simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | one shot/drabble
you have something that belongs to simon. something he wants back.
cw: intoxication, dub-con to non-con, force masc, afab and fem presenting reader, misgendering
It's been three years since Simon watched Johnny's body crumble to the ground—brains scattered on cement, blood soaking into stone, blue eyes rolling behind eyelids he'll never watch flutter again—so he's a bit taken aback when he sees him at the pub.
He's younger. Stubble hardly even noticeable along his jaw and lips, skin softer with less worry lines. That scar that used to bisect his eyebrow is even gone. Smoothed out. Fully covered and wrinkling as he smiles. It's so tangible Simon can almost smell him. Sour gun powder coated in the mint gum he always chewed on deployments. A tick. Not a nervous one. Johnny was always thrumming with life, with the need for movement, a desire to do something with his hands.
Then, you look over your shoulder at him.
You slap your wallet shut, smothering the image of Johnny behind faux patterned leather before shoving it into your pocket. The glare on your face is challenging. A silent spitting at his feet as you look him up and down, drinking in the height and broadness of him like the mere size of him is a challenge. A threat.
"Can I help you?" Short. Cutting. You don't trust him, and he doesn't blame you. A stranger in a pub with his chest nearly up against your back as you try to order a drink after a long week of work.
"Maybe."
Your distaste at his lack of tactfulness screws the features on your face until your fingers are curling. Simon's not sure why, but he wouldn't mind the taste of your knuckles against his cheek, bone pushing flesh into his teeth until the blood floods his mouth to wash down the aftertaste of you.
"How do you know 'im?" Simon questions, chin tilting up as his words die down.
"The fuck are you talking about?" you bite.
"Johnny. MacTavish."
Recognition freezes over your features until your fingers are tracing over the thickness in your pocket where his old teammate (No, something more, someone more. An importance he doesn't know how to utter but something that burns through him all the same) resides like an urn upon a mantle.
"Do you know him?" You answer his question with another one. Simon refuses to speak until you're breaking, eyes falling to the floor, teeth catching between your lips. "He was my donor."
Your response only stirs up more confusion in Simon's mind. "Donor?"
"Yeah, like…" You awkwardly glance around the area before your fingers move up to the collar of your shirt and then gently pull down. You're not showing much that he cares to look at, except the scar. It's long. Vanishing beyond where you refuse to show, it spans the length of your sternum. A straight line, still puffy. Still healing. "My heart donor."
Everything makes sense. Why he's drawn to you. Why you have a picture of Johnny in your wallet. It's so fitting of him to give up the best parts of himself. That man gave you a gilded heart so you could continue to draw breath all while his stopped deep in that tunnel, too far from the Scottish highlands he always spoke so fondly of. Now, his Johnny resides within you—so deep he's not sure he can dig him out.
"Let me buy you a drink," Simon offers, fingers twitching. "I can tell you everythin' you wanna know 'bout 'im."
You fold easy. Tissue paper caught in the rain, dissolving at the mere touch of his fingers against your arm, leading you towards a private booth once you've both got a proper pint in your hands. He tells you everything. The pristine details of it, anyway.
Johnny's a hero. A good man. Died fighting for what he believed in, and apparently continued to save lives even after his death. You got to taste the fruit of his labor. You taste it every day in the blood running through your veins, pooling on your tongue, warm and tangy. Simon wonders, if he shoved his mouth onto yours, would he be able to taste him? The essence of the man he loved to get lost in?
A few more pints later, and you share your side of the story. It was a birth defect that got you like this. Sick your whole childhood, it wasn't caught until it was nearly too late for you. Hospital stays, missed school days, the loss of friendships and events that should have been special but were tainted by medication and needles. Johnny's heart isn't your first. In fact, it's your third. Complication after complication—a body that rejects all the help that's shoved inside of it.
"It's been almost three years since the transplant, and I've never felt better," you admit, speech slurred, eyes shining with the tears you've been fighting back the whole conversation. "I've tried to meet his family, but either he doesn't have any, or they want nothing to do with me. I guess I can't blame them. I get to live because he died. How fucked is that?" You wash a sniffle down with a gulp of beer before you wipe your mouth. "You don't know how nice it is to meet you, Simon. I can't thank you enough for this. For letting me know more about Johnny."
He likes the way you say his name. He likes how it sounds like him saying it. Cotton swirls in Simon's head as heat flushes throughout his body, superheating his loins until his hips are rolling in his seat.
If you note the change in his demeanor, you don't say anything. Your ignorance only makes the space in his pants tighter.
"How 'bout we take this back to my place, yeah?" Simon prompts. He would shove his fingers in your mouth at the way you nod at him—glassy-eyed and slow—if there weren't so many people around. "Good boy."
It's easy getting you on his bed. Your clothes slide off of your body as if the very weaving of the fabric comes undone at the hungry prodding of his fingers. When you're undressed, he can't help but trace the path along your sternum to feel the raised skin that slices through you. An old war wound. A roughness he recognizes like stubble on the inside of his neck. Johnny's heart jumps out at him like he's kissing him. Trying to break free. Trying to return to where he should be.
Simon stares down his nose at you while he unfastens his trousers, pulling himself free, hot and eager. His thighs knock against the edge of the mattress as he beckons you forward with two fingers. "C'mon, you know what you gotta do. 'Nless you want it to tear."
He can see how your head spins in the way your eyes are unable to lock onto one place for longer than half a second, and it only worsens as you crawl towards him. Your mouth is on him quick. Tongue lapping along the underside of his cock as you bob your head and hum at the sourness of his skin.
If he closes his eyes and leans his head back, Simon can almost pretend your mouth is Johnny's. You're a bit softer around the edges than he was, and he wishes you'd use more teeth, but the fantasy alone is enough to get the tension building in his abdomen as his thighs begin to shake. It's been a long time. Too long. He feels the end arriving before he's even had the time to enjoy this.
Rigid fingers curl into the back of your neck as Simon pulls out of your mouth. You cough and spit drips down your chin as you stare up at him, trying to catch your breath. A smile breaks over your lips as his fingers gather the mess before he's digging in the back of your throat. He goes until you choke. Until you gag. He yanks his fingers out with a content chuckle.
"Atta boy."
Your brows draw together. "I'm not a-"
Your protest is silenced with his cock in your mouth again. This time, he doesn't allow you to bob your head, but rather forces himself until he's reaching the back of your throat and then holds himself there as his still wet hand reaches for your rump. You try to squeal as his fingers prod the tight ring of your ass. There's little give to you, but Simon's always been good with breaking things in.
"Not a what now?" Simon asks facetiously as he manages to stretch you out on one, lonely finger. "Not a boy? Got a boy's heart in ya, yeah? My boy's heart. I already know everythin' 'bout ya, handsome."
It's easy to spin you around when you're already intoxicated. Body stumbling, crumpling on your stomach, hands desperately attempting to claw at your mouth as you suck in as much air as your lungs will allow. Simon's weight dips down on either side of you once he's managed to shuck his trousers off. Hairy thighs pressing your own together as he paws at your ass until your hole is exposed enough for him to butt up against. There's no amount of wiggling that you can do that will knock him off course.
"W-Wait, not there, please," you beg. You squeeze so tight around him that it's difficult for Simon to get the head in. He grunts as he pushes through despite your whimpering. "I can't, not there."
"Just shut up 'n let me have this, yeah?" Simon grunts, now halfway in. "I'll give your cock all the attention it wants afterwards."
Your moans are animalistic. Grunting, teeth biting into the bedding, fingers curling until your nails pierce flesh—primal. Just like him. As Simon begins to piston into you, it's all he can imagine. Him. His boy. His Johnny.
"Missed you so fuckin' much," he hisses through his teeth, fingers curling deep enough into your hips to dent the bone. "What'd I always tell ya, huh? Gonna find ya in every life. Not gettin' away from me."
Simon comes without warning. It shudders through your body until he's spilling into you with no care for the weak cries that wet your nose. He can hardly keep himself up, and when you collapse underneath the weight of him, he follows not too far after you. Body curling over yours, head resting between your scapulas as he tries to catch his breath. Dull teeth nip at you in places you can't reach yourself, but you don't say anything as he continues to mutter words you wish you could cut from his vocabulary.
My boy, good boy, did so well. Don't worry, I found ya, here to take care of ya again. Can't do much without me, huh?
The two of you lie there long enough for your cries to die down as you quietly mourn the ache of your body instead. Content with the silence, Simon stays where he is, ear pressed against your body, listening to each heartbeat reverberate through you.
With each lub-dub, lub-dub that hits the side of his face, he can only hear:
Namaygoosisagagun First Nation/Collins has burned to the ground. The entire community is nothing but ashes after being quickly consumed by wildfires. They did not have any support from emergency services, and no one offered aid. The community saved themselves by escaping into boats because no one came.
Mishkeegogamang and Cat Lake have lost power. Families are ending up in shelters with nothing. Armstrong, Lac La Croix, Whitesand, Gull Bay, Lac des Mille Lacs are currently in the fires path and all members are being evacuated.
All this loss, all this devastation, and it was entirely preventable.
After steadily underfunding wildland firefighting and purposefully excluding Indigenous wildland firefighters and Indigenous wildfire organizations from wildfire operations, firefighter training, decisionmaking, and resource exchanges, in 2025, Doug Ford slashed the forest firefighting budget.
It's hard to ignore his decision to cut funding and leave us out of adequate fire training (even though we've lived with forest fires for thousands of years—far longer than settlers have been in Canada—and made sure fires like the ones we're all seeing today were prevented through kinisitotēn) when, despite making up less than 5% of the population, we account for 42% percent of all wildfire evacuations in Canada.
And when we are successfully evacuated, we face discrimination and racism—like Kashechewan—because it's always been easier to blame us than it is to blame the true culprit: denialism, corportate greed, and colonization.
The people of Collins and every other impacted community deserve better.
Right now, the AFN is currently accepting donations to help Collins First Nation. If you're able to, please consider donating.
ONWA (Ontario Native Women's Association) is another great place to donate to. They have outreach vans going to motels and inns and offering food, water, resources, and cultural support to those impacted by the wildfires.
Other places to consider donating to are Mikinakoos Emergency Fund, Red Cross, True North Aid, Indigenous Climate Action. You can also send donations directly to Whitesand First Nation via e-transfer ([email protected]) and they request that you add your full name in the e-transfer comment section to receive a tax receipt.
*Before sending money, verify that the appeal appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel.
If you can't offer financial support, please consider donating items of need. Moontime Connections is currently accepting drop-off donations. If you live in the Thunder Bay area, Namaygoosisagagun Health Office is also taking in donations! They can also bemailed to Superior Inn Hotel & Conference Centre at 555 West Arthur Street, Thunder Bay, ON, P7E 5P8.
For those of you who don't know, Canada is on fire, and Indigenous communities are being disproportionately affected by the overwhelming damage.
A few writers and I are working on setting up charity commissions where people would show proof of donations to charities such as:
Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity
Ontario Native Women's Association
Mikinakoos Emergency Fund
Red Cross
True North Aid
Indigenous Climate Action
Any others with an appeal that appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel
Before we set up the commissions, we are putting out this poll to see interested numbers so that we are able to effectively decide how many commission slots we will offer and how long the commissions will be.
At the moment, we are thinking of commissions being 1,000 words maximum for 10$ minimum donated (or your local currency equivalent) but that is subject to change depending on interest. Most of us write for COD, but more information about characters/fandoms will be available when we make the official post.
Would you be interested in a Charity Commission?
Yes
No
Remaining time: 1 day 6 hours
Even if you're not interested in a commission, I highly encourage you to donate if you are able to! Lev's post is a very valuable resource and source of information if you'd like to do further research.
Please reblog this post, not only for sample size but to get word out about the fires and the charities.
until we're rotten; a AKOTSK AU (Ghost x Johnny X F!Reader)
AN: your honor, they're all toxic and we love them for it.
Summary and complete CW (contains smut, violence, sex work and mentions of abortion)
Ghost had buried his sire beneath a tree in a field in a land that had no proper name. The hedge knight had stayed by the man's side until he drew his last breath, and even after that he had stayed, wondering what words he was supposed to say over the man who had been the closest thing to a father to him. His sire had not been a kind man, had never shown him anything akin to love, but he was honorable in the ways that mattered to Ghost.
Ghost had promised that dying man he would find the closest tourney, that he would fight the way Ghost had always fought with a brutality that most could not and that win or lose at the end of the tourney he would find himself a new master to follow. Ghost had never wanted to enter a tourney, he saw no point to play fighting when there were actual battles to prepare for. The only things he had to prove were on the battlefield. But the dying wishes of an old man were hard to say no to, even harder when that man bled out from a wound meant for him.
The tourney grounds are already lively when he arrives. The division between the common folk and the knights and the nobles is clear as he makes his way between tents and bodies. The common folk are densely packed together near the edges of the grounds, their tents shabby compared to the ornate fabrics that decorate the tents of the lords and noble knights that come from houses with prestigious names.
Ghost causes a stir. How could he not with his size, his mask and his mysterious origins. Each theory is more wild than the next. He’s the bastard of a lord come to seize his rightful place, he’s the crowned prince in disguise, he’s one of the old gods made man here to test his followers.
He hears the whispers and pays them no mind, he has always been a spectacle even before he joined his sire. He had been a large child and an even larger teen. Though, he hadn't always been so violent. Much like the sharpest blades, Ghost had been forged in the flames, his will and his desires beaten and ground and hardened until he was a weapon for others.
When it comes time to add his name to the roll, the master of the games is hesitant to add a man without a title wearing battle beaten armor who know one seems to know? There are noble knights fighting here, they shouldn’t have their reputations sullied by some common hedge knight with no master and no name. He tells Ghost to come back with someone who will vouch for him.
Ghost is smart enough to know that he is no proper knight, there were no fancy words shared between him and his sire, no oath, only his loyalty and his accomplishments in battle. He has fought alongside many of the men, he recognizes their banners and names, but it was always his sire who took the lead, who broke bread with the lords and their families, who had jokes for the men, soft words for the women. His sire was the one they should know and yet they all feigned ignorance.
Only one man claims to know of Ghost, even more shockingly that man is willing to vouch for him.
Ser MacTavish is a known scoundrel and rake. The other knights and lords know to keep their women away from the unruly and boisterous northerner, despite the fact that he had traveled to the tourney with his own pets. It was said that he could never be truly satisfied.
MacTavish stands out among the others knights of noble birth, today his hair shorn short on the sides, the rest plaited down his back and adorned with flowers. In place of pants or a tunic he wears a tartan kilt, often forgoing a shirt. As he follows along with Ghost to visit the master of games he complains about the southern heat while winking at him.
He reminds Ghost of the old gods he saw stitched into a tapestry in a sacked keep. There was a man surrounded by other ethereal beings dancing among the weirwoods, but the one with the flowers in his hair had caught Ghost's attention the most. He had only ever seen men adorned in metal, leather and blood. He had never seen a man look so soft, so pretty.
Ghost observes him, curious and apprehensive of his sole supporter. The man is more than a pretty face, his chest covered in thick hair and battle scars, each more ragged and raw than the last. Ghost studies each, a mace, a broadsword, the glancing blow of an arrow. His own body is much the same only he would never put it on display in such a garish way.
MacTavish drags Ghost to join him in his tent for a pre-tourney banquet, the northerner telling Ghost it's the only way to repay his kindness. The cups overflow with wine, the plates with meat, and pretty men and maidens dance around the crowd moving in ways Ghost has never seen before.
It’s at this banquet that he sees you for the first time. He sits next to MacTavish, a seat of honor according to his host who has one arm slung over the back of Ghost’s chair, the pressure heavy and hot, while the other swings around a chalice of wine that seems always on the verge of spilling over despite the way that MacTavish drinks heavily from it.
You are not alone. Your arrival, and the arrival of the other dancers is announced with cries from around the room. Each dancer moving with a gracefulness that Ghost could only dream of achieving. The moves seem both planned and spontaneous, bodies twisting around each other and undulating, pulsing as they fill the empty spaces between tables, between seats, between the throngs of people who feast on MacTavish's generosity.
Each dancer is more pretty than the last.
But you are the one that Ghost cannot look away from.
You move like gravity is only a suggestion, something to keep others tied to the world while you move about untethered and free of its weight. The dress you wear is made of a fabric that looks like smoke, it moves as fluidly as you do and covers nothing. Every inch of your skin is on display as your body twists languidly to the music. Ghost can't look away as you pass through the crowd, each time you appear he sees another part of you, another glimpse of the woman who is surely not of this world.
You are a whore.
Even now as you dance around the tent giving the guests a taste and a tease of what you can offer there is only one man who will enjoy the soft caress of your fingers, the plush press of your thighs and that is because he pays with the prettiest piles of gold coin.
You’ve played this game before with him. Pretend to be the entertainment, pretend you aren’t one of his pretty pretty pets that he drags from tourney to tourney, to battlefield to feast. You don’t look his way, you don’t break the illusion that you are some random woman he has never met before. It’s the same every time. He pretends not to see you, while you pretend to ignore his advances.
Johnny likes the chase. Likes to think he’s worked for your pussy. And you would be lying to say you didn’t enjoy it, Johnny might have a voracious appetite but he leaves none of his lovers wanting.
Tonight though you can't help but peer up at the head table, it's as if something pulls you there, calls to you. Through the throng of bodies you see him. Not Johnny, although you see him as well, a woman on one knee, his beefy hand kneading at her thigh as he speaks to the man next to him.
Can you call him a man? The top half of his face is covered with what looks like a mask made of bone, only his eyes visible from two black pits. The lower half is covered by a cloth that he pulls down to eat bites of dripping pieces of meat or swigs of his wine. Each time you hope to see more of his face before he pulls the cloth back up.
He is the biggest man you have ever seen and you wonder if he is big everywhere, for certainly it would be a waste if that was not the case.
This is the man the others have been whispering about, the secret prince or the beast sent to slay them all. A hedge knight that comes from nowhere yet claims to have been everywhere. You've also heard he is honorable, he's curried the favor of the lowborn attendants in some unspoken way. You have not cared to listen to them because you are not honorable. You are a whore from a disgraced house who sold your body to the highest bidder until you got lucky. 'ave tae call me Johnny if yer goan tae suck mah cock like ye like it he had whispered to you the first night you met after dragging you out to the stables when you should have been entertaining the man who had already paid for your services.
You are also smart, you know it's only a matter of time before Johnny loses interest in you.
Perhaps he is already losing interest in you. He stares up at the mystery knight enraptured by him, the same as everyone else. You know what it feels like to have those blue eyes peer into your soul, you know what it feels like to have the heavy hold of his arm grounding you, you know what it is like to have that man whisper to you switching between the common tongue and the language of his ancestors.
It is more intoxicating than even the finest wine. And when you dine with Johnny, Ser MacTavish, you only drink the best.
You are certain he will lose interest in you soon because you have a secret, easy enough to deal with if you found yourself a maester. But every morning as you wake up feeling more and more sluggish, the fatigue creeping up your spine as you perform your duties, dance this same dance from place to place, you start to think that maybe you don't want to get rid of it. If you had someone honorable, someone strong who could protect you and the babe maybe you wouldn't have to sell yourself anymore. Maybe you could sell yourself one final time, give one man the rest of you.
Maybe it could be enough.
When Johnny catches your eye you are shocked that he bids you forward, a wolfish smile across his face as he whispers to his companion. The other man watches you too, his eyes just as hungry.
This is not the game you are used to, but you allow yourself to be swept up in Johnny's hold, arms sticky with sweat as he pulls you against him, jostling you until your barely covered pussy is flush to his cock that strains against his kilt. The tartan rough through the silk of your dress.
He leans his chin on your shoulder, pressing his face to yours as he looks at the knight by his side.
Nae a bastard in the realm luckier than me. tae 'ave such bonnie company, ah must be favored by the old gods
You've thought the same of him, because how could he be so careless and so carefree, not once in his employment had you ever seen him training and yet not once had he been unseated in a joust, or bested at hand-to-hand. After battles and skirmishes he always returns alive, bloodied, bruised and later scarred, but never anything that doesn't add to his allure.
You don't know about the old gods, but perhaps he is blessed by The Warrior so that no true harm will come to him in battle, or by The Crone so that he has the foresight to keep himself safe.
Or, perhaps he is blessed by The Stranger. It feels the most right as you meet the eyes of the hedge knight, his mask hiding his face, the mystery that surrounds him almost suffocating this close up. With Johnny pressed to your back, his thick forearm around your waist and the hedge knight sat in front of you, his eyes heavy where they trail over every place that you touch Johnny.
It's hard not to imagine being pressed between the two of them in a much more private location. Spread out over the furs in Johnny's tent, the air thick with heat and the smell of sex. It wouldn't have been the first time you had shared a night with the northerner and a second partner, but never had it been with someone so large, so arresting.
is it the gods or your lord father's coin that buys your luck
You aren't surprised that the masked man's voice is deep, it matches the aura that surrounds him. His accent isn't one you recognize and you have been dragged across the realm and have met all kinds of folk. It bothers you that you cannot place this man, that you cannot see his face properly, that the tease of his lips when he pulls down the cloth to drink only drives your curiosity. And that when he speaks to Johnny, it is with a strange mix of the deference demanded by his high born name and a familiarity that speaks to years of camaraderie that the two men do not share.
The night melts in on itself in the way it does when the wine flows and no one seems quite ready to call it. Many of these men are meant to fight in the morn and yet the revelry continues until the light in the lanterns burns low and only flagons of wine remain on the tables. At some point Johnny left you to take a piss and when he stumbled back in it was with a woman on either arm, the three of them finding their way to the makeshift dance floor.
Johnny's raucous laughter could be heard over the instruments and the hum of voices.
Perhaps tonight he is the one playing hard to get.
The hedge knight is a mostly quiet companion, sipping his wine and watching the comings and goings of people around you. You didn't mind it for the most part, the rumors of the other folk could paint him some kind of saint and it would likely be far from the truth. The longer you had sat with him and Johnny the more you thought that to be the case.
He found humor in death and destruction. He is crass just like the other knights that you have met. You consider the possibility that he is honorable and that you could bed him and claim that the babe is his. Even if he is not honorable, he is strong and could protect you.
y'know 'im well
You wish he had asked you anything else. You don't want to talk about Johnny, don't want to see the way those other women paw at him, the way their fingers creep beneath the waistband of the damned kilt, the way their lips touch his skin.
It's not jealousy, but it burns all the same.
Don't know that anyone can truly know Ser MacTavish
Ghost is not known for his tact, he knows this and despite many attempts by his sire to teach him to talk proper, it had never really stuck. He just doesn't see the point in it, why should he bend the knee and talk all prettily to some pockmarked, backwards lordling who doesn't know how to hold a sword or his cock just because his father is lord of some shithole corner of the realm. And yet, he can sense it enough that you don't want to talk about the man currently spinning across the floor with two ditzy maidens.
He can try to talk prettier for you but he doesn't know how to spin fun little tales like Ser MacTavish, Johnny as you called him as he held you in his arms. Ghost doesn't know how to ask someone about their family, where they were raised, how they are liking the view. He can't very well tell you how he looks forward to bashing in the head of the man at the back of the tent, the one with the red hair and missing finger for no other reason than he was fuck ugly and once pissed himself in battle.
Do you have a tent, Ser Ghost
When you are the one to break the silence next he feels deficient in some way. He should be the one entertaining you after the way you entertained the crowds. He should live up to his knightly name somehow. He's even tried to keep his gaze away from your body, it's too easy for his hungry eyes to feast on the slopes of your shoulders, the line of your throat, the peak of your nipples through the dress you wear. He got more than enough of you when you were perched on Johnny's lap looking so pretty.
Aye
He answers while not meeting your eyes, looking back over the dwindling crowd. He knows that he should bid his host good morrow as well, even though he knows sleep will not come easy to him. But it will come better to him if he were in his own tent and not here, sat on this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by strangers and avoiding the first woman to have caught his eye in ages.
It's when you laugh that he finally drags his attention back to you. Back to the way your lips twist into a smile, the way the fire light casts shadows across your skin, the way you reach a gentle hand out and place it on his knee, fingers tightening as you lean closer.
Too close.
Would you like company
He can't help the way he looks to MacTavish before he answers, the man no longer dancing but now arm wrestling with some knight's squire, the baby faced boy looks no older than Ghost was when his sire found him.
Your hand leaves his knee, only to reach up and guide his face back to you. He wonders if you will shy away from his scars if you have no issues with MacTavish's. Ghost's are more, he's not a bonnie lad like the other knight, but perhaps he could be as eager of a lover? MacTavish strikes him as someone who wants to please.
Is it wise to steal you away from his more than gracious host, from the man who vouched for him even though they had never before crossed paths? A man who seems to crave violence and bloodshed with the same fervor as Ghost but with a touch more desire for debauchery and indulgence than Ghost has.
Yet, you are not married to the other knight and if you offer yourself up to Ghost who is he to pass up on the very generous hospitality of his host.
He stands, the movement shaky and abrupt after hours in that chair drinking wine and listening to Mactavish's stories. You stand as well, as if having decided for him that you will be joining him. Or maybe that is wishful thinking, maybe you only intend to retire for the night.
You follow him out the back of the tent into the dark night.
The tourney grounds are not quite quiet, not the way Ghost has grown accustomed to after years living off the land. Besides battles and skirmishes, he's spent most of his nights beneath the stars but MacTavish had insisted on him taking a tent for himself, calling it an investment in Ghost's performance at the tourney. Ghost had never needed it before, but, as he had quickly learned, MacTavish always got his way.
Ghost worries that you are used to finer things than a romp in a tent on a bedroll that is scarcely large enough for himself, however, you do not seem dissuaded by his accommodations because as soon as you are both plunged into the complete darkness of the tent your are plucking at the ties on his shirt.
He bats your hands away, capturing them both in one of his own and holding them between your bodies.
i am not some pretty little lord like MacTavish
don't need you to be pretty
i don't have any fancy words for you
don't need fancy words
what do y'need
i need you to fuck me like the whore i am
He doesn't need more direction than that. Ghost drops your hands, before tearing away the top of your dress, freeing the tits he had been coveting all night. You gasp as he takes each in a hand, pawing at them with calloused fingers. He wants his mouth on you and knows in the dark of the tent you won't be able to see his face, but you wouldn't be able to ignore the feel of his scars once his lips are on you.
You do not have the same qualms. Your own hands pull blindly at the mask, yanking it harshly until you have freed it from his head and toss it into a dark corner of the tent. You drag your nails over his scalp and through his roughly cut hair, uneven tufts that he hasn't properly seen for ages. It sends tingles down his spine, a sensation that is unfamiliar to him and yet leaves him craving more when your hand slips behind his neck in order to pull his mouth to your own.
You don't shy away from his rough kiss, from the cleft in his lip that leaves him face in a permanent scowl, or from the gnarled burn that took one of his ears and mars most of the left side of his face.
Folk believe the masked hedge knight named Ghost to be a monster but the skull mask is a kindness. Even the magnanimous Ser MacTavish would be tempted to turn him away if he were to see Ghost fully. Even his sire hadn't been able to stand the sight of him after a point, it was the old man that had given Ghost the mask, the skull of some unlucky bastard long bleached by the sun on the beaches of Dorne.
You pant into his mouth as his hands venture lower, tearing more and more of your dress until you stand before him bare. He might not be able to see you, but his hands paint a pretty picture as they explore each valley and peak of your body. The heft of your tits, the firm press of your peaked nipples, the soft skin of your stomach, pliant and warm, before his fingers dive between your legs, your wetness caught in the downy hair that covers your mound.
He wants to taste you, but you want to taste him more.
You drop to your knees hard, the ground unforgiving but you are determined to find out if he truly is big everywhere. You do not wait for his assistance, if he can ruin your dress you can rip open his trousers before you suck his cock.
You wish you could see it properly, because the moment you are yanking his pants down his cock springs free, thick and curved as your fingers dance over the only part of this man that is soft. The air is thick with his musk and you lean forward, trailing your tongue down the length of him until you find the tip, a pearl of pre-come waiting as your prize. His hands are quick to find the back of your head when you swallow down the head of his cock. You might be skilled but even you know your limits and taking him fully would only hurt you.
With time though…with time you could take more of him. For now you settle for sucking on what length you can take while you cup his balls in your free hand.
Above you Ghost grunts, his hands tightening where they hold you. You want to hear him come undone, truly undone. Would the giant of a hedge knight cry pretty tears as you bring him to climax over and over? Would he shout as he came? Or curse your name? Or maybe he is silent except for the prettiest little whimpers?
Maybe he would have no patience for your games and simply bring you to heel?
You could be happy with either, but if tonight is the only night you have to convince him to be with you, then you will need to focus.
Ghost pulls you away just when you are sure he is about to come. You whine, annoyed that he stopped you when you had been about to pull away anyway but then he's kicking off his boots, ripping off his tunic and pulling you down to the bedroll.
It's certainly not the most comfortable place you have taken a man, but then it's not the worst, and you are only there for a moment before his is moving your body as if you weigh nothing so that he is upon the ground and your legs are straining to straddle his waist, his cock pressed between your bodies.
You lean down and take is mouth again, enjoying the way he fights for dominance from beneath you. His cock is hot and hard as you grind down on it, it drags against your clit with each move, the tingle of pleasure more than you expected from a partner who isn't Johnny.
does Johnny fuck y'proper till ya come
You snort into his mouth at the outrageous question. Leave it to a man to have your pussy on his cock worrying about how another man fucks you. Would it bother him more to know your Johnny's whore? That you had fucked countless men before the northerner?
You bare down on his cock this time, his head notching just right, his hands flexing where they hold your hips as you press down further. He rolls his own hips up, pushing down with his hands. He is far from fully seated but already you feel the sweat dripping down your back. You take a deep breath, your hands pushing against his chest so that you can sit back, taking more and more on him until he is fully sheathed, his fingers so tight on your hips you are sure you will be bruised.
You certainly won't be able to walk right with the way his cock presses into your womb.
will you fuck me proper till i come
Ghost needs no further encouragement. He doesn't let you set the pace, he lifts your hips with ease before pulling you back down on his cock. Your nails dig into his chest as he pounds into you from below. You don't know that you have ever felt so full, so desired, so wanted.
You collapse forward on his chest as his hands continue to guide your movements. You pray to The Seven that he is not yet close, not at all ready for this night to be over and unsure if he will please you as promised, but perhaps at this pace you could come before he has had his fill of you.
When Ghost’s hips falter and you are certain he is ready to come you almost cry out in desperation, it’s too soon. Only the hedge knight slips a hand between your bodies, pinching your nipple hard before the wide expanse of his palm comes to rest on your throat, his fingers holding loosely as he pushes you up to ride him properly.
You roll your hips, relishing in the feel of him, the change in angle glorious, his own breathing is labor, his fingers twitching around your throat. His other hand drifts, kneading at your thigh first before shifting so that his thumb can press firmly against your clit, even just the pressure is enough to send a zing of pleasure up your spine, the heat growing beneath your skin until you can't help but clench around him, your own movements becoming unpracticed.
Come on my cock this time and next time I can ‘ave ya comin’ on my tongue.
You don't know if it is the promise of a next time or the press of his thumb, but you can't hold back your cry as you tumble over the edge. You slump forward into his hold, the hand against your throat holding you in place as he fucks up into you, finding his own release only moments after. The warmth of him spreads through you, and leaks out around his still hard cock.
Can he truly go again?
Perhaps you will find out.
Dawn comes slowly across the tourney grounds. Already squires, and servants and the hosts own staff bustle from here to there. You are already gone when Ghost wakes. It is the first time since he was a young child that he had shared a bed with another and he finds that he strongly wants to do it again. Maybe it was fucking you that had tired him out or it was the comfort of your face pressed to his chest, your warm breath against his skin, your hand clutching on to his wrist as you slept.
Ghost doesn’t expect to see you again, certainly not as he stands in the shit and the mud that leads into the makeshift fighting pit. He's there among the other fighters, most scarred and while not as frightening a visage as Ghost just as lethal. Sprinkled through the group are squires, baby faced and eager to please. Ghost has never had much use for a squire, but as he watches the boy nearest him fetch the knight he is with a wineskin he thinks it wouldn’t hurt.
It’s as he muses the benefits of a squire that he spots you.
You walk alone through the throngs of men, your face impassive as if unbothered by the sights and sounds and smells that surround you. When you spot him you smile and though you cannot see it he smiles back.
He doesn’t miss the way the other men watch you, some of the squires openly staring as you walk by.
You make your way to him with dainty steps, carefully avoiding the worst of the muck and the grime, but not all of it. The hem of your dress is quickly dirtied. This one more modest and far more fine, yet still not capable of hiding the curves on your hips, the thickness of your thighs, or the plushness of your tits. Is there a way Ghost could steal you away now? Or rip the eyes out of every one of these green little boys who don’t deserve the sight of you?
Ghost had come to the tourney in search of a master, but maybe what he was in search of all along was a wife? He could fuck you again tonight and pray to The Mother for her blessing, certainly you wouldn't leave him if it was his child that took root in your womb.
He shifts his stance, cock hard and uncomfortable in his armor but he can't stop his fantasies of filling you with his seed even as you come to a stop at his side. Still radiant, still smiling only for him.
Would you accept my favor, Ser Ghost
A lady’s favor?
He had seen other knights and noblemen receive favors from their women before battle. Tokens of luck and well tidings. A thing that he had never once received himself. He never made an effort to speak to the men around him, he was most certainly not talking to the women.
Ghost simply nods, not finding the right words to accept such a blessing. Your eyes shine with an admiration he does not deserve as you pull from your pocket a wispy piece of fabric, delicate and fragile, a piece of the dress he had savagely ripped apart because he had not been able to handle even that insignificant of a barrier between your skin and his touch.
You grab his wrist and pull it towards you. He cannot feel your touch through the gauntlet he wears, but he can remember the feel of your fingers, warm and persistent the night before. With ease you undo the gauntlet, handing it to him before wrapping the delicate strip of fabric around his wrist. You don't wrap it tightly, but you take care to ensure it is secure before replacing the gauntlet. You don't let go.
I'll pray to The Warrior for your safe return
You lift his hand up and place a single kiss to the cool metal of the gauntlet before pulling away. He watches you leave until he can no longer see you in the crowd of tourney goers. He is happy you left, for had you stayed by his side for any longer he was not sure he could have remained a gentleman.
Ghost eyes his competition again, this time with a far more discerning eye, each man here was an obstacle between him and you. He could not accept your favor and not win for you. Once he is victorious he will be deserving of you.
And if he must spend the whole night fucking a baby into you in order to convince you to stay with him, then he will do just that.
The tourney starts the same as all tourneys start. Johnny has grown bored of the airs that the nobles around him put on at these things. It's just folly for old men who were past their prime and green wee lads who had yet to see true war.
Johnny has done his part since coming of age to defend his own ancestral lands as well as fight the king's wars. The excitement of battle, the glory of victory, the parades of admirers had all grown old to him. Even the lavish banquets and perfectly decorated tents left him feeling unsatisfied.
The first thing to have caught his eye in a very long time had been you. Devious, discerning and oh so damaged. It hadn't taken much for him to convince you to follow him after he found you in that rundown, backwaters tavern. A few piles of gold coins and you were his.
Of course, you weren't his sole source of entertainment then, but it hadn't taken long for you to become his favorite. Yet, you vexed him so as you sat next to him in the viewing stands, using his position as a lord's son to get a prime spot to watch the fights. Never before had you been so engaged in the men fighting in the tourney, your attention had always been on him.
That is what he pays you to do, but he had come to hope that maybe a bit of it was a mutual fondness.
Although, he can't blame you when it is Ser Ghost who is taking the field. Johnny has seen many kinds of men in battle from all across Westeros. Never has a man drawn him in the way Ser Ghost has. He had heard talk of a hedge knight's companion who was inhumane on the field, a monster that haunted his enemies' dreams, the kind of warrior that played the villain and never the hero.
Johnny had been curious about him long before they had met.
Even Johnny can't help but lean forward as Ghost approaches his opponent. In full armor Ghost is stunning, with Johnny's help and coin he could be a sight to see, polished steel with gold trim would not do for a man with such a dark aura yet Johnny can't help but imagine him so before imagining the other knight covered in blood as Johnny removes each piece of armor before revealing the man behind the mask.
Have you seen his face?
It had been hard to ignore the fact that you had abandoned him at his own feast. That his guest of honor had absconded with his favorite pet had hurt, but to think that you had had the honor of seeing Ghost's face first? Johnny felt a stab of jealousy that he was not quite used to.
You gasp at the first hit, hand finding his and gripping it tightly. You wore the dress Johnny had brought for you, the kind of thing that wouldn't stand out among the other noblewomen who sat around you. You did not often talk of your past, but you wore this type of garment with ease, too much ease for someone who had been born to a lowborn family. Over time Johnny has dressed you more and more like the type of lady he was expected to be seen with, so slowly, and so carefully that he is certain you haven't realized what he is doing.
You also had yet to realize that he no longer took pleasure in his other companions, all of them knew not to tell you. It surprised him as it was your wit that endeared you to him after your beauty had lured him in. You were oh so clever until it came to this one thing. And had you noticed, you would have realized that by leaving him last night you had sentenced him to servicing himself.
Johnny had come twice to the image of you sucking his cock while Ghost fucked your pretty pretty pussy.
Does it hurt through the armor
Ghost doesn't even flinch when the other man's long sword hits him in the chest. A well calculated blow that allows Ghost to disarm the man as he attempts to pull back the sword that is far too heavy for him. If it hurts, Ghost makes no move to indicate it as a man runs onto the field to claim him the victor of this match. Two more opponents and Ghost win the prize for hand-to-hand. A handsome sum of money awaits the victor, but not nearly what Johnny could offer him.
Will ye kiss it better if it does
You drop his hand in shock, turning away from him and pretending to look very interested in the next pair of fighters.
Could it be that you like Ghost more than him?
You choke down a squeal as he pulls you into his lap, the boning in your dress sticking into his chest as he holds you tight, resting his chin on your shoulder the same way he had done the night before so that he can still see the fight. It does not seem this one is nearly as interesting to you as Ghost's.
Johnny wishes he hadn't given you such a well-structured dress for today, the stiff bodice is tragically separating him from feeling your plush stomach, it comforts him to feel just how alive you are. He settles for one hand holding you in place while the other grasps your thigh through layers of thick fabric. He hopes you will let him fuck you in the dress before dinner, then it will be his come dripping down your legs while you sit between him and his guest of honor.
It does not surprise him when the last match of the day is between Ghost and a knight from Storm’s End who looks like he has been mauled by a bear and put back together. Johnny has met this man, more than once, and luckily only ever as allies. While not quite as tall as Ghost, he is broad and barrel chested, and Johnny once saw him rip a man'ss jaw off with his bare hands. Ser Ulric the Jawbreaker.
Johnny would be terribly disappointed to see Ghost meet a similar fate today.
Seriously maiming or killing your opponent wasn't the goal of these tourneys, the lords and king would not approve of all of their best knights dying for the spectacle of it. Yet, on a day like today where the crowds pressed in close, the sun bared down on the folk gathered and the wine skins had been drained thoroughly it wasn't a surprise to hear calls from the crowd demanding blood.
You stiffen in Johnny's hold when the match starts, your nails digging into his skin where you grasp his wrist. He doesn't mind it, he is the one who has gotten the pleasure of keeping you in his lap all day, feeding you fruit from a bowl and sips of wine from a chalice.
Your hold on him tightens each time Ghost takes a hit from Ulric. From the viewing platform most are on the edge of their seats, many have coin bet on this match. Ulric is the favored fighter, despite the rumors around the tourney grounds that Ghost is some unworldly being, Ulric is known to the nobles. The gathered lords and ladies have seen him at tourneys before, the other knights have fought along side him. He is more than just speculation and whispered rumors.
Even you have seen The Jawbreaker take down countless opponents.
It's why you are crying out when you see Ulric land a blow on the back of Ghost's leg, the place unprotected by armor, the move of a swordsman who knows how to take down an opponent one-on-one. You squirm in Johnny's hold until you can hide your face in his neck, a completely undignified move that gets you curious stares from a few of the ladies that sit nearby. Johnny does not care, let those other ladies sit stiffly next to their husbands, stuffy old fucks who probably couldn't even get it up.
Johnny holds the back of your head gently, keeping your face turned away from the fight but not able to look away himself. He whispers to you in words he knows you do not understand but have always found comfort in, even now you melt into his hold, flinching each time the crash of swords on metal echoes through the field.
Ghost is limping now, blood dripping down his leg and pooling on the crushed grass as he studies his opponent. Both men are breathing heavily, this has been by far the longest match and they won't stop it until the winner is clear and by the cacophonous shouts from the crowd it will only end when one of the two has died.
For the briefest moment Ghost's gaze flicks up to the crowd, to the stands where Johnny sits with you. Its' a subtle movement, something that Johnny only notices because he hasn't once looked away from Ghost. He can't make out the other man's eyes from here, shaded by the helm he wears, but Johnny can feel that gaze, heavy and dark.
Is the other man jealous? Does he covet you, the woman Johnny holds so carefully in his arms? Does Ghost think there is a future with you that does not include him? Does Ghost think there is a future where he is not at Johnny's side?
Johnny grins, because he knows Ghost can see his face, can see the way you are tucked in close. He leans in and kisses the side of your head, smoothing his hand down your back in a move that to anyone else looks like he is comforting you, but its more than that. Ghost needs to understand that you are his, that it doesn't matter that you fucked the masked man, the knight with the skull helm, the mysterious hedge knight who might be a god that walks among them.
None of that matters because at the end of the night it was Johnny's tent you came back to smelling of sex with another man's come dried on your skin. It was Johnny who held you now in the stands with the other fancily dressed folk that even as a proper knight Ghost wouldn't be able to join.
Ghost knows this, knows that Johnny could never beat him in the field but has him beat in so many other ways. Maybe it is jealousy, or rage, or simply Ghost's nature, but the man merely tilts his head in acknowledgement before his gaze turns back on the other knight.
They circle each other, each step leaving behind a print in the mud, the trodden grass a map of their fight, each divet and scrap tracking their path. They come together again, swords clashing, one man grunting as the other swears, the two scrambling for control, for dominance. Even Johnny freezes as they fall to the ground, no longer a fight between two knights, they are simply animals who know that the only way to live is for the other to die.
The crowd has reached a fever pitch, there's no way you can hear Johnny's voice as he tries to assure you its almost over. Ulric has Ghost on his back, a heavy knee bearing down on Ghost's chest. In the fray Ulric has lost his helm, but Ghost has lost his sword. Ulric spits in Ghost's face, bloody globs drip down his helm as the other knight grins, his mouth full of bloody teeth. Its the look of someone who knows that they have won.
Johnny doesn't often pray to the old gods, it has been ages since he stepped foot in the godswood of his youth. There may be no heartrees in this southern land and no gods to hear his prayer, but he asks it of them anyway. It has only been a day but he does not want this knight to die. How utterly disappointing it will be to win you merely because Ghost has died at the hands of another man?
He will never know if it was the will of the gods, or simply the determination and strength of the man who has captured his attention, but Ghost raises hand, Ulric's discarded helm clasped in his fingers and smashes the other man in the side of the head. It is enough for him to lose focus, allowing Ghost to flip the two of them. Ulric is still armed, his sword now pressed beneath the fauld and grazing Ghost's stomach.
Ghost doesn't give the other man a chance to gut him. With the might of a knight not fully man, Ghost bring down the helm again, Ulric crying out first in surprise and then in pain as his face is hit over and over, the ornate edge of the helm breaking through his nose, then his eye socket and then the soft grey matter of his brain.
Ghost doesn't stop until there is nothing left but viscera. When he stands, the other knight's sword falls to the ground with a clatter, covered in blood. A man runs to the field, grasping Ghost's hand and raising it to the crowd as he proclaims him the victor.
When Johnny tells you it's over, you pull away from him, face tear stained and eyes wide. It doesn't seem you believe him until you see Ghost for yourself.
I want to go to him
Of course you do, not even a day since you met this man and you are pulling away from Johnny for him.
he's injured, he needs help
The tourney has a maester that will tend to him, Johnny had spoken to him when you had snuck away to give the knight your favor. Johnny knew what you were doing, saw the little strand of dress wrapped around your fingers as your nervously searched the grounds for the man you had only left hours before.
Johnny lets you go.
If he is in a foul mood that night no one mentions it to him. No one approaches him to dance, no one dares to take the seat next to him, no one dares to ask about you or Ghost. But he hears them whispering about Ghost regardless, late in the night when he typically would have sought you out, when the lights shimmer and the world spins, that's when he hears them.
'e's a monster, a'right
aye, 'eard 'e snatches up men's wives in the night
well i 'eard 'e eats the 'earts of the men 'e kills
ah 'eard 'e steals bairn tae bathe in they're blood
You do not return to his tent in the morning. He dresses for the joust, attendants scurrying around him as they attach his armor. You've never missed sending him off, never not given him a kiss to his helm before he mounts his horse. It reminds him of the days before he found you, different women in his bed each night, none lasting more than a few, very few willing to follow him into battle.
Johnny learns how Ghost felt the day before. The other knight is in the crowd of common folk, his height making him easy to spot. You are with him, huddled in between his arms, peering over the barrier to watch the knights who joust before him. When he is announced you smile and cheer for him just as you always did, but this time you are not alone.
The joust ends with little fanfare, Johnny lets himself be unhorsed early in the day. It would have been more dangerous to continue on distracted as he was. He doesn't see you after the joust, nor at his tent that night. It isn't until the next morning that you reappear in his orbit, your shadow not far behind.
There is a defiant challenge written across your face as you approach, some decision having been made between when he saw you last and this moment. Ghost is unreadable behind his mask, but he drapes a possessive arm over your shoulder.
Cannae believe ye stole mah pet
Ghost's hold tightens and Johnny doesn't miss the way you lean into the other man's touch.
I'm pregnant and it's Ser Ghost's and we are leaving together.
Pregnant? Your hand comes to rest on your stomach, the move drawing both men's attention down. You look no different, tired maybe but you spent the last three nights with a man that strikes Johnny as a thorough lover. And you shouldn't look different, its far too early for you to be showing, too early for you to even know. How could you know unless...
Johnny smiles. It's too early for you to know that you are pregnant by Ghost, the man could have spent all night fucking his come into you and it would still be too early to know, but it wouldn't be too early for you to know if it was someone else's.
Johnny congratulates you, praises The Mother for your good fortune. Ghost nods, but says nothing. Johnny lets them leave thinking they will part ways, start their new life with Ghost's winnings, but Johnny has other plans.
Even if that child were to be Ghost's it wouldn't matter. Johnny has grown tired of tourneys, and fighting, and sleeping in tents and pissing in the woods. His father has grown old, maybe he will suffer a fall, catch a cold from which he cannot recover or pass peacefully in his sleep and it will be time for Johnny to take his place as the lord of their lands.
And a lord needs a lady, and an heir, and a knight dedicated to his service. Lucky for Johnny, he knows where to get all three.
cw: now is a good time to re-read the warnings about omitting tags on the masterlist before proceeding with this story. you are free to stop reading this chapter at any time.
Caged birds can't fly.
They can't run, either. Don't run. Won't run. Maybe you could have before the bars got thicker and Simon's grip grew colder, but now the chains go deeper than your wrists and ankles. It's inside of you. A weight heavy enough to bring you to your knees grows as you stumble to the floor, hand slapping against the counter to prevent you from collapsing completely.
You've seen what happens to songbirds who can't leave. Half bald, skin raw and bleeding, their once beautiful feathers stuck at their feet as their shrill cries pierce through the air. You forget that their bones are hollow until they begin to bash their skulls against the bars. Everything shatters. Marrow then matter squelching into one another until the crying stops.
Your fingers wrap around the first thing you can scramble to find on the counter—your pregnancy test. It's still positive no matter how many times you blink, or how many tears attempt to wash your vision clean. The thought crosses your mind to break it into pieces small enough to flush it down the toilet, but its destruction would be an obvious cover for the results that wouldn't fool Simon in the slightest. Yelling out about the results would have the same effect. You place it back on the counter and fight the urge to slam your forehead against the corner; little chained up songbird with a hole in her head who no longer wants to sing.
Outside the bathroom door you can hear Simon cleaning up your mess in the dining room. Johnny's mumbling something. It makes your skin crawl. You think of what they might say. What they might do to you. Your stomach churns again and you fear you might lose the remaining amount of food inside of you.
Each decision you make is out of your control. Your body moves before your mind even knows what's happening. A quiet click comes from the door as you lock it then scamper away from it as if hands might reach out from underneath it to grab you. Then, your search begins.
There is nothing underneath the sink. No bleach, shower cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner—you tell yourself that's for the best. A chemical death would be too slow. Too painful. There's so much that could be done to you before you'd die. That means shampoo and shower gel is off limits, too.
For a split moment, your eyes flicker to the bathtub. Filling it with water would take too long, though you've heard it doesn't take more than an inch or two to drown. Still, it would be too loud, and any attention from Simon right now is bad attention.
When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don't recognize the woman staring back at you. She's mangy. Red-eyed and rabid, you think of smashing it to pieces so you never have to look at the wretched collar around your throat ever again. Something clicks in your brain. You think of those pieces, beautiful shining shards scattered all over the counter and the floor like icy snow. The sound would be loud, but it wouldn't take you long to get the job done. A shard into your stomach or throat would have you gone before either of them would notice the blood seeping out from underneath the door.
Better yet, you could carve up your womb. Rip the problem out straight from the source, slice up whatever clump of cells resides in you—you refuse to bring anything into this world that might suffer the same fate as you. Locked up, woman turned dog, a bitch meant for fucking and nothing more.
The door shakes.
"Bonnie? Why's the fuckin' door locked?"
Your movements become more drastic. Wings flapping, hitting the bars, feathers flying as you look for anything sturdy enough to shatter the mirror. You could use your hand, but with one already broken you don't want to rob yourself of the ability to carry out your plan because your body is too weak. For countless weeks and months, you've been out of control, spiraling down in burning flames on a ship you have no governance over. You'll ensure your death is in your own hands.
"Open this fuckin' door."
You don't respond. Head whipping around the room, you search for anything heavy enough to throw against the mirror to shatter it but the only thing that catches your eyes are plastic bottles that would break before the glass would. Desperate, you lean against the counter with your elbow pointed out like a battering ram. You tell yourself it's better than using your hands. It'll be quick. It'll be over soon.
Simon's grumbling grows louder the moment your elbow first makes contact with the mirror. You ricochet right off, hand flying back towards your chest to the point of piercing your own heart. Whatever pain you expected doesn't come. There's only a numbness that settles over your arm, tingling, TV static soaking into your muscles and bones.
The bathroom door shakes with a violence that makes you squeak. Though you know you shouldn't, you look at it anyway. The frame is cracking. Hinges bending, as if there's a bull right outside waiting to pummel you the instant it gets a chance to.
Your elbow smashes against the mirror again. And again. Again. Between you and Simon, it sounds as if the world is crashing down around you. The sky falls on top of you. It mocks you. Little bird who never learned to fly now never will. Simon has stolen the one thing you thought could never be taken from anyone, yet as the door caves in, wood flying in a long arc, you realize gods usually do as they please.
Rigid leather collides against your throat as Simon yanks you back by your collar, sending you falling onto the floor. Cold tile smashes into your rear. The strangled yelp you let out is loud enough to hurt even your own ears. Simon stands over you with heavy brows and palms out in question. Behind him, you see the mirror. Cracks travel throughout the glass like untamed roads and trails in a forest, but it's not enough to shatter. Not enough for you to pick up the pieces.
"The fuck're you doing?" he demands.
You can't speak. You can only hold your throat and cough as the tears well up in your eyes, blurring the image of him turning around to look at the damage you've done. There's a change in his posture. Shoulders straighten, back goes rigid like a board, fingers curl as if there's iron between them and his palm. Your stomach drops. You think you might be sick.
"Get up, Bonnie," he says, voice terrifyingly tepid.
"Please," you choke out.
Simon doesn't give you enough time to beg. While his tone feels kind, his hands do not. Fingers curling into your wrist, he yanks you off of the floor and onto your feet. You keep your broken hand close to your chest as he drags you out of the bathroom and into the living room where he dumps you on the floor again.
A confused Johnny sits on the couch, eyes still glassy—a half-man still stuck in creation, body here but mind fractured beyond repair. You refuse to find comfort in him as Simon marches off somewhere into the house. Pain shoots through your hip when you attempt to stand, keeping you chained to the floor as you ignore Johnny's questions.
You're not sure what to do. What he'll do. You think back to how adamant he was that Johnny not do anything with you until you were on birth control, and how carefully he made sure you took your pills each night at the same time. No mistakes. Uncannily paying attention to detail. What will happen now that your very existence is a mistake?
When Simon returns, he has his hunting rifle in hand. You're not sure how to describe the feeling that overwhelms you at the sight of him towering in the doorway with that gun resting peacefully in his palm. Panic doesn't seem strong enough. It rips you from each limb, searing you from the inside out, crawling up your stomach and out your mouth until you're choking on it. Grief. For your own death. For the life you never got to live. For everything you always wanted to do but never could.
You think of where he might dump you. Alone in the forest, flesh left to feed the creatures. Bugs in your skin, skeleton becoming a home for a creature too small to know or care about such violence. Would anyone ever find you? Would your mom be able to hold you one last time?
"What's going on?" It's the first question Johnny asks that actually makes sense in your mind. He doesn't move from the couch. There's something about the tone of his voice that's still too faded—like he still hasn't found his way back home.
"Gonna take care of Bonnie," Simon explains. He's talking about a dog. A cat. Some sort of pet worth nothing more than flippant conversation.
"Take… care of her?" Johnny sounds so innocent. Almost as if he believes Simon at face value. But there is something more behind his words that leave Simon's muscles twitching and the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end.
In a desperate attempt to buy yourself some time, you twist around, body dragging across the floor until you've reached Johnny's legs. "I'm pregnant."
All he can do is stare and blink at you. Disbelief clouds his eyes as he glances back and forth between you and Simon, like he's not sure who to believe.
"C'mon, Bonnie," Simon urges. He's trying to take you away. Away from Johnny. Away from this house. Away from everything.
That's what you wanted, isn't it? Who cares what hand it's by?
It's impossible not to recoil when Simon begins to march toward you. You're not sure where his temper is at yet, but his eyes only seem to darken as he stares down at you.
"I'll take the pills," you plead. "The other ones. To get rid of it. I'll take them and I won't fuss, I promise."
"I'm gonna be a dad?"
It's like he's not even listening to you. Johnny slides off the couch onto the floor next to you, knees bumping against you as he takes your hands into his. He's kissing the tips of your fingers and your sore, broken knuckles. This news is shock therapy to him, throwing him into more of a lucid state than you've seen him since that incident by the stream.
"I-I can't." You want to rip your hands away from him but you can't find the strength.
"Don't say that. You'll make such a good mum, I know you will," Johnny attempts to rationalize. He looks up at Simon, eyes glimmering. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a dad."
As Johnny pulls you into his chest, you follow his gaze up to Simon who continues to look down at the two of you curled up on the floor together like lovers caught in the midst of night. You pray he takes your offer. Your adamant plea to not let nature take its course and for him to finally show you mercy for once.
Though his lips grow more firm, Simon's grip on the rifle grows limp until he's dropping it to lean it against the wall. Relief floods through you until he nods.
"Congrats, Johnny."
The earth splits open beneath you but it doesn't consume you. It leaves you dangling in Johnny's arms, feet swinging helplessly in the air as you're confronted with your only two choices—hang or plummet.
Your face contorts. Fractures spread across your skin until you're bleeding nothing but brine. Everything stings. You are an open wound.
"No. No, no, no. I can't. I can't! I can't!"
Your voice builds with each syllable you spew out, spit flying out of your mouth and into Johnny's chest until you gather the strength to wiggle away from him.
"I can't! I won't! I can't! I can't!"
It's your new mantra. The only phrase you can speak. You repeat it like a broken record that no one bothers to fix. They just listen to the record skip until the scratch is permanent—damage irreversible.
Simon grabs you by your arm and drags you to your feet when your wailing starts to trouble Johnny. Even then you don't stop. You sob. You scream until your throat hurts. He drags you out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bedroom where you're put where all bad girls go. Soft pillows, cold blankets, and a cage padlocked so you can't leave.
With the door shut behind him, Simon leaves you to throw your tantrum in solitude. Legs kicking, limbs flailing, heels digging into the base of the kennel until you're covered in sweat and your voice has no more strength to scream. The tears don't stop for some time after that. A broken faucet. A laceration that cannot be mended.
For what feels like years you lay in that kennel; unmoving. You're not sure what your body does. You don't know what you think or what you feel, or even if you manage to sleep the pain away. All you know is that you do not have the energy to lift your head when Simon opens the bedroom door some time later.
He crosses into your field of view with a plate in his hands. It's impossible to read his expression even as he kneels to unlock the kennel door to set what looks like another attempt at getting you to eat dinner down on the ground.
"Please. Just give me the pills," you beg, voice raw.
Simon locks the door again. "No."
"We both know you don't want this," you rationalize. "Another mouth to feed. Another pet to take care of. We can just pretend it's a miscarriage and Johnny won't know the difference."
As Simon stands to leave, he looks down at you as if he's considering your proposal. In an attempt to meet him halfway you sit up, eyes intense and red as you await his answer.
The only response you get is a curt shake of his head and a gesture towards your dinner plate. "Don't wait for it to get cold. You're eating for two now, Bonnie."
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You are aware that a fictional character is just a rhetorical construct designed to fulfill a narrative/thematic purpose right? That their actions are written by an author who wants to use them to explore complex ideas and moral gray areas within the safe confines of fiction right? That they aren't a real person who has killed real people right?
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