julebug16
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They get lost in the woods and eat some mushrooms :')
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He cannot have you. That is the root and rot of it. So he keeps you where a hedge knight may keep what is precious and impossible: in his head, in his heart, and, when he strays furthest from the knightly path, in those low, shameful devotions that take him half-awake before dawn, hand gone traitor under the blanket while you sleep near enough to unman him, face softened by the pale morning, mouth parted and begrudgingly unkissed. -
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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.
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“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.” -
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For two years, you and Duncan orbit each other inside the same circle of friends, each mistaking the other’s awkwardness for disinterest. Then, one reckless night changes the terms entirely. A story about bad timing, good longing, and leaving the hardest thing until last.
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He starts forward. You put both hands to his chest and stop him, smiling like this is all very funny. “I can manage,” you say. “It’s not far. And I feel a bit better.”“No, you’re not walkin’ alone.”
“Yes I am,” you say. “Stop this.”
You are standing right in his way. Duncan breathes out hard through his nose. “Don’t push me, girl,” he mutters, and bends. Then, his arms go round the backs of your thighs and he swings you over his shoulder.
“Duncan!” you yelp. Bat your funny little fists against his back and kick one foot so hard your slipper falls off. “Dunk, my shoe! Bloody hell, put me down!”
“That’s what y’get for bein’ stubborn,” he says, giving the backs of your thighs one firm settling pat as he walks on.
You keep fighting him, but you laugh all the way through it, bent over his shoulder and kicking your remaining slippered foot at the air. “What has got into you?”
“You. Apparently.”
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Wounded in battle he doesn't know if he won or lost, Duncan stumbles into what he thinks is his final resting place. There, a siren finds him, and she decides to spare him and keep him.
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He tries to wet his lips and cannot. “Beg pardon,” he murmurs, for courtesy’s sake if nothing else. “I never thought death would have so fair a face.”Bookmarked by julebug16
06 Jul 2026
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Summary
Tournament season brings Ser Duncan the Tall to Bitterbridge and to a household where a young widow is dying of boredom. Soon enough, simply looking at one another proves insufficient.
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When they draw near, you mount carefully so as not to wake the nephew. “You are rather young—” you say to Ser Duncan’s squire, and see him brace at once for insult, “—to be so thoroughly cursed with baldness.”
His mouth quirks. He lets out a breath. In the voice of a child who has more wit in that bald head than is entirely proper, he says, “You are rather grown to be losing children.”
“Egg,” Duncan hisses. “Beg pardon, m’lady. He ought not say such things.”
“No harm done.” You lift a hand once to stay him. Then, to the boy: “‘Tis not my child that got lost. I have none.”
“And why is that?”
“Seven hells, Egg—” Duncan mutters, reddening under the dirt.Bookmarked by julebug16
06 Jul 2026