contents (nsfw): Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU friends to lovers rom-com with pregnancy. Fluff, humour, smidge of angst, banter, domesticity, caretaking, pregnant sex with some dirty talk, riding, mild choking, marking, aftercare. They cry at the end.
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next chapter -> (03/07)
synopsis: In which Reader meets Egg. (Pregnancy status: 21-24 weeks, II trimester).
word count: 13,3K
a/n: Banner by me, dividers by @strangergraphics, proofread by @hextoken!
Dunk is watching Finn from 2B take a terrible kick at the ball and thinking about how children’s bodies consist of elbows and zest. He walks around the pitch, corrects someone’s stance and does his best to avoid getting knocked on the head. His summer class is not as orderly as the school-year one, but the chaos of it is joyous. It’s less of a class and more of an afternoon thing. A place where kids can busy themselves while the weather is formidable and they are stuck in a boring town with their options narrowed to riding bikes, throwing stones into ponds and playing video games.
He makes them play Gaelic football because it holds fifteen per team and whoever plays it does so purely for fun. Egg enjoys it tremendously. He’s small enough to sneak past larger kids, so the ball gets hard-passed to him often.
It has unfolded itself so that when someone scores, their teammates gather them by the legs and arms and carry them above their heads like an offering to some hedge god. Egg has just scored and is currently being presented to the sky, and Duncan stands there, watching the anarchy, and laughing.
He is in a dangerous state of happiness. It has begun to make claims on him. He is no longer just Dunk, he is now a dad-to-be, a father to his future son, a useful lad and a man stuck, and happy to be stuck, in an arrangement that pains him little but confuses him greatly.
The agreed label is a friend and co-parent who happens to be sleeping with you. There is some shape of a family within it and it is a better one than Dunk’s ever had, and to Dunk, who converts crumbs into meals because he learned early to be grateful for crumbs, this is a banquet with no obvious bill yet. Sometimes this breeds uneasiness.
Good mood clings to him for so long he mistrusts it. Things keep going well. You text him when you wake or simply talk to him, because oftentimes the waking is done next to each other. Most of what he wants he gets: feeding you, driving you, putting furniture together, hearing you complain and getting scolded and looked at by you. Even if he doesn’t acquire the full catalogue of his dream things, it is already good. Becoming chosen can only happen without forcing your hand, otherwise he does not want it.
His confusion is about permission, and fairness, and consequence. Not the feeling. The feeling itself is clear and Duncan sometimes worries he is achingly plain with it. He’s babbled I want this, I want you, and mine too many times to remain inconspicuous. Thanks to your kindness, your remarkable ability to explain everything with a shrug and by telling him that things are like this sometimes, that people are strange like this sometimes, they say stuff and do stuff when their brains shut off, Duncan’s intentions are currently an elephant in the middle of the room, considerately covered with a white sheet.
This is, generally, how he survives the sex, though it feels less like sex and more like being read aloud from. Besides you being gorgeous and dear to him even without his boy in your belly, you’ve managed to rewire him into a caveman creature who thinks good every time your tit spills out of the bra. Then yes, this, when you’re muttering put a baby in me into his ear despite having one ripening in you already. And well, he likes that it is like that. He likes being allowed near the consequence of his own coveting, even if how deep that goes embarrasses him terribly.
He has a key to your place and intends to give you one to his place today, for today is another mundane day in the lives of the happily unmarried. He’s setting up a baby space in his flat and you’ve offered to help, and there are a great many worries in Duncan concerning it. His apartment being a testimony to his bachelor status is one of them. Despite him calling the whole date a 'preparation', to him it is nearer to consecration. Then, you coming and picking him up is another story entirely, because there is a shade of a chance for you to meet Egg and that makes Dunk giddy for reasons he doesn’t understand.
“Oi!” he yells at a boy tackling a smaller boy to the ground. “Quit actin’ like a maggot, will ye?”
The children laugh collectively and start chanting maggot-maggot like an extremely potent little cult. Egg comes over to Dunk with mud smeared on his ears. He squints, shields his eyes with one hand, and points towards the outskirts of the pitch with the other. “Who’s that?”
Duncan turns. Then, for two seconds, he becomes useless.
You are standing there in a blue sundress with your belly hugged by it prettily, and waving at him. He waves back. To his utter terror, he giggles too.
“Oh, boy,” Egg murmurs. “It’s real bad, innit?”
“Wha—?” Duncan mumbles. When there’s no reply he looks at Egg and Egg is wearing a shite-eating grin, so Dunk decides to overcompensate by yelling at children some more. “Oh, quit it, you,” he says. “Get back in there, we ain’t done yet.”
“Aye, sir,” Egg says and starts towards the middle of the field. He arranges himself into a position that suggests he’s about to sprint off, but before that happens he cranes his bald head to Duncan and quips, “She’s much prettier than Miss Darry.” And he’s off. And Duncan’s cheeks fill with a snort.
He gets back into the mosh-pit after Egg and the closer he is to finishing the session, the more his mind ventures into wistful areas. He’ll be able to do that with his own boy, and soon. He wonders what kind of player his boy will be, then tells himself the boy can hate sport if he wants, that would be fine, probably, though Dunk would need a private minute. After that private minute, the boy can do whatever he pleases. Duncan’s own boyhood was lonely and patched together by whoever took him in for a while, so the most important thing is for his boy to not have that sort of life. Those kinds of musings are easier, because he can say my son without lying, and where it might be heard. The rest of what he’d like to call his still feels stolen: girl, wife, family, home, and those are said only where no one can hear.
“Is that Mrs Pennytree?” asks Finn from 2B.
“Yes!” Egg bellows, as much as a person his size can bellow. Duncan glares at him, and gets another grin in response.
“Eyes on the ball, please,” Duncan says in a flat tone, trying to ignore the matter, and failing.
Another squeaky voice comes from the middle of the field: “Is she having your baby?”
That one nearly kills him. “Aye,” he says, tormented. “And if any of ye kick that ball near her, you’ll be doing laps till September.”
It all just turns into havoc. The children stop playing and openly giggle, and whisper and stare at you and ask their child-sized questions and state their child-sized statements, which, in this case, are all enormous. When did you marry? What’s her name? She’s so pretty! Will the baby go to our school? Having a teacher-parent’s a bummer.
At some point, Egg asks, “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Boy,” Duncan tells him, all fond despite himself.
“Cool,” Egg says with God-honest joy, and Duncan starts laughing, because he’s never heard Egg say cool before.
He turns to the maddening crowd. “Right, all of you,” he booms. “If one pregnant lady distracts you, I’ve no good news ’bout your futures. But it’s a wrap here for today!”
The kids disperse in various directions. Some go for the showers, some go straight home, and some make sure to come right by you and shout, “Goodbye, Mrs Pennytree!” with enough shrill sincerity to make Duncan redder than he has any right to be despite standing half a day in the sun.
He picks up the ball, though only the physical one, and trots towards you with Egg beside him. He wants to say hi, sweetheart. Egg is there, so what comes out is, “Oi.”
You smile. “Oi yourself.”
He smiles too, with one hand on the back of his neck and with the ball tucked under his other arm. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Warm, but alive. You?”
“Aye.” Duncan nods. “Grand.” Then nothing. For no proper reason, because you are standing on a school pitch and he has said hello to you before and Egg is only a child, except Egg is also looking between the pair of you with the attentive cruelty of a pensioner at a wake.
You cock your head to the side. “Are you the boy I keep hearing about?”
“Most likely,” Egg says. “I’m the favourite.” He squints up at you. “Are you the girl I keep hearing about?”
Duncan scowls.
“Oh?” you laugh. Then you turn to Dunk. “Uh, I hope so? Am I?”
Duncan has reached the sort of red that exists in nature only as a warning sign. He turns to the boy. “Egg, for Christ’s sake. Spare me, alright?” Then he turns to you and his voice softens at once. “Can ye wait another ten? I’m smellin’ all foul—”
You are grinning, clearly amused. “Yeah, no worries. I’ll wait.”
“Grand,” Duncan says. He turns to Egg once more. “Egg—” A finger gets pointed at the bald head. “No funny business, you hear me?”
“Aye, sir,” Egg says, and Duncan does not believe him for a moment.
He walks towards the building and you stare at his back a second too long.
You think, fervently, that you might just as well have been shot. The sight of Duncan with children is lethal. Patient, mock-stern, somehow gentle even when he is yelling across the pitch like he's calling cattle home. He corrects where correction is needed, encourages where encouragement has a place to land, and goes soft around the smaller ones without doing anything as obvious as softening. If you did not know him, you would think he was showing off.
Then again, who in their right mind would see this and not want it?
For one strange minute you feel a deep, wounded kinship with the maths teacher, whoever she is. Of course some woman who sees him every day in shorts and glasses and patience would lose her shite over it. It is a sensible injury.
You already know he is good with children. You have seen him with the bump, which is worse because the bump has no limbs and no eyes and no ability to thank him, and still he lowers his voice to it like it might be shy. You know he will be a good father. You know this with a grim force. But knowing a thing in your flat is different from seeing it here, in daylight, from the outside.
Here it gets embodied. It runs around in grass stains and shouts over him. Clings to his arm, ignores his authority, takes comfort from his largeness and abuses his kindness for sport. And naturally, because you are pregnant and therefore built from appetite and disaster, it all confuses you more.
Egg’s eyes on your face become heavier until they weigh a ton, so you break out from whatever stupor has taken you.
“And you?” you ask. “Not showering?”
“No,” Egg says. He looks you over with deep, thorough scrutiny, as if he has built a version of you from whatever Duncan has let slip, and is now comparing the product to reality. “I don’t get to be dirty as often, so I savour it,” he says, clearly thinking something else.
“That’s…” You press your lips together. “Very boy of you.”
He accepts the compliment with a small nod. Then keeps looking, which is both endearing and unnerving.
“So,” he says, in the tone of someone who has completed the formalities and is now ready to discuss dirt. “Why don’t you want to marry Mr Pennytree?”
The breath leaves you in one fast blow. “Oh Lord,” you say. “I see what Duncan means. You’re a real menace, aren’t you?” You shift the bag on your shoulder and try for stern. It comes out somewhat damaged by amusement. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, hm?”
“That’s exactly what he says,” Egg murmurs under his breath.
You glance at the sun reflected in his baldness. He looks down first, then up again, testing the fence.
“Did he propose badly?”
“Egg.”
“What?”
You mean to scold him. You do. It simply comes out far too fond, which is worrying for everybody involved.
“Fine, fine,” he relents. He digs his foot into grass. A beat passes. “All I mean is that he’s real good and he likes you a lot.” He says it off-hand, almost bored, which somehow makes it huge. “He only stares at this app of his and avoids Miss Darry like wildfire.”
“Miss Darry?”
“The maths teacher.”
The kinship with Miss Darry lives out its natural lifespan, which in this case amounts to roughly two minutes.
“I see,” you say, diplomatic in the way of someone who would love to hear more and knows perfectly well they should not invite a seven-year-old into gossip. Especially gossip about a woman who may well be guilty of nothing except having eyes and a workplace. “Well.”
“She wears red lipstick,” Egg says.
“Does she.”
“And laughs at everything.”
“I see,” you say again, less diplomatically.
Egg stares at you. His face has softened a little, impudence thinning into something more careful.
“You care about him, aye?” you ask.
Egg shrugs. “He’s alright.”
You smile. “I think the feeling’s mutual.”
He considers this, then smiles too. Small, quick, there and gone. His eyes drop to your stomach. “Can I touch your belly?”
The question catches you more gently than the others. “Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”
Egg steps closer. For all his nerve, his hand comes up with caution. It lands on the curve, light and flat, fingers splayed in a way that makes him look younger than he sounded a second ago. Both of you go quiet.
His hand is small. Warm from running. There is dirt crescented under one nail and a faint green smear at the heel of it. Your own boy will have hands like that one day. Small hands, damp from effort. Unreasonable with wanting things. Maybe grass-stained, maybe ink-stained, maybe sticky with jam or paint or God knows what. The thought warms you some and melts the borders of its surrounding countries through gentle invasion.
Egg’s brow pinches. “Can he hear me?”
“Maybe a little,” you say. “I’m not sure. I think mostly he hears my insides being rude.”
Egg nods as if this is useful scientific material. “Hello,” he says to your stomach.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
“He’s quiet,” Egg observes.
“He takes after his father in exactly one area, then.”
That makes Egg grin again. “What’s his name?”
“Oh.” You blink. “We actually haven’t decided yet.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Dunk has an app.”
“He does,” you say, trying not to squeal at being trusted enough that Egg now calls him Dunk instead of Mr Pennytree around you.
“With lists.”
“He does love a list.”
Egg hums to that, disappointed by adult incompetence but willing to continue living in the world despite it. His hand remains on your belly another moment, then drops.
Behind him, the building door opens hard enough to startle you both.
Duncan comes out with his hair still wet, cheeks and forehead a little sunburnt, shirt clinging damply at the collar. He has changed, but only just; there is still a streak of grass on his shorts and a look on his face that says he has spent the whole shower worrying what a small bald child might do with ten unsupervised minutes.
“Is he pesterin’ you?” he asks.
Egg straightens. “No.”
“He’s fine,” you say.
“She allowed me,” Egg adds, with great legal force.
Duncan looks between you. “Allowed you what?”
“To touch the baby.”
Duncan’s face does a thing dangerously soft before he throttles it and stuffs it behind suspicion. “Right.” He turns to Egg. “Have you been tellin’ her nonsense?”
“Some,” Egg says.
You laugh.
Duncan looks at you, panicked. “What sort of some?”
You lift one shoulder. “A lady never tells.”
“Ah, Jesus.” He looks to the sky, then back at Egg. “I knew it’d be trouble leavin’ ye two alone.”
Egg’s grin comes back in full. “You did say no funny business.”
“Aye, and?”
“I didn’t do funny business.”
Duncan folds his arms.
Egg thinks. “I did serious business.”
You laugh again, harder this time, and Duncan loses the fight with his own mouth. It twitches, then gives up. A limo pulls up to the parking lot.
“Into the car with ye,” he says, pointing towards the gate. “Before you start a union.”
Egg goes, but slowly, with one last assessing glance at you and then at Duncan, as if pleased with whatever private conclusion he has reached. You go too, because you're not sure if into the car with ye was intended for Egg, or you, or simply everyone who Dunk has marked as misbehaving.
Goodbyes are bid, and then into the respective cars, and then Duncan is driving you to his place and eyeing your knees every now and then, trying to come up with some last-minute reasons for carrying you through the threshold and setting you on the bed so your feet don’t touch the floor and you only conduct him while he does everything himself and then makes sweet love to you.
None of it happens, and the minute you set one slipper in his hallway, something in Dunk sinks with urgent vehemence, like he has been hoping for you to float three inches above the floor.
You look at him when the sigh leaves him. “Nervous?”
“A little,” Duncan says, because it is a white lie and the truth is insane.
He clears his throat and leads you to the kitchen. There are cups in the sink. Two, maybe three, and one spoon with tea dried round the bowl of it. The fridge door has ketchup smeared near the handle in a short red streak that immediately becomes the loudest colour in the room. Duncan sees you seeing the kitchen, then sees you being kind enough to not see the fridge, and feels a violent affection that makes him stupider than he already is.
“I’ll make tea,” he says.
“Oh, can I have coffee?”
Duncan turns to you.
“One,” you add quickly. “One coffee. The doctor said one is fine. The app said one is fine too.”
“Is it your first today?”
“Yes.”
“Proper first?”
“Yes, Dunk.”
“You sure?”
You look at him as if considering whether to bite. Then you put your hand on his bicep and say, “Please.”
It is the prettiest please he has heard in a week. He relents so thoroughly it is almost shameful. “Aye, alright. One.”
“Thank you.”
“One small one.”
“You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m responsible,” he says, reaching for the jar, and hears how pleased he sounds with himself. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
He points the spoon at you. “Sit down.”
You do, smiling. It makes him feel warm in places he'd rather not think of now.
The baby things are mostly in his bedroom, he tells you while the kettle starts its work. Some are in the hall cupboard. Some are in the living room too because the box said changing table on it and Duncan did not want to risk carrying it somewhere wrong without your supervision, which is how he says he panicked briefly and abandoned it near the telly.
You accept the coffee as if it has been handed down by a benevolent saint. Duncan carries his tea and points you towards the bedroom.
He has got rid of the desk. It sits in the corner of the living room now, looking wrong and sulky under a stack of old training cones and a folded hoodie. In its place, by his side of the bed, there is a gap he has cleared and swept and stood staring at for an embarrassing amount of time. A baby corner. That is what he has called it. A corner makes it sound small and sensible and temporary, like a lamp or a chair. What it feels like is a claim being made in wood and cotton.
You both agreed on a bedside sleeper instead of a cot because there is not enough space. Duncan agreed too, with his mouth, and in all practical senses he knows it is the right choice. Still, a cot would have pleased him. Two cots, really. One at yours, one at his. Two solid, lovely places for the boy to sleep in and make up for the shitty one Duncan remembers only as a smell of disinfectant and old milk and other children’s noise through thin walls. He does not say this.
There is also the matter of Duncan’s sleeping. He has never trusted himself in full unconsciousness. He gets too hot, kicks the covers off, twists himself into them, wakes sideways, wakes sweating, wakes with one arm dead under him. The thought of a newborn within reach of all that makes his stomach knot. A cot has borders. It's a little country of its own. A bedside sleeper, to Dunk, looks like a compromise between closeness and disaster, with one side too open and the boy too near the weather of his body.
Though, of course, the boy will mostly be with you. Dunk knows that. Everyone knows that. For the first months especially, the baby will need his mother more than he needs a large man with hands too big for the buttons on newborn clothes. This whole mission might be some jury-rigged thing, a small structure built so Duncan can feel included in the early days. Your way of saying he can have his space too.
Why he would need space, he has no idea. He would be happy to stay over at yours as much as needed, which he hopes, privately and with no dignity, is every day.
“You know,” you start, while he is setting up the changing table and you are doing your terrible job of folding onesies. “Egg asked me about a name.”
“Has he?” Duncan asks. “And what did you tell him?”
“That we haven’t picked yet. But he said that you’ve got…” You glance at him. “A list?”
Duncan blushes furiously. “Little—” He looks at you and your face manages to marry mockery with fondness the only way yours can. “It ain’t a list. It’s just a few names written down, is all.”
“Well,” you say, folding one sleeve into a shape no sleeve has ever asked for. “Do you have any ideas?”
“I dunno,” Dunk says. “Do you?”
“I thought, uh—” You stop. Your fingers worry the little cotton foot. “Maybe you have someone in your family you’d like to name him after? I don’t—” Your face shifts, cautious around him. “I don’t really have anyone like that, but I thought—”
“I don’t really know,” Duncan blurts.
And he really does not know.
Duncan has never quite been his name. He was given away nameless, as far as he knows, and named by Uncle Arlan afterwards. It was plainly Dunk first, despite everyone later deciding that Duncan must be the proper thing and Dunk the nickname. Someone stopped it before Dunk could be put into documents and said that was no name for a child, so Duncan went down instead. But he stayed Dunk whenever Uncle Arlan would speak to him, angry or fond or needing something fetched. Duncan was reserved for serious talks.
One of those talks was when Arlan smiled at him, which was menacing enough by itself.
There was a family considering Dunk as their child. They would visit and try to get to know him better, even though, by Dunk’s reckoning, he has always been knowable at first glance and there is not much excitement underneath to dig to. He liked sports. He liked animals. That was about it on him. The woman was kind-eyed and slender and taller than her husband, who was some sort of an office job-haver and always came with a leather suitcase and a shirt and tie on him. She wanted Dunk very much. The husband was apprehensive first, then mild.
In the end, Arlan called him Duncan and told him the family had decided it was not a good idea after all to adopt a boy, and Duncan would be staying in the home a little while longer, which lasted until he was eighteen and left.
Another time was when Rafe died.
Dunk felt it in his gut that something bad had happened, even though Rafe only had an infection and it seemed unfeasible that she would fail to shrug it off because she was the strongest girl Duncan knew. When Arlan sat him on the couch in the playroom late in the afternoon and said, “Duncan. Duncan, boy, there’s something I gotta tell you,” Dunk already had this acrimonious feeling growing in his chest because surely some injustice had just happened.
The injustice was that Rafe, a girl who had made it to the orphanage in a state of severe malnourishment, had never really shrugged off her immune system being wonky. What was a hidden infection, and then bronchitis, and then pneumonia, had managed to build its own resistance to all antibiotics, and well, Rafe suffocated despite all the work the good doctors and good nurses at the hospital were doing.
Dunk took the news as Duncan, the version of himself made for the bad things, and that was the first time Uncle Arlan poured him a drink and said nothing when Dunk cried. And he cried a lot.
It became a whole thing, being called Duncan when something bad had happened. Caretaker Maeve called him that when she delivered the news of Arlan’s death too, so it took Dunk some time to not flinch every time someone called him Duncan.
He only has a few names in his inventory, and none of them are fit for his boy.
He does not want to call him Arlan, because Arlan was an old drunk, kind sometimes, cruel sometimes, taught Dunk a lot, and Dunk does not really want to think about him every time he looks at his son. He had thought of mentioning Rafe to you, but it is a haggard name, and it suited Rafe and only her, and therefore should remain hers.
He thinks people should be given their own names with no roots and no past, so that they can step into their lives fresh and with no burdens and shape their futures as they please.
So he has a list of names he has looked up and researched, and he likes some of them a lot, but none of them mean anything personal. They are just nice names his son could have for himself.
“Dunk?”
He turns and finds you looking at him over a defeated little pile of cotton. Your face has gone gentle in a way that makes him grateful, down to the bone, for being called Dunk in that moment.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“Aye, I’m grand,” he says. “Sorry, I jus’—I think I got a bit sunburnt, is all.”
You look at his face, then the abandoned onesie in your hands. “Do you want to do it some other day?”
“No, no.” He glances at the changing table as if it might defend him. “We’re nearly done. It’s one screw away from bein’ a thing.”
You smile faintly. “No. I mean the names.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s mouth goes dry. “That. Yeah, maybe?” He clears his throat, then pretends the screw packet needs his full attention. “Would ye mind?”
Your face changes by no great measure. Only the softness shifts a little deeper, and compassion sits somewhere in it. Duncan does not like that. Does not like the feeling of something compassionable having been found in him.
“Sure,” you say. “Of course. If you want to talk, though—about something else—I could—”
“No, no. There’s naught to talk about.” He gives you a smile that feels too large on his face. “I’m only tired.”
He says it while rising, which is where the trouble begins. His hand leaves the half-built changing table, and the half-built changing table, having no loyalty in it, folds slightly in on itself. The coffee cup you put there tips, rolls, and drops straight into your lap, spilling a brown stain all over the blue dress before tumbling down onto the carpet.
He reaches you in one ugly stride and crouches down, hands hovering first, then landing because panic makes decisions for him. He pulls the wet material away from your belly on instinct, heart thudding. “Was it hot? Did it burn ye?”
“It’s alright,” you say quickly. “It’s alright, Dunk. It wasn’t hot.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m good. Just…” You look down at yourself. The stain has spread rudely over the front of you. “Wet.”
He stares at the dress as though it has died under his roof. “I’ll give ye something. Wait.”
He turns to his wardrobe, opens it, and immediately cringes at the small pile on the lower shelf. Clothes in that middle state between clean and dirty, rejected by both categories and left to govern themselves. He shuts that shelf in his head and looks at the hanging shirts instead.
For a second he only stands there. It becomes, terribly, a matter of choosing what he would like to see you in. The soft grey T-shirt. The old green one from a tournament years ago. The thick navy jumper that would hang off one shoulder if fortune chose to be kind. Then he remembers the business at hand and feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.
“Ye want a T-shirt or a button-up?” he asks, voice roughened.
You come closer and peek under his arm into the wardrobe, and it is so endearing that Dunk nearly makes a sound fit for a kitten. “Button-up,” you say. Then your hand appears, finger pointing. “Can I have this one?”
The blue one. His favourite.
The one he was going to give you anyway, if he had managed to do it without looking like a man handing over a ring in cotton form. So, in a way, things work themselves out.
“Anything ye want, m’lady,” he says.
He takes it from the hanger and shakes it once, then holds it up against you, pressing it flat to your chest as if checking if it suits you. The fabric covers the stain and half your thighs and sits blue against your skin in a way that makes his whole body go stupidly pleased. It does suit you.
"Thank you, good sir," you say, hugging the keepsake to yourself. "I'll be right back."
He points you in the right direction and you go, very calmly, into his bathroom with your dress sticking coldly to your thighs.
The bathroom is small and clean, though not in a way that suggests habit. More like he remembered you were coming and panicked. You peel the dress off and drop it into the basin so it can soak. Your bra follows, because it has also taken coffee in the war and is now damp across one cup in a way that feels terribly gross.
Then you put Duncan’s shirt on. The mirror only shows you down to the torso. You stand there in the blue of him, belly pushing the fabric forward, buttons sitting close over you, collar loose around your throat. The sleeves hang off your hands. You roll them up once, then twice, then a few more times, until your fingers come free.
You're ready to come out and somehow entirely unready. Maybe because Duncan has been cryptic today in a way that makes him feel locked from the inside, and maybe that is why you stay. Maybe you would have snooped anyway. You are wearing his shirt in his bathroom. There is only so much restraint a person can be expected to show.
His shower gel smells plainly of clean person in male edition. There is a toothbrush in the cup with its bristles near flattened from how furiously he must brush his teeth. The sight of it moves something in you. An affection with a small ache in it.
You start smelling more of his things. He has two colognes, both of them similar. One sharper, one warmer, both close enough to the same idea that you can imagine him standing in a shop, overwhelmed by choice, deciding to buy the thing nearest to what he already knows. There is also the deodorant he smells of often. The everyday one you know from his sweatshirts and from the place under his arm where your face sometimes ends up when he holds you after.
You open the cabinet. There is not much. Basic painkillers. A nail clipper. Spare razors. Something for indigestion. Plasters. No sunscreen, which is typical enough to make you shut your eyes for a second. But there is panthenol, sitting there ready to be useful, and it is adorable in some odd way. He's excellent at consequences, useless at prevention. You take the panthenol out and turn it in your hand.
His reaction to the names sits with you in the little tiled room. The way his face went strange and far away, and he reached for tired as an explanation, as though a question about family could be escaped by blaming anything but the family itself.
His must be real bad, you think, if this is how he reacts to the mildest door opening onto it. It would be good if you talked about it. Both of you. It might be a bonding ground, or at least some patch of shared earth neither of you could pretend away after. You are not fond of talking about your mother. You are not fond of even thinking of talking about your mother. There are things in you that still go rigid and childish around that subject, and it irritates you to know this about yourself. But maybe it would clear some things up. Maybe it would make him understand why you keep thinking love and suspecting a trap under the floorboards.
The only thing you cannot work out is how Duncan has turned out to be such a good man. You do not believe yourself to be simply good. You only try very hard. Sometimes you manage. Sometimes you fail and then try to make the failure less palpable. Most people, you think, are built out of that: effort, want, fear, apology, repeat.
Duncan seems to have come from somewhere with very little good in it and still made himself into this. You wonder if he is an exception, or if he simply tries infinitely better than you.
You come out, finally, having found not much, but enough to know what to do next. When you enter the bedroom he's sat on the bed and testing the sleeper, whether it folds and unfolds well, and once you appear in the doorway he freezes and gives in to staring.
The shoulders hang off your shoulders in a way that makes the stitching sit somewhere at your mid-arms, and the sleeves themselves end where Duncan cannot see, because you've got your hands hidden behind your back. Then there is a matter of your bra being lost and your tits filling the cotton in a way his chest could never dream of filling it. The whole thing reaches your mid-thighs, much like the sundress did, but is somehow more exciting to him because it is private. He's the only one who gets to see you like this, therefore he gets to be a little smug about it.
"What've ye got there, lass?" he asks, letting the sleeper fold and getting his hands free.
You show him the bottle with a shy smile. "For your face," you explain. Duncan hears face and tries, very hard, to keep his eyes there, though they seem to want to drop to where your belly is bulging the cotton out, and to spot whether you've been impish enough to lose your knickers too. Then, he scolds himself for this sort of thinking.
He huffs a laugh to shield himself, shakes his head and pulls out a ceiling-facing palm, to which you protest. You sit in front of him on your heels, and say, "Let me."
Your hand lifts to his glasses first, and Duncan goes still.
“They’ll be right next to you,” you tell him.
It hits him in the gut, fondly and with ridiculous force, this small reassurance. As if his own bedside table has become unknown country and you are kindly guiding him through it. He dips his chin a little and lets you take them off.
The room softens immediately. Edges go. Your face becomes a warm shape close to him. He hears the quiet click of plastic frames being set down within reach. Then you move somewhere in the blur, and from the amorphous shapes he can tell you are pressing foam into your palm and lathering it. Your hands come towards him, less and less visible the closer they get, and then he stops bothering to see.
You set both to his face. Duncan sighs very deeply. His eyes close. The panthenol is cool first, then quickly warms. You press it into his cheeks in soft little pats, careful around the red places where the sun has caught him worst. His skin drinks it greedily. For a moment the white sits in the fine creases beside his eyes, filling the little lines there and making them stand out. Then it disappears.
His lashes flutter. They tickle your fingers every now and then in quick dark brushes when your thumb passes under his eye.
“You really did burn,” you murmur.
“Aye,” he says, breathy.
You work more foam into the broad of his forehead, then across his nose, which has taken the sun hardest and feels rougher, almost crusted. He lets you move him. Sits there, large and quiet, and lets you turn his face by the jaw. You do his chin. The corner of his mouth. Then, because you are capable of great foolishness today, you pass your thumb lightly over his bottom lip.
His mouth parts. Only a little. Softly. Obedient to no audible order.
For a second you forget the sunburn altogether and it becomes foreplay. That mouth is far too delicate for a man built like this. Wide and bitten red, yes, but soft at rest. Kissable. So, so kissable.
You have to put more foam on your fingers to justify still being this close. His ears are blazing too, so you move there, and Duncan’s breathing changes.
It is small enough that you could pretend to miss it, which is probably kinder, but you feel it. Something catches in him when you slide up the side of his face and cup the ear away from his head. His skin is hot there, the outer rim is flushed red. You spread the panthenol over it with two fingers, careful, rubbing it along the curve, then behind where sweat and sun have made him frail.
He makes a sound low in his throat. You pause. “Alright?”
“Aye,” he says quickly, so you carry on.
Duncan keeps his eyes shut because opening them would make him answer for something, and they are useless anyway. He has been touched like this in pieces. Hands on him with want in them, with need in them, with your laughter, your hunger, your pain, your relief. But this is slower and worse. Care with no hurry to it. You are putting medicine on him. That is all. A decent person would know how to receive that without his cock making itself known in his shorts.
The trouble is that his body has never been decent about your hands. It takes everything as news. It takes everything as chance.
Your thumb rubs a small circle behind his ear, and his shoulders drop, which, begrudgingly, is noticed. You do the other ear with even more concern, and Duncan sits through it with his fists loose on his thighs. His face has gone slack. He looks younger without his glasses. Blind and sunburnt and, once again, trying very hard to be normal about being handled.
When you finish, you sit back a little and look him over. “Anywhere else?”
He blinks his eyes open, unfocused, then looks down at himself as if he has temporarily forgotten the shape of his own body. His arms move in answer, awkwardly offered, red along the forearms and up towards the bend of the elbow.
You take one wrist. Too big for this sort of nursing, which makes you want to nurse it more. His skin is warm and dry, the hair there bleached fair by the sun in a way it is nowhere else on him. It gathers the white of the panthenol when you spread it down from the elbow, stands up under your strokes, then lies back damply.
Then, rest. Bicep first, because the sleeve line has left him pink there and because his arm is in your hands and you are only human. The muscle shifts under your palm. He has the gall to look away, as though this is all very practical and nothing else, while the tendons in his forearm rise when you press your thumb down near the wrist.
“You’re very quiet,” you say.
“I’m being seen to,” he answers.
“Mm, and that's such a serious business, aye?”
His mouth tugs, but he stays quiet.
The other arm. Same path. Shoulder to bicep, bicep to forearm, forearm to wrist. He has little marks there you have seen before and some you have not. Old scratches, and a pale scar near the thumb. Red knuckles. His body keeps a record badly organised and in several languages. You take each hand in both of yours because you have to. There is no other way to hold the size of him and do the job properly.
His palms are darker than the rest of him, broad and lined and slightly rough at the base of the fingers. The spaces between are almost untouched by the sun. You rub the foam over the backs first, then the knuckles, then turn his hands over and press your thumbs into the meat below his because the bottle is in your lap now and the work has clearly travelled beyond medical need.
Duncan grunts. Your eyes flick up. “That sore?”
“No.”
You press again, firmer.
His fingers curl and then open again around nothing. “Christ.”
“Good Christ or bad Christ?”
He swallows. “The other one.”
You smile down at your knees and smooth through his palm again. His whole body seems to listen.
By the time you release him, Duncan looks both better and worse. Less dried out, somehow more endangered. He rubs one treated thumb against the side of his finger and then, with a sudden little pull of nerve, catches the neckline of his T-shirt and tugs it open.
“Here,” he says. “A little.”
The skin below his throat is pink where the collar has missed its duty. There is a sharp line where the burn stops and the usual pale of him begins. You look at it. Then at him. “Hm,” you say. “I think we should take this off, then.”
His brows lift. “Do ye? You’re the expert here, it would seem.”
You hum. “Take it off.”
Duncan obeys quickly enough to embarrass both of you. The shirt goes up and over his head, mussing his hair into rough copper tufts. He sits there bare from the waist up, blinking at you through the blur, big hands holding the discarded T-shirt as if he has been caught stealing it from himself.
You reach over and give him his glasses back. He puts them on. His face returns to itself piece by piece. Eyes first, then the crease between his brows, then the attention with which he looks at you and tries to read whether he has done something wrong.
You feel yourself go a little bashful under it. Ridiculous, given the circumstances. Still, the words come out shy. “I like you in those.”
Duncan blushes. A stupid thing to happen, because his face has already switched the palette, but his body finds a way. Redder over red. He glances down, then back up, and something very pleased and very helpless moves behind his eyes.
“They help me see,” he says.
“I gathered.”
“Aye, well.” His mouth twitches. “Important work.”
You put more foam on your hand and touch his neck, so he stops joking.
There is tender at the base of his throat where the T-shirt has gaped with movement. You work there first because that is what you have been given permission for. Your fingers slide over the heat, along the tendons, down to the hollow. His pulse jumps under your thumb. The panthenol makes a pale gloss of him before it sinks in.
He watches you now. The glasses make that worse. You can see him seeing you. His gaze catches on your mouth, then corrects. Drops to the place where his shirt hangs open a little over your belly, then corrects again. He is trying to behave.
You do his shoulders, though they need no doing. Then lower, though it needs no doing either, for he's pale where cloth kept him. The border gets crossed anyway. Your hands move from treated skin to untouched one, down over the top of his chest where the hair begins. Your fingers scratch lightly through it, gathering some of the foam, dragging it in thin streaks over him.
He could ask what you are doing. He should, maybe. He has used questions before as fences. Are you sure? Is this alright? Do ye want me to stop? Good questions, all of them. Useful ones. They keep the world decent.
But you gave him a token. You put it in his hand without knowing what he would spend it on. People want things, you told him. People are strange. People say stuff and do stuff when their brains shut off. You said he could want things too, or near enough that he has been living off it since, so he sits there and lets himself want this.
What he wants is to disenchant that superstition of his about you walking round his floor and therefore never wanting to touch him again. And here you are, touching him. And lovely, too. And your eyes look hazy, your breath sounds different and your hands are gentle. They move down on him to more dangerous country. Over his ribs where he's making an obvious case of himself, then toward the belly where it creases with some boy-fat he still carries. He sucks in a breath, ignores the pull at his groin, and asks, "Do ye have to be somewhere today?"
“No, silly,” you tell him. “I’m pregnant. I’ve nothing to do besides growing a baby.”
He nods to that thoughtfully. “Would ye stay then? Sleep here?”
Your eyes go all muggy and he knows it is a yes already. “Sleep?” you ask. “So soon? It’s not even eight yet.”
His legs knock a little wider apart. He does not bother hiding it. His hands settle on your thighs, heavy and warm. “I ain’t saying we should sleep right now.”
“What should we do then, hm?”
“Lassie, yer makin’ such a fool of me, ye know that?” Duncan says, leaning in and brushing your nose with his. His hands inch higher until they reach the hem of his shirt on you. “Have ye got your knickers on?”
“Dunk,” you squeal, but let him. “Course I do. Who do you think I am?”
“A minx, sometimes,” he hums. “Only sometimes.”
He kisses you with the laugh still caught in his mouth. It makes the first second silly; then your hand slides over his bare chest and whatever wisecracking held him together comes apart without a dramatic sound. His fingers first stay under the blue hem, then drift higher and find elastic.
A little tug takes the liberty of asking the question.
You understand so quickly it feels awkward. Rise on your knees and let him have the answer. The shirt drops loose around you. His knuckles graze your skin while he eases the underwear down your thighs. He has to work harder to wedge it from under your knees because his attention keeps lifting to the open slope of your belly. “Hold on,” he mutters, deeply engaged with the task.
“I am holding on.”
“Aye, smartarse.”
It comes free, eventually. He drops it without looking where it lands. Then his palm settles between your legs.
Flat and warm. Broad enough that your body has to make a place for him there. You open wider, and the small adjustment does dreadful business on his face. Duncan looks down with his mouth parted while the heel of his hand presses soft to your pussy and his fingers lie heavy over the hair. He finds you slick. Finds you ready. The finding climbs him visibly.
“Ye tell me if anythin’s wrong, aye?”
You smile at him from above. “Nothing will be wrong,” you say. “But alright.”
His thumb shifts, barely anything, though enough to make your knees take more of the mattress and your hand go to his shoulder for balance. The other reaches the buttons, and they give one by one. Tiny pops. A domestic striptease in reverse order of shame. The shirt opens down the middle and lets him see you in portions: belly, then skin above it, then the undercurve of your breasts held by gravity, affectionately. Duncan’s hand stays where it is, but his mind clearly leaves the room for a second and comes back carrying firewood.
You reach the last button. Then you're about to slide the shirt off your shoulders, when his hand catches your wrist. “Could ye keep this one on?” he asks.
You look down at him. His ears are redder than his sunburn now. Lovely thing, really, to watch a man built for hurling furniture blush over cloth. “You like it?”
“Aye.” He releases your wrist and puts both hands under the fabric, up your sides, then over your breasts with a slow pressure that makes your breathing misbehave. “I do.”
His thumbs stroke where you have gone fuller, heavier, and his eyes follow the movement with focus that has lost all right to call itself innocent.
“Sure,” you say, and hook a finger under the waistband of his shorts. Snap it against his stomach. “But you have to take those off.”
That gets him moving with a speed best described as unsafe. Shorts shoved down. Underwear with them. One ankle caught, a hissed fuck’s sake, then freedom, and him bare on the edge of the bed with his cock lifting hard against him. Wet at the head and a smear already printed where it has touched skin.
For once, chagrin arrives late and finds the room occupied. He sees you looking. He lets you look. Then reaches for you.
The gathering, regardless of what he's agreed on with himself, is still abashed. He draws you onto his lap by the hips and makes room for the belly between you without turning the matter solemn. Your knees sink on either side of him. The shirt hangs open and around you both. His cock gets caught hot between your thighs and his, and twitches when your leg brushes it, and Duncan kisses the corner of your mouth first, misses, corrects, then kisses you properly with a sound that comes from somewhere low and grateful.
You settle yourself against him. His hands stay on you, ready for work, ready for orders. “How do you want me, hm?” you ask.
His fingers tighten. Any way, says the whole of him. Any way you’ll give me. In the bed. On the floor. Cross with me. Laughing at me. Wearing my shirt until it smells wrong forever. Any way that keeps you here long enough for the flat to learn you.
“On top,” he says. “Wanna see ya.”
You take his chin in your hand. Your thumb crosses his lower lip again, and his mouth softens under it, opening by the smallest amount. “You sure you’re alright?”
There must be something plain in him tonight. Some bolt left visible. Names, children, coffee, all of it has knocked something loose and left him sitting there with the telling in his lap. He looks at your mouth. “Aye,” he says. “Aye, I’m sure. I just—” His breath catches, stupid honest thing. “Been thinkin’ ’bout you, is all.”
You nod. Accept it. Do not tease him for once. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” you say, and press yourself to his cock.
By now, Dunk should’ve learnt your weight and stopped being surprised by it. He is, however, a man of weak memory, or simply someone who stores recollections as a version that is endurable. You settle over him and he goes aghast all over again because your wet mouth frames his length until his spine forgets what it was made for. It is a snug fit, near throttling, and the memory of what it is like to get his cock throttled by your womb covers him until he's awash in it. More and more, he remembers, while you kiss him sweetly through it, and thinks, in some naive, unfledged way, that he would let you do worse than throttle him. Strangle him, more like. Anything, probably, so long as it involved your hands on him and your breath somewhere close to his neck. He wakes to the damp, exultant pressure of you working him in and starts throbbing with the same blood that has gone loud in his temples.
"Jus' like that," he tells you, hoping it will be good enough for you to stay a while. Come here and stay with me, Dunk wants to say. Screw me, wrap your legs around me. Warm me. I am hurt to be alone, because every time he goes away he does so with pieces of you sticking to him, and they are enough for him to survive, but not enough to live.
He knows naught of how a good day that's turned into a hard day has managed to turn itself over again. It would seem that upon inspection of his private life you've not recoiled. That, more than anything, abolishes his unfounded belief. It has never been about walking on his floor, not really. More about seeing his boy-mess and dust around the spaces in his flat he never touches, and deciding he is not good enough. You have not decided so. Nor are you disgusted. You are currently sinking down his cock with your hands in his hair. It knocks another wall inside him down.
"Dunk," you whisper. "Look at me, baby."
So he looks.
Split groins and burning loins are one thing, and the rest is an entirely different thing. He feels like he's scarcely looked so far and now he's looking. He's looking as if it is the first-ever glance, for your body changes every time he makes love to it. It grows and swells and plumps somewhere in secret, and Duncan is begrudged by the impossible ordeal of it and by not being allowed to sit somewhere under your clothes and observe the expansion he's the sole reason for and unforeseen architect of. Instead, he lives in perpetual expectancy of change and it hits him every time how much rounder your tits have become, how many millimetres they have dropped, how your thighs look fuller and your belly more ready for his hands.
"Ye should keep it," he says, meaning the shirt and himself. "It looks better on you than on me."
You smile at him, and then your mouth rounds on a small oh. You've taken him whole again, and his brain no longer holds space for feeble kinship of pasts getting their scabs scratched off them. You both dodge the verbal intimacy and choose an embodied one that is worse for its plausible deniability. It is worse, but it is easier, still. Because Duncan doesn't want to be pitied. He wants romancing, slow dancing, hand holding and balancing this fear of nearness, of stillness, of remaining unseen in his palpability until you truly want to look. Until you are ready to say stay. Stay for yourself, not because of something. Stay for me, because I want you to, because I want you.
There's an answer to that, and it arrives from your hips. At first slow enough to seem kind. Duncan receives it badly. That is, he receives it with the best behaviour available to him, which is a poor one wearing a clean shirt. His hands sit on your thighs but feel more like they have been set there by somebody else. They flex, go still, and flex again, fingers working in little disgraced increments as if every grasp has to pass through a committee of shame, manners and terrible starvation.
Receiving gives him too much time with himself. When he is working, there is work. When he is under you, all that remains is being taken into account. He can feel the waiting in his own body, want hurrying ahead of what's allowed, the terror of greed making a person ugly. So he tries to stay useful. Stays steady. Lets you set the pace with your hands in his hair and cock near giddy at being swallowed so cordially. The effort shows in his jaw.
You kiss it. The hard place near the hinge. Then his mouth.
He follows you up into it, and for a few strokes the kiss manages to cover everything. The shirt slips open wider. His breath hits your cheek. His fingers slide a little higher on your legs and stop there, arrested by some private law.
“Dunk,” you say into his mouth.
“Aye.”
He sounds cracked open already. It should satisfy you. It does, partly. Another part of you wants the rest of him to come out from under all that caution and put its hands on you. He hears that thought in passing, maybe, and takes your wrists.
For a second you think he means to move you away from his face, but he brings your hands to his throat and leaves them there.
"Touch me," he says. Looks almost cross with himself for saying it.
You set your fingers there, light. His pulse is ferocious. It knocks against your thumbs with all the subtlety that's absent tonight, and Duncan shuts his eyes as soon as your palms close with any pressure at all. He gives out a small sound, wrecked and worked up from the chest. His cock jumps inside you, and the pleasure of that little convulsion gets through you like a warm knife.
"Like this?" you ask, brushing your thumbs on his Adam's apple. It's a delicious-looking cartilage. Large enough on him to require your mouth opening wide if you were ever to bite him.
"Aye," he says, eyelids flickering. "Like that. Please."
The please is dangerous. It opens something in your belly that has little to do with the child and much to do with the man. It has none of the kidding courtesy of earlier in it. It is bare and wanting and somehow younger than him, and it makes you bend down and kiss him harder than you meant to. Your belly presses between you. His throat moves pliably. He opens for the kiss and lets you have his mouth, and you feel the shudder in him when your hips roll again and take him deeper.
You could stay there. Keep him like that, held and entered into, his touch restless on you while he tries to behave under the flood. There would be a sweetness in it, and a cruelty. He would let you. That is becoming clear. Duncan would let you do a great deal if it meant your hands remained on him.
So you take his wrists, and his eyes open. You slide his palms to your hips and fit them there where his grip can do some good. "You too," you tell him. "Touch me. And fuck me."
Something in him receives it as instruction and amnesty both. His fingers bite into muscle, surprised first, then purposeful, and he gives you a thrust in exchange for permission. Hard. Stops immediately, alarmed by his own force.
"Alright?" he asks.
You nod, then take his lower lip between your teeth since speech feels wasteful. Underneath it he melts a little and forgets what he's here for, so you tell him, "Again."
“Lassie—”
“Again, Dunk.”
So he does, shorter this time, testing the shapes, and when your hips come down to meet him the room loses its mildness.
There is a place sex knows how to go when words become too exacting. You find it together with freakish ease. All the unsaid matter stands aside and lets the body through: hands converse with skin where they rest and squeeze, cock's in cunt, intending to make nothing but respite, and his face, oh, his face. It keeps watching you. Even in greed he watches. Tenderness has rooted itself too deep in him to be pulled out for the sake of the rhythm, though the rhythm gets fierce enough to make the shirt slip off one shoulder and hang from your elbow.
He catches and fixes it back, letting you slip for a moment so you take a heavy sit on him and feel him brushing the spot that needs him most ardently. "Keep it on," he says, breathless.
You look down at him.
“The shirt.” His ears are red again. “Please. Keep it on.”
"Okay," you say, rolling your shoulders. "Okay."
He stares at it as if the sight is all that matters. His bed has you in it. His shirt has you in it. His hands have you under them. Later, if you go, the room will still know you have been here, and the thought makes him thrust up hard enough that your next sound breaks against his cheek.
“Ah, there,” he says. “There, yeah?”
“Yes, there—” you wheeze. "Oh, Dunk—"
He follows the barometer of your thumbs. When they dig deeper it means your body is giving him a place. His hips learn it fast. Stomach flexes with every punch up, making him feel like he owns his body in separate drawers. He's caught between wanting to deserve you and wanting to fuck you through the mattress, and you feel that disagreement holding him by the spine. He groans some and stammers some and breathes through lips he's trying to stick together so you don't hear his dog-like panting, and does not at all realise you want it. The loss of manners, his mouth turning to greedy angles, a decline of goodness, mild at least. Make him a little worse, so he's easier to keep. So you feel less guilty for craving it.
"Don't go sweet on me now," you rasp.
His laugh breaks into a gasp. “I’m tryin’.”
“Try less.”
It means give me more, and Duncan understands. He wraps his arms around you, claiming the favourite things. He's inside you and around you, and that is how matters should be. He pulls you down on him and fucks up with enough force for your tits to get knocked into his face. His mouth takes advantage, catches one and has to bite down to keep it. Your body conducts some gut-wrenching business in response, clenching on him wildly and throwing your head back so your neck becomes long and all wired with hard tendons. One of your hands digs its thumb under his jaw, the other closes around the roots on his nape. He's almost defeated. It feels incredible.
“There,” he grunts. “Stay there. Just—fuck, stay.”
“I’m here,” you say, closing in on him.
Then, your hand moves from his hair, circles his head and keeps him there with his mouth open to your throat. It changes the work of him. The force comes from below now, from his thighs and arse. You hold him and yourself onto him and Duncan's body believes you scathingly well, for you are truly there and staying.
“Tell me you like it,” you say. He moves against your neck uselessly. Gets a little of your skin between his teeth and loses it again. You ride the next thrust down and make him feel the whole of you taking it. “Tell me you like fucking me hard. I know you’re all sweet and tender, but tell me you like this too. Tell me—”
“Aye,” he mumbles. Then, trying for stronger, though still muffled: “Aye, I like it.”
You breathe out through your nose, pleased and shaken.
“I like it,” he says again, and his hands go meaner with their gripping. “God, I like it. Like ye takin’ me. Like ye lettin’ me—fuck, lassie—like ye lettin’ me have ye hard.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Dunk.”
“Mad with it,” he says. “With you. Lettin' me have ye like this.”
And he's doing it so. Just having you, while you're rigid and motionless and simply trying to survive his cock without telling too much on yourself. He's large enough to not have to pull out for you to feel him spreading you. He's brilliant, really. Willing and reliable. Hot and delicate where it matters. The work turns blunt and filthy and knowing that he can be this, this regular man who likes to fuck his girl hard once in a while when she asks nicely makes you lose it a little.
"Yes—" you whine. "Fuck, yes. Fuck me, like that. Right there. Fuck, Dunk, yes—"
He drives up and holds, then grinds, then gives you another hard stroke that catches so exactly your mouth opens and nothing comes out. It's pleasure only now. White and bodily, making you come with your face turned against his hair and air puffing fast through your nose and your hand pulsing at his throat.
Your cunt seizes round him, wild and vicious, and Duncan chokes on all of it. His cock manages to break into somewhere deeper than he's been all evening and finds that perfect place for post-bursting burial. This, and three arrows to the chest, Duncan's mind produces. He spills thickly, mumbling sweetheart, lassie, oh fuck's sake, Christ and all the other names that he's given you, and your own too, and then says only, "Fuck, yer so good. So good, my sweet girl—"
Blessed, he thinks, gone stupid with it. Blessed, blessed. Allowed to fill you with his cock and then with his cum. More so, allowed to sit here shaking afterwards, knowing it will leak from you when he pulls out. He will get to see it staining your thighs and will get to clean it off you, and he will try to keep his hands from showing how much he likes that too.
"Shite," you breathe. "Mm, Dunk? You alright?"
He's gone slack against you. You turn his face up by the cheeks and look him over. His eyes are beyond fucked-out, and when his head tips a little back you spot the red imprint of your fingers on his throat.
"Oh God, I've hurt you. Oh, Duncan, I'm so sorry—"
"Hush now," he tells you. "Hush, girl, let me catch a breath." Which would probably be funny if you weren't looking so frightened with yourself. He sees that on you and adds, "I'm grand, sweetheart. Promise. You?"
"I'm sorry—"
"None of that," he stops you. "I asked, aye?" He rests his forehead to yours, and tells you, secretively, "Besides. I liked it."
"You did?"
"Mm. Fiercely."
You go a touch abashed at that. Bite your lip and let your shoulders sink forward, folding around the pleased little damage of it. Duncan watches the shift of your breasts when you do. There is a souvenir from him too, just above the fuller curve of one: a small indent of his teeth, with skin risen at the edges.
He brushes it with his thumb. “I’ve hurt you some too.”
“I liked it,” you say. “Fiercely.”
He hums a laugh at that and hugs you closer. “You alright?”
“Yes.”
His eyes search your face. “Properly?”
“Yes, Dunk.”
“Hm. Your pussy alright too?”
You giggle. Sweet and girlish, and it does something awful to him after all that filth. “Yes. That’s alright too.”
“Good.” His hand moves, broad and warm, to your belly. “And here?”
You cover it with yours. “Everything alright.”
“All’s well then,” Duncan states, as if it has been entered into the record. “Let me sort ye out, hm?”
You murmur a small okay and rise off him.
He wanted to see it and the wanting still shames him some, though less than it used to. His come slips down your inner thigh in a pearly track and leaves his cock shining with you both. There is something strange in him after seeing it. A small confidence. He's less marooned, maybe. More at home in his own bed, in his own body, and in the flat too.
“I’ll get a towel,” he says.
He goes to the bathroom still naked and finds your dress filling the basin. The sight pleases him so much he has to stand there for a second and be an idiot about it. Then he lifts it out, squeezes the coffee water from it as best he can and carries it to the washing machine. He adds some of his own clothes because it seems wasteful to run it near empty, then sets the whole thing on a delicate cycle with immense joy at the knowledge of your things washing together.
The bra he handles separately. Very gently. He squeezes it out over the sink, careful with the cups and the little straps, because he remembers Rowan once complaining about Raymun ruining her lace by tumbling it together with his sweatpants. This bra is very pretty and Dunk would hate to ruin it for you. It is green too, or so he thinks. Darker now, wet and heavy in his hands.
He sets it over the radiator, then catches himself in the mirror.
There are five red stamps on his throat. He stops to stare some more.
Lovely, is the first thought. To be marked in a place he can see. To have your hand on him after your hand has gone. He has no idea what he is going to tell the kids if any of them notice, and briefly ponders a turtleneck in July, purely for the sake of keeping this private. Selfishness, that. Wanting the mark and wanting the concealment of it too.
He brushes his fingers over where yours have been. The skin is pink and calorous from the tissue torn small by squeeze and pressure. It makes hubris rise in him, a warm little thing with wings.
When he steps back into the bedroom again, you have made tea. You are still in his shirt, bare-legged at the edge of the bed, two mugs on the bedside table as if this is a life and not an incident. His seed has slipped down near your knee from walking, so he kneels in front of you with the wet cloth and puts one hand on your ankle to keep you still.
His cock stirs a little when he touches you, because he is naked and weak and recently benedicted. He ignores it with great professionalism. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and wipes the inside of your thigh.
You look down at him. “For what?”
“For bein’ pleased.”
You smile. “You’re very strange.”
“Am I?” He folds the cloth to a clean corner. “I think it takes one to know one, aye?”
To that, you simply huff and it's beyond cute.
He works gently. His hand rests on your belly while he does it. On his belly, he thinks for one cracked second, and then corrects nothing.
“Ye can use the bathroom,” he says after. “If ye want. I’ve put a fresh towel out for you.”
You nod and leave him for a moment. During that time he changes the sheets, tidies what he can without making a large performance of it, then puts on shorts because he is still a little shy about nudity once the emergency of sex has passed. And then, because he's still a coward, slips a spare key into your purse and decides to text you about it later. By the time you come back, the room has become ordinary in a painstaking way.
You order pizza. While waiting, the telly goes on with some old black-and-white film neither of you watches properly. Outside, the sky starts building itself into a storm, so Duncan opens the window wide. The curtain billows into the room and carries in the damp, charged smell of weather turning. You cuddle closer to him on the bed, tucked under his arm, fingers tangled into his hair.
He is happy like this. He knows there are talks to be had and confessions to be spilled. Names, families, homes, all the buried things with their hands under the floorboards, but for now he's happy like this.
After food, his lids grow heavy. He falls asleep on his back, with you nuzzled under his wing.
It is odd to sleep at Duncan's, but not wrong. You, too, fall asleep almost instantly after eating, and wake only to a terrible pressure in your bladder. Then, there is a matter of freeing yourself from underneath his gigantic arm. Thankfully Dunk sleeps like a bear in winter, and snores a little too, so even forceful shoving doesn't stir him.
In one of the rooms you pass there is a rack with washing hung out, which he must’ve done sometime during your nap. You do your business sleepily, come back, and find his windowsill bathed in rain. So you close the window and pull the curtains closed.
And then you feel it. A knock from inside. Small, firm, unmistakably separate from you. You stop with your hand still on the curtain, breath held in dark. It comes again, lower this time, a blunt little push against the wall of your stomach. There is intelligence in it, or your body invents intelligence for it so quickly that the difference does not matter.
You look down. For one second you do nothing, afraid that movement might scare it off. Then you unbutton Duncan’s shirt with clumsy fingers and pull it open over your belly. The skin there has gone taut and silvered in the rainy light. You stare until your eyes hurt.
Another push. Barely anything. A small bulge under the skin, there and gone. But visible. Visible.
You start crying before any other part of you offers itself. “Sweetheart,” you say, putting your hand over the place that moved. “There you are. Oh, there you are, my lovely. Hi.”
The baby answers with something softer. A brush, maybe. Or another kick made shy by your hand. You laugh and the laugh comes out wet and thin, almost frightened by its own happiness.
You take a few unsure steps towards the bed. Your knees have become of poor use. Duncan is still on his back, one arm thrown out where you escaped him, mouth slightly open, gone into sleep with the trust of a person who has never seen himself sleeping.
You sit beside him and shake him by the shoulder. “Hey, Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, sweetie, wake up. Wake up, please.”
He sucks in a breath as if hauled up from underwater. His eyes open, bleary and full of slumber. One hand pats blindly at the bedside table. “G-glasses,” he mumbles.
You find them before he does and pass them over, then set both hands on his cheeks before he can get spooked by the wet on your face. “He’s kicking,” you tell him. “He’s kicking, look—”
His whole face changes before he understands. Fear first, because you are crying. Then your words catch up with him. You take his hand and guide it under the fabric, press his palm to the place where the movement happened.
For a moment, nothing. Duncan lies there breathing through his mouth, eyes huge. He does not blink. His palm is so warm that the skin under it seems to wake in answer.
Then, the baby kicks. He sits up so suddenly the mattress jumps beneath you. “Jesus—”
“Did you feel that?”
“I felt him.” His other hand joins the first, too fast, then slows when it reaches you, spreading careful over the bump. “I felt him.”
The baby kicks again, right under the heel of the palm.
Duncan makes a sound that is almost a laugh until it breaks. He looks at your stomach. Rain bounces against the window behind him. His thumbs shift, following, trying to understand where his son has gone.
“Ah, lad,” he whispers. “There ye are.” His mouth trembles around the smile. “There ye are, ye little terror.”
You cry harder. Duncan looks up at you, already crying too, and laughs wetly at the state of you both. “He’s kickin’,” he says, uselessly, as if you might have missed the central fact. “He’s really kickin’.”
“I know.”
“He’s strong.”
“He is.”
“Course he is,” Duncan says, and one tear runs straight down into the sunburn high on his cheek. “Course ye are. Givin’ us a fright in the middle of the night. That’s grand, that is. Very polite of ye.”
His voice has gone soft and shredded. The next movement quiets him completely. He bends closer and his shoulders start to shake. “Hi, boy,” he says, barely above breath. “Hi. I’m here. Your mam’s here too. We’ve got ye.”
The baby shifts. Duncan swears under his breath. “Fuck’s sake,” he whispers. “Fuck’s sake, he’s real.”
It pulverizes him impossibly. There are words, obvious words, trying to get out with such violence it feels near like his throat is being sliced open from the inside. On the outside, the same throat is garroted into silence. It is all as if Duncan is holding a lung-burning breath, one that's hauled after exertion in the middle of freezing winter or one that begs out right before drowning. Christ, how badly he wants to exhale. How vehemently he wants to get rid of that breath and get a fresh one.
He leans to the belly and sets his mouth on it. "I love ye," Dunk says, and exhales, and then inhales again.
contents (nsfw): Duncan x fem!reader, modern AU, POVs alternating, neighbours, love at first sight, awkwardness on both sides, mutual pining, fluff, rom-com, forced proximity, attempt at humour, scent kink, size kink, Duncan is a big lad and loves boobs, vaginal fingering, penetrative sex, belly bulge, coming inside, love, love, loooooove.
synopsis: Duncan suffers from a severe case of down-bad for his new neighbour. When she clearly needs help getting furniture carried and assembled, he does what he must—helps.
word count: 12,2K (oops)
a/n: Banner by me, dividers by @pixopix and @uzmacchiato. I just think this guy has a massive rom-com potential *sighs wistfully*
Duncan falls in love easily and temporarily. He sees a girl in a café, engrossed in His Dark Materials, and his mind goes to wondering what it would be like to be there with his arm slung round her waist, reading over her shoulder. The feeling evaporates as soon as he realises that, to set in motion the cascade of events which might lead to his arm being allowed to wedge itself there, he’d have to talk to her first. His chest gets warm all over when, at a pub, another girl yells from the top of her lungs upon Arsenal winning a game. It chills back to lukewarm as soon as her boyfriend appears from wherever he’s been cheering before, delivering a sloppy, ale-scented kiss on her lips. If Duncan is anything, home-wrecker ain’t it.
He purses his mouth involuntarily when a girl sitting in front of him on the bus has her hair gathered in a ponytail that reveals the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a thin chain necklace that pulls on the tiny hairs. His hands itch to brush the skin and untangle the mess carefully, then place the whole breadth of his palm there, from tendon to tendon, to ease the sting. Before he gets to live his life’s most torrid affair, the girl yanks on the chain viciously, plucking out singular strands with a small hiss, and gets off the bus.
When he falls in love again, he is disastrously unready for the prospect of permanence. Handshakes and congratulations muttered over keys passed to the flat next door have far too much of long-term arrangement about them for his peace of mind. Duncan’s beloved of today is wearing paint-stained dungarees, the knees pushed out and sagging with age. Her hair is messy and her cheek smudged with dust. Her socks do not match either. She’s thanking the building manager with glassy eyes and a smile pulled so wide she looks about to cry.
The manager delivers one last pat to her back, then reveals Duncan’s presence by bidding him a quick, “Morning.” Duncan nods once, then keeps his head down as he passes by. Before descending the staircase, he allows himself one last glance: you sigh, pause, and step into your flat. Certainty floods him cold: he’s in love with his neighbour.
He spends the day at work trying to reason with himself. You are only one girl who happens to live on the other side of his bedroom wall. Duncan hardly ever sees the other neighbours as it is. For all he knows, you keep odd hours and spend weekends elsewhere and have a boyfriend already hanging pictures in that flat in his head. If luck is willing to show him some mercy, he will not be sentenced to pine after the girl next door. By lunch he has bargained himself into a kind of peace. By the end of the day, he almost believes it.
Then he comes home.
Your door is ajar. Passing by, Duncan catches through the crack the beginning of a new life. The hallway yawns open to the room beyond, where a mattress—not nearly wide enough for two—lies on the floor with its sheets crumpled up in a twist. There is a mug sitting on the windowsill with a teabag string dangling over the rim. A charger. A few cardboard boxes hunch by the wall, half-opened and all of it kills him a bit with tender, domestic ache. You’re really here, starting from scratch.
From deeper in the flat comes your voice, frayed by an argument with a consultant. It grows louder. Nearer. Duncan finds what is left of his wit and slips past as quietly as he can, key already in hand. He is through his own threshold and turning the lock on a held breath before you come into view. A second later, your door slams shut hard enough to carry through the wall. He hears you thank someone over the phone tightly and end the call. Then, he catches the cutest little growl of frustration he’s heard in his life. When he closes his eyes he can see you again in all your disarrayed glory and decides the girls from cafés and pubs and buses may as well pack it in, and Duncan is in trouble.
He wakes the next day hoping the universe will spare him permanence, only to get sucker-punched by the sight of you fighting your post box in the main hall. The same girlish growl he already knows leaves you when the box will not budge (despite you asking it very nicely by rattling the lock with the key stuck inside it). He tries to disguise his gasp and it comes out as a dumb, hiccuped chuckle, which, of course, gets your attention.
“Is something funny?” you ask, face dangerously frowned, yet still the prettiest thing Duncan’s ever seen.
“N-no. No,” he gulps, loudly. “You have to, uh… bully it a bit. Here—can I?”
His hands come out and you step away at once, making Duncan wonder whether it is because you believe his good intentions, or is it merely his intimidating size.
He leans in, presses on the little door and turns the key between his fingers until it clicks.
Your eyes are on him, bewildered. “That’s ‘bullying’ in your world?”
Duncan shrugs. “I mean…”
“Good to know.” Before he realises what is happening, your palm is out and disappearing in his, and he learns your name, and from this moment he will remember it forever. “Thirteen C,” you add, as if he has not noticed.
“Duncan,” he says. “Fifteen C.”
“Yeah, I know,” you say, smiling.
“So, err… how’s it going?”
“Alright. Just getting to…” Your eyes drag to the post box, then back to him. “—you know. Oh, um… it might get a bit”—your fingers pinch together to present what a bit means—“loud over the weekend. I’m having furniture delivered and I have to assemble it.”
That is it. Duncan’s heart behaves as if it has somehow acquired a brain of its own and is currently attempting an escape by slicing his chest open, lest he say something normal. Words pour out of his mouth and, to him, they sound like begging.
“D’you need a hand? I could—” As he speaks, you go still. Your eyes drop, and Duncan falters at once. “Unless you’ve that sorted already,” he says. “I only meant—I’m good with carrying, is all.”
After a beat, there’s a nod. “Yes,” you say, and Duncan realises you are nervous. “God, okay, yes. I’ve no one. I’m not even going to pretend I’m competent, or that it’s an easy job. My delivery company insists that we’ve agreed on a downstairs drop-off and it’s a ton of bookshelves. If you were just being nice, that’s absolutely fine though. God, sorry,” you mumble, holding your throat. “Moving is stressful.”
He has never seen awkwardness to match his own packed into someone so lovely. He feels an impossible urge to hug you, but knows that could make his affair fleeting, and suddenly finds himself wanting the opposite. “I wasn’t. I mean—I was. I’d gladly help. I’ve the weekend off.”
“Wicked,” you say, a shy curve on your mouth. “They come at eight on Saturday. That works?”
“It does. Yeah,” Duncan says, nodding once, then again, as if the second one might make him sound less like a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket in broad daylight. “That works. I’ll, uh… catch you later.”
He turns on his heel and starts back upstairs like a fool.
“Weren’t you heading out?” you ask.
He stops so abruptly he nearly misses the next step. “Right,” he says, and clears his throat. “I was actually—” Jerks a thumb towards the front door, then has to come back down past you with what dignity he can gather. “Going to work.”
Your smile does something unhelpful to his insides. “Thought so.”
“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “So. Saturday.”
“Saturday,” you echo.
“Deadly.” The word slips out on its own. Duncan feels his ears burn. “I mean—good. Grand. I’ll see you then.”
He goes before his tongue can betray him any further, out through the front door and into the morning with his heart beating high in his throat, having managed to turn a straightforward goodbye into a full display of personal deficiency in under thirty seconds.
And deadly he is. You’re left smiling and so struck, it takes you another thirty seconds to clock that you are wearing an absurdly torn T-shirt, pyjama shorts and mountain climbing boots (classic just going to check mail assembly). Then another five to release a breath.
You were a bit too overwhelmed by the sight of your own four naked walls and a slice of floor to sleep on when you first saw him to assess him properly. Now, though—eyes, first and foremost. Huge, and blue and with lashes that belong on a doll rather than on a grown-up man. Proportional to the rest of him, which is also huge in a way that makes you feel safe and taken care of, not hunted.
Then his voice, which sits warm in your ear after he is gone, low and soft and careful with every word. His face: freckles over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks, hair that cannot decide whether it is dark blond or ginger, and a blush that rises so easily it almost seems unfair on a man built like that. And his arms—Christ on a stick. They look as if they could hug any worry clean out of you. Crowning all of it is the most endearing smile, all crooked teeth, which he seems to reach for whenever the colour in his face becomes unbearable. Absolutely dear lad.
And he has agreed to spend the weekend with you, playing adult Lego with IKEA bookshelves. An offer you probably shouldn't have accepted, but he’s a sweetheart who, by all rights, ought to take up space more confidently than he does. Instead he ducks his head, fumbles his goodbye and flees, leaving you with your lip bitten raw.
You know damn well it is entirely unwise to develop a crush on your neighbour. Nevertheless, the tiny voice in the back of your head is already chanting, please don’t be a psycho, please don’t be a psycho.
The rest of the day you spend pointlessly cleaning the space that will get obliterated by dust and cardboard come weekend anyway, then listening to his footsteps through the wall in the evening. Saturday, you realise, while you have been busy making goo-goo eyes at him, you completely forgot to give him any actual logistics. Where are you meant to meet? Who carries what? How much time does he have?
You knock on his door at 7:45 a.m. and might as well just kiss the doorknob. Nothing. Try again, and still nothing. By the time the phone starts vibrating in your hand with an unknown number, your stomach has already dropped low enough to bruise. The delivery driver is downstairs. They are waiting for a signature. You swear, apologise, swear again and hang up feeling like an absolute clown for ever believing a kind stranger was something that just happened to you.
When you get down to the main hall, Duncan is already there. Waiting. In jeans and a white T-shirt with paint stains set so deep into it they look permanent. The sight of him hits you hard enough to wipe your mind for a second. Broad shoulders. Sleep still clinging somewhere about his face. Hair not fully decided yet. He turns at the sound of you coming and your heart gives one awful, hopeful kick.
“I thought you, uh—hi,” you say.
“Morning,” he says, straightening. There is a crease between his brows, like he has been wondering where you got to. “Sorry. I went down when I heard the van.” His eyes flick over your face quickly, then away. “You all right?”
That lands badly enough in your chest that you have to clear your throat before answering. “Yeah. Yes. I just thought you’d changed your mind.”
The blush comes up at once, easy as breath. “No,” he says. “No, I’m here.” His eyes flick to the heap of boxes crowding the entrance, then back to you. “And thank God, it seems. How many bookshelves d’you need, anyway?”
You shrug, already flustered. “I have a lot of books?”
Something in his face gives. Worse than a mockery—a smile. “Right.”
The delivery men are in no mood for inept romance. They want signatures, directions, confirmation that yes, all of this misery belongs to you. Duncan takes the handheld scanner from one of them before you can fumble it, passes it back, then bends to the first box with the ease of a man picking up a child’s toy. You stand there a second too long watching his forearms jump under the weight and have to jolt yourself back into usefulness.
So, it’s carry the lighter things. A flat-packed desk. Narrow boxes of shelves. Bags of fittings that clatter and bruise your shins. Duncan gets the proper monsters: the long boxes that seem designed to take out the ankles of whoever dares lift them, the thick ones packed with boards, the pieces that turn every staircase into an insult. By the second trip, his white T-shirt is sticking to the middle of his back. By the third, you have learned that the muscles there move under cotton in a way that ought to be regulated. He goes up the stairs with a box balanced on one shoulder and one hand free for the rail, and every time he turns sideways to clear the landing, you get some fresh reason to stop believing in a merciful god.
“Sorry,” you mutter for the fifth time, wrestling a carton through your front door.
“What for?”
“For owning things.”
He ducks under the doorframe with another box. “Bit late for that.”
You laugh despite yourself. He smiles without looking at you, sets the load down exactly where it needs to go and is gone again before you can decide whether to stare at his back or his hands.
Eventually, the entrance hall gets empty, so the one outside your flat can look as though a Scandinavian warehouse has exploded. Inside is worse. Cardboard everywhere. Thick white foam. Plastic corners. Long, baffling pieces of wood in shades with names no tree has ever deserved. You are sweaty and breathing through your mouth. Duncan wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and leaves a pale streak through the dust there.
You lean against the wall and attempt a joke through your lungs. “If you’re fed up, I can probably handle the rest alone.”
His head comes up at once. “What, you’re kicking me out before the best part?”
“You think this is the best part?”
The blush arrives with such force it nearly does him an injury. “I meant—” He huffs a laugh at himself and looks down. “The building. The shelves.”
“Right,” you say. “The shelves.”
“Mm.”
You let him suffer for one beat longer than strictly kind, then rescue him. “Tea?”
He looks at you with real gratitude. “Go on, then.”
The kettle buys you both a little grace. For a while, it works. He tears through cardboard, stacks the big pieces, gets the general logic of things faster than seems fair. He is excellent at the parts requiring weight, reach or brute confidence. When you come back with two mugs though, Duncan is crouched in the middle of your floor among split boxes and hardware, reading the leaflets with an expression usually reserved for bad news from the doctor.
You pass him a cup, and he mutters an absent, “Ah, thanks, luv,” making your stomach twist. Goes back to frowning. Squinting, while holding the paper a little further away. Then further still, arm almost fully extended. His eyes narrow into slits. He turns the page one way, then the other, like Satan himself may be written on the back in clearer print. Under his breath, he whispers, “Shite.”
You are beginning to enjoy yourself immensely. “Everything all right there?”
“Mm.”
That is plainly a lie. His jaw sets, and finally he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. Out comes a pair of glasses so practical and slightly old-fashioned they look as though they have been with him longer than some friendships. He puts them on with the air of a man making a grave concession to weakness.
You nearly go through the floor. The lenses give him the most ridiculous, endearing bug-eyes. Not distorted exactly, but gentled, opened up. Softer, somehow. Boyish in a way the rest of him does not allow. He glances up and catches you looking.
“What?” he says, already half-defensive.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.” You set your mug down very carefully. “You just look…”
He waits. There are a hundred things you could say and none of them are survivable. Dear. Ridiculous. So lovely it hurts. You land on, “Serious.”
Duncan snorts, unconvinced, and looks back at the paper. “This thing was written by the devil.”
You kneel beside him and lean in. The leaflet rustles between you. Up close, his shoulder is warm. So is the line of his thigh where it nearly touches yours through old denim. He smells of soap and sweat broken by honest work.
“I thought it was the best part,” you say, forcing your gaze onto the tiny drawings instead of his glasses.
Duncan glances up. “Best part’s the company,” he says, and with those huge eyes behind wire frames, your crush leaves the realm of manageable things entirely.
He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. This, leastways, feels natural: helping. And it gives him enough space to push through anxiety and have something like a conversation with you. Nothing that would make his ridiculous in-love feeling flee has happened yet, so Duncan allows it to persist. At least as long as he gets to spend time with you assembling bookshelves.
That goes as expected: he’s tormented by your hands brushing his whenever you pass him a screw. Then by his own indignity at being unable to work with the smaller bits, where you step in—much too close for safety—with your nice-smelling hair and cute jokes. “Whatever would you do without me, hm?” you say, turning the smallest Allen key Duncan’s ever seen.
He clears his throat. “Uh… let’s see. Watch telly? Go down the pub for a game? Go running?”
“How utterly boring,” you mutter, focused on the task.
Duncan nearly rests his chin in one hand. “I know. I consider myself saved.”
You smile. Huff at the key refusing to go any further and deem your job done. “Alright,” you say, then deliver one more nail to his coffin. Your hand comes up to lift the hair off the back of your neck and cool off. He immediately goes to judge the kissability of it. Duncan, who in his lifetime has inspected necks’ napes in abundance, considers himself an expert on the matter. The verdict: yours is everything-able. Grabbable. Lickable. Kissable, and when he focuses enough he can imagine it smells heavenly too. Before he can blink himself out of it, you turn and ask, “Hungry?”
“Always,” Duncan says, and curses internally at how breathy he sounds. “Where d’you want these?” he asks, pointing at the whopping four assembled bookshelves, which currently create a little maze in your living room/dining room/bedroom—a room serving as all three.
“Oh, wherever you think,” you say, already scrolling through the food ordering app. That one hits him square in the gut, being allowed to do something domestic in the home of a girl he’s known for not even a week and is still deeply, hopelessly fallen for.
When he’s put everything where it looks best, you reappear with two beers in hand. He’s managed to find himself a spot on the floor where he’s sitting cross-legged, fully engrossed in the manual of the furniture already assembled, and your mind briefly goes to what it would feel like to wedge yourself onto those thighs.
You pass him a bottle, plop down next to him, and say, “Got us pizza. Fastest.”
“Grand,” he says. Leans back, trying to find something to stare at that is not your feet. “So—” The bottles clink. “How’s it feeling?” he asks, then pauses to watch you down half of yours in approximately five greedy gulps and chuckles, all helpless.
“Jesus, sorry.” You stop when you catch him staring like you have grown horns. Wipe your mouth. “It’s, um… less echo-y. Weird. But good. Like I’m starring in a rom-com. Oh shi—”
One of the shelves tips and starts falling face-flat. Duncan is up before you can properly register him moving, catching it with one hand.
“Got it. Got it. Yeah, the floors.” He wedges a folded bit of cardboard underneath to keep it straight. “They’re round as the earth.”
You blink, then slam the bottle onto the floor so hard some beer erupts from the neck. “Fuck, so I was right all along? It does feel like I’m going downhill from that corner.”
“Seems you were,” Duncan says, sitting back down. “Got to screw those to the walls, or you might get flattened in the night.” He points out the trajectory of it. If it went, it would go straight for the mattress. “We can do it tomorrow?”
“Two days in a row? Guess I bought you dinner, so everything’s by the book,” you mutter, and Duncan chokes on his beer. “Sorry. God, sorry. It’s the beer, I promise I’m not an obnoxious neighbour.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “If that’s obnoxious, I’d say I’m managing.”
You blink at that, then smile fully, teeth and all, and Duncan counts them before licking the backs of his own in a poor imitation of what it might be like to kiss you.
You turn towards him and lower your voice. “So you’re saying I should keep plying you with pizza and lager?”
There is a crust of dust in the corner of your eye. A strand of hair curled at your temple. The hinge of your jaw, where he would gladly suck a pretty pale bruise, just so you’d remember him as a man who leaves souvenirs. The collar of your T-shirt is darkened with sweat, and he can smell it and wants to press his nose there. On the floor between you, your hands point towards each other, fingers a hair’s breadth apart. He has half a mind to lean in.
The buzzer goes off roaring so suddenly you jump.
“God, that’s… loud,” you say. “One minute.”
The pizza arrives in a flurry of apologies, change, the brief humiliation of you having to shoulder the sticking front door with your hip. By the time you come back, Duncan has schooled his face into something he hopes resembles a man here for neighbourly reasons and not because he is one missed interruption away from pressing you into a wall so you can learn another purpose for all this strength.
You sit on the floor to eat because there is nowhere else to do it. The box goes between you. Grease blooms through the paper. Your knee knocks his once and stays there just long enough to keep his heart misbehaving.
The conversation comes in starts. Where you moved from. Whether the building is always this loud. How many books is too many books. He tells you he works mornings more often than not; you tell him this move has already shortened your life by a year. He laughs when you do impressions of the delivery men. You laugh when he tells you the names of the shelves sound like obscure illnesses. It should feel awkward. It does, a little. It also feels good enough that Duncan keeps forgetting to be shy until his own voice brings him back to himself.
He does not want to go. He knows he should. So he puts on the fakest yawn of his life, stretches his arms over his head for effect and says, “Right. Better leave you to it.”
Your face falls so slightly he almost calls it back.
“What time d’you want me tomorrow?” he asks, before he can stop himself.
That brings you back at once. “Whenever works for you.”
Duncan nods like a man with options. “I could do ten?”
“Ten’s perfect.”
“Good.” He gets to his feet and brushes nonexistent dust from his jeans. “I’ll see you then.”
When he leaves, it is with pizza marrying lager in his stomach, your laugh in his ears, and the growing suspicion that the universe has no intention of sparing him permanence at all.
He lies awake in bed, acutely aware that you are just behind the wall, and snorts helplessly into his pillow when a loud Fuck! follows a loud bang—presumably a toe fallen victim to one of the corners in the dark.
There is something insanely erotic to Duncan about a girl who lets him in and allows him to see the raw bones. No objects yet to hide behind or define yourself with; all he gets is your personality, stripped right down, and the version of you made intimate by imperfection. The one whose socks are nearly brown on the soles from cardboard dust, whose fingernails are dark beneath the crescents from handling metal bits all day, who stops herself from downing a whole bottle of beer only because he, in his dumbness, looked at her sideways.
And it feels nothing like his other crushes, which lived in perfect sealed-off vignettes, girls caught on their way somewhere else. You are going nowhere. Better: you are trying to stay. And Duncan has the honour of watching and helping it happen.
On Sunday he is ready at ten sharp and knocking on your door. His hair is still wet, and he is standing there with two coffees because he has no idea whether you have managed to unpack the coffee pot yet. That is the only reason.
Your voice comes muffled from inside. “Coming! One sec—”
He hears fumbling. Water running. Something hits tile and you hiss, “Shit!”
When you open the door, you look like you have only just dragged your shirt down over your back. Your hair is lifted with static. Your feet are bare, and Duncan has to force his eyes up from them. There he finds the corner of your mouth whitened with a trace of toothpaste.
“Hi. Sorry, I overslept,” you say, flattening your hair down with both palms.
“D’you want me to come back later?”
“No! No,” you say. “I’m up, promise. Also, is that for me?” Your finger points at the cups.
“No, luv. Brought them so I could drink two coffees in front of you.”
He presses one into your hands. You snort, then step out of the way. The hallway is narrow enough that he has to turn sideways to get through, and your stomachs still brush faintly. Duncan stops dead, points at his own mouth. “You’ve got a little—”
Your hand flies up and scrubs at your mouth with alarming force. You huff, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t drool, it’s just toothpaste.”
“Thank God.” A smile, unguarded and crooked and just so dear you want to squish his cheeks.
He steps in fully and is met by the sight of the place properly gutted this time. Boxes split open. Books in tottering stacks. Fragile things wrapped in newspaper. Clothes half-freed from bin bags. He crouches over one of the boxes nearest to him, whistles low, and lifts out a hardback thick enough to stun a horse.
“What have we here? Remember how we talked about how many books is too many books yesterday? This—”
Then he leans further into the box, and mind leaves your body.
His shirt rides up over his loins. The muscles there rise in two thick ridges either side of his spine. They deepen the groove between them, pull his waistband tight, make a gap between skin and denim that would fit a flat palm perfectly. Fucking biteable, is what they are. Unbearably hot. You could live there, happy and fed and entirely unbothered, your cheek resting in the well of his back. It doesn’t help at all that his butt is as round as your floors which are as round as the earth.
It takes him a second to turn. When he does, he looks almost pleased with himself. “This is too many books, lass,” he announces. The lass does not help either. His brow pulls in. “Hey. You good?”
“Hm?” you hum, and bury the lower half of your face in the coffee cup in a futile attempt to hide the heat of it. “Yeah. Hunky-dory. And there is no such thing as too many books, Duncan.”
“You can call me Dunk. Friends do.” He stands then, book still in hand, and your body takes that as fresh bad news. “Right,” he says. “You ready?”
“As ever. Are you? I see no glasses.”
Something bright flickers across his face. He sets the book down, reaches into his back pocket and produces the case with a little flourish. Flips the arms open with both thumbs and settles the glasses on his nose like a man about to perform surgery.
“There,” he says. “Happy now, lass?”
“Very.” You clear your throat. “Okay. What should I do?”
He looks round your flat, glasses low on his nose, taking stock. “Might be better to clear some of this first,” he says. “Leave the drilling till later. We’ve the desk still, don’t we?”
Yes, unfortunately. So you unpack the desk while Duncan deals with the cardboard. He breaks boxes down with an efficiency that ought to be illegal, folds them once, twice, then stamps them flat under one boot. It should not do what it does to you, that sound, that force, that careless certainty of a body built to make stubborn things give way, but it does. Repeatedly. By the time he hauls the broken-down mountain downstairs, you need a moment so badly it arrives without asking.
You end up spread flat on the floor, muttering, “Fuck, fucking fuck,” into the air, heels of your palms pressed into your eyesockets hard enough to make your vision exist only in shades of black.
The front door opens quietly. A few steps, and: “Tired already?” Duncan asks.
Off with your head, then. When you look up, he is standing over you with the ceiling nearly on his shoulders. Not really. It only feels that way. A sigh. “Just… regrouping,” you say.
His mouth twitches. He puts a hand out. “C’mere, wee thing. It’s nearly done.”
It stirs your lower belly hot. So does the sight of his hand waiting for yours, broad and open and patient. You give him your arm because the other option is to reject it and scramble yourself up in an entirely undignified way. His palm closes round your elbow. Instead of yanking, he lifts steadily, calmly, as if you simply have no weight. The pressure of him stays even once you are upright. He is still holding you when you straighten fully, and for one daft second you let him.
“Right,” you say, smoothing your hands down your jeans. “I just need some water. Do you want some?”
He nods and follows you into the kitchen.
You reach up for the glasses from the top cupboard. There are only two unpacked. Duncan notices that at once. Notices, too, the way your shirt rides with the stretch and catches there above your hip, folded back on itself, leaving a strip of stomach bare. He feels it clean in the chest. Affection and neighbourly feelings that somehow have managed to fester into want, plain and greedy. He wants a lot, he realises. And he’s certain he’s obvious as daylight in it, and so engrossed in his own inadequacy things elude him.
What he misses is that you are no less obvious, only quieter. The way you hand him the glass so your fingers drag against his and stay a fraction too long. The way you drink from yours fast, quenching thirst that water has nothing to do with. The way your eyes travel down the line of his jaw to his throat as he swallows, unabashed for a second before you blink and pull them back.
Thank god he cannot read minds. Yours is all clatter. He looks right in here. In your kitchen, such as it is. A bit sweaty. A bit messy. Big enough to crowd the room without trying. The flat already warmer and more lived in for having him inside it. And you want him to stay so badly it makes your palms damp round the glass. Spoken aloud, it would sound ridiculous. Inside your head, it has already settled into fact.
You clear your throat and look anywhere but at his mouth. “Right,” you say. “If we stand here much longer, that desk will build itself out of spite.”
That gets a smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Ruinous. “Can’t have that.”
So, the desk gets built. The shelves end up arranged into a final, satisfying shape which, if everything goes to plan, will make a small home library. Duncan measures them up, shifts them by inches, squints, steps back, shifts them again, makes them line as evenly as the old building allows and does the bulk of the work with the drill. You end up his nurse, passing him sleeves and screws when he asks, holding things steady where he tells you, fetching the bits that roll away.
At one point he grunts and squints at the wall with such offence in his face that you ask, “Did BILLY say something rude?”
He snorts. “No. But I might need your hawk eyes here, luv.”
“I see,” you tease. “I’ll tell you a secret. Can’t see shit from afar. I suppose that makes us one properly sighted person between us.”
The prospect of making something whole with you is so enticing Duncan nearly misses the fact that you have slipped under his arm and then between his biceps. From there he gets your neck again. The shape of the space behind your ear. The little hollow where he decides his fingers would sit perfectly, cradling your head while he kissed you stupid. He puts all his strength into pressing the shelf to the wall while you screw the tiny bits in, holds his breath and prays for his body to behave. The space between his stomach and your back is so narrow he could close it in one step. Then he could bury his nose in your nape. Then—
He blinks against the thought so hard something scratches his eyeball. “Bloody fu—” he mutters, trying to wipe his face against his shoulder.
You feel the shift and turn your head a little. “You all right?”
“Yeah, just… something in my eye. Dust, I—”
You crane your neck first, then turn in the cage of his body. Set the screwdriver down. Dust your hands off on your jeans. “Hold it,” you say. “Come here.”
Dear Lord above.
Your hands reach for him. One finds the bridge of his glasses and pushes them up till they catch in his hair. The other comes to his cheek. Then both of them are there, cool skin, cradling his face as you pull him down to your height and look straight into the ruined eye. Duncan goes still from boots to teeth.
“D’you see it?” he chokes out.
“Yeah. Just an eyelash. Long one,” you mutter.
Your knuckle comes to his lid and draws it down gently. The eyelash—a brown curved thing, outrageous in its prettiness, like he has put a bloody curler to it—works itself loose, catches him once more for spite, then blinks far enough free for you to pinch it between thumb and forefinger. You hold it up in front of him, forgetting he likely cannot make out a thing without his glasses.
“There,” you say. “Better?”
“Can’t see it, but I believe you,” Duncan breathes.
He stays bent over you, close enough that the freckles show one by one. You could count them if given the time. You want the time. All day, if possible. Or a year. All year to count them and then find out whether they continue elsewhere. He licks his lips once and then keeps very still, save for the faint trembling in the arms.
You pull him a fraction lower. Then another.
Duncan looks like he wants to say something and rejects each option in real time. His mouth opens. Shuts. When he thinks you are about to kiss him, you slide his glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose and he makes the smallest wounded sound in his throat, near enough a whine to count. But you keep coming. Closer. Closer. He can feel your breath wash warm over the tip of his nose, over his upper lip. Then your mouths are there, set together already, the contact made and held. Soft and dry with the day. Neither of you moving. Both of you letting the other back out if they want it badly enough. There are no takers.
Duncan closes his eyes. His voice comes out low and strained. “C’mon, girl. Give me something.”
“This?” you say, and then move. And god, what a movement that is. He feels it everywhere. In his toes, where you step on them to lengthen your reach, and he welcomes that weight. On his scalp, where your fingernails scratch him so deliciously a shiver skitters down his spine, making his hips move forth. On his upper lip that gets framed by both of yours and then his mouth opens and his tongue slips out and Duncan is so trustful of his own work his palms finally leave the shelf. They come to gather what there is of you. He wraps you all tight and around in his arms, sets his hands on your waist and hip and with it you lift a little, and in that lift Duncan’s kissing his neighbour.
His glasses get skewed. He steps away from the bookcase and to the nearest wall, where he presses you in. One tug, and your legs know exactly what to do—they cinch him, ankles crossed in the small of his back, and you’re airborne, clutching his neck, thighs supported in his grip. He keeps kissing, because this is simply impossible and if there is news about to be broken to him that permanence is not an option he’d rather receive it later than sooner.
“Wait,” you mutter. “God, I’ve been trying not to do that.”
“Y-you?” he stammers. “Why?”
“Because you’re my neighbour,” you say, swiping hair off his forehead. For once, your faces are level. He’s so damn gorgeous it’s nearly absurd for him to be unaware of it. Angular where it matters, soft where it’s unexpected. You can think of another arrangement where height will not exactly come into play, but first—
You’re overcome with need to glue yourself to him, so you hug him into a full-body shackle: tighten your arms and legs where they keep you up, and bury your face into his neck to mumble a wishful, “You’re not a player, are you? You don’t go around calling women lass like you know what it’s doing, right?”
His palms twitch on your thighs. Face moves towards you, then stops, held there by caution so naked it shreds. He lets out a breath that is a quizzical chuckle. “Jesus, no,” he says. “I can barely talk to you.”
A laugh breaks out of you, and then out of him too. He tips his forehead to yours for a second, still holding you up like it costs him nothing.
“Are you?” he asks, quieter. “A maneater?”
The thing is, you were struck with him from the start. There was lust in it, greedy enough to startle you with your own nerve. But the rest has come on slower and worse. Out of use. Out of kindness. Out of watching him take the weight of things without making a show of it. Out of seeing him go soft-faced with concentration, seeing how badly he wants and how carefully he handles the wanting, as if it is something that could do damage if let loose carelessly. You have known him three days and already the flat feels rearranged around his presence. Maybe this is what blessing looks like in real time. Proximity. Repetition. Two people getting an unfairly clear look at each other too quickly.
You lean back enough to see him. “Do I look like one?”
His eyes go over your face as though the answer might be written there if he studies hard enough. “No,” he says, with such immediate certainty it almost hurts. Then, because apparently that is not enough for him: “You look pretty. And kind.”
A smile tries to happen. Your throat goes tight around it. “That so?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
You smooth your thumb over the heat in his cheek, the rasp of ginger stubble there. His glasses are still crooked. His mouth is still open the slightest bit from the last kiss. Entirely too dear. Entirely too much.
Oh, and does he. The second time it comes with all his better judgement buried alive beneath it. He gets his mouth on yours like he has finally understood the point of having one. Bolder now. Hungrier. Your lower lip catches between his teeth and there is nothing neat about the way he bites it, only care and the lack of enough care, both at once. Crooked teeth bite just fine, you learn. Better than fine. He mouths you until your breath goes thin, then drops to your neck and inhales so deeply it feels dragged out of the soles of his feet. Nibs, and whatever was warming in you goes past that. Burning now. Clean through.
“Bed,” you mutter, fingers twisted up in his shirt.
Duncan had no idea that was even possible, that one word from you could turn his whole body into a set of orders barked and obeyed in the same second. He does what he is told. Walks with you held high on him, your weight gathered tight and easy, and when he reaches the mattress on the floor he goes down with care, one knee first, then the other, until your back is sinking into bed that is still only a mattress and a fitted sheet half-pulled loose at one corner. He stays over you, breathing hard enough to show it, one hand planted by your head, the other still hooked under your thigh.
“You sure?” he asks.
You nod too fast, then colour. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…” Your face does something shy and pained. “Sweaty.”
Duncan looks at you. Thoughtfully. Like this is a thing worth considering from all angles. Weren’t he the biggest sweetheart god ever let loose on the public, that look might be labelled as menacing, too.
“I know,” he says. Then, lowers his face to your belly.
Words leave your body. That is all. They just go. He presses his mouth to you through the shirt first, then rides it up with both hands, bunching cotton inch by inch until your arms have to lift. The chance is taken: his hand slides to your wrists and sets them above your head. Your breath catches so sharply it nearly cuts. Duncan’s nose goes to your skin and he smells you like he means to learn something useful. Belly first. Then higher. He drags slow through the middle, mouth open now and then, breathing in. Your chest. The damp little hollows under your arms, where the tickle of his breath makes you squirm and laugh helplessly. Higher still, until he reaches your throat. He sweeps your hair aside with his cheek to get a clean stripe of skin and settles there, breathing you in as if he has come home to it.
“I like the way you smell,” he says against your neck. His voice roughens on the last word. “Bloody maddening, if you ask me.”
It does something murderous to your insides. You twist under him, wrists flexing in his hold, just to get closer. His grip tightens by a hair from pure absorption. Nose traces the line under your jaw. Another small bite. Your heel drags against the sheet.
“Duncan,” you say, and it comes out wrecked enough to make him lift his head.
Hair is falling into his eyes. Glasses sit crooked on his nose. His mouth is wet and pink from kissing you, cheeks spill red all over his skin and you wonder if that blush exists below the T-shirt too. Sensitive. There is a look on his face like he is trying very hard to keep being good while every part of him is begging for permission to stop.
“Yeah?” he says.
You swallow. Feel his thumb resting on the inside of your wrists. The whole blunt weight of him held off you by restraint alone.
“More,” you tell him.
Lances him clean through, that one. Duncan’s eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, as if he means to be sensible about it and catalogue the options. “Where?” he asks, voice thick. “Tell me where, lass.”
You could laugh at how decent he is, kneeling over you in a state that ought to excuse much worse, still asking like the answer matters more than his own pain. Instead you lift your wrists a little in his hand and he understands. Lets them go. Your palms land on his shoulders and stay a second. On the impressive spread of him and the hard work of holding himself up. “Everywhere,” you say, then, because he looks like he may pass out from being too good, “Start with here.”
You guide him back to your neck. The instruction is taken with shameful gratitude—he might go down as a man who leaves souvenirs after all. Mouth finds the place he’s already put some mind into, perfecting the bruise with focused lips, then the edge of his teeth, then the flat of his tongue to soothe what he has done. Then, he shifts—nose wedging the collar of your shirt aside, finding skin hidden all day under cotton and sweat. Every new inch offends him with how little of it he had before.
Sounds get born in his throat and die into a hiccup every time your body speaks up. There are fingers in his hair. Little gasps. Movement under his groin is particularly unbearable when your leg brushes him. No matter how old and stretched, jeans were simply not made to contain a boner, and Duncan learns it the literal hard way.
“You’re doing me in,” he says into your throat.
It bounces off your pulse. “You seem alive enough.”
He laughs, a breathy little snort. Lifts his head just far enough to look at you. His face is flushed down to the neck. He reaches between your bodies with obvious reluctance and catches the hem of your shirt in both hands. Stops there. “Can I?”
You nod. It still does not satisfy him.
“Mm. And now can you tell me that I can?” he says.
“Yes, you can,” you tell him. “Take it off.”
He strips you with the care of a man undoing bandages. Your shirt goes up in stages, dragged over your ribs, your bra, your face, until it is gone. He stares long enough to make your stomach jump. It’s slower than everything—than a quick skim of current wants or broad hungry looking. Almost dazed. Like each small part of you has to travel the whole way through him before he can move to the next one. His thumb runs along the underside of your breast through the bra, testing nothing more scandalous than weight, and his eyes close briefly at the feel of it.
“Jesus,” he says under his breath.
“What?”
He opens his eyes. “You’re…” Then stops, mouth twisting, unhappy with every word available. “A lot.”
You grin before you can help it. “Good a lot?”
His answer is to lower himself and press his face between your breasts, right into the warm cleft through the bra, as if language is a thing failed beyond repair. The sound you make at that goes straight to his hips. Duncan exhales hard, rubs his cheek on the lace, then wedges his fingers between your back and the mattress, to the clasp at your back with more hope than skill. The first try gets him nowhere. The second worse. He pulls away far enough to glare at your tits like they have personally insulted his family.
“Need help?” you ask.
He looks embarrassed for exactly one second. “Need a miracle.”
You laugh. Arch and bend and press your belly out and your arms briefly make it look like you’ve grown small wings. That is worse for him somehow, watching you undo your own bra for his benefit. When it loosens he sighs like he is the one being let out of it. He peels it away, lets it fall wherever, then just looks again. His hands come up and hover, huge and uncertain, before settling on your ribs. Warm. Shaking faintly.
“Still alright?” he asks.
“Yes.”
You find him. Guide him higher. The effect is immediate. Duncan’s breath leaves him in one stunned pull. Then, it’s roughness on skin. Palms large enough to divide equally, a tit per one. He holds you and smiles like an absolute goof.
“There,” you murmur. “That’s better.”
His mouth opens. Nothing useful comes of it. Which, really, fair.
You slide one hand down from his neck to the hem of his T-shirt, bunch it in your fist and tug. It lifts enough to show a strip of stomach, warm and furred and indecent in its ordinariness. A man’s body right there in your hands. “Can I take your shirt off, Dunk?”
That sobers him by half a shade. Makes his eyes search yours. “Yeah,” he says. Then, because permissions have to be balanced: “You can.”
You peel it up and over him. Duncan helps in the last second, ducking his head, pulling one arm free and then the other. The shirt lands somewhere by the mattress and suddenly there is too much of him at once. Chest broad enough to lay a proper grievance on. Shoulders built for carrying things that have no business being carried by one person. A scatter of pale freckles over the tops of them, which feels like information the public should not have access to. Hair dusting through the middle and down his stomach, where it disappears under the waistband of his jeans and leaves your mind to finish the route unsupervised.
“Oh, Jesus,” you say before deciding whether you mean to.
The colour in his face deepens. As you suspected, it bleeds down: stains that bloom like bruises sketch his neck and lower. “What?”
“Nothing,” you lie. Your hand goes out, palm to his chest, just to see. Warm. Slightly damp. Hard and alive under skin. His heart is going like a thing trapped. “You’re very…”
He watches you try to land it. Offers, “Big?” and somehow even that comes out apologetic.
“Hot,” you say, and the laugh that breaks out of him is so helpless it nearly kills you.
You kiss him to put him out of his misery. Or yourself. Or deepen it. Hard to say. His hands wake up after that. One stays on your breast, thumb dragging over the nipple until your back leaves the mattress. The other travels down your ribs, your waist, the notch of your hip, then lower still until he reaches the button of your jeans and stops there like someone brought up against a locked gate.
His forehead drops to yours. “Can I?”
“Yes.”
The button goes. The zip next. Duncan’s fingers slip below and the sound you make at the first pass of his knuckles is enough to make him shut his eyes. There’s no rush in it, just checking. He decides one yes about bottoms is probably enough, so instead of cramming a palm into denim, he hooks both hands over the waistband and slides your jeans down to your knees. You kick the rest off.
A quick examination of conscience later, Duncan realises he is the victim of the mysterious ways the universe works. One day he sees a girl in a corridor and thinks all the unhelpful thoughts about her. The next, he offers to help because he’s built like that. Now the same girl lies below him, naked as day, clearly wanting him back if he’s learnt anything at all about why girls get wet between the legs. This is the part he wasn’t prepared for. Pining over a face with no name to it is one kind of torture. Being desired is another, because desire asks something back.
He runs a hand the whole length of you, ankle to knee to thigh, until it lands there. The skin is damp, curls glossy, and when he squints hard enough through those goddamn stupid glasses he can see your muscles clenching, impatient. Impatient for him. Your hands get impatient too: they come for his buttons, shake there a little. He lets you fumble a bit, even allows one clumsy tug, until, inevitably, his trousers stay locked round his thighs.
“We in a hurry?” he asks.
“N-no, I just—” Your brows furrow; throat bobs. You inhale, then sigh out, “want you.”
His mouth pulls crooked with it, because the sweetness of being wanted hurts him a little. He comes down next to you, onto his side, one arm sliding under your neck so your head has somewhere proper to go. He kisses your temple once, warm and brief, then the corner of your eye.
“Soon, lass,” he says.
You only huff at that, offended on principle. The offence does not survive long. His hand drops between your legs and one finger presses inside with all the patience he has got, and your whole body gives a startled little jump.
“Oh—”
“Good oh?”
“Best fucking oh,” you say, and a cute smile blooms on him.
He works it slow, watching your face with such naked concentration it ought to count as indecent. The glasses are slipping again. He nudges them up with his shoulder, fails, gives up, so you help by plucking them off. His thumb finds the place above and your breath leaves you in strips. He swallows, looks faintly green around the gills with the effort of saying the next thing, then says it anyway.
“You got a condom?”
“N-no, but—” A sharper thrust of his thumb splits the thought clean in two. “Fuck—I’m on the pill.”
Something truly frightful must cross his face, because you rush to fix it.
“Nothing whorish, I promise. Just health reasons. I’m all alone like a country dunny otherwise.”
Duncan shuts his eyes for half a second and bows his head, not out of judgement but because the opposite has arrived too hard and fast. A blessing to him, that. A crime, otherwise. He gets half a mind to entertain the daftest thought alive—that maybe it was always meant to go this way. You, alone like a country dunny. Him, not much better.
Second finger joins the first. You make a sound into his throat and the silly thought dies happy.
He works you open by degrees so thoroughly you start wondering if there’s going to be a follow up to that condom question. Not that his fingers don’t feel good—the fucking do, almost too much. But from where you’re cradled you can see exactly the way his cock is jerking in his underwear, still framed by the fly of his jeans. Simultaneously you know he’s the kind of guy who’d close your trembling legs after you come, then cuddle into your neck until he softens, because this is not about him. So you try again.
“Duncan,” you breathe. “Enough, I—”
“You’ll need more than that for me,” he says. Abashed. I’m sorry that my cock’s too big to fuck you right away and there will be no quickies in our life kind of embarrassment. It’s unbearably sweet. Insanely hot. Blood pumps your cheeks plump and warm already, and then Duncan nearly ends you by saying, “Need to sort you out first.”
And it’s the first time in your life a man has told you his size might be a problem while making it sound like care came first and ego didn’t show up at all. He’s everything but swagger. Your heart does something daft and soft around the edges while the rest of you clenches hot around his fingers.
“Okay,” you say, cupping his face. “Okay, one more. Just—” A swallow. “Fair warning, I might come.”
It startles a grin out of him. Mean by his standards. Lovely by any other. “How’s that a bad thing?” he asks. Kisses you once, hard enough to shut you up for a second, then gives you that remedy for a cock-too-big problem of his and your vision bleaches.
God, you’re full. If girth blesses every part of him evenly, you may indeed be doomed. You would be already if he wasn’t this thoughtfully slow. You can feel in real time how your muscles adjust round him, then take a second to unclench when he withdraws to the first knuckle.
“You alright?” he asks, and his own voice tells on him. Tight. Thinned out with strain. You look so pretty it’s becoming unendurable. Hair dragged wrong, mouth open, eyes gone bright and glassy in a way that makes him so hard it’s difficult to think with any dignity.
Your nails dig into his nape. “I’m so good I’m gonna lose my mind in a second,” you breathe. A swallow. “Can you please take your pants off?”
He nods, nose brushing yours. “Alright,” he says. “If anything hurts, you tell me, yeah?”
Then he has to do the humiliating bit. First, he drags the shoes off his feet by pressing a sole to each heel. Then, shimmies out of the jeans, dragging the underwear down with them. Kicks that off too, and one leg catches, stubborn, round his ankle. By the time he joins you in nudity, he is red right up to the ears and flat on his back, camped next to you in all his difficult truth, cock heavy on his stomach.
Your eyes drop and your breath does an audible hiccup. You can feel his stare burning a hole through your forehead. He lies there tense, arms pinned to his sides like they are itching to cover himself up. God, what a waste that would be. It hits you then that he is boyish in random places so he can be an exaggeration of a man in others, and somehow all of that adds up to just a lad.
And since the opportunity has presented itself, you take it.
He is large enough that the head reaches near his navel, and yes, the girth is something to reckon with—but haven’t you just been worked open for this exact occasion? There is something insanely lovely about a man who would have half a locker room struck dumb standing for verdict, only to lie there with tension standing out in his forearms like he expects to be judged instead of wanted. He is not carved out of marble either, thank god. There is softness to him. Hair lies over his chest in an even, soft spread and trails down his stomach, which has the smallest give to it, a swell around the navel that looks made for a cheek to rest there. A vein runs the whole length of his cock, and with the pulse inside it he twitches, lifts off his stomach and falls back again. Heavy thing. Solid. Human. Entirely too much and, for that very reason, exactly right.
You put a palm on his arm. Murmur, “Come here,” and squeeze till he gets the message.
Duncan rolls back onto his side to face you, still halfway looking like he might apologise for the state of himself. You hook a thigh over his hip and pull him in until your groins meet. The contact draws a raw little grunt out of him. Good. Let him suffer a bit too. You kiss him—once, slow enough to make it stick, then again with your mouth smiling into his.
“I like you,” you whisper. His face does a helpless thing around the eyes. “Come on,” you say, nudging his nose with yours. “I’ll take it easy on you.”
“Will you?” he asks, while suffering internally. Both a promise of bliss and a difficult animal before him, he fists himself at the base and lines up. Your lips kiss the crown. Arms yoke his neck until noses flatten against each other. He can feel where your thigh, the meat of it, spills over his hip bone, quivers and settles heavier than he’d suspect it can. First inch, and he’s breathing hard. A bit more, and you join him.
“Shit,” you mutter. “Keep… keep going.”
He does, but so slowly it nearly stops counting as movement. Your body loses the line between pain and pleasure. There is excruciating sweetness in his hand. He manages to hold man’s favourite handle (your ass) while rubbing his thumb in compassionate strokes. Mouth hums and lashes tickle your cheek, eyes search for signs of sore that’s unwanted. The stretch he delivers burns, the opening is downright rude in its bluntness, but Duncan remains gentle, and that’s what turns this whole thing so total.
Underneath the turmoil, deeper, stranger, comes fullness that puts your musings about fingers to shame. There’s weight to it, length to it and, fundamentally, intent that makes your body waver between flinching from it or gathering it closer, so it tries both.
Duncan sees the whole war pass through your face and stops dead. “Too much?”
“N-no,” You breathe through it. Feel the wait in the whole of his frame. “Stay a minute. Just let me—”
He goes still at once. By force of patience, and by that old art he has been made to practise all his life and still has not mastered. A man built like Duncan does not get much leave to move through the world carelessly. People take one look at the size of him and hand him a part before he has opened his mouth: lift this, carry that, mind yourself, do not crowd, do not startle, be gentle. So he learns slowness. Learns to take the edge off himself before it reaches anyone else.
Now all of that gets spent on holding still while your cunt drags on the little of him already inside, hot and slick and so tight round the crown and upper body of his cock it feels like a clean seizure. He had let himself think of this in useless scraps. The sight of it. The permission of it. The prospect of being taken in where he has wanted to be since that first day. The actual feel is another beast entirely. The yielding comes by increments. The muscles take him, think better of it, grip again. Heat packs close enough to border on pain. If this much is enough to strip every spare thought out of his head, Duncan has no idea what shape he will be in when you let him deeper.
When your hips start making little lawless attempts at settling further onto him, he asks, “What’re you doing, hm?”
You huff at him. “Bouncing on it crazy-style, what does it look like?”
Insane, is what you are. He lets out a full snort, then another, and it all breaks into a boyish giggle. “Have I got a mad girl, then?”
“Yeah, I’m fully bonkers,” you grin. Sweat breaks on your forehead and it looks pretty. “Probably should’ve told you before—” The angle shifts, minutely. You sink deeper. Moan tears your mouth open and Duncan’s cock jerks inside you. “Oh fuck, it’s getting good. Oh, there—”
“There?”
“Yeah, right there,” you say, hugging him tighter and speaking into his mouth. “Oh God, you’re precious. You were right.” A swallow. “With that sorting-out thing.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You tell me,” he says. “Tell me if I’m being a bastard.”
“Impossible,” you whisper. “No chance. Fuck, Duncan—”
One of your hands comes loose from his neck and slips between your bodies. You press it low on your belly first, just above where the softness gives way to strain, and when you sink carefully again you can feel it there if you mean to. A hard shape. Buried enough that the knowledge of it makes your face go hot all over.
“Christ,” you breathe.
Duncan’s brow pulls in. “What?”
You catch his wrist and drag his hand from your hip to your stomach. Flatten it there. Make him feel it. Then, because the thing asks to be proved twice, you rock down on him again and pin his palm in place.
“Look,” you say. “Look what you’re doing to me.”
There he is, a proof of blood under flesh—filling you so completely it overspills. His fingers flare over your stomach, press, and Duncan can touch his own cock through the membrane of skin. His mouth falls open. Red surges up his throat so fast you nearly laugh.
“Jesus,” he says, stunned. “Lass.”
You do it once more, slower, both of you feeling for it. “That’s me,” he says, dazed.
You nod against his cheek. “That’s you.”
His eyes shut. One beat. Two. Then he makes a sound into your mouth that is pure loss of it. His forehead presses to yours. “Girl,” he says, thumb twitching over your belly, “you keep doing that and I’ll be no use to either of us.”
“It’s your turn,” you say, wrapping your arm back where it belongs. Wrapping him all over with your limbs until he’s shackled and happy about it. “Fuck me. Please.”
“Okay,” Duncan says. Swallows. “Okay, just—can you tell me again? Please,” he says, hoping you’ll catch the meaning. That’s it’s not about smugness, but for a big bastard like him, needing to hear it twice before he believes someone truly wants him this bad.
“Come on, Dunk. Fuck me.” There’s a kiss on his forehead. “Nice and slow until you come, yeah?”
Before he knows it, he’s nodding like a daft thing, and his hips start moving. Gentle thrusts, deep, fat rolls of pelvis until a smile pulls your lips. “Just like that,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good. God, you feel good, fuck—”
“Take it easy on me, lass,” he breathes. “You promised.”
He holds you, or himself onto, the dip of your hip. Kisses you through it, badly at first because neither of you can keep the rhythm of your mouths and bodies straight, then better, then worse again when the feeling climbs. The heel of his palm presses on your stomach where he bulges you out and the fingers he keeps pointed down so they can brush you whenever you decide a twitch from your side is due. Crude little arrangement, but effective.
“Shit,” you grunt. “How you doing, hm?”
"Barely," he says. "You?"
The truth of it is written all over him. The tremor in his thigh and the way his breath snags. The slow loss of that thoughtful caution he has worn like a second skin all day. He is trying, still, to be good. It only makes the strain of it show more plainly.
"Close," you tell him, feeling your own spine prickling with it. "Fuck, so close. Will you come inside me?"
His whole face changes around it. “Jesus, luv,” he says, nearly bitten off. Wedges his nose into your neck. Then, lower: “Yeah. God, yes.”
You can tell exactly how sore you are going to be tomorrow and expect your insides to have a different shape starting now. But your body has already made up its mind about him. It is learning him in real time and keeping the record. From the look of him, he would let himself be kept if asked, so you have a growing feeling that this must be the place. And then another thought comes, equal parts romantic and foul: that if he finished there, if he gave you all of it, the ache might turn kinder.
And Duncan, god—he's truly barely holding. He tries to think of neutral things but whenever his lids part your mouth is there, blurred and lovely, and you smell so good skin is about to melt off his cheeks. His balls ride up a notch, tense, and go hard with the strain in the sack, and the whole of his length burns so bright he feels it in his temples. It’s hard to keep his thigh from quivering and his hand from misbehaving. Fingers dig where he holds you and there’s a growing worry he’ll leave you with a palm-shaped bruise on your ass. He hopes you’ll forgive him.
“F-fuck,” you grit. “Duncan—”
You tighten like you mean to choke the soul out of him. Everything—arms, legs, cunt—seizes around him. The skin goes taut under his touch and you stare him dead in the eye from under eyelids so fuck-drunk he’s never been granted a sight like this in his life.
In this entanglement of trembling thighs and shoulders working so hard they seem knocked senseless, he feels it pulled out of him by force. Comes, and keeps coming, with his face pressed into yours, panting, and muttering yes, girl, yes, until his toes go cold and Duncan realises he’s way too long for your mattress and his feet kept touching the floor the whole time he’s been making love to you.
He blinks and feels the resistance of skin against his eyelashes. Learns that he’s crushed you in a bear hug so tight your breath has gone shallow. His arms loosen. Face comes up to scan for damage and instead of asking if you’re alright, Duncan hears himself saying, “I’ve been half gone on you since the hallway.”
Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth does that helpless pull that’s a smile around something overwhelming. One that happens when people burst out laughing instead of crying.
“I hope I lived up to expectations,” you say. “Because I’ve been half gone on you since the post boxes and now I’m fully.”
“My girl,” Duncan says, swiping hair off your forehead and disbelieving his own boldness. “Are you my girl?”
You nod and hold your arms out for him. It does something quiet and final to his face. Duncan folds himself back down into you, gathers you up proper, then draws back just enough to look. His hand runs the line of your side, careful and searching.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
You shake your head. “No.” A laugh, weak and warm. “I’ve learnt a thing or two, though.”
That gets one out of him too. He ducks his head, grinning into your cheek, then lifts it again with some practical thought arriving behind the eyes. “Hold on a sec.”
You blink at him. “Why?”
He glances down at the mattress, the sheet, the general state of things. “Because that bed’s poor enough without me making a full show of it,” he says. “I don’t see another in here, so I’m trying to save you the mess.”
You do hold on. Arms and legs go round him at once, locking him in place so completely it startles a pleased little huff out of him. Duncan plants a palm behind him and gets to his feet with you wrapped round him. The lift goes through his whole body. A hard breath. A tightening in the jaw. One small adjustment of grip when your weight shifts. Then he is up, broad and warm and breathing a touch harder than before, and you are still exactly where you want to be.
Still, you ask, “I’m sorry, and what exactly are you going to do? Pull out over a bin?”
Duncan looks mildly offended. “You strike me as a lady,” he says. “I had the shower in mind. If you’ve one of those.”
You smile into his mouth. “I’m tempted to say no only to make you march us like this to your flat.”
He fixes his grip by hitching you once higher on him. There’s a small girlish yelp. His nose rubs along yours, playful and mean and soft and—
“Will you take it easy on me, lass?”
You nod with your face still tucked close to his. “Will you?”
He will, or lightning may as well strike him where he stands. Because Duncan is in love with his neighbour, and this one is not going anywhere.
Summary: Your boss is Maekar Targaryen and for that some would wish you luck, some would tell you to run away–but really, you’d rather fall in love
chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Chapter 4-Dornish Holiday: The Water Gardens
Rating: Explicit (and for the next chapters)
word count: 16.5k
Pairings: Maekar Targaryen x Reader (Y/N), Baelor Targaryen x OFC, Valarr Targaryen x Kiera of Tyrosh, Rhaegel Targaryen x Alys Arryn, Maron Martell x Daenerys Targaryen-Martell
Tags: Modern!AU Maekar Targaryen, 18+/Explicit for the next chapter/s, MDNI, corporate baddie Maekar, age gap (reader is 29, turning 30; Maekar is 49), Reader is a WOC; what ethnicity or nationality, it’s up to you, But for me her faceclaim is Kim Molina (Filipina Actress)
a/n: Personally, I adore this chapter. It feels like a 2 hour feature length episode of my favorite TV Show 🤣 The Dornish Holiday continues next chapter 😏 I know the narration is little different, blame "My Lady Jane" because the narrator influenced me so much 🤣
Fic Playlist:
Baelor and Aerys were inside Maekar’s office for the past forty minutes. You observed them through the glass walls; Baelor sat on the right and Aerys sat on the left by Maekar’s desk.
Looks like a DILF Convention, if there’s one.
Maekar sent a chat through Teams, telling you to come inside and bring the tablet with you.
“Oh, I’m part of the DILF Convention too?” you jokingly mumbled to yourself.
You knocked on the glass door and let yourself in.
“Yes, sir?”
Maekar’s eyes mellowed when he saw you. Both Baelor and Aerys noticed that, of course.
“Send Tanselle the Logistics report for the previous year and up to this month, my brothers will need the data for the planning.”
You have been aware that Baelor and Aerys are to attend the corporate planning for the upcoming year, but it would coincide with their yearly vacation in Dorne. The whole family was supposed to go, but Baelor wanted to prioritize the planning. It was their yearly summer trip and an unspoken agreement from their parents’ divorce. Last year, Maekar didn’t come with them, because he took over for a week as the Officer-in-Charge. So this year, Maekar will go and be in charge of the trip.
“Yes, Mr. Targaryen,” you alertly replied.
You tapped the tablet and sent the reports that had been ready since yesterday and sent it through email to Tanselle, who is now Aerys’ secretary.
Baelor quipped, “I thought you called each other baby?”
Maekar was quick to respond, “Don’t fucking try me now.”
Baelor chuckled and turned to you, “Don’t mean to offend you,” then he turned to Maekar, “We heard you at Dad’s birthday party.”
Baelor winked at you, telling you that he’s just trying to tease his little brother.
Maekar huffed, “We follow office etiquette here, Brother. I don’t want the Head of HR sending me an email, warning me for acting inappropriately towards my assistant.”
Aerys held up his hands; a gesture you have noticed that Daeron and Egg do when they are baffled.
“Why am I suddenly involved?” queried Aerys, annoyed.
They jeered and exchanged snarky remarks. You tried to imagine them as younger men, arguing inside their parents’ house, joking, and just boys, being boys. It made you smile that they kept that bond until now.
Baelor, after laughing so hard, hummed, “I heard that Aemon was allowed a vacation this year?”
Maekar’s eyes glinted and his face seemed to have relaxed at the mention of his son.
“Yes. It was considered as his training outside the Citadel; but at least, Aemon will get to see his family this year.”
Maekar’s voice cracked a little; you all knew how much Maekar misses his son; how could he not when it’s not his idea to send Aemon to be trained as a Maester in the first place? Baelor looked like he wanted to reach out and touch his Brother’s arm, but he only smiled at him widely, showing his cute crooked teeth.
Aerys gently butted in, “Rhaegel misses you. Mum told me he was looking forward to seeing you.”
Maekar sighed, “I do miss him too. How was Alys? And the twins?”
Aerys answered, “Aelor and Aelora are in high school now. Alys just had a baby–a girl.”
Baelor now spoke this time, “Daenora, I believe? She must be four or five months old now?” then Baelor turned to you, “You’ll finally meet Rhaegel. Don’t worry, he’s nothing like us plonkers.”
You smiled at Baelor. “You’re not that bad yourselves,” but you continued, “I’m excited, but a little nervous.”
Baelor sighed, “I wish I could come so you’ll have Jonie with you too.”
You sighed, “Yeah. So J and I could finally wear our bikinis.”
You heard that the beaches by Sunspear Fort were one of the most beautiful beaches in Westeros.
He leaned in, “Then you two could meet our Mum.”
Aerys joined in, “You’re talking like she’s going in a lion’s den.”
Baelor turned to his brother, “Well, you know Mum, she can be quite frank.”
Aerys added, “Don’t be intimidated but our Mum is a Princess–actually, she is the heir to the Dornish throne.”
Maekar looked at you but he was shaking his head, signalling you not to believe his brothers.
“Will you two fucking stop it? She handled me, I know she can handle the Dornish.” declared Maekar.
Both Baelor and Aerys looked amused. It was a high compliment if you knew Maekar fully well. It made you smile.
Maekar looked up at you, “That would be all… and,” he cleared his throat, “See you later.”
“Yes, sir… see you.”
The moment you left Maekar’s office, you heard the muffled sound of Baelor rowdily cheering at Maekar like a wingman who had just witnessed his mate shoot a shot with his crush. Maekar remained scowling but when Aerys joined in, you saw Maekar break and finally laugh.
You saw them bantering and joking around even when you had come back to your desk. For a moment, they looked like regular people who were just enjoying their time together but once they came out, they were the dignified CEOs that the office people knew them to be. Aerys and Baelor gave a nod at you and then they left. It would be a shame that they won’t be able to join the trip to Dorne.
You clicked your notes app on your desktop computer to double check your list; toiletries, dresses, underwear, make-up, and some medicine if needed. It was all set and all you need to do later is to join Maekar and his children on the flight to Dorne. For the moment, you were in idle time; so you made a side task of researching. You opened a tab in your browser and searched, Myriah Martell.
Because you grew up in Oldtown, you have no idea what to expect from Maekar’s family; you only heard their names in the news, especially Daerry, for he is the current governor of the Crownlands.
But when you searched for Myriah Martell, a mini-biography appeared in the search engine; you saw photos of her when she was younger but not enough current photos. The images tab showed a photo in black and white of a young woman with a beautiful face and expressive eyes, in full tennis gear and shaking hands with a blonde woman, with a very defiant expression. There you found out, Myriah Martell used to be a tennis player before she met Daerry. But you cannot find the part where Aerys mentioned that his mother is a Princess.
Now you’re mini-panicking if you would curtsy for her if you meet her. You’ve never met royalty before, well, not counting Maekar and his family; but you suddenly felt nervous. You were fussing and now you’ve given yourself a faint migraine.
Why am I beating myself up right now? It’s not like she’s my real mother-in-law…
Though, you still have to maintain appearances. For once, you closed the tab and breathed out. You have to keep your head and wits with you at all times with two moody men in their mid-twenties, three rambunctious children, and their cousins joining you on this trip. Of course, you’re not in charge–Maekar is in charge, but who would he turn to but to the next responsible adult, which would be you? You even heard that Baelor’s sons will be with you; though you know that they can manage themselves, they’ve learned from the best, but there is Baelor’s expectation that you and Maekar will keep his sons safe during the trip.
At quitting time, Maekar took you straight to the airport where the kids would be and where the Targaryen’s private jet awaits all of you. You had your duffel bag with you and all of the stuff that you will need. Maekar informed you that you will have dinner at Sunspear Fort, given it is just a two-hour flight from Kingslanding to Dorne.
Willem, Roland, and Donnel were the security personnel assigned to your party; Donnel were with you on the way to the airport, while Willem and Roland were with the kids. The SUV you were on arrived at the main road to the airport, it took an exit that led to a private runway. Like you were in an action film, the three SUVs stopped before the private jet, on time and on cue. Maekar took your duffel bag and held your hand all the way. His children were in the other SUV and started to unload from the car that they were in. The third SUV’s car doors opened and you found out that it contained Valarr and his girlfriend Kiera, and his younger brother Matarys.
Valarr had his mother’s face but if you squint your eyes, he looks like a mini-Baelor. Kiera was beside him and they were hand in hand, she had dyed her hair pink which made her look cute. While Matarys, he was the same height as Daeron, and he even looked like Daeron, but his hair was a rich shade of auburn that grew past his ears.
“Kepa Maekar,” greeted Valarr.
You have stuck around Maekar and his family long enough to know and understand the dialect they used, High Valyrian, that Kepa was also used to address an Uncle. Valarr shook his Uncle’s hand and Maekar greeted his nephews; Egg and Rhae immediately stuck to you like magnets and you welcomed them, letting go of Maekar’s hand in the process. Valarr greeted them and Daella too. Of course, Valarr was perfect like his Dad.
Daeron hugged Valarr and Matarys, but he only gave Kiera a tight-lipped smile and a nod. You clocked it, Daeron was minimizing his interaction with Kiera. Daeron had harbored an unrequited love for Kiera, but you don’t know the rest of it–yet.
Valarr only exchanged a hi with Aerion and not another word; Matarys did the same, but Aerion was too bored to care about them. Matarys was more open than his brother, he hugged his little cousins, one by one. Daella even smiled brightly at him as he brushed the top of her head and said that she had grown taller the last time they saw each other.
“Boarding time. No one left behind,” ordered Maekar to the rest of the kids.
One by one, you all got into the private jet; a flight attendant took your duffel bag from Maekar and they welcomed you inside. One fact about you, you didn’t grow up with private jets and large SUVs as your means of transportation–you took trams or buses back in Oldtown where everywhere you go, you’d see the Citadel’s tower. To be inside a jet was an experience of a lifetime and you wished your family was with you to experience it too.
Valarr sat with Kiera, and all the while, Daeron followed Kiera with his eyes. He would hurriedly look away whenever Kiera would notice him staring.
Aerion declared to the passengers of the jet, “I’m just going because I miss Nonna. Not because I wanna be with you all.”
Matarys sassed back, “We don’t care about your sentiments. Take a godsdamned seat and enjoy your vacation, Ari.”
Aerion sneered, “Shut up, Matty,” then he hit him in the head with a brochure.
Matarys retaliated by throwing peanuts at Aerion’s hair. Maekar eyed both of them to stop and they did when they saw their Kepa glaring at them. Aerion took a seat anyway. That was the first time you heard Aerion’s nickname in the family and it somehow humanized him more to you. Even if they are the same age, Matarys was more than willing to put Aerion in his place, because Matarys is still older by blood.
Valarr snickered but Kiera shook her head and whispered something to her boyfriend. Then, Kiera saw you staring so she smiled at you. You have never met anyone from Tyrosh before but you can tell you both are kindred spirits. Maekar reserved you the window seat, which you thanked him for. Of course, the obligatory public display of affection was put up; Maekar made sure he held your hand. That made Kiera smile and she whispered to Valarr, to which he answered her hushed question, and then her face lit up.
The jet plane started to move around the runway and it positioned itself for flight. The flight attendants announced that the plane will take off in a few minutes; the engines were just a hum in your ears, unlike the engines of a commercial plane that roars when it takes off. But you felt the pull of gravity and the gentle force of the aircraft’s movement. Once the plane positioned itself linearly in the runway, it started to run along the paved tarmac.
You felt the tug of the takeoff and your hold on Maekar’s hand tightened. He welcomed your nervous touch and placed his other hand on top of yours. You wanted to see it all despite the takeoff frightening you; you looked out the window and saw the view change from roads and buildings, to clouds and the night sky. Kingslanding seemed like a part of a playset and not an actual city. The air pressure blocked your ears and you pinched your nose to get rid of it.
With that, you heard Maekar scoffing, “Cabin pressure?”
You smiled at him. “Yeah. I don’t get on flights more often.”
He rubbed the topside of your thumb with his own thumb, as he held your hand. He started, “Listen… I know I can trust you with playing your part, but if Mum asks you anything…”
You nodded as your eyes wandered. “I know. I’ll play along.”
Then your eyes went to your hand holding his. You’ve been playing along so well, but are you really playing for the goal or the game right now?
Maekar added, “And Mum, she is–well, she is Mum…”
You hushed him, “Don’t tell me anything. I want to be surprised.”
He grumbled, “Suit yourself.”
You looked away and leaned back on the plush seat. Oh, it was better than a commercial flight seat and you felt like you were sitting down on a marshmallow. Your eyelids started to flutter, lulling you to sleep. But before you fully fell asleep, a kiss landed on the top of your hand, a kiss that felt ticklish because of the beard.
A small finger poke your cheek and that woke you up. It was Rhae.
“We’re here, wake up.”
Maekar was not beside you when you woke up.
“Kepa told me to watch over you. I think we’re about to land.”
“Oh. That was quick,” you checked if you had drool or anything, you reached out and kissed Rhae in the forehead, “Thank you for watching over me.”
She smiled at you and she squeezed herself into the seat you sat on. The jet was descending the runway of the airport. You saw that Maekar had just come out of the cockpit; he was in full Mother Hen mode, making sure everything is okay and all of his chicks are in a row. You were just thinking about it, then you saw him check if the kids were complete–even Valarr and Matarys. Maekar quietly woke them one by one to tell them that the jet plane is about to land.
He’s so Dad.
He came back to you and found you cradling Rhae in your lap.
“We’re here. Don’t worry about your baggage, there’s someone going to take care of it.”
He sat and took Rhae from you and sat his daughter on his lap.
“We’re almost on touchdown. Are you excited to see Nonna?” murmured Maekar as he fixed his daughter’s blouse.
Rhae beamed, “I’m so excited to see Nonna! And I’m hungry, I miss her cooking!”
“I know she missed you too. She’ll tell you how much you’ve grown,” cooed Maekar as he rubbed his nose against Rhae’s nose then he brushed his daughter’s silver-blonde hair with his hand; the same shade as his.
You watched them and felt like your heart had just turned into the softest sponge cake. Maekar was so good to his daughters, you hope that he does the same with his sons.
He’s so Dad… he makes me want to be Mom.
You smiled at that dumb thought, good thing he didn’t notice it. After a few moments, the jet plane landed; the flight attendants assisted everyone down the runway and all of you headed towards the rides provided for your group. You walked with the kids–Rhae and Egg were practically attached to you. Because of that, Maekar wasn’t able to keep you close to him. Meanwhile, Daella stuck around with Matarys, and in extension to Valarr and Kiera; Daeron kept his distance from Kiera. While Maekar kept Aerion at his side.
The security personnel flanked the whole group; two bigger SUVs were waiting and there was a decal of the sigil of House Martell in the cars. The men went together in the first SUV, while you, Egg, Rhae, Daella, and Kiera rode together. Daella chose to sit with Kiera at the back; you made small talk while the SUVs drove away from the airport.
“Hello, we haven’t met,” you chirped as you offered your hand to Kiera for her to shake.
Daella rolled her eyes so hard when Kiera extended her hand to you; she hated that you were being so polite.
Kiera happily shook your hand, “I’m Kiera.”
You told her your name and said, “It’s my first time here in Dorne.”
“Oh, it’s my second time. Val brought me last year.”
You smiled at her as a reply; it was hard enough to maintain eye contact while she sat at the back and was inside a moving vehicle. It was past 9 o’clock when your group arrived at Dorne and even at night time; Shadow City glimmered with lights and the air was thick with the smell of lush trees and the nearby sea. There were palm trees and crawling vines everywhere you looked; the plazas were surrounded with buildings made out of cobblestones. It was as if you had entered a new dimension and it excited you.
I want to see all of this during the day time. This is the best vacation ever.
The yellow streetlights colored the streets orange; you could see people with darker skin walking, conversing, some were off to somewhere, while others sat in front of their homes, enjoying the warm night. The SUV drove on a highway and you saw the road sign–you were headed to the heart of Dorne–Sunspear Fort.
Your heart started to drum on your chest; you were about to meet the mother of your boyfriend, the myth and the legend herself.
The road to Sunspear Fort looked well guarded, the security personnel held AK-47s as they inspected the SUVs that arrived at the gates. You heard static and overlapping commands on their radio and you heard that your group was cleared to enter. You looked through the windshield and saw tall turrets, slenderly shaped; towers with golden domes on top, and maze-like roads that led to the other side of the fort that you weren’t able to see well because of the dark.
When your group arrived at the main palace; you saw rows of palm trees that lead to the entrance. On top of the staircase stood an old woman, dressed in a pastel orange top and loose slacks.
The kids quickly recognized her and ran to her the moment the car engines were killed off.
“Nonna!”
Myriah Martell opened her arms to her grandchildren, but she was not alone–a boy stood beside her, with the same silver-blond hair as Maekar. From afar, you could already tell it was Aemon.
Egg shouted for joy, “Aemon! Aemon!”
Rhae went to her Nonna, while Egg hugged his elder brother. The rest of your group followed, but Maekar took fast strides to get to the top of the staircase; he encased both Egg and Aemon in a hug and kissed the top of Aemon’s head.
“My little Maester,” hummed Maekar.
“Kepa, I missed you,” beamed Aemon as he looked up at his father.
Maekar then went to his mother and hugged and kissed her cheek, “Mum.”
“Oh, mio bambino, I missed you,” sighed Myriah as she embraced her tall son.
The rest of the grandkids hugged and greeted Myriah and Aemon, while you lagged behind, because your heart was about to burst out of your chest; a little unsure how you will introduce yourself. You climbed the staircase and approached Myriah Martell first.
“Your Royal Highness,” you murmured as you curtsied for Myriah.
She was dumbfounded by your actions, while Aerion laughed at you.
“Idiot,” snickered Aerion to himself.
Myriah chuckled but she approached you and lifted your chin with her fingers. You stood straight and smiled at the older woman who had commanded your attention.
“Who is this beautiful woman, Maekar? How courteous.”
You felt shy when she called you beautiful, when at her age, she looked better than you. Her hazel-green eyes retained that brightness and vivacity you saw from the black and white photo; her skin may be wrinkled, but you saw the allure that must have caught Daerry’s attention, way back then. You looked at her face and found where Baelor got his features from, you even found a trace of Aerys and Maekar in her.
“Mum, she’s my girlfriend.”
Aemon whispered to Egg, “Kepa has a girlfriend now?”
Myriah looked back and forth between her son and you.
“Ah, you don’t say, Maekar,” her voice was husky and sultry, she breathed in and smiled, “I was Princess Myriah Nymeros-Martell… but you can call me by my name now–Myriah.”
Before you forget yourself, you introduced yourself and did not curtsy this time. Myriah smiled at you; you expected that she would be mad that Maekar has brought you; mad for replacing the incomparable and departed daughter-in-law that her son fiercely loved, but it was quite the opposite.
“Well, let’s get you all settled in. Dinner’s ready.”
The kids cheered with joy, while Myriah insisted you walk with her as you proceeded inside the palace. Maekar nodded at you. You telepathically told him that I got this and could only hope that he understood that.
“Where are you from, my dear?” asked Myriah as you two passed by the flower gardens.
“I grew up in Oldtown, but I’m originally from the Summer Isles.”
Myriah replied gently, “That’s a long way from here.”
You chuckled quietly but did not answer that one. Again, Myriah spoke up, “No one has called me that title–not since I married into the House of the Dragon.”
You and Myriah entered a long hallway, just a few paces away from the group–you passed by a gallery, with huge portraits of previous Dornish Princes and Princesses hanging on the wall. But you noticed a portrait of a man with a Targaryen woman.
“Look, that’s my brother–Prince Maron, and Daeron’s sister, Princess Daenerys.”
You stared in wonder at the portrait, but you had to keep up while walking with Myriah. When all of you reached the dining hall–Maekar was startled to see someone was already at the table, waiting.
“Hello, nephew,” greeted Uncle Brynden.
“What the fuck,” grumbled Maekar under his breath.
All of you were startled to see him. But as to how he arrived earlier than all of you, has stumped even Maekar.
Myriah went to her son and whispered, “Bloodraven has been here since Wednesday. He insisted that he was sent by Daeron to babysit.”
You saw the budding irritation from Maekar’s face. Regardless, he approached Uncle Brynden and shook his hand.
“Uncle Brynden. How long have you been here?”
“Three days,” Brynden said casually, then he pointed at the table, “Let’s eat?”
Maekar tilted his head. Myriah offered the head of the table to Maekar, while Brynden remained on the seat he took, which placed him at Maekar’s left side. You took your seat just a few chairs from Maekar and you ended up sitting beside Kiera. Myriah sat at Maekar’s right; she called to the maids and servers and they came out with platters of food cooked in red sauces; some were grilled and had lemon garnishes. You could smell the scent of peppers from a roasted pork, it was so strong it kind of stung your eyes.
Maekar turned to his Mother, “Mum, can we say grace?”
Myriah touched his hand. “Yes. We can.”
Maekar looked at Aemon who sat across from him. “Aemon, say grace.”
Aemon did as he was told and he said the same prayer that you heard from Daella. The kids attacked the feast that laid before the table. Egg and Rhae definitely missed their Nonna’s cooking and they tolerated the roasted pork cooked in dragon peppers. You liked spicy food, but the dragon peppers in the pork surprised you.
Kiera saw you struggling so she handed you a glass of water.
The words came out of you automatically, “A few weeks.”
Kiera’s eyes lit up, “Oh really? Where’d you two meet?”
“I, uhm…” you swallowed the remaining spice, “I’m Maekar’s assistant. So, we met at the office.”
Her pink brows shot up and she looked surprised. “Oh wow.”
You met gazes with Kiera, but she assured you that she meant nothing with that remark, “It’s just that… I’ve known Uncle Maekar since my college days–he’s just so set on remaining single.”
Your eyes went to Maekar who you caught was already staring at you. Then you turned your attention back to Kiera.
“You’ve known them for that long?”
Kiera shrugged, “Actually, Daeron introduced me to Valarr when we were still at Uni,” she added, “Valarr’s on his post-grad now. It’s a shame Daeron didn’t finish his post-grad.”
Now you finally understood the mystery of the love triangle that is Valarr, Kiera, and Daeron. And right on cue, you found Daeron staring at Kiera.
You forked a few lettuce leaves and spoke, “I’m just glad that… I have someone I can be at ease with.”
Kiera giggled, “Don’t worry. I got you.”
After the meal, the kids were put to bed by their Nonna, while the adults chose to linger in a lounge room that had a decorated conversation pit. You and Kiera sat there and continued talking; she is a financial associate for the Iron Bank but she works virtually, while she and Valarr share the same apartment in Dragonstone. She was definitely younger than you but you and Kiera immediately clicked.
“Oh, you should meet Jonquil–she’ll love you, “ you gushed.
“Baelor’s girlfriend? I met her. Love her,” chirped Kiera.
Myriah entered the room and Maekar wrapped his arm around his Mother’s shoulder. You never knew that Maekar was a momma’s boy and he looked so adorable with his Mother.
“Everyone, your rooms are prepared. I hope that you get some rest tonight, because tomorrow will be fun.”
Valarr called for Kiera; she excused herself and hugged you before she left with Valarr. The boys–Daeron, Aerion, Matarys, Aemon, and including their Uncle Brynden, were given the largest room in the castle that they will all share. But you counted… You and Maekar had no room to stay at, yet.
You approached Maekar and Myriah. “Uhm, excuse me… Where do I sleep tonight? I’m fine with a single room or if I have to share with the kids–”
Myriah interrupted you with her laugh, “Silly girl, of course you and Maek will share a room!”
You wanted to protest with all your might that you will not share a room with Maekar Targaryen–but you forgot, you were bound by contract to do so. Maekar rubbed his face with his hand, while you wanted to throw a tantrum, but what choice do you two have?
Myriah led you and Maekar to your room. She pointed out a framed photo by a stand and showed it to you.
“Look here… I was twenty-one when I played opposite Daena Targaryen at the Harrenhal Open.”
You looked at the photo, it was not the same black and white photo you found on the internet–it was a more candid photo of a younger Myriah in a bar, together with Daena Targaryen, and a man who seemed to be Daerry.
Myriah added, “I remembered it like yesterday–I beat Daena at the finals, and for that she introduced me to her cousin… Daeron,” she sighed and pointed at her ex-husband, “That’s him. Handsome man.”
Maekar brushed the back of his head with his hand, like he was also reliving the moments that his Mother was retelling.
“So handsome… but you see, it came with a price,” sighed Myriah.
You couldn’t help yourself, you asked, “What price?”
“He was ambitious… Daeron wanted to unite Westeros under the Targaryen administration–I don’t know, it must be a Daeron thing. He ran for president, years ago… I divorced him because of it.”
Maekar muttered, “Mum…”
“I would rather not have my husband by my side if I have to share him with the Nine Kingdoms.”
Your gaze went to Maekar’s face. He was also experiencing the same nostalgia that Myriah was having, but he seemed like he didn’t want to remember. You wondered how old Maekar was when Daerry ran for President. He must have been in his early twenties then, but you weren’t sure.
Myriah placed down the framed photo and chuckled, “Memories. Funny thing.”
Maekar’s eyes were gloomy after that conversation, but you can see that Myriah has moved on from it. The three of you continued and at the end of the hall, Myriah presented the room you two will share.
“Here you are. If you need anything, just find the room at the end of the hall.”
Maekar took his Mother’s in his arms and embraced her again. “Thank you, Mum.”
When Maekar let her go, she cupped her Son’s face. “I missed you, my baby. Rhaegel missed you too.”
Maekar smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Myriah touched your face too, “Pretty. I can already tell, you’ll give my Maekar pretty children.”
Maekar boomed, “Mum!”
He looked away, embarrassed and red as a beet. Myriah laughed and turned away, but after a few paces she added,
“Oh, the walls here are thinner than you expect.”
Maekar covered his face with his hands out of embarrassment. Finally, Myriah retired to her room and you both entered your own room.
Of course, it only has one king bed.
“Crone’s bollocks,” muttered Maekar when he saw the bed.
You fidgeted as you entered the room, while Maekar closed the door behind him. You saw that there was a window nook that had a cushioned single bed but you were sure that Maekar would never fit in it. But before you could claim that spot, Maekar hissed,
“I’ll take the nook. You’ll sleep on the bed.”
You wanted to contradict his declaration but with one deadly look from Maekar, you chose to concede. But you bargained with Maekar.
“Then you go ahead and shower. I’ll have to unpack my things.”
Maekar grunted, “Whatever.”
He went through his bag that was put on the other side of the large oak cabinet. He took out a pair of black jogger pants and entered the bathroom by the end of the room. You took out your duffel bag and unpacked the dresses and underwear you had brought with you. You pack like you work; you keep it organized but sometimes, you tend to overcompensate and now you have counted that you brought ten t-shirts but only three pairs of shorts that you will wear during sight-seeing and touring. You can only hope that your three sundresses survive the next six days.
The shower from the bathroom started to run and you can hear Maekar hum a song while he took a bath. That was a new thing you discovered about Maekar and it made you chuckle. Your negligee and toiletries were ready and tucked under your arm as you waited by the bathroom door. You were on your phone and was checking if Jonquil had any updates about the planning, or if she just wanted to chat if ever she’s bored with any of the long-ass meetings.
Hey, J. We’re here now in Sunspear. I met Maek’s Mum. She’s so nice.
You typed another message, I wish you were here.
There was no reply so you opted to browse on social media, the bathroom door finally opened and steam came out of the bathroom. You weren’t able to see clearly at first, but when the steam cleared out, the first thing you saw was a silver-blond happy trail.
Holy fucking shit.
Maekar was clad only with a towel wrapped around his waist; he was lean and slightly chiseled, but gods, his shoulders were wide as fuck and his itty-bitty slutty waist was just godsdamned sexy, and his pale skin glistened with the excess water and steam.
He was drying his hair with another towel and as his body moved with the motion, you caught a glimpse of what was happening behind that towel wrapped around his waist–suddenly you were taken back that night, the very first time you and Maekar kissed.
Seven… Hmm.
You and Maekar glanced at each other and you felt the blood rush down from your head to the pulsating feeling between your legs.
Before anything else could happen, you walked past him and yelled, “My turn!”
Once you were inside the steamy bathroom, which smelled of his favorite shower gel, you had to hold on at the edge of the sink so you won’t swoon over and hit your head.
“Six more days… You can do this,” you motivated yourself, but from what, you were not really sure.
Were you hyping yourself up to keep your resolve? So you won’t lose control and throw yourself at Maekar? Maybe so.
“Yeah, you can do this. You will not have sex with Maekar Targaryen. That happy trail meant nothing. It didn’t look enticing at all…” you stared down at yourself in the mirror and pointed at your own face.
You exhaled loudly and proceeded to wash yourself up. You moved quickly and after ten minutes, you were out of the bathroom. Maekar was already on the nook; his feet poked out of the edge of the single bed, but your eyes went upward and saw that he was shirtless and he only had those black jogger pants on.
Holy shoulders and itty-bitty slutty waist.
He looked over his tortoiseshell glasses when you came out of the bathroom–wearing your black negligee. You didn’t bother with any nipple tape, Maekar won’t be able to see your nipples through the black fabric anyway.
You averted your eyes but you saw him checking his phone for updates and thank gods, the corporation is still running.
You made your way into the bed but did not bury yourself under the duvet, the night was too hot and muggy; so you turned to him and said,
“Please, can you open the windows? I’m sweating here like a whore in a sept.”
He scoffed at the comparison, but answered you, “No. It gets cold at dawn and I’m not freezing my arse off.”
“Then wear a shirt.”
And spare me from naughty thoughts.
Maekar propped himself up with his elbow and muttered, “This is how I sleep. This is comfortable to me.”
You sighed and laid flat on your back. “Fine.”
You tried closing your eyes so you won’t have to interact with him anymore. But you heard him murmur from the nook.
“Good night.”
Your eyes opened slowly and you propped yourself up with your elbows and you whispered, “Good night, Maekar.”
He might bicker with you, but he won’t pass up the opportunity to bid you good night. He was already facing away when you said good night, but you know he heard you. The jet lag and fatigue finally caught up with you and in a matter of minutes, you have fallen asleep and snored softly throughout the night. You even dreamed that Maekar hovered above you and had tucked you in the duvet.
The next morning–the boys’ room wasn't as peaceful as they would have hoped to be because Uncle Brynden snored like a table saw, dialed up to the noisiest setting.
Daeron chose to wake up earlier than everyone else so he could take a stroll around the gardens. He made his way into the nearest garden and ran into the person he never wanted to run into at all. But there Kiera was–the early morning light shone on her whole being as she wrote in her journal. Daeron was about to turn away, quietly, but Kiera had seen him already.
“Daeron?” Kiera gently called out to him.
Daeron’s face crumpled but he froze in that very spot. Kiera called to him again.
“I’ve already seen you.”
Daeron didn’t dare face her, he only heard her voice get nearer and nearer.
“Good morning,” greeted Kiera.
Daeron nodded, “Morning–good, uh...”
Kiera snickered. She tucked her journal under her arm and said, “How are you?”
He shook his head and pocketed his hands. “Oh… I-I’m great.”
“I saw you at your Granddad’s birthday party. You ignored me.”
Daeron wished he could grow wings so he could fly away from the conversation. Being near her was sending him into a relapse.
“No? I did?” he feigned ignorance.
Kiera shook her head, her loose pink curls moving with her.
“Daeron, we used to be so close. What happened to us?”
I fell in love with you, that’s what happened. Daeron thought to himself.
He shrugged and struggled to explain, “Well… that happens, doesn’t it? People just… life happens, they move on. Drift apart.”
Kiera touched his hand and it made Daeron want to sprint away, but he kept himself as composed as he could be.
“But… we used to be best friends. I miss that. You kinda left me when Valarr and I got together.”
Daeron stared into her face–he missed her so much. The Dornish sun does not do her beauty justice, she was more beautiful than anything beautiful in Sunspear.
“I had a lot on my plate then…” murmured Daeron.
Kiera now fully touched his hand and Daeron shook, she felt it too but she pleaded.
“It’s not too late. We can still be friends again.”
Daeron took back his hand and pocketed it again.
“I’m off. I need to… need to brew a cup of tea. Bye.”
He left Kiera in the middle of that garden; a storm curdled inside him.
Meanwhile, you woke up feeling soft all around. When you looked down, you saw that you were covered with the duvet and it had just protected you from the cold dawn.
It wasn’t a dream. It really happened.
Maekar used a thin blanket for himself when you checked him out from the nook. He was still facing away from you but you heard him snore quietly.
It was already 6 o’clock when you heard a soft knock on your door.
“Good morning, my son and my daughter.”
Maekar bolted right up and his gaze darted towards you.
“Mum!”
He ran into the bed and you took him inside the duvet. Maekar adjusted himself so that he may look like he had cuddled up with you all night.
You quietly complained, “Your feet are freezing!”
“Shut up and let me spoon you,” murmured Maekar.
The door opened and Myriah breezed in. “Oh, good morning to you both. Still canoodling in bed?”
Both of you pretended as if you had just woken up; Maekar’s arm wrapped around your belly and just below your breasts, while his morning wood was pressed on your back like you were being held at knife-point. You theatrically yawned, while Maekar kissed your shoulder–just to solidify the act.
“Good morning, Mum.” hummed Maekar.
“Breakfast will be served in about half an hour. I’ve told Rhaegel that you are here, Maek. He’s ecstatic to see you.”
“We’ll be there, Mum.”
Myriah smiled but she got closer to whisper, “Well, a lot can happen in thirty minutes… And morning sex is the best sex, I’m telling you.”
“Mum! Come on!” exclaimed Maekar, he was not just blushing, he was turning into a tomato.
Now you know where Baelor got his sense of humor–Myriah never fails to tease and playfully embarrass her son.
“Oh no, we’ll be there in ten minutes, Myriah,” you politely replied.
“Oh well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it.”
Myriah left and closed the door behind her. The coast was clear and you both could breathe a little easier now, but Maekar didn’t make a move to rise up from the bed. His hand, without him knowing, has grabbed your breast; both of you had become aware of the situation, but neither of you were doing anything to stop it.
You looked back to meet his gaze; Maekar’s face was so close to yours, his naked chest was pressed against your back, and his cock went hard and it poked your back and butt.
Slowly, his face was inching closer towards your face, you could feel his lips hover above yours.
“A lot can happen in thirty minutes,” whispered Maekar.
“Yeah… so much. So many… things,” you breathed out.
But before your lips could touch, both of you snapped away from the almost kiss and bolted right up. Maekar stood at the other side of the bedroom, while you stood opposite him.
You awkwardly asked, “Is it alright if I use the bathroom first?”
He nodded vigorously as his hands went to his waist.
“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll use the other bathroom, there’s plenty of bathrooms here.”
You tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
“Thanks, Maek.”
“No problem.”
You noticed that he noticed that you used his nickname. He smiled when you were not looking.
You wore your sleeveless tangerine linen dress while Maekar wore a black collared shirt paired with khaki shorts. Your tangerine matched with his black and you looked like the perfect couple on vacation. Maekar led you to the gardens where you will have your breakfast in al fresco. The moment you and Maekar turned up, a man sitting by a bench called Maekar’s name. He was brimming with joy and he kept patting the space beside him.
He gleefully chattered, “Maekar! Come sit with me, here! Maekar!”
Maekar came to his side and immediately hugged him.
“Brother.”
Finally, you have met Rhaegel. He had the same salt and pepper hair as Baelor and he even looked like Baelor, but out of all the four sons of Daerry–Rhaegal was the most gentle mannered; he was handsome, but in a pretty way.
“I heard you missed me,” said Maekar in the most cordial tone you have ever heard from him.
“You didn’t visit me last year. I thought you didn’t want to see me,” complained Rhaegel.
Maekar wrapped his arm around Rhaegel’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry about that, mate.”
Rhaegel chuckled, his hands were lightly tapping on his lap. You recognized those gestures–Rhaegel might be neurodivergent. You didn’t want to assume unless they told you, but it was obvious with Rhaegel’s gestures and disposition.
“It’s alright, Maek. You’re here now,” beamed Rhaegel as he touched his little brother’s cheek, but never met his gaze.
Maekar explained it carefully, “My Brother, Rhaegel, he is… He is special.”
Rhaegel blurted out happily, “Yep! It’s true!”
Then Maekar took the opportunity–he introduced you to Rhaegel. Maekar mentioned your name and said,
“Reg, she’s my girlfriend.”
Rhaegel’s eyes lit up and he smiled widely at you.
“Hello, Maekar’s girlfriend!” Then he turned to Maekar, “So you love her?”
Maekar paused, then his eyes met yours. You stared at each other, anticipating the answer that would come out of Maekar. You knew he would tell Rhaegel yes just to please his brother, but the real question is… would Maekar Targaryen mean it?
He turned to Rhaegel. “I do. I love her.”
You wanted to deflect the emotional weight those words carried; but you felt it at your throat, strangling you from breathing easily. Your head had labeled it as part of the act–the contract; yet your heart accepted Maekar’s words openly.
The game… is it still on? Or is this for real?
Rhaegel stood, perpetually happy and effervescent. “Breakfast is served, Mum said. Let’s go! And I want Maekar’s girlfriend to meet my wife! I have three kids, do you know that?”
“I want to meet them too,” you happily answered Rhaegal.
Maekar walked with Rhaegel and you followed them into the table set for everyone. A woman with brown hair and green eyes came up to meet you all and Rhaegel got excited.
“My wife! Oh, my love, my love!”
Rhaegel’s wife introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Alys and this is Daenora.”
She had a babbling baby strapped on her chest; she had the silver-blond Targaryen hair but with streaks of brown hair on her bangs. You introduced yourself and shook Alys’ hand, then Alys asked you if you wanted to hold Daenora. You accepted and you took Daenora from her mother.
“Hello, Daenora,” you cooed, while Daenora blew a raspberry, her drool got on your dress.
They all laughed when Daenora did that, but you didn’t mind, she was a baby; but Maekar was laughing the hardest, you had to glare at him.
“Aw, Daenora, you little bugger,” jeered Maekar.
But he went over to take Daenora from you, and now, he also got Daenora’s drool on his shirt. You guffawed when Daenora sneezed at Maekar’s face, only, he didn’t glare at you when you laughed. Daenora was too cute, you had to kiss her, but you only kissed her in the arms or her legs; you knew kissing babies on their face would irritate their skin. You even warned Maekar to do the same or his beard might irritate Daenora’s skin, to which he responded,
“Yes, Mummy.”
He purred with the deepest tone and you tried your best to hide the fact that what he said turned you on.
Myriah went over and said, “A baby looks good on you both.”
Maekar rolled his eyes as he expertly changed Daenora’s position while carrying her, further proving his Mother’s point.
“It’s not up to me, Mum; my girlfriend will have to decide for that,” said Maekar.
It was a nice sentiment, but it’s an empty one, if one would be realistic. You only have three weeks to go with the contract; you looked around and tried to take it all in. In a matter of weeks, you’ll head out of their lives and live your own life at Oldtown. It might be a betrayal, but in three weeks–you would have done the right thing. To choose yourself this time, rather give yourself to something that doesn’t have any guarantee.
“Of course, my son…” breathed Myriah; she continued, “Come on, breakfast is served. We are having seafood, caught fresh just this dawn.”
Maekar kissed Daenora in her chubby, dinner roll arms; then he gave her back to Alys and placed her again on the baby strap. Alys introduced her teenage twins–Aelor and Aelora. They both had hay-blond hair, not the Targaryen silver-blond and their eyes were baby blue, but you could see they inherited their Father’s hawkish nose.
Alys pointed at her son then at her daughter, “This is Aelor and Aelora,” then she mentioned your name, “Kids, she is your Kepa Maekar’s girlfriend.”
They waved at you at the same time and said the same Hi. Twin telepathy, it must be.
All of you were seated at the table; Maekar still sat on the head of the table. He looked more comfortable as Uncle Brynden sat at the opposite side and away from him, and also, he had Rhaegel sat beside him; then you sat beside Rhaegel. Alys and the twins sat opposite Rhaegel and he kept smiling at his little family. You pieced it together; Myriah kept the son that needed more care. You figured it out–Maekar must have been a glass child growing up, but that didn’t change his relationship with Rhaegel. He loves Rhaegel fiercely, just as he loves Baelor and Aerys.
The breakfast meal had freshly caught yellow-finned tuna, broiled and served with lemon; cheesy scallops, squids with dragon peppers, and stewed octopus. You wanted to cry, honestly, this meal was far better from the cafeteria food or budget meal that you cook for yourself. The stewed octopus reminded you of your own Mother’s cooking and it made you a little emotional. But you had to keep your tears at bay, you’ll see her soon enough.
Maekar asked everybody, “Who’s ready for the Water Gardens?”
Egg, Rhae, Daella, Aemon, and Aelor raised their hands; excited and teeming with joy. You’ve heard about the Water Gardens, but never been there because the airfare and tour prices were too expensive, but good thing you are Maekar’s fake girlfriend and you get to experience it for free.
Uncle Brynden spoke up, “Prince Maron would be glad to see you, Maekar.”
It sounded sarcastic, because it was. Maekar knows he is not his Uncle Maron’s favorite nephew, but his Uncle doesn’t hate him either. It’s just that it sounded irritating when it came from Bloodraven.
Maekar ignored that statement and turned his attention to Rhaegel.
“I have to congratulate you, mate. Daenora is a beautiful baby.”
Rhaegel laughed and leaned closer towards Maekar, “Thanks, Maek. Well, my wife and I made her. She gets the credit too.”
“Mm-hmm, of course,” hummed Maekar.
You listened in on their conversation as you ate, good thing Alys was not in earshot as she was busy with Daenora.
Rhaegel blurted out, “I didn’t think I could get an erection anymore.”
Maekar sputtered and covered his face with his hand. It was out of nowhere and Maekar’s shoulder shook as he tried to stifle his laugh.
“Maek? I just said erection,” mumbled Rhaegel.
Maekar laughed, “Rhaegel, you better stop!”
But Rhaegel didn’t and you know he’s just teasing his little brother at that point.
“What? I had a pocket rocket? My tallwhacker got a lob-on? I had a stiff one?”
Once again, Maekar was turning red, he covered his face as he laughed.
“Stop! You gotta cut it out, Reg!” snickered Maekar.
You’ve never seen Maekar like that ever before. Giggly and red all over.
He should go on vacations more often, it does him good.
After breakfast, everyone got ready for the Water Gardens. Daeron told you that it’s an hour away from Sunspear and the best time for a swim was in the afternoon. A mini bus was taken out of the garage for the ride and the seats were filled out by the entirety of the Targaryen-Martell family. The boys sat at the back; Uncle Brynden was just a row away from them; while Myriah sat with the kids, Daella, Egg, and Aelora near the row where Rhaegel and Alys are, but Rhae chose to sit with you and Maekar in the front row. Rhae was your ultimate third wheel and you didn’t mind.
When the mini bus left Sunspear, you were able to see the rest of Shadow City and you were right, the place looked magical during the day. You saw blooming bougainvilleas of every color in the streets; children played and ran around the parks, and people seemed to live in perpetual summer days. As the mini bus left the city, the roads revealed a beautiful coastline that sparkled under the Dornish sun.
Everything was perfect; Rhae slept peacefully in your arms, her feet sprawled out on her Father’s chest, while Maekar held your hand in between the small space you shared. You couldn’t fall asleep during the ride to the Water Gardens, because Maekar couldn’t fall asleep. You would glance at each other every once and a while; you remembered what happened earlier–the almost kiss, but moreover, his hand touching your breast. You swore he deliberately grazed your nipple, and now, you were left breathless as you recalled that moment.
Nope. I’m not going to fuck Maekar. Not in the near future.
“What?” muttered Maekar when he caught you staring.
“Nothing,” you lied.
The moment the kids saw the looming palace of the Water Gardens, they jumped at their seats to press their little faces on the windows to get a better view.
“We’re here!” cheered Rhae.
The gates of Water Gardens opened and accommodated the mini bus; it drove on to a road leading to the palace’s entrance. From afar, a welcome party waited for all of you; an older man and woman stood side by side. Attendants and servers waited by the large, orange doors. Maekar pointed to the old couple standing by the entrance.
“That’s my Uncle, Prince Maron, and my Aunt, Princess Daenerys. You’ll really have to curtsy for them.”
You breathed in, “I saw their portrait back in Sunspear.”
Maekar turned to you. “Then it would be easy for you to spot them. FYI, they are Dorne’s ultimate authority.”
Your mind cannot wrap around the fact that Maekar’s extended family are royalty. The mini bus stopped not far from the entrance; Myriah led all of you to the welcoming party. She curtsied to her own brother and to her sister-in-law.
“Are these the kids, Marmi?” chimed Maron when he saw his elder sister’s grandchildren.
She smiled and presented all of her grandchildren, lined up in a row; even Daenora was included as Aelor strapped her in his chest. All of Maekar’s daughters curtsied for their Grandsire, while his sons bowed their heads as a sign of respect. Valarr and Matarys also bowed to and greeted Prince Maron. Aelor and Aelora, with Daenora, did the same.
Then, it was time for you to be introduced; Maekar held your hand and guided you as you curtsied for Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys Maekar bowed his head when you curtsied and you both did it perfectly.
Maekar spoke up, “Uncle Maron,” he mentioned your full name and he added, “she is my girlfriend.”
Maron looked at you and you smiled at the old Prince; he looked older than his Lady Wife, but you could see the family resemblance between him and Myriah. He shook your hand, it was not royal protocol, but Prince Maron extended that courtesy to you.
“Welcome, my dear,” murmured Maron, his Dornish accent was thick.
Now you turned your attention to Princess Daenerys; she is Daerry’s sister, her bone structure says so and Maekar looked like her. Daenerys had short hair, cut into a pixie; the silver-blond of her hair had turned white because of her age. She wasn’t as formal as her husband, she hugged you like she had known you all her life.
“Hello! Please call me Daeny. If you call me Princess, I’ll have you banished from Dorne.”
You gaped at her, but Maekar chuckled, “Ñāmar, don’t say that, she’ll believe you.”
Daenerys laughed, “Come here, Maek.”
Maekar hugged his aunt and then she touched her nephew’s face like Maekar was her firstborn. Daeny looked like Maekar’s elder sister and it was obvious that Daeny adored Maekar like a little brother. Daeny took both of you aside, while the others were guided inside the palace.
Daeny asked Maekar, “Why is Bloodraven here?”
Maekar shrugged. “No idea. Maybe Dad doesn’t trust me to be in charge of this trip.”
“Bollocks. He shouldn’t be here, look at him–he looks like a naked mole rat on vacation.”
They roasted Uncle Brynden right in front of you and you just burst out laughing from Daeny’s remark. Now you know where Maekar’s humor came from.
“See? She laughed and I’m right.”
Maekar chuckled and shook his head, “I missed you, Ñāmar.”
Daeny elbowed Maekar and complained, “You’re aging me with that High Valyrian shite! Stop that or I’ll gut you!”
Maekar laughed again, he truly missed Daeny, and you noticed that. You wished you had a big sister growing up, but that had to be you.
Daeny turned to you, “Well, welcome to the glorified swimming pool.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion, but Maekar explained, “Prince Maron had the Water Gardens built for her. That’s why she can call it that.”
“I’m the Princess of Dorne, I can call anything I want to call it.” winked Daeny.
She started to walk away and hailed, “Come along!”
The group followed Daeny and Maron into the corridors with tall alabaster ceilings of marble, while the floors were pale pink. You felt cool air enter the arched corridors and heard the sound of children playing and splashing of water. The entrances had canopies of tan cloth and the place was crawling with vines and flowers. It was the perfect place to go on the first day of your trip there in Dorne.
Maron spoke to you and explained the history of the place, “I commissioned the Water Gardens when my wife was pregnant with our firstborn, Qoren. She could not take the heat; my dear Daeny was not made for the Dornish sun, hence… this place,” then he winked at Daeny, “Her glorified swimming pool.”
Daeny chuckled at that and Maron answered with a kiss to the back of Daeny’s hand.
Get you a man that will build a summer palace for you and never settle for less.
“Now, everyone can come here. It’s free to the public,” added Daeny.
“Forever and always,” confirmed Maron.
After a while, an attendant led all the women and girls to a lounge room that extended to a locker room where you can change into your swimwear. Daeny came with the women and changed into her own swimwear; but she stuck around you and Kiera.
“So, Kiera, how’s work?”
Kiera leaned against a wooden cabinet. “Fine. I’m expecting a promotion for the next quarter.”
“That’s great, honey,” beamed Daeny.
She was just like her brother–keeping tabs on everyone, but she has a more expanded web of influence.
Kiera wanted to say something else; she stood straight and asked both of you, “Listen, I have a question… Do you have any idea why Daeron is ignoring me?”
Right on cue, both you and Daeny met gazes. She definitely knows Daeron’s secret feelings for Kiera because Daeny made a face at you.
“Oh no, honey. Why would Daeron even ignore you?”
You added, “Have you talked to him?”
Kiera shrugged. “I just noticed it. We used to be best friends, you know? He was my boy best friend. I feel he hates me for dating his cousin.”
You touched Kiera’s shoulder to reassure her. “Maybe he has a lot going on right now.”
“He’ll come around, don’t worry,” reassured Daeny.
Everyone–even Uncle Brynden, went for a swim to the marvelous and architecturally divine pools of the Water Gardens. The pools hosted a lot of people from everywhere. It was open and free for the people but it was strictly maintained by the Dornish crown.
When the women and girls were done changing into their swimwear, you fixed Egg and Rhae’s floaties so that they could swim around the pools without Maekar worrying. Maekar handled his youngest kids while you stayed by Myriah and Daeny’s side.
Myriah sat on a reclining chair by the elevated part of the pool because her knees were weary, so you and Daeny stayed close to her.
“Ah, the only difficult part of being seventy-nine are these knees,” complained Myriah, though she didn’t ask for anything else.
Daeny sat beside you at the edge of the pool and she started,
“Maron would’ve laid down brick by brick of this palace, if that would help with my condition back then.”
You urged her, “I don’t know anything about you. Enlighten me, please. You seem to be a genuine person.”
“Well, as you know, my Kepa was an asshole. A philandering prick. I only had Daerry and Muña, and Uncle Aemon. Daerry meets Myriah; he becomes best buddies with Maron… He introduces me to Maron.”
She looked far away, as the memory was right there, playing out for her on the horizon, where the sky meets the sea.
She touched the blue water of the pool and continued, “Uh, what else? used to have a mad crush on Daemon Blackfyre. Silly, girlhood crush. But it never came into fruition. I was miserable here in Sunspear, for the first years of my marriage to Maron. I just became a Princess and people expected me to rule with my husband. I was just eighteen, fresh out of high school.”
You interrupted Daeny, “But… Wasn’t Daemon Blackfyre your half-brother?”
Daeny laughed, “That’s the worst part! Thank the gods I got over that.”
You laughed with her, but you reserved your judgement and let her finish her story.
“Then Daerry and Myriah had Baelor and the boys. Maekar sprang last–he was the little brother that I have waited for, gods rest my Muña’s soul,” she looked up at the sky, for her mother, St. Naerys.
Then Daenerys continued, “Baelor and I practically raised Maekar. He would follow us like a shadow at the Red Keep. Before Qoren, Maekar was my firstborn.”
Your eyes wandered to Maekar who was teaching Egg how to swim.
“Now he’s a widowed father of six kids… and with a controversially younger girlfriend.”
Daeny stared you down, she continued, “Don’t hurt him. He has been through so much. Dyanna took his heart to the grave, but I think you gave it back to him.”
You hesitated to reply; that was damned poetic of Daeny.
“It’s new. We’re still getting to know each other,” you replied, a careful answer.
“But you make him happy. Do you know how many times he had looked over here? Fifteen times! I’m telling you–he’s in love with you!”
Your eyes mellowed out; Daeny could see the connection between you and Maekar. You had to admit, you had been too involved with the Targaryens; how can you ever leave them?
You inhaled sharply, “Well… I’m also very much in love with him.”
It was out of nowhere, you just admitted that. It was as simple as that… You are in love with Maekar Targaryen.
I really am. I’m in love with Maekar.
From the first snarky remark, until now and that almost kiss–you have been in love with Maekar, all that time.
“Now go to him. You’ve had enough of my lifestory. Go live yours.”
You regarded Daeny gently with the encouragement she gave you. You jumped from the ledge you sat on and swam towards Maekar, who guided Rhae to swim.
“Swim with us! Kepa’s teaching me!” chirped Rhae.
“Let’s test it–come to me, Rhae!”
Maekar let Rhae go then she swam to you as you floated in the water and paddled your feet. Rhae reached you, then you told her to go back to her Dad. Rhae proved that she is a good swimmer now, her Dad accepted her in his arms.
But while you kept yourself afloat, you felt an oncoming cramp in your left leg. You continued, not minding it, until it paralyzed your leg and you slowly sank to the bottom of the pool. The water got into your nostrils and you struggled to keep yourself afloat. You weren’t able to gauge how deep the pool was, but you were slowly panicking as you couldn't break through the surface.
You heard Maekar scream above the water; he swam to you and pulled you out from the bottom.
“Out of the way!” shouted Maekar as he swam back to the shallow part and while you were on his back.
The people and children saw what was happening. Your group was alarmed and was worried that you had drowned; even Myriah went to you to see if you were okay. The Targaryens surrounded you and Daeron offered help; when Maekar sat you down, you coughed out the water you swallowed.
“Are you alright? What the fuck happened?!” yelled Maekar.
“Cramp–my leg!” you struggled to speak, because the cramp went up to your butt.
Maekar yelled again, “Back away! Give her some room! Daeron, hold her, I’ll stretch out her leg!”
Daeron did as he was told, Maekar grabbed your left leg and flexed your feet towards you. A piercing howl came out of you as Maekar stretched your leg, Daeron offered his arm for you to hold, but the pain was too much. Maekar looked frantic as he watched you writhe in pain, tears streaming down your face.
“Baby, it will be alright! Just hold on!”
He flexed your feet back again and you cried out and almost fainted. But Maekar went to you and caught you in his arms. He was shirtless and at the back of your mind, you were saying nice; Maekar looked glorious while shirtless. Between horniness and near death experience, you smiled at Maekar.
“You saved me.”
“Of course, I saved you! I love you, you idiot!”
You chuckled weakly at Maekar. You couldn’t see much, your vision blacked out from the pain, but a voice shouted,
“You should’ve let her die!”
You recognized the voice–it was Daella.
“Daella, honey, don’t say that!” Daeny tried to calm her niece down.
“No! She’s trying to replace Mum! She can’t! And now you love her?! What’s next? You’ll replace us too when you get her pregnant?”
You didn’t know what face Maekar made when his eldest daughter declared her angry sentiments. Then you heard a patter of feet walking away, followed by,
“Daella!” shouted Maekar.
You didn’t know what happened next; you woke up in the lounge room on the biggest sofa there. Your vision came back, but your leg shook a little and your head spinned.
“Wha-what happened?”
Myriah and Daeny helped you and you sat up from the sofa.
“You fainted earlier,” explained Daeny.
You immediately asked, “M-Maekar? Where is he?”
Myriah spoke up, “He went after Daella, we can’t find her. We’ve been looking everywhere for her.
You weakly asked, “What? Where do you think she would go?”
Daeny shook her head. Myriah touched your face.
“I’m sorry for what Daella said to you.”
You touched Myriah’s hand on your cheek. “I understand her. I know where Daella is coming from–I’ve been there. It’s not her fault.”
You tried to stand, the two older women helped you.
“I’m going to the bathroom. No need to help me, I can walk now,” you politely told them.
The bathroom was just a few paces away; it was complete with a shower and tub. The toilet was beside the tub, so you slowly made your way to it and sat to take a piss. You saw from the corner of your eye that something moved in the bath tub. You believe in ghosts and you are not allowing any haunting at this moment. You bravely turned your head and found Daella. She was crying and curled up in the bath tub.
“Daella? Darling, why are you hiding out here?”
She cried loudly, then you saw it… blood was streaming from her and in between her legs. Daella just had her first period.
Even though you were still woozy yourself, you knelt by the tub and you took her in your arms.
“Oh, sweetheart, come here. I’ll help you. You need not worry.”
Daella cried harder but she immediately clung to you. You called out for Myriah and Daeny.
“Daella’s here! Help us!”
Daeny and Myriah got as fast as they could, Myriah cried out when she saw her granddaughter.
“Lala! We were worried sick!”
Before they approached her, you asked them,
“Does anyone have a pad? Or a tampon? She just had her period.”
Daeny saw it and so did Myriah. Daeny had her hands on her hips, worried.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any–I haven’t had my period in years, I’m fifty now.”
Myriah turned to you, “How about you? Don’t you have a pad with you?”
You shook your head, while Daella cried on your shoulder.
“No. It’s my ovulation week, I’m not due for my period until the next two weeks.”
Daella cried loudly, “Am I going to die!? There’s too much blood!”
You hushed her and wiped her tears away, “No, no, my darling. This is normal, periods are normal.”
You hugged Daella tightly and Myriah saw that.
“We need to buy her pads. Is there a pharmacy nearby?”
Daeny shook her head. “There’s one but you’ll get there faster on a car,” she breathed in, “And Maekar took Maron’s car and he went with all the security personnel you were with.”
Fuck.
Your brows furrowed and you asked, “Who’s left? I can’t drive.”
Myriah answered, “Bloodraven… and the boys. The mini bus is still here.”
The three of you met gazes and understood each other–you helped Daella get dressed and gave her a face towel as her temporary pad. Myriah and Daeny called Valarr to ask for their Uncle Brynden’s help for a very important mission. To save Daella from shame, the ones involved were only Valarr and Uncle Brynden.
You were with Daella at every step, she needed to be there so that after buying a pad, she could readily change into it. But, Aerion saw that you were guiding Daella up the mini bus.
“What is happening? Aegon told me that Daella’s been hiding in the bathroom? And that she’s sick?”
“She will be fine,” you helped Daella sit, then you faced Aerion, “No need to worry, we got this.”
“That’s my sister, there’s no way I’m staying here!” complained Aerion as he took a seat in the next row.
You rolled your eyes. “Fucking–okay. You can come.”
Valarr entered the bus but was shocked to see Aerion already there. Uncle Brynden was not yet present, and after a while; heads poked into the bus doors; the twins, Aelor and Aelor, Daeron, Kiera, Matarys, Aemon, Egg, and Rhae.
You looked back and saw them halfway through the bus’s entrance.
“This was supposed to be a secret! Why are you all here?!”
In the end, all of them joined the not-so-secret mission; Rhae, Kiera, and Aelora sat with Daella to calm her down and watch over her. Aerion sat with Valarr; Daeron got the unfortunate luck of sitting with Kiera; while the rest sat at the middle row. You stood near Uncle Brynden as he drove, you were his navigator, with the maps app ready on your phone. While Myriah, Rhaegel, Alys with Daenora on her chest, and Daeny chose to stay behind.
You have texted Maekar that Daella has been found but she just had her first period. You knew Maekar, he never liked it when no one gave it to him straight, but you reassured him that Daella is safe. You also added that his group and your group meet up by the pharmacy.
Egg spoke up, “Daella, don’t worry. We won’t let you die.”
Matarys and Daeron shushed him, moving and seemingly possessing twin telepathy like the twins Aelor and Aelora.
You heard someone singing, it was Aelor–Rhaegel’s whimsical boy.
He started, “Pressure, pressing down on me, pressing down on you; no man ask for.”
He sang the next line, but this time Aemon and Egg joined in,
Under pressure that burns a building down; splits a family in two, puts people on streets
You couldn’t help it, in the middle of that very unfortunate event, all of you sang along, especially Uncle Brynden who was tearing up the song like he was David Bowie himself. There was no music playing, but you heard the beat and melody of the song in your ears. Then came the bridge of the song and every single one of you were screaming the lyrics,
‘Cause love's such an old-fashioned word, and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night; and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. This is our last dance. This is our last dance. This is ourselves. Under pressure.
Aemon and Egg sang the outro with Aelor, as if they could hear the beat in real time.
You laughed, “Where’d you all learned this song?”
Aerion answered, “Kepa Baelor. We grew up listening to Queen.”
Then your phone pinged and the AI voice spoke up, you have arrived at your destination.
Uncle Brynden opened the accordion doors and all of you saw Maekar standing outside.
“Maekar!” you rejoiced.
Maekar was a sight for sore eyes; he climbed up and off the bat, kissed you on the forehead, it left you with the wind knocked out of you. Then he went to Daella and picked her up from her seat like she was a baby.
“Lala! Don’t do that ever again! You’ll give your Kepa a heart attack!” gasped Maekar as he cradled her daughter in his arms.
Daella cried again, but Rhae joined in and hugged them both. Maekar instructed everyone to stay inside the bus, while you, Daella, and Maekar went inside the pharmacy.
It was a stand-alone building in the middle of the coastline and it wasn’t just a pharmacy, it was also a convenience store; Maekar held your hand on his left and Daella on his right. You had a bag ready of everything Daella would ever need. The airconditioning touched your face and back, but your eyes focused on the section where the sanitary pads would be.
The pharmacist stood behind the counter and welcomed you three.
“Hello, I’m Nishad, how may I help you?”
You approached the counter, “Where are the sanitary pads?”
He happily pointed near the diapers, “Beside aisle 3, diapers and baby wipes.”
You asked again, “Do you have a lavatory here?”
Nishad smiled, “Yes, of course. It’s right there at the end.”
You faced Maekar, “I’ll buy pads, can you buy some paracetamol? That should help her with the pain.”
He nodded, then he said to Daella, “Lala, go with her. She’ll help you.”
Daella nodded and took your hand. You bought and paid for the pads, then you helped Daella inside the lavatory. She was oblivious at first, but you showed her how to put a pad over the underwear. You remember your first ever period, you were also clueless and scared, but your Mama made sure you were comfortable and learned so you won’t panic the next time your period comes around. You did the same with Daella and unexpectedly, you two felt bonded because of it.
After the whole ordeal, Maekar bought little cornetto cones for everyone and the pharmacy/convenience store’s front was littered with Maekar’s children, Baelor’s sons and Kiera, and Rhaegel’s twins. Uncle Brynden had a black forest cornetto and enjoyed it. The sun was hanging low in the horizon and it colored everything a pale orange and it solidified the feeling of a forever summer. In the farther corner, Maekar was talking to Daella; he knelt before his daughter and he intended for you to hear it as you sat beside her.
“Daella… No one will ever replace your Mum. I will always love her. I will always love you, Rhae, and all of your brothers. No one, I mean, no one can replace any of you as my children.”
She nodded as an answer. Maekar continued, “I loved your Mum. She was everything to me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love another.”
He struggled to explain, but Maekar tried his best.
“Love is like… like this–you love Maths, don’t you, Daella?”
“Yes, Kepa.”
“Love is like Maths, sometimes. There’s subtraction and addition… You can never be subtracted, none of you–not even your Mum–from my life. But with her,” he acknowledged you with a nod, “I only added her into my life. Into your lives. And love is like that.”
He looked for your approval with what he said and you returned it with a smile. It was the first time that you heard him be truthful with his feelings and thoughts.
Daella’s face crumpled and she started to cry. Maekar dried her tears and embraced her again.
“I’m sorry, Kepa,” sobbed Daella.
“I love you, I will always forgive you,” breathed Maekar as he kissed Daella’s forehead.
Everything was sorted out and all of you rode the mini bus back to the Water Gardens. Maekar sat with you while he had Rhae and Daella in his arms. Even if he was holding his daughters, he never forgot to hold your hand.
When your group got back; Daeny and Maron ordered that the rooms be prepared for the guests, worrying that the trip back to Sunspear might put some strain on Daella. A feast for dinner was served later that night and you can see that Daella was happier. She might complain to you about what was happening to her, every once and a while; but you were there to reassure her. What you didn’t know, Myriah was observing all of your interactions with Daella.
After dinner, you were given the room to stay at for the night–once again, you had to share a room with Maekar and there was only one bed. You accepted it, of course, you are a couple, they would give you and Maekar the rooms that are for couples.
Daeny and Maron saw to it that you approved of the room; they were by the door as you and Maekar got inside. The room had an open balcony and a wide window that let the sea breeze in. It was warm inside, but you know it will be cold come dawn.
“Don’t worry, the bed doesn’t make a noise,” teased Daeny.
Maekar pressed his fingers on the bridge of his nose when he heard that.
Maron added, “This is the lovers’ suite. There’s a mood lighting button at the headboard.”
You pressed your palm on your temples; they dogpiled on you both that it left you embarrassed also. Daeny and Maron left and bid both of you good night. Once they closed the door behind them, Maekar pointed out,
“Don’t worry, there’s a divan. I can sleep there.”
“Are you sure? That doesn’t look comfortable to sleep on.”
Maekar shook his head, “I can manage.”
You sighed and left him to prepare for bed; you brought your rose-colored negligee this time, you washed your face and brushed your teeth. But you rinsed with mouthwash… you weren’t sure why you did that, you weren’t getting kissed tonight.
Maekar went after you, while you made yourself comfortable in the bed. After Maekar was done washing, he came out of the bathroom, shirtless, and with a pair of loose gray jogger pants on. You could tell, he didn’t wear any underwear underneath it. He was about to lay down on the divan, when someone knocked at the door–it was Myriah. Automatically, Maekar ran to the bed and snuggled up to you. Myriah let herself in and she had a small velvet pouch on her hand.
“My darlings…” she came up to you and hugged you, “You have done wonderfully today. Thank you for handling Daella’s situation.”
You breathed in, “It was no trouble, Myriah.”
She kissed you on the forehead and thanked you again. Then, she reached out to kiss Maekar on the forehead too.
Before Myriah left, she presented you both the pouch. “This contains herbs and crystals from the Red Mountains. I will put this under the bed.”
Maekar mumbled, “What for, Mum?”
After Myriah placed the pouch under the bed, she said, “You and your brothers were conceived with that pouch under the bed.”
Maekar looked like he was going to have an aneurysm after Myriah said that, but Myriah teased, “My room is opposite yours. If you need anything, I’m just a call away. Good night, my dear boy.”
She left but she did not close the door behind her and you and Maekar both observed that she didn’t close her doors too. Ten minutes passed, but both of you didn’t hear any door closing.
You looked back at Maekar and whispered, “She’s listening to us, do you know that?”
Then you started moaning, you kissed the back of your hand so it would sound like you were kissing. Maekar did the same thing, he kissed the back of his hand and moaned. You mouthed, louder, to him so he would moan louder. You made your kisses in sync and then you whispered,
“Pretend that you’re about to penetrate me.”
You held up your hand as you made an O shape. You took his fingers so that it would be the proverbial cock. Maekar went red as you both did those gestures, but he rolled his eyes so hard.
He muttered, “Fine.”
Maekar spoke it louder, but you told him to slut it up, “Oh baby, you want this?”
You almost giggled, and you replied, sluttily, “Yeah, baby! Ooh, make me your cumbucket.”
Maekar almost lost it, but he continued and kissed the back of his hand, “That’s what I like… take it like a good girl.”
Then you both counted to sync up your moans,
1… 2… 3…
The moment the figurative cock was in the cunt–his fingers entering the O shape you made with your hands–you both moaned loudly.
“Fuck, you’re so tight, ugh!” moaned Maekar.
That moan was a little too realistic, you blushed like a fucking maiden.
But you retaliated, “Ooh, hit me with that… thing!”
You coordinated it with Maekar, he was figuratively about to come and you both made louder moans and growls. He pumped his fingers into your hand and you both made it a grand slam and voice acted the fuck out of that figurative fuck session.
Maekar kissed the back of his hand and said, “You felt so good, baby.”
After a few minutes, Myriah closed the door to her room and you were safe to pretend-date another day.
You and Maekar slump down on the bed, as if the pretend-fucking exhausted both of you. But Maekar stood to his feet.
Maekar quietly mumbled, “I’m off to my divan.”
But you caught his arm, “Wait.”
Maekar turned to you and stared at your hand on his arm.
You shyly pleaded, “Stay. You told me that it gets cold at dawn. You don’t have any blankets and I have the duvet here on the bed.”
Maekar was dead silent but you see that he was struggling internally that he would have to share the bed with you, for real, this time. He wordlessly got into the bed again.
You meant nothing to it, but you told Maekar, “Spoon me… Just in case Myriah comes back again.”
He did as you told him; he laid on his right side and scooted closer towards you. Maekar pulled you closer until your back was touching his naked chest, peppered with pale hair. It surprised you how warm he was, he even smelled great, too. Maekar wrapped his long arms around your torso, his hand was careful not to touch anything now. You laid your hair up so it won’t get in Maekar’s face, because he had his face so close to your neck. While your feet tangled up, his left thigh was in between your legs.
You looked back at him, his face was a breath away from yours. You remembered what he said before you fainted earlier,
I love you, you idiot.
The cursing part was blocked out of your mind, but it kept repeating inside your mind.
“Good night, Maek.”
He hummed and closed his eyes, settling his cheek on the nape of your neck.
“Good night, baby.”
You bit your lip, which he did not see. Your mind was widely awake, but because of the strenuous day, you slowly fell into a deep sleep in a matter of minutes.
Night and dawn passed by, you woke up with Maekar still spooning you. He was snoring quietly when you twisted to face him. You stared at him as he slept; you touched his face and traced every mark; then your fingers touched his nose, his lips; his beard and hair felt soft to the touch. His bangs fell elegantly over his forehead and it was making you feel things. You scooted closer and you felt his breath on your face, you couldn’t help it, you smiled like a loon as you stared at him.
You thought aloud, “I wish you were mine. For real.”
“I am.”
You almost jumped when you heard him reply. Maekar had been awake the whole time you were hovering over him.
His eyes opened slowly and looked at you. The morning light made him look like an angel; his silver-blond hair, the pale eyelashes framing indigo eyes–yes, he was an angel and he had come down from heaven just for you.
“I’m yours,” murmured Maekar.
Your breath hitched as you felt his face get closer and closer towards yours. Every moment that had led to this one, flashed on your mind-eye; every side comment, every longing stare, every time you held hands, every kiss that you two had to give each other–it all led to that moment.
Unfortunately, you have to lose the pretending game, because you can no longer pretend that Maekar Targaryen doesn’t mean a thing to you–because he is everything to you.
Like diving into deep water, you inhaled sharply and grabbed his neck and planted a kiss on his lips.
He returned the kiss, grabbing your neck as you opened your mouth for him. You felt his tongue intrude your mouth and suck your breath in, like he did that night; but this time, he pulled you on top of him. That move surprised you, but you kept kissing each other.
As you were sprawled on top of him, your hands touched his face, while his hands touched your body; exploring every curve and every inch of your skin. You kept kissing Maekar, making him moan in your mouth.
The spirit of feminism, who had been scowling down at you for giving it up, left and dissipated into thin air. You were going to give it all to Maekar and you were going to give it to him good.
Your breasts were on top of his chest and you could tell, he wanted to touch them but felt too shy to do so. So you straddled his hips and you sat up, pulling his torso up–you took his large hands and put them on your breasts.
“Fuck yes,” he moaned.
You observed him as he carefully pulled down the neckline of your negligee. Your bountiful breasts sprang free from the satin and were up on his face. He looked up at you when he took your nipple in his mouth.
“Ah, Maekar!”
His mouth sucked and his tongue licked your nipple, of course, he also paid attention to the other, while his hand grabbed one. You’ve always been sensitive there and he knew well what to do. You felt your blood flowing warmly all over your body, but it flowed well under there, where you could feel yourself growing slick every time Maekar sucked your nipple.
You could feel his cock growing under your butt, it was getting harder and you just wanted to slip it in you.
Then, both of you heard some noise coming from the outside. You met glances.
“Close the door. Lock it,” you breathed out.
Maekar stood from the bed and he hurriedly closed the door and it locked it for good measure. Before Maekar came back to you, he stood over the bed and his fingers were on the band of his jogger pants.
“I want you to want me,” murmured Maekar.
His face was shadowed with desire and that certain cockiness that you saw him display from time to time. There was no other reply to be given but,
“I fucking want you now.”
Maekar slipped off the jogger pants and your eyes were glued there. The silver-blond happy trail indeed led to a huge fucking cock. It has been so long since you’ve fucked someone and you know your way around sex, but you have never fucked a seven-inch cock before that you felt a little terrified. But as they say, do it scared, regardless.
It was no holds barred; you took off your negligee and when Maekar saw your body, his dick quickly rose up.
“He seems to be happy to see me,” you said, while lewdly smiling at him.
“He’s hungry for you, you’ve been teasing him for a long time,” hummed Maekar.
Maekar closed the distance between you and him and kissed you again; he drank from your lips, but you took liberties and touched him. He jerked a little when your hands wrapped around his cock. You felt something was burning your heart out, it was your desire to suck Maekar’s cock and ride and get off on it.
You could see his brows were furrowed as he kissed you; you were jerking him off with palms wrapped tightly around his cock. You saw that it was leaking precum and you just wanted to lick that.
He read your mind but Maekar deprived you.
“Not yet. Let me eat your pussy first.”
You bit your lip in frustration and he liked that; you kept jerking his cock and wanting to put it in your mouth, but he kept pulling himself away.
“Baby, come on. Not yet, don’t suck it yet,” murmured Maekar in that sexy deep voice.
You scoffed in frustration, you never knew him to be such a tease, it turned you on more and more. Then, you let his cock go, his hand made its way to your cunt. His long fingers reached in and you saw that he liked what he touched.
“You’ve been wet the whole time?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fucking gods,” whispered Maekar as he touched reached in and slipped a digit inside you.
Your eyes rolled back in delight; it was just one finger, what more if he fucks you with that monster cock? His thumb traced your clit and gently massaged it, sending electric shocks all over you.
“Hm, Maekar… fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned out loud.
When he took back his hand, he licked his finger and tasted you.
“I want more, you taste fucking good, baby.”
Maekar immediately took a pillow and he made you lay down on the bed. He placed the pillow under your butt and he opened your legs. Thank the gods because you decided to wax before this trip.
He placed himself between your legs; he took your left leg and murmured in the sensitive part of your thigh,
“Does this still hurt?”
You propped yourself by the elbows so you could see what he was doing.
“No. It feels better.”
His lips went further up and he whispered, “How about here?”
His teasing was killing you, yet you still answered, “Hmm, that feels good.”
You closed your eyes and thought that he would ask again, but no, his face went deep into your cunt and his tongue found your clit.
“Maekar, you fucking–”
You weren’t able to complete the sentence, he licked your clit and sucked on it. His free hand grabbed your tit and played with your nipple as he ate you out. Your hand found purchase–your fingers curled over his beautiful hair and you pulled it gently.
You let out the naughtiest and high-pitched moan you’ve ever let out in your whole life. No man has done it so well as Maekar, he knew how to lick you, how to finger you while the pad of his tongue flicked over your clit. You were about to lose your mind with the way he ate you up, moreover, he inserted two fingers and he jerked them up, hitting your g-spot.
“Fuck yes! Oh, baby!” you moan out loud.
He was going to do it, he was going to make you come on his fingers. You moaned out loud, not caring if the entirety of the Water Gardens heard you.
“Maekar…! I’m coming… Fucking–oh, Maekar!”
Your breath hitched and you felt the familiar sense of an orgasm. Your consciousness and the part of your brain that controlled reasoning, slipped away; your body felt like it floated on air, but you were hurled back when your core hardened. Your body quaked and trashed as it had a full blown orgasm. Maekar held you with his strong arms as you trashed and moaned like a woman possessed.
When it was over, you felt your pussy pulsate and beat; your whole body felt sensitive, but it was far from over. Maekar stood over you, his cock was twitching and leaking more precum.
You sat up, not letting yourself drown from your orgasm; you took his cock in your hands and swallowed it. Not halfway through, the head already hit the back of your throat, so your hands helped by jerking it and sucking at the same time. You saw him throw his head back; your position turned him even more–ass up and your face and mouth accommodating his cock. He tasted a little salty, but he smelled good. His pubes were trimmed and groomed well. You noticed that his cock curved slightly to the left and that fascinated you.
You gave him your best sloppy blowjob, your drool covered the entirety of his cock when you tried to deep throat him. Your head bobbed up and down as you sucked his cock, alternating cold and hot air as you did. What you did next surprised him–you paid attention to his balls, licking it and sucking it.
“Fuck… you’re so good with that.”
You gave it a long lick that trailed up to the head of his member, then you swallowed it all; he hissed and he closed his eyes in pleasure. But he stopped you,
“I don’t want to come yet… I still need to be inside you.”
You agreed then you laid back on the bed; Maekar hovered on top of you, your breath syncing up. He held your thighs and hips up and positioned your pussy directly to his dick; he rubbed the head on your slit, until it found its slick opening.
Maekar slid his cock into your cunt and he filled you all the way through. Your face twisted to the most lewd expression; Maekar moaned with you once he filled you whole; his pace started slow but his hips quickened it as he drilled into you. Your legs went to his shoulders and he made your ankles his earrings as he fucked you so good.
“Look at me while I fuck you…” muttered Maekar.
You did as you were told; Maekar pounded into you and you felt like you were inching closer to heaven. It hurt a little when he pounded you hard, but you would take all of him, you’d have him any time of the day, anywhere; you just want Maekar Targaryen to be inside you all the time.
Your moans played out across the room like the dirtiest ballad, like the filthiest symphony that you would want to hear played all the damn time.
He wordlessly took his cock out of you, but he guided you to the full length mirror that was beside the nightstand. You knew what he wanted and you bent over for him while he stood behind you. Maekar held you so you won’t fall over, he fucked you doggy style and it was the best as he hit it from the back. You looked at your reflections in the mirror and your eyes met through your reflections.
His moans got louder and he closed his eyes.
“Keep fucking me… don’t stop…” you breathlessly ordered him.
He reached down and rubbed your clit as he pounded you. Your brain didn’t know what to think anymore; you were in between a pounding and a fingering. Once again, you came but he kept fucking you.
He finally whispered, “Let me cum in your mouth, please?”
He was such a good boy, asking you and saying please; of course, you would let him spill his cum on your mouth.
You nodded then he took his cock out; you squatted in front of him as he quickly jerked off. You opened your mouth, ready to receive, his fingers would softly hit your mouth, every once and a while. You never took your eyes off of his face, you looked up at him, like you worshipped his cock.
Finally, white ribbons spilled from his cock, shooting down your tongue and your throat. You’ve swallowed and you can attest to it–Maekar’s cum was the creamiest and tastiest cum you ever had.
He groaned out loud and threw his head back in pleasure. When he looked at you again, you showed him his cum on your tongue, then you swallowed it all and showed your tongue again.
“Fucking seven hells… you’re a fucking cum guzzler.”
“And you’re a fucking dirty old man,” you insulted him back.
That made him smirk and chuckle darkly. What you didn’t know–there were two pairs of ears listening behind the door–Baelor and Jonquil.
“What a wild morning,” whispered Jonquil.
They left and granted you two privacy.
Back inside the room, Maekar pulled you up and took you in his arms; he kissed you despite having just come in your mouth. Then he took you to bed and you laid down beside each other. He made sure he would cage you in his arms.
“Let’s stay in bed the whole day. I don’t want to go out. I want to be with you,” begged Maekar.
You kissed his chin and murmured, “Okay. We’ll stay here.”
Maekar murmured in your ear, “Mum’s herbs and crystals worked.”
You guffawed and snorted, because it probably did work its magic and made you and Maekar fuck. He hugged you and you hugged him back. At the back of your mind, you saw your resolve tutting and clicking their tongue.
You’re not going to fuck Maekar Targaryen, huh? Fucking liar.
Now that you’ve tasted and fucked each other, what now? Is it still part of the contract? Is this still an incidental effect?
Somehow, you didn’t care for now. What was important was–Maekar Targaryen is beside you in bed, naked, and embracing you so tight.
Let me stay here, for now. Let me have him, just this time. Let me love Maekar the way he needs to be loved.
You repeated that in your mind, over and over again, like a helpless prayer.
summary : you survive a plane crash — only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 6k
warnings: aerion, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect…
a/n : should I .... continue this ???
part 1
When Baelor rides onto the field to stand in defense of his nephew, a coldness settles along your spine so sharply it feels almost like a blade laid flat against bone.
You are positioned beneath the striped awnings of the noble pavilion, tasked with overseeing the trays and flagons as servants circulate among silk-clad lords and jeweled ladies. From this slight elevation, the lists stretch wide and merciless beneath the sun — churned earth already darkened in places where blood has soaked into it.
He has made his decision, and did not tell you.
After your conversation by the hearth, he dismissed you with measured courtesy, and that was the end of it. No hint, or promise. And now he is there.
Armor gleaming, lance lowered. The heir to the Iron Throne riding into what can only be called sanctioned slaughter.
Knights colliding in splintering bursts of wood and steel. Horses screaming. Men dragged from saddles only to rise again in mud and fury. What began as ceremony has dissolved into something far more primitive — not sport, not honor, but survival.
Your hands move mechanically, pouring wine into waiting cups, replenishing platters as though this were any other spectacle. The nobles murmur, gasp, applaud. They lean forward eagerly when a helm cracks, when a body falls.
Your gaze, however, does not wander. It remains fixed upon him, upon Baelor.
You must be a fool to even entertain the thought... You remind yourself of that often enough : you're a peasant. This isn't some ridiculous courtly romance or traveling play where a prince falls in love with a nobody and defies the realm for her. This is a medieval kingdom, titles matter. Blood matters. Marriage is not a game whispered about behind silk curtains.
Here, girls of sixteen are handed off like treaties, sealed with vows instead of ink. Gwin told you that herself, her tone practical and unsurprised. There is no room for fantasy in a world like this.
And yet...
You just can't help it. For the first time since arriving in this cursed place, you feel something stir in your chest, something reckless and alive. Of all the souls in this brutal court, of all the men you might have looked at and forgotten, you had to be attracted to him. The heir to the Iron Throne.
You watch him fight with a precision that borders on restraint. He does not rage. He does not posture. He moves with economy, shield raised, strikes measured ... not wasteful, not cruel. A man fighting because he has chosen to, not because he delights in it.
Across the chaos, you glimpse Aerion locked in vicious struggle with Ser Duncan, their movements frantic and uneven, pride driving them harder than skill.
And then — you see it.
Prince Maekar, composure shattered, drives forward in raw desperation. He calls out to his son — not as a prince commanding troops, but as a father terrified of losing his child. The sound of it carries even through the din.
Your breath catches.
Maekar does not strike gently.
The mace arcs through sunlight — a brutal, heavy sweep meant to clear space, meant to defend his son. It connects, the sound is sickening through the cheers. Baelor falls.
You gasp aloud before you can stop yourself.
A nearby lord turns toward you, goblet extended expectantly for more wine. His brows lift in mild irritation at your lapse. You murmur an apology and complete the pour, though you scarcely see the liquid entering the cup.
Your eyes are already back on the field.
He is not rising, you know that kind of blow.
You have seen concussions before. Skull fractures, the subtle stillness that follows when the brain has been shaken within its cage too violently.
At best, you think wildly, at best he is merely stunned.
At worst — the field dissolves into chaos. Trumpets blare, dust rises in thick choking clouds as men shout and converge. Somewhere amid the tumult, Aerion is forced to withdraw his accusation against Ser Duncan, the words wrenched from him more by circumstance than humility.
The trial is declared ended.
You are ordered beneath the stands at once, sent running with water and cloth for the wounded being dragged out of the blazing sun.
Under the pavilion, it is another world entirely.
The roar of the crowd fades into something muffled and distant. Here there is only blood, sweat, and the low, broken sounds of men trying not to scream.
As you hurry forward with a bucket sloshing against your skirts, one thought pounds through your skull with dreadful certainty:
You knew this would happen.
You spot the young prince (Egg? Aegon?) hovering wide-eyed as Ser Duncan is lowered onto a bench by two men. The giant looks half-dead already, armor torn away, his body a ruin of bruises and blood. And yet he still has the strength to groan, to speak.
Your instinct is immediate and violent: go to him. Help him, you idiot.
But you freeze, and remind yourself miserably once again : you are a maid. Not a surgeon who fell through time into some brutal, backward century.
"You shouldn't be here," you say gently to the small bald boy as you approach with the water.
"I'm his squire," Egg replies defensively, his high voice tight, small hands clenched into fists.
You sigh softly.
"The others..." Dunk groans, his voice rough as gravel. "Has anyone died?"
He looks toward Raymun Fossoway — the newly knighted one, bruised and battered himself, though not nearly as broken as Dunk.
"Beesbury," Raymun answers quietly, kneeling before him. "In the first charge."
Your eyes return to Dunk's side, and your stomach twists.
Steely Pate, the camp armorer, is bent over him, thick, unwashed fingers pressing into the torn flesh where the lance struck. You wince. The rings of mail have been driven into the wound.
"Gods be good," Raymun murmurs as he watches. "The lance points drove the rings deep into his flesh."
You shift the weight of the bucket on your hip, helpless, horrified. Every instinct in you is screaming.
"One moment I feel drunk," Dunk mutters through clenched teeth. "The next like I'm dying."
And that is when you snap.
"Stop touching him like that," you say sharply to Steely Pate.
All three men look at you.
Egg stares at you as though you have grown another head.
"It'll worsen the wound," you continue, forcing your voice steady. "He could die of infection."
"And what would a maid know of such matters?" Raymun asks, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
You bite back the urge to roll yours. To tell them you have spent years in operating rooms, that you have held a beating heart and a brain in your hands. That you have studied anatomy in sterile halls with lights brighter than the sun.
Because here, that would make you a witch.
"Because — " you begin.
But Steely Pate cuts you off with a dismissive shake of his head. "We'll get him drunk," he mutters, turning back to Dunk. "Then we'll pour boiling oil into it. That's how the maesters do it."
Boiling oil.
Your mind reels. You've heard of maesters — scholars, healers, teachers bound in chains of knowledge. There was one at Ashford Castle, you remember. There is always one, no matter how small the house.
And this is what they do?
You have kept your silence since arriving in this cursed place. When Clare complained of her back, when Gwin spoke of stomach pains or fevers spreading through the camp, you swallowed the truth. You never explained bacteria, never spoke of internal bleeding or organ failure. You were careful, too much knowledge would damn you.
Better a silent maid than a burned witch.
But this — this is too much.
You look at Dunk's ashen face. At the dirt grinding deeper into open flesh, the hands that will kill him in the name of healing. And for the first time since you arrived in this brutal world, you decide silence is no longer an option.
You are drawing breath to argue (to insist, to overstep your place yet again) when the murmur beneath the pavilion shifts and parts for another figure entering from the glare of the lists. The armor is unmistakable even through dust and shadow: blackened steel chased with the three-headed dragon. Not one of the lesser sons, not a hedge knight aping glory.
Royalty.
For half a heartbeat you fear it is Maekar, hard as the blow he delivered.But then the knight speaks.
"Wine. Not oil." The voice settles the question at once. Prince Baelor.
You feel something dangerously close to disbelief unfurl inside your chest. You saw the strike land. You saw the unnatural snap of his helm beneath the force of it. You saw the way his body absorbed the violence of that impact. No one walks away from that without consequence. No one.
Yet here he stands — though "stands" is generous. The sword he drives point-first into the ground is not ceremonial; it is structural. His weight leans subtly, almost imperceptibly, into the hilt as though the steel were an extension of his spine.
"Oil will kill him," Baelor continues.
The irony does not escape you.
He surveys the scene with concentration : Dunk pale and bloodied, Egg hovering stricken and stubborn, Raymun kneeling, Steely Pate bristling — and at last his gaze settles on you, absurdly still clutching your basin like a talisman of competence in a world that refuses it.
"I will send Maester Yormwell to see to him," he says, turning slightly toward the archway where the haze of churned earth still drifts. "When he has finished tending my brother."
There is that unmistakable affection of brothers when he speaks of him.
Behind you, Dunk groans, a fractured sound dragged up from somewhere deep.
You should remain silent, you should bow and withdraw into invisibility.
Instead, professional reflex overrides social survival. "And who is tending you, Your Grace?" you ask, the words emerging before caution can restrain them. "I saw the blow you received — it needs tending."
The pavilion stills, and fuck.
Baelor turns with slowness, the cracked visor obscures most of his face, yet something in the angle of his head suggests mild amusement (or perhaps curiosity) that a maid would dare such familiarity.
Before he can respond, Dunk drags himself from the bench, refusing dignity in favor of loyalty. With assistance, he forces his battered body upright enough to kneel.
"Your Grace," he rasps, voice raw with devotion. "I am your man. Please. Your man."
The plea is not political, it is profoundly personal. Baelor lowers a gloved hand to Dunk's shoulder in benediction.
"I need good men, Ser Duncan," he replies.
The cadence is wrong... not the vocabulary, but the delivery.
There is a thickness to his speech now, a subtle distortion as though the musculature of his tongue is laboring against invisible resistance. The vowels blur at their edges, consonants lack precision.
He reaches to touch Dunk's head with almost paternal gravity. "The realm — "
The sentence fractures, his posture wavers. Not dramatically or theatrically, but undeniably.
You do not think; you react. The basin slips from your grasp and strikes the ground, water spilling uselessly across trampled earth as you move to steady him. Your hands close around his left arm — solid beneath the armor yet strangely unreliable in its resistance.
"Your Grace," you murmur, lowering your voice so that it does not carry accusation, "you require a maester."
"Nonsense," he answers, but the word arrives softened at the margins.
His eyes attempt to focus on yours. They blink with effort, the tracking is delayed, as though his mind is negotiating distance through fog.
Behind you, Dunk is guided back to the bench.
Baelor remains upright only because the sword bears a portion of his weight.
"Ser Raymun... my helm... if you would be so kind."
Your mind arranges the data with merciless efficiency. The initial trauma did not incapacitate him. He rose, he spoke, he functioned. A deceptive stability. Now — minutes later — the decline announces itself in subtle neurological deficits: slurred articulation, impaired fine motor control, disequilibrium.
"Visor's cracked," Baelor adds faintly, his gauntleted fingers fumbling at the damaged metal. "My fingers feel... like wood."
Paresthesia.
Raymun steps behind him at once, calling to Steely Plate. "Good man, I need a hand."
Your thoughts accelerate into clinical clarity. The helm was tightly fitted; minimal interior space, rigid containment. The impact likely produced a depressed or linear skull fracture along the occipital region. The cerebellum could be compromised; his unsteadiness suggests involvement of coordination pathways. Swelling has begun — inevitably. Intracranial pressure rising within a confined vault.
The helmet, ironically, is performing an external tamponade. The metal encasement is stabilizing the fracture, maintaining uniform compression. It is preventing displacement.
If they remove it abruptly, they risk destabilizing the fragmented bone. They risk altering the pressure gradient catastrophically. If there is an epidural bleed (and the lucid interval strongly suggests it) then what is contained may suddenly expand without counterforce.
A rapid shift, herniation and then immediate collapse.
Raymun's hands find the clasps.
You tighten your hold on Baelor's arm, feeling the tremor beginning there, subtle but undeniable.
And you know, with dreadful certainty, that the next few seconds will determine whether the heir to the Iron Throne remains a living man, or becomes a cautionary memory whispered.
Steely Pate continues speaking (something about the steel having been driven inward, about how the metal was crushed and forced against bone) but the words dissolve before they reach you. They sound distant, muffled, as if you are hearing them from underwater.
"My brother's mace, most likely," Baelor murmurs faintly. He tilts his head toward you, and even through the warped visor you see it — that faint, crooked smile. "He's strong."
There is affection there, no bitterness, not even anger. Only the warmth of an elder brother remembering boyhood scuffles in sunlit courtyards instead of mortal blows on a battlefield. The tenderness of it nearly shatters you.
You see it clearly now — this is the lucid interval.
He is speaking, standing, and even smiling. And he is dying.
"Don't." The word leaves you before fear can cage it. It is not timid. It carries command — a tone entirely unsuited to a servant wrapped in dull grey and faded orange.
The men turn toward you in unison.
Baelor's eyes shift last. They snap toward you with effort, struggling to focus. They are unfixed, glassy, fighting to remain present.
You take a step forward, the pitcher hanging useless at your side.
"Do not remove the helm," you say again, slower this time, forcing each syllable to land with intention.
Ser Raymun exhales through his nose. "And what would a maid know of such matters?"
His tone is not merely irritated — it is offended. The natural order of the world has tilted, a servant is instructing knights.
Four pairs of eyes are on you now. You feel your pulse in your throat, in your temples.
But you do not retreat.
"If you remove it without preparation," you say carefully, "you may cause a sudden and fatal worsening of his condition."
The terminology means nothing to them — you see it plainly in their faces.
So you shift, forcing your knowledge into language they might grasp.
"The blow he took did not simply dent steel. It struck bone. The helm is holding what was broken in place. If you lift it carelessly, without keeping his head completely still, you may worsen the injury beyond repair."
They stare at you as if you have begun reciting incantations.
You step closer to Baelor now, ignoring the invisible line you should not cross.
"If you remove it," you continue, your voice tightening with urgency, "the pressure inside his skull will change. Whatever balance is holding will be lost."
"A maid. What would you know of skulls and pressure?" Raymun rebukes again, more agitated now.
And that is when something inside you tears loose.
"Shut the fuck up and listen to me, will you!" The curse cracks through the pavilion like a whip, and the silence that follows is immense.
You have just sworn at a knight of noble birth.... You know the weight of that, you know the danger, and yet, you don't care.
"He's in danger," you continue, voice no longer trembling but burning. "You remove his helmet without stabilizing his head, and the very thing keeping him alive may fail. The force that struck him likely fractured the back of his skull. The steel is compressing it! It is keeping the fragments aligned. It is containing the swelling."
Blank incomprehension flickers across their faces, but they understand the tone.
"You pull it away too quickly," you press on, desperate now, "and whatever is contained inside will not remain contained. Would you prefer his brain spilled into the dirt beneath your boots?"
The brutality of the image lands, you see it in the way Raymun's jaw tightens and eyes widen.
Baelor is staring at you in a strange, distant way.
"Let ... " he says softly. Your name is uneven on his tongue.
You step closer and take his arm more firmly as he sways.
"Do not speak," you murmur to him, lowering your voice just for him. "Save your strength."
His weight shifts against you more heavily now. The subtle tremor in his stance is worsening. His fingers, once steady on his sword, twitch faintly as though the signals between mind and muscle are faltering.
He tries to straighten, tries to maintain dignity, but you feel it — the gradual loss of coordination.
Raymun hesitates behind him, Steely Pate hesitates too. The unthinkable has happened: they are pausing because a servant girl has told them to.
Baelor exhales slowly. The sound is not quite right — slightly uneven.
You can see the signs accumulating now with horrifying clarity, and you know what comes next.
And you do not know how to stop it in a world without surgeons, without imaging, without sterile instruments or drills to relieve the pressure building inside a prince's head.
All you have is your voice, and the terrible knowledge that time is almost gone.
Then Baelor's knees buckle. The change is subtle at first (a deeper sway, his grip loosening on the sword ) and then his weight collapses fully into you.
"Your Grace — !"
You barely keep him upright.
His head lolls slightly inside the damaged helm, his eyes are no longer focusing.
"Lay him down," you order sharply, the authority in your tone no longer accidental but deliberate. "Flat, and carefully. Keep his head completely still."
They hesitate again — not out of defiance now, but uncertainty.
You twist toward a passing maid frozen near the pavilion entrance.
"You — find something rigid. A door plank, a table board, anything long and solid. Now. And clear a path back to the castle. He needs to be moved immediately."
She stares at you, wide-eyed.
"Go!" you snap.
She runs.
Raymun steps closer, agitation bleeding into his voice. "We cannot simply rush the Hand of the King about like a sack of grain—"
You round on him, fury blazing hot and clean.
"The heir to the Iron Throne and the Hand of the King are in our hands," you say, each word sharp as a blade. "If you do not wish to watch him die beneath this tent, then you will either listen to me or you will step aside — and if he dies because you chose pride over sense, that will be on you."
The pavilion goes still.
Raymun's jaw flexes, but he does not argue again.
Baelor is sagging now, barely conscious. A low murmur spills from his lips — broken fragments.
"Sons... the realm..." The words drift apart, unfinished.
"Do not let his head move," you instruct Steely Pate. "Not even a finger's width."
The maid returns at last, breathless, dragging a long, solid plank of wood — likely torn from a supply table. It will have to do.
"Good," you say, already kneeling. "Slide it beside him."
You lower Baelor carefully to the ground, supporting the base of his skull through the helm so that no rotation occurs. Every motion is slow, controlled. You guide the men with your hands.
"On my count," you say, breathing rapidly. "We lift together... keep his body aligned with his head. Do not twist him."
They obey. One, two, three. They raise him just enough for you to slide the plank beneath. You lay him flat atop it, adjusting his shoulders and hips so his spine remains straight.
He is no longer responding.
"Baelor," you say firmly, leaning close. "Your Grace, can you hear me?"
No answer.
You press two fingers carefully at his neck beneath the jawline, searching. There, a pulse. Still present, still alive! Strong, but slightly irregular.
"He still has a pulse," you say, more to steady yourself than them. "We move now."
Steely Pate takes one end of the wooden plank without another word, his large hands surprisingly steady despite the blood still drying on his knuckles. You move to the other end immediately, not allowing yourself a moment to think about the impropriety of it — a servant lifting a prince — nor about the tremor running through your arms.
Raymun positions himself near the prince's head, both hands hovering awkwardly near the damaged helm as if afraid even his breath might shift it. Egg stands frozen for a second longer, his wide violet eyes glossy with tears, staring at his uncle's slackened form as though the world has tilted irreparably.
But you need him.
He is the only one whose word will open gates and doors.
"Slowly," you instruct Steely Pate firmly. "No sudden movements. Keep him completely level." Then, without breaking stride, you turn your head toward Raymun and the cluster of maids hovering uselessly nearby. "Find a maester for Ser Duncan. Now. Do not let them pour oil into that wound."
Your voice does not waver.
"Prince Aegon," you call urgently, your breath already tight from the strain of holding the stretcher. "I need your assistance."
The boy startles as if pulled from a dream. He looks once toward Dunk (who, pale and sweating, nods faintly at him) and then Egg runs to your side, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.
They begin moving.
The path back to the castle forces you between the lists, where the dust of combat still lingers thick in the air. Nobles remain perched upon the stands, some standing now, craning their necks to see which knights still rise and which do not. Wounded men groan in the dirt. The festive banners flutter obscenely bright above a field that smells of iron and churned mud.
Ahead, you glimpse Prince Maekar kneeling in the mud beside his fallen son, helmet cast aside. A maester bends over the young man, murmuring urgently. Maekar looks up at the commotion — sees the dragon on the battered armor you carry — sees Egg running alongside you — and something primal and terrified tears from his throat.
"What is happening?" he shouts, rising to his feet.
No one answers. You do not answer.. There is no time to soothe a father while the Hand of the King's breathing grows shallower with every step.
The castle looms closer. The guards at the gate lower their halberds automatically when they see a group of servants rushing forward with a plank of wood. Their expressions harden.
"Halt — "
"Move!" Egg snaps, his voice breaking but carrying unmistakable authority. "That is Prince Baelor!"
The guards hesitate only a fraction of a second —(ong enough to see the dragon sigil, long enough to register the blood) and then they step aside.
You do not slow.
"Faster," you urge under your breath, though every instinct warns you that speed risks jostling the injury further. "We need a chamber. Clean linens. Boiled water. Vinegar, if they have it. And someone send for Maester Yormwell immediately."
You turn to Egg as you cross the threshold into the stone corridors of the castle. "Where is his chamber?"
He swallows hard and points. "Up the east stair — the second tower room."
"Show us."
The stairwell feels impossibly narrow as you ascend, each step measured and agonizing. Baelor's head shifts slightly despite Raymun's careful hands, and you feel your stomach clench at the motion.
He makes no sound now, not even the broken murmurs of before.
When you finally reach the chamber, you push through the door without ceremony. The room is large, tapestries drawn back to let in the afternoon light, a heavy carved bed dominating the center.
"Clear it," you order.
Servants scramble to strip the bed of decorative cushions and furs. Raymun and Steely Pate lift the plank carefully and transfer Baelor onto the mattress at your direction, keeping his spine aligned as best they can manage.
"Do not remove the helm," you remind them sharply.
They step back, breathing hard.
You turn to Egg, who stands pale and shaking near the foot of the bed.
"I need you to fetch the maester," you tell him firmly. "Tell him this cannot wait. And bring anyone he trusts to assist him. Go."
The boy nods and runs. You face Raymun and Steely Pate next.
"Find the largest basins you can," you instruct. "Fill them with water. Have it boiled. Bring clean cloths. As clean as you can manage. Quickly."
They exchange a look — uncertain still, but no longer arguing — and then they move.
For the first time since the pavilion, you are alone beside him, you step to the head of the bed and kneel.
Carefully, gently, you slide your fingers once more to his neck.
The pulse is still there, fainter now. You watch his chest.
You place your palm lightly against the damaged helm, stabilizing it without shifting it.
"Stay with me," you murmur under your breath, though you do not know whether you are speaking to him or to yourself.
Because now comes the part where knowledge alone may not be enough. And you are about to attempt to save a prince in a century that does not yet know how to save him.
You stand at the head of the bed, both hands braced against the warped helm, and for the first time since the chaos began there is no one giving orders but you.
The chamber smells of dust and old stone. Light spills across red-and-black tapestries, across carved furniture, across a prince who may die within the hour if you miscalculate.
You force yourself to breathe slowly. You do not have a drill. You do not have sterile instruments. You do not have imaging, suction, cautery, clamps.
You're fucked, but hopeful.
You have metal bent inward against fractured bone — and a skull that is likely cracked along the occipital line. The helm is compressing the fragments, preventing displacement. It is also containing swelling. But it is unstable containment. If removed without counter-pressure, the fracture may separate, the swelling may surge outward, and the delicate structures at the base of the brain (brainstem, cerebellum) may shift catastrophically.
You cannot simply pull it off... but you cannot leave it on forever either.
His pulse flutters beneath your fingers, he's warm, too warm even.
The door bursts open.
Maester Yormwell enters with two younger acolytes trailing him, chains clinking softly against his chest. He takes in the scene at once — you at the head of the bed, the dragon-helmed prince motionless, Raymun hovering like a sentinel.
"What madness is this?" the maester demands. "Why has the helm not been removed?"
"Because if you remove it carelessly, he will die," you answer without looking at him.
Silence follows.
You finally lift your gaze. "I need bandages. Thick linen. As many rolls as you have. Leather straps. Vinegar and Wine. And something small and sharp enough to cut metal ties, not pry the helm open."
One of the acolytes scoffs. "It is our place to tend him."
You do not raise your voice.
"If you remove that helm without stabilizing his skull externally, the fractured bone will shift. The swelling inside will worsen. He will stop breathing, and you will call it the will of the gods. I will call it preventable."
The maester narrows his eyes at you. "And how would you know this?"
Because I have seen it before, because I have watched patients talk and smile and then collapse from epidural hematomas, because I know the pattern.
Instead you say, "The blow was to the back of the head. He walked. He spoke. Now he fades. That is not chance. That is injury progressing beneath containment."
One of the acolytes whispers, "She speaks like a witch."
You turn your head slowly toward him.
"It's not witchcraft, you imbecile" you say evenly. "It is knowledge, science! And if you would rather let the Hand of the King die than listen to a woman, then stand aside and watch."
That lands.
Yormwell studies Baelor's breathing. The irregular pulse, the cracked visor, the blood under the helm now staining the bed.
"What do you propose?" he asks finally.
You exhale once. "We do not pull the helm upward. We cut it away in sections. Slowly. While maintaining external pressure around the skull."
You move your hands to demonstrate.
"We wrap his head first. Tight bandaging around the helm itself to keep the metal from springing outward suddenly. Then we cut the side straps and hinges piece by piece. As the metal loosens, we replace its support with firm wrapping."
The maester's brows draw together. He understands enough anatomy to follow.
"You intend to create an outer casing of cloth," he says slowly.
"Yes."
"And if the bone beneath is shattered?"
"Then the cloth becomes the brace."
One of the acolytes shifts uneasily. "And if she is wrong?"
You meet his gaze steadily. "Then he dies here instead of later."
No one speaks after that.
"Bring the linen," Yormwell orders.
The chamber fills with motion.
They wrap Baelor's helm first — thick, tight spirals of folded linen around the crown and sides, compressing the damaged metal gently inward so it cannot shift suddenly. You guide their hands, correcting tension, adjusting placement so pressure distributes evenly.
"Not too tight at the throat," you warn. "His airway must remain clear."
Wine is poured over your hands, over the cloth, over the metal edges. It is not sterile — but it is what this century has. When the wrapping is secure, you nod.
"Now we cut."
The maester uses fine metal shears normally meant for trimming chain links. Carefully, painstakingly, he begins cutting the side straps that secure the visor and cheek plates. You keep both palms firm against the helm, preventing outward expansion.
Each snip sounds thunderous in the silent room. Baelor still doesn't move.
His breathing stutters once — you freeze — then resumes.
"Slowly," you whisper. "Do not lift. Let it separate outward into the cloth."
Piece by piece, the helm loosens. A cracked cheek plate falls away into the bandaging.
The visor hinge snaps free, sweat beads along your spine.
Finally, only the back crown remains — the portion most deeply dented.
"This will shift," Yormwell warns.
"I know."
You press one hand at the base of his skull through the wrappings, the other steady at the crown.
"Cut."
The final metal tension releases with a dull metallic snap.
For one horrifying half-second, you feel movement beneath your hands, a subtle give, and you compensate immediately, tightening the linen, pressing evenly, preventing expansion.
The helm comes away in pieces. Underneath, matted hair. Blood. A visible depression along the occipital ridge, but the skull has not separated. You don't allow anyone to gasp.
"More linen," you say quickly. "We bind him now."
You begin wrapping directly over his hair and scalp, creating a firm, circumferential compression bandage to replace the helmet's structural containment.
"Not crushing," you instruct. "Supporting."
The maester watches your technique with dawning comprehension.
"You are countering the swelling," he murmurs.
"Yes."
When the final layer of linen is secured and tied firmly into place, you allow yourself to step back — but only just enough to slide your fingers once more to the side of his neck. You press gently, counting beneath your breath. The pulse is still there, faint, but steadier than it was before.
You lift your eyes to his face. He has slipped into unconsciousness fully now, no longer hovering in that fragile space between speech and silence. His skin has lost its usual warmth of sun-touched bronze; it is pale, almost ashen against the dark spill of his hair. Without the helm, without the tension of command in his posture, he looks younger. Smaller.
His mismatched eyes (one dark, one lighter, always so sharp and attentive) are hidden now behind closed lids.
You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest as if it is the only movement left in the world, then ou lean close.
"My prince," you whisper. "If you can hear me, breathe."
For a long, terrifying moment, nothing changes, then his chest rises — deeper this time. A slow exhale follows, the room collectively releases a breath it has been holding.
"He lives," the maester whispers.
"For now," you correct quietly.
Maester Yormwell watches you in silence, and the look he gives you has changed. The suspicion from earlier has dulled into something far more complicated — wary consideration, edged with reluctant respect. He says nothing as you begin tidying the space around Baelor's head, wiping away excess blood with cloth dampened in wine, ensuring the bandages remain firm but not constricting.
Raymun and Steely Pate have already withdrawn at the maester's instruction, likely to wash and steady themselves, find Dunk.
"I need help removing the rest of the armor," you say, glancing toward one of the younger acolytes. "Carefully. We cannot jostle him."
The acolyte kneels hesitantly beside you as you begin loosening the metal plates from Baelor's torso one strap at a time. As you work, you frown slightly.
"It sits too tightly across the shoulders," you murmur. "This wasn't fitted for him."
Egg, who has not left the side of the bed since returning, lifts his head quickly.
"I know that armor," he says, voice still thick from earlier tears. "It's Valarr's. My cousin's."
You pause for just a moment. Baelor's son.
You have seen him in these halls before — a quiet presence at his father's side, often tucked into the corner of the study while Baelor worked, or seated straight-backed at tournaments, watching with solemn attention rather than childish excitement. A polite, disciplined boy. Thoughtful. He carried himself with a restraint uncommon for his age.
And he looked so much like him : the same dark hair. The same mismatched gaze, the same air of contained gentleness beneath royal bearing.
Your chest tightens, you wonder where he is now.
"He must have lent it to him for the trial," Egg continues quietly. "My uncle did not bring his own. He never meant to fight."
The maester looks at you again, even more confused. "And how would you know a thing like improper fitting? of medicine?"
You open your mouth, already scrambling for something plausible (something that sounds harmless enough for a servant) but before you can form an excuse, the chamber doors slam open with a force that rattles the hinges.
Prince Maekar stands in the doorway.
Mud still clings to his boots, his face is thunderous, grief and fury barely contained beneath a veneer of rigid control.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, striding into the room. His gaze snaps to the bed. "I saw him rise. Why is he here? Why is he lying like this?"
You straighten slowly.
"You struck him with your mace, Your Grace," you say evenly. "The impact fractured his skull."
Maekar recoils as though you have slapped him.
"No," he says at once. "No. I did not strike him so."
"It was likely accidental," you continue carefully. "The blow was not meant to kill. But the force—"
"My brother cannot die," Maekar interrupts, his voice cracking despite himself. "He cannot."
And there, the iron façade fractures.
You do not see a prince then, no, you see a younger brother — the boy who once sparred in palace gardens beneath summer suns, wooden swords clashing in laughter instead of fury. The boy who had been lifted first into Baelor's arms before any of the others. The brother who rode beside him into war.
Baelor the hammer, and Maekar the anvil.
Different in temper, in bearing, in light yet forged together in the same fire. Bound not only by blood but by years of battle, counsel, rivalry, and unspoken loyalty. The kind of closeness that does not require softness to exist, the kind that is proven in steel and silence.
It is written across his face now — that history, that terror... but the vulnerability seals over almost immediately.
Maekar straightens, jaw hardening as if remembering exactly who stands before him. The chamber is full of witnesses. Servants, a maid who dared to command.
His silver-white hair hangs in disarray, streaked darker where mud and drying blood have dulled it to ashen grey. The smear across his cheek has not yet been wiped away. He looks less like a prince in that moment and more like a soldier dragged from the field — except for the authority that settles over him again like armor.
The grief is still there, he simply locks it behind his teeth.
"You presume much," he says coldly. "Who are you?"
You meet his gaze, though every instinct urges you to lower it. Almost unconsciously, you take a small step backward (closer to the bed, closer to Baelor) as if the unconscious man might somehow shield you simply by his presence.
And yet you position yourself beside him all the same, as though standing near the Hand of the King might lend you a fragment of protection.
His gaze drags over you slowly — from your face down to the plain fabric of your dress, to the sleeves rolled and stained from blood, to the unmistakable shape of you beneath it all. He takes in the absence of a chain at your throat, the lack of a maester’s robes, the simple shoes of a servant.
You are not a man, you are certainly not a maester... and in his eyes, that alone is accusation enough.
You tell Maekar your name. "I am a maid in service."
His eyes flash with disbelief.
"A maid?" His voice sharpens dangerously. "A maid laid hands upon the Hand of the King?"
You don't flinch. "I stabilized his skull and prevented further damage when the helm was removed."
"You presume he needed such intervention."
Maester Yormwell steps forward carefully. "Your Grace, I assisted her. Her method was... unconventional, but it was not without merit."
Maekar barely glances at him. "And you allowed this?"
"It was either attempt her method," Yormwell replies measuredly, "or remove the helm outright and risk immediate death."
Egg moves closer to his father, voice trembling but determined. "She knew what she was doing, father'She stopped them from pulling it off in the tent. Father, she saved him."
Maekar's jaw tightens. His gaze returns to you — assessing, furious, frightened.
"You speak of fractured skulls and swelling as though you have studied in Oldtown," he says. "You command knights. You curse at nobles. And you expect me to believe you are merely a maid?"
"I did what was necessary to keep him alive," you answer steadily. "What happens now rests with his body —" you pause," and the gods, if you prefer that phrasing."
His nostrils flare.
"Maester," Maekar says sharply, without looking away from you, "go tend to my son. Aerion remains unconscious."
Yormwell hesitates only briefly before bowing. "At once, Your Grace."
He casts you a fleeting glance (apologetic, perhaps?) and leaves with the acolytes.
Maekar's voice turns to ice. "Guards."
Two men appear in the doorway immediately, you watch confused.
"Take her," he orders. "To the dungeons."
Egg spins toward him. "Father — !"
Maekar does not raise his voice, yet it carries the burden of final judgment.
"Until I determine whether she is savior or sorceress, she will not walk freely within these walls."
"My prince —" you try, the words breaking apart in your throat.
This is not how it was meant to unfold. You were supposed to save him, you were supposed to step back into shadow once the crisis passed — not be dragged from the chamber like a criminal.
The guards seize your arms without ceremony. Their grip is firm, impersonal, and you flinch as iron fingers clamp around your sleeves, pulling you away from the bedside.
You twist just once, looking over your shoulder.
Baelor lies motionless beneath the tight linen wrappings you fashioned in haste and desperation. The bandages encircle his head where the crown once rested. His skin remains pale, almost translucent in the afternoon light, but his chest still rises and falls .
Alive... for now.
You have done everything you could, everything this century allowed. Now you must trust that it was enough.
A bitter thought slips into your mind; that perhaps this was always the bargain. That saving a prince might cost you your own life in return, that death may be the gift granted to the one who interfered with fate.
You swallow hard, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.
"My prince — " you try again, meant for the man on the bed rather than the one condemning you.
Egg is pleading now, his young voice rising in desperation as he clutches at his father's arm, insisting that you saved him, that you knew what you were doing. Maekar silences him with a look alone.
The guards begin pulling you toward the door.
You do not know what awaits you below, whether it will be questioning, chains, or something far worse. You do not know if Baelor will wake, you do not know if the realm will remember the maid who tried.
As the chamber doors close behind you, one fragile hope anchors itself in your chest: If death is coming, let it be swift.
And if the prince lives — let it have been worth it.
A/N :
this is how I grief … ( I hope maekar wasn’t too ooc)
I’m thinking about turning this into a full fic…. I’ll keep continuing it here as a reader insert for now, but if I publish it on AO3 or Wattpad, I’ll prob rewrite it as an OC…. maybe even adding other characters who survived the frauds and ended there idk… kinda Yellowjackets vibes…. That would be fun
but yh the idea actually came from a post I saw … this girl on Twitter was talking abt Baelor’s injuries like the head trauma and the mace wound he took and how those injuries realistically would’ve killed him. her dad’s a doctor apparently and he explained how it would’ve actually gone medically…. so yh that’s basically how this idea was born lol
Guys I don’t want to see sad edits after this episode like all my fyp is sad, I need happy fics where he survives and lives happily like seriously I’ll read anything to make me forget what happened
this might be an unpopular opinion and a very sensitive subject to some … but i feel like it’s something worth talking about (plz yall don’t come at at me 😭)
[edit: keep me in ur prayers 😪 i’ve already gotten anon hate and it’s been five minutes. can y’all at least read the whole post before detonating in my inbox?? 😭]
i’m fully aware that ppl should be free to write whatever they want I guess… especially in a universe like got / asoiaf, where dark and uncomfortable themes are kind of … the point. GRRM writes abt a lot of messed-up stuff on purpose. still, i can’t lie: whenever i see targ!incest being heavily romanticized in fics, especially in AKOTSK era, it really makes me uncomfortable to say the least
a big part of the issue is that incest often gets treated as something that’s just “natural” or unavoidable for targaryens, when that’s not actually true across all eras. if you look at the history, incest wasn’t just a cultural habit, it had a very specific reason. the targaryens did it mainly to keep the ability to ride dragons within the family.
but during AKOTSK era, dragons were already extinct. and that’s a HUGE detail. and so without dragons, there was no real reason to keep marrying inside the family. canon reflects that pretty clearly. most targaryens during that time married outside the house, usually for political alliances. without dragons, house targaryen wasn’t untouchable anymore, so alliances mattered more than blood purity.
ppl sometimes argue that incest didn’t happen bc there weren’t enough targaryen women around, but even that’s shaky. aerion had sisters and there were other female relatives, yet incest still wasn’t the norm. that alone shows it wasn’t seen as necessary, even by the targaryens themselves during that time.
it’s also important to remember that incest was never really accepted by westeros as a whole. even when the targaryens had dragons, people tolerated it out of fear, not approval. the faith + smallfolks condemned it, and most of the realm saw it as wrong or disturbing. so the idea that it was ever truly “normal” in-universe is kind of misleading.
and this is where i think fandom sometimes misses the point: just because grrm writes a lot of incest doesn’t mean we’re supposed to ship it. he includes incest to show how power, obsession with bloodlines + superiority complexes rot ppl from the inside. it’s meant to be uncomfortable. it’s part of the tragedy, not a love story. depiction isn’t endorsement.
so when incest gets treated as romantic, inevitable, or even desirable, especially in an era where it doesn’t really make sense canon-wise, it just feels … off to me. i’m not saying ppl shouldn’t write what they want. everyone has their own tastes and creative freedom. i just personally don’t like those dynamics and i find it weird how normalized they’ve become when the story itself shows that targaryens didn’t always do that and often chose not to.
this is just my opinion ofc, not a judgment. it’s simply discomfort based on canon and what I’ve been seeing lately :)
might get burned after saying this but oh well
note : i’m fully aware that, historically, it was common for nobility to marry within their own circles. major houses in places like westeros intermarried constantly (sometimes with minor houses, sometimes with other great houses) so realistically, they’re probably all related in some way. and since the series is heavily inspired by the wars of the roses, it’s not exactly shocking to see dynastic marriages that echo european royal history. back then, cousin marriages and even aunt/nephew unions weren’t unheard of among royalty. so yes, in terms of historical plausibility, it fits the source material
what i’m saying tho is smth slightly different. when it comes to certain characters (like baelor targaryen, who was portrayed as unusually progressive for his time) it can feel extremely ooc to pair him romantically with his daughter, sister or niece. based on how he’s written, he doesn’t strike me as someone who would support or engage in incestuous relationships. so when i see those pairings, it’s less about historical accuracy and more abt characterization. sometimes it just feels jarringly inconsistent and occasionally even a bit uncomfortable
AND TO BE CLEAR i’m not telling anyone what they should or shouldn’t write. i’m the first to say that fandom is about creative freedom and ppl can ship or write whatever they want. it’s just an opinion i wanted to share because i’ve been seeing a lot of this in akotsk x reader/oc fics over the past few weeks
edit : had to add this shady post which was obvi abt me :
to which i’ll simply respond with this reply from @eurydycee who articulated far better than i did what i was trying to say in my original post:
areudirty
snowghoul
2087
turnnoffyourmind
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
