cw dubcon (nudes shared without established consent)
Thinking about long, arduous missions in the middle of nowhere. Cellphones made useless due to hostile terrain, weather, what have you. The boredom that comes after meeting your basic needs. A bunch of sweaty, angry, bored men all stuck together on standby for their next directive- annoying each other, making each other laugh, a little bit of both. But the sun goes down, it gets a little colder, and suddenly it's easier to talk. They get nostalgic, talk about home. Family, childhood stories, dream vacations.
Then they think about women. Talk about their dream girls, get a little too descriptive. A little lost in their fantasy, eyes far away. They were a bunch of men facing a gueling but also frankly boring life or death scenario, packed like sardines in a little refuge- of course they would latch onto the dream of release.
Nobody's even got a bird back home, except for Ghost. That lucky fucker has you.
"Come awn, tell us about her Lt," Soap would try and goad him. They were leaned up against each other, shoulder to shoulder against the wall behind them.
It's a cramped little space between the four members of the 141. Legs tangled, shoulders touching, Price has an ashtray precariously perched on his knee for everyone to use.
Gaz doesn't bother to hide his interest, quickly backing up Soap. He's the easiest to work up, he's been half-hard for the last hour.
It isn't until Price meets Ghost's eyes, the glow of his cigar glinting in them- says, "Go on," does Ghost start talking.
"Prettiest girl you'll ever see. Sweetest thing, especially whenever I first get home. You can tell she cleans the house top to bottom right before I get home, she always smells like air freshener and cleaning solution. Can't cook for shit but she makes cakes that'll make your toes curl. I always feel bad, she gets me gifts for right when I get back, I never know what to bring home for her."
Gaz laughs, both surprised at hearing his Lieutenant sound so soft and offended he wasn't giving them what they really wanted. "Sounds like a lovely girl, yeah- Come off it, you know what we want to hear."
Ghost takes a drag of his cigarette, slow just to be mean. Just to make them wait, even a moment longer. "Does everything she's told, the perfect girl. Melts at just being told what to do, at getting praised for doing it well. You'd never be able to tell just by looking a' her, but she's a real filthy slag behind closed doors. Hides it under all her clothes. Also hides her perfect arse. Never seen something so fuckin'- biteable."
He holds his cig between his teeth as he pulls out his phone, pulls up photos of you he's taken himself. Photos of you fresh out of the shower, of your ass covered in bruises, pretty tits covered with bite marks and hickeys. Everyone's got their eyes wide, glued to the bright screen. They were happy with just words, but the photos certainly speak for themselves.
Gaz's thighs are flexing beneath his pants, adjusting the angle of his hips as he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Soap was swearing under his breath, leaning so he could see as well as the other two could. Price unable to keep from letting out a low whistle.
"Likes getting slapped around a little. Likes taking control, just for a little in the beginning, 'cause she likes to have it taken away later. Had to teach her to not be shy asking to have her pussy eaten, but now that I got her trained with that I don't go a day without her asking. Insaitiable, grateful, sounds like a dream. She gets wet just from sucking cock, likes it when you fuck her mean."
Gaz forgoes any pretense first, gives up neutrality in favor of rubbing his palm against his hard-on over his pants. Ghost keeps swiping through his photos of you, pretty pictures of you on your knees, tied up and blindfolded. When there's a video of you kneeling at his feet, Ghost lets it play. They all watch your pretty wet eyes looking up at him- and you're begging for him, begging him to fuck you good as you nose at his cock, like you'd die without it- Price closes his eyes with a heavy sigh just to imagine it was him you were begging for.
"You should see her cum. Smiles when she does it, pretty doesn't begin to describe it. The way her whole body goes taut like a bow, how she crumbles after-"
"She squirt?" Soap cuts in hoarsely, and Ghost reaches over and pinches one of his nipples tight, making him wince and arch into the feeling.
"Yeah, she does. Only with my fingers. She said she didn't think she could, so I decided to prove her wrong. She was so shocked, overwhelmed- fuck- she couldn't talk for about five minutes after. But she's got a refractory period of about two seconds, and I've yet to have her reach a limit on how many consecutive orgasms I can give her."
Ghost swiped to another video, passed it over to Gaz and Price who hunched over it hungrily. Soap whined, went to move to try and see, but Ghost was quickly stopping him. Pulling Soap out of his pants and jerking him off without paying attention, focused on watching their other two men.
Price is spitting on his glove and fisting his cock, other hand fighting to remain steady as he held Ghost's phone. Gaz moves himself to a kneeling position, one hand on the ground for balance and the other touching himself, face forward to watch alongside Price. He's panting hoarsely, but it's drowned out by the sound of the video.
Ghost's fucking you while you're on your back, perfect body on full display. The camera misses nothing, captures every dip and swell of your form beneath Ghost, jerking up the bed at each of his powerful thrusts. They can see Ghost's free hand has his thumb rubbing at your clit, and you're tossing your head from side to side, moaning and whining wildly.
The real life Ghost leans back, stroking Soap in time to the video's loud, wet, slapping thrusts. His other hand slips down, cups Soapās balls and squeezes, just so. "You know, leave is coming up. Somethin' my girl has always wanted was for a few people to take her all at once. Think you lot are up for it?"
That's all it takes for Soap's stomach to clench as his cock throbs and cum shoots out, head hitting the wall with the force he threw it back as he cries out.
Price comes soon after, growling and squeezing at his cockhead with his cigar clenched between his teeth. Cum dribbles out from between his fingers, messy as ever.
Gaz holds out the longest, eyes heavy lidded as Price continues to hold the phone for him. His hand moves faster, body heaving with his panting breaths. He watches until the video reaches your climax- comes at how everything said about your orgasm was true. Back bowing, hips flexing, cock shooting rope after rope of cum right on the ground with a keening moan.
"...Take that as a yes?" Ghost asks, smiling. His cock was hard, leaking, but left untouched. Ghost's mind was elsewhere- He knows what he's going to bring home for you next leave.
ik some of yaāll will disagree but my favorite john price pairing is him and a woman in his age range.
theyāre just late bloomers. adults in their 30s who found love a little later than the rest. it started as a simple companionship. john needed a woman to keep him busy whenever he was off the field. likewise, she needed somebody to keep her mind off of her jobāthe one she spent all of her 20s going to school for.
itās a sweet arrangement that turned into something more. sex and aftercare in his apartment turned into cooking breakfast together, receiving roses at her work desk, and briefly mentioning āthe missusā on baseāa freudian slip of the tongue. which then turned into date nights, which morphed into holding some of her clothes in his closet, and giving her a spare apartment key; ājust in caseā john tried to reason. but really he wanted her to stay. maybe it was time for him to settle down.
I love when Ghost is just like... a bitchless loser who smokes in his apartment and definitely isn't getting the deposit back. Get on your hands and knees and bark for pussy, baby.
Who do you think embodies Do I Wanna Know - Arctic Monkeys compared to Hozierās version of it.
I feel like Price has more Arctic Monkeys and Gaz is SO Hozierās version. But alsoā¦ I think Ghost also has Hozierās version as well.
This is the hard-hitting journalism I'm made for as both an AM and Hozier fan.
"Do I Wanna Know" -Hozier has big Ghost vibes for me. The melancholy that lingers in the refrain of "Was sort of hoping that you'd stay" shines through so poignantly in Hozier's version. It's the begging of a man who would rather fall into alcoholism than admit he's lost someone he'll never get back. He's desperate in asking "you've never thought of calling when you've had a few?" you've never wanted him in your lowest moments? "Because I always do" but the feeling isn't "I want to call you when I'm drunk" rather "I want to call you all the time" echoing the sentiment of "dreamt about you nearly every night this week." The feeling of a man who's already fallen to the bottom of the well, who has no leg to stand on so he must crawl. "Too busy being yours to fall for somebody new" Ghost is a dog that's only ever been loyal to one master, and he'll keep crawling back to the same door he's always known even long after you've moved.
I do think Hozier's version has Gaz vibes as well, but more in the control and measure. The clear execution of the lyrics, and the meandering pace makes it feel like a message left on an answering machine. It feels like a manifesto, a declaration that he's not over you. You can break up with him, but that doesn't mean he'll leave you alone. "There's this song I found, that makes me think of you somehow, and I play it on repeat" is exactly the sort of rambling sentence that a man who's just come home from a boys night would drawl into a phone clutched between his ear and shoulder. Sitting up in bed and trying to find the right words to say that'll make you open the door when he knocks. There's this sadness, this "I wish I wasn't like this" that speaks to a man trying to find a way to make it right, that you don't get in the Arctic Monkeys version.
The AM version however, yeah Price. The hard boot step of the beat, that feels like a march towards an inevitability. A man who's used to people jumping to comply with his orders and can't fathom why you wouldn't as well. The heavy guitar and the accusatory "Have you got color in your cheeks?" give the idea of a man that knows not only who he's talking to, but exactly how to talk to you. A man who will say exactly what he needs to in order to get you to come crawling back to him. "Crawling back to you" is a misnomer that leads into the high energy question of "You ever thought of calling when you've had a few?" he isn't crawling back to you, he's just trying to find the words that'll make you think he's the mess he isn't. "You ever get the feeling that you're in deep?" Feels more sinister here, do you ever feel the pressure, do you ever find the flash of understanding that I've already won? "Simmer down and pucker up" (the whole second verse really, which is MISSING from Hozier's version) is so Price, shut up and comply, let me do what I need to do to get you back, don't remember why you're mad just kiss me and I'll have you until we start this process all over again... very Price.
ALSO We're missing a crucial version here: The EZ Band version. Which is Soap's version. It's playful, it's colorful, it's luring you into a false sense of security. But there's a frantic energy in the background that speaks to the desperation of our favorite Scot. He's not leaving a message, he's not waiting around, he's on your doorstep right now trying to pick your lock while he tells you about how badly he needs you. "We can be together, if you wanted to" is pleading in this version, a stress on "if you wanted to" that feels like he's asking a leading question. Not "If you wanted to," but "I'm asking to be together again." Then "Do you want me crawling back to you" is almost accusatory, "is this what it takes, is this what you want? because I'll do it."
your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.
type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3
cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)
Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hungerāa pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.
Your house isnāt like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your headāyou didnāt believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where youād like to take your afternoon tea. You donāt like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses doābut no one says the same to your husband.
He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. Heās still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.
He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.
Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queenās lettersāher praise for your husbandās conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.
All for your sake. Ghostās name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.
You wonāt lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since youāve been wed do not scare you. Heās doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldierāyou know heās trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?
He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.
To my wife,
The sun falls quicker here. Iād like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.
I have you to think about now. So I burned them.
Simon
A poet, your beloved.
He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of itāyou donāt even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesnāt like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.
Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he canāt help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.
Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked wellāhe knows, he knows he wasnāt wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.
You do hate when heās away. Youāre not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing heās home.
The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesnāt trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you arenāt sure.
Perhaps itās both.
You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until heās completely naked.
You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but itās hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. Heās so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you canāt help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.
Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.
āSimon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, youāre mistaken!ā You laugh, and he raises a brow.
āMmmā¦ā He smacks his lips together. āThaā right, my lady?ā He clicks his tongue. āThis is my bed. ās oll mine. Every blanketā¦every pillowā¦ā He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. āAnd every part of you.ā
You giggle again, shaking your head, āPlease, Simon!ā You push him away with your toes. āThey only changed the sheets yesterday. Youāll dirty themā¦ā You flutter your lashes. āWill you bathe if I join you?ā
He grins wide, licking over his teeth.
āCanāt refuse an offer like thaā.ā
You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You donāt waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.
Itās never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesnāt just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, itās always to get back to this place.
To you.
āHowās my boy?ā He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. āOi. Asked ya question, luv.ā
Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.
āIā¦āĀ You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. āI bled while you were gone. Iā¦āĀ You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. āIāmā¦Iām sorry, Simon.ā
You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.
āIt will happen,ā he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesnāt want to hear you blame yourself. If itās anyoneās fault, itās his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. āI know. Seen it in mādreams.ā
Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesnāt laugh.
He says the dreams are why he knows he wonāt die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes whatās to come even if he didnāt see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.
Itās never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.
So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.
When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. Itās gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.
āI missed you, husband,ā you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. āSimon!ā you laugh, āmy night dressāoh!āitās ruined!ā
āToo far away,ā he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. āMmmā¦ā He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. āYāshould be naked when I come home,ā he says lowly. āIāll soil yār bloody gown next time, mālady.ā
You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as heāll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.
A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.
Real power wasnāt being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isnāt real.
He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you canāt seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. Itās slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.
He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. Itās maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but itās hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after heās finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when heās home to eat until youāre full and cum until you fall asleep again.
Maybe thatās why youāre not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until heās practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.
He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to tasteātastes so good, luvvie, donāt ya see, yeah?āwanting you to know why heās so eager to be on his knees all the time.
You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.
āās not what I really want,ā is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.
āI know, luv. I know wot ya really need.ā
āI must be broken,ā you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.
āNot broken,ā Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that itās hard not to believe him. āIt wasnāt time.ā
āYou canāt see the future, Simon! You donāt know!ā You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.
āYou listen tāme,ā he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. āWot I say goes. Yār my wife, so listen tāme, and listen tāme good. Yār not broken. Not time. Say it back tāme.ā
Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.
āSay it,ā he snaps, and you hiccup.
āItās not time,ā you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.
āJust need my cock, luv,ā he murmurs. āThaās oll. Just need me tāfuck it outta ya.ā
You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.
āās oll yāneed,ā he repeats, and you nod again.
You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you werenāt able to walk there.
You like when Simon is home because itās quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. Itās always Simon.
You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and heās using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You donāt know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.
He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.
He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. Itās intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.
āFuck,ā he mutters. āFuck, unnervingā¦the way ya lookā¦ā
You close your eyes, āS-Simon, pleaseā¦Iām already dressedā¦ā
He chuckles, āI know. I know.ā
But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.
He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.
āI want to go.ā
āNo.ā
āSimon, let me go,ā You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. āLet me go with you, I canāt do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.ā
You arenāt sure if Simon underestimates you. You think itās more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angryā¦and meanā¦and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.
He couldnāt scare you, even if he tried.
āWar is not where women go,ā Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. āEspecially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckinā whole. Look at yaā¦ā He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. āBeautiful. Meant for my lipsā¦for these dressesā¦meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because thaā is surely the least of wot they would do tāya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ān see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ān you will wait for me here until I come back.ā
Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesnāt think it suits you.
āIām sick of waiting for you, Simon,ā you spit. āItās all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And donāt say you do this for country, that is a lie.ā You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. āYou do it because you like it. Youāre a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our kingās will.ā
A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.
āThat is my duty.ā
āYour duty is to me,ā you snap. āKings come and go, but I will not.ā Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. āNow you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.ā
You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.
There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just soāhe has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.
Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived?Ā
Would he?
He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a kingās order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.
Itās never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.
Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.
Her. Her. Her.
He is bitter, yes, until he is not.
It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.
So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it wonāt be taken from me.
I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.
I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.
Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but heās surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, tooānobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.
When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.
So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.
The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.
His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simonās library.
He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simonās house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?
Simon agreed.
But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.
When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simonās behalf or read another fucking book.
You donāt want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.
You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.
You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt āYour Majesty,ā she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, āNo need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.ā
You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now youāre allowed to be somewhat of friends?
You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears Englandās colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but sheās looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesnāt like it. Or maybe she doesnāt like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.
The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?
You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your lifeāto serve the kingās wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.
Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.
Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. Youāve heard this before, but youāve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you werenāt exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.
You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queenās favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.
āWell, thatās not very kind of her,ā you say finally, and she laughs.
āNo! Sheās such a prude. I think her husband doesnāt sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,ā she winks at you. You giggle at that. āSpeaking of husbandsāā She pops another cake in her mouth. āHow is yours?ā
You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.
āOh, uhā¦ā You clear your throat, āHeās doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, Iām sure they will be victorious soon enough.ā
Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.
āWise words from the duchess, aye, my love?ā
You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.
āItās alright,ā he tells you. āPlease, sit. Youāre here as my guest.ā
You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wifeās long coils of hair.
āSince youāre here, Iād like a word, if thatās alright,ā John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.
āJohn, please, sheās my friend. Canāt it waitāā
āThat wasnāt a question, Victoria,ā John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. Youāre reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, youād pity her.
What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a manās throat just to have your hand.
What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?
No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.
Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesnāt reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.
āIāll go check on dinner,ā she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.
When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of Johnās head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.
You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.
āSimonās been away for some time. I bet thatās difficult for you.ā
You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.
What you have become and what you no longer are.
āI do just fine, Your Majesty,ā you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. āI could say the same to you, couldnāt I?ā
John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.
āSo you know.ā
āKnow what, Your Majesty?ā
āYou know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didnāt listen to me.ā
You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.
āIām not sure I know what youāre talking about.ā
āI could have your husbandās head cut off for treason for that, youāre aware, arenāt you?ā
You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. āDonāt be daft, my king. You wouldnāt want to do that.ā
John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?
āNow, letās be civil, Your Majesty,ā you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. āIs there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why donāt you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?ā
John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.
āI need him back here, is what I need,ā John murmurs.
āMy king, I couldnāt get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.ā
āNow whoās being daft?ā
You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.
āWhy did he refuse?ā You ask finally.
āWhat?ā
āWhy does he ignore your order to come back?ā You ask again. āI canāt think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?ā
John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.
āI wasā¦informed that there was some sort of letter,ā John explains. āSome threat.ā
āI donāt follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.ā
āWas about you this time, Your Grace.ā
You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.
āThatās absurd,ā you breathe. āSimon wouldnātā¦ā
John chuckles, but there is no humor there. āWouldnāt he?ā
āI still donāt understand what you expect me to do,ā you roll your eyes, looking away. āSimon isā¦heās notā¦he doesnāt listen. Itās why heās good at this, isnāt it? He doesnāt really take orders, heāsā¦Iā¦ā
John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at Johnās feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?
John leans forward. āYou need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,ā he spits. āAnd sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isnāt like anything Iāve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.ā He scoots closer. āEngland needs you to call him back here. To me.ā
You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?
You wear Simonās colors, not Johnās, and you will wear them to your deathbed.
āIf I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,ā you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.
āKings do not owe their subjects.ā
āQuite right, Your Majesty,ā you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. āBut I am not doing this as your subject.ā
āEverything you do is as my subject.ā
āYou put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,ā you say softly. You are not accusing him, youāre reminding him of a truth. āSimon is whyā¦heās why your counsel still listens to you. Heās why your people are free from famine, whyā¦why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this placeās fortune on women and liquor.ā You shake your head. āYou have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.ā
You are not wrong, and John knows this, and itās why he hasnāt spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once Johnās duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.
John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and itās Simonās name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.
āWhereā¦Where did you learn to speak to men this way?ā John scoffs. āI am your king.ā
You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They donāt like being held in front of a mirror.
āYou are king because my husband made it so,ā you correct him gently. āAnd Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.ā You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. āBut he is not your dog anymore. Heās mine.ā
Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simonās silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.
Simon answers your call. Always.
At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.
āYou were thinking with your cock, Simon,ā you spit. āThat is how men like you get killed.ā
āYou āave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,ā Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.
āMaybe,ā you whisper. āBut Iām not wrong. It is how youāll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, itās playing the fool.ā You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. āYou donāt need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.ā
He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and itās comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.
You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me āave it, and you will, but he has to say heās sorry again.
āām sorry,ā he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.
āAgain, Simon,ā you whisper. āI wanna hear it again.ā
āām sorry,ā he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.
Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they wonāt listen, heās not who they turn to when things go belly-up, itās your husband, and your husband answers to you.
You werenāt sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).
It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.
John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.
You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.
Manipulation.
Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but itās hard to feel anything like it when thereās a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. Itās hard to feel anything but bliss when heās tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like itās the last time heāll ever have you.
It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and youāre certain John doesnāt fuck the way you do.
Heās mine.
It isnāt John that commands an army, itās you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isnāt it? Youāre the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so itās you, right?
Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.
A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing youāve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You donāt care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his faceāthere is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.
āYou came back for me?ā You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.
āāf course,ā Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.
āBut not for John.ā
He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know itās true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.
āJohn is afraid, and I donāt listen to āim when heās afraid. Makes bad choices.ā
Itās almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.
āSimon,ā you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. āYou have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making aā¦rash decision about war strategy is one thing, butā¦ā You cup his cheek gently. āMake things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.ā
This time, at least. Just this time.
Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.
āMake things easy for me, my love,ā you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. āAppease your king, yes? For me?ā
āCanāt say no when yār pussy squeezes me like thaā, sweetāeart,ā Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. āFuckinā Christāā
āI hate when you go,ā you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. āHate when youāre not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss thisāā
āNghhā¦fuck, I know,ā Simon pants. āCan feel it. Feel you.ā You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. āYār so fuckinā prettyā¦ā
āSimonāā
He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you canāt contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.
Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long youāll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before youāre incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.
It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.
Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and heāll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of themāto give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they donāt have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.
Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.
Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.
With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, tooāhe saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how itās meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesnāt know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldnāt bear that.
Your voice echoes. Youāre moaning, overstimulated, but he doesnāt stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, youāre a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.
Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesnāt feel bad about it, he doesnāt care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.
Simon will fight any of Johnās enemies, but he wonāt fight fate. He wonāt fight what has already been seen, and he wonāt fight what he already knows will happen.
With Simonās cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.
āDo this for me,ā you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.
āMake me happy,ā you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.
āJust this once,ā you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.
When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he canāt help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simonās hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detailāone of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.
You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone elseās) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes wonāt leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays.Ā
John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.
In a few generations, Johnās house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.
Itās what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, itās what you learned to do. Itās all youāve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.
Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesnāt come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.
In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautifulāmore beautiful than heās ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.
āYou wanna know somethingā¦funny?ā You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know heās listening. āJohnā¦John made itā¦he makes it seem like you donāt really listen to him. He implied thatā¦in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.ā You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. āIsnāt that funny?ā
āWotās so funny?ā
You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.
āIā¦ā
āMmmā¦might be right, innit?ā Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. āDo anythinā for ya. Disobeying a kingā¦ā Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. āIgnoring oneā¦ā He shrugs, āOll in a day, love.ā
āHe can hang you for it,ā you whisper. āCut off your head. Cut off mine.ā
Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.
āI would āave seen it. I would know.ā
He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when heās between your plush thighs.
You canāt help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one manās wife just because it solidifies his name.
You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simonās neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simonās eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.
āWhat if I want more?ā You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. āDid you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what Iām asking for? What it is that I really want?ā
Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.
What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, youāll have him right where you want him.
When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.
Phillip Graves x Reader who comes out only at night, smiling a little too wide for him to relax, never coming into the house, disappearing when heās not looking.
Phillip Graves who starts living in Appalachians, a job forcing him and Shadows to go off the grid, forcing them into places with signs ātonight these mountains will be just as cold as they were 2,000 years agoā, his boys not in awe from the impromptu trip.
Old superstitions dying hard even in men like them.
Phillip who goes out for a smoke in the middle of the night and notices a pretty thing watching him.
Eyes too sharp, smile too wide, face a little too perfect. It makes his spine itch, it makes him want to curl in on himself, it makes him want to cry.
Reader that stalks just on the edge of their property, watching him and Shadows, making small talk with some of them. Asking their names.
Asking where they come from. Asking if they are alone.
Asking if anyone knows they are out here.
Reader who never actually comes close enough to properly look at them, always in the corner of their vision, slipping away when they try to look closer.
Careful and friendly, chirping āhey Phillipā, chirping āhowās it going, boys?ā, chirping āyou look good enough to eatā.
It puts Shadows at ease and grates on Gravesās nerves.
He doesnāt like not knowing things, not being able to look in your face too long, not being able to get answers.
But to actually look at them Phillip or his team would need to leave the premises of the house, the safety it for some reason grants.
Itās few weeks later when they get a little accustomed to the strange thing lurking outside, some of them going as far as to have a little flirty banter or share few jokes when out smoking.
After all, they never come close to the Reader and the Reader themselves are never outright hostile. Just unnerving. Smiling like they know how it ends.
Smiling like they are waiting for something.
Phillip doesnāt like it. Phillip doesnāt like it at all, he doesnāt like watching some of his men return half delirious after going out to āsmokeā ā eyes a little too wild, chests heaving, lips wet.
But thereās little they can actually do and as it was said, whoever pretty thing that took liking to his team and him isā¦they arenāt attacking.
But the tension is palpable in the air, cracking between all of them, like the storm is coming and the primal instinct deep inside of them makes them restless. Thatās the only reason why Phillip gives a green light to drink a little.
Just enough to take the edge off. After all, they need to be alert and ready if anything was to go down.
But some of them have a little too much and it makes air a little too light, tension draining from shoulders, legs getting stretched out as they are trading salacious stories and good-natured jokes.
And in the heat of the moment, on the peak of fun ā one of them whistles.
Sound cuts through the air like hot knife through the butter, sharp and high. A signal.
Multiple hands fly up quickly, old superstition to never whistle in the house especially not after sun goes down, rises their hackles.
And for a moment they donāt even notice another sound. A softer one.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap-
Itās soft and rhythmic, vaguely familiar ā pattern recognition kicking in when it repeats.
Pattern recognition kicks in before his sense does and Phillip feels a chill run down his spine, sharp intake of breath near him just a very unfortunate confirmation.
His men stare behind his back and god, he hates things like that, thatās why he doesnāt fucking watch horror movies, thatās why he lived as long as he did in his line of work.
But the tapping repeats when he doesnāt turn around, cold sliding to his fingers, cooling him off, blood pumping in his ears and he fucking hates the way his brain made connection before he consciously did. Because the tapping repeats and he knows what it means.
Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-
Because the first thing they teach you is fucking Morse Code.
Phillip slowly turns around, finally able to see your face but it doesnāt feel like a victory.
It feels like defeat.
Because you are smiling too wide, eyes squinting from light ā shadows on your face sharp and wrong and too fucking dark.
You tap a finger against the glass of their window again and Phillip forces himself not to look away, not to curl in on himself, not to wail because your smile splits your face and humans surely donāt have this many teeth.
Phillip finally knows what you were waiting for. Not for them to come out to you, not for them to slip and let you snatch them like naive lambs into the forest and stuff your belly.
You were waiting for an entirely different thing.
You tilt your head to the side, flashing him sharp points of your canines, leaning in, watching him through the glass.
Smile too wide and eyes too sharp, none of them moving a fucking inch of their bodies, blood flowing back to the head, leaving limbs cold and them shivering.
But you tap on the glass again. Soft, rhythmic sound that makes their hearts pound harder.
Soap waits til the absolute last minute to go home for Christmas because he hates being bombarded by requests from his ma and aunts to help move things around with his lazy uncles and cousins. He sneaks off to play Nintendo and nap with the wee babes who are absolutely fascinated by everything he does
Gaz has Christmas dinner down to a science. his sisters donāt even try to fight him anymore about delegating tasks, they just give him full access to their parentās kitchen and call him a tyrant under their breaths while their spouses tease them about all the homemaking skills going to their younger brother
Price and Ghost hate the fuss of the holidays. They have an unspoken tradition of showing up at the same pub for a pint while they watch whatever program is on for the other sad sacks without anything to do.
After the third year of this Simon gruffly tosses Price some wool compression socks because the old man has been complaining about how his legs are giving him shit lately. Price chuckles giving him an amused thanks before sliding the bag of peppermint bark heād been gifted by his elderly neighbor. Heās not much a fan of chocolates but he knows heās pleased Simonās sweet tooth when the silent manās scarred mouth twitches in what could be a smile
Road trip! Reader is Passenger Princess (due to them giving their man a heart attack everytime they drive š)
i am Still Suffering on my road trip. god save me. i wrote this in my notes app while stuck in traffic for three hours. the formatting and spelling are in the hands of Our Merciful Lord (tumblr)
price
refuses to let anyone else drive unless heās on the verge of passing out
(probably the only one you can trust to drive tbh)
does the dad thing where heāll stick out his hand to get some of your snacks
hates stopping for any reason, wants to get to the destination as quickly as possible
when he does get forced to take a break, heās very upset about it
backseat driver, stresses everyone out
(gaz is tempted to tape his mouth shut)
claims he āisnāt tiredā and ācan keep goingā but is the first one to pass out when you stop at a hotel
gaz
passenger princess
if you try to get him to drive heāll pretend to be sleepy
in charge of the music
(not because everyone likes his music but because he fought soap for the right)
hogs the phone charger
calls shotgun and will fistfight anyone he tries to take it from him
(heāll let you have it if you want but heāll be pouty about it)
ghost
another passenger princess (because no one trusts his driving)
the single time heās allowed to drive, he nearly causes an accident ten minutes in
weakest bladder known to man
forces you to stop every hour
passes out after the first hour of driving
soap wakes him up when his snoring gets too loud and it causes another bout of smacking each other
takes photos of anything cool he spots on the road
(they all come out blurry but itās the thought that counts)
soap
the only other one that price trusts to drive
decent driver, just has road rage at times
begs gaz to let him change the music (gaz always says no)
points out the scenery constantly
ālook, thereās cows!ā
collects souvenirs from every gas station you stop at
plays road trip games (i spy, slug bug/punch buggy/whatever you call it)
he and ghost get in trouble when it devolves into them just hitting each other
has a stash of snacks and drinks that heāll share if you ask nicely
is awake and yapping the entire drive
(gaz actually does tape his mouth shut)
alejandro
the exact opposite of price
likes to take his time and relax
will somehow turn a 10 hour drive into 15 hours
wants to stop at every roadside attraction he sees
you have to keep reminding him that you have somewhere to be or heāll get lost on a side quest
souvenir guy, buys magnets and keychains
has cds that he likes to listen to
very chill but you might get stressed if youāre on a deadline
is insistent on being the driver but gets traumatized when he runs over a squirrel
āale, it wasnāt your fault. it was dark, you couldnāt see-ā
āIāM A MURDERERā
rudy
probably the best person to plan a road trip with
isnāt a maniac like price but isnāt as laidback as alejandro
likes to listen to random radio stations as he drives
is really bad about speeding
regularly goes at least 15-20 over the speed limit but is lucky enough to never get pulled over
uses road trips as an excuse to only eat junk food then regrets it when his stomach starts hurting
needs a day or two to recover afterwards because his back hurts from sitting for so long
graves
scarily organized
has an itinerary and follows it to the letter
wouldnāt let you drive even if you begged
if he gets tired heāll just get one of the shadows to take over
honestly, most of the trip consists of the shadows entertaining you with their antics while graves drives
one of them gets left behind at a gas station and you have to drive back half an hour to pick him up. graves is pissed
makarov
do NOT try to take this man on a road trip
if you mention it, heāll have plane tickets booked before you can even blink
cannot handle long drives, the most he can manage is an hour before he starts getting annoyed
keegan
the most stressful but also the most entertaining
demands control of the music but plays the weirdest shit
not the best driver but not the worst
he wonāt crash at least and heāll only get pulled over a few times
says the most out of pocket shit to get a reaction from you
āhow long do you think i can drive with my eyes closed?ā
āKEEGAN NO-ā
keegan has been banished to the passengerās seat.
nikolai
another guy who is good at road trips
great driver, you can sleep the whole ride and he wonāt gaf
itās kind of terrifying. youāll wake up from another nap to find him staring dead-eyed at the road as he drives
secretly shoplifts something from every place you stop at
doesnāt admit it until you accidentally find his stash hidden in one of the bags
āsolnishko, you must understand. i need it.ā
āyou do not need a keychain of a frog with a cowboy hat, nik!ā
nikolai is now wanted for theft in every US state (and several countries)
Tags: COD men x fem!Reader, smau, suggestive, nsfw on soapās slide, cursing, mdni
An: Based off of the tiktok trend :3 I wanted to do this with JJK men, but I think the COD men make it even funnier. This is also my first COD smau. I went with the characters that Iām most comfortable portraying. lmk if you want to see more of them or someone else!
ā¢ loves himself a sweet treat. Sweet treat every week or Colonel Vargas gets grouchy. His favorite is flan but he also loves a good arroz con leche. Gets his faves from street vendors in Las Almas on his work breaks
ā¢ very competitive. Heās often gotta make it a race to get to the point during missions. Is a beast when Vaqueros play soccer together. A bit of a sore loser, but he always buys his team ice cream if they win. He and Rudy sometimes get into it bc Rudy doesnāt take his shit and will challenge the colonel whenever he can
ā¢ aches and pains from his military career are starting to bother him and heās resentful that he canāt just bounce back from physical duress like he did when he was 20. His left shoulder got badly dislocated early on and it pains him during strenuous work. He *will* pretend it doesnāt and that heās untouchable
ā¢ has a mom and two younger brothers in Las Almas whom he keeps protected and sees regularly. His father died when he was a teen. Ale is very attached to his family!
ā¢ deeply deeply deeply attached to his unit, theyāve all been through hell together and Ale will genuinely put himself through the grinder to do his utmost to ensure his soldiers come home alive whenever possible
ā¢ damn good alcohol tolerance and he is a menace when the Vaqueros go out and drinks start flowing. He teases people he likes when they make faces at his extra extra string tequila. Unfortunately, when he gets tipsy, he seems to think that this is also an excellent maneuver for flirting, if his crush is nearby
ā¢ isnāt aware that he comes off as overly pushy sometimes. Heās used to being in authority, so unfortunately sometimes if heās worried about someone he loves, heāll unknowingly try to strongarm them into what he thinks is best. Rudy is good at calling him out on this. Valeria would kick his ass if he tried this on her back in the day they worked together (and dated!)
ā¢ openly bisexual. Doesnāt give AF.
ā¢ very fashionable when out of uniform! He cares about presentation and puts a lot of effort into his looks. Likes wearing bold colors like red and deep blue, shirts that show off his arms and chest
ā¢ vain. People told him he was handsome a LOT during his teen years and he internalized that. Has a lot of confidence about himself and his body, as he should! He knows heās hot
ā¢ in his early 20s, however, when he was a reckless and careless young man, his vanity got to his head a little and he genuinely thought that if he wore cologne, he didnāt have to wear deodorant. A few outspoken checks from Valeria and Rudy solved that issue with a quickness!
ā¢ made a lot of reckless decisions in his teens and young adulthood. Heās learned from lots of past mistakes, thankfully.
ā¢ doesnāt know jack shit about cars and doesnāt care to
ā¢ doesnāt super love any non-Latin food, though heās polite about it when going to other countries. He just thinks his cultureās food is best!
ā¢ used to get around a bit and not care much about being responsible, back in his younger years, but a pregnancy scare and a few other messes served to mellow him out as he got older and wiser
ā¢ good at flirting until he starts getting tipsy
ā¢ he doesnāt fall in love easily, but when he does, he falls *hard*. He isnāt entirely over the girl he dated his senior year of high school who dumped him right before he was going to propose to her. The ex-boyfriend he had during training broke his heart when he transferred to Tijuana and got married without any warning. Heād do literally anything for Rudy, including not say anything to preserve their friendship. And yeah, heās still kinda hung up about Valeria! His exes are important to him and hold a lot of space in his heart.
ā¢ is catholic, but not practicing. Is still in debate about whether to have his future kids baptized or not
ā¢ is genuinely always happy to see Task Force 141 when they visit!
an: iāve been looping the new tyler album for the last week ITS SO GOOOOD. for anyone else who believes in the 'adler is graves dad' theory, i literally can't stop imagining an edit of them to 'like him'
vaporwave
origamiaround
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
