He knows the kind of person he is, the blood that's on his hands, and he doesn't want to make a child experience that. Some deep part of him is terrified he'll be just like his father. He grimaces at the thought of even being around kids long enough to become a role model.
That is, until he holds your baby for the first time.
She's a feisty little thing, the spitting image of her father, kyle. He had wanted to invite simon over for weeks now, show off the little miracle you made. The footie match on the telly goes completely ignored when kyle hands her to ghost, smiling "watch out, she likes to move."
"She's...small." ghost whispers, frozen in place as he cradles the baby. Wide eyes blink up at him, little arms waving as if trying to acclimate to his hold. Ghost looks between you and baby, brows pinched in worry "is she supposed to be this small? Is– is she okay?"
"Yes, she's supposed to be small, simon." Gaz answers for you, already pulling out his phone while you lean forward to adjust ghosts hands.
He's so big, baby could easily be held in two palms. She stares up at him for a moment longer, then squeals in delight and kicks her feat happily.
You watch in real time as ghost melts, leaning back into the sofa and holding the doughy little baby to his chest. His eyes crinkle into a smile, and you suddenly understand why gaz was so insistent about this.
"You're a natural, simon. She'll love you." Kyle rests a hand on ghosts shoulder. There's more behind the gesture than you can understand.
Later, while you and kyle take some much needed alone time cooking together in the kitchen, ghost will still be sat with baby on the couch. Whispering stories to her that only earn sleepy babbles.
You can't wait to watch her grow up with the two of them by your side.
simon riley who won't wear a wedding ring because he's seen way too many degloving incidents in the field.
simon riley who was going to get your name tattooed over his heart until you pouted and called it basic.
simon riley who instead gets a pin up style tattoo (that just happens to bear a striking resemblance to you) on his forearm. now when anyone asks what his spouse looks like he just rolls his sleeve up and points at the inked image of you; half naked and sat astride a missile.
I managed to move my ass to the gym today and I had thoughts the whole time 😵💫 Also, I'm exhausted now.
— cw: 18+; curvy!fem!reader; body dysmorphia; weight loss mentioned; rough sex; emotional hurt/comfort
You're fine until you walk past the wall of mirrors. That's how it always goes.
You're laughing at something Simon said, towelling off sweat, riding the post-workout high that makes you feel capable and strong and like the body you're living in is yours, and then you catch your reflection at the wrong angle and the whole thing collapses like a controlled demolition.
Your smile drops, your hand drifts to your hip, fingers pressing into the softness that's still there despite the months of hard work and calorie counting, and your eyes do that thing Simon knows too well. The bloody cataloguing, measuring, finding every part that doesn't match the version in your head.
He's familiar with that look; wears it himself sometimes after a cold shower at three a.m. when the bathroom mirror catches him without the mask and the scars are just ugly scars and not armour.
But he doesn't say anything at the gym, because he knows you'd deflect and rather start an argument than admit to your feelings. So, he drives you home in silence and lets you sit with it, because pushing too early makes you retreat further, and he's learned your patterns the way he has learned everything about you since you became his person, and therefore his to protect. Even from yourself.
He waits until you're in the bedroom, still in your gym clothes and avoiding the wardrobe mirror, and then he's behind you.
"Look."
Your brows furrow in confusion before you understand, sighing. "Simon, don't. Not now."
But he turns you anyway, manhandles you in front of the mirror and pins you there with his mass; one hand flat on your stomach, the part you hate most, and holds it.
"Look at ya," he murmurs against your ear, giving you a nudge when you don't. "Fuckin' look."
Then he's stripping your leggings off with his free hand, ever efficiently and impatient, and he's already hard; has been since the gym when he watched you deadlift with your jaw set in quiet determination and your thick thighs shaking.
And he grabs his fat, flushed cock at the base while bending you forward enough to drag his ruddy tip through your pretty pussy and inside of you right there; both of you still damp with sweat, skin tacky and warm, and the sound you make is raw and startled while your nails dig into his forearms.
"You were fuckin' perfect before," he grinds out between deep, sharp thrusts, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, pale mammoth hand still pressed against your belly, holding you against him. "Perfect now. Only difference is—" a harder thrust that knocks the air out of you, "it's easier for me to throw y'round."
"Nghh, Simon—!"
"Get outta yer fuckin' head." His other hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up so you can't look away from the reflection of him, towering behind you, his scarred hand against your supple skin, his hips snapping into you with a rhythm that makes your plump ass ripple against his hips. "Stay here. With me. Look."
You look and you see his hand on your stomach, not avoiding but holding it. You see his bare face over your shoulder, wrecked, staring at your body like it's the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"There we go," he mutters when your eyes finally stay on the mirror. "There's my pretty bird."
You come on his cock watching yourself fall apart in his arms, and he follows with his teeth in the muscle of your shoulder and your name bitten into your skin, and afterwards he keeps you there, keeps his rough hand on your soft belly in front of the mirror until your breathing slows and the glass shows two very sweaty, fucked out people holding each other up.
"Better?" he grumbles.
You nod, exhaling shakily. "Y-Yeah."
"Good. Now shower. You smell terrible."
You gasp, your face twists into a fond frown before you smack his arm and feel his spent cock twitch inside you.
"You're such a prick sometimes."
Simon snorts, inhales your musk behind right your ear while you squeak with a long groan. "Aye. Welcome."
The cuffs bite into Simon’s wrists under the table, cold steel against scarred skin. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they always do, but he’s not seeing any of it. Simon’s staring straight at you.
You sit across from him in that crisp blouse, skirt just modest enough to be professional, legs crossed at the ankle. Your voice is calm, clinical, asking about his “adjustment to the facility” like you always do. But Simon isn’t listening to a thing you have to say.
Fuck, look at her mouth when she says my name.
In his head he’s already got you bent over the metal table, that pretty blouse ripped open, buttons scattered across the floor. His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back so he can growl in your ear while he hikes that skirt up around your waist. No panties in his fantasy—just bare skin and the wetness he knows is waiting for him. He’d spread you with two thick fingers first, make you gasp his name like a confession instead of a diagnosis.
She’d be so tight. So fucking warm. Bet she’d try to stay quiet at first, try to keep that therapist voice… until I’m balls-deep and she’s moaning like she needs it.
He shifts in the chair, the restraints tugging as he tries to get some relief. His cock is half-hard already, pressing against the rough fabric of his prison uniform. You’re still talking—something about coping mechanisms—and all he can think about is how your thighs would tremble if he dropped to his knees right here, shoved your legs apart, and buried his tongue in you until your clipboard hit the floor.
She’d taste sweet. Wouldn’t be able to stay professional after that. I’d have her begging. “Simon, please—” like she’s the one locked up.
His eyes drop to your lips again, then lower to the modest neckline of your blouse. He imagines marking the soft skin there with teeth and stubble, leaving bruises only he gets to see. Imagines you crawling into his lap in the middle of a session, sinking down on him slow while the guards outside the door remain blissfully unaware. Your hands in his short hair, nails scraping his scalp, riding him while the cuffs rattle with every thrust.
She wants it. I can see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gets wet thinking about the monster in orange. Dirty little therapist.
Simon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight behind the mask they let him keep. You lean forward slightly, concerned, asking if he’s all right.
He gives you the smallest smirk beneath the fabric, voice low and gravel-rough.
“Fine, doc. Just… thinkin’.”
In his mind he’s already fucking you against the wall of his cell, one hand over your mouth, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, pounding into you until you forget every clinical term you ever learned, leaving you with only thoughts of him.
You have no idea how many times he’s imagined ruining you in this exact chair.
And he’s not planning on telling you..
Not yet, anyways.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
a/n: nonny who requested this bless you for getting me out of my writers block funk <3
𐔌 cw: cheating, mild domestic violence, manipulations, can come off as dubcon .ᐟ
simon had already known daniel for years, a simple lad around his own age, a former sas operative just as he was, though they had completely different reasons for leaving the military behind their broad, overburned backs. for once, simon felt washed up and old before his time, struggling to find any escape between the countless scars marring his sinewy body and the endless sleepless nights, the one's he spent scrubbing his hands under the old tap until the skin turned a raw, weeping pink.
so he found his refuge here, tucked away in a quiet pocket neighborhood that stretched for barely fifteen houses. daniel, however, had found a beautiful dove to marry, a woman he couldn't bear to spend a single second away from. taking pride in parading you around on his arm, inviting friends from every corner of the country just to share the happy news and show off the pretty, twinkling ring on your finger.
you knew exactly how you wanted the house to look, meticulously picking out the couch color, the wallpaper, the rugs, and the kitchen design, building it all from scratch in a way that would make any interior designer green with envy. the way you cooked was a subject simon kept strictly behind a curt nod and food muffled gratitude, never admitting how the sweetness of the chocolate chips from your cookies lingered on his canines for days afterward.
nor did he ever confess how your roasted dinners somehow managed to make him even more famished than he already was since moment he stepped past the threshold, the mouthwatering aromas drifting from the open concept kitchen. he had never met a lovelier woman, you’d always fuss over him, asking if he’d had a bite to eat before arriving, patting his tatted forearm with a fond smile and fluttering around to find some leftovers.
even though simon knew there were none, just your excuse so you could set to work cooking him a proper meal, refusing to let him settle for the instant noodles his own cupboards were usually stocked with. pouring him a glass of bourbon, you would chat about how he was doing, twirling around in your flowery apron while rambling sweetly.
up until you'll bent over to the oven, the loose cotton trousers you wore tightened just enough around the pert curve of your ass to make his fingers claw restlessly into the washed denim at his knee. the only real problem was that simon’s brutal childhood had molded him into a deeply covetous man, someone who had learned early on to seize exactly what he wanted by any means necessary.
his grip on the door handle relaxed when a meek knock rattled the wood, nearly drowned out by the mindless drone of a late night tv show reflecting off the empty beer bottles cluttered on the table. hesitant footsteps padding across his scuffed porch, fading the exact moment he unlatched the door and threw it open.
there you stood, trembling hands clasped tightly against your chest, bloodshot eyes swimming with tears beneath clumped, rapidly quivering eyelashes that spilled salty beads down your cheeks. your lower lip was split, crimson smeared down to your wobbling chin, and the flesh of your cheek already hot and puffy from a heavy blow.
if you were here, on his porch, instead of at home chirping honeyed nothings to your husband, then simon knew precisely who had left you this way, abused and abandoned to weep. simon’s dense eyebrows pinched inward as he pulled you inside, broad palm resting warm against your spine and sliding lower in a soothing, grounding caress. his massive, bunching shoulders bending to catch the broken, sob choked words slipping past your teeth “h—he. . he accused me of c—cheating. . out of n—nowhere” you whimpered, rubbing your shiny, tear rimmed eyes.
simon disappeared to locate a long forgotten ice pack and a battered med kit from the clutter beneath the bathroom sink before returning to the living room. stepping out the gloomy hallway, he returned to where you sat huddled on his worn out couch, shivering as you sipped a cup of tea that tasted too bitter, salt bitten against your torn lip.
the springs groaned as his heavy frame sank onto the sagging cushions right beside you, his muscular thigh pressing firmly into yours. you set the mug down, breath hitching when his calloused fingers hooked beneath your jaw, gently tilting your face into the light. umber eyes tightening into viper slits, scruffy jawline tense from gritted teeth as he examined the damage.
“easy, dov', it's alright'” he soothed when you winced, a gravelly coo as your nose scrunched from the sharp sting of peroxide soaked gauze on your wounded lip. a helpless, involuntary hiccup slipped past your teeth as you tried to turn your head away. he tutted softly, calloused fingers tightening their hold on your jaw, his thumb arching to trace a soothing caress across your skin.
you leaned into his touch, blinking up at him with wide, painfully beautiful eyes, captivating even in your ruined state. not uttering a single syllable when he brushed his chapped lips against your forehead in a fleeting peck, but you nervously licked your own upper lip, breath stuttering as his heavy lidded yet unwavering gaze, partially obscured by wispy blonde eyelashes, flitted down to your mouth with unabashed hunger.
this was his opportunity, the only one, to finally seize what had caused that persistent ache in his gut, to close his jaws around the nape of your neck and tug until you went pliable, nuzzling deeply into his palm. your nails bit into his shoulders, crumpling the fabric of his shirt as you gasped right into his mouth, feeling his tongue licking incessantly over your split lip, tasting iron and a coaty, malty sweetness until your glossy eyes fluttered shut.
“ther' she is, poor thing” he crooned against your skin, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs by then, forcing them wide to accommodate his frame as he pressed a lingering kiss to the feverish skin of your inner thigh. fingers tangled into cropped hair, digging and scratching into his scalp with a force that should have hurt, but he only let out a deep, animalistic purr, his crooked nose nudging greedily into your pelvis as he took a sharp, starved inhale of your scent.
“i—it’s. . w—we shouldn’t” you tried to protest, the words pitched weakly from your heaving lungs, shifting restlessly against the cushions, one he hadn't moved you from, but had cornered you into instead, stretching his massive frame over a couch he could barely fit on alone. words always meant less than actions, especially to a man like him, dog trained to show what he can do.
simon didn't miss the treacherous way your hips bucked upward in response, bruised lips parting around a ragged whine that called his name into the stilled room, peering down with heady glazed eyes. pulse hammering against your shuddering ribcage, two thick fingers hold your pussy lips apart, glittering dewy before his smoldering gaze, the wells of his eyes gone opaque, watching your leaking hole pulse, drooling slick on his palm.
stubble grating against your tender skin, pillowy thighs trying to snap shut, and he doesn't minds the way you squish his cheekbones, letting out a pathetic little keen as his tongue drags over your puffy clit, mouth sealing around the twitching nub. head lolling back, propped against a pillow he had carefully ensured would be within your reach, you finally stopped resisting. twitching fingers finding their resting place against the hot, crimson dusted scruff of his nape, the chill of your wedding band starkly cooling his burning skin.
toes curling as he feasts on you, loud and messy, slobbering all over as tv's light makes his patchy stubble gleam, the wet sounds of your cunt louder than still ongoing show, simon's tongue licking a sweet circle over your clit. he starved to touch so much more of you, yet kept his hands pinned flat at his sides, restraining himself so as not to scare you away.
hips rolling and shifting to hump into the couch, cock harder than it had ever been in his life, fully gorged and almost bursting at the seams. mouth dragging down, lapping up and swirling his flattening tongue at your hole just to feel you clench around it, sniffling and whimpering, numb arms starting to scramble at his shoulderblades when your spine strains, so close to burst and let him swallow on your sticky slick.
“that''ss it, go on, show me” he hisses, pulling from you with a wet pop, soaked face nuzzling into your thigh, teasingly close to your spread presented, aching cunt. licking his lips as if from cream, nicked fingertips rubbing you up and down, reaching to tap against your drenched hole, clenching in needy pulls until he dips one digit in. you don't need more than that, so sensitive, creaming his pruney finger with a watery sob and heat unspooling in your belly, slumping down to gaze at him in a hazy stare, swollen lips slack.
simon handled you with the utmost care, crawling out from between your legs and stretching to his knees, he let your limbs relax onto the cushions as he stood up to fetch a towel, gently dabbing your skin clean. gathering you right into his massive lap, cradling your weight against his brawny chest, rugged face buried into the crown of your head. his fingertips sweeping in a soothing rhythm up and down your spine, before curving around your ribs.
grunting low, quiet endearments, calling you his pretty dove, his darling girl, the more your consciousness faded into the exhaustion, the less your split lip stung. he waited until you had fully dozed off, face tucked against his collarbones, breathing turning slow and content, before he reached for his cracked phone. unlocking the screen, he peeked into his chat with daniel, the picture he had covertly snapped flaring brightly in the dim room.
a photograph of you and some man, a friend, a colleague, it didn't matter, sitting close to you at a café in town. beneath the image sat the message he had written, feigning brotherly concern “lass seimed pretty clos' to him, thaught' i’d show yau” because simon knew daniel struggled with his patience, a lingering military affliction, and he had long since noticed how erratically he behaved when it came to you.
trying to control himself, but simon knew precisely which buttons to press, where to push, though not expecting the lad to actually physically harm you, anticipating a screaming match, perhaps a broken vase, the one you had purchased just recently. never intending for daniel to lift a brutal hand against a treasure like you, simon would talk to him about that later, his own hand was far, far heavier after all.
First of all, sorry if something I write isn’t clear, I’m using a translator!
Sooo imagine Simon with a girlfriend or a dater who is a scout leader (head of the scouts, like a teacher) and she takes him to one of the scout meetings so the kids can see a real British soldier, and Simon is a bit surprised to see how these kids, around 10 years old, are more organized and follow orders better than the soldiers under his command, who are usually over 20.
I see it as something really sweet.
Simon x scout/teacher reader (I imagine reader works for like a summer program)
You've been with Simon for years now, you're even engaged, but his stories never seem to stop surprising you. The 141 has been working with a group of recruits for weeks now, and they’re supposed to be the best of the best, they should feel lucky to train under the 141. Yet almost every time Simon comes home he is explaining to you how they barley listen and often fuck stuff up. But every time you come home you only have good stories, and honestly Simon thinks you're just downplaying it.
Simon just came home, later than usual and already changed out of uniform, all odd for him. Simon liked routine, get off at the same time, come home, shower, and then spend time with you. As soon as he walked in he wrapped you in a hug, after a moment he said “recruits broke some stuff outside and now the whole basses water system is messed up. My clothes were soaked. Price is down right done with them” you smiled at him, you sympathized but it was still a little funny “why don't you come with me tomorrow, maybe you could get learn some tips before completely giving up” you said while grabbing Simon's duffle bag, Simon scoffed "you're saying a group of kids, act better than my trained soldiers" you smirked “they listen, and that's the difference” you said before walking away.
Simon thought about it, it wouldn't hurt, and even though his recruits didn't listen often, they had to be better than literal children, right? Simon texted the 141 group chat letting them know he was taking tomorrow off and why, the sergeants were immediately placing bets on which group would act better, and though Price was still pissed from earlier even he placed his bet.
It was Simon's first time in your little classroom in a few years, when you first got the position he helped you set up the room but after that he didn't have much reason to come over. The first thing he noticed is how clean the room was, especially since it was a kids room. Simon stayed sitting at your desk while the kids came in, they all eyed him curiously but none of them approached, they just sat and played. Once all of your students were in you moved to the front of the class, you rang a little bell on your desk and suddenly all of them were looking at you
“I’m sure you’ve all noticed the man in the corner, that’s Simon” one of the students raised their hand and asked “is he your husband” you smiled, how did they know? “yes, and he is also a soldier in the military, a lieutenant” that got him even more stares combined with some ooh and ahs. You turned to Simon “and Mister Lieutenant, what would you say is the most important thing in the military” you hadn't instructed Simon on what to say, you just already knew his answer "communicating and workin’ together” which had you students smiling proud of themselves, you guys had been working on those skills “so today we’re gonna show him how good we are at doing that.”
Simon spent the first part of the morning just answering their question, they were surprising calm and respectful, always raising their hand to ask questions, and they asked genuine questions about the military, in fact he had to think about his answers to make the appropriate for children, they didn't need to know the horrors of the world yet. Then you took them outside, you had them set up in stations doing different things, all working on life skills, Simon went around, occasionally stopping to help one of the groups. By the time lunch rolled around they had all finished and cleaned up.
Lunch was by far the loudest part of the day, but still Simon was able to sit next to you and talk to you without having to yell, on base sometimes he has to leave his office to tell them to shut up cause he cant even think. After lunch, you went back outside with the kids, just letting them run around and have fun. You leaned over to Simon “so who listens better” Simon kept his lips shut and just looked away. After recess you went back inside, some kids playing, others coloring, the kids kept coming up to Simon and dragging him away to show him what they had made, and Simon would leave with multiple drawings of him.
Once all of the kids had gotten picked up you bumped Simon on the side “learn any tips Si?” he just rolled his eyes “doesn’t make any since luv, no clue how you do it” you shrugged, still smiling “I don't know, maybe I just need to come over, I’m sure I’ll have your soldiers listening in no time” Simon out right laughed at your boldness “okay luv, whatever you say” he says that, but it might not be the worst idea.
until we're rotten; a AKOTSK AU (Ghost x Johnny X F!Reader)
AN: your honor, they're all toxic and we love them for it.
Summary and complete CW (contains smut, violence, sex work and mentions of abortion)
Ghost had buried his sire beneath a tree in a field in a land that had no proper name. The hedge knight had stayed by the man's side until he drew his last breath, and even after that he had stayed, wondering what words he was supposed to say over the man who had been the closest thing to a father to him. His sire had not been a kind man, had never shown him anything akin to love, but he was honorable in the ways that mattered to Ghost.
Ghost had promised that dying man he would find the closest tourney, that he would fight the way Ghost had always fought with a brutality that most could not and that win or lose at the end of the tourney he would find himself a new master to follow. Ghost had never wanted to enter a tourney, he saw no point to play fighting when there were actual battles to prepare for. The only things he had to prove were on the battlefield. But the dying wishes of an old man were hard to say no to, even harder when that man bled out from a wound meant for him.
The tourney grounds are already lively when he arrives. The division between the common folk and the knights and the nobles is clear as he makes his way between tents and bodies. The common folk are densely packed together near the edges of the grounds, their tents shabby compared to the ornate fabrics that decorate the tents of the lords and noble knights that come from houses with prestigious names.
Ghost causes a stir. How could he not with his size, his mask and his mysterious origins. Each theory is more wild than the next. He’s the bastard of a lord come to seize his rightful place, he’s the crowned prince in disguise, he’s one of the old gods made man here to test his followers.
He hears the whispers and pays them no mind, he has always been a spectacle even before he joined his sire. He had been a large child and an even larger teen. Though, he hadn't always been so violent. Much like the sharpest blades, Ghost had been forged in the flames, his will and his desires beaten and ground and hardened until he was a weapon for others.
When it comes time to add his name to the roll, the master of the games is hesitant to add a man without a title wearing battle beaten armor who know one seems to know? There are noble knights fighting here, they shouldn’t have their reputations sullied by some common hedge knight with no master and no name. He tells Ghost to come back with someone who will vouch for him.
Ghost is smart enough to know that he is no proper knight, there were no fancy words shared between him and his sire, no oath, only his loyalty and his accomplishments in battle. He has fought alongside many of the men, he recognizes their banners and names, but it was always his sire who took the lead, who broke bread with the lords and their families, who had jokes for the men, soft words for the women. His sire was the one they should know and yet they all feigned ignorance.
Only one man claims to know of Ghost, even more shockingly that man is willing to vouch for him.
Ser MacTavish is a known scoundrel and rake. The other knights and lords know to keep their women away from the unruly and boisterous northerner, despite the fact that he had traveled to the tourney with his own pets. It was said that he could never be truly satisfied.
MacTavish stands out among the others knights of noble birth, today his hair shorn short on the sides, the rest plaited down his back and adorned with flowers. In place of pants or a tunic he wears a tartan kilt, often forgoing a shirt. As he follows along with Ghost to visit the master of games he complains about the southern heat while winking at him.
He reminds Ghost of the old gods he saw stitched into a tapestry in a sacked keep. There was a man surrounded by other ethereal beings dancing among the weirwoods, but the one with the flowers in his hair had caught Ghost's attention the most. He had only ever seen men adorned in metal, leather and blood. He had never seen a man look so soft, so pretty.
Ghost observes him, curious and apprehensive of his sole supporter. The man is more than a pretty face, his chest covered in thick hair and battle scars, each more ragged and raw than the last. Ghost studies each, a mace, a broadsword, the glancing blow of an arrow. His own body is much the same only he would never put it on display in such a garish way.
MacTavish drags Ghost to join him in his tent for a pre-tourney banquet, the northerner telling Ghost it's the only way to repay his kindness. The cups overflow with wine, the plates with meat, and pretty men and maidens dance around the crowd moving in ways Ghost has never seen before.
It’s at this banquet that he sees you for the first time. He sits next to MacTavish, a seat of honor according to his host who has one arm slung over the back of Ghost’s chair, the pressure heavy and hot, while the other swings around a chalice of wine that seems always on the verge of spilling over despite the way that MacTavish drinks heavily from it.
You are not alone. Your arrival, and the arrival of the other dancers is announced with cries from around the room. Each dancer moving with a gracefulness that Ghost could only dream of achieving. The moves seem both planned and spontaneous, bodies twisting around each other and undulating, pulsing as they fill the empty spaces between tables, between seats, between the throngs of people who feast on MacTavish's generosity.
Each dancer is more pretty than the last.
But you are the one that Ghost cannot look away from.
You move like gravity is only a suggestion, something to keep others tied to the world while you move about untethered and free of its weight. The dress you wear is made of a fabric that looks like smoke, it moves as fluidly as you do and covers nothing. Every inch of your skin is on display as your body twists languidly to the music. Ghost can't look away as you pass through the crowd, each time you appear he sees another part of you, another glimpse of the woman who is surely not of this world.
You are a whore.
Even now as you dance around the tent giving the guests a taste and a tease of what you can offer there is only one man who will enjoy the soft caress of your fingers, the plush press of your thighs and that is because he pays with the prettiest piles of gold coin.
You’ve played this game before with him. Pretend to be the entertainment, pretend you aren’t one of his pretty pretty pets that he drags from tourney to tourney, to battlefield to feast. You don’t look his way, you don’t break the illusion that you are some random woman he has never met before. It’s the same every time. He pretends not to see you, while you pretend to ignore his advances.
Johnny likes the chase. Likes to think he’s worked for your pussy. And you would be lying to say you didn’t enjoy it, Johnny might have a voracious appetite but he leaves none of his lovers wanting.
Tonight though you can't help but peer up at the head table, it's as if something pulls you there, calls to you. Through the throng of bodies you see him. Not Johnny, although you see him as well, a woman on one knee, his beefy hand kneading at her thigh as he speaks to the man next to him.
Can you call him a man? The top half of his face is covered with what looks like a mask made of bone, only his eyes visible from two black pits. The lower half is covered by a cloth that he pulls down to eat bites of dripping pieces of meat or swigs of his wine. Each time you hope to see more of his face before he pulls the cloth back up.
He is the biggest man you have ever seen and you wonder if he is big everywhere, for certainly it would be a waste if that was not the case.
This is the man the others have been whispering about, the secret prince or the beast sent to slay them all. A hedge knight that comes from nowhere yet claims to have been everywhere. You've also heard he is honorable, he's curried the favor of the lowborn attendants in some unspoken way. You have not cared to listen to them because you are not honorable. You are a whore from a disgraced house who sold your body to the highest bidder until you got lucky. 'ave tae call me Johnny if yer goan tae suck mah cock like ye like it he had whispered to you the first night you met after dragging you out to the stables when you should have been entertaining the man who had already paid for your services.
You are also smart, you know it's only a matter of time before Johnny loses interest in you.
Perhaps he is already losing interest in you. He stares up at the mystery knight enraptured by him, the same as everyone else. You know what it feels like to have those blue eyes peer into your soul, you know what it feels like to have the heavy hold of his arm grounding you, you know what it is like to have that man whisper to you switching between the common tongue and the language of his ancestors.
It is more intoxicating than even the finest wine. And when you dine with Johnny, Ser MacTavish, you only drink the best.
You are certain he will lose interest in you soon because you have a secret, easy enough to deal with if you found yourself a maester. But every morning as you wake up feeling more and more sluggish, the fatigue creeping up your spine as you perform your duties, dance this same dance from place to place, you start to think that maybe you don't want to get rid of it. If you had someone honorable, someone strong who could protect you and the babe maybe you wouldn't have to sell yourself anymore. Maybe you could sell yourself one final time, give one man the rest of you.
Maybe it could be enough.
When Johnny catches your eye you are shocked that he bids you forward, a wolfish smile across his face as he whispers to his companion. The other man watches you too, his eyes just as hungry.
This is not the game you are used to, but you allow yourself to be swept up in Johnny's hold, arms sticky with sweat as he pulls you against him, jostling you until your barely covered pussy is flush to his cock that strains against his kilt. The tartan rough through the silk of your dress.
He leans his chin on your shoulder, pressing his face to yours as he looks at the knight by his side.
Nae a bastard in the realm luckier than me. tae 'ave such bonnie company, ah must be favored by the old gods
You've thought the same of him, because how could he be so careless and so carefree, not once in his employment had you ever seen him training and yet not once had he been unseated in a joust, or bested at hand-to-hand. After battles and skirmishes he always returns alive, bloodied, bruised and later scarred, but never anything that doesn't add to his allure.
You don't know about the old gods, but perhaps he is blessed by The Warrior so that no true harm will come to him in battle, or by The Crone so that he has the foresight to keep himself safe.
Or, perhaps he is blessed by The Stranger. It feels the most right as you meet the eyes of the hedge knight, his mask hiding his face, the mystery that surrounds him almost suffocating this close up. With Johnny pressed to your back, his thick forearm around your waist and the hedge knight sat in front of you, his eyes heavy where they trail over every place that you touch Johnny.
It's hard not to imagine being pressed between the two of them in a much more private location. Spread out over the furs in Johnny's tent, the air thick with heat and the smell of sex. It wouldn't have been the first time you had shared a night with the northerner and a second partner, but never had it been with someone so large, so arresting.
is it the gods or your lord father's coin that buys your luck
You aren't surprised that the masked man's voice is deep, it matches the aura that surrounds him. His accent isn't one you recognize and you have been dragged across the realm and have met all kinds of folk. It bothers you that you cannot place this man, that you cannot see his face properly, that the tease of his lips when he pulls down the cloth to drink only drives your curiosity. And that when he speaks to Johnny, it is with a strange mix of the deference demanded by his high born name and a familiarity that speaks to years of camaraderie that the two men do not share.
The night melts in on itself in the way it does when the wine flows and no one seems quite ready to call it. Many of these men are meant to fight in the morn and yet the revelry continues until the light in the lanterns burns low and only flagons of wine remain on the tables. At some point Johnny left you to take a piss and when he stumbled back in it was with a woman on either arm, the three of them finding their way to the makeshift dance floor.
Johnny's raucous laughter could be heard over the instruments and the hum of voices.
Perhaps tonight he is the one playing hard to get.
The hedge knight is a mostly quiet companion, sipping his wine and watching the comings and goings of people around you. You didn't mind it for the most part, the rumors of the other folk could paint him some kind of saint and it would likely be far from the truth. The longer you had sat with him and Johnny the more you thought that to be the case.
He found humor in death and destruction. He is crass just like the other knights that you have met. You consider the possibility that he is honorable and that you could bed him and claim that the babe is his. Even if he is not honorable, he is strong and could protect you.
y'know 'im well
You wish he had asked you anything else. You don't want to talk about Johnny, don't want to see the way those other women paw at him, the way their fingers creep beneath the waistband of the damned kilt, the way their lips touch his skin.
It's not jealousy, but it burns all the same.
Don't know that anyone can truly know Ser MacTavish
Ghost is not known for his tact, he knows this and despite many attempts by his sire to teach him to talk proper, it had never really stuck. He just doesn't see the point in it, why should he bend the knee and talk all prettily to some pockmarked, backwards lordling who doesn't know how to hold a sword or his cock just because his father is lord of some shithole corner of the realm. And yet, he can sense it enough that you don't want to talk about the man currently spinning across the floor with two ditzy maidens.
He can try to talk prettier for you but he doesn't know how to spin fun little tales like Ser MacTavish, Johnny as you called him as he held you in his arms. Ghost doesn't know how to ask someone about their family, where they were raised, how they are liking the view. He can't very well tell you how he looks forward to bashing in the head of the man at the back of the tent, the one with the red hair and missing finger for no other reason than he was fuck ugly and once pissed himself in battle.
Do you have a tent, Ser Ghost
When you are the one to break the silence next he feels deficient in some way. He should be the one entertaining you after the way you entertained the crowds. He should live up to his knightly name somehow. He's even tried to keep his gaze away from your body, it's too easy for his hungry eyes to feast on the slopes of your shoulders, the line of your throat, the peak of your nipples through the dress you wear. He got more than enough of you when you were perched on Johnny's lap looking so pretty.
Aye
He answers while not meeting your eyes, looking back over the dwindling crowd. He knows that he should bid his host good morrow as well, even though he knows sleep will not come easy to him. But it will come better to him if he were in his own tent and not here, sat on this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by strangers and avoiding the first woman to have caught his eye in ages.
It's when you laugh that he finally drags his attention back to you. Back to the way your lips twist into a smile, the way the fire light casts shadows across your skin, the way you reach a gentle hand out and place it on his knee, fingers tightening as you lean closer.
Too close.
Would you like company
He can't help the way he looks to MacTavish before he answers, the man no longer dancing but now arm wrestling with some knight's squire, the baby faced boy looks no older than Ghost was when his sire found him.
Your hand leaves his knee, only to reach up and guide his face back to you. He wonders if you will shy away from his scars if you have no issues with MacTavish's. Ghost's are more, he's not a bonnie lad like the other knight, but perhaps he could be as eager of a lover? MacTavish strikes him as someone who wants to please.
Is it wise to steal you away from his more than gracious host, from the man who vouched for him even though they had never before crossed paths? A man who seems to crave violence and bloodshed with the same fervor as Ghost but with a touch more desire for debauchery and indulgence than Ghost has.
Yet, you are not married to the other knight and if you offer yourself up to Ghost who is he to pass up on the very generous hospitality of his host.
He stands, the movement shaky and abrupt after hours in that chair drinking wine and listening to Mactavish's stories. You stand as well, as if having decided for him that you will be joining him. Or maybe that is wishful thinking, maybe you only intend to retire for the night.
You follow him out the back of the tent into the dark night.
The tourney grounds are not quite quiet, not the way Ghost has grown accustomed to after years living off the land. Besides battles and skirmishes, he's spent most of his nights beneath the stars but MacTavish had insisted on him taking a tent for himself, calling it an investment in Ghost's performance at the tourney. Ghost had never needed it before, but, as he had quickly learned, MacTavish always got his way.
Ghost worries that you are used to finer things than a romp in a tent on a bedroll that is scarcely large enough for himself, however, you do not seem dissuaded by his accommodations because as soon as you are both plunged into the complete darkness of the tent your are plucking at the ties on his shirt.
He bats your hands away, capturing them both in one of his own and holding them between your bodies.
i am not some pretty little lord like MacTavish
don't need you to be pretty
i don't have any fancy words for you
don't need fancy words
what do y'need
i need you to fuck me like the whore i am
He doesn't need more direction than that. Ghost drops your hands, before tearing away the top of your dress, freeing the tits he had been coveting all night. You gasp as he takes each in a hand, pawing at them with calloused fingers. He wants his mouth on you and knows in the dark of the tent you won't be able to see his face, but you wouldn't be able to ignore the feel of his scars once his lips are on you.
You do not have the same qualms. Your own hands pull blindly at the mask, yanking it harshly until you have freed it from his head and toss it into a dark corner of the tent. You drag your nails over his scalp and through his roughly cut hair, uneven tufts that he hasn't properly seen for ages. It sends tingles down his spine, a sensation that is unfamiliar to him and yet leaves him craving more when your hand slips behind his neck in order to pull his mouth to your own.
You don't shy away from his rough kiss, from the cleft in his lip that leaves him face in a permanent scowl, or from the gnarled burn that took one of his ears and mars most of the left side of his face.
Folk believe the masked hedge knight named Ghost to be a monster but the skull mask is a kindness. Even the magnanimous Ser MacTavish would be tempted to turn him away if he were to see Ghost fully. Even his sire hadn't been able to stand the sight of him after a point, it was the old man that had given Ghost the mask, the skull of some unlucky bastard long bleached by the sun on the beaches of Dorne.
You pant into his mouth as his hands venture lower, tearing more and more of your dress until you stand before him bare. He might not be able to see you, but his hands paint a pretty picture as they explore each valley and peak of your body. The heft of your tits, the firm press of your peaked nipples, the soft skin of your stomach, pliant and warm, before his fingers dive between your legs, your wetness caught in the downy hair that covers your mound.
He wants to taste you, but you want to taste him more.
You drop to your knees hard, the ground unforgiving but you are determined to find out if he truly is big everywhere. You do not wait for his assistance, if he can ruin your dress you can rip open his trousers before you suck his cock.
You wish you could see it properly, because the moment you are yanking his pants down his cock springs free, thick and curved as your fingers dance over the only part of this man that is soft. The air is thick with his musk and you lean forward, trailing your tongue down the length of him until you find the tip, a pearl of pre-come waiting as your prize. His hands are quick to find the back of your head when you swallow down the head of his cock. You might be skilled but even you know your limits and taking him fully would only hurt you.
With time though…with time you could take more of him. For now you settle for sucking on what length you can take while you cup his balls in your free hand.
Above you Ghost grunts, his hands tightening where they hold you. You want to hear him come undone, truly undone. Would the giant of a hedge knight cry pretty tears as you bring him to climax over and over? Would he shout as he came? Or curse your name? Or maybe he is silent except for the prettiest little whimpers?
Maybe he would have no patience for your games and simply bring you to heel?
You could be happy with either, but if tonight is the only night you have to convince him to be with you, then you will need to focus.
Ghost pulls you away just when you are sure he is about to come. You whine, annoyed that he stopped you when you had been about to pull away anyway but then he's kicking off his boots, ripping off his tunic and pulling you down to the bedroll.
It's certainly not the most comfortable place you have taken a man, but then it's not the worst, and you are only there for a moment before his is moving your body as if you weigh nothing so that he is upon the ground and your legs are straining to straddle his waist, his cock pressed between your bodies.
You lean down and take is mouth again, enjoying the way he fights for dominance from beneath you. His cock is hot and hard as you grind down on it, it drags against your clit with each move, the tingle of pleasure more than you expected from a partner who isn't Johnny.
does Johnny fuck y'proper till ya come
You snort into his mouth at the outrageous question. Leave it to a man to have your pussy on his cock worrying about how another man fucks you. Would it bother him more to know your Johnny's whore? That you had fucked countless men before the northerner?
You bare down on his cock this time, his head notching just right, his hands flexing where they hold your hips as you press down further. He rolls his own hips up, pushing down with his hands. He is far from fully seated but already you feel the sweat dripping down your back. You take a deep breath, your hands pushing against his chest so that you can sit back, taking more and more on him until he is fully sheathed, his fingers so tight on your hips you are sure you will be bruised.
You certainly won't be able to walk right with the way his cock presses into your womb.
will you fuck me proper till i come
Ghost needs no further encouragement. He doesn't let you set the pace, he lifts your hips with ease before pulling you back down on his cock. Your nails dig into his chest as he pounds into you from below. You don't know that you have ever felt so full, so desired, so wanted.
You collapse forward on his chest as his hands continue to guide your movements. You pray to The Seven that he is not yet close, not at all ready for this night to be over and unsure if he will please you as promised, but perhaps at this pace you could come before he has had his fill of you.
When Ghost’s hips falter and you are certain he is ready to come you almost cry out in desperation, it’s too soon. Only the hedge knight slips a hand between your bodies, pinching your nipple hard before the wide expanse of his palm comes to rest on your throat, his fingers holding loosely as he pushes you up to ride him properly.
You roll your hips, relishing in the feel of him, the change in angle glorious, his own breathing is labor, his fingers twitching around your throat. His other hand drifts, kneading at your thigh first before shifting so that his thumb can press firmly against your clit, even just the pressure is enough to send a zing of pleasure up your spine, the heat growing beneath your skin until you can't help but clench around him, your own movements becoming unpracticed.
Come on my cock this time and next time I can ‘ave ya comin’ on my tongue.
You don't know if it is the promise of a next time or the press of his thumb, but you can't hold back your cry as you tumble over the edge. You slump forward into his hold, the hand against your throat holding you in place as he fucks up into you, finding his own release only moments after. The warmth of him spreads through you, and leaks out around his still hard cock.
Can he truly go again?
Perhaps you will find out.
Dawn comes slowly across the tourney grounds. Already squires, and servants and the hosts own staff bustle from here to there. You are already gone when Ghost wakes. It is the first time since he was a young child that he had shared a bed with another and he finds that he strongly wants to do it again. Maybe it was fucking you that had tired him out or it was the comfort of your face pressed to his chest, your warm breath against his skin, your hand clutching on to his wrist as you slept.
Ghost doesn’t expect to see you again, certainly not as he stands in the shit and the mud that leads into the makeshift fighting pit. He's there among the other fighters, most scarred and while not as frightening a visage as Ghost just as lethal. Sprinkled through the group are squires, baby faced and eager to please. Ghost has never had much use for a squire, but as he watches the boy nearest him fetch the knight he is with a wineskin he thinks it wouldn’t hurt.
It’s as he muses the benefits of a squire that he spots you.
You walk alone through the throngs of men, your face impassive as if unbothered by the sights and sounds and smells that surround you. When you spot him you smile and though you cannot see it he smiles back.
He doesn’t miss the way the other men watch you, some of the squires openly staring as you walk by.
You make your way to him with dainty steps, carefully avoiding the worst of the muck and the grime, but not all of it. The hem of your dress is quickly dirtied. This one more modest and far more fine, yet still not capable of hiding the curves on your hips, the thickness of your thighs, or the plushness of your tits. Is there a way Ghost could steal you away now? Or rip the eyes out of every one of these green little boys who don’t deserve the sight of you?
Ghost had come to the tourney in search of a master, but maybe what he was in search of all along was a wife? He could fuck you again tonight and pray to The Mother for her blessing, certainly you wouldn't leave him if it was his child that took root in your womb.
He shifts his stance, cock hard and uncomfortable in his armor but he can't stop his fantasies of filling you with his seed even as you come to a stop at his side. Still radiant, still smiling only for him.
Would you accept my favor, Ser Ghost
A lady’s favor?
He had seen other knights and noblemen receive favors from their women before battle. Tokens of luck and well tidings. A thing that he had never once received himself. He never made an effort to speak to the men around him, he was most certainly not talking to the women.
Ghost simply nods, not finding the right words to accept such a blessing. Your eyes shine with an admiration he does not deserve as you pull from your pocket a wispy piece of fabric, delicate and fragile, a piece of the dress he had savagely ripped apart because he had not been able to handle even that insignificant of a barrier between your skin and his touch.
You grab his wrist and pull it towards you. He cannot feel your touch through the gauntlet he wears, but he can remember the feel of your fingers, warm and persistent the night before. With ease you undo the gauntlet, handing it to him before wrapping the delicate strip of fabric around his wrist. You don't wrap it tightly, but you take care to ensure it is secure before replacing the gauntlet. You don't let go.
I'll pray to The Warrior for your safe return
You lift his hand up and place a single kiss to the cool metal of the gauntlet before pulling away. He watches you leave until he can no longer see you in the crowd of tourney goers. He is happy you left, for had you stayed by his side for any longer he was not sure he could have remained a gentleman.
Ghost eyes his competition again, this time with a far more discerning eye, each man here was an obstacle between him and you. He could not accept your favor and not win for you. Once he is victorious he will be deserving of you.
And if he must spend the whole night fucking a baby into you in order to convince you to stay with him, then he will do just that.
The tourney starts the same as all tourneys start. Johnny has grown bored of the airs that the nobles around him put on at these things. It's just folly for old men who were past their prime and green wee lads who had yet to see true war.
Johnny has done his part since coming of age to defend his own ancestral lands as well as fight the king's wars. The excitement of battle, the glory of victory, the parades of admirers had all grown old to him. Even the lavish banquets and perfectly decorated tents left him feeling unsatisfied.
The first thing to have caught his eye in a very long time had been you. Devious, discerning and oh so damaged. It hadn't taken much for him to convince you to follow him after he found you in that rundown, backwaters tavern. A few piles of gold coins and you were his.
Of course, you weren't his sole source of entertainment then, but it hadn't taken long for you to become his favorite. Yet, you vexed him so as you sat next to him in the viewing stands, using his position as a lord's son to get a prime spot to watch the fights. Never before had you been so engaged in the men fighting in the tourney, your attention had always been on him.
That is what he pays you to do, but he had come to hope that maybe a bit of it was a mutual fondness.
Although, he can't blame you when it is Ser Ghost who is taking the field. Johnny has seen many kinds of men in battle from all across Westeros. Never has a man drawn him in the way Ser Ghost has. He had heard talk of a hedge knight's companion who was inhumane on the field, a monster that haunted his enemies' dreams, the kind of warrior that played the villain and never the hero.
Johnny had been curious about him long before they had met.
Even Johnny can't help but lean forward as Ghost approaches his opponent. In full armor Ghost is stunning, with Johnny's help and coin he could be a sight to see, polished steel with gold trim would not do for a man with such a dark aura yet Johnny can't help but imagine him so before imagining the other knight covered in blood as Johnny removes each piece of armor before revealing the man behind the mask.
Have you seen his face?
It had been hard to ignore the fact that you had abandoned him at his own feast. That his guest of honor had absconded with his favorite pet had hurt, but to think that you had had the honor of seeing Ghost's face first? Johnny felt a stab of jealousy that he was not quite used to.
You gasp at the first hit, hand finding his and gripping it tightly. You wore the dress Johnny had brought for you, the kind of thing that wouldn't stand out among the other noblewomen who sat around you. You did not often talk of your past, but you wore this type of garment with ease, too much ease for someone who had been born to a lowborn family. Over time Johnny has dressed you more and more like the type of lady he was expected to be seen with, so slowly, and so carefully that he is certain you haven't realized what he is doing.
You also had yet to realize that he no longer took pleasure in his other companions, all of them knew not to tell you. It surprised him as it was your wit that endeared you to him after your beauty had lured him in. You were oh so clever until it came to this one thing. And had you noticed, you would have realized that by leaving him last night you had sentenced him to servicing himself.
Johnny had come twice to the image of you sucking his cock while Ghost fucked your pretty pretty pussy.
Does it hurt through the armor
Ghost doesn't even flinch when the other man's long sword hits him in the chest. A well calculated blow that allows Ghost to disarm the man as he attempts to pull back the sword that is far too heavy for him. If it hurts, Ghost makes no move to indicate it as a man runs onto the field to claim him the victor of this match. Two more opponents and Ghost win the prize for hand-to-hand. A handsome sum of money awaits the victor, but not nearly what Johnny could offer him.
Will ye kiss it better if it does
You drop his hand in shock, turning away from him and pretending to look very interested in the next pair of fighters.
Could it be that you like Ghost more than him?
You choke down a squeal as he pulls you into his lap, the boning in your dress sticking into his chest as he holds you tight, resting his chin on your shoulder the same way he had done the night before so that he can still see the fight. It does not seem this one is nearly as interesting to you as Ghost's.
Johnny wishes he hadn't given you such a well-structured dress for today, the stiff bodice is tragically separating him from feeling your plush stomach, it comforts him to feel just how alive you are. He settles for one hand holding you in place while the other grasps your thigh through layers of thick fabric. He hopes you will let him fuck you in the dress before dinner, then it will be his come dripping down your legs while you sit between him and his guest of honor.
It does not surprise him when the last match of the day is between Ghost and a knight from Storm’s End who looks like he has been mauled by a bear and put back together. Johnny has met this man, more than once, and luckily only ever as allies. While not quite as tall as Ghost, he is broad and barrel chested, and Johnny once saw him rip a man'ss jaw off with his bare hands. Ser Ulric the Jawbreaker.
Johnny would be terribly disappointed to see Ghost meet a similar fate today.
Seriously maiming or killing your opponent wasn't the goal of these tourneys, the lords and king would not approve of all of their best knights dying for the spectacle of it. Yet, on a day like today where the crowds pressed in close, the sun bared down on the folk gathered and the wine skins had been drained thoroughly it wasn't a surprise to hear calls from the crowd demanding blood.
You stiffen in Johnny's hold when the match starts, your nails digging into his skin where you grasp his wrist. He doesn't mind it, he is the one who has gotten the pleasure of keeping you in his lap all day, feeding you fruit from a bowl and sips of wine from a chalice.
Your hold on him tightens each time Ghost takes a hit from Ulric. From the viewing platform most are on the edge of their seats, many have coin bet on this match. Ulric is the favored fighter, despite the rumors around the tourney grounds that Ghost is some unworldly being, Ulric is known to the nobles. The gathered lords and ladies have seen him at tourneys before, the other knights have fought along side him. He is more than just speculation and whispered rumors.
Even you have seen The Jawbreaker take down countless opponents.
It's why you are crying out when you see Ulric land a blow on the back of Ghost's leg, the place unprotected by armor, the move of a swordsman who knows how to take down an opponent one-on-one. You squirm in Johnny's hold until you can hide your face in his neck, a completely undignified move that gets you curious stares from a few of the ladies that sit nearby. Johnny does not care, let those other ladies sit stiffly next to their husbands, stuffy old fucks who probably couldn't even get it up.
Johnny holds the back of your head gently, keeping your face turned away from the fight but not able to look away himself. He whispers to you in words he knows you do not understand but have always found comfort in, even now you melt into his hold, flinching each time the crash of swords on metal echoes through the field.
Ghost is limping now, blood dripping down his leg and pooling on the crushed grass as he studies his opponent. Both men are breathing heavily, this has been by far the longest match and they won't stop it until the winner is clear and by the cacophonous shouts from the crowd it will only end when one of the two has died.
For the briefest moment Ghost's gaze flicks up to the crowd, to the stands where Johnny sits with you. Its' a subtle movement, something that Johnny only notices because he hasn't once looked away from Ghost. He can't make out the other man's eyes from here, shaded by the helm he wears, but Johnny can feel that gaze, heavy and dark.
Is the other man jealous? Does he covet you, the woman Johnny holds so carefully in his arms? Does Ghost think there is a future with you that does not include him? Does Ghost think there is a future where he is not at Johnny's side?
Johnny grins, because he knows Ghost can see his face, can see the way you are tucked in close. He leans in and kisses the side of your head, smoothing his hand down your back in a move that to anyone else looks like he is comforting you, but its more than that. Ghost needs to understand that you are his, that it doesn't matter that you fucked the masked man, the knight with the skull helm, the mysterious hedge knight who might be a god that walks among them.
None of that matters because at the end of the night it was Johnny's tent you came back to smelling of sex with another man's come dried on your skin. It was Johnny who held you now in the stands with the other fancily dressed folk that even as a proper knight Ghost wouldn't be able to join.
Ghost knows this, knows that Johnny could never beat him in the field but has him beat in so many other ways. Maybe it is jealousy, or rage, or simply Ghost's nature, but the man merely tilts his head in acknowledgement before his gaze turns back on the other knight.
They circle each other, each step leaving behind a print in the mud, the trodden grass a map of their fight, each divet and scrap tracking their path. They come together again, swords clashing, one man grunting as the other swears, the two scrambling for control, for dominance. Even Johnny freezes as they fall to the ground, no longer a fight between two knights, they are simply animals who know that the only way to live is for the other to die.
The crowd has reached a fever pitch, there's no way you can hear Johnny's voice as he tries to assure you its almost over. Ulric has Ghost on his back, a heavy knee bearing down on Ghost's chest. In the fray Ulric has lost his helm, but Ghost has lost his sword. Ulric spits in Ghost's face, bloody globs drip down his helm as the other knight grins, his mouth full of bloody teeth. Its the look of someone who knows that they have won.
Johnny doesn't often pray to the old gods, it has been ages since he stepped foot in the godswood of his youth. There may be no heartrees in this southern land and no gods to hear his prayer, but he asks it of them anyway. It has only been a day but he does not want this knight to die. How utterly disappointing it will be to win you merely because Ghost has died at the hands of another man?
He will never know if it was the will of the gods, or simply the determination and strength of the man who has captured his attention, but Ghost raises hand, Ulric's discarded helm clasped in his fingers and smashes the other man in the side of the head. It is enough for him to lose focus, allowing Ghost to flip the two of them. Ulric is still armed, his sword now pressed beneath the fauld and grazing Ghost's stomach.
Ghost doesn't give the other man a chance to gut him. With the might of a knight not fully man, Ghost bring down the helm again, Ulric crying out first in surprise and then in pain as his face is hit over and over, the ornate edge of the helm breaking through his nose, then his eye socket and then the soft grey matter of his brain.
Ghost doesn't stop until there is nothing left but viscera. When he stands, the other knight's sword falls to the ground with a clatter, covered in blood. A man runs to the field, grasping Ghost's hand and raising it to the crowd as he proclaims him the victor.
When Johnny tells you it's over, you pull away from him, face tear stained and eyes wide. It doesn't seem you believe him until you see Ghost for yourself.
I want to go to him
Of course you do, not even a day since you met this man and you are pulling away from Johnny for him.
he's injured, he needs help
The tourney has a maester that will tend to him, Johnny had spoken to him when you had snuck away to give the knight your favor. Johnny knew what you were doing, saw the little strand of dress wrapped around your fingers as your nervously searched the grounds for the man you had only left hours before.
Johnny lets you go.
If he is in a foul mood that night no one mentions it to him. No one approaches him to dance, no one dares to take the seat next to him, no one dares to ask about you or Ghost. But he hears them whispering about Ghost regardless, late in the night when he typically would have sought you out, when the lights shimmer and the world spins, that's when he hears them.
'e's a monster, a'right
aye, 'eard 'e snatches up men's wives in the night
well i 'eard 'e eats the 'earts of the men 'e kills
ah 'eard 'e steals bairn tae bathe in they're blood
You do not return to his tent in the morning. He dresses for the joust, attendants scurrying around him as they attach his armor. You've never missed sending him off, never not given him a kiss to his helm before he mounts his horse. It reminds him of the days before he found you, different women in his bed each night, none lasting more than a few, very few willing to follow him into battle.
Johnny learns how Ghost felt the day before. The other knight is in the crowd of common folk, his height making him easy to spot. You are with him, huddled in between his arms, peering over the barrier to watch the knights who joust before him. When he is announced you smile and cheer for him just as you always did, but this time you are not alone.
The joust ends with little fanfare, Johnny lets himself be unhorsed early in the day. It would have been more dangerous to continue on distracted as he was. He doesn't see you after the joust, nor at his tent that night. It isn't until the next morning that you reappear in his orbit, your shadow not far behind.
There is a defiant challenge written across your face as you approach, some decision having been made between when he saw you last and this moment. Ghost is unreadable behind his mask, but he drapes a possessive arm over your shoulder.
Cannae believe ye stole mah pet
Ghost's hold tightens and Johnny doesn't miss the way you lean into the other man's touch.
I'm pregnant and it's Ser Ghost's and we are leaving together.
Pregnant? Your hand comes to rest on your stomach, the move drawing both men's attention down. You look no different, tired maybe but you spent the last three nights with a man that strikes Johnny as a thorough lover. And you shouldn't look different, its far too early for you to be showing, too early for you to even know. How could you know unless...
Johnny smiles. It's too early for you to know that you are pregnant by Ghost, the man could have spent all night fucking his come into you and it would still be too early to know, but it wouldn't be too early for you to know if it was someone else's.
Johnny congratulates you, praises The Mother for your good fortune. Ghost nods, but says nothing. Johnny lets them leave thinking they will part ways, start their new life with Ghost's winnings, but Johnny has other plans.
Even if that child were to be Ghost's it wouldn't matter. Johnny has grown tired of tourneys, and fighting, and sleeping in tents and pissing in the woods. His father has grown old, maybe he will suffer a fall, catch a cold from which he cannot recover or pass peacefully in his sleep and it will be time for Johnny to take his place as the lord of their lands.
And a lord needs a lady, and an heir, and a knight dedicated to his service. Lucky for Johnny, he knows where to get all three.
the question comes out of the blue one evening whilst you're curled on your end of the sofa, present in a way that simon is still getting used to.
your eyes flick away from the book you're reading - something you've pulled off of simon's shelf, some kind of motorbike manual that you have precisely no interest in, but gives you things to talk to him about. helps you avoid some of the more personal topics like your undead status, or why you're leashed to his property like a dog; avoid the questions that he won't ask but live behind his every time he looks at you.
but now… there's nothing in those brown irises other than the need to know if there's something that you miss from being alive.
"bubble baths." you reply simply.
no pause.
no hesitation.
nothing fancy, or dramatic - just the simple luxury of a warm tub filled with bubbles.
simon's lips quirk. not quite a smile but that thing you've noticed he does when you've vaguely amused him.
"bubble baths?" he repeats, an edge of surprise in his voice. there's a pause as he frowns, tilts his head to the side. "that all? been dead 'owever the fuck long an' you miss bubble baths." he exhales through his nose, shakes his head. "yeah. that's easy enough to make 'appen for you, dove."
he shakes his head and retreats upstairs, footsteps almost silent on the old stairs in a way that's unnerving even to you.
then, the sound of the tub filling.
fifteen minutes later you're stood in the bathroom doorway, staring at the old claw foot tub. it's full, piled high with bubbles that you're surprised he even owns. simon's stood beside it, sleeves rolled up, testing the water temperature with his wrist like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"dunno 'ow temperature works for you. so i've made it 'ow i'd 'ave it. should be okay." he says gruffly, not meeting your eyes, like he's a little embarrassed to be doing something so soft for the ghost in his house.
you strip your clothes off - or more, you imagine them gone, and they disappear - the physics of your undead life still somewhat alluding you - before sinking into the warmth of the bath with a soft, involuntary sigh. wisps of steam curl from the surface as your cold form meets hot water.
you flicker. just once. a quick, quiet disappearance like you're overwhelmed by the sensation of heat and silky bubbles around you after so long without it.
simon watches you settle with quiet intensity. for a long moment he just stands there, arms crossed, before he mutters, “scoot forward.”
you glance up at him, surprise etched into your features, "you're getting in?"
his lips twist, like for a moment he thinks he might have overstepped. but then he nods. "if you want. thought you might want more company than just the fuckin' bubbles."
you shift forward without another word.
simon strips down efficiently, clothes piled in the corner of the room, stepping in behind you and lowering himself down into the water with a low groan. the contrast between the two of you is immediate; the solid heat of him versus your perpetual chill.
he pulls you back against his chest wordlessly, one arm wrapping around your waist as your head drops back against his shoulder.
"okay?" he murmurs against the side of your head.
you nod, relaxing into him, water lapping over the two of you as his hands begin to wander; slow, careful. his fingertips trace your shoulders, your arms, then lower, trailing over your stomach in a gentle caress.
you shiver. not from cold. from feeling.
“tell me if you want me to stop.” he says quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
you don't tell him to stop.
his fingers slide lower, to the aching heat between your legs, parting you gently, circling your clit with unhurried, lazy strokes that make your stomach tighten and your thighs tremble.
he feels you gasp, slides his fingers lower; one thick digit pressing inside you, then another, stretching you open with a care you don't exactly expect from a man this big and gruff. the warmth of the water and the heat of his body make the sensation feel almost overwhelming as he curls his fingers slowly, stroking that perfect spot inside your soft cunt while his thumb continues lazy circles over your clit.
simon lets out a hiss of air through his teeth as his fingers slip inside you; surprised but not displeased by how different you feel. soft, warm, inviting in a way that's familiar, but there's something more to you, too. you almost feel like honey, clinging to his fingers, yielding easily as he sinks his fingers deeper.
the difference is a stark reminder - that even though you do a good impression of the living, you're not. not really.
but the way you flutter and squeeze around his digits feels horribly, devastatingly alive.
he forces his attention back to the way that you tremble in his arms, cold fingers gripping his forearm as soft, low groans spill from your lips. simon’s breathing grows heavier behind you, his cock hard and pressed against your back, but he doesn’t rush. doesn't make any move other than to give you this; to hold you close, let the waves of pleasure ripple through you.
when you come it's with a soft cry, almost broken sounding, body tightening, cunt fluttering around his fingers as the gentle noise of sloshing water echoes off the tiles.
simon presses his lips to your cold shoulder as you float back down, his fingers still buried inside you, still gently coaxing every last twitch of pleasure from you.
“missed that too?” he asks, voice rough with heat and maybe even a little affection.
you let out a shaky laugh, "yeah. more than i even realised."
the water is cooling, helped along by your freezing form, but neither of you makes any move to leave the tub yet.
