Black-sapphire

Your hand slips out of Simon’s grasp as you reach for the knife against your throat, but your reaction only makes the assailant’s grip tighten. A toothy bite against your jugular, breaking tender skin until beads of ichor line your neck like the world’s finest rubies. Stronger fingers—a killer’s fingers—dig into your shoulder as if staking some sort of claim on you. For the first time all night, Simon’s gaze breaks from you. Onyx eyes stare dully at your attacker as if bored, but you see the heat lurking in the depths. It’s thick, like molten lava—a fire Prometheus could only dream of. 

Having yet to realize the silent battle taking place at the front of the throne, chatter still fills the room as the celebration continues unheeded. But there are some who notice. Old men with twinkling eyes glaring at the man touching you from over the rims of their goblets, soldiers with their hands caressing the handle of their swords ready to cut at a single motion of order from Simon—curious people who are already trying to guess whose blood will paint the floor first. 

“What’s your name, boy?” Simon barks. The equanimity he exercises is impressive, but you note the warble in his tone—fierce and sanguineous. 

“My name is none of your concern.” Breath is hot on the top of your head as the man’s chin brushes against the crown of your head, but the shiver it sends along your spine is nothing compared to the stark realization that you recognize this voice. Though you can’t put a name to it, this is the soldier who threatened you many years ago. The one who you found outside of the bath house with Caenis. 

No wonder your nose is tainted with the scent of pork. 

“Isn’t it?” Simon challenges. “Would you prefer an unmarked grave once I’ve gutted you for your transgressions?” 

The soldier’s heart thuds so violently against his chest you feel it thump against your back, burrowing straight through your spine. Fluttering and begging, it pairs sourly with the sweat on his palms. It soaks into your skin and muddies your himation. You’re already mourning the loss of this clothing—you won’t keep garments that reek of pig. 

“You barbarians are so full of yourselves,” the soldier snarls. “You pretend to be so brave but your idioticacy will be the death of you. Threatening me in such a way when I’ve got a blade pressed to your empress-whore’s throat? Not even a child would be so daft.”  

This farce of a performance has garnered more attention now. Not even the men who have indulged in the most wine can ignore the way Simon’s chuckle rings darkly throughout the hall. The stinging on the side of your neck worsens as the soldier’s uneasy grip scrapes along your skin, yet you cannot bring yourself to feel fear. As you stare up at Simon—your emperor, your love—you only feel a giddiness that bubbles through your chest. 

This only ends in one way. Water at your feet, jug shattered on the floor—Caenis’s sobs echoing off the walls. 

“I’m predictable, am I?” Simon questions facetiously. He’s playing with his food. If he wanted to, this soldier would already be splayed on the floor for all to see, but instead he’s taking his time, scraping his claws over quivering flesh just for the fun of it. To lecture. “You say this not knowing Shepherd’s filth has stained you. You reek of his cowardice. Even now you prove this, grappling with an unarmed woman instead of fighting me. You wonder why your city fell by my hand, boy? It’s because Shepherd’s desire to save only himself rubbed off on you. You don’t know what it means to make a sacrifice.” 

Simon’s words nettle deep enough to strike bone—you feel it in the blazing furnace of the soldier’s grip. His breathing quickens, a bull waiting to charge, and suddenly you are no longer in his grasp. Shoved to the side, discarded in the way you always are, the man lunges like a cat with his arm outstretched, blade slicing through the air in an arc that leads directly to Simon’s heart while he roars about wounded honor. 

You cry out a gargled animal howl, but you should know better than to fear that something as simple as a boy throwing a tantrum could ever bring the downfall of your lover. Simon’s fingers wrap around the soldier’s wrist, and the snap that follows after it echoes throughout the stunned hall. The blade bounces on the ground as the man yelps and you can do nothing but sit and watch in awe as Simon produces his own blade hidden deep within his himation. 

Iron sinks deep into a delicate stomach, sending a symphony of gasps throughout the hall. The soldier isn’t sure what to cradle—his fractured wrist or his split abdomen. It’s fruitless in the end. Simon puts the beast out of his misery with a slash along his throat, matching the one that would have fallen on your own body, before he shoves him to the ground. Blood spills onto stone, mixing with the faded remnants of Emperor Shepherd’s downfall. 

Silence rings as torches continue to blaze and moonbeams wander through ported windows—then, there is the triumph. Salutes and cheering, hands clapping together, citizens whistling, old men barking with laughter as yet another young man perishes for a faded and cruel ideology. A dinner and a delicious show. 

When Simon turns his attention to you, he finds you crumpled on the ground with a hand pressed against the side of your throat. Ichor pitifully stains your fingers as you stem the bleeding, but you make no visible direction of your pain. There is only a faint smile on your wine-stained lips as you stare at the soldier and how he cools on the marble floor.

“Little mouse.” His voice is tender when he kneels before you, fingers prodding at yours to see the extent of the damage. A small nick mars your skin, not enough to be fatal but enough to sting like salt in a fresh wound. When Simon thumbs over the cut, all coherent thought flees from your brain. “Look at what he did to you.” 

You shake your head, an attempt to tell him that you’re fine, but he refuses to listen to it. His hands are on your shoulders, prompting you to your feet, arm wrapped around your waist as if you’ve lost enough blood to bring you to your knees without support. 

As soldiers drag away the body of the man who threatened you at his beckoning—another pig butchered—Simon murmurs strict orders to his men to not be disturbed as he brings you to his chambers. Shadows cloak the room for only a moment before he’s lighting several tall-wicked candles. A honeyed glow bathes the bed, clashing like gold against the silvery moonlight that rains through the open window. 

Simon directs you to sit on the edge of the mattress, and he kneels in front of you as he twists your head to the side to earn himself a better angle to assess your wound. He mutters to himself as he wipes at the blood left on your skin with the edge of his himation. Somehow, the purple darkens even further—a swathe of tenebrious night captured into the weaving of fabric. 

“I failed you tonight,” Simon sighs, beginning his harangue. “Everyone in this damn city should know better than to lay hands on you like that. A knife to your fuckin’ throat, degrading you into a hostage. Had I more time, he would’ve paid for it with more than his life, sweet mouse. I'd've ripped the meat from his bones. There would be no grand farewell for all to see, he’d simply be butchered like the animal he was.” 

Despite the gnarly plans Simon shares with you, a smile flitters across your lips as you reach for him. Palms cupping his cheeks, your touch silences him. Through the candlelight, he stares at you, eyes slowly softening as your thumbs move to press against his bottom lip. Then, you tilt your head to the side. The cut on your neck strains as your skin grows taut, but it is an offering. A plea. 

Kiss it better. 

Putting his lips to better use besides a rant, Simon embraces the side of your throat. Hands falling from his face, you instead wrap your arms behind his head, forearms pressing against his spine, fingers rolling along the angry muscles in his shoulders. The very touch of his chapped lips sends a wave of dopamine coursing through your already torrid blood. 

An unfamiliar hum reverberates in your throat. A sweet melody that gives Simon pause. He pulls back with his concupiscence hardly restrained. 

“Everything in this city belongs to me. Every person, every home, every rock. It’s my duty to protect it,” he whispers. “But you? My little mouse. You’re the only thing I want to belong to.” 

The more he speaks, the closer he gets. Stalking forwards, he’s pushing you until your back is flat against the bedding, animal hides and linens crowning you like a halo. His hands are on either side of your head as he straddles your hips. The entirety of his spine curves forward, a wolf guarding food, a minotaur judging mortals—your heart pounds out of your chest as if to offer itself to him. 

“Will you let me belong to you, Mouse? Will you let us belong to one another?” he asks. 

Your wine-fuzzied mind sobers up just long enough to nod before it goes blank. Void of all thought, your memories leave you as Simon descends upon you. Nose pressed against your cheek, tongue in your mouth—you explode. Hands reaching for him, pulling him closer, cheeks suctioning in to bring as much of him in as you can manage. You note the way the wet muscle taps against the roof of your mouth, your soft palate, traces the edge of your teeth; incisors, molars, canines. 

You wonder what Emperor Shepherd would think of you if he were alive to see you like this—smiling in his bed with the man who helped to bring about his demise. You are about to be the ruler of a city that once hated you. Something that despised you, shunned you with a hollow mouth, degraded you to filth. 

It’s impossible to know—and you don’t care to guess—but you just hope that whatever shallow grave he’s been tossed into, he’s turning in it. 

Spit dribbles down your chin as Simon breaks your union, and you stare up at him gasping for breath as he leans back. His weight settles on your hips, a comfortable pressure that doesn’t threaten to crush you, as he reaches towards the collar of your himation. 

The moment his hands grip the cloth, you know exactly what he’s going to do. 

“Ah!” You attempt to vocalize your discontent as best as you can as you grab his wrists, head violently shaking side to side. 

“I told you, Mousie, I like to rip into somethin’ of substance before I eat,” Simon chuckles. Still, you furrow your brows. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you new clothes. Nicer ones. Whatever you want. Tomorrow, I’ll get you a red veil. Yeah, you’d be a good sight in that, yeah?” 

Pausing your silent argument, your body tenses as you realize what he means. Once he feels the slightest bit of slack in your grip, Simon’s hands dart apart, ripping the fabric clean down the middle, exposing your chest and stomach between a valley of frayed cotton.

“Like that, do you?” he teases. Scooting down your body, he continues to rip until there’s a clean line cleaved down the center, decking you in a robe rather than proper clothes. “You look so pretty in red.” 

His eyes flicker to the cut on your neck before he’s cloaking over you once more. Tongue licking along your wound, gathering the stunted flow of ichor, swallowing down with a hum—your eyes roll into the back of your head as your back arches off of the bed. Yours and Simon’s heat begins to mix together, forcing your temperature to rise to the point you swear you’ll sublimate out of his very touch.

Then, he wanders down. A trail of kisses mark along your breasts, lips grazing along each nipple before he’s lapping at the sensitive skin just above your belly button. Palms against the inside of your thighs, he presses your legs apart before sitting back on his haunches to get a better view of you. 

Warmth bubbles in your face and throat as his fingers begin to poke at your sex. Flippant nudity does not compare to the way he spreads your labia apart, wetness squelching as he prods at you. His eyes narrow, head tilting to the side as he bends forward as if ready to pry you open and climb inside. 

“Have you never fed your fingers into ‘er before?” he asks softly. Unsure how to respond, you don’t answer until his fingers slide over your clit, prompting you to shake your head. “You’re still intact.” 

Eyes wandering away from your cunt, Simon turns his attention to your mouth. Glistening wet with spit, he smirks as he raises a hand and presses two fingers past your lips. You’ve gotten used to taking him like this—you love it. The weight of something where it ought to be, filling you. He pets the place where your tongue used to be, and you groan. 

He doesn’t linger long before he’s back at your sex, wet fingers now prodding at your entrance. You feel the resistance of your hymen and how he circles around the thin tissue. There is a small opening that he pushes one finger into and he scowls at the tightness as you stretch. It burns, like angry bramble against your skin, but once he’s in deep enough to curve his fingers into you, you gasp at the sensation. 

It’s as if you’re being filled, more than just the empty space in your mouth, but the hollow cave that was carved out of you long, long ago. A cavern ready for painting, yearning to be marked—your heart flutters at the thought that maybe you are meant to be more than a servant. More than a lesson. You can be something great. Someone powerful. 

A second finger is added and you are ripped apart like the clothes Simon tore off your body. Back arching, hips rolling into him, you groan as your eyes flutter shut. He’s drawing more sounds out of you here in this bed than you’ve made since you were ten—when ichor clots replaced your tongue. 

“Pretty mouse squeakin’ for me,” Simon croons darkly. His eyes are stuck on the way his fingers push in and out of you, the tight ring of your hymen catching on his knuckles with each exit. “Wonder if I can get ‘er to sing.” 

You pout when Simon removes his fingers from you, leaving your muscles contracting around nothing, but your eyes widen when you see the way he lines up three fingers against you. Thick, round, and strengthened from battle, from wielding blades and heavy weaponry, from slicing the throats of anyone who would question you; you nearly shriek as you reach for his wrist and hold him at bay—keeping a dog from a bone. 

Simon raises an eyebrow. “What? You don’t want more?”

But oh, you do. A famished beast claws at your stomach. It’s eaten away the softer parts of you, leaving behind nothing but bones and desire, but even you are smart enough to realize that three fingers would rip you apart. Wide, thick, and made for cleaving. Instead, you whine as you pull at his himation as if you’re tugging on a leash. 

Entertaining you, Simon obeys your request, though he does not make a great show of it. With deft movement he shrugs his own clothing off as it rolls over his shoulders and slides down his hips until he’s kicking them onto the floor. Quick and to the point. He’s no longer interested in toying. 

This is not your first time seeing him naked. You’ve seen the way seafoam clings to his bare skin in the marmalade light of afternoon, and how the stars ignite his pallid skin into silvery blue—but you’ve never seen him like this. Hardened cock weeping in his hand as he kneels between your legs, knocking your knees wide enough to slot his thighs between them. He is red and angry, already anxious to meet you, to kiss you, to know you from the inside out.

He was doing a favor offering you three fingers. 

“After we laid siege to this city and freed it from Shepherd’s wretched shackles, John Price told me to lead with honor. To settle and find a wife to bed and raise an heir. I didn’t want any of that.” 

As he soliloquizes, Simon’s fingers curl into your hips as his cockhead presses against your sex. He kisses just past your labia, and the pressure on your hymen already feels overwhelming. You stare up at him, mouth open but with no tongue to speak. 

“When you came here on that first day, I thought you were here to play. Sweet little bird toying with a lion. I saw the way you looked at me that night we killed Shepherd. Thought you were playin’ hard to get when you wouldn’t speak. Maybe you just wanted a good fuck. To see if the barbarians fuck as savagely as they kill, yeah? But no, as soon as you opened your mouth and I saw that we have kindred scars, I knew it. Knew I could only ever want you.” 

Simon’s confession falls from his lips just as he pushes past the point of no return. He leans forward just as you gasp while rolling his hips into you, face falling into your neck so that you can hold onto him as your hymen tears the rest of the way. Thumbs into fruit. Pomegranate seeds shelled from its husk. He licks the wound on your throat as you keen, and you’ve never felt more alive. 

When your tongue was taken from you all those years ago, it was the first time that you truly realized the way you draw breath. How it fills your lungs and flows in your blood. The red syrup pouring from your lips was proof that you are living—being so close to death. That’s what this is. As Simon’s cock kisses your cervix, shoving you full of himself, replacing the cavity that was left after the robbery of your tongue, you are alive. 

“Do you want me, sweet mouse? Do you want this?” Simon questions as his hips begin to draw back. It’s difficult to swallow the drool pooling in your jaw, but you quickly choke it down so you can nod. “Good. Don’t think I could stop myself anyway.” 

There is no holding back the way Simon tears you apart now that you’ve given him permission to take you. Jerking movements leave you trembling beneath his grasp as he fills you then rips himself out until you’re empty over and over again, a vicious give and take that leaves your head spinning. Iron is thick in the air as a pink ring of blood forms around the shaft of Simon’s cock and the scent has your teeth aching for his fingers. Soft pad against hard bone. Suck until you’re whole again. 

Each thrust has you crying out in squeaky pules and gutteral moans, and the louder you get, the wider Simon’s smirk becomes. His breath is hot on your face as your nails rake along his back. Long, puffy trails dance beside his keloids until the scars from battle and the marks from love are indiscernible. Both brutal; both a result of taking and giving. 

As pain and pleasure morph and mix below your navel, lightning is added to the mix as Simon suddenly reaches down between your bodies. He rubs at the place you’ve only dared to touch on the darkest nights when not even the moon can see you from your old chamber window. The hardened flesh between your labia pulses beneath his thumb as he presses down. It is the trigger that gets you to sing. To squeal like a mouse whose tail has been caught by prey. Legs twitching, torso writhing—a song and dance that your lover already seems to have memorized. 

“Yeah, there she is, my sweet singin’ mouse,” Simon croons. His thrusts become more firm, rocking your body into the plush feather and wool mattress that keeps you chained to the earth. Each time you think you’ve got the rhythm enough to catch your breath, he changes it, drawing more of those sybaritic sounds past your lips. “They always say the seed takes better this way. Are you gonna come for me, pretty mouse?”

Your mangled tongue shoves out a sound that mimics confirmation, but if Simon had any doubt he would only have to look to your eyes. Wide, blown pupils, heavy lids, mouth agape and hips wiggling—you want this; you covet this more than anything. 

When the pleasure snaps inside of you, thread fraying until there’s nothing but fibres left, you go silent. No breath leaves your mouth, no air is sucked into your lungs—there is only the fluttering of your eyes as everything builds then shatters all at once. A groan, trembling hands against his chest, fingers curling into his pectoral muscles until you’re certain the marks will be noticeable for days. 

Your emperor. Your Simon—only you will be able to brand him like this. 

He likes the pain. It prompts a thick growl from him—a mark of his own. The sound is smothered when his lips collapse against you, tongue pushing past your lips, hips jutting forward, weight collapsing on you until—

Everything pulses. Cum spills into you thick and heavy as Simon keeps himself sheathed deep enough to kiss your cervix. Warmth. Perspiration and brine. You are full to the point of combustion; of exploding outwards in a mess of ichor and teeth too hungry to keep to themselves. 

When the breathing slows and you and Simon lie next to one another in bed, naked bodies melding together, neither of you speak. After your many years in servitude, you’ve learned that words are not needed to convey the ardor that buzzes beneath your skin. You need only your hand on his chest, and his cum spilling from your cunt as proof of your love. 

And to think Herschel Shepherd suggested that you end your life instead of experiencing this. 

After dawn breaks, and your slumber has long held your body, you wake at Simon’s beckoning. A gentle kiss upon your forehead, and his hand slipping into yours to urge you out of bed. You’ve had little time to rub the sand from your eyes before he’s dragging you out of your shared chambers and through the palace. Remnants of the party still linger in the air—stale food and too much liquor—and your own wine-tainted memory begins to sharpen. 

It hits full force the moment a red veil is placed upon your head, and you are kneeling before a priest in the only temple your city has yet to topple. In a way, you always knew things would end up like this. It should have been clear the moment you caught Simon—The Ghost—in the throne. Your lives would be intertwined. Braided strands of fate, now forever holding the two of you together by your little fingers. 

Once the ceremony is finished, Simon sneaks you to the cove. The very place you used to bathe to avoid harm and hate from your equals has now become the place for you to laze about with your husband. Warm sand on your bare back, grains sticking to your skin—he spends much time between your legs. Head nuzzled against your thighs, Simon tries to differentiate between the taste of your cunt and the taste of the sea. 

When your legs begin to quiver too much, and you’re palming against the top of his head to get him away from you, Simon lies next to you on the beach as the waves attempt to kiss your feet. His fingers trace the rise and slopes of your face; along your cheekbone and the tip of your nose, all the way to your lips as they puff out waiting to accept him. 

“My pretty wife.” His fingers push into your mouth where you all-too greedily pull him in. Content with the warmth of you, Simon hums. “My pretty empress. Never realized how nice it is to have a lovely creature like you sittin’ on my lap while I rule this city ‘til I met you. Wild thing, just like me, huh Mousie?” 

You nod in confirmation, tugging his fingers along with you, and the action gives him pause. Dark eyes flicker away from where your lips curl around his fingers until he’s pinning you with his gaze alone. He retracts his hand until his palm is against your cheek, holding you as if you’re the most delicate thing in the world. 

“I love you.” He whispers it softly. Low enough that the wind can’t carry it away from you. 

Smiling, you prop yourself up just far enough to crash into him. Mangled lips mixing together, hungry teeth against tender flesh—you swing your leg over until you’re straddling him. Surprised, he looks up at you with a smirk, and when you giggle it’s as if it comes from the heavens. Bright and melodious; a blessing among mortal men. 

And as you collide with him once more, you pray that you can speak with touch in a way you no longer can with your tongue: 

I love you, too.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here