370HSSV 0773H

all his life, ever since he was a boy, there have been whispers. ugly, they'd called him then, back before he'd taken up the sword for lord price and earned himself a few scars, burns, and deep gouges over the years. nowadays he's built himself a brutish enough reputation on the battlefield to keep others opinions of his looks relegated to mere whispers when he leaves the room- but he hears them all the same.

monstrous, hideous, unbearable to look at.

not that he minds, really. when others in his position would opt for a mask, he instead shows his face and bares his teeth- not as a smile, but a threat display, like an animal would. he keeps his coal-dark stare long and unblinking, his lip permanently curled in a sneer bisected by purple scar tissue. he's grown to like the way lords and ladies alike look away, eyes growing wide and averting his gaze as he comes into their sight. enjoys the slight wrinkle of disgust on the noses of the more haughty nobles, who like to pretend they're not just a few hours of torture in price's dungeons away from looking just as mangled and hideous as he does.

so when word reaches him that lord price has arranged a marriage for him, he knows what it is. it's a punishment, a humiliation for your family, some lesser lord whose ego outgrew his rank and needed to be cut back without bloodshed. you'll be used both as a hostage and to humble your father, the pretty maiden lady given to the monstrous captain of lord price's guard- a reminder to any other upstart lordlings to mind their place, lest their own beloved children be given off to a kingdom-renowned brute like simon.

he doesn't meet you until the wedding day, and when he catches that first glimpse of your wide, terrified eyes behind your veil, lord price's words ring in his head.

"-and when you break this one, i'm sure it won't be long until we can find you another."

except seeing you here and now, trembling before him as the maester reads aloud from his book, he realizes he doesn't want another. he likes the way your eyes keep darting to his face and then away again, as if you're working up the courage to hold his gaze. you're trying so hard to be brave, and fun as it is to watch you tremble in front of him, what he likes even more is the way you're pretending not to.

you're so pretty, with big soft curves and hands that have never seen a hard day's work. you smell vaguely of expensive perfumes and oils, your braids tight and even, and everything from the rounded shape of you to the quality of your dress looks like a luxury. no wonder your father got cocky, he must be doing well for himself if he's got a big soft daughter like you.

the maester's words wash over him, a droning background noise drowned out by the flurry of thoughts racing through simon's head. you're his now, and the knowledge that he can do as he pleases with you (with impunity!) makes him feel a bit mad with power. you have so many soft bits that are just begging for him to sink his teeth into, to pinch and grab and smack at will. when he puts his cloak on your shoulders, all he can think about is digging his fingers into the fat of your thighs, the jut of your hips, the plushness of your ass.

it takes all of his strength and self-discipline not to consummate the marriage right then and there.

the feast afterwards is boisterous, and simon wastes no time pushing the limits of propriety by ordering a servant to take your chair away, insisting you sit on his lap as he hand-feeds you. poor thing, you try so hard to stutter out your objections about what's proper, what custom dictates- but what you haven't learned yet is that none of that means anything to simon. he'll do whatever he bloody wants and only stop if lord price tells him to.

"go on, love. starvin' over here. your turn t'feed me now." he rumbles in your ear, squeezing your hip hard enough to make you squeak. he's watched the way your shoulders have slowly climbed up to your ears, the way you can't bear to look at him, or even anyone else. you're humiliated, being forced to sit on the lap of an ogre and call him your husband.

simon's never been harder in his life.

slowly, tentatively, you hold up a small piece of bread to his mouth- squeaking and flinching when he suddenly snaps his teeth like a dog. the volume of the conversations around you temporarily dims as the rest of the castle observes your plight for a moment- before immediately reverting back to merriment. sure, they all feel sorry for you, but not enough to actually do anything about it.

it isn't long before your lady mother breaks down in tears and is hurriedly escorted out of the great hall by your siblings and a few of her ladies of the court, followed behind by your father after a few moments when he gives the excuse that he's going to check on her.

neither of them look back at you.

neither of them return to the festivities that night.

one by one lords and ladies stop by to give their carefully-worded well-wishes, all of them speaking directly to you alone, save for lord price and his men. unlike the other lords and ladies, none of them bother mincing words, and it amuses simon to no end to watch a big girl like you still try to shrink yourself down as much as possible.

"bet the bonnie lasses at the brothels will be glad tae hear the news the big brute's off the market." ser john mactavish jokes, and simon flexes his grip on your thigh.

"don't you listen to him, love. whores never took my coin anyways- said no gold was worth beddin' a monster." he places a kiss on your cheek, relishing in the way you go stock still and just take it instead of trying to pull away. he leans in closer and whispers. "you'll be doin' for free what i couldn't get even the most desperate slags to do for pay."

"have you decided if you'll do the bedding ceremony?" asks ser kyle, with a mean looking glint in his eye. it's one thing, making a pretty girl like you marry an ugly mug like simon, it's entirely another to have a crowd watch him mount you like the dog he is. the murmur of conversation near the table comes to a hush as every ear turns simon's way.

"you lot just want to see if my cock is as mangled as the rest of me." simon rebuffs, laughing. "ain't nobody's gonna see my wife's pretty cunt but me, yeah? i'nt that right, love?"

he gives your thigh another squeeze, spurring on a furious nod. it's so obvious that you're trying not to cry, he can tell you're biting at the inside of your cheek to try to keep yourself together.

poor thing, being forced to bear the brunt of this humiliation when you'd done nothing wrong, and your cowardly father leaving rather than truly looking at the consequences of his boldness. were he still here, maybe simon would consider the ceremony- but he'd meant what he'd said. that pretty pussy of yours is his property now, and fuck if he won't guard it like a dog with a bone.

"speakin' of- i'm takin' the missus to my chambers. leg's gone numb and i'm lookin' t'get my heir and my spare made as soon as i can. up, you." he commands, patting at your hip and chuckling to himself over how obediently you rise. you make no fuss about letting him lead you out of the feast and away from all of those watching eyes, the ones that stare at you with pity and him with disgust.

like a woman headed to the gallows, you follow him through the castle to his chambers, arms wrapped around yourself and head hung low, biting at your own lip. briefly, simon thinks about how wasted all your training to be a member of a royal court is- the way you wait until the door to his chambers closes before you allow the tears to silently cascade onto your cheeks is really quite impressive. come to think of it, you've done very well all night. simon imagines that any other girl would have been wailing and sobbing throughout the wedding- but not you. not his brave, pretty, soft wife.

"look at me." his cock throbs at the way you obediently turn to face him- he'd been prepared to grab your jaw and make you, but it's much nicer to have you comply on your own. "if you're cryin' thinkin' i'm gonna kill you- don't."

the shock on your face is delicious. he can see in the candlelight, the way the tears are gathered against your lower eyelid, ready to fall at a moments notice while the gears in your head churn, trying to figure out if he's tricking you or not. your mouth hangs open as you wordlessly try to find the words- or any words, really- to help you express your surprise.

"i don't kill people f'free anymore, and unless lord price decides to declare war on you, specifically, you don't have nothin' t'worry about." the corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. "but if your blubberin' is 'cause you've got yourself one pig-ugly husband, well. ain't nothin' you or i can do about that, so you may as well have y'self a good cry about it now and get it over with."

he reaches out, scarred fingers gripping your chin as his thumb runs gently over your bottom lip, stretching it down, down, down, until it snaps back up into position.

"go on, love. cry. sob to your heart's content, right here on my bed. mourn for all those hideous babies you'll be pushin' out." he taunts, crowding your space until you back up, the backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. two big hands push at your shoulders, causing you to fall back with a squeak.

"pop your tits out." simon orders as he pulls at your skirts, not bothering to even fully undress himself as he fumbles with his trousers, fishing out a fat, ugly cock that's already dripping onto the bed. it looks angry as it bobs up and down in the air, clearly struggling under it's own weight.

"it'll fit." simon tells you, as if reading your mind. "tits, love. if i have to get 'em myself, i'll ruin your pretty dress."

"i think you already plan on that." you say with a sniff, wiping at your eyes before you begin to pull at your laces.

"oh, she speaks!" he taunts. "and here i thought the only words you knew were weddin' vows."

there's barely enough time to glare at him before he brings his hand down to the neckline of your dress and pulls, tearing it open down the front. on instinct you raise your hands to protect your face, gasping in shock as simon pulls at your gowns, fabric loudly tearing as he yanks it off of you.

suddenly you find yourself bare, spread out on a pile of very expensive scraps of wedding dress, body exposed to the most disgusting brute of a man you've ever seen in your whole life.

not even a lifetime of etiquette classes and courtly manners could help you school your face as you look up at him.

"you hate me?" he chuckles,

"i hardly know you, ser." you reply, bitterness discoloring your otherwise polite remark.

"you'll hate me soon enough. know that." he warns with a cruel smirk, fingers flexing into the plush fat of your hip as his eyes flit down to stare at your exposed core. "you're a proper lady, yeah? you know how this works? anyone tell you what t'do?"

"i- i was told not to struggle." it feels as if your heart stops in your chest as you watch his eyes widen and hear him take an audible sucking breath.

"you could." he says, sounding lost in thought. "you could try and fight. could scream and scream and scream, and nobody would come f'ya. because you're mine now."

he stares at you for a moment, absent-mindedly biting at his thin, scarred lip as he mulls something over.

slowly, he nods to himself.

"yeah. want you t'struggle. t'fight. c'mon, softie, won't hurt you back- well. not too much, anyway. just wanna play a bit before we get down t'fuckin'." he leans down, hard cock pressed against your soft stomach as he whispers in your ear. "tomorrow you can tell the ladies of the court how you tried to keep your honor. how you fought, but i still forced you. don't bother me none, love. everybody knows i take what i want. you tell 'em oll that, and when your belly gets bigger with my heirs they'll look at you with pity instead of disgust."

the weight of his words, of everything that's happened today finally sinks in as you feel his cock twitch against your stomach- you're his wife now. this horrible man who delights in your discomfort and unease, this brute with dirty fingernails and an even filthier mouth is who you're tied to for the rest of your life.

he taps your cheek- not hard enough to hurt, but it's certainly enough to startle a terrified squeak out of you.

"go on, girlie. scream. scream loud enough f'your lady mother and lord father to hear ya. let 'em know exactly wot they put you through. give 'em somethin' t'think about on the carriage ride home- how their pride cost their pretty, soft daughter everythin'. if your old man hadn't run his mouth, they could've married you off t'some fancy little lordling, someone with softer hands and a nicer face. instead, you're here, waitin' t'get your cunt stuffed by the likes o'me." he grins down at you as he sits back up on his knees, and it feels like a threat.

his low, rumbling chuckle is cut short with the sudden snap of his teeth, and instinct kicks in- something in your hind brain that's assigned him the role of predator and you of prey- and you try your best to scramble back away from him, legs kicking out and arms flailing as you try and fail to escape. simon's head tips back, a mean laugh echoing through your chambers, and likely reaching out through the windows for others to hear as well.

"yeah, like that." he says, sounding pleased as he wraps a large, dirty palm around your ankle, his cock leaking and bouncing in the air as he avoids your kicks and settles himself between your legs. "now scream- or do you need my help? more than happy t'help you scream, love."

"no- don't-!"

"louder."

"please, ser, don't- please-"

"thassit." he shoves his ruddy prick inside of you, startling a pained yelp from behind your ribs, echoing off the stone walls. your new husband wastes no time, setting a brutal pace from the get-go, the loud slap of skin on skin intermingling with your warbled cries for him to please stop, which only serves to make him tip his head back and groan, a wicked smile carving it's way across his scarred face.

you try your best to bear it, to close your eyes, think of england, or perhaps imagine it's that beautiful knight you'd seen at tourney, ser garrick, whom you'd only met once but thought was so handsome-

a broad hand smacks across your face- not hard enough to injure, but enough to sting and shock another yelp from you.

"look at me." he orders, hissing through his teeth. the smell of red wine on his breath makes your nose wrinkle. "don't you pretend i'm someone else. this is the brute that's fuckin' you, this is the ugly mug you're married to, this is the man whose babies you're gonna carry. and you'll bloody carry 'em, as many as you can, 'til death do us part."

god, it feels like he's hollowing you out, gutting you like so many stags and boars primed for being feasted upon. simon looks hungry, too, the way his lip is curled in a hungry sneer as he pants above you. a heat begins to build in the core of you- but it's hard to say if it's the starting of arousal, or merely friction burn.

all you can do is lie there and take it, whimpering and pleading all the while, just like he seems to want you to. every please stop and no more ser seems to goad him on, grinning down at you with a pleased smile that sends a shiver of fear down your spine.

"fuck, yeah, love the way you squirm under me." he pants, slapping at your tits with a loud crack of skin-on-skin. "c'mon, softie. fight me a bit. scratch me up. let 'em oll know you didn't let the brute take you without a struggle." he growls at you, snapping his teeth at you playfully.

your hand flies on it's own accord- airborne before you can even think about it- and it startled a shocked gasp out of you as you feel your own fingernails rake across his already marred face.

oh no oh god oh no oh shit shit shit-

simon stills for mere moments before groaning loudly, his grip on your hips flexing painfully as he empties himself inside of you, cock pulsing against your core. it's over, you did it, and while it wasn't pleasurable, sweet, or even nice- you made it through to the other side all the same.

simon doesn't bother pulling out, instead opting to collapse on top of you, pinning you with his considerable bulk as his cock softens inside of you. cooling sweat sticks to you, and you hope to god he can't see your nose wrinkled in disgust when he turns his head to plant a big, wet kiss on your cheek.

"never had m'self a girl who was conscious before. think that was the best fuck i ever had." he says, patting at your flank like you're his favorite horse. it's hard to tell if he's kidding or not- but as you listen to him chuckle to himself in the dark, you suspect he might not be.

in some ways, it all feels like a bad dream. the memories of what you've done play on a loop in your mind, a private screening of a horror movie starring you as the crazed killer, blurring a little more with each replay. you're no idiot, you've seen macbeth before, it almost feels like an inevitability that your own thoughts will drive you slowly insane.

if the man- simon- was still here, you could distract yourself. make your mind too busy to think about how it felt when the gun kicked in your hand, the sounds of bodies hitting the floor, the ringing in your ears as the shot rang out in your hallway. but instead you're alone, with only your own mind to keep you company.

true to his word, simon cleaned up the place. there's no blood to be found, no dislodged photos, and the bullet holes have been located and patched with plaster sometime in the middle of the night. there's no note waiting for you, but you know already where he's gone- off to finish the 'job' he keeps talking about. he'll be back, it's a sureity- but there's no telling when.

logically, you know you have to keep busy. it's the only thing you've found aside from drinking yourself into oblivion that helps stave off the bad thoughts and sad memories- and you can't afford to drink right now. that fat wad of cash was put straight to the mortgage, although most of it was probably put towards interest. shit, you hope simon comes home from this job with some money, all you have left in your pantry is a paltry amount of bisquick and various ingredients that you don't have the energy or willpower to combine into a real meal.

cleaning is the only thing to do around the house when you're alone and broke, so that's exactly what you do. it only takes you a day to do your regular cleaning routine throughout the entire house, but when simon doesn't come back that night- or even the following morning- you decide to do an even deeper cleaning to keep yourself sane.

your plan, however well-intentioned, is a total failure. snippets of the past play like an unwelcome movie reel in your mind, undeterred by the way you're cleaning the tile in the bathroom with an old toothbrush. every memory feels like a frozen icepick being jammed up through your belly, stabbing your heart and lungs along with it- and the pain of it is enough to leave you sick and breathless as you listlessly wander through the house, rag in hand.

"sweetpea?" you can practically hear your dad's voice echoing in your mind as you scrub, his confusion and fear apparent in his voice. in your mind's eye you hurry down the stairs and into his room, where he'd stared at you from his bed, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"have you seen my daughter?" he'd asked, and even on your knees in the bathroom, you have to bite your life to stop it from shaking.

"i'm sorry, she just stepped out. can i do anything for you?" you'd asked, voice wobbling with the tears you'd so valiantly held back. dad just shook his head silently, rolling over in bed, his back towards you, clearly uninterested in you.

it was the first time he'd forgotten who you were. it wouldn't be the last, or even the most painful- but you remember it as if it were yesterday, the way you'd hovered in the doorway, watching his silhouette blur as your eyes filled with tears that you wouldn't allow to fall until you'd closed the bedroom door behind you.

you tell yourself that your sniffling has to do with the ajax you're scrubbing into the grout, that your watery eyes are just from the chemicals and poor ventilation- but you know you're just lying to yourself. still, as the floors slowly get cleaned and the sting in your knees and eyes gets stronger and stronger, it helps you to focus on the pain so your mind doesn't wander off to dark corners again.

you think you're safe from your own thoughts until you start washing the walls, taking the photos down so you can run a rag over the aged wallpaper. the eyes of the long dead, very recently dead, and few months passed cling to your face uncomfortably like cling wrap over your mouth and nose, suffocating and disorienting. when you finish, you don't hang the photos back up, opting instead to leave them in a pile on the side table, all face-down as you fail to fight off further memories.

stepping out of your bedroom in the middle of the night for a glass of water, only to find dad, sitting at the kitchen table back in the old house, head in his hands, openly weeping. the thick carpet hid your footsteps, but as soon as your feet hit linoleum, the sound of bare feet on plastic startled him into looking up.

"dad?"

"sweetpea, i-" there were tears on his face, streaking his cheeks and catching in the stubble along his jaw. his mouth opened and closed, like the words just wouldn't come out, lower lip quivering as he sniffled, breaths shaking and rattling in and out. his eyes were wide- horrified, the most afraid and distraught you've ever seen him in your life.

it was scary, seeing your normally put-together, confident, brave father shaking and crying like that. you knew something was horribly, irreparably wrong, that nobody could fix it- not if he was sniffling and weeping like this.

he held his arms out for you to hold him, and to this day you hate yourself for hesitating, for being afraid of what it meant. you stood there, staring at him and that desperate, despondent, grief-stricken look on his face, watching him slowly curl in on himself as you stood there, stuck in place.

here he was- your rock, your pillar, the man who kept you safe from everything bad and terrible- having a complete breakdown. even in the moment, you knew things would never be the same after seeing him like that. no longer was he the seemingly perfect, unflappable, solid rock, the perfect patriarch with no weaknesses- practically a god in your childish mind.

from that point on, your dad was just a man, trying his best.

"please." he'd barely whispered. "please, sweetpea."

he sounded ruined. looked it, too, enough that it compelled your little feet forward, allowing him to swallow you up in the biggest, tightest hug he could without crushing you. you were so little then, and he was so big, still clinging to you like a drowning man might try to hold on to a buoy as a last-ditch attempt to keep from going under permanently.

"your mama's gone." he whispered against your hair, voice watery and weak. "she's gone, honey. i can't fix it. i don't know what to do."

the memory knocks you back to your knees, and you sob on the floor, next to a bare wall covered in bright little squares and ovals, the wallpaper having been sun bleached around where the framed photographs had been.

~

it takes an hour to stop crying and start reorganizing the pantry.

it's like all the grief you'd dammed up, tucked away and tried to forget has wriggled its way to the forefront of your mind, drowning you from the inside out, making you sluggish and weak. it's hard to concentrate on moving the older cans of beans to the front of the cabinets, or dusting the shelf liners, or checking expiration dates when you keep getting hit over and over again by waves of sadness that threaten to pull you under the tide.

"look, do whatever you want. doesn't matter to me if you put him in a home or hire a nurse or throw him in a fucking ditch- i've got enough goddamn problems of my own. i'm not handling this one." cam's voice said through the phone as you stared a hole through the worn-down kitchen floor in your old apartment. "figure it out or don't, i don't give a shit."

the memories continue to wash over you like a bitterly cold tide as you scrub out the sink. it's a pit you're in, one that's slowly caving in on all sides, threatening to crush you from every direction. you can't see a way out, can't seem to fight against the thoughts and images that bubble up unbidden, pulling your concentration away from cream of mushroom soup that expired a year ago and forcing you to confront a pain you'd thought you'd buried.

the sound of coughing through the closed bedroom door. it had been persistent at that point- but the doctor said he wasn't sick sick. it was just a side affect of his acid reflux, apparently. still- it sounded horrible, even muffled through the door.

"you good?" you called out from where you were in the kitchen, somewhat absent-mindedly. you already knew he wouldn't respond- it was before eight a.m., he wasn't typically very verbal until after he had breakfast at nine. if at all.

ten minutes later he stopped coughing. fifteen minutes after that, when you went to wake him for breakfast, you found him dead.

that one feels like a knife to the brain, sending you sinking to your knees. fuck the cleaning- you can't keep running anymore, can't keep distracting yourself with the dangerous man who moved into your guest room, can't drink the pain away- can't use any of your usual techniques to stave off the flood of agony that you've kept dammed up for so long.

the sobs roll through you like thunder, wringing tears from the core of you, making your ribs ache and lungs burn as you struggle to breathe through it. grief truly feels like drowning, that awful inescapable inability to take a ragged lungful of air without the fear of choking to death on it. all you can do is crawl across the kitchen on your hands and knees, slowly traversing to your bedroom as you brace for another wave.

"cam!" a stranger's voice called out on the ground floor, startling you damn near to death. it was bad enough having someone else barge into your home without permission, but you'd been in ghost's room,having mustered up the courage to go snooping around and looking for a pair of panties you would have sworn he'd swiped right from the hamper. for a half second you'd thought he'd come home, essentially busting you for prying where you knew in the marrow of your bones you shouldn't have been.

"get the fuck out here cam, i'm done playing games with you, you little shit!" a new voice barked, and your mind immediately decides you're in some serious fucking danger.

they're not going to believe you don't know where cam is, they're going to hurt you to try to find out, they're going to hate the truth when they force it out of you, a voice in your head whispered. there's a handgun just laying on one of your grandmother's doilies, and you grab it with shaking hands.

slowly, you opened the door, only to see a large man with a shotgun reaching the top of the stairs. you can remember almost in slow motion the moment that you knew he saw you. his eyes went wide with surprise, mouth dropping open, presumably to call for his companion.

panic is how you explain what happened next. it was panic that made you forget you had a gun, made you decide instead to rush him, shoving the barrel of his gun away as you used your weight to shove him over the railing, sending him crashing to the ground. panic is what made you stare at his unmoving body until his partner screamed at you and pulled you out of your stupor. panic is what made you swing the gun up and start firing at the partner until he stopped moving.

but when you slowly went down the stairs, gun still drawn- albeit shaking in your hands- and looking over the bodies you'd made? when you'd grabbed them by the ankles and drug them out back? when you'd put an extra bullet in each of their heads just to be safe?

that deliberate.

that was you.

you did that. and there's no taking back the calculated way you'd shut down your emotions for a bit so you could clean up after yourself, doing your best to cover up what you'd done. you can scrub and scrub and scrub, lady macbeth, but you know your sins.

so you count them, all of them, begging god or whoever else is listening for mercy and forgiveness as you crawl into bed and pull your covers over your head. starting at all the times you were late getting dad breakfast and working your way to allowing the man who killed your brother to finger you on the front porch. the demons in your head come out to play, jabbing you with their pitchforks and pen knives as all of your shame and guilt continues to flow freely through you. you've been making so many mistakes lately, allowing your grief and loneliness to transform you into someone completely different than who you are.

a voice in your head begins to whisper-

maybe you don't really love simon. maybe it's all just in your head. maybe you're just lonely broken, and he's taking advantage.

it plays on a loop, over and over, a slight distraction from your other memories as you focus on every interaction with simon, every look, every touch, every conversation. it's hard to say if he's actually good for you, or if he's pushing you into a delusion that allows him to easily take what he wants from you.

he'd showed you how easy it is to kill, and now you're a killer. that has to be his influence, right?

you analyze what you know about simon to the point of exhaustion, wearing yourself down mentally to tire you enough for sleep.

it's hard to say how long you rot in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom before flopping back down in your nest of pillows and blankets. the buzzing in your head is so overwhelming that you don't hear the front door open, let alone the slow, heavy footsteps down the hallway.

it's not even until you feel the mattress dip behind you that you even know someone's there.

"oh, mama. i left too soon, didn't i?" simon's crooning voice cuts through the fog like the lantern of a lighthouse. "had too much time to think and made yourself sick, eh?"

"you're home." you croak, throat dry. when was the last time you had water? or food? it's hard to remember. his presence feels like a light in the dark, helping you realize the state in. you're hungry, sweaty, and your throat is dry to the point of pain. how did you not notice it getting so bad?

"i am." he says simply. "job's done."

"oh." you know what that means- and what expectations he has.

"was gonna fuck you nasty oll over the bloody house t'celebrate, but i think that's not wot either of us needs right now, hm?" that's when you notice it- a bandage wrapped around his middle, a dark red stain seeping through it- and it snaps you out of your malaise like having cold water dumped on you.

"you're hurt!" you sit up quick, and simon just waves his hand in front of his nose.

"and you stink, love. get your arse in the shower while i change the sheets and my bandages." much as it pains you to admit, he's right. you catch a waft of yourself and realize not only are you going to need to shower, but to change the sheets as well.

"but-"

"don't argue. off you pop." he instructs, throwing your blanket off of you. it wafts the ripe, spicy smell of body odor over both of you, and he coughs. melodramatic, you think to yourself.

"you're sure i can't help?" you ask, eyeing his bandage warily.

"shower." he orders, not unkindly. "then make us somethin' t'eat."

every sideways thought you'd had about your relationship and attraction to simon evaporates completely in the light of his return. you have a job to do again, tasks to distract you from your internal conflict. with him right in front of you, your brain stops spinning in circles, focused on accomplishing the tasks set before you. it seems that, like a shark, if you stop moving, you'll die-

so you move.

first to the shower- where you thoroughly wash yourself until the hot water is nearly all gone, scrubbing the soapy washcloth with a ferocity that would remove rust from an old truck bumper- then to the kitchen to make some instant mashed potatoes and meatballs. easy and quick enough to make, while still immensely filling.

simon joins you just as you begin plating, wearing fresh clothes with no visible blood or mud on them.

"smells good, mama. m'starvin'." he says, pressing himself against your back and nuzzling a bit at your neck, inhaling audibly and exhaling on a sigh. "shampoo smells nice. missed that."

the way his voice rumbles, low and deep and right in your ear, gives you a little shiver down your spine. if he felt it, he says nothing- and lets you go with a pat to your hip, dropping down in his seat and loudly digging into his plate. something about the sight of this comically large man eating up your cooking like a starving dog settles something inside of you, quelling the storm that's been raging in your head for god-knows-how-long. he was right, you did overthink yourself to illness, and it seems like simon's presence is the only cure.

your eyes drop to his side, fresh bandages hidden under a clean shirt.

"are you okay?" you ask as you pick up your fork, gesturing towards where his wound is.

"s'just grazed is oll. need a few days t'take it easy and not rip out my stitches, but it won't kill me. no need t'fuss." he says around a mouthful of food. he stops to swallow. "and you?"

ah, yeah, suppose there's no hiding how bad you've been lately, what with the pitiful state he found you in, nestled in your cocoon of blankets and stink.

"i don't know." you say honestly, and he hums in response. "i think i- i've changed-"

"course you have. it's what people do when shit goes bad. be mental if you hadn't." he points his fork at your still-full plate. "eat. you can't fix none of it, no use starvin' over it."

he just makes it sound so simple, like this is the sort of thing that should be easy to move on from. the fork feels heavy in your hand as you eat, small bites over a longer period than normal. simon's helped himself to seconds and polished them off long before you ever finish, but you see him watching you carefully even as he wolfs down his meal and polishes off any hope of leftovers.

his foot hooks behind yours as he sits back to watch you peck at the rest of your dinner.

"used t'be that death was everywhere. not just the old- young people, children, babies. came from oll sorts o'things, war, disease, famine, or just an ill-timed kick from a mule. just a part o'life, innit? brigands would sooner kill you outright than deal with witnesses to their doin's. sometimes food that was just a bit off would take out a while family- or maybe a winter that was a bit colder than usual. i once saw a man die fallin' off his cart and onto a rock. people died oll the time, for no reason at oll. or stupid ones.

this world is still a hard place, sure, but it's grown softer over the years. cleaner deaths. longer lives. healthier babies. osha. o'course a soft thing like you, born into this world, isn't used to death like i am- but it's still the same now as it was then. oll just a part of nature, innit? you did what needed done and paid the price for your freedom. thassoll. no need t'wring your hands about it.

men like that- if it weren't you puttin' 'em down, someone else would've. might've been your brother's wife, or someone she'd hired. or another person they tracked. or their boss. or the police. or even the bloody state. it's just the way of it. don't get your knickers in a twist over a couple dead bellends- police bloody wouldn't."

he doesn't seem to even assume you killed them out of some form of self defense- and what's more, he doesn't seem to care. it feels stupid to be shocked by that, if you're honest. this is the man who killed cam and then helped you dispose of two bodies without hesitation. of course he doesn't care.

"i- i just-" you swallow and put your fork down, trying to find the right words. "i'm not used to being- like that. how i had to be. i hated it- hate myself for being that way."

"what way?" he says, as if he isn't currently the living, breathing incarnation of the very sensation you're trying to describe.

"cold." you settle on. "it was just- handling business. i- i even- i mean, when i took them out back. what i did. in the head."

you can't make yourself say it, and his responding grin sends a chill down your spine. a flashbang of a memory hits you; figures laid out against the snow in the dim evening light, muzzle flashes briefly illuminating their faces a milisecond before the bodies jerk and dark liquid pools behind their skulls, night-black against the blueish snow.

"i saw. i was proud." his foot rubs up and down the back of your ankle affectionately. "still am. my soft girl, takin' care o'business f'me while i'm away. didn't expect that from you- but i like it oll the same."

it soothes your frayed nerves, but only a little. your appetite is still shot, and you can feel the worry creeping back into the corners of your mind.

"what if more people come?" you ask nervously. simon shrugs, unbothered.

"we'll handle it." he says simply, as if talking about shoveling the snow from the driveway and not taking human lives.

"it's really that easy?" you ask, bewildered, and his grin softens.

"freedom is leased, not owned, mama. gotta keep payin' for it, over and over- and i will. f'both of us." he smirks, looking deeply pleased. "coz it's me n'you forever, innit?"

something about the way he's looking at you like a prize he's won paired with his declaration of forever opens something in you, like popping the cork from a barrel and letting the wine drain free.

it doesn't even matter to you if he's taking advantage of you somehow, or if he's turning you into someone else. simon's presence- his guidance- makes you feel whole again. when he's around, you're a person, not a mass of feelings all writhing against one another like a pit of eels. when he's home, you're someone who's capable, smart, and can handle tough jobs- like being lookout when bodies are being disposed of.

"yeah." you breathe, feeling lighter. it really feels like it's going to be okay somehow. simon was right, there is no fixing what's already happened, you just have to keep going and try to do better- and what's more, the burden of consequence won't land on you alone. simon will help you through whatever's next. forever.

"finish that up. you'll need your strength f'when my stitches oll heal up." he teases with a glint in his eye, chuckling to himself as he stands to take his place at the sink.

heh, heh, heh.

you watch simon wash the dishes as you slowly peck at your dinner. broad shoulders work under a tight black t-shirt, stretching the fabric taut as he moves. he's really quite the specimen- not just tall but big, with arms so large you can see the little cuts he had to make on the inside of his sleeves just to get them over his biceps.

you're barely cleared your plate before simon sweeps it away, setting it in the sink and silently urging you to your feet, big hands pulling at your arms until you're standing and in his arms, his broad chest pressed against your back.

"let's go to bed, yeah? need t'just hold my girl for a bit. been away too long." he murmurs against your temple, and you nod silently, ecstatic to feel his body heat leech through your shirt as he holds you close. he doesn't let you go so you can walk to the bedroom- instead opting to keep your back pressed to his chest tightly as he marches you forward, practically bullying you into bed, positioning you exactly how he wants before he crawls onto the mattress behind you.

a thick thigh shoves its way between your legs and a strong forearm hooks around your waist, broad body plastered up against yours with a deep and contented sigh- the kind an old dog makes while laying in a sunbeam after a good long walk.

"tomorrow mornin' you're gonna make me pancakes. naked, with my cum leakin' from your cunt." he whispers in your ear, rocking his hips forward ever so slightly. "s'oll i've been dreamin' of, love. you n'me, left alone at last t'do as we please."

"do you think we'll really get that?" you whisper back. "does 'happily ever after' really exist?"

he aspirates a laugh against your neck.

"fuck no." he chuckles in the dark. "but it don't mean we can't have somethin' nice between the shitshows, eh?"

it's a blend of realistic and hopeful that you've never experienced before. if what little he's told you about himself is anywhere near true, simon's lived a entirely un-sheltered life. if anyone knows the ways of the world and navigating it, it's probably him.

"true." you murmur, shifting slightly to burrow a little deeper into your pillow. you're not tired, per se, but there's something about the way simon's presence makes you relax that makes sleep seem inevitable. it's as if his proximity is the permission your body needs to release the tension that's been plaguing you this entire time. and that loosening of tension feels incredible.

the two of you lay there together, legs entwined, bodies warming fresh sheets, your ass pressed to his hips, your breathing growing slower as sleep creeps up on you, pulling your mind into unconsciousness right as simon murmurs something so lowly against your shoulder that you almost miss it.