep carpet, and windows taller than any sensible man requires. The desk is broad enough to furnish an open space. There is art on the walls you suspect ought to be insured separately from the building. Even the water glasses seem to have been born expensive.

It will never cease to amaze you, the effortlessness of buildings like this. They endure every trend while never gleaming.

Lyonel rises when you both come in. Raymun does too, in his own way—straightening half an inch and gathering himself by the shoulders.

“Mr. Fossoway,” Lyonel says.

“Raymun’ll do.”

Lyonel’s mouth gives a brief shape that may count as a grin. “Very well. Sit.”

You take the chair a little aside from them, sinking into a role between participant and furniture. Raymun sits opposite Lyonel and, for the first minute or two, does better than you expected. Manages to not fidget much. Talks calmly. He states his numbers plain, lays out what he’s after, what he’s offering, where the return is meant to come from. Lyonel listens in that unnerving, courteous way of his, fingers linked loosely over one knee, as if nothing in the world is easier than deciding where other people’s futures go.

The questions begin. Forecasts. Timelines. Risk. Raymun answers with enough confidence to sound serious and enough caution to avoid sounding stupid. Once or twice he glances at you, very quickly, for ballast more than rescue, and each time you give him the smallest nod you can manage without turning this into a mothering exercise.

Lyonel steeples his fingers. “Tell me something, then. Am I making a deal with you, or with all the Fossoways?”

Raymun does not flinch, though you can see the effort it costs him. “With me.”

“And your family shares that understanding?”

“I’ve my grandfather’s blessing,” Raymun says. “The deal’s mine.”

Lyonel lifts one brow. “And not with your cousin?”

You almost smile. He has done his reading, then. It occurs to you that while you were having an existential crisis over an insect, Lyonel had been digging through Fossoway history and deciding where the weak boards were.

Raymun snorts through his nose. “No. Just me. My cousin’s a raging cunt anyway.”

For the first time since you entered, Lyonel laughs outright. It is brief and clean and, annoyingly, rather handsome on him.

“Well,” he says, “clarity is valuable.”

From there the thing loosens. They go through the terms in earnest: the investment figure, the staging of it, the reporting, the milestones that have to be met before more money moves. Lyonel pushes where pushing is called for. Raymun pushes back where he safely can. By the end of it they have arrived somewhere real. Better than merely a promise—the bones of obligation.

When they stand and shake on it, Raymun’s face does something boyish and unguarded for half a second, and you have to look down so as not to embarrass him by seeing it too clearly.

Lyonel walks you out with the same impossible ease with which he seems to do everything. At the door he says, “I expect competence from both of you now that we’ve all made each other’s lives more complicated.”

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” you say.

“I would,” says Raymun. “But I’ll resist.”

That earns him another flash of grin, and then the door is shut behind you.

The moment you are clear of the office and into the corridor, Raymun turns and catches you in a hug so hard it nearly chokes you. “Oh, hell,” he says into your hair, voice gone rough. “Thank you.”

You hug him back just as hard. “You did that.”

“Aye, but you got me in the room.”

“You still did it.”

He squeezes once more before letting you go enough to look at your face. His own is pink around the eyes, though he is making a fair attempt to behave as if this is not the case. “Love you,” he says, quick and graceless in the way people mean it most. “You know that, aye?”

The answer comes easier than most things have today. “Love you too.”

He gives you a crooked look. “Even with the state of me.”

“Especially with the state of you.”

“And Rowan. And Duncan,” he says, as if correcting the record before the court adjourns.

“And Rowan,” you agree. “And Duncan.” On that one you agree less.

For one second the four of you arrange themselves in your mind as something fixed and sheltering. Then the second passes, because life has never once in its history let you keep a thought that neat for long.

In the evening, you receive a picture of Rowan’s hand with a ring on it and a spray of emojis including champagne, a bride and groom, confetti and clovers. So it is sealed.

Happiness comes easy. Real, clean happiness. You grin at the screen. You even let out a small noise of triumph meant for nobody. Rowan got what she wanted. Raymun did too. The world has managed to carry a fragile thing all the way across without dropping it on its head.

You do your best to remain in that feeling. Not to let your mind go bolting on ahead to the rest of it. To the two of them having a child. Then another. Moving out somewhere greener and farther. A garden. A car seat. New routines. New friends with the same shape of lives and weatherproof jackets and two children apiece. A future that begins by changing one thing and ends by changing the map.

As if to confirm that nothing is changing except for everything, Rowan sends another message a minute later. Thursday, pub! Be there or I’ll come drag you out by the ankles myself.

Duncan gets his notification on Monday morning. He’s been sleeping the harrowing thoughts off most of Sunday and then decided it’s not worth getting up just to exist for two hours before he can go back to bed again. He wakes with none of the hangover present in the muscles and all of it present in the heart area. When he unlocks his phone a picture of Rowan is there, her eyes red-rimmed and a hand she’s holding up for the camera a little blurry, presumably shaking. Caption: She said aye. Lower, there’s another message: Thursday at the pub, celebratory pints. Be there!

First instinct is to ask whether you’re going to be there as well, but Duncan decides that is a touch too transparent, and then rules that of course you will be. He replies with an awkward congratulations gif and answers the invitation with a thumbs-up. Then, it is only preparation for chaos.

Work helps, in the way small children help by leaving no room for adult nonsense. By eight-thirty he has already settled one dispute over whether farting loudly in assembly counts as bad behaviour or is it simply a natural thing to do (Dunk doesn’t believe in holding back farts so it was actually difficult to come with an answer that wouldn’t have him chased by outraged parents), confiscated a conker being used as a weapon of unclear classification, and been asked by a girl in senior infants whether boys are a different species or a poor decision God kept making. Duncan, who has no degree fit for that conversation, tells her boys are only boys and she receives this with the grave disappointment of a young scientist dealing with corrupted data.

He likes it here for reasons he can never explain without sounding simple. The children are still small enough to bring him their problems before shame gets to them and teaches them to hide. Their miseries are immediate and manageable. Somebody said somebody else’s mam smells of onions. Somebody has lost a mitten and therefore, by the logic of six-year-olds, possibly a hand. Two lads in third class are no longer friends because one called Sonic shite and now both require arbitration. There is work in that. Useful work. Work where his size and voice and patience tend to help more often than they harm.

When he strides through the courtyard he sees Egg arriving on a bike, schoolbag bouncing against his narrow back, and the sight lifts something in him. Spring has finally turned warm enough for it. The trees along the road are doing their pale green best. Egg has flushed cheeks and wind-bright eyes and looks, for once, exactly his age instead of like a small prince in temporary exile from a state occasion. Duncan watches him skid slightly, recover, and look around with the quick guardedness he still has before he spots him and brightens.

There. That alone makes the morning easier to bear. It reminds Dunk, as it often does, of the day Egg first arrived.

He and half the staff had been summoned to the principal’s office and found Maekar Targaryen sitting in one of the old creaking chairs, broad-shouldered and severe in an immaculate suit, with a backdrop of finger paintings, reward charts and a cardboard sun smiling over the alphabet. It had looked ridiculous and somehow made him more intimidating. Duncan knew the name in the vague, public way most people did. Money. Industry. Scandal. A face in papers and on screens, full of hard lines and expensive grief. Every time one of the older sons disgraced himself, the dead wife got dragged up by columnists as if her absence were copy somebody could keep billing.

Until that meeting Dunk had thought there were only two sons, because those were the two who surfaced most often in the news. One for violence. One for drink. Aerion seemed the sort to wake looking for something weaker than himself to ruin. Daerion, from what Rowan said when she read the stories out loud, looked bent on drinking himself into the ground for want of a better hobby. Different girls, different headlines, same family jaw. Aerion had been accused twice of sexual misconduct, and the second time Duncan had had to put his tea down and walk out to the back garden before he broke the mug in his hand.

Then there were apparently four. One son up in Wales at university, keeping himself largely out of sight. And the fourth: Aegon.

Duncan never knew whether it was love that brought Maekar to the doorstep of a regular primary school or only some cold-blooded experiment to determine whether his sons were being ruined at home or arriving that way from the factory. What he said, in that room full of child-sized art and adult discomfort, was that he was at the end of his patience and if one son did not come out right he did not know what he was going to do.

There followed negotiations. Terms. Safeguards. Most of them concerned Egg’s safety among what Maekar plainly thought of as the common people. Then came the insistence on equal treatment, which made the principal blink and ask, with an offence he tried to keep professional, whether Mr Targaryen imagined anybody in this building handed out favours according to the size of a parent’s bank account.

Maekar had gone still at that. Then given him a look that could have salted a field.

Dunk had spent most of the meeting wondering why exactly he was in the room at all, until Maekar’s gaze landed on him and stayed there a beat too long. “I take it you are the physical educator,” he said.

It landed just shy of insult. Duncan, who at the time still answered to things with more politeness than strategy, nodded. 

“I expect you to keep an eye on him. I am certain he’ll excel in every other field, but he is small for his age and may struggle with contact sports. Team games. Anything where bigger boys forget their own momentum.” He paused. “You look like a man acquainted with bodily disadvantage.”

Dunk had the sense it might have gone down easier without the last part, but Maekar struck him as the sort of man who would rather sour his own point than leave a barb unused. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he said.

Maekar turned then to the principal. “If my terms are met, I am willing to make a donation to the school.”

Mr Penrose, who had sat through all of this with his hands folded over a biscuit-tin stomach and an expression of increasing offence, said, “We do not need bribes, good man. You may make a donation if you wish. Money or no money, we’ll do our best to educate your son and keep him safe. If that satisfies you, bring him on Monday.”

That did satisfy him, or near enough. Maekar rose. The chair gave a long, miserable creak under the release of him. He shook nobody’s hand, only buttoned his coat and said, “Very well.”

And that was that. Monday came, and with it Aegon Targaryen, schoolbag nearly bigger than all of him and a face set in the expectation of a child being delivered somewhere he fully intends to hate.

“Oi!” Egg calls and it makes Dunk snort outright.

“Oi yourself,” Dunk calls back. “And don’t be oi-ing teachers before first bell. It’s a bad habit.”

Egg, one foot down and one still on the pedal, gives him a look of deep constitutional disagreement. “You’re only P.E.”

“That’s teacher enough for manners,” Dunk says, and reaches to steady the handlebars while Egg swings off. “How’s your weekend?”

Egg’s face darkens by a shade. Not much. Only enough for Dunk to catch it. “Let’s just say,” he answers, “I’m glad to be somewhere that isn’t home.”

Dunk’s about to ask more, but Egg has already craned his neck up at him with that sharp little squint he reserves for weak spots in adults. “What state are you in?” he says.

Dunk blinks. “I’m in no state.”

“You are too. You look like boiled shite.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“You look hungover, then.”

Dunk snorts. “And what would you know about that?”

Egg shrugs and starts wheeling the bike towards the racks. “I’ve an alcoholic brother.”

That shuts Dunk up for a step or two. They head inside together, the corridor still carrying that morning-school smell of floor cleaner, pencil shavings and damp coats. Egg walks beside him with his bag thumping lightly against his hip, all small serious purpose.

After a minute Dunk says, quieter, “You can tell me if something’s not right at home, aye?”

Egg gives a short breath through his nose. “Nothing is right at home. But it’s not wrong either. It’s just the natural state of young men being idiots.” He glances up. “I hope I’m never like that.”

Dunk considers him. The bald head. The solemn little mouth. The old eyes in the child’s face.

“Well,” he says, “your hair’s growing back.”

Egg lets out a groan of such genuine misery it near enough lifts Dunk’s spirits on the spot. “Daerion was too occupied yesterday to fix it.”

That has been the arrangement for a while now. Egg had first shaved his head clean as a way of stepping out from under the Targaryen name, or trying to. Dunk had worried the other children might make sport of it. They had done the opposite. The look suited him. It matched the nickname too well. And the girls from the older classes, for reasons beyond Dunk’s area of certification, had taken to patting his head on sight. Egg accepted this attention with the stoicism of a saint and the satisfaction of a small emperor. Dunk, whenever he caught it happening, always had to smile.

Egg glances at him again as they turn for the staff corridor. “So?”

“So what?”

“So what happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me.”

Egg gives him a look of withering disbelief. “A girl has plainly made you this sodden.”

Dunk nearly trips on the threshold. “What would you know about that?”

“Not much,” Egg says. “Girls like me enough.”

That one lands with such perfect calm Dunk can only stare at him.

Egg looks back, faintly smug now. “I’m observant. That’s all.”

“And humble.”

“I never said they liked me for my humility.”

It gets a laugh out of Dunk. Strange in his chest, rusty at the start and easier after, but Egg hears it and seems pleased enough with the result to let him keep some dignity.

Then the boy cuts him another sideways glance. “She’ll either marry you or ruin your week,” he says. “Judging by your face, I’d say she’s trying for both.”

Dunk scowls. “Into class with you.”

Egg only grins and slips ahead of him down the corridor, quick as a fish, leaving Dunk to watch the little bald head bob off towards morning assembly and think, not for the first time, that Maekar’s house is wasting its only decent son.

The rest of the day stays relatively calm. He runs his classes, listens with only half an ear to the stories in the teachers’ room, and lingers after school to sort the P.E. equipment. Then, after work, he goes for a run on the sports ground to sweat out whatever poison remains in him. Enough, at least, to tire himself so thoroughly that the evening passes in a large supper and the telly.

After that, Dunk calls Raymun to congratulate him properly and smiles all the way through the conversation. Raymun sounds beyond happy, and that makes Dunk happy too.

He tries not to think too much about Thursday. The further he gets from Saturday night and Sunday morning, the more the details begin to blur. He cannot quite trust his memory on that front, and wonders whether half of it might have been fabricated by his touch-starved nature. Duncan, having not been hugged much in life, takes to every form of touch with alarming eagerness. Part of why he loves working with kids, and not in any odd sense. If he can improve somebody’s day simply by letting them hang off his neck, then his own improves by proxy.

He is acutely aware of the flavours of touch and the purposes they serve. Arlan had mostly used the sharp sort on him, like cuffs to the ear, swats across the back of the head with quick arrival and longer sting in the pride than the skin. It did something lasting to his measurements. A hand on the shoulder, a pat between the shoulder blades, even somebody squeezing his arm in passing—those landed in him with the force of bells. Kindness, when it came by touch, always rang louder for having once had to compete.

He knows fists too. The heavy kind and the swift, furious kind. He was a boy once, and boys always seem to reach some age where words stop being considered a sufficient technology for disagreement. He got hit, hit back, learned the ordinary grammar of it. Then a girl kissed him for the first time and he was so thoroughly baffled by the change in rules he near forgot his own name. Had no notion what to do with his tongue, or his hands, or his teeth, which only seemed to get in the way. Later he learned that knowing what to do with one’s tongue around girls is, in fact, a fairly important life skill.

For the most part, though, girls frightened him. Not because they were fearsome exactly, but because so many of them looked breakable, and the last thing Duncan ever wanted was to hurt somebody by accident. That remained true even after his first girlfriend, who more or less decided he was going to be hers and left him little room to object. He had not objected. Back then, he loved her so much he could not imagine ever wanting to be touched by anybody else. Most of what he knows about kissing and hands and how to pay attention, he learned with her. It was with her too that he first learned he was built on the larger side and would have to give some extra thought to putting himself places.

Sex had come on him like revelation. That the body could be used for things beyond labour and function—beyond running and lifting and throwing and swimming and eating—struck him as near miraculous. For a long while he thought he was not much good at it. Then one night he finally made her come. She shook in the thighs for what felt like ages and thanked him so earnestly afterwards that something permanent shifted in his understanding of himself. He had done that. He could do that. The knowledge stayed.

Then, she moved to another town, and he missed her hard for the better part of a year. There were others after. More serious and less serious, though to Duncan anything involving a woman always ends up serious at his end whether it was meant to or not. The last had been serious enough to send him out drinking over the break-up, and that was how he learned the true meaning of one door closing and another opening. He met Raymun because his own life had just gone pear-shaped.

So yes, he hates the thought of Saturday turning out to have been a one-night stand. Hates it with a fullness that makes his chest feel packed too tight. But if that is the price of keeping the door open on the friendship—yours, Rowan’s, Raymun’s, all of it together—then he will simply withstand it. He has withstood worse things than wanting more of somebody than they are willing to give.

By Thursday Duncan has decided there is no earthly reason to look proper for the ordinary public suffering of a pub. He puts on the old jeans instead, with enough room in the crotch to let him sit down without feeling castrated, and wears his glasses rather than tormenting his eyes with contacts.

The place is their usual pub. Wood darkened by a century of spills, a mirror behind the bar, old men sunk into their corners like permanent fixtures. Duncan is grateful for that. More grateful still when he walks in and finds everyone already there. He does not have to be alone with you or stand in a doorway waiting to see whether you smile.

You do smile. That is nearly worse.

Annoyingly, four days have done nothing to reduce your face. You are just as pretty as before, maybe more for having returned to the ordinary frame of your life. Hair done. Clothes on. Mouth moving around something Rowan has said. Duncan has the odd, unwelcome sense of a man finding his house exactly where he left it and being surprised all over again that it can survive without him.

“Here he is,” says Raymun.

Dunk goes to him first. They clasp shoulders, then arms, then end up half in a hug anyway, Raymun grinning with that pleased, slightly dazed look. Rowan is next. Duncan gathers her up and squeezes before he thinks better of it, lifting her clean off the floor for a second.

“Oh, put me down, you brute—” she laughs, though she is laughing too hard to sound earnest.

He sets her back on her feet. Takes her hand when she flashes the ring without even pretending modesty and gives it the solemn inspection it plainly wants. “Suits you,” he says.

“Shut up,” Rowan tells him, fond.

Then you stand. There is no obvious right answer to you. A handshake would be psychotic. No touch would be worse. So Duncan goes in for the brief, awkward hug of someone attempting to behave normally while every part of his body remembers another use for yours. You smell good, too. He keeps it short enough to count as decent and still has to stop himself from closing his eyes.

“All right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “You?”

“Grand.”

It is a lie small enough to pass unchallenged.

Rowan, seeing the shape of the table better than either of the men at it, announces she is getting the drinks in and leaves them behind in a little pocket of silence with you. Raymun sits down first, which helps. Duncan follows. You take the seat opposite, and for one idiotic second he thinks of the angle of your face from bed height and has to look at the menu chalkboard over your shoulder until the thought goes elsewhere.

“So,” he says to Raymun, because Raymun is blessedly not you. “How’d the thing with Lyonel go?”

Raymun snorts. “Like doing business with the King of England if he’d got into property instead.”

You huff a laugh. Duncan’s eyes jump to you and away again. “He did the raised eyebrow thing,” you say. “About six times. Which in Lyonel terms is practically a standing ovation.”

Dunk glances between you both. “Aye?”

Raymun leans back a touch. “Aye. Good, though. Better than good, truth be told. He’s putting proper money in, enough that I can get started without begging every bank in Ireland to laugh in my face first. I keep control of the day-to-day. We settle on milestones, I report where things stand, and once the thing starts earning he gets his return in slices rather than all at once.”

Dunk’s brows lift a little at that. “He’s given you decent terms, then,” he says.

“He has,” Raymun admits, sounding faintly surprised all over again. “Bastard near made me sweat through my shirt for them, mind.”

Dunk smiles at that, small and pleased, and claps Raymun once on the shoulder. “Well done, mate. Genuinely, well done.”

Raymun huffs. Points to you. “Wouldn’t be there without her.”

Dunk looks at you and says, “Well done you too, then.”

Rowan returns with the pints at that exact moment. Once she sits, the discomfort thins. Duncan suspects it will take more than one round to kill it, but it thins. Shared out between the four until it can pass for ordinary awkwardness, which this group has always had enough of to hide inside.

Raymun talks most. Rowan interrupts best. You slip in from the side with remarks that land late and perfect and leave everyone laughing a fraction longer than expected. Duncan drinks his first pint too fast and the second at a better pace. By halfway through it, he starts to think perhaps this might be survivable after all. Perhaps there is a route back to himself. Perhaps if he sees you enough like this—at a table, clothed, talking shite with Rowan—his body will eventually stop leaping ahead of him like an untrained dog.

Then Rowan says something filthy about engaged people getting a tax break for public indecency, and you laugh so suddenly you choke on the first part of it, hand flying to your throat. Just that. Fingers light at the base of your neck, head tipped back, eyes watering. And Duncan is back where he started, yearning tremendously.

To you, the evening is being stretched on a wheel of Kathrene. One night with him has done something ugly to the proportions. What had been, before, a crush you could keep in a back room and visit only under supervision, has swollen into full-blown anguish. He looked nice the other night, yes. Fine. Lovely, even. Fuck that version of him, honestly (and literally), if this one is available now.

His hair is unruly in a way that suggests fingers have gone through it and he has not corrected the damage. He sweats a little at the temples under the warmth of the pub. There is two days’ worth of ginger stubble over his jaw, catching the light whenever he turns. The glasses do him no favours whatsoever, unless the aim is to make you insane. They magnify his eyes, make the creases around them show harder every time he laughs, and the whole effect of it is so offensively dear you want to take a bat to something municipal.

He keeps hunching, too. Folding himself down as if his height is an inconvenience he ought to apologise for. It catches at you every time. You want him at full mast. Full height. Taking up the room he was issued and then some. Instead he sits there bent over his pint, broad shoulders making concessions to furniture built for smaller men, and your heart goes at him with all the discipline of a dog that’s slipped the lead. 

So you laugh more than you need to. Lean into Rowan’s jokes. Put on a touch of theatre to hide the fact you keep cannibalising your lips whenever he so much as shifts in your peripheral vision.

By the time Rowan decides Raymun has crossed from merry into useless, you are relieved. Then you stop being relieved, because of course she has already called a taxi, eliminating any possibility of standing about in a group until the night thins naturally and somebody else solves the logistics for you.

Ten minutes later you are outside in the damp dark, patting Raymun’s back while Rowan tries to lever him into the seat.

“Leg first,” she tells him, with the tone of a woman explaining a concept to a toddler.

“I’ve got legs,” Raymun informs the street with deep offence.

“Aye,” says Duncan. “That’s half the issue.”

You laugh and get cross with yourself about it. Raymun eventually folds, though not with dignity. Rowan gets him in by a combination of strategy, force, and old fiancée rights newly acquired. Once he is seated, pink as ham and blinking with the solemnity of the deeply drunk, she turns back, catches your face in both hands and plants a long, slightly wet kiss on your cheek.

“We must meet,” she says. “Alone. Girl talk.”

You nod because there is no safe alternative.

Then she hooks an arm round Duncan’s waist for a brief, fierce squeeze, tells him something too fast for you to catch, and climbs in after Raymun. The door slams. The car pulls off with both of them waving through the window like royals leaving a provincial tragedy. The only thing missing is a string of cans.

The silence after is deafening.

He sways on his heels. Puts both hands in his pockets and inhales loudly. “Are you… all right?” Duncan asks, meaning vaguely everything. What Duncan means is: Did I hurt you? Did you hate it? Was I not careful enough? Is my dick too big? 

You blink. Smile tightly while trying to make it look genuine. “Yeah,” you say. “Promise, it’s all good.” What you mean is: I’m scared shitless. I can’t even look at you. Your giant cock scraped my cunt raw and I couldn’t pee without thinking about you for three days and it wasn’t unpleasant. “Everything’s fine,” you say, nodding like you’re going through internal bleeding in the brain. “You?”

“Mm,” Dunk hums. He looks away then. “Can we—”

“Do we need to talk about it?” you blurt. “Or can we just… still be friends?”

He stands there with the answer in his mouth and finds it no use to either of you. It is not that he does not want to talk about it. He wants, with a force that nearly embarrasses him, to drag the whole night out under a bright lamp and look at every part of it until he knows what it meant to you and whether he imagined half the tenderness in it or only most. But the look on your face is careful in a way he recognises. Cornered, near enough. And if the price of keeping you from bolting is silence, then silence it is.

Still, one thing lifts. Small, but real. You would not be asking to stay friends if you hated him. You would not be standing here trying this hard if the whole thing had disgusted you.

“Yeah,” he says at last, and even to himself he sounds tired. “Aye. Course we can.”

Your shoulders loosen by a degree.

He swallows. “I only meant—” His hand shifts uselessly inside his pocket. “Wanted t’be sure you were… good.”

“I’m good,” you say quickly. “If you’re good, I’m good.”

It hits him strangely. Like being handed back his own shirt still warm from somebody else’s body.

He looks at you for a second. Your mouth is worrying itself. Your eyes keep missing his by inches. There is enough strain in the set of you to make him wonder whether either of you counts as good in any meaningful sense.

Then, because he is weak where you are concerned and because the question has been chewing through him all week, he hears himself ask, “D’you really not remember much?”

You blink at him. “The walk,” you say after a beat. “Bits of it. Lyonel’s party. Being very drunk. You getting me home.” A tiny shrug. “After that it’s mostly fog.”

Mostly. The vagueness gnaws.

“What about you?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Duncan says, feeling like it’s not really him saying it. “Me too,” he says and feels like he’s just told the first lie in his life.

You nod as though that helps. Maybe it does. Maybe this is exactly what you needed from him: for the night to be reduced to oblivion, to some mutual patch of bad visibility the pair of you can blame and step around.

“Right,” you say, with the bright, dead tone of someone trying to wrap a wound in office stationery. “Well. Good.”

“Aye.”

You stare. He stares back. There are a dozen things he could say. I remember all of it. You were lovely. You fell asleep on my arm. I have been half-sick over your texts for days. Instead he rocks once on his feet and drags his gaze to the pavement.

“Should I walk ye?” he asks.

You smile again, that same thin effort. “No. I still have to swing by Lyonel’s. I’m alright.”

He nods because there is nothing else left that will not make it worse.

“See you round, then,” you say.

“See you.”

You turn first. He watches you go for one second longer than a friend ought to, then makes himself head the other way, carrying the full clear memory of your body.

You’ve lied so much tonight that one more seems like nothing. There’s no need to swing by Lyonel’s at all, but the last time you walked with Duncan the sex happened, so you’re not taking any more risks. The scenic route home is fine. The whole thing is fine—it’s settled, crudely, but settled. The whole evening has felt like paper pinned over a cracked wall, but you reckon the plastering can be done later. Still, you go to bed feeling like something is terribly wrong, and can’t put a finger on it.

What is terribly wrong you learn about two weeks later, which work and Lyonel, and Rowan and Raymun being too busy being happy to provoke any other group meeting have made into an existential blur. It dawns on you, with a bone-chilling lick on the brain, that your period is suspiciously late.

Like an afterthought, it gets pushed aside. It is an evening-you problem. Work first.

By the time that is done, you have nearly forgotten to buy the test and have to turn back to the pharmacy. The cashier smirks at you so smugly you almost punch her teeth in.

At home, you tell yourself it is hardly possible, but better safe than sorry. You take the test, then sit on the toilet lid waiting for your phone alarm to ring. When it does, you close your eyes first. Make a wish. Then look.

Two blue lines, clear as day, and you forget how to breathe altogether.

"Apologies, m'lady. I did not know you were here."

You pause, your hand wrapped around the ends of your hair as you gaze at the strange man who just interrupted you. You had heard him tromping through the brush. He stomps like an ox— you're sure that half of the nine kingdoms could have heard him coming, but the most you could do to hide yourself was dip your chest beneath the surface of the water. Even then, the water is so clear that you don't think it would have hidden much. You figured that one person finding you bathing would make no difference in the grand scheme of things.

"That's all right," you say after a moment, and continue wringing out your wet hair. Water trails over your skin, dripping in long rivulets that the man is clearly trying very hard not to focus on. The man gazes down at the grass and turns his head away, as though he can somehow unsee you in your nakedness. In fact, he looks anywhere but at you; the tree line, the water, the rocks on the far side of the creek. You tilt your head, examining his demeanor, the way he holds himself stiff and straight, as awkward as can be at the sight of you. "What is your name?"

"Dunk— Ser Duncan the Tall. My lady." He shifts on his feet, and then makes an attempt to bow, a little too late. He still doesn't chance a look at you. "I am… a hedge knight, you see, and I have been sleeping under the tree over there—" he points at the elm tree in the glade, under which a palate has been laid, far enough away that you actually hadn't noticed it, "—for several days, now."

"Yes, I do see."

You snicker under your breath and look at him again, raking your eyes up and down his frame. He's huge, a giant of a man with strawberry blond hair that shifts in the breeze. Even from the side, his profile is handsome, his brow drawn with nervous tension. You figure you would have to look up at him if you were face to face with him, and yet he stoops bashfully as though he expects you to tear him apart just for looking at you. Biting your lip, you can't help the flirtatious smile that stretches across your face.

"Ser Duncan," you say, wading through the waist-deep water towards him. You watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows, moving as though he means to turn away from you. You introduce yourself to him, running your fingers over the surface of the water. "I apologize for my intrusion. I didn't know that this glade was in use. The error is entirely mine."

"No. No, with respect," he looks at you, and then his eyes widen as he remembers himself and averts his gaze again, "I have no claim here. I— I would leave you to your washing, but you are… terribly exposed here, I'm afraid."

"Yes, that usually happens when one bathes, Ser."

"No, I—" He puffs out his cheeks and blows out an exasperated breath. He thinks for a moment. "Begging your pardon, m'lady. What I mean to say, is that there are many people afoot who are not… not honorable."

"Honorable," you repeat, with an air of amusement.

"That would place you in jeopardy, I mean."

"And you would not?" You can tell just by looking at him that he wouldn't do anything to harm you; he looks like he's mortified just at seeing you naked.

"You have nothing to fear from me," he confirms, nodding his head, almost to himself more than to you.

You're almost immediately smitten with him. It takes you a second to come up with a response that won't come off as overbearing; but you can't resist teasing him, at least a little. A small smile stretches across your face as you muse, "Because you don't wish to see me naked, Ser?"

"What? No, I— I mean, I don't— I… I wouldn't—"

"You find me ugly, then?"

"No, ma'am, I—"

"Mhm. Horrid. Repulsive."

"No! No, by the gods, you're beautiful. I just mean—" He breaks off with a deep sigh, clapping his hands over his face. He shakes his head, as though chastising himself. "I am sorry, my lady. I've never been good with words. I would not presume to look upon you in any way that could be un— untoward—"

"Because you are honorable." You giggle at his distress over something so trivial, as you walk out of the water and face him. With a warm smile, you tell him, "I understand you quite well, Ser Duncan. Forgive me for teasing. I meant nothing by it."

He sets his lips in a firm line, shooting you a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you."

You nod at him encouragingly. "I will take my leave, as soon as I am dressed. If you don't mind?"

"No, please. Do as you like, I'll stand watch." And then he turns his back to you, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword with purpose.

You let out a soft laugh. "Quite right." There is a moment where you stand, watching his back, waiting for him to turn around again; he doesn't. You are not shocked, but you still smile to yourself as you turn to retrieve your clothes from where you left them, on the old stone wall.

What does shock you is that your clothes are not there. You had left them within plain sight, and they are nowhere to be seen— not on the ground, or behind the wall at all. They couldn't have been blown away in the wind.

"Ser Duncan," you say, and clear your throat as you turn towards him. "Where are my clothes?"

"Where—?" He glances over his shoulder, and then whirls away again. "How— how should I know?"

"Well, they didn't walk off by themselves." The night air is cool on your damp skin as you place your hands on your hips. "Clearly, someone took them."

All is quiet for a few seconds, and then: "You think I did?" He sounds utterly appalled.

You had, for only a moment— but now, you aren't so sure. You approach him slowly from behind, folding your hands and watching him curiously. He's so wound up tight that he holds his shoulders near his ears, his chest seemingly heaving. He won't even look at you. You have given him every opportunity to, and he won't. Why steal your clothes, and then refuse to reap the rewards?

"Ser Duncan, you may look at me. I don't mind."

You hear him take a shaky breath, and then he turns and looks down at you. His eyes are bright azure, positively glowing in the low evening light and so striking that you nearly recoil from the sight of them; but even so, they drop to the ground almost instantly.

The wind picks up just a bit, rustling his hair. You shiver in the breeze, squeezing your arms against the sudden cold. He immediately snaps to, untying his cloak before handing it out to you. "Here, m'lady."

You feel your heart swell at his gallantry, as he drapes the fabric over your shoulders. The linen is worn and soft on your skin, and warm in the shoulders from his own body heat. Unsurprisingly, it's so long that it pools around your feet, whereas it floats around his knees when he wears it. You're momentarily distracted by the sight of his large hands so close to your face, tying the cloak beneath your chin so that it remains secure.

Once you're covered, he doesn't seem quite so hesitant to look at you. He meets your eye with a gravely serious look. "I do apologize. I did not take your clothes, I assure you."

"No, I'm sure you didn't. Since you seem more concerned about it than I am." Concern is the kindest word you can come up with— really, he looked about to vomit at the prospect of your suspicion. You draw his cloak tight around you, the smell of loam and woodsmoke permeating the fabric. "At any rate, this does put me in a bit of trouble. I am a long way from my tent."

"Would you like me to accompany you back to camp?"

You let out a quiet chuckle, probably giving him a more affectionate look than you mean to. In a voice sweet as honey, you say, "I'm flattered, Ser, but I don't believe that walking through camp on the arm of a knight, dressed in nothing but his cloak, would reflect well on my reputation. I'm afraid I'm stuck here, unless I find some way to steal another change of clothes from someone else."

His head tilted down, he appears lost in thought. You stare boldly up into his face while he isn't paying attention, just simply… admiring him. How have you never seen him before? He looms over you, seemingly cut from marble and brought alive by sunlight. It's humbling, how lovely he is, even without all his chivalry.

Then, he snaps his gaze up to your face. "You could stay here, just for tonight. I'll keep you safe 'til morning, and then I can send my squire to fetch you some clothes from camp. No one need see you, my lady."

"Other than yourself, of course."

He closes his mouth swiftly, flushing red and looking away. You smile to yourself, having to hold yourself back from reaching out towards him.

"I only jest, Ser," you whisper conspiratorially. "I already told you, I don't mind if you see me."

"Right." He laughs weakly, still flustered. "I… I'll alert my squire, then?"

"Yes, I would be glad of it." You step back, trying not to trip on the frayed ends of his cloak. "I thank you for your kindness, Ser Duncan. You're a good man."

"Aye, well… thank you. My lady." He stares at you for a long time, and then seems to remember himself. "Ah… stay— stay here, and, ehm. I'll be back." He turns to leave, and then thinks better of it and turns the other way, before tromping back through the grass the way he originally came.

"Ser Duncan?" You call, just before he disappears from sight. When he turns, looking at you expectantly, you give him a sweet smile. "You're beautiful, too. By the gods."

You feel inordinately proud of yourself when he goes red up to his ears.

Dunk is fucked.

He spends a long time beating his head against a tree trunk. You know, for posterity.

He doesn't know what he's doing. Oh gods, he has no fucking idea. All he knows is that it's a terrible trick to play on a lady, to steal her clothes while she's vulnerable and leave her stranded. He doesn't even know if you're a lady of noble birth— you could be a bar maid, or from one of the brothels, for all he knows. It doesn't matter to him. Dunk would never say no to anyone in trouble, let alone anyone as beautiful as you. And you are. What was he supposed to do? You came out of the water like a vision, as splendid as a water nymph or a goddess. You took his breath away without even trying.

So. Dunk doesn't know how he's going to survive this. He probably won't.

"Egg?" Dunk rears back from the tree, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve and shaking his head. He might throw up from his nerves, but it wouldn't be the first time.

"Ser!" He hears the boy's tiny feet pattering along dirt path as he answers Dunk's call. Egg rounds the tree Dunk leans against, staring unseeing into the creek as the sun sets over the horizon. Egg pauses, standing with something clutched in his hands as he looks up at Dunk. "Are you well, Ser?"

"Ehm. Not sure, really." Dunk glances at the boy. "What… do you have, there?"

Egg holds it up— it's a bird. The little thing squirms in Egg's grip, and then blinks up at Dunk placidly. "Pigeon. Fell out of a tree, I think. I didn't want to leave it."

"Right." Dunk blinks, sucking on his teeth as he tries to think of a way to explain the situation. "Look, lad. I, eh, have matters to attend tonight. In a wee bit of a bind."

"Do you need help, Ser?"

"Well." Dunk tilts his head back and forth. "I— It's not me, really." Dunk sighs and flexes his shoulders, straightening his spine. "There's a lady will be sleeping with me under the elm, for tonight."

"Oh… oh." Egg hums, wiggling his blond eyebrows mockingly at Dunk.

"D'you want a clout in the ear?" Egg doesn't even flinch at the faux severity in Dunk's voice; he simply cradles the baby pigeon close to his chest and pets its head. Dunk sighs, trying not to show how hard he's blushing. "She's… the lady, she was bathing in the creek, and now… she doesn't have any clothes, see."

"She doesn't have clothes?" Egg echoes, screwing up his face.

"Aye, someone took them, it seems." A look of realization crosses Egg's face, but Dunk doesn't give him a second to respond. "And she can't be expected to walk into camp with no clothes on her back, because plenty of men would take advantage, and— and her reputation would be ruined, o' course."

"Of course." Egg frowns. "Ser, I wanted to tell you, I found some clothes—"

"So." Dunk swallows, nodding to himself resolutely and shooting Egg a silencing look. "So, what you'll do is take Thunder and Chestnut— and your bird— and you'll go sleep across the meadow. And you'll go to camp and fetch the lady some clothes on the morn. Is that clear?"

"But Ser—"

"No buts." He points one large, stern finger at the boy. "I'll hear none of that from you. There's a lady needs help, and you best not argue about it. We're meant to protect people in need, not turn them away."

Egg blinks his big violet eyes at Dunk, his mouth on sideways. "Is she pretty, Ser?"

"What?" Dunk does a double-take. He blusters like mad. "What matter is that of yours?"

"Well, it would just make sense, is all." Egg rocks on his feet. "Pretty girl in need of clothes, and a knight willing to defend her. Like they wrote about in the stories. Is she?"

Dunk sighs, knocking his head back against the tree in defeat. "Aye. She's a true beauty, so she is. But I'll hear nothing of it, now. Begone with you. And take the horses."

Egg looks as though he has more arguments to make, but saves them. His mouth ticks upwards, and then he turns, cooing down at the baby bird in his hands as he wanders off down the path. "Have a good night, Ser."

"Shut it."

Dunk bends down and braces his hands on his knees, trying to even out his breath. He takes a long, deep inhale, leaning into the breeze as if it can cleanse him. He's terrified. He's never been good with women, and you've already unraveled him, taken him completely by surprise.

He can't get the image of you, naked as the day you were born, water dripping over the curve of your breast and down across your belly from his mind. That very water drying on the linen of his cloak, wrapped around your body as you wait for him somewhere down the meadow path.

"Fuuuuck me." He drags his hands down his face. There's a place in the seven hells for him somewhere, he's sure.

He's going to die.

"Ser Duncan." He finds you in the glade, still wrapped in his cloak. You've started a small fire in the rudimentary pit near the elm tree. You smile up at him, glowing in the light of the flames, and Dunk temporarily forgets where he is. "I almost began to think that you'd left me."

"Never, my lady." He rests his sword against the trunk of the tree. "And… it's Dunk."

"… Sorry?"

"My— er, my name." He swallows, looking sort of like he wants to crawl into a hole and die. "Most people call me Dunk."

"Okay. Dunk." You smirk, endlessly charmed by him. Your hand drifts over the thin linen of his cloak on your shoulder, fretting about a threadbare spot. "I could mend this for you, if you'd like?"

"Thank you, but, ehm… that isn't necessary." He blinks, the corner of his mouth turning upward. "I do most of my own mending."

"You did these?" You fiddle with a few mended patches on the edges, where he has darned them with green thread. It's been done with very immense care; the weave is tight and strong. "This is lovely work. Where did you learn to do it?"

"Aye, well… I had a lot of time for practice, squiring for Ser Arlan of Pennytree."

"You have a delicate hand," you remark, and look up at him just in time to see him blush a pretty shade of pink. "Still, I think it's the least I could do, for you being so kind to me."

"M'lady, that's… you don't have to do anything." He tilts his head toward you. "I'm just glad of your company."

That makes your heart stutter in your chest. You blink down at the fire, not really seeing it at all. You search for something to say in reply, but you can't think of anything; you look back up at him with what you're sure is an adoring smile. "Will you please sit with me? Or am I to enjoy the fire alone?"

Dunk gives you a wobbly smile and sits beside the fire. He can't move on from the sight of you in his cloak— you've pulled it around you like a blanket, tucking it under your chin while you hug your knees to your chest. You're spellbinding, so small and swathed in orange fire and silvery moonlight, and Dunk can't help imagining you in ways that he ought not to. He imagines you sharing a bed with him in an inn, or tending a flock of sheep on a farm, with his babe in your arms.

Dunk clears his throat. "You look—" He stops as soon as you gaze up at him, an expectant gleam in your eyes. He was going to say 'good,' which is probably not the most proper thing to say to a lady, wearing naught but his cloak. So he swallows and says, "comfortable."

"Considering the circumstances, I suppose." You laugh. It twinkles like stars in the night. "Pleasurable company, good ale and warm tents… I guess I can see why you knights love these tourneys so much."

"Aye, it's not so bad. Though, I'm only a hedge knight. There's food and drink, a chance for a prize, but… we don't do much with tents. Can't afford one, really."

"I can't see how that would be much of a problem. I mean, maybe you get cold or wet sometimes, but… I think you're the fortunate one." You peer up at the stars, tilting your nose toward the sky. "A view of the infinite. It's good for you. Reminds you to stay grounded." You give him a look over the campfire; his blue eyes catch the flames and dance with them. "Have you jousted, yet?"

"Not yet, my lady. I hope to on the 'morrow." He shrugs. "At his lordship's pleasure, of course."

"Of course." You wink at him. "The lord does love to watch men knocking poles about, I hear."

"I guess," Dunk replies quietly, a blush upon his cheeks. He squirms under your scrutiny, and then to fill the silence, he says, "I… told my squire to fetch you some clothes, come morning. Let him know not to come 'round."

"I hope he wasn't too put out," you hum, picking up a stick to nudge the embers. "I'd hate to know I ruined his night."

Dunk shakes his head. "Nah, he's a good boy. He can take care of himself. Doesn't fuss about much."

"Mm, so you do all the fussing, instead."

"Me?" His eyes go round as saucers. "No— no, I don't— I don't fuss… not really…"

You peer up at him through your lashes, a devilish smirk plucking at the corners of your lips. Dunk's heart starts to beat faster— he knows that look. You're going to do something to completely unmoor him, and he'll eat his words as quickly as he says them.

True to form, you shrug his cloak aside and expose your chest. Dunk stares for a moment at your breasts, feels his face warm just at the sight of them— their soft curves, the peaks of your nipples in the cool night air. He takes a staggering breath and turns his eyes away when he feels his cock stir, his trousers tightening uncomfortably.

You huff a little laugh that makes him flush even redder. "See? Fussy."

"Must you be so… so wicked?" He mutters, casting you a despairing look.

"Wicked? No, darling, this isn't me being wicked." You tilt your head at him coyly. "This is me trying to fuck you. There's a difference."

"What?" That seems to rattle him even more. He stares at you, utterly bewildered. "Wh— you want to— why?"

"Why?"

You give him eyes like you want to ravish him where he sits, and by the gods, Dunk thinks he might let you. He shifts in his seat, believing that he might let you do anything that you want to him, if you just keep looking at him like that. But then you lower your knees and rock forward, crawling around the fire like an animal stalking its prey, and Dunk is so painfully hard it doesn't even occur to him to move away. He doesn't want to.

"Because you're beautiful," you tell him slowly, easing toward him on all fours. You watch him trailing you with his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching as you inch closer to him. "Because you are… so exceedingly wonderful, Ser Duncan. A good man is hard to find, these days."

"'S D—Dunk," he stutters, nearly jumping out of his skin when you crawl into his lap. His hands fly up of their own accord and snatch onto your hips, and his heart lurches at the feel of you, soft and hot beneath his fingertips.

"Ser Dunk. My apologies."

You smile at him, straddling him while untying his cloak from around your neck and letting it fall by the wayside. For all your bravado, you nearly tremble at just how imposingly big he is; your hand looks comedically small against his chest, your thighs parted unbelievably far to accomodate the width of his own. Still, you drag your hand down, down, down, until you palm him through his trousers— and then bite your lip as he hisses, jerking against you.

"Well," you gasp, trying not to gape at the size you feel beneath your hand. "A hard man is good to find, though. Isn't that right?"

"M—My lady, please—" He gazes at you wide-eyed, his lips parted. He digs his fingers into your hips so hard that you swear he might rip you in two.

"Please, what?" You lift your hand away and trail your fingers back up his stomach to his chest. "Want me to stop?"

"No. Please, don't—" He sighs, almost defeatedly, and closes his eyes. "Don't stop."

Still, you pause. You lift your hands and cradle his face, waiting for him to blink his eyes open and look at you. You stroke a lock of hair away from his forehead, and his brow knits in confusion.

"You must be the loveliest thing in all the nine kingdoms, Ser Dunk," you whisper to him, not even bothering to conceal the awe in your voice. "The gods must have made you, because I think you're too… bloody perfect."

"Me?" He takes a small, astounded breath, and then cracks a slightly humorous smile in spite of his nerves. He quirks a brow. "Shall I send for a looking-glass for you, as well?"

"Charmer." You trace your thumb across his lower lip and watch his eyelashes flutter. "You don't get many women throwing themselves at you, do you?"

"Not— Not really. No."

"Gods know why. You're really something to behold." You drag your knuckles down his cheek, bending forward to crush your chest up against his. You didn't expect him to be lecherous, but he's so tentative, you guess that he must be grievously inexperienced— possibly even a virgin. You can desire him, hunt him like some deranged beast, but you don't want to frighten him. "Mind if I throw myself at you?"

Dunk shakes his head, but leans forward and kisses you before he can say anything else. His arms come around you, wrapping you in an embrace that all but engulfs you. You are surrounded by warmth, and his lips taste like sweet spiced mead.

He breaks away from the kiss with a sharp gasp and stares down into your face with a mildly terrified expression. "'Pologies. Needed to do that 'fore I— I said something stupid."

You grin, leaning close to nuzzle your nose against his. "Never apologize for a kiss, Ser Dunk. You can have as many as you want, from me."

There's a bright pink blush beneath the freckles on his cheeks and his dimples when he cracks a smile. Dunk clears his throat, feigning composure. "Do you want to, uh… y'know…?"

"Fuck?"

"Yes, that." He laughs nervously. "What— what would you like me to do—?"

You hum in a low voice, reaching down to take one of his hands in yours. His palm dwarfs your own; the comparison of the two is enough to make you ache with want. He watches you closely as you lift his hand towards you, looking somewhat confused. That is, until you run your tongue along the length of his two fingers and take them into your mouth, and his confusion is rewritten into complete shock.

"My lady." Dunk blinks rapidly, speaking with a slightly chastising tone. That was the last thing he expected you to do, and it somehow feels more debased than having you sit on his lap entirely naked. His fingers come out of your mouth covered with your saliva, glistening in the light of the fire.

"No need to fret, Ser. I can guide you." You already sound a little breathy, the look in your eyes much darker than before. You drag his hand down between your breasts, his two fingers trailing wet along your skin. You lead him downwards until his fingers brush through your soft curls, while the breadth of his warm palm flattens over your lower stomach.

Dunk's breath hitches and his mouth drops open the moment his fingers dip into the soaking heat of your pussy, and a shudder flows through your body. A wrecked moan leaves you, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips from the single touch.

"Feel what you do to me?" You ask him, snatching onto his shoulder to prevent yourself from simply jamming yourself down onto his hand with your full weight. It's overwhelming— the warmth of his touch and the pressure of his naked skin on you, even if it's just a hand, a finger.

"Y—You feel—" Dunk sucks in air through his teeth, his eyes flicking frantically from your face to where his hand dips further between your legs, his fingers gliding through your wetness. The touch is intimate, exploratory. "Seven hells, you feel unreal."

"Oh, I'm very real." You cover his hand with your own— or, you try. You have to spread your fingers wide to even approximate the width and placement of his own. "Want me to show you how?"

He gives you the briefest little nod, like if he moves too far in any way you might disappear. You wrap your thumb and pinkie around the edges of his hand, lining up your two fingers with his own.

"It's not unlike shining a blade," you tell him softly, beginning to move his fingers with yours, rocking your hips as you do. "You keep— keep this amount of pressure. And you just move back… and forth… just like that."

Dunk's eyes widen at the sound of your moan, his entire body feeling as though it's filled with fire. The Targaryens might believe themselves to be dragons, but Dunk is sure that in this moment, he must be turning into one. Everything feels too hot beneath his collar, as though his skin might melt away and flay him bare. "How— How does it feel?"

You shiver, a smile curling at your lips. He's still so eager to please, even now. "Feels good. But it can feel better."

"Show me."

You swallow past the thickness in your throat, lifting his hand just the tiniest bit. "There's a spot on every woman— it's a… a sweet spot. You focus on it, and she'll sing to the heavens."

"Will you sing, my lady?" Dunk's deep voice is so much lower than you've heard it yet. He watches everything you do so closely, his free hand pressing into your lower spine to keep you steady, holding you fast against the hand that you guide between your legs.

"I will if you make me. If you focus… here." And you guide the calloused pads of his fingers over your clit.

Hot pleasure sweeps through you at the touch, making you gasp aloud. He keeps up the pressure and the movement that you've shown him, feels the swollen hardness of your clit and stays there. His pupils are so wide they nearly cover the beautiful azure of his irises, becoming two black mirrors to reflect the fire.

"Is that it?" Dunk's eyes are locked on yours, and you whine, hips twitching toward his touch. Something passes over his face— be it possession or resolution, you can't be sure. But his jaw sets and he adjusts the pressure of his fingers as he dips his fingers down to collect some of your wetness, and brings it back up to your clit. When you keen loudly, he hums, "Mm. There."

You nod, your hand slipping against his. It seems like you don't need to guide him anymore, but you keep it there anyway, just to feel the way that his knuckles tense and release, to feel the warmth against your own palm.

"Gods above, Dunk," you gasp, nearly launching forward into his chest when he traces a circle around your clit. You close your eyes, swallowing a sob. "You don't— don't need my help."

"I want it," he urges, his mouth watering at the sounds of the breathy moans that fall from your lips. His fingers never stop moving, even when he adds, "Want to hear you sing for me, m'lady."

You whimper and push on his hand, moving him downwards. Dunk follows your directions, letting you guide him, until his fingertips catch on your entrance. Without any further instruction, Dunk prods inside. The stretch to accommodate him is immense, even just with his two fingers.

Dunk is in agony. His cock is straining in his trousers, throbbing unbelievably hard at the smell of you, the feel of you, every gasp and moan that falls from your lips. Still, he grits his teeth, and he ignores it. His voice a quiet rasp held tight in his throat, he asks, "And now?"

You blink your eyes open, feeling yourself beginning to unravel at the seams. "Dunk…" You take a deep, sobering inhale, while he gazes at you like you hung the stars in the sky. "Shine your blade."

Dunk's lashes flutter, his breath still coming out in little pants between his lips, but he does as you tell him. He crooks his fingers just the way you showed him how, and the entire fucking world shatters.

With a cry of his name, you fling your arms around his neck. It's so abrupt— enough to make him falter and hug you to him with one arm, his big hand cradling the nape of your neck. The other has gone still, while he listens to you gasp and lets you press your forehead against his cheek.

"Have I—" Dunk turns his head a bit, wanting to look at you, but unable to. He murmurs your name, and you shiver in his arms. "Did I hurt yo—?"

"No." You're shaking your head before he can even finish the question, gripping at the ends of his shaggy hair. "No, Dunk, it's so— you— you're just so good."

He huffs a little sigh of relief, and feel him smile as his hold on your shoulder loosens just slightly. "You make it easy."

You shift your hips, and Dunk feels your lips drag against his cheek. He's almost scared to let you go, now, and strokes his thumb over the back of your neck just to soothe you. But then you whisper, "Don't stop," and he doesn't want to deny you.

His fingers slide into your hair, feeling it slip soft through his fingers as he holds you to him. Testing, he moves his fingers again, flexing them within you just to hear you gasp and feel you squirm against him. That same fire blooms in him, creeping up the back of his neck and deep into his chest— the fire that makes him dare to feel like the dragonborn— and he thinks that he may hold you for as long as you like. For as long as he can.

Moaning his name against his skin, you seek out his lips, turning your head just to capture him in an open-mouthed, desperate kiss. Dunk makes a noise of surprise, but keeps up his movements, plunging his fingers in and out and stroking you from the inside, feeling each pulse and flutter of your core like a punch to his gut.

He curves his fingers a particular way that sends a wave of euphoria shooting up your spine, and you moan pathetically loud into his open mouth. Dunk seems shocked by it, pausing for half a second, before doing it again, just to hear you keen.

"You do sing very pretty for me," Dunk murmurs against your lips.

The sound of his voice in that low register— like soft rolling thunder— does things to you that you never even thought possible. It bores a hole through you, melts everything within you. Then he grinds the meat of his palm up against your clit, and all your muscles seize up.

"Seven fuck— Dunk." You feel around for something else to grab onto, but only get his shoulder, his hair, his bicep. Your breath hitches, and then you cum with his name falling from your tongue, your hips bucking into his hand. Dunk marvels at the feeling of you spasming around his fingers, the flood of wetness that drips from you and coats his skin.

You hear him breathe your name. It sounds so sweet coming from him, a reverent prayer spoken in the night. Still trembling, you open your eyes to find that you've shifted— you've somehow lifted yourself with your hands on his shoulders, and his spine has bowed into an arc beneath your hold. You look down at him. Dunk looks up at you, like he's glimpsing the divine in your very face.

"Did you come off just then, my lady?" It's a quiet, almost too innocent question for the way that he's looking at you— like he could throw you to the ground and completely decimate you, if he was a little less controlled, a little less staunch in his respect for you.

"You know very well that I did, Ser." Your chest still heaves with the effort of your breathing.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. "D'you think I could make you do that if I put my mouth on you, too?"

Your mind reels around that. Dunk gazes at you with open hunger, flushed and almost as out of breath as you. The sight makes you dizzy.

"I'm sure that you could," you tell him. You hold the sides of his throat, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumbs. "But I want you too much right now. Must I beg you to take that beast out of your pants? Or will you leave me wanting?"

The thought of leaving you wanting for anything is enough to make Dunk balk. He withdraws his hand from you, and with it comes a dreadful absence, an ache where pressure should be. Instinctively, you want him back, carressing you and filling you as he had been, but he moves to untie his trousers.

"If I were a more noble man, I would lay you down in furs, as you deserve," Dunk confides in you, a touch of insecurity lacing his tone. "But I am only a hedge knight— all I can offer you is the tall grass."

"Then I'll be glad to have you in the tall grass," you say, feeling his pulse jump beneath your fingertips. "I don't want furs, I want you."

Impatient now, you reach down to untie his trousers yourself, and—

Well.

"Seven fucking hells, Dunk."

Gods above, he's going to die. He's going to die, you're going to kill him and it won't even be in combat. "What?"

You stare down at his cock, and feel the barest inklings of fear creeping in. You'd known just from the size of him and the barest touch through his clothes that he'd be big, but this… It's glorious. Thick and long, with a flushed red tip dripping with precum. He looks painfully hard, and the weight of it nearly drags it downwards.

"Nothing in the entire world needs to be this big."

The tips of his ears redden. "Well, I—I'm quite large—"

"Yes, I know that. I know that very well, indeed. You're magnificent." You chew on your lip, feasting your eyes upon it for a moment. With the lightest touch, you trace one finger up the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. Dunk gasps and twitches against you. "Mm. I can take it."

There is a concerning amount of resolution in your tone, as you shift your hips and hover over him. He snatches at your waist, practically holding you aloft without even trying. His eyes wide, he blurts, "M'lady, don't hurt yourself—"

"Shh. I do what I want. Right now, that's you." You lift your hips, lining him up where you want him. "Don't fuss."

"M'not fu—UCK!" Dunk growls the curse with his eyes closed tight. The head of his cock is engulfed in the sweet, excruciating heat of your pussy. He bares his teeth as he grits out, "Oh, fuuuck me."

"Mhm." You gasp, pausing and trying to acclimate to the stretch. Fuck, he's enormous. You rock your hips and try to shift your weight, adjusting to take more of him, despite the pain of the stretch.

Dunk squeezes at your waist, fingers digging into the curve of your back. You lift up and sink down again, slipping down further, and he's sure he's done for. He's sure that you could cut out his heart with a dinner knife, and he might thank you for it. He hangs his head, resting his forehead against yours. "You feel like heaven. I kn— I knew you would."

He groans softly as you seat yourself finally with one achingly slow push of your hips. It nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs, feeling him hit the end of you. He grinds up into you, not wanting to be rough, but gods. Each move, each small breath that falls from your lips against his feels like a dream.

"Told you I could take it," you whisper brokenly. You sound just about wrecked, your fingers tangling in his hair as you rock against him. It burns in the best way, stretching you so wonderfully, filling you to the brim. A pleasant tingling slinks up your spine. "You fit me perfectly, my knight."

The fire crackles. Somewhere across the creek, crickets sing in the brush. Perhaps back in the camp, lovers roll as one in the solitude and warmth of tents, but here in the glade you seat yourself upon the hedge knight, guiding him with one hand to squeeze at your breast, and you would not trade the night air for any tent or pillowed furs in the world. Be it rough, be it dirty and perhaps a bit animalistic, it is only as you want it to be.

Dunk's nostrils flare as he uses one arm to haul you up, lifting you like it's nothing, and he lays you down in the grass. Your head hits the wide palm of his hand, protecting you from knocking your head against the ground. And he slides back into you with one fluid motion, filling you again and making your toes curl. He groans obscenely loud, his eyes fluttering shut as he braces one enormous forearm against the ground beside your head.

You arch against him, his name caught in your throat as you clutch at his shoulders and neck. He looms over you, hulking and godly, and desire bubbles up like a torrent in your throat. Your eyebrows tilt upwards in earnest.

He makes you feel so small. Cages you in the shelter of his arms, keeps his weight from crushing you— but presses his warm chest to yours, so that your sensitive nipples scrape against the rough linen of his tunic. Your hands cup his shoulders, nails scratching at the fabric keeping you from feeling his skin.

"Dunk, please—" you hiccup, squeezing at the muscles beneath his shirt.

"What is it, sweet girl?" There is an edge to his voice hinting at desperation. Dunk thinks that he would give you anything you want. Money, fame, a life of beauty and devotion. There's no coming back. He would do anything that you ask, if only to stay in this feeling forever. Breathing in your air, feeling you quiver and tremble as you grind your hips against his.

You tighten your fists in the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up to tug at it. "Off."

Dunk plants his hips flush against yours, so deep that you can feel him in your throat. He dips his head and lets you pull at the fabric of his shirt, until it slips down his arms and his overheated skin meets the cool night air. Your hands glide along his strong biceps, smooth over the curves of his shoulders and down his chest.

"Kiss me," you breathe. "Dunk, kiss me—"

You gasp when he snatches you by the waist and lifts you, rocking back on his knees to seat you in his lap. Crushed up against his broad chest, you wrap your arms around his neck and push yourself down onto his cock, as far as he can go, moaning as he hits heaven up inside you. The coarse hair at the base of his cock grinds sharply against your clit, sending sparks of hot pleasure coursing through your veins.

Mouth open, he breathes in small, quick pants as he smoothes your hair away from your face, his large hand cradling your cheek. It's a tender touch, even while you feel like he could tear you to shreds from the inside out. You push your face into his palm, turning to pepper the breadth of his hand with kisses.

"Kiss me, please," you beg him again, and Dunk pulls you towards him, meeting you with a hot, open mouthed kiss. It sears you, makes you whimper onto his tongue.

"My lady," Dunk groans, tilting his head just slightly where it rests against yours. "I will not last."

"Then don't," you tell him. "And I'll love you a dozen more times before the night is out."

And then, so fast it's as though he's following your orders to the letter, he cums. Moaning as he jerks his hips up into yours, he shoves himself deep and cums so long and hard that he swears he sees stars behind his darkened eyelids. A ragged gasp tears from his throat while his hips twich and buck up into yours, muscles flexing and nearly throwing him off-balance.

Dunk blinks open his eyes, gazing at you with his brow furrowed in consternation. "But you— you didn't—"

You shush him, taking his hand to guide it between your legs. "Remember what I told you?"

Dunk hums, flicking his gaze downwards. His throat jumps when his fingers brush through your wet curls. "Yes, m'lady."

His breath catches in his throat when he touches your clit, and he feels you clench down on him. Oversensitive as he is, he doesn't think to pull out or refuse you— he stays there, deep in the heat of you, while he strokes you the way you showed him before.

With a feeble noise, you cant your hips further toward his hand. A pleased hum tears from your lips. "You learn fast, my knight."

Dunk blushes. It's the first time anyone has told him that. "I want to please you."

"You do," you whisper, holding his face in the cradle of your small hands. "You please me so well, Dunk."

The evidence of your words burns in your core, wound up more and more by the movement of his fingers over your clit. You rock against him and hear his slight hiss of breath, and you know that it won't be long. Your thighs twitch and your fingers dance through his hair while your breath mingles with his, washing over your skin.

Then your muscles clamp down tight as your orgasm washes over you, and Dunk nearly chokes at the feeling. "Oh, fuck," he grits out, feeling you pulse on his cock, clenching around him so hard that his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "Ah, gods above—"

It burns through you like fire, enveloping you in its grasp. You collapse against Dunk's warm chest, resting your head on his shoulder. As you tremble through the aftershocks, you giggle weakly, biting your lip when the feeling has him moaning again. You hum, sighing as you come down. "Beautiful thing, is it not?"

"Yes, you are," he chuckles, breathless. He meets your eye with a pleading, starry look. He traces his fingers down your spine, reveling in the warmth and softness of your body. "I would— I think I would like to, again…"

"Let me give you some respite, first." You lift off of him, hissing as he leaves you achingly empty. He squeezes at your hips, his fingers pressing into your lower back as he keeps you steady. You press a kiss to his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat on his skin. "Have some ale, my love. We'll go again when you're ready."

Dunk clears his throat, nodding. "Yes, my lady."

"And Dunk… take off your pants, this time?"

"…Yes, my lady."

In the morning, you rouse from beneath the shelter of Dunk's cloak, and find a pile of clothes set out on the wall that separates the glade from the meadow. You stare at it for a moment, recognizing the jewel toned embroidery on the dress, the tanned leather of the shoes. Beside you, Dunk shifts, pulling you closer by the hip. He'd put his clothes back on in the night, right before he swaddled you again in his cloak, preferring not to insense his squire whenever the boy came round.

"Dunk," you murmur, nudging him in the shoulder.

"Mmph."

"I thought you said you didn't know what happened to my clothes."

"I know not, m'lady," he slurs tiredly.

"Right." You click your tongue. "But it appears that your squire did."

Dunk's eyes fly open, giving you a wide, bright blue stare. You tilt your head at him, a smirk stretching across your face as you nod towards your missing clothes, perched on the wall. He looks at the pile of clothes for a moment, blinking sleep out of his eyes. And then, he screws up his face as something Egg said comes back to him.

"Seven fucks." Dunk scrambles up, remembering Egg's insistent and earnest face when he'd been silenced.

Ser, I wanted to tell you, I found some clothes—

Shit. He needs to listen to the boy more often.

You hum softly, and rub your thumb across his knuckles. As if your hands were built for this, sweet caresses and reassurances, instead of used for violence. 

His eyes meet yours, shining with the light of the trees, and you swear in this moment he’s more beautiful than their otherworldly glow. The scar across his lips stretch with his smile.

You’d kill for this elf. Have killed for him, stained your hands with blood of those deserving and those innocent. And here he sits, still alive like some impossible dream, pressing kisses to your fingers while you giggle like you’re a young elfling again.

Maybe there could be room for tenderness, even with the violence in a world under siege.  

“And I love you,” you respond in kind. It feels like you cannot possibly express how much, as he kisses your fingers again, then further up upon your wrist, a gentle kiss against your pulse point. You wonder if he can feel it, as your heart flutters, your warm pulse beating against his lips, how much you love him. Seeped into your very being, pumping through your veins, inscribed into your bones, you love him so surely you ache with it. 

It’s something soft and gentle now, as he kisses your skin again, just to kiss you for the sake of it, and leans his weight into you. You can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to his head, and wrap your other arm around him in an easy embrace.

“The poets have always been right, I think,” he says, as his fingers play with your own. “You are half my soul.” 

You’re inclined to agree. Through peace and war and peace again, he’s stayed by your side as you have stayed by his. Still, the words strike a chord in your heart, and choke you up in their sincerity. 

“I love you,” you say again, trying desperately to pour even more into the simple phrase. “You are mine as I am yours.”

You are no poet, but he knows this. Your love is in the braid now laying in his hair, the lips pressed to his head, the rings you help him slip on every morning since he’s lost his other hand - not because he cannot do it himself, but because you want to do it for him. The meals you make him eat when he forgets, the candles you light when he fails to notice it’s getting dark, the sword you swing, stood back to back on even the bloodiest battlefields. 

He kisses your wrist again, and smiles, feeling the way your heartbeat flutters. Feeling you alive and reactive, still enamored by his touch after so many years. 

Maybe you can be gentle again. Maybe this peace can last.

“Can I braid your hair?” He asks. You blink, because you cannot remember a time he’s braided your hair since he’s lost his hand, and then you smile. 

“Of course." It takes another minute for you to swap seats, however, as neither of you want to move, wrapped up in each other and not too hasty in breaking such a moment. 

Soon enough it is you in the seat, and him stood above you, his teeth biting at his bottom lip as he weaves the hair framing the left side of your face into a braid just like his. 

It’s almost a foreign look on Maedhros as you know him now. So stern your lover has become, so forlorn, creases always between his eyes, his jaw always set too stiffly to allow for anything but a frown. 

This is the look he'd wear in the libraries of Tirion, pouring over an essay on politics or some old tome of law, worrying his lip between his teeth as he considered the issues of the kingdom his grandfather had tasked him with. Or when he was sat in front of a particularly daunting puzzle, his brow furrowed as he tried to piece it all together in his mind before connecting the pieces.

You want to kiss him, suddenly and desperately. You want to kiss him silly, over and over, until he smiles like he used to, and kisses you back.

You know better than to interrupt now, and instead watch and wait patiently as he finishes the braid. It’s tension is more loose than the one you put in his hair, a little more messy. It’s the best braid you’ve ever worn, as he’s the one who braided it. 

“It’s beautiful, Mai,” you say, running your fingers along the braid as you admire it. Call it nostalgia, call it old habit, the old nickname from your younger days slips out. You hardly notice, far too preoccupied with feeling giddy at the fact he’s braided your hair to look like his.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he responds easily, lifting his hand again to tuck the braid behind your ear. 

You pull him down and kiss him then, your patience run thin now that his task is complete. Softly and repeatedly, until he chuckles against your lips and brings his hand up to cup your face, tilting your head and opening his mouth so he can kiss you properly - just as you hoped he would.

Later, the two of you arrive together to dinner, with flushed cheeks and matching braids in your hair. His brothers would tease you endlessly for it, were it not for the way Maedhros smiles that night. 

-

Halfway through braiding your hair in your room in Imladris, grief washes over you like a tidal wave, crashing against the shore. 

You have to pause, fingers clutching your hair like a lifeline, as longing like you haven’t felt in an age tears you apart from the inside. You wish, impossibly so, for Maedhros to be stood above you, his fingers weaving your hair into something intricate instead of your own. 

He used to braid your hair like this, and kiss you on the cheek. His hand, or hands, once upon a time, were steady and sure as they ran through your hair, playing with it for far longer than necessary before fixing it into some style or another. 

If you close your eyes, you can picture him, biting at his bottom lip as he concentrates. If you try harder, you can remember not just Beleriand, but Valinor, the light of the trees shining through the open window, the jewelry around his wrists making noise as he fixes your hair. 

When he was warm, and safe, and above all else, alive. 

But now the space where he should be is tragically empty. A gaping wound once more, a loss worse than any missing organ or limb. Your own fingers, now far too tight in your own hair, tangle the strands. 

You’ll never hold his hand again, you realize. You’ll never braid his hair, his beautiful, fiery hair, until the world is destroyed and remade again. You cannot feel its soft tresses under your hands. Cannot feel his fingers scratching at your scalp and pulling your stress away. 

Carefully, with a patience made from several ages of practice, you manage to untangle your fingers and straighten your hair back out again. Unbound, it falls back over your shoulders to frame your face once more. 

You feel like crying. You feel like breaking something.

Not for the first time, and likely not for the last, you ask yourself why you didn’t cast yourself into the fire right after him. Perhaps more unkindly, you ask yourself why you couldn’t have been a second earlier when you reached for him. If you had grabbed him, if he hadn't fell- 

Someone knocks at your door, three quick raps before they peek in the open doorway.

“Dinner will be served early this evening - is everything alright?”

Elrond, you realize. You take a moment to compose yourself, breathing in and then out again, before you straighten up and brush your hair out of your eyes. 

“Quite alright,” you say, turning around with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He raises an eyebrow, his expression of ‘I clearly don’t believe you’ so similar to Maedhros’ discerning look that another wave of grief crashes over you. 

Maedhros was gone. Has been gone for thousands of years. Yet still he was kept alive by his son, a son you’d never truly had a chance to speak to until now. 

“Or at least, I will be,” you amend your statement. You knew better than to lie to a healer such as him. 

They say two things can kill an elf - steel, and loss. Grievous injury to the body, or grievous injury to the soul, both equally as deadly. You’d made it this far without meeting an end to either, so surely you could weather this storm. Even if some moments were harder than others.

“You will see him again.”

Elrond says it so matter-of-factly, as if he’s seen the future for himself. Somehow he knows exactly who haunts you in his moment, the missing half of your soul that still aches. 

“I will wait until Arda is remade, if I have to,” you reply. And you know this to be true, more than anything you’ve known before. Even if you had to wait for the end of time itself, you would, just to see him again.

“I will give you space, then,” Elrond says with a small smile. “Don’t forget about dinner, lest it wilts away without you .”

He bows his head, and leaves as quickly as he arrived. 

You sit for a moment, sorrow and grief still tugging down your limbs, before you look back at the mirror on your little beauty stand. It’s easy enough to do a small, simple braid, one that frames the left side of your face. 

You could tell something was wrong as soon as he closed the door. Your eyes followed his tall figure as he walked in front of the car to get to the driver's seat, his jaw clenched. You leaned back against the cool leather seat, watching as he slid into his, locking the car with a satisfying click. Duncan quickly turned on the car and heater, knowing you must be chilly from the night air. 

You didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but you knew your suspicions were right when he avoided your eyes as he reached across to put on your seat belt for you, a habit he picked up on when he noticed how often you forgot to do it yourself. It always came with his softly stern but cute rant about how seatbelts save lives, but this time, it just came with silence. 

You watched as he politely nodded at the valet attendant before he drove off and away from the Galla hall where your family's party was held. And when he did not start up a conversation like he always does, you couldn’t help but let out a small huff, crossing your arms across your chest, and turning your head to look away from him and out the window. The whole ride home was filled with silence, a silence you weren’t used to with him; it was tense. 

He was still acting like the perfect boyfriend he was, opening your door for you when he pulled into the private parking garage of the building your apartment resided in, placing his jacket that nearly swallowed you whole on your shoulders so the cold won't bother you, as you made your way through the chilly garage and building—squeezing your hand softly when you got into the elevator, knowing your distaste for it. 

But he was silent, and he wouldn’t even look you in the eye. It was infuriating. 

You had hoped that he would bring up what was upsetting him so much once the two of you were safely inside the walls of your home, but instead, he just moved past you and went straight to your shared bedroom after locking the front door. Your shoulders sag in disappointment, slowly following after him, pausing in the center of the bedroom for a moment as you watch him take off his watch and place it on his bedside table, his shoulders tense. 

You moved to your side of the bed, setting your purse on your bedside table before leaving for the shared walk-in closet, where you put away your heels and jewelry in their respective spots in your jewelry box. You sigh tiredly as you make your way into the en-suite bathroom, trying not to overthink about what’s bothering Duncan. 

You curse under your breath as you try to pull down the zipper for your dress, not being able to reach it. You glanced at yourself in the mirror for a quick moment before you turned your head towards the door, calling out, “Dunk, can you help with my zipper?” 

You heard shuffling and his footsteps moving towards the bathroom, your breath hitching at the sight of him. His dress shoes were already off, his belt was already off, his white button-up shirt was already halfway unbuttoned, and his hair was messy from running his hands through it. He was so handsome, even with that grumpy frown on his lips.

You faced away from him as he stood behind you, your shoulders relaxing when you felt him softly move your hair away from the zipper, careful not to tug it. Duncan tore his eyes away from the sight of your neck that was just silently begging him to lean down and kiss it, instead focusing on grabbing the zipper, slowly pulling it down so it wouldn’t get stuck on anything. 

You broke the silence. “Have I done something wrong?” 

Duncan’s fingers stilled for a moment at your words before he continued to pull the zipper down. Of course, you didn’t do anything wrong; it was him and his insecurities. Once he was done with the zipper, he moved his hands to rest on your arms, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your shoulder, whispering against your skin with a sigh, “No.” 

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. Then, what was bothering him? 

Duncan clenched his jaw as he thought back on it, how he stood there and just watched as the conversations went on and on. He mumbled with an embarrassed huff, “I was jealous.” 

You slowly tilted your head slightly, looking at him through the bathroom mirror. That was an answer you weren’t expecting to hear, especially from him. You asked softly in slight disbelief, “You were jealous?” 

“You and Valarr,” Duncan started with a small sigh as he thought about your coworker and friend, the one who came up to the two of you, hugging you too long for Duncan’s taste as he congratulated you. He had given Duncan a charming smile as he shook hands with him, yeah, Duncan realized very quickly that he didn't like him. 

“I just stood there, listening as the two of you talked about your job, and I couldn’t keep up—he’s so much smarter than I am, you talked so passionately, and he could keep up,” he ranted with an exasperated huff, feeling even more stupid for admitting it aloud. Your heart breaks at how defeated he sounded. You never would have thought that he felt like that, and that hurt even more. It hurt to hear him talk about himself in such a way. 

He wasn't from your world, the fancy parties and summers at the vacation home in Dorne, not blinking at the ridiculous costs of the champagne that your family had to have at every occasion, all the political conversations. 

You turned around to face him, his hands slowly falling to rest on your forearms, softly squeezing as if he was trying to ground himself. He’s never felt this before. Duncan swallowed harshly before he locked eyes with you, his heart hurting even more when he saw the sad look in your eyes, as if you blamed yourself. 

Duncan’s thumbs softly caressed circles on your skin as he whispered, “He understands what you do so much more than I ever could.” 

You shake your head in disagreement as you step closer to him, slowly dragging your hands up his chest before you gently cup his face, Duncan leaning down more to assist. You kept your eyes on him as you gently caressed his cheeks with the pad of your thumbs; his eyes softened at your touch and the warmth in your eyes. Your tone was sweet but stern. “But you understand me, Duncan.” 

“Better than anyone ever will, and that is all that matters to me.” You continued to reassure him, his hands moving down to hold your waist. Duncan leaned even more into your touch as he fluttered his eyes closed, letting out a heavy breath, your cold hands on his cheeks causing him to melt. 

“I…” he starts, but his voice falters, and he inhales and exhales slowly before he opens his eyes. He couldn't help but admire you, the way you looked at him with your eyes filled with nothing but love and understanding, the small smile on your lips. His heart fluttered, and he felt warmth spread through him the more he thought of you. 

The way you were always there at his side in those sleepless nights as he studied his rugby film, listening so intently to him. How you sacrificed your sleep schedule time and time again for him, and that, despite the time distance at times, the bond the two of you shared only got stronger. Always there to help him with his feelings. You truly did know everything about him; you understood him more than anyone ever did. 

You never made him feel dumb or made him feel like he was just too much. 

“I don't deserve you.” He whispers with a small shake of his head, his eyes softening as he takes in your expression. His own expression was one of vulnerability and a little bit of guilt. When he says that, your soft and sweet smile turns into an expression of sadness as his words fill the air. It broke your heart to see him like this, so unsure of himself. 

Every part of you was in love with the man in front of you, the same man who would stay up late to read you your notes for your tests, making you giggle whenever he mispronounced anything. he was there every step of the way, no matter how busy or tired he was, and he never failed to make you feel loved and special. You didn’t like to hear him doubt himself. 

You moved one of your hands from his face, bringing it up to his hair, softly pushing a few of the long strands of his hair that fell onto his forehead back, before slowly moving your fingers through his thick locks. A small sigh leaves his lips at the comforting touch, his hands pulling you closer by your waist. 

You lean into his hold, your voice soft but firm, “Don’t say that, Duncan. You deserve all my love and more.” 

“Darling, I…” You could tell just by his tone that he was still doubting himself, so you didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence. You moved your hand from his cheek down his neck to grip onto his collar, pulling him down into a passionate kiss. Duncan let out a sound mixed with surprise and need against your lips, eagerly kissing you back. 

The thought that he was undeserving of you and your love was quickly dissolving as you poured your love and emotions into the kiss. He hungrily kisses you back, his tongue exploring your mouth as if he already didn't have it memorized. His hand slid up your sides, pulling you flush against him. He couldn’t resist the pull you had on him. 

Your hand on his collar moved down his muscular chest and to his hip, squeezing it as you pushed him back against the counter. Duncan groaned softly at the familiar warmth of your body fully pressed against him, your lips moving together in a passionate tandem. One of his hands moved down your bare back; the only thing keeping your dress from falling and pooling at your feet was the thin straps. 

You slowly pulled away, a string of saliva still connecting his lips to yours, a whimper leaving his lips at the loss of your kiss. You moved your hand down from his hair, teasingly scratching your nails down his neck, causing his breath to hitch, before you gripped his chin, forcing him to look at you as you whispered, “You are mine, and I’m yours…don’t ever forget that.” 

All Duncan could do was nod quickly, leaning forward to chase your lips, wanting to feel them pressed against his again. His kiss quickly became needy, desperate even. He was feeling hot all over, your words and passionate touch putting him under a spell. 

His hands were moving slowly up and down your side before he reached down, squeezing your ass with two hands, enticing a moan from your lips that he quickly swallowed. You slowly pulled away from the hot kiss, mumbling breathlessly against his lips with a flirty smile, “Join me in the shower?” 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

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