DAY ONE

You sit idly atop Chestnut, stroking your fingers through his dark mane as Ser Duncan fusses over the front cinch of your saddle. You watch him curiously, his big hands tugging at the leather strap and ensuring it sits snugly against the bay horse.

“Must you do this every time?” You ask him, cocking your head as you watch his dirt-stained hands work.

He looks up at you with those watery blue eyes you have become increasingly fond of during your time with him. He stares at you as if only just noticing your presence.

“Yes,” Dunk replies simply. “If the saddle doesn’t sit right—”

“I’ve been tacking my horse since I was ten and two,” you remind him with a subtle smile, unhooking your foot from a stirrup and nudging Dunk’s side with the toe of your boot. “Even more, I’d say I saddle better than you do.”

Dunk’s hands drop from the cinch strap, but not before he takes hold of your ankle. His hand covers the joint completely where it’s obscured by the worn hide of your boot. He holds you firmly, gently guiding your leg away from his side and back towards your stirrup. You feel the heat of his hand against you, breaking through the barrier of your boot, and you find yourself biting your lip as he sits your foot back against the steel of the stirrup.

“Ser Arlan taught me to saddle,” Dunk says, planting a couple of firm pats against your calf. His hand waits there, cupping the flesh. “Do you think you are better than him?”

You smile down at him. “Yes.”

He lets out a dry laugh, before suddenly noticing he still has his hand on your calf. Cheeks tinted pink, he withdraws his hand and steps away, but not before giving Chestnut a gentle stroke down the neck.

You watch the hedge knight turn then, and your gaze rises to the horizon. King’s Landing sits framed by the sea, the early morning sun bright behind the stone spires of the Red Keep that jut towards the sky. You notice a group of men approaching then: riding black palfreys down the trodden dirt road, cloaks pulled low over their heads. Dunk stands beside Thunder, fingers stroking the warhorse’s nose as he assesses the approaching troupe.

“I must admit,” you begin, the dull echoing of hooves on earth reaching the still air around you. “I’m surprised he didn’t flee.”

Dunk offers you a huff. “There’s still time.”

The group of riders reach you and Dunk in less than a minute, and they pull to a stop several yards away. You watch a few of them pull down their cloaks, revealing somewhat familiar faces of the kingsguard. You recognise Roland, who leaps from his horse with a pained grunt. He turns to a hunched, hooded figure after he’s dismounted.

“Off,” he instructs firmly, tugging the hem of the figure’s cloak.

The figure groans, slumping over further in his saddle. “No.”

Roland frowns, shooting you and Dunk an apologetic look. Dunk waves his hand, and Roland takes a step back, gesturing to the hooded figure.

“His grace has been rather reluctant, as you can probably imagine,” Roland says to Dunk, before his eyes find you. You smile at him, and he returns it. If Dunk clocks it, he doesn’t let on, but you know him better than that, for the way he clears his throat is anything but casual. Roland continues, his eyes on you still, “His palfrey is loaded with supplies. Food, water, coin. Enough for the weeks ahead.”

“Thank you, Ser Roland,” you say politely, bowing your head.

Ser Roland turns and thumps the reluctant royal on the leg. “Prince Daeron, behave yourself, for Ser Duncan and his lovely companion will not be as forgiving as I if you attempt another escape.”

Daeron finally sits up, and his hood falls away from his head. You watch him carefully. His blond hair is a scraggly mess atop his head, framing his paled face like strings of gold. His eyes, a misty violet-blue in the early morning sun, are framed by dark circles, and the lines of his nose and lips are pink, as if he had just been plucked from his sleep. Despite his post-drunken, dishevelled state, you can’t help but notice the prince’s obvious beauty.

“I do not doubt that,” Daeron drawls, eyes sinking to find Ser Duncan standing beside his horse. He looks the giant man up and down, and a small smile stretches across your lips as you watch the prince’s eyes linger on the strong expanse of Dunk’s muscled shoulders. Daeron sighs through his nose. “How is it that you have gotten bigger since I last saw you?”

Dunk shrugs, the movement drawing his cloak tight around his shoulders. Daeron watches it closely as Dunk speaks, his tone even. “M’not sure, your grace. But m’lady feeds me well.”

Daeron looks up then, as if only just noticing you were there. His eyes find yours and you offer him a small smile. Something tight knots in the base of your stomach as you watch a thin smile creep across his face, his eyes soft but searching. Searching for something—you’re not sure what—in the pools of your irises as he sits up a little straighter in his saddle, gloved hands ringing around the reins.

“I see,” he says, still looking at you. “Lady…?”

You give the prince your name.

He repeats it like he can taste it.

Dunk turns to Ser Roland then, and the knights shake hands. “We shall disembark, ser.”

“Take care, Ser Duncan,” Roland tells him, before clambering back onto his horse. He offers Dunk one last sympathetic look. “Please keep the prince out of trouble. Prince Maekar awaits his arrival at Summerhall.”

With that, Ser Roland and the surrounding kingsguard take off back towards King’s Landing, leaving you and Dunk in the presence of Prince Maekar’s eldest son. Dunk walks forward and takes hold of Daeron’s horse’s halter, his other hand petting the black stallion soothingly. Daeron watches this happen from atop his horse.

“He looks fit,” Dunk utters, directing his words to you. “We will aim to journey until the sun begins to set.”

You nod.

Daeron frowns. “Surely you do not expect me to sit astride for that long? My father does expect heirs of me, believe it or not.”

You can’t help but chuckle, and Daeron’s eyes sparkle as they find you. Dunk huffs, giving the royal horse one last pat before retreating back to Thunder. He addresses the prince as he boosts himself into his saddle.

“We will take rest when I say we will take rest,” Dunk informs, offering the prince one last pointed look before he turns to you. His eyes immediately soften, and you nudge Chestnut forward until the two of you stand abreast. “Shall we take leave?”

You nod, wriggling a little in your saddle to get comfortable. “Yes.”

“I will take lead,” Dunk says, urging Thunder forward. You pull Chestnut in beside Daeron, and he glances at you with a surprisingly sober smirk on his handsome face. Dunk looks at the two of you over his shoulder. “M’lady, you will ride beside his grace. Please use your dagger if he attempts an escape.”

You laugh as Daeron gapes.

“I distinctly remember the orders from my father were to deliver me to Summerhall unharmed,” Daeron says, eyes flicking from the solid mass of Dunk’s back to your pretty face. “And as for the image of a beautiful woman driving her blade into my thigh… well, that’s not as much of a deterrent as you think it is.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk bristle as he nudges Thunder into a brisk walk. You do the same, with Daeron mimicking your movements. As you settle into the beginning of your journey, you raise a brow in the prince’s direction.

“You speak quite openly for a prince,” you tell him.

He reaches up and pushes a strand of blond hair away from his face. He looks at you with eyes that seem to pierce straight through. “So I’ve been told.”

You can’t hide your smile.

He cocks his head. “Do you find it improper?”

“Quite the opposite,” you reply, gloved fingers stroking the thin leather of Chestnut’s reins. “I find it rather endearing.”

Daeron lets out an abrupt laugh, head falling back until his hair disappears into the cloak’s hood that gathers at his shoulder blades. “I don’t think my manner of speaking has ever been described as endearing, but thank you.”

You shrug, then reach across the small gap that separates you. Daeron watches you carefully as you gently take hold of his cloak’s hood and pull it over his head. You watch his smile vanish behind the dark material as you pull it tightly over his head and face. You laugh when you realise he’s essentially riding blind.

Dunk looks over his shoulder at the sound. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” you say, withdrawing.

Daeron adjusts his hood so it sits perfectly: obscuring most of his head and shadowing his face just enough, but the glint of his violet-blue eyes is hard to miss.

That night, after several upon several hours of riding—and several more breaks for Daeron who, rather unsurprisingly, has the bladder of a common child—Dunk decides it is time to retire for the night. The sun has just slipped beneath the distant hills, and the sky is alight with hues of pink and orange that fill the forest clearing with a kaleidoscope of bright colours. You take the liberty of tying all three horses up beneath the branches of a towering ash before dashing a line of oats across the ground for them to snack on. A few yards away, Dunk has sat Daeron down on a bedroll—physically sat him down, pushing the prince onto his arse with two strong hands on his shoulders—and now hefts a pile of branches in his arms. He drops them on a flat piece of ground.

“I’ll tend to the fire,” Dunk says, looking up as you approach. 

You place a gentle hand on his back, a silent thank you, before you walk around him. You breeze past Daeron, who sits cross-legged on the thinning bedroll like a sulking child. He looks up at you with watery eyes, his pale features bathed in the ichor of the sunset.

He calls your name. “Will you sit with me?”

You ignore him as you open one of the sacks tacked to your saddle. You pull out a loaf of bread, wrapped in clean linen, then a pouch of salt beef. Daeron frowns as you approach with the food, kneeling beside him whilst Dunk finishes up the fire. You hear it begin to crackle as you settle the loaf of bread across your lap and tear it apart.

“What is this?” Daeron asks, a deep dent in his brows as you hand him a generous chunk of bread and a handful of hard salt beef. He takes the food as if it were poisonous, peering at it and waiting for his fingers to start withering.

You hear Dunk sigh through his nose as he dusts his palms across his thighs. “Supper.”

“Supper is supposed to be edible,” Daeron mutters. The point of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, and he brings a strip of beef to it. He licks it, then pulls his tongue back into his mouth, smacking his lips. His frown deepens. “This is horrid.”

“You will eat what is given to you,” Dunk says. 

With the fire roaring now, he lumbers over and sits beside you and across from Daeron. He watches with rapt attention as you split open a chunk of bread and stuff a bundle of salt beef between the pieces. You hand it to him, and Dunk hefts it gratefully in his hands.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Daeron scoffs, still looking at his bread and beef. “I thought you said your lady feeds you well? I’ve fed better to the dogs that roam Rhaenys’ hill.”

Dunk scowls. “Don’t you—”

But you laugh. “Well, my prince, please feel free to forfeit your meal. I’m sure I can go and find a hungry dog to feed it to.”

Daeron goes quiet. You hum to yourself, enjoying the heat of the fire on your back as you stuff your own segment of bread with beef. You take a bite, and by the time you chew and swallow, Daeron has mimicked you and raised the stuffed bread to his mouth. He eats without another complaint.

DAY FOUR

“Might we stay at an inn tonight?” Daeron broaches, calling to Dunk who rides a few metres ahead. “My back pains me.”

“No,” Dunk replies simply.

Daeron groans, tipping his head back until his hood falls. “Please.”

“No.”

Daeron turns to you, pouting. “M’lady—”

“No,” you say.

“Please.”

“Ask again and I shall confiscate your bedroll,” Dunk grumbles ahead. “Your back will pain you more if you have to sleep amongst the dirt and rocks.”

Daeron rolls his eyes, and looks at you. His eyes are soft in his sobriety, and they appear clearer as they drag across your body. The smile that crosses his face is nothing short of satisfying as an obviously pleasing thought crosses his mind.

“I’m sure the lady would share hers with her prince,” he utters, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes. 

You notice that Dunk doesn’t react with words, but you recognise the way the muscles of his back shift as he stills in his saddle, shoulders hunching as his grip goes white-knuckled on the reins.

You reply to Daeron to ease your poor knight. “I will gladly give mine up. I will share Dunk’s—it would be a tight fit, but I think we’d manage.”

Dunk’s ears go bright pink.

Daeron runs the point of his tongue across his bottom lip, saying nothing more.

DAY EIGHT

The three of you pass through a small village to replenish your inventory. Dunk heads into the market, and you sit with Daeron on a hill overlooking the open field dotted with stalls. He yawns and tips to the side, resting his cloaked head against your shoulder. Birdsong fills the air overhead, the sky a brilliant blue and the grass beneath you soft and lush with drying dew.

Daeron’s body is warm beside yours, and you feel your body sway with each of his inhales and exhales as Dunk’s large figure vanishes from view. You should tell the prince that what he is doing is considerably improper, that he shouldn’t be resting his head against the shoulder of a common woman. But, as you sit atop the grassy hill, you realise that he is as much a common man with the cloak over his head as you are a common woman. So you stay silent.

“You smell heavenly,” Daeron suddenly says, and the abrupt break in silence nearly makes you jump in fright. “Like… honeycakes.”

You scoff, rather unladylike, but it settles and you don’t feel guilty about it. “I haven’t bathed in eight days.”

“You bathed in the river two days ago.”

“Without soap,” you reply, then nod towards the market. “Dunk is getting me more.”

Daeron hums. “Does he know which kind you like best?”

The question feels odd. It feels as though it had been pushed out into the open after a long period of sitting in the shadows.

“Dunk knows everything about me,” you whisper, fidgeting with the rope belt that hangs from your waist. The fibres are soft and well-spun beneath your fingers compared to the coarse thickness of Dunk’s belt. When Daeron doesn’t respond, you continue. “I have known him for many years, your grace.”

“So you must know he cares for you?”

There’s a tight knot in your belly. It’s so heavy you feel you might sink into the soft grass beneath you; you might fall back into the dirt and it will consume you like flesh from a carcass.

“Of course,” you say quietly. “He is my closest friend.”

“Ah.” Daeron clears his throat, still leaning against your shoulder. “He cares for you more than that, m’lady. I know it.”

“You know nothing.”

Daeron peels himself away from you, his eyes finding yours and mirroring the bright blue of the sky above. He peers at you like he’s known you all his life. There’s a comfort that crosses between you, and he leans back on his hands, eyes never leaving yours.

“I know plenty,” he says. “I have spent years frequenting the Street of Silk. I know what lust looks like in the eyes of men, m’lady, just as much as I know what love looks like.”

You feel yourself growing hot beneath the low collar of your dress. You look away. “You cannot speak of such things with me. It is improper.”

Daeron laughs. “I recall it was you who found my openness endearing.”

You suck your teeth, withholding a scornful reply.

The prince continues, undeterred. He says your name, soft as silk. “The hedge knight is in love with you.”

You don’t look at him. Or maybe you can’t.

“I know what love looks like,” Daeron echoes his earlier words. “And that man… looks at you how my father looked at my mother.”

You finally turn to him then. His eyes are cast downhill and there’s an almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. Ivory teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip as he loses himself in thought, and you go against all of your common sense and place a comforting hand against his knee. That breaks whatever stupor he was in, for he looks over at you as if you’d just saved him from drowning.

“Dunk is in love with you,” Daeron says like the words hurt coming out.

You nod. 

It’s not as though you didn’t notice the way the hedge knight reacted to you: the way he reacted to your touch, to your attention, to your words. You knew how red he got when you insisted you bathe together, and you knew how hard it was for him to keep his eyes rooted to the riverbed as the water flowed around you. You knew how much he liked it when you complimented him, when you praised him, and you knew he keened like a proud dog when you applauded his strength or his bravery. You knew how obsessed he was in making sure you were safe, how consistent he was in checking your saddle before each ride, or sweeping the inn before your sporadic stays.

“I know.” You finally find your voice. “I suppose it sounds strange coming from another person. Especially…”

Daeron grins. “A prince?”

You chuckle. “Yeah.”

Daeron hums, and you realise your hand is still on his knee. You remove it, and you could have sworn he almost looked offended.

“So… what does lust look like?” You decide to ask, the question almost too loud in the natural silence that fell between the two of you.

Daeron looks you up and down, smile slowly slinking away. He meets your eyes. “You’d know.”

DAY NINE

You wash yourself the next morning with the honey wax soap Dunk had brought you—the soap you always sought out each time you found yourselves perusing stalls of village markets. You are by yourself in the slow-moving stream, willows framing the banks with their low-hanging branches, their sage-coloured leaves brushing the clear water. You can hear the low voices of Dunk and Daeron a little upstream, who are lounging half-naked against the shingled bank.

The water is cool around your waist as you lather the soap across your arms, beneath them, then over your breasts. Yellowish bubbles cover your skin as you scrub yourself with a pumice next, then dip yourself beneath the surface to rinse. When you rise and wipe the water from your eyes, you find Dunk approaching along the bank with his head lowered.

“Hi, Dunk,” you greet him, wading towards the bank, the waterline sinking lower, lower, and lower still.

Dunk clears his throat. He holds your fresh clothes in his hands, folded neatly. He holds them out to you, his eyes on the rocks at his feet as his cheeks slowly turn pink. You smile when you leave the stream, bare to the forest around you.

You stand right in front of him, just as you always did. “Thank you, Dunk.”

“S’alright,” he mutters. His ears were pink too. No matter how long you had known each other, he still found himself heating up each time you approached him like this. He holds your clothes out. “I’ve washed your other dress and the lot. They’re drying.”

“Thank you,” you say again, taking your chemise from the top of the pile. You shake the excess water off yourself, feeling almost foolishly like a dog, before unfurling the garment.

“Dunk, I lost your soap in the stream,” came Daeron’s voice, and you yelp as one of Dunk’s hands shot out to grab your upper arm. 

He settles you directly in front of him, shielding you from the approaching prince with the mass of his body. Still holding your dress in one hand, he holds you firm with the other as he tosses his head over his shoulder, watching as a stark-naked Daeron stumbles over the rocky shore. You giggle, catching a brief glimpse of the prince’s pale body before Dunk is shifting you closer to his chest, hiding you.

“Well, dive down and get it,” Dunk says a bit too roughly.

Daeron looks up. “I don’t want to—oh… hello, m’lady.”

“Your grace,” you greet, unable to see him, but you stick a bare arm to the side and offer him a wave from behind the wall of Dunk.

Dunk pulls you closer until you’re pushed right against him. You suck in a breath, your bare tits squishing against the strong pudge of his abdomen.

“I will get the soap, just wait downstream,” Dunk growls out, and you feel the reverberations through his body as it passes through your bones.

You can’t see the prince, but he’s smiling. The smile on his face is so brazen that Dunk feels the need to haul a large rock in his direction. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds you to him until the prince turns on his heel and retreats back around the willow, his bare arse on show.

Only when Daeron has disappeared does Dunk realise how he’s handling you. His ears go even redder—if that was even possible—and he immediately guides you away from him. He drops his arms, but doesn’t move, his eyes on the stream.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean—”

“Do not apologise.” You slip your chemise over your head and let it settle against the curves of your frame. “You saved my decency.”

You take your dress from him next, and he waits patiently, listening as you pull yourself into it. After a moment listening to you huff as you tug the material to sit on your body the way you want, he feels a hand on his chest.

“Dunk,” you say gently, turning to show him your back. He finally looks at you. “Can you tie my back please?”

Dunk has done this a million times. He might just be better than any lady in waiting. Besides, you feel more like a princess with him anyway.

You wait, the soles of your feet resting against rocks as you feel his hands descend on you, taking the ribbons of your dress. He slowly begins to thread them, following the pattern. With each curl, his fingers brush against you, and you purse your lips, Daeron’s words echoing around your skull like the bells of a sept. 

Love. That single word sticks to the grooves of your brain as Dunk’s fingers warm against the covered skin of your back.

After a moment, he finishes and ties the ribbons off, taking a deliberate step back.

“There,” he announces as you spin back around. He can look at you now. “Perfect.”

DAY ELEVEN

“Surely we can reward ourselves with a night in an inn?” Daeron queries, both hope and fatigue noticeable in his words.

The day had been particularly strenuous. You had reached the Stormlands, and Dunk was insistent on pressing on for as long as possible.

The morning had started freezing and wet: rain lashing the earth, sky heavy with clouds that would alight periodically with white flashes of lightning. Dunk had opted to remove Thunder’s saddle then, storing it on Chestnut and pulling you to sit before him—much more comfortable bareback than to attempt to squeeze the both of you between the saddlehorn and the firm lip at the back. His thick body shielded you from much of the rain that flailed in from behind, and he bundled you against his chest, warming you as much as he could.

By midday, the clouds had cleared but the wind had found you. Strong gales blew through the valley, and Dunk kept you in the fortress of his arms. Daeron groaned as he rode beside you both, complaining as the wind billowed his cloak and pushed his hair into his eyes. He was wet and cold and princes shouldn’t get wet and cold, he had argued.

The wind thankfully died by the afternoon, but the rain sought you all out again. The droplets were thin but icy, and poor Thunder looked miserable with his mane flattened across his face and his hooves caked in mud. The kingsroad had long churned to mud and the journey seemed to drag on and on forever.

Evening passed and the rain ceased, and when night fell and a small scattering of illuminated buildings appeared out of the gloom, Daeron almost shouted with joy.

“It’s been a long day,” Daeron continues, casting Dunk a pointed look.

Dunk sighs through his nose, sparing a look down to where you are slumped against his chest. You wear his cloak over top of your own, bundled beneath the thick fabric. Your eyes are closed and you breathe softly, one of his strong arms wrapping around your middle.

Almost in agreement, both Thunder and Chestnut let out simultaneous snorts.

And when he feels you shiver against him, his mind is made up.

“Fine,” he says, and Daeron beams in the semi-darkness. But he’s not doing this for him. He’s doing it for you.

A few minutes later, Dunk is gently shaking you awake as Thunder trots towards the inn’s stables. You stir with a little whine, and Dunk feels something lurch in his chest.

And in his trousers.

“What’re we doing?” You ask, sitting up slightly and rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. You blink and look around, noting the inn and the wafting aroma of a warm cooked meal.

Dunk carefully extracts himself and slips off of Thunder, Daeron gladly dismounting his own palfrey as a stableboy approaches. Dunk turns and lifts his arms as he so often did when the two of you rode together. You offer him a lazy smile in thanks, your hands finding the pillowy muscles of his biceps as his hands find your waist.

His hands are strong and wide against you. He hefts you like you weigh little more than a babe, bringing you down to earth as your dress and cloaks billow around you. Daeron watches the interaction from afar, leaning back against his horse as Dunk’s hands remain on your sides and yours remain on his biceps. The knight’s eyes flit across your face and land on your mouth for a second too long, your bodies a hair’s breadth apart.

Behind Dunk, Daeron groans. He hands the reins of his horse to the stableboy and tosses him a dragon. The stableboy’s eyes widen as he clasps the coin in one dirty hand, and Dunk turns to shoot Daeron an incredulous look.

“Should you be flashing that kind of coin ‘round here?” Dunk hisses. His hands leave your waist, but you tiredly chase the contact: your arms wrapping around one of his, face smushing into his upper arm.

Daeron casts the stableboy a bored look, who is now taking both Thunder and Chestnut as well. Daeron points between the horses as the stableboy looks up at him, eyes wide. “Make sure they all get oats. And an apple—” he turns to Dunk. “—Do horses eat apples?”

You hum, too tired to respond, but Dunk does anyway. “Yeah, I’spose, but—”

Daeron’s already turning back to the stableboy, who looks no older than ten. “Yes, make sure they get oats and an apple.”

The stableboy nods and hurries away with the horses, and Dunk can’t help but watch them go with guilt lodged in his throat.

Daeron saunters towards you, and the knight startles when the prince hooks his hands around his free arm.

“C’mon then, Ser Duncan,” Daeron drags out, tugging the knight along. “I long for an actual mattress.”

Inside, Dunk makes it apparent that Daeron was not leaving his sight, no matter how much the prince begged for his own room. To Dunk, he would rather sleep on the floor whilst the prince got a comfortable bed, than risk sleeping in another room and allow the prince a chance of escape.

“You treat me like a prisoner,” Daeron grumbles as Dunk shoulders open the stiff door to your room for the night.

“You run, I chase,” Dunk says. “And I really don’t feel like chasing you.”

The room is cramped but warm. The ceiling is low, which Dunk found out too late when he bumped the crown of his head against a wooden beam. Two beds are crammed into the small space: one with a wrought-iron frame and a plush straw mattress, big enough for two people, and another tucked in the corner which was short and narrow and obviously intended for a child. On the other side of the room, a crudely made wooden chair with a singular pillow placed on the seat.

Dunk says your name gently, and you stir where you continue to lean into the softness of his arm. “You’ll take the large bed.”

Daeron gapes as he sheds his cloak. He then gestures to the child’s bed. “I am not sleeping on that.”

Dunk grunts. “You’ll sleep where I tell you.”

Daeron huffs and crosses the room. He sits on the edge of the larger bed and crosses his arms over his chest.

You giggle, unwinding yourself from your hedge knight and slipping off both his cloak and your own that obscure your body. You place them both on a hook near the door. You turn to Dunk, offering him your back after slipping your shoes and stockings off.

“May you untie me, ser?” You ask him quietly, and Daeron’s eyes snap over to you both.

Dunk ignores the prince and gets to work. Tenderly, he undoes the ties at the back of your dress, and you hum to yourself all the while. Daeron’s stopped sulking, and he observes the blush high on Dunk’s cheeks as the hedge knight loosens your garment. He also notices the way the dress’ collar slips down, revealing more of your chest and the upper slope of your breasts. He swallows thickly, and feels something stir deep inside him as your dress falls away and you are left in your chemise.

“Thank you,” you say, bending to gather your dress. Your arse is so close to brushing Dunk’s pelvis that his breath hitches and he nearly chokes on it. When you right yourself and cross the room to hang up your dress, Dunk shoots Daeron a look. The prince just smirks. You return. “I don’t mind sleeping on the smaller bed.”

Dunk shakes his head. “No. You’ll sleep here. The prince is fine on the child’s bed.”

“No, I am not.” Daeron lies back on the large bed.

Dunk scowls as you giggle and approach the bed. You crawl onto it until you’re lying beside Daeron, and the prince turns his head to watch you clamber beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. Gritting his teeth, Dunk sits down in the old wooden chair. He should rip you away from the prince, scold you for being so close, banish the dreamer to the corner of the room like a petulant child.

But he doesn’t. He just watches.

“We can share,” you mutter, laying on your side.

Dunk’s heart tightens, and his jaw works as the muscles there tense. “No, you will not.”

Daeron mirrors your position, eyes glimmering in the candlelight as he blatantly ignores the larger man. “How kind of you.”

Dunk leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. “Daeron, get off the bed.”

Daeron’s eye flick over to Dunk. “Oh, the first name. Am I in trouble?”

“You’re about to be. Get off the bed.”

You sit up a little and look over your shoulder at your hedge knight. His cheeks are pink, there’s a light sheen of sweat glistening high on his forehead, and you note the shuddering in his shoulders as he sucks in a deep, calming breath. He looks even larger in the shadows: tall and wide and so, so big.

“The lady said we can share,” Daeron says, and you support his statement with a nod. If Dunk didn’t love you so, he would have reprimanded you too. A cat-like smile creeps across the prince’s face after a moment of tense silence, and Dunk’s heart leaps into his throat when Daeron’s hand closes around your chin and forces you to look at him. “We can share, can’t we?”

You nod. “Yes.”

Daeron mock pouts, thumb stroking the soft curve of your jaw. “Well… what about Dunk? Can he share with us too? We both know that bed will be much too small for him.”

You nod again, humming. “Mhm.”

Daeron turns back to Dunk, still holding your chin. “There we go, ser. She says we can all share the bed. How lovely is that?”

Dunk’s half hard.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does. He can see every curve of your body as you lay on the bed in your thin chemise, and he can see the way you react to the prince’s touch. His cock stirs in his breeches, and the prince’s soft goading is not helping. That scares him a little, and he suddenly feels the need to drink several pints of ale.

Daeron shifts to look at you. His pupils are so wide his eyes appear black, and there’s a flush on his cheekbones that gives you butterflies. He doesn’t look like a prince, with his hair tucked out of his face, a healing scar dashed across his cheekbone. You want to touch it.

So you do.

You raise a hand and bring your fingers to his cheek, feeling the raised skin there. Behind you, Dunk growls out your name, but it feels less a warning of don’t touch and more a warning of be careful. Daeron’s eyes droop, blond lashes fluttering as you run your thumb over the healed laceration. A small sound leaves him, and you catch his throat bobbing as his head chases the contact of your fingers.

Dunk should rip the two of you away from each other. He’s fighting with himself, fighting with his duty. He should be protecting your honour, your virtue as a lady, but he should also be protecting whatever honour a prince like Daeron has left. That crosses his mind, and he frowns, then his thoughts shift. Daeron has been in more whore houses than Dunk has slept in hedges—he’s slept in a lot of hedges—and suddenly, he feels queasy. The prince is dirty. Surely he’s diseased. Surely if you touch him, you will—

He hears you whimper.

He snaps himself from his daze, and his heart drops into his stomach.

You’re kissing the prince.

Still cupping Daeron’s face, you both move at the same time. When your mouths meet, you whimper, and a whine-like noise slips from Daeron’s throat too. His lips are warm and surprisingly plush, and they move against yours like he’s done this a thousand times. His tongue flicks across your lips, and you part for him, allowing him to lick into your mouth and slide his tongue across your own. You whimper again, and one of his hands finds the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.

The chair groans as Dunk springs to his feet.

Daeron pulls away, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his body as Dunk looms over the bed. The prince smiles as you pant, and Dunk’s fury is reflected in his blue eyes.

Dunk’s fists clench at his sides. “Stop.”

Daeron dips his head and kisses you again. You whine, and the sound spears right through Dunk’s heart. You kiss Daeron and taste the salt of dinner and the lingering wine from his flask. He licks over your teeth, and you try to keep up, something hot and honey-thick pooling in the base of your belly as you press against him.

Dunk calls your name. You pull out of the kiss and Daeron peppers kisses from the corner of your mouth and down your throat as you peer up to look at your knight.

“Please,” Dunk whispers, knees knocking against the mattress where he stands. “Please don’t do this.”

You pout as Daeron sucks harshly at a particularly soft spot at the hollow of your throat. “Dunk, I… I want this.”

Dunk chews his lip, brows furrowing. “But… I…”

That makes your heart stutter. You use all your strength to push Daeron away from you, and you roll towards Dunk, your chemise riding up the thick of your thighs. You kneel on the mattress, ignoring Daeron’s whines as your hands find Dunk’s chest. His fingers wrap around your wrists. He’s burning hot.

“Dunk,” you whisper, craning your head.

Dunk goes shy under your gaze. You look at him like he’s so much smaller, so much more noble, so much less of the giant oaf he’s always been told he was.

You look at him like you love him.

“Dunk,” you repeat, and he finally meets your eyes without breaking. You give him a soft smile and he swears he may melt. “Dunk, my sweet knight. Please let me have this.”

Dunk frowns. “I’d let you have anything, just… not this. Not him.”

Daeron lets out a small noise of offence.

You caress Dunk’s chest, feeling the soft muscle and the rapid beating of his heart. “I know, I know, but Dunk, my sweet boy, please. I want this, okay? I want this… and I want you, too. I want—gods, I want both of you.”

You don’t need to turn around to know Daeron is smiling like a dragon atop a horde of gold and glitter.

Dunk seizes like he’s been struck. “What?”

You don’t back down. You’re too far in to retreat like some fair maiden. “I love you, Dunk. And I want you. I want you, and I want Daeron.”

“Where…?” Dunk frowns, shaking his head. “Where is this coming from?”

“From deep within, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chimes in behind you, and you glance back to see how he’s lounging against the bed like a cat. He gives you a wink, one of his hands pressed flat to the front of his trousers, barely concealing the pitching tent there. He continues smoothly. “Your pretty lady is not the maiden you think she is.”

Dunk scowls at the prince. “Do not speak of her as if she is one of your whores.”

Daeron laughs, and you soothe Dunk with more pets to his chest.

“I do not kiss my whores, ser,” Daeron says, sounding bored. “I do not kiss them, nor do I particularly like them. They are convenient. Our pretty lady on the other hand…”

Our hits Dunk across the head like a blow from an axe.

He growls, and his hands shoot down to grasp your hips. You suck in a startled gasp as Dunk pulls you into him, your hands pinned against his chest. A pleasant heat is filling your core, and your thighs squeeze together as your heartbeat seems to travel south.

“There is no our,” Dunk spits, and it’s the gruffest you’ve ever heard him. “She is mine—she is my lady, and I will not allow you to treat her like the women in the brothels you frequent.”

Daeron rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, Ser Duncan, I will not speak to her like a Silk Street whore,” he says, looking you up and down. His smile is sinister and it makes you whine, the sound making Dunk’s eyes widen. “But I will fuck her like one.”

Dunk’s eyes flash. “How could—?”

“Dunk,” you plead, and his eyes are on you in an instant. “Please let… let me have you.”

You don’t mention the prince, but Dunk already knows he’s a part of it.

He’s scared. Dunk is scared of whatever the hell he is about to do. He’s scared of whatever he’s saying yes to when he dips his head and slots his mouth to yours, his arms tight at your waist. But you moan into his mouth—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard—and suddenly he’s not scared anymore.

Dunk’s mouth is rougher than Daeron’s. Less coordinated, a bit sloppier, but he’s eager and it makes your cunt clench around nothing as he holds you to him. You lick the seam of his lips and he groans, his mouth opening. Your tongue finds his and they smooth together so naturally it makes you feel faint.

The mattress sinks behind you, and suddenly another warm body is pressing to your back. You whimper into Dunk’s mouth when Daeron’s hands ghost around your ribs. He cups your tits through the material of your chemise, his thumb and forefingers finding where your nipples harden beneath the fabric. His mouth draws against the curve of your shoulder, tongue licking the neckline of your chemise. You feel his hard cock against you, the tent in his trousers pushing tightly against the plush curve of your arse as your hands work across Dunk’s chest.

You drag your hands down Dunk’s soft belly, finding the hem of his tunic and tugging on it. Dunk extracts himself from the kiss with a disgruntled huff, pupils blown wide as he yanks his tunic over his head one-handed. You bite your lip, smiling as you drag your hands across his stomach, beneath the curve of his pecs, up and over his freckled shoulders, then all the way back down. Dunk bends to kiss you again. This time, it’s him licking forward, tongue passing heavily over yours, tasting honey on your gums.

Daeron grinds himself against you, and you can’t help but moan at the warmth of him pressing against the split of your arse. Your chemise rides up, revealing the backs of your thighs, and Daeron takes that as an invitation to slip the hemline up, up, up until he can settle the bare material above your arse.

He groans, one hand moving to cup one of your arsecheeks as he ruts himself against you. You pull away from Dunk’s mouth to sigh out and lean back into the contact. Dunk huffs and shifts, noticing the prince’s actions.

Fuck it.

He takes your chemise and rips it over your head. You yelp as it flies over your head and disappears somewhere in the room, leaving you completely bare and pinned between the two men. They’re both mostly clothed and searing hot against you. It makes you dizzy.

Dunk doesn’t avert his eyes like he usually does. He takes a step back and allows his eyes to rake down your body, following the dips and curves. He groans, falling to his knees, and you gasp out, taking hold of his shoulders as he kneels beside the bed.

He presses a kiss to your stomach. To the spot above your navel. Then he heads lower, with his hands on your hips, and kisses down your navel and along the curve of your lower belly. You whimper, Daeron still kneading your tits and grinding himself against the cleft of your arse as Dunk’s breath fans across your stomach before he’s kissing directly over your mound.

You keen, head bent to watch Dunk sink even lower.

He moans, eyes finding yours through his lashes. His eyes find your thighs next.

“Can I?” He asks around a whisper, and you reply by spreading your thighs. Daeron helps you, holding you steady as your legs part and your slick core meets the warm air of the room. Dunk moans again as his eyes find your slit. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”

Daeron hums in agreement, still rocking his hips against your arse, his fingers rolling your nipples in small circles. You’re leaning back against him, neck craned for him to lick and suckle at the sensitive skin between your neck and shoulder.

Dunk angles his face forward, and you squirm when his nose presses between your folds, followed closely by the warm press of his lips. He splits you and breathes in, his own exhale hinged around a whine that vibrates through you. You grip his shoulders tightly.

Daeron chuckles, leaning his chin on your shoulder and looking down at the big man hunched before you. “You ever eaten pussy, ser?”

The crudeness of it has heat flaring through you, and you have half the mind to close your thighs around Dunk’s face. Dunk ignores the prince as his tongue unfurls and slides between your silken folds, sliding up and down. You cry out his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth before letting it go with a slick pop, only to follow the movement with a few chaste kisses, then he’s dragging his tongue back down again. He repeats this several times until you’re trembling, and he finally, finally, curls his tongue around your hole.

You suck in a breath, and Daeron chuckles again. “Clearly you have.”

Dunk pulls back, lips ghosting over you, just enough to mutter out, “I‘ve never,” before delving straight back in.

Your head falls back even further as your moans fill the room. Most of them writhe around the syllables of Dunk’s name. A stuttered whine of “you’re doing so good” has his cock tugging painfully at the seam of his breeches, pre-cum wetting the fabric.

Meanwhile, Daeron is back to licking and biting across your shoulder. He’s switched sides now, and the hand which had been fondling the fat of your arse shifts. It curls, like a serpent, around your hip then over your lower belly. It passes across your mound, then dips lower until a finger presses to the puffy bead of your clit.

Your eyes fly open. “Daeron.”

“S’alright…” He whispers, kissing the pulse beneath your ear as he wriggles his finger between your pussy and Dunk’s face. He hears Dunk grunt, but ignores him. Instead, the prince slowly starts rubbing firm circles against your clit. “This feel good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, Daeron’s finger on your clit and Dunk’s tongue sliding into your cunt. Heat fills your stomach, sweat building along your spine, your hips twitching.

Dunk’s hands on your thighs find your hips as his mouth moves against your pussy. He holds you upright, stopping you from toppling off the bed. You anchor yourself on his strong shoulders too, and you find yourself closing your eyes as your body begins to thrum with pleasure. That familiar feeling begins to build inside you: tight in your abdomen, surging down your spine and weaving between vertebrae. Building, building, heat blooming in your belly, a teeth-splitting tightness that stretches across the front of your womb.

Daeron’s long hair tickles your shoulder and the side of your face. You feel his heart hammering between your shoulder blades, and you suddenly realise he’s half-naked. You don’t recall him ever taking his shirt off.

He grinds his cock against you, panting against your neck as his finger works circles across your clit. “You feeling good, sweet girl? Is Dunk making you feel good?”

“Uh-huh,” you breathe, stiffening in his arms. Dunk’s tongue shoves deep inside you, the thick muscle splitting you open. His mouth is burning hot against you too. And Daeron’s finger is incessant on your clit, your hips bucking to meet the movements. “Oh, gods, fuck, m’gonna—m’gonna—”

“That’s it,” Daeron whispers. “That’s it. Let it happen.”

The tightness in your belly snaps clean in half. Heart stuttering in your chest, you release with a sob of both of their names. It fills the space like a chant as you come, your fingers digging deep into the freckled flesh of Dunk’s shoulders as his tongue laps up the slick that threatens to drool out of you. Daeron strokes you through it too. Your body shakes against his, pleasure white-hot at the ends of your nerves as he gently rocks his cock against your plush arse. Your thighs clamp around Dunk’s head, and a deep moan rips out of his chest. He pulls away from you, kissing your thighs as he retreats. Daeron slips his hand away.

Dunk’s face is slick with you. “Gods, sweetheart…”

Daeron grins down at the knight over your shoulder. “Good?”

Dunk doesn’t respond. He sits higher on his knees and spreads your thighs once more. Two thick fingers swipe through your slick folds, splitting your pussy open. You whine, arching against Daeron as Dunk’s fingers find your hole.

And sink inside.

There’s a small aching stretch, and you hiss around the intrusion. Dunk mutters a sincere apology, kissing your stomach, but his fingers don’t relent. He pushes them in, stretching you open, curling and flicking and sinking deep. You take him to the knuckle, and he coos at you. Daeron kisses you on the cheek, feeling your body tighten.

“Easy, easy…” Daeron says against the warm skin of your cheek. He kisses you there again, his stubble scratching the soft skin.

Dunk sucks in a deep breath. “Gods, you’re so tight.”

He pulls his fingers out, then gently pushes them back in.

“F-fuck,” you curse, fingernails pressing crescents into Dunk’s shoulders. “Dunk, oh my gods—”

Daeron grabs your chin and twists your head around. He slides his mouth against yours then whines into the contact, and you mirror the sound with heat returning to your womb. Dunk watches your mouths connect with his brows knitting together and a solid weight in the base of his tummy. As your mouths move together, he catches glimpses of tongue, pushing and pulling, and his cock jerks in his breeches. He groans low as his eyes find your pussy again, and he focuses on where you take his fingers.

He leans forward then, fingers crooking deep inside you, and presses his mouth back to your clit. He suckles gentle, watching you the entire time, and he relishes in the way your hips buck and you pant into the prince’s mouth. A low whine flees the confines of your mouth, and it makes Dunk’s cock leak against the material of his breeches. But Daeron is quick to chase your noises, his tongue bullying between your lips and licking the sounds from you.

Daeron serves the blistering heat in your belly: his teeth drag along your lip, his tongue sliding along the points of your teeth; he clutches your jaw in a warm hand, and his chest is just as warm pressed against your bare back. His cock strains heavily in his breeches, and he’s positive that if he doesn’t free himself in the next few minutes, the fabric will rip open.

“Ser Duncan,” Daeron addresses the hedge knight when he pulls back from the kiss.

Dunk looks up, two thick fingers continuous in their movements. You feel the sword callouses at the base of his inner knuckle and the rub makes you keen.

“Might we bring this to bed?” Daeron asks, rubbing his hand down your side in soothing strokes. “I think our lady is ready for us, don’t you think?”

Dunk grunts, begrudgingly sliding his face out of your pussy. He slowly pulls his fingers from you too, then gives your clit one last pet as he slides them across your folds. You whine at the loss of contact, pussy fluttering around nothing as the hedge knight gets to his feet, the floorboards beneath him groaning. 

Behind you, Daeron squeezes the fat of your hips before the warmth of his body retreats. He shuffles up to the head of the bed, resting himself amongst the fraying pillows. You let him sit for a moment, focusing on your knight. Your valiant, noble knight.

Your hands find the thick mass of his shoulders as he hulks over the edge of the bed, and you whine as you tug him down. He obeys without a second thought, allowing you to slam his mouth onto yours. You moan, tasting yourself on his tongue, his lower face sticky with your remnants. Dunk’s hands find your back and he pins you to him, groaning low in his throat as he kisses you. Gently, he rubs his clothed cock against your pelvis, and the weight and shape has you stilling, body on fire.

“Dunk,” you whisper against his mouth, one of your hands finding his hair and taking a fistful. “I love you.”

Dunk shudders as you scratch his scalp. His heart leaps out of his chest at your words, and he can’t help the string of whimpers that escape him knowing that you love him. You love him.

“I love you,” he says, then kisses you. It’s sloppier and meaner in a way he didn’t intend. He tries to pass on all of his feelings, but they’ve been bottled up for so long that your teeth clink together and your tongues mash without rhythm. It still makes you moan though, and he pulls out of the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “I love you.”

That makes you giddy.

Behind you, Daeron moans. It’s hinged half on pleasure and half on impatience.

“I could watch the two of you kiss all evening,” the prince drawls, palming himself through his breeches. When did he take his trousers off? “But I really, really don’t want to wait any longer. I have been told patience is not my strongest attribute—”

You tune him out, turning your body, then looking back over your shoulder at Dunk.

His ice-blue eyes are on you, but they’re dark with desire. His hands fidget with the ties of his breeches, as if warring with himself. But he can’t hide the large imprint of his hard cock in his breeches, and he can’t hide the fact he’d kicked his trousers off some time ago. His eyes roll down your naked back and a small sigh leaves him. He looks over at Daeron next, who is unlacing the ties of his own breeches as he watches the scene in front of him unfold.

You face Daeron. He looks especially regal against the pillows: his golden locks spread around his head like a halo, or maybe a crown, his bare chest bathed orange by the candlelight. But his eyes are almost animal with the way his pupils dilate and the irises all but vanish.

“How do you want me, my prince?” You ask him as he shucks his breeches off. 

His hard cock falls free, slapping back against his stomach when he fists himself, fingers wrapping around the base. The head is ruddy and flushed red with blood, and your eyes trail along a prominent vein on the underside.

Daeron moans in response, eyes flitting between you and the towering mass of man behind you. The surface of his chest flushes with his arousal as his heart rate increases. He sits up further against the pillows, then pats his thigh.

“You’re going to be good and come and take your prince’s cock,” he says, then looks at Dunk. “And you’re going to open your mouth nice and wide for Ser Duncan, okay?”

You bite your lip as you smile and crawl across the bed to him, your tits swaying as you do. Daeron groans at the sight, twisting his hand around his cock, base to tip a few times, before you close in. He dips his head to kiss you, his free hand seizing the base of your jaw as his tongue bullies past your lips. When you break the kiss, the room around you glows with candlelight. Orange, amber. Shadows distort around you in an almost dream-like state.

Then, Daeron spins you. He manoeuvres you until your back is to him, and you kneel between his spread legs. You lock eyes with Dunk now, who slowly clambers onto the bed. The mattress protests beneath his weight, but he slides over the sheets until he’s kneeling in front of you. Daeron hums, obviously pleased, and leans forward.

He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of your shoulder in a playful bite as he drags the head of his cock down the split of your arse. You yelp at the contact, but something clenches in your belly.

“Daeron,” Dunk warns, his voice an even timbre in the relative silence of the room.

Daeron groans his response, then laves his tongue across the little indents he had bitten into your shoulder. His other hand clasps his cock tightly before he leans back and gathers saliva in the front of his mouth. With a gentle hand to the middle of your back, he carefully bends you forward until you fall into Dunk.

Dunk’s next movements are automatic: he holds you tenderly, large hands massaging your sides. He does this while Daeron leans back and spits down the crack of your arse, the sensation sudden and surprising and forcing a moan from the depths of your chest. Daeron smiles to himself as you whine, nuzzling your face between Dunk’s pecs as he presses the head of his cock against your cunt.

Your hole is slick and glistening, wet with your arousal and the remnants of Dunk’s spit. It makes his cock twitch, and he circles the fluttering hole a few times before he gives it a few solid slaps with his tip.

“Such a pretty girl,” Daeron whispers, running the head of his cock through your folds as you squirm in Dunk’s hold. He rubs your back, then takes hold of your hip. “Now be a good girl and help Ser Duncan out of his trousers.”

You do as you’re told.

With Dunk supporting you, blush sticky on his cheeks, you untie the knots at the top of his breeches. When you loosen the strings, you help the large man shuck them down past his hips until his cock can fall out. You whine, hard cock flopping against his thick thigh, slit wet with pre-cum and a lurid red that makes desire coil tightly in your gut. Sure, you’ve seen Dunk’s cock before, but it’s a whole lot different when you’re about to suck it.

You lean in and wrap a hand around the base.

Dunk’s breath hitches, his entire body shuddering. “Oh, gods, sweetheart.”

The tip of Daeron’s cock pushes in, and you mewl loudly. It pulls you apart in the best way and you find yourself becoming dizzy with need as Dunk’s warm cock rests against your cheek. It pumps hot with blood, and you angle your head to press a line of lazy kisses up the shaft, over the dip of his frenulum, and onto the head. He hisses at the exact time Daeron groans, the head of the prince’s cock swallowed by the wet clutch of your cunt.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the prince rambles, pausing momentarily. This reprieve gives you the chance to dribble across the head of Dunk’s big cock and chase it. You tongue the weeping slit, and the shaky moan that leaves the hedge knight’s mouth has your pussy clamping vice-like around Daeron. The prince breathes out, gripping your hip before slowly feeding more of his cock into you. “That’s it, that’s it, here we go…”

Dunk sucks in a breath, a large hand finding the back of your neck as your lips suck around the tip. “Easy, easy, sweet girl, be gentle…”

You hum, looking up at your hedge knight with glassy eyes. He returns the watery gaze and groans again, and you take the opportunity to hollow your cheeks and drag your mouth down his cock. Dunk’s chest shudders as he holds you, the muscles of his soft abdomen contracting. Behind you, Daeron holds your hips as he slowly pushes in. Deeper than before.

Dunk down your throat, you choke on a moan. Daeron’s smiling to himself as he splits you apart, cock spreading your pussy open with each pull outward. On the outstroke, Daeron keeps just the head of his cock inside you, waiting for just a second too long before pulling you back on to him. He does this a few times, and it has your body burning hot beneath your skin, that knot in your lower belly reappearing.

The bed creaks softly, the poorly-made frame scratching against the wooden floor. Daeron grunts and groans behind you, one of his hands reaching forward to run up and down your spine, feeling the dip and the sweat-slick skin there. His other hand pulls you back against his cock, which punches up towards your cervix as you arch, taking him deeper.

You slide your tongue along the vein on the underside of Dunk’s shaft, and you look up when he moans your name. You exchange another look, each mirroring each other’s desperation—feelings long withheld as you suckle around the head before forcing yourself back down. You taste the musk of his precum dribbling along the flat of your tongue. His cock twitches too, as if he’s been on the edge of release since the moment you put your mouth on him.

Daeron shoves into you, his rhythm firm but unhurried. So princely, resting up against the pillows, legs spread, one hand on your hip as he helps you fuck yourself onto him. The fat of your arse moves with you, and the hand once on your spine finds one of your arsecheeks. He grabs the flesh, kneads it between pale fingers, before pulling the hand back and bringing it down with a loud smack.

That earns a reaction from both you and Dunk.

You pull off the bigger man’s cock with a slick pop, a moan falling from your lips straight away as your spine dips. Dunk’s cock slaps against your cheek as your eyes close, and he hisses at the sudden lack of contact, the hand on the back of your neck tightening. His eyes shoot up, finding Daeron already looking at him.

There’s a fox-like smile on his blushed face, and Dunk watches with furrowed brows as the prince lands another audible smack to the flesh of your arse, still rolling you back onto his cock.

Dunk growls. “Do not put your hand—”

“She likes it, Ser Duncan,” Daeron utters, his hand rubbing soothing circles across you.

You respond with a small mewl as you desperately shift back to meet Daeron’s thrusts. Dunk’s frown deepens, but he can’t help the way his cock jerks and dribbles against your cheekbone. As he looks over at Daeron, Dunk’s hips jerk involuntarily, his cock sliding wet against your warm cheek. The friction makes him whimper, lips parting, balls drawing tight.

Daeron smiles, watching Dunk rut his cock against your face. He looks down at you next, seeing the pleasure distorted across your features as his cock pulls you closer and closer towards your release. His own pleasure is hot in the pit of his stomach, and he feels it tugging at the base of his spine as his breathing picks up.

“Want to spill inside you,” Daeron whispers suddenly, head falling back, hair brushing his shoulders as he continues to bring you against him, again and again. His words make you moan, eyes fluttering open as you attempt to press kisses to Dunk’s cock—but the giant holds your head still, continuing to ruck his cock across your cheek, making a mess of your face. Daeron hisses, righting his head once more. “Cunt’s so fuckin’ tight—it’d be a waste not to fill it. A waste—a waste of dragon seed to spill—fuck—spill anywhere else.”

You pant. “Daeron, my prince—”

Daeron ignores you. “Come on her face, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk groans. “I—”

“Do what I tell you,” Daeron grits out before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s got his hands on your hips now, squeezing the flesh as he drives you onto his cock.

You moan, your entire body shaking. Your arms have long given up on you as you rest against your forearms, mostly atop Dunk as he rubs his cock against you. It’s warm and wet on your face, and the whiny little pants falling from his lips have pleasure tightening in your belly. Daeron seems to nudge against that knot, over and over again. He’s so deep, the angle sucking him right in, that you can’t help the tears that bead at the corners of your eyes as you whine his name, his title, into the thick warmth of the room.

Dunk comes first. His fingers on your neck squeeze you like the grip of a sword, and the sudden pressure traps your moan in your throat. He calls your name as his cock jerks. Thick ropes of cum splatter over your cheek, dashing high over your forehead as well as he groans and rocks, mattress protesting beneath him. You close your eyes, whining around a whisper of his name, as his seed paints the warmth of your face, and you feel it dribbling when your own orgasm hits you.

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you’ve come this hard. Daeron’s cock deep inside you, the pressure snaps hard in your belly and shoots pleasure right down your legs. You tremble as it overtakes you, back dipping even further as you fall into Dunk’s hold. You knees ache where they bend in the sheets, and a fizzing heat sprints down the cable of your spine while Daeron fucks you through it.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Daeron rambles, movements slowing. He’s barely thrusting anymore, just grinding himself against you. 

He groans, and you think it’s supposed to be your name, but it’s lost in his own pleasure. You whisper his name as Dunk pets you, simmering down from his own release, and Daeron groans once more before he’s coming. Just as he said, he spills inside you, shoving himself so deep you swear you can feel him spilling into your belly. It’s hot and thick and almost uncomfortable as you bend and take it, his hips stalling completely and his cock pumping with the beating of his heart.

The prince pulls out after a minute.

As soon as he parts from you, Dunk’s hands are shifting, and he’s pulling you away from Daeron and between his legs as he sits on the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight him off, and you allow him to cradle you to his chest. He kisses the top of your head, but you feel his half-hard cock against your tummy as one of his big hands slides down your back. He palms your arse as he holds you.

“Sweet girl?”

“Hm?”

Dunk places a kiss to the top of your head. “You think you can take my cock?”

The earnestness in his question makes you giggle, and he huffs against you. His hand squeezes the fat of your arse hard, and you yelp, before the world shifts around you once more. You spin until you’re facing a grinning Daeron, who strokes his cock lazily as it hardens in his palm. Dunk grunts as he pushes you back down, and you giggle again as you accept your fate and keel over. Your head finds Daeron’s lap.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he greets you, then bends.

He licks a fat stripe over your cheek, licking Dunk’s seed from your warm skin. You want to squeal, to wiggle away from him, but Dunk is holding your waist as he forcibly pins you into an arch, marvelling at Daeron’s seed dribbling from the clutch of your cunt. Daeron groans low in his throat as he licks, then pushes his tongue into your mouth. One hand finds your jaw and holds you while you kiss. It’s more tongue than anything else, and you taste Dunk. That makes you whimper.

Suddenly, you feel the thick head of Dunk’s cock drag up and down your slit. You pull out of Daeron’s kiss to gasp Dunk’s name, sparing a look over your shoulder. Dunk’s in a trance: his eyes drawn to where your pussy flutters, gaping as Daeron drools from you, down the curve of your inner thigh. His cock is fully hard now, bruising red at the tip as he smears Daeron’s seed through your folds.

The hand on your jaw draws your attention from the hedge knight. Daeron guides the tip of his cock to your mouth.

“Tongue,” he whispers. An order.

You oblige, poking your tongue out just as Dunk notches himself inside you. It’s a tight burn, a pulling intrusion in the base of your womb as your walls part for him. Your tongue slips back into your mouth, pressing to your bottom teeth as you groan. Your entire body shakes, and Daeron huffs above you.

He slaps his cock against your slightly parted lips. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, stick your tongue—oh, yeah, that’s it… good girl.”

You stick your tongue out for him mid-sentence, and he beams. Smile wicked on his face, he slaps the head of his cock against your tongue. It lands heavy and with a loud plap, the sound drawing Dunk’s eyes away from where he’s slowly feeding his cock into you.

Daeron’s head shoots up. Both men freeze.

Dunk’s cheeks are flushed a brilliant red as he and Daeron look at one another. Then, Daeron slowly slides his cockhead along the bumps of your tongue, and he moans ridiculously loud as he slips into the heat of your mouth. At the exact same time, Dunk pushes forward: spearing you on his cock, holding your hips tightly as your pussy opens up around him, walls silken smooth and tight. Both men enter you at the exact same time, eye-contact loud in the silence of the room.

You mewl like a kitten, lips wrapping as your nose is brought flush with the neat thatch of blond hair at the base of the prince’s cock. At the same time, you feel Dunk’s hips come to rest against your arse. They both still again, and you almost pass out.

Dunk breaks the silence first. He groans, and it’s broken around the vowels. “Oh, gods.”

“Can’t believe we waited this long,” Daeron utters, petting your head. He’s still talking to Dunk. “She’s fucking tight, isn’t she?”

Dunk’s brows pinch as he fights to stay still. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you. It makes you whimper, the vibrations thick around Daeron’s cock.

“Y–Yeah,” Dunk stutters.

“Bet she’s wet too, huh?” Daeron cocks his head.

“Yeah,” Dunk whispers, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I can…”

He stops himself with a bashful shake of his head. He’s trembling.

Daeron smiles. “You can what?”

Dunk groans. “I can feel… I can feel her drooling around me.”

You close your eyes, jaw aching as you hold your teeth away from Daeron’s cock. Dunk’s words flush a heat through your veins that makes you dizzy, and you swear you can see tiny little fires igniting, flashing in the black of your closed eyelids.

Dunk decides to move then: he pulls his cock out of you until he’s completely out. He watches, whispering your name like he can’t quite believe it, as your slick dribbles out of you, milky-white with the remnants of Daeron.

The prince watches the knight carefully. He slowly guides your head backwards, then forwards. With surprisingly gentle movements, he moves you up and down. You open your eyes then, gazing up at him as he watches Dunk.

“I want to come before you do,” Daeron says, then suddenly snaps his hips. He shoves himself down your throat, and you choke on it—gagging loudly enough for Dunk, half way inside you again, to freeze. The prince grins. “So be a good lad and hold off, will you?”

Dunk’s top lip curls. “Do that again and you’re out.”

“I don’t know what you mean…” Daeron knows exactly what the knight means.

Dunk pushes in and out, giving a little thrust that drags the prominent vein nicely along your posterior wall. You mewl around Daeron’s cock.

Dunk nods at the prince. “You know what I mean. Do it again and you’re out.”

“Oh, you’d kick a prince out? Into the cold, dark night? That’s not very knightly of you, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chides, then repeats his actions. The flushed tip of his hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears wet along your lower lashes.

“Daeron,” he hisses. “I’ll tie you to that bed and make you watch.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.”

Dunk pushes in. You whine, suffocating. Daeron feeds his cock right to the back of your throat again, and Dunk feels your cunt clamp tight around him, your entire body descending into shivers as you struggle for air.

That’s it.

With a growl, Dunk hauls you off of the prince and yanks you directly into his lap. You gasp, choking on your own spit, as your back lands hard against Dunk’s warm chest.

Daeron pouts. “That’s not fair.”

Dunk snaps his hips, the angle driving him right against that perfect spot inside you. It knocks a mangled cry from your throat, the noise reverberating off the walls as Daeron watches from his throne of pillows, a heavy dip in his brow. Dunk starts a rhythm, and you can’t do anything but take it. He pulls you down onto his big cock over and over, manhandling you, squeezing the fat of your hips, your thighs, your waist—he’s everywhere and it’s intoxicating.

Daeron sits against the head of the bed with his cock leaking in his hand and a frown etched onto his face. But you know it’s superficial. You can see the glimmer in his eyes as he observes where Dunk’s cock bullies into you. There’s a thick white ring around the base of Dunk’s cock, and the mixture of your slick and the prince’s release dribbles out of you like honey.

There’s a storm brewing in your belly. It’s fiercer than before.

Dunk’s big arms wrap around you. The skin there is mottled with a mosaic of scars and bruises that seem to glow in the orange candlelight. Daeron traces them momentarily before he finds your tits, bouncing as Dunk fucks you, then your face.

“This isn’t fair…” Daeron whispers, but he doesn’t really mean it. He strokes his cock, his movements paced perfectly with Dunk’s thrusts. The prince gazes at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “Look at me, pretty girl. Please.”

Your eyes, previously unfocussed and fluttering as you battle towards your release, find his. His pupils are so wide and the blush on his cheeks has spread to his ears.

“Dunk’s so big, isn’t he?” Daeron whispers.

Dunk groans and you nod desperately. The giant buries his face against your shoulder, sucking and biting, tasting the salt of your skin.

“Yes,” you reply. You feel him so deep, you’re taking him so deep. “Yeah, he is.”

“Where do you feel him?” Daeron asks, and Dunk groans again, almost embarrassed.

You reach a shaky hand down and press a palm flat to the curve of your belly. Daeron follows the movements. He hums around a whine as you press down a little.

“There?” Daeron chokes out as he twists his wrist. “You’re feeling Dunk in your tummy?”

You curse. “Fuck, yeah—yes.”

“You like him there? You want him to fill you?”

Dunk’s entire mass shudders, his hands vice-like on your hips.

You moan, fighting to keep eye-contact with the prince. But it’s proving difficult, pleasure sticking to every fibre of your being. “Daeron.”

“Answer your prince, sweet girl,” he orders softly. “D’you want him to spill inside you? You want him to fill you like I did? You want his cum, don’t you?”

You feel like you’re on fire. Daeron’s words scorch hotter than the flames mounted to the walls of Dragonstone, and you find yourself sparking the embers of your release. Smoke billows, flames rise, your body sets alight.

“Yes.” You feel like you’re begging him, when it’s Dunk fucking you. “Please.”

Dunk groans, nuzzling the skin below your ear. “I’ll give it to you, I promise.”

Across the bed, Daeron smiles. “That’s it…”

You release with a moan, and you’re thankful the strong knight has such a fierce grip on you.

The flames inside overwhelm you and you tumble into your pleasure, body shaking, skin slick with sweat. Your pussy grips tight around the thick of Dunk’s cock, and the sensation knocks the air from your lungs. You pulse around him, hips jerking as he drives into you. He mouths at the skin of your neck, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as you shudder, your eyes falling closed as the energy is sapped from your body.

Dunk and Daeron both spill at the same time. You don’t know it, lying with your eyes closed in Dunk’s muscular arms, but they know it.

Daeron spills across his knuckles with your name on his lips, little whimpers following as he ruts into his fist and chases the tail of it. Splatters streak across his abdomen too, his abs contracting with each small jerk of his fingers. Strands of hair cling to his dewy forehead, and he pants like a dog when his pleasure finally crests and settles.

Dunk comes with a guttural groan. It’s more animal than man, and it vibrates through you, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones. His cock fits deep against the plug of your womb. He’s mumbling something as his hips stutter—take it, take it, sweet girl, jus’ be good and take it—and he completely empties himself inside you.

Before he stills completely, he whispers a whiny “I love you,” straight into your ear.

His hands stroke your sides as you emerge from your bliss. He mouths along your neck, then kisses your cheek, holding you firmly against him as you all settle and the room seems to settle with you. Daeron reclines against the pillows, softening cock slick and resting against one of his strong thighs.

After a moment, he sinks until he’s laying flat on the bed. You open your eyes fully now, blinking away the exhaustion, as you catch the glimmer in the prince’s eyes. He crooks a finger in your direction.

Dunk holds you and answers. “No.”

Daeron scoffs. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“No.”

“S’alright, Dunk…” You turn your head to press a tender kiss to his lips, and he whimpers when you slowly extract yourself from him. 

You offer him a similar sound as your pussy gapes, leaking, as you shuffle back up the bed. Dunk gingerly lifts himself off the bed, heading to collect his clothes from the floor, as you clamber over to Daeron, who guides you in straddling his face.

You grip the headboard with a weakened arm. “Daeron, I can’t—”

“It’s okay, sweet girl, m’not gonna be mean,” Daeron coos, taking a gentle hold of your hips and pulling you down. His breath ghosts against your wet core. “Just want a taste, okay? I’ll be so gentle, I promise.”

He watches him and Dunk ooze from you for a second too long—a second too long, because his cock gives a feeble jerk against his thigh—before he brings you down atop his mouth. His tongue licks through your folds once, and when you tell him off through a flurry of high-pitched whines, he drags his tongue down to your hole. He laps up what he can, tasting the dull salinity and the musk and the fresh water. It makes his eyes roll, and he can’t help himself, stuffing his tongue inside you.

Sensitive, you try to sit up. “Daeron.”

Daeron grumbles something against you, his hands tight on your hips. He licks he and Dunk’s spend from your cunt, his nose pressing against the swollen pearl of your clit. He rocks his face into you, and you whine again, bordering on a squeal.

Thankfully, two warm hands find your armpits and hoist you up as if you weigh nothing. Daeron’s eyes snap open, and he watches as if he’s had something stolen from him as Dunk pulls you off the bed. You settle on your feet, panting as the hedge knight plants a kiss to the top of your head before urging your chemise back over the curves of your body.

Daeron complains with a petulant huff. “I could accuse you of treason for that.”

Dunk rolls his eyes, hugging you as you adjust the way your chemise sits on your body, skin sticky with sweat.

“You’re too spoiled for your own good,” Dunk mutters. “Too used to getting what you want.”

Daeron rolls his eyes. “So what?” I want her, so I should—”

“Shut up.” Dunk feels the need to throw something at the prince as you cling to his strong body. He holds you like he never wants to let you go again.

DAY SEVENTEEN

Prince Maekar greets the three of you as you dismount your horses before the grand doors of Summerhall. Daeron stumbles slightly as he hits the loose stone, and you giggle as he reaches a hand out to you to steady himself.

Dunk bows his head before Maekar, and Daeron continues to cling to you as you both approach the white-haired prince.

Maekar offers Ser Duncan a polite smile, then casts a look towards his son. Something flickers across his face, Daeron watching you closely.

Maekar clears his throat. “Thank you for returning my boy to me, Ser Duncan. Once again, I am thankful for your loyal service.”

Dunk straightens. “It was an honour, your grace.”

“I trust he behaved himself?” Maekar asks, looking around the hedge knight to where Daeron smiles at you as you speak to him in a hushed whisper.

Dunk spares a look over his shoulder. He turns back to Maekar.

“Mostly,” Dunk answers. “M’lady kept him in line.”

You try not to roll your eyes, the memories of how you were awoken that very morning—with Daeron’s head between your legs and one of Dunk’s rough fingers on your clit—heavy in your memory as the prince looks up as Dunk turns again. 

They exchange a knowing smile.

———

genuinely the longest one shot i’ve ever written lmao sorry for any mistakes

tags 🌿

Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. There’s a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front door—sturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly aren’t. Thick glass, maybe to isolate sounds—as if it’s needed.

This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.

At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.

Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.

However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that you’ll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.

It’s autumn, so there’s the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, there’s a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.

It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.

If you hadn’t been worried down to the bone marrow, you’d have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.

Alas, you’re not here for sightseeing.

You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees aren’t faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.

With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet. 

There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemist’s. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.

You’re tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldn’t take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.

Because you hadn’t heard from him in days.

Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the evenings—that he was alive.

He used to tell you.

They don’t get it—Johnny, Kyle, Price. They don’t know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.

Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork. 

You’d send him pictures of your pale tea—too much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations you’d hang on the ceiling. He’d send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats he’d find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.

SR: Don’t know why.

LT: they think you’re snow white

LT: because you’re pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes

SR: Wouldn’t say sweet.

LT: in fact i said sweetest :)

SR: Flattery won’t work on your lieutenant.

LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you can’t pull rank on me

SR: I’m your L.T. 

SR: You’re my second lieutenant. Under my command.

LT: technicalities

SR: You’re L.T. too

SR: L.Too

SR: L2

L2: oi

SR: Haha

L2: rude

SR: Alright, L2.

They don’t get it.

SR: Sleeping?

L2: are you keeping tabs on me?

SR: You’d be surprised.

L2: won’t ask

SR: Shouldn’t.

L2: Fancy a chat?

And your phone would ring.

“L2,” he’d greet.

“Not funny anymore.” But it was.

“Reckon it’s bloody hilarious.”

“Been too long. It’s losing its charm.”

“Charm?” He’d breathe a laugh. Almost. “Right, then—El.”

Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondays—

His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.

“Good job, L2.”

“Fuck off with that,” you’d laugh. “Spooky fucker.”

“That’s my El.”

They don’t get it.

Or maybe they do. 

Price wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.

Maybe they saw it—your eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant. 

LT and L2. Ghost and El.

On the seventh day of no contact, you couldn’t take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you were—you’d have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simon’s medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.

Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door. 

On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks. 

Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. It’s not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes he’d open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.

The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.

Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. There’s no doorbell that you can see.

You knock.

“Lieutenant.”

Nothing.

The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.

“L.T.,” you say, trying to sound chirpy. “Special delivery!”

Silence.

You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.

Knock.

“Lieutenant!” Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. “It’s me! It’s lieutenant—”

You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.

“It’s L2!” You yell instead. “It’s El!”

Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short. 

Knock knock.

“Please open the door?” You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. “I’m so fucking—so fucking tired and worried.”

Knock knock knock.

“Where the fuck do you live anyway, uh?” You sniffle. Your nose stings. “Was right, wasn’t I? You are fucking Snow White.”

Nothing.

Loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesn’t manage.

“Lieu—” You gulp. “Simon? Please.”

On the far right, there’s a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing. 

So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, it’s wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.

“Alright,” you slam your palm on the wood. 

“I’m gonna sleep right—” Thud. “Fucking—” Thud. “Here, then.”

There’s no sound.

You look at the groceries.

“I brought you food!” You go on, “And if you don’t open the door I’m gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuits—I’m gonna gobble them up in one sitting.”

The milk will go bad if you don’t put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt. 

“The bourbon too,” you yell. “Gonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in this—in this fucking fairy grove you live in.”

The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and you’ll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.

“And I’m gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?” Your voice cracks. “And I’m gonna get sick and—and it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t open the bloody door.”

You wonder whether you’d smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.

The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.

Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.

“Simon!” You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. It’s not raining. “You fucking cunt open the fucking door!”

Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You don’t even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. You’d gladly sleep in your car—fuck, you’d sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.

All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.

“Please open the fucking door, please open the fucking door—"

Are you strong enough to break it down? You’re special forces, but you’re not a battering ram. You don’t have the tools that would help—you didn’t think you were gonna need them. 

Stupid.

Are you brave enough to open the door? To find what’s inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?

The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.

“This fucking idiot—” You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. “I swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I will—”

“Which bourbon?”

Your head snaps.

His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but there’s a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.

A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal. 

Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. He’s paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and he’s so much fucking thinner.

But he’s alive.

His chest rises. His blood runs.

You blink.

A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like it’s the first time you’ve ever done it.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “Don’t drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he just—just tossed it in there.”

“Mh.”

His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags. 

“You better like it.” You sniffle and nod at the bags. “Fifty-five quid just for that thing.”

He snorts. Sighs. “Good enough then.”

You exchange looks.

Then, he nods his head inside.

“Help me out?” He drawls.

Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if they’ve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you haven’t eaten in days. The world turns upside down—relief so visceral and thick you feel like it’s drowning you.

You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you don’t, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.

You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.

Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.

You hadn’t seen the aftermath yet.

He’s missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isn’t rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart. 

They shake—fiercely, like he’s experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.

You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of pain—like he’s putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.

Control he lost.

When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.

Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.

“The bags are heavy,” you croak.

“Carried worse,” he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.

His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor. 

The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.

Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.

You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.

Carried worse, he said.

Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.

Six Months Earlier

Intel’s rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.

Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.

Because in front of you, right now, there’s a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.

A squared box, half as tall as you. It’s raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.

It’s not much different from the ones you’ve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. There’s no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you don’t think this one is timed at all. If you’re fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.

Thank fuck you’re wearing sturdy PPE, then.

With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. There’s a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suit—a big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe. 

“Captain,” you call through comms. “You sure it’s off, yeah?”

The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before John’s usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.

“Local bomb squad’s had a look already,” he says. “Said it’s old.”

Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesn’t seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.

“Doesn’t look like they did anything, though,” you offer.

John grunts. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Right.”

His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. “Just passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stick—Simon’s convincing like that—though it is the first time John actually uses it.

You let it slide.

“And why’s that?”

“Signed by Konni.”

You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.

“Always nice to see an old friend, isn’t it?”

“Keep us updated, yeah?”

“On it.”

You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.

“Alrigh’?”

Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, you’d wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting. 

It’s fucking hot in this thing.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You give him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. “Especially not naked like that.”

“Naked, uh?” He snorts. “Better get a good look, then.”

You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. “Captain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.”

Price’s voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.

“Ghost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fancy scraping you off the walls.”

Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. “Rat.”

You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.

“I asked the second lieutenant a question an’ she ain’t answered yet,” he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. “Permission to kick her off the team?”

“You won’t hear a single fuckin’ word she says if you’re ground meat, Simon,” Price’s voice rasps. “Wear the bloody PPE and then we’ll talk.”

Static replaces John’s orders as communication cuts off on his part.

Only then does Simon pitch in.

“I asked you a question.”

You sigh, but it’s neither weary nor exasperated. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. “Why aren’t you wearing the gear?”

“I’m in good hands.”

“Thanks, I’m immensely flattered,” you quip. “Please go wear it now.”

“Thought it was too old to still be active.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. It’s like spotting an oasis in the desert.

You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.

It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.

There’s no need for you to look his way—his presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own. 

“I won’t support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineer—” you point at yourself with the screwdriver, “—and go wear the bloody bomb suit.”

Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.

“Worried ‘bout me, are ya?”

You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. “Plenty.”

“Good heart.”

“Chop chop, Riley.”

“Aye aye, El.”

With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.

You don’t turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. There’s an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. They’re held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.

“Weird,” you mumble to yourself.

“What is?” John pitches in.

You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.

“Uhm, uh—” You shake your head to recollect yourself. “The bomb—it looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.”

John hums. “Could be one of Konni’s earliest works. Disposal said it’s old, innit?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “I don’t trust a single word those fuckers said.”

“Right,” he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. “Do what you can with it. Keep me updated.”

“Roger that, captain.”

Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables. 

You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldn’t.

However, you can’t quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.

This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isn’t isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.

This is amateurish.

And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isn’t. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldn’t DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.

Unless—

“El? You with us?”

Simon’s voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if he’s speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.

Relief floods through you.

You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.

Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.

Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.

“Yeah,” you huff. “They should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”

Price’s voice crackles once more. “We’ll hire a fashion designer.”

Simon snorts.

“Look at you, captain,” you croon. “Providing jobs for the youth.”

You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Do yours or you’ll lose it.”

But you know it’s an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.

“Aye aye.”

And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. There’s the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off. 

And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.

It’s entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones you’ve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.

You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.

“It’s dead.”

John huffs through comms. “Thank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.”

But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.

Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet it’s hard to have a good view of his face.

He’s taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes aren’t poised on the bomb, though; they’re on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesn’t reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.

“Hang on, Price,” he rumbles.

You stall for a moment.

It’s only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. You’re special forces, an engineer—sixth sense isn’t enough to support evidence.

But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer. 

“El?” He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.

Your stomach lurches.

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely at the device. “It looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than me—"

John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too. 

“Get to the point.”

You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesn’t take an engineer like you to recognise that it’s long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.

You smack your lips. “Something’s wrong. It feels—”

“Don’t care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?” 

“Listen, John, I’m not here to fucking play—"

“Need to have another look at it, boss,” Simon cuts in. “Give us a minute, will ya?” 

“Roger.”

You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts. 

“I hate him with passion each time he acts like—”

“He can still hear ya.”

“Good.”

If John can actually still hear you, he doesn’t voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.

You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. It’s composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. You’d need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if it’s live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that you’ve opened with unexpected ease. 

Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isn’t. 

A hunch isn’t enough to negate evidence, that is true, but it’s there, and you won’t allow it to gnaw at your guts.

Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.

“Pass me the snake cam.”

You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance. 

Your ears pick up on sounds even if you’re entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.

“Get it in,” he says. “I’ll hook it up.”

In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.

Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board. 

“Got anything?” You ask Simon.

“Too dark.”

“Turn on the flash.”

The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board. 

Simon hums.

“Got something.”

You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.

“Fuck. Let’s switch.”

Simon shifts until he’s kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers. 

“Got it.”

Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.

As he said, there’s something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesn’t allow you to make out much more of it.

Only one thing stands out.

A light.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Thought so,” he spits. “Fucking Makarov.”

You don’t have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.

“John.”

Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. “Send over.”

“We got something.”

“Details.”

“In a sec. Stay on.”

You look at Simon. He’s perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as you’d expected. He’d make an incredible demo specialist, though you know he’s an even better sniper.

“Gentle, Simon,” you murmur. “Need you to go south.”

He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.

“Gentle,” you repeat. “Slower.”

And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.

Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. It’s not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red again—beating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness. 

Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.

“C4.”

Simon clicks his tongue. “Christ.”

“John, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,” you order steadily. “Add that they’re a bunch of lazy cunts, too.”

“Will do.” Then, quietly, “good work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.”

“Roger.”

The static on the radio goes dead. There’s only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.

Red, green. Red, green.

Simon’s voice reaches out to you. “See a blasting cap?” 

“Yeah.” You tongue your cheek. “South. Then move to the right.”

He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but you’re starting to have a general idea of what you’re working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.

Red, green. Red, green. 

While you can’t make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

You blink. 

“Stop.”

Simon falls still.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.

“Right. Go to the right. Quick.”

Simon doesn’t put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.

It ticks, ticks, ticks.

“Shit—Simon, drop it!”

And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.

“Drop that shit and run!”

Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadn’t accounted for that. Fuck, you hadn’t accounted for any of this.

You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He would’ve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadn’t insisted, if you’d let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.

“Fuck—” You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.

“It’s timed, John!” You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. “We’re leaving—no time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!”

An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS would’ve thought of venturing further inside the device. 

Makarov knew it. 

He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.

He wanted John’s team there. 

He knew those bastards wouldn’t be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.

Call the big guns and then call it a day.

“Run. Don’t look back and run, both of you.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You’re already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suit—not protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees don’t bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears. 

Simon’s ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But he’s faster, stronger—able to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if it’s only a mere annoyance to him.

Though he must hear you—or rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side. 

He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.

“Fuck—faster, El!”

“I know!” You’d like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.

“Go!” Your voice cracks. “Fucking run, Riley!”

Though he’s been standing still for so long that you’re now by his side. 

You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with you—though that’s one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.

“We got one minute at most—run ahead for fuck’s sake!”

It’s like you can hear it, now—each ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault—

Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simon’s hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.

The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.

Though when you turn, it’s your stomach that touches it.

Simon’s already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket. 

“What—”

The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, he’s impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with ease—chest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.

Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage. 

“Are you fucking mad?!”

But he’s taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel you’re stuck in.

“Simon what the fuck!”

“Come ‘ere an’ shut yer mouth.” 

He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.

You don’t have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs. 

Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand. 

He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.

“Simon—” 

“Keep still.”

And then, he runs.

There’s a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but you’re unsure of what is real and what isn’t. 

He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.

“I’m slowing you down!” You yell, hoping the chaos won’t mask your voice too much. “Put me down! I—I have the bomb suit on, I’m going to be fine!”

Though that’s a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back. 

But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.

A chance he doesn’t have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.

However, Simon doesn’t answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. It’s close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.

A black hole hidden underground. 

You don’t know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.

“Please Simon, please!”

His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight he’s carrying—yours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesn’t deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.

He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain he’s putting on his body.

Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.

Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.

At the same time, the tunnel’s darkness turns blinding white.