#dark!simon

It started with a knock on your door. Too soft to be the delivery guy, too irregular to be a needy neighbor. You didn’t think too hard about it, dismissing the knock as possibly kids just being kids. That is, until you overheard sounds of rustling in the bushes beneath the front window in your living room. The sounds were quick and sharp, definitely not like an animal moving through the area.

Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone, your heartbeat thudding in your chest and the pounding of your own blood within your ears is deafening as you felt the anxiety and panic rising within you. You didn’t think twice before dialing his number. You bite at your bottom lip nervously as you wait for him to pick up, your eyes staying on the window, as if whatever–or, whoever–was outside would pop up any moment.

You hear the line pickup. “Simon?” you whisper, voice cracking in the quiet of your apartment, your ears straining to listen for the intruding sounds of someone on your property. A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and taut. “What happened?”

You explain your fears in clipped, trembling phrases–the knock, the sounds outside, how you swear it’s a person and not just a wild animal. His end of the line goes quiet again, except for the sounds of movement, keys jingling. A door slamming. The ignition of a truck.

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By the time you dared to peek through the curtains and blinds of your living room windows, headlights flashed across your yard. A truck pulling into your driveway. His truck. Relief floods through your chest–then curdles in a mix of excitement and awe when he steps out of the truck. Not Simon. Ghost.

The skull mask catches the light, hollow eyes locked on the front of your house. He moves with lethal certainty, shoulders squared, every inch of him a predator set loose. He stares at you when you open the door, his frame filling the threshold like a shadow made flesh. He didn’t say a word, a heavy hand on your hip as he pushes you back into safety as he enters your home. He’s already scanning the entire living space. “Stay inside,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. The voice he uses on missions. The one that doesn’t tolerate hesitation. The lieutenant. 

You open your mouth, the wrong name on your tongue–Simon–but your words wither under his stare. His eyes weren’t soft like usual, weren’t the ones that crinkled when you tease him. Now his eyes were sharp, cold, and focused. The Simon you know replaced with the tactical man most others knew him as. The man that drew fear and dread from his enemies, and respect from those who work alongside him.

He tore through the rooms of your home with frightening efficiency. Yanking open doors, checking windows, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Moving about like a deadly fog throughout the space. You followed without thinking, at least until he spun and the bared teeth of his mask filled your vision.

He stalked towards you, forcing you backwards until you were back in the living room and falling onto your couch. “Sit down, stay put, and don’t follow me.” His voice was a command that rooted you to the spot. You obeyed, pulse racing, your eyes tracking him as he vanished down the hall. Every sound–the creak of doors, the slam of window latches–set your nerves on edge. The distant give of your patio door closing as he checks the perimeter.

When he returns, relief sags through your body, but before you could speak, his hand cups your face. His slightly calloused thumb brushing your skin a little too hard, more rough, possessive than gentle and soothing. “Whoever it was is gone,” he says finally.

You look at him with those sweet, trusting eyes he loves so much. “You call me again,” he orders, voice low enough to vibrate against your bones. “Every time. Don't wait, don’t hesitate.” Your lips part. “Simon…”

His jaw flexes beneath the mask, but he doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t soften either. The man in front of you wasn’t Simon–not really. He was Ghost. The one who didn’t cook breakfast with you in the mornings, didn’t laugh until you both were snorting, didn’t rub your head while you cuddled up to him during movie nights. The one who killed, who hunted, who protected you like it was instinct carved into his bones. The other side of the coin that is your sweet Simon.

His voice was quieter, but no softer. “You don’t open the door at night. Ever. Doesn’t matter who you think it is. You don’t answer, you don’t look. You call me. Always.” You swallow, nodding along to his demands. “Okay.” “Say it.” A command wrapped in something almost like care. Your breath hitches. “...I’ll call you.” You felt a flip in your stomach, something inside you aching. You weren’t sure if you missed your usual Simon, or if part of you liked how dangerous Ghost felt when he was this close, when he was overly protective. Overly intense. All for you.

Satisfied, he settles onto the couch, positioning you so you’re sat between his legs as he spreads out longways along the couch. A cage disguised as comfort. One you allowed yourself to settle into, making yourself at home within the confines of his arms around you, holding onto your waist to keep you centered.

For a long minute you let yourself lean into the shape of him there, the scent of leather and cologne clinging to the air. It should’ve felt suffocating. Instead, a strange, guilty comfort slid through you. As you drifted to sleep on him, you realized that calling him in situations like these would always bring Ghost before Simon. And as wrong as that felt sometimes, you found you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret it.

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cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence + murder, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "my wife can do no wrong" riley, pregnancy, references to childbirth (18+)

There is a beast that sleeps at the foot of your bed. In the shape of a man, it is curled up there, calloused fingers wrapped around one soft ankle and split lips kissing the bone there gently. It purrs as it slumbers, paws that look like hands sliding up your bare legs until your knees fall open, and it can slither between the warmth of plushy thighs.

It eats as if it hasn’t had a proper meal in days—and perhaps it hasn’t. A curling tongue that prods between your sopping cunt, deft fingers thumbing back the hood of your clit so it can widen its jaw and suck the supple thing into its gaping, drooling mouth. When you whine, the beast laughs, and it sounds an awful lot like your husband.

It feels like him, too, when it slips inside. The thing is hot to the touch—when your hands slide around its shoulders and down its spine, you think you recognize the striations along its skin. Pulpy, protruding scars, puffs of torn-apart skin, firm, thick muscle and fat that barely gives when you press your fingers into it. When it kisses you, you keen, knees hiking up and back arching as you try to follow it with eager rolls of your hips. It’s so heavy, so warm, locking you in with big arms as it fucks you into the silk sheets of your bed. You pant into its mouth, feeling the growl deep within its chest, and you lean your head back and cry in hopes that it won’t stop feeding your greedy pussy with what it wants—something thick and wet and stuck inside of you.

“Simon—”

“‘ello, wife—” He pants, mouth curling into a sick smile. His teeth look sharper from this angle, and he puts a hand under your arse and tilts your hips so the tip of his cock curves right into your cervix. You cry, scratching down his back, and he nudges your chin up so he can kiss you again, tongue mingling with yours as you try your best to just take it, take it, take it—

“Insatiable beast,” you pant against his lips. He’s pressing his hips against yours, chest heaving as he tries to come down from a back-numbing kind of pleasure. He knows as soon as he pulls out, it’ll pool underneath you, globs of himself, of you, messy and nasty because that’s just how things are between you. You blink up at him after he lights the candelabra on your nightstand, and in the flickering of its low light, you see him well for the first night in months.

His hair is freshly cut. Blonde hair cut close to his head, how he prefers it, making it easy to focus on his dark eyes and blonde lashes. He has new wounds—his arm bleeds where a bandage has come loose, and you notice new notches and cuts starting to heal along his chest. His eyes sweep over your face before it follows the line of your jaw. You moan a little when his hands cup your breasts, thumbing over the tender skin there before they drop to your tummy. He sucks on his teeth, a big smile coming over his face, and his hands slide down to smooth over the skin there—round, smooth, waiting.

“‘n ‘ello to my boy,” Simon murmurs. “Missed me, did ya?”

“He must’ve,” you whisper, putting your hand over his on your stomach. “Makes me sick every morning…”

“Mmmm…” Simon tsks, shaking his head. “I’m here now, love. He won’t bother you any longer.”

“You’re so certain of that?”

“A boy needs his father. ‘n hurting his beautiful mum…” Simon picks you up from under your hips, manhandling you gently to get you onto your knees. “...I won’t allow tha’.” You giggle into your pillow, getting up onto your elbows. Simon puts his hands on either side of your thighs, parting them, and he groans as he watches a dribble of cum fall onto the bed underneath you. He leans forward, sliding his tongue along the seam of your cunt, and you push back against his face, whining.

“Simon—ohhh—”

“Taste so good,” Simon rasps, and you squeak when he smacks a hand across the soft skin of your arse. You mewl, wiggling your hips, and Simon laughs. “Gonna keep you like this. Olways. Fat…” Simon cups your belly, where his son rests comfortably underneath the skin. “...Beautiful…Warm…” He prods your folds with his tongue, kissing you there, sliding his tongue around, slurping when you drip a little too much and making a wet, smacking sound with his mouth. “‘s just like I told you, innit? Saw it…saw you…” He kisses beside your thighs, up the curve of your back. “Do you believe me now, dear wife? Tha’ wot I see is as true as you are?”

As the months pass, Simon has become more irrational. You know that part of it is your doing. When Simon is in your bed, with nothing but moonlight illuminating your faces, you whisper in his ear about the things that can come to be.

Simon does not always seem interested. He has never been someone that cared for wealth or land or title. Simon was born into the lowest class—a drunken father, a terrified mother, a brother who could not overcome the weight that was settled onto his shoulders before he was strong enough to carry it. Simon was alone since he was small, and he made his way into the king’s guard because there was nowhere else for him to go. Everything he has earned, he earned because he was simply too good at killing.

The only prize Simon has ever asked for is you.

So when you tell him about pretty jewels and grand estates and shiny gold, Simon barely blinks an eye. He pets your face and sweeps his eyes over you and waits until you stop talking so he can slip his tongue into your mouth and put you onto your knees. Simon gets so easily distracted by you—he can’t look at you for too long before he wants to get his hands on you. There is nothing better than the woman that sleeps in his bed. Your breasts, plushy thighs, warm middle, it’s everything Simon fights to come home to. Now more than ever—there’s half of him growing inside of you, and he practically drools as you roam the halls of your home.

You received a plentiful amount of gifts when you told Simon for the first time. You hadn’t bled in two months, and you were confident writing to him that you had good news. A few weeks later, there was a trunk full of goods waiting for you in the entrance hall. Dresses, silks, lace, jewels, gold. Expensive paints, interesting books, little trinkets from faraway places—and at the bottom of the trunk, a pair of little black boots and a letter penned by Simon.

To my dearest wife, Nothing lifts the spirits as much as hearing from you. I spend long days staring out at nothing but wasted land, and I find myself at times unable to find moments of reprieve. Your letter found me seemingly when I needed it most. This campaign won’t last much longer. Renewed vigor is in me now that you have told me of what waits for me. My beautiful wife, and my son. Simon

He has insisted since that first letter that your baby is a boy. You wondered early on if Simon would be one of those men that detested girls—that having one would spoil his bloodline or weaken his family line. Simon was insistent that was not the reason.

“My firstborn will be a boy. Tha’s oll I know, love.”

He says girls will follow. He’s seen them—with your hair and your nose, his eyes and his dry sense of humor. He told you that they will be beautiful, just like you are, and it is in these visions that you plant the seed of your want in him.

The fire is warm in the sitting room. It crackles, helping keep away the autumn air outside. You’re sitting in Simon’s lap, curled on top of his thigh as he catches up on some finished ledgers from the previous month he was away. There’s a blanket over you to keep your legs covered, but it’s just under your waist, letting your belly show under your dress. Simon has his free hand cupped under the curve, holding you there protectively. There’s an unfinished blanket in your hands that you are sewing, in a navy blue color with white accents.

“Do you think our baby will be big?” You ask softly, leaning back into Simon’s chest. He hums, his thumb rubbing over your belly, and he kisses your cheek gently.

“If he’s anythin’ like me, love…he certainly might be.”

“And what about our girls?” You smile, looking up at Simon from over your shoulder. He smiles back at you, scarred lips stretching.

“They’ll be perfect, just as you are,” Simon mutters, his eyes on your lips. “All elegant. Too intelligent for their own good. Strong. Stubborn…”

You giggle, fluttering your lashes at him, and Simon smooths his hand over your belly again, rubbing it gently. He fixates on it often, and you can do nothing but oblige him. He keeps you fed, warm, and off your feet, and ever since he came back home, he keeps his head between your thighs and mouth on your cunt. He says it’s good for the baby, to feel good, and you certainly won’t complain.

“They’ll be such daddy’s girls,” you whisper, touching his jaw. “Your little princesses.”

“Mmm…”

“In all but name, I suppose,” you add softly. An odd expressions flashes over Simon’s face. He frowns a little, meeting your eyes, and you shrug. “Just…you know. They won’t…actually be princesses.”

“No, I suppose they won’t be.”

“A shame,” you cup his jaw and give him a warm kiss. “You’d make such fine ones…Your Grace.”

It is easy to water the roots after that. Once they have a hold between his ribs, you feed it as much as you can. The children are the beginning—you call them his little prince, his princesses, you tell them they are worthy of so much more, that they deserve everything you could give them. Not even born yet, and you instill in him what it means to be their father.

That you must give them the best life possible. That you must do what is necessary so that they have whatever they want, whatever they need. That you must do better than those that came before you, because you both came from nothing, and you have earned this kind of life to live.

Because we bled and we cried. Because we were beaten and berated and ignored, so are we not owed some kind of reparations?

His men come after. Simon spends long campaigns in foreign lands at his king’s bidding. He spends that time with the king’s army, taking them across the water, across land, over mountains just to conquer the places that John Price deems should be his. They do this with aggression and precision, and they do it with Simon at their stead, and you know they are vital to getting what it is that you want.

A man can only influence those that will listen.

You invite them over with grand feasts. With not much to spend your newfound wealth on, you decide often to treat Simon’s men to many nights of good food, good wine, and good women. His men are pigs; they eat with open mouths and fuck with dirty bodies, but they are what protect John’s realm and follow his orders, so you appease them anyways. These are the same men that nearly tore your skirts to shreds just to have you once, and now they eat at your table.

When you look upon them, you never show your distaste. You simply fill their cups with more wine and ask if there is anything more they need from you.

Simon’s second-in-command is sweet on you. He’s got the loveliest blue eyes and a quirky accent, but the thing that makes him stand out the most is the soot he draws across his face and the shaved sides of his head that emphasize his dark curls. Simon tells you he is of the North—a place of great cliffs and cold waters and decadent history. He wears holly pinned to his armor as a homage to his homeland, and when you presented him a small coin purse made of plaid fabrics and asked the band to play him a special song, you had him.

He waits on you, hand and foot. When Simon is not around, you feel him in the background. When their men get too close, and Simon doesn't see, it's Johnny that puts a blade against their backs and tells them one more step will mean they lose their legs. Johnny may be from somewhere else, but he is made of the same things that Simon is made of—Johnny is a dog with no owner, and your fingers under his collar only make him salivate. He wants, just like anyone; always searching, never found.

Simon’s men loved their duchess—what would they not do for the woman that fed them, clothed them, attended to them? When you gave the gold that hung from your very ears to the soldier with a sick child to pay for treatments, how could they think any less of you?

You are the woman that married a man with many faces, all of them presumed ugly and detestable. They think you a saint for always putting Simon in a good mood, and for that alone, they’d kiss the cobblestone that you walked on. There is no wrong that you could ever do. You remember their names and their favorite meals and what songs to sing when they sit in your halls, and they recognize the callous you still have in your hands as a sign of the working past you still haven’t let go of. Humble beginnings. A sweet woman. If they knew you wished their death blowing out birthday candles, they’d never believe it. Not the duchess. Not Simon’s wife.

The lady is innocent.

“Johnny, wait!” You waddle outside just as Simon and his men are mounting their horses. You wave to your husband, who nods at you, and then you come up to Johnny’s horse with a small pack in your hands. “Here. One of my maids is…from the Isles. She packed you some things.”

“Fer me, Yer Grace?” Johnny laughs. His cheeks are rosy, and not just from the cold, and he side-eyes your husband nervously before deciding it would be rude to not take the bag from you. He stuffs it into a pack on his horse before giving you a short bow of his head, and you smile before resting your hand over your belly to kiss your husband goodbye. You stand on your toes and press your lips to his helmet. “Say thank ye to the duchess fer her kindness, lads.”

A round of thank yous follow Johnny’s command, and you pet Simon’s horse gently as he fixes his pack to the back, a bedroll and satchel of supplies you readied for him. His stallion is so great and large—onyx with dark eyes, so much taller than you that you are always craning your neck to stroke his nose. He has lovely dark hair, and his mane has been carefully brushed out overnight. You reach into your pocket for a piece of fruit for him, and you giggle when his horse nuzzles into your neck as you feed him his snack.

“You spoil ‘im, love,” Simon mutters, and you sigh, feeling him at your back as you give his horse another piece of fruit.

“He deserves it,” you say softly. “He brings you home to me.” You look up at him. “To us.”

“Tha’ he does.”

Simon is the final obstacle to conquer. Not to sweeten his mind to royal children or fatten up his men—no. You have to convince Simon that climbing this particular ladder is worth what comes after, because doing so will not go quietly. Simon does not do things or make decisions unless they are backed by tactical advantage. It is why he is still alive and why he always wins what he is after. There must be some strategic advantage, some gain, that will be good enough that it will be worth the blood he spills to reach the top.

Simon Riley is a descendant of vikings. His men whisper it amongst themselves often, and when you watch him sleep at night, it is not a difficult thing to believe. His sheer strength. His large stature. The darkness of his eyes, the width of his palms, the way that warfare and killing and conquering are so innate and instinctual that it must be woven into his very being, in his blood, in his bones, passed down from generations of warriors that he must have had as ancestors.

Simon was born for this. Simon was born for more. Simon was born to take and to take and to take—the same way he took you, the same way he simply saw what he wanted and made it his, this is his purpose.

Blood will spill. If not his own, then someone else’s—someone’s that will matter. There will be anger, and there will be dissonance, so it needs to be a decision made in good timing. Taking matters this way will lead to political strafes—it needs to be at a moment where Simon can easily sway them back to contentment. His men will be frightened—he must do this at a time where he has something to offer them in return. The balance must be kept, as all things in history are done. When someone takes too much, it is given back in some way. When someone is too generous, they are taken advantage of, betrayed or left behind. Chaos, anger, and pain—these are the things that will work in Simon’s favor.

He has already lost so much and built himself back up; but Simon’s cup is not yet full.

You do not see Simon again until the celebration of the queen’s birthday.

All noble people have been asked to come stay at the palace. You follow in your carriage behind a long line of other carriages up the grand path to the royal estate. When you peek your head out of the carriage window, you see Johnny trotting alongside, catching your eye and giving you a small nod before he picks up the pace a little. He’s been riding alongside you for the three-day trip to the palace—it would be quicker for Simon to meet you here, but he had planned for a small group of his men to accompany you on the journey.

You brighten as soon as you see him. Simon is there just beyond the gates, waiting on his horse as he watches the line of carriages come in. You suspect he must be surveilling them, watching for something awry. You wave when you catch his eye, and though he does not move from his post, you giggle when he winks at you as you pass.

There’s decorations everywhere. As soon as you walk into the entrance hall, you’re greeted by arches of red and white roses. There’s candles lit everywhere, greenery across all the walls. You clutch your fur coat to your chest as you look around in awe. It’s so grand and beautiful, and there’s red and gold banners flying across all the halls. The palace has been bathed in the celebration of your queen, extravagant and elegant, but you wonder briefly how much coin it took to make it so.

England's people starve; but there's somehow money for a grand party.

You tried to dress for the occasion. Your dressmakers sent you off with a trunk full of new gowns, and you wear one now. Puffy sleeves have been seen all throughout court, and you wear them now. Heavy navy blue velvet, with trims along the sleeves that reveal the silver under-fabric of your dress. Everything is held together with your skirts just pinned above your belly, with a silver chain belt high around your waist. Your skirt glitters with small, handsewn pearls and gems, and you wear a pin of Simon’s motif on your chest. The skull eyes are adorned with black diamonds, and you touch it absentmindedly for comfort.

“You came!”

There’s an excited squeal that sounds from down the hall. Guests are filing in, being escorted to their rooms, and you notice them all stopping to bow as bright, red fabric flies past them. All you see is a mess of bouncy, ginger curls as you’re engulfed in a big, warm hug. You stumble backwards a little, squeaking, but she keeps you steady as she pulls back to look at you.

“Your Majesty,” you breathe, and she cups your cheeks and shakes her head.

“It’s my birthday, and I command you not to call me that anymore, you must call me Victoria,” she laughs. She looks down as your chambermaid takes your coat, and she gasps when she sees the small bump poking out from under your skirt. “Oh, look at you! You look so beautiful. Can I feel?”

You smile shyly and nod, and she touches your belly with gentle hands. She sighs deeply, shaking her head, and she meets your eyes with a bigger smile than before. She is so genuine, it nearly makes you sick. For all the airheadedness you associated with her, she is kind. When you served her, she always made sure you slept in a warm bed and ate enough food and had enough funds to go to the markets with her. She may be rich and royal and impressionable, but there are glimpses of a soft heart; it's a shame she has no spine to let it show.

“I was hoping you’d come sooner, but…” She shakes her head again, “I’m sorry John keeps your husband away. I…I would try to speak to him, but I fear it won’t do you any good. He never listens to me.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. You will never understand her.

“I’ll ask Simon if we can stay a few more days,” you tell her. You don't tell her that you don't have to ask; you don't tell her that if you just asked him, he would make arrangements to make it happen. “After everyone’s gone. I miss the desserts from here. My cooks don’t make jam the way yours do, I miss the way Thomas does it.”

“Thomas?” Victoria looks confused.

“Your pastry cook,” you remind her. “His name is Thomas.”

Her royal blood shows. Her face contorts, as if learning the name of her cooks is something extremely irrelevant and unimportant. You're reminded of your differences.

“Right.” She takes your hand. “Come! I need you to help me pick accessories for tonight, and my ladies never do it right.”

Her birthday always calls for a grand celebration, but this one is packed full of festivities. This year, there is a week-long itinerary of events just in Victoria’s honor. Games, feasts, dances, so many parties. You don’t know why, not even the king celebrates his birthday this way, but you suspect John had done something, and now he is vying for her favor.

For Victoria, you suppose many parties and lots of diamonds will do it.

You help her dress, even though it’s improper for a lady of your station to do it. She tells you that as you stand behind her and delicately tie her corset, but you shake your head anyways, shooing the maids that surround you as you pull deftly and tie solid, perfect bows.

“It makes me feel useful,” you tell her softly, shrugging. “I am not allowed to do much of anything these days.”

“You’re growing a future duke, that’s more work than either of our husbands will do in their lifetime,” Victoria laughs, and you laugh with her. Her dress is utter magic. Intricately patterned red fabric layered over many skirts. Grand sleeves of gold and red, a train of a skirt that stretches far. The trim of her dress is lacy with gems, and you suspect all the pins and buttons and snaps of her dress are proper gold. You put a hand on your belly and step back as one of her maids fits her headpiece on, with a short trailing veil of red tulle. You smile at her. “Well, what do you think?”

“Beautiful as always,” you tell her, and you mean it. She takes a few moments to look at herself in the mirror before she dismisses her staff except for you. You swallow, finding a plush chair to sit in and taking a seat as she stands there, still looking at herself. “Is something the matter?”

Victoria smooths a hand down the front of her dress, shrugging. She stares longingly at her middle, cupping her hands in the way that you often do now. A phantom belly, one she aches for, but her hands fall flat against her dress, all give.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, because I am very happy you’re here, but…” She sniffles a little. “I thought I’d have a babe by now, too. I am so happy you are, I am, I just…” She bites her lip. “Do you think something is wrong with me?”

“What?” You breathe. “No! Of course not!”

“Then why…” She blinks at you. “Why am I not with child, too?”

You stand up slowly, making your way over to her so you can take her hands in yours. You squeeze them gently, shaking your head. The doubt that plagues her mind had to have been planted their by a man. You can't imagine what her staff must say. What John's men must whisper. The blame will always be on the less-valued body, and next to John, Victoria's worth is simply replaceable. If she ever died, he would marry another.

“May I speak plainly?” You ask. She nods, looking down at her feet. “Well…hmm…perhaps when you lie with John, you could try…a different position. Or…” You face warms as you talk, but you just lower your voice. “Or keep your position for longer. Even after…” You laugh, trying not to be awkward, but the topic is not usually for conversation. You've only ever spoken of these things with Simon.

“After what?” Victoria asks. You blink up at her, confused.

“After he…” You bite your lip, “you know…finishes.”

“Oh,” Victoria laughs. “No, he always goes before that.”

“Oh, Victoria…” You breathe, squeezing her hands again. “Come sit.”

The party is lively when you make it to the grand hall. You’re in a new dress, a more embellished one, and your headpiece has a dark veil that covers your eyes, stopping just above your nose. You are seated just beside the queen, with her husband’s chair empty on her other side. She sits quietly, looking the picture of elegance, but every time you look at her, her face is sullen, and her smile never reaches her eyes.

The music is bright, and the food is lovely. There is a long table filled with fruits, desserts, and meats. Golden roast chicken, fire-roasted lamb and beef and pork, little cakes and tarts filled with jams.

You have no appetite until you see your husband.

He follows your king into the room, standing tall, thick, iron helmet over his head as he surveys the room. His sword drags heavy along the floor, making a scraping sound that rings even over the loud music playing. You don’t focus too much on the dark specks that shine over his armor or what they might be. Instead, all you see is big and terrible and horrifying, and you smile to yourself as you cup under your growing belly and admire him from afar. You are ashamed you were ever afraid of this man.

He’d kill anything to get to where you are now if he sensed some kind of danger. You do not think too long about the fact that it is John Price that stands between you now. He looks handsome; beard combed, trousers fastened, blouse casually unbuttoned. He is all man, John Price, but his presence and his attractiveness never made you look twice. You know of what lies beneath John Price—or rather, what doesn't. John Price is hollow inside. There is nothing there but façade.

Victoria helps you stand when you grab the table to greet the king. As John nears the table, he holds his hand out to you, gesturing you to sit again, and you do, leaning back against the chair as you breathe through a warm spike of back pain.

“Your Grace,” John greets you with a small smile. “You’re glowing.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you say softly. “It’s nice to be back here.”

“We’re glad to have you, aren’t we, love?” He turns to his wife. She shifts in her chair, clenching her jaw. She finally looks at him, ire in those lovely green eyes.

“I wish she had never left,” Victoria says finally. “She’s always honest with me.”

A large shadow falls over the table. Your smile comes back, big and giggly, and Simon bows to your queen before turning to look at you. He moves to round the table, his gait heavy and sounding, and then you feel him at the back of your chair.

“Your face,” you hear him say. His voice is low, tone gravelly and laced with concerned. “Y’r in pain.”

“Just my back,” you say lowly, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”

“He misses me.”

“I do, Simon,” you whisper, finally looking up and over your shoulder. His armor shifts as he bends his neck to look down at you better from under his helmet. “I miss you.”

His arm comes around and cups under your jaw. The metal of his armor freezes your skin, but you close your eyes anyway. It bites, this kind of touch, but you know this is love. The edge of his armor cuts, too, but it does not make you bleed. Simon couldn’t hurt you—even if he tried.

“We should get ya t’bed,” Simon mutters. “You’ve been on y’r feet too long.”

“No,” you shake your head. “Just a little longer. Please.”

“Not much,” Simon insists. “It’s been a long day f’r ya. Need to sleep.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, taking his hand in yours. Your palm is engulfed by his, the armor making him seem twice as large. It’s warm now from your touch. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Will you sit with me? I haven’t seen you in so long. Please.”

He takes the seat from beside you and falls into it. It creaks under his weight, and you keep his hand in your lap. You smile when he fixes that deadly stare on you again, and you put both hands over his in your lap and keep him close.

“I read another book,” you tell him. “French military strategy. It was fascinating.”

“Was it?” Simon hums. “I didn’t know they had one in English.”

“They don’t,” you tell him. “Had to brush up on my French, but it was worth it. Oh, can I tell you about it, Simon?”

“Let me ‘ear it, sweet’eart,” Simon murmurs. “‘m listenin’.”

After a few minutes, you’ve moved from your chair to his lap. You’re still talking animatedly, using your hands, and Simon’s helmet is tilted at an angle so he can listen and speak to you better. One big hand is where it should be—cupping your swollen belly and securing you from behind. Victoria watches, nearly shaking in her seat. Simon’s entire face is covered, and yet, she already knows her own husband has never looked at her that way. He doesn’t crane his neck to listen to her talk. He doesn’t hold her close that way, not even in private, and he’s never made her feel like the only woman in his whole world.

Their union was political and beneficiary, as most marriages are. Her father, a lord with much land in foreign places—her dowry included a large gold reserve that still keeps their pockets heavy to this day. John needed money to recuperate after his father’s death. For Victoria, John Price was a king—his name meant reputation, royalty, recognition, and no family of fortune would pass that up, even when their country was beginning to be bled dry of its resources. A king is a king, royal blood is royal blood. They did not marry because they would love each other, they were married for fame and fortune.

Victoria might be innocent and naïve, but she is not stupid. Victoria is a romantic. Simon bled for you. Simon won for you. Simon fought to have your hand; he has always wanted you, and now he has you, and he still works to keep you. As John takes his seat beside her, she feels tears at the back of her eyes. She will never live the life she envisioned for herself as a girl. She will never have a story like the ones she used to read about in books or hear from her maid at bedtime. She will never be able to look at her husband without some form of doubt.

John won’t even give her a baby to keep her company. She felt so lucky to marry him—handsome, gallant, endearing. Now, all she sees is half of a man. The crown he wears must bear heavy, because his shoulders are slumped, and he looks sad. She does not know what the fuck he has to be sad about. Money, land, titles, authority, is it never enough for men like this?

She looks over to where you and Simon sit. Your forehead pressed to the side of his helmet. His arm curled around you protectively. The music hurts her ears. The food tastes bland. She wishes it was not her birthday.

“I wonder what it’s like to be loved that way,” Victoria says, absentmindedly. John follows her gaze to where Simon is helping you back to your feet. He sniffs, running a hand over his beard.

“Something you’d like to say to me, dear?” He asks her lowly.

“Fuck off,” she whispers, standing and tossing her napkin aside. “I’m retiring to bed.”

John doesn’t follow her. She knew he wouldn’t, but she cries in her chambers about it anyways.

A house built on precarious foundations is not one that is built to withstand. You think of this as you walk the halls in the morning, Simon’s hand in yours as you breathe in the cold air. Winter is fast approaching, and you see a bit of snowfall that likely won’t stick already clouding the outside world. You slow your pace as you approach the south-facing walls, the farthest away from the guest quarters, when you know you are alone, just with Simon.

“I have a confession to make, Simon,” you tell him. You put your hands on the edge of the balcony you look out of, sighing as you stare out at the dying orchards outside. It makes the roses all over the palace seem all the more magnificent. Inaccessible.

“Not a priest,” Simon grunts, shaking his head. “Y’r my wife. Y’can tell me anythin’.”

“Without repercussion?” You laugh, but it is without humor. There is nothing funny about what you have been doing behind his back, without his knowledge, without his guidance, without his advice. You are Simon’s confidant, but he is not yours, and you wonder how upset he will be once he knows the secret you have been keeping from him under the guise of security—and power.

“Woteva mess y’ve made, I’ll clean it up,” Simon kisses his teeth. “Tell me wot y’ve done.”

You turn to look at him from over your shoulder. He stands at attention, arms at his back, and you fold your gloved hands in front of you, over your belly. There is no need to protect yourself from him—it is true that no matter what you’ve done, he will not hate you. A morbid thought you suddenly have, but there could be a trunk full of dead children in your closet, and he will create some horridly wonderful excuse to explain your misfortune.

“A terrible thing, Simon,” you whisper. Your eyes water a little. “And I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “It’s a terrible thing, and I don’t feel bad about doing it, and I can’t bring myself to feel bad. It’s a selfish thing. I’m selfish.”

“Tell me now wot y’ve done,” Simon repeats. “Won’t be upset. Just tell me. I’ll fix it.”

You don’t know how to explain what it is you’ve done. You haven’t really done anything yet, but there are people you have whispered to for far too long, and now they cannot possibly ignore you any longer. Anger, frustration, jealousy, real ire—when placed in vulnerable hands during times of great peril, you can wind up a mechanism that will spiral out of control.

That is your moment. That is your window of opportunity. That is the plane between what exists now and what you really want, and you will need to angle Simon’s head in just a way so that he sees exactly what you see. Bend him to your height. Force him to a knee. Pull back the skin he thinks he wears to show him what he really is inside—royal and deserving and full of red blood. Everyone bleeds the same color, no matter their status or class or what they carry in their coin purse. Simon has never been one for politics or grandeur; you will make him one. You will make it matter because it is you that says it.

“I’ve set something in motion,” you say. “I can’t stop it now. I…I’ve been doing it behind your back, Simon, a-and I’m sorry—” Your lip wobbles. “You will hate me.”

“Are ya speakin’ of the throne that’s right down the hall tha’s mine f’r the takin’, love?”

Your breath catches. Your heart falls straight into the acid bath of your stomach. You pull your coat around your shoulders a little tighter, shaking your head. He narrows his eyes at you under his helmet, and a few tears slip and roll down your cheeks. Under his scrutiny, you feel smaller.

“Y-You’ve known?” You whisper. “A-All this time?”

“Y’think I wouldn’t spot a coup in the makin’ from this close?” Simon chuckles. “Got half a mind to be offended, my dear wife. Hmm…” He walks towards you, his hands coming up, and you flutter your lashes up at him as he cups your jaw in two big hands. The sour in your stomach settles. Your insides calm. Your lips part, and you stare up at a beast that will tuck you away in their den later. “Y’were indeed made t’be mine. You are…” He hums, a deep growl that rattles your insides. “...bloody evil.”

Johnny’s gifts. Your children’s praises.

“S-Simon—”

The French military strategies you so adore—

“‘s my blood inside of you—” Simon whispers. “My son, he makes you hungry, as I knew he would, but this is…” He cups the back of your head and presses the front of his helmet to your face, so firmly, you feel it imprinting on your skin. “...you are mine. In ways even I could not have predicted.”

You blink up at him, wet eyes shining like stars. You put your shaking hands on either side of his helmet, and with his dark eyes on yours, you feel stripped bare and so naked. He sees you in ways no one else ever has. He knows you in ways even you do not know. You are so in tune, in a manner that terrifies you and comforts you all the same. There are things at play now that will change the courses of history, but with Simon at your back, you are so far from afraid. There is nothing in this entire world that could hurt you, not with him so close, so fucking close.

You are unbound. Simon pries the manacles off of you with nothing but brute strength. His trust washes over you, absolving you of every secret that you thought you were keeping from him that felt like marital sin. Simon knew—has known, knows. He let you keep this from him, this quiet lie, this diabolical plan, because only someone like him could ever think to do something so heinous. There are many thrones up for grabs and many places he could have called himself king, but you chose the very land he was born on. The dirt that’s always been under his feet. The walls he built with his very hands. The food he eats that he has watched grow right outside of his window—you chose the very place that owes him the most for the sweat, the blood, the skin he has marred and dug out just to keep from succumbing to someone else.

Simon built this place. Simon put it back together after it had fallen apart, scattered across realms that never thought someone like Ghost would return for it. John wanted to pay for it on Simon’s back; but crowns come at great cost, and John is in debt.

You have swayed his army. You have pulled the veil down that he kept over his wife. You have stolen things from him that will be impossible to get back, and as you watch the red and gold banners flap in the winter air, you wonder how much better these walls would look if they were your navy blue. There is a red that may still color the stone, but you’re afraid it will be much less wanted there.

Tonight, it is a private celebration for the queen. Only the most noble of invitees, and although you normally might not be included on this particular list, Victoria asked for you, and John allowed Simon to be a guest, not guard. You are dressed for the occasion—a large dress, a multiple of layered skirts. The collar of your dress is lined with delicate white fox fur, and there are no pearls in your dress this time. Only diamonds, black and peppered, and your headpiece covers your eyes again, leaving only your mouth uncovered. The fabric of your headpiece cascades down your back, covering your hair, and Simon smooths his gloved finger over your exposed bottom lip as he straightens out the veil.

“You get more beautiful everyday,” Simon mutters as you pick up one of his heavy pauldrons. You smile as you fasten his armor, He’s so handsome, and you love putting the bulk back on him. He carries it so easily—several stones worth of iron and chainmail that never weighs him down. He moves so swiftly, so deadly. There are rags in the washing room at this moment with some unfortunate’s blood on them, rags you dirtied just a few nights ago when you cleaned him off before bed. As you put it back on him, you feel like you’re putting back on his true self. “Like a flower.”

“Come off it,” you giggle, draping his cloak around his shoulders to fit into their place. It hangs across his back, and you straighten it out until the skull insignia is visible. Then, you take the grand blue sash that is laid across the bed and fit it across his chest. You pin it in place and fix the pins and medals there. “Look at you. So official.”

“It’s decoration,” Simon grumbles, rolling out his shoulders. “Like I’m some sort of bloody present. Ridiculous.”

“I agree,” you coo, putting your palms against his chest. “I prefer you dirtied from the mud outside, like the dog you are.”

“Careful, love. I’ll bite.”

“Won’t you, Simon?” You whisper, touching your nose to his. “Bite me?”

The kiss you share is wet and languid. Your tongue slides over his, and when he cups the back of your neck, you lower your hands to cup where he’s hard and wanting. Throbbing even.

“It’s been too long, Your Grace,” you whisper between kisses. “Please…”

“Bloody hell.”

You squeak with delight when he picks you up from under your thighs. You laugh as he sits you on the nearest surface, a side table full of trinkets and books and knickknacks that Simon tosses onto the floor. You drop a hand to gather up your skirts, and you moan softly when Simon’s big hands smooth up your thighs and spread them apart for him.

He always hurts to take at first. No matter how much prep, no matter how many orgasms, no matter how long Simon has spent with his mouth fixed to your cunt, you always feel like you’re taking him for the very first time. You lick into his mouth when he slides in, already wet and leaking, and you break your kiss to groan when you feel him snug inside of you.

“Good for the baby,” Simon whispers against your lips, and you lift your knees to take him deeper.

“You’re good for the baby,” you gasp, your head falling back as Simon drags his hips in a slow grind. Your cunt squeezes him in, velvet and warm and dribbling around his cock as it suckles on what it was starved of for too long. Flowering, blossoming, opening up even though it’s already full of him and given him what he wants. Simon thinks the sex only gets better—you are wetter, tighter, softer than ever before, and as your belly grows, so does his hunger, and yours with it.

He is a greedy monster. Bloodthirsty, harrowing. Simon must have been dropped on his head as a babe to have a mind so terrible, but then again, what is your excuse? For being horrible? Terrible? A reaper in training with soft skin, why is it that you have fallen angel syndrome when you’ve never touched anything so black in your life?

Simon is the dark. Simon is what soots the fingers and wets the blade. Simon is what carves into stone and erodes great canyons and splinters the wood, bit by bit. His shoulders are not just for showing great strength—he creates the path he needs to follow, whether or not it yet exists in front of him. Your word is truth, and Simon makes it real, and you never should have doubted the thing that’s been most honest since the day you married.

Love. Raw and unfiltered between you, a waterfall that cannot be broken, not by stone nor dam nor whatever is rigid enough to try. This love is not careful. It is not sweet. It is not romantic. It is everything that his men are afraid of, and everything that his king will learn is a reckoning years in the making.

When you were just girls, your queen loved to hear the story of the Old Sultan. A dog, without teeth and mar, who overheard he would be expended just the next day despite his years of servitude because he was no longer able to do as he once did in his youth. Without teeth, he had no bite, and without bite, he served no more purpose. He was a burden—a burden that required soft food and a warm place to sleep, but he could not pay for it any longer.

So, the dog struck up a ruse. To steal his master’s babe, to watch a befriended wolf take it away, and to show he was still useful by bringing the babe back; and even when the wolf called in his favor, the Old Sultan refused to betray his master. It is a tale of sheer and true loyalty. You always hated the dog for needing to prove himself over and over again. Victoria always loved the dog because everything he did, he did because he loved so much.

Would she compare your Simon to this dog? Big and terrible and too heavy for his own good—not useful anymore, not enough? Even if she did, she might think Simon loyal enough to not betray his king. The ultimate betrayal, the most awful truth, surely, the king’s right hand would never dare to do such a thing.

When Simon comes inside of you, you are reminded that Simon is not old, nor is he past his prime. Simon has only just begun his reign.

It will be glorious.

Victoria is always the picture of elegance, but she looks much more like a queen now that she despises her husband. Her head is held so high. Her shoulders are square and back. Her eyes are dull and wanting, and when she smiles, it is only to save face, and not because she means it. Her dress is structured silk, that is pleated over her corset, and she looks magnificent and ethereal. Her veil is longer than her skirt train, and she is dripping in golden jewelry.

John drinks and barely speaks. Simon sits at his side, a similar golden cup in his hand, and he drinks and makes conversation lowly with his king. Your queen is receiving gifts, seated as guests come, bow, and present her with little trinkets and wonderful jewels and titles of wonderful plots of land. She coos and gasps at everything presented to her, and she even tries to show John some of her gifts, but he just smiles absentmindedly and waves his hand.

When the meal is over, guests shuffle back to their rooms. There is a full day tomorrow, an entire winter festival planned where there will be games, food, prizes, and more celebrating. When the candles are burning down to the last fo their wax, it is just you and Simon, your queen and your king, and a few lingering guards. The music has quieted, but a lone few musicians still play light music.

“What a marvelous amount of gifts, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You put your hands over your belly, smiling at her, and she cranes her neck to look at you before looking back at the gifts on the table.

“Yes,” Victoria agrees. “Beautiful. Aren’t they, John?”

“Quite beautiful, my love,” John nods. “We’ll need to find a place for everything, won’t we?”

“You know an awful lot about where things must go, John, don’t you?”

Your eyes flicker to Simon. He meets your eyes, and he gives you just the slightest shake of his head. You spread your hands across your belly protectively, shifting in your seat. Opportunity presents itself in the most mysterious of ways. The air tastes good. There is something in it.

John takes a deep breath, turning to look at Simon for just a moment before settling his eyes on his wife. He folds his hands together and leans against the table, clicking his tongue.

“You’re always in a sour mood when our duchess comes to visit, y’know tha’, love?”

You turn your head enough for John to be in your line of sight. You suck in a soft breath, but the air is stale and ugly. Victoria grabs her wine glass and pushes it over, letting the red liquid spill over her presents as she grunts angrily at her husband.

“You hate all of my friends!” She whines. “Do you know how…h-how alienating it is to be your queen? No one wants to tell me the truth, t-they just…spoon feed me compliments that taste like lies. How could you be so cruel, John?”

“Cruel?” John laughs. “I gave them their titles, I don’t need to be anything other than what I am, and that is a king. I don’t hate the duchess—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Your Majesty,” you say softly. Simon tights one hand into a fists, looking up towards the ceiling for a moment. He hears it in your voice, what you don't say out loud. “It was difficult to hear it before, but I hear it now. Very clearly.”

“You need to learn your place, Your Grace,” John murmurs. “Or have you forgotten where that is?”

“Careful, my king,” you warn him. “Sounds…an awful lot like a threat.”

“Can we just be civil?” Victoria sniffles, wiping at her face. She pouts, shaking her head. “I don’t want any fighting on my birthday.”

“We do not fight with anyone, I am king, and you are queen, and our subjects do as we say,” John reminds her. “That is all. The day you forget that—”

“John, just stop it!” Victoria snaps. She slams her hands on the table in front of her, making the dishes rattle, and you stiffen at the way her entire face twists with anger.

“What is it about her that makes you so fucking irate?!” John spits back, standing. His chair clatters as it falls behind him, and Victoria winces. You don’t flinch, and neither does Simon. Simon swirls the wine around in his cup, kissing his teeth behind him as he watches carefully. John is walking a fine line, and Simon will allow it, just until he crosses over it. “What is it that she says to you that makes you so fucking difficult?!”

“The truth,” you answer for her. “I tell her the truth, and it bothers you so to say it to her, and I can’t imagine why.” John’s eyes are no longer blue—so dark, they are to scare you, but there is nothing to be afraid of. “Who is it that you visit when you are not with her, Your Majesty? What bastard children do you hide?”

The sound of a blade unsheathing is all too familiar for you. You barely blink when you feel the sharp tip of it against your jaw. You knew you would strike something deep within him, but you are in fact surprised at his reaction. You didn't expect something so reckless.

Something so utterly stupid.

“No! J-John, what are you doing?! Get a-away from her! Oh, please—!”

Simon is still seated. He leans back, relaxed, hands splayed wide across his thighs as his king holds a blade against his wife’s throat. You purse your lips, shaking your head as much as you can.

“It’s alright, Your Majesty, he won’t do anything,” you tell Victoria. She has tears coming down her face, and her hands are shaking as she watches in horror. “If I die, he goes with me. That I’m sure of.”

“I am your king,” John mutters. “You have committed treason. You have betrayed your king and your queen, of the highest offense, and I condemn you, do you know what tha’ fucking means?”

“John, p-please!” Victoria cries. “Please, please—I’m sorry—just let her go! Please, don’t do this—she’s with child, for God’s sake!”

“All the more reason she should’ve been more careful opening her mouth.”

The music has stopped. The room is so cold and so silent, but you keep yourself from shivering. You steel your hands, and with Simon’s eyes on you, you know not to move.

“Y’ve had y’r fun, You Majesty,” Simon speaks up finally. “Lower tha’. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen blood, my king, and if the first bit of it you see is my wife’s, I’ll cut off the hand tha’ does it.”

“Threatening your king, now?”

“I’ll do a lot worse if ya don’t do as I tell ya.”

Victoria meets your eyes. She’s a wreck—shaking, shivering, sputtering tears as she reaches out for you. You hold her gaze, shaking your head, and she stands on wobbly legs as she moves back until Simon is in front of her. She hides behind his chair, in shambles, and she whimpers when the hall doors bang open and a regiment of soldiers come inside.

Johnny is there, leading them. He looks so bewildered. Like a knife has cut through his gut, his eyes shine with wetness. Before him stands the moment of truth—does he keep the oath he swore his life upon, or does he honor the dirt he bled on with his men?

Simon makes the decision for him. He stands, hands at his sides, and Johnny takes one last look at you before he decides. His sweet duchess—perfect princess. Humble. Kind. You always remind him of home. You touch him, and you see him, and you remember his name.

“Put down the knife.” Johnny’s voice finds itself. It shakes, just enough, and his king looks horrified.

“What’s the meaning of this?” John breathes. “What the fuck are you lot looking at? Seize them!”

“Put it down, Yer Majesty,” Johnny mutters. “We won’t ask again.”

You blink up when you feel the knife leave your throat. It nicks the skin anyway, and you feel a slow drop of blood trace the line of your throat and settle down the neckline of your dress. You watch as John tosses the knife onto the table, slumping into his chair. Simon takes slow, deliberate steps towards you, and you finally breathe out the breath you’ve been holding when you feel his hand on the back of your head.

“Johnny.” Simon’s voice is low and commanding. “Take my wife back to her room. Gather her things. She’s leaving.”

“Simon—”

He shakes his head, and you quiet. He helps you stand, supporting your back, and when you round the table, Johnny takes your hand to help you down a few steps.

“What’s happening?” Victoria whines. She’s sitting on the floor now, hugging the wall, and she shakes as the guards come close to her. You know that fear. You remember it.

“Don’t touch her,” you tell them, stopping in your tracks. She may be rich and spoiled and dumb at times, but she protected you when she didn’t have to. You could at least preserve her dignity, for whatever it is worth. “Take her back to her chambers, and leave her be.”

“Do as she says,” Simon snaps, and the guards start moving again. “Don’t make her repeat herself, bloody fuckin’ hell.”

Victoria is inconsolable. Screaming, crying, kicking, sputtering John’s name, who doesn’t so much as look at her. When her crown falls off of her head and clatters to the floor, no one picks it up for her. They drag her out, despite her protests, and she takes the noise with her. You share one last look with Simon before Johnny guides the doors shut, and all he does is nod your way before the lock sounds.

The air only thickens when they are alone. Hot, like iron, rusting like it, too. It burns to breathe it in, and John doesn't know where he is. He doesn't recognize this place.

“There is a horizon that men do not see,” Simon murmurs. “I don’t know why we cannot, but tha’ doesn’t matter.” He spins the dagger between his fingers, the pointed tip piercing the tip of his index finger enough to draw blood, even under his glove. “She sees it; and who am I to refuse what she’s promised me, John?”

There is no convincing Simon. Even if John doesn’t believe himself, even if you are lying, there is no convincing a man who has put his faith in the hands of a woman like you—you can tell him the grass is purple, and he will not step outside to confirm. You can tell him the sun has never been orange, and his memories will shift and skew until yes, dear wife, you’re right—it has always been black, hasn’t it? There is no fighting Simon on the matters of his wife; you carry his son inside of you. John thinks, disappointingly, that even if you were not pregnant, Simon would still not deny you this request. Your word is gospel. Your want is Creed. Your need is salvation. Your joy is redemption.

“You cannot be serious, Simon,” John tries. “Listen to yourself! When have we ever listened to anyone but each other?”

“Perhaps if you paid any attention to the wife you’ve forgotten, you would have seen this coming,” Simon tells him. “If she was anything but a warm vessel for a child you won’t give her, she might have been able to tell you about somethin’ you were blind to. Y’r ignorance has killed you, John. Y’r neglect is the knife in y’r back.”

Your mistake was giving me what I wanted. I asked for her—you gave her to me.

“Simon, do not do this.”

“Don’t beg, John,” Simon kisses his teeth, shaking his head. He twirls the dagger between his fingers, and it glistens as it spins until the handle is in his palm. “It’s beneath you.”

“You are beneath me!” John slams his fist against the table. His voice shakes; Simon has never heard John so afraid. Even the men who have died beside him in battle don't sound this afraid, even when their insides are spilling out of their chainmail. John doesn't know what it is to be afraid. Everything he has ever fought for has never been earned. “You answer to me! I am your king! You’ve forgotten yourself, Simon, but don’t forget where you fuckin’ came from. You were nothing when I found you, and despite everything I have given you, you are still the dog that you always have been. I’ve let you do as you please for far too long, but now you need to stand down and be a fuckin’ good one!”

John knows he’s made a mistake as soon as it slips out. Simon is a dog—one that he’s neglected, because that is what kings do. They have subjects, subordinates, and not friends. They have allies and advisors, not confidants, not family. John has put distance between everyone. Not just his men, but his wife, too, and Simon understands that this means he must die for it. John does not command his men—Simon does. John does not appreciate his wife—she stands alone. John does not incite loyalty—he has ostracized himself, the son of a usurper, the king that took good people for granted, the king that wanted land and money to make up for everything his father had pissed away. He climbed the ladder alone, and he will die on it alone. There will be no one to catch him, even if they are there to watch it. They will watch him fall and gladly bury him.

He is not your dog anymore—he’s mine.

That is what you said, isn’t it? Blasphemy—that is why John must die.

Simon does not come home in a rush. You are sitting by the window in the drawing room, watching as his horse trots calmly up the road. He rides alone, black stallion huffing as it carries your beast of a husband towards the stables. You cannot see his face, but you can read his body language. Shoulders hunched, gloved hands curled into tight fists along the reigns. He is stiff and closed-off even from a distance, and like he knows you are watching, he tilts his head up, and your eyes meet.

Simon pulls on the reigns enough that his horse stops. The great tail flicks as it bends its head to chomp a little on a bale of hay on the side of the path, and Simon takes a few moments to look at you before he kicks his foot and his horse gets moving again.

You waddle downstairs to the stables to meet him. You have a thick shawl over your shoulders to keep you warm, and when you emerge in the doorway, Simon is just leaving his horse with the staff waiting for him there. Simon exchanges a few words with him before he turns to greet you.

“Too cold,” Simon says, nodding his head at you. “Inside.”

“Simon—”

“Inside.”

You wait in the kitchen. One of the maids is getting you a glass of warm milk when Simon comes in. His armor has been shed, and you feel sick when you see the front of his shirt speckled with red. When he nods at the maid, she leaves in a hurry after passing you the warm cup.

“What happened?”

You jump a little as he drops to his knees. He presses his face into your stomach, cheek resting over the small bump there. You widen your knees to hold him closer, cradling his head against you as you bend to rest your cheek against the top of his head.

“It’s okay, Simon,” you say softly. “Whatever happened…I forgive you. It’s going to be alright.”

I forgive you.

It is enough. Simon does not pray in chapels. Simon does not receive blessings from the church nor does he anoint himself with something as trivial as water. There is no power in some man’s hand hovering over some entity, but there is power in the papers that say you belong to him, in the wedding band you wear that symbolizes the boundless, endless sanctity of your marriage, there is power in the hands that you have smoothing over his head and absolving him of this sin. It is not a sin in Simon’s eyes—there is nothing immoral about doing what is best for his kin.

There is nothing immoral about loving your wife—even it if means doing what others could not. What others would not. The unthinkable. The unfathomable. The inevitable. He did what needed to be done, and you forgive him.

"You could have sent for me," you tell him. You've followed him into the bathing room, where there is a tub that Simon now sits in. The bath water is hot, and you thank the maid that finishes pouring the last bucket of water into it. When you are alone, Simon does not meet your eyes. You raise the sponge to his head, and he turns away from you. You lower your hand, pursing your lips. "You covered it in your rage. You did not want me to see it."

His eyes say it all, and you clench your jaw.

"You forget that I know you, Simon," you murmur. "You forget that I was once afraid of you because of the things that I know." You sit up and cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. "I have seen you carry decapitated heads on your back. I have stood in those very halls and watched you…watched you do the most awful things. There is nothing about you that would—"

"There is something you must learn about these things," Simon interrupts you gently. Your lip trembles, and the water sloshes as he takes your hands in his and squeezes them. "About men…and the things we do for wot we love." He shakes his head. "There is somethin' wretched in me, love. Something…no' right. It bleeds in me—" You close your eyes as his arm leaves the water, wetting your nightgown as he cups under your belly and feels where another heart beats. "—and now it bleeds in you. Forgive me for wanting to…keep you from it. Just this once."

"Simon…"

"I've always known it. Even when I knew tha' you were wot it was I was missing, I took you—don't you remember?" He asks you through his teeth. "I killed battalions ta prove my worth. So when I asked for your hand, there would be no uncertainty. I have…I have put head on spikes just to come home to you quicker. I have killed my own king to do your bidding, don't you know wot tha' means for me?" Simon tangles his fingers in your hair, and there are tears in your eyes. "My loyalty lies with no one. I have no friend nor foe. My heart lies in your hands—" He jostles you as he presses his forehead to yours. "—and if you crushed it, I would still be grateful tha' you had it at all."

His kiss is bruising. His teeth clack against your own, and you bite down on his lip, keeping him near. He growls at the feeling, mouth opening wide, and when your tongues meet, you climb into the bath to meet him closer.

Simon gains clarity—that's what his new title does to him. When they hand him a crown, Simon all but sneers at it—nearly spits on it until you whisper in your ear that such behavior is unbecoming of a monarch.

He refuses any kind of coronation. The only difference in the changing of hands is that the banners that hang are colored navy blue—the red flies no longer.

The estate looks abandoned. It's frozen in time, from weeks ago—there are still dead roses lining the walls, candles that have melted into their sconces. The banners that used to hang are crumpled on the floor, and when you pass the grand hall, you try not to stare too long at the staff throwing buckets of water onto the stone floor.

You try not to linger on the fact that the water runs pink.

Victoria is wearing black, as if there is something for her to mourn. She sits in the library, on the floor by the south-facing windows. It's snowing steadily now, sticking in powdery mounds, and when you see her face illuminated by the clouded sunlight, she looks pale and worn. There is no color in her face, and her eyes are dark, barely green. Her hair has barely been brushed, perhaps just a comb ran through it, and she is void of any jewelry. It's so odd to see her this way—so plain. Your belly is much bigger now, prominent under your dress, and you have to take a breath to sit. You knew Simon would make a big baby, but the weight you carry is starting to become increasingly more difficult to handle.

"They tell me you won't eat," you say softly, smoothing your hands down your stomach. Victoria doesn't move. Her head lays on her arms as she stares out at the snow, and you pity the tear that falls down her face. "You have to eat."

"In a matter of weeks, I've lost my husband, my title, and my friend. I don't have an appetite."

You were told she has been only quiet. In the weeks since her birthday, she stays in her room, and she does little else. You were surprised she wasn't angrier, more filled with rage, but she just seems disappointed. She might be sad that her husband is gone, but you think it's more of something else; the life she thought she always wanted died, too, and she doesn't see purpose anymore.

"It wasn't personal, Victoria. None of it was."

"Please don't lecture me. Please."

Her voice breaks, and you look down at where your belly pokes out under your skirt. Perhaps your first act as queen will be one of mercy.

Generosity.

"I came to see you because I…have a proposition for you," you explain gently. "If you'll listen to it."

She finally turns her head enough so she can look at you, and her lip trembles.

"Are you making me go?" She asks.

"No," you shake your head. "I need…someone that I can trust. And there's…" You swallow. "There's someone I need you to marry."

"Who would want me?" She whines. "There's nothing to want from me anymore. I'm not a queen, and I lied with another man. N-No one will want me."

You smile, gentle pity. "Trust me, Victoria. This one wants you," you laugh gently. You remember those blue eyes when you asked it of him. That smile. "I promise."

She moves her hands into her lap, and she slumps against the wall. You take a deep breath before joining her on the floor, and she takes your hands in hers to help you sit next to her. Victoria turns her head to look at you, and you look at her, and as she continues to cry, you reach up to wipe her face gently.

"Do you hate me?" She asks.

"No," you breathe. "Of course not. I never have." Your hands go back to your belly, and one of hers follows, and when her palm touches your skirt, your son kicks. Her eyes widen, and she lets out a laugh through her tears, putting both hands on you as she feels his feet. You make a face at the feeling, your insides feeling sore. "Do you hate me?"

Victoria shakes her head.

"No," she whispers. "I couldn't hate you for…what men do."

Would she hate you if she knew the actions of men were because of you? Would she hate you if she knew that yes—a man drew the sword—but it was me that gave the order?

Simon is not just your executioner; he's your shield. The world will give him the credit and the ire. No one will ever think to look at who stands beside him. You think Simon knows this. Your sins and your lies, they will never really be your own. They will always be his. He will take your wins, yes—but he will also take the blame. That's the way he would prefer it.

That's the way he will make it to be.

It is spring when your son is born. The snow is just starting to melt, just barely, when you hear him cry for the very first time. The ache you feel in your chest when he is in your arms is like nothing you have ever felt. You have sweat cascading down your back, along your forehead, and your midwife's hands are covered in a layer of blood and fluid; there by her side is your husband.

It isn't standard for men aside from physicians to be here, but you begged him to stay, and he came willingly. He was not afraid of any of it. Not the blood, not the screaming, not the panic. He thought, disturbingly, that it was not unlike a battlefield, and when you collapse against his chest holding his son, he thinks you must be the strongest person he knows. You endure such pain. You accept it willingly. Unlike men that wet themselves the moment a sword is in front of them, you face the discomfort and the ache head-on, and you do not turn away when it pushes back on you. He closes his eyes when he hears his son wail, and his lips find your forehead when he hears your own cries.

"Look wot you did," Simon whispers, holding you closer. "Look wot you made."

You are told that your baby is one of the largest the midwife has ever seen. You are sore for weeks, but there is so much joy, it's hard to think about it too hard. Your title and your wealth afford you nannies and night nurses and wet nurses, but you refuse them all—you can't fall asleep without being able to see your son's chest rising and falling, and the thought of someone else answering his cries for help is unbearable.

The sight you love the most now is of Simon holding him. The way he cradles your baby in one arm, the way your son is tucked into the space there and curls up, protected and safe, makes your entire body warm. There is nowhere better than the space between Simon's arms, and your son already knows that, and he is only weeks old. He has his father's eyes. His father's nose. All of his wisdom, you know it already, and all of his vigor and strength.

Simon tells you that he has your cunning. That it will make him a great king.

It is strange to think of yourself in your past life. The girl that used to hide. That did nothing but bow her head and ask how she could serve, serve better. You remember kneeling beside your queen, cowering behind her many skirts, watching as John's knight tossed bags leaking with old blood onto the stone floor and caused a roar of cheering and thrown mead. You think of yourself, barely peeking around her, making eye-contact with that beast from under his helmet. You knew he always watched you. You knew he noticed you. For all of your invisibility, Simon constantly made you feel as if he was putting you on a pedestal, and you hated it. You rejected it. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you into it, and you wanted everything to be just a little quieter, a little darker.

You were blind. You were naïve. You saw the storm just ahead and not the beautiful horizon just behind it.

You are watching your son waddle around the library when Simon comes to find you. He has just begun to walk, and now he can't stand not being on his feet. He squeals and laughs when he sees his father come into the room, and you can't help the smile that blooms over your face. Your son adores his father. As Simon comes near, your son raises his arms, bouncing on his chubby little legs, whining until his father picks him up from under his arms and tosses him into the air to make him laugh.

"Taking a break from your difficult duties, my husband?" You ask. He hoists your son up on his hip, pulling something out of the bag at his side and presenting it to your baby. You roll your eyes with a laugh when you see what it is—an egg tart, one of your son's favorites, who reaches for it with his little hands to bring it to his mouth. Almost immediately, he's covered in pastry crumbs. "Simon, you spoil him."

"He's a growing boy. Needs his food."

"Uh huh. Don't you have meetings to be at?"

"'s olright. Johnny's there."

"I thought they were still honeymoon-ing."

Simon snorts, shaking his head, "they're back. Definitely…still honeymoon-ing. Bloody mutt can't keep still anymore."

You think of Victoria and her infectious smile. Her fluttering lashes the day after her wedding, and the flushed cheeks whenever she looked at Johnny. What a good distraction for her—morbidly, you think of how she can even say the same name when she lies with her new husband, if she so wanted to.

He sets your son down, who quickly waddles towards where his wooden toys sit on the carpet. Your eyes go lidded when you feel Simon come closer, his hand along the nape of your neck. He tilts your head up to look at him, and then he takes a knee so he can draw you closer. He lifts the front of his mask, and you whine when he kisses you softly.

"I can't keep still anymore, either."

"Simon…" You sigh, licking your lips. "Careful. There's a baby in here."

"Right," he smirks. "Think we can make another?"

Your face grows so hot. There's butterflies in your belly. You open your mouth, and he kisses you again. He tastes so good. He tastes warm. He tastes like victory. Everything you have ever really wanted is yours because you let a stray in and gave it a name.

Where are the places you might go? What are the crowns you might take? What waits for you across the ocean now that the storm has passed, and there is nothing but calm waters ahead?

John would liken Simon's leash to a noose, the one you hold, the one you have wrapped so tightly around your hand. It is your second skin.

it didn't sink in till the first week, but you didn't have to worry about anything. you moved through the house on your own, when you scurried into rooms simon sometimes didn't follow. it was like he was bird-watching. keeping a close eye and admiring you. except you weren't exactly a free bird, rather a delicate beauty in a shiny cage.

you were surprised that simon had your favourite snacks in the pantry, even the same brand of plant-based milk you enjoyed. it was like he knew everything about you, and yet he was a total mystery.

"scary world out there." simon said, kept his distance from you in the recliner while you were curled up in the couch. you had taken a liking to a black and white checkered flannel blanket. it reminded you of the one back home, that you wondered if he just broke in a took it. he eyed you, which made it hard to read one of your many books, "pretty things like you need to be protected... bad men out there." as if this massive mountain of a man wasn't one of those so-called bad men.

you were in no place to argue. you still felt like you were in a spring locked trap and one wrong move would have it clamped down on you. that this was just some sick game before simon buried your body in the field behind the house.

"when can i go home?" you asked, finding your voice.

"this is better than home."

"are you going to kill me?" you asked before you swallowed the lump in your throat.

he shook his head, "no, ma'am. never." sounded like wedding vows rather than an answer. your curiosity only grew with each day. when you finished the books he brought you, he simply put them back in a bag and returned them from where they came from and came back with new ones.

"saw them on the shelf at the library, thought a woman like you would like them." he gave a curt nod as he dropped the canvas bag by your little nest of blankets on the floor by the television. you hadn't been able to watch television yet. primarily busied with sleeping, books, puzzles and notebooks where you had been writing.

and while it started a journal in the event the police found you. it had become more about fictional stories. for your personal pleasure. you thought about being a writer as a child, but the grind of corporate work in your adulthood seemed to dash that dream.

"next time." you said, feeling a little bold, "can you get some science fiction books too...." it felt uneasy to make any demands. he was your captor.

"well then, angel. be good for me then." he said, smiled under that mask. you looked over and made a face at him. you scampered off back into your nest of books and puzzles. maybe he was right, this was better than home. <3

He'd only ever found two plane crashes while living out this far, and both times no one on scene was alive. Death was nothing new to Simon, and usually reporting a big crash like this meant some kind of reward from someones family who was on board. Money in exchange for simple information was the best kind he came across these days. Slowing his old Yamaha, he came to a stop a few feet from the edge of the wreckage. The snowfall wasn't deep enough to warrant snowshoes, so he swung a heavy leg over and slugged his way over to the wreck.

The crash was new enough that no snow had gathered on top, but old enough that any of the burnt up metal and plastic were still hot. There was no smoke billowing from the mangled engine, no fires waiting to be snuffed out by the incoming storm. It was a small craft, and from what he could see of the interior it was expensive enough for him to assume it was a private charter. No amount of money could buy you safety from being on the receiving end of one serious updraft, though. Simon knew the drill, look for identifying numbers on the tail and take a headcount. 

He jotted down what was left of the numbers on the tail before making his way around to the nose of the plane, confirming both the pilot and co-pilot were both deceased. While on his way around the other side, there was a gap in the hull where one piece of the metal shell was hanging on by a few wires. Grunting as he pulled it away, he was surprised to find only three people in the body of the plane. One man was crushed between the cockpit door and his own seat, definitely dead. What was left of a stewardess was plastered haphazardly against the windows, also definitely dead. 

There was a woman still buckled in her seat, no debris pinning her down. She was slumped forward, blood making a sticky mess of her hair as Simon hunched over her to assess whether she was breathing or not. One gloved hand extended to grip her hair and move her head back, to reveal an earth-shatteringly beautiful face, however roughed up she was. Forehead cut open, nose bleeding, and makeup smeared; Simon tutted to himself. What a shame, such a beautiful face wasted in a crash like this. Destined to wither away out here while rescuers decided whether to come and recover the bodies. 

Just as he was about to let her head fall back into it's slump, a ragged groan escaped her bloody lips. Taken aback, Simon almost let go of his grip on her head. 

Surely that was a death rattle. No one survives crashes like this.

Removing the glove on his free hand with his teeth, he pressed two bare fingers to her pulse point and was shellshocked to find a weak pulse there. He gently let her head down and thought about his next steps. Pondering whether or not there was any point in extracting her, for her to simply die en route or even worse die at his house. 

One more look at your pretty face sealed your fate. 

                                                 ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The last thing you remember was screaming at your father to please sit back down as the alarms blared in your ears. He had insisted on taking his new private jet out for a test flight, and now you were sure this was the last flight you'd ever take. One minute you had been laughing with him and the stewardess, the next it felt like some cosmic being had landed a nasty uppercut to the center of the plane, and everyone started to panic. After another big boom, everything went black.

When you first started to wake, you were sure that it had been a bad dream. The first sensation you felt was an impossible softness under your fingers, so you assumed you were still cuddled up in your bed with a big blanket to keep you warm. But as soon as you moved to stretch you muscles, you were hit with a wall of pain the likes of which you had never experienced in your life. Everything ached. You let out a small whine as you tried to move, only to be restricted back into place. 

"Not too much moving, darling." a voice said, it sounded far away, but the rumble you felt told you it was much closer than that. The thick, British accent fogging your brain as you cracked your eyes open. Squinting, you braced for a harsh bright light, until you realized the room you were in was dark, lit only by a small warm light somewhere to your left. Once your vision adjusted, you nearly seized again at the sight of who was speaking to you.

He was massive. That was your first observation. A hulking mass of a man with two big hands planted firmly around your biceps to keep you in place. Though this meant he was leaning over you in the slightest, his face was covered by a thick black balaclava with a faded skull printed on the front. You eyed widened when they met his, dark and stormy as they pinned you to the bed below. They did soften once you started to shake in his grip, and he held one hand up to you as if to tell you to calm down.

"Here. S'prolly a bit scary." he said, gripping the fabric on the top of his head and pulling the mask off. The face underneath was no more comforting. Crooked nose, scars running every which way, and a short blonde buzzcut that he clearly did himself because you already could see patches he missed. 

"Better?" he grinned, all teeth as you stayed perfectly still under him. He cocked an eyebrow at you, clearly expecting a response, but your mouth refused to open. He shrugged, letting go of your arm and moving the blanket that covered you. 

"Yer a lucky bird." he mused, poking and prodding you as if you were a piece of tenderloin and not a conscious human being laying at his mercy. "Nothin' even broken on ya."

His words brought forth a slew of bile churning memories, the sight of your father's dead face burned into your retinas as you gasped in a huge breath of air. Going against this stranger's wishes, you sat up despite the throb in your head, and grabbed onto his arm.

"Bathroom." you said, voice so hoarse it sounded foreign even to your ears. He nodded, and instead of showing you where to go, he simply plucked you from the bed and carried you out into a hallway. Once you had left the confines of that room, everything was much brighter and it sent your headache into overdrive. Once he plopped you on the floor of the bathroom you collapsed and dry heaved into the toilet. After a few attempts and nothing coming up, you started to sob. A heavy hand came and landed on your back as the man tired to comfort you, which was clearly not his forte. 

"S'alright, love." he said, and you swore you could hear a grin in his voice as if he was enjoying watching you cry, "S'all over now. Come on and get some rest." 

You put up no resistance as he carried you back into the dark bedroom, tucking you back into the warmth of the fur blankets he had laid around you. You took a shaky breath as he stared down at you. You had so many questions rattling around in your skull, it was hard to land on one in particular. Breathing hitching, you shook your head, as if that would clear up all the fog in your head.

"Found ya in that crash." he says gruffly, clearly seeing the confusion eating you alive, "Yer the only one who survived."

He said it so matter of factly, like it hadn't been your father who died in front of you. Your eyes started to well up as he continued, "Brought ya here. Been about a few days since then." 

"Where's here?" you croaked.

"Middle o' nowhere, birdie." he chuckled, patting your legs as he got up to leave the room. "The name's Simon. Dinner's in 10." 

Simon. That's all you got.

Once he was gone, you waited a moment before moving the blanket off of you to inspect your body yourself. He was right, you were lucky. Moving your fingers and toes, testing out your joints, nothing hurt more than a dull ache from the impact. The most of your pain was in your head and neck, that migraine still pounding behind your skull. 

Something that you did notice, was that you were...clean. You also weren't wearing your own clothes. The sweatshirt and shorts were clearly his, the massive garments hanging loose off your frame. A sour feeling formed in the pit of your stomach as you realized he took your clothes off to bathe you. You shifted your hips and pursed your lips as you didn't feel any soreness between your legs, so hopefully he kept his hands to himself.

After a moment you stood up, testing your own strength as you caught your balance. Steeling yourself, you padded slowly over to the door. Walking out into the hallway, Simon had closed the blinds along all the windows, darkening the entire house. You hoped that it was to ease the light on your eyes, and not to hide the outside from you (or you from the outside). Following your nose, you found your way to the kitchen as the smell of whatever Simon was cooking as making your insides ache. He noticed you as soon as you walked around the corner.

"Hope yer not a vegetarian or nothin'." he said cheerfully. You stopped short, staring at him as he moved some food around in the pan in front of him. 

"Did you bathe me?" you asked, a look of confusion cropping up briefly on his face before he answered.

"Well yeah, y'were covered in blood 'n soot, sweetheart." 

Ignoring the pet name you pushed on, "So you took my clothes off?" 

"Can't wash ya if yer clothed." he chuckled, looking up to find your expression fearful. 

You couldn't force the question off your tongue, too scared of the answer to even ask. Luckily he clearly got the hint and answered it for you.

"Listen I cleaned ya off, I didn't do nothin' else. I hate sleepin' birds." he said, pausing before that smirk came back up to his lips, "Like the tattoos though." 

Just as he had calmed your nerves he had set them off immediately after. Apparently he hadn't touched you inappropriately, but he had ogled your body enough to take note of your tattoos. 

He laughed again, not helping your current state, and waved you over to the small round table by the window. 

"Hope y'don't mind I closed all these." he said, tone soft again, "Figured it'd be good for yer head." 

He placed a plate of meat and potatoes in front of you gently, sitting across from you as he dug into his own meal. 

"Thank you." you said quietly, getting only a nod in response. The smell of the meat on the plate below you reached your nostrils and you felt as though your stomach was going to cave in on itself in hunger. You all but wolfed the food down, having to remind yourself to chew before swallowing.

"Take it slow," Simon said, mouth half full, "Eat too fast you'll get sick." 

You took a breath, nodding as you let the food sit in your empty stomach before consuming any more. He was right, after only a few more bites you started to feel a little nauseous. Simon pushed a glass of water your way, and it was gone in seconds. He chuckled, standing up to refill your glass and let you down that one as well.

Once you had had what Simon deemed to be enough food, he offered you two little pills that he assured you were ibuprofen. You looked at him strangely, almost insulted he would think you were dumb enough to accept pills from a stranger. He all but rolled his eyes as he reached down to open your mouth with his other hand. He popped the pills in your mouth and forced them down with another splash of water down your throat. You coughed and pushed his hand away, already having swallowed the pills and not willing to empty your stomach to expel them. 

He laughed again, a sound you were starting to hate, as he walked away back towards the counter. 

"Couldn't really wash yer hair," he mused, "So if ya want me to run ya a real bath I can." 

You were starting to get whiplash from this man, one second he was forcing unknown medication down your throat and the next he was offering to run you a bath. Reluctantly you agreed, simply because you desperately wanted to scrub your scalp. 

Once you were in the bathtub, the hot water relaxing your muscles and blood washed from your hair, you felt yourself starting to drift off to sleep again. So you stayed there until the water went cold, and the dull light peeking through the curtain was long gone. You dried off with the towel Simon had provided, and put on the clean clothes he had also given you. Leaving the old clothes folded on top of his hamper, you wandered back out into the hallway, finding Simon in the living room lounging out on the couch. 

"Feel better?" he asked as you sat gingerly on the cushion next to him. 

"Yeah." you said, nodding a little as he smiled at you. "Sorry if I took too long." 

"No need, birdie." he said, reaching out and patting you on the knee again. You realized that he probably didn't know your name, so you offered it to him in hopes he would maybe cease the use of those little pet names. He hummed, rolling your name off his tongue, and you despised the fact that you actually quite liked how it sounded in his accent. 

"How's the head?" he asked, eyeing where your forehead was held together by whatever he had put on your wound.

The pills he had given you seemed to be exactly as promised, your headache had subsided enough that you weren't solely focused on the pounding behind your skull. 

"A little better. Thanks." you said, giving him a small nod. He let the silence stretch, but also didn't remove his hand from your leg. You were trying to find it comforting, but all the unknowns still had your nerves on high alert. When you snuck a glance up at him he was still staring at you, causing your eyes to flicker back down to your lap. He sighed and moved towards you, causing you to lean back a little to keep a bit of distance between you. 

"I know yer scared." he said as you eyed him, "But I'm not gonna hurt ya. Honest." 

God you wanted to believe him. It would make things a lot easier for you, and would probably help ease the headache you had, if you could just calm down and trust him. But you were a woman stuck God knows here with a man three times your size, there was no amount of sweet talk he could do that would quiet your alarm bells. Only time would tell if he was a good man, but hopefully you wouldn't be out here long enough to know whether or not he was one.

"I will be frank here though." he continued, "I dunno how long it'll take to get you back to wherever you came from."

That made your stomach drop.

"What do you mean?" you squeaked out, suppressing the urge to vomit directly in his lap. 

"Storm's pickin' up. Prolly what crashed yer plane." he said, his eyes surprisingly soft, "Gonna be a long one. I dunno where yer from but out here these things last months." 

"Months?!" your headache was suddenly back in full force, and every ounce of air was gone from your lungs.

"Calm down," he said, unable to help the smirk playing on his lips. "I got enough supplies to last us about two months. Then, no matter what, I gotta go into town." 

"Why can't we just go now? Before it gets worse?" you asked frantically. He looked genuinely confused at the question.

"Honey that's about a 6 hour drive." he said, before something came to his mind, "C'mere." 

He grasped your wrist and dragged you to the window. The seal along the edges was thick, designed to keep the cold out and the warmth in. He opened the curtains gently, and let you looked around. As your eyes adjusted to the fading light, they landed on...nothing.

Trees, as far as your eyes could see. Simon identified the other buildings around the encampment, an outhouse, extra storage, a garage. Your shoulders dropped, that pit in your stomach growing at the realization of just how isolated you were. 

"Alright." he said, closing the curtain in front of your face, "Don't need ya panickin' even more." 

He was right, you felt a few tears fall from your eyes as you were forced to look your reality in the face. You sighed softly, not bothering to look at him as you turned and walked back down the hallway. 

"I'm going to sleep." you said quietly, making him chuckle a bit.

"Fair enough." he said, voice far away as you moped your way back to the little room you had woken up in. The furs on the bed welcomed you, and you didn't even try to suppress the tears anymore, soaking the pillow under your face. 

Eventually, after you had cried yourself to sleep, the feeling of the mattress shifting pulled you back to consciousness. You mumbled something out, not even sure of your own words, and were met with a shush from behind you. As soon as you realized Simon was climbing into bed with you, you went stiff.

"What are you doing?" you asked frantically, trying to gauge where he was in the darkness.

"M'getting in bed?" he said, the end of his sentence curving upwards as if he couldn't fathom why you would be asking that. "This is my bed sweetheart." 

His bed? Had he been sleeping next to you the whole time you were asleep?

"Then I'm going to-" you started, only to be cut off as he manhandled you around so your back was to him. You tried to wriggle around, get out of his grip, but it was no use.

"Quit movin'." he said gruffly, tucking you into his chest and locking you in place.

"I can sleep on the couch." you tried, but he hummed in response.

"No point. Touch is good for healing, y'know." 

There was no way that was true. 

"Can't you-" 

"No. Jesus, woman. Just go back to sleep." 

His tone made it clear your bed was made, no pun intended. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as he sighed behind you. You wanted to tell him to get to the other side of the bed, that you'd be fine sleeping anywhere else, anything but this, but he clearly wasn't interested in listening or respecting your personal space. 

You don't get much sleep that night, but Simon is softly snoring within minutes.

                                             ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

For the first week, Simon continued to give you whiplash. One minute he was asking what your favorite soup was so he could recreate it with the items he had on hand, the next he was dragging you down the hall to sleep in bed with him. The second night you had tried to escape to the couch, but he was having none of it. Continuing to reiterate how sleeping next to him would promote your healing. 

You definitely had a concussion. Simon kept having to remind you of things he'd told you or things you'd done already. You gave up on begging him to take you to the hospital, one look out the window and you knew that was impossible. The snow never seemed to stop, and when it did the wind howled through the entire house and made you shiver. Even still, your headaches weren't as prevalent, only happening a few times a day for a few hours. Better than the 24 hour pain you were in for the first few days. He was boasting about skin to skin contact again, and you held your tongue when you really wanted to assure him it was the fact that the only screen in the house was his dusty old TV that hardly ever got powered on. 

Just when you had thought you'd reached a point of actually enjoying his company, Simon started to get handsy. He let you relax into a false sense of security the first few nights, but over time his hands started to wander. Most of the time it was up to cup one of your breasts, or both if he was feeling greedy (he always was). He would knead the soft fat in his hands and roll your nipples till they were hard peaks between his calloused fingers, the touch tortuously casual as he drifted off to sleep behind you. His lips found your neck more than once, hot wet kisses leaving spots of his saliva behind your ear. 

But one night his hands traveled south, making your body freeze as he toyed with the waistband of his sweats you had on. You whispered his name softly, pleading with him although you weren't quite sure what you were pleading for. Regardless, his fingers wiggled their way past the elastic and moved to separate your folds as he toyed with your clit. Your breathing hitched as he put pressure on the bud, and you hated that it made you keen out a sound that elicited a grin from where Simon was pressing his face into your neck. Your whispered warnings went ignored as Simon pressed his middle finger as deep as it would go, curling it and exploring your walls as your body betrayed you.

You knew you shouldn't want this. It was gross and disgusting and perverted for this man to save your life only to force himself into your body. But fuck it really did feel good. His fingers were thick and warm, and he knew what he was looking for as he located that spot inside you that made your thighs part just a tad more for him. Still, you clenched your jaw, refusing to give in and reward him with cumming on his fingers. 

"Stop bein' stubborn." he growled at you, making your face turn inwards towards the pillow.

"Stop being a pervert." you fired back, much to his pleasure. He hummed and shifted you with his arm, making your legs open as he angled himself over you.

"You have no idea." he grinned. 

The sick feeling in your stomach was overshadowed by the burning hot orgasm that ripped through you, much to your own surprise. It had been a long time since you'd even touched yourself, so your body was chasing the high even if your mind hated it. Before he could say anything smart, you huffed and pushed his big arm off of you, removing his finger from your cunt as he laughed. You turned back on your side and into a ball as you heard him sucking his finger clean of your juices. You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you desperately chased the sweet unconsciousness of sleep, but Simon sighed happily and draped himself around you again, his natural musk swirling all around you and intoxicating you. From then on, Simon stopped holding back. Once you let him in once, he had no intentions of being anywhere but your pussy. 

It was only a matter of time before he wanted a release of his own, and you found yourself filling the role of fleshlight most nights. Though he hadn't breached your hole, he was still opting to use your thighs as a means of getting himself off. He'd let you get off first, not really caring about your orgasm but more so caring that when he fucked through your folds you'd already be wet and warm for him. It was humiliating, laying there as he used you, not even being allowed to get up and clean his cum off of your thighs until the morning.

Simon had never threatened you, never been truly violent, but there were so many rifles and knives around this damn house it always had you on edge and reminded you not to trust this man. So once he was satisfied with your recovery progress, he seemingly decided it was time to celebrate. You'd seen the tip of his cock as it slid through the meat of your thighs, but tonight he wasn't letting you keep your back to him. He pinned you down, his tongue roving over your collarbone as you planted your palms on his shoulders. He was naked and hard, giving you a full view of his thick cock swinging dangerously between his legs as he opened yours. He had your knees spread, so you were completely open to him as you pleaded with him.

"Come on, please don't. Isn't the thigh stuff enough?" you whined shakily, trying to blink away your tears as he aligned himself with your entrance.

"Tired of wasting it," he grunted, shifting himself so his tip was tapping your clit, making you jump. "S'posed to fill yer cunny up." 

If you weren't already on edge from his cock putting pressure on your hole, you were on fire as soon as you heard he was intending to cum inside you.

"Simon, no!" you whined, attempting to wriggle out of his iron grip that had you pressed into the mattress. He wasn't listening, not that he would have cared if he was, and pressed his tip into you with a groan. You sobbed a bit, both at the violation and the stretch. As he forced more of his shaft in, he urged you to ease up.

"It'll be easier if you just relax, baby." he hummed, making you grimace. He had to know there was no relaxing for you in this situation. 

It seems he got the hint, as he grumbled to himself after only getting about a third of his cock in you. He manhandled you onto your stomach, his waist between your legs as he slid back into your now sopping cunt. You groaned into the pillow, cursing your own body for creating that amount of wetness that welcomed him in. He had both your wrists pinned behind your back as he finally got what he wanted, his cock fully seated inside of you.

The stretch was unlike anything you'd ever felt in your life, and in a different scenario you might even be thanking your lucky stars for a dick this big. But as he set his unrelenting pace, it just hurt so damn bad, that big cock bullying your poor little cunt. His hand was putting too much pressure on your back for you to feel comfortable, especially with your arms all twisted up. After a while you realized he wasn't going anywhere, so let yourself go limp. He grunted in satisfaction as he finally let your arms go and grasped your hips to meet his thrusts. 

Against all odds, you felt a familiar fire brewing in the lowest part of your gut. You buried your face further into the pillow as your thighs shook, walls clenching tight as you came on the battering ram being used on your cervix. The tears you were sobbing out were now out of shame. Shame that you hadn't put up more of a fight, shame that you were letting this pervert take advantage of you and fuck you raw. 

Through your haze you felt his cock twitching inside you, how hyper aware of the fact that there was a very real chance he could impregnate you way out here. Babbling to him, you pleaded that you weren't taking your birth control, that it wasn't safe, but it all fell on deaf ears. He pressed a hand to the back of your head, pressing you into the pillow to silence you as he filled you with the biggest load you had ever taken. When he was done, he cleaned you up, cooing at you when the tears were still flowing, kissing them away as they escaped your eyes.

"It's okay, birdie." he said, that was the pet name he seemed to use the most, "You'll get used to 'im." 

He wasn't even sorry, at least he never said he was. Just telling you that you'd get used to his cock. Once again, the whiplash hit you hard as you stared up into his eyes, warm brown in the candlelight as he gazed at you. When he kissed you it felt soft and romantic, a stark contrast to what he had just done to you. He flipped you over and made you fall asleep with his cum leaking out of you.

Every time after that it was something new, and even though the little voice in the back of your mind kept telling you to stop forgetting your situation, the way Simon ate your pussy was hard to wrestle with. It was nearly impossible to focus on the fact that you were being forced into this while his cock stretched your pretty lips as far as they would go, tickling the back of your throat as he eased your head down. Once he realized you were getting pliant, he fucked you everywhere in the house. The couch, the kitchen counter, the bathtub, hell he even fucked you on the floor of the hallway. The bed remained his favorite, where he could bend you and penetrate you in any position he so pleased. You stopped protesting after the first time. It was easier on your mental to just give in and try and find some enjoyment out of the way he made your body feel, allowing yourself to come undone on his cock sometimes three times a day. Simon clearly never had any live-in pussy, so he was apt to use you like toy at all hours. 

After a while, you stopped noticing the snow was no longer falling outside. Simon would leave and go hunting, trapping, whatever it was that he did when he was outside. Your memory wasn't the best, so you'd never flat out asked him, always too afraid that he'd already given you an answer. But it was gnawing at you. So much that you couldn't focus on the vegetables you were peeling. When Simon shoved the door open and trudged in, you waited for the next part of his routine. Whenever he came back from hunting he always wanted to bend you over the couch.  

But Simon didn't want to fuck, instead he sat at the kitchen table and started cleaning his rifle. It was odd, it felt almost domestic. You chopping vegetables for dinner and him cleaning his guns on the table. Once you were washing your hands, you finally felt his eyes on you. 

"What?" you asked softly, turning around to meet his gaze.

"Come blow me." was all he said. Blinking suddenly, you put the towel down and felt your feet walk you over to him as he opened his legs for you. On autopilot, you sank to your knees in front of him. Fingers delicately undoing his thick leather belt, he grabbed your face suddenly and made you look up at him.

"Naked." 

He'd been sweeter, ever since you stopped fighting him, but this was something that still wouldn't settle in you. He was always so...gruff. Simple commands like that made you feel like a dog. Still, you capitulated. Shedding your shirt, the only article of clothing he liked to have you wear these days. No pants and certainly no panties. He hummed as you revealed your breasts, reaching down to pinch one of your nipples roughly and making you yelp. 

You continued undoing his belt, pulling his cock out and stroking him a few times in your hand before dutifully wrapping your lips around his tip. He sighed above you, and for once he let you guide yourself. His hands, normally fisting your hair and forcing you up and down, were busy cleaning the mechanisms in his grip. Absentmindedly, your eyes wandered towards the window, the weather bright and sunny and clear.

"Simon?" you asked as you pulled his cock from your mouth with a little pop.

"Mmm?" he hummed, looking down at you.

"The storm's over...isn't it?" 

God your voice sounded so small. 

He just smiled at you, not stopping his movements with the rag in his hand.

"Keep sucking, birdie." 

You blinked two tears out and reattached your lips to his cock as if it was the only thing you knew how to do. When he came, he shoved your head down and spurted down your throat, pulling back up to spray the last ropes of cum on your face just because he knew you hated it. 

                                           ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Nine days. That's how long it took to fuck you. 

Simon was proud of himself for making it under ten. 

Sure, you fought and squirmed and cried your way through it, but the way your cunt pulsed around him he knew you liked it. Now you were a pro. Opening your legs for him before he could even ask. God he was sure he was in love with you. He was certainly in love with your holes.

Your pussy was the tightest, wettest, warmest place his cock had ever had the pleasure of visiting. He already missed the way you had cried about him cumming inside you the first few times, you never begged for him to pull out anymore because you had learned there was no argument there.

There was also no argument about how much head he wanted - no - expected. If he could strap you to his leg just to keep his cock down your throat he would. He loved that he was still too big for you, because it meant that you were still choking and gagging on him every time. You were learning to get face fucked, and nothing made him cum harder than the sight of your sad little face covered in spit and cum and snot. One time he fucked your throat so deep that you threw up on the floor. You cried when he made you finish the blowjob but he cleaned you and your mess up for you after. His favorite part was always your face when he pulled you off to cum all over those pretty features. You clearly thought it was disgusting, which is why he always did it. 

Simon had spent all day looking for something in his supplies he could use as lube. You'd been getting so pliant he knew he was staking his claim on your asshole tonight. But he wasn't a monster. He wouldn't force something is big as his cock into somewhere he knew you'd never taken anything, not with the way you'd flinched at just his thumb intruding past the ring of muscle last night. If he sodomized you using just spit, you'd tear and bleed all over him and the bed, and you surely would never trust his touch again.

This meant he was digging through a storage bin labeled "bathroom" out in the far garage when he heard your footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. 

"Si?" you said softly, his heart tugging at the nickname when he twisted around to see you wrapped in one of his coats.

"Everything alright, honey?" he said, moving to stand and walk over to you.

"Just wanted to know where you were." you blinked up at him, still dopey from how hard he fucked you this morning.

"M'lookin' for somethin' for us to use later." he hummed, piquing your interest.

"To use later?" you asked, peering behind him at what he was rummaging through.

"Somethin' slippery. Remember? I'm gonna fuck your ass tonight." he smirked at your expression. Shock and fear and incredulity, your reaction to his bluntness was always so cute.

"What? No, Simon, I don't wanna do that, please." tears welled up in your eyes, his big gloves looking cartoonish on your hands as you grasped his arms desperately.

"We already talked about it, silly girl." he mused, one hand coming up to grab your lips as they parted to complain, "We'll do it in the sauna so yer nice 'n relaxed, hmm?" 

You paused, face scrunched up as you dug in your hazy memory for a moment that wasn't there. He tried not to do it too often, but your untreated concussion had a few lasting effects that he used to his advantage. The easiest one was that your short term memory wasn't that great. He didn't know you before this accident, so maybe it was always shitty, but now he would falsely remind you about things you'd agreed to even if the conversation never happened. You always ended up having fun, so he never thought twice about it. Even though he knew it shouldn't, the control he had over you went straight to his cock, and he was rock hard before he could blink.

"Fuck." he muttered, turning back to the box and making one last effort to find something. He grinned like a madman when he turned over a bottle of baby oil, frozen but still good.

"Come on, birdie." he grunted, grabbing your wrist and hauling you across the clearing towards the sauna.

"Now?! You said tonight!" you whined, music to his ears. He grinned to himself as you stumbled behind him on the way over to the small wooden structure. 

The sauna he had built had two rooms. The entrance was small, nothing but a few hooks and shelves to place clothes on before entering. The actual sauna was a nice lovely steam room to warm up and keep your muscles relaxed. Simon loved fucking you in here, you got all hot and sweaty and complain-y, nothing made him harder. He opened the door and used the control panel to start the room up, placing the bottle of baby oil on the bench to warm up and melt back to its normal consistency. You were still pouting when he turned back, arms folded like a petulant child that got told no for the first time. He chuckled at you as he began to strip himself. Normally he always got you undressed first, but he always let the sauna warm up a bit before taking any of your clothes off. 

Your lips parted and your eyes widened when his cock flung straight up to smack his lower stomach, tip red and hard and leaking with want. You whined, slipping your gloves off and reaching out to stroke him gently. Simon hummed, smug with your Pavlovian response to seeing his cock. Your eyes flashed up to ask him for permission to suck him off, and as soon as he nodded once you were sinking to your knees. 

He let you enjoy yourself, his hands carding through your hair instead of bullying you down around his shaft. He loved to watch you suck him off, swollen lips and messy tongue exploring every vein on him, teeth grazing his tip the way he liked. You'd learned him so fast, such a smart girl. Once he could feel the heat at his back he pulled you up and took all of his clothes off of you, leaving you in the state he wished you would walk around in all the time: completely naked.

Your lips were still shiny with precum, eyes glossed over as you already forgot why he was dragging you in here. Simon grabbed a mat from the shelf next to the door before ushering you in alongside him. He started you off gentle, giving you his cock the way you liked it. He sat on the bench, sturdy legs spread wide as you bounced up and down on him. Your hands were splayed on his shoulders as he held your waist to guide your movements, moving you up so his tip played at your entrance only to slide you down as you squirted a bit onto his balls. Your eyes were closed, sweat starting to drip down your pretty breasts as you fought to catch your breath. He slammed you down, piercing you hard as you came, a gorgeous stream flowing out of you and coating his balls before wetting the bench seat below him.

Your lids were heavy, brain all fogged up as your high was intensified by the temperature in the sauna. He eased you onto the mat he had rolled out onto the floor, guiding you onto your soft tummy and arching your back nice and pretty for him. The oil had melted now, so he opened the seal on the bottle and squirted some on the plush fat of your ass. You moaned as he massaged you there, body settling into your arch as you relaxed. Simon took his time, spreading your cheeks and messily wiping the oil all along your crack. Your eyes snapped open as soon as his forefinger slid into your ass up to the second knuckle, the muscle of your hole tightening in fear as you realized.

"Simon please I don't wanna. You're too big." you whined, hips bucking as he ignored you and pressed his finger in all the way.

"Just relax, birdie." he said softly, pumping his finger a bit and groaning at the tightness. His cock was full to burst, and he was sure he wasn't going to last very long in a hole as tight as this. Pouring more oil on your hole as he opened you up, you whined again as he stretched the muscle open with another finger. You mumbled into the mat about it hurting, but he knew from the way your cunt was leaking you were enjoying any pain you were experiencing. 

Simon stayed that way for a while, pumping you open and rubbing his cock on the oiled skin on your leg to gain some relief. Once you were drooling over three fingers, he pulled them out and watched your hole gape, ready for him. Dousing his cock in baby oil he mounted you, shushing your tears away as you tried to shy away from him.

"None of that, now." he said sternly, pinning you in place with his words. 

You stilled, arching a bit more and opening up your hole deliciously for him. He hummed, dragging his soaked cock up and down your crack, pressing gently at the ring of muscle now open in a perfect little 'o' for him. All it took was a bit of pressure and your hole sucked his tip right in, making him hiss at the pressure. You yelped out, unaware that your own body was beckoning him further inside you. 

Pressing further, your wails were lost on Simon, who's vision was going black with pleasure. He was lost in how much your hole was sucking him in, begging to be ridden hard while you sobbed beneath him. As soon as he was seated fully inside you, his heavy balls hitting your cunt with a wet slap, he sighed. He had almost claimed you fully, the only thing left to do was to cum in your ass and then all your holes will have been coated with his seed.

One squeeze from the walls of your ass made him look down at you, face scrunched up in discomfort and a pool of tears gathering under your face on the mat. You always cried when he had you try something new, but as he pulled back out of your hole and pressed forward again he knew you'd learn to love this too. 

Once he had let you adjust as much as you could, he set a respectable pace for the both of you. It didn't take long for you to start moaning, the pressure in your ass making your cunt throb as it went unattended. You tried to reach a hand down and rub yourself, but he swatted your hand away and took on the role himself. The second the pads of his fingers came into contact with your clit, your ass clenched around his so tight he almost came. 

The tears under your face had been replaced with drool as he speared you over and over again, grunting about how tight of a fit it was. 

"Si, I'm gonna cum!" you moaned as he picked up his pace with his hand. 

"Yeah?" he teased, "G'na cum while my cock is up your arse?" 

You whined a bit at that, absolutely pathetic as you nodded into the mat. It took everything in Simon not to cum while you shook under him, a nice warm waterfall trickling down your legs and soaking the mat under his knees. His hand moved from your clit to grip the fat of your hips, picking up his pace as his cock started to twitch. He could vaguely hear you mumbling about slowing down, how you couldn't take it this hard, but you were doing so good for him. Such a nice warm sleeve for him to fill. 

His grip on your hips tightened like a vice as he came, adding to the pinpoint bruises he already left there. His balls tightened as he spilled deep into you, making you whine again about him being messy. A few more pumps to make him cum squirt out from around where he was stuffing you full and he finally pulled out of you gently. With a moan you slid forward, laying prone on the mat as you soothed yourself. 

Watching new bruises blossom, Simon felt a familiar twinge of guilt that he sometimes got after ruining you. The first time he fucked you when you cried the whole time, he cradled you so delicately after as a salve on his own heart, and this time was no different. Oiling up his hands, he started on your legs, ensuring you he wasn't up to anything nefarious. Once you realized he as just easing your tension with a massage, you all but melted into the floor. 

                                               ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Simon usually stayed in bed until you woke up, unless he was out hunting. You pouted when the bed next to you was cold, not remembering him saying anything last night. Usually he left you with a goodbye kiss on the forehead before you fell back asleep. Maybe you just lost the memory. 

Stretching, you padded down the hall and into the kitchen, surprised to find Simon with his brows furrowed at the open cabinet in front of him.

"Si?" you asked, voice still thick with sleep, "What're you doing?" 

He looked at you, a little surprised. Your brain was about a minute behind and it was so frustrating that it couldn't unravel what was clearly a very easy mystery. 

"We're leavin' tomorrow, birdie." he said, turning back to his notepad and scribbling something down.

"Leaving?" you asked, a little shocked at hearing the word.

"Mmm." he hummed, closing the cabinet and moving on to the pantry, "Got nothin' left to eat." 

That was true, the shelved were getting more and more bare every day. But you weren't focused on flour and canned goods, what you wanted to know what what that meant for you.

"So..." you couldn't find the right words to form the question on your mind.

"So what?" he asked, curiously avoiding your gaze. He was never like this, it make your inside twist a little at the implication that he was going to get you to town and let you fend for yourself.

"What does that mean?" you asked, voice small again in a way that only happened when you were asking things you shouldn't. 

"Means I gotta get supplies. Need to eat." he said gruffly. You winced a little at him using "I" and not "we". You didn't respond, merely standing in the kitchen staring at his back as he took log of what he needed.

After a while he sighed, "What? Scared I'm tossin' ya to the curb?" he said, eyes a little annoyed when they fell on you. You stuttered out the beginning of several responses, unsure of what to say that would keep him happy but also be truthful. 

"You've been cryin' and beggin' to leave since ya got here. Now yer blubberin' t'stay?" 

You shook your head, trying to wake up from what was clearly a nightmare. Simon wasn't always nice, but he was never this cold. His tone was sharp and his words bit down on the soft tissue of your already bruised brain. The idea that he had broken you down to rebuild you to his liking, just to then leave you was impossible to fathom. The idea of being anywhere else but this cabin, with anyone else but Simon, they were unimaginable thoughts. You wanted to blurt out that you thought he loved you, but the words fizzled out once you looked at him again.

"You don't want me here anymore?" was all that came out, sniffling as he rolled his eyes. 

"I appreciate the sex, birdie." he said, words falling on you like napalm, "But...figured with all the fightin' you do you'd book it. Fine by me."

He shrugged, turning away before you could answer. You were shell shocked. 

"I don't wanna leave." you whispered. He stalled, you saw it. It was only for a moment, but he paused before turning around. He had to gather himself before facing you.

"No? What happened to that feisty girl I pulled from that wreck? Huh? She hated me." he said, a smirk playing on his lips just a tad as he made his way over to you. You reached your arms out for him on instinct and he came up to cradle your face. 

"Don't hate you." you mumbled, a bit intoxicated by his scent. 

"Yeah? Yer a good girl now, hm?" 

You nodded, lids heavy as his thumbs stroked your cheeks, a little tear stained from his harsh words. You were a good girl now. No matter how hard you had fought or tried to stay strong, he had manhandled you into a good girl. His good girl.

"Prove it." he said, a hand wrapping around your neck and pushing you to your knees. His hands were busy undoing his belt so you tucked yours under your thighs, opening your mouth for him and letting your tongue roll out. 

Simon had trained you for almost two months, so now he could slide down his cock straight down your throat and the only reaction from you was squeezing your eyes shut. You'd learned to breathe through your nose, relax, and let him take the lead. He liked it messy, as always, and he frowned at you when you pulled off early. But he hummed in satisfaction when you simply lifted your shirt off, revealing yourself to him. You spread your legs a bit, letting him step on either side of your knees to gain a better purchase as he fucked your mouth. His pace was unrelenting, pulling all the way out to let his tip rest heavy on your tongue, then slamming himself all the way down your throat, nose nestling in the curly hairs that adorned the base of his cock. You breathed him in as he came down your throat with a few shallow thrusts, drinking him down and proudly showing your empty mouth to him. 

He smiled down at you, before lifting you up and onto the kitchen table, spread out for him like a Sunday roast. Grabbing one of his hunting knives from the other counter, you eyes him warily. Sometimes, when he got in a certain mood, Simon liked to bring his version of "toys" into the bedroom with him. A far cry from vibrators and butt plugs, he'd penetrated you with almost every knife handle he had in the house, and dared to hold a handgun to your temple while he fucked you. All things that shouldn't have turned you on, but they did. 

Grinning at you, he gently coaxed your legs open, heels resting on the tabletop next to you as he licked his lips in anticipation. He gripped the blade carefully, holding the back of the sharp edge so he could ease the butt end of the handle up against your entrance. You let out a moan, your head briefly lolling back, the ribbed handle of the knife rubbing against your walls in just the right way to make you shudder. 

"Shiiiit, baby." you heard Simon say under his breath. Opening your eyes and looking between your legs, he had pushed the knife in all the way to the hilt, the clench in your cunt keeping it in place so he could let go. Just the shiny, dangerously sharp edge of the blade could be seen extending from your leaking hole. Your brain fogged over at the sight, a whimper leaving your mouth as he told you to stay put while he fetched something. 

He came back, polaroid camera in hand, lifting it up to his eye and snapping a picture of you naked and sprawled out with a knife in your cunt. 

"Y'really love me, huh?" he teased, lightly gripping the blade again and easing it out and back in again, fucking you with the handle. You whined out, not wanting to admit something as pathetic as falling in love with your captor. But he was right, even if he hadn't given you much choice, you clearly didn't put up that much of a fight if all it took to rewire you was some good dick. 

"Y'wanna know somethin' birdie?" he crooned at you, slipping the knife out of you and tossing it aside. He have himself a few strokes, cock still hard and leaking.

No warning, he pressed halfway into you, making you jump and groan out his name. He placed a strong hand on either side of your head, leaning down over you as he bottomed out inside you. He hadn't continued his statement, so you whined at him to finish.

"What, Si?" you moaned, making him smile at you. A real smile, a big, crooked, and smug smile. His hand traveled up your sternum, gripping your neck as he pulled you up into a wet kiss.

"I was never letting you go." he mumbled into you, before pushing you back down and holding you in place by your throat. His words echoed around in your empty skull as he fucked you, your hips aching at the pace he set. 

You were a little embarrassed, feeling a special brand of pathetic that only Simon could seem to drag out of the pits of your soul. Of course he wasn't letting you leave. Not after marking you as his forever. He only wanted you to admit to yourself that you loved being in his cage. You needed to hear it from your own lips before you'd ever begin to really accept your fate. And you played right into his hand, groveling the instant he went cold on you. You sobbed as you came on him, his hand squeezing the life out of you as you spluttered and scratched at his arm. 

"Atta girl." he said through gritted teeth, his other hand joining the other on your throat as he used them as leverage to chase his own release. When he came, it felt like you could taste it on your tongue it was so much and so deep. It spurted out around his shaft, making a messy puddle on the table beneath you. Once he eased himself to a stop, he leaned over you again, the kiss this time soft and loving. 

"Y'know I love you, birdie." he whispered, sending a chill up your spine. 

He didn't, not really. You knew that. But he thought he did, and hopefully that was going to be enough.

                                               ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The drive to town was agonizing. 6 hours of nothing but white tundra and more trees. You blew him twice you were so bored. He laughed at your pout when you crawled over again, the bench seat of the truck proving useful. 

"That'll be three, love." he said, stroking your hair.

"I'm booored." you said, "Please?" 

"I'm gonna be bone dry by the time we get there." he chuckled, "How about you touch yourself for me?" 

The cab was warm enough that you didn't have to have all Simon's big coats wrapped around you. You peeled off your sweats, angling yourself against the door panel so he could have a good view of your fingers exploring your already sopping wet pussy. You let yourself go, leaning your head back against the glass of the window as you sunk two of your fingers inside yourself. Gathering the wetness you scissored them across your clit, rubbing desperate circles as your other hand filled your cunt. 

"Fuck." Simon said, trying his best to keep his eyes on the path in front of him. The smell of your arousal had him white knuckling the steering wheel, finally giving in and reaching a hand out to assist you. He swatted the hand pumping in and out of you away, replacing your fingers with his thick ones. You groaned at the switch, one of his fingers dwarfing two of yours. You stayed like that, him hooking his fingers and massaging that spongy spot and you rubbing desperate circles on your clit as you came loudly, your cries bouncing around the cab of the truck. That seemed to satiate you for a while, before you woke up from another small cat nap and Simon had to stop the truck to fuck you back to sleep. 

With a gentle shake of your shoulder, he informed you that you were in town. It was a small one, the main road seemingly containing every building they needed. Simon told you to stay put while he ran into the gun store, and you couldn't help but stare out the window at the people walking on the sidewalk. You jumped at the driver's side door slamming shut, Simon tugging his mask on before he disappeared into the building. 

For the first time in weeks Simon couldn't see or hear you, and it made your heart race. You could get out and scream bloody murder. Beg someone to help you, tell them to call the police and arrest Simon for everything he had put you through over the past 2 months. But you didn't. You stayed put, gazing silently at the passerby as they went about their lives. A little girl and her mother passed by the passenger's side, and your chest tightened. Was your mother looking for you? It made you realize Simon never explained what he did after the crash. 

As if on cue, the driver's door opened and Simon huffed in, tossing a box of ammo on the floor by your feet.

"Did you report the crash?" you asked, surprising even yourself. Simon froze, staring at you, probably thinking you were considering running. 

"Yes." he said simply.

"Did you tell them I was dead?" you continued.

"No." 

That was a little astonishing. 

"So..." you had no idea how to even phrase the question there were so many things running through your mind.

"Reported four dead, one survivor." he said, leaning back into his seat, "One survivor who would be stayin' with me until the storm cleared. They never followed up." 

"Does my mother know?" you asked, and he sighed.

"I don't know, baby." his eyes were soft again, but there was a warning hidden in them.

"I need to talk to her." you said, carrying on before he could interrupt, "She has to know I'm okay. Simon, please, my dad is dead. She can't..." saying the sentence out loud broke something in you. Your father was dead and you had spent the last two months as a glorified sex toy. 

"Shhh," he said, leaning over and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "In the next town we'll figure it out." 

"Next town?" you sniffled, confused as to why you would be continuing on.

"Mmm." he nodded, starting the truck back up, "This place is too small. We need more than just food, you don't have a thing to your name darlin."

He was right, he obviously never recovered your luggage from the wreck, so you'd been wearing his clothes and using his products for the entire time you'd been there. So after another hour and a half of driving you arrived in a bigger town, one with a department store.

Simon let you pick out months worth of toiletries, food you liked, even a few DVDs of your favorite movies that you could watch on his old TV. He assured you there was no issue with money, which you did not question. Once again he trusted you to go off on your own, sending you into a clothing store to get some good basics. He was going to be across the street at a hunting shop selling pelts, and told you that when you were done, the shop owner would let you use his phone to call your mother. 

After a nice time talking to the lady working at the store, you left with a few hefty bags of clothes. Most of them were thick cold weather items, but you had grabbed some casual things as well as two sets of lingerie to surprise Simon with as a thank you. You dropped your wares off at the truck and nervously opened the door to the hunting shop, looking around for Simon. He waved you over and the shop owner smiled at you. 

"Didn't tell me she was such a beaut!" he said, to which Simon smiled, albeit a little stiff. 

"I did you just didn't believe me." he grunted.

"Course a man like you still manages to land a girl with a model body even all the way out there, huh? What she do fall from the sky like an angel?" he joked, making both you and Simon laugh lightly at the irony.

"Hank, can y'show my girl the phone?" Simon said loudly, another man coming out from the back room and nodding.

"Over here, sweetheart." he called over to you, and you didn't miss the way Simon stiffened next to you upon hearing the pet name. 

My girl. 

Was that what you were? His girl? You figured that made sense, he had staked his ownership over you plenty of times. As the man handed you the landline, he told you how to dial out before leaving you alone to make your call. For a moment you just stared at the phone wondering what you were even supposed to say to her. Was she worried? Was she looking for you?

Luckily muscle memory dialed the number for you, and before you knew it you were bouncing your leg rapidly as you prayed she picked up the phone. She didn't pick up the first time you called, but it was a strange number, so you redialed and hoped she got the hint.

"Hello??" her voice crackled through, clearly annoyed some random person was calling repeatedly.

"Hi mom." you breathed, saying your name felt foreign at this point, Simon barely ever used it. 

You heard her drop the phone in surprise before yelling out your name. She was relieved to hear your voice, and told you that the Alaskan state police had informed her of the crash, and told her that you were safe with a hunting guide. If only she knew what he was doing to you when she thought he was keeping you safe. Once again the option of truth flashed before you, you could lower your voice and tell her to send the police to the town you were in before it was too late.

But for some frustrating reason, the thought of living without Simon was unthinkable. So you just assured her you were perfectly fine and that you had actually fallen in love with said hunting guide. You told her that it sounded crazy but you were fine, you'd find a way to talk with her more, and that getting on a plane home was simply not an option. She sounded skeptical as all mothers would, but she let you make the choice to stay. You both ended the calls with "I love you" and then she was gone again. You racked your brain for the phone numbers for any of your friends, to no avail. The only numbers you had memorized were your parents, and you couldn't call your father. A soft knock on the door behind you caught your attention, and Simon was informing you it was time to go. 

The two of you stayed in a motel that night, and when his hands wandered over to you, you let him climb on top of you before you gave him a big kiss. 

"Can we go slow tonight?" you asked into his lips, making him hum.

"My birdie wants to make love, huh?" he said softly, kissing his way down your neck as he pushed into you. You keened out for him, back arching up and pressing your chest to his as he set a slow, deep pace that had you leaking onto the cheap sheets under you. Simon kept that pace all night, never once speeding up and drilling into you like you knew he liked. He allowed you to lose yourself under him, and you allowed yourself to feed into the fantasy that you two had come together under regular circumstances. 

                                               ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The drive back was even more agonizing, and it was so bright out that you spent most of the drive with your head in Simon's lap. He was happily obliging your oral fixation, only pushing your head down and holding you there a few times when he came. 6 hours later and you were back at his cabin, your belly full of cum. 

You tried to help him unload everything, but he waved you off, telling you to focus on unpacking your new clothes and fitting them into the space he had cleared in the closet. So you did as you were told, letting Simon do the heavy lifting while you sat and sorted your new socks. By the time you were done, he had brought all the kitchen supplies in, so while he was in the yard fixing something on the snowmobile you unpacked all that as well. It felt strangely domestic, and it reminded you that you had stashed those lingerie sets away from his eyes. Grinning, you hurried back into his bedroom, also your bedroom now, fishing them out from where they were hidden and picked one out. It was simple enough, a frilly pink babydoll that you knew would have him hard as a rock.

"Birdie?" you heard him call out, his boots shuffling into the living room as he looked for you. You put on a sly smile and slinked out into the hallway.

"Over here!" you said cheerfully, and he was muttering about gas for the blah blah blah when he looked up and froze on the spot. 

"Wha- where...whe-" he was sputtering, you'd never seen him like this, and it was rather endearing. 

"You like it?" you asked innocently, giving him a little twirl. 

"Oh baby." he breathed, running a pair of rough cold hands up along your sides making you squeal, "I love it." 

He dropped to a knee, his face under the bottom hem of the babydoll, mouth already on you as you elected not to put any panties on. You whined, knees wobbling as he sucked on your clit, his tongue rabidly dancing across the bud. He grasped your ass, holding you in place while he ate you like that, allowing you to grab a hold of his short blond hair as you came with a shake. 

"I have something for you, too." he grinned, leaving you standing on shaky legs as he walked over to the kitchen table. The box was already open, so he handed it to you and let you look inside. Nestled in the tissue paper was a shiny new butt plug, a pink gem in the shape of a heart at the end. You felt your face heat up as he stepped closer to you.

"Even got ya real lube." he said, grinning as he held up the bottle. Picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom, you couldn't help but giggle.

He set you gently on your feet and took the box from you, taking the plug out and pushing you softly backwards so you landed on the mattress behind you. He watched the way your breasts bounced in the lingerie, almost forgetting what he had in his hands. Easing you open, he cracked open the bottle of lube, smearing it all over from the top of your pussy all the way across your ass crack. You whined a little as his forefinger probed your puckered hole, stretching you a little before he lubed up the plug.

Watching his movements, you were almost drooling as you watched him press the princess plug into you, your ass all but sucking the toy in and holding it there. The pink heart gem glittered up at him, matching your babydoll perfectly. Simon couldn't held himself, he held your thighs open again and descended on your pussy again.

"I can't wait to ruin you." he murmured into you.

And ruin you he did, he drew three orgasms out of you with his cock, making you squeal every time he flicked or adjusted the plug. Once his cock was fully seated inside your cunt, you were a mess under him. He was stretching you so much it was pressing on the plug from inside, and you had never felt this full. The warmth of the burn manifested itself in the waterfall flowing from your legs, soaking the mattress below. You were sobbing out apologies as he shushed you, slapping the side of your face gently to clear your brain fog.

"You look so pretty, baby." he said softly, pulling the fabric covering your breasts down so they bounced out. Leaning down he covered one with his mouth, rolling your nipple gently with his teeth. You were a sobbing mess, begging him to let you cum, and once he gave you the permission you went off like a bomb. He was forced out of you as a stream of hot liquid sprayed out, coating Simon's lower half. 

"God I love when you do tha'." he groaned, the sight of it making him cum for the second time that night, spurting his load all over your spent cunt, smearing the mess all over your sex. 

Simon knew you hated when he pulled that reaction from you, you hated making a mess. But as always, he already had a plan, quickly heating up a bath for you to rest in while he cleaned up the room. He changed the sheets and used the dirty ones to dry the floor, tossing them all in the hamper when he got back to the bathroom. 

"How're ya feelin' lovie?" he asked softly, getting nothing more than a mewl in response. Smiling, he nudged you to the middle of the tub so he could climb in behind you, settling you between his thick thighs as you nodded back off. 

"Hey." he said, jostling you awake again.

"Mmm?" you hummed, slowly opening your eyes to look up at him.

"I do love you. Honest." he said, softer than anything.

"I love you too." you said, giving him a soft smile.

You were both lying, and you both knew it.

this didn't changed when you came around, even if it took a lot of time for him to remove his mask, pretty much ironic for a shapeshifter. The only thing you always knew since the start were his eyes. And for some reason no matter what he couldn't change them. no matter who or what he turned himself into.

they say the eyes are the mirror of the soul so he just accepted it, it wasn't like someone was gonna focus on this tiny detail, and even if they did...it would've been too late.

so when you finally had enough of his constant shutting you out, when you were finally tired of all those weeks of radio silence and of him being constantly emotionally unavailable you left.

maybe you would even feel a creep down your spine when in a new relationship your partner would mention something intimate that you're sure ad hell never told them, and then maybe you would even recognise those eyes...but when you fianlly do, when you finally put those small pices together it's definitely too late.

The problem was that even in new relationships with other people you would feel familiar eyes on the back of your head or even a familiar yet so different touch. Sometimes you would even see familiar eyes in the crowd...even if in so different people.

_______________________________________

Simon is a bit insecure. Can you blame him? He can see how men look at you, how you get pink and flustered when someone offers you a drink, even though your eyes always seek him out. You're too bright, too sweet and friendly, for him not to wonder in the dark hours if (when) you'll take one of those other offers.

And what if some dickhead does get up under your skirts, gets a taste of the sweet warm heaven you've been letting Simon drown in? They'd steal you away before Simon can blink.

But he knows you won't let him keep you on base, set up in his room where no one will come in without permission. Even though he'd set it up so nice, soft blankets and pillows, heated pad on the mattress to make the bed a warm nest, no need for clothes when you're all snuggled in waiting for him, a pillow between your thighs while you bury your face in his shirt and whine-

He's getting distracted.

He can't lock you up yet. But he could lock up just one part of you.

It takes some convincing to get you to agree to it ("Simon you're ridiculous, don't you trust me?" "Yes lovie, but I don't trust someone else not to get a whiff of that cunt and tear into you." "Ugh, really? Simon that's awful.") but he manages it. It's just a week to start, just seven days to test it out and make sure you're not being pinched or irritated. He picked out a nice one, cute little ring over your asshole and soft leather straps, the gleaming steel of the cage locking your cunny up tight, holes for your piss but all the soft parts hidden away. He traces the edge with his fingers and marvels at how easily you're contained, how tightly packed in the cage makes you. There's even a matching collar, that he hides away (for now).

You pout at him but he's unmoved, kisses you goodbye before heading out, lighter and more relaxed than he's been in weeks knowing the key to your belt hangs on his dog tags.

It's only when he's gone that you discover there's a little extra built into the cage, a soft textured piece inside just over your clit that rubs and rubs and rubs whenever you take a step, bend over, thrash in your bed with sweat pouring down your skin and slick dripping through the holes in the steel. You're dragged to orgasm over and over as every movement puts your poor raw clit against its torment, the solid locks keeping you even from reaching in a finger to protect it, even when you tear at the straps in a fever pitch.

Simon comes home to you naked and panting on the bed, wet stripes down your thighs and spread up your ass, and laughs in delight at the dumb look on your face when you reach desperately for the key. When he unlocks you a river of slick pours out, your clit twice it's normal size and hot pink, he can see your fucking pulse in it. Sticking his cock in you sends you off again, and he indulges himself in the warmest welcome home he's ever had in your cunt, the slap of his pelvis to your clit making you sob. You're so broken now, nothing else will compare. Oh, his sweet girl, your face snotted up with tears and incoherent begging.