#dark!ghost

[theficnextdoor]

Home Security

Dark!GhostxF!Reader

Simon always said to call him whenever you needed anything. When a knock and suspicious sounds make you wary to be alone, naturally you call Simon for comfort. Only instead of getting your sweet Simon, it's Ghost who comes to your rescue.

tw: identity duality(simon/ghost), overprotective!ghost, borderline obsessive!ghost, mild physical roughness, mentions of fear/panic/anxiety, authoritative/commanding tone, protective/possessive behaviors(ghost), stalking/implied possible break-in wc: 1k

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

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

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

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

✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶

i post these like ppl fr read them lmao heheh to yee that do... tyty hope u like it, check out my other stuff if u want!!

[kittysduty]

a dark!a/b/o universe where omegas are kept mostly in breeding/selling facilities for alphas.

they don’t even see the light of day — every omega is kept underground.

so how does one get bought, you say?

candles.

goddamn candles.

each facility will get the scent of their omegas to make candles as a ‘selling point’ for each one, in order to keep them as ‘pure’ as possible. the only time these omegas interact with an alpha is when they’ve finally been bought.

a cruel design to send them into heat as soon as they come within the scent field of the alpha who’s just bought them.

so, of course, ghost goes down to these facilities quite frequently to scent the candles, waiting until he finds one that makes his eyes roll back. the workers always know what he’s there for, and point him to the new batches.

new omegas.

it’s been happening for months now, so he was expecting just another trip of subpar scents before going home—

until he smells your scent.

he freezes, reading the description on the candle, before thrusting it into the worker’s hand.

“get ‘em,” he grunts, pawing at his mask that now felt incredibly suffocating and hot on his face and neck.

poor you has no idea what you’re in for.

and yes, simon absolutely lights the candle while he’s pounding into you every which way, both of you deep into your respective ruts/heats🙂‍↕️

AN: i feel like ghost is one of those alphas who’s so obsessed w you he gets a rash if he’s not in you. send tweet

[beebymoonlight]

a life for a life knight!ghost x f!reader

alternate universe: 1600s, historical type: the final installment (3), but can be read stand-alone (13.3k), AO3 A HAND FOR A HAND (1) — AN EYE FOR AN EYE (2)

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

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

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

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

“Simon—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re so certain of that?”

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

“Simon—ohhh—”

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

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

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

The only prize Simon has ever asked for is you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm…”

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

“No, I suppose they won’t be.”

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

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

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

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

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

A man can only influence those that will listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lady is innocent.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tha’ he does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You came!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thomas?” Victoria looks confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no appetite until you see your husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He misses me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny’s gifts. Your children’s praises.

“S-Simon—”

The French military strategies you so adore—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful, love. I’ll bite.”

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

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

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

“Bloody hell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be glorious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something so utterly stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Threatening your king, now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon, do not do this.”

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

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

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

He is not your dog anymore—he’s mine.

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon—”

“Inside.”

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

“What happened?”

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

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

I forgive you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Simon…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please don't lecture me. Please."

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

Generosity.

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

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

"Are you making me go?" She asks.

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

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

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

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

"Do you hate me?" She asks.

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

Victoria shakes her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'s olright. Johnny's there."

"I thought they were still honeymoon-ing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will never let it go.

[bunny-jpeg]

better than home (kidnapper!simon) - you had seen enough horror movies to know that being kidnapped meant being on the news, being butchered, and being a cold case. but simon wasn't like that. except for the bruises he left when he took you, his touch had gentle. kind in a way that someone would brush their cat.

you flinched under his touch, but he just simply shushed you. "not gonna break a thing on ya, angel." that was his name for you. angel. he said that it was like you were given to him fro heaven, "if i do, i give ya the right to put a knife between my ribs."

it was unnerving to say the least. in the tiny home you both shared, locks on the windows, you had never seen a front door that needed a key to unlock from the outside. you tried getting out, but simon was simply so much bigger and stronger, that he didn't need to hurt you herd you back into a safer place.

"don't need to think about much anymore. safer here." he said in his gruff voice. you didn't know what kind of life this man had lived, but with the hunting knife on the coffee table, the well-used rifle over the fireplace and the old army formals in his closet. you knew that there was a story.

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

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

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

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

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

"this is better than home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

a/n: this is unwell, i hope you enjoyed it. thank you!!

[livecrow]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

DARK!Ghost x fat reader

CWs: kidnapping, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink, animal play, threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism (Ghost is just fucking with you)

A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.

It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet; after you’ve killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people “jus’ need killin’.” 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s offed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither.” After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food, and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, terribly plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing, left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple; it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your total lack of survival instinct was staggering. It was even more shocking that you lasted this long; he could almost laugh.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you. It was endearing. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your, likely inane, business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”

Simon's first concern was not damaging you too much. He was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck, and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. A proper prey animal you were. He could have groaned audibly at the squishy softness of your neck alone, his muscled arm practically stony in comparison. But he'll have time for that later. You're bent over slightly in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory. Of course he’s not actually applying enough pressure to really choke you. He’s just encouraging you to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led; he would simply tighten his hold and let you catch a wink. Pull out the dolly, load up the truck, and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel worktable, the metal stings even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the massive meat shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips and one rough yank, Simon rips what you'll only realize in time, are your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but it's your turgid nipples where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle darkly.

You were a bit of a silly thing. All the tools of his trade were all around you. Might be a minute before you caught on, but he didn't mind waiting. It's good that he snapped you up before something bad happened to you.

You're his perfect "little" prize. No doubt you'd win Best of Fair—that is, if Simon was willing to let someone else gawk at what's his. It was tempting. You'd look pretty in that blue ribbon.

He knows exactly where he'd stick it. The pin would sink riiiiiiight through the tender flesh of your nipple, easy as. He'd make it quick, but you'd squall all the same. His cock strained impatiently against his trousers at the visage. Your teary face, that shiny rosette hanging down proudly, bobbing slightly at your teat, forked ends kissing your belly as he made you "sit pretty" for the cameras.

...but no, you're just his.

Simon will keep you at home. Coddle you. Give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness from him.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, wot you need clothes for?” he scoffs. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want an answer. A dog doesn’t answer 'Who's a good boy?' now, does he? 

You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store. He's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. And he’s—he's measuring you? Jotting things down. Snapping at you to "'old still" as he steadies the tape, making sure there's the right amount of snug tension to get a proper measurement. Just as you try to obey, he's manhandling you again, moving you this way and that, one position to the next. The tape tickles terribly.

As he lassos your wide upper thigh, the tape suddenly brushes against the lips of your pussy, making your heart stutter painfully. When he pulls back the tape, you're holding your breath. He just returns to the pad of paper. As you try and calm yourself, you think distantly that the stubby pencil looks puny in his giant fist as he adds to his chicken scratch.

You were sorely mistaken when you thought that you'd get even a brief reprieve. No, what's coming next is worse. You're completely helpless to fight him off; your punches and kicks might as well have been the frantic swats of a rabbit's soft paws, for all he reacted. Your wrists were lashed to your ankles behind your back, joints complaining at the unfamiliar stretch. Hogtied. By the end of it, you’re panting, trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape it. While the measuring tape may have tickled, the twine fucking bites.

Simon admires his work, says it looks good on you. He can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing, humiliating pinch. You struggle, of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “settle.” Says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. You still feel the warmth of his hand long after the swat. "Got a man for leather, does good work. All hand-stitched. Will have a proper harness made for you." Something with a lot of D-rings, he says. It will be nice an' comfy for you, but more importantly, will make it so he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chafing. 

"I'll 'ave somethin' made from you too."

That's what he muses offhandedly, as he admires your skin. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. "Couldn’t find more supple, could you?" He hasn’t decided what you'll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. If he's careful, he's hoping he could get a jacket and a fine, sturdy pair of boots out of you. Every time he sits down to clean his boots, buff and polish them to a shine, he'll think of you.

Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That's the first time your consciousness flees from you. Seeing your face suddenly slacken, fat cheek smooshed against the table, is delightful.

Simon lays it on thick, praising how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you honestly can't blame him for any of this, really. Something about wagyu beef.

Oh, come off it, he's going to take good care of you while you're still bleating too, not just your hide, so why are you pitching a fit? You won't find meat living a softer life. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge, oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying; it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you; it’s never-ending. Brutish fingers always pressing, tips disappearing into your doughy plushness. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself, and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating, and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats; might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food. You don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful, and to no one’s surprise, it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop, of course—only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye.” He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher,” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'."

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner from whatever position he's left you tied in at that particular moment. Just seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. That day, dinner is steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, and roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over, forced to eat off a dish on the floor without the use of your hands, knees aching, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise.

Still, if he’s in a mood, he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess” when he deliberately misses your mouth. 

The food was prepared, but this time the knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your periphery. Glinting.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful, and he looks so pleased as you dutifully open for him without being told. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence. Until he wasn't

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it; maybe that was a sort of twisted mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. A giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the oversized knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starts to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, almost as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side—

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue.

“They’ll say ’m spoilin’ you rotten. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors," he croons. "Such a sweet, tame thing, aren't you?” He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whether Simon lets you speak depends on his mood. Some days you're gagged the whole day, besides feeding and watering. In that case it's usually a milder gag. Cloth or tape. But if you give him a reason, run your mouth, you'll force Simon to remind you "wot you are." His favorite is the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make are special. Little nonsense noises, almost like you're tryin' to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool.

“You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too. Leaking from practically every 'ole, you are. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. Cunt."

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and holds you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cowbell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it; you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll chastise you for working yourself up, for pitchin' a fit.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly, palms your wide arse. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, arse, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past your inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meat hooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hands are as steady as a surgeon's. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day.”

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so fuckin' pretty—it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, dark eyes crinkling, amused that you're so eager.

"Been thinkin' I want some milk from you first."

[diaryofaprettyprincess]

hi sweetie! <3 i was wondering if i can request some fluff (maybe with a smut in the end it’s up to you) with ghost and innocent!girly!reader where ghost got all overprotective over her when some guy is harassing her and she got really scared and anxious? feel free to ignore if you don’t feel like writing this! have a wonderful day, sweetheart ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

hi angel!! i hope you enjoy! <3 i didn’t add smut at the end it kinda got more serious i hope that’s okay!!! <33

(sorry if this is bad i wrote it in class KANDK)

(unmasked! ghost)

(this is kinda an au! type of thing so most everything is completely inaccurate to COD)

warnings: blood, slight violence, reader is shorter than ghost, reader is lifted up by ghost, innocent!reader, slightly dark!ghost, possessiveness, size difference (i pinned ghost as 6’6 hehe woops), tattooed!ghost (U WILL NEVER STOP ME)

‎♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

ghost has always been overprotective of you, ever since the day you two met—not just when u guys started dating.

his hands always find their place on ur body, making it known to everybody you were his and only his-and he was yours and wholly only yours.

so when u two went out with price and the rest of the team to a busy bar out in the city, ghost’s hands never once left your body.

even when u two were sat next to each other at the booth, his bulky arm stayed draped over ur shoulder, ur hand fiddling with his big tattooed one as he gave dirty looks to any man that dared to look in your direction.

everything was going smoothly until your small voice made his ears perk— “gotta go to the bathroom, be right back..”

you began to part from ghost’s grasp before he caught ur small hand in his. “do ya need me to go with ya?”

u giggled, blushing slightly. “simon, i don’t need ur help going pee!—ill be right back.”

ghost wasn’t always one for extreme PDA, but he could see the hungry looks of the men at the bar staring at you. and he didn’t like that. not one bit. before u could escape, he adjusted his grip on ur hand to on ur forearm, pulling u towards him as he kissed u possessively.

he heard ur small, surprised yelp as his soft —but bitten lips moved over yours, his tongue beginning to slip into ur silky mouth before u pulled away—face burning of shyness as soap and price looked away, a small smile playing on their lips out of amusement from ur embarrassment and ghost’s act possessiveness.

“love you.” simons gruff voice spoke; a slightly smug smirk playing on his pink lips.

“i love you too.” you spoke quietly biting ur lower lip as butterflies fluttered in ur tummy.

simon watched as u walked away, ur short skirt swaying as u stepped through the crowd.

“obsessed much?” soap chuckled, and price laughed with him.

“yes.” ghost replied shortly, taking a sip of his whiskey and setting it next to your strawberry daiquiri, cool water droplets beading off of ur drink.

three minutes passed and ghost started to feel unease settling in his gut.

turns out, his gut was right to feel that nagging way.

“stop!” through the music and loud chatter of people, he could hear your small voice shout. his heart dropped, and he immediately peeled through the crowd, his height making it easy for him to see over everyone’s head.

a thin man with blonde hair groped at ur body from outside the restroom door of the bar.

“jus-“ the man laughed sickeningly, grabbing ur breast as u tried to squirm away from him, tears streaming down your face. “stop movin’, baby, just wanna feel you.. bet ur nice and tight.” he smacked ur butt, cries escaping ur throat as u tried to gasp for simon’s name but nothing came out of your mouth as u shut ur eyes tightly. maybe this was a dream—maybe the man would go away—just maybe.

ghost’s body filled with an unimaginable amount of rage, and from the corner of the room, konig (who was drinking and leaning against a wall chatting up an older woman), confusedly looked at simon as the wall blocked his view of you.

he knew that deadly look in his friend’s eyes when he saw it.

shit.

loud thunks of simon’s combat boots pounded on the ground as he ripped the disgusting man off of you, his height towering over the man.

he could see the way you cried, eyes shut and whimpering as you choked on your sobs.

“hey!” the man shouted, right before ghost smacked his head into the wall; ghost’s fists colliding with the man’s face.

anger crawled throughout his body as he almost went on autopilot, the man’s face bloody and battered as simon repeatedly punched him.

punch, punch, punch—

“ghost!” price barked, trying to pry simon off of the man. “ he’s done, ghost. enough!”

your eyes peeled open as you cried, gasping as you saw the mess of a face of the man that assaulted you. his nose crooked as it took konig, price, soap, and gaz to pull simon off of the limp man.

the bar was quiet besides the music and ur little cries. blood splotched simon’s knuckles as he breathed heavily.

the man on the ground groaned, and simon almost broke through the grasp of his team behind him before the cloud of anger subsided when he heard your small, “s-simon.”

stepping on the man’s leg, simon’s large, bruised hands cupped your face, your eyes glossy with tears.

“cmon.” he spoke gruffly, holding you against him as you both made your way out of the bar to the back alley where it was quiet.

“i-“ you choked on a sob as ghost pulled you to him, his large frame dwarfing yours as he shushed you, kissing the top of your head.

“no one’s gonna hurt you like that again. i would’ve killed him—“ his accent was thick as his grip on you tightened. he took a deep breath.

you sniffled into his warm chest, ur arms wrapped around him tightly.

“are you okay?” he asked after a moment of listening to your small weeping cries.

you nodded. “‘m okay now, just scary ‘s all..” you hiccuped, and simon easily picked you up to be closer to you. you nestled your face into his neck, his large hand rubbing along your back.

“i should’ve been there.” he spoke quietly.

you sniffled, pulling away from his neck to look at him. “you didn’t know, ‘s okay.”

simon didn’t say anything, he just adjusted you in his grip and wiped the tears from your face gently with his calloused thumb.

you kissed his lips gently, giggling when he sucked on your lower lip tenderly.

simon’s body warmed at the sound.

he always knew immediately when he met you that he would kill for you.

and this night just proved that further.

he would do anything for you.

anything.

[beautifullytragicmess]

In your opinion what would be worse:

darkGaz who appears charming and charismatic but does extremely well at hiding his obsession and capable violence

Or

dark Ghost/König who is upfront with their obsession and ability to be violent without that charming person to hide behind

yes, they all would kill for their love

[navybrat817]

Dark ghost cod, but only one line.

Finishing inside you after you beg for him to pull out.

Not sure if I answered that right, but there you have it! Love and thanks. ❤️