cassie

simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.

“so a fuckin’ knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty for’a bloke like that… y’sure he wasn’t the 74-year-old?”

that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.

half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simon’s arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.

surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed “marriage” between simon and yourself. for some reason, you don’t correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.

you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.

“alright?”

you bob a nod at simon’s question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.

fourteen minutes later…

the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.

“f-fuck…” you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. “ah!-there-there…”

his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man you’d abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.

mrs. riley. his missus.

“y’know… i’ll eat supper whenever y’want. kiss ya right. don’t quite like ignoring pretty things either,” he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simon’s gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.

god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.

there’s a ring of cream at the base of his cock that’s still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.

“…you memorize your vows?”

you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. “uh. y-yeah? i think. why?–"

“go on, then,” simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.

slower.

harder.

like a proper husband should.

it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.

the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend he’s the one you wrote them about. that you’ll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.

the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love you’s; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds he’s never made for anyone else.

simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and can’t think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath is–

“i meant to ask earlier… do you have a smoke?”

simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.

You loved learning. You did not love lectures that went on long enough to fossilize your bones.

"Princess, your penmanship on that last page was much improved," your tutor called, already fussing with his papers.

"Thank you, Master Harrow," you said, sweet as honey. "Perhaps one day you will even let me write something that is not a list of tariffs."

He made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh as you slipped out into the corridor.

The hall beyond was quiet, polished stone glowing in the late afternoon light. A draft carried the faint scent of beeswax and parchment. You smoothed your skirts, pushed a loose curl behind your ear, and turned toward your chambers.

You had taken three steps before you saw him.

Simon stood to the right of the door, exactly where the wall met the first column. He was so still he might have been carved there, part of the stone. The skull pattern on his fitted hood caught the light, bone white over black cloth, teeth painted over his mouth. Only his eyes were bare, dark brown and steady.

Your feet hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then you lifted your chin and walked.

As you passed him, he fell into step.

Not close enough to brush you. Close enough that you felt the weight of him at your shoulder, the soft scrape of his boots almost in time with your shoes.

You glanced sideways. He looked straight ahead.

"Sir Simon," you said. "The lesson is over. You can have the corridor back."

No answer. He kept walking with you.

You tried again.

"If you are on your way somewhere, do not let me keep you. I am only going to my rooms."

"I know," he said.

His voice was low behind the cloth. He did not sound like a man who intended to go elsewhere.

You turned the next corner. He turned with you.

You slowed your steps. He adjusted without missing a beat.

You stopped.

He stopped two paces behind you.

You turned around.

He faced you, broad and solid, hooded skull looking down. Up close like this he seemed even taller, six foot three of mail and leather and coiled muscle, the painted teeth a pale grin over something that was not smiling at all.

"Sir Simon," you said, very carefully polite, "why are you following me?"

"Because you are walking," he said.

You stared at him.

"That is not an answer," you said.

"It is the beginning of one," he replied.

Something in your chest prickled. The near miss in the garden still lived in the back of your mind, a ghost of stone and shattering sound, but it had been days now. Long enough for fear to turn into stubbornness.

"I appreciate the other night," you said. "Truly. I have thought of little else. However, I cannot have you looming behind me every time I go to and from a room. People will talk."

"They already talk," he said.

"That is not the point."

"The point, Princess," he said, "is that you are not safe."

You folded your arms. "I am in the middle of the palace. It is mid afternoon. The only thing that threatens me here is Master Harrow's voice."

His eyes did not soften, "The King does not agree," he said.

You felt your jaw go tight. "What has my father decided now?"

Simon hesitated, just long enough for you to notice. Then he straightened, as if repeating something memorized.

"By order of His Majesty," he said, "I am assigned as your personal guard. Effective immediately."

You blinked. "Personal guard," you repeated.

"Yes."

"For... how long?"

"Until he says otherwise."

You stared at him, the words stacking slowly.

"So you are to stand outside my lessons," you said. "And my chambers?"

"Yes."

"You are to follow me to supper?"

"Yes."

"And to the chapel? And the library? And the gardens? And the privy if I let you?"

A beat of silence.

"I am to remain within reach," he said at last. "You are free to close doors in my face where modesty demands it."

Heat climbed up your neck.

"This is ridiculous," you snapped. "I am not a child. I do not need a nursemaid."

"I agree," he said.

The neat, immediate answer took some of the wind out of your anger.

"You do," you tried again, "see how this looks? I cannot move three paces without the King's hound at my heels."

His eyes narrowed a fraction behind the paint.

"You would rather be crushed under another statue," he said. "Or take an arrow through the throat on your way to morning prayers?"

"No," you said, sharper than you meant. You pulled in a breath, tried to smooth your voice. "No. But there must be a middle ground between bolting my door and dragging you everywhere like a shadow on a leash."

His gaze flicked to the side for a moment, as if he saw something over your shoulder that you could not. When he looked back, the hint of softness had drained away again.

"My life belongs to your father," he said. "At present, he wishes that life to be spent making sure you keep yours. You can complain to him if you like. It will not change the order."

You bristled.

"You are not happy about this either," you said.

"No," he said.

The bluntness of it startled a laugh out of you that you had not expected.

"So we agree on something," you said. "There is hope for peace in our time after all."

The corner of his eye creased, the closest thing you were likely to get to a smile with his mouth hidden.

"It is not personal," he said. "I am more effective hunting men in the hills than walking princesses from desk to door. That is all."

"It feels personal," you said. "You look as if someone has told you to mind an overexcited puppy."

"If you were a puppy," he said, "you might listen when someone called you back."

Your lips parted. "I listen."

"You listen," he corrected, "and then you decide whether you liked what you heard."

You could not argue that without lying. For a moment the two of you simply stood there in the quiet hall. Sunlight caught on the links of mail at his throat, on the faint line of his old scar. You felt very small and very watched, and you could not decide if you hated that or felt safer for it.

"Very well," you said at last. "You are my personal guard. I will try to remember not to sneak past you when I feel like fresh air."

"Try harder than you have in the past," he said.

You narrowed your eyes. "I should warn you," you said. "I am an excellent escape artist."

"I know," he said. "I've been catching you for years."

That brought a flush to your cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment in front of tutors.

You turned away before he could see too much and started down the corridor again.

His footsteps fell in behind you, steady and quiet.

After a few paces, you glanced back over your shoulder.

"Sir Simon," you said.

"Princess."

"If you must stalk me everywhere," you said, "you could at least pretend to be enjoying yourself."

The skull hood tilted. "I am not here to enjoy myself," he said.

"No," you said lightly. "That would be mine and Violet's job. You are here to glower."

"For once," he said, "we understand each other."

You rolled your eyes and faced forward again, but your mouth curved a little all the same.

He followed.

Simon was at her door before the sun cleared the inner wall.

The corridor was cool and still, stone leaching the last of the night from the air. Servants padded past on soft feet, carrying covered trays toward the kitchens. Somewhere farther off, a bell rang the first call of the day.

He stood where the wall met the doorframe, hands clasped behind his back, weight easy on his heels. Old habit. It let him move quickly in either direction if he had to.

The skull was already in place. Bone over cloth snug over his hair and face. The bone grinning where his mouth should be. Only his eyes were brown and bare.

He could not quite believe this was where the King wanted him.

Not in the yard putting steel into new hands. Not at the border keeping restless lords honest. Not riding out with Price to listen where the ground itself felt thin.

Here. Outside a princess's door.

He had seen enough men complain about softer posts over the years. Guarding a treasury, standing at a gate, escorting some noble's carriage to a marriage. None of those had appealed to him.

This, somehow, felt worse. More dangerous. Not because it was soft, but because he could already feel the itch under his skin. The part of him that did not know what to do with stillness.

The latch turned.

The door opened a crack. One of her ladies peered out, then jumped half a handspan when she found herself face to face with painted bone.

"Sir Simon," she squeaked.

"Good morning," he said.

She bobbed an awkward half curtsey and stepped aside.

The Princess came through the doorway a moment later, fastening a bracelet around her wrist with deft fingers. Her gown was a pale color that brought out the warm tone of her skin, skirts cinched high enough to walk easily. Her hair was braided back from her face, curls already trying to escape.

She stopped short when she saw him.

"Of course you are here," she said.

"Good morning, Princess," he replied.

"You know it is a very unnerving sensation," she went on, "to open your door and find a skull glowering at you."

"I will take it into consideration," Simon said. "Perhaps adding flowers?"

One of the maids choked on a laugh before smothering it.

The Princess's mouth twitched in spite of herself. Then she remembered she was meant to be annoyed.

"You do recall that we covered the day's schedule yesterday," she said. "Breakfast, lessons, half an hour of embroidery so my aunt does not cry, more lessons, the evening meal. There is very little room for assassination in that list."

"I am aware of your schedule," he said. "I am also aware that statues are not usually on assassination lists."

She narrowed her eyes at that.

"Fine," she said. "Come to breakfast and glower at my porridge."

She swept past him, skirts whispering. He fell into step.

The breakfast hall was already half full. Lesser nobles and courtiers who had no right to the high table but plenty of hunger filled the lower end, their chatter low and steady. The royal family sat at the raised table near the tall windows, light slanting in over polished wood.

The King glanced up as Simon escorted his daughter in. A brief, measuring look, then a thin nod. Approval. Enforced expectation. Both.

Simon took up position against the wall behind and slightly to her left. A good angle on the room. Close enough to reach her quickly. Far enough not to breathe down her neck.

He watched the doors, the serving staff, the way hands moved near knives and cups. Old habit.

He tried not to watch the way she toyed with her spoon while her father fielded reports, or the way her eyes glazed when the chancellor started in on grain levies.

"Your tutor tells me you have taken to trade accounts," the King said, mid meal.

She blinked, dragged back from whatever thought she had been chasing across the courtyard with her gaze.

"Master Harrow exaggerates," she said. "I have taken to correcting him when he forgets that two and two make four, not six when his friends are involved."

A few lords at the table choked on their wine.

The King's mouth twitched, then smoothed. "Mind your tongue."

"Yes, Father," she said, but her eyes were bright.

Simon watched the exchange from behind his mask, a small curl of something like amusement sitting under his ribs. She was not subtle, this one, but she was sharper than most of the men who underestimated her.

The meal dragged on. Reports, petitions, three different attempts by two different lords to slide talk of marriageable sons into the conversation.

Each time, Simon saw her shoulders tense a fraction. Her fingers tightened around her cup. She smiled when she was supposed to. She did not quite succeed in making it reach her eyes.

When the King finally rose, the hall rose with him. He gave his daughter a small nod.

"Lessons," he said. "Do not frighten Master Harrow more than necessary."

"I make no promises," she murmured.

Simon followed her out.

Lessons, he discovered, were a different kind of battlefield.

The morning began with letters from foreign courts. Her tutor had her translate them aloud from one tongue to another, then explain what they did not say, which turned out to be more interesting than expected.

"This phrase here," she said, tapping the parchment with her quill, "sounds like a blessing on your health, but in his tongue it is also used as a warning. He is reminding you that nothing is guaranteed."

Harrow cleared his throat. "It is also polite, Highness."

"Polite and a warning," she said. "Words can do both."

Simon leaned against the wall by the window and listened. He had sat in enough rough council rooms to know when something was worth hearing. She was quick. Quicker than most of the men who stood in those rooms.

Between exercises, she glanced back at him more than once. At first openly annoyed. Then with something else under it that he could not quite name.

He wondered if she knew her voice shifted when she was talking about duty. It dropped a fraction, smoothed out. Less laughter, more steel.

In the next room, after a short break, an older woman with sharp eyes and sharper pins lectured her on comportment, inheritance law, the history of queens who had ruled in all but name.

"Grace is not weakness," the woman said, pacing across the carpets. "Soft words can be as sharp as any sword if placed where they will cut."

The Princess sat straight backed, hands folded, listening. Simon watched the set of her shoulders, the way she swallowed hard when the woman mentioned heirs and alliances and the King's eventual death.

From time to time, her gaze flicked to him as if to check whether he was still there.

He was. He would be. That was the point.

He still did not have to like it.

By midday, he had counted three potential blind spots in the route between her classroom wing and the main hall, one guard who needed retraining, and at least two servants whose eyes lingered on her a little too long.

He filed their faces away without thinking.

They ate the mid day meal in a smaller chamber. No King, no lords. Just the Princess, Violet, two other ladies, and enough food to feed six hungry soldiers.

Simon took his place at the wall again.

Violet, who had been almost painfully careful not to look at him since he entered, finally gave in.

"Does he stand there all day now," she asked, leaning toward the Princess with her cup in hand, "or do you get to send him out to go and haunt someone else from time to time?"

"He has been glued to my shadow," the Princess said. "I suspect my father has hammered nails through his boots."

Violet pursed her lips. "Your Highness, if you are going to have the most interesting man in the palace stationed five paces behind you, you could at least have the decency to enjoy it."

"I am not enjoying anything," the Princess protested. Her gaze slid sideways and caught on Simon's folded arms, his broad chest, the way the skull framed his eyes. Her cheeks warmed. "Much."

Simon pretended not to hear. The room was not large. He heard every word. He told himself the heat under his own collar was irritation.

"You can talk to him," one of the other ladies said. "As long as he is always there, you might as well teach him embroidery."

"Can he sew," Violet asked thoughtfully.

"If you hand me a torn seam during an ambush," Simon said, before he could stop himself, "I will consider it."

Four heads whipped around. Violet clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a delighted laugh.

"You see," she whispered to the Princess. "He can talk. It is not just glowering."

The Princess looked at him, eyes narrowed as if he were some rare beast that had suddenly spoken.

"We will keep that in mind next time we ride into a trap," she said. "Thank you, Sir Simon."

"Princess," he replied.

The corner of her mouth curled despite the way she tried to flatten it. She looked down quickly at her plate.

Flustered, he thought. Annoyed and flustered both. He was not sure which amused him more.

Afternoon wore on. More lessons. More walking between rooms with her a half step ahead and him one pace behind.

He began to learn the rhythm of her days.

The way she always stopped for a heartbeat at the window that overlooked the training yard. The small way her shoulders relaxed when she saw movement on the far field.

The way she fidgeted with rings or cuffs when talk turned to marriage, or the way she stilled when someone mentioned the border.

The way she pushed past her own irritation when duty sat in front of her. How quickly she picked up a quill again after a brief complaint. How often she redirected a wandering conversation back to something that mattered.

He had watched her from a distance for years. This was different. This was seeing her every moment, in all the small in between spaces that court rarely bothered to notice.

He did not know what to do with that.

By late afternoon, the palace had changed temperature. The sun dipped low enough to throw long shadows across the inner courtyards, and servants began lighting lamps in wall sconces. The air tasted of meat roasting in the great kitchens.

The Princess dismissed her last tutor, who left with an armful of scrolls and a harried expression.

She turned and nearly walked into him.

He had shifted closer without quite thinking when the old man began to wave parchment near her face for emphasis. Reflex. He had dragged men out from under falling beams with less thought.

She stopped so abruptly that her gown brushed his mail.

He froze.

For one suspended second, they were close enough that he could see every fleck in her irises, feel the warmth of her breath faintly through the cloth over his face.

"Saints above, you are very large," she said quietly.

It was so sincerely exasperated that he almost laughed.

"It helps when someone is throwing statues," he said.

She sighed and stepped back, smoothing her hands over her skirts as if she could push the heat out of her cheeks.

"Dinner," she announced. "If my father tells me once more that I am to pretend everything is fine, I may overturn a tureen."

"I will stand between you and the tureen," Simon said.

"For its safety or his," she asked.

"Both."

The evening meal was smaller than the morning's assembly. A handful of high ranking nobles, the King, his daughter, one of his sisters and her quiet husband. The talk was the same as always, but quieter, the day's edges worn off.

Simon took his place behind the Princess again. Price and the others sat farther down the table, their presence a reminder that the talk of neighboring kingdoms was not only talk.

At one point, while her father and an older lord circled the subject of troop levies with words like stability and duty, the Princess tipped her head back just enough to look at Simon.

"How is the food down at that end," she murmured.

"Hot," he said. "Mostly."

"Better than ours then."

He had seen her plate. Everything cut into small, neat portions. Nothing over seasoned, nothing undercooked, nothing that might offend or distract.

"I will speak to the kitchen," he said. "They can send you something that is meant for men who worked today."

"I worked today," she said.

"Yes," he agreed.

She looked startled at the lack of sarcasm.

"Thank you," she said, softer.

The King glanced over. Simon straightened and went still. The moment passed.

Night fell heavy around the palace.

Lamps burned low in the corridors, wicks turned down to save oil. The air outside cooled, drawing a faint breeze through open arrow slits and high vents.

Simon escorted her back to her chambers in that softer light, the only sound their joined footsteps and the distant murmur of guards trading shifts.

She was quieter than she had been all day. Less complaint, more thought. She kept one hand loosely on her skirts, the other curled at her side. From time to time she brushed her fingers against the wall as if she needed the texture under her skin.

At her door, she stopped and turned.

His shadow fell over her, a taller outline against the lamplight.

"Do you stand here all night," she asked, "or do you vanish back to your mysterious lair under the palace once I am shut safely inside?"

Her tone was light, but there was a thread under it that he recognized. Worn edges. The day catching up with her.

"I will be outside your door," he said. "All night."

Her brows rose. "Truly?"

"Yes."

"Even if I snore?"

"If you snore loudly enough to bring the ceiling down, I will reconsider."

A small, unexpected laugh slipped out of her. It startled them both.

The sound sat warm in his chest.

She sobered a little, looking up at the skull that hid his face. Her gaze lingered on his eyes.

"Does this bother you," she asked quietly.

"What?"

"Standing outside a door while I sleep. Guarding nothing more exciting than a woman trying not to think about falling statues."

He thought about it.

"It is not what I am used to," he said. "But I have watched worse men than you while they slept. They did not deserve it as much."

A flush climbed her throat at that.

"I am not sure that is a compliment," she said.

"It is the only one I have," he replied.

She laughed again, breathless, then shook her head and reached for the latch.

"Good night, Sir Simon," she said.

"Good night, Princess."

She slipped inside. The door closed with a soft click.

For a moment, Simon stood there with his hand against the frame, feeling the hollow weight of wood and iron between them.

He could hear her on the other side. Faint movements. The murmur of her ladies. A low exchange of voices. Laughter, softer now, worn at the edges.

Then quiet.

He took up position beside the door. Back to the wall. Sword at his hip, heavy and familiar.

He listened to the palace breathing, to the distant shift of guards, to the small settling creaks of wood as the building cooled.

This is my post, he reminded himself.

Not the border. Not the open field. Not a hunt through enemy woods.

Here. One princess. One door. One man who wanted her dead enough to cut stone.

He settled his shoulders, rolled his neck once, and let his body slip into the easy, patient readiness that had kept him alive this long.

He would stand here as long as the King required.

And if the Princess thought he was more shadow than man by the end of it, he decided, that was probably for the best.

Tagged:

@frodhoebagginit

@merkitty49

@blissful-bookworm

@morganvoorhees

@noir-moons

@puppygirl0

@cosmicwitch00

@lostintro

@damonlore

@sleepilysworld

@corrie1013

@loloncookies

@tet-yy

@forgottensomewhere

@masochisticated

@imaginexred

@emeraldeyes1805

@rooroen

@flopnumber7

@kaelizl

@2dsimpomg

@xncasi

@empty-lexicon

@pistachioslife

@fluffysmiko

@jlordsangel

@tessakate

@m3lin03

@xoxoitsalliemwah

the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.

you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.

—

the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.

"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.

"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.

silence. "wot for?"

you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.

"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."

"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.

"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."

the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.

it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.

you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.

sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.

"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."

you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."

"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.

"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.

"can you sit up."

you do awkwardly.

"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.

"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.

a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.

you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.

"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.

he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.

"chin up."

more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.

"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.

he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.

"headache?"

somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.

"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."

the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.

shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.

you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.

the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.

"y'alrigh'?"

you nod stiffly.

"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.

he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.

when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.

"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."

"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.

"i'm really so—"

"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."

—

the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.

coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.

you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."

"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.

"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.

you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.

minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.

he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."

your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.

"i mean…i think this is it?"

"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."

has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?

so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.

he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.

"thank you," you whisper.

his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.

—

you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.

you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.

there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.

"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."

"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."

you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"

silence tells you you're right.

"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.

"no."

you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.

when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.

this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.

his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth. you separate, both huffing.

"i think maybe that we should—"

"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.

you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."

he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.

you give him your number. type it into his old phone.

his mouth tastes of cigarettes and coffee when you kiss him goodnight at the door. you don't brush your teeth at bed, choosing to savour the taste on your lips. you pull the hoodie up over your mouth and breathe in his scent, stale and kind of gross but safe, until you fall asleep.

-

Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.

Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.

Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.

He blinks.

He studies them again.

The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.

“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.

The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”

“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks back at the photograph.

Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.

There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.

“Right,” Price says.

The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.

You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.

Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.

Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.

Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.

Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.

The next report arrives shortly before lunch.

“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.

Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.

“Forensics?”

“Lorazepam, sir.”

“What dosage?”

The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”

Price stares at him.

The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”

“I know what lorazepam is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.

It doesn’t.

“Zero point five.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”

“No, sir.”

“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.

The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.

Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.

In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.

Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.

“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.

You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.

You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.

After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.

Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.

Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”

Price says nothing.

“Do you want us to assemble a team?”

“No.”

There is a pause.

“No, sir?”

“No.”

“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”

“Has he?”

The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.

“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”

“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.

He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.

The operator watches him. “Sir?”

Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Administrative work.”

“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”

Price checks the box beside personal leave.

“He’s been missing for two days.”

Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.

“Sir.”

Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.

The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.

“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”

“But- ”

simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.

“so a fuckin’ knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty for’a bloke like that… y’sure he wasn’t the 74-year-old?”

that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.

half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simon’s arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.

surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed “marriage” between simon and yourself. for some reason, you don’t correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.

you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.

“alright?”

you bob a nod at simon’s question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.

fourteen minutes later…

the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.

“f-fuck…” you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. “ah!-there-there…”

his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man you’d abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.

mrs. riley. his missus.

“y’know… i’ll eat supper whenever y’want. kiss ya right. don’t quite like ignoring pretty things either,” he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simon’s gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.

god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.

there’s a ring of cream at the base of his cock that’s still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.

“…you memorize your vows?”

you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. “uh. y-yeah? i think. why?–"

“go on, then,” simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.

slower.

harder.

like a proper husband should.

it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.

the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend he’s the one you wrote them about. that you’ll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.

the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love you’s; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds he’s never made for anyone else.

simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and can’t think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath is–

“i meant to ask earlier… do you have a smoke?”

simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.