nothing in the world belongs to me but my love

You’d been in a café with your friend – she’d discovered it recently, swore up and down they had the best pastries she’d ever tasted – when you’d seen them enter and sit down, their legs impossibly long in comparison to the plush seats. 

Immediately, you’d started drooling over him. The blond one. His dark-haired brother was very handsome as well, but you could see the ring glinting on his finger, and besides, he looked much too put together, much too perfect for someone like you. 

Maekar’s scowl, his nervous shifting, the glare he shot at the low table – having to bend so much troubled his back, you’d learn – it was catnip to you. 

You watched them, watched him, from that day forth. They appeared to work nearby, dressed smartly for white collar jobs, though the width of their shoulders belied it. Every week they came. Same day, same time. Like clockwork.

And, like clockwork, you would go. Tanselle would accompany you sometimes, but most often you’d go in alone, sit down in a corner with your laptop and pretend to work while sneaking glances at a man old enough to be your father. 

You would have never approached him, never would have done anything about your silly infatuation with a stranger, had it not been for Tanselle’s encouragement. 

“If nothing else, he’ll be flattered,” she’d said around a smile. “You’re young and pretty.” The way she added the last part had you hear what she meant. And he is neither of those. 

Not young – at least fourty, you thought, probably older. Not pretty. Even you could agree.

He was attractive, arresting, but not pretty. Pockmarks divoting his cheeks – scars that his beard could not hide. A long, severe nose. Frown lines. He was a map of his life and you desperately wanted to learn it.

You took the first step on a warm summer day. You’d arrived precisely five minutes before they would. It was pathetic that you knew their – his – schedule so well. Along with your own order, you asked the barista to make a cold brew, large, with added caramel. “For the blonde man who’ll come in in a few minutes.” 

The young man at the counter shot you a queer look, an eyebrow raised. He knew who you were talking about. Really, him? The scowling old man? You shrugged helplessly. I like what I like.

Heart hammering inside your ribcage, you watched from your seat as he sat down with his colleague.

(His brother.)

When he made to order, the barista gave him his usual. “Already paid for,” he added, and pointed you out, to your horror. Somehow you had not thought about that. 

You were a wreck beneath his gaze. Shaking hands, trembling lips, mouth gone dry as soon as his violet eyes fixed on you. What do you want, they said, so blunt that embarrassed tears almost stung along your lash line. 

Instead of succumbing to them, your face bloomed red with the sudden violence of a wave crashing against the tide. 

You waved awkwardly, not knowing what else to do and secretly wanting to die inside.

Socially inept. One of the nicer things you had been called in your life.

You felt Tanselle’s incredulous eyes on your nape. Your friend had certainly seen you struggle to interact with people, but not this much.

The dark-haired man at his side appeared to understand your clumsy attempt at flirtation better than its recipient did, smiling slightly and clapping his companion on his back with twinkling eyes.

“You have a little admirer, it seems,” you overheard him say. They probably didn’t think you could hear.

But you’d always had keen ears. To your detriment, mostly.

She’s so weird, isn’t she? Such a nerd. Don’t her parents love her enough?

“Fuck off.” It was not the first time you heard him speak, but to hear him now… your knees went weak. You were glad you were already sitting, or you would have stumbled like an idiot. “She looks Aerion’s age.”

“And?” There was a wicked half-smile on the dark-haired man’s – Baelor, you recalled – face. “You’re not eighty, Maekar, and Aerion is a grown man.” 

He exhaled through his nose, huffing like an annoyed bull. You’d seen that look on him several times already. The man you were infatuated with – Maekar – was gruff and sulky.

Just like your fa–

Nope, don’t finish that sentence. 

Tanselle’s dark hair fell into your vision as she leaned towards you. “Go to him.”

Hesitantly, you glanced back at her. Your breath was stuttering already, just thinking about it. Are you sure? She only made a shooing motion.

When you stood, your legs were unsteady, wobbly like your grandmother’s termite-bitten oak table. You counted the strides – seven, it was seven – it took you to walk over to their table, trying to think of what to say. 

Was the order right? You knew it was. You’d watched him get this exact coffee for weeks. But you couldn’t say that. 

Does it taste good? He hadn’t even taken a sip yet. And it must, if he returned to it every time. 

Come here often? Even worse. 

You were still undecided when you stopped short of running into the tabletop. You looked at him, at Maekar, at this man. You had never asked anyone out in your life. And now you were starting with someone so intimidating, so attractive that your tongue felt like lead inside your mouth.

“Number?” you blurted out, cringed and started again. Oh gods, fuck. “C-can I have your number?” you asked, wringing your hands. Do I seem weird? Oh gods, I’m a creep.

“You’re really handsome,” you added lamely. 

There was a look of utter confusion on his face. He looked at you, your face, devoid of lines, youthful, sweet. 

Then, your shirt, a graphic tee of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Fuck. You should’ve dressed prettier. Like a woman. Why had you chosen your decade-old comfort shirt? Well, because it’s your comfort shirt.

You loved Lord of the Rings, had been obsessed ever since you’d first seen it with your father. Just one more thing that had set you apart from other girls your age who liked things that girls liked. Always the nerd, you were. Always the odd one out. 

(Later, you’d find out that he’d stared at the shirt not because it was strange, but because he loved those movies as well.)

“Me?” he said, not quite a question, not quite a statement. “You are asking for my number?”

You nodded, feeling like you were close to tears. Someone kill me.

“Because you think I’m handsome?” He sounded incredulous. Like he couldn’t believe it. You shifted on your feet, trying not to think of how Tanselle was watching you.

“Y-yeah.” You tilted your head, peering at him, at his brother who seemed to be trying very hard not to smile. 

“Brother, if you don’t give this sweet girl your number, I will do it for you. This is just what you need.” The last part, the dark-haired man said more quietly. 

Something seemed to occur to him and he stood abruptly. “Why don’t you take my seat? I’ve just remembered something urgent at the office. Have a nice break, Maekar.”

Maekar glared at him, but made no attempt to stop him. You knew that particular brand of defeat that he wore on his face – the look of a man who had been outplayed by someone who knew him far too well.

You hovered, unsure. “What are you waiting for?” he told you in a huff, exhaling roughly. “Baelor won’t let me hear the end of it if I botch this now.”

You stared blankly. “Sit down,” he murmured, softer. You glanced back at Tanselle, saw her wave you off, a silent go on, and sat down. “Would you like anything?” he asked.

“I really like the pastries here. And a hot chocolate would be nice. Coffee’s too bitter.”

You hoped your sweet tooth didn’t make you sound childish. 

(It didn’t. Maekar had often thought the same, though he preferred not to let others know that the harsh Anvil despised coffee for being too bitter – something that was, with considerable frequency, muttered about him. Fucking fools.)

You sat with him and you talked – or rather, you rambled and he listened, occasionally throwing in a brusk comment – and when you looked at your watch, you saw that over an hour had passed.

When you tried to stand, to apologise for keeping him for so long, he– 

Well, it looked like a smile.

“What’s the rush, hmm?” he said. “I haven’t given you my number, yet. That’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?”

He gave you his number. The first text he sent you was an invitation to lunch the next day.

Despite each and every one of your blunders, your nerdy rants about video games, about science fiction and fantasy, about things that were quite meaningless to him, you continued seeing each other. 

Your fourth date was supposed to be dinner at a fancy restaurant. 

You’d been so nervous you’d cried, and your eyes were still wet when you opened the door to see him standing there, in dark shirtsleeves, so handsome your heart seized.

He took one look at you, your red face, your sweet dress, your attempt at looking presentable. 

He kissed you. Ravished you. As though the sight of you had awakened a beast inside of him.

And, well, you never did make it to that dinner.

Instead, he held you on his lap, tasting your mouth like the sweetest wine. Somehow both the most undone and the most patient you’d ever seen him, taking his time to reassure you, to make you melt into his touch. 

With him, slowly but surely, you lost your fears, your nervousness. You did not change, not precisely. You simply... blossomed.

your husband only grumbled, rough hands trying to stop you from revealing more skin. still, you were determined, swatting every attempt away with a disgruntled sound, making maekar even more annoyed.

"have you no shame at all, woman?" he grouched, face pinched in irritation as you lifted the tunic until it pooled under his armpits, revealing his chest and belly in all its glory. "disrobing me and pawing at my flesh like i'm nothing but a toy to be played with when i'm exhausted from the bloody fucking—"

but you were barely listening to what your husband was saying, and frankly, in that moment, you had no qualms about paying mind to what came out of his mouth. all you cared about was how good he looked in that moment, leaning back against the pillows of your bed, still sweaty and dirty from the royal hunt he attended, looking every inch a man. all muscle and sinew and gods, the smatterings of fine silver hairs all over his chest and belly, and all the way lower on his navel, where a white trail of hair led right beneath the waistband of his breeches, to his cock.

you almost sighed thinking of it. you loved your husband's cock. it was one of the best things about him.

"you're exhausted," you parroted, humming as your soft hands continued to caress his stomach, pressing your fingers in, kneading at the skin like a cat, leisurely and appreciative, eliciting a displeased groan from your husband. "so sit back and indulge me for a few moments, dear husband."

maekar only scowled at you, the furrow between his brows deepening, lip curling in a snarl as he leaned forward, trying to loom, to intimidate in hopes you would cease pestering him. "don't dear husband me, you aggravating woman," he gritted, teeth barred, akin to a dragon before it unlatched its jaws to breathe fire and ash in anger. it made you warm under your chemise. you loved when your husband was all snappy and indignant.

you leaned forward, undeterred by his little intimidation tactic, noses almost brushing as you spoke, your tone soft and persuasive, as if beckoning a wild animal that might bite. "you were gone for so long, and i have been here, all alone, missing you like a limb," you lamented, distracting him from the way your fingers trailed along the waistband of his breeches now, prodding at the pudgy roll of fat there, loving the soft feel of it. "the least you could do is yield to my whims for a while."

aware that it wouldn't be enough to placate your husband, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his scarred cheek, leaving chaste, sweet kisses on the skin as you murmured. "you always look so good after a hunt, husband," you appeased, relentless in your pursuit of what you wanted, especially when it was something as delicious as touching maekar freely without him grumbling in your ear incessantly. "makes me want to devour you whole," your tone was on the precipe of resembling a purr, lips descending towards the strong line of his jaw and down his neck, nuzzling at the sweaty skin in delight.

as always, he tried to persist, even as you felt his skin warm and flush under your lips, making your mouth curl into a satisfied smile. you had him exactly where you wanted him, even if he was still resisting.

"you're being ridiculous," and oh, he was already panting softly, broad chest heaving along with the warm breaths that brushed your temple as you littered his ruddy-skinned throat in wet kisses. "pouncing on me like a cat in heat the second, ah—fuck," he cursed right when your tongue laved at his skin, tasting the remnants of the hunt. the sweat, the grime, the dirt—him, musky and manly and oh so palatable. “stop. i reek of filth and—”

“and i love it,” you moaned against his throat, mouth parting to press open—mouthed kisses to the skin of his throat, tongue licking at every remnant of perspiration, catching it against your palate and savoring it like the finest arbor gold. “you smell s’ good, husband, gods. i want to lick you all over.”

it always got like this. the more disheveled he returned, the more aroused you got. shame had deserted you moons ago, being absurdly vocal about how much you enjoyed when your husband was anything but presentable and pristine.

maekar made an aborted sound at your words, already flushed all the way to the tip of his ears, one rough hand moving to clasp the back of your nape and squeeze in hopes of deterring your assault on his senses, but it seemed in vain. the touch only spurred you, a soft sound resembling a purr rumbling against his throat as you continued to press your tongue to his skin, dipping it to taste the touch of grime gathered in the hollow of his throat.

“filthy,” maekar snarled, fingers squeezing just so at your nape and pulling upwards, eliciting a disgruntled sound from you; a whine. your lips were slick with spit, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide, hazy with heat and adoration, which only made the pressure of his hand increase, reprimanding you for how far gone you already looked. “you’re a filthy, dirty woman, you know that?” he spat, tone brooking on a growl. “always have been,” maekar continued, tightening his hold onto your nape, the pads of his fingers restricting your breath for just a moment, just enough to make you gasp, before he eased it. “getting hot and bothered by your soiled husband like a degenerate,” his thumb brushed against your throat, where he gripped prior, the closest thing to quiet tenderness you could get in that moment, but it made warmth spread through you regardless.

“what of it?” you challenged, dipping your head back to his throat, nosing along the flushed skin, your soft fingers resuming their pawing along his belly, pressing and prodding at the pudgy flesh there, nails scraping along the trail of fine hairs leading below his waistband, making your husband hiss. “it’s your smell i crave, your taste,—” another filthy lick, along the jut of his collarbones, before moving downwards towards his chest, where the smattering of hair was thicker, the smell of sweat and musk more pungent.

maekar tensed as soon as he felt your lips brush against one of his pecs, and you could feel the shiver that ran through him when the tip of your nose nudged a nipple, willing it to harden.

“don’t you fucking dare—”

you did it again, nosing at the pebbling bud once, twice. then, you licked it, slow and wet, circling the nipple with the tip of your tongue, flicking teasingly.

a garbled moan punched out of maekar’s chest, his hold on your nape tightening anew, his other hand fisting the sheets under him, white—knuckled and trembling with restraint. you could tell he wanted to shove you away, to haul you as far as possible from his body so he wouldn’t be able to feel all this, to have to succumb to your whims and depravity. but you also knew he liked it. craved your attention like poison in his veins. hated that he needed it. snarled and snapped his jaws while being half—hard already beneath his breeches, blushing from the tips of his ears to where your mouth was currently busied, lips parting to suckle noisily at his nipple, drawing out another restrained, delicious grunt from your husband.

“look at you,” he managed to bite out through gritted teeth, broad chest heaving under your mouth, voice thinner, breathier. “licking and sucking like a common whore,—”

but you didn’t let him finish, letting your teeth scrape against the bud, nipping at it enough to sting, halting his crude words, making him curse, back arching, pushing his chest more into your awaiting mouth. it was a reprimand, but also a sick, twisted pleasure. seeing your husband bucking and snarling under your lips and tongue was a sight you could never get tired of, much like right now, as you laved one last lick to his wet, swollen nipple, before nosing between his pecs through the fine hairs there, inhaling the scent of him like a woman possessed.

“how would you know what common whores do, mhm, husband?” you murmured, nuzzling along the underside of his pecs, letting your lips press against the skin in damp kisses as you descended towards his stomach, fingers still trailing along the hairs leading towards his navel. “have you been indulging without my knowledge?”

each question was a taunt, like dangling a hunk of meat under a dragon’s nose, waiting for it to bite. and you loved nothing more than to taunt your dragon until he bit, until you could feel his teeth sink in, metaphorically or not.

and he always bit.

“you think i would debase myself with some pleasure house wench?” he snarled, violet eyes glinting with something close to offense, which made you preen quietly, warmth spreading through your chest like drizzled honey.

as you nosed along his stomach, you couldn’t help but breathe him in again, mouth parting in soft pants as your eyes fluttered, the musk of him stronger the closer you got to the V—shape of his hips. “i would hope you wouldn’t, dear husband,” you mouthed along his belly, tongue poking out to lick at the skin, tasting him again. “i would be thoroughly scorned if you so dared,” another lap of your tongue, slow and filthy, this time along the trail of hair near the waistband of his breeches, feeling a slight tickle onto your palate.

but, gods, the scent. the taste of him.

musky and sweaty and man.

it drove you wild, lips pressing to that tempting silver line, open-mouthed and slow, savoring him on your tongue again and again, as if you couldn’t get enough.

a groan slipped unbidden from maekar’s mouth, fingers tightening at your nape, as if remembering he still had a hold on you, blunt nails biting at the skin light enough to make you shiver as he pressed with firmness, as if scruffing a cat. “don’t need some perfumed, wanton wench when i have my hands full with you,” he panted, eyes trained on you, almost unblinking, having watched you the entire time, despite his protests. lavender hues half—lidded, glinting, part anger, part heat, eyeing you like a predator stalking prey.

his words made you purr against his skin, a satisfied sound, your fingers moving to tug slightly at his waistband, revealing more of his navel to you to lick and kiss. “good,” you murmured into his skin, dipping to nose at the cincture of his pants, and lower, nuzzling against his crotch, where you could feel him hard and throbbing already.

“woman, you—” but his protest dissolved into a shuddering moan as you rubbed your cheek against his clothed cock insistently, eyes fluttering, gaze holding his, molten and smoldering with heated affection. the friction was delicious, and it only made more bitten off pleasured sounds fall from his lips, broad chest heaving, splotched red from how hard he was blushing, skin ruddy and flushed. he looked good enough to eat. and maybe later, you intended to do just that.

the scent of him was strongest there, musk so strong it made you dizzy with want, lips parting to mouth at his crotch, feeling his cock throb beneath the cloth, only spurring you on. “smell s’ good,” you mumbled as you continued to map the hard ridge of his arousal with your mouth, tongue laving at the material, wetting it with your spit, making the outline of his cock even more visible. “taste s’ good, husband.”

“gods, fuck—” came from above you, the grip at your nape firming, pressing down, almost smushing your face into his crotch, but you couldn’t be happier to succumb to maekar’s guidance, feeling his hips twitch upwards, rutting weakly against your face.

it made you moan, the action so debauched, so depraved, making you nose along his clothed cock in time with the clumsy grinding of his hips against your face, the scent of him thickening, clogging your senses and coating the back of your throat from how greedily you inhaled.

“c—can’t believe you’re, shit—” he could barely get his words out, too impaired by the way you looked, the blissful look on your face as he humped against it. “can’t believe you’re getting off on this, you wanton woman,” maekar continued, his hips picking up the pace, forcing you slightly more against his clothed cock, grinding against your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your nose; anything he could, the pleasure tingling down his spine way too rapid for his taste. “mouthing at me like a filthy animal, letting me hump—fuck.”

you could tell he was getting close, the thought satisfying you more than you could tell. seeing your husband so unraveled by this alone, hips grinding against your face, hand holding you down for more delicious friction, chasing more but not being able to get it. a delicious torture that was way too exquisite not to witness.

“mhm,” you hummed against his crotch, rubbing your cheek harder against his clothed cock, feeling it throb incessantly, the smell of him more pungent, the precum leaking steadily through his breeches and staining your cheek. “not my fault my husband left me unattended for so long,” you lamented, fluttering your lashes, continuing to rub against him. “i’ve been so lonely,” the words were mouthed against him, breath warm against his crotch, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“always so fuckin’ demanding,” he groaned, long and suffering, humping against your face with more fervor, so close to his peak, face and throat flushed and splotchy, hand firm against your nape as he pushed your face deeper into his crotch. “n—never satisfied, ah, fuck, fuck, wife—,”

wife. the word strained and close to a whine as he lost control, rutting against your plush cheek once, twice, before he came with a pained groan, as if someone clawed the sound from deep in his chest, his spent dirtying his breeches, wetting the fabric against your cheek.

his chest was heaving, mouth parted wide as he tried to catch his breath, his grip still firm, but trembling against your nape, his thumb now brushing along the side of your throat, just like before, as if rewarding you silently, thanking you for letting him use you like this.

it made you smile and you nuzzled into his now damp crotch, the smell of him more powerful than ever, making you moan against the cloth. the sound seemed to bring maekar back from his post coital bliss, his violet eyes blinking down at you, hazy but attentive.

“lick it,” he breathed out, voice strained and heaving still, the fingers at your nape guiding you towards where his cum stained his breeches most, a wet patch visible where the head of his now softening cock was under the cloth. “can’t let good spend go to waste, wife.”

you only hesitated for a heartbeat, mind not wrapping around his words for a moment, before you moaned, mouth parting eagerly, tongue pressing to the damp material and licking, feeling the taste of him invade your palette. “yes, yes,” you sighed, overly pleased, too preoccupied and greedy, lips wrapping around the wet spot and suckling it into your mouth, the essence exploding onto your tongue.

“fucking filthy woman—,” maekar cursed, the sight of his wife, so desperate and eager, making him equal parts flustered and astounded.

you knew the night was going to be a long one when you felt a twitch under your tongue, your husband’s cock throbbing back to life, making your lips curl.

it’s almost halloween now, and compared to your home here in the suburbs, all the others were lit up with different decorations of skeletons, pumpkins, witches and more. what cozy homes, you think. your’s only had two pumpkins you carved out of the whim, and it looked dull and pathetic. 

is home now really your home? you wonder sometimes, wondered if moving here was really right. you miss your family, friends, the beach, the laughter, and all things that felt like home. 

and now… 

everyday you come from work with no one to talk to. sure, you made some friends from work, the local coffee shop, neighbors and that. it was childish you felt this way, longing for something that you knew was the expense of getting a better job. 

you tap the ashes of your cigarette on the ash tray.  you lean back against your chair, watching as you see a family come home with smiles on their faces. the wife kisses her husband on the porch, and their kids make fake sounds of disgust, and they all laugh as they go into their warm home. 

i want that. your mind suddenly says, and you take another hit of your cigarette, enjoying the nicotine buzz as you brush that thought away. the cold doesn’t help your sudden blue mood as you finally crush the cigarette out and just sit there… wondering again if you will ever feel the warmth of your home like theirs. 

a man… a man however… 

a man walks through the quiet suburbs with his ear still having that numb sting. blood still sticks to his hair as he looks around the quiet neighborhood. the man is still reeling in his anger about the tiger and roy’s lack of payment for him. he had what was needed, and he expected half to be paid for the injury of his flesh and the lack of information that the tiger had claws that were sharp. and the rabbit, the blasted son, has continued to poke at him thinking he has claws. 

pride is the original sin. 

the rabbit and his father are both filled with it along with countless others. the man can almost taste it on his tongue. the bitterness of countless sins he has eaten, pride has always been the foulest one. lucifer was cast out of heaven for it… and the man sees the same fate for both. 

only… 

humans were always looking for a way to make themselves escape from sin. 

and the man was the one who swallowed it all because there was nothing else to eat. 

the man’s nostril flares, he feels too weak. there’s no home he can go to, for it was across the seas. only, he had no home back there as well. the man stops, the burden on him weighs heavy as he looks at the quiet neighborhood. the man is looking for somewhere to stay for awhile… to lay low and think of what he can do to get his rightful payment. the scent of smoke catches his nose for a moment as he merely stands beneath the street light, pondering. 

you take another cigarette from your almost empty pack, it’s a toxic habit you’ve been trying to cut off, but you always seem to reach for it. putting it between your lips, you’re about to click your lighter open until the most peculiar sight makes you pause. 

the man stares up to the sky, wondering if god is looking down at him with pity. does god care for a sin-eater like him? would He take away the sins the man ate and let him walk free at last? the man has been on this desolate earth for far too long that he doesn’t remember what it feels like to have a body that functions normally. he is a wandering soul trapped in sin, forever forced to roam the land with no other purpose. 

did lucifer felt the same as him when he fell from the heavens? did he as well crave to go back home? 

“h-hiya?” 

the man blinks, hearing a meek voice call for him. 

“are you lost, sir? i couldn’t help but notice you were standing there for so long.” 

the man’s head turned to the woman’s- no… 

a lamb. 

a meek lamb. 

you laugh awkwardly as the strange man stares at you silently. you’re suddenly thinking that this was a dumb idea that you approached him. but he looked lost, and you thought he might have been having a problem for how long he’s been standing there. the strange man, whose face you can now properly see, blue eyes stare at you… questioning. he’s tall, unique haircut, and… blood on the side of his face- 

“are you alright?” you ask, worried, gesturing to his ear. “that looks like a nasty cut. d-do you want to wait out on my porch so i can call someone? maybe your family?” 

the lamb looks at the man like he’s… he doesn’t know what to describe it as he observes your face. the lamb’s brows are furrowed, eyes raking his form, checking if he has any other injuries. the lamb then gives her name, and he remembers it. 

“my house is right there. at least let me look at your wound…” the lamb points to the white house, and he follows your gesture. the lamb then quietly ushers him, and he follows… 

“a-are you from around here?” you ask again, hoping to get some information out of him. “this is a big neighborhood.” you chuckle as you glance back at him. “wouldn’t be the first time someone got lost here, ‘ya know?” 

the man doesn’t answer again, but stands awkwardly on your porch. the lamb gives him a small smile, gesturing to the chair. 

“sit, please, while i look for something to clean your cut. wouldn’t want it to be infected.” the lamb pleads, but the man merely stares at something. and your eyes follow his silent gaze to your… cigarettes. 

oh. 

“d-do you smoke?” the man finally looks at you again. “do you want one? feel free, please.” 

the lamb scurries to grab the pack of malboros, fishing one out, presenting it to him. the man looks at the cigarette then to the lamb, and he takes it. the lamb gestures to her lighter, and the man puts the cigarette between his lips, leaning forward as the lamb lights his cigarette with ease. he inhales, puffing out the first hit before inhaling again, the smoke filling in his lungs and the buzz that comes next makes his shoulders… relax. 

“thank you.” the man finally says, and the lamb looks surprised. the lamb merely smiles, and a tug inside him confuses the man for a moment. the man then waits for the lamb’s next move, always expecting something. 

“you’re welcome. always need a cigarette now and then to calm the nerves. d-do you have someone in mind to call? while i find some bandages and some iodine?” the lamb asks again, and he stares at you. wondering how you’re not scurrying to call the police or that, but you chose to ask him if he had anyone to call to. and offering to clean his bloodied appendage. 

the man is… intrigued. 

the man’s next words solidify the thought brewing in him as he admires the easy and soft look on the lamb’s face. 

kindness was not something he was given to all the time. 

“i live here… now.” 

・゜゜・．

the mysterious man that ended up on your porch was a strange turning point after the mundane week you had. his accent was not from here, that you can tell, it was a mix between something english… and old? you could not explain it. the cut on his ear was indeed nasty, but luckily didn’t need any stitching so you just cleaned it and bandaged it. you try to ask him what happened, but he seemed to tense at that, so you let it go. it was strange, of course, that he said he lived here now. you thought he was just pertaining to staying the night… but no. 

you tried asking him if he had anywhere to go… and the answers he gave were quite cryptic to understand at first. 

“a man is far from home…” he merely says when you let him inside after he finished his cigarette, worried that he’ll freeze since he was just wearing a wool sweater… and a kilt. huh. 

“oh, so you’re not around here, then?” you busy yourself making some hot cocoa for him and yourself. something to warm yourself up and ask again if he has someone to call for. you’re worried he has a family looking for him. he doesn’t answer as you look back at him. 

“i-i’m not really from around here too, ‘ya know?” you can’t help but share with him. you don’t know why. you always liked chattering around with people, part of your job as well. being a clerk in a hospital has its ups and downs, but you always manage to be friendly and kind. you never know when someone needs it is your motto everyday. 

“i grew up in california. and before you ask why minnesota, well it’s because of my job-“ you continue to ramble while the man behind you stands idly by the kitchen counter. touching his bandaged ear from time to time. 

but back to the topic now… 

“l-look, i’m all for helping you, but… uh, don’t you have anyone looking for you? they might be worried.” you tell him the day after when you were spooked the hell out when he appeared by the kitchen as you’re leaving for work. like he just appeared in mid-air. 

“trade.” the man says instead of answering you. “a man offers… trade for the lamb’s home. for refuge for a moment.” 

“trade, you say?” you’re… confused who’s he pertaining to a lamb. and your reaction seems to make the man’s eyes light up. your reaction not being out of fear. 

“yes.” the man says it like he’s happy to know you understand... in some way. 

“w-what kind of trade, then?” 

“a trade will be made, that is certain.” he merely says, and you’re trying to decipher what he meant, really. 

“i…” you don’t know what to say. he’s peculiar, and you’re not sure what his intentions are now, but you don’t really get a bad impression from what he’s offering. “…well, i don’t know your name. and this is a lot of trust you’re asking when i don’t know who you are-“ 

“munch.” 

“monk?” 

“ole munch.” 

“oolah monk?” you repeat again, it sounded so foreign you’re pretty sure it’s scandinavian or norwegian or something. “well, it’s nice to finally know your name, ole.” 

there’s a long stretch of silence when you expect him to say something. but he doesn’t, he just looks at you, waiting for your answer. you awkwardly fix your bag on your shoulder before finally speaking up again. might probably be the strangest morning you ever had. 

“i don’t want to kick you out, it’s freezing out there. and… uhm… i don’t know what problems you’re having. b-but if you say you’re just staying for awhile… well, it’s just me in this house you’ll bother, then… okay?” you again don’t know why you agreed. maybe you’re just too kind. “just promise me you’ll bring no trouble in this home.” 

the man stares at you again, this time his brows furrow for a moment. you don't know whether to leave now for work, considering you’re almost late. 

“you say trouble…” he begins. “trouble follows men long before they arrive.” 

another riddle. 

“that’s supposed to assure me?” you ask, wondering what he meant by that. was he running away from something? or someone?

the man says nothing in return. 

which somehow makes it stranger than before. 

you clear your throat, hyperaware that this situation has become more bizarre than what you expected of letting a stranger- an injured stranger in your home. and you agreed to let him stay despite warning signs that should be clear that he might be in trouble. 

or maybe you’re over-analyzing the situation. 

you don’t know. 

“okay…” you breathe out, looking at your phone out of habit to check the time. “we’ll talk more when i get back from work, okay? i just… well- this is all so bizarre right now. it’s not everyday i willingly let someone in my home.” 

the man stays silent again, and you’re about to leave before remembering you need to feed him after all. 

“oh, i made some pancakes. just heat them up in the microwave, and there’s juice in the fridge.” you point to the plate of fresh pancakes on the kitchen island. the man’s expression shifts for a moment, lightened by the mere word of ‘pancakes.’ that you just offered freely. the man nods, and you leave, feeling a little out of place for a moment. 

・゜゜・．

you never knew a weirder week in your life than what has been happening now. the man in your home was like a phantom, a tall and ominous phantom, always appearing from time to time, yet you never felt his presence completely. you had talked to him again about his ‘stay’ in your house. you mostly spewed out that he can use your guest room for the time being, and he mostly stayed silent like always. merely watching your every move with that stoic face he always puts on. 

you’re pretty sure you’ve gone mad that you’re housing a man with little to no information about him at all other than his name. 

sometimes, you’ll find him in his room, just sitting on his bed while he smokes your cigarettes. you had kindly asked him to open the window, at least, and you don’t know if he heard you or not. other times he’d appear when you’re in the kitchen, making breakfast, and he seems to show up when you’re making pancakes. 

other times… you’re kind of worried he doesn’t eat at all other than pancakes you make. 

he keeps his distance, you’ll give him that, but sometimes you’d check up on him from time to time. and he seems to disappear and you’re left wondering if you heard him go out the door. but when he’s looming behind you, you can’t help but speak about your day. 

it was refreshing… a nice change that you got someone to talk to after work. no matter how weird the situation was.

“… you know, i can’t believe someone would willingly shove something in their butt! it was so bizarre, and the poor man’s face was so red that he had to lay flat on his stomach while they wheeled him in.” you rambled as you flicked through the channels. the man sits on the other end, looking at your television as you continue to rant about your day. 

“it certainly made my day. it was a slow shift before he came in. i thought he was just complaining about a stomach ache. but martha always says that the most normal looking person always has the freakiest kinks.” you settle on the game show that you always binged on then you turn to him. “do you think so?” 

the man looks at you, and he seems to think about it which makes you let out an awkward laugh. 

“who am to say, really? we all got some weird kink still hidden inside us.” you shrug as you lean back on your couch. “i’m starving. you want some pizza? i can order.” 

it’s absurd how you talk to him like he’s been living here for a long time. like he’s your friend. the man doesn’t answer you, but watches the game show, looking curiously. 

“i’ll take that as a yes, then.” you mumble before grabbing your phone. you glance at him, watching him for a second, they way the tv screen shined on his eyes, your gaze trails to his side profile. the bandage you put on him is still there. 

and he’s still wearing his long sleeves and kilt, you had offered him some clothes he can wear. you think the clothes you gave him might be too snug on him. he’s a large man… and you make a note to buy some men’s clothing once you go grocery shopping. 

“is pepperoni okay?” you habitually ask, and you really don’t mind that he doesn’t respond.

the man merely stares at the contestant winning a prize for spinning the big gigantic wheel of colors. it was so peculiar to him, how luck seemed to be the key factor for the people playing the game to drive their hopes. but it was all planned, wasn’t it? it doesn’t take long for him to notice the disparities in how this ‘game’ works. only one was destined to win it, and yet the others didn't. the way their faces crumbled, they way the man hosting it only offers them a pat on the shoulder and lets them leave with fake sincerity. 

like a humiliation ritual it was. 

but it seems everyone likes to watch it. 

“oh wow, she won that fancy new car and the cash prize.” the lamb says, looking awed. “wish i had that car, it’s got that fancy touchscreen thingy.”

the man turns to the lamb slowly. 

the lamb looks at the glowing box, mesmerized by the mere fact someone had won something the lamb wanted. it’s peculiar to him, how the lamb feels joy for this- for someone. the man does not understand where the lamb’s unrelenting kindness comes from. he does not understand how freely the lamb let him. but what he does understand now is how the lamb has been living in this home all by herself. maybe that was why. 

humans are social creatures by nature. 

and he does not understand why the lamb lives alone. and to move here where family is far away. to work, to make a wage, to survive in this world that’s plagued with men’s greediness that meager people are forced to endure the hardship of living. even if it meant to be away from where home really is, the lamb had the courage to move away to live. 

where was the lamb’s anger? he thinks. to live in an unfair world while still being kind was always a confusing concept to him. yet the lamb still takes joy, like at this moment, seeing someone win something the lamb could have. in his years of living and seeing so many people come across his path, a lamb was new to him. not a pathetic rabbit, a fierce tiger, a corrupt king… but a lamb. 

the lamb of god was a title meant to take away the sins of the world. always uttered in prayers before he would consume the sins of the deceased. but wasn’t he the one who took them away rather than the lamb of god? he would often ponder about it once he had his fill. 

but his lamb, his lamb- 

despite sin, you were kind. he thinks. 

had there ever been someone truly sinless? 

“pizza’s on its way now.” the lamb interrupts his thoughts. “shouldn’t take too long now.” the lamb smiles at him before standing up. “wanna smoke?” 

he stares at the lamb, wondering if you’ll forgive him for the trouble he might bring in the following days. he stands up, and the lamb goes out, and he follows. 

・゜゜・．

there was always something weird going around in minnesota from time to time. maybe it was the long freezing winters or the isolating woods. maybe you were not used to it yet, maybe that was why you felt like something weird was always something happening to you. first time something weird happened was when you were freshly new in your neighborhood and minnesota itself. you were driving along the dark highway, headlights bright, and suddenly a flash of bright light erupted in the night sky. you guessed it might have been a meteor or something. yet the brightness of that flash was like someone had a gigantic flashlight. 

but oh well… 

you’re having even weirder instances that seem to be becoming normal now. 

like your routine you have with the man- ole, in your home. 

most of the time he still kept to himself in his room, others, you would find him in moments you expected to be alone. like when you come back from grocery shopping, you were used to hauling your heavy grocery bags by yourself, of course, but somehow he’d always appear right at the front door making you jump in surprise. you swear you might get a heart condition from how he’s been spooking you with his presence. but he’ll help you with the groceries silently, and you let him. 

it was nice that you got someone to help you with simple tasks that were difficult before you had no company. felt like what you’re doing finally meant a little bit more, now you had someone else other than yourself in your lonely home. that leaky pipe you’ve been meaning to call a plumber? suddenly fixed. your washer’s fan that’s been squeaking non-stop? fixed as well. 

it’s like he fits himself perfectly in your lonely abode. 

your shared smoke breaks were something that became the ones you look forward to after a chaotic shift back at the hospital. the emergency room was chaotic most of the time, and he’s a great listener when you’re ranting (by great listener, he just sits there and stares at you while you rant away.) 

sometimes you wonder if he listens at all. 

“and then she had the audacity to tell me i filed the paperwork wrong.” you tell him, flicking ash from your cigarette on the tray. “it’s her paperwork! i’m already doing the ones she missed.” 

the man beside you exhales his smoke out to the open. you take another inhale, the bitter taste spreading across your tongue, further making you upset about your lazy co-worker. 

silence was your only response as you exhaled out. snow flakes drift lazily across the neighborhood. 

“the woman with blonde hair.” 

you blink. “what?” 

“suzy.” 

the man merely looks ahead, as if there’s something he’s been spying out in the distance. 

“she complains much.” 

you look at him, surprised. “i told you her name weeks ago.” 

“a man remembers.” 

the man takes another hit of his cigarette as you force yourself not to smile. for some reason, that warms you more than a cigarette ever could. 

it was silly… you tell yourself now. 

and very strange. you had to remind yourself he got into your house in the weirdest way. but the comfort he brings changed the way you look at him. and you admit to yourself that he’s not a stranger anymore… more like… maybe a companion? you sometimes look at him, wondering how he came about. other times, you don’t notice you stare at his face. 

he’s handsome… a sort of rugged look he has with his hair and his whole attire. when he sometimes stands close to you, there’s a flicker of something you haven’t felt in such a long time. 

yet here he was. 

and here you. 

he had become apart of your routine. not the bleeding stranger that stood alone in the cold streets. looking ominous and intimidating. when you’re making coffee, you bring out two mugs. your pancakes that you can’t finish, he eats them with joy. he’s the second pair of footsteps, although quiet, that moves in your quiet home other than yours. he’s that quiet presence that spooks you when you’re in the kitchen. he hovers behind, looking over your shoulder while you cook. and he willingly sits and smokes with you on your porch, and you’re not met with the lonely cold night of minnesota as your companion. 

a companion. 

the thought makes your stomach flutter strangely. 

oh, it’s so silly! you think to yourself as you prepare dinner in your kitchen. you chop the potatoes, setting them aside as you move to your oven to check the roasted chicken. pretending that the sudden warmth across your cheeks comes from it. 

ridiculous. 

you’re ridiculous. 

and the thought of him leaving… settling his ‘debt’ with you makes you feel all gloomy all of the sudden. 

right, temporary. 

this whole thing is temporary. and maybe tomorrow or you hope at least next week, he’ll be gone with a cryptic answer for what he’ll supposedly give you in return. you’re a little bit on edge now, having not heard him move in the house or announce himself behind your back. you chalk it up that he must be in his room. 

“chicken’s almost done!” you yell out, but it feels like you’re shouting at nothing. you don’t usually eat with him most of the time, but you wanted to do something more than what you were cooking for yourself. maybe you can invite him for dinner rather than leaving out food for him that you’re half-sure if he ever eats it other than pancakes. you busy yourself with sautéing the potatoes with garlic and olive oil. 

the chicken is ready by the time you transfer the seared garlic potatoes on a fancy plate. the dining table is already set up and you can’t help but check on him, wondering where he is. 

as you step away from the kitchen, your slippers step on something… wet? 

you glance down, eyes widening, shocked to see you stepped on mud… mud? you tense up, seeing the mud as you follow its track to the hallway. the atmosphere turned heavy, you tense up, the dimness of your home doesn’t make it better as you grab whatever object near you as a makeshift weapon. afraid that someone else broke in, and your intimidating companion was nowhere to be found. which makes matters worse. the only defense class you took was back in 6th grade when you took wrestling as your P.E class for some reason. and that was years ago. 

you slowly follow the muddy footsteps, and it leads you to your staircase. you gulp, gripping the empty paper towel holder as you take a deep breath before having the courage to go up. your phone is upstairs in your bedroom, and you can’t call 911 without it. every step you take as the darkness grows each climb makes your hands shake. you cannot believe there’s an intruder in your home, and you’re pretty sure you locked everything. and the front door was closed, and you didn’t hear any footsteps as well. maybe the window? you think. but impossible. 

the muddy footsteps stop at the bathroom. the door was ajar, light was peaking through, and you brace yourself to open it. the door creaks open and a muddy hand suddenly opens it wide. you yell as you’re about to swing, only for a harsh grip on your wrist to stop your assault. you finally can see the intruder, and all nervousness seem to disperse. 

the man- ole, yes, your ole… stands before you covered in mud from head to toe… naked? no, not naked, but in underwear, thank god. the stench of earth and a metallic scent envelops your nose, making you wince but you don’t care about that now. all you care about is what the hell happened to him. 

“oh my god, it’s just you! w-what happened? are you alright?” you blabbered, dropping the towel rack as you cup his muddied face. 

the man… stands still as the lamb’s hands cup his face so gently. he flinches for a moment as he feels your fingers shakily wipe the mud off under his eyes. 

“god…” he mumbles, yet his other words are interrupted by the lamb.

“i-is that blood on your arms? are you hurt?” the lamb’s hands drop, and he almost chases the warmth of the lamb’s palms. palms that were gentle and soft, not calloused and harsh palms that forced him to his knees and maul his face while he begged for coin and food. but palms that hold… care. 

“oh god, you’re hurt! you’re bleeding…” the lamb panics as he stands still, his head swimming a bit. it has been awhile since he had done that ritual. to connect with the earth and take on the sins he ate, and gather strength for the vengeance he will have against that blasted family. he lets the lamb fuss over him, the soft hushed whisper of the lamb’s words makes him forget about the burden of his acts. just only the lamb’s hands filled with comfort makes him feel sinless again. 

“lamb…” he utters, and the lamb pulls him back into the bathroom. 

you’re distressed. you push him into the bath, turning the shower on really quickly. making sure the temperature is warm as you see him sit down in the tub. the cuts on his arm looked self-inflected, and you don’t have the darndest clue of what the hell he just did to himself. it scares you, and it seems he notices your distraught as his brows furrow and he frowns. 

“yeah?” you hear him utter that nickname he gave to you. 

“a lamb takes away the sins of the world.” he mumbles as you grab a washcloth, soaking it in the faucet. “a lamb of god…” he continues to ramble on while you grab the first aid kit in the drawer. “lamb…” 

“don’t soak your arms in the tub please. let me clean and bandage them first.” you shakily say, too focused to entertain his rambling. the bathwater turned murky and brown when you kneeled beside him, gesturing for his arms. 

“what did you do to yourself?” you don’t notice the tears swelling in your eyes. the lacerations on his arms were huge, and you thought for the worse. “you can tell me everything, ‘ya know? you’re not… y-you’re not a stranger anymore, you can tell me what’s happening. d-did someone make you do this?” 

he looks at the lamb. 

fear written all over the lamb’s face. poor lamb. not fear of him, but fearing for him. the distinction settles strangely in him as he feels the lamb wipe his wounds. he ignores the stinging pain. 

for centuries fear has been his only source of drive for survival. fear had worn many faces for him.

fear of starvation. 

fear of pain. 

fear of death. 

the lamb’s were not this. 

“no.” he quietly says. 

“no?” the lamb breathes out, shakily wiping the mud and blood off his flesh. 

“it is the man’s burden.” the lamb looks at him confused, but carefully wipes his arms again. 

“ole…” his name on the lamb’s tongue sounds like warm pancakes. “that’s not reassuring.” 

the man watches the lamb’s brows knit. watches tears gathering in your eyes, and something inside him twists unpleasantly. 

the lamb should not weep over a man such as him. 

“the burden belongs to the man alone, lamb.” 

“that’s stupid.” the lamb’s response is immediate. no hesitation. the man blinks at that. 

“i… the man does not understand.” he asks weakly. 

“that’s stupid.” the lamb repeats, done with wiping his arms as the lamb pulls out an ointment of some kind. gently dabbing it on a cotton pad and presses against his mauled skin. the coldness of it makes him flinch, the lamb notices it immediately. “s-sorry.”

“nobody should bear it alone.” the lamb quietly tells him. “you don’t have to tell me everything.” another wipe, but the lamb’s words were the ones that make him freeze. “but you don’t have to sit here hurting by yourself either.” 

silence follows. only the sound of water slightly splashing and the lamb’s breathing fills the bathroom. 

warm… 

scent of the antiseptic. 

remnants of the mud and blood are already faint. 

the lamb is kneeling beside him, focused on tending to him. 

the man cannot remember when someone tend to him with this much care. he does not even remember his own mother’s nurturing embrace… 

his gaze lowers to the lamb’s hands. small hands compared to his, but steady despite the lamb’s worry and fear. hands that patch his wounds. who offered shelter, food, comfort, kindness… without naming a price. the lamb did not name a price for him, and yet he could not function properly if he did not make a trade with the lamb. 

“lamb…” the man says, and you glance up. for a moment, neither of you speak. 

“when munch was a boy…” he begins. “freedom was a potato.” 

your eyes widened, as if what he said just made you feel relieved. you don’t say anything, letting him speak. 

“was you did not get killed today… freedom from hunger… from the rusty blade.” he stares into the distance as you gently wrap his arm with a clean gauze. “but to free himself- the man ate.” 

your breath hitches for a moment. 

“first… so others could not. he killed before he was killed. he wanted nothing more because only… kings… had the freedom to want.” there’s a bitterness in his tone that intrigues you. “but now… everywhere you look, you’ll see kings… everything they want, they call their own, and if they cannot have it, they say they are not free.” 

his tone turns into something akin to anger. roy tillman and his son’s face flashes through the man’s mind.

“they even pretend freedom should be free, that it has no cost.” he breathes out. “but the cost is always… death.” that settles something in you, something uncomfortable. “life for life… me…” 

he slowly turns to look at the lamb. 

“or you…” the lamb does not notice the tear running down the lamb’s cheek. his bandaged arm slowly lifts up, reaching to cup the lamb’s cheek as his thumb swipes the stray tear hesitantly. the lamb leans into his touch and breathes out a sigh. his chest feels heavy all of the sudden. 

“whoever… whoever made you hurt yourself, i don’t know if that’s why you’re here… but i’m glad you told me this even if…” you let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you can’t process his cryptic words. “even if i don’t understand it all yet.” 

the man’s hand falls back to his lap. 

“i made roasted chicken by the way… and garlic potatoes. d-do you want that after you clean yourself up?” the man looks at you, the tension on him disappears for a moment. “do you want anything else?” 

his eyes light up for a moment and he suddenly stands up. your cheeks turn warm as you look to the floor, and immediately rise to his height as you grab a towel for him. 

the man almost smiles. “pancakes.” 

・゜゜・．

the day after was a blur. 

you had the day off, and he quietly asked you if he could borrow your car over breakfast. although it sounded more of a command rather than a question. but he had the decency to ask, and you agreed. before he could leave, you noticed he didn’t have a thick enough coat, and the snow outside was heavier than yesterday. you did not want him to freeze as you stopped him. 

“take the coat, please? it’s shit-freezing outside. i don’t want you getting hypothermia.” you say to him as you shove the old grandma coat you had that’s been hanging on your coat rack since forever. he glances down at the coat then to you. 

“thank you.” he says, grabbing it and putting it on. you smile at him before you watch him walk away. wondering where he’s going. 

yet you did not expect what he brought after that. 

you were sitting in the kitchen when all of the sudden, he appears out of thin air again, making you yelp. 

“you scared me.” you say, and he suddenly drops a bag on the table. “what’s this-“

“trade.” he merely says, gesturing to the bag. “for you, lamb.” 

you blink, and you guess he wants you to open it how hard his gaze is as he tracks your every move. you hesitantly open it, and you swear your eyes were going to bulge out when you finally saw the contents in it. 

“where did you get this?” you ask, bewildered. the amount of cash in here look like it summed to at least a hundred thousand or something. “ole, no, no, no- listen, i can’t accept this-“ 

“a trade has been agreed upon.” he reminds you, and you shake your head. 

“i’m not really struggling with money, and i don’t know what to do with this- okay, wait, where the hell did you get this cash?“ you push the bag towards him, and he frowns… more confused with your reaction. 

“the man’s debt has been repaid. it is… done. a man has no use for half of it…” he tells you, and you’re more bewildered saying that’s half of what he’s giving to you! you sigh, standing up as you walk towards him. 

“i don’t feel comfortable accepting it. you’re kind that you thought about this, thank you for that. but ‘ya know… all this-“ you gesture to him and you. “all this doesn’t have to be repaid.” 

his brows furrow. “the lamb offers a man a warm home and food for his burden. a debt is expected… it is required.”

“not all good things… well… uhm, not all good things have to be given something in return.” you tell him gently. “i offered you my home because you needed it, right? you did not bring trouble here, and i think that’s enough for what you can give me in return. and you already paid it.”

“the lamb desires for more… you say you desire for a better vehicle. this is enough for the lamb’s want.” he presses on, and you huff out a laugh. it surprises you how much he remembers, which makes you feel all warm. 

“i do… yeah, i do want more. but sometimes you have to work the hard way to get it. it is nice to be able to get in the easier way but… what’s life without the hardship of living?” you shrug, feeling ridiculous about your own ethics. the man stays silent, almost upset but very confused still. 

“hey…” you reach to grasp his hand. “thank you for this. this was very thoughtful of you.” 

you’re so close to him that you can feel his breath fan across your face. he looks at you, features slowly softening as you can’t help but lean up and press a chaste kiss on his cheek. when you lean back, you can see the pupil of his eyes widen, and he looks away… sheepishly. 

“a gift then… for you, lamb.” he mutters. you giggle loudly, amused he still wants you to have the money. 

“don’t.” you warn him teasingly. “i don’t know where you got this, but i’m not gonna ask again. it’s yours.” 

he looks at the money then to you. 

he still can’t understand you. 

but it feels nice… a nice change for once. 

“you’re leaving, then?” you suddenly ask, and the man doesn’t answer for a moment. you frown, feeling a little disappointed. “if you’re leaving… please tell me, don’t disappear.” 

“the man will not.” he tells you with no hesitation. you wonder if it’s him leaving or telling you he’ll give a word before he leaves. you give him a tight smile, nodding. 

“the man’s debt is paid… yes… but it is not over, yet.” he confesses. “no trouble to be brought into this home, you say… there will be trouble, but it will be taken care of.” 

“i…okay.” you breathe out, wondering what the hell was that supposed to mean. “but you’ll be alright, right?” 

“the man will not disappoint the lamb.” he reaches to touch your cheek again, as if he’s remembering your face as you glance at his lips while his thumb gently caresses the apple of your cheek. so he is leaving, you think. you don’t want to picture what your home will feel like again when he leaves. not when he’s looking at you like this. gentle and soft.

you like him so much. you confess to yourself, and you don’t want to make things awkward if you tell him so. you’re not even sure if he feels the same way. 

“okay…” you pull away from his touch, and the man falls silent, letting you walk away. he senses your disappointment, but he cannot bring himself to soothe you. he does not know how. 

he watches the lamb leave, and he broods alone in the kitchen. 

・゜゜・．

you smoke more than what you consume tonight. there’s a noticeable shift, and you don’t know if he senses that, and ignores it as he stays in his room. you blow the smoke away, even the nicotine doesn’t lighten your mood as you think about him leaving. you feel so pathetic that you don’t want him to leave. you know he has his own life… no matter how strange you view it. but he became someone that mattered to you despite knowing him for almost a month. 

it would be selfish of you to load what you felt for him when he’s dealing with something. and it irks you that you want to know more. but he’s good at putting up a wall when it comes to that. you take another hit of your cigarette before putting it out on the ashtray. a sudden sound causes you to look up, and you see a man looking over your car suspiciously. as if trying to find something in it.

“hey!” you yell out, and the man quickly turns to look at you. the young man is dressed in a vest, hair slicked back, and wearing a cast on his arm. he looks mildly surprised when he sees you. “that’s my car. what the fuck are you doing?” 

“just checking something, lady.” he says, and you grab your phone.

“leave, please. or i’m calling 911.” you threatened, staying still where you are, but ready to bolt inside if the young man tries anything. the man’s gaze shifts to you, he squints, seeming to turn his attention towards you now. 

“that won’t be necessary, lady.” he says, slowly walking over before stopping to take a good look at you. “is he in there?” 

“what?” 

“i asked, is he in your fucking house?” he says, and your mind clicks. dread fills your mind as you grip your phone tighter in your hand. 

“i don’t know what the hell you want, sir. i live alone.” you inch closer to your front door. the young man scoffs, and suddenly bolts towards you making you scramble to get in. 

“help!” you yell out when he manages to grip your wrist as he pulls you both in your home. 

“shut the fuck up.” he clasps his gloved hand above your mouth while he clumsily kicks your door shut, tackling you to the ground. you let out a noise of pain as he holds you down. “just tell me where he is, i know you have him in your house so don’t try to play dumb with me, bitch- ow!” 

you manage to bite hard on his hand as you run up the stairs. the man follows as you run up the steps, sprinting to the hallway through dark until you trip. your head hitting the wooden floor loudly, making you wince and moan out in pain. 

“fucking bitch-“ you hear the intruder say as you look back to see him glaring at you. you scramble to stand up until your eyes widened seeing ole appear out of the corner, holding a baseball bat that you had and swinging it towards the intruder’s head. you gasp, seeing the young man’s body fall to the ground with a thud. you shakily stand up, and ole kicks the intruder’s body for a good second as he finally diverts his attention to you. 

“who’s that?” you manage to ask despite being out of breath. “he…he was asking about you- i-i-“ 

he takes a step towards you, and you let him. 

“…you were not supposed to see him.” he finally says, and you blink dumbly. 

“…i should call the cops.” 

“no.” 

“no?” you look at him, bewildered. “please tell me what’s going on! i’m so confused-“ 

the man touches the side of your head. a bruise has formed on the side of your face, and you wince in pain. 

“the man will take care of it.” he merely says. “all will be gone, lamb.” 

“you say that…” you sigh. “please… stop saying that.” 

you don’t want to look at the unconscious body laying in your home. you swat away his hand as you walk past him to get to your room. the man follows, looking sorry. 

“it is almost finished. the man’s trouble will be resolved-“ 

“stop saying that!” you plead. “you’re leaving, i get it. i’m… i’m just so confused.” you sit on your bed as he stands in front of you. “you don’t have to leave just yet… if someone else is trying to find you, you’re safer here-“ 

“no.” he immediately says. “a man has failed to protect you, he will not let anything else happen. this was a mistake. a man will not burden you longer, he will leave tonight-“ 

“what if i don’t want you to leave?” you ask brokenly. taking the courage to look at him. the man’s expression shifts. 

“i don’t want you to leave.” you whisper, standing up. inching closer to him. “stay here. you can solve whatever shit you’re dealing with… but come back here. back to me.” 

he stays silent for a moment. 

“a man does not deserve a lamb…” he mutters, taking in your face as his gaze roams around to your eyes then to your lips. 

“you don’t get to decide for me.” you tell him and you had enough of this. you hesitately tiptoed up, cupping his face as you press your lips to his. he stiffens, his hands flying to grasp your waist. the softness of your lips, warm and enticing, reels him in. you feel him hesitating to kiss you back, but sigh softly when you feel his lips move against yours. your hands drop down to paw at his chest. your heart beats so loudly, you're scared that he can hear it. 

“lamb…” he says between kisses, mind foggy with want. want that was suppressed because he did not see himself deserving of this. but you- his lamb says otherwise. 

“just for tonight…” you plead, pulling away as his forehead presses against yours. your eyelashes are almost touching with his. “don’t go yet.” 

he does not have the heart to say no. 

because he does not want to leave as well. 

“yes.” he shakily says, and you smile. you kiss him again, this time with more heat and want. something you’ve been waiting for all let loose. you lick the seam of his lower lip, enticing him to open up as you taste him. he makes a noise, the taste of you ripe on his tongue. 

no sin or delicacy tasted as sweet and pure as you. 

you let out little moans as you clumsily kiss him, not caring if it was messy. you’re enveloped in his warmth, the heavy feel of him makes you swimming with want. he towers over you, and slowly pull him closer. wanting to feel his chest against yours. you suddenly pull back abruptly from the kiss, making him chase after. his gaze looks so hazy and beautiful, you can’t help but press kisses along his cheeks. 

“i want to… i want you.” you whispered, hands caressing his chest. “w-we don’t have to do anything yet-“ 

“a man wants too much.” he whispers hoarsely. “the man is in the lamb’s hands now.” 

his hands squeeze gently around your waist. your eyes darken as you take a step back, gripping the hem of your shirt to shrug it off. 

“take off your clothes, then.” you say sweetly. the man shudders, seeing you strip for him as he watches you peel off your outer clothing. he obeys, shrugging off his long sleeves and kilt, and everything else. when he’s done, his cock twitches at the sight of you bare. you giggle when you see his eyes wandering, and you can’t help but entice him further. gaze dropping down to his crotch, and you mouth waters seeing the sheer size of it. your hand teases your breast, and the other boldly touching yourself in front of him. 

you tease your clit with a slow rub. “touch yourself… go on. want you to watch me.” 

he almost whimpers as he shakily grips himself. your gaze rakes his bare body, admiring the way freckles adorn his arms and chest. he’s fairly built, muscles contracting as he grips his cock that’s leaking. his hand slowly moves up and down, in tandem with yours. you let out tiny noises of pleasure, rolling your nipples between your fingers as you rub yourself while you watch him jerk off. 

“does it feel good?” you ask in a hush whisper. he nods, twisting his hand up and down, squeezing himself as his gaze stays down at your hand rubbing your sweet little cunt. wondering what you’ll feel and taste like as he sees it glistening just for him.

“lamb…” he whispers, pleading. his cock jerks up when you moan loudly. “i…i want, ugh-“ 

“you want what?” you ask breathlessly. you’re so wet, that you think you’ll slip in just as easily on his cock. 

“a man wants whatever the lamb o-offers-“ he gasps out when you suddenly touch his swollen and red tip. your soft hands that cared for him, wrapping warmly around his cock as you press kisses on his skin. you push him to bed, grabbing a condom in your drawer as you stand between his legs. for a big man like him, he sure does look small as you tower over him. his cock stands proud and tall, leaking precum just for you. you tear the foil open, then look into his eyes again. 

“…do you still want this?” you ask, wanting to make sure he’s comfortable. 

“yes.” he nods furiously. hands reaching to touch grasp your thighs, softly caressing them. you roll the condom on his cock, and wet your lips as you straddle him. he guides you, seeming unsure what to do but you smile softly at him. 

“i really like you, ‘ya know?” you tell him. grasping him again as you rub the tip of cock across your glistening folds. “don’t want you to leave me…” 

“to want… me?” he whispered, as if you said something so strange. 

“yes…” you whine out as you continue to rub your pussy on him. “i want you. just didn’t want to bother you… or if you don’t want me.” 

“i want you.” he strongly says despite the overwhelming pleasure he’s feeling. he has not known this touch for such a long time. “lamb…” 

you let out a loud whine as you slowly sink down on his cock. he grips your hips, gently guiding you down. you let out another moan when you hear your juices squelching as your pussy stretches out to welcome him. 

“oh, fuck-“ you whimper as you finally take him all in. you feel so full, so full of him. you begin to move your hips, grinding slowly against him. the loud squelching noises make it so obscene as you ride him. you pinch your nipples, looking into his eyes. those eyes looking up at you that were once so intimidating. the man sits up, and shakily kisses your delicate flesh. you grip his shoulders, letting him explore. 

he kisses your neck down to your collarbone, whispering jumbled words as he sucks one of your breasts in his hot mouth. he groans, as you grind down harder. his hips jerk up, adding to the friction as you let out another whine. 

“you feel so good, baby.” you tell him, kissing the side of his face. “feels so full.” 

he kneads your other breast, while the other hand grips your waist to keep you steady as he starts to thrust up in you. you hug his broad shoulders, feeling a little dizzy as you bounce on him faster. you feel the hand on your hip slowly dive down to rub your clit clumsily. 

“my lamb-“ he whispers against your chest. 

“oh, oh- right there- please, pleasepleasplease-“ you cry out as his thrusts started to become erratic and quick. your nails dig into his back, his cock massaging your tight walls so good. so big, so fucking wet. 

“yes… yes.” he rubs your clit faster, feeling your walls clench around him so tightly. he knows you’re almost close the way you’re begging for him to make you cum. he’s almost there as well, the way you’re clenching around him makes him thrust up faster. 

“oh f-fuck, yesyesyes-“ you blabbered, feeling your high near. the sound of skin slapping and your combined juices squelching fills the room as you feel yourself let go. he hits that spot inside you, and you cum so hard as you cry out his name. 

“sweet, sweet lamb-“ he kisses your cheek as he sloppily thrusts up to follow after your high. he lets out a tiny whine as you grips your hips, grinding down on him as you let out a whimper. his hips buck up, finally shooting his load inside the condom as his head rests against your shoulder. the two of you are out of breath as you caress his back, soothing him through his orgasm. his cock slips out, and you whine at the loss of him. 

you gently lean back to kiss him. he kisses you back, more softly this time as you smile against his lips. the two of you collapse on the bed as settle against his bare chest. his bangs are sticking on his forehead, hair all messy, making you grin at his state. he looks so in peace as he holds you in his arms. 

“you good?” you ask him, voice a little hoarse. 

the man glances down to his lamb. he softly caresses his lamb’s back, feeling complete. 

“thank you.” he says gently. you giggle, seeing him so fucked out because of your doing makes you feel all fluttery. and your heart skips a beat, remembering he wanted you just as much as you do. before you could even kiss him again, you remember about the unconscious intruder laying right outside your room. 

“about the man knocked out in the hallway…” 

“the rabbit will be fine.” 

Maekar was supposed to be yours. It was supposed to be you, Baelor, and Maekar together, a family together until the King had decided that he could not just allow that to happen with all the whispers already surrounding his family. 

Which had led to the downfall of his plan. Maekar would not join your relationship, instead having to find a wife of his own, and for his brother to claim his own son. You had helped with selecting his bride having known the woman from childhood. 

Dyana was absolutely lovely. You adored her, more than you think you ever had a woman in your life. You held absolutely no resentment for her. She was a friend, a staple through your life. 

The Dayne had been the first person you had kissed when you were four and ten both wanting to understand why your brothers kept doing it with random girls in the corridors, and not wanting to do it with some random boy. Then again before she married Maekar as she was afraid of looking like a fool in front of half the realm. 

It was her idea to travel down to Dorne in your husband’s absence, an extended stay away from the capital. 

A vacation away from the vultures of court.

You currently lounged on the bed, the silks pulled tightly over your bare chest as you watched your husband dress for the trip ahead. The sun had barely risen, but he would have to leave within the hour, “I cannot believe you will be gone for so long,” you whined. 

He chuckled slightly, “I will be home before you know it,” he tried to assure you, but you both knew it was a lie. Since the day you had wed the pair of you had hardly been away from the other for more than a fortnight. 

“Mayhaps I should just come with you instead.” 

He sighed moving to the bed, as you watched him approach you, “You could not be away from the boys that long. Dorne will be nice with Dyanna and Maekar. Besides if you get…” Baelor tilted his head searching for the words, “Lonely. Then you have company to use in my absence,” he told you. 

Your eyebrows drew together searching his face, “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

Your husband shrugged, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hand moving to your neck as he dipped your head back to stare up at him, “You know me better than I know myself I am sure you know exactly what I am saying.”

You only nodded, “We shall see,” was all you replied. 

The Dornish sun beat down on your face, and it made an excitement fill you, to be back home in a climate that finally felt right. There was no whispering gossip about that you did not fit in or that you did not deserve to be Queen one day. 

It was almost pure bliss. Dyanna sat next to you, watching as Aerion, Valarr and Daeron ran around enjoying the warm weather as each clutched a small dragon in their hand pretending to make them fly. 

“I could kiss you for suggesting we come home instead of staying at the Keep,” you confessed, turning to look at her. 

She let out a laugh, a smile spreading across her beautiful lips, “I would accept that form of gratitude,” she told you. 

The pair of you stared at each other a moment, and it was as if there was a shift in the air. There had been something different during this visit. Something that was not there in the Red Keep, but neither of you could quite place it as it was. 

Dyanna was a safe space, you hand long decided. One that has made you feel like your best self. She was there to hold your hand during your labors, and tell you how beautiful you look when your body did not look the exact same after two children. 

She in a very sense made you feel along the same way Baelor did. What you were unaware of is that she felt the same way. 

“You look very pretty today,” you then complimented, your eyes taking in the dark purple of her dress. She seemed to have a weight lifted off her away from the prying eyes of the capital, adn you were the same way.

Things were different here than in the Red Keep. Neither of you had to be the perfect wives married to a Prince of Realm. You could just be yourself. The person you were once able to be all the time before husbands and children had changed everything. 

“Maekar, does your wife not look gorgeous today?” you yelled out turning toward him. 

You watched him flinch as if he did not. You were aware that he stood so closely behind the air of you, but he should have. You were not one to miss things and he was not one to not linger especially in an unfamiliar place. 

This was your home, but he was still protective at his very core, over all of you. His eyes blinked as they locked onto you then slowly turned to Dyanna as he finally came closer instead of lurking, “She always looks beautiful. Both of you do,” he finally decided, but cringed as if the words were not meant to be spoken aloud. 

You hummed, “Did you know Dyanna was my first kiss,” you then confessed casually. His eyes widened as a blush spread across Dyanna’s cheek. “When were what… four and ten?” you asked, turning toward the woman. 

“Yes…and then again before I married Maekar, because I was nervous about looking a fool.”

You grinned, looking from the woman to her husband, “Better keep her close tonight, Maekar or I might let her keep me company,” you whispered to him patting his chest, before you stepped around him, “Come on, Valarr and Aerion, we can go sit in the water gardens.”

The words caused a reaction to fill both of them, their bodies going warm as they stared at you watching as your eyes flickered between both of them, as the statement was for both of them. They watched you turn away, each of your sons gripping your hands as you swung them lightly receiving a loud laugh from both. 

“Maekar,” Dyanna whispered, causing him to turn toward her. He hummed in reply, “Why did you end up giving her up?” she questioned, but knew the answer. 

“I am not going to dishonour you,” he stated, but his voice sounded rough as if there was vice wrapped around it, getting smaller by the minute. 

Dayne thought about it for a moment. Her husband was honorable, and for that she was most appreciative of, but she was not sure she would call what he was referring to as dishonourable. Especially when they both wanted the same thing that came in the form of you. 

She nodded, “If you do not…I will cross that line for us both,” she then started patting his chest, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Come along Daeron let us join your cousins,” she then called, wiggling her hand out to the door. 

Maekar still stood his mouth opening and closing, wondering what the fuck had just happened. 

The hour was late, and you both should have been asleep, but yet here you were. “He does not wish to dishonor me. Which I understand and am grateful for, but it seems like it is killing him slowly.” 

“He loves you,” you assured her as if that was what she needed to hear. It was not, because she already knew. 

“Just as he loves you… I know the thing between Baelor, yourself and him had a…complicated ending.” 

“That is one way to put it,” you laughed shaking his head slightly, “Baelor gave me permission to fuck him in his absence,” you declared. 

She did not reply at first and you wondered if you had accidentally offended her, “Just him?” she then asked. 

The moment switched in an instant. Your eyes trailed over her form, “Well…his exact words were I would have company if I got…lonely,” you recited with a grin. 

She hummed, her eyes dragging over your frame. You leaned forward giving her a clear view down the front of your dress and you watched her violet eyes darken almost instantly, “If you want me to make the move, Dy, you’re going to have to say the words,” you told her plainly. 

Dyanna nodded, her head going back and forth as if the decision had not already been made. You waited patiently sitting back watching her with a large grin, “I see it now,” she admitted. 

Your eyebrow drew together, “See what?” you asked, as you stood to your feet, the thin silk of your dress whispering against the floor as you approached her slowly. 

“Why Maekar is the way he is. You are…some else entirely.”

“As are you,” you assured her, your hands finally touching her, resting on her neck as you titled her head back to look up at you from her chair, “Say the words, Dyanna.”

The pupils of your eyes no doubt were entirely as blown as her, “Make your move,” she finally whispered, closing her eyes in preparation. 

You leaned down carefully as if you were going to press your mouth to hers, but you stopped just before you gave in to what you both want, “I can’t hear you,” you teased, your breath fawning her face causing her lips to part instinctively. 

Her eyes fluttered opening, meeting yours, “Please,” she said louder, voice a little rougher with need. 

You finally gave in, pressing your mouths together, your tongue instantly moving into the warmth of her mouth as you gave yourself the proper exploration this time. The pair of you moaned into each other’s mouth, each being swallowed as your tongues mingled against the other. 

She stood pushing herself to her full height as you kept your mouth connected, your hands moving up her sides to the strings at the back of her dress pulling them free with quick fingers. The thin material pooled at her feet. 

“Your turn,” she muttered against your mouth, her lips trailing down the column of your throat as she stepped back a moment waiting. You did as she said, freeing yourself as the material went falling down showing your form to her. 

You let her take her time sweeping over your skin, taking in everything she could with her eyes before you moved back toward her, with a grin. 

You guided her back toward the bed, stopping her for a minute before you sat back against the mountain of pillows, waving her forward. She crawled up the bed as you smirked at her, and you could see the confusion on her face. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, slightly confused as you guided her to straddle your thigh. 

She was not sure what she had been expecting, but it hadn’t been this, but she trusted you. “Grind down against me,” you whispered, your mouth moving to latch to her throat as you sucked against it hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Oh,” she muttered, as she rolled her hips against you, a wave of pleasure running through her as her clit rubbed against your flesh. 

“Do it again,” you instructed, as your mouth worked, trailing down her chest, to the heavy mounds. 

Dyanna let out a loud moan as you wrapped your mouth around the hardened peaks, your tongue flicking causing her eyes to practically roll back as she continued to rock her hips down against your thigh just like you had told her too. 

You could feel her drooling down onto you causing it to feel easier as she humped against you, gliding repeatedly as your tongue dragged across her chest to the other suit continuing your pursuit of her other breast. 

“There ya go. Take what you need.” Your hands planted on her hips to help guide her as she rode your thigh. 

She did exactly that as her nails dug down into your shoulders, pressing small crescents into the skin as she chased her own high, using you just like you had suggested moments ago. You knew exactly the moment she finished, her nails digging further, as her entire body seemed to tense as she cried out your name causing you to grin against her chest. 

You pressed a tender kiss to her breast, as she moved forward, her head resting against your shoulder as her ragged breaths filled the air, “What now?” she asked, as she sucked in a deep breath trying to regain her composure. 

You shook your head, grinning up at her, “I am giving you Baelor’s rule of curiosity tonight,” you told her. 

She sat up looking down at you, confused, pulling at her features, “And what is that?”

“You get to finish twice before I do,” you told her, your hands snaking up the smooth skin of her spin before you wrapped them around the nape of her neck pulling her back down to your mouth once more. 

Her hands moved cupping either side of your face as your mouths moved against each other. She bit at your lower lip causing you to groan slightly, your hands moving down to grip her ass tightly in your hand as she began to slowly grind against you once more. 

You sat up slightly, turning her over onto her back as smoothly as you could manage, now hovering over her.  You simply held yourself above her for a moment eyes scanning her face as you tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, “You are so so so beautiful,” you whispered to her, pressing a kiss to her lips then to her cheek, then her neck slowly trailing down her body til her womanhood. 

You leaned forward not wasting another moment as you licked a long strip up her folds. She let out a loud moan, her hands shooting forward to interlace in your hair giving you a harsh tug as you entered a digit inside her, your tongue flicking over her swollen clit. 

Maekar let out a sigh as sleep evaded him, and he had no clue where his wife had gone off too. He had decided to go off in search of you. He was not entirely sure what had led him to this decision, his body moving before he could talk himself out of it. 

He let out a sigh, lifting his hand to knock against the door, but he did not get that far when he heard a loud moan carry through the wood. He could instantly feel his bones go cold, before it was quickly released by a warmth that resembled a dragon’s fury. 

Who could you have been in there with? Was someone taking advantage of you in his brother's absence? He could feel his anger rising with each thought worse than the one before finally he pushed the door open ready to stop him, but he paused. 

What he was expecting was not 

Both of you turned toward him. You for half a second, your brain registering it was him before diving back into his wife’s cunt. Dyanna’s eyes tried to say to him, but her head turned back in a loud moan instead, not able to hold his gaze. 

He did not know what to take in from the sight in front of him. His body instantly had a reaction that he could not quite control as he heard sounds coming from his wife that he was typically earning, but it was not him this time

It was you. 

You who he had such a guilt, because you were constantly invading his thoughts. You who was currently slotted in between his wife’s thigh devouring her as if it was your last meal. Then he realized he had been standing there too long, observing, watching and suddenly he felt as if he was intruding. 

He moved to turn away, “Maekar,” Dyanna called out, causing him to turn back slowly, “Come here,” she beckoned him forward as you pulled away your head resting against her thigh watching him. 

The Dayne stood to her feet as you lounged back against the bed watching them. She pressed herself into him, as her hands went up to cup his cheeks forcing him to meet her eyes. Neither said anything for a moment, only staring at the other. 

Then she turned back toward you, and you offered her a single nod, “You can join us. You can have what you want,” she assured him, her thumbs rubbing gently against his bearded cheeks, giving him her attention once more.

“Dyanna,” he warned, though it lacked any bite, as each of you knew him much better than that. 

“Maekar, please,” you then whined, causing his violet gaze to shit toward you. 

“It is okay, Maekar,” Dyanna assured him. 

He swallowed harshly looking to his wife once more, searching her face for any hesitation, but he found none. You stood to your feet and he finally allowed his eyes to drop down taking in your appearance. 

You looked different from what he could remember, but it was better than any recollection he could make. He did not have long to admire you as your hand wrapped around the nape of his neck forcing his mouth down onto yours. 

Dyanna smirked to herself moving herself to the bed, watching you both, not quite knowing where she wanted to keep her eyes. 

Your hands trailed down, rubbing against his hardened cock causing him to groan. Then you gave him a harsh shrug, “Take off your clothes,” you instructed, moving to sit down next to his wife.

He began to take off the layers, but you did not watch, instead turning toward the Dayne beside you once more. You moved forward reconnecting your lips to her guiding her back toward the mattress causing Maekar to begin to quicken shedding his clothes. 

You hardly paid him any mind as you could feel him move behind you, the mattress dipping further under his weight. You trailed open mouth kissing moving back down toward her still soaked womanhood. 

You settled yourself in between her legs once more, the cushion of her thighs feeling something close to heaven, 

You could feel the tip of his penis, run through your folds collecting your slick, “You are fucking soaked. Is this all from devouring my wife’s cunt?”

You did not reply, only grinning against her, before sucking harshly on her clit letting her moan be only the reply he needed.  Though you could not see his face you had known him long enough to feel the satisfied expression boring into you. 

He notched himself at your drooling hole, before pushing himself in with one fluid thrust, “Seven fucks,” Maekar groaned at the feeling. 

You could only moan, which sent a vibration up Dyanna, causing her to curl further into you. Your hand moved inserting two digits into her, with ease, her walls adjusting to you without complaint, as you began to fuck her with your hand. 

You had already fingered out exactly what caused her toes to curl before Maekar’s interruption. Maekar had the same advantage with you. Though it had been years since he had the pleasure of touching you he remembered you like the back of his hand, thrusting into you with the same brutal rhythm he knew made you cock drunk. 

The room filled with the obscene sounds of the three of you. The wet sounds and cries of pleasure that no doubt could be heard in the halls if anyone had dared based by the doors, but none of you cared too wrapped in the other. 

Maekar fucking you like a man possesed, as you continued to devour his wife as if she was the only source of water. It felt like something overcame you all. Such need. Such want. Making you all wonder how it had taken this point in the trip to get here. 

It quickly turned into a game as if you were all waiting to  see who would topple over first, each waiting intently to see who was able to make the other finish. 

It was Dyanna. 

She cried out your name as her fingers tightened around your hair 

You used her tongue fucking her through it, until she was pushing you away as she fastly approached over stimulation. You moved resting your head onto her thigh as Maekar continued to brutally thrust into you from behind. 

His hand trailed down your front until it moved, pinching your clit. You groaned slightly, nipping into Dyanna’s thigh as she moaned slightly watching the pair of you with a hazy expression still as if she was high from before. 

“Cum,” he demanded, needing you to go next. 

“Fuck you,” you grit out, but you could feel the coil in your belly threatening to snap. 

He whispered your name, as he began to circle your swollen pearl as you squeezed around him. You could not see his face, but you could feel his triumphant grip knowing you were close. 

“Be a good girl and cum on my cock,” he instructed. 

It was your undoing. 

The white-hot pleasure traveled down your spine as you finally tilted over the edge crashing into the deep end of relief. You clamped down around him like a vice causing him to cry out your name when he finally joined you and his wife moments later. 

Maekar came with a guttural groan, peeling forward to press his mouth into the place where your shoulder and neck connected. All three of your ragged breaths filled the air, before you let out a laugh, “I bet that’s not how you thought our trip to Dorne was going to go.”

One slow blink. Then another, and everything starts coming more shaped in the dull blue wash of the mute telly. People on the screen are moving their mouths as if language has been taken from them for the night and they've been left to mime some tiny domestic catastrophe in a room made of aquarium light.

Third blink, and your eyes drop to where you're being stranded to find Duncan's palm on your stomach. He's asleep beside you, though beside is rather generous.

He's arranged like someone has tried to fold a ladder and given up half way. Half on the mattress, half off it, head near the middle of the bed, one leg bunched under him and the other hanging from the knee down. His glasses sit crooked on his face, skewed and pressing a dent into the bridge of his nose. He's on his belly, cheek smashed into the sheet, mouth slack with sleep, and one huge hand is spread over you with such absurd possession that your first emotion about it is peace, which is aggravating.

He's asleep. He's got no idea what he is doing. Makes the tenderness feel illegitimate to enjoy.

In your lack of enjoyment, you stare, despite there being no sensible reason for it. He looks ridiculous. Too large for the bed, too young round the mouth, all poor limbs at weird angles. A lock of hair has dried wrong over his forehead. The glasses make him look like a child who fell asleep mid-homework and lost the fight to drooling onto the page.

On the top of his left cheek there is a darker speckle. You must've seen it before, surely, but something makes it stand out to you only now. A tiny brown mark set there as if someone placed it with a pin. In the dim, with his face turned loose and harmless, it becomes unbearable. Too specific, intimate and private. A place that ought to be kissed or brushed with a thumb. A detail you have no business wanting to touch.

Your hand lifts very slowly, then stops before your fingers reach him. His shifts. Duncan makes a sound low in his chest, and mutters something into the sheet. You catch no words at first, only the rough shape of them. Then, clearer, sleep-thick and almost cross: “Don' go.”

“Dunk,” you whisper. You lie there with the telly painting him blue and white by turns, feeling your body misread the whole scene with dumb eagerness. It takes the weight of his palm and calls it safety. Takes the crooked glasses and cheek mole and long leg hanging off your bed and begins building a future out of rubbish materials. "Dunk," you say again.

He doesn't wake, only frowns a little, as if disturbed by some dream too small to matter. His fingers flex once, then settle again.

You should move him. His neck will be ruined in the morning. He should go home, or at least get properly under the covers, or do anything that does not involve sleeping half-collapsed. Instead, you turn your face into the pillow and shut your eyes. For one minute, you tell yourself.

One minute of letting it be exactly what it looks like. One minute of his breath scraping softly, of your heart making an idiot of itself in the dark. You fall asleep before the minute is done.

Dunk is carrying a chair. A plain kitchen chair, too small for him, one leg shorter than the others. He carries it through a long corridor full of doors. Behind every door he can hear cutlery clinking, voices low until they boom with laugher, someone saying pass the salt. He knows, with a terrible conviction, that he is supposed to bring the chair somewhere, but nobody told him which room. Every time he opens a door, people inside go quiet, eye the chair first, then him, and fall so silent their mild embarrassment is palpable. He thinks he's arrived too early, or perhaps too late, or with the wrong object altogether.

He clutches the thing in his palm and keeps trying rooms. In some, there is already a chair, but child-sized. In others, there is no space at the table unless someone else gives it up. In one, he sees a woman's hand on the back of an empty seat that could be meant for him, or someone else, but he is too afraid to ask. He cannot see her face.

The chair begins changing weight. Sometimes light enough to carry under one arm. Sometimes so heavy he has to drag it behind himself. At one point he sets it down in the corridor and sits on the floor beside it because he is tired. The place keeps lengthening. The noises of dinner being had behind closed doors get louder and go on without him.

Finally, he finds a room with no table. Only a coat hanging on the back of a door and a small lamp left on. The chair fits there, perfectly. He puts it down and realises the short leg has stopped wobbling. Instead of comfort that the arrangement should bring, it fills him with panic. Simply because it fits. Because someone may come and tell him to leave it there. Worse, someone may come and tell him to stay.

He wakes with a shallow breath, his neck wrung in an odd direction, shoulder dead from the joint down, and his mouth tasting like old tea and a shoe-sole. His body informs him, in detail, that he has been sleeping like an eejit.

For a few seconds he cannot place where he is, nor can he move. The room is dim with a silent AM rerun of Great British Bake Off being ridiculous in the background. Dunk blinks at it, baffled, then looks beside him and goes so still the ache in his spine sharpens to a bright point.

His hand is on you, near clutching your shirt, claiming the rights his waking self would never dare claim. Underneath it your belly rises and falls softly, conducting business in secret. You are asleep on your back, face turned towards him. Fever has left you damp around the hairline. Your mouth is open enough to roughen your breathing. One of your hands is curled near your chin like a child's, and the sight of it makes something in Dunk's chest step forward before his brain can call it back.

He feels the end of the dream leaving him. The waking mind accepts this arrangement with a gratitude of an animal allowed indoors. In a rebuttal to hopeless wandering his subconscious has found a place in the dark that makes sense. There's tenderness in it married with anguish, because the loverboy instinct tells him to rub that hand on you. Wake you with a kiss to the warm temple, and a bunch of husband-like questions. He even starts, a little. His thumb moves in a tiny twitch, when Duncan realises your body is there only by interference and he's a big useless bastard caught within it, taking comfort off a sleeping woman because she failed to shove him away.

Horror arrives late but enthusiastic. He lifts the palm by degrees, as if removing a trap. It peels from the warmth of your clothes and hovers in the air. You make a small sound, and Dunk freezes again. Waits. Counts two of your breaths, then three. When your eyes, thank God, remain closed, he begins the delicate works of extracting the rest of himself from the bed.

Doesn't go too great. He's too much man for stealth at best of times, and these are far from best. His dangling leg has gone numb below the knee, and glasses have been bent against his face with one arm of them getting hooked in the bedding. His hip complains when he tries to move it. Somewhere in the chest cavity his heart is making an attempt at escape. “Shite,” he mouths to nobody.

He gets one foot to the floor, then the other. There is a quiet crack of his back that sounds, to him, like gunfire. You stir, making Dunk stand up too fast and nearly black himself out.

"Mm?" you murmur into the pillow.

"Jus' me," he says, which is possible the least useful thing ever said by a human man. He clears his throat because his voice is coming out rough for some reason. "Didn't mean to wake ye."

A long breath. "Time?" you ask with your eyes closed.

He has no idea. "Early," Dunk says. His phone is in his pocket and when he reaches for it he finds that it shares space with the thing he's managed to forget about stealing from your bathroom. He rubs the lace between his fingers once, then decides to not risk it. "Jus'—early. Go back asleep."

You shift under the blanket. "You sleep 'ere?"

The question is reasonable, which doesn't necessarily mean he has any reasonable answer for it. He can feel every bad one lining up in him, each one worse than the last. Aye, beside you, with my hand on your stomach like someone in a painting about fathers. Aye, after committing an offence in your bathroom. Aye, and if you asked me to do it again I’d probably lie down so fast I’d injure myself.

"Err—passed out," he says instead, because a lie about sleeping on a couch, which would be tremendously better than this, arrives a beat too late in his brain. "On the edge there, like an idiot."

Your mouth moves faintly against the pillow. "Mm."

"I'll make coffee," Dunk says. Leaving the room suddenly seems essential to the survival of everyone involved. "Tea for you. If your throat's still at ye."

You make another sound, already sinking back under. He takes it as permission since he needs it to be one, then turns and leaves before some hidden part of himself decides to confess to anything.

In the kitchen, he builds a case for himself. You'd said he could touch. Had taken his hand and set it there before. You were asleep. He had fallen asleep. People did worse things in the world than sleep beside someone they were having a child with, Dunk tells himself. The case is weak but technically alive, given that Dunk's brain has kindly omitted the infamous bathroom wank.

He puts water on, finds coffee, tea. Opens the wrong cupboard twice, because his mind is circling elsewhere. Soon enough the kettle starts to tremble. Dunk presses the heel of his hand onto one eye beneath the glasses and holds it there until colours bloom behind the lid. He needs to go to work later. Teach children how to throw beanbags without turning it into war. Speak to Egg, maybe. Pretend to be someone who knows what they're doing.

His hand slides to the pocket in another mindless tic. The moment his fingers meet the fabric, Dunk's mind manages to revamp booty into keepsake. The theft is now a romantic expression of unspent yearning that he forbids from tipping into concupiscence. He's a boy in it, and you're a girl in it, and in a better world with more storge poured into the cracks he'd write you a poem or a song. Instead, he remains wanting at a permitted distance, keeping useful and himself light enough to not force the frail scaffolding of things to groan under his weight. Desire, if it must exist, can be made considerate by service. So the underwear stays where it is, if only to feed the part of him that is starving decorously at the edge of the table.

He pours the tea and brews the coffee too strong. Prepares a toast he almost burns if it weren't for you appearing in the doorway. Your hair is flattened on one side and there's a blanked dragged over your shoulders. It makes you look annoyed about having a body at all.

“Up, are ye? How’re ye feeling?” he asks.

“A bit better. Less like I’ve been dug up.” Your hand comes up to wipe a glisten from under the nose. “Don’t you have work?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Second period.”

You glance at the clock on the oven. “You’re going to be late if you keep making toast at me.”

“I’m not making toast at ye," Dunk huffs.

“You are. Aggressively.”

He looks down at the plate, then back at you. Frowns a little. “Do you want it or no?”

You take the toast. “Obviously.”

That eases him somewhere he does not care to examine. He watches you nibble at the corner like someone who've hoped to be hungry and found it not being the case, and the want to stay rises in him so plainly it feels boorish. He could ring the school. Say he is sick. Say there is an emergency. But there are children waiting for him, and Egg, and a life he has been living since before your body started carrying a person partly made of him.

“I’ll go in a minute,” he says. “You’ve paracetamol there. Doctor said plenty of fluids. And rest.”

You give him a look over the plate. “Did the doctor say that, or did the app?”

Warmth crawls over his cheeks. “Both.”

A smile. “God help me.”

His shoulders loosen. “Aye, he is trying,” Dunk says.

You laugh weakly and Dunk takes it as leniency, which is dangerous, because he is exactly the sort of man to become worse under leniency. He tidies what there is to tidy since leaving without doing something feels wrong. You watch him from the counter, eyes heavy. When he finally has no excuse left, he picks up his keys.

“Text me if you get worse,” he says.

You wave a hand at him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Text me if you get worse,” he repeats, softer.

A beat. Your face yields the way children's faces yield when they realise there is no convincing him they are tall enough to reach the upper shelf themselves. “Okay,” you say.

He nods. Stands there a moment too long. Then, he makes himself go before a deranged impulse to kiss you goodbye, loving husband-style, takes root.

The kitchen keeps letting him leave after the door shuts. Like on a photograph taken with long exposure, he exists in versions separated by fragments of seconds. Dunk with keys in hand, Dunk in the threshold, Dunk with his shoulder narrowing through the gap, then already outside. Each one lags and seems to leave you time to say something before the next takes him further away. Then, the latch settles, the last of him goes with it, and you are alone with the toast.

Your head feels full of warm wool. Fever does strange things to proportion: makes an overcooked breakfast swell into domestic delusion, a repeated instruction into devotion, a man leaving for work into some small marital abandonment. You bite the burnt edge because he made it, and while scraping charcoal from your tongue you find yourself genuinely, offensively puzzled that the father of your child has left without kissing you goodbye.

By evening, after sleep and water and the fever coming down enough to gift scale back to things, you manage to demote the morning to a failure mode of a sick mind.

The next week and a half breaks itself into pieces. You work. You rest. You promise Dunk you will take it easy and then answer his texts three hours late from Lyonel's office. Every day you keep meaning to find a date for shopping and fail. First because Lyonel needs copy by yesterday. Then because Rowan wants to compare maternity bras and cries in the changing room because one of them makes her feel like an auntie at a funeral. Then because you sleep fourteen hours and wake with a headache from having done so.

He texts without complaint. Practical things, like Did ye eat? Doctor said to ring if fever comes back. Or: Apricot this week. Which seems a bit large to me but there ye are.

It gets stranger, sometimes. A picture of three children from his school standing proudly beside a mud structure that he explains was meant to be a castle and became a bunker. A blurry photo of Egg’s shaved head with the caption: He says it’s aerodynamic. A message late one evening that only says sleep well, lass, and somehow irritates you so much you stare at it for ten minutes before writing back you too, Dunk.

The nausea starts to loosen its grip by degrees, though it remains spiteful about smells. Coffee becomes possible again from across the room, never near your face. Lyonel’s cologne stays an act of workplace violence. Your own shampoo turns traitor for two mornings, then returns to the side of good. Hunger comes back in blunt, unseemly strikes. One afternoon you eat three slices of toast standing up and then feel so moved by cheese you have to sit down.

Your body keeps making announcements before you can bear to acknowledge why. Your breasts are heavier. Your waistbands leave deeper marks. The lower part of your stomach, easy enough to ignore until now, begins to hold itself differently by evening. In the morning you can still argue with it. By night, bloated and tired and mean with the day, you stand in between the hallway mirrors and turn sideways.

Nothing, you think. Then: something. Then, angrily: shut up.

You lift your shirt anyway. One gives you a version. The warped one offers another, stranger and more definite. Between them you stand multiplied, a line of women all pretending they have not noticed the same small change.

It is hardly visible. May be digestion, may be posture, may be the enormous lunch you ate because a person inside you has lately learnt to ask for food with a fist. Still, your hand goes there in a brief press below the navel while you try your best to avoid the poster-ready, motherly hold. Your fingers instead point down and have to curve sooner than memory thinks they should, because the lower belly no longer gives in quite the same way. There is enough of it now to change the route of your hand. Ordinary soft and crease have begun to pull smooth over the low swell of uterus, stretching the skin a little where it used to kink and fold when you bent. Not much. Just enough for the understanding to carve an informative path, leading from palm to brain.

You finally text Dunk on a Tuesday. Friday? Baby shopping if you’re still game.

His reply comes so fast you picture him holding the phone already. Aye! Course. Then, after a minute: Want me to drive?

You look at the message and tell yourself the warmth in your chest is the usual heartburn. Yes please, you write. If you don't mind.

Course I don't. Another bubble appears: I'll pick you up.

It is both plain and warm enough for you to have to fight yourself over not trying to stretch the conversation further. You smile at it so hard Lyonel's brows crawl underneath the curls on his forehead, then a stupid grin joins them.

On Friday afternoon you change many times. First, you discard the jeans that defy you after two buttons. It makes you wonder whether an already rising necessity to hold clothes in place with a hairband means you've foredoomed your future and the size of Dunk's baby will eventually cause your spine to fold. Sweatpants are an option for a second before you tell yourself to not give up just yet. By the end your bed is covered in garments that no longer fit for various reasons. You stand there in your bra, overheated from the work, and choose a dress because it drops from the shoulders and makes no firm claim on the waist. It solves nothing and simply declines to put a line through the part of you that keeps shifting.

Duncan is waiting by the car, one hand on the roof, looking too large and too earnest for the neighbourhood. Glasses on. Hair still damp from a shower. Jacket open over a plain shirt. He turns when the door shuts behind you.

He looks pleased to see you. Then his eyes drop, and he starts looking worse. Barely a moment, but you see the exact instant he notices the altered line of you beneath the fabric. His face goes open in a way that would be comic if it didn't land straight in the softest, most breakable place you have. His mouth parts. Hand tightens on the roof of the car. You could swear his eyes glisten, a little.

“Dunk,” you warn.

He glances back up. The red has started in his cheeks and gone all the way to his ears, and worse, he tries to shrink from it, shoulders coming in, chin dropping, as if he has been caught looking at something prohibited. You dislike it immediately. He should not have to fold himself smaller over this. So you come the rest of the way and put your arms around him.

Duncan takes the hug a second late, then carefully, like the rules of it might change while he has you. When you press in, you feel the heavy drag of his breath through his chest. It catches you in a stupid spot. Low, first, then warmly, even lower. You have missed him, you realise, with vexation that does nothing to make it less true. When you part, you stay close. Take his hand from where it has gone useless by his side and put it on your stomach.

“It’s mostly bloat,” you tell him.

But Duncan is too far gone. He has an urge to kiss you slow and grateful for it, then a thought about it not being any kind of reward for you stops him. And plenty others. “Aye,” he says, far too gently. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes because there is nothing else to do with the pressure in your throat. He survives it, since there is a whole afternoon with you still ahead of him, and in the state he is in you will surely roll those pretty things more than once.

He smiles and opens the passenger door for you. “C'mon, then. Let’s go buy things in colours you approve of.”

The car smells of his shower gel and the paper bag of school things he has shoved into the back. You find a crumpled worksheet by your foot, half a dinosaur coloured in with what appears to be sincere violence, and decide against asking. Dunk waits until you have the belt on before he pulls away, then starts driving so slow you have a fleeting thought you'd get there on foot sooner, even pregnant.

For three streets the drive is silent. He checks the mirrors. Changes gear. Does the responsible adult act so completely you start to suspect him of enjoying it.

Then he asks, “That green, is it?”

You look down. Then back at him. "Is what green?"

"The dress."

A blink. You look down again, fully baffled. "Dunk," you say, carefully. “It’s… blue?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. The corner of his mouth goes first, dipping like it has been tugged down by a hook. Then the rest of his face starts failing around it, first around the eyes, where the folds deepen behind his glasses in a way that makes looking at him suddenly feel unwise.

The seat takes more of your weight while a smile works under your nose. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No,” he says.

“You are.”

“I only asked.” He gives one small shrug, then an innocent look so badly timed and so sweet that something in you nearly melts. Before it can, his eyes go back to the road. “Can’t blame a man for askin’.”

“You know it's fucking blue!” Both fists thump against your thighs. "No one's that colourblind!"

Dunk loses it then. A snort gets out of him first, delighted and helpless, and the hand he brings to his mouth comes too late to save anybody. His shoulders jump once. It is such a young sound from such a large man that you have to look out the window for a second to get away from it.

“Nice,” you say. “Making fun of a pregnant woman. Very brave.”

“Ah, hush, wee thing,” he says, still smiling. “You’ll have enough fun out of me at the shop.”

“Will I?”

“Aye. Put me near colours and small clothes and I’m finished.”

His ears are still faintly red from before, but now he looks pleased with himself in a way that makes irritation difficult to keep. “Good,” you say. “I hope they have sixteen shades of cream.”

Dunk makes a wounded sound. “Cruel woman.”

“You started it.”

“I asked if your blue dress was green.”

“And lived,” you mutter, fond. “Count your blessings.”

At the shop there is way too much light and a wall of things you have no right needing this early. Bottles with complicated teats, nappies in blunt white bricks, tiny socks clipped together at the cuffs for feet that are still only theoretical. At the entrance, prams stand in a row with their hoods up and straps lying open, upholstered vacancy with price tags.

Dunk goes straight for a trolley. A large one, naturally. The kind people use when they have produced twins or lost control at a Tesco.

“We don’t need a big one,” you tell him.

He looks down into it, then back at the aisles. Dunk knows this. Logic may insist there will be other shops, other Fridays, other chances to do this properly, but logic has never done much for him when something depends on doing well on the first try. “Might.”

“For what?”

A shrug. “Things.”

You look at the empty trolley, then at where he's looking. “Hard to argue with things.”

He accepts the leave and starts pushing beside you. The trolley objects to him almost immediately. One wheel has a limp, and every few steps it makes a slow, determined pull towards the shelves. Dunk keeps bringing it back with both hands and an amount of care no empty trolley deserves, matching your pace.

For the first ten minutes you are principled. You look at muslins and say they can wait. You touch a pack of newborn vests with animals stitched over the heart and put them back because wanting them this much feels premature. Then, there's a small hat with soft ears you stare at long enough for the hat to grow ugly in front of your eyes, and return it to the shelf with your jaw set.

Dunk picks up a packet of plain white sleepsuits and reads the back carefully. “Those have the fold-over hands,” he says.

You pause. “The what?”

He turns the packet round and points with one large finger. “For scratches. Says here. And Raymun said they can get at their faces with the nails.”

A swallow. “Raymun said.”

“Aye. And some books.”

A woman beside you reaches for cotton pads with the serene expression of someone eavesdropping for sport.

“You’ve been reading about scratch mitts?”

“About babies,” Dunk says, faintly injured. “The mitts were included.”

That is how the first thing goes in the trolley. Fold-over sleepsuits, white, with a little yellow sun stitched near the collar. Then muslins, because babies leak from more places than seems fair. Then a pack of tiny socks, because their size makes something in you go foolish and sore. Dunk puts in a cellular blanket after explaining, with more authority than you are ready for, that the holes are the point.

A small guilt opens under the fondness. He knows about blanket holes while you have done no reading worth mentioning. The first trimester has flung itself past in work, nausea, sleep, and a loneliness you keep stepping over because there are emails to send and copy to fix and a body to haul through the day. The rest of your attention has gone to trying to throttle the lingering horniness by looking at the calendar with your due date on it, as if staring might make the months move faster out of embarrassment.

“You’re unsettlingly prepared,” you say.

“'m not,” he says.

You lean against the shelf and look down at your feet. “You know about blanket holes.”

He looks pleased in a manner he tries to make practical by checking the price. “I know one thing about blanket holes.”

“That’s one more thing than I knew,” you say, and it comes out sad enough that Dunk stops looking at the tag.

He doesn’t know the right words. What he wants to tell you is too large and would come out wrong anyway. That you are doing enough by standing there. By letting him put a blanket with holes into the trolley. By keeping his baby and letting him near enough to have a family around the edges of it. Instead, he comes a little closer and brings the blanket to your cheek. “This one’s soft.”

Your eyes close. A smile finds its way through. “It’s beige.”

“Is it?” he murmurs. “Thought it was red.”

“Dunk.”

It comes out half-whined, laughter pulled unwillingly through the sad place, and relief goes through him so cleanly he nearly grins. He keeps it small.

“How about you put in anything you like,” he says, “and I’ll tell ye what it’s for if I know.”

After that it becomes easier to let wanting have a shape. A changing mat with pears on it goes in because you keep touching the corner and then pretending you haven’t. A packet of bibs follows, then a thermometer, then a soft hooded towel with little ears sewn into the corner. Dunk lifts it, runs his thumb over the edge, and looks at you as if asking whether towels can matter. All he sees is that you love it, so he puts it in.

The bath support takes longer. It is pale and rubbery and shaped in a way neither of you can make sense of until you read the picture on the box. Dunk looks from the baby in the illustration to the object in his hand, then down at your stomach. The movement is so careful your cheeks start feeling warm.

“For washing them?” he asks.

“For keeping them from sliding, I think.”

“Aye,” he says quietly, and adds it to the trolley as if it has become necessary now that he understands it.

He finds nail scissors next. Tiny ones with rounded ends. The hinge makes a useless little click when he tests it, and he almost drops the whole thing for the size of his fingers. His brows draw together. “They’re awful small.”

“So will the hands be.”

He thinks about this. Hands smaller than his thumb, fingers with nails already growing, a whole person arriving with edges that might hurt themselves. He puts the scissors in without another word.

By the end of the second aisle the large trolley has become reasonable. It holds cotton, towelling, small devices, pale things, soft things, proof that wanting can be sorted by category and carried on wheels. You walk beside it feeling a little less foolish each time something else goes in.

Near the clothes, you find two rompers in the same unfortunate family of colours shops invent to distress men. One is pale sage. The other is grey, which feels like cheating even to you. You hold them up against each other.

“Right,” you say. “Test.”

Dunk stops pushing. The trolley wheel makes one last crooked attempt at freedom and knocks his shoe. “Ah, here.”

“No fear. Just tell me what colours these are.”

He looks at the rompers. Then at you. Adjusts his glasses. Then back at the rompers with a focused dread, like he's been asked to defuse something in public. “That one’s grey,” he says.

You cock your head to the side. “Which one?”

His hand hovers, then retreats. “The left.”

“My left or your left?”

He catches his lower lip between his teeth, fighting a smile so broad it puts a dimple in his cheek. “See, that’s dirty work.”

Through the heat fighting its way up your body, you tell him, “Answer the question.”

He squints. Actually squints. A flush begins blooming on his neck with great sincerity. “The one with the buttons.”

“They both have buttons.”

Dunk makes a pained little sound and opens his hands at the rompers, genuinely wronged. “Why would they do that?”

You grin fully. “Because they hate you.”

He breathes out through his nose and takes a step back, stretching the rompers farther from his face, trying for solemn resourcefulness to outdistance his own eyes. “That one is green.”

You look at the romper in your right hand. “This one?”

“Aye.”

“It’s grey.”

His eyes close briefly. “Then the other one’s green.”

“The other one is also sort of grey.”

“That’s cheating, that is.”

A snort gets out of you. The sound of it softens him visibly, though he tries to hide it by taking one romper from you and studying the label. “Sage,” he reads, offended. “Sage is a herb.”

“It is also a colour.”

“It should pick a trade.”

“Do you want the herb-coloured one?”

He looks between them again, then gives up with an honesty you find more damaging than success. “I like the one ye smiled at.”

There is very little to do with that, so you put both in the trolley and move on.

Then, an aisle you find to be a promised land once your eyes rest on the pregnancy pillows arranged in a soft heap. Great curled things, moons and commas and pale sleeping beasts. You press a hand into one and your whole body produces a quiet report in favour. Your hips, back, stomach, and some miserable hinge inside the pelvis all vote yes before you have opened your mouth. “God,” you say. “I need this.”

“Put it in,” Dunk says immediately.

“It’s enormous.”

“So is the trolley.”

You shake your head. “You were waiting to be proved right.”

His lips press together. “A bit.”

You lift a crescent-moon one. It is heavier than expected and shaped to humiliate. Dunk takes it before the second struggle can begin, fitting it into the trolley. It clearly makes you happy but, privately, he hates the pillow with unreasonable bitterness. He feels replaced by stuffed cotton before he has ever been given the job. It is a wicked thought that arrives fully formed anyway: you would not need that great curled bastard if he were allowed to lie where he fit best. The notion burns him so badly he nearly steers into a stack of baby baths.

“You alright?” you ask.

“Aye,” he says. “Wheel’s gone funny.”

“The wheel has been funny since we came in.”

“Aye. Getting worse.”

“Mm.”

The cots are at the back, in a quieter section of the shop with softer light and shelves arranged as if noise would be wrong here. The air smells of new wood and packaging. Little beds stand made up with tiny mattresses and fitted sheets, each one offering a shape to a future that still refuses to hold one for long.

Dunk slows before you do.

There are white ones, natural wood ones, one painted a soft green he wisely does not comment on. Some have drawers underneath. Some turn into toddler beds, according to the cards clipped to the rails. Mobiles hang above them in felt clouds and bees and moons, waiting for somebody sentimental enough to set them moving.

Dunk is that somebody. He reaches up and flicks one with the back of his knuckle. Three small geese begin a lazy circle over an empty mattress.

You watch him watching it. His face has gone quiet in a new way. Earlier he had been pleased, embarrassed, bullied by colours, proud over his research. Now something has pulled him inward. He walks between the cots with the trolley forgotten behind him, barely touching but looking at everything. At one cot, he crouches. His elbows fold over the rail and he peers down into it as if something might already be there if he looks gently enough.

The size of him beside it makes them look like they are meant for dolls, not children. His knees are too high, shoulders too broad, hands folded together like they are too clumsy to be trusted here. Still, the picture settles somewhere tender and inconvenient. This man, bent over a small empty bed, trying to imagine the weight of a person who has so far existed mostly as symptoms, measurements, fruit comparisons, and trouble.

In Dunk’s mind, small beds have chipped rails. Metal corners. Blankets that belong to many children before they belong to more children. He remembers rows of them more than he remembers a single one that was his. Some were too short before he had the language to complain. Some had screws that worked loose. One mattress dipped so badly in the middle that every baby placed there seemed to be sliding towards the same tired hollow. He has no clean memory of being put down in a cot chosen for him before he arrived. He cannot say whether there was one big enough by the time he needed it. There were beds. There were places to sleep. That is a thinner thing.

This one could be picked. Paid for and built before the child came. Waiting with its screws tightened by his hand, its mattress level, and sheet clean.

Your palm appears on his shoulder. “Do you want to buy one today?” you ask.

Dunk looks up. His glasses have slipped a little. “Is it not too early?”

“We’re three months in,” you say. “So technically it isn’t.”

He takes that in like you have granted legal permission for a feeling. His hand stays on the rail. “Could I buy it?” he asks.

“The cot?”

“Aye.” His thumb moves along the wood, then stops, because even touching it too much embarrasses him. “Any one you like. I’d like to buy it. And build it, if that’s alright.”

For a second you have no answer. He looks too ardent asking. Too exposed in the shop light, crouched there amongst rabbits and laminated warnings about safe sleep. The request has come out of him plain, but whatever sits underneath it is large enough to make speech seem like the wrong tool. “Yeah,” you say, softer than intended. “Sure.”

His eyes stay on your face.

“You can pick,” you add. “They’re all pretty to me.”

Dunk looks back into the cot. The geese above the next one have slowed almost to stillness. He nods once, serious as anything, and wraps his fingers round the ribs of the rail. They barely fit there. "D'you like geese?" he asks.

"I love geese," you tell him.

So it's the one with geese. He pays for it separately, then packs everything into the car with the pregnancy pillow wedged behind your seat so poorly it keeps nosing the side of your head all the way home.

Back at your place, Dunk gives you the lightest bags with such poor subtlety that you almost object, then don't. He takes the rest himself, most of it coming in bags that cut into his fingers. When you unlock the door, he is pink in the face and pretending this has cost him no effort at all.

The cot pieces spread across your floor in pale wooden lengths. Screws go into a little bowl. Instructions flatten under Dunk’s palm. He takes his glasses off once to wipe them, puts them back on, and lowers himself to the carpet. You leave him to it and go to the kitchen to make supper out of what can be warmed, cut, or forgiven.

Both things take a long time—supper because a great part of the ingredients makes you feel nauseous upon being cut open, the crib because it is, after all, a rather small object in Duncan's hands. He lays its organs out grouped by the order of assembling, swears a little at the bits and bobs and makes it sound charming enough to worsen the nausea.

You manage pasta, a pan of jarred sauce, and a salad so basic it almost resents being called one. The cucumber is fine until the knife opens it and releases that wet green smell directly into the back of your throat. Onion is impossible. Tomatoes look slimy inside. You stand there breathing shallowly through your mouth, stirring with one hand, watching Dunk through the counter gap while he hunches over the cot and tries to make two pale pieces agree with each other.

It provides you with some inward facing bother, having him there on your floor building furniture for your child. Your body floods itself with hormones and your brain, given one inch of fabricated domestic bliss, takes the whole mile at a run. Him shirtless over the same pieces, sweat caught down his back. Those stupid glasses fogging for reasons caused by different kind of effort. His hands made rougher by wood and screws, touching you after. His face close to yours and his breath smelling of the exact day he has had, and you being able to tell because one can about a person who is theirs.

The pan spits. You look back too late and catch the heel of your palm close enough to heat that pain flashes up before the burn can settle. “Shite,” you hiss, yanking your hand back.

Dunk looks over immediately. “Alright?”

“Fine,” you say. “Just… stupid.”

He keeps looking for another second, then a screw betrays him by rolling under the cot frame. He crouches to retrieve it, one palm braced on the floor, and his shirt rides up at the back.

A narrow strip of lumbar area shows above his jeans. The spine dips cleanly in the middle, framed by the strong cut of obliques at either side, the whole place looking made for hands in a way that feels medically unjust. For holding. For squeezing until your fingers leave shape behind. Suddenly you think of tongues on skin, nails dragging red, his body, specifically, bowing forward under pressure. Your neck feels hot.

The tap goes on. Both hands go under the cold water, including the one that has no reason to be there. You press wet fingers to your throat after, then lean over the counter between the kitchen and the living room, letting the edge hold some of your weight while you try to make your voice even. “How’s it going?”

“Near done,” he says, and steps back with the screwdriver still in his hand.

There is a cot. Around it, the floor is all torn cardboard, folded instructions, plastic sleeves, and one runaway screw. But in the middle of your living room there is a baby bed now, pale and square, looking absurdly small with Duncan standing beside it. He gives one rail a testing nudge.

“Just needs the mattress in,” he says. “Then that’s it, I think.”

To make a point, he reaches up and flicks the mobile. The geese begin their slow circle over the empty space.

You swallow. Smile. “It’s lovely,” you tell him. “You hungry?”

“Aye,” he says, immediate. “Always.” Then his face does a delicate guilty rearrangement. “I’ve a bit for work to do, if I’m stayin’ a while. After I eat. If that’s alright.”

You shrug first, because doing anything else would reveal too much, and pass him a plate. The two of you end up on the couch with the food balanced where it can be balanced. Dunk eats fast, then catches himself and tries to eat slower, which only makes the whole performance worse. He hums through the first few bites. Terribly. Full-throated enough that you nearly ask whether the pasta has inspired him spiritually.

Instead, your body chooses to focus on something more harrowing. He likes it. He likes the food you made in a kitchen with your wet fingerprints still on the counter. This should be ordinary. It lands somewhere below ordinary and starts making trouble.

You get through half your plate before the smell and the day and the stupid little geese overpower you. “Do you want the rest?” you ask, offering it over.

Dunk looks at the plate with plain interest, then at you with stronger principles. “You might want it later.”

“I won’t.”

“You might.”

“Dunk.”

“I’m not scrounging off a pregnant lady, lassie.”

For a second, there is only your stare on him and his enormous moral firmness over three forkfuls of pasta. Then you sigh, defeated, and set the plate back in your lap.

It is fucking weird. So domestic it becomes weird. The ability to sort him properly slips when he is on your couch like that, in your flat like that, eating like that. Part of you cannot understand why the natural progression is running late, one where after supper he is under you, naked and bitten in places not-so-private, so others can see he's spoken for. The cold thought you have been harbouring all this time makes its attempt and struggles to squeeze through.

He is doing it for the baby. He is here for that.

Before you can say anything a normal human might, Dunk leans over the side of the couch for the paper bag and pulls out a clipped stack of worksheets. “Mind if I do this?”

“What is it?”

“Maths assignments.” He shrugs. “From first class,” he adds, as if that explains anything.

You frown at the pages. “Why is a P.E. teacher checking maths assignments?”

“I, uh—maths teacher’s sick. She asked me,” Dunk says. You keep staring at him as if he has just claimed a secondary profession in dentistry, so he smiles and adds, “I’m not that thick, luv. I can manage some first-grader mathematics.”

“Oh… y-yeah, I know.” You shake it off, or try to.

Your brain swells unpleasantly in the quiet that follows. You may not have the best nose for men; that has been proven in several educational instalments. Most of them turned out to be relationship dilettantes with nice-smelling smoke screens. Once the fog came down, you were either dumped or forced to do the dumping for the sake of your sanity. This tactic, though, you know. Damsel in distress. Works exceptionally well on men like Duncan. A nasty little element of your upbringing crawls out then: your mother’s voice, sweet and sour, telling you to always assume the worst of women when precious male specimens are near.

Instead of throttling it, you blurt, “Is she pretty?”

Dunk sucks in some air. “W-what?” You stare at him. He looks genuinely thrown, which somehow makes it worse. “I—I dunno,” he says, blinking. “I guess so? I don’t know, she’s just… a teacher. My colleague.”

Troubleshooting, now. Now, your heart screams. You could say sorry and blame it on being partially brain-dead from nausea. You could apologise and take the hot little shame that comes with blurting something ugly out of nowhere. It is only that the thought of someone else batting her lashes at him does no favours to your stomach or anywhere lower.

You wonder if uterine envy could be a thing, then make yourself worse by staring at the mark on his cheek. It rises when he squints at you. Others must notice it too. Others must notice him, period, because how could they not? They must gape, ogle, crane their necks, lay their palms on his forearm, giggle and lick their lips, willing his eyes to settle there. You wonder if Dunk looks at other women’s lips. If he blushes around them. If he goes warm and clumsy and pleased because someone with normal hormones and a flat stomach asked him for help with sums.

It makes you sick clean through, and before you turn green enough even he would be able to name the colour, you say, “You should ask her out.” Hate yourself in the same instant.

Something in you, meaner and more managerial than the rest, decides to treat the wound as excavation. Dig yourself out by handfuls. If the crush cannot be starved, maybe it can be given walls. Maybe this is simply better. His kindness has become too hard to stand near without misreading it, and every new interval between you feels less like space and more like a test you keep failing in private. If Duncan had someone else in his life, there would be a line thick enough for even your stupid heart to see. A woman from work. A nice one. One who asks him for help with maths and gets his baffled smile over worksheets and no complicated biology grafted to it.

It tastes vile. Hurts so cleanly you almost respect it. Still, you push through, because the alternative is sitting here pregnant and jealous over a woman whose face you have never seen.

Dunk stares at you as if the sentence has reached him in another language. The worksheet in his hand bends slightly under his thumb.

“I mean it,” you say, though your mouth has gone dry. “You don’t owe me celibacy, Dunk.”

His head pulls back a fraction. “I never said I did.”

“No, I know. I’m saying you don’t. We’re still human, aren’t we? We shouldn’t put our lives on a hook because something unplanned happened.”

He says nothing.

You hate this. Hate yourself for sounding sane. “And I’ve been thinking about it too, so maybe it’s a good moment to talk about it.”

That lands. Colour rushes up him so fast it could be fever. Neck first, then ears, then the blunt handsome planes of his face. His fingers crumple the edge of the paper.

“You’ve been—” He stops. Starts again, rougher. “H-how d’you even imagine it?”

You blink, genuinely thrown. “What do you mean?”

Dunk panics, a little. First, because he wants no maths teacher. He has no vacancy anywhere for a maths teacher, pretty or otherwise, no matter how kindly she asks him to take home sums. Secondly, because the thought of anyone coming near you, especially now, makes all the hairs on his body lift in a way he doesn’t like. His chest gets hot. His stomach makes a brave attempt at returning pasta to sender. Some filthy old part of his brain stands up with a club and says: who, exactly, in their right mind, would come close to a woman carrying his child?

The thought arrives first. Primitive, ugly in the teeth. His before he can make it decent. Then air gets in. He drags enough of it through his nose for the mind to take over from the animal. Reluctantly, miserably, he can see the reason in what you are saying. You owe each other honesty and the baby care and some version of friendship that can survive the strain. You do not owe each other the shape of a marriage neither of you agreed to. He counts his blessings, sourly, that the matter has come up now and not seven weeks earlier, when he would have had no claim to even the raw little fury currently making a fool of him.

He looks down at the worksheet. The child has written seven plus five equals eleven. Dunk feels an unreasonable sympathy for the error. “I mean,” he says slowly, “I don’t know how I’d imagine it. That’s what I’m askin’.”

And there it is: the feeling that you have stepped wrong. Put your foot through some tender, rotten board in the floor and now the whole room has heard the crack. You sit up a little, though your body protests it, and gather a blanket around your middle as if that might put things back where they were.

“I haven’t planned anything,” you say quickly. “I only mean… naturally. If it happens. I’ve less chance than you now, obviously, but if something—or someone—happens to be interesting, I’m saying you can.” Your mouth has started running and there is no catching it by the coat. “I’m just saying you can date. That I wouldn’t mind," you lie through your fucking teeth.

Dunk only looks at the papers in his lap. If you stop talking now you are going to cry, and crying over this would make it true in some way you cannot afford.

“I don’t know,” you say, worse now, softer. “I suppose I’m saying you can if you want to. Not that you need my permission, Christ, that’s not what I mean. Just in case you were wondering. Unless you weren’t, then just—ugh.” You press the heel of your hand briefly to one eye. “Forget I said anything. I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“I get it, lass,” he says. Quiet.

You lower your hand.

He smiles at you, and it is so sad your whole jaw goes tight enough to click. “It’s fine,” he says. “I will… keep you posted.”

There is a little hum in your ears. You make yourself smile back. Wide. Awful. Pulled so hard it feels as if someone has hooked thumbs into the corners of your mouth and stretched.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too. All right. Great. That’s all I’m saying.”

Dunk nods. Looks back at the worksheet. Picks up his pen again.

The telly murmurs low. His pen scratches red ink over paper, and the relief of both of you having behaved so reasonably is horrendous.