#honeysickledream

Price quickly banishes Soap to the living room and sends you along with him, but not before he hands you a warm mug filled with your favorite drink doctored just the way you liked it. There’s not much room on the couch, not with Soap sitting on the middle cushion with his legs spread out as far as they’ll go. He gives you a look—the ‘come sit on my lap, I don’t bite’ look—and you give in. It’s too early in the morning to be stubborn, to be standing honestly, and you’re chilly despite the heat being on.

His thick arms wrap around you, pulling you as close as they can, and he turns on the TV. You notice as you take small sips from your mug that Soap’s eyes are trained on your throat as it bobs with each swallow. He gives you the sweetest look as he asks—begs almost—to give your throat a kiss. Tells you he’s been wanting to do it for ages now and that he promises not to bite.

Fucking liar he is. One peck to the center of your throat turns into another, then a dozen more with faint nibbles between each one. He licks your throat, too, which causes your breath to catch and thighs to press together. The throbbing in your clit worsens when he noses at your pulse point and whines, hips jerking lightly against your ass.

Ghost’s voice cuts through the faint buzzing in your ears and you wince as your arousal dissipates. He tells you breakfast is ready, but you’re not released from Soap’s intense hold. Ghost gives him a glare and Soap’s hips buck once more in response. You’re given one last nip before Soap lets you push off him. He trails behind you, the hem of your sleep shirt caught between two fingers.

Your place at the table has been set elegantly, as if you were royalty. Price pours you a glass of juice while Gaz pushes your chair in and lays a napkin (really it’s just the second cheapest kind of paper towel you could get) in your lap. Ghost places your plate before you and awkwardly gives your head a pat when you thank him. It’s awfully charming being treated so well by them, but there’s a bit of suspicion lurking in the back of your mind.

It’s not your fault the men you’ve entertained in the past have be lackluster in…well, just about every way.

They all sit on the other side of the table, crammed together like sardines in a tin as they dig into their own omelets and hash. Your omelet was the prettiest that’d been made: no tearing along the seam, perfect gold spots across the outside. The seasonings used were light and complementary. Ghost had been the one to cook it, you reasoned. He was a maestro in the kitchen, always bringing in little bits of what he’d cooked the night before to team meetings or sharing his food during breaks in the rec room when it wasn’t under repair because of Soap.

Your appetite quickly fades as you wonder when the topic of ‘Round Two’ will be mentioned, or if Ghost and Gaz’s hints of things turning into something more will be touched on. Both have been sitting in the back of your mind since last night to the point you recall vague dreams regarding them. The anticipation of a talk makes faint nausea build in your belly as your heart keeps wondering and hoping, hoping, hoping—

Price clears his throat and your fork skids on the plate. The screeching of metal on porcelain makes your skin crawl and your teeth ache. All four of the guys look at you with concern and you wave them off, quickly taking a sip of juice. The anticipated conversation begins once you swallow, no chance of any spit takes or choking.

He puts it all very plainly: the four of them do want you. They’d been keen on you for the longest but had all agreed to refrain from making any moves to preserve camaraderie but then you’d gone and complained about your workload and not being laid. The perfect opportunity for them, for you. He tells you they’d talked about how things would go afterwards, the proposition of some kind of…situation or legitimate relationship between you and all of them.

It’s stressed that there’s no pressure, no true expectations of anything—the military’s funny that way sometimes; the expectation for anything to work out often squashed without realizing once it begins to grow. Soap becomes a little pouty when Gaz assures you they’ll all be okay if you decline round two of the bet, or if you ask them to just forget anything ever happened.

That’s when you ask if you can say your piece and you’re given the floor. You find it flattering, and jarring, that they’ve all had their eye on you for a while. You admit you can’t help but pay close attention to them as well. Sometimes you think you know their personalities, talents, and appearances better than your own. And you express that round two is something you desperately want to have happen. But, the prospect of a relationship of any kind between the five of you makes you twitchy despite the last twelve or so house of constant dreamy pondering.

You explain, not in too much detail, that your past relationships and dynamics haven’t been the healthiest. Each one adding a new boundary and expectation to an already long list. Anyone you get with in the hopes of something serious is quickly met with said list because you’ve learned to never assume that people will be good and faithful. You tell them that you’re willing to explore things with them if they’re amenable to be respectful of that list—and of course, you would be be respectful of their limits.

They hear you out when you tell them you’d want something closed, just the five of you. Everyone intertwined in various pairings if that’s what they wanted, but no outside people. Too complicated, too risky in some circumstances. No one throws a fit or even looks the least bit bothered by the boundary which settles your nausea significantly. Slow and steady is your next big point. You want to explore things with them as they come up naturally, be it kinks or troubles or life in general. Rushing to force an experience, you have found, cheapens it and leads to some form of relationship burnout that you don’t want to experience with them or have them experience with you.

It’s all quite formal, their agreeing to what you want and stating their own boundaries—no secrets, the relationship still exists but becomes second place when on a mission or otherwise at work, communication remains at the forefront of everything—which you’re happy to agree to. You’re half-tempted to get some pens and paper to really seal the deal, but you settle for pinking-promising with Soap which seems to be enough for the others.

Breakfast is through not long after, and you work with the guys to put away leftovers and clean up the kitchen. You get a kiss on the cheek or shoulder, a firm hand pressing your back whenever they pass by you. It makes your skin heat, your stomach and heart in some mild flux at the constant sweet attention that is all yours. They receive their own affections from you, a peck in return for a peck, a gentle lean into their side when their shoulders brush yours.

Soap mentions needing a change of clothes—toiletries, too—and the others echo him. They’d be gone for a while, base was a healthy distance from your home which is just how you like it, but you didn’t want to be alone while getting ready for round two. You ask if they can grab some of Price’s stuff to bring back while they’re on base so he can hand around to take part in the prep since he got so little time with you last night.

And that’s exactly what led to you trying to tune out the grating voices of sports casters while being prepped on the couch.

Price has been idly fingering you for the last hour while watching a rerun of a football game he missed during the last deployment. He slowly presses two of his thick fingers into your cunt, keeps them still for a moment or two before he crooks them and you tense around them. Then he pulls them most of the way out while spreading them bit by bit, only to push them back in.

Occasionally he’ll get a text, sometimes multiple at a time and you know it’s from the others because of the little text tones. Whatever they send him has his hips bucking, causing his hard cock to rub against your stomach for a bit of friction before he settles.

You want to bite him for being such a fucking tease but you can’t find much purchase to do so given that you’re draped over his lap and pinned there, face buried in one of your fluffy throw pillows that Soap teased you for owning. You also remember that it was you who asked him to stay behind to prep you and to do it his way.

The front door opens and you perk up to the best of your ability. You try to squirm a bit so you can go greet the others and find out what they’d been up to, but John’s hold on you tightens. He gives your bare ass a light slap, soothing over the spot as the faint burn of pain faded. The others come into view and you whine at them, but they don’t pay you any mind, leaving you to your fate with Price as they go to the bedroom, shopping bags and luggage in hand.

“I didn’t know they were going to the shop, too. What did they get?” you ask Price.

“You’ll find out when we’re ready for you to,” he says as he slowly presses a third finger into you. The stretch is bordering on uncomfortable. His free hands soothes your tensing back. “Three’s all we’ll do—that’s what we agreed on. Relax for me, pet.”

You huff, feigning annoyance while relaxing to the best of your ability. His three fingers are about as wide as your biggest toy. The same one that sits at the back of your nightstand drawer, used only when you have a fully uninterrupted day off, something you haven’t had in ages. It simply takes too long to prep yourself and when you’re ready, you’re too tired—annoyed, too, sometimes—to do more than cockwarm it for a while. It was also hit and miss if penetration did much for you.

Something thuds in the bedroom and you bang your head against the fluffy pillow. “If they break something up there—“

“Nothing’s broken, pet. Gaz probably tripped on Soap’s damn boots, or Ghost’s turned one of them into a pretzel for being annoying,” Price said.

Price gets a text and he pulls his fingers out of you slowly. He’s gentle as he grabs hold of you, a wall of muscle for you to lean on as the shaky muscles in your legs remember how to work. The bed’s been stripped down to the fitted sheet and mattress protector under it, a lone pillow is at the foot of the bed. Water bottles and a variety of snacks have been laid out on your desk, the lights dimmed and tower fan turned on to manage the temperature. Ghost hands you a lilac satin blindfold, a definite upgrade to the sleep mask he’s now tossing in the trash bin under your desk.

A quick refresher of the dos and don’ts and safe words are had before Ghost helps you lay the strip of fabric over your eyes and tie it in place. You casually drop that if the others want to toy around with you while you try to determine who’s fucking you, they should go for it.

Four sets of hands guide you onto the bed and put you on your knees, the pillow secure under your elbows. Belt buckles clank and fabric rustles, you hear whispers before a box is opened and foil is crinkled—condoms. Condoms had escaped your mind but not theirs, and you’re glad. Sure you’ve got an IUD that’s going to need replacing in a handful of months, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. None of you could afford the scare that came along with not using condoms.

The bed dips as one of them kneels behind you and you try not to flinch when a firm hands rests on your hip. You arch your back as his tip presses against your slit with the slightest bit of pressure. It’s when he slowly presses into you that you realize just how necessary Price’s three fingers were. The stretch makes you shudder and clench, your inner voice reminding you relax as he massages your hips.

You give him a quick thumbs up when you feel situated enough. His movements are slow at first, he pulls out halfway before guiding you back until your ass is flush with his hips. You feel unruly hairs scratch your cheeks and shake your head, knowing full well who it is: Soap. You may or may not have caught a few glimpses of his bush, at least the top bit, during the times he stretches his arms over his head after unbuckling his belt post-mission or training.

He reaches around and between your legs to toy with your poor clit that had been ignored by Price for a whole hour. You whine into the pillow as your body shudders with pleasure and your hips jerk to chase his teasing fingers, pulling you out of the steady pace that had been set. You hold off on saying his name because he’s at least trying to be a giving partner, but it stumbles from your lips when his pace gets faster and jostles you closer to the edge of the bed.

Per the rules of the bet, his turn is over. He slips out and carefully pulls you from the edge. You feel a little bad that he didn’t come, but then he groans softly across the room and you know he’s taking care of himself just fine. And probably sitting naked on your leather desk chair at that.

Someone gently turns you onto your back and settles between your legs, cool hands guiding them to hook around his hips. You’re given a bit of time to adjust to him before he’s leaning on his left forearm and thrusting into you firmly. There’s no way to identify him by his manscaping, or lack thereof, and he hasn’t started using his hands or making sounds, which quickly frustrates you.

Patience isn’t your main virtue, you’re learning.

You scrunch your nose and move your brows, trying to get the satin blindfold to shift so you can get a glimpse of something but you hear someone ‘tsk-tsk’. Then a hand slaps your cunt lightly—Price’s hand, it felt the same when he spanked your ass earlier. You writhe and moan as Price occasionally pats your clit while you’re getting fucked, the stimulation causing that dizzying tension in your belly to coil tighter and tighter.

Those thinner, longer fingers that tormented you last night ghost over your lips and you part them. You lay your tongue out flat and then lick the finger that prods at the pointed tip of your tongue. Your lips wrap around two of his fingers and suck lightly, moving your tongue against the undersides. The man doubles over, hips stuttering as he comes. He pulls his fingers free and you wipe the spit from your lips as you say his name—Gaz—softly. He presses a kiss to your lips before pulling away and hopping off the bed.

Either Price or Ghost take Gaz’s place quickly, resuming his pace to keep your arousal from dissipating. You’re hoisted up by four hands and you quickly wrap your arms around the man’s neck. He guides your hips to rock with his as he whispers in your ear before pressing a kiss to your cheek. Ghost lays you back down as you do what he asks and say his name. He wanted Price to have the final go, to have his fun and to make you come.

You latch onto Price like a leech when he hovers over you. That hour of prepping you taught him exactly what to do, where to press and when. As he pulls out, his thumb moves faster against your clit before slowing as he thrusts in, your back arching and body burning. Sweet praise comes at you from all sides, filling your brain with cotton as you try not to let go too quickly but when Price calls you their ‘sweet pet’, it’s all over. You’re coming around his cock, crying out brokenly as hands move across your body to limit the jerking of your limbs. For a moment everything’s quiet, then a heavy and hot weight is on top of you, panting in your ringing ears.

Price pushes off of you and helps you sit up against a bunch of pillows that are shoved under you. A water bottle is shoved in your face right as the blindfold comes off. You sip at it while you watch Soap, Gaz and Ghost bumble naked around the bedroom to find the wet wipes the apparently bought, and your backup sheets and mattress protector. Price is half holding you as he asks how you feel and if everything was done to your liking. You tell him you’re good but tired, and that it was quite enjoyable. You check in with them, as well, getting smiles along with affirmative answers.

The next thing you know, all four of them are filtering in and out of your shower, quickly washing up and helping you do the same before they tap in the next one. Dinner consists of five different pizzas, a shabby blanket fort in the living room, and a campy horror film that puts you to sleep across their laps halfway through it.

The walk to town seemed further today. For every step you took, the dirt path seemed to stretch another mile. You’d been up since a little after midnight, deciding to be productive with your time instead of wallowing in your bed, fuming. Four loaves had been baked, the open hearth cleaned of ash and the wood replenished for today’s use. Clean sheets had been folded and put away, a chore you had been putting off since you first hung the linens on the line, and the shelves in the larder had been dusted for the first time in well over a month. You’d even fetched water for Simon’s bath after your own, leaving them before the clean hearth to heat at his leisure. When he was around, he often fetched his own water, but you’d felt the need to do it for him today. Maybe it had been your guilt for how you acted last night that led you to the kind task. A small, silent apology. A show of care, awareness. You supposed it was another sign of guilt when you’d left a little before he woke, still on edge from his return and not wishing to subject him to any more crankiness. No, you decided to bottle up your crankiness in case someone got on your bad side, like the nosy or overly-opinionated family members your patients seemed to have in spades. The south portcullis had just finished rising as the town came into view and the woods were left behind. All but the western portcullis were left closed during the night, though you weren’t sure why. The early risers were already on the streets, the town relatively quiet, a few businesses open and preparing for customers. The baker, a sweet man with a perpetually red nose and an apron that always seemed to have a new flower embroidered on the hem by his daughter, was displaying his fresh loaves with the usual remarkable precision. Across the road, the butcher and his apprentices—his twin sons—were laying out fresh hides on the racks beside their shop. A mother exited her home, flanked by her small army of sleepy children who all had their own ways to grump at her for getting them ready for the day. An elderly couple you’d gotten to know well these last four months, both regularly needing new pots pepper pastes and lavender, barely poultices for their joint pains, were slowly walking their usual route. When they waved to you, you waved back and gave them a warm smile. They had been married for ages, had a gaggle of children who each had gaggles of their own. Their oldest son and his family had moved back to the town a few weeks ago to be close to the aging couple and you saw them often when you did your house-visits. Nice enough folks, the oldest son and his family, and they always made sure to stay out of the way when you went about your business. The son had even tried to give you some extra coin for tending to his parents, which you kindly declined, telling him that you charged the same for everyone, no ifs, ands or buts about it. You turned down narrow road and made your way to the fifth door on the left, rapping your knuckles against the faded red door three times. Today was a one patient day, the other healers and midwives in the town tending to your usual patients as well as their own, and for good reason. The woman who answered was sweaty and out of breath, teeth clenched. You glanced to her gravid belly and gave her a sympathetic look. Apparently your suggested methods of inducing labor had worked, and by the tension in her shoulders and the exhaustion in her eyes, early labor had been going on for quite some time, and the likelihood of a quick transition to active labor now that you were here, was slim. ***

Thin clouds softly colored purple and pink from the sunset drifted overhead. Street lamps burned away at the oil and cloth wicks. The townspeople flooded the rough streets as they went about their evening routines of visiting the markets, going home after a long day or meeting with others. Some mothers were wandering the alleyways where their unruly children wandered after being sent out to play. You did your best to move through the crowds of people, hopping onto the wooden promenades to get around the slower and louder groups so you wouldn’t have to trek home in total darkness. The walk back to the cabin was a few miles out, and after spending four months tending to mothers and their children, you had heard more than your fair share of stories about the shadows in the woods and the spindly-legged beasts that enjoyed gobbling up those who were out too late. Logically you knew those creatures weren’t out there, that the mothers were telling their children such stories to keep them from wandering off into the woods and finding themselves food for wolves and bears. But as you walked alone on the dirt road that cut through the thick of the woods, winding this way and that, with only a few thin paths branching off and leading to well-hidden cabins and cottages, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Like something was there behind the trees as it tried to make up its mind on whether you would be a tasty treat. You turned down the third path on the right that you came across, the old wooden sign reading ‘Riley’. The name had been etched into the surface haphazardly—either done by a child ages ago or by someone with shoddy penmanship. Somewhere in the depths of the woods, a branch snapped. Your blood ran cold, your heart racing as you tried to keep yourself from going stock still. The creepy stories from the mothers in town began to fill your mind. Images flashed behind your eyes of lanky creatures with bark-covered antlers that dripped with the blood of their victims, cloaks made from human skin and moss draped over their shoulders, their smiles too wide and full of rows of pointed, thin teeth. Those stories were nonsense, you had to tell yourself with each step you took. If there was something in the woods you needed to fear, it would be the wolves or bears that would charge you before they mauled your defenseless body, or perhaps a person lurking in the woods with whatever foul plans they had brewing in their mind. But the notion to fear those things didn’t enter your mind, they never did when something startled you in the woods. For some reason the fantastical, wicked creatures seemed more terrifying than the real threats. The fear you felt subsided as soon as you saw the heavy door to your cabin, the dark blue paint faded. No candles or lanterns were lit, not that you expected them to be, but a disappointment settled in her heart where the fear had been nonetheless. You unlocked the door slowly, slipped inside and locked the door loudly. Once your boots were off, your cloak hanging from the rack by the door, and your aged medical case in its place by the sword stand that was empty like always, you did a quick search around the cabin, lighting candles in the rooms as you ensured that they were clear. The two bedrooms were empty, undisturbed. Your most recent crochet project was still on the couch in a snarled mess, the furniture still angled the way you liked it. You did a quick sweep of the kitchen, making sure no little critters had managed to find their way into the cabin to sample your loaves of bread or tore into your sacks of sugar or crates of ripening fruits. With everything safe, just the way you’d left it that morning before making your rounds through town, you lit the fire in the parlor before lighting the open hearth in the kitchen.

The front door’s lock unlatched loudly right as your nightgown fell down the rest of your body. Without hesitation you grabbed the dagger you kept under the face-down journal on your nightstand. You knew only one other person had a key to the cabin, but who was to say someone hadn’t gotten a locksmith’s set or perhaps one of those damned creatures from those horrible nighttime stories had managed to slip their thin nails into the locks to trigger the mechanisms.

Knife brandished before you, poised to strike at anything even if it was just to buy a few more seconds of breath before dying, you crept down the hallway. You stuck to the right side because it was the side that never creaked, something you learned a few days into living here. The middle of the hallway seemed to creak only when it was nighttime, while the left side creaked morning, noon or night. There was nothing at the entrance of the hallway, and no one was lingering around the front door to the right or in the parlor which was dead ahead. As you looked left into the kitchen where your pot of stew was still bubbling away, you noticed a broad and tall figure wafting the savory smells towards their face. Their back was towards you, their attire dirty and ratty but it was deep green of their cloak that caught your eye and told you that it was safe to lower your blade. “You’re back,” you whispered as you slowly approached the figure who froze when your voice broke through the silence. You didn't bother to hide the faint disappointment in your tone. The scars of the person’s face glinted in the candle- and hearth-light of the kitchen as their head turned. “’Course I am,” the man rasped, voice tight as if he hadn’t spoken for days. “Been four weeks, told ya I’d be back around now.” You glared at him, not just for being so nonchalant about his arrival. It was night, you were alone, no one around, and he just waltzed in without announcing himself. If you hadn’t noticed the green to his cloak, you could’ve stabbed him which wouldn’t have ended well for anyone. “I take it you’re hungry,” you said under your breath. You didn’t wait for his response, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard and two spoons from the drawer. Luckily you’d made a bit more stew than usual, but you knew you’d be scrambling to find him more food after he scarfed his portion down. You stirred the stew and sighed. It had a little ways to go before it was ready to be eaten. “Go fetch yourself water for a bath and get clean. You smell like a wet dog rolled in a puddle of decay, Simon.” He returned the glare you’d given him moments ago but did as you said and went to the back garden for pails of water. He had bristled when you said his name, rather than referring to him as ‘Ghost’. That happened often after he spent a hefty amount of time with his three friends who only referred to him as ‘Ghost’. Everyone in town did the same, or they used a string of descriptors to refer to him. Simon had told you to not refer to him as ‘Ghost’ while withholding the reason why you were given special license on your wedding day.

Bitterness settled heavy on your tongue, memories of your wedding day suddenly filling your mind. Every muscle seemed to tense and tears brimmed in your eyes. You knew the whole situation was horrible for Simon, too, not just for you, but very little about his life had changed that day. At least to your eyes, he had been able to remain in his hometown, living in his family’s cabin all while you had to move far away from the family that forced you to become a Riley. You had to leave everyone you loved behind, most of your belongings still in your old bedroom hidden under white sheets until your family re-purposed them or sold them off. And the marriage remained as rocky as it had been on day one—and it had been four months since the wedding. When Simon was home, he was gone most of the day, leaving near sun-up and returning near sun-down. Sometimes he was called away with his three friends for a few days, and most recently, they’d been called away to do something for four weeks. The two of you rarely talked when he was around, rarely spent more than an hour in the same room. Oh, and there was no physical intimacy. None. Your sisters wrote to you often asking how married life was (and if you had found yourself to be with child yet, which they made sure to never write out so bluntly, preferring to inquire between the lines) and you had no idea how to politely tell them that they had witnessed your husband barely give you a peck on your awful wedding day to seal the vows, so why would they think the marriage had gotten even remotely physical enough for there to be the possibility of a child? As you stood there stewing over the stew, you weren’t even sure you wanted children with Simon. If it ever did happen, would he be a supportive husband to you through all the pains and changes, the scares and the happy moments, the horror and miracle that was birth? Would he care for the child in such a way that would charm you into wanting to give him a dozen more babies? A bubble popped on the surface of the stew, ripping you from your contemplations and rapidly growing dissatisfaction and anger at everything. You licked the spot on the back of your hand and smiled faintly. You were sure you’d perfected the seasonings this time, as well as the ratio of carrots to celery. It was then that Simon cleared his throat and you looked up at where he leaned against the door frame. He dressed in loose cotton trousers and a sleep shirt, his body cleaned of whatever filth he’d gotten on himself. He’d even trimmed his dark blond hair, which was a shame because the slight length had looked rather charming on him.

Then you realized you’d been in your own head long enough for him to fetch water, heat it, bathe and dress, and for the stew to finish cooking. All the little lines you fed yourself daily about making the best out of this strange and aggravating situation seemed to have done nothing but give you some momentary distraction when you saw happy couples and families loving interacting with each other. “There’s fresh bread in the larder,” you told him as you began to ladle stew into his bowl, making sure to given him most of the venison. You knew that whatever he and his friends did when they were called away left them without hearty meals most of the time. Even just a few days away often left Simon looking a bit leaner, but four weeks away? The hollowness to his scarred cheeks made something twist in your chest to see it. You sat the bowls down on the little table in the corner of the kitchen, then turned to find Simon slicing the loaf—no, loaves…God, you made a mental note to get up early tomorrow to bake more before you left to tend to your patients. He’d also grabbed a jar of apple butter and poured you both a cup of water, which you thanked him for under your breath. The two of you sat at the table, eating in the usual silence, staring off at the usual spots of the wall. Your eyes trained on the cobweb in the left corner of the wall behind him, and his eyes trained on the wall behind you. Your brows furrowed when Simon suddenly made a face that you caught out of the corner of your eye. He picked up the jar of apple butter, examining it, then took another bite of the bread that he’d slathered the mixture on. He made the same face and you sighed. “I bought that stuff a few days ago.” You took it from him when he offered it up. It smelled just fine, it looked just fine, too. No discoloration or signs of something growing. You spread a little bit of it on the corner of your bread and took a bite. Simon snapped his fingers in some sort of triumph when you grimaced, too. Something about the apple butter mixing with the savoriness of the stew, perhaps even with the slight acidity of the bread, made everything taste wrong. Worse than wrong. You took a gulp of water to wash down the horrid taste. Before any more mistakes were made with the apple butter, you closed the container and made your way to the larder. After searching the moderately dusty shelves, you grabbed a jar of pepper preserves that had been gifted to you two weeks ago by one of your patients after helping her deliver her third child and first daughter. You hand it to Ghost who wasted no time in opening it and spreading the contents onto a fresh slice of bread. He took a large bite and his eyes fluttered closed as he chewed slowly. “I’m not sure why you thought apple butter would go well with such a savory stew,” you said under your breath as you resumed eating.

The whole situation had begun because your father had made, with what little he had to his name to begin with, bad investments. His intentions in making those investments had been somewhat good-natured, you supposed. Wanting to increase the family’s wealth that had been dwindling for two generations, each year another chunk of land gone, a handful of ancient brooches sold off to pay the few servants that remained and to keep food in people’s bellies.

To save the family from utter ruin for the last few years, your father had called for suitors for his daughters and sent his sons off to find agreeable matches. Over three years, your two older sisters had found what seemed to be love matches, and your brothers had married suitable ladies, but you remained the unmarried one, not that you minded it.

You had continued to spend your days tending to injuries the servants gained or helping the few livestock that remained bring their little ones into the world. You even slipped into the city, when your father and mother were too busy worrying over the finances, to apprentice with the midwives there, earning money as you did so that you contributed to the household funds (even though your earnings were meager).

Then the world changed. One late night as you attempted to enter the aged manor your family had inhabited since time immemorial, you came across a rough man with an imposing stature and an equal seriousness who was sitting in the parlor…glaring at your father who was trying his best to be just as imposing, except he failed. The furrow in your father’s brow made you want to scoff, to giggle at him like you had done when he was little, but when he looked at you with shame, you felt your soul die a little.

Apparently your father, without your knowledge, had sent out feelers for a possible betrothal for you. The finances had taken an even sharper decline, the household suddenly unable to support the few livestock and servants that remained, and you. The insults and threats you had hurled that night had made even your betrothed go wide-eyed where he sat. Yet there was no changing what had already been agreed upon, and for four whole days, you had been under house-arrest to ensure you didn’t flee to the city and weasel your way into one of the midwives’ houses for the rest of your life.

The wedding had been held on the fourth night, an embarrassing affair that made your skin crawl and burn even months after. Your siblings had not been there, only your parents, the priest, one loyal former servant who caught wind of the event, and the town lord from Simon’s region had also been in attendance. It felt more like the secret weddings some of the patients from the city had right before their babies came, but that wasn’t why. Your family simply couldn’t afford a grand event for you, and any guests you would have wanted wouldn’t have been able to make it on such short notice.

Once the vows had been sealed with a hesitant and short peck, you were practically dragged to a carriage, secured inside it with Simon across from you, and spent the one-day journey glaring at Simon or looking at the countryside to keep from crying (which worked about as well as a holey barrel storing water during a thunderstorm at sea).

The carriage had stopped at the edge of the woods where Simon’s family’s cabin was, forcing the two of you to hike three miles to the old building. Luckily, and unluckily, you’d not been able (allowed) to pack many belongings, so all you carried with you was an old medical case from one of the midwives, and a case full of simple clothing and another pair of shoes. Simon carried your trousseau, along with his case of clothing. He had offered to carry all your belongings to make the hike easier for you, but you’d shot him down quickly and hurried on ahead.

Simon gave you a quick tour of the cabin once you’d arrived. He had shown you his bedroom, which has a bed big enough for the two of you. At the sight of it, the implications of what would happen now that you were husband and wife, made your panic and anger bubble over. In that moment, you’d told him angrily that you hadn’t wanted to marry him—or anyone—in the first place, and that you absolutely refused to be touched. That this wasn’t what your life was supposed to amount to

Then Simon had told you that the idea of marriage had never been particularly appealing to him either, that he’d had his arm twisted to into marrying someone, anyone, and your father had just so happened to extend an invitation to discuss a possible betrothal. The whole thing was some sort of marriage of convenience for him, that you were free to do whatever you wanted to do and to leave him out of it.

The night ended with the two of you in different rooms, and in the morning, you and Simon agreed to be husband and wife on paper only.

You hadn’t thought this through, that much was plainly obvious. Neither of you had uttered a word to each other after you suggested the two of you talk while he went to market. You followed him closely, much like a lost puppy, as he wove through the customers in the marketplace.

When he stopped at a stall to examine a merchant’s goods, he took his sweet time looking over every piece he could get his hands on before deciding he wanted to go elsewhere. You were trying to find the right time to fall into step beside him, to broach the subject that had been hanging between you for months now, but he didn’t make it easy.

When you did manage to be beside him, he was engaged in conversing with merchants, ordering full pecks of apples to be delivered by the middle of the week or haggling prices for full sacks of flour and sugar that would also be delivered. He always got what he wanted in the end, either because the merchants were terrified of his presence that seemed to engulf everything, or because he was just that good at finding the middle ground that made every one happy.

“Choose,” he said to you as he motioned to the display of vegetables from one of the granges. “Larder’s all but empty, and the garden’s not goin’ to produce enough for us both this late into autumn.”

He wasn't wrong, the garden was on its last legs for the year, so you began to peruse the vegetables. The friars had an abundance of skirret and leeks, onions and squash. You grabbed up the produce as possibilities for meals filled your mind: stew with squash, skirret and a bit of the meat Simon had requested from the butcher. An onion loaf with some cheese baked into it, maybe some leek tarts.

Simon paid the friars once you stepped back from the display after filling his basket with more than enough vegetables. Simon flashed you a smile, a faint one but a smile all the same. Something about it made your heart clench.

There wasn’t much time to analyze the feeling because Simon was moving to the next stall and then the next. The sun hung low by the time his shopping desires were sated and the basket you carried was almost too heavy to handle alongside your medical bag. His paced slowed enough for you to fall into step beside him as you made your way to the town square.

You sat on the bench angled towards the town fountain, the full basket and your medical bag separating you. Simon fiddled with one of the thin lengths of skirret, his blunt nails scraping at the rough and dirtied peel. The major crowds had died down around the town square, a gentle hum of conversations and laughter coming from the side streets and promenades.

Now was as good a time as any, you realized with a sigh. “Simon,” you started softly and he went stock still, nearly dropping the root vegetable. Your skin prickled as his gaze cut to you. “I…haven’t been fair to you. I wasn’t fair the night we met, the day we married and you brought me here. All the anger I feel towards my father, this entire situation, has been directed towards you and it’s not right.”

“’aven’t been fair to ya, either,” he muttered. “Marriage wasn’t supposed to be in the cards f’r me. Swore on my father’s deathbed that the Riley line would end with me, then the damned town lord came ‘round some fifteen years later sayin’ I had too much wealth and land to continue doin’ nothin’ with. He gave me an ultimatum: find a wife and use the land, the money I ‘ave, to support her and a family or…he would do what he could to take it all from me. My father never left a proper will. Yet another way he fucked me over. So, I got my friends to help me find someone. Price found ya father’s offer: marriage to a learned, talented bride if the groom helped the family with their financial struggles. The papers were signed before ya got ‘ome that night. I thought you’d agreed to the whole thing, if I realized ya hadn’t, I wouldn’t ‘ave signed. But I couldn’t go back on my word, I’ve some honor left in me.”

“You’ve more than some honor, Simon,” you told him quickly. You finally looked at him and gave him the best smile you could muster. He had a crooked nose, you noticed for the first time, and it was charming. Though you wanted to chastise whoever had set it so poorly. “How do we go about repairing things? Slowly, I know that much, especially when you could be called away to do whatever it is you do with your friends.” There was a hint of bitterness in your voice, you weren’t sure where it came from or why. You hated the feeling though. It made you nauseated.

“We’re mercenaries,” he told you, the honesty warmed your heart. “When we’re gone for days, it’s to do what mercenaries do.” He leaned back on the bench, head tilted to the sky. “We go at this slowly, like ya said, and with ‘onesty at the forefront of everythin’. Here’s my first step: I don’t want children. Ever. I plan to keep the promise that the Riley line doesn’t continue past me.”

Relief settled over you. Children had never been part of your plan, none of this had been, but to know he didn’t want children, that there would be no expectation to have children? “I don’t want them either. Children are fine to be around in small bursts, but I’ve never seen myself as very…maternal.”

He barked a laugh and you couldn’t help but chuckle. “There’s some irony there, given your profession, no?”

“I’d said there’s a bit of irony in everything we choose to do. A doctor might not want to get ill, yet he still rushes into the plague houses to help people, does he not? A sapper doesn’t wish to be crushed, yet he lays charges and does his best to rush from the structure he’s attempting to cripple. In all honestly, I became a midwife because there’s a lack of support from others that women must contend with during that part of their life. If I can lessen their troubles just a little, I feel like I’ve made the world a little better.”

“They’re lucky to have ya,” he said. He waved the around the poor skirret he’d been fiddling with, the air scented withe a faint peppery aroma. “Will ya teach me how to cook with this...thing tonight?”

“It’s skirret and yes,” you laughed, “I’ll teach you how to cook with it.”

White satin topped with tulle slipped through his fingers, the fine fabrics snagging on his rough and dry hands. He watched as you spun one last time in the mirror before smoothing your hands down your bodice. You’d spent hours agonizing over every stitch that went into making tiny flowers of various kinds. A labor of love and devotion to the perfect wedding dress that flattered you more than the simple one you’d worn for the original wedding.

Simon’s fingers brushed against necklace you wore: silver antlers forming an approximation of a torc. Sharp and dangerous and beautiful, the perfect hidden weapon to be used if someone messed with you while he wasn’t around. He knew you wouldn’t wear it day-to-day, no matter how much pleading he did, but he liked knowing you had something like the necklace in your possession.

He liked imagining you as some vicious thing waiting for the wrong person to underestimate your fury. It made his blood thrum as it rushed in his veins. The side of his mind he deemed wicked and tried to hide from you clawing at its battered cage. He wanted to see you lay into someone, to destroy the very foundations of their person and bring them crumbling to their knees before you.

Your eyes met in the mirror and you flashed him a smile that made his heart skip—your smiles always did. When you turned, his heart dropped to his feet. The face he’d grown to love, the one he dreamed of peppering with kisses until you were exasperated, was gone. Your skin had grown over every facial feature. He blinked once, twice, thrice but his mind didn’t undo the twisted image before him.

Blood stained your fingers as you reached for him while groaning lowly. Mud and viscera clung to your torn and slightly charred wedding dress. The points of the silver antlers around your neck as embedded in flesh, rot and blood oozed from the wounds. Cold wrapped around his neck as you finally got a hold of him and—

Simon gasped and choked on his heart as it raced in his throat. Black spots built up along the hazy edges of his vision as he fought against the erratic tensing of his muscles. His mouth hung open in a silent scream as the vision of a faceless you covered in the filth he was terrified of transferring to you, flashed behind his eyes rapidly.

He struggled to free himself from the suffocating blankets on the bed and stumbled towards the farthest corner where he collapsed. His lungs seemingly refused to inflate as his vision went totally black and he flushed icy. His vision returned when warm hands grabbed his bare shoulders and jostled him a bit. A soft voice called his name frantically and his body began to regulate.

His vision filled with you—the real you—as you knelt beside him, rubbing his shoulders with firm but not cruel hands as a series of rushed questions fell from your lips. Tears fell from your eyes, wetting your cheeks as you brought him back from what he was certain was his death. He reached up and cupped your cheek hesitantly.

You didn’t fade away. Your face remained yours and not the blank skin canvas from his dreams. He grabbed at what ever parts of you he could, squeezing and tracing your naked flesh to prove to himself that he truly was awake. Simon let his head fall back against the wall with a heavy thud. His nightmares had only gotten worse in the last week or so, and tonight had been the worst by far. Full of color, of sounds and touch, vivid imagery remaining far too long after waking.

“Come,” you said as you tugged his hand. “Get back into bed, I’ll get you some water.”

“No—no bed,” he panted. He could feel the nightmare lingering over his pillow, jagged tendrils attempting to creep closer and pull him back into his personal hell. “Just…need a minute to calm down. Sun’s gonna be up soon, yes?”

You shook your head softly. “We’re hours away from sunrise. I think we only slept for three hours.”

Simon’s expression dropped. Hours until sunrise and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. He wasn’t even sure being hit hard upside the head would knock him out. The plan he’d had for the day—breakfast with you, finishing up the bookshelf, dragging you along to the market and maybe the lake—was ruined. To be even moderately functioning he needed a decent chunk of sleep, without it, he would crash at noon and be drowsy until he trudged to bed.

“We could arrange some pillows and blankets on the parlor floor,” you suggested. “Or we could get an early start to the day. I could even help you with the bookshelf, or start moving things in here?”

“Why don’t I move myself into yer room?” Simon pushed off the wall and floor, standing on unsteady feet. “Don’t want whatever bad spirits are in here to catch ya. Not sure I know how to fight ‘em off effectively.”

“All right, you’ll move into my room. But first, if we’re going to start our day, we need tea. Some that’s strong enough to warp wood.” You grabbed your chemise and pulled it over your head before leaving the room.

He watched you leave before he kicked his pants up and snatched them out of the air. He gave the bed one last look, grimacing. The day his father finally did something right by him and passed away, Simon should have burned all the furniture in the room and built his own. He grabbed some parchment from his desk and a charcoal pencil before meeting you in the kitchen.

That would be his proper wedding present to you: a whole new, ornate set of bedroom furniture. Untainted, his thoughts of protection engraved into every inch of wood. No more horrors, no more nightmares or fears that tried to rule his life and ruin one of the few good things life had blessed him with.

Simon could tell the hammer in your hands felt out of place. You managed to hit the head of the nail more times than not, but he knew the weight of the tool was heavier than you were used to. Needles and sheers, the occasional forceps, all requiring a gentleness that a hammer did not. Still, you gave the last few nails your best and looked back at him with a giddy smile, pointing out your handiwork.

He pressed a kiss to your gloved hands before handing you a chisel. He stood behind you and guided you as you chipped the wood away, carving your initials right beside his. As he carried it inside, you rushed ahead to make sure the path to the second bedroom was clear and directed him so he didn’t trip or hit corners. He placed it beside your cluttered vanity and wardrobe. The height and width seemed a decent choice now that it was in its place.

Nearly every book in the cabin piled up on the five shelves. You organized them by height, then reorganized them by the color, then topic which is what you stuck with. Trinkets you’d picked up during the last four, almost five months, along with some of his own were placed in the empty spaces. The bottom shelf was dedicated to your medical case and his empty quiver.

Lingering along the edge of his vision stood a translucent specter, faceless and tall, broad and twisted. His father, he knew just from the flood of ice in his veins. A hallucination of the monster who haunted him in life and in his death, his mind’s wicked way of spoiling his happiness because he believed—some part of him truly believed he didn’t deserve anything good.

You kissed his cheek and he startled. The specter faded into oblivion and his blood warmed.

“Maybe we could move,” he suggested suddenly. “Into town, I mean. Puts you closer to your patients, and if we got the right place, we could ‘ost dinner for the guys and get you properly introduced.”

“Simon—“

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