Hyena

Your sister means kindly by it. She does. Her invitation had all the look of family affection and all the substance of pity besides—come stay with us awhile, come out of that lonely house, come be amongst noise and life, as though noise and life were sovereign cures for widowhood.

And perhaps they are for some women. Perhaps some woman, not yet a year bereft, would be glad enough to clap eyes on the nearest decent man, let him grunt his way over her, and set to breeding by way of proof that the world had not ended. That has never been your method.

Life has had the indecency to go on this past year. That is the trouble. It goes on in your own lonely house, and it goes on here, in your sister’s bustling one, with a cow to be milked and a kettle to be watched and small sticky hands forever catching at your sleeves, while every soul about you peers on as if waiting for you to remember your proper business and take another husband. In the meanwhile the plain truth is that the countryside is dull enough to drive a woman to gnaw her own hand for want of diversion, if only to see what might happen next.

Before your teeth reach the tendon, though, Bitterbridge answers. It gathers everything to itself: lordlings and lowborn, sellswords and cutthroats, the poor, the rich, the young, the old, the whores and the ones hot for them. Another tournament is proclaimed in honour of some spoiled highborn brat because she happens to be her father’s favourite daughter, and the town and its outskirts swell with ale, coin, filth, and horseshit.

Any breach in this boredom will serve. Any face but your sister’s—leg-spreader, Gods bless her, and lovingly said, though not without a pinch of envy—her kind-hearted husband’s, and those of her full-cheeked children might yet be your salvation. To walk streets bursting with life. To see blood running from men’s temples and lust bright on the faces of those who slip away by night to the makeshift brothel. To live vicariously through them might well save you from losing a hand after all.

What you are going to lose, beyond doubt, is either your sanity or your hearing, perhaps both, brought about by your sister’s piercing screech one morning. One of her offspring is lost. Unseen by his siblings the whole night past, likely wandered off into town to gape at knights and steal ale from the bottoms of half-drunk cups. A little hellion, that one. Curious and sweet in his own fashion, and by far the one nearest your heart.

“I’m taking the horse,” you tell your sister, shrugging into your cloak. “I’ll search the outskirts while Harlan searches the town.” She only stares at you, shaking. You cross to her, cup her face in both hands, and rest your brow to hers for a moment. “Be brave, my darling. We’ll find him.”

“What if he’s lost?” she whispers. “What if he’s taken, or split in half for disturbing a lord?”

Then you have four others still, you think first, sharp and ugly as a pin. “Nonsense,” you say. “What use would the Gods have for sweet little Pate, hm?”

“Gods? None.” She gives a weak little smile. “But I feel the Hells would take him gladly.”

You laugh at that, kiss her brow, fold her tight to you once, and then you are off.

First, you ride for the meadows where the contestants have pitched their camps. The horse you leave hitched beneath a willow, and the rest of the search you take on foot. You ask after Pate wherever there is a face to ask, though half the camp is too drunk, concussed, or both to trust their own names, much less a boy’s. The others tell you only that this is no place for a child alone, which you had gathered already. One man asks what it would cost to have your legs spread.

You smile at him sweetly. “I fear you have not coin enough for that, goodman.”

He is comely enough that, under other circumstances, you might have gone with him all the same. Being taken for a whore does not prick your pride half so much as perhaps it ought. There are worse things to be mistaken for, and you have another errand in hand. Still, the press of so many fine men in one place is enough to do a widow’s head in. You have not been touched in an age, and your body, faithless thing, seems minded to remind you of it now.

Then you hear your name, shrilled above the crush of voices spilling between the food stalls, trinket boards, and smiths’ tents. You turn, looking low first, towards the height of men’s thighs, and so it takes you a blink to find him.

Pate is not on the ground at all. He is perched high on a man’s shoulders, little legs dangling down the broad plane of his chest, both hands fisted in the man’s hair to keep himself steady.

“Aunt!” he cries, cheeks scored with clean tracks where tears have cut through the dust. “Ser Duncan—there’s my aunt!”

The knight turns at once, and the first thing that strikes you is his size. He is a mountain of a man, broad enough to block half the lane, with a face so open and kindly upon it that the whole effect goes strange. He glances at you almost fearfully, as if braced for a scolding for carrying off your sister’s child. The nearer you come, the bigger he seems. Your gut gives an odd little stir at the thought of trading places with Pate, of sitting astride those immense shoulders with your hands sunk in his hair. Then you come nearer still and are struck by the full offence of him.

Gods above, the man stinks.

Horse, old leather, sour sweat baked hard by the day’s sun, and something so thoroughly masculine and foul beneath it that your nose near gives up its office altogether. At this rate you shall end the morning with but one sense left to you, and it is fortunate that sight is proving such a useful one. For all his reek, the knight is a thing very well worth looking at.

“Beg pardon, m’lady,” the man says. “I found him wandering alone, crying—”

“I wasn’t crying!” Pate protests.

“I swear this to you, I was about to bring him home,” the knight says, all in a rush. His eyes are huge and honest, boyish in a way that sits almost absurdly on so large a frame. Pate has much the same look when caught at mischief.

You blink yourself back into the matter at hand. “I’ve no doubt of that,” you say, then tip your head further back to peer up at your nephew. “What did they feed you, little devil? You’ve grown rather tall overnight.”

You reach for the boy. He comes down from the knight’s shoulders into your arms, and nuzzles into you with a sweet little sigh. “Come. Your mother’s worried sick. Your father has gone all the way into town, and you know how much he hates that.”

Pate gives a small wet laugh against your neck. Harlan is a house beast through and through and holds that too much town air breeds wickedness by degrees. The man would sooner bed down with his pigs than pass a cheerful day amongst crowds.

“What’s this?” you ask when something warm touches the skin of your throat.

A sniffle. “Will he whip me?”

You put a hand to his back and rub. “There will be no whipping. No one whips children while I am here,” you say softly.

Then you turn back to the knight and find him gaping, caught at it beneath long lashes. “Thank you, er—”

“Dunk. Uh—” He checks himself, pulls out of his slouch, and for the space of a breath seems to grow even broader, as though the title is the only shape large enough to hold him. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Thank you, Ser Duncan,” you say. “Come.” You beckon him closer, having already taken his measure well enough. “My sister will want to give you her thanks for finding this unruly little demon.”

“Oh, no, m’lady, there’s no need,” he says at once. “I could not take payment for doing what’s only right.”

You smile. “Have you comfortable lodging?”

That stops him. His silence answers plain enough.

“Come, Ser Duncan,” you say. “There is no shame in accepting gratitude. My family has not much, but we may at least offer you a warm meal and a bed for the night.” Your gaze slips over him once, slow and knowing. “And a bath.”

The blush that rises on him is so sudden and so violent it is all you can do not to laugh outright. It goes straight through the grime. Endearing is too small a word for it.

He ducks his head. “Beg pardon,” he mutters, then falters and says, “All right. I thank you for your kindness. I’ll only have to fetch my squire.”

“Fetch him, then. I’ll wait for you by the willow tree at the back entrance to the camp.”

Little Pate must have been awake all night, for he falls asleep almost at once when you settle him before you in the saddle. A ridiculous sight, his limbs gone loose and boneless in slumber, but a calming one all the same.

Within minutes the frame of Ser Duncan appears again, already ahorse, which only serves to make him seem larger still. Behind him, on a smaller mount, trots his squire, and your heart gives an odd little catch at the sight of him. He is no more than a boy—small for a squire, with eyes so large you can make out their colour even at a distance, and a bare head shiny as though he had only just come squalling into the world.

When they draw near, you mount carefully so as not to wake the nephew. “You are rather young—” you say to Ser Duncan’s squire, and see him brace at once for insult, “—to be so thoroughly cursed with baldness.”

His mouth quirks. He lets out a breath. In the voice of a child who has more wit in that bald head than is entirely proper, he says, “You are rather grown to be losing children.”

“Egg,” Duncan hisses. “Beg pardon, m’lady. He ought not say such things.”

“No harm done.” You lift a hand once to stay him. Then, to the boy: “‘Tis not my child that got lost. I have none.”

“And why is that?”

“Seven hells, Egg—” Duncan mutters, reddening under the dirt.

“My husband was taken by a fever before he had much chance to get about the business of begetting any,” you say, and leave it there.

You put your horse to motion to lead the way. As you pass Duncan, you murmur low enough for the boy not to hear, “Do not smack him. I do not mind it. Spend a day in my sister’s house and you will thank the Seven for putting a child with such a sharp tongue in your path.”

“He’s not my child, m’lady,” he says, plainly taken aback.

Thank the Gods. “He is a child all the same. And he is with you. And—” You glance over at him. “I am no lady. You may speak plainly.”

He nods a moment later, though not before his eyes make a slow and thorough passage over your face. It tells you that he means to keep calling you lady regardless. You do not much mind that either.

On the road home, where the town gives way to the tourney camps, you pass an inn that has turned bawdy for the festivities. Women in dresses scant enough to shame a summer day lean in the doorway and spill laughing onto the road; men half-laced and half-dressed stumble out after them, rumpled, red-eyed, and greasy with old drink. Hair hangs loose, bodices sit crooked, one fellow has his belt in hand and no visible haste to remedy the matter. You are glad Pate sleeps through it, cheek pillowed warm against your breast. Glad, too, for the discovery. It lies not far from the house—fifteen minutes on horseback at worst. Something to keep in mind, if only for a cup of ale and a look about the next time boredom drives you to the lip of madness. Or desperation.

Ser Duncan keeps his gaze fixed sternly ahead, all courtesy. Egg stares as any boy would, sharp as a magpie and twice as interested.

“Egg,” Duncan says under his breath, “it is not seemly to gape.”

“I am only looking,” says Egg. “I had thought eyes were for that.”

“They are not for staring at women.”

Egg considers this gravely. “Then it is a wonder you know so much of staring, ser.”

That draws a laugh out of you. The knight only keeps getting redder. Egg, seeing himself successful, sits a touch straighter in the saddle with the insufferable composure of a boy pleased by his own cleverness.

By the time you reach the house, your sister is already outside. The moment she sees Pate, she breaks into a run as though he had been missing a month rather than a night. You cannot help rolling your eyes, though your chest loosens at the sight of her. She reaches up the instant you rein in, lifting the boy from the saddle into her arms.

“You insolent fool,” she says first, fierce with repose. Then her hand goes over his head, over and over, smoothing and mussing his hair. “Are you in one piece, my love? What came into that little head of yours, hm? We have been worried sick.”

“Oh, he has been saved all right,” you say, swinging down from the horse. “By no less than a true knight. I have brought Ser Duncan to us in thanks.”

“Ser Duncan, is it?” your sister says, turning to him. She shifts Pate against her hip, then thrusts him at Harlan, who has come hurrying round the side of the house, and catches both of Duncan’s hands in hers. “Oh, ser, you must stay. You must. I am so grateful to you.”

Then, after one brief hitch of hesitation, gratitude gets the better of her. She steps forward and throws both arms awkwardly round his waist, sobbing once against him. You can see in real time the stench of him getting to her nostrils. “Thank the Seven for you,” she says on a held breath. “Such a good lad.”

Duncan starts as though struck, then lets out a startled laugh and folds his great arms about her with touching care, as if afraid he might break her by recognition alone.

When she pulls back, she pats his chest once, brisk and affectionate. “Forgive me. I am only glad.” Then she turns to Egg, all softness again. “And who are you, sweet thing? Would you like a honey-cake?”

Egg puts on the most counterfeit pout you have ever seen. “Very much so, mistress. I have not eaten a proper meal in half an age. Ser Duncan requires all the food in Westeros merely to remain upright.”

Your sister blinks once at that, glances up at Duncan’s immense frame, and nods with a vague little murmur of sympathy, as if this explains a great many things.

“Egg,” Duncan hisses in a tight whisper of warning.

You snort into your hand, wholly lost. Between the giant knight, his bald and insolent little squire, and your sister already bustling them toward the door, perhaps this is your salvation from death of the mind after all.

Dunk is having a day of it.

It begins at the lists, where a clerk with a neck like a suet pudding informs him that Ser Duncan the Tall may well be entered to joust three days hence, but Ser Duncan the Great Oaf most certainly is not. Egg, when hauled up by the shoulder and stared at, only says he had thought the man might enjoy a little wit to brighten his scratching. The man has not enjoyed it. The man has in fact grown firmer on the matter, insisting that names cannot simply be altered once set down, not without the steward’s leave, and that if Dunk means to be Ser Duncan the Tall then he ought to have named himself so in the first place.

“I did,” Dunk says.

The clerk sniffs. “Then you should not have sent a bald liar in your stead.”

So Dunk, already cross, sends Egg back to camp before he says something that earns them both a kicking. Camp, as ever, lies under a tree beside a little run of water, because Dunk likes shade and Egg likes grumbling about roots in his back, and both arrangements suit them well enough.

From there the day worsens by degrees. A drunken knight makes some jest at table—something about tall men and how little use they are once unhorsed—and Dunk, who does not understand which part is meant to be laughed at, keeps his mouth shut. That somehow proves worse than laughing wrong would have done. The man takes offence, calls him a thick cunt, and gives him a punch in the belly for good measure. Dunk lets him. Better a hard fist to the gut than a brawl that ends with somebody’s blood up and steel drawn. The blow hurts. The knight’s friends laugh. Dunk goes away hungry.

Then a little cutpurse makes bold enough to try his belt. Dunk catches the boy by the wrist easy as anything, silver safe where it belongs, but in turning too quick he plants one boot on slick ground and comes down square on his arse in a pile of horse dung so fresh it near steams.

By then he is tired clear through. He is not to ride in the lists for another three days. He stinks, more than usual. His pride has been handled roughly from several directions at once. So he goes to a stall for ale, sits on a bench in the shade, and thinks perhaps the day has spent its malice.

Then something wraps round his calf. Dunk startles and looks down. A boy, no more than four or five springs, has both arms round his leg and his face pressed into Dunk’s knee as if he means to hide there forever.

Dunk blinks. “Hallo.”

The child peeps up at him with a filthy face and eyes gone gummy from crying. “Don’t let him take me.”

Dunk looks over the table. Nobody in sight seems keen to take the boy anywhere. Men are drinking, shouting, pissing against fences, arguing over horses, and minding their own business poorly. The boy smells of sleep gone stale, old tears, and whatever sweet thing he has spilled down the front of himself sometime yesterday.

“Who?” Dunk asks.

The boy only clutches tighter.

Dunk drinks half his ale one-handed, hoping matters might explain themselves if given a moment. They do not. The child remains fixed to him like a burr. When coaxing gets nowhere, Dunk buys the boy a heel of bread. That earns him a name at last, spoken round a mouthful.

“Pate.”

“Right,” Dunk says. “And where’s your father?”

Pate shrugs.

“Your mother, then?”

Another shrug.

It takes the better part of the ale and two women passing by, both too hurried to help, before Dunk pieces together that Pate belongs somewhere out beyond the town, where the houses thin and the road runs out into kitchen plots, goat pens, and muddy little holdings. Near Bitterbridge, the boy says, which is no use at all because they are already near Bitterbridge. Then, after much prompting and a fresh bout of tears, he gets something about a sister, then another sister and a brother, and some more, and a house with pigs and hens and blue window frames.

That is how Dunk finds himself with a sleepy child on his shoulders trudging toward the outlying crofts beyond town because he cannot, in conscience, do anything else.

Pate, now that he has decided Dunk is safe, sits astride his neck as if born to it, small hands sunk in Dunk’s hair for balance, kicking his heels lightly against Dunk’s chest. Dunk keeps one hand clamped round a skinny leg and wonders whether all children change temper so quick, from terror to comfort and back again. He cannot remember what kind of boy he had been himself.

The day, having spent itself on lesser indignities, answers him at last with something stranger.

The boy’s kin is found. Dunk sees the woman who comes striding through the crowd and is struck by a feeling so swift and so enormous he scarcely has time to know it before it is gone: a foolish, piercing regret that Pate is not his own, if only so she might belong with him. Then the thing rights itself. You are no mother to the boy, only his aunt. Why that should ease anything in him Dunk could not say, yet it does. Something heavy shifts off the inside of his chest.

After that the fist to his belly feels like nothing much. You do not look made for tourney crowds and camp filth, and yet you move through both as if you can manage either well enough. There is nothing grand about you, nothing painted, but you are prettier than any lady he has seen ride by that day, and prettier than the women leaning from the inn doors. When you tip your face up at him, Dunk forgets to breathe. Then he does breathe, and remembers at once how badly he smells.

It gets worse after that. The way you take the boy down from his shoulders. The way you hold him easy, as if you have always had a place for frightened children. The hand on the boy’s back. Your voice when you soothe him. It does something soft to Dunk’s insides that he does not care to examine too closely. When you ask him in, he says no once because he feels he ought to. When you insist, he is glad of it.

The moment you are out of sight, he turns back quick for the tree by the stream where Egg is waiting.

Egg is crouched by their things, poking at the bank with a stick. He looks up as Dunk comes near. “You’ve been gone long enough. I was beginning to think the stream had swallowed you.”

“I’ve got us lodging for the night,” Dunk says. “Fetch the horses.”

Egg straightens. “Lodging? I thought a hedge knight required nothing but the open sky and a sore back.”

“I reckon you’re old enough to sleep under it by yourself, if you love it so much.”

Egg gives a small huff and goes to gather their few things. Dunk, in spite of himself, feels a grin begin under his nose.

“How did you come by this lodging, ser?” Egg asks, bundling up the blanket roll.

“A woman invited us.”

Egg pauses. “A woman.”

“I found her boy wandering and brought him back.”

“Ah,” Egg says. “So we are heroes.”

Dunk shrugs. “The family means to thank us with supper and a bed.”

Egg glances up at him. “And you accepted.”

“It would have been rude not to.”

“Yes,” says Egg, in a tone that means he is filing this away forever.

Dunk bends to tighten a strap that needs no tightening. “What?”

“Nothing, ser. Only, you are not commonly so eager to let women be kind to you.”

“She asked proper.”

“I do not doubt she did.”

Dunk frowns at him. “You’ve a deal to say for someone who’s meant to be packing.”

Egg’s mouth twitches. “What sort of woman is she?”

“A common woman.”

“That was plain from the tale. I meant what sort.”

Dunk opens his mouth, then finds he has no good answer to that which does not sound foolish. Egg waits. Dunk scowls. “She’s—” He stops, annoyed with himself. “Decent.”

Egg nods once, very solemn. “Ah. Curious.”

“There’s naught curious in it.”

“No, ser?” Eggs says. “Because when washerwomen smile at you, you turn pink and look for a hill to die behind. When innkeepers’ daughters offer you broth, you near choke to death refusing it. Yet now a woman asks you in and suddenly you are all courtesy and gratitude.”

Dunk busies himself with the saddle so the boy cannot see his face too plain. “She asked proper.” 

“I am sure she did.” 

“She did.” 

Egg’s mouth twitches. “And is she ugly, then?” 

That catches Dunk square. He lifts his head. “What?” 

“It would explain a great deal.” 

Dunk stares at him. Egg’s eyes go bright with malice. “She is not ugly,” Dunk says, too quick. 

Egg lets the words sit between them a moment, warm as stolen bread. “Hm.” 

Dunk knows he has said too much. “Get on your horse.”

Egg does, though with all the relish of a boy carrying a secret he means to turn over for pleasure later. They ride back at a fair pace, Dunk ahead and Egg just behind, the stream noise falling away as they rejoin the road. His stomach has begun to remember the promise of supper. His body remembers the promise of a bath better still. Worse than both is that his mind keeps running ahead to the willow tree, to the woman waiting there, to the quick look she gave him when she told him to come.

By the time they reach the meeting place, he has straightened himself three separate times to no profit. You wait with the sleeping child in your saddle, and mount up as soon as you spot them. Dunk feels the same strange knock inside his ribs as before.

Egg, seeing everything because he sees too much, makes a small thoughtful noise through his nose and says nothing at all, which is worse. Then, he speaks again and Duncan is lost as to which is more troublesome, Egg speaking or not speaking. Firstly, because his own squire has a way of making Duncan feel a fool besides a knight. Secondly, because the news of your widowhood, though it stirs pity in him, fills him with terrible gladness.

Soon enough he learns that Egg’s tongue ought to be cut out, for despite Dunk having given the insolent prince the last of his supper only the night before, Egg somehow manages to make him look a selfish brute before a family full of gratitude. You seem to enjoy it immensely, and it is only the sound of your laughter that makes any of the misery worth bearing.

The rest of the day also does not improve matters. It undoes him.

Dunk has known inns where a man gets his trencher slapped down and is meant to be grateful for whatever gristle lies on it. He has known halls where a hedge knight is fed last, watched all through, and left to wonder whether asking for more bread would see him turned out into the yard. He has known too many places where a man is tolerated so long as he keeps small.

This house knows none of that. Your sister heaps his plate as if his size were a challenge set to her by the Seven themselves. When he scrapes it clean, she asks whether he wants more, and her face says she hopes he does. He cannot remember the last time anybody looked pleased by his appetite.

The children take to him so fast it near makes his teeth ache. One hangs off his forearm. Another begs to be lifted. A third wants to see whether his hand is truly as big as a trencher. Dunk obliges them all, laughing like he’s a child himself, and when he lifts two at once and makes them squeal, the little ones look at him as if he has performed some feat finer than unhorsing a champion.

He catches you watching him from across the room, chin propped in your palm. The sight of it makes him believe The Seven themselves have made him go through all the morning torment so that he can be here now. 

You drop your hand the moment you find him looking. A blink later, you look again.

Your eyes are very beautiful. So is your hair, though he has no proper words for hair beyond dark or fair or long, and yours defeats all three for usefulness. The house smells of stew and bread and rushes and children and the clean warmth that comes of many bodies under one roof, but beneath it all he can pick out you. He does not know how. He only knows he can. It keeps pulling his head your way like a hand at the back of his neck.

And he wonders. You are too young, he thinks, to be speaking of widowhood with that dry edge in your mouth. Too young to have such a settled bitterness in you already. Too pretty by half to be without a husband, and clever too, which may be the trouble. What sort of man had you had? What sort would you want now? Something finer than a hedge knight, surely. A man with land under him, perhaps, or silk on his back, or a name that means something when said aloud.

Not him.

Even so, when the children clamour for stories, he gives them stories. He tells them of roads gone white with dust in Dorne, of rain in the Reach, of a black boar that chased a knight up a tree and left him there till dawn. He drinks mead. He eats honey-cakes. He watches Egg, who at first stands apart pretending not to care, and then somehow finds himself drawn into a game with the younger boys using nutshells and pebbles for soldiers. The sight of him, bald head bent over so solemn a campaign, stirs a softness in Dunk he knows he will regret the next time the boy opens his mouth.

No matter. For a little while he lets the feeling stay.

Now and again he sees you turn at some sound from the road, some burst of laughter drifting in from beyond the yard, and a look passes over your face quick as a swallow’s shadow. Restlessness, maybe. Hunger of some sort. He cannot name it, but he sees it. You laugh with your sister, chide the children, fetch more bread, and all the while some part of you seems to be listening elsewhere.

By evening he is clean-fed, warm, and so unaccustomed to ease that it leaves him half-wary.

He has been shown to a little guest room with a bed better than any he has had in months. He stands in the middle of it with no notion what to do with his hands. The room smells of lavender and old wood. His own stink still clings to him despite the washbasin in the corner, because a basin is not a bath and there is only so much a man can do with a rag.

Then, comes a knock.

“Enter,” he says, and hears at once how stiff he sounds.

The door opens no more than a crack. You peer through with a candle cupped in one hand, the flame shivering behind your fingers in a little chamberstick. “Are you decent, Ser Duncan?”

He nearly chokes and folds his arms across himself though he is still fully clothed. “M-m’lady.”

“Hallo,” you say. The candlelight softens your face. “Supper’s near ready. And I told you already I am no lady, which I think you have gathered by now.”

“Beg pardon.” He ducks his head. The silence after seems to ask something more of him, so he snatches at the first thing that comes. “I—I am sorry. About Egg. What he said. And about your husband.”

You look at him a moment, quizzical, the corner of your mouth beginning to stir. “Are you truly sorry, or are you waiting for me to tell you time has passed and I am well enough now, so you may think yourself compassionate?”

“I—” He takes one helpless step forward and spreads his hands. “M’lady, I meant no—”

“I jest.”

Your smile widens. It shows your teeth. Fine lines gather at the corners of your eyes, and Dunk is struck by the want to put his mouth there, right there where your face folds with mirth. The thought is so sudden and so improper it leaves him stupid.

“Besides,” you say, “time has passed, and I am well enough. It was a marriage made for convenience. Poor luck that he died before I could come to love him. But thank you.”

Dunk stares, trying to set all that in order. He feels there ought to be something to say. Something wise, perhaps, or kind. He has none of it.

“I don’t know the right words,” he admits.

He is looking at his boots when you step closer, so he does not see your hand coming until it rests lightly on his forearm. He jumps as if burnt.

You chuckle under your breath. “You need not be so skittish, Ser Duncan. You are wanted here. You and your squire both. I am sure my sister would be glad to lodge you until the tournament ends.”

The candle flickers between you. Each small movement of the flame changes your mouth. Makes your eyes shine in a way that seems unearthly. Dunk can smell the soap on your skin, and something warmer under it that he has no name for and wants badly all the same.

“I could not put your family to such trouble,” he says. “I eat near as much as all the children together.”

“It is no trouble. It is an honour to host a knight.”

“H-honour. M’lad—” He swallows. “You flatter me. Needlessly. I am only a hedge knight.”

“A knight is a knight, Ser Duncan.” Your hand moves a little up his arm, no more than an inch, and stops there. He feels the place of it as if you had laid a coal against him. “I have prepared your bath,” you say.

He flushes hot. “Forgive me. For the stench. I—”

You laugh then, open and genuine, and not at him so much as at the whole miserable fact of his shame. “This house keeps hens, pigs, a barn full of beasts, and five little mongrels running underfoot. Do you think a man’s sweat will shock us?” Then you lower your voice. “And I have smelt worse on a man than on you. You make up for it elsewhere.”

Dunk’s head comes up. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you are kind,” you say. Your hand leaves him, and the loss of it is so immediate he hates himself for noticing. “And half-ashamed of it besides.” A pause. “Come, while the water is still warm. My sister found clean clothes for you as well.”

“That is much too kind. I cannot—”

“Oh, stop.” There is a smile in your mouth again. “You are not going to bathe and then drag horseshit breeches back on, are you? Harlan has a cousin near your size. They ought to sit on you well enough.”

Dunk lets out a breath that wants to be a laugh. “No,” he says. “I reckon not.” He looks at you because he cannot seem to stop. “Thank you,” he says. “Truly.”

Something changes in your face at that. Not much. Just enough for him to think you had expected another kind of man entirely.

Then you step back to the doorway. “The bath’s in the little room off the kitchen,” you say. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You go, and Dunk stands another moment in the middle of the chamber like the fool Egg says he is. Then he follows, because what else is there left to do.

By the time dusk settles proper, your mind feels raised from the dead.

Not only your mind. Other parts besides. Parts that have sat these past months like hinges gone bitter and unoiled, stiff with disuse, now creak with the force of wanting to move. All day you have found yourself staring at a great dirty fool of a man in your sister’s house as though he were a rare beast wandered in from the woods. Bigger than any doorway deserves. Goofy as a calf. Running with children dangling from him, making a giant child of himself for their delight, his whole face split with such open joy the dimples in his cheeks near end you. His teeth are uneven. They are beautiful. It pains you, absurdly, that they are not sunk somewhere on your body. He eats as if food were a thing meant in earnest, not pecked at and praised and left. There is pleasure in setting more before him and watching it vanish. Once jam runs from a cake down his chin and you have to hold yourself still with all your strength to keep from catching it with your finger and putting that finger in your own mouth in parody of a kiss.

He has woken something long asleep in you. Made want stir where want had sense enough to lie quiet.

When he lifts two of the children, one hanging from each forearm while they shriek with laughter, your throat goes hot and tight and the place between your thighs turns damp where you sit cross-legged by the hearth pretending to mend. After that there is nothing for it but to test your luck. So you see the bath prepared full and steaming, lavender thrown in to lend it some gentleness, and carry the news to him yourself.

Even then the sight of him catches. He stands in the guest chamber looking misplaced in the way of very large men inside small rooms, still carrying a trace of his day’s foulness, still gorgeous enough that you would take him if he came to you with horseshit on his arse and river mud to his knees. That is how bad the matter has grown in the space of a single day. Yet at a touch he jumps. At a look he drops his gaze. Either he is grievously inexperienced or so decent it borders on affliction.

You leave him to it and duck back through the kitchen with what remains of your good sense calling after you. It tells you to go about your business. To leave the man to his washing. To remember you are not sixteen and witless and peeping after stableboys through chinks in the wall.

There is, however, a crack in the boards between kitchen and bathing room so fine as to be near invisible unless one knows it is there. Press an eyeball to it, though, and the room beyond opens narrow and bright as a secret. You know this because you knew everything about this house when you were twelve, and some forms of knowledge stay put.

So you gutter the candle. The room goes dim around you. The bath chamber beyond holds only the wash of firelight from the small brazier and the soft pale steam rising from the tub. Then comes the creak of the door, the answer of the boards under his weight, and you do the unimaginable. You put your eye to the seam and look.

He goes first to the bath and lays in two fingers as careful as if testing broth for a babe. The heat seems to strike him. His shoulders loosen. His whole face changes. For one ridiculous moment he looks near to tears at the blessing of being able to wash in hot water instead of some stream cold enough to shrivel a cock back into the body. The sight of that plain gratitude in a grown man’s face moves something in you so tender it hurts.

Then he undresses. He catches the hem of the tunic and hauls it up over his head in the thoughtless way of men, and the motion stretches him so nicely you have to close your mouth against the sound threatening out. His stomach lengthens and bends. His skin pulls over muscle and softness. He is made of all of it. Sinew under flesh, yes, but flesh too, honest and abundant. Little folds appear when he bows his head and works the cloth free. His belly is soft low down, dusted with fine hair that thickens as it runs toward the waist of his breeches. His chest is broad enough to make a mockery of the basin stand, covered with copper fuzz. The paps upon it full and heavy and strong, larger than your two palms side by side. It comes to you with humiliating force that you could lay your hands there and feel his heart between them.

He strips with none of the vanity prettier men cultivate. There’s no posing, nor admiring of himself. He is only intent on getting clean. Boots off. Hose peeled. Then, he bends for the rest and you stop breathing.

You take him from the ground upward, greedy as famine. His feet are large, nails rimmed with the day’s dirt. One toe is blackened, as if trod on or kicked against stone or caught under some wheel of his own making. All likely with a man like him. His shins are marked. His knees are bruised. His thighs—God. Magnificent things. Thick enough to part a crowd by walking through it. Strong enough to sit a warhorse all day and still have ease left for children after.

Above them—well. Gods above.

He is large in a way that seems at first gentle, until the eye takes proper measure and understands what it sees. Heavy-hanging. Thick at the root. More than handsome there; startling. The sort of endowment that ought to put a strut in a man’s walk, and yet he has none. The same bashful lout as before, only naked now. His legs drive up into him as if fixed there by a blacksmith’s hand, all the lines of him gathering inward and down. Beneath hangs a full low sack, weighty and ripe-looking. The hair that is dirty-gold elsewhere on him deepens there to brown so dark it reads near black in the low light. A gorgeous man. A gentle one too, despite carrying such size without the least cruelty in it.

When he turns you get the clean sweep of his back, broad enough to make you dizzy, the round of his arse, and a little ugly scar on the plump of one calf. Then he steps into the bath and the water takes him piece by piece. All that riches you have only just discovered, gone under with a faint ripple that feels personal in its meanness.

As he lowers himself the rest of the way, his mouth lets out a sigh so low and filthy in its pleasure that your knees loosen beneath you. You close your eyes, though there is nothing to see with them shut. Keep the sound instead. Fold it up and tuck it away somewhere private for later.

This is no good. Nor is it manageable. When you straighten, your thighs are damp again, and your thoughts go skittering from one bad notion to the next: asking him outright, which is impossible; finding that man from the tourney who offered coin for your company and lying back under him pretending it is Duncan bent over you; or else taking the matter in hand yourself. Of the three, the last promises the least ruin, so you choose it.

The thirst remains. Seeing him again at supper—eating with that earnest appetite, smiling with those crooked teeth, clean now, smelling indecently like a babe made anew—only makes it more torrid. So, once the meal is done and the house fed, banked, and dressed for sleep, you wait until slumber lies thick in every room. Then you throw a cloak over your night-rail, quiet your mare so she does not wake the yard, and ride. For the inn. Only to look. Only to slip in and out unseen. Better to be a pervert for one night than die of something stupider than boredom. Excitement, perhaps.

Dunk lies awake. Tomorrow he and Egg will have to go back to the tourney outskirts. If he accepts any further kindness from your family, Egg will never let him know a moment’s peace again. His belly is blissfully full, and his mind is too, though morosely. It runs over with images of you. Eating. Clearing trenchers. Slipping past his gaze whenever it catches on you. He wishes you would hold his eyes for longer than a breath.

When he hears footsteps in the passage, he only means to see who is stirring at such an hour. Harlan, perhaps, or your sister up with one of the little ones. By now he knows the sounds of this house near as well as his own harness. By now he knows yours best of all. Even in the dark, with only the banked glow from the hall and the house asleep around it, he knows it is you.

You go softly. Cloak over your shift, a hood drawn up, one little lantern in hand with the light half-shielded. There is purpose in it, beyond wandering to the privy or fetching water. You mean to be out.

For the space of two breaths he tells himself to keep to his bed. You are grown. You owe him no accounting. Then you slip through the yard gate and into the night, and the thought of you riding alone amongst tourney roads thick with drink, camp followers, thieves, and men with more want than manners has him up before sense can catch him by the ankle.

He dresses in a scramble that feels shameful for how eager it is. When he gets to the yard you are already mounted and riding. He has only just enough time to throw himself onto his own horse and go after.

Some part of him knows to keep back. If you are abroad in secret, you would not thank him for riding up at your shoulder like a gaoler. So he follows at a distance, quiet as a man of his size may manage, keeping the little bob of your lantern in sight between hedges and trees. The road is near empty now but for the last of the drunkards reeling homeward and the odd cart sunk in the ruts. Your mare knows the way. So, it seems, do you.

The inn comes up out of the dark and Dunk feels something cold go through him. Even by day the place had looked rough. By night it is plain what it has become for the tourney: a bawdy house in all but name. Light spills from the lower windows. So do voices. A woman laughs somewhere high and sharp, then a man answers with the slurred confidence of one already too deep in his cups. There are bodies at the windows still, leaned together in tangles of shirt and skin, and more in the doorway. The whole place sweats ale, lust, and bad intent.

What in Seven’s name is a woman like you doing here?

He draws his horse off into shadow and waits, because surely you have only lost your way. Surely you will turn back once you see the sort of den this is. You, of course, do not.

You ride past the front altogether, circle wide, and make for the back of the place where the yard runs muddy and dark behind the stables. There you dismount, hitch your mare, and go to a ladder propped against the wall as if you have known all along it would be there.

Dunk watches you climb. For a moment he can make no sense of what he sees. Then the truth of it begins to gather in pieces, each worse than the last. Perhaps there is some man waiting in that attic room above the rest. Some groom, some archer, some merchant with more coin than sense. Perhaps you have done this before. Perhaps widowhood sits lighter on you than he thought. Perhaps the look in your face all day had nothing to do with him at all. All of them thoughts are ugly.

He grips the reins till the leather creaks. It is none of his business. You are no maiden under his protection. You are no kin of his. If you have a tryst above a brothel roof, that is your choosing, and he ought to turn his horse and go. Only he cannot.

Because if there is a man up there, Dunk does not like the look of the place he has chosen. Because any woman alone in such a house might come to harm. Because tomorrow he will be gone back to the tourney fields, and if he rides away now he will lie the whole of the night wondering what became of you in that attic. Because some part of him, meaner and more hopeful than he cares to examine, wants to know. So he ties off his horse in the dark and goes after you.

The ladder shifts under his weight. The higher he climbs, the louder the house grows. Laughter leaks through the boards, wicked and wine-sour. Men’s voices. Women’s too. Then moaning, plain enough that Dunk’s face goes hot before he has even hauled himself to the top. By the time he gets into the attic, his cheeks are burning fit to set the dust alight.

There, the room holds only you.

You are stretched flat on your belly with your cloak spilling round you, face pressed near to the floor. Light comes up through the slits in it in narrow orange bars, filthy and bright as fire through shutters. The noises from below drown the creak of his boots, so he drops to hands and knees and crawls the last little way, trying with all his clumsy might to make no sound.

As he comes nearer he sees the quick lift of your ribs. Your whole attention is fixed below. So Dunk looks too.

Through the gaps he can make out a room beneath, high-ceilinged and close with candlelight. A man and woman are tangled together, kissing with wet, open mouths, pawing at one another as if trying to get under skin rather than clothes. The man fumbles at her laces. She gets her hand into his breeches and closes it round him greedy as hunger. He lets out a laugh thick with phlegm.

Dunk stares one foolish moment, then looks away hard, appalled less by them than by you watching.

He cannot make sense of it. Why would you come to see such a thing? Why would you creep into a foul place like this to lie on a floor and spy on strangers coupling below? You, who smell of lavender and fresh bread and speak softly to frightened children. You, who made him still under your touch and looked at him as if you meant to do it again.

He ends up on all fours beside you before he has decided what he means to do. You have not noticed him. Your hood is up, half-shielding your face. One of your hands is curled against the boards. The other lies open by your cheek. There is something so strange in it—your body stretched out long and intent, your face hidden, your breath coming a touch quicker than it should—that for a moment he can only hover there and stare.

If he speaks, you will yelp. If you yelp, the whole cursed inn may come running.

So, very gently, Dunk moves. His frame hangs above you, then presses down and he reaches out and clasps a hand over your mouth.

You go rigid at once. Your whole body jerks under him and you begin to fight trying to wrench free.

“It’s only me, m’lady,” he whispers fast, mouth to your ear. “Beg pardon. I thought you’d get yourself in trouble. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You breathe out so hard the warmth of it shocks his palm. The fight goes out of you, and with that his own weight settles further. His belly goes where your spine dips. His head hangs over your shoulder. One of his knees ends up braced between yours on the boards, and the whole position is suddenly far too close. Your arse cushions him snugly and fire licks Duncan’s hips so violently he can feel his cock stir and give one helpless kick against you.

“Forgive me, I—” he breathes. Begins to shuffle on you, only making himself more tragic. When you mumble something out, he remembers his hand is still muzzling your mouth. “Oh, right.”

He lifts his palm. Spit stretches from your lips to his fingers. Other than the gag, you do not seem half so troubled with the predicament. Your head cocks slightly until you’re whispering into his cheek. “What are you doing here, Ser Duncan?” 

“I—I—” He swallows. “I thought you—”

“—were in trouble? I am not. Yet.” You give the smallest jerk of your chin towards the room below. Then, after a beat: “Is that the only reason you came?”

The truthful answer rises up in him and sticks there. No. He came after you with his head full of you. He came because you rode out alone and because he could not bear not knowing where. He came because he hoped for something he has no right even to name. With everything pressing in him, all he says is, “Yeah.” Then, wincing at himself: “I mean—yes.”

You let out a short breath that balances amusement and disdain on an uneven scale. “Then leave me be.”

“But—” He still does not move. The sounds from below make the boards faintly alive beneath you. “You oughtn’t look. You mustn’t.”

Your head turns just enough to pin him with one eye from under the hood. “Quiet.”

“It’s wrong,” he whispers, voice rising as Duncan’s forgetting himself. “The… coupling. It’s for them. For the—them. Not for—”

“For us to hear you blunder through your outrage?” you murmur. “Do you want your neck broken over peeking at strangers?”

“No, but I cannot let you—”

“You cannot let me?” There is a warning in your whisper, low and sharp. Mercifully, you ignore where his blood has settled between your back and his front. “What are you going to do, Ser Duncan? Drag me out by force?”

He has no answer to that, only a thudding pulse and the certainty that every choice before him is the wrong one.

“Leave,” you whisper, “or I will scream, and then you may have your neck broken for peeking at strangers after all.”

Dunk shuts his eyes for a second. The oaths come back to him in broken scraps, half remembered and badly timed. Protect the weak. Defend the innocent. Serve with honour. He is no wiser for them now than he was before.

“Forgive me,” he mutters.

And before you can answer, he brings one hand up over your eyes.

You start under him. “Ser Duncan, you have brought this on yours—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and when your voice threatens to carry, his other hand finds your mouth again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”

The attic goes weird after that. He closes his eyes too, as if blindness might make the thing less wicked, but it does not. If anything, it sharpens it. The noises below seem louder for being all they have left: laughter gone low, a bedstead knocking, breath laboured. Beneath him you strain once in annoyance, once in warning, and each small movement turns the whole of him to misery.

He tries to hold himself rigid. It’s unbearably filthy, all of it. All of it is so deeply debauched, and he tries not to feel the shape of you under him. Tries not to notice how near your cheek is to his wrist, how your hair smells even here through the dust and old wood. He’s hard, possibly leaking, and he tries with such conviction his whole body is shaken by the effort, and still he does not move.

Then, The Seven lay two horrible tests upon him. The first is your tongue—it darts out and wedges itself into the cup of his palm and along the creases where his fingers join, warm and wet and so soft it shocks him worse than teeth might have. It sends his breathing hoarse.

“Cease this,” he whispers. “I beg of you. Oh, Seven fu—”

The second is your arm. It is a snake. Your whole hand slides down his side and then under, squeezing between his front and your back, where he is plain as day. A man, no better than the one beneath the floorboards. When you touch him, Duncan feels a horrendous cramp in his groin and simply has to buck. His hips roll into you, his palm leaves your mouth because he needs to brace against the wood, and his face presses into your neck as he strains out, “Oh, fuck. Fuck—I’m sorry—”

“It’s your fault I’m here,” you whisper to his trembling fingers. “I had been faring well enough. I was good to my family. I kept my peace. I had no need of a man.” Dunk makes a stricken sound, but you go on.

“Then you came into my sister’s house and spoiled it all. I know nothing of the art of coaxing a man. Nor is it becoming, I think, to go about seducing a knight. Beyond feeding you and seeing you bathed, I did not know how else to tell you what I wanted.” Your hand stays where it is, quiet and sure, and it burns him with fire The Hells have nothing on, Duncan’s certain. “My husband wanted me because he did. That was the whole of it. But you keep dragging your eyes from me, so I thought you had no want of me at all. I thought this”—a small shift of your fingers—“the least harmful way to help myself.”

For a moment Duncan can only endure it. Words crowd in on him, while your palm makes him into such mess his thoughts do not so much gather as drag themselves through mud. Then, the fact that you think him untouched by you, all while every pulse in him beats where you have him, causes such bewilderment his voice hitches a notch higher.

“You think I do not want you? M’lady, I—”

“I told you not to call me that.” Your hiss comes sharp, though not unkind. “It is unwise to use titles one has not been granted. I am no lady.”

“To me you are,” Duncan argues. “I’ve laid eyes on you for one day only,” he strains, “and already I know when I leave here I’ll never see such beauty again.”

Your hand freezes. Then—Gods above—closes around him more fiercely than before. “So… this is for me alone?”

His swallow goes down like a bolus. Then he lifts his palm from your eyes. You blink, and turn your head to look at him. Light from below catches in your irises and sets them aflame. Duncan stares into them. “Do you not see?” he asks on a breath. “I am all for you.”

Anger floods you cold, then hot. Heat comes with his body. How a man this size can sneak up on you eludes you entirely, but you are so shamelessly engrossed in a fat man’s hands on a whore’s body below that you notice Duncan only when he seals your mouth shut.

A knight with all the grace of an oaf and the body of a demigod, with dung still on his arse when you found him, has managed to catch you at your most humiliating: alone, needy, sprawled on dirty boards above strangers’ noise like some starved little creep. And he has the gall to be scandalised, bless his soul, while pressing his huge hard cock into your backside. How infuriating to be made to listen to him blunder on about honour, yourself unable to speak, while his whole body has cast honour off the moment his eyes were subjected to the same sight as yours.

His weight should crush you, but does not. It feels right. Just as you imagined: an enormous, total burden that extends beyond the borders of your body. His arms yoke your neck and shoulders, his stomach fits into the length of your back. Your feet reach only halfway down his calves when he lies atop you. His hips are right where they belong. He is all cumbersome care in his effort not to sag into you, and his breath comes warm and trembling and loud against your ear.

Shame prickles your neck. One moment the sight below is enough to sate you, the next you forget it altogether, because your knight has come to rescue you from indecency. Humiliated, you hiss at him as sharply as the scene allows, eager to be rid of him before he notices how disgraced your inner thighs are, how your jaw clenches and the veins in your neck stand out with the struggle not to make some telling sound.

First you are blinded. Then you are on the verge of throwing it all away, of screaming and setting the whole inn of scoundrels upright, yet you cannot. Gagged again and pressed into the wood, you lie there bathed in dust, bathed in the sounds of coupling below, nerves wailing for him to move, to leave you, to touch you—

So you touch him. A tell that tells you nothing beyond how large and dangerous he is where he is most a man. Any boy as shy and tender as Duncan would stir at the mere sound of a woman sighing. A boy at heart, yet built like no boy should be—armed with a cock fit for some swaggering brute who ought to walk broad-legged through the world, though he does not. He makes manliness and benevolence into something so uncommon, so singular and strange, that you understand at once why no other has ever tempted you to take up the burden of marriage again. He is simply the only one like this you have ever met.

Then, he begs. And with that comes the truth of who the thick one is here. For all Duncan frets over his wit, it is you who has been witless. You had not even thought his apprehension might spring from want. That it is for you he throbs in your hand. That his breath shakes because it is you who measures him there.

“Get up,” you whisper, rapt by his confession.

He blinks once and nods, already crestfallen. It is clear he thinks you are sending him off. He scrambles away from you with painful care, lifting himself to all fours first as if that might somehow hide what has no hope of hiding. Red climbs his ears. He stays there a beat too long, awkward and waiting, and the sight of such ready obedience draws your chest tight.

“There,” you murmur, pointing to the wooden pillar. “Sit.”

And so, Duncan sits. Backs himself to the post and folds down against it with the graceless caution of a dog trying not to dirty a clean floor. His knees fall wide because they must. His hands hover, useless and uncertain, as if any place he puts them might be wrong. In the dim light his face is still open with amends and want and that same ruinous virtue which has brought you to this in the first place.

You go to him on hands and knees, slowly, careful where you place your weight so the old boards give no treacherous groan. Dust clings to the hem of your night-rail and the sleeves of your cloak. He watches you come with his lips parted and his breath held badly, as though any movement on his part might scare you off.

When you reach him, you settle one hand to his shoulder for balance and climb into his lap with all the care the narrow space requires. Even so, the fit of it steals a sharp hitch from him. His head tips back against the wood. Breath leaves him through his mouth in a soft, stunned rush.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “M’lady, I did not mean to—”

“Shh,” you hum, fingers brushing his lip. “You’re doing nothing wrong. But if you wish to stop, tell me.”

“No,” he says. “No, I do not.”

He is still apologising. Still half afraid of his own body. Still looking at you as if you are something above him while you pant against him like a sinner. He is so decent he becomes indecent by accident. Where your bodies meet, he is all weight and impossible girth. His cock spans the whole length of your groin, and there is still some of it left unattended at the tip when you keep still.

You wrench the linen of your night-rail from the press of legs so it falls to either side of you. Bare against him, you run your hands over his cheeks and up, pull his hair back from his forehead, then slide down his scalp to settle at the neck. You lower yourself fully and into him. The cloth of his braies rasps against the tenderest skin while your buttocks spill into his lap. The limit is right there—one roll of your pelvis, and you are giving yourself away with a breathy, wanton, “Duncan—”

“Shh.” His palm finds your mouth again, even more delicate than before. He clasps one there and brings the other to the hinge of your hip. “Petal mine, hush, I beg of you,” he whispers. “You’ll ruin me by sound alone.”

Under his touch, you smile. Search his face in the barred orange glow rising through the boards. His brows are drawn tight. Wrinkles gather at the corners of his eyes each time they narrow. Freckles come and go across his cheeks and nose with every small shift of light, as if the attic itself cannot decide how much of him to show you.

You nod and move again. His forehead drops against yours. “Death be kind to me,” he mutters. “By the Seven, you are—”

At that, your own hands act. Fingers sink into his hair to hold him still while you cover the noise before it gets him into trouble. So that is how you stay then: mutually silenced, mutually trapped, breathless in the mouths. Your body, furious, clenches round bare air so viciously Duncan’s cock kicks. His hips give a helpless start, and you answer only with gestures: a pull at his roots. Your eyes roll heavenward, unseeing. Thighs quiver and knees skid on the floor while the strain of staying quiet becomes its own fresh torment.

Though he is doing the work of it well enough himself, you are making him damper still at the crotch. He lifts a little and adjusts, rides up and rocks you back and forth. The hand at your hip helps guide you and teaches you where he is most sensitive—at the crown. So you keep to that, spreading your cunt over wool, and however thick the cloth, you would know the shape of him exactly.

In silence, your shared breathing rings loud as a sept bell. Duncan huffs through his nose like a tired animal, and his grip grows confused. On your hip it tightens, but loosens over the mouth. You take the chance and wrap your lips round his fingertips, sucking lightly. He lets out the groan of a man on the threshold of something terrible or wonderful, and you tug his hair once more to straighten him.

“Shh, my darling,” you whisper. “You ought to be quiet.”

He begs with his whole being. His forehead is all drawn up, lines cut deep between his brows while the brows themselves disappear beneath the fall of his fringe. His eyes do not know where to rest. They find you, lose you, squeeze shut for a beat, then open again, all within the span of one second. Pleasure unfastens him from the inadequacy that normally clings to him. He is still unpolished, but stripped to something young and honest. Perhaps this is what he must be like in battle too: all the loose, awkward parts of him pulled into their proper place by force of need. Graceless to look at. Never elegant. But wholly given over to the matter at hand, with no room left in him for doubt or self-consciousness. Here, as on a field, he is too occupied to mistrust himself, and so becomes devastating.

Though your palm keeps his mouth covered, sound still escapes him: breath breaking hot against your skin, a muffled grunt deep in his throat, the low helpless noise of a man trying very hard not to come apart. His nape is damp under your fingers. Each time you hold him there and move, something in him gives. His chest brushes yours. His thighs brace wide beneath you to keep you up. His whole great body tries to contain itself and fails by degrees. The feeling of him is everywhere—his size hemming you in, his heat through the cloth, the trembling under all that strength. He is beneath you, around you, almost too much of him, and that is part of the pleasure too.

All of it carries you steadily over your own threshold. Come morning there will be soreness, an ache where skin has been rubbed raw to the fit of his cock, but for now you only rut and let your thighs shudder and lock round his ribs. You suck his fingers in to the last knuckle to silence yourself.

He has been so brave. Bracing so well. So you let it take you and eat you whole until you are so small he could fit you in the hollow of his hand.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes. He slips his fingers from it, drags the dampness across your cheek and into your hair beneath the hood. Draws you so close your palm is crushed between mouths, so you let that go too. The instant he is free, he starts panting. Murmuring yes, oh Gods, as if he is dying of it rather than being carried under.

From the back of his throat he hums—the last frail barrier between him and outright noise. When even that begins to fail him, he fits his mouth to yours and whispers, “Kiss me. Please, kiss me when it takes me, else I won’t keep quiet.”

With your head feeling dragged underwater, you loll your tongue out first. Lids drowsy and heavy, you force them open. Lick the crest of his upper lip and stare him dead into those big blue eyes when you kiss him properly. He looks. Rubs himself on you with artless jerks of hips, driving your tender flesh to a sting. Keeps looking when his hands come up to your face and hold the whole span of it, from chin to temples. He covers your ears too.

Then you watch him lose himself in it. His lashes flicker like wings, and at last rest lowered when he can bear seeing no more. His body tightens into a thousand knots beneath you—shoulders locking, neck straining, thighs shaking, stomach jumping. Kissing becomes holding. Your mouth becomes a well for his sounds.

“Petal mine,” he murmurs. “Seven fucking Hells, just—f-fuck—ah—”

He shatters in a way that makes pity and hunger strike you both. From the look of him, it would be gentler to drive a dagger through his heart than keep doing what your weight is doing to him. He is wholly gone. His face loses all shape but strain. Mouth breaks against yours, then at your lip, biting down not hard enough to hurt, only enough to keep the worst of himself in. What sound escapes him does so mangled—grunts, groans, one destitute moan dragged raw from somewhere deep and private. His whole body bears it badly. A shudder runs through him from shoulders to thighs. His hands cinch at your face as if he means to hold on and has forgotten to what.

Then all at once it stops. Words and noises ease. Breaths come, pulled in great wrecked draughts like a man hauled half-dead from the water. Under you he goes loose, still shaking. Warmth spreads between your thighs, blooms and soaks through his bottoms onto skin. His forehead drops to your shoulder and stays there, damp and dazed, while he fights his way back to the world one breath at a time.

You take his heavy head in your palms. It feels like holding the rounded crown of a helm, all weight and surrender. He has gone boneless as a cut puppet and lets you handle him as you please. “Ser Duncan,” you say, searching him. “Are you well?”

His eyes open slowly, blue and dazed. For a moment he only blinks at you, as though the question itself is beyond him. Then he breathes again, ragged and embarrassed both. “Aye,” he says, though it sounds discovered rather than known. “I think so. Are you, m’lady?”

You nod. Smile, then chuckle. He smiles too and shows you his teeth.

“What became of petal?” you ask softly.

His eyes slip from yours. The colour in his face deepens, and for a moment he looks near ready to sink through the boards from shame. Then, instead of answering, he gathers you in closer. His arms come round you with quiet strength. He tucks his face beneath your ear, great and warm and shy there, and draws one breath of you.

“You are so beautiful it pains me,” he says.

Your fingers twitch against his back, then catch in the cloth of his tunic and hold. “Stay with me then,” you murmur. “Till the end of the tourney.”

He stills. Pulls back to look at you. There is something naked in his face that has nothing to do with what has just passed between you. “Do you mean it?”

The poor fool. As though he should be the one asking shame from the other. As though it is he who was found here half-sprawled over strangers’ sin, wanting like an idiot and grateful besides that the one who caught him still wanted him after all. As though he’s not at all the one who saved your mind and body from withering away in a world that is all bliss and honey-cakes.

You are opening your mouth to tell him so when a voice booms from below the boards.

“Who goes there?!”

You come by just after breaking your fast, pass Dunk a chunk of bread and cheese, and leave honey-cakes with Egg. On your way past, your hand lands once on Dunk’s shoulder—just a squeeze, no more—and yet it leaves him sitting there as if a mark has been pressed clear through cloth and skin alike.

Egg waits until you are well out of earshot. He turns a stick in his hands, pares another thin curl from it with his knife, and says, “She is not ugly at all.”

Dunk keeps his eyes on your back. “I told you so.”

“You did.”

A pause. The knife goes on scraping. “So we’re staying till the end of the tourney, then?”

Dunk tears off a piece of bread with more force than the matter requires. “Her family asked us.”

Egg nods as if this confirms some private reckoning. “Yes. I thought it might be something of that sort.”

Dunk finally looks at him. “What sort?”

“The sort where a hedge knight finds reasons to be grateful.”

Dunk frowns. “Mind your tongue.”

Egg’s mouth twitches. He lifts one shoulder. “I only meant she seems kind.”

“She is,” Dunk says, too quick.

Egg glances at him sideways, insufferably mild. “Yes. That too.”

Dunk opens his mouth, then shuts it again because you have turned in the yard and sunlight has caught in your hair. By the time he remembers Egg exists, the boy is already smiling into his stick.

“I’ll box your ears,” Dunk mutters, with no conviction in it at all.

“I know you mean to, ser,” says Egg, carving on. “That is why I cherish the time between.”

He wasn't completely unaffected of course, he wasn't a total robot.

His heart rate still picked up when you smiled at him from across the pitt, his eyes sometimes lingered just a touch too long when you laughed, his pulse thrummed in his ears when you teased him and said his name coyly - Whitaker - like you knew just how much of an effect you had on him.

He noticed little things too, like the way you pushed your hair back with your wrist when you were gloved up and stressed, how you would bite your lip when you were locked in on charting, or the way you would anonymously (or at least thought you did) leave snacks in the break room for your colleagues.

But it was fine.

You and your radiant smile were completely compartmentalised.

Filed neatly away under do not open - things that will get me fired or someone killed or both if I think about it at work.

Until tonight.

Javadi's 21st birthday - organised by Princess, Perlah and Dana despite her weeks of protesting against it.

He almost hadn't come.

The clinical side of his brain warned him that mixing coworkers with alcohol and personal time was a bad move - teetering way too close to the 'friend' sphere - which would make it all the more harder for him to engage his compartmentalisation switch.

"You literally live with me, I think that ship has sailed Huckleberry." Santos had remarked when he'd confided in her about his doubts.

Amy had texted him that afternoon asking him if he was coming up to the farm. His thumbs had hovered over his phone, willing up the courage to text Javadi to say he wasn't going to be able to make it.

Then, his phone buzzed.

His heart leapt.

A message from you that simply read:

You're coming tonight, right?

An hour later, he was walking to the bar with Santos, trying to keep any thoughts of you shoved firmly in your assigned compartment.

When he stepped inside, he spotted the group instantly. Milling around in a corner clustered around a bunch of high tables, a set of slightly deflated pink balloons numbered '21' floating half heartedly above them.

A chorus of greetings met them as they approached. Dennis tried not to think about how weird it was to see everyone out of uniform, glowing in that post-shift, one drink in kind of buzz.

"Drink?" Santos turned to him.

He nodded, suddenly eager to be on the same level as his colleagues. They had just made their way to the bar when a set of wolf whistles and cheers erupted from their area.

"Watch out Pittsburgh!"

He turned to locate the source of their ruckus.

And then everything - every neatly labelled, meticulously stored thought - came crashing down around him.

You were not in scrubs.

Logically he had known that would be the case. People did not wear scrubs to bars. You were not going to be an exception. He had psyched himself up for this exact sight on the walk over.

But seeing it in person was something he could never have prepared himself for.

Your hair was down and styled, not tied back in that purely practical way he had grown so used to. Your makeup sculpted your features in a way that made you look even more angelic than usual.

Your outfit fit your body perfectly, hugging you in places and curves he had never dared to let himself think about, had trained himself very deliberately never to follow.

He found himself silently thanking the inventor of scrubs for designing them to be so baggy, because if this is how you looked all the time - he wouldn't be able to control himself.

Heck, who was he kidding, how was he ever going to control himself again now that he'd seen you like this?

He watched as you crossed the crowded bar, oblivious to the hungry looks of random men that you passed. A huge grin was on your face as you twirled around to show off your outfit to the group, causing another huge bout of cheers.

There was no clipped efficiency, no fluorescent lighting washing you out, no neat, clinical version he could pretend was easier to ignore.

This was what everyone else outside of the pitt had the privilege of seeing.

It felt almost wrong, like he was seeing a version of you that he hadn't been cleared access for.

"You might want to put your tongue back in your mouth Fuckleberry."

Dennis' cheeks bloomed violent red.

"W-what?" He stammered, finally tearing his eyes away from you.

"Trust me, I have eyes too. I get it." Santos continued, her gaze flickering over to you. "But she is so out of your league."

He huffed. "Gee thanks. Want to tell me something I don't know?" He grumbled before pressing his drink to his lips and downing it in one go.

"Atta boy Fuckleberry." Santos slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically. "Drown your sorrows with me."

"Why, Garcia not paying you enough attention?"

Santos shot him a glare. "Watch it or-" She cut herself off as she glanced over Whittaker's shoulder.

"Oh shit - incoming."

Dennis turned to see you making your way towards the bar.

"I gotta pee, good luck farmboy." Before he could protest, Santos pushed off the bar and disappeared into the crowd.

By the time he turned back around, you had spotted him.

Your smile widened when you locked eyes.

You slipped through the crowd toward him like it was the most casual thing in the world, like you hadn’t just fundamentally altered his understanding of reality.

"Whitaker!" You called out by way of greeting.

God. It was somehow even worse outside the pitt.

"I was worried you were going to bail." You teased as you slid in beside him at the bar. You were so close he could smell your perfume, see the flecks of mascara painting your lashes, the pink sheen of your lip gloss.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He cleared his throat, motioning for the bartender to try and stop the red from creeping back into his cheeks. "Yeah. I um- yeah. Do you want something to drink?"

Smooth.

"Please, I'll have whatever you're having."

You leant an arm against the bar, angling your body towards him. You tilted your head slightly, your eyes roaming his body as he ordered for you in a way that made his pulse trip over itself.

And then you grinned.

"You know, you scrub off quite well Whitaker."

Dennis was pretty sure there was a full, tangible moment where his brain fully short-circuited.

You had to be teasing him, surely. You'd probably made the same joke to every single one of his colleagues, who had all probably laughed in a way that only you could illicit from them.

He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's uh.. that's not how that phrase usually goes."

"I know." You said easily. "I'm reinventing it."

"Right."

"I have a theory." You continued. He watched as you twisted around, pressing your back into the wooden edge of the bar.

"You either look way better in scrubs or way better out of scrubs, there's no in between."

You gestured to your table.

"Take Robby for example, can you imagine that man in anything other than scrubs? I saw him out on a run once and I can confirm, it was disturbing."

Dennis let out a genuine chuckle at that.

"Ok, I like this game." He nodded, feeling himself relax slightly without being under your intense gaze. "Javadi's an out of scrubs for sure."

Your grin widened at his willingness to go along with it. "Exactly. I never thought I'd see her part with that purple sweater."

Dennis laughed again, watching out of the corner of his eye at the way your eyes crinkled as you smiled.

"So uh- which one am I then?" He asked sheepishly just as the bartender plonked your drinks down on the sticky surface.

You grabbed your drink before you turned your attention back to him. You took a sip from your straw as your eyes flitted up and down his figure, a smirk forming on your lips.

"I haven't decided yet."

Dennis gulped.

"Thanks for the drink Whitaker."

He watched helplessly as you walked away.

All composure and restraint had flown out the window. He was a man completely undone, like putty in your gentle hands.

"What did I miss?" Santos reappeared at his side, surveying the dance floor with eagle eyes.

"She... she said I scrub off quite well." He murmured, his eyes never leaving your figure as you animatedly chatted with Mohan.

"Huh?"

"She said everyone either suits scrubs or normal clothes more, so I asked her which one I was."

"And?"

"She said she hadn't decided yet."

Santos looked over at him in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god."

Dennis' neck snapped to look at her. "What?"

"Huckleberry, she was fucking flirting with you!"

"What?" He repeated, blinking in a few times. "No she wasn't."

"Uh yeah - she was." Santos insisted. "What you just told me? That's a fucking line. She lined you!"

"No I-" Dennis stammered. "There's- there's no way she was flirting with me. Aren't you the one who said she was way out of my league anyway?"

"I did." Santos nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "But even geniuses can be wrong on the rare occasion."

She turned to face him fully, her face completely serious. "This is your chance."

"What-"

"Go flirt with her! Ask her out! Do something!"

"B-but I-" He cut himself off as he glanced up, watching you twirl Javadi around.

"If you don't Huckleberry, I will."

One look at her face and Dennis knew she was fully serious.

-

As the night wore on, people began siphoning into the 'I have work at 7am tomorrow' and the 'I have a day off tomorrow' camps.

Mohan and Ellis were doing shots off a strangers stomach. Mel and Langdon were animatedly discussion the upcoming renaissance fair. Santos was making a point of flirting with any girl within earshot of Garcia.

Dennis had found himself and you alone, clustered together on stools at one of the high tables. He tried to ignore the way your shoulder casually brushed against his every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine. He couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

"I think Javadi is going to have a headache for about a week." You remarked. "I'm also pretty sure I just saw her sneak into the bathroom with Matteo."

"We've all been there."

You raised a brow.

"What, hooking up with co-workers?"

The tips of his ears turned pink. "No-no I-"

"Relax, I'm teasing." You laughed.

He let out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, right."

The thumping bass enveloped the two of you, preventing the possibility of awkward silence.

"You're quieter than usual." You observed after a few moments.

"I-" He cut himself off before he tried to deny it as you looked at him imploringly.

Who was he kidding? You would see right through him, you were way too good at reading people. He saw it everyday at work. It was a skill he'd always admired in you, your ability to coax the truth out of patients, but right now he found himself cursing your keen eye.

"Yeah, sorry." Was what he ended up saying.

You frowned. "You okay?"

He hesitated, then exhaled.

"Yeah I think just seeing everyone and you like this kind of threw me off."

You stilled, just slightly.

"Like what?"

"Like..." He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Like not in clinical grade hospital lighting."

That earned a quiet laugh from you.

He didn't know why he opened his mouth again. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Santos' words from earlier, maybe it was the way you'd ignored every single man in here tonight who had tried to hit on you and only seemed to want to talk to him, and he couldn’t help but hold onto the smallest spark of hope that it meant something.

"You um-" He gestured vaguely to your figure, immediately regretting it. "You just look... different."

He winced as the awkward words rolled off his tongue.

But instead of the teasing look he'd expected, your expression shifted into something gentler.

"Different....good?"

He huffed a small laugh, looking down at his drink for a second before gathering himself.

"Yeah." He looked up at you, his voice quieter. "Different good."

Your smile widened.

The familiar bass of Maneater started thumping through the bar speakers.

The sound of your name being called made the two of you break eye contact.

A slightly dishevelled Javadi, apparently having been summoned from the bathroom by Nelly Furtado, was grinning at you.

“This is our song!”

You and Dennis laughed as she pointed at you, demanding your presence on the dance floor immediately.

“Sorry, duty calls.”

Dennis pressed his two fingers to his head in mock salute. “Good luck soldier.”

You grinned, giving him a salute back before going to join the small dance circle that had started to form.

Dennis’ eyes followed you all the way there.

-

As the night wore on, the herd thinned.

Santos and Garcia had conveniently left at the same time. Abbott had muttered something about sunrise yoga before vanishing. Princess and Perlah were slow dancing in the corner.

It seemed you were next in line for departure. Dennis watched from his chair as you started doing your rounds, handing out obligatory goodbyes.

Dennis turned as Robby cleared his throat this throat beside him.

“You know, she told me she walked here.”

Dennis followed Robby’s gaze, leading directly back to you.

“Lives just a couple of blocks away.”

“Uh… ok.”

“So… she’ll probably walk home.” He spoke slowly, like he was describing some incredibly complex medical term to one of his patients.

“And she’d probably appreciate it if someone were to.. oh I don’t know…” His lips quirked ever so slightly, “… offer to walk her home?”

“Oh.” Dennis balked, jerking his head over to look at you as realisation hit him. “Right yeah- that’s a great idea.” He shot up of his seat so quickly that the table shuddered, half drunk, forgotten drinks sloshed in their glasses.

“Thanks Robby.”

Robby's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Dennis hastily make his way towards you.

“Kids.” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

You were rifling through your purse, making sure you had everything as Dennis approached you.

“Hey.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “You heading home?”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “Figured I should try and get at least four hours sleep before my shift, I don’t think it would be ethical otherwise.”

Dennis chuckled. “Yeah I feel that.”

There was a slight pause before.

“So, how are you getting home?”

“Oh I was just going to walk. I only live a couple blocks that way.” You gestured vaguely behind you.

“Right.” Dennis nodded. A heartbeat passed.

“Would you um- would you like me to walk you home? You can totally say no.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah I’d love that, thanks.”

He shot you a tight lipped smile back as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Great ok, well we can head off whenever you’re ready.”

You glanced over Dennis’ shoulder to see Robby watching the two of you.

“See you tomorrow Robby!”

Robby raised a hand in passive acknowledgment. “Later kiddo.”

The Pittsburgh weather had decided to be kind to the both of you as you spilled out onto the lamplit street. A warm, gentle breeze lapped at the two of you as you began the short walk to your apartment.

You made small talk, mostly about work, giggling about the crazy patients you'd both had recently, until you came to a reluctant stop at your doorstep.

Things felt calmer out here, away from the loud music and the preying eyes of co-workers.

“This is me.” You gestured to your building.

Dennis felt his heart sink. He thought he would have more time. More time to build up the courage to finally say something.

How was it that he could intubate a critical patient without breaking a sweat, but the thought of saying anything remotely risky to you was enough to turn him into a quivering, spiralling mess.

You peered up at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Happy to.”

You observed him for a few moments.

Dennis wondered if you could tell exactly what he was thinking. Wondered if you knew the effect that you had on him. If you could tell that he was frantically flicking through a list of things to say that could stop this moment from ever ending.

“You’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?”

Your smile curved. “Like you’re still trying to get used to seeing me not under clinical grade hospital lighting.”

Dennis chuckled weakly. “Sorry for being weird tonight I…” He sighed as he looked at you.

As the soft light of the street lamp hit you, Dennis felt something unfurl beneath his ribs.

You were so beautiful, both in your scrubs and out of them. Neither one was better than the other. One would not exist without the other. Both sides made you whole, culminating in one perfect, sweet, smart person.

And now he had seen both sides, he didn't think that he could ever live without either of them again.

That feeling swelled in him, creating a tidal wave finally ready to knock down those barricades he'd held so stubbornly in place for so long.

He met your eyes then, properly, and whatever nerves he had seemed to settle into something steadier, the realisation grounding him.

"I've spent a long time trying to pretend that you don't exist outside of work." He finally said.

"Why's that?"

There was something so open about your face that made his remaining walls crumble, made him desperately want to spill all of his thoughts at your altar.

"Because... because I knew that you were someone I really, really wanted to know outside of work." He confessed.

"And uh-" He gestured to you. "I don't think I can keep pretending anymore. Actually, I think it might make me go insane if I keep trying."

You smiled softly.

"You know how you asked me earlier whether I thought you were a scrubs or no scrubs type?"

Dennis nodded, thrown off by the sudden change in conversation.

"Well, I've been waiting all night for you to ask me again. I uh- I had this whole thing planned out, I was going to say something lame like, 'I don't know, I think I'd need to see you a few more times not in your scrubs to make an assessment.'"

"Holy shit." Dennis blinked. "You were flirting with me."

That made you burst out into a fit of giggles, relieving some of the tense energy crackling between the two of you.

"Yeah no kidding. Trin said I was going to have to lay it on pretty thick for you to get it, but I didn't realise how thick she meant."

"Wait-" He stared down at you, eyes wide. "Santos knew about this?"

You nodded.

"I'm going to kill her."

"Wait no, don't be mad at her - I swore her to secrecy." You said hastily. "I only asked her for advice after none of my more subtle attempts worked. I figured since you literally live with her, she'd know you pretty well."

Dennis thought his brain was about to implode.

"What... what other subtle attempts?"

For the first time tonight, Dennis finally caught a hint of colour in your cheeks.

You chuckled sheepishly. "I don't know... I always made an excuse to consult with you, or to take a break at the same time. And didn't you think it was weird that I started bringing in your favourite snacks every time you mentioned what you liked?"

"Wait - you don't like Doritos? I thought you said you loved them."

You shrugged. "More of a Fritos girl."

Anyone who walked past them must have thought that Dennis resembled a stunned mullet.

"I'm an idiot." He stated matter-of-factly.

"You're not an idiot." You reassured him. "You're just-"

"Blind? Stupid? A combination of both?" He let out a dramatic groan, burying his face into his hands.

"I'm so sorry I- I was so focused on keeping you off my mind and convincing myself that I didn't like you that I had total tunnel vision at work."

"It's ok, really." You insisted. "I can get so emotional at work." You huffed. "But you...you're always so composed and clinical and precise." You cut yourself off before you started rambling.

Dennis' heart hammered in his chest.

"Really?"

"Really. I wish I was more like you at work."

Dennis' brow furrowed. How could you not see that you were perfect?

"What do you mean? You're a literal ball of sunshine at work. Everyone loves you, you manage to make the grumpiest of patients smile. Jesus Christ I'm pretty sure I even saw Park the Shark crack a smile once-"

"-I think he was just trying not to sneeze."

He glared at you playfully. "It was a smile...by Park's standards anyway." He insisted. "You light up every room you're in. And you just get patients. If anything, I wish I was more like you."

This time, a fully fledged blush flushed your cheeks.

"Well then…I guess we balance each other out."

Dennis smiled, "I guess we do."

"And for the record." Dennis continued, "That's one of the many reasons why I.. you know..." He bit his lip as he glanced down at his feet. "...like you."

He looked up at you shyly, his nerves making his stomach churn. There was a pause. Then you whispered your next words so quietly that Dennis almost missed it.

"I like you too, Whitaker."

You eyed each other for a few moments, like you were both trying to figure out the new energy that swirled between the two of you.

It was uncharted territory, but it was something new and exciting, something that you both wanted to explore.

You only broke your eye contact to glance down at your phone, wincing at the time.

"I really should get to bed." You eventually said reluctantly.

"Yeah, me to." Dennis studied you for a moment. "I guess I'll see you today?"

You chuckled. "I guess you will."

A small silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just...comfortable, full.

"Good night Whitaker." You finally said, your eyes bright despite your sleep deprivation.

"Good night." He replied softly.

Dennis waited until you were up the stairs, behind the safety of a locked door and out of sight before he started his walk home.

You didn't need to know that his apartment was in the complete opposite direction of yours, meaning he had to double back past the very bar you had just been in.

As he approached the bar, he noticed a familiar figure standing by the curb.

Robby looked up from his phone as Whitaker approached. He peered over his glasses, observing the biggest grin he had ever seen on Whitaker plastered across his face.

"You get our bundle of sunshine home safely?"

"Delivered without a scratch."

"Alright, well I'll see you bright and early."

Whittaker's grin somehow widened as he patted Robby on the shoulder as he walked past.

"Thanks Robby."

This time, Robby couldn't fight the smile that appeared on his features.

"Anytime kiddo."

-

Five hours later, you shuffled through the ED doors, clinging to a double strength red bull like it was your life blood.

Shen rounded the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spotted you.

"Well well well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

You shot him a weak smile, pressing the can to your lips.

"What? No witty reply?"

"I don't have the brain capacity."

Shen chuckled, twisting around to grab something off one of the nurses desks.

“Here. This might help.”

He watched as your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the sight of an extra large Dunkin iced coffee.

You immediately threw your measly substitute in the bin beside you.

“You are a lifesaver.”

“Actually it’s pronounced doctor.”

You let that joke slide as you eagerly took a sip, resisting the urge to let out a moan. If you could, you would have this stuff injected straight into your veins.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“Anytime. Oh and good luck today, it’s a shit show.” He called out after you.

“As opposed to what?” You called back, giving him one final wave before making your way to your locker.

You went to keypad in your code, only to realise the door was slightly ajar. You were the worst offender when it came to leaving your locker unlocked, much to Dana's despair.

You froze when you yanked open the door.

Placed unassumingly on top of your things, was a packet of Fritos.

Upon closer inspection, you realised there was a small note attached to it, fastened with what appeared to be surgical floss contorted into a delicate looking bow.

You glanced around to make sure no one was in sight before leaning forward and carefully unfolding the note, revealing scrawling handwriting.

Figured you would need some sustenance to get you through this shift. P.S I've completed my initial assessment. My findings are that you scrub up just as well as you scrub off. P.P.S To really make sure, I think I need to run some further observations. Dinner this Saturday?

You bit your lip, unable to contain the wide grin that spread across your face.

Unbeknownst to you, Dennis was peaking through the glass, scrutinising every micro expression that appeared on your features.

A smile just as wide as yours spread across his face as he watched you fold the note back up neatly and tuck it into the front pocket of your scrubs.

Dennis subconsciously filed you under a different tab.

Except this time, it was labelled something far more dangerous.

High risk, once in a lifetime opportunity - proceed anyway.

He allowed himself to stare at you for moment before making his way towards the centre of the pitt for the day shift handover.

"Whitaker!"

He turned around, his heart rate increasing at the sight of you making your way towards him.

"Morning."

"Good morning."

The two of you naturally fell into step with one another.

"Ready for another day in paradise?"

He glanced over at you to see you peering up at him.

"With you? Always."

Both your smiles widened.

Then, very deliberately, he turned off the switch.

“Oh, come on,” Dennis groans. “I did not—”

“Who’s drooling like a rabid dog?” Princess appears out of thin air, as she has a knack for doing at the most inopportune times.

Great. Two of them. Just what he needs right now. Santos alone, he can handle. He’s only known (and also lived with) her for one week and he’s already used to her teasing jabs, but her and Princess both at once?

Santos leans back in her chair, nodding in the direction that Dennis had been staring just moments ago. “Huckleberry has the hots for the x-ray tech.”

Dennis’ face burns hot with embarrassment. He may be new to PTMC, but he already knows that if there’s even somewhat interesting gossip, regardless of its validity, Princess will find out. And, within a matter of hours, so will the rest of the emergency department. Maybe even the entire hospital, with his luck.

“I don’t have the hots for her,” Dennis denies calmly, not wanting to feed into any wild conspiracies undoubtedly forming in Princess’ head right now. “I don’t know her. I literally just met her five minutes ago. I don’t even remember her name.”

Two truths and a lie. He knows your name - committed it to memory the second that you introduced yourself. Just like he committed the soft curve of your smile and the way your voice instantly put his patient at ease to memory.

He would rather get puked and pissed on in the same day again than admit that to Santos or Princess, though.

“It’s her first day,” Princess chirps. “She just transferred here from Presby. Graduated from La Roche. And she’s single.”

Dennis is not going to ask how the hell she knows all of that.

He waits, hoping he doesn’t look too eager, as you finish taking the necessary images for Ms. Crawford. As you back out of the room with the x-ray machine, Dennis straightens his posture, earning a snicker from Santos.

“Quit,” he hisses under his breath.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Dr. Whitaker?”

Your sweet, cheerful voice saying his name makes him forget whatever he is going to snap back at Santos. He walks towards you, leaving her and Princess undoubtedly staring after him with shit-eating smirks.

The entire three seconds that it takes Dennis to reach you is spent thinking that you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen inside these hospital halls since he first started.

“Dennis,” he corrects gently. He doesn’t really want to point out that he’s only a student doctor. Plus, he wouldn’t exactly mind hearing you say his name. “You can just call me Dennis.”

“Dennis,” you repeat, your smile an exact replica of the one you wear in the picture on your ID badge. “Well, Dennis, Ms. Crawford speaks very highly of you.”

He shrugs, going for casual. “Yeah, apparently she’s a frequent flyer. I’ve only been here a week and I’ve seen her twice already.”

Your brows shoot up, amusement on your face. “She told me that she asked for you by name, you know.”

“She did?”

“Mhm.” You nod. “Said that you’re the nicest doctor she’s had in years.”

Dennis doesn’t need a mirror to know that he’s bright pink, from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I’m…not technically a doctor yet,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

Your eyes shoot down to the ID badge pinned to his scrubs, gaze briefly settling on the words student doctor before you look back up. You shrug. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Then, before Dennis can attempt to stammer out a flustered response, you begin backing away with the portable x-ray machine in tow. “Nice meeting you, Dennis. I’ll get these images up to radiology and let you know as soon as we have the results.”

He watches you walk away for longer than he probably should - doesn’t look away until the sound of someone clearing their throat catches his attention.

Santos still sits feet away at her desk, looking at him with raised brows. “What is it you were saying about not staring at her?”

˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗

“Don’t ever date where you clock in, Dennis. Makes the mess twice as hard to clean up. You can ask your uncle all about that.”

The unsolicited advice that his mother had given him over the phone the night before his very first shift at PTMC has echoed in Dennis’ mind since the day he met you months ago.

With each passing day, the words ring a bit louder than the day before. Loud enough to stop him from crossing any professional boundaries, but never loud enough to deter him from going out of his way to see you every chance he gets.

Princess, Perlah, Vivi, Jesse - the Pitt has no shortage of nurses more than happy to wheel a patient to the radiology department when they’re capable of transport and in need of an x-ray, but Dennis likes to personally deliver his patients to radiology these days.

So he can see with his own eyes that they get there safely, of course. That’s what he tells himself on the days that he knows you’re working, anyway.

In addition to his mother’s voice, he also tends to hear Santos’ - although hers is much closer, more frequent, and far less loving.

“Jesus. You have her work schedule committed to memory?”

“You know you look like a golden retriever waiting for the mailwoman anytime she comes down here, right?”

“If you don’t ask her out, someone else eventually will. I see Mateo making heart eyes at her every time she’s around.”

He does have your work schedule committed to memory, but not in a creepy stalker kind of way like Santos likes to insinuate - he knows which days you work because you’ve personally told him. Because, believe it or not, he doesn’t just stare at you from across the room like a “golden retriever waiting for the mailwoman” every chance he gets. He actually talks to you and has gradually learned all about you over the last few months.

He has learned you originally wanted to be a pediatric nurse but ultimately decided against it because bodily fluids make you squeamish. He has learned that you enjoy working on Wednesdays because of the taco truck that comes to the park next to the hospital. He has learned that you always bring a cardigan to work because the radiology department is freezing. He has learned that you keep Jolly Ranchers in your scrub pockets to give to kids once they have completed their x-rays.

He has learned that you’re the closest thing to sunshine in human form that this place has.

He’ll give it to Santos. She’s right about one thing - if he doesn’t ask you out, someone else will. Maybe it’ll be Mateo, or maybe that tall, conventionally attractive x-ray tech that you work with in the radiology department, or perhaps it’ll be someone that doesn’t work anywhere in this hospital. But someone, somewhere will ask you out, and Dennis will have no choice but to come to terms with the fact that someone else had the nerve to do what he’s too scared to do.

And when that day inevitably comes - when someone a little braver than him gets to be the one to make you smile - it’ll be on him. Because he’ll know he had a thousand opportunities to try, and didn’t take a single one of them.

˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗

“….and my primary care doctor looked at my asshole and said woah. Have you ever had a doctor look at your asshole and say woah? These aren’t normal hemorrhoids, doc. I’m talking golf ball sized—”

Normally, Dennis would love to spend the last thirty minutes of a long shift listening to a patient describe their hemorrhoids in excruciating detail, but ever since he overheard Cassie and Samira muttering something about a combative patient in radiology as they walked past moments ago, he is having an increasingly difficult time paying attention to Mr. Jackson and his record-breaking hemorrhoids that brought him to the ED this evening.

Combative patient. Radiology. X-ray tech. Fall.

That’s all he caught, but it’s more than enough to have his thoughts spiraling more by the second.

Because you’re working today. He saw you no more than a few hours ago, when you came down to take x-rays for one of Mel’s patients. You had said hey to him in passing, making butterflies erupt in his stomach with a singular word and a soft smile.

“—nothing is helping right now. I’ve used all the creams, witch hazel pads, ice packs, fiber supplements, sitz baths. You name it, I’ve tried—”

Dennis glances in the direction of the nurse’s station and his stomach flips and then sinks entirely.

You’re there - in a wheelchair, with an ice pack pressed to the side of your head, surrounded by Dana, Robby, Cassie and what looks like every other available doctor and nurse in entire fucking ED.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jackson,” Dennis interrupts the man. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back with Toradol and some lidocaine gel for you and we will go from there.”

He doesn’t wait for Mr. Jackson to respond before he’s power-walking out of Central 12 and pushing his way through the small crowd of doctors and nurses to get to you.

“What the hell happened?” Dennis asks, trying and failing to hide his concern.

You look like you could die of embarrassment. “It’s nothing, really. I’m fine. I’m sure it’s just a bruise—”

“A elderly patient with dementia became combative while she was trying to do his x-rays,” Robby explains with a sigh. “He forgot where he was and pushed her while trying to run away, causing her to hit her head on the machine.”

“Jesus,” Dennis grimaces, his brain already jumping to all of the worst possible diagnoses. Skull fracture. Amnesia. Intracranial hemorrhaging. “You need to be—”

“Examined?” Robby interjects dryly. “I agree. Whitaker, why don’t you take care of her?”

Dennis nods without hesitation, eagerly taking over the wheelchair. He’s vaguely aware of you continuing to protest that you’re okay, that your head is barely even hurting, that you’re totally fine to walk and finish out the remainder of your shift, but he agrees with Robby. You need to be examined, and he’s going to be the one to do it.

“Mateo,” Dennis calls as he begins to wheel you towards the first empty exam room that he can find, “Mr. Jackson in Central 12 is waiting on lidocaine gel for his hemorrhoids. Would you mind helping me with that?”

If anyone were to ask, he would say that he chose Mateo for the task because he was the closest nurse at that moment, but deep down, Dennis can’t lie even to himself - there’s a small but undeniably petty of him that picked Mateo because of the heart eyes, as Santos refers to it, that he likes to make at you.

Dennis wheels you into the empty exam room and parks the wheelchair right next to the bed. He crouches slightly in front of you, palms hovering awkwardly like he wants to reach out and touch you but can’t decide whether he’s actually allowed to.

“Okay,” he says hesitantly, “I need to check you over.”

You open your mouth to protest yet again, but Dennis is already pulling out a penlight from his pocket. “Please,” he murmurs, cutting you off. “For me. I just…need to know that you’re okay. It won’t take long. I promise.”

You give a reluctant sigh, motioning for him to continue.

“Look straight at me,” he instructs gently, then flashes the penlight. First, he checks your pupils. Then, ever so gently, as if he’s touching fine, breakable china, tilts your chin upward with two fingers.

He’s performed exams exactly like this more times than he can recall, but he doesn’t think his hands have ever trembled like this during one. He can only hope that you don’t notice.

“Pupils are slightly dilated,” he notes quietly.

You blink slowly, flinching a bit at the light. “That’s really bright.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” He clicks the pen off. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Blurry vision?”

You shake your head, then wince at the motion. “No, I don’t think so. My head just hurts a little.”

Dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, and a headache. All signs that point to a concussion. At least a mild one. He tries to stay focused - tries not to imagine you falling and hitting the machine. He clears his throat. “Okay. Can you tell me your name and where you’re at right now?”

You roll your eyes. “Dennis.”

He huffs out something between a laugh and groan, taking a small amount of comfort in knowing that you remember his name. “Your name.”

You answer him correctly.

“Good,” he breathes. He takes the ice pack that you still hold to the side of your head. “I’m just going to feel around a bit, yeah?” He reaches a careful hand to where you had been holding the ice pack, wincing even harder than you do when he quickly finds the raised, angry knot.

“Does it hurt when I press here?” He watches your face - only a foot or so away from his own - for any signs of discomfort.

“It isn’t too bad,” you grimace. “It doesn’t feel great, but it isn’t unbearable. It’s like a dull…”

You trail off mid-sentence, squinting at him.

He freezes. “What? What is it? Are you okay?”

You blink a few times, your gaze never leaving his. “Your eyes,” you mumble. Then, more clearly, “Your eyes are really pretty up close. They look like oceans.”

Dennis would think that he’s the one with the concussion and that he’s imagining things if it weren’t for the fact that he saw your lips move, plain as day.

It seems to dawn on you that you said the words out loud. Your mouth opens in shock and you shake your head, dropping your gaze to your lap. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I mean, it’s true, but I don’t know why I said it.”

He can’t help the grin that grows on his face. He has no doubt that his face is as red as a beet. “No, no,” he laughs. “Don’t be sorry. I just…I think you might only be saying that because you have a mild concussion.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you agree with a small laugh. You look back up with a bashful smirk. “But it’ll still be true, even after I’m no longer concussed.”

At this moment, there’s one thing on his mind. The same thing that has been on his mind since the first day that he met you, and truthfully, the very last thing that should be on his mind right now because technically you’re a patient and possibly concussed but he knows that if he doesn’t step through this door that you’ve nudged open, he might regret it for a very, very long time.

He knows damn well that Santos will never let him forget the fact that it took you getting attacked by a patient to finally make a move, but he doesn’t care. Right now, he isn’t hearing her voice, or his mother’s, or anyone other than yours.

Your voice, telling him that he has pretty eyes.

“After you’re no longer concussed,” Dennis starts, voice a little shaky but absolutely certain, “I’m finally going to ask you out.”

˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗

did anyone catch the random superstore reference i sprinkled in??

You still remembered when he first tried that cloak on. The door to his chamber was slightly opened and you stopped to watch him pull the great white fabric over his broad shoulders. That thing was so big you could make clothes for half the orphans in king’s landing from it. The thought made you chuckle.

He caught you looking then. “How does it look?” He asked, spinning around trying to look at his own back, “I feel like a sailboat.”

You blushed, trying to find your words for too long until you finally said, “It looks great, Ser. White is your color.” Ser Duncan smiled at that. It did suit him, it made the blue of his eyes brighter.

After that he made sure to greet you every time he passed you in the hall. Thanking you on the occasions you brought him his supper. Bidding you good night when you’d leave. It wasn’t much, but no one else deigned to utter a spare word on account of a maid. But Ser Duncan wasn’t anyone else and the words came like clock chimes. Good morning. Thank you. Good night.

One evening you entered his chambers with a platter of warm honey and bread to see him hunched over his desk. A piece of parchment lay in front of him, crinkled and stained with black from the ink pot. Ser Duncan was so busy glowering at it that he startled when you spoke.

“Is everything alright, Ser?” You put the platter on the desk beside him.

“Oh. Thank you. Yes I’m just trying to -“ he dipped his quill into the ink pot and squiggled something unintelligible on the parchment, then muttered a curse under his breath. “Egg - King Aegon, thinks I should learn how to write. As if the reading wasn’t hard enough.”

It was strange to think the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard couldn’t manage a letter or two. But everyone knew Ser Duncan came from a common background. Perhaps he just never got around to it. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, Ser, but your ‘e’ is facing the wrong way.”

“My - bastard.” He scribbled on top of the letter on the parchment, then tried it the other way, “does that look right?”

“Better, Ser.” You smiled.

Ser Duncan looked up from the parchment, suddenly realising he was asking the maid to help with his writing. “You write?”

“And read, Ser. My father insisted.” You got close to the desk and inspected the letters. “Just remember the ‘e’ faces east. It’s easier that way.”

“East,” he muttered, “that’s a good one.” Then he wrote it a few more times on the parchment.

You looked over his shoulder while he wrote a few words. King. Sword. Night. You guessed the last one should have been knight but when he turned back to show you his work you realised how close you were standing to him, and the thought of correcting him escaped you.

“What do you think?” He said, putting a stained finger proudly under his scribbles.

“It’s good, Ser. But I wouldn’t show it to the king just yet.”

“Ah. Well, that’s the best I’ve got.” He had a bashful look on his face. A look like that would have made him look boyish, if not for the heavy armour and the thin strands of white peaking through his hair.

“For now, Ser.” You said, “It gets easier.” For a moment you looked at him, lost in the proximity to his body and the blue of his eyes looking straight at you. You could feel the blush creeping onto your cheeks. “I better not take too much of your time, Ser. Good night.”

You were halfway out the door when you heard his “good night”, squeezing your cold hands into your cheeks to stop the blush from spreading.

In the days after that Ser Duncan must have been busy, since you hardly saw him in the hall and no requests for dinner were made to the kitchens. You carried on with your usual duties, although a bit more sullen each day you’d not seen him.

A week later, when you entered his chamber with a change of sheets, there was a new piece of parchment on the desk. It had one sentence on it, scribbled roughly with a hand that only ever held a sword. It said “the knight has a wite cloak.”

You looked at it thoughtfully, then took the quill in your hands and wrote “white” over the mistake.

The next day there was another sentence written under the last one, “the white cloak is big and beautiful.” All correct albeit a bit lopsided. You took the quill and dipped it in the ink pot and wrote down “very good” right beneath it, then did your duties the entire day thinking why the hell would the Lord Commander care for praise from a maid.

But the notes kept appearing. For weeks you walked into his chamber to find a new sentence or two. Ser Duncan’s writing got better over time, the letters more even and the sentences longer.

A month later you walked in with a rag and a broom to find a whole paragraph laid out on the parchment. Next to it were a few other pieces of crumpled paper. You were about to throw them out, but a word on one of them caught your eye. “Maid”.

You flattened the crumpled parchment on the desk. “The maid has a beautiful smile.” It said, below it, crossed out but still readable, “knights shouldn’t look at maids.” And then, “remember your vows.”

Suddenly, the room was hot. So hot you had to open a window just to breathe, but it was summer and the air was dry and warm and did nothing to cool you down. The Kingsguard were celibate. Even children knew that. He made a vow never to touch a woman. Never to touch you. But he wanted to.

Your body felt limp as you slumped heavily on the bed. His bed. The whole room was overflowing with the thought of him. Writing. Sleeping. Getting dressed. Getting undressed -

You should go. Maybe to the kitchens where the old cook will spare a glass of cold ale while lingering his gaze too long on your body. Or outside in the sun where the stable boy, taking his too long of a break, will surely try to lay an inappropriate hand on you. Like regular men do. Men who are not kind and honourable and handsome. Men who aren’t Ser Duncan.

The chamber door creaked open. Your eyes jolted to it. Ser Duncan stood at the door, armoured and cloaked in his usual white, his body larger than the frame. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You were still on his bed. For a moment you thought it would anger him, the maid sitting on his sheets, but the crease between his brows appeared more worried than mad. “Are you unwell?” He asked. He walked closer, then dropped to his knees before you to look at your face, “Is it the heat?”

“I’m fine, Ser.” The words came out shaky.

Ser Duncan put a large hand on your forehead. It lingered there for a few seconds before he took it off and pursed his lips, “You’re fevered.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You tried desperately to look anywhere else but at him, and your gaze landed on the desk where the piece of parchment still lay unfolded, “knights shouldn’t look at maids”. They also shouldn’t kneel before them or press their large hands to their foreheads.

Ser Duncan followed your eyes. He exhaled softly. “I should have thrown that away,” he said sheepishly. “I apologise if it made you -“

“It’s alright.” You blurted out, not letting him finish. “It’s- I’m - I -“ you weren’t sure what you wanted to tell him. I’ll leave and we’ll never speak of it again. I’ll stay and do things that don’t require speaking.

“Vows are placed for a reason,” Duncan said. All you could think of is how you still felt the ghost of his touch on your face. He was so close you could see the shadow of his stubble on his jaw. The lines that crinkled around his eyes when he gave a wistful smile. “But men are still men, I suppose. No vow can change that.”

It was a mistake to try and kiss him, but you could hardly stop your own body. He grabbed your chin with a large hand, putting your movement to a halt. “I must still uphold them.” He said, but made no attempt to move away. He inspected you briefly. His mouth opened then closed again. He was cautious about his statement. “But you made no vows.”

You blinked at him. The fingers that clasped your chin tilted it upwards until you could do nothing but look straight into his darkening eyes. You struggled to find the meaning of his words until his other hand clasped around your wrist and pulled it down towards your skirts. “If your ache is as great as mine, then it is torture.” He said. “There is no need for you to suffer.”

Your heart pounded so loud you thought he might hear it too. He let go of your hand and it fell limply on your skirts. He was right, it was torture. You’d thought that when touched yourself to the thought of him more times than you could count.

Your thighs rubbed together by instinct. He pulled them apart with a gentle nudge, but did nothing more. Whatever you wanted, his eyes said, still piercing through you.

It felt like as natural as breathing to push up your skirts and touch the soaked fabric of your underwear. Duncan’s solid hand on your chin wouldn’t let you look away from him. His eyes flicked down when your legs splayed open then went back to your face. His jaw clenched.

When you finally moved the fabric away and slipped a finger inside, you gasped. He leaned closer until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your face. “How does it feel?”

“Feels good, Ser.” You choked out. It was so quiet the squelching of your cunt filled the entire room. You were too aware. Too shy again suddenly to look at him, but when you tried to avert your gaze his grip on your chin tightened, commanding you to look.

Soon one finger wasn’t enough. You added another one and a loud moan escaped your lips. You wanted desperately to kiss him. To feel the weight of his body on yours. He could tell. He placed his free hand firmly above your exposed knee, not too high, to stop you from clasping your thighs together.

“I wish it was your fingers,” you didn’t mean to say that aloud, but you doubted this was the time to keep secrets. Duncan was breathing heavily, taking in every jerk and jolt of your body, studying every little expression you made as if he could absorb your pleasure just by looking. You could feel the tension of the hands that held your thigh and chin in place. He stayed unmoving, a statue within his resolve to remain the viewer.

Your fingers pumped faster now. The heat building in your stomach made you dizzy. You restrained yourself from grabbing at his hair, and clasped your fingers around the hand that clutched your thigh instead. “Seven hells,” he breathed, “Add another one for me.”

You obeyed. The pressure was becoming too much. Your skin prickled. You could sense his resolve wavering as the needy whimpers rolling out of your mouth became louder. Duncan raised his thumb from your chin to trace it along your bottom lip. “You’re close,” he said. You could only nod in return.

“Ask me, then.” He said. The Lord Commander suddenly evident in his demeanour. You needed him. His permission to finally let go.

“Please, Ser.” The words put a shiver through your body, “please.”

“Good girl,” he breathed. You hoped he might kiss you now, but he kept a calculated distance from your mouth,.“You can come.”

Pleasure rippled through you. You came in a mess of sounds and curses and his name, over and over again stuck on your lips. Your knuckles turned white where they grasped his forearm. He hadn’t moved an inch, immersed in the sight of your body squirming and writhing under his hands.

You pulled your fingers out and tried to catch your trembling breath. When his hands let go you thought you might collapse, but by sheer will you managed to keep upright.

The sheets under you were a mess, rumpled and damp with your slick. You pulled your skirts down, “It’s a mess,” you muttered.

“Leave it,” Duncan said, “Is it better now?”

“Yes,” you admitted. And it was, but you still wanted him to touch you. You wanted to push him onto the bed. Unclasp the hooks that held his armour. Fucking vows.

“Good.” He said, and rose to his feet. “I won’t keep you then.”

You were still light headed when you got up from the bed. You hardly remembered to take the broom and rag with you when you left his chamber. The hall was empty and silent, and your heart still raced in your chest. Will he touch you more the next time? Will there even be a next time?

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her shotgun lying close by to her left. Curtains drawn, her only light was the news on TV. It was always the same thing. Sun still scorching, visitors still among humans. Y/N sighed anxiously, fiddling with the hem of her lumpy blue sweater. It was weeks into this routine she had been doing. Checking strangers at her door, letting in who she felt was safe and checking in on them in the coming days, following the signs FEMA has been telling everyone.

The homeowner had always been a companionate caring person which only made it harder for her to turn people away, and even more difficult to accept that she might have to shoot the people she had invited in and gotten to know.

Her home was currently a house of 4.

The neighbours daughter. A sweet girl that Y/N knew well before the world had turned to shit. She does her best to keep the child entertained and distracted from the horrors outside. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes Y/N just sits with her as she cries. She gives her the space to be upset, asks questions about her Dad. Although Y/N wants to keep her spirits up, it's not healthy for her to always keep in what she's feeing.

A very tall man occupies the living room sofa. He enjoys drinking the beer from the fridge and is very blunt. The homeowner knows he often disagrees with the decisions she makes. Y/N didn’t like to think about that fact much, probably because on some level she knows she's too soft.

The newest addition, a grieving woman with vibrant blue hair. Y/N was apprehensive to let her in when she saw the dead body on the lady’s back, but she couldn’t blame her for keeping her husband's body. Y/N couldn’t imagine leaving the body of a loved one somewhere in the world to rot and burn in the scorching sun.

A house of 4. Well, 5 if you include the cat.

Y/N got up from her bed and peaked through the curtains. It was night. She took a deep breath in and then out.

Right, lets go again.

She grabbed her shotgun and put it on her back as she headed into the hallway. Peeking into the kitchen, Y/N could see the little girl sleeping across two chairs. She slowly closed the door to not wake her up.

The woman in the bathroom could be heard weeping. Y/N decides to leave her be.

Finally, she checks on the tall man. He was sitting in his usual spot on the sofa. The cat was curled up on his lap, purring as he pet them.

"Hey." Y/N said quietly. The man lifted one hand up to greet her. "You two okay in here?" He nodded.

"Are you gonna start manning the door for the night?"

"Yeah. I was just checking on everyone before people started knocking." The man looked back down at the cat.

"You need to be more carful with who you let in here." Y/N sighed. Here we go. "Last person you let in could've killed me easily."

"Yeah I know I know I'm really really sorry about that it's just- she had a cat okay? And don't tell me you don't love the cat."

"Cat is better company than most other people that have been in this house. But I'd rather have no cat and no visitors. You cannot be kind in this world we now live in, it could get us all killed." Y/N received these lectures from him most days. It felt like getting lectured by a parent. She turned to leave.

"I know okay. It's hard. I'm trying." She put her hand on the doorknob and turned. "Get some sleep. It's late." She left the living room and headed over to the front door.

I hate when he gets like that.

Y/N leaned against the wall by the front door and folded her arms. She let out a big sigh. Someone knocked.

Okay, let's do this.

The first person of the night was a large middle aged woman, her hair in a ponytail. She seemed cheerful at first. She reminded Y/N of how some of her Mom's friends were when she was a kid. But the more they chatted, the more Y/N was convinced that there was something off about her.

She decided to not let her in. The woman became irritated and angry but ultimately left.

Y/N let out a heavy sigh as she leaned away from the peephole. She slapped her hands to her face and groaned into them.

Ughhhh fuck. It’s fine. The suns only just set, if she's human she's got plenty of time to find another shelter.

Another knock. Y/N stood up straight and took a deep breath in.

As she holds her eye up to the peephole, she hears a muffled voice. She can’t make out the words, which she thought was weird because she's never had trouble hearing people through the door before. Looking at the man at her doorstep, he seemed to be around her age, quite tall with dark curly hair. It looked like there was something on his mouth. It’s not clear what it is through the peephole. Y/N just stares at him for a minute, trying to understand what she was looking at.

“Mmmph. Mmmmmmmmph?!” The man makes another noise. Y/N realises he’s still waiting for a response.

“Y-Yes?”

“Mmmph?”

“Yes hello? Are you okay?” The man points at his mouth and shakes his head. “You can’t talk?” He repeats his action. Y/N takes her eye away from the peephole and debates on what to do.

This is really weird. The news didn’t say anything about visitors not being able to talk, and that would be a pretty easy sign to spot.

She looks at him again, scanning the rest of his body.

He looks okay otherwise…maybe I should tell him to leave just to be safe.

Y/N then looks back at his face.

Is he crying?

She opens her door a crack so she can get a better look at him, she pokes the end of the shotgun out the gap just to be safe. The man's eyes widen as he makes eye contact with the weapon. He slowly raises his hands in fear. Y/N examines him. His face is puffy, tears falling down his cheeks. Around his mouth is red. Y/N can finally see what’s stopping him from speaking. She blinks, her tone a mix of concern and confusion.

“Your mouth…. there’s wires in your mouth.” Why is his mouth wired shut? Did someone do this to him. Why would they do that? Is it because he's dangerous?

The man gives Y/N a pleading look. It looks so painful. Every small mouth movement seems to pull at the skin around his lips. Y/N couldn't take seeing someone like this. She opens the door fully and steps to the side. “Come in, quickly.” She gestures for him to enter.

The man scurries in. He looks nervously around the hallway as Y/N locks the door and puts her shotgun on her back. She grabs the stranger's wrist and heads to the storage room, quickly passing the living room. She knew the tall man would not be fond of this guy.

Once in the storage room, Y/N closes the door behind them and points to a spot on the floor as she looks for something. “You can sit down there.” He stays standing for some reason, looking a bit confused. Y/N looks back at him and points again. “You can sit.” She repeats with a comforting tone. He sits this time.

Y/N finds her toolbox and takes out a pair of pliers. She doesn’t notice Wireface shuffling nervously. She mumbles to herself. “Where did I put that- oh here it is.” She picks up her first aid kit.

Wireface’s eyes widen. He scrambles to the back left corner as the sight of the green box with the recognisable white symbol on the front. Y/N’s head darts around at the sudden movement. The man was shaking, flailing his arms, making distressed noises. She puts the box and pliers back down and holds her hands up. “Woah woah woah hey hey hey it’s okay-“

She crouches down to be eye level with him. He was still shaking as he watched her. “I didn’t mean to- I-I just want to help you.” Y/N explained in a soft tone. She scanned his face, trying to understand the extreme reaction. Her eyebrows furrowed. “You can hear me right?” His face didn’t change.

Is he deaf? Hard of hearing? He might be. He doesn’t seem to react to what I say.

Y/N stood back up slowly. Wireface watched her intently, trying to predict if she was going to grab the first aid kit again.

I don't think he's gonna let me do anything to him tonight. I’ll leave him be.

"You should get some rest. You've probably been out there for hours right?" The man still didn't react. Y/N put her hands in a praying position and put them on the side of her tilted head. "Sleep?" Wireface nodded. "Okay, I'll come check on you in the morning then."

The homeowner turned to leave, she glanced at the first aid kit as she left.

the room felt humid, your skin sticky as well as his, the two of your practically stuck together as he fucked your cunt with vigor you didn’t expect him to have.

biting your bottom lip, you let out a pathetic little mewl in a poor attempt to not make too much noise.

this wasn’t your house after all.

the owner already seemed on edge by the number of people inside. the last thing you wanted to do was moan out too loud and risk having the homeowner kick you out—you’d surely die, whether under the sun or devoured by whatever was haunting the night.

but, fuck.

you didn’t realize how badly you needed a good fuck after this shitshow started, and jesus christ, this foreigner knew how to hold his own. tall, lanky, desperate, just as hopeless as you, honestly. despite the obvious and frustrating language barrier between you and him, somehow you two managed to convey the equal fact that you two were fucking horny.

and now, here you were.

pressed against the uncomfortable shelving with your hands, clawing his shoulder blades.

“Hl grtsg..” (so tight..) he muttered, voice strained.

a soft moan left his raw lips, your cunt was so fucking warm, wet, and snug around him—it was driving him crazy. specially when your cunt tensed around him, fluttering around his throbbing dick, making his hands shake.

swallowing heavily, he shut his eyes. his mouth tasted like iron, but that was truly the least of his concerns.

you, on the other hand, were grinding your hips upward in a desperate attempt to match his pace. too caught up in your own bliss, you leaned your head back against the shelves. squeezing your thighs tighter around his hips, your moans slowly rose in volume, his cock was making it easy for you to forget this wasn’t your home.

before you knew it, a large hand clasped over your parted lips, it was his.

his fingers squeezed your jaw, “hss.” he shushed you quickly. your half-lidded eyes met his, though he didn’t have any anger behind his tone—you could tell his features. his arched eyebrows were furrowed up, his face flushed, and his own lips parted as he let out shaky breaths.

“s—sorry—“ you whined, words muffled by his palm.

he didn’t say anything in return, not understanding you, though his hips didn’t stop.

you watched him, his other hand still gripped your hips tightly. nails digging into your delicate skin, he was so fucking turned on—the only thought inside his head was simple: i’ve never had pussy like this. genuinely, he couldn’t find the fucking words to describe how good you felt.

his large hand stayed clasped around your pretty mouth, your choked-out moans coming out muffled. honestly it pained him knowing you two couldn’t be loud. he’s always been vocal, and it was killing him not being able to moan out freely. still, he swears he heard someone crying from another room over, and truly, he didn’t want to moan and groan like he’s starring in a porno while someone else shed tears in the next room over.

he pressed his lips together, trying his hardest to avoid his injuries, but fuck, his lips were still so sore.

your arms moved to drape loosely over his shoulders, pulling him close to you. his face pressed against your shoulders as his pace got sloppy, you were moaning right at his ear, his cock throbbed.

“Tlw—“ (god), he panted.

his lips ghosted against your neck, he groaned.

then, in a sloppy way of thinking, he pulled out—his hands moving to your waist as he flipped you over. before you could complain, he slammed you, face-first, against the shelves of the room. he didn’t mean to be so rough. he was just.. desperate.

grabbing your hips, he pulled your ass back, making you arch before he grabbed his cock and shakily guided his cock back inside your glistening pussy. one hand resting against your ass, he spread you open to get a better view as he slid his cock back inside.

a shaky breath leaving his lips as his cock was welcomed back inside so warmly.

you let out a small moan, your head leaning back as your back arched more for him.

pressing his chest against your back, he wrapped his arms around your waist in a tight hold. he was holding you, his face resting against your shoulder blade—he needed closeness. warm human touch, and you were so warm.

your hand moved behind you, your finger lacing into his messy curls in a way to soothe him. the action was so gentle, it was ironic having it be during a messily desperate fuck with a man you met just a few days ago. yet, that didn’t matter to you now.

a soft whimper came from him at your touch, his pace only getting quicker.

your lower belly hurts, a warm feeling tightens there, you don’t remember when was the last time you’ve felt it.

“don’t stop—“ you gasped, eyes fluttering as your body felt hotter.

you gasped, “oh fuck, don’t—“ a choked groan left your lips, your hand quickly moving to clasp over your lips. god, your legs trembled as your own slick coated the inside of your thighs.

he, despite not knowing what was being said, by the way your cunt tightened around his cock he knew what you meant. the way you squeezed his cock only made his balls tense up.

with a sharp muffled moan, you came. hard.

your cunt is squeezing impossibly around his girthy cock—your hips rolling and tensing as a wave of pleasure hits you. your head leaned down. pressing against the wooden shelf in front of you as you panted heavily, both hands shakily resting on the wood to keep yourself steady.

behind you, his eyes widened at the sudden squeeze of his cock, fuck it was like you were begging to milk his dick—and shit; that’s exactly what he wanted to do.

“R'n tlrmt gl xfn,” (i’m going to cum) he gasped. “hsrg.” (shit)

his hand slipped down your stomach, his hand pressing down above your pubic bone before his body stilled, his hand pressing against your ass. his body tensed up tight, a loud groan leaving his raw lips as his cum painted your warm walls. he let out a strained curse as he realized he forgot to pull out, but fuck, he couldn’t bring himself to do it now.

rolling his hips against you, he let out a soft groan, smaller spurts of cum coating your insides as he rode out his orgasm.

afterwards, he continued holding you, the two of you sticky and hot, panting like two dogs.

he could feel his cock softening inside you, and slowly he pulled away. his dick was limp now, his eyes remained lidded as he watched his cum slowly slip out of your warm cunt.

tugging his limp cock back inside his jeans, he let out a small breath. you turned at the sound of him zipping his pants back up. fixing your crumpled-up skirt, you blinked, meeting his gaze.

a small smirk came to your lips as he stepped closer, leaning his lanky body down, he pressed his lips against yours in an eager motion. he winced as his lips met yours, despite the sting and the pain that came from his still raw wounds, he didn’t pull away.

his hands moved to cup your face, as if he couldn’t believe you were truly there. his hands were warm against your skin, as you kissed him back, your arms wrapped around his neck. your fingers curling around his messy curls, as the kiss deepened, the tangy taste of iron came to your tongue.

a soft moan left your lips, muffled by his own, his hands moved once more—one hand moving to cup the nape of your neck while the other rested at your hip.

your back pressed against the shelves as he pressed you against the wood before the two of you pulled away in heavy breaths. your lungs stung, yet your hazy gaze met his, your lips were glossy with saliva and blood, yet you didn’t mind.

pulling away, he stepped back.

his hand came to rest by his neck, licking his own lips, he shuddered.

“R'n hliib uli gsv nvhh.” (i’m sorry for the mess), he said with a somewhat shy tone.

you tilted your head, pushing away from the shelves before you pressed your lips together—his tangy blood on your tongue, yet the taste didn’t bring you any disgust. in fact, you could feel your body heating up again.

this time, as you stood before him, you pulled him in again. your lips meeting his in the same desperate need as his own.

he let out a muffled gasp, yet his hands found your hips again, your lips pressed together sloppily.

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her shotgun lying close by to her left. Curtains drawn, her only light was the news on TV. It was always the same thing. Sun still scorching, visitors still among humans. Y/N sighed anxiously, fiddling with the hem of her lumpy blue sweater. It was weeks into this routine she had been doing. Checking strangers at her door, letting in who she felt was safe and checking in on them in the coming days, following the signs FEMA has been telling everyone.

The homeowner had always been a companionate caring person which only made it harder for her to turn people away, and even more difficult to accept that she might have to shoot the people she had invited in and gotten to know.

Her home was currently a house of 4.

The neighbours daughter. A sweet girl that Y/N knew well before the world had turned to shit. She does her best to keep the child entertained and distracted from the horrors outside. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes Y/N just sits with her as she cries. She gives her the space to be upset, asks questions about her Dad. Although Y/N wants to keep her spirits up, it's not healthy for her to always keep in what she's feeing.

A very tall man occupies the living room sofa. He enjoys drinking the beer from the fridge and is very blunt. The homeowner knows he often disagrees with the decisions she makes. Y/N didn’t like to think about that fact much, probably because on some level she knows she's too soft.

The newest addition, a grieving woman with vibrant blue hair. Y/N was apprehensive to let her in when she saw the dead body on the lady’s back, but she couldn’t blame her for keeping her husband's body. Y/N couldn’t imagine leaving the body of a loved one somewhere in the world to rot and burn in the scorching sun.

A house of 4. Well, 5 if you include the cat.

Y/N got up from her bed and peaked through the curtains. It was night. She took a deep breath in and then out.

Right, lets go again.

She grabbed her shotgun and put it on her back as she headed into the hallway. Peeking into the kitchen, Y/N could see the little girl sleeping across two chairs. She slowly closed the door to not wake her up.

The woman in the bathroom could be heard weeping. Y/N decides to leave her be.

Finally, she checks on the tall man. He was sitting in his usual spot on the sofa. The cat was curled up on his lap, purring as he pet them.

"Hey." Y/N said quietly. The man lifted one hand up to greet her. "You two okay in here?" He nodded.

"Are you gonna start manning the door for the night?"

"Yeah. I was just checking on everyone before people started knocking." The man looked back down at the cat.

"You need to be more carful with who you let in here." Y/N sighed. Here we go. "Last person you let in could've killed me easily."

"Yeah I know I know I'm really really sorry about that it's just- she had a cat okay? And don't tell me you don't love the cat."

"Cat is better company than most other people that have been in this house. But I'd rather have no cat and no visitors. You cannot be kind in this world we now live in, it could get us all killed." Y/N received these lectures from him most days. It felt like getting lectured by a parent. She turned to leave.

"I know okay. It's hard. I'm trying." She put her hand on the doorknob and turned. "Get some sleep. It's late." She left the living room and headed over to the front door.

I hate when he gets like that.

Y/N leaned against the wall by the front door and folded her arms. She let out a big sigh. Someone knocked.

Okay, let's do this.

The first person of the night was a large middle aged woman, her hair in a ponytail. She seemed cheerful at first. She reminded Y/N of how some of her Mom's friends were when she was a kid. But the more they chatted, the more Y/N was convinced that there was something off about her.

She decided to not let her in. The woman became irritated and angry but ultimately left.

Y/N let out a heavy sigh as she leaned away from the peephole. She slapped her hands to her face and groaned into them.

Ughhhh fuck. It’s fine. The suns only just set, if she's human she's got plenty of time to find another shelter.

Another knock. Y/N stood up straight and took a deep breath in.

As she holds her eye up to the peephole, she hears a muffled voice. She can’t make out the words, which she thought was weird because she's never had trouble hearing people through the door before. Looking at the man at her doorstep, he seemed to be around her age, quite tall with dark curly hair. It looked like there was something on his mouth. It’s not clear what it is through the peephole. Y/N just stares at him for a minute, trying to understand what she was looking at.

“Mmmph. Mmmmmmmmph?!” The man makes another noise. Y/N realises he’s still waiting for a response.

“Y-Yes?”

“Mmmph?”

“Yes hello? Are you okay?” The man points at his mouth and shakes his head. “You can’t talk?” He repeats his action. Y/N takes her eye away from the peephole and debates on what to do.

This is really weird. The news didn’t say anything about visitors not being able to talk, and that would be a pretty easy sign to spot.

She looks at him again, scanning the rest of his body.

He looks okay otherwise…maybe I should tell him to leave just to be safe.

Y/N then looks back at his face.

Is he crying?

She opens her door a crack so she can get a better look at him, she pokes the end of the shotgun out the gap just to be safe. The man's eyes widen as he makes eye contact with the weapon. He slowly raises his hands in fear. Y/N examines him. His face is puffy, tears falling down his cheeks. Around his mouth is red. Y/N can finally see what’s stopping him from speaking. She blinks, her tone a mix of concern and confusion.

“Your mouth…. there’s wires in your mouth.” Why is his mouth wired shut? Did someone do this to him. Why would they do that? Is it because he's dangerous?

The man gives Y/N a pleading look. It looks so painful. Every small mouth movement seems to pull at the skin around his lips. Y/N couldn't take seeing someone like this. She opens the door fully and steps to the side. “Come in, quickly.” She gestures for him to enter.

The man scurries in. He looks nervously around the hallway as Y/N locks the door and puts her shotgun on her back. She grabs the stranger's wrist and heads to the storage room, quickly passing the living room. She knew the tall man would not be fond of this guy.

Once in the storage room, Y/N closes the door behind them and points to a spot on the floor as she looks for something. “You can sit down there.” He stays standing for some reason, looking a bit confused. Y/N looks back at him and points again. “You can sit.” She repeats with a comforting tone. He sits this time.

Y/N finds her toolbox and takes out a pair of pliers. She doesn’t notice Wireface shuffling nervously. She mumbles to herself. “Where did I put that- oh here it is.” She picks up her first aid kit.

Wireface’s eyes widen. He scrambles to the back left corner as the sight of the green box with the recognisable white symbol on the front. Y/N’s head darts around at the sudden movement. The man was shaking, flailing his arms, making distressed noises. She puts the box and pliers back down and holds her hands up. “Woah woah woah hey hey hey it’s okay-“

She crouches down to be eye level with him. He was still shaking as he watched her. “I didn’t mean to- I-I just want to help you.” Y/N explained in a soft tone. She scanned his face, trying to understand the extreme reaction. Her eyebrows furrowed. “You can hear me right?” His face didn’t change.

Is he deaf? Hard of hearing? He might be. He doesn’t seem to react to what I say.

Y/N stood back up slowly. Wireface watched her intently, trying to predict if she was going to grab the first aid kit again.

I don't think he's gonna let me do anything to him tonight. I’ll leave him be.

"You should get some rest. You've probably been out there for hours right?" The man still didn't react. Y/N put her hands in a praying position and put them on the side of her tilted head. "Sleep?" Wireface nodded. "Okay, I'll come check on you in the morning then."

The homeowner turned to leave, she glanced at the first aid kit as she left.