You regret telling Rowan you'll only keep her company the last time. It's just that maternity bras are scary and it was too cold still for summer dresses. Now you pray for no one to notice the bounce at your chest, long for shorts with a fucking rubber instead of buttons and dresses made of cotton so thin it might tear from lightest friction.

Otherwise, well—it's near damn lovely. Lyonel had been prescient about the exact moment of your limit's arrival. When you were elbows-deep in deluding yourself into another two weeks, then another two, he sat you down in a soft chair meant for the clients, and looked at you longingly. "Darling," he said. "I am going to miss you."

"You know you can't fire me when I'm pregnant, right?" Bastard laughed outright. "No, I mean it," you said. "It's against the fucking law."

"That would be something, wouldn't it," Lyonel hummed, turning his rings over. "I hope it hasn't eaten your brain, because I want you back once you've done all your child bearing and upbringing. For now—" He leaned in and rested his palm on your fist. "If you don't want maternity leave yet, I am forcing you into vacation."

"Oh my God," you sighed. "I want the maternity leave. I want it so badly. I was just scared to tell you."

"Aw, pet," Lyonel cooed. "I only look so scary. Inside, I am soft." You snorted at that. "Finish the week, alright? Everything's done anyway."

True. Raymun's cider had been a week away from arriving at the shelves. "Awesome. And hey," you said. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. All you have to do is name your child Lyonel."

You cringed. "What if it's a girl?"

"Hm. Layla?"

"Ew. Yeah, no chance. Thanks for being a good boss, though."

And that was it. From there, a couple weeks of freedom have already gone to your head. Time has become relative. Mornings stretch from early to late ones with you trying to catch up on all the baby knowledge Duncan has been hoarding for months. You pretend, badly, that you are not fond of his private little curriculum. Your body, at least, turns kinder in the places that matter. The nausea leaves almost shyly. In its place come sore tits, a back that complains if you sit wrong for ten minutes, heartburn now and then, and a belly that begins to show under fabric with more confidence than you have given it permission for.

The mood swings are less easy to manage. They arrive with mood swings of their own, and Duncan takes them on as if they are only another pragmatic inconvenience to be managed. Cravings too. Those he treats seriously. If at half ten you mention chips, he is suddenly in the mood for a drive anyway. If you say orange ice lolly with the specific grief of someone naming a lost country, he is already looking for his keys. You get energy too, bright and wild and childlike, and it runs hard from morning until some invisible hand yanks the lead from the wall. Then you are finished. Properly finished. Duncan carries you from couch to bed at least twice a week and accepts the duty with suspicious good humour.

School has ended, but he still runs afternoon training sessions, so his days have loosened without becoming empty. He fills the cracks with you. Texting. Calling. Coming round. Bringing something you did not ask for but apparently need. Between one week and the next he stops making excuses for it, or perhaps both of you stop requiring them. Useful. Present. Romantic in the most deniable way a person can be romantic: with hands full of shopping, a phone full of appointment reminders, and the unsexy courage to ask whether you have taken your vitamins.

You do not mention catching him singing that first time, and he does not come out with it either. But he talks to the bump plenty now. So much that you start doing it too. First awkwardly, because you cannot really look your own belly in the eye. Then more naturally. Little check-ins in the morning, hand low on your stomach while the kettle works. (You all right in there, bean?) Idle aid during a particularly stubborn crossword, because apparently one brain is insufficient and you must now consult the tenant. (Seven letters, starts with S, and if you know it, start kicking.) Sometimes late at night, when Duncan has gone out on some ridiculous errand of your invention and you rest a palm there. (Your dad’s gone to get ice cream. I said it was for you, so don’t tell on me.)

It is all very marital to the point of ache, though it aches only occasionally. When he is not there for the night because Egg asked for help with early morning horse-riding lessons and sweet Duncan said yes, despite having no first idea what to do with a horse besides look large beside one. When he does not come over at all, because some veil of decency must be kept in circulation and you must both pretend you do not practically live together. When he comes back from training sweaty and streaked with dust across the forehead, gets on his knees before he has even showered, and eats you out with such growing skill that your skin prickles to say what you cannot, so you settle on a meek thank you and make him blush into your thigh. When sex is funny and clumsy, and something gets torn during (you've lost one sheet to his fist). When it's quiet, too. When he has to hide his face somewhere because it takes him so fiercely. When he needs it more than you. When his ears go red at your eyes rolling, no matter if it's to praise him for good fucking or scolding him for washing up shittily. When he remembers appointments better than you do, goes glassy-eyed during them, and hums his monumental Irish endearments under his breath as if another language makes them harmless. When he leaves clothes behind with the expression of someone innocent of all crimes, and you both know there is an ulterior motive of altruism in it—because you end up wearing them, and he ends up looking at you as if cotton were wicked.

It is better than it has any right to be. That is the trouble. It keeps proving the false arrangement by producing real comforts from it. Real laughter. Real sleep. Real warmth at your back when you wake confused in the dark and find his arm already there, heavy over your middle, careful even unconscious. Real little negotiations over breakfast about who has to wash the mugs, real irritation when he puts his enormous trainers in the way, real relief when his key turns in the door because he has started using the spare and neither of you has addressed what that means.

You are not together-together. This is known. This is agreed. This is the thing standing in the corner with a lampshade over its head. You are together in some form though, it is only that naming it is now the scariest thing.

"Christ, your aunt Rowan's gonna kill me," you mutter to your child who's yet to acquire concept of what it means to be late. "I hope she spares you so you can grow up and avenge me. Hi darling!" Your hand shoots up, waving above passer-by's heads once you spot the mass of Rowan's copper curls.

"Oi, you twat!" She wipes the sweat off her forehead. "You've got any idea what it's like to stand here in this heat?" she asks. Her nose scrunches at you. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

"Spare me, I beg you. I fucking beg you, lead me to ugly bras and elastic waistbands so I can burn those leggings, alright?"

Rowan smirks. "I wanna help," she murmurs. When you make the most miserable face possible, some relentment takes a seat where pout has lived. "Ugh, fine, you're forgiven. I've been where you are a month ago, or so, so I get it. Come on, then,” she says, catching your wrist. “Let’s get you out of whatever tragic situation is happening under that shirt.”

“It’s emergency,” you say.

“Aye, I can see that,” she snorts.

“Shut up.”

She laughs fuller and warm, and drags you through the sliding doors into cool air, perfume fog and the bleak glow of women’s underwear arranged by people who have never had to carry a living thing under their ribs. The maternity section sits at the back, beige and powder pink. Some shade of grey that suggests medical stockings. You stop in front of a rack and stare.

“This is underwear?” you ask.

“You will thank it,” Rowan says, already flicking through sizes. “Wait till your ribs start spreading.”

“My what.”

She gives you a look. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t sweetheart me in front of the bras.”

“I’m allowed. I’m further along.”

You scowl and touch one cup large enough to serve soup from. “How are you, anyway? Is my niece treating you with respect?”

“Oh, she's a terrorist,” Rowan says fondly. “She kicks whenever I lie down, hates onions, hates Raymun’s aftershave, likes cheese so much I think we've missed a business opportunity there.” She pulls two bras from the rack and holds them against you. "Here. These don’t look completely depressing."

“They’re fifty quid each.”

“Okay, they might be a tad financially depressing. At least try them on?”

You take them from her with a groan and she adds another, softer green thing with lace only where lace can still pretend to be ornamental. “Try that one too.”

The changing room curtain scrapes shut behind you. Inside, under light arranged by the devil’s own hand, you wrestle yourself out of Duncan’s shirt and into the first bra. The tag scratches your side immediately. “Christ. The price alone should make it behave.”

“You know what it is yet?” Rowan asks from outside.

“What?”

“The baby.”

“Oh. No, not yet.” You tug the strap, wincing at your reflection. “Hopefully today. Appointment later.”

“I hope it’s a girl,” she says. “Then they can be pals.”

You frown. “Can’t they be pals if it’s a boy?”

A pause. You can near hear her smiling. “Of course you’d say that. After all, you’re friends with the father of your child. How are things with Duncan anyway?”

Silence lands so thick you need to gulp it down. You pull the curtain open only a crack and look at her through it. “Yeah, good,” you say, too fast. Then, the heavy fabric opens wider. “What do you think?”

Rowan’s face changes into something professionally solemn. “Yeah, that’s lovely. Does it make having tits feel less punishing?”

You shrug. "Yeah, a little?"

"I'd take the little if I were you."

Both of you nod to each other as if something got solved and you disappear behind the curtain again.

“So,” Rowan says, and the word comes leaning against the partition. “Did you solve your horny issue?”

Fuck.

You stand there with three bras hooked over your wrist and your lip caught between your teeth. It’s not that you don’t want to tell her. It’s that telling her opens doors, and behind every door is Rowan with a clipboard and a lamp in your face. “Sort of?” you say.

“Oh?” Her voice sharpens. “Hinge, or—”

“Not… exactly.” You step out with the bras bundled in your hand. Rowan looks you over once and her whole face softens before you can decide whether to run.

“You know I won’t judge you for anything, aye?”

Your shoulders go. “Of course. But you’ll ask questions and I’m not sure I can answer them.” You look down at the stupid little hangers in your fist. “But yeah, it’s, um. Duncan. We’ve been—Jesus—”

Rowan’s hand comes to your shoulder at once. Warm, firm, no fuss. “It’s fine," she says. "Sleeping together, yeah?”

You nod.

“And?”

“And nothing,” you say. “He’s around. He wants to. Nothing’s defined, it’s just. I don’t know. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Rowan repeats, already steering you towards the counter. “That’s all I get? Fine?”

“That’s plenty.”

“It absolutely is not.”

You pay too much for bras that look almost innocent in the bag, then Rowan herds you into the next shop with the purpose of a sheepdog. She keeps muttering about cotton, waistbands, and the dignity of dresses until you are half amused despite yourself.

“Come on,” she whines once you’ve disappeared behind another curtain with an armful of summer things. “Give me something. I’m hardly ever touchable, and when I think I am, I change my mind halfway through. I’m surprised Raymun is taking it so well, given how much he enjoyed making the baby—”

You breathe through your nose, which makes her stop rambling. “I just want to know if he’s treating you well, is all.”

“He is,” you say.

The green dress goes over your head with less violence than expected. You pull it down over your stomach and look at yourself. The fabric gives where it needs to give. Your belly sits in it plainly now. You smooth both hands over it, then over your ribs. It looks pretty. The colour has nothing to do with Duncan's preference.

“He’s very sweet,” you say, quieter. “Very caring. Ridiculous sometimes. He reads everything. Brings food. Stays when I ask him to. Leaves when I look too spooked, which is annoying because then I miss him.” You tug at the neckline, pretending concentration. “He talks to the baby like it can understand him already. Calls it wee things. Hums under his breath when he thinks I’m asleep.”

Rowan says nothing. You glance up at the mirror and catch her reflection beyond the curtain gap. The face she’s making is unbearable. “What?” you ask.

Her mouth pulls. “Oh, nothing. I just… knew it.”

Your hand drops from the dress. “W-what? What did you know?”

“You love him.” She looks nearly smug with relief. “And thank God, because from what Raymun brings home after those very subtle pub outings of theirs, it seems Dunk’s head over heels for you. So," Rowan says, "you just need to tell him.”

“No.” It comes out very fast and frightened. “No, Red.”

Her expression shifts. The teasing drains a little. “Hun, it’s all right. It’s great. It’s worked itself out. I’m happy for you.”

“What are you talking about?” You step out fully, barefoot, still in the dress, the tag scratching at your spine. “I just told you—”

“You told me he’s sweet and caring and ridiculous and you miss him when he leaves.”

“That’s—”

“That’s love, babe.”

“No.” Your throat tightens. “You can’t say that.”

“I can if it’s true.”

Thing is, you do not know if it is. You might. Or your brain might be terribly pregnant and therefore terribly attached to the person who made it that way. What had once been a crush may well be love now, only there is no checking it against a blank page at the moment. Would it survive without hormones, fear, and all his things that have moved into your life before anything vaguely resembling love was even mentioned? You. Don't. Fucking. Know.

“You can’t tell Raymun.” The panic gets ahead of you. You reach for her wrist. “Red, promise me. Promise me you won’t. If Raymun tells Duncan, then Duncan will—”

“Will what?”

“Stay.” Your voice drops to something wretched. “He’ll stay. If he thinks I want that, if he thinks that's a right thing to do, he’ll stay, and I’ll never know if it’s because he wanted to or because everyone pointed him at me and said go on, then.”

Rowan’s brows pinch. For once she doesn’t answer quickly. “Promise me,” you say again, fingers tightening.

She covers your hand with hers. “All right. I promise. I won’t tell Raymun.”

“Or hint.”

“Or hint.”

“Or make a face.”

“I can’t promise miracles.”

“Rowan.”

She sighs. “Fine. No face. No hint. No Raymun.”

You breathe out, though it doesn’t fix much. In the mirror, the green dress hangs beautifully over a body you are still learning by ambush. Rowan steps behind you and fixes the hair round your face with careful fingers.

“For the record,” she says, softer now, “I think you’re both being very stupid.”

“I know.”

“And for the other record, I do understand why.”

You meet her eyes in the mirror and nearly cry, which would be absurd after the mascara disaster already endured at home. Rowan sees that too, because everyone seems to see everything now. She presses her chin briefly to your shoulder.

“Buy the dress,” she says. “It makes you look like someone who might survive herself.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s your sales pitch?”

“It’s a good one.”

You look at yourself again. Your hands settle over the bump. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

When the whole thing softens, Rowan bullies you into keeping the dress and one of the bras on for lunch which means changing in a restaurant bathroom while convinced every woman washing her hands knows exactly what has happened to your tits. After that she feeds you, forgives you again for being unbearable, and hugs you goodbye outside with enough force to make the new underwire announce itself against your sternum. You thank her for the dress, the bullying, and for promising not to tell a soul, then start toward the clinic with a faint lick of heartburn sitting behind your breastbone like a match refusing to go out.

Duncan is already there. He is spread on the outside steps like the building has grown him for decorative purposes, face tipped up into the sun. His eyes are closed. The light has got into his hair and made the blonde bleed auburn. One of his trainers is untied. You stop for half a second at the bottom of the steps and let yourself look. Then you climb the last few, and your shadow crawls over his face.

Dunk squints one eye open. Then the other. “Oi, lassie,” he says. "Look at ye now."

“Oi yourself.”

He gets up too quickly for a man his size, then steadies when he sees you properly. His hands come to hug you. Brief, because outside. Full, because Duncan. His face dips near your hair and stays there for one long second.

When he draws back, his eyes travel down and up again. Worse than leering. Pleased, caught, soft in a way that makes you want to kick the stair.

“I’m seein’ shoppin’ went well,” he says.

You nod. The grin just appears on you. “What do you think the colour is?”

He considers you a moment. “A pretty one,” he says at last. Then, quieter and bolder for it: “My favourite one.”

Your grin widens. "You're insufferable," you say, then—"Come on."

He’s giddy and tries to make himself look collected. Truthfully, he’s been giddy for weeks, because when nobody’s looking—purely to keep a fragile thing from breaking—he can touch you and kiss you and be close to you and run sweet little missions to make you happy. And because you touch him too. Take care of him too, by simply asking, rubbing his shoulders, letting him sleep folded into your neck, and somehow it all seems effortless. But today he’s giddy because he’s finally going to know what it is. He’s so giddy he told Egg, and Egg only looked at him, exasperated, because Dunk had the audacity to blabber while Egg was running after a ball that seemed enchanted to avoid every one of his limbs. Egg only asked him, annoyed, if it matters at all, boy or girl, if Dunk prefers one over the other, and Dunk doesn’t have a preference. He just wants to know. To have another thing to be happy with you about and another task to perform together. Picking a name and learning what is pink and what is blue.

Your hand wedges itself into his in the waiting room and he holds it proudly. Then the doctor calls your name. Usual greetings, usual procedures. Hello, how is nausea, mood swings, cravings, any pain, any discomfort, has there been any colostrum leakage, and that one surprises Dunk a little, but you say no. You are given a skirt made of see-through interlining, and then guided to the chair. The doctor turns off the lights, smears the gel and sets the ultrasound head to your naked belly.

The room goes blue-dark around the screen. At first it is all lunar geography to Duncan: grey ridges, black pools, a bright little flicker where the heart keeps doing its frantic labour. Then the doctor starts naming things and the strange nature of the image becomes a child by instruction. Head. Spine. Stomach. Kidneys. Four chambers of the heart. Femur. Feet. A hand that opens and shuts with eerie little purpose, as if already offended by being looked at.

You squeeze his fingers.

Dunk squeezes back with what he hopes is a human amount of force. He cannot trust himself on that front, so he loosens a little and immediately worries he has loosened too much.

“Everything looks appropriate for this stage,” the doctor says, sliding the probe lower, then tilting it with the kind of patience Duncan associates with trying to find the correct cable behind a telly. “Baby is moving a lot today, though you might not feel it yet.”

You make a small sound that's somewhere between laugh and grunt. On the screen, the baby turns in a blur of bone and shadow, then settles badly, showing an elbow, a knee, the curve of a skull. The doctor waits it out. Clicks something. Measures something. Dunk watches the small white line appear from one end of a limb to the other and feels his whole life being taken down in numbers.

“Let’s see if we can get a good look,” the doctor murmurs.

Your hand goes still in his. Dunk stops breathing for a second and only remembers because his chest begins to hurt. The doctor adjusts again. There is a pause, then a little satisfied hum.

“Here we are.”

Both of you suck in air so audibly the doctor smiles. He has the look of someone who has endured years of study, night shifts, impossible patients, and bad hospital coffee for this exact sort of reward: being able to hold a room by one sentence.

“It looks like…” he says, and then the pause becomes unbearable, “a boy.”

The words hit Duncan with such force his eyes fill before he can do anything about it. Until now he has been having a baby. Some beloved, floating, impossible thing with fruit sizes attached. Now, without warning, the future grows hands and knees and a little face in his imagination. A son. His son. He's going to be a dad to one.

The doctor says more. Something about certainty, position, the anatomy scan, all looking well so far. Dunk hears it through water. He turns to you because that is the only sensible place left to look.

You are being very brave about it. Braver than him for sure. Your eyes have only gone a little red, while his feel wet and hot behind the lenses. You look at him, mouth parted round a breath. “Are you happy?” you ask.

Dunk laughs, but it breaks halfway through and turns into something worse. He scrunches his face with the effort of keeping himself together, fails at it, and cups your cheeks in both palms before he remembers it's all happening in front of the doctor.

“Ah, you’re bloody mighty,” he rasps. His thumb strokes under your eye as if you are the one crying hardest. “Look what ye’ve done.”

“You’re saying that as if I did it on purpose,” you say, but your voice has gone too thin for sarcasm to do its job.

“Aye,” Dunk says, uselessly. “Well.”

The doctor, with great mercy, pretends to be very occupied with the screen. Everything looks good, he says. The baby is measuring as expected. You may begin to feel movement soon, though at first it may be easy to mistake for digestion, muscle twitch, gas, any number of unglamorous bodily functions.

Duncan hears all of it as if through cotton. Fine. Expected. Soon. Boy. Son. He keeps one hand on your shoulder while the doctor wipes gel from your belly with the briskness of returning holiness to ordinary flesh. You lie there very still, staring up at the ceiling, and every so often your mouth pulls in on itself as if holding a thread between the teeth.

By the time you sit up, Duncan has recovered only enough to pass you your things in the wrong order. Shoes. Your bag next. Wipes last, though they have been by his arm the whole time. You give him a look that should be withering and only manages damp.

“Hopeless,” you murmur.

“Aye,” he says, and grins because even hopeless sounds good from you today.

You get home with heads full of news and hands full of each other’s hands. Duncan carries your shopping and does his best to keep from looking into the bags, though the handles gape and rustle against his knuckles with the secrecy of stage curtains. He sets them on the coffee table in the living room, straightens them twice for no reason, then goes to make tea because tea is good for everything.

“What d’ye want to do?” he asks from the kitchen.

You stand in the middle of the room a moment, one hand resting low on yourself, the other worrying the seam of your new dress. “Just hang out?” you say. “Maybe watch something?”

“Aye.”

A pause. Then, smaller: “Cuddle?”

Dunk turns with the mugs not yet filled and the kettle still working itself up behind him. His face opens widely. “Aye,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

When he gets to the bedroom, the dress is already flung over a chair. He mourns its loss, but only briefly, because the plain T-shirt and knickers prove worthy successors. The telly is on, and you are spread across the bed, so he strips down to match you for garments and joins you.

There is no watching done. As soon as he gets next to you, you say, “Hi,” and glue yourself to his chest. Duncan breathes in deep and gathers you back. His hand goes into your hair, smoothing. His mouth fits itself to your forehead. For a while the telly chatters to itself and neither of you give it the dignity of attention.

“You’ve done so well today,” he murmurs.

You shift under his chin. “I haven’t done anything.”

Dunk huffs. “You’ve made us a boy.”

“I think you had some small part in that.”

“Aye, well.” His thumb moves through your roots, slow enough to be thoughtful rather than fidget. “Didn’t exactly require my finest scholarship.”

That gets a laugh out of you, soft and a little stunned still. It pleases him so badly he has to tip his head back and look at the ceiling for a second, to put the size of it somewhere harmless.

“I hope he has your eyes,” he says.

You go quiet. The hand you have on his ribs stops moving. Then, in a voice made smaller by whatever it costs you to say it, “I hope he has yours.” A pause. “And more than eyes.”

It sounds like what love might sound like.

Dunk doesn’t think on it too much. If he speaks or asks, the answer might kill him, so he simply allows himself the unnegotiated boldness and lets his hands go places. The one in your hair is composed enough—he flexes his fingers against your scalp, makes it so his nails scratch you gently, and Duncan could swear you purr a little at that. The other wanders the swells: it passes your thigh, your hip, stalls at your belly and drags his index finger there until your shirt rides up a little and reveals the skin stretched over the baby bump. Despite the whole thing already being unbearably erotic to him, he does his best not to tip it into lewd.

The struggle is unfair. You sigh and stretch and twist a notch so your breasts spill under the T-shirt. Then, you hum some small thing squeezed out from the throat. “What’re you doing?” you ask, and Dunk, almost caught, has half a mind not to take his touch away.

“Jus’—” he says. Stammers somewhere near your ribs. “I dunno.”

“You can touch. It’s fine,” you tell him.

“Where?” he asks.

Something climbs your face then, a sweet little girlish abashment that makes Dunk smile.

“Given that there isn’t much you haven’t—” you hitch a bit because his fingers keep moving, “—anywhere you want.”

It’s a conscious game, plainly to see where it is that he’s going to stray towards. You could just as well have said everywhere, but some importunate part of you wants to know if he’ll be sweet about it or horny, or whether he’ll figure out a way to be both at the same time.

Dunk answers fast enough to flatter and slowly enough to taunt you. He takes his hand out of your hair and brings both palms up to your chest. There they meet, framing your breasts, and he gives them the lightest squeeze, a grunt catches in him with it. “Here all right?”

“Yes,” you say.

He smirks, barely, and brushes his thumbs over your nipples through the shirt. “Mo chroí,” he murmurs.

Sweet and horny it is, then. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Dunk says. He moves his face close to yours and shuts his eyes as if he’s trying to focus on judgement by the feel alone. His hands lift the weight, flex, turn and cup you, fondling with more wonder than skill, which only makes it worse. His nose wedges next to yours. “They’ve grown bigger,” he announces. “Heavier.”

You nod, grinning. “Yeah.” Close your eyes too and arch for him. “That’s… good, I take it?”

To that Dunk only hums and jerks his head once, squeezing you some more. He swallows. “Can I kiss you?”

“If you want.”

Yes.

The concepts of casual and fleeting are alien to him. Always a little too serious with his mouth, Dunk behaves as if kissing should either matter or not happen. He opens wide, flattens his tongue against yours and lets his teeth catch your lower lip. “It is very good,” he mumbles. Hands busy, busy, busier by seconds when he rolls his thumbs and gropes and lets himself become bewildered by how wonderful an ounce of flesh can feel between his fingers. There, he breathes, “It’s so, so good.”

It makes you giggle. Makes you want to thank him or fuck him or tease him some more, just to see how far his tongue can loosen. “You like big tits so much?” you ask, careful to not sound like you know you own him.

Dunk pulls back. Goes pink across the cheeks and you get treated to a magnified view of the way his eyes wrinkle when he tries to hide embarrassment behind a smile. “Well,” he says, “aye? Obviously.” A beat, filled with your stare and his brows frowning. “I’m a man,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Since whatever you do next can only make him redder, he gets back to kissing. You laugh into it, and he kisses over it, then slides his mouth from the corner of yours to the side of your jaw, and there he finds the courage to say, “I like everythin’, for the record.” Confirms it by abandoning your boobs in favour of ass and belly. Ass he treats like it exists merely to be held by him, while the belly receives a gentler treatment. Flat palm, large over it, and heavy over it too, but tender all the same. “I like you like this,” he whispers. “Hot as hell, you are.”

“Do you like that it’s yours?”

“That part too. Knowin’ I did it. Gets me in ways I’m not proud of.”

A smug, dangerous thing strolls through your face. “What did you do, Dunk?”

“Girl—” he warns.

“It’s alright,” you say. Put a hand on his cheek, and the hope that there might be some mercy in you gets mocked right away in his head when your thigh presses the bulge between his legs. “You can tell me. I can feel how hard you are, you know?”

“Luv. You won’t spare me, will ye?” Dunk pleads. Waits, and only makes it more miserable for himself because the pressure turns from sweet to mean. “I put that baby in ye, haven’t I?” he groans.

“Mhm, you have,” you say. “Do you think about it when we sleep together?”

“Ah—” His eyes squeeze shut. "Sweetheart, I—"

"You do, don't you? Dunk—"

There's another kiss. He's trying to escape, or perhaps interrupt enough so you forget answers are due, but fails completely. His body has answered already—he's kicking against your thigh, a little wet, very hot and very heavy, and the throbbing wastes itself on his underwear instead of becoming useful inside you. His mouth hardens, teeth become inept and clack against yours, and he's breathing through his nose, rough and loud. Betrayed on all fronts, Duncan stops at your cheek, and murmurs, "You say things like that." Sucks in some air. "An' I'm not answerin' for what happens after."

Your fingers find his hair and tug him away from where he's hidden. You look at him long, searching how far you can push. He reveals himself near cracked open. "You've done no answerin' at all so far," you say, smiling.

His acquiescence is palpable. Dunk makes a face of someone who's been tortured enough.

"Aye, well," he says, pressing his forehead to yours. Gives you a near iris-less stare with the blue rim existing only out of courtesy, and breathes it all out fast as if the bravery could be taken from him. "Yes," he says. "Since ye want it plain. I like it. I like thinkin' about puttin' our baby in you. I like lookin' at you and knowin' I did that. I like that it's mine." His hand twitches on your belly. "You happy now?"

"Adjacent," you tell him, and move your thigh a little higher between his legs. "Are you?"

He's very hard. Blood fills his cheeks so completely his freckles near rise off the skin and acquire texture. A sound leaves his mouth, a little high-pitched, somewhat boy-like, and when he speaks his lips are moving on your skin between the words. "Can I?" he asks. "Can I touch you proper?"

"Where?"

"Everywhere, girl," he says. "Everywhere I can reach." Slips his hand lower, to the hip, then down to the outside of thigh where it dips. It has all gone to his head, the allowance of touch. He thrums with it, gets bolder in it, and starts talking in a way that sounds unrecognisable to the default shy version of him.

"This," he says, squeezing the meatiest part. "I like this soft here. Drives me half-mad." His thumb strokes the inside of it where wetness almost clings to his finger pad. "An' this because I get to hold it when you're on top of me. Helps me keep my manners."

You huff a laugh. "Manners?"

"Aye." He smiles. "Aye, manners. Vital equipment."

Then, more touching. Everywhere touching, as he promised. He wedges himself under your shirt and touches your back, one hand from under the neckline, the other joining from the lower hem, and both of them meet where the bra usually dents you. Now there's no bra. Now, Duncan only has to slip to the front to cup his beloved tits again, and he does so, and feels his own face shifting with it, getting warmer, more gone, less guarded. When he has his arms wrapped round you, he mutters, "These are cruel."

You smirk. "You were saying you liked them."

"I do."

He lowers himself to kiss the top of one through cotton, then the other. Presses his face into your chest fully and hums through a deranged laughter that he'd have to kill himself to make stop. "That's the problem," Duncan says. "I like how heavy they feel now. How they spill into my hands. I think about—" He swallows. Adjusts his grip. "I think about puttin' my mouth on 'em more than is probably decent."

Your hips buck into him. "Dunk—" you breathe, with your fingers fully twisted into the roots of his hair, making him wish for a tug so fierce he'd lose some strands with it.

"I ain't done, girl," he says. "I ain't done yet, mo ghrá." Opens his mouth round one nipple and grazes it with his teeth. Groans. Moves his hands—untangles them from you and puts both, spread wide, over your belly like he's about to take it from you.

His breath fattens. “And this,” he says. “I like this because it’s you. Because I did it and you kept it.” His thumbs sneak under the fabric. “I want to kiss it. I want to talk to it. I want to put another in you when I’m allowed. There, that’s me told on.”

Dunk's succumbed to the fantasy fully. He's got one boy promised and wants a next child to keep him company maybe. Or because large families in his head are the happiest ones. He lifts his head and finds your face again. Through the water in his eyes he can still see you, but barely. Your brows are pulled, that he can tell for sure. Mouth parted, and perhaps worried slightly.

"Another?" you ask him, searching.

"Hush, girl, hush," he says. Blinks through it and licks his mouth. Presses his damp lips to yours and starts begging, because what else is there left to do. "Pretend. Just pretend I could. Just for now."

"Duncan," you say. You shield his ears with your palms. Brush through the hair at his temples and once he sees you nodding in the dim light, he lets himself get gone with it. "Keep talking to me. Keep—"

Happy-adjacent, he puts a thumb under your chin and tips your head back. Dives head-first into your neck, licks the whole column of it, rests there to speak some more. "I like your neck because I can smell you here," he says. Then, he puts you back face to face with him. Covers your mouth with three of his fingers and rubs on it until it flattens and spit drags its shine after where he's been. "I like your mouth because you laugh at me and then let me kiss you anyway. I like your hips because they fit in my hands." His palm fumbles blindly until he pulls himself out of his underwear and just slides between your thighs. Hot, eager cock, much like the rest of him. A flare runs up his spine, settles somewhere in the throat and punches out a grunt. "I like your belly because it's ours," Duncan grits. "I like your tits because I'm alive. An' I like between your legs because you get wet when I talk like this and I'm trying not to disgrace myself over it."

He wants you so badly he could scream to the whole of Ireland about it. Instead, he makes his body scream it. I adore you, girl, can’t you see? say his hands, everywhere. I’d give you everything I’ve got, can't you see? Kiss you till my mouth falls off, can't you see? Put myself wherever you ask and thank you kindly for the use of me after. See it, see it, see it—

Want gone rogue shows in the way he keeps gathering you back under his palms as if you've ever threatened to spill of out reach, in how his mouth remains undecided on biting, licking or siphoning you in, and the way his cock keeps jumping hot and furious, trying to shelter itself and remain decent about it.

It seems to work in small increments, because indeed all this talking, verbal and non, gets you wet for him, and your cheeks warm with it. You writhe under whatever part of him reaches you and start giving back those small, torn-off bits that always hit him harder than any grand noise would. “Yes,” you mutter. “Yes, Dunk. Do it—”

“Do what?” he asks, knowing damn well. The boyish part of him wants it from your mouth anyway, shaped prettier now that you are the one asking.

“Put a baby in me,” you say. “Pretend. Just for now.”

He hauls a large breath into his nose and exhales it through his mouth. Feels himself thickening with it, in the sense of mind and the body, where the mind becomes stupider and his cock larger. His hand goes wide over your belly as if he's saying mine, it's mine, and he bows over you, muttering, "Aye, I can do that. Christ, I can do that."

He's past trying very much, so when you nod and start clawing at his T-shirt, Dunk simply rearranges himself for you to undress him and mourns the absence of roundness under his palm only a little. Naked from the waist-up, he splays himself flat and watches you sit up and take your top off. Again, he is hit with how beautiful shapes are underneath it and how keenly he notices the tiniest shifts. Since last week your tits have gone from fuller to voluminous in his eyes, belly from raised to noticeable, and face from pretty to prettier.

His hand searches in the covers for yours. He finds it, squeezes it, and whispers, “Say it again.”

You sit there staring at him, dumb-struck. Watch his chest swell round the ribs and cave when he breathes out. Then, you lift the hand he is holding and press it into the mattress, pin it there under yours so you can lean on it while the other travels the whole longitude of his torso. Flat. Catching a little because tacky sweat does not make for easy sliding, until you land at his navel and see it jump under your nails. They drag through the coarse hairs there—darker than anywhere else on him before they give way to the softer vellus on the sides—and every one of them, no matter the length, the colour, the thickness, stands right up where your touch has been. Under it all the muscle flexes visible through the sweet layer of boyish body fat. Cosy and strong both. Perfect, really, for a head to rest there and hands to play with him. But that sort of comfort would tell too much. It is easy enough, still, to pretend the storm in you is purely hormonal so long as it ends with him stuffing you and doing whatever you ask. So long as he remains under the firm belief he is easing some bodily grievance, at least while he hasn't decided on himself yet. Falling asleep with his cock in your mouth and your head cradled by his belly would expose the pain that lingers in the abstract area of the chest.

There's a lump in your throat shaped like you're lovely. You're pretty and handsome and your body does things to me. And beyond everything, he's good and a good father-to-be, and what that does to your pregnant brain is unimaginable. So you go back to what works. Lean in, hide him for a moment under the curtain of your hair, kiss him gently, and say, "Put a baby in me. Properly." Your nose rubs his. "Fuck me from behind."

His half-mast lids fan slowly. Lashes rest on the tops of his cheeks and come back up and he's a changed man within that one blink. "Lass," he breathes. "Can ye get on all fours then?"

All he gets is a smile. Then movement—you pushing off him, your hand leaving his, which makes him near whine. His fingers curl after you in the sheet like a stupid animal’s paw. You turn away on your knees with quick gracelessness of wanting something sorely; hair falling forward, spine rounding, then lengthening when your palms find their place in the mattress. The bed gives under the redistribution. Ass towards him, hips lifted, one knee dragging wider until you seem settled enough to survive him.

Duncan lies there and takes the sight badly, as if it breaks him a little. Your back is bare all the way down, made stranger by afternoon light and familiarity. At the waist the skin is pulled by the swell of the belly. Dunk knows it's going to get bigger, and knows it is big already because his genes are at work here. With gravity added to the mix it looks fuller, and therefore makes him dizzier. Arse, with knickers stretched over it, is offered with such terrible common sense that his mouth goes empty of every clever thing he hoped to say.

“Jesus,” he manages, but that too comes out injured.

“Come here,” you say, looking back over your shoulder.

It strikes some last useful part of his brain hard enough to wake it. “Aye,” he says. “Aye, I’m comin’.”

He gets up behind you with all the poise of a felled tree being asked to reverse the process. Hands go to your hips, stop there, grip once, then loosen as if remembering you are flesh and temper and already carrying one consequence of his enthusiasm. Underwear is a ridiculous little scrap tasked with guarding what Duncan is looking at like it contains all the answers to life, death, God and Thursday afternoons.

His fingers hook under the elastic. “Easy now. Let me get these down,” he says.

The fabric peels down your thighs. Over the round of your ass first, where he stalls because he is weak and honest about being so, then lower, past the place where your legs touch, cotton dragging wet at the centre before it gives up possession. That small proof near takes his head clean off. He sees you then: open by posture, slick by wanting, held in the middle of yourself so prettily his mouth floods and dries in the same second. The whole of you given with your elbows sunk into the sheet and your cheek half-turned towards him, waiting.

Dunk puts one large hand to your ass and spreads you, just a little. “Oh,” he says, helplessly. “Girl.”

The sound you make is smugness turning on its own wreckage. “What then?”

His grip tightens, involuntary but with teeth nevertheless. Then, he bows his head and kisses one cheek. A warm, slow press, absurdly tender on a place where tenderness has no business arriving first. “Can’t just,” he mutters against you. “I hurt you last time.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Another kiss, lower, close enough to make you tense. “You said you were sore.”

“I liked it.”

He makes a sound that might be pain, though it masquerades poorly—pride's seeping all over it. “That’s worse,” Dunk says. His hand leaves you for his mouth. He is halfway to licking his fingers when you drop lower onto your elbows, push your hips higher, and look back at him with your mouth parted.

“Let me.”

He stops moving altogether. “Lass.”

You turn your head more. “Hand.”

He gives it to you, uncertain at the wrist, as if it's dangerous to grant your wishes so eagerly. Two fingers first, held at your lips until you open for him. The change in his face is immediate and oddly fulfilling. You take them in, tongue lifting under the pads, cheeks drawing enough to make his shoulders hitch. His free hand lands beside your head, then changes its mind and cups your cheek instead, thumb stroking under the place where your jaw moves around him.

“That’s—” His voice gives out. He watches his own fingers disappear to the second knuckle and looks destroyed by the physics of it. “Ye wanna be bred so bad,” he says, too softly to give out anything other than wonder. Then louder, because the first time teaches him what it does to your body. “There. Sweetheart, there.”

Your eyes flick to his. You're wet-mouthed, wicked, looking far too pleased for the position you are in.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he tells you, while meaning never stop looking at me like that.

The surprise is how easily contentment expands in him. How little it asks before it takes over his hindbrain. Some past version of Duncan, poorer in all the ways that matter, looks at the present one with both hands up, asking: how did we get here? How on earth did we carry on without it?

He is content often, contemptuous rarely; life started him with so little that every good thing arrives miraculous and every bad thing feels, privately, like payment for the miraculous ones. Now, he tries very hard to stay inside the minute. Then inside the smaller minute. Then inside the smallest one, which is your mouth with his fingers in it.

Warmth seeps off you. He could live right here, except the task at hand has become urgent and your thighs are shining for him and your eyes have gone glassy with yearning.

Dunk allows himself one more slow circle of your tongue, then withdraws. Between his hand and your lower lip, spit webs bright, holds for half a second, then breaks on your chin. He wipes it with his thumb before he thinks better of it, near dazed by the privilege. Then, his hand goes between your legs.

Careful, with a certain ounce of boldness about it, he starts with two fingers and drags them through you from front to back, gathering what you’ve made of his talking. You shift back towards him, impatient. He fights to keep the smugness from winning outright, though it is difficult to not celebrate being asked for so openly.

“Want these inside?” he asks.

Instead of answering, you bury your face in the crook of your arm and let your body betray you. Muscles clench. Thighs give a small shake. Your breath comes out wet. “Dunk—”

“There,” Dunk says, softly triumphant. “There ye are.”

He pushes in, slowly enough for you to know which knuckle is currently being sunk. The deeper he gets, the more you want him. Bordering clinical with how conscientious his touch is, it never reaches impersonal. Everything about Duncan kneeling behind you, holding himself upright so he can finger you and pet you at once, is personal. The breadth of him there. The heat. The other hand moving up your side as if checking, by touch, that you remain in one piece.

Something in you settles with a painful click. The body, traitor that it is, accepts him as instruction. These hands, then. This weight near you. This voice behind your shoulder. His cock as the obvious cock, his mouth as the obvious mouth, his body as a permanent article. The comfort of that thought is so unbearable you nearly push it away with your hips alone.

He bottoms out and you catch, from the corner of your eye, the shy start of a smile.

“Needed this, did ye?” he murmurs. “All worked up and bossy. Askin’ me to put another baby in ye when you’ve already got one.” His fingers curl.

“Dunk—”

“I’m here.”

Then he starts to move. In and out, awfully patient, drawing himself back until the tips almost slip free, then pressing in again with the same focus. It makes you want to kick him, kiss him, and possibly lodge a complaint with whoever designed men this earnest. The stretch is manageable first, then good, then better when he changes the angle of his wrist and finds the place that makes your spine lose sense.

“That all right?”

“Yes.”

“Say if it ain’t.”

“It is.”

Dunk’s mouth twitches. “Say if ye need more.”

“I need more.”

“I like ye like that,” he says, and the praise lands worse than filth would have. “Knowin’ what you want from me.”

You wish for something to bite, urgently. Upset with how legible you are, you say, “You started it.”

“I did,” he says, working steadily, in and up, in and up, catching your clit with the heel of his hand where he can. “I did start it. Started a fair bit, didn’t I?”

Your cunt seems to love that talk. It tightens round him and he goes silent for a second, stunned by the compliment. Then, he leans over you as far as his size allows, hips pressing into nothing useful, belly brushing your back. The angle folds him awkwardly, but his mouth reaches your shoulder and his free hand reaches your cheek, and somehow he manages to make this snug instead of crushing.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You know that?”

You make a sound that means no and yes and don’t stop and please shut up and please keep going, all crammed into one poor syllable.

“Beautiful like this. Beautiful when you’re laughin’ at me. Beautiful when you’re cross. Beautiful when you’re carryin’ my boy,” he says, and slides the third finger in.

You moan, loud. Open in small, grudging allowances—around him, through the hips, and finally somewhere higher and stranger, where the ache has been trying to pretend it's homeless. He keeps stroking into you, slow enough to be kind and firm enough to be believed. His thumb finds you from underneath, inept for one second, then clever by accident or instinct, and your breath punches out.

“Girl,” he says. “I was right then, hm? You like bein’ sweet-talked?”

“Duncan—”

“Aye?”

Low in you, everything starts taking heat. A pull first. A pulse. The whole shape of pleasure gathering itself with maddening obedience, as if your body has been waiting for his voice to give it permission. “You’re going to make me come.”

“Good,” he says. “Do that first.”

“You’re so—”

“What?”

You turn your head enough to see him. Pink-faced, wet-eyed, jaw clenched, hips making aborted little rocks against the air because he has forgotten he is allowed to want anything for himself while occupied with you.

“Good,” you say, accusingly.

He blinks. Almost smiles. “I’m tryin’ my best.”

“You’re succeeding,” you tell him.

It spurs him on—makes his mouth open around nothing, his fingers curl some more, his whole body strain in sympathy. Prayers for a thing to bite remain unanswered, so you bite your own forearm instead. Thighs tremble. The moment folds into something wholly physical, with your stomach tightening and lovely, humiliating surge of right there skittering and tipping. You could say his name as you come, but somehow now it feels forbidden enough to wedge your whole face into the crook of elbow and breathe there.

Duncan blinks through it and breathes through it as if he's the one getting fucked. He catalogues it all, from the belly jumping, through your cunt pulsing to all the little cries you refuse to let run freely. His only complaint is that he cannot see your face. He thought he wanted the view but now it is clear that the one view has cheated him of another. The crude angle and sounds have to do the memory's work on him, so he closes his eyes to brace through the inconvenience. Under his lids, he assembles the face: mouth rounded and framed by his hands, hair sticky at your temples, and his beloved whites showing every time he either exasperates you or manages to unearth you.

The realisation comes to him with dangerous gentleness: you are easy for him. This is a bad thing to learn, perhaps. A life-changing thing to know about a woman who keeps insisting he is her friend and a good person and other terms made to keep him warm but outside the house. He has no business feeling haughty over it, yet a grain of vanity runs through him all the same, coarse and bright. His fingers have done this. His voice has done this. The clumsy things he says because they are true have reached some private gear in you and made it turn.

He bends to check in, swipes hair off your forehead, and asks, "All right?" You give him a long sigh. "Need a minute?" To that you hum and shake your head. "No?" Duncan huffs and gets surprised by how much it reminds him of coaxing creatures that are smaller and more stubborn than you.

Your head turns to the side, lips smack a little. You look so fucked out Duncan is certain you'll ask for two minutes or a cuddle, but instead you say: "Can I have your cock now?"

Laughter punches his ribs so suddenly he spits on you some. Blunt as a hammer, but unfairly sweet-looking with your hair this messy and eyes so drowsy you swallow, and have the gall to rush him: "Dunk."

He nearly tells you aye, anything, I told ye I’d give ye anything, before he catches the harrowing fact that he has said none of that aloud. Only thought it at you for months until the thought had worn grooves in him.

"Aye," Dunk says after a moment. "Aye, you can."

Getting his fingers out of you feels like discourtesy. Your give them up slowly, wet and reluctant, and the sound of it makes his stomach drop. He wipes them nowhere. Cannot even think where to put his hand, so he presses it flat to your hip and keeps it there, slick cooling against your skin while the other shoves at his underwear with all the dignity of someone two sizes too big for the world.

His cock shines ridiculously. Has been crying for so long the slick managed to grow tacky and wet itself again and now the cotton at his crotch bears testimony of it in a form of dark, damp patch. Suddenly Duncan is glad your face has been hidden at times, because at least you missed this. He has been leaking through all his better intentions. Patient, conscientious Duncan, soaking himself while explaining kindness to your cunt.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, and really means Jesus Christ himself as he is calling to complain at having been made into a man so weak.

You wait, forbearance thin and want so fat you are swelling with it, and turn your head to see him sheened satin with sweat. He catches your eye and softens immediately. His face melts of focus, hand comes to spread on the side of your belly and some dim, animal part of you wants him to keep touching what brought you here.

"I'll take care of ye, girl," he says. "I'm 'ere."

Your eyes shut.

He fists himself at the base, and even his own touch feels like a punch to the temple. He stares at your parted thighs, at the glisten between them, guides his cock there with a tremble in the wrist. Slides his head through your slit, and all the neglect he had forgotten about while occupied with you returns in one violent account. The sensation of bodies meeting assaults him with remembrance of how long he's been stuck in wanting and how badly. He pushes in slow, because he must, because if he lets his hips decide anything they will ram through all sense and shame him terribly.

A broken little inhale. Your body seizes first, then melts all over him. Your spine lengthens and dips, one arm extends on the sheets and a hand grips it, and you push yourself onto him, moaning, "Fuck, Dunk—" Another breath. Then: "Yes. God, yes—"

You open around him with no easy, but eager effort. There is slickness, plenty, a give where before there had been resistance, and such maddening welcome Duncan's eyes near cross. It is a serious matter, the feel of you, tight, hot, and pulsing from what he has just wrung out of you, and he has a grim thought that if heaven exists, someone ought to have warned him it might be found behind a woman with one knee sliding wider on the sheet.

He gets halfway in, stops, and breathes heavy through it, bracing both hands on where your thighs hinge and realising he's squeezing for his dear life. You make an offended sound into your arm. “Dunk.”

“I’m tryin’ to be good,” he mutters.

“You are," you say. "You're good, you're good, Dunk. C'mon—"

“Am I?” He laughs, without humour or oxygen.

Your hips push back and it is enough. It is near murder. He sinks deeper before he can decide against it. The last of him goes in with a pressure that empties his head cleanly, as if someone has opened a window in a burning room.

He bows over you and stays, seated fully, shaking. Wonders if your womb is this generous because it is for him, or simply because he's put enough mind to it. His mouth finds your shoulder again because it has to go somewhere. “There,” he says, ruined with the size of it. “There now. Got me now.”

“I want more of you,” you tell him, dragged from some lower shelf in the body.

His answer is movement. He gives one careful thrust and finds out he has misremembered his own need by several degrees of severity. The ridges of him slide through you with awful, intimate detail.

You feel the whole path of him, blunt head pressing at places so private they seem to have been discovered only just now. He leaves you by an inch and you clench after him, misliking the departure, eyes watering for reasons that have sex as their nearest excuse and nothing like their full explanation.

“There,” he mutters, though there is no there broad enough for what he means. “That’s it.”

He moves again. Slow. So slow it becomes unreasonable. Every withdrawal gets some slick from you, the return makes your hips push back before you can pretend dignity has remained employed. Your fingers twist in the sheet. He feels it. Of course he feels it, because Duncan has become a creature made entirely of attention and poor stamina.

For a second, he gets the whole of it from too far above himself. He is inside the life he helped make. Inside your body, your day, your bed, your pregnancy, this ordinary room with light on the wall and sheets shoved halfway off the mattress and the smell of sweat, milk-warm skin and sex thick enough to saturate air in his mouth. Filthy and domestic together. Impossibly plain. Impossibly much. The thought opens too wide in him, so he returns to useful things: angle, pressure, you all over his cock, and your face hidden where he cannot have it.

That last one becomes intolerable and too incomplete. “C’mere,” he says. You make a small complaining sound when he stops. “I know," Duncan says. "C’mere.”

His hands shift, large and uncertain only for the first second. Then, he bands one arm across your chest and draws you upright with him, careful of the belly, of everything except himself. His thighs spread under yours. He settles you between them, snug and held, and the new angle makes him swear under his breath because he has been a fool and there were still ways for the situation to worsen.

Your back is slick against his front. Your head can turn now. Your mouth is near enough to be taken. His arm lies across your breasts, the other hand open on your belly, and he starts moving up into you from underneath, short and deep, each thrust softened by the fact that he has you folded into him and therefore cannot pretend this is merely fucking.

“There,” he says again, quieter. “Wanted ye close.”

You grip his forearm. Nails find him, make half-moons, threaten blood if he earns it. “Dunk.”

“What?” His mouth skims your temple, cheek, the wet line beside your ear. “Can’t have ye facin’ away from me when you’re lookin’ so pretty. Cruel thing to ask.”

You shudder so fully he feels it through the belly under his hand. Then, Duncan rules it can no longer be his blind luck. He learns. Takes the lesson straight into the marrow and uses it with the responsibility of a man entrusted with nuclear codes.

"Beautiful girl," he says. “Mother of my child,” and it lances you straight through harder than his cock does.

You nearly lose it right there. A gasp breaks in your throat. Your nails dig into his arm and your hips make a useless little search for more, though he is already in you, giving you all his size and all his patience and that dangerous, earnest mouth.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “How are you all shy and then—” He thrusts and you lose the middle. “And then know what to say to me all the time?”

His breath hits your cheek in a rough laugh. “I don’t.”

“You do. You walk around looking sorry for yourself and then fuck like this.” Your hand flies back, searching blind until it catches in his hair. “Do you know what you feel like?”

“No,” he says, honest and helpless with it. His hips keep their upwards rut, measured until your cunt grips him and ruins the measure. “I only tell ye the truth.”

It really ought to be less devastating, or just plain enough to survive. Instead, it clamps its teeth around you and takes a large chunk of where self-preservation should live.

Makes you tell some truth, too. Worse one, the one you kept throttled last time you praised him. The agreement between you is performance and permission borrowed from the body. He is allowed to fuck you this way because it falls under the list of things he has agreed to do while you are pregnant. Because you are allowed to need it. Because pretend has become the cleanest door in this building that's currently on fire. Truth is dangerous when it arrives dressed as itself, so you send it through the dirtiest mouth you own.

“I love it when you fuck me,” you say.

Dunk’s hips stutter, hard enough to make both of you grunt.

You keep your hand in his hair, twist a little, make him listen. “You’re good at it. Your cock is wonderful. You are—” Your voice hiccups when his fingers come under your chin and tip you towards him. His eyes are too close, wet and startled and dark at the middle. “You are wonderful,” you say.

The courage (or a momentary case of brain becoming so lustful it malfunctions into recklessness) pays off. It's forbidden, like emotional trespass is forbidden, and incredibly thrilling all the same. Especially when his cock moves inside you like that. When he looks at you as if you've put him in some trouble he cannot solve with either manners or muscle, so it spends itself through his body. He's so overwhelmed he becomes easy and scared enough that he seems to simply must shut you up with his tongue.

It's deep and clumsy for the first second because he is too full of feeling to aim neatly, then hungry, then almost sweet when he remembers the shape of you. He presses in while his hips keep working, and the two motions start arguing with each other. He slows to kiss you properly, then loses patience and thrusts harder, then makes a wounded sound because harder means your mouth slips from his. Sweat slickens where your shoulder blades rub his chest. Finally, it all gets so sloppy you just let him hold you, lick into you, rut into you, and feel the wetness of it drip down your thighs.

When he breaks from your mouth, you put one more truth where filth can carry it safely. “I’m glad it’s yours,” you say.

He hiccups, pained, and hears the extra weight in it, but is too far gone to handle it wisely. His hand tightens on your belly. His mouth goes to your ear and breathes out, "Me too." A swallow. “Me too. Christ, me too.”

Your cunt tightens on him. He feels that too, poor observant beast, and it tips something in him past the last fence. “Keep makin’ them for me,” he says, and sounds shocked by his own mouth even as it keeps going. “I want many. Want them with your eyes. With that smart mouth of yours. Stubborn too, likely, and I’ll regret that, but I don’t care.”

“Dunk—”

“I don’t,” he says. “I want ‘em. Want you. Want this.” The hand over your belly strokes once, broad and covetous without ever losing gentleness. “Want to know I put ‘em there. Want to see ye full with it and mad at me and pretty and—ah, girl, you’re makin’ a mess of me again.”

He laughs, breathless and disbelieving, then moans into your skin because you clench on the sound. Filth trips over tenderness and neither of you is in any state to separate the bodies on the floor. Trapped in what seems like perpetual climax from how good it feels to tell you, he fucks up into you with his cheek pressed to yours, with your hair sticking to his mouth, with his arm locked across you as if the world has developed a habit of stealing things and he has decided to take preventative measures.

“Say that again,” he begs. “That you’re glad.”

Your head tips back against his shoulder. “I’m glad it’s yours.”

His hips jerk. “Again.”

“I’m glad it’s yours, Duncan.”

“Jesus.” His forehead knocks against the side of your head. “You can’t be sayin’ my name like that.”

“I can feel you when I do.”

“Aye, I know.” His breath comes loud, almost angry with the effort of keeping himself together. “Tellin' on myself like a green boy.”

You choke on a laugh, broken and hot and half-mad. He catches it with another kiss, messier, teeth at your lip, tongue in your mouth, hand climbing from your belly to cup one breast as if he has remembered another beloved article in the catalogue of your unmaking. He rolls the nipple under his fingers and you jolt, bearing down on him with a sound so open it embarrasses you after it has already escaped.

“There she is,” he says, soft and ruined. “There’s my girl.” The possessive slips out too naturally. You both hear it, and neither has the strength to object.

“Duncan—”

The name changes in your mouth and he loses another useful bolt from the machinery. “Aye,” he says, driving up into you with a rougher snap. “Aye, I’ve got ye.”

“Duncan—”

“Give it,” he tells you. “C’mon, lass. C’mon.” His hand leaves your breast to cup under your jaw, keeping your head tipped where he can get at the side of your face. “Let go. Tell me what you need.”

You pull his hair hard enough to make him grunt straight into your cheek. Hips working, greedy and clumsy, you take what he gives and grind yourself down on the return, using him with such blunt want that his teeth near chatter.

“Fuck me,” you say, broken small. Then, worse, because you have learned how easily he shatters. “Breed me. Please—”

The please gets him in the gut. Gets him in the balls too, a heavy, low tightening that makes his next thrust stutter. “Ah, girl.” His voice slips thick. “That’s it. Take it from me. Take what ye want. Beautiful thing, you make me stupid with it.”

Pleasure detonates in you and stays spread. It seems to forget a clean outward spill or graceful blooming. It is only a bright, brutal lock of muscle, fast enough to make your breath vanish. Your cunt seizes on his cock in hard little pulses, each one dragging through your belly, your hips, the backs of your thighs. The heat has nowhere to go, so it holds you in place and burns. You tremble over him with your mouth open and no sound coming out at first, then too much sound, a torn, wet laugh that breaks into a moan.

Dunk starts tipping with you. You feel it before he says anything: the throb of him inside, the sudden loss of rhythm, the way his arm bands tighter across you as if he can hold his own body back by holding yours. His breath comes loud at your ear. Hips punching up shorter, less chosen, more like it's all just happening to him.

“Fuck,” he slurs. “Fuck, I’m—sweetheart, I’m gonna—Christ, ye feel so good. S'good, I can’t—”

You are still coming when the next wave begins to gather, indecently quick, fed by the panic in his voice and the thick drag of him through you. Your body has turned unreasonable. Given one thing, it asks for two. Given two, it starts building a third out of spite and gratitude.

“Dunk, fuck—”

“I’ll breed ye, girl,” he says, wet and gone. “Want you so fierce. Want you full of me. Want—ah, God, want you like this all the damn time.”

The sentence knocks through you and leaves every defence misfiled. “Keep going,” you gasp. “Keep—I’m gonna come again.”

His whole body roars at that. He tucks you closer and thrusts up into you with a hard, trembling grind that has begun to fray at the edges. Sweat covers you so thoroughly his grip slips. His glasses are fogged, thighs are wide under yours, solid enough to make a seat of him, ruined enough that you can feel the shudders running through the muscle and meat.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, yes—give me another. Let me feel it.”

The next one rises lower, meaner, with less warning. It starts where he is thickest inside you and claws outward. Your cunt clamps down before the rest of you understands, and Dunk makes a sound at your neck that barely belongs to language. His hips jerk up and bury deep and stay there as the orgasm takes you both by the throat.

You come around him and feel him go with it. Feel the first kick of him, hot and helpless, then another, his cock pulsing hard in you while his balls draw tight against you, emptied by degrees that make him shake. He keeps trying to move through it and cannot do it properly. Half-thrusts, aborted rocks, mouth open against your shoulder, his breath punching damp into your skin.

“There,” he groans, almost angry with how good it is. “There, take it. Take it, lass. Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

There is nothing left to decline with. You take him clenching and slick and shaking, the weight of his arm and the wide burn of his hand on you, take the vulgar kindness of being held upright while he pumps you full as if that can truly make you more pregnant than you already are.

Silence for a while. Between it, breath and muscle. Him, buried deep and twitching and softening painfully when your body keeps closing around him. He rests his forehead to the side of your head. His voice, when it comes, has been dragged over shredder and then forgiven for it. “Jesus,” he whispers. “Girl. Jesus.”

“Yes, Jesus,” you sigh. You sag, hang yourself off his arm fully, and Duncan just collapses to the side with your back plastered to his chest.

“Are you… are you well?” he asks, suddenly feeling his heart grow too heavy.

“Yeah,” you say, patting behind yourself to find his face. You cup his cheek and brush your thumb over it. “Yeah, I am. Are you?”

“Aye, jus’—” Dunk swallows. “That was—”

“Incredible,” you cut in. He gets an odd sense of flashback. “You know it’s just, um—”

“Yeah, I know. Just the sex. I’m just a little… I dunno.” He hates that he sounds scared.

You start shifting. Pull yourself off him, and it feels wrong on too many levels. You grunt a little, turn to face him, and catch him glancing nervously at the sheets.

“Don’t worry about it right now, okay?” you tell him. “Dunk, um. It’s alright.” Your hands go to his neck, gentle. “People want mad things during sex. Doesn’t mean anything has to—you know. Come true.” You look at him for a long second. “I’ve told you already. You’re allowed to want things.”

Dunk stays a bit stunned. Can I just want you? Do ye mean pretend breeding or can I want more babies with you because I want you? he thinks frantically, and when you start frowning, he forces a smile.

“Aye, I remember,” he says. “Well, I… I liked it fierce. Obviously.”

“Okay. Me too. Obviously.” You smile back at him, a little sad. Then, you wipe under his glasses with your thumbs. “Yeah, I was right," you say. "I want him to have your eyes. They’re much prettier than mine.”

He cackles from tension and abashment, then tucks you close, because this could have gone worse and has somehow landed safely enough. “Lass,” he whines. “Don’t tell me I’ve fucked ye into madness.”

You bash a funny fist on his back.

It has settled nothing in him beyond the fact that sex can be mad if people want it mad. He wonders if it is possible for it to get this mad and still have the participants remain friends. Being himself, Dunk reaches for the pool of old knowledge instead of the new. The new has you with all your quirks and tells and sweetness, and should point him towards the conclusion that he is wanted back. Instead, Dunk leans on what he knows about girls in general, and he does not know that much after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is getting hard from the memory alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right. Heartburn. That will be what this is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyonel sends another message: Running twenty behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raymun blinks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Fossoway,” Lyonel says.

“Raymun’ll do.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And your family shares that understanding?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, but you got me in the room.”

“You still did it.”

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

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

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

“Especially with the state of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dunk blinks. “I’m in no state.”

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

“Watch your mouth.”

“You look hungover, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what?”

“So what happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And humble.”

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

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

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

Dunk scowls. “Into class with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do smile. That is nearly worse.

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

“Here he is,” says Raymun.

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

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

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

“Shut up,” Rowan tells him, fond.

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

“All right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “You?”

“Grand.”

It is a lie small enough to pass unchallenged.

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

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

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

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

Dunk glances between you both. “Aye?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod because there is no safe alternative.

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

The silence after is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your shoulders loosen by a degree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly. The vagueness gnaws.

“What about you?” you ask.

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

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

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

“Aye.”

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

“Should I walk ye?” he asks.

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

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

“See you round, then,” you say.

“See you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s danced with you. Drunk with you, faced Lyonel for you, been awkward around you and now he’s here in all his fleshy abundance, redefining the shape of your face with his. If this is not the fucking moment when he finally kisses you, you are ready to swear men off forever. Given the scornful library of fiascos you probably should, but then oh—

He smells like sweet, needy sex and his mouth tastes of it, and his hands feel like it too when you can clearly tell he’s trying to invent a polite way to grope your ass. You lose the plot of it faster than you should. Maybe it’s the drinking, or the relief of finally finding somewhere to go after spending so long gathering speed. But he transforms in your hands: from Duncan, the friend who’s been made untouchable by one act of cowardice and a ton of compelling arguments to be, to this. A man who has spent the whole evening orbiting you, hot, sweet and eager, and then insisted on walking you home so hard you ended up wrapped round him like a snake and eating his face off in the street.

It does not feel like you talking anymore when you say, “Take me home.”

Take me to your bed, says the part of you that never got to say it to dainty men of culture, and Dunk reacts in the clean, immediate way you always knew they never would. Like wanting you has mass to it, and he happens to possess the strength to carry it.

He keeps kissing you all the way to his door. The key takes him two tries and a muttered curse. While he fumbles in his pocket, he presses you to the wood just so he does not have to set you down, and your legs tighten on his waist because there is no sensible reason not to. The door gives. For a second your back is free of pressure. Then there is pressure again, because Dunk only gets as far as the tiny hall before flattening you again, this time to plaster.

Something drops off him there. He forgets he is meant to be boyish and shy. His hands go under your dress and roll it right up to your waist with a haste that makes you gasp into his mouth. He answers by kissing you harder.

His hallway is narrow enough that you could straighten your legs and touch the opposite wall with your feet. It smells of what boys consider homely: washing powder, old building and man. His hands are enormous. They span more of you than seems fair. One keeps you pinned high and close by the backside of your thigh, the other slides over your knickers and stays there, stunned for a moment. He makes a noise then, breathy and a touch too high to come from someone this broad, and you feel it more than hear it.

You are not thinking about the morning. You are not thinking about friendship or the consequences it’s going to suffer if he takes those knickers off you. For one second you are thinking about your shoe and where it went in all of this, but the rest has gone watery at the edges.

Meanwhile, Dunk is caught between being polite and sliding the gusset aside, or being brutal and ripping the lace clean off. Any would allow him to join the good citizens of Ireland who’ve already seen your fanny. He goes over the things he knows girls like: they like their fancy uncomfortable lingerie. They like it when he shows the strength off but remains gentle. And most importantly: they like when he goes down on them. Which is brilliant, because he likes eating them out and Dunk appreciates when elements in the universe compliment each other.

All fevered with possibilities, he mutters, “Up, up,” and hikes you higher with both hands under your butt until your back skims up the wall. You’re so pliant he could throw you, so you just let him, while he slips down and out from between your kisses. He takes your thighs, sets them over his shoulders, and lands face to face with his beloved area. There, he opts for the latter: hooks a finger over the small patch of cloth that only pretends it’s covering anything and goes back to what seems to have been working, which is kissing.

Gone, is an understatement. He’s lost. He’s so missing the missing persons poster has stopped depicting him accurately and always gets one feature off. Under his mouth, your pussy feels less like a part of a body than the whole point of one. Hot, swollen, slick already and getting slicker by seconds, and there is nothing more joyful in life than thinking this is for him. It gives way and resists in turns. His tongue keeps finding one texture, then another: the inside of the lips, soft and smooth, the wet seam between them where you taste wildest, and then the firmer knot of nerves that makes your thighs lock him in the world’s filthiest and best sensory deprivation chamber. Robbed of sight and hearing, Duncan focuses on what’s before him—licks broad at first, seals his mouth on you, then narrows and gathers every ounce of steadfastness to not smile when your hips twitch and try to climb his face.

With the quiet around him, he gets greedier. Hums into you without thinking and feels the vibration come back through your cunt. One hand has wedged itself under the lace pulled at your hip, the other is fully devoted to kneading your ass cheek and proving he can fit all of it into a palm. He squeezes and rubs and stretches it until it spills over his shoulder and turns his skin molten over the shirt. Your weight feels lovely on him. It grounds him into the blessed nothingness. There are moments where he nearly forgets who exactly is attached to the thing in his mouth. It is just him and the pussy, and the increasingly urgent sense that the things have, for once, arranged themselves properly.

Then your fingers twist into his hair, and you let out a shuddering breath that seems to have been held this entire time. “Dunk!” you choke, and the room comes back around him. He returns to his body, and once more curses Raymun for making him wear the ‘good jeans’. They’ve already been tight in the crotch without the currently raging boner, and he can’t even press it into you.

The more awareness he regains, the worse everything starts to look. He licks his lips and it helps little to nothing, only gets more of you onto his tongue. Duncan looks up, all solemn, and mumbles, “Sorry.” You stare down, flushed and nearly naked, being so goddamn pretty in all of this he almost forgets what he’s apologising for. Then, he remembers. “I didn’t even ask you.”

You start laughing. The unpretty, full cackle appears, active and helpless, and Dunk’s heart grows so large at the sound it nearly bursts his chest because it is the very same cackle he heard two years ago in a pub. Then, he notices there are tears in your eyes. “Put me down so I can kiss you,” you say.

He has no intention of letting you touch the floor this evening. All things considered, this is going great because you have not, and in Dunk’s superstitious mind the connection forms immediately. From this point forward the floor of his apartment is lava to girls, and he is carrying all of them from the doorstep straight to bed. Then, he corrects himself, because the only girl he wants here is you. Then, he calculates, briefly, how achievable that is long-term and decides the wiser course might be to lock this in by moving out entirely and finding a flat with a new floor.

Then, he looks at you again and finds you staring, a little stunned, while he’s apparently been doing maths with his face. “Right,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

He unhooks one leg from his shoulder, then the other, and lets your body slide through the loop of his arms until he is holding you by the waist. Your toes flex and search for purchase on his feet but cannot reach, so they tickle his shins instead. He holds you tighter for it, returns to the business of kissing, and starts walking you towards the bedroom.

A brief practical worry cuts through him on the way there: the state of the room. Duncan has only the haziest memory of what he left out this morning, but the shortlist is bad enough—socks, half-drunk cups of coffee, sweaty gym clothes flung over the chair. So he makes a quiet, desperate decision to keep you busy enough not to notice any of it.

He lays you flat on the bed and goes straight for your neck. Sucking, kissing, licking, biting a little. He inhales the scent there and hopes the future holds at least one visit at your place so he can sneak off to the bathroom and inspect whichever shampoo or shower gel or lotion or other complicated thing girls use to smell like boy dinner makes you smell like home to him.

To his surprise you are just as eager. At one point you bite his lower lip hard enough that he backs out with a sharp breath and the both of you land on your sides, face to face.

You frown some. “I’m sorry—” Your fingers touch his lip. “Was that too hard?”

Your leg is thrown over his waist and Ireland’s best pussy is currently pressing into Dunk’s groin. “Oh, fuck—” he grunts, because the truth should be told. Then he shakes his head. “No. No, it wasn’t.” He swallows. “Can I take your clothes off?”

Your face changes in that quick, bright way his already-drunk brain could get addicted to. “Yes,” you say, and then, with a glance down at his shirt, “Can I take off yours?”

He nods and sets your hands to his shirt like he is helping you find the start of something. The pair of you undress each other by rough agreement. He reaches behind you and finds the zip of the dress. Gets it down. Palms the back of your bra and becomes convinced he is hallucinating, because the fucking thing is smooth.

You catch the look on his face halfway through undoing the shirt and giggle. Abandon his chest for a second to show him: the bra unclipping at the front. Once it gives, though, you hold it in place and wait for his hands to take over.

He is absolutely astounded. “I didn’t know they could do that,” he says.

You grin. “You wouldn’t believe how crazy knickers can get.” Then, you get back to his buttons.

While Dunk is busy unwrapping your tits like they are a godsent gift, you try to hide that you are holding your breath as more and more of his chest comes into view. It is entirely unwise, invented, and put on by this man to act shy in daylight when this is what he has been wearing under those plain P.E.-teacher shirts.

He has two large pecs that would absolutely qualify as tits, though you will never call them that in broad daylight. They look firm to the eye, but when he shifts onto his side they crease a little and feel plusher under your hands than they have any right to. There is hair everywhere a person would hope for it, as if somebody drew him up with a practical little map of where to touch. On his chest it is neither sparse nor bushy, just enough to make him look unfairly, devastatingly ordinary in that area. The colour runs darker than the hair on his head, though it still leans red before brown. Lower down his belly softens, and there the hair thickens at the edge of the waistband, which, to your delight, is under disastrous strain.

When you drag the shirt off him properly his shoulders come free hard under your fingers. His forearms are dusted with golden-orange fuzz. He has nice hands too—large, long-fingered, with leaner nails than you would expect on a man built so much for blunt force. You only get a brief look at them while you fight the sleeves down his arms, because the minute they are free they come straight back to your boobs and he is already too far gone kissing your neck to notice any of the ogling.

He does, in the end, manage to get everything off you. The bra goes first under his amazed hands, then the dress in a tugging blur, then the knickers, which he treats with an attention almost touching considering what they went through ten minutes ago.

You repay the favour by going at his jeans with a little too much enthusiasm. Your fingers fumble at the button, drag at the zip, get bold, and he hisses once through his teeth. “Sorry,” you whisper, giggling.

“Careful, girl,” he says, half laughing, half wrecked. “I’ve plans for that.” From there he takes over, pushing the denim and the underwear down his hips and off with no more patience than you have. When he drops onto his back his cock springs free, fully hard, and slaps against his stomach.

For a second you can only look. He has the girth of someone’s wrist, easily, and lying like that the crown reaches nearly to his belly button. The distance between that and his pubic bone is a long one, because everything on Duncan is long. His arms. His legs. His fingers. Even his toes, which you find yourself staring at while he kicks the socks off with a graceless little scuffle that somehow only makes him more attractive.

Then, he rolls back onto his side and the weight between his legs drops in front of him and drags on the mattress. The scale of him staggers your thoughts. He is pretty there, too. Good-looking on every inch of him. If you were less drunk and less prone to gagging, you might have asked him to let you just play with it for a while. A small fright cools your spine for a blink: where is that going to fit, exactly?

A blink later you tell yourself you are drunk enough, which is near enough the same thing as brave, and get back to kissing him. You swing a leg back over his hip, and he answers by planting both palms on your ass like that is their dedicated place.

You wrap yourself round him and let the broadness of him do half the leg-spreading work for you. He fits there heavy and wanting, nudging and jerking between you both every time you tug his hair or catch his lower lip with your teeth. The sounds he makes keep changing shape—breaths, little groans, the odd swallowed swear—as if none of them are adequate to the fact that this is actually happening.

His hands get confused as to where to settle. Butt, waist, back, then butt again. He is trying to climb further into it through kissing. When your hips shift and the head of him drags against you, he lets out a rough breath and murmurs into your mouth, “Christ, girl. I’ve wanted you fierce.”

That gets you in the chest a little. You pull back to see him. His face is flushed all over. His hair is a mess under your fingers. He looks pretty.

“Do you—” you start, then have to stop and take a breath because he keeps kissing at your jaw. “Do you have a condom?”

Dunk’s movement hiccups, as if his whole kissing ability just malfunctioned. He gives one confused little peck to the corner of your mouth like he’s hoping that might count as an answer while his body seems to lose structural confidence under you.

“Uh—” he says. Another peck. Then, fully blushed: “I… I don’t think so.”

“Why?” you whine, and it is more a question for the cosmos than for him. For whoever sits up there and is currently cracking up at the fantastic joke of two people getting wasted enough to finally go for it, and forgetting the technicalities. “Why?” you ask again, and this time it’s for Duncan.

Dunk goes abashed so quickly it hurts to watch. “I—I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really…” He swallows. “I don’t really do this much.”

Something in you gives at that. Not because it is tragic exactly, but because it sounds so plain in his mouth. I don’t have one night stands that often. 

He bites his lower lip. His eyes drop. You watch his lashes fan down—long, straight, lying flat against his cheek for a beat when he blinks. Then he looks back up, careful, and his pupils shrink from nebular to slightly enlarged. “D’you want to stop?” he asks.

No, you absolutely don’t. Practically crying from between the legs for him, and he’s weeping too, you realise, when his tip nudges the inside of your thigh. Instead of answering, you kiss him to stop that crestfallen expression from blooming across his face and wedge your nails so deep into his bicep he groans. He whispers your name to remind you there are still issues to resolve in this arrangement.

“N-no,” you say, letting your leg fall off his hip and trapping him between your thighs. “Just… let’s regroup.”

Dunk gasps. He likes thighs when they are soft like this. Likes hips with those useful little dips to hold onto, and buttocks with enough weight and hang to mould into his hands. He enjoys, obtusely, being wanted to the point where recklessness gets to win over sense for once. The only thing he would want more is to bury himself inside you, even if it were only half his cock. But if fucking your thighs is the next best thing you have pointed him towards, he is not about to complain. In fact, some sober future version of himself can sit down later and thank whoever needs thanking.

You are slick enough for him to slide freely. Tight enough that he can pretend, a little, that he has been let in. He holds your ass to angle himself better and keeps moving, dragged half by want and half by the pressure of you closing on him. Aside from the fronts of his legs and the underside of his belly losing contact with you on each thrust, the rest stays fused together. Your tits flatten to his chest. Your mouth and nose crush into his face. Your arms are locked round his neck.

He can tell the shape of you exactly from the way it frames his length. Still, he wants eyes somewhere else in the room. Wants to look. Wants to see the head of his cock spreading your pussy lips wide and dragging itself through you, from clit, through slit, to perineum and back. His balls tighten at the thought. 

“Jesus, lass,” he breathes into your cheek. “Look what y’do to me.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, goes back to the shallow push of it, then breaks again just enough to look at you. “Is tha’ good?” he mutters. “Tell me. Tell me what y’want.”

“Yes,” you say, thighs cinching on him by way of proof. “Fuck, yes—” Your voice goes softer, more broken. “I want—I want—”

Then you reach behind yourself and press your fingers flat to his underside. Dunk starts nudging at your entrance. Slows down. “Lass,” he rasps, his eyes searching your face. “What’re ye doin’?”

“What if we just—” You swallow. Drag him slower through yourself until the tip catches on the seam and every thrust he tries and fails to withhold becomes a shallow knock. “Just the tip—I want you to—”

Dunk squeezes his eyes shut so hard his eyeballs hurt. “Luv—” he chokes out, and even to himself it sounds like begging.

He can feel the promising warmth of you on him. The grip you’d have on him. He wants, with every ounce of his body, to just sink and drown and never breathe again if it means breathing without you anywhere near him. He tries to calculate risk, but can’t. Forgets, fully, what might happen, aside from himself dying if he doesn’t just fuck you.

“You’ve to tell me,” he says. “You’ve to tell me to get out, aye?”

All you can hear yourself thinking is please never get out of me. Please stay inside. Please, just hold me through it.

“Yes,” you say. Then again, when the tip stretches you wide open. “God, yes—”

You stay there a second. Breathe in the air Duncan has released from his mouth. Try to be good and keep it shallow enough for this to remain, somehow, explainable to Rowan when you tell her what you’ve done. But you start feeling so hollow it becomes unbearable. Soon, your muscles, dulled by alcohol and a bunch of other baffling things, adjust. Soon, your cunt simply begs for more of him. Soon, you are bargaining with yourself: he’s good, he doesn’t fuck that often. He’s for sure clean.

And most importantly, It’s not so easy to get pregnant nowadays. In your fuck-drunk brain, you manage to convince yourself it is not merely difficult but outright impossible. You cannot remember exactly how old you are either—thirty-one or two, less or more. What comes on the other side of that is absolute certainty: even if everything goes wrong, the only consequence will be the crushing shame of getting this worked up over a man you are still not entirely sure is into you unless he has consumed horse-tranquillising amounts of lager.

Duncan stays infuriatingly still while your hips wrestle with his size. You huff and breathe loudly and hair is sticking to your forehead, and by vicinity, his too. Your leg comes back to its favourite place across his hip bone. Bent in the knee so you can hook it over him and bring him closer. He groans for it, winces a little, and says, “Christ, girl, you’ll end me, so you will.”

“No-no,” you say. Take his cheeks into your hands and look him deep in the eye as you sink. “No ending.” An inch. “Just a little—” Another inch. “Just a little bit of fucking. Slow—”

It has to be slow. Your mind is already galloping into some deranged scenario where you are unbreakable and Dunk is thrusting into you hard and fast from behind, telling you sweet things in that thick voice of his so you can take it better. For now, though, slow. You stretch around him in small increments, and the terrible emptiness gives way to a gentle, euphoric fullness. By the time he is halfway in, you can almost breathe deeper. The pair of you look at each other as if some lucid parts still mean to communicate what a dreadful idea this is, only to lose to the parts made of want.

“Slow,” Dunk says, knowing exactly what he’s doing and enjoying every forbidden bit of it. He stares at you with eyes wide open and holds. Stays there, utterly still, treating slow as motionless, and the heat starts skittering all over his skin when you answer his needy throb with a vicious little clench. It nearly knocks the sense out of him. He swallows hard, keeps one hand braced at your hip and the other behind your back, and tries not to fuck up the good thing by losing his mind completely.

“Easy, lass, easy,” he says. “Fuck, let me jus’—”

He draws back a little. Not far. Only enough to feel the drag of you sending all of his nerves ablaze. The pressure of you seems to go straight through the body and find him somewhere lower and more basic than flesh. When he eases in again and feels the same resistance give, your mouth opens on a breath that lands hot on his face, and he has to shut his eyes for a beat.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Tha’s it, luv.”

He does it again. Out a little, back in a little deeper. The rhythm wants to run off with him, but he keeps it on a short lead. Your hands are on him everywhere—shoulders, neck, hair, whatever bit of him seems nearest to hold—and each small reaction you give comes back through his cock magnified. A flinch. A sigh. The way your hips try to meet him even while the rest of you is still learning to live around the burn.

Dunk is used to things feeling tight. What he is not used to is the extra layer of meaning this comes with. That it is you round him. You, who have spent two years doing innocuous things in his proximity and making a meal of his mind with them. Laughing. Leaning over a table in a top cut too low for the peace of anybody present, because he is only a man. Brushing his forearm in passing, because he is a man who yearns. Sneezing, even, because he likes it when girls lose control of their bodies for a second. He prefers it when he is the one making that happen, but with you that had always been filed under impossible wishes, and he had taken what he got.

Now he wants everything greedy and domestic and unwell. To kiss you more. Eat you out again. Play with your hair. Study the nape of your neck properly and maybe leave a mark there small enough to show only when you wear your hair up. He gets so deep into the fantasy of keeping you here, of making sure you never touch the floor, that he does not quite register how deep he already is until you moan his name.

“Dunk!”

He comes back hard. Feels himself buried nearly to the hilt and suffers the oppressive sweetness of it. You are so fucking good round him. “Ah—sweetheart,” he coos, and kisses you because there is nothing else to do with that much feeling.

Your hips start seeking more. Rolling, nudging, trying to drag it out of him. Then your mouth starts going too, and that does him nearly worse. “You’re so deep—fuck, you’re so deep,” you breathe into his cheek. “Please don’t stop. Please—” comes next and then finally, “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted you so bad.”

Duncan’s breathing picks up from it. He had thought things could not get more dangerous than this. They can. They do.

Soon you are grinding into him in earnest, both of you slick with sweat, your mouth open against his, and he starts to fear the inevitable, but doesn’t dare to stop. He’s just fearing.

“That’sit,” he slurs, wrecked. “Talk t’me. Jesus, girl—”

When you come, you might as well have him punched to the gut. “Yes, yes, yes—” spills out of you in shuddering fragments, and you get so impossibly narrow around him his vision blurs. Through it he sees your eyes roll back until there is too much white in them, grotesque and strange and, to Duncan, the sexiest thing he has ever seen in his life. He prays to his drunk brain to keep the memory. Keep this. Keep your face. Keep the sound of his name mangled in your mouth. Keep the way your body clamps down on him like it has decided he belongs there.

His balls go from low-hanging to high-strung and he knows he has exactly a millisecond to pull out. But the distance his cock has to travel between being inside and outside is too much. Everything’s too much. He comes with a broken sound, loud enough to embarrass him in any other life. His whole body seizes round it. Shakes with it. You have told him nothing beyond how good he feels, and that, apparently, was not a clearly enough signposted get out. He feels it draining him while he is still inside you and the realisation lands in the same instant as the pleasure, ruining nothing and improving nothing and simply making the whole thing worse in a new direction.

He wrenches himself out that millisecond too late. The last of it spills hot across your inner thighs. “Shite,” he mutters at once. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”

“Shh,” you murmur, still shaking yourself. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sure we’ll be okay. It’s alright, Dunk.”

You kiss his forehead. He has half a mind to gather you close and never let any harm touch you again, though he is aware with some fairness that he is currently the harm in question.

“Ah, fuck, that was—” you start.

“Reckless—”

“Incredible,” you whisper. “And reckless. We’ll be alright. We’ll be—”

You sound as if you are trying to convince the room as much as either of you. Dunk stares at you, pulverized and sweaty and still half inside the aftershock of it, wanting very badly to believe you simply because you have said it.

The thought of yours remains unfinished. Somewhere around be your voice trails off and your face begins to loosen. Dunk watches it happen in real time: the faint effort to remain lucid, the last stubborn little hold of wakefulness, then that lovely spent-melt sleep has been waiting to lay over you all along.

He winces inwardly, because he knows well enough what becomes of cum left to dry on skin, and yours is currently wearing a fair bit of his. Still, he does not dare move you. Anything that needs to be done can wait. Your head is resting on his arm and he does not mind that in the least. If anything, it is useful. It confirms you are real.

So he gives himself over to watching. Your jaw slackens. Mouth falls open just enough to make him wonder whether you are going to drool on him. He decides he would not mind that either. He keeps watching until his own lids grow too heavy to negotiate with, and the weight of his limbs settles further into the bed and into you.

Sleep is a black hole. You crawl out of it with that terrible phantom of vomit on your tongue, the kind that really wanted out at some point between Lyonel’s place and wherever you are now, and never got to leave. Your head is split. Your mouth is begging for a toothbrush and enough Listerine to send you straight back to being blind drunk. Your stomach is empty and growling. The rest of you—trapped.

When you open your eyes, the shape beside you is inconspicuous at first. Only large. Then he comes into focus, and the first thing your brain offers up is a rush of joy so immediate it nearly feels chemical. What exactly for—you being here, him getting home safe, the sheer fact of him—you do not know.

Then, awareness starts seeping back in. The night returns in vignettes. Dancing. Drink. The pavement tipping softly under your feet. One shoe gone missing. His shoulder under your middle. His mouth on yours in the street. Your mouth on his. His teeth flashing when he laughed. Hands. Your dress. The hallway. His voice. After that the details begin to smear again, not gone exactly, but too warm and close and bodily to look at head-on with a hangover this sharp.

You look down. Your face is pillowed on his arm. You are on your belly facing him, goddamn naked, with one leg caught under the enormous weight of his thigh. Duncan is asleep on his side, snoring a little through parted lips. In sleep he looks younger. Not smaller—nothing available to him suggests smallness—but younger in the face. Morning light lays the freckles bare over his nose and cheeks. There are lines at the corners of his eyes you only notice like this. They come from smiling or crying or both, and because your head is in its current state you nearly burst into tears over that alone.

He looks like a boy. A very large, naked, ruined-looking boy. And you are trapped in bed with him.

It is perfectly clear that you’ve had sex. And even if it wasn’t, the soreness between the legs would make it clear. What is less clear is the route by which you arrived there. You cannot remember it properly enough to trust yourself. You do not know who started it. You do not know how far it went before one of you suggested the rest. You do not know how drunk he was, whether he knew what he was doing, whether he knew who he was doing it with. Half of you hopes he did not, because there would be mercy in that. The other half would be heartbroken if that were true.

You know enough about Duncan not to picture him as some seasoned practitioner of one-night stands. The same, mortifyingly, goes for you. This is out of character in a way that would be funny if it were happening to somebody else. Instead it is happening to you, and Raymun is probably proposing to Rowan right about now, and Rowan will surely say yes, and soon your oldest friend will have crossed decisively into a life where she is paired off and chosen and occupied, while you remain what you have apparently always been: a woman with good copy, bad timing, and just enough loneliness in her to do something catastrophic with one of the very few decent men who ever decided to stay in her life, even as friends.

Because that is what the panic says this is. A terrible mistake that could cause damage to more than just you and him.

You lie very still, and think with mounting horror that you may have used the closest thing to a legend-level good person in your life to mute the sound of your own solitude for one night. That, if true, is vile. That, if true, is exactly the sort of thing you would never forgive in somebody else.

So: you ease yourself out of the prison of him with the care of somebody dismantling a bomb and trying not to be sentimental about the wiring. His thigh lifts off yours with a slow, reluctant drag. His arm comes free from under your face. You pause twice for no better reason than that the bed is warm and he is warm and your body, traitorous thing, is not at all convinced leaving is the correct administrative choice.

The room looks worse in daylight, which helps. Clothes in small disasters. Cups. The soft indecency of other people’s sleep. You gather your things, moving with the ugly, overcareful delicacy of a hangover.

Then you notice the drying crust high on your thigh and nearly smack yourself in the forehead.

Well. At least he pulled out.

Putting a little black dress, a plunge bra and yesterday’s mangled knickers back on the next morning ought to be a rite of passage belonging to a younger, more recoverable version of you. Even better late than never does not make it less sour. Never would, in fact, be considerably better. Especially after thirty.

You find one shoe by the bed and the other in the hallway, a little crushed and without much faith left in its own shape. Your phone, by some mercy, still has five percent battery. The clock says it is not even nine, which explains why you feel less like somebody who has slept and more like somebody who has been run over at low speed for several continuous hours.

You order a cab. Ten minutes of walking home outside looks like it would be punishment in excess of the crime.

While you wait, you stand in his hallway with one hand on the wall and the other clutching your phone, and try very hard not to think. The app pings. Your driver has arrived. You go back for one last look anyway.

Duncan is still asleep, peaceful in a way that feels unfair. He has a face that makes forgiveness seem structurally possible in the world. Maybe he remembers more than you do. Maybe he wanted this. Maybe he will wake up and be glad to find you here.

Before you can lean properly into any of that nonsense, the driver starts calling with offended persistence. You answer. Duncan stirs at the sound, only a little, but the jump of panic it sends through you is useful.

“I’ll be right out,” you whisper, and leave as quietly as you can.

“She said he’s gonna be there, an’ it migh’ be a good window,” Raymun says. He’s palming his pockets every now and then and sighing, relieved.

“Wai’, wait—” Dunk stops. “She’s gonna be there?” The sudden halt makes him dizzy. When he looks down he sees only one of his fingers, pointing vaguely forward.

Raymun stops too. He looks at Dunk, near offended by the change of topic. “Who?”

Duncan winces. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Raymun smirks and slowly starts to walk again.

Dunk wills his feet to move. “That thing where y’act thick so I’ve to say it out loud,” he says, catching up to Raymun with merely three drunken swings on the wet pavement. One of his feet lands in a puddle. “Fuck’s sake—I’m askin’ a plain question.”

“You are physically incapable of askin’ a plain question in the state of ye,” Raymun says, and Duncan thinks with some long-forgotten sober part of his mind that they must look like the most basic comedic relief ever written into the backstory of some serious film.

He places a palm on Raymun’s shoulder and looks at him long and serious. “Ray.”

His friend’s eyes are dark and bleary. When Duncan focuses enough, they stop being four eyes and return to the normal human two. He wishes he wasn’t so malleable and didn’t let Raymun talk him into dressing up—contact lenses sting more if your eyeballs are suffering massive dehydration by buckets of lager. He’s also sweating horribly and is convinced it wouldn’t be so visible if he was wearing a T-shirt instead of an actual shirt. The collar became unbearable at the second pub they went to, and Duncan had to undo two buttons of it, which makes him feel too slutty for his liking.

All in all, Raymun is a good friend and he deserves all the best things. Duncan doesn’t remember exactly when the friendship happened, he just knows it was in a pub. Raymun doesn’t remember either—each of them states a different pub and a different date if asked, so when they want to celebrate their anniversary they do it twice, and in two different pubs.

Raymun looks at him a minute with an unbearable smugness plastered to his face until it melts away into a shrug of retaliation. “Aye, she’ll be there, yeah,” he groans.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” Dunk gives Raymun’s shoulder a gentle annoyed push and starts walking on.

Grand. Every opportunity he’s had to impress you, you were either occupied by getting impressed by someone else or Dunk was doing a terrible job of it. By now he’s sure you see him as a guy who always bumps his head on low-hanging lamps and spills the first part of the pint on himself before it reaches his mouth.

Once, Dunk thought he’d had a window open too. Or a hatch. A crack in the wall, more like. Some sort of opening big enough for a man to get his hopes through and then catch them on the way back.

It was shortly after you’d met, and a couple of weeks into Rowan and Raymun dating. They had dragged everyone to a pub quiz, then abandoned ship halfway through under the world’s thinnest pretext, leaving behind a sweating jug of lager, a half-filled answer sheet and a team name so stupid Dunk still cringes about it. You didn’t win, but you did manage to provide the most ridiculous answers to each question. By the music round Dunk was cracking up so hard he snorted beer out of his nose. He remembers you wiping his chest with a napkin and laughing with an absolutely adorable drunken cackle he’s never heard again after that.

He remembers exactly what you were wearing and exactly what you smelled like—clementines, mostly, and something warm and cake-like. He remembers your hand wrapped around his wrapped around a pen when you were changing the answers last minute. He remembers pulling a strand of hair out of your mouth. He remembers cowarding out and giving you a pat on the back instead of kissing you when the moment was right. There were enough that night to furnish a small flat. A week later Rowan was chatting utter shite about your new boyfriend, and that was that.

A person would think two years is enough time to get over a thing that never happened. Duncan has instead gone through it in phases. At one point he decided his attraction to you felt so fierce only because some extraterrestrial force had marked you off special and unreachable, same as stars or the moon or discounted flats with south-facing windows. Then he thought he simply needed to meet more women, because he is not dead and in fact finds plenty of women cute. He found Rowan cute the first time he saw her—palming the back of one of his students’ fathers in the car park. Long before Raymun. He gave it further thought when, a week later, she was palming the back of a different father with equal commitment and better posture.

It took Duncan some time to piece together Rowan’s actual occupation, and then an amount of moral fortitude bordering on sainthood not to sell her out to Raymun the minute they were introduced proper. Dunk tries not to judge people too harshly. It paid off, because to Duncan Rowan is living proof that life throws people in different directions and love can straighten a lot of things out. Raymun is happy with her.

Right. Raymun.

“Oh, don’t start,” he calls after Duncan. “You’ve been moonin’ over her for the better part of two years.”

“I have not!” Duncan shouts.

“You have so,” Raymun pants from catching up with him. “Every time she walks in a room your face goes all… I dunno. Big.”

Dunk huffs. “My face is always big.”

“Don’t be smart with me. I’m nervous.”

“You’ve checked the ring six times since we left the last pub.”

Raymun winces. “Seven.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m serious, Dunk.” He grabs Duncan’s arms above the elbows and tells him the plan for the fourth time. “Lyonel samples the cider, likes it, gives me a meetin’, I get somethin’ real started. Somethin’ proper. Then I ask Rowan.”

“You were always askin’ Rowan,” Dunk blurts dimly.

“Not with a business plan, I wasn’t.”

“That’s not why she loves you.”

“Lovin’ someone ain’t enough to spend a life with them,” Raymun says, and Dunk strongly disagrees. He finds loving someone the very first reason to spend a life with them. “We’re ‘ere. Look—”

Gold light from a neon washes over Raymun’s face. Dunk looks at it first, then up, where the sign blinks the name Laughing Storm. He remembers what he was told about it in pieces: that it’s Lyonel Baratheon’s new venue. That Lyonel Baratheon is a rich man who was born rich and smiling, and who manages to multiply his fortune through multiplying fun. That the plan includes Dunk and Raymun crashing Lyonel’s opening party, catching him half-drunk and pliant, and charming him with a sample of Raymun’s cider and a pair of crooked, working-class smiles.

It doesn’t explain at all why Raymun keeps palming the pocket with the ring instead of the one with the bottle. Dunk wonders if Raymun, once this works out, is going to march off into the night and kneel for Rowan right then and there, or whether the ring is just a token for luck.

“Right,” Raymun says, putting his phone away. “Ready?”

“For what?” asks Dunk, and the same second he does, the door creaks open. Things pour out through that slit: a spill of orange light, low thumping music, and a foot dressed in a slipper, and Dunk knows this foot by sight only. When he looks up, you’re measuring both him and Raymun with a baffled glance.

“Lads,” you say. “I said you need him drunk, not yourselves. What the hell have you dragged yourselves through?”

“‘Twas a quest for courage,” Raymun says. He sways a little. Gives you an innocent shrug, and Dunk gets to see you cracking.

“Fine.” You roll your eyes. Sweet. “God, I’m so happy for you,” you squeal then, throwing your arms round Raymun’s neck. “She’d say yes without any of it, but just know I’ve prepped him up for you a little.” There’s a wink.

“Wha’did you do, lassie?”

“Ah, nothing,” you say, opening the door wider. “Just went on and on about how this shithole has a great potential for a summer garden, and with summer coming we’d need a summer drink—” You give an inviting motion and Raymun takes a step through. “And how apple cider mimosas would be perfect for that.”

“There’re apple cider mimosas?” Raymun asks, already inside.

“There are now,” you tell him. Then, you turn. “Hi, Dunk. Long time.”

“Yeah,” Duncan nods. He leans in for some sort of greeting, forgetting no such thing is needed nowadays. During the descent, he sees up close how long you must’ve been up and how chaotic the evening is proving. Your hair is a bit unruly, and your makeup a bit smeared. There’s a crust of mascara in the corner of your eye, and the middle part of your lipstick is eaten off. Forehead and chest glow with sweat a little. Before he gets to say anything else, you’re hugging him.

“It’s good to see you,” you say into his shoulder. “Hm, you look nice.”

“I’m so drunk, lass,” he says, of all things. He’s bowed over you, with his hands holding your waist, and his nose melting into the crook of your shoulder. It might be that you smell like the inside of a butter almond biscuit packet, he thinks. And clementines.

“Dunk,” you say. “You alright? Do you need some water?”

“N-no, I jus’—” He straightens and gets dizzy and hot all of a sudden. “Maybe, yeah.”

“Come on, then.” You take his hand, lead him inside, and Dunk wishes his palm wasn’t so clammy.

The place looks strange and hits him from several directions. Warmth first. Then smell. Meat, wax, citrus peel, singed rosemary, perfume expensive enough to smell faintly bored with itself. A band is sawing through some quick Celtic thing in the corner hard enough to make the fiddle sound like it’s going to fall apart in the player’s hands. Long tables run the length of the room under cloth draped low from the ceiling, and every inch of wood not occupied by candles has been burdened with food. There are pears gleaming under sugar glass, oysters on silver, dark bread torn open by hands better moisturised than Duncan’s, and bottles standing about with the confidence of things bought to be seen before they are drunk.

Lyonel, apparently, has chosen to decorate the place as if a stag fucked a theatre troupe and they all came here to celebrate it. There are antlers fixed to walls, antlers hanging from chains, antlers worked into candelabras. Half the guests seem to have interpreted the invitation as a dare. Velvet capes. Gold masks. Bits of armour worn over silk for no practical reason. One woman passes in something sheer and medieval enough to make Duncan worry she might catch cold in a draught and sue the organisers.

You are wearing a little black dress. Dunk, who had spent the walk here feeling overdone in a shirt, feels suddenly underdone in it too.

You bring him to the bar and park him by the brass rail. Up close the counter is one single slab of lacquered dark wood, polished enough that the candlelight sits on it like liquid gold. A bartender appears the instant your fingers lift. Dunk has never seen service move that fast outside a hospital and even then only if someone is actively bleeding out.

“Water,” you tell the bartender, then glance at Duncan. “And maybe something with salt in it before you pass out on Lyonel’s reclaimed oak.”

The glass set in front of him is cold enough to hurt. He drinks. The water tastes of lemon and cucumber and money.

For a minute he just stands there swallowing and looking. He never knows what to do with wealth when it stops being theoretical. To him ownership has always meant a thing that does a job and keeps doing it. A kettle. A car. A lock. A pair of shoes with another winter left in them. Here, half the objects seem to have been acquired to prove they had no need to be.

He looks at you again. At your bare arms mostly, the neck under the updo, and then the sensible shoes beneath all this lunacy. “How come you’re not dressed like the rest of the circus?” he asks.

You snort. “Because I told Lyonel I’ve done enough work on this place without having to come as part of the decor as well.”

Dunk smiles into the rim of his glass. “He took that well?”

“He said I was wounding the atmosphere.” You accept your own drink from the bartender without looking, like this sort of obedience is ordinary to you. “I told him the atmosphere could survive one woman dressed like she has rent to pay.”

That gets a proper laugh out of him, and it comes easier than he’d expected. Dangerous, really. He hasn’t been alone with you in months and his body takes to it at once like a bad habit.

He looks out over the room again. “D’you like it?”

You follow his gaze. The lights. The costumes. Lyonel’s curated idea of old fun done up with modern plumbing and a monstrous budget. Duncan hears himself think the mean thing. Of course maybe you do. Why wouldn’t you. This sort of life probably explains the men: journalists with interesting hair, photographers who own scarves, editors who say things are seminal and nod seriously. Not many primary-school P.E. teachers in a room like this, unless they’ve come to unclog something.

You lean one shoulder on the bar. “I like looking at joy,” you say. “And at love. And Lyonel likes sharing it.”

Dunk turns to you. The answer lands deeper than the question deserves it and for a second he can only look. You say those things as if they are visible substances. Joy. Love. Things a person might spot glinting in a room if they stood in the right place.

Before he can recover himself, Raymun’s voice cuts across the band. “Dunk!”

He looks over and finds Raymun standing near the far end of the room with the bottle in one hand and all his nerves in the other, and next to him—of course—is Lyonel Baratheon. Even from here he looks like some well-fed pagan deity somebody has tricked into a button-down. The deer antlers are real enough to be frightening. His face is all amusement. His eyes are fixed on Dunk and nowhere else.

Dunk feels, with perfect clarity, that he would rather be hit by a slow bus.

You touch his forearm. “Go,” you say.

“He’s lookin’ at me.”

“Yes, Dunk. That is generally how eyes work.” He cuts you a look. You smile, but kindly. “He’s not that scary,” you say. “Just… be yourself.”

Duncan glances down at his shirt, his glass, his large damp hand, then back at the antlered millionaire waiting across the room. “That seems a harsh ask.”

You give him a playful push and watch the crowd part around him in two obedient lines. He apologises to everyone. Staggers once, corrects. You expect him to get smaller the further he goes, but somehow doesn’t. There’s a wet patch blooming between his shoulder blades and you catch yourself thinking it would not look half so appealing on a smaller back.

Why your soft spot for Duncan keeps getting softer every time you see him, you have no idea. He has signposted lack of interest in someone like you often enough by now, mostly by letting every offered chance pass him by in broad daylight. Whenever he gets an opportunity to know you better, he asks the sort of questions that tell you exactly what he thinks of you: that you are an ambitious girl with one eye on the next rung and both hands busy climbing. Which is, of course, nonsense.

Working for Lyonel, with Lyonel, has been a blessing in a world where brand management and copywriting usually get done by some important person’s ambitious daughter or cousin or nephew, or a girl the important person badly wants to see in their bed. Lyonel does not even have room for you in his bed. There is a waiting line and you are not blessed with eternal youth to make it there in time. Being treated like someone whose brain is worth respect feels better anyway.

So, you are grateful for your job. A list of things you are grateful for begins with Rowan dropping out of university. Her escort work had been insane, but it fed your poor, stuck-in-a-tiny-flat lives with stories nobody puts in magazines unless they have first scraped all the truth off them. It also gave her enough contacts that, after squeezing yourself through several very tight sieve openings, you got to first offend, then impress, then charm Lyonel into giving you a job.

And then there is Duncan. Another thing to be grateful to Rowan for, and maybe sometimes curse her a little, too. 

He looked at you like he was afraid about his soul getting eaten, which at first, you thought was a good sign. Then, he turned out to be someone who's fuelled by gentleness and vastly different to all the places you had gone looking for love before. Which, perhaps, should have made him easier. Instead it made him rare, and therefore difficult in the way things become difficult when they are decent.

Once you thought, with the sort of certainty that usually precedes humiliation, that this was it now, this was a window, this was a man finally about to kiss you if you only angled your face right and did not lose your nerve first. You all but gave yourself neck trouble trying to beam the invitation into his skull. He patted you on the back goodnight.

A week later you were on a date with a magazine editor who spoke warmly about political despair and had a dick as spiritually robust as a noodle. After him there was the photographer with beautiful wrists and the emotional stamina of a tired five year old. Then a journalist who said your writing was ‘surprisingly muscular,’ by which he meant that he was alarmed to find a woman had written it. There were others. Good coats, limp spines, jobs that looked impressive typed out in black on white. You kept trying, largely out of habit. Repetitive insanity starts looking like a plan after enough years. By your books, still better than fucking up a friendship.

You’ve heard yourself sound unbearably sad in your response to Dunk’s question and hope he will either not notice it or file it under everyone having had too much to drink in this establishment. This is about helping Raymun propose to Rowan so you at least have an example of a happy couple to look at and be around while managing your recurring heartburn.

Across the room you can see Lyonel pouring the offered cider into an elaborate golden goblet. Raymun is pale as chalk except for the furious carmine blush on his cheeks. Duncan stands right behind him, hunched, hands in pockets, his temple glistening in the candlelight. He looks like he’s holding his breath while Lyonel brings the glass to his mouth.

He takes one sip. Looks inside as if the contents are going to reveal spiritual knowledge, then downs it all in three large gulps and gargles on the last one. You giggle from your spot—you know by now he’ll invest, just make the boys sweat for it a little longer.

Then, Lyonel puts the goblet down and looks straight at you. He crooks two fingers.

You finish your drink because there is no point in pretending not to understand a summons delivered with jewellery that expensive, then weave your way through the room towards them. People are already watching. They always do when Lyonel is drunk enough to become ceremonial.

You pass Raymun first, who looks on the verge of either securing his whole future or vomiting on it. Duncan is beside him, still with his hands in his pockets, though the posture has changed. Less hunch now. More brace.

By the time you reach Lyonel, he is beyond wasted in that particular rich-man way which still leaves enough coordination for trouble. He opens his mouth, seems to think better of words for a second, and slaps your ass.

You react immediately, but Duncan reacts too. He pushes Raymun clean out of the way and leans over Lyonel, blinking through murder.

For one beautiful beat the whole thing hangs there. The band keeps scraping away. The candles’ wicks pop. Lyonel, sunk in his chair under the antlers, looks up into the face of a man who could probably fold him into a more useful shape.

You put a hand on Duncan’s chest, and give him one glance that says wait. The alcohol in your system has turned recklessness into bravery, so you reach sideways for the nearest glass of water, and throw it in Lyonel’s face. “Now,” you say, “we’re even.”

Lyonel gapes. First at you, then at Duncan. Water runs from his lashes and into his beard. Then, he starts laughing.

“Sorry, darling,” he says. “I’m so—wasted.”

“You are,” you agree.

“But not so wasted I haven’t noticed this extraordinary coincidence between you not shutting up about cider all afternoon and this cider now finishing me off.” He points the wet rim of the goblet vaguely at Raymun, then more precisely at Duncan. “Do you know the lads?”

“Did you like the cider?” you ask.

“I did,” Lyonel says, grinning. “Do you know the lads?” He points again with two ringed fingers towards Duncan, who is still standing there like a storm in a shirt, and Raymun, who has now achieved a full and even red.

You fold your arms. “Does it matter?”

A beat. “Only if they don’t dance,” Lyonel says. “Because we’re all going to dance now, and tomorrow you will remind me about this, yes?”

A smirk splits your face. You lean, close enough to be eye to eye with him, and say, “They dance.”

Raymun makes a sound so hopeful it nearly qualifies as religious. Duncan turns his head and looks at you with the frightened expression of someone who has been told his mortgage depends on rhythm.

You catch his hand before he can decide to flee, and give it a squeeze. “It’s alright,” you mutter.

It isn’t, exactly. It is Lyonel. Nothing around Lyonel is ever quite alright. It is, however, survivable.

Lyonel lurches to his feet with the confidence of the extremely rich and the very drunk. One antler catches the lower tier of a candle chandelier and nudges it swinging. Somebody yelps. Lyonel doesn’t notice. He takes two steps towards the dance floor, then turns, as if struck by an afterthought, and slaps Duncan’s buttock with a crack loud enough to turn heads three tables over.

“You looked upset not to get one, lad.”

For a second Duncan just stares at him. It is an expression you do not know how to read. His eyes are fully engaged, measuring and bright, while the rest of his face has gone dead plain, as if it has stepped out for air and left the bones behind. Then something in him gives.

He laughs.

Lyonel points at him, delighted. “That’s what I’m after.”

Before you can keep hold of Duncan, Lyonel steals him clean out of your reach. He drags him by the wrist towards the centre of the room and shoves the antler crown off his own head onto the first passer-by willing to accept temporary authority. The band, sensing an event the way bands always do, kicks the tune into something faster and more violent.

People begin clearing space before anyone asks them to. Raymun, with the survival instincts of a man who has just seen investment and possible marriage open on the same hinge, vanishes sideways to the edge of the floor and starts clapping above his head. Duncan gets spun once by Lyonel’s grip and nearly misses his footing, catches it, then squares himself with a look of deep suspicion, as if dancing were a trap set specifically for the broad.

Lyonel beams at him like he’s about to either bless or mug him. He stomps on Duncan’s foot once, and the crowd holds its breath. Then, he misses every other time. They fucking chase each other across the boards. Bump into people, nudge the candlesticks and rattle food on the tables, until it’s Dunk’s heavy foot that lands on Lyonel’s and everything goes quiet.

For a second, you forget how to breathe too, because your boss folds in half and looks like he’s about to retch on Dunk’s shoes. Then this absolute madman flips his hair, braces himself on Duncan’s chest and laughs so loudly the Laughing Storm turns to tempest.

People flood the dance floor. Raymun snags you by the waist and pulls you in too. The world starts spinning dangerously as you’re passed from one person’s arms to another’s, until everything settles on Dunk. He reaches you and cheats the queue by simply not letting go once he has you. One turn becomes three. Somebody else reaches for your hand and Duncan keeps it anyway, grinning like a thief who’s decided theft is legal if done with enough charm.

You have never seen him smile this much. He has pointy canines and a crooked grin that suits an adolescent boy better than a man his size, and somehow that only makes him more handsome. His hair burns copper in the candlelight. His cheeks are all scrunched by laughter. You could kiss him now and suck some of that purest joy out of him for yourself.

Instead you let him swing you round again.

His arms nearly lift you off the floor anyway. There is very little dancing in it and a lot of being steered. Dunk seems to know only three moves: stomp, turn, and catch. The last one he does very well. Every time your footing goes a bit uncertain on the boards he puts you right again with both hands, as if setting something back on a shelf. Once he gets bold enough to spin you out by one hand and back into him and looks so pleased with himself after that you laugh in his face.

Soon things go soft around the edges in the way they only do when a party has passed whatever point people usually mean by party. You and Dunk drink more. So does Raymun, out of triumph now instead of nerves. At some point someone produces little fried things with herbs on them and Duncan burns his tongue and pretends he hasn’t. At some point Lyonel gets his antlers back and wears them backwards. At some point the band slows to songs with more sway in them than beat, and the room begins thinning not by the door but by dissolution. Coats appear on arms. Lipstick migrates onto glasses. Candles shorten. The rich begin looking tired exactly like the poor do, only better dressed.

By the time Lyonel climbs onto the edge of one of the long tables and sits there like a king at the end of his own feast, he is very nearly asleep into his hand. You come up to him and touch his knee. “I’m calling you a taxi.”

“Mmph,” he says.

“You’re done.”

One eye opens. “Am not.”

“You are sat on the food.”

Lyonel glances down at himself, considers this, then waves a hand in the general direction of agreement.

Raymun comes over with the bottle tucked under one arm and gratitude written all over his face. “Lyonel, I—”

Lyonel lifts one finger. “T’morrah,” he says thickly. “T’morrah, boy. ‘Fore noon if y’like pain.”

Raymun laughs in relief hard enough to bend.

Between the three of you—and mostly Duncan—you get Lyonel off the table, into his coat and outside into the damp night, where a taxi is already idling at the curb. He folds into the back seat with the solemnity of a very wasted emperor being removed from battle. Before the door shuts, he points vaguely at you.

“Garden,” he says.

“Yes, Lyonel.”

“Cider.”

“Yes, Lyonel.”

Then, he is gone.

The street feels strange after all that heat. Cooler than it should be. Quieter too, though the music still seems to be beating faintly in your bones.

Raymun turns to you first and hugs you so hard you nearly lose a shoe. “Thank you,” he says into your hair.

You hug him back just as hard and, annoyingly, feel your eyes sting. “Now you’ve no excuses,” you tell him. “She’s waiting for you.”

He pulls back, smiling in that dazed, hopeful way people do when their lives are about to split into before and after. Then he looks between you and Duncan. “You two gettin’ home alright?”

“I need t’walk it off,” Duncan says.

You nod. “We’ll walk.”

Raymun studies the pair of you for half a second too long, like he suspects the night has one more idea left in it. Then sense, or drink, or Rowan wins. He points down the road.

“Right then. Pray for me.”

“As if you need it,” you say.

He laughs, squeezes your shoulder once, claps Duncan on the arm and heads off into the dark. When he’s gone, the quiet settles properly. Beside you Duncan shifts his weight and looks down the street, then at you.

Right. Dunk’s head is buzzing and the streetlights sway a little. His hair feels stiff from sweat and wherever his body has perspirated to make the shirt damp he’s now feeling the night licking him and making goosebumps rise on his skin. He hopes he doesn’t smell too badly.

“Aye, so—” He clears his throat. Looks down at you to find you trembling and holding your bare arms. “Cold, are ye?” he asks. Your head shakes with exaggerated nods. “We can share a taxi, if y’want.”

“N-no,” you say. Then sigh, sheepish. “I’ll throw up if I get into a car.”

Duncan nods, smiling. He will too. “I’d offer ye my shirt, only it’s manky.”

You nod as well, though he does not think you mean to. You are mostly just shaking. You look him over as if weighing something in your head, mutter, “Jus’—” and sway hard enough that he catches you by the waist before the pavement does. Your arms come round his middle, firm and familiar in a way they have no business being, and you nuzzle into him.

“Let’s just do this, alright?” you mumble into his shirt. “It’s not far if I… remember correctly.”

He stands there with his arms hovering off you for a beat like a fool, then puts one round your shoulders and the other hand on your forearm. “Sorry,” he says. “For the smell.”

You huff a laugh against him. “I think we’re evening out, if you mean the sweat.”

You smell nice no matter what you smell of, he thinks, then prays with unusual speed that the thought has indeed stayed in his head where it belongs.

You both start walking, crooked together. For a little while the silence is easy. When it stops, both of you speak at once.

“You did a good thing for Raymun today—” you say, like normal people do.

“—and how’s your boyfriend?” Dunk asks, like the idiot he is.

It makes the pair of you slow a little. Chuckle around the awkwardness, and Duncan wonders how uncomfortable he’s managed to make you. He does not answer your thing. You let him get away with it too.

“I’ve given that up for now,” you say instead.

He perks up, because all logical parts of his brain are currently out of order. “Run out of dainty men of culture, have ye?”

You slap him lightly on the stomach. “You’re so mean.”

Dunk grins down at you. “Mean, am I?”

“It’s not fair,” you say. “I’ve nothing to be mean to you about.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t see any honest women hanging off your arm, do I?”

That gets him in the cheeks a bit. He grumbles something low and useless and decides he should move the conversation before it does him harm. “What about Lyonel?” he asks. “Is he always that handsy?”

You laugh, then glance up at him in a way that makes him sorry he asked and glad he did. “You’d like that, would you? My protector. Ready to smash his teeth.”

Dunk frowns. “It’s no way to treat a lady.”

You make a small sound at that and press in closer, which he accepts very seriously. Then, with dawning terror, he feels you inhale deeply at his shirt.

“Lyonel’s not bad,” you say. “I can manage a bit of HR violation.”

It makes something in him sink for a minute. That you should have to manage it at all seems to him a rotten arrangement.

By the time you turn onto his street he is feeling sorry in advance that the walk is ending. It has been the best part of his night, which is saying something, because the night has included music, nuclear mix of alcohol, and a wealthy man in antlers trying to break his toes. Just holding you like this, though, and having you to himself a while—it puts the rest in the shade.

He slows without meaning to. “That’s me,” he says.

You unglue yourself from his side and pat his chest. The place you were against goes cold straight off. Dunk looks at you and wants, with unusual clarity, to kiss you stupid.

“Thanks for the escort,” you say. “Make sure you drink some water before bed.”

He blinks at you, confused. Baffled, a little, because it comes to him all at once that he has just been walked home and you still have blocks to go alone. “Wait,” he says. “No, I’ll walk ye. C’mon.”

He starts forward. You put both hands to his chest and stop him, smiling like this is all very funny. “I can manage,” you say. “It’s not far. And I feel a bit better.”

“No, you’re not walkin’ alone.”

“Yes I am,” you say. “Stop this.”

You are standing right in his way. Duncan breathes out hard through his nose. “Don’t push me, girl,” he mutters, and bends. Then, his arms go round the backs of your thighs and he swings you over his shoulder.

“Duncan!” you yelp. Bat your funny little fists against his back and kick one foot so hard your slipper falls off. “Dunk, my shoe! Bloody hell, put me down!”

“That’s what y’get for bein’ stubborn,” he says, giving the backs of your thighs one firm settling pat as he walks on.

You keep fighting him, but you laugh all the way through it, bent over his shoulder and kicking your remaining slippered foot at the air. “What has got into you?”

“You. Apparently.”

“Dunk!” you bark another laugh. “You’re showing my fanny to the good citizens of Ireland!”

“There’s no one about.”

“There could be!”

He is half gone by now. Your weight on his shoulder feels too good. Warm and live and trusting in spite of all put upon evidence. The backs of your thighs are soft under his hands, and when his fingers keep brushing too high, near where thigh turns into ass, he is not nearly sorry enough.

Your chest knocks lightly against his back with each step. He has the absurd thought that he could carry you straight into his bed like this and not even mind the state of his flat unless the state of it were biblical. He tries to remember if there are socks on the floor. There definitely are. He also thinks, with much greater urgency, that he would not make it all the way to the bed if he got you there. He would end up pressing you to the wall first.

“Please,” you whine, the laugh breaking thin through it, “I’m going to puke all over you in a second. If you have to be such a knight, at least carry me with a little more dignity, for fuck’s sake.”

That, he relents to. Not fully, because he is still drunk and still himself.

He slides you down off his shoulder by degrees, keeping hold of you so your feet never find the ground. One arm shifts under your thighs, the other braces your back, and you do the rest without needing told—arms round his neck, legs coming round his waist, your body settling against him with a closeness that wipes the grin off his mouth for a second.

You are face to face now. You look pretty. Too pretty for the state of the hour and the amount of drink in both of you. Your hair is a mess. Lipstick mostly gone, and he could make it fully gone. You’re breathing hard, and your chest is flattened against his enough that he can feel the shape of each breath.

“That dignified enough?” Dunk asks.

You stare at him, then let out a helpless little laugh. “You have to come back for my shoe,” you whisper. “You’re insane.”

He shakes his head. “I’m drunk.” Then, because there has to be some thread of practicality left in the world, he says, “Now. Where’s that precious shoe?”

He turns back the way he came, but his eyes stay on you. Your face changes a bit. Solemn, maybe. Or tired. Or maybe just close enough now that he can no longer pretend not to see when a thought moves over it. Your mouth is right there, glistening and sweet-looking in the streetlight.

He swallows. “Where’s the shoe?” he asks.

“Right in front of you,” you say.

Still looking more at you than the pavement, he crouches with you in his arms and feels for the thing one-handed, patting the cobbles until he finds the soft little shape of it. He lifts it up between two fingers.

“Is that the one?”

You nod.

He stands again. You slip a little in his hold and he hoists you back up with one small bounce, instinctive, easy. Your noses brush.

“Dunk—” you breathe.

“Shh, shh,” he says, though he has no idea what he is shushing. Himself, mostly. The whole night. The bit of him that will lose nerve if given even five more seconds.

Your hands tighten at the back of his neck. “Hush, girl,” he says. Breathes hard for it, like the shoe has just added a ton to carried weight. He decides to let himself sink into it in small increments. Rests his forehead on yours a minute and there’s no protest. Presses his nose into you, and no protest either. “I’m never gonna be that brave again,” Dunk says.

You close your eyes. Thighs round his waist twitch a little like you’re kicking a horse to start. Your tongue comes out to wet your lips and wets a little bit of his as well. Heat spears through him, from the top of his head down to heels. “How’re you brave now?” you ask.

“Like this,” Duncan says. He flattens his mouth to yours. Slow. Drunken a bit, and like he’s holding back the eagerness to not make himself look too foolish. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes on. Your mouth opens and tastes of sweet warm alcohol and dancing. He wedges his tongue inside, licks yours and nearly drools from it.

You answer so ardently he could die. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers scraping his scalp just enough to make something ugly and helpless tear out of him. He groans into you. The sound comes back through your lips hot. His fist closes round the shoe and the soft leather yields under his grip.

“Dunk—” you moan, and then, God help him, roll your hips.

His breath rasps through his nose. He keeps kissing you because stopping would mean thinking, and thinking would finish him. Your tongue catches his again. Your teeth graze his lower lip. The whole of him seems to go liquid and feverish around the fact of you in his arms, warm and willing and moving.

“Dunk,” you say again, pulling back only enough to get the words out. “Take me home.”

He freezes. His eyes open, but he does not unslot his mouth from yours. Something in him drops clean through. He thinks you mean your home. Thinks of letting you down at your door and going back to his own flat with this still on his mouth, this still in his hands, and has to swallow against the misery of it.

You look at him, dazed and shining. “Your home, silly,” you whisper. “Your bed. Take me—” You kiss him again, quick and wet and hungry. “Take me there. Now.”

For half a second Duncan just stares. Then, whatever poor part of him was trying to keep the night decent slips its lead. “Aye,” he says, trying not to shake with it. “Aye, lass.” Then, he turns for his building with a purpose no sober version of him would recognise.

he doesn't understand how he got so blessed, doesn't know how much luck one person is allowed per lifetime, how many stars he should thank or how long his chain of chances is. all he knows is that he's here, fortuitously and miraculously and by divine intervention or dumb luck, you're here with him.

his perfect wife, his angel girl, his one and forever only, his daydreams come true, his lightening in a bottle.

the life he's living today isn't one he pictured for himself before, he never dared to. but then you came along and changed the entire scene.

now he can't imagine a life without your fingertips tracing the slope of his nose and your soft kisses scattered across his face trying to plant one on each of his freckles early in the morning. "good morning baby" your voice is his favourite sound, doesn't matter how little sleep he got, once he heard you call for him, all his senses awoke with an unshakable thrill.

"come here" he says sleepily, his voice raspy and tired as he pulls you into his embrace, his chest warm and his heart beat is a force that you forever trust to be true to you. you smell of sleep and the residue of the body mist you sprayed last night, he inhales your scent, his oxygen.

his arm is heavy on your back and his wandering fingers are tender on waist, slipping inside your top, brushing against your skin. his palm occasionally opening and holding as much of your body as he can fit in it as the clock keeps ticking within the quiet room. the only sound is the soft rustling of the curtains against the open windows and the frequent, content sighs leaving both of your lips every now and then. "you need to get up, you're gonna be late."

"it's okay. just one more minute." he whispers, turning his head to face you, a small smile on his mouth as he stares at you with sleep-misty eyes. "i just need one more minute with you yeah?" his lips crash into yours before you could answer, gentle, sleepy, languid, he wants to savour every second of your taste. "my baby.." he whimpers into the kiss before breaking it and burying his face into your neck instead, inhaling you one last time. "don't tire yourself too much today yeah? i want my baby well rested" he says making you chuckle.

"you're saying it as if i have to do some difficult manual labor." your fingers find the spot behind his earlobe between there and his nape, the one that makes him melt. and oh he melts.

he places kisses across your neck, wherever he could get his lips to land. "baking is a difficult manual labor." he says, playing with the hem of your panties, pulling it down just enough to caress the slight imprint it left in your hips with his fingertips. "i don't know how you do it."

"it's pretty easy once you got the motivation to." you tell him as he kisses up to your face, each one lingering a few seconds longer. "hmm"

"does this count as motivation?" he takes your bottom lip between his, leaving feather-like kisses on it.

"yeah" you answer him. his hands, big and delicate, travel up to your shoulders, kneading and rubbing at your muscles there, you sigh, "this helps too"

you feel yourself melting into him, slipping into sleepiness again but the thought of time keeps your mind occupied, "i'd love to have you stay here and motivate me all day but you really have got to go baby"

he groans dramatically as he sits up on his elbow, squinting down at you, "you love to torture me, don't you?"

"just a little."

he huffs then with a final kiss to your neck, he forces himself to get up and out of bed. "go back to sleep." he tells you, tucking you into your fuzzy blanket again before he turns around to get ready for the day.

"take care of yourself!" you shout at him, he responds back with a kiss blown your way.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

his day was long, annoyingly so. when he finally returned home, he sighed three times before reaching the doorstep, relief washing over him merely at the sight of the lights behind the curtains. it intensifies a hundred times over when he walks in and gets a whiff of your cooking.

the sight of you standing over the stove in your new pj's with your hair tied up messily, humming the tune to a song he can recognise but doesn't know a word of, sends a wave of warmth into his chest along with a thrill he can only describe as pivotal. he could watch you like this for days. wouldn't get bored. all he gets is ecstatic, his hands ache as he wants nothing more than to touch, to hold you.

he makes his way to you, his feet tired but light enough you don't hear them, his hands immediately find their place on your hips, squeezing you there before he wraps his arms around you, tightly and securely. his chin resting in your shoulders, nuzzling into your neck.

for a second you tense up at the initial contact but quickly relax into his touch, melting into his chest, leaning your head back onto him. "i didn't hear you come in"

he sighs dreamily into your hair, inhaling you in. "didn't wanna distract you. you look so beautiful like this"

"that or you didn't want to distract me from making us dinner?" you smile as you continue to stir the sauce. it smells more delicious by the second.

"shhh no distractions" he mutters, his hold on you tightening, you can feel every breath he takes against your back, every breath drawn in and blown out of his lungs feels like it's passing into you.

"i'm just talking"

"your voice is a distraction. for me." he kisses along your earlobe, down your jaw.

"i can whisper then." you murmur, his palm opening on your tummy, if he focuses strong enough, he can feel the butterflies fluttering there.

he sighs, "that makes it worse."

turning off the stove, you spin around in his hold to face him. he looks exhausted but pretty. he's always pretty. your hands immediately find his chest, he quietly purrs at your touch. "hi."

"hi."

his lips are warm when they meet yours, his tongue eager as it slips between your lips to play with yours. you can't help but whimper against his mouth when his hands slowly dip to your ass, squeezing and pressing you closer to his body as if being away from you has been physically tormenting him. with the way he holds you, sometimes you wonder if it has. "i missed you.. so much" he whines into your lips causing you to smile.

"i can tell" your hands move up to his tensed shoulders, massaging them, feeling him melt deeper into you the harder you squeeze. his breathing is heavy as it leaves his chest, by the time he breaks from the kiss and rests his head on your shoulder, it's lighter, easier. you always have that effect on him. "are you okay?" you ask, playing with the ends of his hair at his nape.

he nuzzles his face into your neck, burying it there, one of his favourite hiding spots. your smell is intoxicating and he would spend eternities getting enchanted by it, over and over again. each time he would fall harder than the last. "how did i get so lucky with you?" he mutters in genuine bewilderment, you're too good to be true. his mind often wanders back to the same old doubt he's had since the day he met you, are you real? and if you are, how?

"i guess the universe wanted to torture you with the constant thought of oh my god this girl is so out of my league! one day she's gonna wake up and leave me! is today the day? am i gonna get served the divorce papers this afternoon? who will she marry next? i bet it's the sexy sexy casher register at the shop nearby" you joke, teasing him, trying to lighten his jaded mood and it works like a charm.

you feel the laugh rattling in his chest before you hear it, that loud cackle it's almost comical, never fails to put a smile on your face. "is that why you made us go to his birthday party last weekend? you two were plotting behind my back while i obliviously ate the cake for his 70th birthday?"

"exactly"

he sighs melodramatically as if he's accepting his defeat. "at least the cake was delicious"

giggling, you shove him a little bit, he tries to cling onto you tighter, "go change, dinner's almost ready" eventually he lets go after you had to physically push at his chest and pull his hands off your body.

he acts wounded as he makes his way out of the kitchen, walking backwards so he can stare at you just a little bit longer, always wants to get as much of you in his system as he can. "hey" you call out, making him grip the nearest wall to halt his movement, "i love you."

he doesn't understand it. the life he's living. he wakes to up, sleeps to it but he'll never be able to wrap his head around it. how lucky he got. every night he wonders if the next morning, he'll wake up to it all being a wistful dream. one he'll never experience again, no matter how much he meditates or prays or manifests. the thought of his luck one day running out fills him with a horror he's too scared to even acknowledge, so for now he chooses to live in the bliss of the moment. the bliss of being in the same plane of existence as you. "i love you more."

for now, he'll continue to thank his stars.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

in a secluded clearing in the woods, the grass soft beneath you, he's lying on his back and you're straddling him. his hands are on your waist, guiding you as you ride his massive shaft. you're grinding down on him, taking him as deep as you can, your own slickness mixing with the remnants of his last load still inside you. his eyes locked on yours.

"that's it, take it all," he encourages, his voice a low growl. "y'want me to help you now, sweet girl?" he offers, and when you nod with a whimper he moves his huge hands to the underside of your ass, kneading the flesh before slamming you down on him, bouncing on him faster, harder, your breasts jiggling with the force of both of your movements. you bring your own hand down to rub your clit, the brush of his dark hair at the base rubbing against your hand, all while he's groaning out dirty praises. all these sensations making you clamp down hard as he impales you through your orgasm.

when he comes this time, it's with a loud groan, and you feel the intense heat of his cum spurting into you, so much that it overflows, coating the base of his cock and your thighs.

another time, he takes you against a large beautiful stone wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he holds you up, his muscles straining with the effort. he's fucking you with deep, punishing strokes, his mouth devouring yours. the stone is cold against your back, a stark contrast to the heat building between your legs. "dunk," you gasp against his lips, a string of spit connecting yours to his. "please...fill me." he answers you with a particularly hard thrust, and you feel the familiar pulse of his cock as he releases yet another thick creampie into your already soaked pussy. he doesn't stop, though. he keeps fucking you, his cum making you incredibly wet, the sounds of his cock plunging into your messy, filled cunt echoing so obscenely.

the tavern was a cesspool of noise and stale ale. you sat in a corner, cloaked and hooded, trying to make yourself invisible while dunk saw to the horses. the journey had been long, and the promise of a hot meal and a soft bed was a siren's call you couldn't ignore, even if it meant enduring the company of leering merchants and boisterous sellswords.

dunk returned, his broad frame blocking out the light from the fire as he sat down opposite you. he slid a wooden plate of bread and cheese towards you, his expression weary. "eat, princess. we'll be on the road at first light."

you nodded, too tired to argue with the formal address.

at the next table, a pair of sellswords had been watching the two of you since dunk crossed the room. one nudged the other with his elbow. "big lad like that," the thinner one muttered, not nearly as quiet as he thought. "must've done well for himself."

"aye," the other snorted, eyeing you openly. "pretty little wife tucked in the corner..."

"careful," the first man laughed. "you keep staring like that and her husband'll knock your teeth out."

dunk's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. he simply tore off a piece of cheese with deliberate calm, though a faint line had appeared between his brows. he shifted slightly in his seat just enough that his shoulder angled toward you, broad and solid, subtly blocking their line of sight. the movement was casual. protective. intentional.

"should not call me that here to be safe," you murmured softly after a moment. "princess...i mean" you whispered to him.

his eyes flicked to you.

"they think i'm your wife."

a faint, embarrassed heat crept into his ears. "aye, better that than something worse."

across the room, the noise swelled again as the fat merchant slammed his tankard down. "...and i tell you," he bellowed, "the secret to a happy wife isn't gold or jewels. it's between her legs!"

laughter erupted. you felt the heat climb your neck as before, but this time something else lingered beneath the embarrassment. dunk went still again, quiet, watchful, but his knee had shifted closer to yours beneath the table.

"no, i'm serious!" he insisted, leaning in conspiratorially. "you get down there, you use your mouth on her, and she'll be putty in your hands for a week. they all love it. every last one of 'em. squeal like a stuck pig, they do!"

you felt a hot blush creep up your neck, and you stared down at your plate, wishing you could melt into the floor. but dunk didn't laugh, his focus narrowing in on the drunkard's words as if they were the most important instructions he'd ever received. he took a long, slow swig of his ale, his eyes thoughtful, contemplative. the rest of the evening was a blur. you ate in silence, the merchant's crude words echoing in your mind.

dunk found a small inn on the edge of town, securing a single room with two narrow beds. the silence between you was heavy, charged with a new, unspoken tension. you sat on the edge of your bed, unlacing your boots, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he was watching you. you could feel his gaze on you, intense and unwavering.

you swallowed and forced yourself to keep working at the laces, though your fingers had gone clumsy. the fire in the small hearth crackled, throwing restless shadows across the walls. the beds were narrow enough that your knees would nearly touch if you both lay on your sides.

"princess."

the word was quieter now. rougher.

you looked up despite yourself.

dunk was leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, big hands hanging loose between them. he looked almost troubled.

"those men," he said slowly, like he was picking his way across uncertain ground, "they speak like women are something to be handled."

your breath left you in a shaky huff. "they were drunk."

"that's when men say what they truly think."

you didn't know what to say to that.

he shifted, the bed creaking under his weight as he stood. the room felt suddenly too small for him. he crossed it in two long strides and crouched in front of you, close enough that the heat of him bled through the thin fabric of your skirts.

"i don't like it," he muttered. "the way they spoke. as if... as if a wife's happiness were some trick. some lever to pull."

your pulse was a frantic thing in your throat. "it was crude tavern talk."

"aye." his jaw flexed. "but i was listening." his eyes had a look of painful curiosity that made your stomach twist.

"i don't know much," he admitted. "about... that. courtship. marriage. what women want." a faint flush crept up his neck, barely visible beneath the firelight. "but i'd not have it be like that. i'd not have you think—" he stopped himself.

you blinked. "me?"

he exhaled, long and slow, as if the word had slipped out before he could stop it.

"aye. you."

silence stretched between you, taut as a drawn bowstring.

"i would not want it made small," he continued, voice low. "not made into something to be managed." his big hands flexed on his knees. "that no woman should have to endure a fool bragging about her like that. and that if a man is lucky enough to win a wife's affection, he ought to earn it every day. not boast of it over ale."

your heart thudded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. you forced a shaky smile. "you would make a very serious husband."

a corner of his mouth twitched. "i'm serious about most things."

"i've noticed."

his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he caught himself and looked back to your eyes. that tiny, fleeting slip of attention made warmth bloom low in your stomach.

you cleared your throat. "ser duncan the tall," you said lightly, though your voice wavered, "defender of women's honor everywhere."

he huffed a quiet laugh. "someone ought to be." he didn't move away and neither did you. careful. he was so careful with you. but even as he rose and stepped back, giving you space, the room felt irrevocably altered.

whatever the drunken merchant had meant as crude instruction had done something else entirely. it had made dunk think. and the way he looked at you now, thoughtful, protective, and achingly unsure, made your heart and stomach do flips.

"princess," he said, his voice a low rumble,

"yes?"

"those men in the tavern...what they were saying." he paused, and you could hear the hesitation in his voice. "was there any truth to it?"

your face burned. "i...i wouldn't know, ser."

"dunk," he corrected gently. "and you don't have to...i just..." he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, a gesture of frustration. "i want to make you contented. and if that's something women enjoy...something you would enjoy, i would do it...for you."

the sincerity in his voice was your undoing. he wasn't thinking of his own pleasure. he was thinking of yours, guided by the drunken wisdom of a tavern fool. it was the most romantic, most chivalrous thing you had ever heard.

you stood up, your legs trembling slightly, and crossed the small space between you. you knelt in front of him, taking his large hands in yours. "thank you" you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. "then...will you let me? i do not mean to dishonor you i just—"

"dunk, it's quite alright. i do want to...try it, i mean." you stood up, your fingers fumbling with the laces of your gown, your body thrumming with a nervous, exhilarating energy. he watched you, his eyes dark with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as you let the dress fall to the floor.

you lay back on the bed, your heart pounding. he hesitated for only a moment before joining you, his large body hovering over yours. he didn't kiss you, not yet. he just looked at you, his gaze a physical touch.

"show me," he whispered, his voice raw with need.

you guided his head down, your fingers tangling in his soft hair. he settled between your thighs, his warm breath a ghost against your most sensitive skin. he was hesitant at first, his movements clumsy and unsure.

"if you do not enjoy it dunk we can stop—" you whispered, but he only shook his head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, his exploration slow and reverent. then, remembering the merchant's words, he leaned in and gave you a long, slow lick.

you gasped, your back arching off the bed. it was a tentative, experimental touch, but it sent a bolt of pure pleasure through you.

he froze. "did you like that...?"

"yes," you breathed, your hand tightening in his hair. "again. please."

he obeyed, this time with more confidence. he began to explore you with his tongue, learning your body, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan. he was a diligent student, his focus absolute, his only goal to please you.

and then, he found your clit.

he circled it with the tip of his tongue, and you cried out, your hips bucking against his mouth. a new fire lit in his eyes. this was it. this was the secret the merchant had been talking about. he felt almost guilty, ashamed for it, touching you in such a way only a husband would, and he would never forgive himself for taking away your purity before you could wed a man of real status...but all these thoughts clouded away each time you would mewl and whine sweet things at each lick.

he dove in, his clumsy hesitation vanishing, replaced by a determined hunger. he wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he began to suck, hard and relentless.

"gods above... you taste like honey. like the first taste of summer wine after a long winter."

it was overwhelming. the pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. he was no longer just learning; he was claiming. he was obsessed, he loved you, and your sweet dripping pussy so much, his heartbeat was heard in his own ears, devouring you with a single-minded intensity that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts.

the world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on you, the rough scrape of his incoming stubble against your sensitive skin, the desperate, hungry sounds he was making deep in his throat.

"dunk," you sobbed, your hands fisting in the blankets. "i can't... it's too much..."

at your cry, he froze instantly. he pulled back just enough to look up at you, his mouth and chin glistening, his eyes wide with alarm. "am i hurting you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "princess, tell me. am i hurting you?"

you shook your head frantically, tears of pleasure streaming down your temples. "no," you gasped, trying to catch your breath. "no, you're not...it feels so good...it's— don't stop!"

"oh," he rumbled, the sound vibrating against your core.

and then he dove back in. he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with a force that made your vision go white. your back arched off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as the pleasure became a sharp, exquisite agony. your hands flew from the blankets to his head, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, trying to push him away, to ground yourself, to do something to survive the onslaught.

your squirming only seemed to spur him on. he held you tighter, his arms like iron bands around your thighs, refusing to let you escape the pleasure he was determined to give you.

in one fluid, impossibly powerful motion, he moved. he lifted his upper body, his hands gripping your waist, and with a strength that stole your breath, he flipped you over. the world spun, and suddenly you were no longer on your back. you were straddling his face, your knees on either side of his head, your weight settled firmly on his mouth.

he was buried beneath you, his nose pressed against your mound, pressing open-mouthed, hot, wet kisses on your wet pussy. the new position was devastating. you were completely at his mercy, spread open and exposed, every sensitive part of you pressed against his hungry mouth. your hands flew out to brace yourself against the wooden headboard, your body trembling uncontrollably.

"there," he growled, the vibration a shockwave through your entire body.

"dunk! i could hurt you— let me off—" you mumbled worriedly, but his hands gripped your ass, holding you down. there was no escape, no respite.

"m'strong enough m'lady, i could die happy right here." his words muffled, he sucked harder, his tongue flicking against your clit in a rapid, merciless rhythm. the tension inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a white-hot knot of pure sensation, until it finally snapped.

"gods w-wait!"

"no...no i want it princess," he growled against your quivering flesh, his voice a low, possessive command. "give me all of it." he lapped at you, his tongue stroking you through your spasms, prolonging the ecstasy until you were a whimpering, overstimulated wreck. "that's it... that's my girl. so sweet."

you came with a strangled scream, your body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing over you so hard you saw stars, creaming all over his mouth. he held you through it, his mouth never leaving you, drinking in your release as if it were the finest wine.

when it was over, you were a boneless, trembling mess. he finally pulled away, his face glistening with your arousal, his eyes shining with a triumphant, possessive pride. he lifted you off his face and onto his lap and kissed you, a deep, messy kiss.

you could barely manage a response, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic, holding him there as if the world might tilt without him anchoring you. you could feel him, impossibly hard and straining against his breeches beneath you. it seemed your pleasure had become his own.

your head fell against his shoulder, breath still shaky. the rigid, demanding pressure of his cock against your thigh had eased into a warm, heavy presence. a flicker of self-consciousness washed over you, and you reached for the discarded blanket at the foot of the bed, tugging it up to cover your waist. the soft wool was a small shield against the intensity of his gaze.

he pressed a kiss to your temple this time. then your brow. then the corner of your mouth, gentler and gentler still, as though easing you back from the heights he'd drawn you to.

"stay with me," he murmured, arms tightening just slightly around you.

you shifted in his lap, the hard line of his erection still an undeniable presence beneath the blanket. a new kind of courage, born from the intimacy of the moment, stirred within you. you met his softened gaze, your own eyes clear. "let me help you, ser," you whispered, your voice still raspy from your cries. you let your hand drift down from his chest, over the blanket, until it rested directly over the straining fabric of his breeches. you gave a gentle, questioning squeeze. "please?"

"you don't need to-"

"i want to..."

a low groan rumbled in his chest, his hips pushing up slightly into your touch. he took your hand in his, his large, calloused fingers dwarfing yours. without breaking eye contact, he brought your palm to his lips and spat into it, a hot, wet, shockingly intimate gesture. your breath hitched.

"s-sorry..." he murmured, guiding your slickened hand back down before pushing beneath the waistband of his breeches and bringing his cock out. "like this..." he guided your hand to his length. your fingers brushed against coarse hair and then, finally, against hot, silken skin.

he was massive. your fingers couldn't even close around his thick girth, and you could feel the heavy weight of him in your palm as he guided you down his impressive length. you had felt him press against you, but holding him like this, feeling the sheer size and power of him, was something else entirely. the sounds were slick and obscene. you wanted to worship him, to make him feel as utterly wrecked and cherished as he had made you feel.

you began to stroke him harder. he let out a harsh breath, his head falling back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. you watched his face, mesmerized by the way his brow furrowed in pleasure, the way his jaw clenched. you swiped your thumb over the slick head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your fist.

"gods, just like that," he gritted out, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his grip tight. "your hand...so small...feels so good."

you redoubled your efforts, your movements growing bolder as you learned what he liked. you twisted your wrist on the upstroke, squeezed gently on the down. you wanted to see him fall apart, to hear him cry out your name. you wanted to be the one to make him lose control. and as his breathing grew ragged and his thrusts became more erratic, you knew you were close.

"so big dunk...are all cocks this big?" you whispered in awe.

he shook his head, mind in a haze. "dunno pretty girl..." the words were a choked, honest confession.

you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his jaw, your hand never ceasing its steady, slick rhythm. "just yours then," you murmured against his skin.

his control finally snapped. with a guttural groan, his hand flew from your thigh to cover yours, not to stop you, but to guide you, to force your hand to move faster, harder. his hips surged up off the bed, fucking himself into your tight grip with a desperate, primal need.

"look at me," he commanded, his voice a ragged snarl. "please please look at me..." you obeyed, lifting your gaze to his face. his eyes were wild, burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "watch what you do to me. watch me."

and you did. you watched as his face contorted, as his mouth fell open in a silent cry. you felt the thick vein on the underside of his cock pulse violently against your palm. with a final, brutal thrust, he came, spilling himself in hot, thick ropes over your hand and his own stomach. he cried out your name then, a broken, hoarse sound that was more prayer than profanity, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release.

he collapsed back against the headboard, utterly spent, his chest heaving. for a long moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing. you slowly withdrew your hand, slick with his spend, and looked at the mess you had made of him. a fierce, feminine pride bloomed in your chest.

he opened his eyes, which were now soft and hazy with satisfaction, then tucked his softening cock back into his breeches.

for a moment, he simply looked at you. not at your hand. not at the disarray of sheets. at you. a quiet huff of laughter left him, his head tipping back briefly against the wood. "you have no idea what you do to me."

"i think i do..." licking up the cum on your fingers as he lazily wiped his hand on the discarded linen at your side, entirely unrepentant.

you shifted closer, crawling up his body slowly, deliberately, until your knees completely bracketed his hips. he watched every inch of your movement now. your fingers slid up his chest, tracing the rise and fall of his breath, the steady drum of his heart beneath your palm.

"i like seeing you like this," you confessed softly.

his brows lifted faintly. "spent?"

"no." you giggled. your thumb brushed over his collarbone. "relaxed..."

his hands came up, settling on your hips, not gripping, just holding you there. you leaned down, brushing your mouth against his to give him a sweet kiss.

he tilted his head, brushing his nose lightly against yours.

"sleep now, princess" he murmured at last, "we ride early."

Emerald foliage hugs the silty banks of a winding stream, twisting through the woodlands of Ashford Meadow. The summery breeze that whispers through carries the scent of dew, petrichor, and smoke.

A balmy heat clings to a midday sun, obscured by the occasional wisp of cloud. It splits through the canopy, bathing leaves in shades of gold.

Fluttering wings of a songbird settle against the elm’s outstretched branches, serenading the man beneath it with its twittering lullaby. Sun spills over him, catching upon his dusky-blonde crown.

At its misshapen base, Dunk sits with a pensive brow and a maelstrom of improper thoughts, ones that, if vocalized, would call for the removal of his head.

Situated beside the remains of a snuffed campfire, is you — a princess of the realm, one who seemed unusually content in his presence.

Blood of the dragon, a Targaryen; scion of Baelor, the Hand of the King, Breakspear. Dunk could still scarcely fathom why a princess of the realm indulged in his company.

Careworn hands sit laced together atop his middle, fingers idly drumming against his tunic. His gaze hasn’t left you for several minutes, sheepishly following the soft contours of your features.

A cloak of velvet swallowed you whole, the hue of spilled crimson, billowing beneath the breeze. Draconic embellishments were woven into your gown, hem steeped with mud from your constant traversing.

“You don’t seem worried about gettin’ into trouble, m’lady,” Dunk remarks, comfortably sprawled beneath the tree. “I’m not exactly splendid company.”

Upon your arrival to Ashford Meadow alongside your kin, you had little desire to witness the carnage wrought by blood and blade.

Whilst Valarr demonstrated prowess upon the tournament grounds in the name of House Targaryen, you sought to assimilate amongst the smallfolk. It was a lively tapestry, one that you longed to weave yourself into.

You indulged in the occasional ale, breathed in the crisp air of the Ashford forests, and nimbly evaded the watchful eye of your Kingsguard. For a moment, you simply were — no title, no nobility, just yourself.

Two nights prior, you encountered Ser Duncan wandering the grounds, horse in-tow, wide-eyed and seeking refreshment. Humility was not lost upon him, nor his immeasurable compassion.

It was then that you engaged in conversation, perplexed and magnetized by this hedge knight. He was good; that piety you witnessed drenched his very being.

Goodness was not a commonality found in the realm — it was a rarity, akin to a gemstone hidden amongst mounds of rubble. Duty kept you bound to a life opposite of his; one of rigidity, not a shred of freedom.

“Do not sell yourself short, Ser,” The softness of your cadence wrapped him in silk, with all the sweetness of honey. “I find you to be riveting.”

“Riveting,” Dunk sputters, features ruddy with heat as he shakes his head. “You might find the horses to be a bit more entertainin’.”

“Perhaps,” You mused, chest expanding as you inhaled a gust of dew-laden air. “They are beautiful creatures, are they not? I quite enjoy a morning ride.”

With a stirring of his throat, he sits a little taller, grunting when rough bark cuts uncomfortably into his spine. “Beautiful, I s’pose — pains in the arse, some of them. Pardon my tongue, princess.”

Jovial laughter resonates throughout the grove, easing his embarrassment to a mere lull. He thinks himself to be little more than a prattling jester in your presence.

“Pardoned, Ser,” A teasing lilt spills from your tongue as you exhale, looking upon him with a peculiar softness. “Do you look forward to fighting in the tournament?”

“Of course,” He peacocks, his own facade of confidence bolstered by the timbre in his voice. “I hope to emerge a champion, once it’s over.”

“I am certain that the Gods will favor you,” There is a sweetness to you that he finds compelling; one worth fighting for. “If your heart is true, you shall find victory.”

“You believe that?” Dunk inquires, sitting up properly, forearms perched against his knees. He’s massive even when prone, all thick muscle and stretched limbs, and yet his eyes are exceedingly gentle.

“I do,” Your answer fills him with some sliver of hope. “The realm lacks knights like yourself — serious about your vows, a defender of the smallfolk, and selfless.”

“I am honored by your praise, m’lady,” He wonders what he did to deserve such accolades, but accepts them nonetheless. “You must not know many knights.”

“Not all of them have your heart, Ser Duncan.” Hands smooth over your skirts, an elegant dress that seems far too gaudy for a romp through the woodlands.

Though, it certainly isn’t lightweight, either. The refuge of the elm’s shade provides a needed respite from the growing heat, suffocating you in a gilded cage of velvet and pretty silks.

Whilst you toil in your gowns, Duncan admires the intricate fabrics, the way they contrast with your features, bringing out details he commits to memory.

A lump forms within his throat, cerulean hues tracing over the gracious curve of your throat. The neckline of your garment is trimmed in rubies and opals, flesh unblemished, a canvas of perfection.

Some wicked part of him considers what beauty rests beneath, features flushing with scarlet when he thinks too hard. It’s improper, crass to think of you in such ways.

It is unavoidable.

“Might I ask a favor of you, Ser Duncan?”

The amiable lull of your voice drags him from the brink of mental debauchery, much to his relief. He nearly coughs, straightening where he sits when you address him properly.

Who was he to refuse a princess of the Realm?

If the circumstances were different, he wouldn’t have a choice but to heed your wishes. Dunk’s scramble to adhere to your request made your nose wrinkle in wry amusement.

“Of course, m’lady.” He stumbles to kneel, movements clumsy and unpracticed. The sound of your laughter makes him bristle with embarrassment.

“You needn’t kneel, Ser,” As you rise from the grass, you gesture to the longsword sitting against the elm’s ancient trunk. “Could you teach me?”

Duncan stands, gaze finding the shoddy scabbard shielding Arlan’s sword from the elements. His incredulity is evident, marked by lofted brows and a tense jaw.

“Teach you to fight? Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but don’t you have a flock of Kingsguard for that?” Dunk questions, his tone considerate yet gentle.

“I do not wish to become a master-at-arms overnight, Ser — I only ask to know how to hold a blade, handle it, swing it at that wall if I must.” Gathering your skirts, you step towards the tree.

“A Kingsguard could teach you better than I, m’certain.” Persistent, he edges you toward the logical choice. Dunk already feels immense pressure — you’re a Princess, wasting your time alongside his ilk.

“The Kingsguard are of better use protecting my father and uncle,” Nearing the longsword, your gaze traces the well-worn hilt, across steel and silver. “I want you to show me.”

“Your Lord-Father would have my head if he knew,” His tone is somewhat pained, wrought with a tangle of nerves clotted in his belly. “I shouldn’t …”

“I won’t force your hand, Ser,” The graciousness of your smile is enough to make his knees buckle, not an easy feat for a man of his stature. “It was merely a request, one that you can deny.”

“Denyin’ a princess seems a dangerous gamble,” Flustered, his admission prompts you to laugh, shooting him a look. “My apologies.”

“Do you think me so spoiled, Ser Duncan? I would never make any demands of you,” Soft and marrow-deep, your velvety voice sinks into his bones. “You are a good man.”

“You flatter me, m’lady,” Scarlet clings to his features even still, not to be mistaken by the kiss of sunshine. Calloused hands fold together as he clears his throat. “S’pose I could show you a few techniques.”

This sort of defiance did ignite a fire within you.

Your father was a good man; tempered, just, and compassionate. However, all goodness had its limits, and your recent betrothal to a Lannister turned you sour.

If it were your choice, you would’ve favored someone like Ser Duncan the Tall — someone humble, whose penchant for selflessness outweighed ego. There was no charm equal to tenderness of heart.

Strength rests within his hands, firm and taut with years of earnest work, knuckles scraped, digits calloused. Hands that would handle you gently, you were certain.

A pang of molten heat struck violently at your belly as a slew of unholy fantasies invaded your mind like a festering plague. You thought of Dunk — of his mouth, his hands, how he might feel beneath you.

Quietly, your gaze raked over the muscle of his forearms, each layered in a dusting of dusky-blonde hair, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

This flicker of desire would prove difficult to extinguish.

“I do not wish for you to think of me as your superior,” It was insistent, your request; simple, you thought. “I am your equal in all measures, Ser Duncan.”

It was difficult to mask the shock he felt, lips parting in surprise. “Well, not in all measures, Princess,” Duncan protested, quieting when you sighed. “Sorry.”

“You must think me privileged for this, but status is sometimes burdensome,” Forlornly, your eyes drifted elsewhere, toward the sky. “For a woman.”

Dunk had spent much of his youth regaled by Ser Arlan regarding the snobbish, spoiled nature of nobility. Princes, princesses, lords, ladies — all of them too vain.

You didn’t strike Dunk as vain.

The longer he stared at you, the more he attempted to understand your desire for liberation, for wanting to hold a blade, or to sleep beneath the stars.

“It isn’t my place to judge, m’lady,” He consoles, blue hues fluttering about, attempting to maintain an element of propriety. “I thought all Targaryens were …”

“Exhaling fire and scorching with fury?” The mirth within your tone was unmistakable, accompanied by another dazzling smile that sparkled beneath the sunlight.

“Some of them,” Dunk shuddered to think of the serpentine Prince Aerion, with a gaze as sharp as razors. “Some are kinder.” A low rumble spread throughout his chest.

Warmth slithered over the back of your neck, tendrils of fire that clung to your flesh. It was soothed only by another wisp of breeze, easing the flame that danced within you.

Silence simmered, creeping between the both of you like ivy, holding with it a veiled tension. Attraction was to be expected — you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, far too ethereal for the likes of him.

Golden sunlight curled across your crown, drenching you in midday embers. It glittered against your smile, a gentle thing, one that regarded Duncan as someone worthy of attention.

“Perhaps I could return at twilight,” It was a brazen suggestion, one that turned his stomach with nerves. It required sneaking off from your tents — again. “If that suffices.”

“Are you certain? Won’t you have to …” Dunk’s rambling ceases when he notices the look you give him; amused, as if he’s said something humorous.

“I am elusive, and I am certain that I won’t be caught,” Your assurances did little to alleviate his worry, but he conceded to you anyway. “Do not fret, Ser Duncan.”

Despite your reassurance, Dunk contemplates all possibilities; if you’re followed, if you’re caught with him alone, if you are questioned in regards to your whereabouts.

Though, he finds a strange sense of serenity in your heartened smile. It reminds him of sunlight striking water at the first sigh of dawn; glittering, bright, and breathtaking. His heart sings at the sight of you before him.

“If you are caught?” Dunk pipes up as you inch toward the woodland, hem catching upon undergrowth with a sense of carelessness.

“Then I will treasure the time that I had with you, Ser Duncan the Tall.” With that, you turn on your heels, your mirthful grin emblazoned on his mind like a hot brand, certain to never leave his thoughts.

Gods help him.

Twilight chases the day away, veins of violet infusing an orange horizon, bringing with it a cloak of encroaching darkness. Stars twinkle overhead, a thousand kisses of a celestial light.

As sunlight wanes into dying embers, Dunk paces beside a crackling campfire, wisps of fire dancing away into a cooler dusk. Sienna blankets emerald glass, casting shadows over the great elm.

Anxiousness gnaws away at his stomach like a beast clawing at a carcass, eating his marrow, leaving only his nerves in the wreckage.

He assumes the worst — you aren’t coming.

Calloused hands perch themselves against his hips, kneading into rough-hewn fabric for a semblance of relief. Every distant stirring of wildlife sends a jolt of fear through him.

Dunk half-expects Prince Baelor to storm through the trees with his white-cloaks like a reaper come to collect his head, but nothing happens. Instead, he’s met with a stretch of endless silence.

It is only when your silhouette moves gracefully through darkness that he eases his pacing.

Gone are your lavish gowns, exchanged for something pretty yet simplistic, a rich violet swathed in your cloak. Any intricate braids are pinned down, and his breath hitches at the sight of you.

A smaller, bejeweled knapsack hangs loosely from your hand, a token of repayment for your unlikely instructor. As you weave through the grass, a warm smile spreads across your features.

“Good eve, Ser Duncan,” Greeted by a comely hearth and his handsome visage, you unclasp your cloak, placing the garment upon a lower branch. “I’ve brought you something.”

He nearly blossoms when you reveal your gift; foodstuffs, his weakness. It’s a colorful array of baked pastries, fresh fruits, and a hunk of cured ham, wrapped carefully in a scrap of fine cloth.

“You didn’t have to,” Dunk mumbles, stomach lurching violently. He eats for two, a man of his indomitable size; he welcomes the meal. “Thank you, m’lady. This is generous of you.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve a penchant for gooseberry cakes,” The lightness of your teasing causes him to blush, and he knows it originated from Ser Lyonel. “I cannot blame you.”

Dunk’s smile is sheepish, wreathed in a tinge of chagrin as he stifles a cough. “Wondered who spread such a rumor,” He sighs, ogling the small tart. “There’s some truth to it.”

Amusingly, he sheds his flustered expression, greedily digging into the food you brought with you. Homemade stew from Fleabottom was his form of a delicacy, and this far surpassed it.

The thick glaze of gooseberry jam floods his tongue, bittersweet as it twists in-tandem with the spongy cake. He’d eaten four of these in Ser Lyonel’s tent yesterday without an ounce of shame.

Your footsteps are feather-light, carrying you through swaying grass as you approach Thunder, one of Ser Duncan’s horses. Fingertips stroke softly along his neck, drifting across chestnut fur to his withers.

“I used to have a horse much like this one, until my cousin impaled it with a sword out of spite.” Anguish layered itself into your tone, lying beneath the surface.

Prince Aerion, Dunk assumes, mouth curling into a frown of displeasure. The thought of someone willfully inflicting harm to an animal with malicious intent turns his stomach with dread.

“I’ve little tolerance for anyone who maims animals,” Dunk utters, swiping at his lips with the back of his palm. The tarts sit heavy in his belly. “Don’t care if they’re royal blood or not.”

“You’re kind, Ser Duncan,” A low exhale billows through your nose, fingers brushing over the horse’s shoulder in continuous motions. “I should hope that you never lose such a sentiment.”

Sturdy hands close around his sheathed longsword, holding it aloft as he comes to stand beside you. He keeps a comfortable berth, but the newfound proximity nearly turns him into a blushing boy.

This time, you’re keenly aware of his gaze and how it shyly flutters about your countenance. Dunk looks at you fondly and with the warmth of someone who sees you, and not shrouded by lust.

“Still wantin’ to learn a thing or two?” His question is as soft as silk, wrapped within the rougher baritone of his Fleabottom drawl.

“If you’re willing, Ser,” Your reply is noninvasive, making no demands of the hedge knight. There is little honor in using your status to make him do much of anything. “I would be honored.”

Dunk clears his throat, gesturing toward the stretch of grass beside the helm, furthest away from the horses and campfire. “We’ll need a bit of room for this. Don’t want you hittin’ the horses.”

Gathering your skirts, you nimbly dance around the fire, setting in the grass as Dunk removes the longsword from its scabbard. It’s no Valyrian steel; it’s worn with age, clunky, but it’s reliable.

He offers it to you, noticing your arms buckle slightly, unaccustomed to the weight of a blade. “Heavier than I thought it’d be.” You murmur, managing to keep it somewhat steady.

“It’s no feather, princess,” Dunk chuckles, politely stepping beside you. He hovers, bulk of his musculature ghosting over you, a thrilling sensation. “If I may.”

The knight goes crimson again, attempting to ignore the closeness between bodies, but he isn’t impervious to the saccharine scent of your skin.

Dunk reaches to adjust your grip, large hands blanketing yours, calloused skin like rough leather over your own. He shudders; you feel like silk, softer than anything he’s touched before.

As he politely moves your hands about the hilt, he steadies you wordlessly, watching as you fix your stance without being prompted.

“Seems you already know a thing about posture,” He marvels aloud, smiling when you laugh. “Have I said somethin’ funny again?” Dunk assumes his antics often amuse you.

“I’ve grown up watching my brother handle sword and shield, and my father. I observe them when I can,” The radiance of your smile is unlike any other. “Perhaps you’ll make a swordsman of me yet.”

Another rumble of laughter shakes his chest, a sound that you aim to hear often, if you can. Firelight licks across his frame, blanketing his features in a sienna glow, embers against blue.

“You’ll want to know how to parry,” Dunk clears his throat, showing you how with a stick he found lying about. “You can try it with one hand, but you’ll want two on the hilt.”

With a nod, you awkwardly mimic his movements, wondering if all knights feel clumsy when wielding a sword. Despite your unpracticed hand, the sense of power you feel is present.

He shows you how to strike with three maneuvers, each different from the last. Swordplay is a foreign concept, one that requires ample practice and patience.

Regardless, you’re a quick learner, but you handle the longsword as if it’s an anchor. It is heavy, forcing exertion from your arms, delicate and untrained.

“Swing up,” Dunk’s instruction is calm, tempered; he sounds akin to a soothing septa instead of a knight. As you follow through, albeit barely, he smiles. “Good girl.”

Butterflies erupt within your belly like a storm, accompanied by a molten heat that is rather unfamiliar to you. Gods, you burn — his words sink like fire into your flesh.

Good girl, he says — you’d like for him to say it again, only with your mouth on his throat.

In turn, Dunk thoroughly revels in watching you handle his tutelage, even if your movements are bumbling and ungainly. You’re beautiful when focused; furrowed brows, curled lip, locks of hair strewn about.

“I cannot imagine practicing this each day,” You confess, muscles already burning from merely bearing the weight of the blade. “How long have you been a knight, Ser Duncan?”

“A sennight,” The softness of his cadence signals honesty; he’s only just been knighted. “I’m no master-at-arms, princess.” He murmurs, brows furrowing together.

“Not all experience measures a fighter. Some of the Kingsguard are shoddy swordsmen, chosen only by status and bloodline,” Your words bring him some comfort, but it’s threadbare. “I think you’re a fine teacher.”

“You’d have better luck learnin’ from your Kingsguard, m’lady,” Dunk murmurs, unwilling to accept such accolades from you. “I don’t know as much as I’d like to.”

“I would rather learn from someone who is currently practicing than from someone who hasn’t in years.” You shrug, lowering the longsword to alleviate the dull ache in your arms.

There is some measure of truth to your words, infused with a wisdom that Dunk takes to heart. He watches as you brace yourself against the sword, tip of steel dug into the earth beneath you.

“Tired already, princess?” A teasing lilt clings to his voice, innocuously harmless as you give him a pointed glance. “Meanin’ no offense, of course.”

“This is more difficult than I thought it’d be,” Heat blossoms over your features as Dunk steps forward to retrieve his longsword. “You all make it seem so effortless — you, my father, my brother.”

“You’ll have to build a bit of muscle,” Without a second thought, his large hand closes around your bicep. When he realizes his error, he jerks away. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

“You’ve a tender hand, Ser Duncan,” Your words caress his mind like that of a balmy draft, warm and molten as it wraps around him. “For a man of your stature and strength.”

A hitch forms within his throat, countenance ruddy, burning hotter as he shrinks beneath your stare. It is penetrating yet kind, the sort of gaze that would make a man like him collapse to his knees.

“Ser Arlan used to tell me that I was as thick as a castle wall, and twice as stupid,” Dunk fumbles, placing his sword back into its scabbard. “Nothing’s changed.”

“You aren’t stupid nor a fool, Ser,” Despite your consolation, he withers away, lowering himself onto his bedroll with an unceremonious grunt. “You didn’t mean any harm.”

Unconvinced, he sits with his knees drawn toward his chest, appearing larger than before as you sit beside him. Beneath the elm’s flourishing boughs, neither of you say much of anything.

A tenuous quiet falls like a whispered hush through the grove, the only ambiance that of a lively wilderness and the smoldering of the campfire.

Above, the stars paint the horizon with their pale light, a sky uninhabited by dour clouds. It’s crystalline, accompanied by the kiss of a midsummer’s eve and the scent of new life.

“This place is beautiful,” Your voice floats like a distant dream, severing the silence. “Forests like these aren’t common near Dragonstone; not as green.”

“It is beautiful,” Dunk hums in concurrence, and though your eyes fall to the heavens above, he is too preoccupied with staring at you. “Very nice.”

Cringing at the sound of his own voice, words turn to ash upon his tongue, dying within his throat. He wonders how many lords and handsome princes have asked for your hand, or your favor.

Laughter tumbles from your lips, nose wrinkling in wry amusement as you glance at him. Your eyes follow the strong line of his jaw, over days-old stubble, over the crook of his nose.

Dunk meets your gaze, swallowing the slight lump within his throat, regarding you with a thinly-veiled fondness. He tenses when your palm settles against his forearm.

“Princess, I — You shouldn’t,” Floundering in embarrassment, he looks the part of a blushing maiden more than you, endlessly gallant. “You’re …”

“Virtuous,” Silken fingertips trace the muscle of his arm, gaze eclipsed by a blossoming desire. “If I wanted to be with you, would you spurn my advances, ser?”

A weighted shock slams into his chest, a force so sudden that it rips the air from his lungs. Your honor was to be protected, safeguarded; Dunk worried about yours far more than his own.

Yet, your embrace was akin to cold raindrops against his blazing skin; welcomed, refreshing, and gentle.

Gooseflesh coalesced along his spine, accompanied by a tremor that quaked his stomach. In such close proximity, he caught a whiff of your scent; honeyed, the sweetest thing imaginable.

“Aren’t you worried about your station? Worried about your honor? I’m a mere knight, m’lady, I want to do right by you.” Dunk rambles, feeling your hand grace his own, satin stretched over something rough.

“If my honor falls upon you, then I’ve chosen a soft place to land, I cannot think of another more deserving,” The cadence of your voice brings him some comfort. “Damn my station.”

This was your freedom to choose whomever you wanted — and you wanted Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight.

“I don’t want to hurt you, princess,” Something rough and heavy slithers into his voice, letting it drop to a deliciously low octave. “I’m not a very experienced lover.”

“We have that in common,” As his hand slips into yours, you press a kiss against his bruised knuckles, over calloused skin. “We can learn together.”

Dunk knows what catastrophe this could bring upon him; ruin, most likely, or perhaps a severed head. Despite this warning, he bends anyway, abandoning caution.

He understands that you’ve a right to choose, just as he is owed a right to deny you — he doesn’t.

In your youth, you often pranced about Dragonstone, stealing kisses from stable boys and starry-eyed noblemen at feasts. There was a curiosity present, and this was the first time you truly wanted to explore.

As if circling a wild doe, Dunk is deliberate as he leans to kiss you, so painfully sluggish that you nearly bridge the gap yourself. Anticipation stirs within you, a spark soon to fester into fire.

Tenderness blossoms where uncertainty withers, and whatever pang of fear you felt ceases to exist. Lips meld together, honey and smoke.

A steady exhale drags through his chest, one of contentment as he climbs down from his own nervousness. His hand shifts, politely grazing the underside of your jaw, the action brief.

“I won’t shatter, Dunk,” Abandoning the usage of lordly dossiers, his name sits on your tongue, wreathed in something cloying. “I promise.”

Dunk takes your words into consideration, shivering as your breath fans across his mouth, like the sigh of summertime. His head jostles in a brief nod before he kisses you again; passionate this time.

Something heady hazes his mind, something feverish as he tilts forward to kiss you fully, feeling your fingers grasp at his tunic. There is nothing forceful, nor harsh — only ardor.

Blanched light pools through the elm’s verdant canopy, blanketing the both of you in silver. Your mouth is akin to silk, something downy to balance his roughness.

When your hands creep toward his collar, Dunk almost leaps at the contact, palm cupping your jaw. Each kiss bleeds into the last — less restrained, and steadily growing comfortable.

Within his kiss, you find yourself flourishing, shedding the shackles of duty and embracing a newfound calm. His thumb slowly circles your cheek, tender as ever.

The rigidity of his posture begins to unfurl, limbs loosening as he settles against his bedroll, heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

He inhales when you slink closer, feeling the curve of your breasts press into his chest. It is then that you brazenly surge forth, climbing into his lap without hesitation.

Dunk agonizingly recalled the last time he’d touched a woman; many moons ago, a brothel worker bought by Ser Arlan. It was a sour recollection of events — clumsy hands and a clumsier bedding.

You were no harlot; you were of royal blood, dragon’s blood.

Emboldened and driven by the hum of excitement, you find yourself in the knight’s lap, spread over thick thighs as your kiss crawls to a simmer.

“You are exceptionally handsome,” Your amiable lull is beguiling to him, body pliant and waiting beneath velvet garments. “You’ve the bluest eyes of anyone I’ve seen.”

Heat licks along his spine as he basks in your compliments, feeling a pang of foolishness when he realizes he hasn’t paid you the same favor.

“You’re beautiful,” Dunk gathers his bearings, stifling a throaty groan as your hips adjust against him. Mortification courses through his veins when he realizes he’s already hard. “The sort of beauty one might sing about.”

Smitten, you do little to mask your enamorment, fingertips gathering along the nape of his neck. “Are you going to write a song about me, Ser Duncan?” Your tone is coy, a touch playful.

“I just might, princess.” He rumbles, gazing up at you as if you’re a goddess come to claim him. Dunk’s hands cup your hips with a burst of confidence, stare half-lidded as caresses your curves.

Enraptured, he watches as your hands abandon his throat, reaching down to ruck up your skirts, listening to the hitch in his chest.

Plum-colored velvet pools around the swell of your hips, fabric settled in an unceremonious heap. It is you that kisses Dunk again, infused with a fiery passion that he gladly chases.

A noise stirs within his throat, a deep sound of satisfaction coupled with desperation. Restraint only tempers his hand for so long until it becomes futile.

Between ambrosial kisses, he meets your doe-eyed gaze, teetering upon the knife’s edge of desire. Surrounded by the teeming shroud of wilderness, your heart echoed his name, an amorous lament.

Mouths softly collide, succumbing to a mutual and burning flame, one that takes you both. He feels your hands tug at his tunic, fingertips dancing across bare flesh.

He shivers when you touch him, likely out of startlement and surprise instead of an earthly chill. Dunk revels in the feeling of your satiny palms caressing at the muscles of his abdomen.

“Dunk,” You sigh against his lips, sweet breath pluming over his features, a wash of sweetness. The tent in his trousers strains urgently against your inner thigh. “My sweet Dunk.”

It isn’t a firm claim you utter, but he would’ve been glad if it were, hand lowering to your thigh. Dunk’s calloused digits settle beneath your skirts, daring to glide over satiny flesh, the first to touch.

“Princess,” His gravelly murmur is so warm, warmer than any kiss of sunlight as he plants a kiss to your jaw. You taste like a dream beneath the pillars of his lips. “I’d like to taste you proper.”

Inexperience did not equate to naivety — you knew what he meant, knew of his intentions.

A tremor of anticipation coiled tight within your belly, warped by an insatiable desire. It was unexpected for you, a virtuous woman, but you did not spurn whatever fantasy he longed to share.

“Of course, if it pleases you.” Your agreement was nearly instantaneous, met with yearning blue eyes and a lackadaisical nod. The knight gestured toward his shoddy bedroll.

“I’m aimin’ to please you, m’lady,” Dunk’s earnestness makes you melt as you lay on your back, lashes kissing the freckled skin beneath his eyes. “That’s all I want.”

The earth cradles you, bedroll nestled above a thatch of spongy grass, and you feel little discomfort as the knight shifts between your legs. His frame is statuesque, forcing your legs farther apart.

It allows you to hold steadfastly to his arms, thick and burly beneath your palms, nails digging playfully into his biceps. As he hovers above you, bulky musculature blanketing you with heat, your lips curl into a smile.

“I do not wish for you to feel any sort of obligation,” It is your turn to become flustered, visibly smitten as you trace your hands along his arms. “Royal blood or not.”

“I want to please you,” The insistence in his husky lull makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. “Would you allow me this?” Dunk asks, tone bordering upon desperation.

With a hurried nod, you feel his mouth press sloppily to the juncture between your throat and shoulder. He kisses you wherever he can, nothing short of reverent and tender.

Gold-skinned and eager, your knight shuffles further down, calloused palms cupping your hips, drawing circles there as his mouth descends upon you.

First, you feel his lips sweetly embrace the crook of your knee, skirts hitched up around your waist. It’s sluggish yet exploratory, savoring you, worshiping you; it’s what you deserve.

Dunk’s rust-blonde crown begins to disappear between your thighs, lavishing your inner thighs in kisses until he finds your cunt. You’re slick already, warm and waiting, all for him.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pants like a crazed animal, breathing somewhat labored with excitement. Before you can utter another syllable, his lips are on you like a hot brand.

His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, wanton and deliciously needy.

Strong hands idly caress and squeeze at your hips, grounding himself as he savors your cunt. Dunk is enthralled, and yet he moves slowly, longing to savor your taste.

Bliss ripples through your body in balmy waves, a white-hot buzz that clouds your mind. A soft, keening moan splits your diaphragm, one hand fisting at his ruddy tresses.

The knight unabashedly grunts from the taste of you, hands coming to hook beneath your thighs, resting soundly atop your hips. The muscles in his forearms tighten, caging you in against him.

His broad shoulders bully your legs apart, tongue like embers as he slowly traces your cunt, drinking you in. He hears you moan, say his name, and he’s driven to madness.

“Gods above, Dunk.” Your cloying moan carries through the grove, heady and delighted, thighs tensing against his face. Pleasure sinks into you like talons, sharp and urgent.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.

Dunk groans, the gravelly noise shaking his chest, mouth sloppily lavishing your cunt in kisses. He lacks grace and tact, but makes up for it with a ceaseless passion.

It’s as if you might melt into the bedroll, shrinking further earthward, back arched with ecstasy. As molten heat pools between your thighs, Dunk laps at your cunt with great enthusiasm.

He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked him to; begged him to, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.

Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.

Another barrage of his tongue evokes a moan from your mouth, bubbling from your throat, a blissful crescendo. You fear smothering him, but Dunk welcomes it gleefully.

It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.

Your nerves feel ragged, as if they are scorched with wildfire, burning within Dunk’s embrace. Instinctively, your hips lurch forward, haplessly jerking toward his mouth.

“Sweet girl.” His low, affectionate drawl makes the ache between your legs grow, prompting you to give another tug of his hair.

“D—Dunk,” A throaty, tapering moan escapes your mouth, and then another, and another. His tongue laps dutifully across your clit, repetitive yet driving you to the very brink. “There, there!”

Whatever nervousness he once felt toward your coupling is extinguished, leaving only his affection for you in its wake. Strong hands sweetly caress your thighs, circling beside your hips.

The heavens above glimmer down upon you, cool breeze bringing some relief to the heat of your body. Another ripple of ecstasy oozes through your bones, mouth agape, countenance one of bliss.

Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue sloppily rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud.

You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.

Dunk tenderly takes you through it with loving hands and a gentle mouth, still greedily lapping at your slit. Your taste sits heavy on his tongue, bittersweet and his alone.

The height of your pinnacle fills you with ecstasy, loose-limbed and heady as you settle fully into the bedroll. Your knees tremble, grip loosening against his crown.

Scarlet-faced and aching, Dunk presses a string of warm kisses to your thighs, face lifting from between your legs. Beguiled, he offers you a charmed smile, tongue lashing over his bottom lip.

“Was that alright, m’lady?” Dunk rumbles, attempting to ignore the incessant throbbing that strains against his breeches. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no,” You soothe, catching your breath as you coax him closer, wanting to cradle his face. “That was wonderful, Dunk. I did not think such pleasure was possible.”

At your bewildered confession, the knight chuckles, visage rather sheepish as he sinks into your embrace. Your silken palms come to cup his jaw, thumbs circling across his face as you urge him closer.

“We don’t have to keep goin’, princess,” Dunk offers, delighted to please you without a care for his own release. “M’happy to lay here with you.”

To his shock, you kiss him, loosing a soft moan when you taste yourself on his tongue. It drives him mad with desire, sucking in a sharp inhale as he reciprocates.

As mouths join in a blistering kiss, he feels your hands dip to his broad shoulders, pushing steadily and without any sense of urgency.

Dunk follows obediently, guided by your heavenly hand until he’s on his back and you’re perched in his lap. Clamoring to straddle him, you sit up, noticing the delight etched into his visage.

“I want to continue, Ser,” Fingertips tease the hem of his tunic, beginning to lift the fabric up. Hurriedly, he moves up enough to peel it off, tossing it aside. “As long as you wish the same.”

“Aye, I — Yes,” He fumbles, bristling with excitement as he feels your lips press against his throat. A poignant groan bubbles through his throat, hands settling over your hips. “You’re beautiful.”

Dunk sits contentedly beneath you, shivering as your digits caress across his chest, over a light layer of hair. He’s well-built, broad — but he isn’t some chiseled statue.

Adjusting your weight, you let your hands drop to the front of his trousers, toying with the laces. Lips meet again in another flurry of kisses, fingers tugging until the linen loosens.

Freeing his cock, you nearly gasp at the sheer size of him, stomach pierced by the icy stab of fear. You’ve never seen a man unclad before, and he can hear the audible hitch in your throat.

“I’ll be gentle, promise,” Dunk assures you immediately, hands caressing along your spine. He plants a soft kiss to your jaw, nose nuzzling into your satiny skin. “Wouldn’t dare hurt you, princess.”

“I trust you, Dunk,” Your whisper tapers off into a soft gasp as his cock pulses hotly against your thigh. “You’re so handsome, so perfect.” The sultry lull of your voice makes his cock twitch.

“M’lady …” Flustered, he preens beneath your praise, unaccustomed to hearing such sweetness from one’s tongue. He’s a little tongue-tied, swallowing the growing lump in his throat.

“I want to feel you,” As your plea reaches his ears, he struggles to maintain propriety, resisting the urge to pull you onto his cock. “More than anything.”

“I’m yours,” Dunk does little to mask the desperation, voice frayed and fractured with want. “I’m your man.” His sigh is almost dreamlike, pupils dilated with the shadow of desire.

At that, you lower yourself onto his cock, gasping at the intrusion. He is thick, his girth something to acclimate to. The both of you loose a shared moan, foreheads flush together.

Tight around him, his cockhead splits past your folds, pressing into your cunt. The sensation of him stretching you out makes you moan, hands gripping at his shoulders, nails kissing skin.

“Dunk!” Your moan is piercing, an overwhelming pleasure pierced by the sting of discontent. You dig crescents into the broad, freckled muscles of his shoulders.

He watches as your countenance blossoms into a look of bliss and mingled discomfort, brows furrowing together, lips agape. Dunk bristles, worried that he’s hurting you involuntarily.

“Fuck.” Your hissed expletive is unbecoming of a maiden, and yet you say it anyway. His deliberate entry makes you writhe, soothed by the kisses he presses to your throat.

“Should I stop? Is it — Gods, is it painful, m’lady?” The knight flounders, desire hazing his sensibilities. You feel divine, taking him perfectly, save for the clenched muscles.

“No, do not,” Another sputtered whine slips past your mouth as you remember to breathe, settling further down onto his cock. “Seven Hells, Dunk.”

“Easy now,” Dunk pants, not wanting you to exert yourself so swiftly. It’s the first time you’ve bedded a man — and he isn’t small, by any means. “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

The use of such an innocuous nickname causes your stomach to pulse with butterflies. You lower yourself further, inch by inch, breath fanning across his face.

Fortunately, the warm slick between your thighs soothes the descent, and you feel him deep; deeper than you expected. A low grunt ripples through him, hands cupping your hips.

It is Dunk’s steadfast hold that guides you, cautiously easing you up upon his cock, and lowering you again. The movement is innately intimate, intended to be pleasurable.

The tranquil hum around you is accompanied by the soft noises of your coupling, with labored breaths and the occasional moan. Your hands reach for his hair, gripping tightly to him.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” Dunk huffs, pressing a warm, sloppy kiss to your mouth. The pace becomes rhythmic, certain; your cunt clenches tight around him. “Slowly, m’lady.”

His warm baritone fills you with comfort, pacifying any worry you might’ve had. Before you can move any faster, you can feel him in your belly, causing you to shiver.

It’s a deep-rooted bliss you feel as you ride his cock, aided by his tender support. He isn’t forceful, never takes more than you want, allowing you to set whatever pace you choose.

Beneath you, Dunk reclines, comfortably sprawled across the tattered bedroll. Cerulean hues gaze at you as if you’ve hung the stars yourself, watching as you take his cock so perfectly.

Something wicked flickered inside of his heart, imagining taking you against the tree, skirts rucked around your hips. When his name slips lasciviously from your mouth, he looses another eager grunt.

He cradles your virtue as if it’s something precious, lips parted, chest expanding with a sharp inhale. Dunk is thoroughly razed, unable to keep from caressing your hips, large hands holding you tightly.

As you sink down onto his cock once more, the pressure becomes less of a sting, it’s natural; you want him again and again.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you — beautiful, radiant you, someone worthy of worship.

You rode Ser Duncan as you would a broken gelding, finding your rhythm, mapping out any awkward motions. It was continuous; up and down, hips rolling forward, hands steady atop his chest.

Unfortunately, Dunk knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

It was as if every nerve was set ablaze, senses drowned by you, submerged within the warmth of your cunt and the mere visage of you. He groaned when your nails dug beside his ribs; a pleasant sting.

“Fuckin’ Hells, don’t stop.” Dunk doesn’t intend to spout expletives in the presence of a lady, but it spills clumsily from his mouth anyway. You seem to like it, mouth twitching into a smile.

“Dunk!” You moan, and the sudden quickening of your pace is dizzying for the both of you. A dull ache radiates throughout your thighs, pulsing within your cunt.

Years without a woman’s embrace made him incredibly sensitive — he’d only ever had it once before. With you, this all felt otherworldly, an ecstasy unlike any other.

When you sink down onto his thick cock once more, his composure is thoroughly destroyed, naught but ash. He says your name; reverent, adoring, and loud.

He spills himself inside of you then, cock throbbing hotly as you rock downward again. Dunk almost guides you off, but the sensation nearly causes collapse as his face screws up with bliss.

It’s a sight that is surely to be emblazoned in his thoughts forever — you atop him, doe-eyed and pliant, your hands stroking his chest.

The peak of ecstasy makes his limbs feel weak, and you begin to still, bouncing another time or two until the both of you cease. It’s hushed; the sort of silence born of a joyous disbelief, reveling in the moment.

As you move off of him, you feel the sting that is sure to be with you for days to come. Yet, you delight in it; your knight did this to you willingly.

“Are you feelin’ well? Nothin’ painful?” Dunk asks immediately, awkwardly attempting to clean himself of the mess he made. Tendrils of his spend are left behind, and he shifts to grab his tunic.

“You are well-endowed,” You muse softly, laying down beneath the stare. “It isn’t what I expected it to be. I’ve been told foul tales of consummation before.”

Flushed, Dunk grabs his flask of water, taking a hearty swig before settling next to you. “I wouldn’t dare harm you,” He murmurs, features ruddy as you curl closer to him. “Couldn’t imagine someone treatin’ you unkind.”

The smile you give him could’ve illuminated a thousand fires, one of sweetness. He is rendered sheepish, reduced to a blushing boy in your presence.

“I wish that I could stay here until the morrow.” There’s a forlorn melancholy in your tone, and as much as Dunk wants you to stay, he knows you’re bound by duty.

“It isn’t morrow yet, m’lady.” Dunk’s low croon causes you to shiver, and you press your body closer, savoring the feeling of being held.

As you lay together beneath the heavens, shrouded by gentle greenery and the arms of your knight, duty suddenly becomes an afterthought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duncan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

You surge forward and crash your lips against his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dunk," you whisper, reaching for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you begin your descent.

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

Finally, you are there.

His beautiful cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reaction is instantaneous and explosive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he enters you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm, Dunk…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dunk! Oh, gods, Dunk!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a sudden, shocking tenderness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with those words, something inside him breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answers with a series of deep moans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The command is the final push.

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

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

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

"Dunk! Dunk! Dunk!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leon Kennedy had survived horrors that would have broken most men. Bioweapons, global pandemics, endless nights in decrepit European castles and decaying American cities. He’d earned his retirement, his quiet suburban home with its neat lawn and white fence.

The silence was a fucking gift.

Then you moved in.

Your arrival was a colorful explosion next door. He watched from his window as a moving van disgorged furniture wrapped in bubblegum-colored plastic. You were a blur of motion, bouncing between the truck and your front door in a pair of tight, high-waisted shorts and a Von Dutch cropped tank top that strained against your chest.

Your laugh was bright, ringing across the yards like a bell. Leon kept his distance. He’d mastered restraint. He’d stared down monsters without blinking; he could handle a pretty neighbor. He stayed inside, focused on his coffee, his routines.

But you didn’t respect distance. Two days after you moved in, you appeared at his front door holding a plate covered in a pink cloth. “Hi! I dont know if you noticed but i moved in the other day,” you chirped, your smile wide and genuine. “I made cookies. Thought you might like some.”

You were wearing a pale pink, ribbed-knit crop top that clung to your torso, the fabric thin enough he could see the shadow of your nipples underneath. Your jeans were denim, cut low, hugging the curves of your hips and the swell of your ass. Your skin was smooth, golden-tanned, and you smelled like sugar and vanilla.

“Leon,” he said, his voice gruff. “Thanks.”

“Oh, cool name!” You handed him the plate. Your eyes were warm, sparkling with an unfiltered optimism that felt alien to him. “I hope you like them. They’re sugar cookies!”

He took the plate. “Appreciate it.”

“No problem! See you around!” You bounced back to your house, your ass cheeks shifting under the denim with each step. Leon closed the door, set the cookies down, and exhaled a long, slow breath. He was so fucked.

The next week was a slow-burn torture. You were always outside. Gardening in cropped tops that did nothing to hide the curve of your tits. Watering plants in sundresses that sat just above your ass and thighs.

You waved at him every time you saw him. Your wave was was an entire-body gesture, a wiggle that made your chest bounce.

Leon started collecting his newspaper later, hoping to avoid your morning cheer. It didn’t work. You'd be on your porch, sipping coffee in a pink satin robe that was clearly just a nightgown, the collar loose, offering him a sunny “Good morning!” He’d grunt a response, his eyes glued to the pavement.

Then came the final straw.

Leon stepped onto his front porch, the morning sun warm on his face. He reached for the newspaper in its plastic sleeve. A movement caught his eye over the fence.

You were in your backyard. You'd set up your bright lawn chair. And you were lying on it, on your back.

What you were rocking wasn't a bikini. It was two tiny triangles of hot pink fabric, together by thin strings. The top triangles strained, threatening to spill the breasts they were meant to cover.

Your nipples, hard as diamonds, pressed against the taut material, creating two distinct peaks. The bottoms were even more obscene—a narrow strip of fabric between your legs, the sides cut so high they barely covered the outer curves of your ass.

Your skin was oiled, glistening, every dip and curve highlighted.

Leon’s breath stalled in his throat. His eyes scanned the neighborhood as a distraction.

Old Mr. Henderson was suddenly mowing his lawn, his head tilted toward your yard. The teenage boy down the street was “fixing” his bike on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed over the fence. A woman across the street was pretending to water her flowers, but the hose was aimed at her feet. And an middle aged couple walking their dog, eyes fixed on you in your lawn chair.

They were all watching. Ogling. And you were utterly oblivious. You had a magazine open on your lap, one hand resting on your stomach, the other occasionally brushing hair from your face.

You shifted, turning slightly, and the bikini bottom pulled, revealing a glimpse of the smooth, oiled skin of your inner thigh, nearly to the crease of your ass.

Leon felt a heat rise in his gut, a familiar, coiled tension that had nothing to do with survival instincts this time. He was staring. He couldn’t stop. His eyes traced the swell of your chest, the dip of your navel, the expanse of your thighs. Jesus Christ.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes met his across the distance. You smiled, that bright, unguarded smile. You waved.

Leon froze, his newspaper clutched in a tight fist. He gave a stiff, minimal wave back, forcing his eyes away from your chest. You sat up.

You swung your legs off the chair, the movement making your breasts shift heavily within their tiny confines. You stood, picking up your magazine, and started walking toward the fence that separated their properties.

Leon’s heart hammered against his ribs. Don’t come over. Don’t. You reached the fence, leaning over it slightly. The top of your bikini gaped a little with the movement, showing a deeper shadow of cleavage. “Hey Leon! Beautiful day, huh?”

“Yeah,” he managed, his voice tight. “I was just catching some sun. You should join me! I have an extra chair.” Your tone was innocent, friendly.

Leon’s gaze dropped. He couldn’t help it. The pink fabric of your top was stretched so tight over your breasts he could see your nipples pressed against it.

His stare was fixed, hungry, perverted. Your smile faltered. Your eyes followed the line of his stare to your own chest.

A slow realization dawned on your expression. Your cheeks flushed. Not with anger, but with a sudden, hot awareness. You looked back at him. His eyes were still locked on your tits.

You didn’t recoil. You didn’t cover up. You just… watched him watch you. Your breath hitched slightly. Then, you bit your lip. “I… I should go,” you said softly, but your voice wasn’t scared. It was… breathy.

You turned, clutching your magazine to your chest, and walked back toward your house. Leon stood rooted, a cold dread washing over him. You fucking idiot. You scared her off.

But you didn’t go inside. She stopped at your door, turned, and looked back at him. Your gaze was direct, burning. You didn’t speak. You just lifted your hand, curled a finger, and beckoned him. A clear, silent command: Come here.

Leon’s blood went from cold to boiling in a second. He didn’t think. He dropped the newspaper on the porch and moved.

He crossed his yard, opened the gate in the fence, and strode into your backyard. His steps were quick, purposeful. You watched him approach, your eyes wide, lips parted. When he was close, you turned and opened the door, stepping inside. He followed.

The house smelled like you—sweet, floral, clean. The living room was a riot of coolours: fluffy pillows, a pink velvet sofa, floral curtains. You didn’t stop there. You walked through the living room, down a short hall, and into your bedroom.

Leon followed, his boots quiet on the plush carpet.

Your bedroom was a girl's dream. The walls were a soft blush. The bed was huge, covered in a fluffy white duvet and a dozen pink throw pillows. A chiffon canopy draped from the ceiling. Everything was soft, feminine, young.

You turned to face him, standing beside your bed. You were still in that tiny bikini, glistening with oil. Your chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

“You were staring,” you said, your voice low.

“Yeah,” Leon admitted, his own voice rough.

“Do you… like what you see?” You asked it softly, a challenge wrapped in silk.

Leon’s control snapped. “Fuck yes,” he growled.

He stepped forward, closing the distance in one swift movement. His hands went to your waist, gripping the slick skin of your hips. You gasped, a sharp intake of air. He pulled your against him, his body hard and tense against your soft, oiled warmth.

Your mouths met. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate. Leon kissed you like he was claiming something, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. You moaned into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. The magazine fell from your hand, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. Leon’s hands slid up your sides, over the smooth curve of your ribs, to the strained fabric of your bikini top.

He palmed your breasts through the material, feeling the weight of them, the prominent nipples hardening against his palms. You arched into his touch, a broken moan escaping your throat.

“Ohhh,” you whimpered.

Leon hooked his fingers under the thin strings of your top and pulled. The triangles of fabric gave way, sliding down your chest. Your breasts spilled free, now fully erect. He groaned at the sight, his thumbs brushing over the stiff peaks.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, his voice thick.

Your hands were on his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Leon… please…”

He kissed you again, swallowing your plea. He backed you toward the bed, your steps clumsy, knocking over a pink vase on a bedside table. It crashed to the floor, ignored. You fell onto the bed together, the fluffy duvet swallowing you.

Leon stripped his shirt off, tossing it aside. Your hands were on his chest, tracing the scars, the muscle. Your eyes were wide, admiring.

“You’re so… hard,” you breathed.

He pushed you back onto the pillows, his hands going to the tiny bikini bottoms. He hooked his fingers in the sides, pulling them down. The fabric slid over your oiled skin, revealing you completely.

Your pussy was bare, neatly trimmed, your lips already glistening with arousal. Leon stared, his cock aching in his pants. “Jesus,” he hissed.

You spread your legs slightly, an invitation. Your eyes were locked on his face, burning with need. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this,” you confessed, your voice shaky. “Since I saw you. I thought about you… fucking me.”

Leon’s filthy mouth kicked in. “You wanted this old man to ruin your pretty little pussy?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He undid his belt, pushed his pants and boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, veins running along the shaft, the head a dark, flushed pink. Your eyes widened further, a mix of shock and raw desire.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “It’s… it’s so big.”

Leon knelt between your spread legs, his cock hovering your her glistening slit. He didn’t enter you. Not yet.

He pressed the hot, broad head of his dick against your outer lips, dragging it slowly upward. The slick, wet tip traced the outline of your pussy, smearing his own pre-cum—a clear, sticky pearl—across your swollen folds. The shlick sound of the wet glide was obscene in the quiet room. You moaned, your hips lifting off the bed. “Ahhh… that feels… hnng…”

“You like that, baby?” Leon growled, rubbing the head up and down your slit, spreading your wetness, making your lips puff up more.

“You like my cock painting your pretty little cunt?”

“Yes, yes I like it… fuck…” your voice was a broken whimper. He increased the pressure, rubbing the firm tip harder against your sensitive flesh. He slapped it lightly against your lips, a soft thwap sound that made you jerk.

“You’re getting so wet for me,” he murmured, watching your juices mix with his pre-cum, creating a shiny, slick mess. “Your pussy’s begging for it.”

He focused the head on her clit, a firm, prominent bead now fully engorged. He pressed the tip against it, rubbing in a slow, circular motion.

Your body convulsed. “EEE! Right there… ohhh fuck…” your hands grabbed at the sheets, twisting them.

“You gonna come just from me teasing your clit?” Leon asked, his voice a dark, commanding rumble. “You gonna scream for me before I even fuck you?”

He kept the pressure, the motion, his cockhead a relentless, wet tool against your most sensitive spot. Your pussy lips began to part, opening like a flower, leaking more thick, transparent juice. Your breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.

“I’m… I’m… ahhhh!” your back arched, breasts heaving. Your clit pulsed under his relentless attention.

Your orgasm hit you suddenly, a sharp, violent cresting. Your whole body tightened, your legs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing, gushing a fresh wave of wetness over his cockhead. You cried out, a high, strained scream that tore from your throat.

“Jesus Christ!"

Leon watched your face, your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth open in ecstasy. He kept rubbing, even as you peaked, making your orgasm extend, prolonging the torture. “That’s one,” he muttered.

“Let’s see how many you can take.”

Your body collapsed back onto the bed, trembling. Your eyes opened, hazy and overwhelmed. “Leon… please… I need you inside…”

“Not yet,” he said, his voice cruel with pleasure. He shifted, dragging his cockhead down from your clit to your opening. He nudged the tip against your entrance, feeling the hot, slick resistance of your tightness. He pushed, just a little, the broad head starting to stretch you opening.

You gasped, your hips lifting again. “Ohhh… you’re… hnng… you’re so big…”

He retreated, pulling his cock back, then slapping the head against your swollen cunt again. Thwap. Thwap. The sound was wet, lewd.

Your pussy was a glistening mess, your lips puffy and parted, your clit throbbing visibly.

“You want it?” he taunted. “You want this thick fucking cock splitting you open?”

“Yes! Yes, I want it… please… fuck me, Leon… ruin me…”

He pushed the head back against your entrance, applying more pressure this time. The tip began to sink into you, stretching the tight muscle.

Your breath caught, your eyes wide on his face. “It’s… it’s stretching… ahhh…” you moaned, your hands grabbing his thighs.

Leon leaned forward, his body hovering over yours. He looked down into your eyes, his gaze dominant, unyielding. “You’re gonna take every inch, sweatheart. You’re gonna swallow my whole fucking cock, and you’re gonna scream while you do it.”

He pushed harder.

The head breached, sliding into your hot, wet cunt. The shlick sound was deeper, wetter. You cried out, a sharp “Oh” as your body accepted the first intrusion. Your pussy gripped him instantly, a tight, velvety fist around the crown of his dick.

Leon groaned, the sensation exquisite. “Fuck… you’re tight, baby. So fucking tight.”

He didn’t thrust yet. He held there, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. He watched your face, saw the pain-pleasure mix in your eyes, the desperate need. “More…” you begged, your voice thin. “Give me more…”

Leon obeyed.

He pushed forward, his thick shaft sliding deeper into you, stretching your walls wide. Your pussy made a wet, sucking sound as he invaded you. Your body trembled beneath him, your breasts shaking with each incremental advance.

He kept going, slow, relentless, until his entire length was buried inside you. He was hilt-deep, his balls pressed against your ass, your pussy stretched to its limit around his girth. He could feel your cervix, a firm, rounded barrier at the deepest part of your cunt, nudging against the tip of his cock.

You were panting, your eyes wild. “You’re so deep… oh god… you’re so deep… I feel… hnng… I feel so full…” Leon began to move. He pulled back, almost entirely out, then drove forward again, a slow, powerful thrust that buried him deep once more.

The slap of his hips against yours was a solid thwack. Your ass cheeks bounced against the bed, your breasts jolted with the impact.

“Ahhh!” you screamed, your long nails digging into his skin. He set a rhythm, slow at first, each thrust a deep, penetrating invasion. His cock slid through your slick cunt, the wet sounds obscenely loud.

Your pussy gripped him tightly each time he pulled back, then stretched wide again as he plunged forward.

“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice strained with his own pleasure. “You feel my cock fucking your brains out?”

“Yes! Yes I feel it… ohhh fuck… it’s so good…” you moaned, your head thrashing on the pillows.

He increased his pace. The thrusts became harder, faster. His hips slapped against yours with more force, making you body jolt on the bed. Your breasts bounced wildly, your nipples stiff and flushed. Your cunt was a wet, stretched mess, juices leaking around his shaft with each withdrawal.

Leon’s filthy talk poured out, a continuous stream of dominance. “Your pussy’s making such a nasty fucking sound, baby. Can you hear it? Like you’re fucking gushing for me.”

You cried, your eyes locked on his. “You’re my pretty little slut now,” he growled, pounding into your poor pussy. “This cunt belongs to me. I’m gonna fuck it until you can’t think, until you’re just a moaning, begging hole for my cock.”

“Yes! Make me your slut… please… fuck me harder… ahhh!”

He obeyed, driving into you with brutal, deep strokes. His aim was precise, each thrust targeting your deepest spot, the head of his cock battering against your cervix with a firm, persistent nudge.

Your reactions escalated. Your moans became hoarse screams, your body convulsing with each impact.

“Right there! Right there!” you shrieked, your hips bucking against him.

Leon focused on that spot, hammering against your cervix with relentless force. The pressure was intense, a deep, internal grinding that made your eyes roll back. Your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic spasms, your orgasm building again.

“You gonna come again?” he demanded, his thrusts never faltering. “You gonna cream on my cock?”

“Yeah baby” your voice shattered into a high, broken wail. Your body locked up, your cunt gripping his shaft like a vice, milking him as your second orgasm ripped through you. Juices flooded around his cock, hot and copious.

Leon kept fucking you.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. He drove into you through your orgasm, extending your pleasure into overstimulation. You cried out, your sensitivity peaking into a painful ecstasy. “No… ohhh… it’s too much… ahhh!” but your hands clawed at his back, pulling him deeper.

“You can take it,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “You take every fucking thrust. You don’t get a break.”

He fucked you through the aftermath of your climax, his cock plunging into your sensitive, quivering cunt. The wet sounds were even louder now, your pussy soaked and stretched, accepting his relentless invasion.

His own climax was building, a tight coil in his balls, a heat spreading up his cock. He could feel his control slipping, the pleasure dom intensity giving way to his own raw need.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “I’m gonna pump my fucking cum deep into your cunt, sweetheart. You want that?”

“Yes!” you begged, your eyes glazed. “Cum in me… fill me up… please…”

He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his cockhead pressing firmly against your cervix. The orgasm erupted from him, a hot, violent rush. “Fuck!” he roared, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into your cunt.

You felt it. The hot, sudden gush deep inside you, filling your channel, painting your walls. You moaned, a long, drawn-out “Ohhhh…” as the sensation washed over you.

Leon didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried, his cock still pulsing inside you, releasing the last of his cum. He collapsed forward slightly, his weight pressing you into the bed, his mouth near your ear. “You feel that?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You feel my cum filling your fucking womb?”

You nodded, breathless. He stayed there, connected, his cock slowly softening inside your soaked, stretched cunt. The intimacy was overwhelming, the skin-to-skin contact, the shared heat, the mixed fluids.

After a moment, he shifted, pulling back slightly. His cock, now slick with your combined wetness, slid partway out. You gasped at the sensation, your pussy clenching around the retreating shaft.

Leon looked down at your face. Your eyes were half-closed, your lips parted, your expression dazed and utterly satisfied.

“That,” you breathed, your voice a soft, awed whisper, “was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”

1998

Leon had already checked the time twice in the last minute, his gaze flicking back to the grandfather clock that sat to the left of the stairs. He still didn’t know how his girlfriend managed to get that massive thing through her front door when the rest of her apartment barely fit two people and a couch, but somehow, she had made it work. It ticked loud enough to fill the whole space, each second landing a little heavier than the last. 

Glancing at it a third time might have been excessive, but today wasn’t exactly a normal day. It was his first day. His first real assignment. The first time walking into the station as something more than a name on paperwork. 

He adjusted the collar of his uniform in the small mirror by her front door, smoothing it down like it might somehow make him look more put together than he felt. His palms were a little clammy beneath his gloves as he dragged a hand through his hair, trying to convince himself he looked fine, like he belonged in it. 

“You’re staring at yourself like you’re about to go on stage," she said from behind him. 

Leon huffed out a quiet laugh, glancing over his shoulder. “Feels like it.”

He turned a little more, giving her a half spin like he was showing it off. “What do you think?”

She was still in her pajamas, and it was five in the afternoon. The soft pink shorts barely brushed mid-thigh, one of his button-ups hanging loose like she’d thrown it on without thinking. It clung to her in that effortless way that made it look like it always belonged there. She must have finally dragged herself out of bed after sleeping most of the day glued to him, doing everything she could to keep him from leaving. 

If he didn’t have to go, he’d be fused to her instead of those clothes. 

Her eyes dragged over him slowly, far more dramatic than necessary. 

“I think,” she said, stepping closer, “you’re going to make every other cop there look bad.”

Leon snorted. “That’s the goal.”

Her oversized bunny slippers shuffled softly across the floor as she crossed the room, one hand lifting to scratch absently at the back of her head. She looked half-awake, like she hadn't fully decided to be a person yet. Messy hair. Sleepy eyes, probably still thinking about coffee. It was… distracting, in the best way. 

As she reached for him, he turned back toward the mirror, watching her reflection instead. She lifted her hand, adjusting something on his shoulder that didn’t actually need fixing, her fingers lingering against the fabric. 

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he said quickly, meeting her eyes in the mirror. 

She raised a brow.

Leon paused. 

“... Okay, maybe a little.”

Her smile softened, and for a second the teasing slipped into something quieter. 

“You’ll be fine.” 

He turned toward her and nodded, because of course he would be. It was just his first day. He’d go in, do his job, come back, and be right here again tomorrow like nothing had changed. Still, he leaned into her touch when she lifted her hand to his face, her thumb brushing lightly across his cheek, giving him that look that made his chest feel just a little too full. 

He’d been staying here with her the last few days since her place was closer to the station. His apartment sat halfway across town, and he hadn’t been too eager to spend his last stretch of freedom alone. She hadn’t hesitated when he called, already halfway through listing everything she could cook before he’d even finished asking. 

They’d done all of it—dinner, dishes, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch while she made him watch her favorite movie, staying up far too late tangled together in her bed like time didn’t matter. She was a night owl in every sense, completely opposite to the routine the academy had drilled into him. Early morning, coffee, runs, structure. Her messy hair and barely open eyes now told him everything he needed to know about how that usually went. 

They’d only been together for a little under a year, and somehow it still felt like this every time. New. Easy. Like he was still learning her, still wanting to. He caught himself thinking about it more than he probably should, whether the job, the hours, or the things that came with it would ever be too much. Not everyone loves cops. 

But she never made it feel that way. 

If anything, she looked at him like he was something worth holding onto. 

His eyes flicked to the clock again, more out of habit than urgency this time, but they didn’t stay there long. They drifted back to her instead, catching on the way her shirt rode up slightly when she shifted the soft line of her thigh where the fabric ended. It was distracting in a way he wasn’t entirely proud of, especially given the fact that he was standing here in uniform, about to walk into his first day like he had everything under control. 

He didn’t. 

Not really. 

Because part of him was still in her bedroom from a few hours ago, half-asleep and tangled in her sheets, her legs hooked around his like she had nowhere else to be. It would have been easy to stay there. Too easy. Call in, make something up, and spend the day exactly the way they had been—lazy, quiet, and wrapped up in each other like the rest of the world could wait. 

He could already hear the lecture he’d get for even thinking it.

Still… the thought lingered longer than it should have. 

His gaze dropped again, slower this time, like he wasn’t even trying to stop himself anymore. He wondered, briefly, if she was doing it on purpose—walking around like that, looking like that, knowing exactly what it did to him. 

Probably. 

That alone made him laugh.

He leaned down to kiss her, laughing softly into her lips as his arms slipped around her waist. Without warning, he lifted her a few inches off the ground, catching her completely off guard. She melted into it anyway, wrapping her arms around his neck as he gave her a small twirl before setting her back down, her slippers brushing against the long strip of carpet that led to the front door. 

When she pulled away, her hands stayed planted against his chest as she huffed out a laugh, still a little breathless. “What is it?”

Leon tilted his head, his gaze dragging over her like he was trying to memorize something without meaning to. Seeing her like this, hair a mess, barely awake, still wrapped in sleep and warmth, did something to him. It made everything else feel a little less important, like the day waiting for him on the other side of that door could wait a few minutes longer. 

The words slipped out before he could stop them. 

“I just... love you.” 

The second they left his mouth, reality hit him like a truck. 

She pulled back just enough to look at him, brows lifting slightly, and Leon felt his stomach drop straight through the floor. They hadn't said it yet—not out loud  now he was standing there in full uniform, blurting it out like it hadn't been sitting in his chest for weeks. 

He almost physically recoiled from himself. 

But then she smiled. 

Not just smiled—lit up. 

“Leon S. Kennedy, the man you are,” she laughed, shaking her head as she gave his chest a playful shove. “I look like a cave rat and this is when you decide to tell me you love me?”

Leon's brows furrowed immediately, confusion overriding the panic. He thought she looked perfect. Better like this, actually. 

"I—"

“I love you too.”

She didn't give him time to recover before she rose onto her toes and kissed him again, soft and certain, and whatever lingering panic he had left dissolved instantly. His arms tightened around her without thinking, pulling her in closer like that alone could keep the movement from slipping away. 

Leon barely had time to process the fact that she’d said it back before she pulled away, her hands still resting against his chest as she looked up at him, that smile lingering on her lips. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

He let out a quiet breath, something warm settling in his chest as he shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe how easily that had just happened. For a second, he just looked at her, thumb brushing absent circles against her side before he finally took a small step back, his hand slipping from her waist. 

“Hey,” he said, lighter now, that familiar teasing tone slipping back into place as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “I’ll be back when I get off. You’re stuck with me, right?”

He said it lightheartedly, carefree. 

He’d see her in the morning, and she knew he’d come straight back here. 

She smiled right back, not missing a beat. “Right.”

And for a second, that was enough. Leon turned, heading toward the door, already halfway into leaving, already shifting back into the version of himself that has somewhere to be—

“Wait,” she said, her hand catching his wrist before he could make it any further. 

He glanced down at her hand, then back up at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What?”

She tilted her head slightly, like she was considering something, then tightened her grip just enough to pull him a step closer. “Give me five minutes.”

Leon blinked. 

“Five minutes?” he echoed, a quiet laugh slipping through as he glanced instinctively toward the clock again. “I’m already cutting it close."

“Then you better make it count.”

There was no hesitation in her voice, no room for argument, and for a second he just looked at her, caught somewhere between responsibility and the very obvious fact that she was standing in front of him now with that look in her eyes, asking him to stay. 

His grip on his own schedule slipped faster than he’d like to admit. 

“You’re gonna get me written up on day one,” he muttered, but there was no real protest behind it, not when he was already letting her pull him back, not when the bedroom door clicked shut again behind him like it had never even been opened. 

"Worth it,” she said.

Leon let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as his hands found her again without thinking, settling at her waist like they belonged there. “You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are.”

Yeah. 

Here he was.

He told himself it was five minutes. That he could spare five minutes. That nothing was going to fall apart if he showed up a little late, that it wasn’t the end of the world. 

It wasn’t like anything important was going to happen today. 

His eyes dropped to her again, slower this time, taking her in like he wasn’t even pretending not to. “Five minutes,” he repeated, quieter now, like he was convincing himself more than her. 

She didn’t answer. 

She just smiled. 

And that was enough. 

Leon closed the distance himself this time, his hand sliding up her side as he pulled her back into him, already forgetting whatever time the clock was trying to keep as he kissed her again, slower at first, then not at all. 

Five minutes wasn’t going to be enough. He knew that the second she melted into him, he just didn’t care. 

And so Leon kennedy was late to his first day of work. 

2004

Leon noticed the ring before anything else. 

He always did. 

It caught the light when she moved, subtle and easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but his eyes found it anyways, watching the way her thumb rolled over the band like it had become second nature. She did it when she was thinking. When she was nervous. When she didn’t want to say something out loud. 

He’d learned that. 

Seven years had taught him a lot. 

The airport buzzed around them in a constant hum of pieces and movement, people coming and going like none of it meant anything, like goodbyes were just another part of the day. Leon stood just slightly behind her, one hand resting at the small of her back, not guiding, not pushing—just there. Grounding. His eyes moved without him thinking about it, scanning the exits, the people, and the space around them before settling back on her like that was the only place they ever really wanted to be. 

She turned toward him, still absentmindedly twisting the ring, and he reached for her hand without thinking, stilling the motion with his thumb. It wasn’t a large ring, light on her finger, simple in a way that didn't match how much it meant. 

There hadn't been a plan. No drawn-out proposal, no perfect moment. Just a courthouse that smelled like old paper and had heavy fluorescent lighting, a pen that didn’t work the first time he tried to sign his name, and her standing across from him like none of that mattered. Only he did. 

He hadn't wanted distance. 

That had been the whole point. 

After Raccoon city, after everything he’d seen and everything he’d been pushed into, the only thing that had made sense was her. Keeping her close. Making it real in a way no one could take from him. He hadn’t even asked in a way that felt like asking. Just stood there with her hands in his and said it like a fact. 

Stay with me. Marry me.

She had... And now he was the one leaving. 

His grip on her hand tightened slightly, just enough for her to feel it, and she looked up at him again. There was something softer in her expression than before, something that hadn’t been there years ago when goodbyes still felt temporary. 

“You keep doing that,” he said quietly, nodding toward her hand. 

Her lips curved just a little. “Doing what?”

He brushed his thumb over her ring again, slower this time. “You’re gonna wear a groove into it.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, but her fingers didn’t stop moving entirely, just slowed under his touch. “Maybe I like reminding myself it’s still there.”

Leon's jaw flexed faintly at that, something unspoken passing through him before he looked away for a second, eyes dragging over the terminal again out of habit more than anything. He didn't like that she needed reminding. Didn’t like that this—standing in an airport, watching him leave—was becoming something she had to get used to. 

He’d offered to take her with him once.

No—more than once. 

It hadn't been some grand conversation, not planned or thought through. It had slipped out of him the same way everything else with her seemed to, unfiltered and a little too honest for his own good. Come with me. He’d said it like it was simple, like it was something he could just offer her without consequences, like the life he was living was something she could step into without it changing her. 

She’d looked at him the way she always did when she was choosing her words carefully, hands wrapped around his like she needed him to stay long enough to hear her. 

"Leon... I can’t do that.”

He’d wanted to argue, almost had, but he knew she was right. 

He didn’t realize he’d moved closer until his hand was already at her back again, settling there like it belonged. His thumb brushed lightly against the fabric at her side, a slow, absent motion that didn’t need attention drawn to it. 

“I won’t be gone long,” he said, the words automatic, practiced. 

Safer that way. 

He felt her shift closer to him, her hand tightening around him as she looked up, searching his face like she was trying to decide if she believed him or not. 

Leon held her gaze, steady and controlled, giving her just enough of what she needed without letting the rest slip through. That part had taken time. Learning how to leave without making it harder than it already was. 

He exhaled slowly, his grip on her tightening just a fraction as he looked down at her. 

“If something—"

The words stopped before they could fully form. 

His jaw shifted, the rest of the sentence dissolving somewhere behind his teeth as he shook his head once, subtly, like he could erase it before she noticed. 

“Just… call me if you need anything,” he finished instead. “I’ll call you when I land," he added, quieter. 

She softened at that, a small breath leaving her as she shook her head just slightly. “I know you will… it’ll be okay, Leon. I’ll be okay. Okay? Just…come home in one piece."

He watched her as she said it, really watched her, like he was trying to catch whatever she wasn’t letting show. She’d gotten better at this over time, better at smoothing it over, at hiding the worry behind something steadier, something meant more for him than for herself. The fidgeting was still there, the way her fingers twisted at her ring, the small tells he’d learned to read without thinking, but her voice stayed even, calm in a way that didn’t quite match. 

It should have reassured him. But it didn’t.

If anything, it made something in his chest pull tighter, knowing she was doing this for him, holding herself together so he wouldn't have to carry it with him when he left. 

Leon’s jaw shifted slightly as he stepped closer, his hand finding hers again, stilling the motion of her fingers as his thumb brushed over the band again. “Hey,” he said, quieter now, not correcting her, not arguing. Because the truth was he knew she would be okay. 

“Love you," he said, the words low as he hovered just inches from her face. “Distance won’t change that.”

He leaned down, pressing a slow, steady kiss to her lips, his hand tightening around hers as he pulled her gently against his chest. His suitcase sat forgotten just a foot away, abandoned in the middle of the terminal like the rest of the world had been put on pause. For now, he let himself stay here, let himself take what he could from the moment while it was still his to have, memorizing the feel of other lips against his like it might be weeks before he got it again. 

When she pulled back slightly, her expression had softened, the tension easing from her face in a way that almost made it look like none of this was real, like she wasn’t about to watch him walk away. Like she already knew he’d come back. 

“I love you too, stud,” she said with a small smile, her hand settling against his chest as her fingers moved absently over the fabric of his shirt. 

Leon let out a quiet breath at that, his hand covering hers where it rested against him, holding it there for a second longer than needed. 

“You missed a spot,” she said suddenly, reaching up without warning. 

Leon blinked as her finger brushed just under his jaw, thumb swiping lightly like she was fixing something only she could see. He stilled for it, letting her adjust him like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“There,” she murmured, satisfied. 

He huffed a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You gonna start checking me over every time I leave now?”

"Someone has to make sure you look presentable.” 

He shook his head, but the small smile stayed. 

When the woman over the intercom called his flight to Spain, the sound cut through the moment like it didn't belong there. Her brows pulled together instantly, her hand returning to his chest, gripping him a little tighter like she could hold him there just by wanting it hard enough. 

This wasn’t like his first day. He couldn't make that mistake again; he couldn't afford it. 

Leon glanced over his shoulder toward the gate, watching as the doors slid open and the flight attendant stepped out, already preparing to board. For a second, he just looked at it, like he could delay it by not moving. 

Then his attention shifted back to her. 

She was already watching him, studying his face the way she always did right before he left, like she was trying to read something he wasn’t saying; the worry had slipped back in, quiet but impossible to miss. 

Leon didn't say anything. Instead, he took her hand and brought it to his lips, closing whatever space had formed between them. He kissed her this time with more weight, his hands coming up to frame her face as he pulled her into him, like he could make it last longer if he just held on hard enough. 

He couldn't 

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed gently beneath her eye, catching the tear that had managed to escape despite everything she’d tried to hold together. 

It was always like this. No matter how many times he left. No matter how much they told themselves it would get easier. 

His hand lingered against her cheek for a moment as he exhaled quietly, and then he said the same thing he always did, the words familiar, almost practiced. 

“You’re stuck with me, remember?”

She let out a small, breathy laugh, even as her eyes welled again, lifting her hands to wipe them away before they could fall. “Yeah…” she said softly, the smile still there even if it trembled a little. “I remember.”

Leon nodded once, like that settled it, like that made it easier, before leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. It lingered just a second longer... Then he stepped back. 

He grabbed his bags, the weight of them nothing compared to what he was leaving behind, and turned toward the gate before he gave himself the chance to hesitate. 

He didn't look back right away. 

Not this time. 

2012

He’d gotten the call a few hours ago, an outbreak in Tall oaks, bad enough that they needed him there immediately. No timeline, no estimate, nothing to anchor it. Just go. 

That alone had almost been enough to make him say no. 

It had been happening more often lately, that hesitation sitting heavier in his chest than it ever used to, pulling him back right at the edge of decision. Especially now. Especially with how things had been at home. 

Leon set his bag down by the door, the sound quieter than it should've been, like even that felt too loud in the space they were in. His eyes drifted across the room, landing on her where she sat on the couch, facing away from him, a small pile of freshly washed baby clothes to her left and a neatly folded stack to her right. 

She didn’t look back at him and just kept folding. 

He watched her for a moment longer than he meant to, taking in the way she moved, slower now, more careful, the weight of the last seven months settling into everything she did. She sat for most things these days, and he couldn't blame her. With only a month left before their daughter arrived, he could only imagine the strain on her back, the constant ache she never complained about as much as she probably could have. 

It wasn’t always like this. 

There had been days, more than he could count, where he’d come up behind her without a word, sliding his hands around her middle just to take some of the weight off, lifting gently until he felt her relax against him. She'd always let out that quiet breath, the one she always held after a long day, her head tipping back against his shoulder while he stayed there, holding her up while she finished whatever she’d been doing. 

Other times it was simpler. 

A passing comment about something she wanted, something small, and he was already out the door before she could tell him she didn’t actually need it, coming back with whatever it was in hand like it had been the easiest thing in the world. Like taking care of her wasn’t something he had to think about. 

Because it wasn’t. It had become instinct, all of it had. 

Watching her change, watching her body shift and grow to carry something that was theirs… it had done something to him, something quiet but permanent. There was a new version of her in front of him now, softer in some ways and stronger in others, and he found himself drawn to it just as much as he had been to every version of her before. 

Maybe more. 

Still, he could see it now… the way she pressed the fabric a little too firmly when she folded it, in the way each piece was set down with just a bit more force than necessary. 

She was upset. 

Hell, so was he.

When they’d told him the president's life was in danger, it hadn't even felt like a choice. Obligation came first. It always has. This was what he knew—what he’d been shaped into over years of doing the same thing over and over again until it was second nature. There wasn't really a version of him that walked away from something like that. 

But there wasn’t really a version of him that had this before, either. Her. A home. A child on the way. 

The thought of it has shifted something in him, deep and quiet, changing the way he looked at everything whether he wanted it to or not. 

He moved toward her, slowly, like he was approaching something fragile, his hands settling gently on her shoulders as his thumbs pressed into the tight muscles there, working small, careful circles into the tension he could feel without even trying. 

She didn't stop, didn’t lean back into him. Didn't even pause for a second. 

She just kept folding, picking up each tiny piece one by one, smoothing it out, and stacking it with the others, like if she kept her hands busy enough, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge anything else. 

He'd offered to help earlier, more than once, but she’d shut that down immediately. Something about him not folding them right, about how they wouldn't fit in the drawers if he tried. Normally, he would’ve pushed back, teased her a little, and made a joke out of it. 

Tonight, he let her have it. 

His hands slowed slightly against her shoulder, thumbs pressing just a little deeper before easing off again, his gaze dropping to the small clothes in her lap. They looked impossibly small. Too small. It still hadn’t quite clicked for him, not fully. Not until moments like this, when it was right in front of him. 

A quiet breath left him as his hands stilled for a moment, resting there like he didn't want to let go just yet. “You’re gonna run out of things to fold at this rate,” he said finally, his voice low, softer than usual, like he was testing the space between them instead of filling it. 

She didn’t answer right away. Just picked up another onesie, smoothing it out a little harsher than necessary before folding it with practiced precision. 

“Then i’ll unfold them and do it again,” she said, not looking up. 

Leon huffed quietly under his breath, something almost like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything. Despite him having to go again. So he moved around the couch instead, stepping over a laundry basket into her space until he lowered himself in front of her, his back brushing the glass coffee table in the middle of the floor. 

He crouched there, one knee pressing into the floor, close enough that she couldn't keep pretending he wasn’t there anymore. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his hand coming up to hers still mid-fold, the small piece of fabric caught between her fingers as he gently pulled it from her grip and set it aside. “Look at me.”

She didn’t at first. Her jaw tightened, eyes fixed stubbornly on the pile beside her, like if she ignored him long enough, he might disappear back to the door, back to the version of the night where none of this was happening. 

“Hey,” he repeated, quieter now, his hands sliding up her thighs, his head moving into her line of sight so that she couldn't avoid him anymore. 

Her eyes met his. 

And there it was. Everything she’d been holding in. 

Leon's expression softened instantly, something in his chest pulling tight as one hand moved from her thigh, settling instead at her stomach, his palm flattening gently over the curve of it like he was trying to understand something he still hadn't fully caught up to.

“You’re gonna wear yourself out,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of her stretched-out shirt, the words “coming soon” cheesily printed out over where her stomach goes. 

She let out a breath that sounded more like it had been forced out of her, her hands finally going still in her lap. “I’m already tired, Leon,” she said, her voice wavering just enough to give her away. “That’s not the problem.”

His gaze flicked up to hers again. He knew. Of course he knew. 

“You said you wouldn’t go,” she continued, the words coming a little faster now, like they’d been sitting there waiting. “You said you were going to stay. That you were done for a while. That you were going to be here.”

Each word landed heavier than the last. 

Leon swallowed, his hand stilling where it rested against her, his fingers pressing just slightly like he needed something to hold onto. “I know,” he said quietly. 

“No, you don’t,” she snapped, her voice breaking as she shook her head, her hands finally pulling away from her lap just to gesture helplessly in front of her. “You don't because if you did, you wouldn't be standing here with a bag by the door like this is just another job.”

“It’s not just another job,” he said, more firmly now, even if his voice stayed low. "It's Ashley’s dad. I don’t get to—"

“And what about us?” she cut in, her eyes glossing over as she leaned forward slightly, her hands hovering over her stomach like she didn’t know where to put them. “What about her?”

The room went quiet.

Leon's gaze dropped instantly, drawn to where her hands rested, where his own still hovered just beneath them. 

Like the question had weight. Like it mattered more than anything else she’d said. 

“She’s coming in a month,” she said, softer now, but somehow worse. “A month, Leon. What if you're not here? What if something happens and you’re not here? What if I have to—"

Her voice cracked, cutting herself off as she looked away, her hand coming up to press against her mouth like she could stop the rest of it from spilling out. 

And that– That killed him. Not the words. Not the fear. He’d heard fear before. Seen it. Lived in it. 

But this?

This was hers. 

After everything they’d been through to get here. 

Getting her out of Raccoon city when the world had already started to fall apart around them. Finding his way back to her after spain, after ashley, after everything that mission had taken out of him. The years that followed, being pulled in and out of operations with chris, disappearing for weeks at a time, or something longer. Every time he left her behind with nothing but a phone call and a promise he couldn't always explain. 

And she’s stayed. 

She’d been there every time he came back, every time he walked through the door like he hadn't just crawled out of hell again, grounding him in something real when everything else felt like it was slipping.

He thought about her constantly when he was gone. More than he should have. Enough that it got hard to carry. 

There had been too many nights where he’d sat alone in some dim hotel room or safehouse, the silence louder than anything he’d faced in the field, and he’d reached for a drink just to take the edge off it. Just to quiet the part of his mind that kept picturing her here, waiting, worrying, living a life that kept getting interrupted by his. 

He hated himself for it. Still did. 

Because it never actually helped. Especially when Chris started to notice. 

It just made the distance feel worse when it wore off. 

But this, sitting here now, watching her try to hold it together like this, knowing exactly what it felt like on the other side of it. He couldn't let her carry that. Not like this. Not now. 

Leon didn’t let it go any further. 

His hand moved fully over her stomach again, covering hers this time, grounding it, steadying it, his thumb brushing slow, careful strokes like he was trying to calm something he couldn't fix. 

“I’ll be here,” he said, quieter now. 

She let out a small, broken laugh, shaking her head. “You can’t promise that.”

He didn’t answer right away. Because she was right. 

Instead, his hand shifted slightly—and then he stilled. 

Not in confusion, but recognition.

His fingers pressed just a little more against her stomach, his gaze dropping as he felt it again, that familiar movement beneath his palm, small but strong enough to catch his full attention every time. 

“...Hey,” he murmured, softer now, like he always did when this happened, his thumb brushing lightly over the same spot like he could follow it. 

She felt it too, her hand settling over his, guiding it without thinking, her breathing still uneven from everything that had just spilled out of her. “She hasn’t done that all day,” she said quietly, The edge of her voice dulled by something else entirely. 

Leon huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something shifting in his expression as he kept his hand there, like he didn’t want to miss it this time. 

Like he never did. 

His thumb moved again, tracing a small path over her stomach as his head dipped slightly, his voice low and almost absentminded as he spoke, more to her than anything else. “She always does this when im here.”

The tension in the room changed. 

Not gone, but... Different. 

Leon lifted his head, leaning forward slightly, his forehead coming to rest against her, his hand still spread protectively over her stomach, holding both of them there in that small space between everything else. 

“I’m coming back,” he said, low and steady, not rushed. “I’m not missing this.”

Her breath hitched again, but this time she didn’t pull away. Didn’t argue. 

She just leaned into him, her hands finally settling against him instead of fighting him, gripping his shirt like she needed something solid to hold onto. 

“You better not," she whispered.

Something soft broke through the weight of everything as Leon huffed, pulling back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing once more over her stomach. 

“You’re stuck with me,” he said, like so many times before, the faintest hint of that familiar tone slipping back in, quieter now, but still there. “Both of you.” 

2028

This goodbye was different from the rest. 

It wasn't the kind at the door, a kiss on the cheek with a bag in his hand as he said he’d be back soon. It wasn’t an airport lobby, his hand wrapped around hers while she stressed over the flight. It wasn’t even the kind where he got to hold his family a little longer before turning, taking a job he already knew he’d end up hating. 

No. 

This time it was different. 

"Sherry?” 

Victor’s office felt cold. Too cold. Cold enough that Leon’s back straightened from where he leaned over the desk, the computer screen still lit with the reality he hadn't figured out how to process yet. 

"Yeah, Leon?” 

He took a steady breath, trying to pull his eyes away from the screen long enough to keep himself together. “Can you—" he paused, shutting the computer off before pushing away from the desk completely, his hand dragging briefly across his face as he closed his eyes for a second. “Can you patch me through to my wife?”

There was a pause on the other end. A long one. Then Sherry let out a quiet, sympathetic sigh. “Of course.” 

He heard the line connect. One ring. Two. by the third, he was sure he couldn't breathe, the thought of her not answering settling heavy in his chest in a way that felt worse than anything he’d just seen on that screen. 

Then—

“Daddy!” 

His ears were flooded instantly with the overlapping voices of his daughters, Casey first, loud and excited, and Ellie right behind her, already trying to take over the call. He winced, leaning back against the desk as he crossed his arms, his head tipping slightly as the noise hit him all at once. 

Fifteen years ago, he told his wife he’d come back. That he wouldn't miss this. 

Now, listening to them fight over who got to talk first, his shoulders felt heavy with the sudden realization that he may not be able to keep his promise this time around. 

“I wanna talk to him first, Casey!” 

"No, Ellie. He called mom not you.”

"Girls—" he tried, but it didn’t land. 

“Girls.”

Casey must have finally gotten control of the phone, because the noise shifted, her voice coming through clearer this time. “Hey Dad. What ya up to?”

Hearing her, both of them, did something to him he hadn't been ready for. It filled something in his chest and twisted it at the same time, the normalcy of it almost painful in contrast to everything else. 

They sounded calm. Happy. 

“Sweetheart… where's your mom?"

There was a brief shuffle on the other end and muffled voices as she turned away from the phone, probably shoving Ellie back just enough to get a word in. 

"Uh—outside, I think. Want me to grab her?”

“Please.”

For a second, just a second, the sound of their voices eased the weight pressing down on him. He listened to them bicker in the background, the familiar rhythm of it pulling at something deep in his chest, memories stacking over each other faster than he could keep up with.

Casey. 

The first time he held her, how something in him had shifted instantly, like that was it. That was the moment he was supposed to walk away from all of this. Be done. Be present. Be home. 

Ellie. 

And then her, years later, smaller, louder, just as stubborn… and somehow that had been the moment he stepped back into it, convincing himself they still needed him out there. 

Why? 

The question hit harder than it ever had. 

Why couldn't he let go? 

Years of this, of leaving and coming back, of telling himself it was worth it and now it all felt like it was crashing down on top of him at once. The guilt. 

Casey must have handed the phone off again, because the sound shifted, smaller this time. 

“Hi daddy.”

It made him smile.

“Hi, baby girl," he said, his voice tightening just slightly as he forced it to stay steady, like this was just another call, another day. 

“When are you coming home?” her voice was so small. Softer. Too innocent for the weight behind the question. 

He paused. Just for a second. He didn’t want to lie to his little girl. But he had to. 

"Soon, baby," He said gently. “I just need to talk to Mommy first, okay? Is your sister getting her?”

There was a quiet pause, like she was looking around, checking, “Mmm…. yeah.” 

He heard the front door open and then soon after her voice filtered through. “Elousie anne give me my phone.” 

That made him smile again; despite everything, the sound of her moving through the house grounded him in a way nothing else could. He could hear her footsteps across the hardwood, the soft shuffle of movement, a bit of protesting and a bit of shooing as she directed the girls away. 

“Please, Ellie, thank you—hey—hey, hon, sorry, I was outside watering the plants. Everything okay?”

He didn't answer right away. He just listened. 

The faint creak of the front porch door as it shut behind her. The hollow shift in the sound of her voice as she stepped outside, and the house falling away from the line, replaced by something quieter. Open. He could almost hear the wind brushing past the receiver, the distant hum of cicadas and the soft scrape of her shoe against the wood as she settled in the same spot she always did when she needed a second to herself. 

He could see it. 

The porch light was casting that warm glow across the railing. The hanging plants sway just slightly, the ones she insisted on keeping alive even when he wasn’t there to help her water them. He’s killed every plant he’s ever had, but at least he had her. Then the chair she always sat in, angled just enough to face the yard. 

He could picture her standing there now. 

Phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. One hand resting absentmindedly against her hip, the other probably still damp from the hose.

Waiting. 

“...Leon?”

Her voice softened as she said his name, just enough that it pulled him back. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, quieter now, like the air had been knocked out of him somewhere between hearing her and realizing how far away he actually was. “Yeah, i’m here.” 

There was a pause on the other end. Not long. Just enough. 

“You don’t call like this unless something’s wrong," she said, and there it was—that steadiness. Not panicked. Not accusing. Just…knowing. 

God. 

After all these years, she still knew. 

Leon closed his eyes, his head tipping back slightly against the wall behind him, the weight of it pressing in all at once. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice rougher now. “Something’s wrong.”

The line went quiet again. 

He could hear her shift on the porch, the wood creaking beneath her as she sat down, like she needed something solid under her before he said whatever he was about to say. 

"...Are you safe?” she asked finally. 

Leon let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was nothing light about it, his hand bracing harder against the desk behind. “I’m… still here.” he said, the words careful, like he was choosing them for her and not for himself. 

That wasn’t what she asked. And she knew it. 

“Leon.”

Just his name… but it carried everything. 

He swallowed, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ceiling for a second, like maybe if he looked anywhere else, he wouldn't have to say it out loud. His free hand dragged slowly down his face, pausing at his mouth as he exhaled through it, steadying himself before he spoke again. 

“I’ve been getting worse,” he admitted, quieter now, the truth settling into his voice in a way that made it impossible to take back. “Last couple of days… I thought it was just stress, or bad air, I don’t know…" he shook his head slightly, eyes closing again as the memories lined up clearly now. “It’s not.”

The coughing. 

The blood. 

He paused, his gaze flicking briefly to his arm, to the faint dark illness beneath his skin that he could feel even if he couldn't fully see it. 

“I know what it is now.”

The silence on her end sharpened. 

“You’re saying that like you’ve seen it before,” she said, something tight in her tone, something already bracing for impact. 

Leon swallowed, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned his weight back into the desk. “I have, it's—" he paused, contemplating giving too much away. “It’s the T-virus," he said simply. “And I know what happens when it takes hold.”

The words didn't shake. He didn’t let them. 

“I’m not going to sit here and wait for it to take me,” he added more firmly, like saying it out loud made it real, made something he could push back against. “I’m going to figure this out. There's something here—data, labs, whatever the hell they want from Grace—I just have to find it.”

The porch creaked again. 

“Leon…” She breathed, and this time there was no mistaking it. The steadiness she’d been holding onto was slipping, not all at once, but enough that he could hear it. 

“If you know what this does to people—"

He didn’t answer. Because he did, of course he knew. But that didn’t matter. 

“I’m not them,” he said instead, stubborn in a way that hadn’t left him in all these years. “I’ve walked out of worse.”

“You’ve walked out of lucky," she corrected, her voice breaking just slightly now, the truth pushing through whether she wanted it to or not. “You don’t get to pretend this is the same thing.”

Leon's jaw clenched, his eyes finding the ceiling again, like he could will himself into believing what he was saying. “I’m coming home,” he said, more firmly now. “You hear me? I’m not done yet.” 

He was met with silence, heavy and unsure. 

And then—

“You don’t know that.”

It was quiet. Too quiet, and Leon's hand tightened against the desk, his fingers curling as he pushed off it, pacing once across the room before stopping again. Like he needed movement to keep himself grounded. “I do,” he said, almost immediately. “I’m not leaving you like this. I’m not leaving them like this.”

Her breath hitched on the other side of the line. He heard it. Felt it, and it hit him harder than anything she’d said so far. 

“You think I don’t know what that looks like?” she asked, her voice thinner now, the control finally cracking in a way she couldn't hold back anymore. “You think I haven’t seen what that virus does? What it turns people into?”

The porch creaked faster this time, like she’d started pacing, the same way she always did when she couldn't sit still with something. 

“You got me out of raccoon city,” she continued, her voice shaking now, emotion bleeding through every word. “I watched what that place did to people, Leon. I watched what it almost did to you. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re just going to walk it off.” 

Leon's chest tightened, something sharp cutting through him as he stopped pacing, his hand coming up to rest against the back of his neck, gripping it like it might keep him steady. “I’m not saying that,” he said, still holding the line. “I’m saying i’m not giving up.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” she snapped, and this time it didn’t hold together, the control finally splintering in a way she couldn't pull back from. “You don’t get to just fight this because you want to. That’s not how it works—”

Her voice just… cracked open.

Leon froze where he stood, the shift in her hitting him harder than anything she’d said so far, his hand tightening at his side as the sound of it carried through the line.

There was a shuffle on her end, hurried and uneven, like she’d turned too fast or lost her footing for a second before catching herself. The porch creaked again, louder this time, and then softer as she sank back down into the chair, the movement small but heavy enough that he could picture it perfectly.

And then—

She cried. Quiet, uneven sobs that she was trying to swallow down and failing, her breath catching in between them like she didn’t want him to hear it but couldn’t stop it either.

It broke him.

Leon’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt, his hand coming up to press against it like that might steady something that was already slipping out of his control. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just listened, the sound of her trying to hold herself together on the other end of the line cutting deeper than anything else could have.

“You have to come home,” she said finally, the words barely holding together between breaths. “You always come home.”

His jaw clenched.

“You always do,” she repeated, quieter now, like if she said it enough times it would make it true again, like it had every other time.

Leon closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as he fought to keep his own voice steady, but for a second, just a second, he couldn’t find it.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered, and that one… that one didn’t sound like a fight anymore. It sounded like something she already knew the answer to and didn’t want to say out loud.

“The girls need you,” she added, her voice shaking again as another quiet sob slipped through despite her trying to stop it. “They need you, Leon. I need you.”

God.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he dragged a hand down his face again, trying to pull himself back together because if he lost it now, there’d be nothing left to give her.

“I’m coming home,” he said, quieter now, but not weaker—just… heavier. “You hear me? I’m not leaving you like that.”

The words didn’t land the same anymore.

They didn’t fix it.

They just hung there, something he needed to say even if neither of them fully believed it.

He took a step forward, then stopped, his hand bracing against the desk again as he tried to ground himself in something solid, something real. “I’m gonna figure this out,” he added, more firmly this time, like saying it again might give it weight. “I’ve handled worse than this. I just need time.”

A quiet, broken breath left her on the other end, and he could hear it—the way she wanted to argue, wanted to push back, but didn’t have anything left to fight him with.

Because she knew.

That was the worst part.

“I know you’re gonna try,” she said finally, softer now, her voice worn thin from the effort of holding it together. “I know you are.”

A pause. Long.

Heavy.

“But you don’t know if you can win this.”

Leon didn’t answer right away. Because she was right

And for the first time since the call started, he let that sit between them, the truth of it settling into the silence without either of them trying to fix it.

“…No,” he admitted quietly.

Another quiet sob slipped through the line.

And still—

He held onto what he had left.

“But you’re still stuck with me,” he said, softer now, something familiar threading through his voice despite everything, something that had always been there between them. “Until I die.”

There was a small huff of air through the line, but it didn’t feel like the rest of the conversation. It felt full. Too full of everything they weren’t saying, everything they didn’t have time to say… everything that sat between then and now with no clean way through it.

On the other end, her breathing was still uneven, quieter now but not steady, the kind that came after you’d already cried and were trying to convince yourself you were okay when you weren’t. Leon stayed where he was, his fingers digging into his earpiece like letting go of it would take her with it, his other hand braced against the desk just to keep himself grounded in something.

It was right then he understood why this goodbye felt different.

Because it wasn’t one.

Not really.

He wouldn’t let it be.

Not when he could still fight. Not when there was still something left to hold onto. Not when she was on the other end of the line, breathing, listening, still there.

“I didn’t call to say goodbye,” he said finally, his voice low, quieter than before, like the fight in him had settled into something steadier. Something more honest.

A small, broken sound left her on the other end, not quite a laugh, not quite anything else.

“I know,” she whispered.

He swallowed, his throat tight as his gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers curling slightly against the edge of the desk. “I just…” He paused, exhaling slowly, trying to find the words that didn’t make this sound like what it was.

“I needed to hear you,” he said, softer now. “All of you.”

Because that mattered more than anything.

He let the words sit there, not rushing to fill the space after them, letting them carry their weight without trying to soften them into something easier.

“They sounded good,” he added after a moment, quieter now, something fragile threading through his voice. “The girls.”

A pause.

“They’re okay,” she said, her voice still thin, still trying to hold together. “They’re waiting for you.”

That one landed harder than the rest.

Leon closed his eyes for a second, letting it settle somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere he knew he’d carry no matter what happened next.

They would see him again.

He had to believe that.

“Tell them…” he started, then stopped, his jaw tightening slightly as he shook his head. “Tell them I’ll call again,” he corrected quietly, choosing the version of the truth he could live with. “Soon, and that I love them.”

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t correct him.

She just let it sit.

He wasn’t sure what that meant—if she was trying to come to terms with it, or if she was holding onto his determination the same way he was—but she didn’t take it away from him.

“I will,” she said.

The porch creaked again, softer this time, like she’d leaned back into the chair, like she was staring out into the yard the way she always did when she needed to think. He could picture it so clearly it almost felt like he was there, standing just behind her, his hand resting at her shoulder the way it always had.

He wished he was.

“…Leon?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m right here," she said softly. 

Not "I love you." Not “come home. ” Just that. Simple...and somehow that hurt more than anything else she could've said. 

Leon let out a slow breath. “I know," he said quietly. 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It just lingered. Neither of them moved to end it, neither of them willing to be the one to let go first, like staying on the line just a second longer meant something. Like it could hold this movement in place a little longer before everything else caught up to it. 

“Call me,” she said after a while, softer now. 

“I will.” 

Another pause. 

“...Okay.”

The line stayed open for just a second longer. Then—

A quiet click. 

Leon stayed like that for a moment, standing in the silence left behind by the receiver, the absence of her voice settling heavier than anything else in the room. For a second, it threatened to hollow him out completely, but then something else followed it, slower, steadier. Determination. It crept in quietly, filling the space she’d just left behind, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

He had to push through.

Had to keep going.

For Sherry. For Grace. For Casey and Ellie.

For his home.

For her.

–

When he set his bags down on the front porch and knocked softly against the door, it felt like something had finally lifted off his shoulders.

Not all of it.

But enough.

After the dose of the cure, he felt… different. Clearer. Lighter. Better than he had in longer than he could remember. Coming that close to losing everything had forced something into place inside him, something he wasn’t willing to let slip again.

He wasn’t going to almost lose this.

Not ever again.

The door barely had time to open before his two girls came barreling into him, all momentum and noise, hitting him full force like they always did. He laughed—real, unguarded—as he caught them, lifting both of them halfway off the ground, steadying himself as he stepped back into the house, swaying them slightly like he had when they were smaller.

This.

This was what it meant to live.

All those years he’d spent chasing that feeling, through work, through missions, through places that never felt like home, thinking maybe the next one would give him something he was missing.

And it had been here the whole time.

Standing right in front of him.

His wife stood a few steps back, arms crossed, dressed in casual sweats and a loose tank that hung at her hips, watching them with that same quiet smile she always had when he came home. There was something softer in it now, something that hadn’t been there before. Something that looked a lot like relief.

The second he saw her, everything else faded.

He pressed a quick kiss to each of the girls’ heads before setting them down, barely giving them time to protest before he was already moving, closing the distance between him and her in two strides.

He didn’t stop.

His hands found her waist, pulling her into him as he kissed her, firm and grounding, like he needed to make sure she was really there. His hands moved to her face, holding her there as she melted into him without hesitation, whatever had been left from that phone call, from that night, dissolving into something warmer. Something real.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for just a second before he drew her in again, softer this time, his arms wrapping around her as he bent slightly, pressing his face into the crook of her neck like he could anchor himself there.

She held him just as tightly, her arms coming up around his neck as she pressed closer, like she wasn’t willing to let him go just yet.

Behind them, the girls groaned loudly, already booing the display, their voices echoing through the house and pulling a quiet laugh from him despite everything.

And in that moment, right there, in the middle of it all, he knew.

He was done with goodbyes.

“I guess I really am stuck with you,” she murmured into his coat, her voice softer now, her grip tightening just slightly.

The breath that left him was shaky, like the last of everything he’d been holding onto finally slipped free.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her, his hands coming up to frame her face again, his thumbs brushing lightly over her skin.