spellbound

The trees begin to thin by such small degrees he does not mark it at first. Trunks stand farther and farther apart, the undergrowth giving way under his boots to softer ground. Above, the sun has gone to a pale smear behind steel-coloured cloud, drained of all warmth and shape. He keeps on a little farther by stubbornness alone, one step and then another, until the wood opens sudden and wide before him. His knees fold. His sword slips from his hand. He goes down full-length upon a patch of yielding grass, too spent to break the fall, cheek turned into the damp. Somewhere close by, the world gathers itself into a single sound: the low hum of water. A bank, then. A shore of sorts. His last crossing, he thinks dimly. When he shuts his eyes, the red at last gives way to black.

He had wanted knighthood so long it seemed, once, the whole shape of a life. In younger years, trailing after his old master, watching and learning, he had thought of knights as men made for roads and vows and hard duty borne plain. He had not thought on how they died. Or rather, he had thought it would be as his master died: after long service, after years spent in defence of those weaker, with witnesses near at hand to mark the passing of a good man. Age upon him, and peace of a sort. Duncan had carried that picture without knowing it, as boys carry many foolish certainties. Never had he reckoned with ending this way—alone in a red wood, blood soaking into strange ground, unable even to say whether the last fight had been won or lost.

His fingers have gone cold. So have his feet, his arms, the long hefty span of him. The chill is working inward, creeping from the edges, and the rest of his body feels heavy in some queer and dreadful way, as if the earth has begun to claim him piece by piece. It is a weight alien to him. Duncan has known weariness, hunger, what it is to ache clean through after a day in the saddle or a hard bout in the yard, but this is different. This is heaviness without labour and cause. One that drags a man down and means to keep him.

Suddenly, warmth spills over the back of his neck.

He comes to in a jerk of breath, half-lucid. A face hangs over him, close enough that he sees the beads of water trembling on skin, the startled wideness of her eyes. Her mouth is parted. It is full of teeth, small and shining and far too many, and she watches him with the still intent look of something wondering whether he will go peaceably.

Duncan swallows. Even that hurts.

“Have you come to carry me over?” he asks, and his voice shakes like an old man’s.

She says nothing. Only cocks her head, studying him.

He tries to wet his lips and cannot. “Beg pardon,” he murmurs, for courtesy’s sake if nothing else. “I never thought death would have so fair a face.”

Her gaze shifts at that, though whether in surprise or hunger he cannot tell. Then, the dark takes him again.

A noise comes from within the trees. At first it reaches you through the water as blunt disturbance only—stamping passed down through mud and root, a dull knocking felt more than heard. Then come the sounds above it: groans and wails like some wounded thing, and the shrill scrape of metal grinding on metal. When your head breaks the skin of the pond and your ears clear the water, the truth of it comes plain: no beast; a man. His shape flickers between the trunks, hunched and monstrous in the dim.

You keep low beneath the spread of frogbit and white water-lily. The pond has taught you patience. Through the torn green of it, you watch him blunder nearer.

He is vast. Not merely tall, but made on a scale that puts him wrong against the wood. The trees themselves seem to crowd back from him. Iron drags at every step he takes. What serves him for a second skin has gone red in places where the blood has soaked through and dried and soaked through again. He has no helm. His head hangs bare. Whatever face he was born with is all but lost under blood, mud, and the blackening swell of bruises. He comes on bent at the middle, one hand clamped to his side, the other still wrapped stubborn round a sword that appears to grow heavier with each stagger.

Men do this. They go out under bits of cloth and beasts sewn on shields, under one lord’s temper and another lord’s hunger, and tear one another to ruin over slights, borders, pride, inheritance, the old dead grievances of old dead men. They fight their fickle battles over fickle things and pay the dear price with their fickle lives. You do not know what quarrel has opened this one from rib to hip. You do not know whether he earned such an end entire. Yet if he is witless enough to wear steel and bleed for some lord’s cause, then it is grace enough from any god that he should die in a place as fair as yours.

It makes your work easier. There is no need to sing for him. No need to show him a glimmering shoulder through the reeds, no need to sweeten your mouth and set a trap in your voice. Someone else has done all the hard part already. They have wearied him, broken him open, driven him half-blind right here. All he must do now is come near enough.

And the fool does. You see the moment the trees begin to fail him. The ground changes first. Leaf mould gives way to blacker, softer earth. Moss fattens green around the roots. Sphagnum swells at the water’s edge in thick, wet hummocks, bright as something lit from within. He stumbles into the clearing as if he has reached the last place appointed him and knows it.

One more step. Another. Then his knees give way.

The sword drops from his hand and vanishes into the moss with hardly a sound. He falls face-first onto the bank, onto soft bright spread of grass, all that huge bloodied length of him striking the earth. He does not even throw out a hand to save himself. For a breath he lies still.

Then the pond gathers itself around him and gives him one last sound: its low hum against the shore.

Near enough.

You draw yourself from the water slow as a reptile, hands first, then shoulders, then the long drag of the rest of you through weed and black silk mud. Pondweed clings between your fingers. Duckweed pearls green along your wrists. The smell of his blood hangs so thick in the damp that it touches the back edges of your tongue. Fresh. Salt-rich. Strong. Flesh like that would feed you well. Might make you stronger too.

Without the trees to diminish him, and laid flat upon the bank, he looks no smaller. He is still an enormity. A felled thing, all sprawled in a ruinous heap. Breath yet labours out of him in thin, rattling bursts. So he lives. Barely.

You sink nearer, careful with your hands, with your weight, your mouth already parting over the place where neck meets shoulder, where the flesh would be hottest and the taking quickest, when—

He jerks. You go still at once and wait.

His lids drag open.

Blue. A strange clear hue infants keep before the world has time to weather it into something harder. His have stayed. Though pain has driven the sense from his face and left his gaze loose with it, the colour remains clean. A row of copper lashes rims it. Tells you what the blood and mud had hidden: that the hair under all that filth must run copper too.

He swallows. Winces for it. Looks at you straight on, with no flinching, no scramble to crawl back, no fumbling for the sword gulped by the moss.

He asks his question, and for a beat you only stare. Then it comes plain: he thinks you are the thing at the edge of life come to fetch him. A ferrier. A final guide. Death with a wet face and a patient mouth. The more he speaks, the less appetite you retain.

I never thought death would have so fair a face.

And there it is. It is not the praise that stays your teeth. Men have wanted beautiful things before. Men have called you fair with their hands already reaching. Men have named your mouth sweet and your body finer than any liquor, and meant only hunger by it. This is another thing. Stripped of wits by blood-loss, emptied near to death, believing you his last companion, this knight speaks to you as though you are owed gentleness. He thinks he has met the end of his life and chooses, in that meeting, to be kind.

You have never seen the like.

For a moment longer you remain above him, bent close enough to feel the heat leaking from his body into the chill air, your own hunger held open and waiting. Then his eyes slip shut again. The weight of him settles back into the earth. The bank goes quiet save for that poor, thin rattle in his chest.

Your mouth closes.

In your world, the choices are plain: eat or spare, whether it is your own kind or any other. Each is a way of keeping, in the strictest sense of the word. Who is kept in the belly and who in the groin depends on the keeper’s strength, or mercy. Just now, both are at war within you. You are stronger than the dying knight, for the moment. Yet you can see exactly how much the ugly world of men would lose if he were gone. And how much you might gain if you chose to keep him, the way a maiden keeps a man.

“Stócach amaideach,” you groan. A foolish lad indeed.

Both hands go to him first at the shoulder, to test the matter. Give him a shove—nothing. A second, harder. His body shifts no more than the grass does under him. The iron makes a carcass of him. Nearly seven feet of man, all breadth and bone, dressed up in rings and plates enough to drown an even bigger creature outright. You bare your teeth at him though he does not see it.

There is no hauling him anywhere like this. Not up the bank, not into the reeds, not to the shelf of drier ground beneath the alders. You might drag a stag. You might drag two men grown soft on bread and ale. This one is another matter. The blood has not emptied him of his size.

With a sound low in your throat, you drop flat upon your belly beside him, tail lashing once against the water and sending a fan of duckweed spinning. Mud cools your ribs, slickens the gills there. Annoyance goes hot through you all the same. For a little while you lie there glaring at the side of his ruined head, as though the knight has done this on purpose purely to spite you.

Then your eyes go to the armour. That, at least, can be mended.

You push yourself up and set to work. His belt first, stiff with wet and caked dark. The buckle fights you, so you wrench it free. Then the straps at his shoulders. His surcoat clings where the fabric has dried to him. Under it the mail hangs heavy as river chain. You plant one hand in the moss, coil your tail hard beneath you for leverage, and tug until the weight of it gives with a dull wet drag. Piece by piece, you unmake him from what men have put on him. A pauldron slick with mud. A vambrace. The quilted jack beneath, sodden through. Rings of mail whisper and clink against one another as you peel them back from his chest.

He grunts once when you shift him. Still alive enough to object. “Be still,” you mutter, though he has no say in it now—more of him comes free.

The body under all that iron is much as the rest promised: broad, hard, made thick with labour rather than vanity. His chest is furred copper-gold where it is not slicked flat with sweat. Old scars lie pale across his skin, each one laid down by some earlier foolishness survived. New hurts crowd among them. One brow is split deep enough to mat blood right through his lashes and into his hair. Purple has risen ugly under one eye and along the hinge of his jaw. His shoulder is swelling wrong beneath your hand, whether wrenched or bruised hard enough to half-dislocate. The worst lies at his side: a long slash below the ribs where flesh has opened and opened again with every step he took through the wood. Blood still wells there in slow thick gleams.

You draw back and look at it. A man should have dropped sooner from such a wound. This one had walked. Again you click your tongue at him, softer this time.

The bog gives you what you need, as it always has. You know where the thick green pillows of sphagnum swell brightest above the black water, where soft rush grows in clumps fit for binding, where yarrow lifts its ragged leaves higher up the bank, spared the deepest wet. You move quick, gathering with both hands. Sphagnum in great dripping handfuls. Yarrow torn bitter at the stem. A strip of bark from the willow bent low over the far edge of the pool. When you return, you rinse the moss in clear seep-water where it runs cold from the stones, then squeeze it once between your palms.

He does not wake when you clean the cut. His body only flinches under yours. Blood loosens and runs anew beneath the water. Mud comes with it. You work your fingers carefully through the parted flesh, clearing grit, clearing leaf-rot, clearing whatever would fester if left in. When the wound is clean enough to judge, you bend close and press your mouth to the torn edge of him.

Your saliva floods warm.

It tastes of iron and rain and man. Under your tongue the flesh stirs, not closing whole and clean—that would be a greater gift than he has earned—but quickening. The bleeding slows. The raw edges draw tighter. Heat gathers where your mouth has been, the body taking instruction from yours. You do it again, lower, then once more along the deepest part of the gash until your jaw aches and the blood comes less freely.

Curiosity keeps your hands on him after the bleeding eases. You set them at his hips, thumbs fitting into the hollows where hard muscle sheathes over bone, and wonder how such a frame would feel beside yours, under yours, pinned between your tail and the bank. For a moment you lower your cheek to the warm plane of his belly, where coarse hairs narrow and point the way down. Then, before sense can catch up, you slip a finger under the damp edge of his braies and lift. There the weight of him rests, soft with unconsciousness and still imposing.

“My, my,” you murmur, mouth wetting at the sight. No smaller than the males of your own kind, only stranger made—smooth where they are barbed, blunt where they are built for tearing. Pretty. To unwrap him and coax him up in your hand would not be difficult. But you want him back at full strength. Better to let the blood replenish before it is asked to labour elsewhere.

After, you pack the cut with sphagnum, dense and cool, pressing the moss into the cut place until it drinks what still seeps out. You bind him round with rush and the torn strips of his own undershirt, winding them firm beneath his back and over the waist. For the brow, more moss. For the swelling shoulder, willow bark chewed soft between your teeth and laid in a mash against the worst of it. You wipe your wrists across your mouth and sit back to inspect your work.

He looks only a little less like carrion, but it will have to do.

For a while you remain beside him as dusk thickens in the reeds, one hand spread on the broad plane of his chest to feel the rise and fall. It still rattles. It still rises. Great fool that he is, he keeps choosing life even senseless.

With the worst of the grime rinsed from him, the other kind of pretty emerges from under the wreck. His hair, where it dries in the last of the light, indeed burns a dark copper, made richer still by the sinking sun. Fair skin lies under it, though hard-used, and across the breadth of his cheeks there runs a scattering of freckles so pale they only show when the blood is gone from them. Strange, that a face built on such a scale should keep anything of boyhood about it. Stranger still that it does not make him look foolish. Only unguarded.

A giant sleeps at your shore, broken open, and he is gentle.

“Fathach caoin,” you murmur, as though naming him might make the task lighter. Then, with a weary glance at the bank and the darkening pond beyond: “You had best prove worth the trouble.”

He’s seeing orange. Warmth bakes him into the ground and paints the inside of his lids. Dunk feels significantly alive for someone who’s welcomed death with tranquil acceptance. Something binds his ribs quite tightly and the morning chill lakes his chest with gooseflesh.

He frowns before his eyes are even open. The hurt is there, yes, but dulled to something he knows how to bear. Instead of the white-red tearing he remembers and the feeling of his side coming apart each time he drew breath comes soreness. Pull. Throb. The pain a living man may yet complain of.

Slowly, as if he half expects the effort to prove too much for him, he pries his lids apart.

Sunlight drives in, bright and merciless. Duncan winces and shuts them again, turning his face away. For a little while he lies still with his teeth gritted, waiting for the hot dazzle behind them to settle. Then he tries anew, more careful, peering through his lashes first.

Sky. Reeds. The hard gold of morning laid over black water. No seven hells. No pale halls. No ferryman either.

He pushes himself up on one elbow. At once the world tells him several impossible things. His chest is bare to the air. Something coarse and damp is wound round his middle and under one arm, binding him up with more ingenuity than neatness. Looking down, he finds his side packed thick with green-brown moss where blood should have been. Another clot of it has been pressed to his brow. When he touches the binding with cautious fingers, he feels the pull of torn skin made tighter, cleaner, less ruinous than he remembers.

Dunk stares. “Well,” he mutters hoarsely to no one. “That is queer.”

A pile lies beside him on the bank, close enough that he might have reached it in the night had he been able. His surcoat, his mail, his sword belt, the quilted jack beneath—everything dark and stiff with dried blood. His sword has been laid atop the heap as if set there by a hand that understood what it was. The sight of it turns his stomach strangely. So he had not dreamt the fight, nor the wound, nor the red wood or the black water at the edge of it.

He looks again at the moss stuffed into his side. His hand goes once to his chest, as if to make certain the heart is still there and working—it is. A touch too fast, perhaps, but stout enough. He draws a deeper breath to test himself and finds the pain sharp but bearable.

Someone has saved him. The notion is so unlikely that it holds him for another moment, blinking in the sun, bare as a babe from the waist up and swaddled in reeds like some marsh-born fool. He is still trying to make sense of it when the pond beside him breaks with a sudden heavy splash. Something larger than a fish. Considerably larger.

He turns toward the sound and finds you already looking at him.

You lie stretched along a flat rock at the water’s edge, belly to the stone, chin propped in your hands as though you have been there some while, waiting for him to wake. There is nothing shy in the stare you give him. It is the stare of a creature keeping watch over what it has caught. Your claws rest plain against your cheek, curved and dark at the tips. Behind you, the long reach of your tail trails down into the pond and moves through it in an idle sweep that sends rings over the black water.

It is a tail fit to shame his legs. Longer by far than any fish’s ought to be, thick where it begins, made with a strength that shows even in stillness, it narrows and lengthens until the water takes it from him. Where it passes below the surface, it almost disappears. The pond seems to claim it for its own. Under the water it turns rich moss-green, flickering pale now and then like the quick side of a fish. Above the water, the scales catch the morning sun and answer it back in shifting colours—green first, then blue, then a coppery rose, then something gold at the very edge of each movement, bright and hard as the back of a rose chafer.

Dunk’s gaze follows the whole splendid length of it before he has the wit to stop. By the time he reaches the place where human’s buttocks should be, heat is already climbing his neck. He jerks his eyes aside and only worsens the matter for himself. Your body broadens there in a way that leaves him shamefully aware of himself, aware too that he is gaping and that you have likely caught him at it. He goes higher in haste, seeking some safer sight, and finds none waiting.

The scales climb and thin along your shape, framing the inward draw of your waist and the line of your spine before scattering into singular bright points that glitter in the sun like freckles thrown there by a careless hand. Along your ribs, slits open and close in a steady rhythm. Your forearms are drawn carefully over your chest, though what catches him hardest is your face.

He had seen it once before through blood-loss and darkness, and thought it the face of death. Morning does nothing to disprove him.

Your mouth is wet and soft-looking despite the sharpness of your teeth. Your lashes cast faint shadows. Your brows pull together in what seems meant for sternness, though something in the set of them goes sweeter than severe. You watch him with an intensity that strips him bare quicker than the lack of shirt ever could. Duncan swallows and feels the movement all down his bruised throat. Intimidated hardly begins to cover it.

He wets his lips once, then reaches blindly for the nearest bit of cloth from the heap beside him and drags it awkwardly across his chest, as though that might restore some part of his dignity. It does very little. Still, he gathers what remains and bows his head as best he can from where he sits.

“M-m’lady,” he says.

The word leaves him before he can better it. He has no notion whether you are a lady, some water-spirit, or a peril he ought to fear a deal more than he does. Courtesy is what he has, so courtesy is what he gives you.

His eyes lift again, wary and earnest both. “I would thank you,” he says, a touch hoarse, “if thanks is what’s due. Though I confess, I do not rightly know to whom I owe my life.”

“Dúisithe faoi dheireadh.”

Awake at long last.

You roll from the rock with scarcely a sound but for the slick slap of your body leaving stone. A moment later your tail hauls a great sheet of water in his direction. It strikes his shoulder and chest and darkens the shirt bunched there in his fists.

“You must wash,” you tell him. “You may no longer be dying, but other people’s death still clings to you. It disturbs me.”

“Beg pardon, I—” he stammers, blinking water from his lashes. “I’ve bled on your shore.”

That wins from you a laugh, full-chested and bright. You drift onto your back with the ease of something born to water, and the movement sends your hair sliding from your front. The glimpse of side-breast that follows is enough to set Duncan’s head swimming worse than the blood loss did.

“That you have,” you say. “Nothing cold water will not clean. Come—” You pause, eyeing him. “What kind of knight are you?”

“A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall,” he says, eyes down.

At that, Dunk climbs to his feet, clutching the shirt. Then, as if seized all at once by the knowledge that standing half-naked before a water spirit may call for some greater decency, he drags it hastily over his head and very nearly tangles himself in it besides. When he straightens, he finds the cloth has shrunk by half a war. The hem catches well above where it ought to, leaving a broad strip of his stomach bare. Duncan could swear your mouth parts a little at the sight.

“Ser Duncan the Tall,” you repeat. Your hand spreads over the skin of the pond, fingers trailing. “Come. I’ll show you where the water runs clear.”

He goes as bid, though each step he takes toward the pond has a measure of caution in it, as if the water might change its mind and bite. The bank gives under his weight. Mud takes his feet to the ankle and holds them there a moment before letting go with a soft obscenity. He comes on anyway, the chill already rising from the water before he has set so much as a toe into it.

When he does, it is cold enough to strike a sound from him. He sucks breath through his teeth. The next step brings it to his shins, the next to his thighs. By the time it has him to the waist, the whole of him has gone tight with it. His wounds wake afresh under the shock. Cloth blooms and tugs round him under the surface, braies and shirt both dragging with the pull of the current. You move ahead with idle ease, and he follows as far as his long legs will allow. Half because you bade him, half because there is little else to do now but trust the creature who has already had him helpless and left him living.

The pond proves stranger the farther in he goes. The black stillness near the bank gives way to movement. Water threads colder and quicker round his knees, then his thighs, shouldering itself through narrow places between stone and reed. Ahead, it clears to glass over a bed of rock and pale sand. A basin, he thinks dimly. A widening in the course of some hidden run, where stream feeds pond and pond feeds stream in turn. He has just enough time to marvel at it before his next step finds nothing.

The ground drops clean away.

He pitches forward with all his size behind him and vanishes in a single great plunge. Water slams into his ears, nose, his open mouth. Something hard clips him on the face as he goes down—stone, sharp-edged enough to split the lower lip—and the taste of blood bursts quick over his tongue. For a flurried instant all he feels is cold. He flings out an arm and finds no purchase. Then, hands seize him under the pits.

Even now, with his clothes heavy, the water takes enough of his weight that you can haul him. He comes up hard, breaking the surface with a ragged gasp that tears at his side. Blood slips bright from his mouth and strings briefly from his chin before the current steals it.

“Forgive me,” he coughs, wiping at his lip with the back of his wrist.

Your eyes go to heaven, or whatever part of the sky may serve in its place.

By the time you guide him to firmer footing, the bottom has steadied under his soles, though the river still holds him high—up beneath the arms, cold at the ribs, tugging at his clothes. He stands there dripping and raw-lipped while you watch him as one might watch an ox brought in mud-caked from the field.

“You must undress.”

The words strike him near as sharply as the stone did.

Dunk blinks. “That would not be decent.”

“It would be fouler still to put those rags back over clean wounds.” Your gaze flicks once to his side, to the bindings gone dark in patches where the water has touched them. “You would ruin my work.”

That shuts him up more thoroughly than any modest protest might have done. “Aye,” he says after a moment, head bowing of its own accord.

His fingers fumble at the hem of the shirt. He peels it away in stages, the cloth reluctant to leave him. Across from him you have sunk almost wholly beneath the surface, all save the upper plane of your face and the shine of your hair fanned around it. The water holds your shoulders, your belly, the long hidden strength of your tail. Only your eyes remain fully above water, fixed upon him without so much as a blink, and something about that unwavering regard makes his hands clumsier still. He feels all at once too large for his own body, too visible in it, as though every inch he uncovered made his size, his awkwardness, his youth plain.

He gets the shirt off at last and stands with it bunched stupidly in one hand. You come nearer.

There is scarcely a sound to mark it. One moment you are several feet away, the next the water has shut and opened round you again at his side. You dip below the surface to inspect the wound, and Dunk, who has faced armed men before with steadier nerves than this, goes rigid all through. Cool fingers find the knot at his ribs. They work it loose with an efficiency that leaves no room for fantasy, yet fantasy arrives all the same, unbidden and hot. The reeds slacken. The binding eases. He lifts his arms because it seems prudent to put them somewhere, and winds up standing with them out from his sides in a posture so awkward he would laugh at it himself were he not busy dying of shame.

The moss comes free in blood-dark clumps. They spin away upon the water and catch in eddies near his hip. Your hands return. This is the first time he truly feels them: not the fact of being tended, but the touch itself. Your fingers are cool, though warmer than the current. Slender and firm. Certain in what they mean to do. They pass over the torn place at his side, then farther across him as you steady him with a palm spread low on his belly.

Every part of Dunk seems to wake.

Heat pours through him so fast it is near alarming. It starts where you touch him and goes everywhere else with indecent speed—up his throat, across his chest, down into the water where he would rather remain altogether unreadable. He fixes his eyes on the far bank. On a stand of reeds. On anything. The hand on his stomach holds him with easy confidence, keeping him from swaying while you clear the wound, and he throws all his strength into stillness. He holds himself rigid. Even the smallest movement seems perilous to him now. His breath goes thin and careful. His body, treacherous great thing, feels poised to answer even that much.

Water laps softly at his waist. Your hair moves against his skin once, a drifting brush, and he nearly groans from so little. He swallows and keeps his gaze pinned ahead.

The effort of seeming untroubled occupies him so completely he is half convinced he manages it. Then he hears himself breathe—thin, careful, wholly unlike a man at ease—and knows the game is lost.

When Duncan stands, you realise he has not borne the name The Tall in vain. He rises and rises, broad as a gate, sun-struck and awkward and shamefully magnificent. Your mouth parts, caught between awe and a hunger that sits perilously close to longing.

You lead him through the water towards the clearer part of the basin, and your fingers itch to lay hands on him again. The fool manages to stumble, worsen his hurts, and apologise for it besides, which makes your heart swell in a way that sits badly in your chest. His reddened lip distracts you so thoroughly that you duck beneath the surface to wash him.

While you work, it becomes noticeable.

Above the waist, Duncan holds himself as if discipline alone might carry him through it. He stands in the basin like some half-ruined statue planted there by an older people, chin up, mouth set hard when you peer at him through the wavering skin of the water, eyes fixed stubbornly on the trees beyond your head. His hands stay spread from his sides, fingers splayed, as though touching you by accident would be the greater impropriety.

Silly man.

Below the waist, his body keeps no such vows. It knows you and answers. Your hair drifts with the current and combs across the taut plane of his belly. At that, his pelvis gives the smallest, betraying hitch. Lower still, the thick shape under his braies stirs and knocks against the damp cloth, a blunt, eager motion that sends a small heat through you sharper than any craving. He goes all the stiller for it, as though he might shame the flesh back into obedience by refusing to move another inch.

When the work is done, you decide to be cruel enough to enjoy it.

You rise slowly, fingers following the plane of his stomach, and break the surface so close to him that he starts. Water spills from your lashes and straight across your open eyes, and still you do not blink. “It heals well,” you tell him.

“H-how?”

“All the tricks the hedge-witches know too. Plants, mostly. And then some wound-licking, like all beasts do.”

You watch the meaning strike. First confusion, then comprehension, then a flush that begins high on his cheeks and runs everywhere: down his throat, up to the tips of his ears, even into the split and swollen shape of his mouth. His gaze jerks away and comes back again, poorer for somewhere to rest. It is a lovely thing to do to him.

His hands drop beneath the water, too late to hide what has already announced itself. When he looks at you again, the blue of his eyes has gone grave enough to pin. “You’re no beast to me,” he says, and says it like an oath.

The words catch you wrong-footed. Before you can think better of it, you lunge and wind your arms round his neck, bringing your mouth near enough his bruised lip that he must feel your breath there. “I am a beast,” you hiss. “You live because I chose not to feed. Because I chose to keep you.”

His answer is stranger still. Instead of putting you off, he catches you. His hands come to your waist on instinct, spanning so broad they nearly cover the gills laid along your ribs, steadying you where the water shifts under your weight. “Keep me?” he asks, and the words come rough, thinned by the effort it costs him not to notice how your breasts have pressed to his chest.

You nod. “Even if you run from me, it is no great loss. The world has too few men who can look death in the face and mind their manners. Too few who, once made prey, speak kindly to what means to devour them.”

“Are you,” Dunk asks, voice gone low and uneven, “meaning to devour me?”

You smile at that, slow and mean. Your tail coils round one of his legs, the fin dragging light along the inner seam of his thigh. “Would you have me?”

He jerks at the touch and clutches you tighter before sense returns and he tries, clumsily, to loose his hold. You do not let him. “I—” he begins, and fails. His throat works. “I oughtn’t—I mean—”

“Do you fear me?” you ask. “I gave you the force your body needs to mend itself. If I had wanted you dead, I had better chances of it when the bank was drinking your blood.”

“No,” he says, and then, because truth seems to drive him even where he would rather hedge, “No, only—I swore vows. To defend the innocent. To do no dishonour where I can help it. I’d serve you gladly for what you’ve done, but—”

Understanding comes over you whole. It is there in the way he cannot meet your eyes for long, in the care with which he holds even the body he wants, in the shame that seizes him over wanting at all. This vast creature of iron, oath, and sinew; this man all through in his shoulders, his scars, the weight between his legs, the old-fashioned decency that dogs him like a second shadow—and here, hidden in plain sight, the untouched part of him. The boy still tucked inside the knight.

“You’ve never had a woman,” you say softly.

Dunk shakes his head once. Abashment settles red along his skin again, deeper this time, and something like fear goes with it.

It makes you ease. Your grip slackens, though you do not yet slip from where you hang at his neck. “Does it pain you?” you ask, and bring a hand to his mouth. Your thumb passes over the split in his lip, smearing what blood has dried there. He flinches hard enough for the water to stir round you both, then gives a small, unwilling nod.

“Would you like me to mend that too?”

“Please,” Duncan says, and his lids lower as if in surrender.

You lean in and lick the cut clean. His eyes shut fully; yours stare. Your  mouth closes over his lip and draws at it, then worries it with the gentlest edge of your teeth, careful of the torn place. His arms gather you closer. Strong. Enormous. Built for hauling men from saddles, for splitting shields, for holding fast—and now holding you with such caution that the thought of what else those arms might do goes through you like fire.

His mouth parts under yours. The sound he makes is so slight you nearly miss it, a breath more than a voice, and you take it in greedily. He breathes through his nose, hard and unsteady, one broad palm spread between your shoulder blades as though to keep himself from crushing you nearer.

So you deepen it. Your tongue goes into his mouth with all the boldness he lacks, while his answers with a care that undoes you more thoroughly than hunger ever has. He tastes of river water, blood, and the plain, clean want. A hand leaves your back and comes up to your face, awkward in its tenderness, pushing the wet fall of your hair behind your shoulder. From a single kiss you know enough: he would be fervent and quiet both, and all the fiercer for how he tries to govern himself. But the fear in him stays your hand. He is not yours for the taking.

You draw back by degrees. “There,” you murmur, close enough that your mouths nearly brush again. “It should trouble you less by morning.”

Then, you force yourself to loosen from him altogether and turn half away, though it does nothing to cool the ache low in your body. “You may remain here until you are mended. A day or two, I think. I’ll bring fish. You may make a fire on my bank if you like. And after that, you may go—if going is what you want.”

When you look back, he is standing just as you left him: dazed, eyes gone bright as wet glass, his bruised mouth drawn into a frown as though he does not trust the ground under him. He swallows once. “I thank you for your kindness, m’lady,” is all he says.

He is grateful. For the food. For the fire you let him light. For the mercy of being allowed to remain what he is at heart, though Dunk has the growing sense that it is you who preserve his virtue, not he yours. That first night he sleeps with his belly full, his side held in a band of warmth, his body laid in the soft cradle of the grass. The fire cracks and settles beside him. Beyond that comes the lazy wash of water and the faint shifting drag of your tail through it.

He dreams.

Of your mouth first, cool and clever on his split lip. Then of it lower. Of his own full of your breast, drinking at you like a starving babe made monstrous. Of his hands running up the long strength of your tail until they find your hips and hold them down. Scales scatter over your back in his dream like coins on a saint’s cloth, and he counts them with his tongue. Your hair winds round his throat like a ribbon and pulls when you want him closer. Your hands go to his backside and drag him hard against you, and the force of it jars through his whole body until he wakes with a gasp, hot through, his cock throbbing so fiercely under his braies it near doubles him.

For one sick instant he thinks you must have seen it. Then shame takes him by the nape and he turns hard onto his belly, as though the earth might swallow what his body has done. By the time the dawn has thinned the mist, the linen between his legs is damp and cooling and he can scarcely bear to think of himself at all.

You spare him the privacy of not noticing, or else you are kind enough to pretend. Dunk does not know which. He only knows he would split his lip anew for the chance to taste your tongue again, and the knowledge sits in him like a brand.

Until now he has always known his body in one fashion only. As weight, reach, hunger, ache. As a thing for fighting in and sleeping hard upon. As something too large for most benches, most doorways, most rooms, most companies of men. It serves him well enough with a sword in hand and badly enough when there is no sword to hide behind. His business has always been to master it, to make it useful, to keep it from frightening decent folk more than can be helped.

Around you another kind of knowing steals over him. He feels your eyes on him and they do not hold the flinch he is used to. Sometimes there is curiosity in them. Sometimes amusement. Once or twice a look that smoulders so plain it puts heat into his face and lower. At moments there is even fondness, which disarms him worst of all. He is certain he looks at you much the same and wonders if you know it. Wonders if a creature such as you can smell want on a man the way a hound scents blood.

Decency remains dear to him. Dear as his vows, dear as any lesson Ser Arlan ever gave him. Yet for the first time in his life the thought of something softer and stranger than his own calloused fist closing round him keeps him restless at night and tight-strung through the day.

That day passes in your company. He tells you of his old master, and you listen with your head tilted and your hair afloat round you in the shallows like weed in a current. In return you show him the marsh as though it were a keep under your charge. You tell him of your kind in scraps, never enough to satisfy him. You show him where the yarrow grows white at the edges of the reeds, how to gather sphagnum from the wetter ground without taking rot with it, how willow bark must be chewed soft before it will give up its bitterness proper. He watches your mouth while you work and has to look away when the thought comes of what else he might lay between those teeth for gentle use.

He mends quickly. Quicker than he ought, perhaps. By the second evening he can stand without feeling the world slide off its hinges beneath him, and that ought to please him. Instead it leaves him sore in some place no salve will reach. For you have not only spared him and kept him, but released him besides, and Dunk has seen so little mercy in the world of late that he scarcely knows what to do with this kind. It does not feel like mercy at all. It feels like a hole opening in his chest as the light goes out, broad and clean and incurable.

He lies wakeful by the bank while the last of the fire gnaws itself into red. After a time he rolls to his side and watches you drift in the water, half-lost in reeds and moon-glimmer. You hum into the night, low and strange, the tune turning back on itself like current in a narrow place. It puts him in mind of no song he knows. A marsh spirit’s song, perhaps. Or a prayer said by something older than men.

He thinks, not for the first time, how beautiful you are. Not in the dainty fashion of courtly tales, all ribbons and rose-leaf mouths, but in some harsher, truer way. Beautiful as deep water, as polished stone, as the flash of a fish’s belly before it is gone. He thinks too how lucky he is that it was you who found him and not some greediest thing the bog had hidden. Any fiercer creature might have taken the copper from his purse, the sword from his hand, the flesh from his bones. You took only the blood he could spare and then gave him back the rest. It feels almost as if some god bent close to him in the dark and chose, for reasons of its own, to be gentle.

The thought leaves him raw. Absently, he says into the reeds, “I shall be in your debt all my days.”

You start as though struck. Your head comes up sharp from the water. The humming breaks. For an instant he thinks it was the words alone, but then you turn too quickly and the long of your hair snags in the split crotch of a root thrust out over the bank. At once you jerk the wrong way. The strands draw tighter. Water slaps. You hiss—a quick, furious sound more like an otter’s than any lady’s.

Dunk is on his feet before his side has time to object.

“M’lady—hold still.” He stumbles the last step and drops to one knee at the bank. You bare your teeth at him, half in pain, half in temper, one hand tangled in the caught mass while the other braces on the root. The more you pull, the worse it winds.

“Do not tell me to hold still.”

“I only meant—” He stops himself, for this is plainly no hour to explain. “Only let me help.”

You glare at him through the dark shine of your wet hair. Then, with a muttered Mo chreach in a tongue he does not know, you cease fighting it. It sounds like it means Curse it.

The caught strands are wrapped tight round a knob of bark and threaded through a split in the wood where floodwater must have worried it open. Dunk sets both hands to it with more care than he has ever given a blade-edge. Your hair is slick as river weed and finer than any silk he has touched, and every time his knuckles brush the side of your neck your breath goes short. That does not help him any.

“There,” he murmurs, though there is not yet any there to it. “I have it. Near enough.”

“You do not.”

“Ah,” he admits. “Not yet.”

A laugh catches you by surprise then, small and unwilling. It startles him worse than your teeth did. He glances up. You are watching him with your mouth parted a little, all that fierce, uncanny beauty drawn close and strange in the moonlight.

So he bends back to the work, patient as any septa with a snarl of thread, prising one lock free after another while the bank smells of mud and willow and the water keeps kissing softly at your ribs. By the time the worst of it loosens, he is breathing hard, and not only from the ache in his side.

What comes over him then Dunk could not have said, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Perhaps it is the sight of you bent fierce and helpless over your own caught hair. Perhaps the feel of it still sliding over his hands. Perhaps only the thought of leaving at dawn and going from this place with nothing of you but the memory of your mouth. Whatever it is, it has him speaking before sense can catch up.

“Would you like me to braid it?”

You stare at him. In the moonlight your eyes look blacker than the bog. “Can you?” you ask at last. Then, with that sharpness that never quite leaves you: “And will my bare chest not shame you?”

A breath of laughter from him. “It surely will,” he says, honest as ever. Then some small, stubborn courage rises in him from parts lower than his vows and lodges square in the chest. “But I’d count it an honour besides.”

“Yes,” you say, quick and certain, as though you had only been waiting for him to prove worthy of the task. “Braid my hair.”

So you turn your back to him and come nearer the bank, sitting, while Dunk settles awkwardly behind you. He is no great hand at it. Once, long ago in Flea Bottom, he watched women plait one another’s hair on stoops in the evening light, fingers flying while they gossiped and laughed and cuffed any boy who stared too long. He remembers only the principle: divide, cross, gather, keep even. His hands are built for reins and sword-hilts, not this. Still, he tries.

The first pull earns him a flick of your tail and a hiss through your teeth.

“Beg pardon,” he mutters.

“Do not beg. Learn.”

So he learns. A little. Enough to draw the mass together and work it down into something serviceable, if not handsome. It lies thick as a rope by the time he reaches the end, damp and heavy in his hands. All the while you sit strangely still for a creature of current and appetite, save for the occasional impatient twitch when he tugs too hard. Dunk does his best not to notice the whole smooth span of your back before him, bare where moonlight finds it, narrowing to the wet dark of your waist. He notices it all the same. By the end of it his mouth has gone dry.

“Done,” he says, and hears how weak it comes out.

Then, gods above and all the stranger gods below, you turn.

Moonlight has you whole this time. No reeds in the way. No water to break you into pieces. You come between his spread knees with the slow certainty of something that has already decided the matter, and settle there close enough that the cool of your skin reaches through his clothes. “Thank you, ser,” you say, and sweetness in your mouth is a far more dangerous thing than any hiss.

His heart turns over so hard it near stuns him. Before he can think what he is about, he takes your hand and bows his head to it, pressing his mouth to the back of it in a gentlemanly way, as though you were some great lady and he a proper knight with a proper title to his name.

Your fingers curl against his. Still holding, Dunk takes your palm and turns it over in both of his. He brings one claw to the split in his lip and presses until the cut opens fresh. Pain bites, quick and clean. He keeps your finger there while the blood wells dark along his mouth and watches what comes over your face when you see it.

“Would you mend it once more?” he asks.

Your answer is to catch the end of the braid in one hand, wind it once round the back of his neck, and draw him in.

This time there is nothing medicinal in it. You drink from the torn place with open greed, tongue hot and searching where before it had been careful. Dunk makes a rough sound into your mouth and grips at your waist, all thought burning off him in a rush. The blood is hardly there before you have taken it. What remains is the kiss itself, deep and wet and ruinous, until his head swims worse than it did from the blow that felled him.

“I thought,” you breathe, the words broken by another hungry press, “you meant to leave me without letting me have you.”

His eyes roll back with the force of wanting. He gathers you closer without meaning to, one arm under you, the other firm at your back, and rises in a single clumsy surge to his feet. The movement tears at his side and he barely feels it.

“Have me,” Dunk says, and there is only naked truth to it. “Gladly. I do not know what you see in me, m’lady, nor why a wonder such as you should want aught of mine—but if you do, I’d be the world’s greatest fool to deny you.”

You look at him then as if he has said something finer than he knows how to say, and for once you do not mock him for it.

So he carries you.

He carries you as though he was built for nothing else, down from the bank and over the water to the flat stone where first he saw you rise, pale now under the moon and waiting like an altar. Your arms stay looped round his neck. Your braid drips cold against his shoulder. His pulse beats wild where your breast is pressed to him, and by the time he sets you down, his hands are shaking with the effort of holding back all the things he means to give you if only you will show him how.

For one wavering instant he only looks at you, chest labouring. You give him but a moment to stand there in it.

One of your hands goes to him, greedy and unashamed, and the touch of it through the cloth strikes through him so hard he bows like a man hit low with a poleaxe. Breath leaves him. His fingers claw at the air beside him before finding the rock. Heat tears through his middle, bright and ruinous, and with it a helpless sound he has not the dignity to swallow back.

“Mercy,” he says, though there is no true wish for it in him. “Slow—pray, slow a little.”

Your eyes flash up at him, bright with appetite and amusement both. He feels warm to the throat, near trembling, and still he tries for courtesy, for order, for some scrap of knightly manner in a place that has stripped him of all armour worth the name.

“I’ll do as you tell me,” he says, voice roughened nearly past bearing. “Only—show me. I would not wrong you for want of knowing.”

That stills you. The greed stays in your face, but it settles into something more intent. You ease back against the stone and let your body lengthen there, all bold invitation and perverse ease, your hands opening toward him as though calling a beast from the dark. Moonlight gathers along the line of you. Your tail glimmers where it falls away into shadow. Your breast spills softly with the movement, and Dunk, poor soul, is half-struck through by the sight of it.

He comes when beckoned. With obedience and without confidence. With awe, almost. He lowers himself to his knees over you, great and awkward and trying so hard to be careful that you give him a charmed look. The rock receives his weight with a dull scrape. His breath comes hard through his nose. He does not know where to put his hands until you take one of them and place it high, against the soft warm weight of your tit. The other you guide lower.

He shudders. Squeezes your chest and takes note of how neatly the heft of your breast fits his palm. The rest he lets you guide, because the threat of shattering from the sight alone is far too great.

You draw his fingers over the scales until skin finds a hidden place where they part. There lies a slit, smooth and silky and made to unman him. Duncan breathes, “Oh, by the gods.”

“This is where you fill me,” you tell him, eyes rapt. “This is where I want you.” Then, your lips find his once more. He tastes the same tongue that healed him, the same teeth that could end him and did not. Never in his life had Duncan thought he would find anything to swell so sweetly in his mouth as food or ale, yet here it is. How he came all this way with no more than grateful pecks to the cheek and otherwise wholly unkissed feels, all at once, beyond belief. 

All the while, you keep guiding his hand until your body answers him open. And Duncan is made painfully aware that up until now, the body has only ever seemed to him a thing for work. Whenever he had been troubled by primal urges, he tried to throttle the feeling by haste and harshness, or else by the sheer force of his will. Now, as he slides one finger inside you, he’s being shown plainly that bodies exist not only for work. Gods have given them the ability to feel pleasure and it is evident on your face and in the way your shape flutters and arches and pushes itself onto him.

“You’re the softest thing I’ve ever touched,” he whispers, bewildered by himself. By the way his blood shifts places and fills him below the loins until he’s hard. By the way he answers your wetness with his own—pearling at the tip, soaking through the cloth and making the crown of his cock feel cold when he shifts on his knees.

“More,” you rasp, wriggling. “Give me one more.” At that, your hand finds the braid. You draw it over your shoulder and wind it twice round his neck, slow as a tether being laid. Not hard enough to hurt. Hardly hard enough to hold at all. Just enough that he feels the claim of it. Just enough that he understands.

He brings his forehead to yours and the second finger inside, feeling you stretch and swallow him down to the last knuckle. Mere thought of the same sensation enveloping his cock sends Duncan’s head spinning.

When he thrusts gently, the loveliest purr spills out of your mouth. Your face rises and rubs itself on his, lips pulling on his chin and cheek rasping on cheek. “Is liomsa thú,” you murmur.

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re mine,” you tell him. “No soul will know but you and I. But you are.”

“Aye,” he breathes. “That I am.”

“Then give me the rest of you,” you say. “Fill me properly.”

The words slice through him like strong drink on an empty stomach. For half a beat Duncan can only stare, as if he has misheard you and the night will kindly correct itself if he waits.

It does not. You mean it. Worse—better—you mean it without shame, as though wanting him were the simplest thing in the world. No woman has ever spoken to him so. No woman has ever looked at him as though his body were something desired for its own sake and not borne because it must be. Heat surges through him so hard it leaves his thoughts in disarray. He has dreamed, in the clumsy miserable way of lonely men, but dreams had never prepared him for the sound of such words in a living voice, said with your mouth still swollen from his kisses.

When he pulls his hands out of you, they come covered in clear brine. He fumbles at the ties of his braies with fingers that no longer seem wholly his own, and your palm comes over his—cool, assured, impatient with trembling. Your fingers tangle with his and for a moment he can do nothing but hang his head down and watch the two of you joined there. The way you help him find his girth and stroke it. The way your slick coats him. His hand, obeying, as though it has always belonged under your instruction.

“Gods help me,” Duncan mutters. “If you keep on so, I shall shame myself.”

By the time you draw him nearer, he is beyond any rescue. Your hands go elsewhere then—up under the hem of his shirt, stripping the last hindrance from him, then down again with fresh purpose. They travel the width of his sides and settle hard at his buttocks, claiming, directing. Duncan bows over you on a shuddering breath, feeling himself handled like something wanted, something chosen, and scarcely knows how to bear it.

“Have no fear,” you say. “I want you.”

He nods, more to himself than you. “If I hurt you—”

“You won’t.” Your fingers stroke his cheek. “I know your size and I will take it. Courage, my Fathach Caoin. My gentle giant.”

His eyes mist up. He’s there, on the precipice, with your warmth calling him on. Gaze steadfast on yours, Duncan lets himself breach you. And you welcome him like the bravest thing he’s ever seen. Crown already swallowed by your body, yet your face is still clear. There’s an eager stretch around him and a twitch of a tail below him. It coils round his thigh, his knee and ankle, while one of your fists finds the braid once more and pulls, collaring his neck tighter. It’s all the signals he needs to persevere.

The more of him you take, the greedier your answer grows. Claws in his arse, muscles working on his cock in vicious spasms, he manages to fill you with everything some trickster god has given him, and he finds it accepted.

Your mouth is agape. Breath comes through it loud and ragged. “Yes,” you grit, eyes rolling and all of you twitching. “Gods, fuck me. Make me yours.”

“Sweet mercy,” Duncan says, voice gone rough. “You ask it as though I could deny you aught.” His brow drops to yours, air shaking out of him on its leave. “If I am yours, then have all of me.”

At first, he scarcely thrusts. Ruts, more like. Feels the shape of you inside, plastered snugly to him. When he discovers he’s being received fully and without reluctance, his movement boldens. His hips rise and fall, and instinct guides him. Pleasure guides him too, for beyond being permitted, Duncan is being answered as well. With tightness. With the press of your belly into his. With your neck baring and gills there quivering around air whenever he sheathes himself up to the brim.

That is the miracle he never thought possible. With a lifetime of too much ringing around him, awkward and large, he was convinced romance was not written for him. Yet here you are, with hunger gathered on your features and no shadow of hurt visible. It shakes him, that. Here, in your hold, that old wrongness turns. Here what he is suits and is welcome.

“You were made for this as much as for war,” you say, as if reading through his thoughts. “More. I like what you do to me.”

It makes him release his own little stuttered moan. “M’lady—”

Your arms circle his shoulders and hold. “You sound so pretty. All of you is so beautiful, Duncan.”

He searches your face for foulery and finds none. Only bliss and appetite. Only round, wet mouth and dark eyes. Duncan has been commended for strength before, for endurance, for taking a blow and giving one back. None of that has prepared him for the shock of finding that his hands, his mouth, his earnest body can bring a creature like you to such clear delight. With each look, his courage grows.

That growth proves dangerous soon enough. Wonder gives way to urgency. Urgency mounts toward something steeper. Duncan feels it gathering in him with an inevitability that borders on terror. He has been admitted to a marvel and already fears the speed with which he may be cast out of it. The thought makes him cling harder to what steadiness he can muster. He tries to linger, tries to learn the pace of your pleasure and keep himself to it, but his body has begun to outrun obedience.

“Look at me,” you say. “Keep on, you needn’t worry. You please me—ah—” There’s a twitch inside you that nearly ends him. “You fit me. Gods, you please me—”

What happens after, he cannot rightly say. First, your neck wrenches, then delivers your face close so that you can kiss him. Little mumbles of yes and oh and ones that call on various gods in various tongues flood his mouth. His throat gets cinched by your hair and your arms, and tail wraps round him so fiercely it makes his leg go numb and cold at the toes. Chest flattened against his you moan out his name into the night and then—

He’s seeing white. It overtakes his vision entirely when your body does an unimaginable thing. Traps him in that narrow edge of flesh and milks him for seed. Ferocious and wild, it takes and takes, and Duncan’s understanding of himself alters. He is not taking. He is giving and being wanted in the giving.

“My sweet Lass,” he rasps, manners abandoned. “I never knew—Gods, I never knew.”

Dunk never knew something could feel like this. He’s never been shown that things could live where brutality and tenderness meet. That bodies can do all this: bleed, bruise, fill and empty, hurt and please, all while remaining gentle. His gentleness drives him to a point where he feels sensations folding in on themselves. His toes curl against the stone so much that his foot almost cramps. Thighs harden. Lungs burn, yet he feels the most alive he’s ever felt. His belly tugs so violently it is as though someone has delivered a blow with an iron fist. Amidst all this ruthless undoing, Duncan senses his soul coursing through his blood vessels, pushing through his pores in its rise to meet you.

Warmth becomes warmer. Wetness grows wetter. All of his joins all of yours. The pull empties him of everything he carries right into the snug nook of your body. “Yes,” he mutters. “Yes, gods help me.”

With that, he forgets the weight of himself and falls on top of you off his trembling arms. His face lands right into the curve of your neck and the breath that comes through slits there cools the slickened skin of his forehead.

For a little while you do nothing but hold him through the ruin of it.

Your hand moves slow between his shoulders, then lower, smoothing the hard jump of muscle as if gentling some great spent beast after battle. Praise comes from you under your breath in scraps and murmurs, half words, half wonder, and Duncan, who had thought himself beyond surprise for one night, finds that too much for him as well.

A laugh bursts out of him sudden and helpless, honest as the rest has been. It shakes once through his chest against you. He lifts himself just enough to look down, dazed and shining with it still, then bends and presses his mouth to your forehead with a care that seems almost too tender for the body that has just spent itself so violently.

“There are no words for it,” he says. “None I know, leastways. For making me feel—” He stops there, smiling crooked at his own uselessness. “For this.”

You look at him as if his gratitude is a stranger thing than all that passed between you on the stone. Your fingers stroke through the damp at the nape of his neck, over the braid still looped there like some token of your claim.

“You deserve it more than any man I’ve met.”

The laughter leaves his face by slow degrees. In its place comes something quieter, heavier. He studies you and the dread arrives plain enough then, settling under his ribs where pleasure had just torn through him. Because a man cannot be given such a thing and fail to understand that it may yet be taken away.

“How am I to part from you now?” he asks.

You answer him honestly, as you have answered him in all things. “You are strong for it.”

Then you kiss him and gather him down again, one arm curved round the breadth of his shoulders, the other tracing idle paths along his back until the last fierce throbs ease out of him. Great body that he is, he grows heavier by the moment. Sleep comes on him without dreams. His head finds its rest upon your chest. The braid bejewels his throat and there he lies pillowed on you like something claimed and cherished both.

By morning the chill has found him first.

It wakes in his body and deeper than the body too, in the place where certainty ought to sit and does not. The stone has cooled under him. Mist lies low over the black water. Reeds stand pale with dawn.

Duncan opens his eyes and knows at once what the day requires of him. Whatever quarrel spilled him into your bog has not vanished. Roads still run outward from this place. Men still wait at the end of them with their needs, their vows, their battles. He knows he must rise. Knows too that seeing you again would be another miracle, and that miracles are not things a sensible man counts upon.

When at last he stands on the bank, iron on his body and sword at his hip, you drift below in the water and watch him. “Will you be here,” he asks, “if I come again?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “Come and see.”

The words might have been cruel in another mouth. In yours they fall as simple truth.

“But—” You lift a hand and beckon. “Give me your sword.”

He does not hesitate. That, perhaps, startles him more than anything. Dunk reaches for the blade and lays it across his palms before offering it over. You take it with both hands, testing the weight of it, your mouth tightening faintly at the smell of old blood still left in the metal. Then your other hand goes to the end of your braid. For a heartbeat he only watches, uncomprehending, until the edge comes up bright in the morning and he realizes what you mean to do.

“Wait,” he says, too late, and only because the thought of any part of you severed from the rest hits him oddly in the chest.

You cut through it clean. The shorn length lies across your palm, heavy as wet rope. You hand the sword back hilt-first. Then, with more care than men give holy relics, you place the braid in his hand.

“You have earned it,” you say. “Keep it, and remember me.”

Duncan looks down at what you have given him as though it were a king’s ransom or a saint’s finger-bone wrapped in silk. The braid spills over his callused palm and nearly to his knees, gleaming and impossible. He closes his hand round it slowly.

“I should remember you without help.”

“Yes,” you say. “But take it all the same.” Your gaze lifts to his, clear as cold water. “Remain gentle. Do not let the world temper you into something you are not. It has enough hard men already. I will not forget you, Ser Duncan The Tall.”

He comes to the shore in all his bulky magnitude, iron making a burden of him once more. Yet the burden sits differently now. He drops to one knee at the water’s edge, heedless of mud. His free hand comes to your face. Cups it. The skin beneath his thumb is cool and smooth and utterly dear to him. Then he kisses you with all the force left in him, with gratitude and hunger and the grief of leaving all tangled together.

“I’ve a love for you I’ll carry always,” he says against your mouth when at last he parts from it. “You made me a man, Lass.”

Something shifts in your face at that—fondness, perhaps, or pity, or the knowledge that men will always name themselves too small.

“You are more than merely a man, Duncan,” you tell him. “You are a giant. And wherever you go, I will keep you.”

He stays there one heartbeat longer, kneeling in the mud like a man before a shrine, looking at you as if he would learn the whole of your face by force and carry it clear to the grave. Then he rises, slow under the weight of steel and parting, and turns at last toward the trees.

Behind him the water goes on breathing.

You wake to the sound of rain hammering against the cottage's thatched roof, a steady, persistent drumming that has merged with your dreams. The air is cool and carries the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of an approaching storm.

Your fingers curl into the linens, and they are saturated with him; that clean, honest smell of sweat, leather, and the soap he makes himself from wood ash and lavender.

He isn't there. The space beside you is empty, the sheets already cool.

With a groan, you push yourself up. The light filtering through the single window is the soft, pearlescent grey of a day swallowed by clouds. A crack of thunder rattles the windowpane, making you flinch. You've slept past midday, the deep, dreamless sleep of someone who feels safe. Protected.

You can hear him. Not in the cottage with you, but outside. The rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood, punctuated by another distant rumble of thunder. Each swing is a testament to the man you married, the power of him. Another sound follows, a softer one, the scrape of a whetstone along steel.

You pull on a simple woolen dress, the fabric rough against your skin. You don't bother with shoes, your bare feet silent on the floor as you make your way to the door. The cottage is small, but it is yours. It is his. A pot of something hearty and meaty, likely rabbit he snared yesterday, is simmering over the dying embers of the hearth.

Your body tingles with the ghost of last night's touch. A deep, pleasant ache settles between your thighs, a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed you. Your cheeks flush with heat, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wool of your dress. Butterflies, frantic and wild, beat against your ribs. You already miss him, the solid weight of him, the way his large hands, so adept at violence, could map every inch of your body with such tender reverence.

Your Dunk. Your kind, good man, who had seen you stir restlessly in the predawn darkness and had slipped from your bed to let you sleep, taking his toil out into the rain. Good to the very core.

You pull open the heavy oak door. The world explodes in a rush of wind and water. The rain is a solid, silver curtain, and the wind whips it against your face. And there he is.

Duncan.

He stands in the center of the muddy yard, a giant of a man framed by the grey fury of the storm. He's shirtless, his feet planted in the churned mud. The splitting axe, heavy enough that most men would struggle to lift, rests easily on one broad shoulder. His skin is slick with rain, each drop a shimmering jewel as it catches what little light there is.

They trace paths through the dark hair on his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, following the powerful landscape of his body. The muscles of his back and shoulders are bunching and releasing as he turns toward the sound of the door.

When he sees you, he stops. The world seems to hold its breath. The rain continues to fall, the thunder to grumble in the distance, but in that moment, there is only him.

Your eyes catch a flicker of movement near the stables. Chestnut and Thunder, your two beautiful horses, stand sheltered in the overhang, their coats gleaming in the dim light. They are safe, cared for. Just like you.

And then you are moving. There is no thought, only need.

You launch yourself from the doorway, your bare feet slapping against the wet, packed earth, then sinking into the mud. You don't care. You are running towards him, towards your hot, wet man, your husband. You need him with a desperation that eclipses all reason, a need as vital as the air in your lungs.

He's frozen for a heartbeat, a statue of a pagan god in a downpour, and then he's moving too. He drops the axe. It lands with a dull thud in the mud. He takes two long strides to meet you, his powerful legs eating up the distance.

He catches you.

His arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off your feet. The impact is a shock of wet skin against the thin wool of your dress. You gasp, your arms flying around his neck, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. He smells of rain and sweat and him, and you inhale deeply, greedily, filling your lungs with him.

"You'll catch your death, my love," he rumbles, his voice low. His hands are splayed wide against your back, holding you, and despite the strength in them, his touch is impossibly gentle.

You don't answer with words. You pull back just enough to see his face, to see the way the rain has plastered his hair to his forehead, tracing the strong line of his jaw. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, are alight with a joy so fierce it takes your breath away.

He thinks you're mad. You can see it in the twitch of his lips, the fond exasperation in his gaze. But you don't care.

You surge forward and crash your lips against his.

His lips are cold at first, then warm against yours, and they feel like coming home, like the sun breaking through the clouds. He makes a sound, a low groan of surprise and pleasure that is swallowed by the storm.

He tries to speak, his lips moving against yours. "Seven hells, woman," he mumbles, the words lost in the deluge. "Wha—"

But you silence him with another kiss, deep and wet, pouring every ounce of your longing into it. Your hands knot in his wet hair, holding him to you, and you moan into his mouth, a soft, needy sound that is almost stolen away by the wind.

One of his huge hands slides down your back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and comes to rest on your arse. He grips you, possessive and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through your soaked dress. You press yourself against him, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the proof of his desire pressing hot against you.

He grunts into your mouth, a raw, animal sound, when you suck on his tongue. It's a filthy kiss, the kind of kiss that would make a whore in a King's Landing tavern blush.

You pull back, gasping for breath, your chest heaving. A thin, delicate string of saliva connects your mouths for a moment before the rain washes it away. Your eyes are locked on his.

"Need you, Dunk," you whisper, your voice hoarse, almost broken with the force of your want. "Need you now."

The dress is a second, sodden skin, clinging to every curve, every dip. The dark wool is rendered translucent by the downpour, leaving little to the imagination. The hardened points of your nipples press against the fabric. The generous swell of your hips and the soft roundness of your thighs are outlined in perfect detail.

His eyes rove over you, a hungry, worshipful gaze that makes your skin feel too tight. He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working.

"This is madness," he rasps, his voice strained. "You'll be sick, my love."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He shifts you in his arms, one arm banded around your waist, and starts moving towards the stables. He half-carries, half-drags you through the mud, his long strides covering the ground in an instant. The shelter of the stable overhang is a welcome relief from the onslaught of the rain, though the air is still thick with the smell of wet hay, horse, and him.

He sets you down, but doesn't let go. He keeps you pressed against him, framing your face with his hands. "My love," he starts, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and desire. "Look at you, shivering. We need to get you inside, by the fire, get these wet things off you—"

"Mmm-need you, Dunk," you interrupt, your hands coming up to cover his where they cradle your face. You turn your head and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his palm. "I need my husband right now. Not the knight. Not the hedge knight. Just you."

He looks at you then, and the concern in his eyes is slowly consumed by a fire that makes your breath catch. He sees the need in you, that want that mirrors his own. He sees that this is not a whim, but a necessity.

"Dunk, please," you whisper, and it's a broken, beautiful sound. "Please."

"Seven hells," he breathes, the last of his restraint crumbling to dust. "You'll be the death of me."

His hands move from your face, one tangling in your wet hair, the other fumbling with the ties of your dress at your shoulder.

"I saw you," you pant against his skin as his clumsy fingers work at the wet knot. "I saw you standing there... your axe... the rain... gods be good, Dunk, I am burning up for you."

You lean in, your lips tracing the wet, hard curve of his bicep. The muscle tenses under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along its length, tasting rain and salt and man. Then you bite him, gently at first, then harder, sinking your teeth into the firm flesh. You leave a dark, wet mark, a claim. You do it again, lower down, marking him.

A ragged groan tears from his chest. His hands still on your dress, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder. His entire body is trembling against yours.

"Stop," he begs, but it sounds nothing like a command. It's a prayer. "Gods, my love, stop. I can... I can hardly hold myself." He turns his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of your ear. His breath is hot. "I'll take you right here against the wall, with the horses watching, and I'll not care for aught else. I'll be rough. I'll hurt you."

His confession hangs in the damp air between you. He's not threatening you. He's warning you, pleading with you. And you have never been more aroused in your entire life.

"Then take me," you whisper back, your voice a silken thread of challenge. "Take your wife, Ser Duncan."

The title, the honorific he so rarely uses for himself, is the final push. He growls, a low, feral sound from deep in his chest, and finally rips the ties of your dress. The flimsy wool gives way, and he pushes it down over your shoulders.

The sudden cold of the air makes your nipples tighten into hard, aching points. His eyes devour you, tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. He looks at you like you're a miracle, a goddess made flesh, and the awe in his face makes your knees weak.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, as if to himself.

You lunge for him again, your lips finding his with a desperate hunger. You press your naked body against the hard, wet wall of his chest, grinding yourself against him, seeking friction, seeking relief. The coarse hair on his chest abrades your sensitive nipples, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

"Can't get enough of you," you gasp against his lips between frantic kisses. "Dunk, I can't... I need..."

This time, he meets your need with a ferocity of his own. He kisses you back, not just receiving your passion but returning it, matching it. His tongue plunges into your mouth, claiming it, stroking against yours in a rhythm that promises a deeper, more intimate claiming to come. One of his massive hands cups the back of your head, holding you in place while the other roams down your spine, over the curve of your arse, pulling you against him. His arousal is a hard, thick line against your belly, and the knowledge that you have this effect on him, this shy, good man, is a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac.

"Gods, me neither," he groans, the words a vibration against your lips. "Woke up this morning and you were still asleep... all soft and warm... all mine. Nearly broke my resolve to let you be."

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, a rare, breathtaking sight. It transforms him from a simple hedge knight into a man of breathtaking beauty. "No more of this," he rumbles, his voice a low growl. "You're not getting fucked against a wall like a tavern whore."

He hooks one arm behind your knees and another around your back, and with a grunt, he lifts you into his arms. You yelp, a half-scream, half-laugh of pure delight, as he turns and starts running.

"Dunk! Dunk, what are you doing!" you shriek, clinging to his neck as he barrels back out into the torrential rain.

"I'm taking my wife to our bed!" he roars back, his laughter booming over the storm.

He moves with an impossible speed, a charging beast carrying its most precious treasure. Mud splashes, the world is a blur of grey water and green, and you are laughing, utterly lost in the glorious madness of him. He's a madman. Your madman. And you have never loved him more.

He bursts through the cottage door, kicking it shut behind him with a thunderous bang. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, crossing the small space in three long strides before unceremoniously dumping you onto your bed. The furs are soft, the mattress a welcome relief, and the fire burning in the hearth bathes the room in a warm, golden glow that makes the rain outside seem a distant memory.

You land with a soft oomph, bouncing slightly on the mattress. He's on you in an instant, a mountain of wet, hot skin and hard muscle. The shock of it is electric. You are both soaked, and the water from his hair and skin drips onto your face, your neck, your breasts, mingling with the heat rising from your own body. He smells of rain and clean earth.

"You are a menace," he growls as he makes quick work of the last remnants of your sodden dress, peeling the wet wool from your legs and tossing it to the floor. Then his hands are on you, everywhere, tracing the curves of your hips, the softness of your thighs. He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand splayed across your stomach, and he just looks. His gaze is so intense, so full and raw, that it makes your breath catch.

"Dunk," you whisper, reaching for him.

You pull him down, needing his weight on you, needing to feel the sheer solid reality of him. He settles over you, a heavy, comforting presence that makes you feel both small and incredibly safe. Your legs part instinctively, making room for him, and he settles into the cradle of your hips. You start to move, a slow, deliberate grind against him. The rough fabric of his breeches is a delicious friction against your most sensitive flesh, and you can't stop the soft moans.

You meet in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, making love with your mouths. His tongue is a slow, sweet invasion, and you meet it, stroke for stroke. Your hands are everywhere, tangling in his damp hair, now tracing the muscles of his back, feeling the way they flex and bunch under your touch.

"Too many clothes," you pant against his jaw, your fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches. "Get them off, Dunk. I want to feel all of you."

He groans and pushes himself up, just enough to give you room. Your fingers are clumsy with haste, but you manage to undo the ties. He shoves the wet leather down his hips, kicking them away. And then he is naked, all of him, and he is magnificent.

His body is a map of old scars and new bruises, a testament to the life he leads. A long, thin one on his ribs, a puckered circle on his shoulder from an arrowhead, a web of smaller ones on his forearms. You know them all. You have kissed them all. But it's not the scars that hold your attention now. It's the overwhelming masculinity of him. His chest is broad and covered in a thatch of dark hair that narrows to a line leading down to the powerful V of his hips. And there, heavy and proud, is the part of him that is yours alone.

He is hard, so hard it looks almost painful and already weeping with need. The sheer size of him still takes your breath away, an intimidating reality that you crave with every fiber of your being.

He lowers himself back over you, but this time, his lips find your breast. He doesn't kiss the nipple, not at first. He kisses the soft, sensitive skin on the underside, then the valley between them. His mouth is hot, and his breath is a warm gust against your skin.

"My beautiful wife. My good girl." He nips gently at the swell of your breast. "I think about this, you know. When I'm on the road. I think about your skin, your taste. I think about burying my face right here and never coming up for air."

His other hand, the one not supporting his weight, begins a slow, torturous journey down your body. It skims over your ribs, pauses to trace the curve of your hip, and then slides down the outside of your thigh. His touch is light, almost teasing, a ghost of a caress that makes your skin prickle with awareness. The heat in your belly builds, a slow, coiling fire that spreads through your veins, making you restless, needy.

You arch against him, a silent, pleading motion, and he finally, finally takes your nipple into his mouth. He sucks, hard, and the sensation is a bolt of lightning. You cry out, a sharp, breathy sound, and your hands fly to his head, holding him to you.

"Dunk," you moan, his name a prayer on your lips.

He lifts his head, a possessive fire in his eyes, and claims your lips again. It's deeper, slower, a thorough, claiming exploration. His tongue strokes against yours, and you can taste yourself on him, faint and sweet. The hand on your thigh moves inward, tracing a path up the sensitive skin until his fingers brush against the highest curve of your thighs.

"Is this for me, my love?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper against your lips. "Is all this wetness for me?"

You can only nod, your words lost, your ability to form coherent thoughts shattered by the gentle, circling motion of his thumb. He's not touching you where you need him most. He's just stroking the sensitive skin around it, a maddening, delicious torture.

"Please," you finally manage to gasp out. "Dunk, please."

But then you push against his chest, a gentle but firm pressure. He lifts his head, ocean eyes clouded with a confusion that is almost comical. He doesn't understand why you'd stop this, why you'd push away the very thing you've been begging for.

You sit up, pushing yourself to your knees in the center of the bed. You take his massive hands in yours, your small fingers looking impossibly delicate against his calloused, scarred knuckles.

"What is it, my love?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern. "Did I hurt you?"

You shake your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. "No," you whisper, your gaze holding his. "No, you could never." You lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. "I want to taste you," you murmur against his skin. "I want to worship you."

He stares at you, utterly bewildered. Worship him? This hedge knight, with more scars than sense and hands better suited to holding a sword than a woman's touch? He opens his mouth to protest, to say something self-deprecating and utterly, painfully Dunk, but you silence him with a look.

"Let me, Dunk," you say, and it's not a request. It's a command, gentle but firm.

Slowly, hesitantly, he nods. He lets you push him, and he shifts until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. You slide off the bed and sink to your knees in the furs before him. The sight makes him suck in a sharp breath. You, his beautiful wife, on your knees for him. The unbidden eroticism of it is a punch to the gut.

You start at his stomach. Your lips trace the hard ridges of his abdomen, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint, clean taste of the rain. You press open-mouthed kisses to each of the old scars, your tongue darting out to soothe his flesh. His muscles jump and twitch under your touch, and you can feel the tension in him, the effort it's taking him to remain still, to let you lead.

Then you move upwards, your face burying in the thick, dark hair on his chest. You inhale deeply, breathing him in. He smells of life, of strength, of safety. You let your tongue flick out, tasting the hollow at the base of his throat before moving to one of his nipples. You circle it slowly, lazily, before taking it into your mouth and sucking gently.

A choked gasp escapes him. His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his neck, and his eyes roll back in his head. His hands curl into fists, the knuckles white. You are utterly destroying him, and you have never felt more powerful.

You lavish the same attention on the other nipple, giving it the same slow, torturous treatment. His breathing is harsh now, a series of uneven pants. He's muttering something, a stream of incoherent praise and curses that are the most beautiful music you've ever heard.

Then, you begin your descent.

You press kisses down the hard plane of his stomach, following the dark, tempting trail of hair that leads to your ultimate goal. You can feel him trembling, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder that runs through his entire frame. You can hear the desperate quality of his breathing. He is at your mercy.

Finally, you are there.

His beautiful cock.

It stands proud and erect, a magnificent, intimidating thing of flushed skin and throbbing veins. You look at it for a long moment, your gaze reverent. This is the part of him that makes you his wife, that fills you so completely, that brings you such exquisite pleasure. This is the part of him that has given you the sweetest aches and the most blissful sighs.

You lean in and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the glistening tip. A bead of pearly fluid wells up, and you taste it with the tip of your tongue. It's slightly bitter, and uniquely him. His entire body jerks at the contact, a full-body spasm.

"Gods," he chokes out, his hands flying to your hair. He doesn't force you, doesn't guide you. He just buries his fingers in the strands, holding on as if for dear life. "What are you... oh, gods..."

You smile, a slow, almost secret smile, and then you take him into your mouth.

You start slow, savoring the experience. Your lips stretch wide to accommodate his impressive girth, the hard, velvety skin sliding over your tongue. You take just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the ridge, teasing the sensitive nerves just beneath.

His hand in your hair tightens, not a pull, but a steady, grounding pressure that makes you hum in pleasure. He's so big. So wonderfully, overwhelmingly big.

He throws his head back again. "Seven bloody hells," he grits out, the words a harsh exhale. He's muttering a stream of curses, praise, and your name, incoherent sounds. He hisses when you take him deeper.

"Your mouth... gods, your mouth... so warm... so wet..."

You take more of him, inch by slow, deliberate inch. You feel your jaw begin to ache, a dull, pleasant ache that only adds to the intensity of the moment. Your saliva pools, and you can't stop a single drop from escaping the corner of your mouth, tracing a glistening path down your chin. But your eyes never leave his.

You hold his gaze, watching the array of emotions flicker across his face. Awe, disbelief, unbridled lust. His mouth is open, his chest heaving. He looks at you, at his beautiful wife on her knees, worshipping him with her mouth, and the look in his eyes is one of pure, shattered reverence.

His hips twitch, a tiny, involuntary movement, and he immediately stills them, a groan of frustration torn from his throat. You can see the struggle in every tense line of his body, the way the muscles in his thighs stand out like knotted rope. He is fighting a primal instinct, a battle of will against want, all for you. He is so good, so fundamentally, achingly good, that he will endure this exquisite torture rather than risk causing you a single moment of discomfort.

Then you hear it. A sound so at odds with his massive frame, so full of vulnerability, it makes your heart clench. A whimper. It's a deep sound that rumbles up from his chest, and it is the most erotic thing you have ever heard. You shiver, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cool air on your bare skin. The sound is a surrender, a confession of his absolute undoing. It makes you want to devour him whole.

You relax your throat, take a deep breath through your nose, and push down, taking him deeper still. You let the head of his cock brush the back of your throat.

The reaction is instantaneous and explosive.

"Oh, fuck!" The word is a roar, torn from his very soul. His control shatters.

Both of his huge hands fly to your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, gripping you tighter. He doesn't push, he just holds on, grounding himself in you as the world spins out of control. He becomes impossibly vocal, a chorus of grunts, groans, and choked-out curses that fill the small cottage.

You swallow around him, a deliberate, rhythmic contraction of your throat muscles. The sound is wet, obscene, and it drives him wild.

"Gods, f-fuck," he gasps, his hips bucking again, a deeper, more desperate thrust this time. "What are you doing to me? Your... your mouth... ah, seven hells... like sweet, hot honey..."

His praise becomes a torrent of raw, unhinged filth, a beautiful but desperate litany that washes over you.

"You love it, don't you?" he pants, his voice slurred with pleasure. "My beautiful girl... down on her knees... taking me so well. Made for me." He groans, a long, shuddering sound. "Swallow again. Yes, like that. Take it."

His eyes are squeezed shut. He is completely, utterly wrecked by you.

"My Dunk," you manage to moan around him, the words a garbled, vibration that makes him cry out. "My love."

"Yours," he grits out, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. The desperation in them is breathtaking. "All yours. Now... gods…”

He tries to pull away, to be a gentleman even in this, but you hold him fast, your hands gripping his powerful thighs, nails digging into the skin. You take him deeper, humming, a clear, unmistakable signal. You want all of him. You want to taste him, to claim him in the same way he claims you.

"Are you sure?" he asks, the last vestiges of his self-control warring with his primal need. "Are you sure, my love?"

You answer by taking him as deep as you can one last time and swallowing, hard.

"Ah, seven hells!" he roars, but with a speed that belies his size, he firmly disengages, pulling free of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. He scoops you up, laying you back against the damp sheets and furs. The world is a blur of motion and panting breaths.

He doesn't hesitate. He kneels between your spread legs, his massive body blocking out the warm glow of the fire, casting you in his shadow. He grips himself at the base, guiding the thick, flushed head to your entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes burning into yours, asking a silent question.

And then he enters you.

It's a single, slow, inexorable slide. He fills you, stretches you, the slick, tight fit a perfect, exquisite union. You feel your own wetness, the way your body grips him, welcoming him home.

You both moan together, a single, harmonious sound. It's not a sound of pain or pleasure alone, but of rightness, of a key finding its lock after a lifetime of searching.

He doesn't move for a long moment, just holds himself deep inside you, letting you both savor the feeling. His body is damp, your skin is damp, the sheets beneath you are damp, but the only thing that matters is the heat building where you are joined.

The sound that tears from your throat is a soft, breathy "Ahhhh," a drawn-out sigh of absolute surrender. Your eyes flutter closed, and your back arches off the bed, pushing your breasts against the hard wall of his chest. The pleasure is a crushing wave that obliterates all thought, all sensation save for the feeling of him inside you.

Your cunt clenches around him, a greedy, involuntary spasm, and he answers with a deep raspy groan. "Oh, gods," he pants, his forehead dropping to yours. His big hands frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that is in stark contrast to the raw, primal way he's claiming you. "So tight. Always so tight for me. Like you were made for me."

Your clit is throbbing, swollen and aching. The pressure of him, the way he's stretching you, is almost enough, but not quite. You need more. You need friction. You need him to move.

“Mmm, Dunk…”

He starts to move, a slow, deliberate retreat followed by an equally slow, deep thrust. The rhythm is hypnotic, a languid dance that stokes the fire in your belly into an inferno. Each stroke drags against your sensitive walls, shooting pleasure through your veins.

"Like that?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against your ear. "Do you like it when I fill you up like this?"

You can't form words. You can only nod, a frantic, desperate motion, your nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice gentle but firm.

Your eyes flutter open, and you're lost in the dark, stormy depths of his. They're burning with a fierce, possessive fire, but underneath it, there's an ocean of love, of worship, that threatens to drown you.

"That's my good girl," he whispers, and the praise, combined with a particularly deep, grinding thrust, makes you cry out, a high, breathy sound. "My beautiful girl. Tell me what you need. Tell your husband how to please you."

"Harder," you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, trying to urge him on. "Dunk, please... harder... faster..."

He complies, his control shattering bit by bit. His movements become quicker, more forceful, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room. He's pounding into you now and it is exactly what you crave. The bed is creaking in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

"Oh, gods! Dunk! It feels so right... don't stop... please don't stop!" you're crying out, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises that are a perfect echo of his own earlier filth.

He goes faster, harder, just as you begged, but a flicker of something holds him back from unleashing his full, brutal strength. You can feel it in the tensed muscles of his back, the way he holds himself ever so slightly in check. It's because of you.

He can feel your cunt clenching around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms that milk his cock, and the sensation is so overwhelming he's afraid of breaking you. And your moans... gods, your moans. They are high, breathy things, music to his ears, and he loves it, he loves it so much it hurts.

"By the Seven," he grunts, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. "You take it so well. So sweet and tight... a velvet fist around me." His hands are everywhere now. One grips your hip, holding you steady for his thrusts, the other slides up your sweat-slick back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of your throat. He mouths at your pulse point, his teeth scraping your skin.

You scratch him, your nails leaving trails down the broad expanse of his back. He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and in response, his other hand moves, grabbing the entirety of your ass in a grip of possession. He squeezes, hard, and uses the leverage to pull you into each thrust, to meet his cock halfway. He's fucking you now, truly fucking you, with a desperate, frantic energy that borders on violence.

"That's it," he pants."Let me hear how much you need this, my love." He pounds into you, the rhythm relentless. "I love the sounds you make. Let all the gods in the heavens hear how well your husband fucks you."

You are a mess of whimpers and pleas, a babbling stream of "yes, Dunk, yes" and "don't stop, please don't stop." He is your man, this great goddamn knight, and he is ruining you for any other. He is your world.

"I love you," he whispers, the words a raw, vulnerable confession against the shell of your ear. He says it again, a mantra, a prayer. "Love you, love you, love you," as he fucks into you, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust.

And then you feel it. The knot in your belly tightening to an impossible degree, the world narrowing to the single, blinding point where you are joined. You're so close, hovering on the very precipice.

He feels it too. He feels the change in your body, the way your inner walls begin to flutter and spasm. And in a move that shatters you completely, he stops.

With a groan of effort, he pulls out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty. Before you can even form a protest, he's shifting, moving down your body with a speed and grace that is startling in a man of his size. He settles between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider apart.

"Dunk!" you cry out, your voice a ragged, desperate thing. "What are you d-"

Your question is cut off by a gasp as he buries his face in your cunt. There is no teasing, no gentleness. His tongue, flat and wide, strokes through your slick folds, a direct, unerring path to your throbbing clit. He wraps his lips around the sensitive nub and sucks, hard.

Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as if you're afraid he might stop. He doesn't. He devours you, his tongue a wicked, swirling torment, his lips a persistent, sucking pressure that is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Please," you sob, the word a broken, desperate plea. "Oh, gods... Dunk... please..."

His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still for his assault. He slides one long, thick finger inside you, then another, curling them upwards to find that hidden place inside you. He pumps them in and out, in perfect, maddening rhythm with the sucking of his mouth.

That's it. That's all it takes.

The orgasm rips through you, violent and beautiful. A high, thin squeal is torn from your throat, a sound you don't recognize as your own. It's followed by a series of helpless, breathy moans, each one punctuated by a wave of pleasure that is so intense it borders on pain. Your body convulses, your back bowing, your thighs clamping around his head. Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, grounding yourself in him as the world dissolves into a tapestry of blinding light and roaring sound.

"Dunk! Oh, gods, Dunk!"

He doesn't stop. He lets you ride out the storm against his mouth, drinking down your release as if it's the finest wine. He is the best man you know, the best knight, and he is giving you all of himself.

As the last tremor subsides, a sob of overwhelming emotion escapes your lips. "I love you," you gasp, the words a raw, ragged confession. "I love you so much."

He lifts his head, his face shining with your essence. He licks his lips and the sight of it makes your cunt clench with a renewed, desperate ache.

He rises, moving over you with fluid grace. And then he's back inside you.

This time, it's different. There's no slow, gentle entry. He slams into you, one thrust that almost takes you off the bed. The breath is knocked from your lungs. He's so deep, deeper than ever before, and you can feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against every sensitive inch of you.

Each retreat is a sweet, agonizing emptiness, each return a homecoming that fills you so completely you think you might break apart.

Your response is immediate and uncontrollable. You start to squeal again, a series of high, desperate sounds that you can't hold back.

"Ah! Ah! Dunk! Oh, gods, right there!" Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.

He leans down, his massive body blanketing yours, and his hands find your breasts. He cups them, his thumbs flicking over your hard, sensitive nipples, teasing them, tormenting them. The sensations are overwhelming, a perfect, exquisite storm hurtling you, toward another, even more powerful peak.

"Again for me, my love," he whispers, his lips brushing against yours. "I want to feel you cum on me this time. I want to feel you milk me dry."

You can only whimper, a desperate, needy sound that is all the encouragement he needs. He claims your lips then, and it's a messy, desperate kiss. He's not just kissing you; he's breathing for you, sharing your air, your spit. His tongue plunges into your mouth, a hard, possessive thrust that mimics the rhythm of his hips. You suck on it, greedily, desperately, your tongue dancing with his.

"So beautiful. So wild. My wild little wife." He slows his pace, making each thrust a deliberate, grinding circle that rubs against your clit. "Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like this? Tell me…”

"Yes!" you scream, the word torn from your very soul. "Only you, Dunk! Only ever you!"

"Good girl," he rasps as he buries himself to the hilt and stills.

The words are a choked, raw confession. "Yours," he gasps, the rhythm of the word matching the frantic, uneven beat of his heart against your chest. "All yours, my love. My wife. My... my everything."

Then he pushes himself up, his powerful arms straightening. He's still deep inside you, and the movement shifts him. Then he's grabbing your legs, his hands wrapping around the backs of your knees. He lifts them, pushing them up, up, up, until he can rest them on his broad shoulders. The new angle is devastating, opening you completely to him, allowing him to plunge deeper than ever before, a depth that feels impossible, a divine intrusion.

"Dunk," you whimper, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. The position is vulnerable, exposed, but all you feel is a thrill of power. You are a feast laid out for a god, and you have never felt more beautiful.

He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a fire that threatens to consume you both. And then he starts to move again.

"Mmmhmm," he grunts, the sound deep and guttural, torn from his chest with each powerful thrust. "Ughh... gods... look at you... takin' all of me."

The rhythm is relentless. The headboard is a frantic, percussive beat against the wall, a wild, tribal rhythm for your desperate coupling. Your moans are no longer words, just a series of high, desperate cries.

"Deeper," you sob, your hands fisting in the furs beneath you, your knuckles white. "Dunk, you're so deep... I can feel it... gods, I can feel you everywhere."

"You like that, don't you?" he pants. He's looking down, watching himself disappear into you, and the sight is clearly driving him wild. "You like me buried so deep you can't breathe."

"Yes! Yes, I love it!" you cry out, your back arching off the bed. You look up at him, really look at him, at the sheer, overwhelming size of him. His massive chest is heaving, the muscles in his arms and stomach standing out in sharp relief. His face is a beautiful agony of pleasure and exertion. His goregous blue eyes are locked on yours, and the connection is so intense it's almost painful.

And then, a sudden, shocking tenderness.

He slows, his thrusts becoming long, slow, and deep. He carefully unwraps one of your legs from his shoulder. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he's stopping, that he's done. But he's not. He takes your small, delicate foot in his massive, calloused hand. His thumb strokes the arch, a slow, gentle motion that makes you shiver. He looks at your foot, at the delicate bones and soft skin, with the same awe he looks at your face.

And then he presses it flat against the center of his chest, right over his frantically pounding heart.

The contact is a shock. You can feel the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against your sole, a desperate, primal drumbeat. The gesture is so intimate, so possessive, so achingly tender that it steals the breath from your lungs.

"Feel that, m’love?" he asks, his voice a low murmur, barely audible over the sound of your own desperate cries. "That's you. You do that to me. You're the only one... the only one in this whole world who can make my heart beat like this." He starts to move again, a slow, grinding rhythm that is somehow more devastating than the frantic pounding. "The only one who can break my fucking heart."

A sob, raw and ragged, tears from your throat. "Never," you gasp, your other leg wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him closer, to fuse your bodies together. "Never, never, never!" Tears stream from your eyes, tracing paths through the sweat on your temples. You're not just crying from pleasure, but from a love so overwhelming it feels like a physical force.

You look up at him, at this giant of a man, this shy, good-hearted knight who could break you in two without a thought, who is holding your foot to his heart as if it's a sacred relic. He is everything. He is your entire world.

"You're my knight," you sob, the words a sacred vow. "My Dunk. My love."

And with those words, something inside him breaks.

He roars as he releases your leg, letting it fall back to the bed, and then he is on you. He covers you completely, a mountain of hot, hard muscle, his forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his harsh pants hot and ragged against your skin.

"Ughh... gods," he grunts, the words a raw, guttural sound against your ear. "Say it again."

"My Dunk… my love… ‘m yours," you moan, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin, holding on for dear life as he resumes a desperate rhythm. "All yours, my knight. My husband."

"Mmmhmm," he groans. His thrusts are short, sharp, and deep, aimed at that one spot deep inside you that makes your vision go white. Each one is accompanied by a raw, guttural sound from deep in his chest.

His cock is rubbing against your clit with each thrust, a constant, maddening friction that is pushing you, hurtling you, toward a peak so intense you're almost afraid of it. His balls are slapping against your arse, the sound filling up the small room.

You can feel him starting to lose control. The rhythm of his hips becomes erratic, less a dance and more a search for release.

Your hands map the landscape of his back, a frantic exploration of quivering muscle and sweat-slick skin.

"Let go, my love," you whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. You tilt your hips up to meet him, a silent, urgent invitation. "Don't hold back. I want all of you. Spill your seed inside me, Dunk. Give me every last drop."

A shudder wracks his massive frame, a wave that you feel deep in your own bones. He lifts his head, and his eyes are wild, unfocused, a storm of love and lust that threatens to consume you both. And then, he does something that shatters you completely.

He lowers his head. He lifts your thigh, and presses a soft, lingering kiss there. It's a kiss of absolute reverence, a benediction, an act of worship so profound it makes your soul ache.

With a final, guttural groan, he shifts, letting your leg fall to wrap around his powerful waist.

"Ah, gods," you sob, the sound torn from your very soul.

The coil in your belly tightens again to an impossible degree, a white-hot knot of pure sensation. Your entire body is trembling, a fine, uncontrollable quiver that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming force of your pleasure. "Dunk…’m close," you gasp, the words a desperate, ragged plea. "I'm so close. Don't stop... please don't stop."

He answers with a series of deep moans.

"Mmmhmm... ughh... my love... my wife..."

His hips are a blur of motion now, a relentless, driving rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.

You meet his gaze, and the connection is pure love and lust that flows between you, binding you together. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, a window into a soul laid bare.

"Fill me," you beg, your voice a husky, desperate whisper that is thick with need. "Dunk, please... I want to feel your hot seed. Give it to me. All of it. Claim me. Make me yours."

"Yes!" you sob, the word a torn, ragged thing. "Yes, gods, Dunk, yes! You're giving it to me so good... so deep... so perfect... Ughh... don't stop..."

"Say it," he demands, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Say that you're mine, beautiful."

"I'm yours!" you cry out, the words a sacred vow. "All yours, Dunk! My knight! My love!"

He takes your face in his hands, forcing you to hold his gaze. "Look at me," he pants, his hips pistoning, a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Look at me when you cum for me, my beautiful girl."

The command is the final push.

A scream is torn from your throat, a high, thin sound of pure. The orgasm rips through you, so violent and beautiful. Your cunt clenches around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms, milking him for all he's worth.

"Ah, gods... yes... you're gripping me so tight," he grunts, the words a choked, admiring gasp. "Mmmhmm... that's it... take it all, my love."

Your body convulses, a series of tremors that rack your frame, helpless in the face of the overwhelming pleasure.

"Dunk! Dunk! Dunk!"

You feel the hot pulse of him, a deep, rhythmic throbbing as he spills himself inside you, filling you with his seed. He pours all of himself into you, not just his body, but his soul, his love, his very life force.

He collapses onto you, a dead weight, a mountain of boneless muscle. You can't breathe, but you don't care. You wrap your arms and legs around him, holding him close, never wanting to let him go. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, a beat that slowly, slowly, begins to return to a normal rhythm.You lie there for a long time, listening to the sound of the rain.

The world slowly comes back into focus. The warmth of the fire on your skin, the scent of rain and damp earth, the rough texture of the furs beneath you. The pounding in your ears subsides, replaced by the crackle of the fire.

Dunk's weight is an anchor, a solid, living shield that pins you to the earth and makes you feel safe, cherished. You rest your cheek on the broad expanse of his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful thump-thump against your skin. His arms are banded around you, one splayed across your back, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers stroking your hair in a slow, soothing rhythm.

You can feel the dampness of his sweat and yours, the slickness of your combined releases between your thighs. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of him, of you. It's a primal, comforting scent, the scent of home.

"I could stay like this forever," you whisper, your voice muffled against his skin. "Right here. With you."

His chest rumbles with a low, contented hum. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that resonates through your entire body. "And the world would likely fall to ruin while we did. The crops would wither, the roof would leak, and Egg would likely burn the keep down." He pauses, and you can feel the smile in his voice. "But by the Seven, it would be a happy ruin."

You smile, a slow, lazy thing, and press a soft kiss to the damp hair on his chest. "I'd rather have a happy ruin with you than a pristine world without."

He shifts slightly, rolling onto his side but keeping you tucked securely against him. He props himself up on an elbow, his free hand coming up to gently trace the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. His touch is so gentle, it almost breaks your heart. He looks at you, and the love in his eyes is a physical thing, a warmth that spreads through your chest.

"Sometimes," he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant, "I look at you, and I wonder what I did to deserve this. To deserve you."

Your smile fades, replaced by a rush of fierce, protective love. "You deserve this, Dunk. You deserve everything good in this world."

"I'm a hedge knight," he says, a familiar, self-deprecating note in his voice. "I've little more to my name than this horse, this sword, and the clothes on my back. I'm big and clumsy and I've a temper that gets the better of me more than I'd like."

"You're Ser Duncan the Tall," you correct him, your hand coming up to cover his where it rests on your cheek. "You're the kindest, most honorable man I have ever known. You're strong, and you're brave, and you have a good heart. That's worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock."

A slow, deep flush creeps up Dunk's neck, spreading across his face, a stark crimson against the backdrop of his scars. The shy hedge knight is back, abashed by your praise even after the most intimate of acts. He tries to look away, but you hold his gaze, your fingers tightening on his.

"And," you add, a wicked glint in your eye, "you do things with your tongue and your hands that would make a pillowhouse whore weep with envy. So I'd say I've quite the bargain."

A little sound escapes him, a cross between a laugh and a gasp. He buries his face in your hair, his great body shaking with laughter. The vibration is a warm, pleasant rumble against your skin.

"Seven save me, you have a wicked tongue yourself, woman," he mumbles against your shoulder, but he's smiling. You can feel it in the curve of his lips against your skin.

He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. His arms are a fortress around you, an unbreachable wall of muscle and warmth. The rain continues its assault on the cottage roof, a steady, percussive rhythm that is no longer a storm, but a song, a lullaby.

In the safety of his arms, the world outside ceases to exist.

"This is my favorite part," you murmur, your voice sleepy and content.

"Hmm?" he rumbles, already half-lost in the comfortable haze that follows.

"This," you say, softly. "After. When the world is quiet and it's just you and me. When you're not a knight and I'm not... well, whatever I am to the world. We're just... us."

He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might have drifted off. Then he speaks, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. "This is all I've ever wanted," he confesses, the words carrying the weight of a lifetime of loneliness. "Not glory. Not lands or a title. Just this. A small cottage. A warm fire. And you."

His arms tighten around you, a reflexive, protective gesture. "I'd burn the world down to keep this," he says, his voice suddenly fierce, absolute. "To keep you safe. I'd walk through fire for you, my love. You know that, don't you?"

You lift your head, your eyes finding his in the warm, dim light of the fire. There are no shadows of doubt in them, only a fierce certainty. He means it. Every word. This great, humble, awkward man would face down gods and monsters for you.

It’s enough for Dunk to say you’ll stop at the next inn along the road. It should be the Inn of the Kneeling Man, near Stone Hedge, where there’ll be a proper maester, if it comes to needing one. Though you think two or three nights with a warm bed and hearth and a soft pillow will set the little prince right again. 

And so, the three of you press on. 

The road winds past sodden fields, swollen streams, and bare-branched trees that should be budding with flowers and leaves by now. All day, the sky stays a dull grey, but the rain softens to a drizzle in the afternoon, even if the bitter chill never leaves. 

Come evenfall, the Inn of the Kneeling Man is just around the bend in the road—just as Dunk said it would be—with smoke rising from the chimneys and a warm glow in the windows from flickering candles.

Veering off the road, you head to the stables, leaving Thunder, Storm, and Maester to be tended to for the night. Dunk gives the stableboy a copper, and you give him a few more—with how the roads have been, they’ll all need an extra brushing or two—before following after your two companions and over to the inn. 

The innkeep wipes his hands on his apron as he takes in the sight of the three of you when you enter—travel-worn and carrying a sick child between you. The largest of the rooms is taken, but there are two rooms available in its place, a small one for the boy and another for you and Dunk. Before turning in for the evening, though, you all need a warm meal—and just about anything sounds better than hard cheese and salt beef. 

The common room smells of woodsmoke and stew, and there are benches and tables aplenty. Only merchants and other hedge knights are traveling about the realm these days, and they mostly keep to themselves, though a few curious eyes follow the three of you. By now, you’re used to the attention. Dunk is likely to be the tallest man in all nine kingdoms—certainly, the biggest man you and most others will ever see—and wandering about the realm with a small, bald boy for his squire certainly doesn’t help.

You and Egg take the bench nearest to the fire, hanging your cloaks to start drying. Almost as soon as you all sit, a serving girl brings a tray of food over. Bowls of hot stew with venison and root vegetables, and sage. A loaf of brown bread, freshly baked before dawn. And a pitcher of ale for you and Dunk, and watered wine for the boy. 

Egg picks up his bowl, drinking some of the broth—it feels good to his scratchy throat and warms his belly. The three of you eat in near silence, listening to the conversations scattered around: The Red Fork’s flooded. None of the ferries are running. It’s the worst rains many can remember, right on the heels of a summer-long drought. One of Lord Reyne of Castamere’s daughters had run off with one of Lord Lydden’s sons. There’s a new tax on the Myrish lace and samite. Dunk takes a quaff of his ale, gaze lingering on Egg when he goes to refill the cup. 

He’s leaned against your side, eyes half open—fighting to stay awake after finishing his bowl of stew and hunk of bread, his lashes drooping lower with every slow blink. You smile, nudging him gently. “Come on,” you tell the little prince. “That’s enough for today.”

“I’m not tired,” he mumbles, head tipping farther against your side.

Dunk snorts. “You’re half asleep on your feet, Egg.”

“I am not, ser,” Egg insists, his protest lacking its usual fire.

You rise from the bench, easing Egg upright with you. He sways a little, and your hand finds his shoulder. “I’ll see Egg to bed,” you tell Dunk as he looks up at you, the firelight catching in his bright blue eyes. There’s worry there, plain as anything, though he tries to hide it with a steady nod.

Egg’s steps drag, head dipping forward, as you guide him up the stairs and to a small room. It’s just big enough for a narrow bed tucked into the corner and a short bedside table behind the door. But the hearth is warm and chases the chill from the air. 

You help Egg out of his boots, setting them and his cloak aside near the fire to finish drying, and the little prince crawls beneath the blankets with a sigh as you draw the covers up to his chin, smoothing them down. If someone had told you a few years ago that you’d be tucking a Targaryen Prince into bed, you would’ve laughed and called them mad. 

And yet, here you are. 

Egg looks up at you with those wide, violet eyes—heavy with sleep, but there’s a twinkle of mischief in them, too. He may only be a boy, but he’s been on the road long enough with you and Dunk to know. And in the past few weeks, ever since leaving Standfast, he’s become determined to make something more come out of your and Dunk’s friendship. 

Friends don’t look at each other the way you and Dunk do, especially when you both think no one else is looking—all longing and loving, as though you’re the only two people who can ever make each other laugh and smile. You lift a brow in question, knowing the boy wants to say something. “He’s not going to say anything,” Egg says quietly, like he’s giving away a deep and dark secret. 

Your hand stills on the quilted blanket. “What are you going on about, Egg?”

“Ser Duncan,” the little prince says. “He worries he’ll ruin it.” He pauses, blinking, and yawns. “Our little family, of sorts.” It’s the only way Egg can think to describe it—you all look after one another. That’s what families do. He doesn’t remember much of his mother, Lady Dyanna Dayne, but he remembers how she’d tuck him in at night at Summerhall and tell him stories of Starfall, just like you do now. “If he tells you.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you search his young face. “And what is it you think he wants to tell me, Your Grace?” You ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your heart.

Egg’s mouth twists just a little, sleep tugging at him again—he’s fighting a losing battle. “You know,” he says simply. “You’re just waiting for him to be brave enough to say it first.”

For a moment, you can’t find any words to say. Instead, you reach out and brush your fingers lightly over Egg’s forehead—still warmer than normal. “Go to sleep, little dragon,” you murmur, maybe trying to convince yourself he’s speaking nonsense because of the fever. 

“M’not little,” he grumbles—but the words slur together as sleep takes him. 

You sit there, watching the steady rise and fall of the blankets as Egg sleeps, listening to the crackle of the hearth and the rain against the roof. He worries it’ll ruin it—you hear the muffled voices from the common room below, hear Dunk’s voice above them all—our little family, of sorts. You close your eyes. The steps and wooden floorboards outside creak and groan with heavy footfalls. Dunk. You know. And maybe you’ve known longer than either of them realizes. It’s always been the little things he does.

Making sure you have the drier blanket, the softer spot in the grass under the trees and stars. 

He’ll shorten his long strides to match yours without thinking when you’re in a market together or strolling through some lordling’s great hall. 

Dunk always finds you, even in crowds, and even when he’s the center of attention. 

It’s the gentleness of his hands whenever he helps you on and off your horse or when you fall asleep on his shoulder, and he decides he can go without so as not to disturb you. 

And maybe it’s always been there, low and simmering. But even so, you cannot deny it’s been different since the Tourney at Ashford. “Brave enough,” you repeat under your breath, shaking your head with a little smile. There’s no one in the realm braver than Ser Duncan the Tall.

YOU PUSH THE door open to the room across the hall—Dunk is sitting at the end of the bed, just starting to work on a patch for his cloak. You’ve been meaning to do it for him, but with the rains, it was hard to focus on much else except staying dry and warm. “Egg’s asleep,” you tell him, going to sit at his side. And usually you would stay with Egg, not out of a want to be apart from Dunk, but because few road inns and taverns have beds large enough for both of you.

Dunk lets out a long, slow breath, shoulders falling just a little. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” Rest is the best medicine, or so that’s what you’ve always told him after patching him up all these years without nary a complaint. And despite his stubbornness, he knows this little break from the road will do you all good.

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the fire. Half in front of the stone hearth is a wooden tub filled with water. “Had ‘em draw a bath for you,” he says, nodding in the tub's direction. You always liked having a proper bath whenever you stayed at an inn or tavern. It’ll certainly be a welcome one with the mud splotches on your face and bits stuck in your hair. Giving Dunk your thanks, you stand, hands going to unbind your hair and brush through the knots. He clears his throat and rises from the bed, headed toward the door. “I’ll–,” he stammers, “I’ll go see to the horses.” 

“Gave the stable boy a few extra coppers to do that tonight,” you note before he can reach for the doorknob—no point in going out in this weather again when his tunic and britches have only just dried. “And asked for a farrier to see to Thunder on the morrow.” They all needed a good brushing after the last few days, and Thunder needed one of his shoes repaired. 

Dunk stands there a moment longer than he means to, big hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if he might yet find some task to busy them with. And maybe if it weren’t a cold and rainy night, he would’ve. “Then I’ll–” There’s nowhere left to go, no excuse left to reach for. The bath is already drawn, and it’s been weeks since either of you had a proper wash. 

“Dunk” —you pull at a knot in your hair, and he can’t help but think he’d be gentler than you are now, given the chance— “you don’t have to go.” His brows knit together. Thick as a castle wall, but by the Old Gods and the New, you love him for it. “It’s just skin. Just a bath,” you tell him. “Like when we were younger.” Propriety never stopped the two of you from sharing a tub or stream when you were children; why should now, after a week in the cold rain, when you’re both weary, be any different? 

“Aye,” he says, voice tighter than usual, a far-off look in his blue eyes, “but we’re not children anymore.” It’s a dawning realization over the years that the girl he half-grew up beside is now the woman he wants.

Your eyes flit over him quickly, from head to toe. “No,” you agree. Boys didn’t have shoulders so broad, jaws so strong, or hands so callous. “We’re not.” And even so, he’s still just Dunk. Your Dunk. “But there’s enough room for both of us, and the warm water will do you good.” He tries to feign indifference, and you see the cogs of his mind turning again, trying to find an excuse. 

Brave enough, Egg said. You’ve never known Dunk to back away from a challenge or deny a softly spoken request from you. You could ask him to carry you all the way to the Wall, and he would do so without a quibble, because he’s your man, your Dunk. 

“Egg and I can’t haul you around so easily if you catch a fever.” He grunts his agreement as you dip your fingers into the water. The surface ripples, catching the candle and firelight. “Come on, then,” you tell him, looking back—he’s standing still as a statue with a knot in his throat, “before it goes cold.”

You hear him let out a resigned sigh, and then the rustle of cloth as he shrugs off his vest. Your own fingers begin loosening the ties of your bodice, though not as deft as usual—it must be Egg’s words causing the butterflies to flap around in your belly. He worries it’ll ruin it. Lying the dusty blue kirtle aside, you slip off your shoes and stockings and spare a glance over your shoulder. 

Dunk’s half-turned away, unlacing the neck of his tunic, broad shoulders tight with a restraint you’ve never seen, or maybe you just haven’t noticed before. You’ve seen him bloodied, bruised, drunk, laughing, crying, furious, but this cautiousness is new—odd. Brave enough. You turn to the bath before he can catch you looking and shrug off a nigh threadbare linen shift, tossing it aside with the rest of your garments. 

The night air in the room nips at your skin, especially when you step into the hot water and ease yourself down. Warmth surrounds your legs, hips, and waist, and it chases the chill from your bones. Dunk doesn’t miss your quiet sigh—it sends a shiver down his spine—when you sink back against the side of the tub, head leaned back and eyes shut. 

Keeping your eyes closed, you wait for him to join, and he’s thankful for it; else you’d see the war he’s waging against himself. The water sloshes, spilling over the sides a little as Dunk settles opposite you. It’s close quarters, but he keeps a chivalrous distance, long legs drawn in, arms braced awkwardly on his knees. You open one eye to steal a look at him. His cheek is turned toward you, and you can make out the scars there from Flea Bottom brawls, the tourney at Ashford, and a new one from his service to Lord Eustace Osgrey. 

Dunk keeps his eyes trained on the fire. He doesn’t trust himself not to look at you, really look—he’s only a man, after all. He’s caught glimpses, not meaning to, when you’d wander from camp looking for herbs and mushrooms, but decide instead to go headfirst and nude into a river or pond. And the Seven above know Dunk never meant to commit the swell of your breasts or backside to memory, but he had. 

You weren’t children anymore, and he’s seen how other men look at you in towns and at tourneys. It always stirs something deep—primal—in his gut, and then his self-doubt and anxiety creep in. Those nagging little voices in the back of his mind that say she can do better than you. Always reminding him that those closest to him end up getting hurt. Dunk’s jaw clenches tight. 

“Reckon it’s been a while since we’ve had a bath that wasn’t in a river or a rainstorm,” he finally says, breaking the silence, but his voice is unnaturally stiff for how long you’ve known one another.

“I like this better,” you tell him, reaching for a cake of soap and one of the washcloths hanging over the edge. A dip in a cool river on a hot summer day was one thing, but soaking in warm water after an endless week of cold spring rain makes you wish for a hot bath every night. 

“Course you do,” he grumbles, teasing—hand running through his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. You flick water in his direction, and that finally cracks him. Dunk’s mouth twists into a smile, and his eyes finally shift to meet yours again. Brave enough, Egg had said. What secrets could you possibly keep from one another like this? Your heart gives a small flutter. 

Dunk reaches for the other washcloth, soaking it before dragging it over his face. He scrubs hard, the stubble on his cheek and jaw rasps beneath the cloth. Next to him, you do the same, washing away the muck—and you both fall into an easy rhythm. 

Rinsing the cloth, Dunk scrubs along the back of his neck, then down one thick arm. You glimpse the way his muscles move and flex—feel warmth rush to your cheeks. He switches hands awkwardly to scrub the other arm, nearly sloshing water over the edge of the tub. You bite back a smile and finish rinsing the soap from yourself.

“Turn around,” you say quietly, before you can think better of it. “I’ll get your back.” Dunk blinks, caught off guard, as if the thought of needing to wash his back hadn’t occurred to him, or maybe he tried avoiding it. His eyes flit to your face—blue mixed with gold flecks—careful to keep his gaze from drifting any lower. “You’ll miss half of it otherwise,” you tell him. It’s the first proper bath he’s had in at least two moons, and there’s no sense in doing a half-arsed job. Dunk’s lips part, the first words of protest on them. “You can’t reach the middle,” you interrupt with a small, knowing kink in your lips. “You never could.”

That earns you a huff that almost passes for a laugh. He shifts, twisting around in the small space so his back faces you. You take him in—broad and strong—selfishly. Ser Arlan liked to say he was as slow as an aurochs, but he’s as strong as one, too. The firelight and shadow trace every line and ridge of muscle, every scar. Some are thin as thread, some jagged and pale, and one or two still carry a faint, angry tint even though it’s been moons since they healed. 

Your throat tightens, heart aching, seeing them all. You’ve tended to what feels like most of them over the years. What we deserve and what we get is never in balance. You press the soapy cloth to his shoulder—the one he’s been favoring for the last few days—and feel him melding into your hands. Then, quietly, Dunk says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know,” you answer, dragging the washcloth across his freckled shoulders, then down toward the center of his back, scrubbing away the road grime, “but I want to.” There’s nothing but doting affection in your voice, and he goes quiet at that—mind and heart racing. Tell her you big oaf, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he just sits there, falling further in love with his best friend like a damn fool. 

Your fingers trace the edge of a scar near his shoulder blade. He clears his throat. “Wasn’t even a proper fight,” he mutters, feeling like he needs to explain it, but you remember him stumbling back from the town to camp that evening, all bruised and bloodied. “Bloke tripped over his own feet.” Big men get punched more than little men. You let out a quiet laugh, working the cloth lower along the broad stretch of his back to wash the suds away.

He hasn’t cut his hair in some time, and his dirty red-blond locks hang to his shoulders in damp clumps. Mindlessly, you run a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a little knot—the muscles in his back tighten and his breath hitches. Dipping a wooden tankard into the tub, you pour water over his head. Dunk grumbles, and you almost laugh at the churlish protest. But he doesn’t protest when your soapy fingers sink into his hair, brushing against his scalp. 

The water laps at the sides when he moves, and your knee slides against his hip. He stiffens—afraid you’d be skittish—and you pretend not to notice the way the tips of his ears go red. Instead, you gather his hair at the nape of his neck, squeezing the suds through it. “Tilt your head back.” He obeys, almost too quickly, nearly knocking the back of his head into your chin. A small laugh escapes you, and he smiles too, boyish and sweet.

You finish rinsing the soap from his hair, and in a moment of boldness and bravery, you half-lean over his shoulder to press an innocent enough kiss to his cheek or temple—and then his head turns. 

It’s not the first time you’ve kissed him. There have been times like this before, when you meant only to peck his cheek, but he’s shifted at the last second, and you’ve caught the corner of his mouth—always quick to pull away, flushed, flustered, and most of the time laughing at how clumsy you both can be. As graceful as an aurochs and a newborn foal, the two of you. 

But this time is different. 

You don’t pull away, and neither does Dunk. 

A heartbeat longer, and you lift your hand to his jaw, fingers brushing the familiar line of it and all the little scars you’ve traced a hundred times over with your eyes over a campfire, but never your hands. Dunk makes a soft, surprised sound against your mouth—one that turns into a half groan when your lips press more firmly to his and when he feels how close you are to him. And that flutter in your chest and stomach comes back.

The stubble on his cheek and jaw grazes your skin when he shifts closer, not realizing he’s doing it. When you part, it’s only for the need of breath. He whispers your name, low and uncertain, his brows furrowing, trying to make sense of something that’s been gnawing at his heart for years now. Wanted to do that for a long time, he thinks, but saying it aloud will make him feel a fool.

Dunk turns around in the tub to face you properly, hands seeking out your waist, settling there, warm and rough and gentle—like how they always have been when he helps you on and off Storm—and draws you to him, half into his lap. Only now his thumbs stroke over your ribs, right under the soft swells of your breasts, mindless. His breath is slow and uneven against your cheek, and suddenly, he’s unsure what to do with his hands, with you, with the way your bodies have come so close together.

Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, and his lips part slightly beneath the touch. His eyes flick down for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re staring,” you whisper, though your gaze hasn’t left him either.

He lets out a soft, nervous breath. “Can’t help it.” His honesty makes warmth bloom in your chest, a flush creeping up to your neck and face. Your hand drifts from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers slipping into the damp curls there, and Dunk’s grip tightens.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he finally admits quietly, almost embarrassed to say so. “For–for a long while.” Gods, he’s lost track of all the nights and days he’s thought about hauling you to him—bending down or lifting you—and kissing you, often and well. You’ve thought the same, especially when you’d find little things to bicker harmlessly over, about grabbing onto his tunic and hauling him down.

You twist his hair through your fingers—half smiling with a hazy look in your eyes. And Seven Hells, it’s not the first time he’s seen you look at him like that. Dunk, you fool. Thick as a castle wall. “Will you kiss me again, Ser Duncan?” You ask. One corner of his mouth lifts sheepishly, a combination of his title and your request.

He cranes his neck to the side, lips finding the spot where your ear and jaw meet. “As often as you’d like, m’lady.” Dunk murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. 

Then he pulls back enough and something in his expression falters. The playful edge fading. His bright blue eyes search yours, weighing whether he ought to say what it is he’s thinking. He worries it’ll ruin it. “Only ever been you,” he finally says. Brave enough. “From the start.” He swallows, gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “Didn’t know what to call it at first, but” —a crooked smile tugs at his mouth— “was you all the same.” 

Only ever been you. The hand still tangled in his damp hair slips down, grazing his neck before stopping over one of his pectorals. You feel the warmth of him and the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. Dunk looks uneasy after saying it, as though he expects you to laugh it off the way you’ve both laughed off a hundred other almost-moments. You don’t. “From the start?” you ask softly.

Dunk gives a loud breath through his nose—embarrassment and fondness. “Near enough.” His gaze drifts briefly to your mouth before he catches himself and looks back up. “First time you patched me up, reckon that might’ve been it.” It was how gentle you were, even as you were cursing him and telling him to be more careful, paired with a quick peck of the lips to his forehead. Didn’t much matter how any other woman looked at him after that—he only wanted you.

Your lips kink upward. “You were half-delirious with fever,” you remind him. 

“Aye,” Dunk admits. “Still knew it was you.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His hands shift, sliding around to your back. “Good,” you whisper. “Because it’s only ever been you for me, too.” My missing piece.

Dunk just stares at you for a moment, earnest and stunned. Then relief washes across his face, and he grins. “Good,” he says, echoing you, a little breathless, ears still burning red. “Else I’d have to win you over proper, and I’ve never been much good at clever words.” And before you can answer, he leans down, kissing you again. It’s slow and warm and nigh bittersweet for all the things neither of you had managed the courage to say for all those years. 

He keeps one arm loosely around your waist, foreheads bumping once or twice when one of you shifts, small things that would have sent you both scrambling away even hours earlier. It only makes you smile now. Eventually, Dunk clears his throat. “Turn around,” he tells you. Your brows knit slightly. “I’ll get your back,” he echoes. You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you.

Then his fingers touch your back, ghosting over your spine. You suck in a small breath. His hands are warm, calloused, and careful. The washcloth drags over your skin as he scrubs and wipes away the last of the soap and grit. When he reaches the small of your back, his hand pauses, like he’s deciding just how far he intends to go. You lean forward just a little, encouragement. Dunk’s hand lingers, but then he finishes, draping the cloth over the tub’s side again, but he’s not done. You washed more than just his back. 

He reaches for the tankard, dips it into the water, and carefully pours the warm water over your head. Dunk gathers your hair, working the soap into it, fingers dragging softly against your scalp, clumsy at first with his big hands, then steadier as he realizes you’re leaning back, pressing into his touch. You hum, content, as he works the lather through the length of your hair, the same way you did for him. Now and then, his fingers catch a tangle. He mutters an apology, carefully easing it loose. When he’s satisfied, Dunk reaches for the tankard again, rinsing away the suds. 

After, neither of you rush to get out—the water is still warm enough. You lean back against Dunk, head pillowed on his shoulder, and he lets his head rest against the edge of the tub. One of his hands drifts to your belly, absently tracing circles. “Egg’s going to be insufferable, you know,” you tell him. 

Dunk’s thumb pauses its slow circle. He breathes out a quiet laugh. You tilt your chin so you can glance up at him. His head is still tipped back against the rim of the tub, but there’s that familiar crooked smile pulling at his mouth. The thought of that sharp-eyed little prince looking between the two of you with that knowing grin of his settles between dread and reluctant amusement in Dunk’s mind. He shifts slightly beneath you, water lapping against the sides of the tub. “So,” he starts, “what do we tell him?”

You blink at him, then snort. “Oh, nothing.” Dunk lifts a brow. “No need.” You settle back against him again, stealing his warmth. “He already thinks he’s arranged the whole thing.” You rest your hand over his on your stomach, fingers threading together.

Dunk laughs—a hearty one that rumbles through his chest and into your back. “That sounds like him,” he says, his arm tightening around you, holding you a little closer. “Seven help us if he decides he’s our matchmaker,” Dunk adds, half-amused and half-resigned as he leans forward, planting a soft kiss on your temple—unthinking this time as if it’s only natural. Then his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours again, arms tightening around your middle, savoring everything about this moment before the water goes cold.

You are both lying on the rug of your living room floor, drunk. It’s around 1 am. Just a couple of side lamps providing the room with a faint glow, strains of jazz music leaking through the wall from the flat next door. A few too many drinks were consumed at a workmate’s wedding and now even more at yours. You made it back here, at least, but the Uber driver refused to drive Benedict to his place after you messed up the rideshare ordering. He came in for one nightcap with the plan to order another ride home. That was more than an hour ago.

“Urghhh Truth,” you choose, slurring a little.

“Have you ever woken up to someone eating you out?” His voice is mellow but drunken; he stares at the ceiling as he asks.

“What the fuck?” Even with this much alcohol coursing through your veins, your voice betrays how scandalised you are by that one. He’s a work colleague, a casual friend at best. While your vibe has always been decidedly flirty, he hasn’t earned the right to be that flagrant.

“Answer the question, y/n, truthfully,” he challenges with no hint of embarrassment, his head flopping over to look at you.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” you shrug, your cheeks aflame, although that could be at least a partial glow from the alcohol. 

He rolls onto his side to face you, a little wobbly. “Would you like to be?” He raises an eyebrow; it’s a blatant flirtation.

You finally meet his gaze and feel something hot slide down your skin.

“You can’t ask a secondary question; that’s cheating,” you deflect, belatedly releasing the lip you didn’t realise you were biting. The thought about how much you would enjoy such a wake-up haunts your thoughts.

“That’s not a no,” he smirks, your gaze lingering on his rather luscious-looking bottom lip, “I’d be happy to,” he adds in a barely audible whisper.

“Yes, okay, it’s a yes,” you admit on an exhale. Then give a twisted pout and clear your throat. “Truth or Dare,” you throw back pointedly, moving off the topic.

He chuckles and sits up to pour another shot for you both. 

——

You crack open an eye, and everything hurts. How can your eyelids hurt?!? Oh god, your mouth is like sandpaper. Your head is like cotton wool. Every fibre of you somehow feels nauseated, like your legs want to throw up of their own accord. 

That’s it. You are never drinking again. This is a hangover from hell.

You stare listlessly at the sliver of daylight across your bedroom ceiling for what seems like ages, glad the blackout curtains are pulled and that you at least made it to bed before passing out. The nausea passes, thank goodness, but otherwise, you still feel delicate. A glance down makes you realise you are still in the dress you wore to the wedding last night. You find your phone wedged against your hip and flick on the screen—the brightness makes you wince. It takes a second for your eyes to focus then it tells you it’s around 10 am.

There’s a soft groan next to you, and you startle, whipping around to see Benedict laying face down on your duvet, drooling a little. Clearly, as smashed out as you were, he’s also in the suit he wore last night, well, the shirt and trousers, but it’s all a little dishevelled, like his hair. His socked feet hang off the end of your bed. It appears you both passed out over your bedding, fully clothed. You don’t remember permitting him to stay; you also don’t remember asking him to leave either.

All the drinking comes flooding back. And wait, did you play a game? God, except for the booze, it’s all such a blur. 

“Get up,” you grouse after struggling up to a seated position, smacking the back of your hand lightly between his shoulder blades.

“Oww, that’s mean,” he groans and grinds his face into the bedding.

“Yeah, well, you poured the last few rounds of shots, so I’m holding you personally accountable for this hell,” you point out bitterly. “So get the fuck up.”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles, pushing up onto all fours. Even in your hungover state, you appreciate the shape and movement of his body as he does so. Until you see him hesitate and sway, his face suddenly going pale. “Oh god,” he mumbles.

“If you throw up on my bed, I will make you buy me a whole new one, headboard and all,” you threaten.

He swings his head rather dramatically to look at you. “You are mean sober,” he pouts, somehow looking very adorable with his bottom lip pushed out and downturned at the corners.

“Yeah, you should have remembered that from our weekly staff meeting,” you shoot back, but you can’t help the smile you give him, even though it hurts your head.

“You’re right; that’s on me,” he huffs a laugh as he crawls gingerly off the bed. 

He rather chivalrously rounds to your side and offers you his hand to stand up. You take it gratefully, and the room spins a little as you get to your feet.

“I’ll order an Uber,” he yawns, stepping back and pulling his phone from his pocket, mugging at the screen to get it to unlock.

“You can stay for a cuppa. And some ibuprofen” you offer.

He slips the phone away, seemingly unsuccessful in his attempt to open it. “Okay, yes, please.” 

He trails you out of the bedroom, across the living room of your flat, into the galley-style kitchen.

You flick on the kettle and get out mugs and teabags. Benedict leans against the counter opposite, watching you idly.

“I have new toothbrushes and spare towels. You are welcome to shower and brush your teeth after tea if you want,” you offer, ever the polite host you were raised to be.

“That’s very kind of you,” he demures, looking down then up through his thick lashes. Oh, that’s very attractive.

“I umm also might have some clothing you can borrow if you want to get out of those,” you gesture, trying not to ogle. What he’s wearing is obviously bespoke made, and it clings to him very well, even dishevelled the next day. “My brother left some stuff here last time he stayed over,” for some reason, you like it clear it’s not from an ex. “Just a t-shirt and joggers. Clean. They should fit you. You can return them whenever.”

“You are very generous,” he murmurs in a low voice that causes a little flutter in your belly.

The kettle flicks off its boil, the beep disturbing the moment.

“Milk, no sugar, right?” You check, recalling from work how he takes his tea, pouring out the water.

“Well remembered,” he says quietly, a little impressed.

“Pass me the milk?” you ask, nodding at the fridge next to him. 

“Wow, you have sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes,” he comments as he peaks in and grabs the bottle. You try not to watch the flex of his arm inside his tight shirt sleeve as he does so, but you mostly fail.

You frown. “Yeah, I have food, like a proper adult,” taking the milk he holds.

“Haha,” he deadpans, shutting the fridge door. “I mean, you have all the supplies for a proper fry-up that, I would argue, we probably need. And I’m a not-entirely-terrible cook…” he trails off with a small smile and shrugs.

“Are you offering to cook breakfast?” you can’t help smiling back.

“As an apology for the extra drinks and crashing over, yes, I am”, he confirms, with a small comedic bow.

“Then I accept”, you laugh lightly despite your fuzzy head. “Ibuprofen,” you recall, reaching up to the high cupboard above your oven. 

It’s a little far to stretch feeling this delicate and in a short hemmed dress. You should keep hangover supplies somewhere easier to reach; you silently chide yourself.

“Here, allow me,” he offers, and suddenly he is crowded behind you. You feel his body heat sinking through his shirt and your thin dress as he reaches above you and grabs the packet. The room suddenly feels too warm, and you still, realising that up on tiptoes, his crotch is right against your bum cheeks. And he’s not being shy about personal space. In fact, there’s a hand on your hip.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, heartbeat suddenly a little erratic.

“Helping you,” is the silky response, warm on your ear. He slides the pill box into your outstretched hand that was reaching for it, and then he is gone. 

You close the cupboard door and gradually sink onto your flat feet. He’s leaning casually against the opposite cabinets as if nothing happened. But there’s a trace of a smirk on his face. Oh, this man is trouble.

You remove the brewed teabags and add milk, handing him a mug and the blister pack of pills after snagging a couple for yourself.

“Pans are in that cupboard. Plates, there. Condiments, that one. Bread in the bread bin.” You reel off, pointing around the kitchen.

“Okay. Where are you going?” He inquires, a little confused.

“Taking a shower,” you trail off as you leave the room, taking your mug and swallowing the pills as you go. 

—-

The heavenly smell of sausages cooking wafts into the bathroom as warm water sluices down your back. Your stomach grumbles as you wash the conditioner out of your hair. After lingering and enjoying the reviving steam, you hustle to your room, towel drying your hair and changing quickly into simple white cotton underwear and a long sundress. 

When you emerge into the living room twisting your hair up, you are greeted with the sight of him setting your dining table with two plates full of perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs, meats, toast and grilled tomatoes, dusted with what looks like freshly cracked pepper.

“Oh my god, that looks amazing!” In your excitement, you grab his arms and lean into him as if for a quick unthinking hug. You feel all sorts of warm lean muscle before you spring away quickly. “Sorry,” you bustle, just realising what you have done.

“No, please, no apologies needed. I wish my cooking was always greeted with such an enthusiastic reaction,” Benedict answers honestly.

You take a seat, noticing he’s made you a second fresh mug of tea and even some orange juice in a glass.

“You are welcome over anytime,” you assert, then you blush as you realise what that could imply.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he smirks as he slides into the chair opposite and shoots you a look over the top of his juice glass. It’s enough to make you shift in your seat, prickly heat notching up your spine.

With your first bite, a moan escapes your lips that even you will admit isn’t appropriate. “This is delicious,” you whisper, enjoying the burst of flavour on your tongue as you watch him shift a little in his seat.

“The secret is adding fresh herbs to the eggs as they cook,” he winks, “and maybe a sprinkle of cheddar.”

“I’m stealing that,” you state, enjoying his responding laughter.

You eat hungrily, as does he, and you can feel the hangover slipping away with every bite and the painkiller kicking in. And, of course, the restorative power of a good old cup of tea—he makes a good one.

You can only thank him again as you sit back and puff out your cheeks.

“I’ll take that shower now if you don’t mind,” he politely asks as you finish up.

“Of course! I left a towel, toothbrush and the clothes in there for you” you nod.

“Thank you again,” he says sincerely.

You watch him walk away; well, why not? He can’t see you. You decide he has a lovely bum as you chew on the last corner of toast. 

While he’s showering, you tidy up, loading your dishwasher and clearing the empty liquor bottles and glasses on your coffee table from the previous night. When you’re done, your mind turns to if you should offer for him to hang out. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave, and, admitting to yourself somewhat reluctantly, you don’t want him to either.

You load up Netflix and scroll through some movies. He emerges a few moments later, his hair damp and slightly curled. He looks adorably casual in the loose t-shirt and joggers. Less the suave, suited man he was before, more the soft, sweet boyfriend type. You realise with some dismay you seem to find this man attractive in any form.

“You are welcome to hang out,” you offer breezily as you can, from the chaise seat of your sofa, waving the remote in your hand a little, “I was going to watch a movie.”

He still has his mug of tea in his hand. “Well, I didn’t finish my tea yet. So sure,” he shrugs and takes a seat at the other end of your sectional. Disappointingly far away.

“Genre?” You inquire, looking over. 

“Anything brainless,” he opines, “something light, funny?”

“My thoughts exactly,” you offer, landing on one of your favourites, “ooh, this one!”

“A kid's film?” He raises a sceptical eyebrow.

“How dare you!” you gasp, affronted, “this is a modern British masterpiece, and I will not hear a bad word about it. Even Nicolas Cage cried watching it,” you argue.

“Well, that’s high praise indeed,” he chuckles, “alright then.”

An hour or so later, you look over idly and watch him enraptured in Paddington 2, and you can’t help but smile. He looks so adorably engrossed. And handsome. Dear god, why have you not noticed quite how handsome he is before? You have to force yourself to look away, back at the screen, concerned that your heavy stare carries too much weight. 

You’ve seen this film so many times that it’s a comfort blanket, and towards the end, you feel your eyes drooping despite yourself. Benedict still seems so utterly entranced by the film that you fall asleep with a secret smile.

____

Something tickles at the edge of your mind.

Warmth and a gentle dragging sensation down your legs; entirely pleasant but a little strange. You shift slightly, the surface you are resting on familiar and comfortable, maybe your sofa? Hmm, whatever it is, it's plush. 

You feel a cool sensation pass over your lower half. Maybe you put a fan on. It’s summer, right? That makes sense.

You settle back into your dream. But this one feels different. So arousing…?

You feel a buzz somewhere in your body—a pleasant, concentrated feeling. You try to work out where. Is it…. between your legs? 

Yes, you are definitely dreaming of something extremely X-rated, which is rare. And okay, wow, this dream is… well, it’s very realistic. 

You feel heat and wetness, suction on your clit. 

Fuckkk, that feels good. Have you honestly been single so long you are now imagining oral sex? And oral sex this good? You hear yourself moan as if from elsewhere in the room and heartily agree with yourself. 

It’s when you feel, as much as you hear, a very male groan vibrating against your pubic bone that this dream starts to feel a little too realistic. 

Haltingly a dream-like-scape starts to rearrange and resemble your living room as your eyes flutter more open than closed. Dancing a thin line between the waking world and dreaming, you fight it a little; you don’t want this dream to end. Cmon sub-conscience, don’t do this now!!

But…

You realise the more the room comes into focus, the more the sensations of your dreams feel real, sharper. Wait….?

You suddenly feel a strong sucking pull on your clit, and it yanks you back into the room, panting and confused. So achingly aroused and swollen.

Your eyes dart from the ceiling down your body as you lay sprawled across the chaise, your sundress rucked up around your waist. And there between your thighs is indeed a man. A real man. His mouth sealed over your body. Eyes piercing yours with a smouldering stare.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Holy sh…

“Ben,” you gasp loudly.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he drawls with a smirk, pulling away just far enough to be heard.

“What the f…?” You utter, still in shock.

“You said you’d like to be woken up this way,” he murmurs, and you feel the heat from his mouth ghost over your soaked flesh between kisses of your folds. “And I want to give that to you” his voice is rough and low; it makes you clench around nothing.

“But…” your incredulity and arousal rendering you seemingly incapable of actual speech.

“I’ll stop if that’s what you want,” he offers sincerely, looking a little contrite.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Your growl almost doesn’t sound human, the tone foreign even to your ears. 

He smirks at that, his hand around your thighs squeezing, pushing you more open as he moves his face further down between your legs. You feel his light stubble catch against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as he buries his tongue into your channel and swirls.

Oh, fuck, he is good at this.

The grip on your thigh releases, and he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together. You’ve never had someone hold your hand before while they eat you out, but god, it’s wonderful. His fingers flex against the back of your hand in time with the movement of his tongue. 

“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs, and you feel the warm gust of his exhale into your pussy. It makes your walls flex just as his tongue dives back inside you.

He groans at that, and you watch his hips surge against the end of the chaise, pressing himself into the cushion for friction. The fact he is likely hard and leaking while he does this to you makes you stutter, and the ache inside you increases, dripping all over him. God, you want, no, you need, him inside you.

You can hear his deep breaths against you as he plunges his tongue into your channel, rhythmically nudging his nose against your clit as he does so. Your hand, not laced with his, instinctually wraps around his head, your fingers raking into his hair; the responding noise he makes is like poetry. 

He moves, returning to sucking your clit between his lips and swirling his tongue expertly. 

“Oh shi…” you hiss.

He chuckles, actually chuckles, against you, and you feel the vibration all the way up your clit and into your pelvis. 

His movements are passionate but languid like he's not trying to rush you towards orgasm. In the same way, you feel yourself climbing gradually, your breath a little winded, your moans a little louder as his suction increases. He is making filthy sodden noises now, and it's a pulsing spear of his tongue that is your undoing. Your hips canting up and off the sofa, your body shaking in little waves of convulsion quivering through your bones and heat flushing over your skin. It's the most serene satisfying orgasm you have experienced in a long time.

“That was…” you exhale tremulously, still unable to articulate.

“Relaxing?” he offers, meeting your gaze from between your legs with a crooked smile.

“Yes!” you concur.

He trails his nose up through your trimmed public hair towards your belly button, his movements lingering. 

“Truth or Dare,” you breathe as you stroke his hair, and he drops gentle kisses on your belly, his lips soft and warm.

“Dare,” he rumbles against your dewy flesh.

You were hoping he would pick that.

“I dare you to fuck me,” you enunciate every word clearly, not breaking eye contact as he stares up at you.

“With pleasure,” he growls and pushes up until he can capture your lips on his.

It's the first time you have kissed, and it overwhelms your senses. Your taste is potent on his lips as he lowers his warm body to cover yours, an insistent bulge rocking against you as he parts your lips and teases your tongue with his. Again it's unhurried but no less intense. 

This slow, almost lazy morning intimacy is precisely what you need in your slightly delicate state. Pleasurable but not arduous. It’s like he can read your mind, or maybe he feels the same.

“I find,” he rumbles, as he kisses down your neck, “morning sex is best just a little slow.”

“Mmmm,” you mumble in agreement, “no arguments here.”

You feel his smile against your skin as his lips descend lower, trailing lazily over the swell of one breast.

“How does this lovely dress come off?” he questions gently. 

“Here,” you go to pull down the strap, but he stops you with a hand over yours.

“Allow me,” he grins and hooks a finger into your left strap dragging it over the round of your shoulder, his mouth tracing the skin exposed by its removal.

“I would have worn nicer underwear if well…” you trail off, feeling self-conscious about the plain white cotton bra he has now exposed.

“Oh, I don’t know, I like this look. Besides, I’m much more interested in what’s underneath,” he breathes, running his nose until he finds your nipple and sucks it through the cotton. 

You inhale sharply as the hot wetness of his mouth soaks through the material. He pulls back slightly, purses his lips and blows over the nipple. The cool air after the heat makes you shudder and pebble almost painfully.

“So responsive, I love that,” he murmurs, surging his hips between your legs, his rigid cock rocking against you as a tease, the slightly bobbled jersey of the joggers catching against your naked clit. 

Oh, he’s going to torture you for ages unless you move things along. He moves to pull down the right strap of your dress and pays the same attention to that nipple. 

“Take off my bra,” you exhale shakily, desperate to feel his lips on your skin.

“Mmm, not yet,” he argues, “there’s so much more to explore” his tone is velvety as he casually pushes your dress down to your waist, so it’s all pooled around your middle, joining the hem he had pushed up there earlier.

“But you already took off my knickers,” you return, “while I was asleep, I might add.”

He huffs against your breastbone. “You make a fair point. Lift your hips,” he urges gently against your diaphragm. 

As you do so, he slips all of your dress off, sitting up to pull one and then the other leg out.

“Oh, I definitely like this look,” he breathes as he tosses your dress away and stares down at you from sitting on his haunches.

Your gaze falls to between his legs; seeing the tent there melts your insides. 

“Please take off the t-shirt at least,” you petition.

He smirks and crosses his arms and does so, throwing it away too. He is toned and sculpted in just the most perfect way. You reach out on instinct and drag your hand down over his abs. 

“Oh Ben,” you sigh, “why do you ever wear shirts?”

He chuckles and lowers himself back over your prone body.

“Says the woman who looks like sin in simple white cotton underwear,” he counters before giving you a leisurely kiss. 

As you kiss him back, you allow your hands to wander, sweeping over the expanse of the silky skin on his back, the scent of your shower gel clings to him, and it's oddly comforting that he smells so much like your home. You allow your hands to wander a little lower, feeling emboldened; you slide them inside the waistband of the joggers he is wearing. And you realise he's not wearing any underwear. Just the feel of peach fuzz skin stretched over ample muscle of his butt. You flex your hand on instinct, grabbing a handful, and he growls into your mouth, hips surging against you, his hard cock rubbing against your pubic bone just so.

“I'm going to need you to get naked,” you sigh against his cheek.

He laughs gently and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Fine, but you do it,” he challenges with a little smile. 

You remove the hand from his butt, skating your fingers around the elastic waistband to pull at the strings tied neatly in a bow below his belly button. You look down at your task, but he is looking at you; you can feel his eyes on your face. As the bow releases, you take your time pushing down the waistband hooking your thumbs into the front and pulling away so he can be freed. 

Oh. Hello.

You decide he has quite the prettiest cock you've seen in a while. Large enough, you know you will definitely enjoy yourself, although you could have guessed that from the hot press of him against you before. 

“Very nice, Ben,” you whisper, looking back up at his face, and he smiles almost bashful. So you move your hand and grab him, watching his eyes dilate further and his breath staccato. Oh yes, pretty boy. 

His shaft is so hot and silky. The skin glides easily in your palm as you gently rock it in your grasp. Leisurely, just like most of your encounter this morning. He lets out a little whine as you squeeze a little tighter.

“Sure that you want me to keep my bra on?” you tease on a downstroke, and he growls at you.

“Take it off.”

“But my hand is so busy elsewhere,” you retort lightly, raising an eyebrow.

An arm bracketing your sides moves, and then there is a warm hand dragging the cup of your bra down. He lowers his head and sucks forcefully on your nipple, a sudden hot rush of sensation that makes your hand flex around his cock. You feel his responding moan skitter across your skin as much as you hear it.

For a moment, there is a flurry of activity as he squirms out of his joggers, and you unhook and remove your bra. Then you are both calm again. Completely naked now. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asks almost sweetly.

“Yes, Ben, I'm sure,” you whisper, “I just wish I'd brought a damn condom out from the bathroom before now.”

With a smirk, he leans over and snags one from the pocket of his discarded joggers. You say nothing; just raise an eyebrow at him—you recognise it as one of your own from your cabinet.

He shrugs. “I didn't like to be too presumptuous,” he demures slightly, “but I felt you push back against me in that kitchen, so I took a calculated guess.”

“Oh, did you now?” you snatch the packet and tear it open using your teeth. “Was that a little test then?” 

“Maybe,” his smile crooked until he groans slightly as you roll it onto his cock and then settle back.

“You’re giving away all your secrets today, Mr Bridgerton, how you seduce a woman and how to make the best damn scrambled eggs,” you jest as he pushes your legs apart a little more and lines himself up.

“Well, I can see you stealing the scrambled eggs,” he concedes, teasing at your entrance, “but what use would you have with seducing a woman?”

“How do you know I'm not bi?” you murmur as he starts to push into you. His surprise manifests in his hips stuttering forward, and he slides in deep. You both groan at the same time. He feels fantastic, with just the right amount of stretch and heat. 

“Oh fuck, are you? That's so hot,” he confesses, motionless inside you, adjusting to the sensation. 

For a little bit of mystery, you don't answer; you just spider your hands down his back until you grab a handful of his peachy behind again. “Move Ben, please,” you encourage.

His lips seek out yours, and his hands curl around your shoulders as he pulls backwards, then surges in at almost a casual pace. You hum into his mouth as he starts to rock into you languidly, barely exerting any effort, just using his knees as leverage. It feels so marvellously serene, just a gentle rocking motion and the invasion of him inside you, the stretch so utterly beguiling.

“Mmm, this is wonderful,” you drawl.

“You feel incredible,” his voice is soft and idle.

Just then, your neighbour starts to play his jazz, like the previous night, the sound leaking delicately through the walls.

“Well, now we even have the perfect lazy Sunday soundtrack,” he jests, and you laugh, the sound rolling with his surge into your body.

“Oh god,” he groans, “I can feel you laughing from the inside. Please do it again,” he implores.

“Say something funny,” you counter, but you are already giggling.

“Oh, that's it,” he laughs too, an easy, carefree thing between you as he leans in and swallows your amusement, still pushing into you at a slow pace. 

The ease and intimacy between you is surprising; it's more like you are a real couple than workmates having sex for the first time. You share smiles like he can read your thoughts. He moves an arm down to hook around your knee, pulling your legs up higher and changing the angle of his hips. He's watching your face, smiling as your expression reveals how much you like this new position.

“Does that feel good?” his voice honeyed, knowing the answer.

You just shut your eyes and grab his flexing biceps, pushing your hips down against his. He hums approvals, and there are no more words as he starts to push a little more urgently. 

It feels steady as you ascend towards a peak of pleasure. Breaths a little harsher, kisses a little more demanding. You whisper each other's names against your cheekbones, hands grabbing flesh a little tighter. It's a slow build but no less wonderful for its relaxed pace. When he reaches between you and thumbs your clit you are taken aback at how fast it hurtles you right towards the precipice. He murmurs encouragements hot against your ear, surrounding you, pulling your leg hitched over his arm just a little higher. After a few moments pulled so taunt, the tension inside you snaps and ripples of pleasure fan out from your core, convulsing hard around him, your lips tingling warm as he moves to kiss you and groan into your mouth. A few thrusts, more urgent than before, and he is cumming hard too, eyes screwed shut, his hand a vice-like grip on your jaw, his mouth slack against yours.

His eyes open as he softens inside you, and you make lingering close eye contact, feeling each other's smiles as much as seeing them. What a wonderfully blissful experience.

—-

“Can we do this next Sunday?” he asks quietly, almost meek, as he finishes getting dressed. “And maybe a few Sundays after that too? If that works for you?”

A little warmth blooms in your chest. “Perhaps, if you always cook,” you return lightly with a shoulder bump.

“Oh, you have a deal. With one condition,” he adds playfully, scratching his chin as if in thought.

“What?”

“We watch Paddington 2 again,” he answers, as you laugh heartily.

“See!? I told you it was a fucking masterpiece!”

“I should never have doubted you,” he concedes with a chuckle. “Maybe I will just have to see all movies with you from now on. You know, as the arbiter of good taste that you clearly are.”

You smile at the hidden message behind his sweet words. “I'll watch all the movies with you that you want, Ben,” you assure. “Clothing optional, of course,” you add with a salacious wink.

His face breaks into a devastating crooked smile, and he tackles you back onto the sofa as you squeal in delighted surprise.

Thirty movies later, he has moved in. 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose  @colettebronte  @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon  @margofiore  @writergirl-2001  @heeyyyou  @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @wysteria-clad

bonus: