#Knight SImon Riley

[ghouljams]

You know how it all works. At least, you think you know how it all works.

"Feel that?" Ghost asks, his cock stretches you out almost painfully, and still you can feel most pressing against your entrance. Your stomach is full of him, your cervix nudged by the head of his fat cock as it finds a home buried deep inside. You shake your head against the pillows with a whine, your hips twitching as his hands pull your ass apart, kneading the soft flesh with rough callused fingers. "Feel that knot pressin' against ya so nicely?" His voice is shot, croaking with how rough it hits your ear. Your eyes roll as your lashes flutter, the heat of his words dripping down your spine liquor thick.

Your cunt throbs, pulses with needy pleasure as it squeezes tight around him. You want to touch, to reach a hand between you and stroke the hardened bud that seems to glow with heat. You want to feel over your stomach, see if he presses against you as heavily as you think, perhaps you could find his hard cock beneath all your softness. The thought sends a shiver through you. Libidinous desire isn't befitting of a princess.

And yet, Ghost circles his hips, grinding his knot against your entrance, and you feel that liquid desire drip from you. Hot and slick. You feel it like a fever drenching your skin, sticky with sweat and yearning.

"Let me in Princess," Ghost murmurs, leaning to press his weight against your back, "Lemme breed this li'le pussy, bet I get it my first try." The curve of his smile as his lips skate over your neck makes a whine bubble in your throat, deep and needy as the punch of his cock. "Can even help the process," he offers, lips parting to tease his teeth against the soft spot where your mating gland lies.

"Please-"

Your whimpered word jerks you awake. Sweat dampens the bed beneath you, the sheets sticking to your skin as your breath shudders through your chest. Fever blazes through your body, the air the tickles your skin is frigid and uncomfortable, and you gather the damp blankets back around you. Your thighs are wet with slick and your core pulses with sick desire. A cramp tightens in your stomach painfully, and you curl into yourself. You want Ghost, but heats aren't the time to be playing the lovesick fool.

[pricetagged]

that death is a very stable job

Poor little Dormouse, with her cruel father and labourer's hands. You find an unexpected guard dog in one of the passing knights.

Enjoy 4.8k words of half inaccurate-medieval, half poorly-built-fantasy AU. Inspired by a few existing historical AUs (like @bi-writes 1600s au, 391780's 'the rus') and a scene from 'The Serpent Queen'. Also, I stan 'old grizzled dog with a heart Ghost' so here you go.

Warnings/content: implied domestic abuse/sex work (not Ghost), very mild suicidal ideation, violence, power imbalance (social hierarchy ew), kissing & intimacy (no smut. yet.). Reader is described as a young woman, generally body-neutral (one reference to being 'plump').

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What makes betrayal so potent is that, by its very nature, it can only come from someone you trust. Of course, as a child you knew little of the abstracts and intricacies of trust. You knew the warmth of your mother's bosom. You knew the sharp, lingering smell of lye that clung to her chapped hands. You knew that you were not hungry or hurt for those blissful early years, at least.

You did not know that you had a father.

He spent those blissful, early years of yours fighting for a King and cause that meant far less to him than the pocketful of coins he earned and promptly spent on pleasures. But a soldier cannot earn coin in times of peace, not if he weren't a member of the standing army, so with treaties signed he shipped back to neglected wife and babe.

You did not know that fathers could be cruel.

Your mother protected you as best as she could, but slippery riverbanks and lixivium fumes were hardly safe for a little girl. So you learned to scurry about, eyes wide and feet soft as a dormouse. When your mother's whimpers and father's shouts split the silence of dusk you crouched and covered your mouth lest his attention switched to you. On the rare times your father called for you, you remembered your mother's hushed advice - be quiet, be meek, be sweet - and bobbed along to the waves of his fickle moods. When your stomach growled and gnawed you stifled it with a look at your mother's wan face, her fingers worked to the bone for mere pennies that were no longer spent on peat and produce. You lived in a cold house, an empty house. A strained house.

'Look at the size o'her, running wild, eating me out of house and home!' Lies. Your father hunched over your mother's shaking form, three meager brass farthings spilled across the crooked kitchen bench. 'You put her to work, or I will.'

The lye stung your skin. Sometimes you imagined yourself floating off, down in the frigid waters, your funeral clothes being salvinia and your shroud made of pennywort. Those thoughts rose like lily pads, big and blooming and plentiful, the autumn your mother passed.

'You've really got to work now, girl,' your Father sneered. 'Got to earn your keep now that your mother can't cry on your behalf.'

The glint in his eye pricked at your neck, made your spine stiffen and eyes shift away. Be quiet, be meek, be sweet. You wondered if your mother's advice would save you from his basest assertions, or encourage them. You would soon find out.

----------------

Ordinarily the Mid-Autumn festival was a slight reprieve, allowing a few days for your aching, numb fingers to warm and stretch as you enjoyed the city turned to colour. Ordinarily.

This year, you found yourself hauled down to the drinking district, your Father's blunt, filthy fingers digging into the soft meat of your upper arm. It was still daylight, thankfully, but you already felt exposed as he had you linger in the square near the public houses. You could already hear the hoots and laughter of raucous men enlivened by drink and company. The smell of stale ale and piss was not enough to cover the scent of fresh baking and roasted game drifting on the breeze. You shivered, your burned, you hungered.

Meek little dormouse, scurrying around the greasy ferret who held her tail under his claws.

Your Father's chance came as the sun was setting, candlelight just now visible through the slats and windows of taverns. Far from cozy, it reminded you of the lidded eyes of some lazy predator about to watch your ruination.

'I don't care if you are crusader to the gods themselves! Knight of the Realm or not, you can't come into my pub and throw furniture around like you're at the Solstice games!'

The snarling Madame looked comically small next to the absolute beast of a man currently ducking under the doorframe. Watching her chuck the splintered leg of a chair after him you thought her lucky that he didn't want more of a fuss. You had never seen a man so big, so broad, seeming bigger whilst dressed still in his mail and wearing the colours of the King. He merely grunted as he made his way to the tethering post, letting her threats and screeches fizzle into the cool, twilight air. Leather-gloved hands worked at the harness of the dappled stallion you had been admiring earlier, easily more than 18 hands tall and capable of carrying this brute. You had imagined earlier slicing that very harness and riding hard across the cobblestones away from your father. Away anywhere.

'Good sir, are you in need of lodgings?' The words dripped from your Father's lips like ichor. You could smell the sickly underlying rot.

The Knight's hands stilled, head still lowered. His voice rumbled out, deep and rough as gravel.

'You offerin', then? 'ow much will that cost me?'

'Well, it's busy in the Festival. The guest houses are full but my home is open to weary travelers-'

A barked laugh cut him off. The Knight raised his head, pinning your father in place like a moth in a hobbybook. You quickly looked away, pretending to busy yourself with a nearby fruit cart. His face was covered, a dark black slash across his lower face like an empty maw. But his eyes. You could have drowned in those eyes, dark as they were. They pulled you in more than the call of the river on your bad days. If you stared too long you'd never wade out.

'Ain't you charitable,' you couldn’t see his mouth but you were sure that he sneered.

'Well, a former soldier should be willing to support the Crown. Although, with a mouth to feed a few coins wouldn't go amiss..' his hand swept back and you tried not to cringe away.

'Former solider, eh?' Your Father clearly had the Knight's attention now. As did you. Though you continued to look away you felt his gaze like you felt touch. Like he was grasping you, keeping you still. Your head felt heavy as you raised it towards them, now a part of this bargain whether you wanted to be or not.

'I know what it's like to seek the comfort of a warm hearth and soft bed. I would not see you ride off into the cold night.'

The Knight huffed; you could almost mistake it for a laugh. Though quiet, the voices and laughter of the nearby inns seemed quieter, like all sound and light was absorbed by this armoured beast. Once, just after your mother died, you headed to the riverbank as always for work. It was barley daybreak, some of the older more experienced women already beginning their washing, but you walked on. And on. Until the river led you to its mouth, rushing and rocky and dangerous. You wanted to jump in. You felt the same now, gazing at this man.

'How much for the girl, then?' He looked right at you as he said it, catching your wide, staring eyes. You didn't blink, couldn't look away.

'She is my daughter! Sir, I-' that same rot, spewing out of his mouth.

'I didn't ask who she is, I asked 'ow much?'

Your Father took a step towards him, faltering under the weight of his gaze. He leaned, then, trying to seem ashamed. Trying to seem like a father should.

'Sir, she is my daughter. I can do nothing but take offence at what you are suggesting.'

The Knight pulled out a small velvet purse, heavy and distended with coins. They clinked as they smacked into the cobbles at your Father's feet. All pretenses dropped, then, as he scrambled to pick it up with greedily shaking fingers. Prize in hand, he found his courage as he sidled closer to him, thick neck open and exposed as he leaned in to whisper his betrayal. His filicide.

'She's a bit older, yes, but unused to the ways of men, mind. With a firm hand I'm sure she cou-' a gloved fist at his throat turned perfidy to gasps. You watched red bloom instantly under those fingers, and marveled at the strength. The violence.

'Your own daughter,' he sneered. 'What kind of man, soldier at that, would sell his daughter to a man like me?'

Your Father was bigger than you, yes, but looked like a poppet in the hands of this beast, so easily dragged towards him ready to be shaken in his maw.

'I'd love to think that she isn't yours, that she's some whore you peddle out to drunken leches in the alley. But you're slimier than an eel in birdshit, aren't ya?'

You didn't move, didn't speak as you saw his fingernails scrabbling uselessly against the unforgiving strength. You, for a small moment, felt the claw release your tail. Run, you thought. A look at this behemoth and his horse had you thinking again. Run where?

Be quiet, be meek, be sweet.

'Please!' The plea bubbled up your throat like acid.

He said nothing, did not loosen his grasp, as he tilted his head like a dog.

'It is as he says. He is my father,' you continued.

A scoff stilled your words.

'Some father, look at the state of ya.'

You looked down at your chapped, scarred hands. Your patched, slightly-too-short skirts. You felt the throb of the bruises on your upper arms, the beginnings of hollowness eating away at your usually plump cheeks.

'You mistake me, Sir,' You could barely hear your voice over the blood rushing in your ears. 'I am not asking for his life. I am asking you to take me with you. Please.'

Silence. His eyes flickered over you anew, contemplating. Your hummingbird heart fluttered in your chest.

'Close y'r eyes, girl. Until I say.' Your shocked hesitance made him growl. 'Now!'

The imprints of tavern candlelight burned behind your lids. You let the corners of your mouth flick up.

----------------

Your Knight's name was Simon. The Ghost, it was rumoured. You weren't seasoned on the field so you knew not of his reputation, but the reaction of those you encountered gave it away. Even without the blood staining his hands he was imposing. Tall, broad, intense. You still hadn't seen under the kerchief he kept around his face, but you spent many nights imagining. Was his nose crooked, or was it a trick of the light on fabric? Did he have stubble across his jaw that matched the fine, blond strands that decorated the top of his head? Did he smile? Scowl? Was he handsome?

He was gruff, certainly. You spent the first few days obeying your mantra - be quiet, be meek, be sweet -but it didn't provoke anything in him at all. Neither praise nor censure. It seemed, rather, that he was determined that your presence would be nothing more than a fact of circumstance. Not worth much fuss.

'She needs winter clothes. A nice dress. A travelling cloak. And some boots.'

That was how you found yourself perfectly still, getting prodded and pinned in the parlour of a tailor shop in the city's mid-tier. The seamstress' cheeks burned red as she turned her disapproving eyes between her task and the Knight who refused to leave the dressing area. He dwarfed the chaise, leather and chains indenting delicate brocade. After a grunted 'She's my Charge. If you want my coin, then 'm not leavin'' he sat silent. Just kept his eyes on your face. As always.

You couldn't find it in you to feel embarrassed. He'd done no more than see you in your petticoats, even at the guesthouses where you lodged for the night. An altogether better set up that you could've envisioned for yourself. You had thought your Father like a sly weasel, thought any future husband like a carrion crow ready to pick over whatever your Father left. But you thought Simon like a grizzled old guard dog. A dormouse held no interest when bigger prey was to be had. When you didn't pose a threat.

He clothed you. Fed you. Ordered hot bathwater for your room - a luxury you had never experienced - and otherwise left you alone. All he touched you with was his gaze, steady and unashamed. Strange how you now saw your silence -quiet, meek- as a barrier.

'Where are we going?' You worked up the courage to ask as you rode behind him up to the next tier of the city, seeing wooden roofs change to tile.

'The Palace.'

'The Palace? What, but what about me?'

'You asked me to take you wiv me, didn' ya?' you felt the rumble of his words all the way from his chest to your arms.

'Yes, but.. What, what will I do there? How will you explain this?'

You realised now your lack of foresight. You foolishly assumed that someone high-ranking wouldn't be starting brawls in lower-tier taverns. Or magistrating over scoundrels due to the sale of their daughters. You thought, perhaps, of an impoverished country knight who came to the city only for the festivities. You could bargain your way (or slip away) if he turned out to be just as bad as your progenitor, and make a living in one of the towns or hamlets that stretched along the woodlands of the Kingdom. Foolish girl.

'No one will ask questions. No one will bother ya,' You believed him, felt the threat in his words.

'But they'll think. They'll wonder.' I wonder, you thought to yourself.

'Can't stop that,' He snorted. 'Why don't you ask me what you really want to ask?' He pulled sharply on the reigns, causing you to clutch hard around his waist and whisper your words pressed into his back.

'What are you going to do with me?'

------------------

"Ho, Simon! Hard to drag ye from yer hermitage in Northmire,' you stared as a smiling Isleman slapped your Knight hard on the back, hooking his arm and dragging him down into the booth. 'And ye've brought a wee Bonnie thing with y-'

'That'll do, Johnny,' Simon growled. Still, he let himself be handled onto the bench. He looked at you, standing still, staring at the other side of the table. 'Well? You sitting down or wot?'

You scrambled down beside him, too timid to sit next to the laughing stranger. Too wary to put your back to the rest of the tavern. Past Simon's profile, you snuck a peek at the man - Johnny - and found him looking back at you. He looked friendly, sure, but you were reminded of the harriers that plucked young hens from the woods. His eyes were too sharp, too bright. His smile was a little wicked, too. Too intense to be without danger.

'Well, the King'll be happy. He'll finally have a real reason to say naw to all the harpy mothers pecking at him about their single daughters. Cannae say I expected it, but congratulations,' You blinked. 'Cannae believe you beat Garrick to it an' all, thought fer sure he'd be the dutiful one. Well, first that is.'

Simon ignored him as he flagged down the serving girl. He ordered for you, as always.

'Bit bold of ye, though, plastering her in your colours. Scared o' a challenge to her? Like anyone would chance their arm seeing her wi' you, Your Grace,' Johnny laughed again, blue eyes shining as he watched Simon's jaw tick under the scarf. 'Go oan then, introduce us.'

'Dormouse, meet Johnny.'

'Aw, come oan!' Johnny leaned over, then. 'He's forgotten his manners all the way oot in Northmire. I'm John MacTavish, of the Northern Isles. I've known this one fer a while, but never knew him tae settle.'

You squeaked out your own name in return, quickly taking a sip of the weak ale Simon pushed in front of you. Gave yourself more time to take stock. He too had the King's colours in a sash across his chest. Unlike Simon, he wasn't wearing full mail or a face covering. A heavy shirt of forest green, a red tartan kilt, and thick knitted socks were his attire of choice. Blue warpaint swirled from his temples down to his jaw, and he'd shaved his hair only on the sides. Not commonly seen in the Tiered City, but you knew the islanders to the North of the mountain wore similar garb. You let your eyes catch the glint of a dagger in his socks, as well as the hefty broadsword hooked by the table. The warpaint on his face was not just for decoration.  

You stayed quiet, munching on thick slices of bread dipped in broth as they talked, Low, rumbling voices and warmth from the hearth lulled you to a wakeful sleep, eyes still open but mind calm. MacTavish had called Simon 'Your Grace'. You were wearing his colours. You were going to the Palace. Something about that niggled at you, deep at the base of your skull.

You woke to Simon gently sliding you along the bench. Big hands and stained fingers so soft, like you were an overripe damson he wanted to preserve.

'Time for bed. C'mon, mouse.'

'Why do you call me that?' You murmured, still feeling his arm around you as he led you to your rooms. 'I never told you that was my Mother's nickname for me. Dormouse.'

You felt him huff out a laugh, pressed close against you.

'Didn't need ya to. It's obvious.' he answered after a pause. He leaned down, bracing you against the  room door. Only his scarf separated you from his flesh, close as you were. Wide eyes meeting dark. You shared the same breath.

'You're quiet like one. Seem sweet. But I saw you'd be willing to chew y'r own leg off to escape a trap,' he whispered that horrible truth so tenderly. His blunt, calloused fingers left firetrails on your cheek. 'My mouse. My survivor.'

His thick forearm braced your back as he opened the door, stopping your from tumbling into the emptiness behind. He needn't have bothered; you'd already fallen into him.

-------------------------

'How many more days' to the Palace?'

'Two, if we don't loiter. Johnny'll meet us at the gates to the Citadel.'

You looked up, seeing the Palace fortress taller and more intimidating than it had ever seemed down at the city's lowest levels. You were awed by the mason and marble buildings up here, the clean streets and cleaner people. Everything seemed to gleam this high-up. This close to the sun. Close to the Palace. Your skin had started to heal, after a week or so without labour and with good meals and rest, but you could see the discolouration that would never fade. It made you pick at your sleeves. Dormice didn't gleam. They hid.

You looked at the wide streets and their sun-bleached stones. Nowhere to hide here.

'And when we get there? What will happen?'

'We'll greet the Court. I have news for the King. They'll be a Ball f' the Festival. And you,' Simon stilled your steps, 'You will be good. You'll do as I tell ya. Not everyone is a friend. And I won't always be wiv ya.'

Perhaps you imagined it but you swore you could see something soft - warm - in those dark eyes of his as you nodded. You had years of experience avoiding the attentions of predators; you could do the same for Simon.

When you reached the Citadel Gates Johnny was waiting as foretold, chatting with a guardsman by the pulleys. He perked up as he spotted Simon's horse, all dappled grey with black skull harness. A proud danse macabre, carrying The Ghost.

'Here they are, the Duke and Duchess of Northmire! Let them pass, go oan. Here, raise his banner.'

It was a good thing that your blood turned to ice in your veins; it prevented you from letting go of Simon's waist. You watched as a square banneret in the same colours as your new travelling cloak - and dresses, and overskirts, and, and - rose to flutter slightly below the banner of the King. The wind lured the heavy fabric to thwack against the sky, echoing the drumbeats of your tambour heart. What were you marching towards?

Johnny had mounted his own stead, canting a light pace next to you and Simon.

'Ye should hae seen the ponces and pricks - sorry, My Lady - who came riding up here in their carriages this mornin'. I ken they think they were showing off but the guards and I were havin' a barry laugh watching the wheels get stuck in the cobbles and streets from the mid-tier all the way up-'

'Y'r point, Johnny?'

'Alright, cool yer blood. The point is, we've got tae change our travel plans. Be at the Palace tomorrow, nae a day later.' He sent Simon a significant look that you weren't so stunned as to miss. 'We've got a night hosted by Garrick's sister, then we'll be off in the morning.'

'Garrick's sister' was a comely, slender woman with sharp eyes and a kind smile. She, or rather the Garrick family, kept a townhouse in the top tier close to the Citadel as well as their estate at Thamesbury.  As a close peers and allies of her brother, her doors and hospitality were open to you all. You didn't want to seem like the uncultured urchin you were, but even the entry hall surpassed any luxury you'd seen thus far. You had to suppress an instinctual flinch as her manservant stepped behind you to reach for your cloak. Or perhaps the lessons from the streets were written all over your wide eyes. You saw Johnny chew on a smile as Simon glared down at the man, massive arms crossing across his great oak chest.

'That'll do,' he growled. 'There are saddlebags to be seen to.'

The poor man scarpered with a stuttered, 'Of course, Your Grace.'

You stared after your Knight as he stomped up the stairs, heavy footfalls disturbing the frames of the Garrick ancestors across the walls. He looked back, silhouetted with a hand outstretched.

'C'mon then.'

His rough, warm hand enclosed yours and you followed him to exegesis.

Ensconced in your chambers - shared chambers, marriage chambers - you found your tongue.

'Should I be calling you 'Your Grace'?' Be meek, be sweet.

He snorted, inelegant against the filigree and flowers that bore witness to your unsettled feelings.

Be meek, be sweet. Be meek, be sweet. Be meek-

'I do not speak in jest, Simon. Sorry, 'Your Grace',' Your mouth twisted, trembling with the force of holding back. 'I asked you to take me with you, yes, and I have tried not to inconvenience you beyond…beyond the circumstances of our meeting. But I must demand, now. Tell me what is going on.'

He merely tilted his head, old grizzled dog on a velvet chaise. You could see his lips - what did they look like, what did they feel like? - move under the black of his kerchief.

'We're in a guest room, talkin'. Listenin' to you ask stupid questions.'

'If the question seems stupid it is because you have made it so!' You felt your stubby nails bite into your calloused palms. The feeling made you shake, brought tears to your eyes. Shame and fear turned saliva to acid. You flung your hands towards him. 'Look! You see these. These are not the hands of a girl addressed as 'Duchess'. If this is a joke, I ask you to stop it now. I am grateful to you, I will remain so always, but playing in this manner is lower than whatever my Father had-'

"Do not. Compare me. To that man.' His growl cut you from cutaneous to cartilage, exposing your raw, soft innards. You hoped he'd be kind. Even if he chewed on your heart, popping gristle between sharp canines, perhaps you'd be a part of him, dripping down his throat with an intimacy you longed to initiate.

Viper-quick, your hands were in his. Your lap was in his too. Too warm, too bulky, too close.

'Quit y'r squirmin'. Look at me, no. Look!' Your jaw was turned more gently than you expected from hands made for violence. You couldn't meet his eyes, but that mattered not as he brought your hand and his up to your sight. 'Look. My hands aren't delicate neither.'

You took a deep breath, feeling him pant underneath you, and reached to cup his hand in yours. Butterfly-soft, you turned it, watching candlelight catch on silver scars and pockmarks. Deep gouges and veins raised valleys between knuckles and wrist. One finger seemed slightly too short, like the top joint had been lost in some gruesome accident. When you looked at the palm, it was calloused. You had already felt its roughness, deep imprints from years of work. Of war. He flexed, closing his fingers around yours.

'I'm not 'of the blood'. I'm good at spillin' it, but the stuff inside me isn't worth much. Was a Squire. Then a Knight. Caught some eyes on the battlefield and was sent to defend the borders. Became a Margrave for it an' all. Now I'm a Duke. The titles don't mean much t'me, except I've got more coin and can tell nobles to fuck off without spending a day in the stocks.'

You're not sure whether your sigh was a laugh.

'Then, what? Please, Simon. What are we doing here?'

With your face this close to him you were reminded of the night in the tavern where you first met Johnny. You felt that you were sharing the same breath then. Now, here on his lap, you felt more. The warmth of his body that leeched through your skirts. The hard press of tough leather plackart. The pounding of his heartbeat - or was it yours - as you clutched his hand with trembling strength. That same trembling strength had you meeting his eyes at last, your position allowing you to be equal in height. His pupils dilated under scarred eyebrows, deep brown melting into pitch black.

'I took you wiv' me. It was sealed in blood. You're mine.'

You cupped his jaw, feeling stubble peek through his scarf. The sensation grounded you, kept you from flying off as his words used all the world's gravity.

'Bit of a terrible dowry, blood.' You whispered, a whisker away from his lips.

'I'm not made for anything else.'

Wrong, you thought as you pressed your parted lips to his covered ones. You were made for me.

His hand trailed up your arm as yours trailed across his jaw, two bodies with one mind. With deft, strong fingers you removed the last barrier between you. Black fluttered to the floor, still flesh-warm, and your lips met again. His lips were a little thin, but hungry. He groaned, supplicant to your taste, as you sought to press him closer. You could feel stubble tickling your chin, and the firm outline of another scar close to his cupid's bow. Lightning struck across the back of your neck, making you shudder against him. All you could taste, all you could smell, all you could feel was Simon.

And he all was yours.

After his face mask fell, so too did all barriers. You feel asleep together, entwined on the same bed. You awoke to his face made soft in the morning light. Sunbeams danced in the crevices of his scars, pale and rugged like the mountain you'd looked up at as a child. You watched, sentry, as you mapped the features of his face. Golden hair, golden stubble. A crooked nose that had been broken and set several times. Tributaries of scars running down to a strong jaw. And dark, unwavering eyes that creased a little as you met his gaze.

'G'mornin'.'

'Good morning,' You murmured, still sleep-soft. You traced along his lips, laughing as he nipped softly. 'Why do you cover this up?'

'To preserve my modesty,' he smirked as his tongue flicked out to soothe your nipped fingertips.

'Simon!'

'I'll tell ya. One day. When we get back 'ome. I don't trust everyone in this city.'

'You can trust me,' you whispered as you pressed your tingling digits into his mouth, catching on blunt teeth.

You felt the heat of his gaze bring blood to your cheeks. His eyes didn't leave yours as he pressed his teeth down softly. You knew the dog wouldn't bite.

'I know, Simon. I trust you too,' You leaned your forehead against his. 'Just, wherever you go, take me with you.'

-------------

Got a part ii drafted (palace intrigue, meet John and Gaz, Ghost and his mouse finally enjoy marital rites *wink*, conflict, etc., eventual HEA) but I'm not sure if there's an audience for it. And this is the first writing I've published in y e a r s since my cringe forays into dark videogame smut as a 19 y/o, so I'm not really confident. This is unedited/not proofread. Here ya go~

[just-some-user-hunny]

Ok so I live near some irl medieval castles (because the UK has plenty of those, pretty cool) and it's got me thinking :( you know the chainmail knights wear? Super fucking heavy, it's insane. I struggled holding it up with both hands, and I'm not necessarily a weak person either due to constantly carrying around giant art portfolios everyday during my time at college. To think of knight Simon wearing that nearly daily???!! Emphasises how bloody strong that man is.

Knight!Simon Riley amusing his princess and letting her hold smth like his sword or a spare chainmail vest because he can't say no to her, and for once he can't fight the restraining smile on his face when you struggle holding it up. His eyes crinkling with smile lines as he watches you endearingly pout and struggle, before tenderly ushering you and taking it off you with ease, one handed too.

Sighhhh do U get me?

[guhbwuh]

Upcoming au wip✍️

[merakilii]

Thinking about knight Simon, who was assigned to protect you by King Price. He barely talks to you and only does his duty. until he spends more time with you, and his cold heart thaws. he would kill for you, die for you. But a man like him, deep in the dirt, hands stained with blood, can't be with a woman like you, a beautiful bird who deserves it all.

18+ // mdi

The castle stood as a monolith against the storm-ridden sky, its spires piercing the low-hanging clouds like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast. The air was thick with the scent of rain and damp earth, the kind of weather that made the stones weep and the shadows stretch long and hungry across the courtyards. Simon Riley stood at the edge of the royal gardens, his silhouette a dark contrast to the pale, trembling blooms that clung to life despite the season’s cruelty. His visor was off, his face obscured by the thin black scarf that he wore like a second skin, a barrier between him and the world. The scarf did little to hide the scars that marred his face, but it was enough to keep the whispers at bay. He was a ghost, a shadow, a man who had long since traded his humanity for the weight of his armour and the cold steel of his blade.

You were there, as you often were, walking the garden paths with a book in hand, your voice soft but steady as you read aloud. It was a habit you had picked up, one that Simon had initially found peculiar. Why would you share your thoughts with him, a man who had no use for poetry or prose? Yet, over time, he had come to anticipate these moments, the way your words wove through the silence like a thread of gold. He didn’t respond, of course, he rarely did, but he listened. He always listened.

Today, however, the peace was shattered by the arrival of a prince from a neighbouring kingdom. Simon had seen him from afar, a figure of gilded arrogance striding through the castle gates with a retinue of knights and advisors trailing behind him like obedient hounds. He had come to ask for your hand in marriage. Simon had known it the moment he laid eyes on him. There was a certain kind of man who wore his ambition like a crown, and he was no exception.

Simon’s jaw tightened beneath the scarf as he watched the prince kneel before the king in the grand hall, his voice dripping with honeyed words and false humility. The king listened with a measured expression, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he considered the proposal. Simon stood at the edge of the room but his eyes never left Prince Alaric. He saw the way the prince’s gaze flicked toward you, the way his lips curled into a smile that was more predatory than charming. It made Simon’s blood boil, though he would never admit it. Not even to himself.

When the audience was over, Simon followed you to your study, his steps silent but deliberate. You were quiet, fidgeting with your necklace as you walked, your brow furrowed in thought. Simon could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers trembled slightly against the cool chain. He wanted to say something, to offer some semblance of comfort, but the words stuck in his throat like shards of glass. Instead, he stayed a few paces behind you.

It wasn’t until you the dim room that you finally broke the silence. “What do you think of him?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Simon stiffened, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. “He’s a fool,” he said, a deep rumble that shakes your heart in the rare moments you hear it. “He thinks he can win you with pretty words and empty promises.”

You turned to look at him, and for a moment, the world stilled. Your eyes, those damned eyes, searched his face as if they could peel back the layers of scarred flesh and hardened resolve to find the man he had buried long ago. Your gaze was a blade against his throat. He wanted to look away but he was rooted to the spot, a prisoner of your quiet curiosity.

“And what would it take to win me, Sir Simon?”

Your voice was light, almost playful, but beneath the surface, there was something deeper, something that made his chest ache with a longing he refused to name.

He turned his face away, his gaze fixed on the horizon out the open window where the storm clouds churned like a cauldron of ink.

“A man who would lay down his life for you,” he said at last. “A man who would burn the world to ash if it meant keeping you safe.”

You didn’t respond, but he could feel your eyes on him, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle with unease. It was a feeling he hated, one that made him want to retreat into the darkness where he belonged. But he couldn’t. Not when it came from you.

Simon’s breath caught in his throat as he stole a glance at you, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. You were bathed in the pale, silver light of the storm, your features carved from moonlight. Your hair caught the wind, strands of it dancing around your face like a halo, and your lips, parted slightly as if you were about to speak. But you didn’t. You just looked at him.

You were everything he was not. You deserved the best, a man who could offer you the world on a silver platter. Not him. Never him. He was a broken thing, a weapon forged in the fires of war and tempered in blood. He had no right to even look at you, let alone dream of you. And yet, here he was, standing in your presence like a moth drawn to a flame, knowing full well that he would burn.

He couldn’t have you. He knew that. He had always known that. But gods, how he wanted to. The desire was a living serpent that hissed and writhed with every breath he took. He wanted to reach out and touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his calloused hands. He wanted to trace the delicate curve of your jaw, to brush his thumb over the softness of your lips, to see if they were as sweet as they looked.

But it wasn’t just that. It was more. So much more. He wanted to pull you into the shadows, to press you against the cold stone wall of the castle and claim your mouth with his own. He wanted to taste you, to devour you, to lose himself in the heat of your body and the sound of your breath catching in your throat. He wanted to hear you say his name, not as your knight, but as something more. Something forbidden. Something sinful.

He wanted to worship you, to kneel before you like a sinner at the altar, to press his mouth to every inch of you until you were trembling beneath him.

He wanted to strip you bare, to peel away the layers of silk and lace. He wanted to run his hands over your body, to feel the way you shivered beneath his touch, to hear the soft, desperate sounds you would make as he explored every inch of you. He wanted to bury his face between your thighs, to taste the sweetness of your desire, to make you cry out his name as he brought you to the edge of pleasure and then pushed you over.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Because you were not his to take. You were a princess, a jewel, a treasure that he could never possess. And so, he stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back. He would protect you, he would serve you, he would die for you if he had to. But he would never have you. And that knowledge was a knife in his chest, twisting deeper with every breath he took.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of rain and the faintest hint of your perfume, something sweet and floral, like the gardens in spring. Simon closed his eyes, letting the scent wash over him, committing it to memory. This was all he could have. These stolen moments, these fleeting glimpses of you. It would have to be enough.

When he opened his eyes again, you were still looking at him, your expression unreadable. He wanted to ask you what you were thinking, what you saw when you looked at him. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave you a curt nod and turned away, his boots thudding against the wooden planks as he walked out of the study.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Simon Riley disappeared into the castle, leaving you standing there, bathed in moonlight, perfect and untouchable.

[wishful-thinking-is-dumb]

Hi! I was wondering if you were going to do a pt. 2 of the ghost and thief reader post? Also, I hope you drink enough water and have an amazing day!

Simon Riley - Medieval Au Part 2

Knight Simon Riley x Thief Reader

Tears stream down your face and your heart pounds out of your chest as he drags you inside of a cottage just out of town. You continue to beg him not to kill you, clutching at his wrist. He shuts the door behind him with a slam, and you choke out more sobs, he's gonna do something worse than kill you.

His grip loosens on the collar of your worn shirt, and he grabs your bicep instead. You finally start to notice that you aren't in the dungeons, and you are so confused. You glance around, eyes flickering over the room. He's brought you to his home, and by the looks of it, he is a very high ranking official.

Your sobs stop in a moment of confusion as he drags you by the arm to his washroom. It's a miniature bathhouse, you've only ever dreamed of such luxury. The floors are ornate, handmade tiles and you can smell all of the expensive soaps. He closes the washroom door and he sits you roughly against the wall, you start to cry again as he takes off his armor.

He removes his helmet last, and he is the most angelic person you've ever seen. It's ironic to even call him angelic after the treatment he has put you through in the last 20 minutes. He ignores your crying as he takes off his boots and rolls up his sleeves. You scramble away as he approaches you again.

His face betrays no emotion as he grabs you by you arm again. He sits you back in the original spot he had placed you in by the door.

“Don’t fucking move.” He lears at you, and he seems satisfied when you freeze in fear of his tone. He narrows his eyes and lets go of your arm. He goes to the corner on the other side of the door where he starts to warm up some water over a fire. It's a giant metal basin, and you shakily watch as he fills it up to the brim. He makes sure the fire is big enough to warm up the water. He glances back at you to make sure that you haven't moved.

After several minutes, steam starts to fill the small bathhouse, and the air gets warmer. You watch the man with wide eyes as he makes sure the water is warm enough, and he effortlessly bumps the basin into the porcelain bathtub in the middle of the room. He returns to the fire and refills the basin full of water, then he turns to you.

You begin to cry as he grabs you, he doesn’t seem to be as rough anymore. He shushes you as he takes off your shirt, and you scratch and fight him. He seems annoyed but he makes no comment as you try to fight him.

He pulls your trousers off as you cry and sob, begging him to not hurt you. He picks you up by your underarms and he plops you into the warm bathtub. You are shaking from fear, you've never had a warm bath before. The water is nice but not nice enough to fight off the thoughts of what he might do to you.

He looks over his several bottles of soap, you’ve never seen a bottle up close before. He decides on a green glass bottle, and he pops the cork off and he dumps the soap onto the top of your head and the rest into the warm bath water. He starts to scrub you clean, starting with your hair.

His movements are very firm, like he wants to scrub your skin off. You feel so vulnerable and exposed by his treatment of you.

“You're not as filthy as I thought’ you’d be..” He says to you, rinsing your hair out with a clay bowl and the warm water from the basin over the fire. He moves to scrub your arms with a rag and more soap from the green bottle. You finally notice how nice it smells, like wild mint and rosemary.

“Makes things easier for me.” He mutters the last part as he finishes cleaning you up. He picks you up out of the bath as you continue to sob quietly. He rinses you off with the clean and warm basin water. You feel goosebumps all over your body as the heat from the water quickly leaves you. You curl into a ball on the tiled floor and shake from the cold and the fear of the unknown.

He dries you off with a towel, and he wraps you in it. He picks you up and puts you back by the door. You shiver and try to cover yourself up more as you watch him empty the bathtub of dirt water. He pours the water outside his window using another large clay bowl as you dry off.

You can’t believe that this is happening to you. Is he going to sell you for money? Is that why he gave you a bath, so you could sell for more? You can only imagine, and the thoughts of horrible things seem to consume you.

[mrsrileywrites]

Me and my husband Simon Riley in an alternate universe, he has to go on a crusade to kill a dragon ☹️

[omgitstatertot]

@bitterrfruit art gave me this idea

Simon Riley with a "Do Not Resuscitate" tattoo across his chest, big and in bold, who put it there in hopes that it would be followed, though the tattoo holds no legal binding and unless you have a written DNR your doctors are required to ignore it

Simon Riley, who spent those years with the tattoo, thinking that no one would truly miss him, were the occasion to arise

Simon Riley, who gets a partner, becomes quite comfortable and content with said partner, to the point he's taking off his clothes.

Simon Riley, who doesn't even get to reach for his belt to finish changing when his partner gasps, and begins anxiously fretting over the tattoo, fingers tracing the bold letters, doe-like eyes staring into his damn soul and a lip worried between their teeth.

Simon Riley, who can't seem to close his eyes as his partner insists on clinging to him that night, their hand resting over his heart as it finally sinks in that he would be, in fact, missed were the occasion to arise.

Simon Riley anxiously googling how expensive and how much time a tattoo removal takes.

[tapemouth]

all the old ghost archives i liked that was deleted off my old blog

this is my new account, same user same style whatever

[abusivegymrat]

Gaz outside the military:

[cinnamongrl2006]

♱ Knight!Simon Riley x Princess!reader ♱ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

a/n: I love knight x princess stories, maybe because I want a strong capable man to take care of me, oh well, who knows. Also, I can't write accents phonetically for the life of me, so take what I give you plspls!!

warnings: fem reader, pure fluff, sfw

────୨ৎ────

♱ Knight!Simon Riley who fell in love with you the second he stepped foot in the castle. He was assigned to watch and take care of you, the princess, before a worthy suitor whisked you away to another land, where you were to rule as queen.

That was the plan your family, your kingdom had set out for you, that was the future that awaited you. That was the future you wanted, or so you thought until you met him, your knight. The townspeople and the people of the court called him Ghost, they worshipped him almost as if he was a legend, they feared him.

He was tall, big all over. He'd expected you to be somewhat reluctant at his sudden proximity, scared of him, repulsed at his appearance— at his grotesque appearance, he thought, big gloved hands gripping the sword in his belt, face covered by his dark helmet. He expected you to treat him like all royals treated the service, like a lap dog, like an appendage, a simple accessory.

But you didn't. You looked at him like he hung the moon and stars, spoke to him as an equal, regarded him with wide eyes. You sat by the training yard when he'd practice swordfighting, a hand over your eyes to shield yourself from the sun, and you'd clap and cheer him on.

A week later he told you his real name, Simon. "But you can call me Si, love." He said it softly, walking you to the drawing room with a hand on the small of your back. His fingers tightened against the fabric of your dress when you repeated his name softly, to remember it better you'd said.

♱ Knight!Simon Riley who started to get closer to you, to trust you, quicker than he usually did. He thought maybe it was because of the way you smiled at him when you caught him staring, or the way you laughed at his totally unfunny jokes like they were comedy gold.

At night, after he walked you to your quarters he'd go and stand under your window, because you always wanted to keep talking to him past your bedtime. You thought it was a shame it was dark outside when he had his helmet off, his voice was so deep, and his hands so big, his touch so warm— he had to be handsome.

He'd read to you, perched against a tree trunk, looking up at the balcony where he could make out the outline of your frame. He'd stay there with you until you started to yawn, and the sky turned orange, right before the birds sang. And then he'd walk back to his quarters and get as much sleep as he could before he had to be at your door again, picking you up after you got dressed, steering you to the dining room with a hand on the small of your back.

♱ Knight!Simon Riley who, after weeks of dismissing your pleas, takes off his helmet in front of you. He doesn't like taking it off when he's at work, doesn't like being Simon when he's in the suit and armor, but for you he's already made an exception. He's surprised when you pull him down for a kiss behind a tree. You're taking a walk on the far side of the gardens, where the trees are tall and the foliage thick, and the sun doesn't get in your eyes.

After that day it became a common occurrence; you'd pull on his arm and steer him outside of the throne room. Tell your mother you were going for a walk, you'd be back before dinner, and you'd spend the entire afternoon tangled together under a weeping willow.

♱ Knight!Simon Riley who told you he loved you one of those afternoons. Your head rested on his chest— armor discarded a while ago, his undershirt billowed in the wind— listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart and the rumbling anytime he spoke.

You had been telling him about a painting class you'd taken that day, his hums and caresses lulling you to sleep. It was the perfect occasion for him to say it, he couldn't hold it in any longer but he feared scaring you away if he said it out loud, the reality of your situation weighed heavy in his heart.

So he leaned his head down and kissed the top of your head, and with his lips pressed against your hair he said it.

"Love you s' much, sweetheart."

For a second he thought you really were asleep, and his words, his adoration for you, would stay a secret that only the trees that grew among you would know. But he felt you stir in his embrace, felt your hands snake around his neck, your lips find his jaw.

"Love you too, Simon."

────୨ৎ────

@cupidsworstcrime convinced me to write this 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Requests are open!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[pricetagged]

(don't you know) that death is a very stable job ii

Poor little Dormouse, with her cruel father and labourer's hands. You find an unexpected guard dog in one of the passing Knights. Medieval/Fantasy Knight! Simon AU. 8.9k As mentioned in Part i this was inspired by a scene in 'The Serpent Queen' and @/bi-writes 'a hand for a hand'. Content: mild violence, power imbalance (social hierarchy ew), oral (f-receiving), PIV sex,. Reader is described as a young woman, (generally body-neutral but implied to be plump/curvy).

________________________________________________ -------------------------------------------------------------- ii

As the Palace loomed taller and taller you felt you stomach drop lower and lower. You imagined that Simon's horse must be kicking it up the street by now.

Lady Thamesbury's maid had braided your hair into some intricate crown that Simon said looked 'real pretty on ya'. You let Simon pick your riding clothes and fasten your cloak, content that he wouldn't have you looking a fool. Still, you feared that you could look like many other things to the nobles of the court.

It was almost anticlimactic, reaching the doors and being ushered in by staff who flustered around to welcome the Duke of Northmire and Earl of the Northern Isles. You leaned heavily on Simon's forearm as he walked you towards the throne room, his heavy bootsteps echoing the pounding of your heart. Ornate wooden doors opened to reveal a large hall, bisected by a long, elaborate carpet leading to the throne itself. It seemed rather empty, actually. You had expected to see throngs of corseted and besilked courtiers watching you from over the tip of their noses, waiting to see if the silly little dormouse would scratch up the furniture. Instead, the Heralds announced you to the King who sat upright like a cat on his dais. The only other occupants were a lean, handsome man, an upright, elegant lady, and an imposing, whiskered man by her side.

For all your anxiety, it was rather inconsequential. You stuck like a limpet to Simon, ducking and curtseying as he bowed, nodding and smiling as he spoke. The King seemed only mildly interested in you, offering bland congratulations and agreeing to meet with Simon to close the marriage banns and approve the union. He seemed distracted. You had the distinct feeling that you had walked into something important. Something intense. It hung in the air, heavy and viscous as clay. It clung to the walls, to the faces of those gathered, thick and dark and cracking. You hoped that it would flake off, terra fluttering down as you scurried away and out of sight.

Out of mind.

"Good to see you again, Simon," The bearded man clapped him hard upon the shoulders, familiarity warming his smile. He nodded your way, "I see you’ve been busy."

The corners of your lips twitched, smile sprouting up under the glow of this friendly attention. He was big, almost as tall as your Knight. He stood tall, too, finely dressed and fully armed. There was an ease of movement to his steps, his words, like he was used to stating his will and having it be so. Your keen eyes caught the signet ring snug against his thick fingers, and the decorative scabbard at his hips. The weapon within was doubtless more dangerous than its ornamentation would imply.

"Y'r Highness," there was a note of irony in Simon’s voice. Irony without teeth. Playful. "This is my wife."

His warm hand clutched at your waist, strong forearm steeling your back. You bobbed a little curtsey, flustered at the attention.

At the contact.

"Where did he find you, eh?"

"More like where did she find him?" the handsome man at his side cut in, eyebrows quirking between you and Simon.

"Not loungin’ around the palace playing quoits and collectin’ favours from pretty ladies’ maids," he rumbled over the sound of Johnny’s snicker.

"But Simon, the ladies’ maids know all the best secrets," he shot back, rakish glint undimmed in his eyes. Shaking his head slightly, he continued more seriously. "We missed you, Your Grace. Lot of things happening lately."

The four men shared a look, familiarity and trust allowing secrets to leap between them without words. The unspoken danced in the air, silent and striking. You looked away, unfamiliar with the steps and turns. Not privy to the unutterable brotherhood that bound them.

The outlander, the echo of your father’s voice dripped poison in your mind. Playing pretend at the palace.

Only, that wasn’t quite true.

Cold light filtered through stained glass, turning kaleidoscope on the flagstones. On you and Simon. Simon who had yet to leave your side, arm pressing you to his as you bathed in softly coloured apricity. Your sentinel, shielding you under his shadow from the swill-soaked streets of the lower pits all the way up to the palace. Of course he felt how you stiffened, shrinking in on yourself a little. Of course he noticed your shiver, the slight tilt of your head down and to the side. His fingers stroked gently across the softness of your waist, soothing.

"Well, you still got your courtly manners or wot?" He looked between the two men. "Been ridin’ all day. Want to get to our chambers, settle a bit."

"Me an’ all, cannae feel my legs," Johnny slapped at his thighs, perking up at the thought of a soft bed and warm hearth. "Where hae they put me this time?"

"You’re down in the stables with the other beasts, MacTavish," the handsome man cut in again, cheeky. You could hear the grin in his voice.

Johnny swaggered forwards, clapping his friend hard on the shoulder as they all laughed. Tension swept away, you walked along winding corridors swathed in rich tapestries and flickering sconces. As you went, you got the names and titles of your new companions. The confidence of the bearded man made sense, serving now as a Grand Duke but having worked in the service of the Crown for decades. John was his name, and only he outranked Simon. The final man, charming in both face and manner, was Kyle, Prince of Thamesbury. You could see now the similarities between him and his sister, both tall and lissome. Both blessed with a prepossessing sort of beauty, inviting and familiar.

They bid farewell at your door, all bowing at you with a promise to meet with Simon later. Johnny, naturally, made a show of raising your knuckles to his lips to land a smacking kiss that shocked you into laughter so much that you didn’t even think to be embarrassed of your scars.

Their footsteps grew fainter and fainter into silence.

Just you and Simon, like those first few days. A little thrill warmed your chest, like an ember glowing happily red in its fireplace. You wondered if he could feel it, if the warmth suffused outwards to him through flesh and bone and armour until it buried deep into his chest cavity, ribs and gristle acting as the hearth for whatever this was to grow. To blaze brightly.

The door shut, heavy oak and iron ushering you both into your own little world.

"C'mere."

You didn't even think, just folded yourself into him before the final syllable left his lips. He was still outfitted in riding gear and half armour, cold and hard pressing against your cheek. Strong arms enveloped you, cradling you against his bulk. You tipped your head back, gazing up into his eyes. His face was obscured, but you knew what lay underneath. His eyes, dark but so soft, crinkled slightly as you looked up. You imagined the harsh lines of his gnarled face were soft, too, beneath the mask. Your lips parted, aching to ask him-

The rough pad of his fingertip stopped the words before they could form.

Confused, you blinked up at him. There was a barely perceptible shake of his head, finger still gently shushing you. He leaned down, fabric rustling against your ear as you strained to hear his low rumble.

"Wait. Walls 'ave ears."

Like a cat, you nuzzled your face closer to his. His warmth bled through the mask as your lips traced the valley from cheek to ear.

"When?" you felt him shudder as you whispered, the ghost of your breath almost louder than your voice. "I want to know what's going on. I want to help you."

"Tonight. I'll tell ya tonight. After the feast. Few things I still need t' scope out."

He felt your nod.

"Good girl," he pressed his forehead to yours. You felt, more than heard, the rumble of his voice. "Behave y'rself. And remember, you don' answer to anyone who isn't me."

------------------------------- Simon sent away the ladies maids with a curt nod. They'd come to drop off the evening's clothes, to dress you and braid your hair. He watched all the while, eyes never leaving wherever they touched you. They recognised the warning that lay in his silence, never lingering on your skin or teasing you to draw out stories and gossip. You couldn’t even say that you felt like a doll, because you'd always seen the rich girls talk to theirs as they draped them in little cotton overskirts and twisted their flax string hair. As they plucked and pulled and bundled you supposed that you could be akin to a stump doll. Not the soft, delicate, pretty kind but rather the ones roughly hewn from wood into human form. Harder. Sturdier. And yet, as they lifted your arms and twirled you around you reminded yourself that you were malleable too. You could articulate your limbs, turn your head, and weather through the rough and the cold.

And maybe, as Simon's signet ring glinted behind you in the vanity mirror, maybe the storms had passed.

You stared into the mirror as you watched him dismiss them. It was a big, gold ornate thing. Almost grotesque in with its twisting gilt frame, little cherubic faces and animals warped into the design. It was the largest one you'd ever seen. The clearest, too. You could see each and every strand of your hair, swept back and gleaming as decorative pins glistened like dewdrops above your brow. Your skin glistened too, some of that warm little ember in your chest heating you from the inside and making you glow. You looked softer than you ever had before, even when looking at your reflection in the sudsy, shimmering waters of the river where you once stooped and sweated your labour.

Maybe it was the candlelight, maybe it was the past few weeks of care and good food. Maybe it was-

Your Knight stepped up behind you, too tall to be entirely within frame, and placed his heavy hand softly on your shoulder. He leaned down, cheek against yours as he looked at you through the looking glass. His pale blond lashes trembled slightly, pupils flickering across your image as if he sought to study it. To keep you in this frame, you and him imprinted together on polished silver. You wondered if the superstitions were true, if mirrors really could capture the soul and keep it bound forever in the confines of cold metal and glass. His dark, burning eyes met yours and you flicked the thought away. It wouldn't matter if it were true. There was no frame that could hold a Ghost, and if he couldn't be found there then neither would you.

"Suits ya," he trailed his fingers across the dense, glossy velvet of your cotehardie. "I should dress y'in more than just black 'n white. The colour suits ya."

"I like your colours, though. They suit you."

It was true. Black and white. Dusk and dawn. Beginning and end; it was a study in contrasts, the underlying tones and shades to every colour in existence. You could picture it now, the Squire boy from a township not unlike your own. He must have been tall for his age, some kind of strength burning in him and catching the attention of those who normally wouldn't deign to look at errand-boys and helpers. You could picture him older too, black armour on a pale white horse cutting a swathe of red across a copper-drenched field. And now, his pale, scarred face was free from its usual black mask. Gazing right back at you.

"Would you give me a favour? Something in your colours to carry to the feast?"

He huffed a little, dour expression belied by the warmth in his eyes.

"Isn't it meant t'be the other way around? You granting me a ribbon or a handkerchief or a lock of y'r hair?"

"Well, I don't exactly know how these matters work, Simon. I wasn't raised for it," you felt no embarrassment referencing your past to him now. Here. In your chambers. "But I know enough to say that one normally is granted a favour before embarking on a quest or challenge."

There a was a little archness to your tone, a silly attempt to mimic the cadence of the women you'd heard shuffling around the courtyard.

"I see," he couldn't quite suppress the twitch of his thin, scarred lips. "Cheeky thing, aren't ya. Attending a feast as my wife that difficult, eh?"

Your nose scrunched, protest etched into your nerves before the words formed. "Attending the feast is. I'm not well educated, but I am not stupid, Simon. I know that something is afoot - yes, I know you'll tell me later. I- I'm just not entirely sure what is expected of me."

Instead of answering, you watched as he tugged at the fastening of his surcoat until the thick, black cord slipped free. It was exhilarating watching hands that wrought death move so dexterously. You had never considered yourself an aesthete, but imagined that gazing at Simon would make you so. There was a sort of rawness to his beauty, like a cliff weathered by sea and spray. The valleys and ridges, the pockmarks and scars, stood as a testament to strength and endurance. And now, it was brought low before you.

His reflection dipped lower and lower out of your line of sight, a mountain brought low by a breeze. He still appeared huge, behemoth, on his knees. It caused something to cramp in your belly, watching through the mirror how he matched you height even as he crouched to the floor. You burned, low and furling in your core until it rose languidly up to your cheeks. Your underlayers, the soft cotton chemises, felt suffocating and itchy against your dampening flesh. You held your breath, scared to snuff out this moment, this dizzying feeling that made your face hot and sent your thoughts swirling.

It was excruciating, feeling the heavy drag of your skirts inching up your calf. The rough, uneven pads of his fingers ticked the curve of your ankle as he lifted it to his lap. Cool, woven leather coiled around and around, tying a little piece of him around you. It wasn't tight, just nestled comfortably, but you knew that you'd feel it as you walked. As you sat and listened and talked, all the while pretending that you couldn't feel the extemporal wedding-garter nestled under your skirts. Secret as a whisper.

His hand lingered, fingertips swirling higher above the makeshift anklet, taking in the softness of your calf. How the muscle twitched as you tried not to shudder. You licked your lips and finally, finally, dragged your eyes away from you own blown pupils staring back at you through the mirror. You looked down past layers of tight bodice and velvet skirts until you could see that his pupils were just as blown as yours.

His eyes never left yours as he stood, brushing close to your chest util he towered over you once more. You could feel the rise of his chest through your bodice, his calm, steady breaths belied by the intensity of his gaze on yours. Maybe he could feel your pulse, hammering so hard that it must surely be visible in the delicate line of your arched neck. Maybe he could feel your hitching breaths, just as he could feel yours. His rough, warm hand came to caress your cheek like unpolished wood meeting velvet. You leaned in, held your breath, and let your eyes drift closed.

In the autogenic darkness of your lids you watched shadow turn to phosphene as you felt his face dip lower. The slight tickle of stubble on your cheek wrought a shiver, before you melted into the press of his scarred lips against yours. It was languid, slow, dragging across your lips until they parted. His large hand cradled the back of your head as he tasted you, wet and open-mouthed, until you felt dizzy and weak-kneed. His lips moved up, stopping finally to kiss your forehead as you swayed in his arms.

"I told ya already. Be good, be wary. And don' answer to anyone who isn't me." You nodded slowly, looking up at him with head heavy and hot. He smiled, then, a gristled, toothy thing that twisted his already scarred face. You couldn't help but to smile back. "There she is, my wily little dormouse. Time t'go."

Arriving at the Great Hall was a blur, but somehow he managed to direct your bambi legs across uneven flagstones and winding stairs. Your thoughts cooled as you journeyed through the damp, castle halls, leaving behind something viscous and sticky on your flesh. Between your thighs. You shivered in the cold, stone halls, grateful now for the heavy clothes that earlier had felt so burdensome. How far had you come from the girl who knew nothing of men except to avoid them? The girl who imagined slipping in the shoal of the lower districts, unsteady on the grit of the sandbanks until the water swelled and took her away. In lieu of pinching yourself at the table, you crossed your legs and pressed one ankle into the other, the facsimile of elegance and ease.

Only you knew that you sought to dig the cord around your ankle deeper, let it tear through integument and tendons until flesh healed over top and fused it into you.

Would even that be enough? Would anything?

His meaty thigh pressed into yours.

You smiled prettily up at him, something secret in the curve of your lips and the fluttering of your lashes. The wine at the table was heavy, fragrant, and made you lightheaded almost as much as Simon had earlier. Almost enough to set you at ease, to make you forget about all others in the room.

The bubble burst as feasting turned to frolicking.

You didn't know how to dance. The reason was multifold, the first being that it simply wasn’t a part of your education. People danced in the lower districts, yes, but you imagined it to be a little too raucous, too unrefined for current company. Another reason was that it hardly fit the directive - be quiet, be meek, be sweet - that ruled most of your life as you scurried away from the sight of others. Who had the time, energy, or inclination to dance when each day was spent splitting skin with lye and cold water, working until the body ached and belly rumbled? You hadn't even had the coin for a glass of cheap, tavern swill after handing all earnings over to your father.

You noticed how, during the feast, the threat of Simon's reputationn had killed any attempts at conversion. You wondered, now, if alcohol and music would embolden anyone beyond curious glances and hushed whispers. Hopefully not.

You were joined only by the men you had met earlier. Simon's friends; the Ghost's brethren.

"Dinnae fancy a dance, Yer Grace?"

"Not if y'r offerin'."

"Nae offering you, that's fer sure," Johnny turned towards you after slapping Simon on the shoulder. "What d'ye say, Bonnie? Know how tae jig?"

You shook your head hard, lips pressed together to suppress a smile. You could picture it, sure that he'd be nothing if not an enthusiastic partner, twirling you around the floor like a leaf on the breeze. He was outfitted in a slightly more decorative version of his usual islesman garb, gold threads intertwined with the heavy wool of his tartan. His eyes still shone a little too bright, that same intensity dancing across his face, but it didn't alight your instincts. Simon trusted him. You trusted Simon. There was comfort in the simplicity.

"I'm not much of a dancer, My Lord. I'd only step on your toes."

"My toes can take it, nae bother."

"She doesn't want t'dance. Go bother one of th'other ladies." There was no real heat in Simon's voice, amusement clear in the tilt of his brow.

"Yer no fun. Just plannin' tae glare from the corner o'the hall all night?"

"You could join us, if ya want. Might change the glare t'a glower once the candles burn down."

Johnny chuffed through his nose at that, rolling his eyes at thr approaching Kyle. With a nod in your direction, he addressed his friend.

"Disnae want tae dance, barely will talk without a dour comment. Got any ideas to liven them up, Gaz?"

"Don't look at me, I'm here for some quiet too. Too much chatter, not enough said over there," he nodded towards the group of men he'd just left across the hall. Earlier, the heralds had announced them as the King's military advisors and diplomatic envoys. They looked it, too, standing tall and with the ease that is born of power and prestige. Their swords glinted and mouths smiled even as their eyes remained flat and shifty. Arch and calculating as a gentleman fox.

"Yer all dreich as a ditch in winter," he groaned half-heartedly, winking at you as you tried not to laugh.

Simon caught your eye, too, something playful flickering around him, turning his shock of blond hair into a nimbus. Your mind was already able to fill in the blanks of his face, to paint over the black maw of his mask. You knew that he was smirking, tongue running across his teeth as he savoured what he was about to say.

"I'll tell ya a joke, then, Johnny-"

"-oh, naw, not another one o'those-"

"What do you call it when a wizard's wand is broken?"

"A wizards..? Dinnae ken."

"A spell of bad luck."

Even Kyle groaned at that, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "That was terrible. I heard better over there," he nodded towards the strategic envoy across the floor.

"Okay, okay. One more. What do y'call a Knight with poor swordsmanship?" Simon crossed his arms across the wide barrel of his chest and leaned back against the wall, all ease and confidence despite the heckling audience.

"Dinnae know."

"Y'call him John MacTavish," he didn’t wait for the line to land before he let out a quiet hehehe, laughing even as Johnny's face turned red and chest puffed up.

"Yer a roaster, Simon, an absolute roaster. That's my cue tae find Price," he called over his shoulder as he marched towards a nondescript side door.

"You best go and join him, Simon. The Captain was looking for you too," Kyle must have read the hesitation in his frame, the way his face lingered on yours. "I'll be here."

It left you off-kilter, slightly. The heavy weight always balanced at your side was striding across the room, cutting a swathe through revelers as they tried both to avoid him and keep him in their sights. Little flocks of feathery, pecking creatures banding together as the wolf skulked through their coop.

They didn't even warrant a glance from him.

But for you it left you lopsided. Watching as he slipped into the shadows. Missing him. Maybe you'd always feel that way, always need something to ground you. Before, it was the weight of a basket set against your plush hip, digging in and leaving bruises with the heft of sopping shifts and underskirts. Now it was him, wide, warm palm frequently brushing the swell of your waist. Large shadow always in your periphery.

In the future, could that space be filled with something of yours? Both of yours. Something sweet and small and-

could it-?

"It must have been an interesting courtship," Kyle's low, smooth voice cut through your reverie.

"Yes, most unexpected," you turned to look up at him. With just the two of you, temporary wallflowers decorating the fringes, you could take in more of his face. Neat little mustache; big brown eyes. Beautiful. Smart. Like the bloodhounds who stirred around the forest's edge, just waiting to catch the right scent. "But I'm glad for it."

Wordplay was best-served when honest. You were not as skilled as those around you, perhaps, but you had experience in knowing when and where to hold your tongue.

"As are we," he must have caught the slight widening of your lids, the parting of your lips. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, all sincere camaraderie. "No need to look surprised. I've followed him to the bleakest, blood-soaked fields this side of the known world. I've never known him to make a bad decision. Don't let others find room for doubt."

It was strange, this ready acceptance from his men. It was all the more stark when contrasted with the strangers at the palace. You'd seen the glances around the room, yes, the curious eyes. The occasional sneers. The whispers of The Ghost and his captive bride. But you'd grown hardened against rumours over the years, though attention still left you askance.

"Noted, my lord." you played coy - be sweet-. "I defer to your expertise."

He laughed, smile lambent as the light from a candle. "Johnny tried to tell me you were skittish."

"His lordship likes to talk."

"And you don't, I see. That's good. Some things are better left unsaid."

"Yes, so I've seen," you sent a pointed look at the door through which your husband had disappeared.

He looked at you, then, something like respect under the arch of his brows. "Smart too. Though, Ghost was right to keep this to himself." It was silent for a moment before he squinted at something across the ballroom. "You could help, if you wanted."

"Help with what?"

"With a little fishing. The man on his way - yes, him. Blond hair, black tunic - he's been sniffing around all night for scraps. He's very keen to see what Ghost has been doing since the Zakhaev Campaign in the East."

You were reminded starkly that the man who knelt at your feet and kissed you so softly spent most of his life blanketed in the smoke and splatter of the battlefield. It wasn't something that you had forgotten, per se, as you thought back to the circumstances of your meeting. Rather, it was known to you in the same way that you knew the sun would rise in the morning. You saw it from a distance, admired it even, but did not think on it beyond that. Perhaps it was naïve, brushing off the reputation of your husband whilst others whispered it in fear. But you thought back to his directive to you, 'Don't answer to anyone who isn't me,' and turned to regard the approaching newcomer.

It was as clear as the crystal you'd been sipping from all night; you wouldn't leave this hall without speaking to this man.

Rather, he wouldn't leave this hall without speaking to you.

He sought you out. He thought that he anything you would reveal would be to his benefit. You hid your smile behind your wine glass.

"He's important, I take it?"

"You've heard of 'The Shephard'?" he continued at your nod. "The King's advisor. An old war dog. Graves answers to him."

It swirled around, more information clouding the glass rather than clearing it. You weighed it up in your mind, testing the form and density of your thoughts. One stood out, and you cradled it. Let it roll around in your mind and still your tongue-

-Whatever this intrigue was, it truly didn't interest you.

As a girl, when you hungered so deeply that it gnawed at you even in your sleep, you cared nothing for the palace. The Crown meant nothing to you, nothing to the other laundresses, as you pounded stains against rocks in the long, humid days of summer. Knights and Lords and their ilk seldom slid far enough down the tiers to be seen in your village. They meant nothing to you. Not when food, fire, safety were hard to find and hard-won.

But perhaps that's why your interest was stirred a little. With belly-full and body-warm what were you left to think of? When 'Simon' became synonymous with 'safety', what would you do to keep it that way? What would you do to fight for it the way your bone-tired body once fought for basic dignity?

Simon had spilled blood for you. Had painted the cobbles at your feet with the sluggish, rusty ichor of your worthless father.

What would you-?

You glanced at the buffet table to your left, setting down the shield of your wine glass. It slopped over, a little claret stain bleeding onto the tablecloth. You tried not to take it as an omen. You gazed at the excess of the banquet, a kaleidoscope vanitas of fruits, cheeses, meats. Would they be left to rot? Untouched as the nobles twittered and flitted 'til the small hours. Would the servants be privileged enough to feed off the scraps after they'd been left to go stale? You let the rich, heady scent turn bitter and harden your face.

"Your Grace, may I present Philip Graves, Commander of the Shadow Company," Kyle gestured at the newcomer, all ease and neutrality. "Commander, the Duchess of Northmire."

"I believe that congratulations are in order," he bowed, a lazy half-nod in your direction. "Allow me the pleasure of your company with a dance."

"I'm not much of a dancer, my lord. But, you are welcome to keep our company as we observe," you demurred, eying the sharp cut of his smirk.

"Oh, I insist. It is a ball, after all," he licked at his lips, "You can, uh, balter as much as you please."

You played off your sneer as a smile. A little twitch of your nose. "But of course."

As he drew you forth you spent the gallows steps to the floor studying your quarry. He was handsome, yes, but there was something cold and sharp to his face. All angles and slopes in shades of pewter. You thought to handle him like a particularly sharp knife.

"Enjoying the festivities, ma'am?" you let him draw you just close enough to be polite, and slipped into his steps. "How does it compare with the parties back in your lands?"

"It doesn't; this is the palace, after all."

He hummed, dead eyes and charming smile. "That's a real pretty accent. I didn't quite catch where Ghost snapped you up from."

"My father arranged it. Not so exciting as to be the topic of court gossip."

That earned you what must have been a laugh. A soft chuff as he fixed you under his frigid gaze. Perhaps he thought you'd squirm, that you were some simple country lady raised to be sweet and obliging as she was packed off to the palace. You'd scurried from men like him, before. The kind of greasy, nipping dog that was sent down badger holes and rabbit warrens, slick and fast and mean. The kind who was powerful under another's command, crunching through necks and then coming to heel when called.

"I'm not one for gossip, My Lady," something stirred behind his lips, mouth twisting as he considered his next words.

Whatever they were, they were left unsaid.

"Been lookin' f'r ya."

"Ah, Ghost" he greeted your husband like an old friend. "Congratulations. Quite the charming little parvenu you've got here."

You didn't need to look behind you to feel how those words settled about as well as vinegar in the stomach. Sour. Biting.

"Be careful, Graves," his voice was rough, like the words scraped over angry, spitting coals before he released them. The firm, heavy bulk of his body pressed close to your side. You melted into him, leaning close so that the three of your stood in a clumsy isosceles. "Run on back t' Shepard. Heard he's callin' ya, missin' his dog."

"No need for that. We were just having a chat, weren't we now?" You kept your lips sealed, chin held high as you fidgeted out of his grasp and towards Simon. You didn't like the look on his face, the mocking, smug set of his smile as his eyes darted between you both. He sighed, like you'd somehow disappointed him. "You know, Ghost, playing knight-errant doesn't suit you."

Once back in Simon's arms you realised how Graves had left you distorted, shoulders hitched high and neck twisted and taut. Where you'd joined hands felt tacky, like dipping your fingers in the thick, greasy tallow you'd once used to make soap. You didn't look as he strutted away, instead just breathed in the comforting leather and musk of the sentry at your side.

Your eyes found the banquet table again, still glistening with fats and sweets. Only now, you could see the flies hovering around, rubbing their bristly black-stick legs together and burrowing in deep. ----------------------------

You were loath to slip away from Simon after that, now used to having him fill that empty, aching place in your chest. But the walls were closing in.

The air in the room had grown balmy and sweet, spilled drinks and sweat saturating the tablecloths and curtains. It reminded you of the drinking districts, of grubby hands digging into your arm and dragging you down to - to -

-to whatever didn't happen that night. That night Simon showed up.

Still, you needed air. You needed something cold; some sharp, icy breeze to sweep through the foliage sprouting in you mind. You sought to forage through what was left, scrabble over the dead leaves and twigs until you uncovered the verdant little buds below (I belong here. I belong-). You felt unmoored, like a spiraling sycamore leaf battling weather and wind until you were blown into the palace. Ready to be swept away. It was so easy to believe Simon when it was just you and him. You imagined the matter was as simple to him as breathing. The blood of other men spilled because he willed it. Men listened to him because he said so. You were his because he found you.

Simple.

But as you navigated the warren of palace halls in your fancy clothes and borrowed finery, you felt the acetous bubbles of doubt fizzing in your stomach. It was not Simon you doubted, but rather yourself. Little dormouse playing pretend. Talking and walking as if your timorous little heart wasn't fluttering in your chest. As if the petticoats and overskirts didn’t feel warm and burdensome, like the kind that would swell with water and drag you under back when you were nothing but a timid, inchoate shadow under the thrall of your father.

Something of Grave's words niggled at you - knight-errant. You know he meant it as an insult, but it just didn't quite fit Simon. Like throwing a cheap blow against the steely armour on his hulking frame. It just glanced off. But a little scratch lingered. The hint of something accusatory - like he'd slipped the leash, wandered too far and-

Low, rolling voices echoed off the damp stone walls. The sconces flickered as you looked around, boxed in between a heavy tapestry and unlatched door.

"-distracted by that little pony he's picked up from god-knows-where." It was Graves, cocksure and brash. "Now's the time, boys. Order's from on high."

"Allen is already in place with Kingfish. Awaiting your missive."

"That's what I like to hear," you could hear the swell of his chest. Anticipation let his words flow like honey from a hive. "Now, you and your brigade are to, uh, accompany the 141 when they're sent to El Reino de Las Almas in two days' time. Remember, no loose ends."

"Yes, Sir."

"Dismissed."

The blood rushing past your ears drowned out the rest of the exchange. Your whiskers twitched, prickling with unease as you glanced about for an escape. The sound of the door scraping across the tiles killed that hope.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" It was hard to turn your head, like trying to mold stiff wax, but you managed it. "Little far from the Grand Hall.

Your mother's advice echoed in your mind, as familiar and comforting as well-worn clothes. (Be quiet, be meek, be sweet-

-Don't answer to anyone who isn't me).

"You're right," you let out the breath you were holding, hoping to pass it off as relief. "I'm glad to see you, Commander Graves. Perhaps you would do the honour of escorting me? I'm afraid I'm a little lost."

"Don't do that. Don't think that I'll be taken in by that. You're puttin' me in a tough spot," he seemed to chew at his next words, rolling them around as he pinned you down with his dead eyes. "My lady."

Run, you thought. You eyed up the man before you, not as big as your Knight but still not worth underestimating. But a glance down the shadowed, unfamiliar halls had you thinking again. Run where?

He caught your furtive little twitch, tutted at you as he grasped at the meat of your upper arm. "Let's have a little talk, you and I."

You would have tripped over the layers of your skirts were it not for his vice grip holding you up. He let go abruptly, letting you stumble into the study from which he'd just emerged.

This time the door latched shut.

Papers littered the writing desk, all maps and missives that you couldn't read. You watched the slow, rolling drip of the candle wax in the corner as you tried to calm your racing thoughts. Would it burn down before you got out of here? Would someone stumble in, see only you and the cooling puddle of paraffin spilled across the floor?

What would Simon do, you thought. Simon, who was being set-up by the sinewy, sharp-toothed predator pacing behind you.

What would I do for Simon?

"It's real unfortunate you had to hear that." Funny. There was nothing of misfortune in his tone. "See, I don't much fancy what has to be done. But I can't let you go tellin' tales."

You raised your arms to your chest as he approached, letting the sleeves roll down and reveal your forearms. Your tough, cross-hatched labourers' hands.

He raised an eyebrow at your silence, somehow managing to look down at you from paces away. You knew his type. Like the nasty little terriers your father used to bet on, cheering as they tore into the squeaking, scrabbling rats trapped in the ring. It was nothing personal for him, you were sure, but that wouldn't stop him from enjoying it.

"Telling tales implies that my words would be fictitious," you couldn't resist one little dig. Let him chew on that, sniff at the bait you cast as your mind raced with what to do next. What to do, what to-

"Cute," it bought you only a second. "You realise that this is bigger than you, sweetheart. If it were up to me-"

You darted for the letter opener to your right, papers flying as your shaking, numb fingertips grappled to pick it up. There would be no talking him around, no amount of demurring and fluttered lashes that would get him to unlock his jaw.

"Now why'd you have to go and do a silly thing like that?"

It was silent for a beat, your wide, glossy eyes fixed on his unblinking stare. He was cold, focused in a way that tugged at the animal instincts in the back of your neck. You watched as he tilted his head to the side, sure that his teeth were slick and limbs coiled ready to snatch you as you made a mad dart for the door. Only, that wasn't your plan. You weren't the meek little ingenue he written you off as. A softer thing would have swooned as he manhandled her into the room alone, unchaperoned. A gentler creature would have bristled at his familiarity, calling you 'sweetheart' like he had the right. His years surrounded by lesser men and court sycophants had blinded him to one simple truth.

You weren't one of them.

It seemed to catch him off guard, shifted him slightly off kilter as he watched you steel your jaw and brace yourself near the table's edge. You'd hauled heavier loads than the delicate little paper knife biting into your hands. You were soft, yes, but it was a layer built over strength. Years of labour had seasoned you to pain, had hewn muscle and callouses just as valuable as those earned by other means. You weren't strong enough to fight him, true, but you were damned sure you would hold him off.

You tensed low and balanced, surefooted on the tiles as much as you were on the riverbanks. Shadows flicked under the sway of the dying candles, obscuring the razor contours of his face. Ephemeral. Volatile. You gulped down the bile bubbling up your throat as he advanced lazily towards you.

Only, something else emerged from the shadows. Transmuted from black and grey until he was not a shade but a man. A Ghost.

The candle snuffed, sooty trails of charcoal spiraling up. You saw through a haze, achromatic. Felt the shifting of weight, the dull thuds of fists hitting meat. Sluicing through sinew until you scented something metallic and hot. Your racing thoughts and galloping heart couldn't keep up with the scene, uselessly flitting across apparitions as the details struggled through the thick sludge of your mind.

-two shadows, or three? more?

hands grasping at you - no, holding you -

- something soothing -

-someone crying? were they-? -something heavy, trussed up and dragged-

-'We've got it, Simon-'

Your trembling fingers clutched at something slick, solid.

"Easy, easy dormouse," your quivering chin was pressed hard against the soaked fabric at his neck. You tasted salt on your lips, hot and wet and bleeding down your cheeks. Simon. Simon stroking at your hair as he cradled you close. He was so big. How could have forgotten the heft of him, the way he swallowed you up in arms as thick as branches? "I've got ya. You're with me."

You swam through the mire, nuzzled your nose into his neck one last time before peeling back. It was still dark, hazy, in the room. But pressed this close it didn't matter. You reached up, shaking fingertips stroking along the lines of a face revealed only to you. You could just about make out the pale crown of his hair, the whites of eyes that rested heavy on your face. You wondered how you looked to him, if he saw past the shuddering breaths and cracked lips to recognise that it was joy that sprung your tears. More than relief, more than gratitude it was some kind of retrouvaille. You wanted to cup the feeling, let it ripple and glimmer in between your palms as you brought it to his lips.

He'd lap at it - no, he'd drink it down greedily. Your sentry. Your paladin. The man who made you an orphan just to take you in.

How foolish of you to doubt that, to doubt yourself. You, who survived every winter and every famine made harder under the roof of your father. You, who bade the man who told you he wasn't made for anything but bloodshed, yet knelt at your feet.

You pressed your lips to his through the fabric of his mask, let him taste the words that cut through your sobs. "Never again, Simon. Never again."

Doubt. Faltering. Loneliness. Meekness, quiet, skittishness-

Never again. ------------------------------- You didn't flinch from the sight of the red that splattered the finery of your clothes. You'd seen gore before, had scrubbed at it until your fingers burned and skin peeled. Only, that wasn't your job anymore-

The snick of a match snapped you from your reverie. You were back, ensconced in your chambers with your knight. Your husband. You weren't sure of the time, of what happened at the ball or in the study. It didn't seem to matter, not when you were tucked away in the safe little suite where only you and he existed.

"I drew a bath f'r ya," his voice was soft, restrained. That just wouldn't do.

"Simon, look at me, look," you reached for him in a wispy parallel to your night at the townhouse. He was solid, planted to the ground but you felt him give as you tugged him close. You had to arch your neck back just to meet his eyes. "I- won't you join me?"

It rolled between you, this suggestion. You saw exactly when the idea took root, heat blossoming to burnt umber as his pupils dilated. You pressed in close, feeling the soft give of his stomach. If you placed your ear to his chest, would you hear his heart race? Could he want you as much as you wanted him? Did he know about the covetous, greedy thing that quivered inside your chest and cried out for you to bite down on the dense, keloid-slashed muscles until you tasted iron?

Would he let you?

It was scalding, searing heat that had simmered all the while he carried you back. Dizzying and fervent you wondered for a moment if you'd died in that room. That you'd risen some hungry, gluttonous creature driven only by voluptuary urges. But then you remembered the longing from earlier, the heady rush that sapped the strength from your legs as you watched him kneel before you.

"Will you make me beg for it? Make me say please?"

"Never," he spoke it like a promise. "Think I'd leave ya wanting?"

His hand felt cool against your cheek. You closed your eyes and leaned into it, hoping it would douse the flames somewhat.

It stoked them higher.

You reached for the tie of his mask as he reached for your dress. The fabric prickled at your skin as it slid down, laces loosened at the front and revealing your chest to him. Your breasts felt heavy, nipples pebbling in the cool air under they were covered by his palm. You could see his lids dip low, desire making them heavy as he kneaded your sensitive flesh until you arched into it.

"Beautiful," he groaned as he dipped his head down. "Fuck, just need to have a taste-"

His large hand spanned your back, keeping you upright as he knelt before you once more. The heat of his mouth surprised you, wet tongue laving at soft skin as his other hand reached up to squeeze and roll at the sensitive peaks as you gasped and squirmed. You tugged at his hair, nails scratching into his scalp in a way that seemed to spurn him on. He pulled at your skirts, urgency tearing the seams against your hips and making you hiss. He mouthed down the swell of your stomach until he kissed away the sting, sucking new marks atop the ones he just left.

Desire sparks followed his mouth, leaving you sticky and pulpy until you sagged against the bed. It was an ouroboros kind of appetite, where the more he satiated himself the hungrier you grew. You felt raw, winded, as he spread your thighs to make space for his broad shoulders. So broad that the stretch hurt, made you arch up from the bed to paw him away with clumsy fingers.

"Simon, I can't- what are you-?" you whined as his teeth left imprints in the softness near your core.

"Shh," he soothed you with his tongue. "Need t'get you ready f'r me. Just lie back."

His forearm bulged as it banded across your stomach, keeping you pinned. You pressed your lips together, swallowed your cries as you felt him nudge at the wetness between your thighs. Gentler than you expected, he parted your folds, running his thick finger through the wetness that had gathered there.

"Ah-" you bit back a whine as he found the spot where you throbbed, circling the little bud at the apex of your core until your knees shook. Only the bulk of his shoulders prevented you from snapping them shut.

"That's it, love. Don' fight it. Let me see ya," he rumbled over the buzzing in your ears. You felt too hot, too heavy to do anything but twist against the pleasure that he wrung from you. Spread out, naked on satin sheets that stuck to your drenched back. You were open to him, entirely laid bare and thought made you ache. You felt yourself drip against his rough palm, soak the fingers that prodded your fluttering entrance.

"I need you, but I don't-"

"S'alright, I know what y'need."

You tried to follow the pull of his voice, to raise your head off the mattress and watch but the nudge of his nose against your folds had you falling back. His mouth felt hot, tongue laving over your sensitive flesh in a way that had you clawing at the sheets. You keened out, wanting to squirm away and press closer all at once. The noise would have embarrassed you, slick and loud in the quiet of the room. Would have, except you heard him groan into you, felt the rumble of it against your cunt as he feasted. He ate you like he was starving, fingers digging into your thighs so hard that you knew he'd leave an imprint in purple and red. Your thighs shook against his grip, body twisting against the pleasure building and building until it snapped and you surrendered.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you panted towards the canopy. Shivers danced along your spine as you lay limp on the mattress, exposing your hot, wet flesh to the coolness of the night. You were so slick that you felt the air biting at your inner thighs, and Simon's sloppy, lingering kisses at your core had you swiping at his hair.

"Simon, it's too much," there was something whiny, breathy in your voice.

"No such thing as too much of a good thing," he shed the remainders of his clothes, crawling up the bed until the firm lines of his body pressed into the soft lines of yours. He hovered above you, face-flushed and eyes dark. "I'm going t'take as much as I want, and I still won't be satisfied."

"What-?"

"Y'r my wife," he leaned down, let you taste yourself against his lips. "Mine. Never had much that was all f'r me."

You smiled into the kiss, shaking off the shyness that urged you to cover up, hide, look away- "Me neither."

You nipped at his lips, let him feel the indent of your blunt little teeth until the press of his fingers against your entrance left you open-mouthed and slack. His thick, calloused fingers circled your hole, testing how you fluttered and dripped for him. Stretched you out on the width of two fingers until you cried into his mouth. You felt the nudge of his cock, heavy and throbbing, as he made a space for himself inside your body. He was so thick, rocking in slowly so that you felt the exquisite sting of every inch. Your whines caught in your throat, head spinning as you danced the line of pleasure-pain spread open under your husband.

He carried you to the bathtub afterwards, your cunt aching and dripping with his spend. (He had run his fingertips along your swollen folds, scooping up his cum and pressing it back into your stretched hole. Kissed you sweetly as he whispered filth, knuckle-deep in your cunt).

Now, in the lambency of candlelight, he rasped promises and secrets against your goosebumped flesh. His fingers trailed over perfumed water as he knelt by side, content and warm; aeipathy subdued for now, but enduring.

"When I first saw ya, I -" he cut himself off, strained as he searched for the words. You lay silent, patient as his words ripened behind his lips; laconism blooming into ephemeral fruits. "Y'reminded me of the girls back home. Th'ones by the river or in the taverns, too smart or too busy to bother with the likes of me. Familiar, real. Beautiful."

Your breath hitched, heart swelling under your breast as your watched him struggle for the words you were so wont to hear.

"When I first saw you, you scared me," your lips twisted a little, wry, as you confessed to him. "Only, you scared me less than him."

You scoffed, water splashing as you drew your knees to your chest and tucked your head low. You looked at him, needing him to read the truth in your face as you bared yourself just as he had. "I'm sorry, that's not particularly romantic, is it? Being desperate? But it's true. And I'm so thankful for it, since otherwise I might not have- we might never have-"

The words caught like wire in your throat. Painful.

Unthinkable.

But wasn't it beautiful, that brutal honesty? Wasn't it a relief to purge the poison; to dig in and drain the bad humours like rivers swirling into estuaries.

If you expected censure, you wouldn't find it. Not from him, no. You felt his finger chuck under your chin and let him raise your head.

"I know, dormouse. I know" --------------------------------

Well, it is done. Several months later and finally posted. I'm not 100% happy with this, but I can't justify sitting on it any longer. Also, it's December and seems fitting to wrap this up before the end of the year (part i wasy my first ever COD fic).

[just-some-user-hunny]

Princess reader, but she's wearing those cone thingies and he keeps accidentally knocking it off her head with his big shoulders and clumsy loitering 😔🫶 and he frets over you every single time please don't be upset with him, he can't handle those eyes of yours looking up at him like that

[ghouljams]

Does the princess!reader ever touched herself thinking of her knight like he does? Did she start after the competition? Or is my baby that reppresed?

Of course not! You don't- You are a lady! A princess! You don't touch yourself. It's not right, it's- it's dirty. And improper. What would Ghost think if someone told him you did that? He'd probably scold you for being un-ladylike and maybe even call off the engagement.

Sure, sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and there's this aching pit between your legs, that spreads hot and heady thoughts to your sleep addled brain, but you endure as is proper. You don't touch.

And you don't want to! You think maybe it might be different if it were Ghost, if it was his hand slipping between your legs, his voice murmuring for you to go back to sleep, that he'll take care of everything. But then you think about- you think about something like sex and the pain that the servant girls talk about, the noble ladies whose husbands grow tired of them, the way it's spoken about as something dirty and frightening. And you have to stop thinking about it, stifle the fear that rises in your chest and tars your ribs, and try to get some sleep though it seldom comes on those nights.

[merakilii]

Utterly Yours

Knight Simon Riley // Masterlist

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

words: 2.2k

tags: AFAB reader who is also a princess. Knight Simon Riley. emotional constipation. he thinks you deserve better than him. A strong man kneeling before you. and would kill for you.

The feast was a quiet affair, the grand dining hall filled with the soft clinking of silverware and the occasional murmur of conversation. The long table, usually laden with the laughter and chatter of visiting nobles and dignitaries, felt hollow tonight. The suitors had been dismissed, their pride bruised and their hopes dashed. And so, it was just the three of you: your father at the head of the table, you to his right, and Simon across from you, his presence a silent, brooding force.

The meal was lavish, as always, with roasted pheasant, glazed vegetables, and warm bread served with honeyed butter, but you barely tasted it. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, your mind replaying the image of Simon in the ring. He had been breathtaking. And yet, as you sat there, picking at your food, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were drowning in your own thoughts, in the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

Simon was quiet, as he always was, his eyes fixed on his plate, his expression unreadable. Your father tried to fill the silence with light conversation, his voice warm and steady, but even he seemed to sense the tension between you and Simon. The air was thick with it, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You set your fork down with a soft clink, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “I need some air,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Your father nodded, a hum escaping him as he watched you with knitted brows.

You stood, your chair scraping against the stone floor, and made your way to the gardens. The night air was cool against your skin, the moon casting a pale silver light over the castle grounds. The gardens were quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirping of crickets. You walked aimlessly, your thoughts a tangled mess, your heart heavy.

And then you bumped into him.

His figure tall and imposing, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. You hadn’t heard him approach, but then again, you never did.

“What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, your arms crossing over your chest as if to shield yourself from his gaze. “Nothing,” you said, your voice tight.

Simon stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t lie to me,” he countered. “I can see it in your eyes. Something’s bothering you.”

You looked away, your jaw tightening. “You act like you know everything,” you said, your voice rising slightly. “Like you know what’s best for me. But I have a say in that too, Simon. Or do you think I need you to make all my decisions for me?”

Simon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “That’s not what I think.”

“Then what do you think?” you shot back, your frustration boiling over. “Because all I see is a man who hides behind a mask, who acts like he knows everything about me but won’t tell me a damn thing about himself. Don't think I did not realise these trials are your doing." The silence stretched between you, thick as fog, as your words hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Simon did not flinch, did not retreat. He only stared, his eyes dark, fathomless.

"Who are you, Simon? Who hides behind that mask like a coward?”

Then, he reached up and pulled down his scarf.

It laid slack around his neck, his face fully revealed, the scars no longer half-hidden. They carved across his cheek and jaw like the echoes of old wounds, the remnants of battles fought in the name of a crown that was never his to wear, of wars waged not for glory but because he had no choice. The world had tried to ruin him, to break him into something less than a man. But Simon did not break. He did not yield. He had stitched himself back together with iron and duty, had taken every shattered piece and reforged it into something lethal, written in ruin.

And still, he said nothing.

But you felt it. The shift in the air, ancient and aching pressing against you, curling into the spaces between your ribs. He was telling you, in the only way he knew how.

That he was no prince, no noble suitor with pretty words and hollow vows. That he was not meant for silk-lined halls and courtly graces, for whispered sonnets in moonlit gardens.

No, Simon was something else entirely.

A blade, sharpened and tempered in war. A creature born of steel and blood, of palls that clung to his heels like a curse. He was not gentle, would never be gentle. And if the world sought to take you from him, if fate itself dared to pull you from his grasp, he would tear it apart with his bare hands.

He would kill for you. Not out of duty. Not for honour. But because he was yours, as much as the night was to the moon, as much as the sea was to the tide.

His fingers twitched at his side as if resisting the urge to reach for you. His breathing was slow, measured, but his hands curled into fists, knuckles pale with restraint. You could see it now, the truth of him, the thing that lurked beneath the armour and duty and silence.

A wraith. A shadow. Your shadow.

“I am not a good man,” Simon said finally, his voice low, rasping, a thing raw and frayed at the edges.

You did not speak. You let him continue.

“I have never been noble. Never been righteous. I do not fight for honour, or glory, or anything so clean.” He exhaled sharply, as if the significance of his own words was something he despised. “You ask who I am?” His eyes found yours, dark and burning, and the answer was there, in the wreckage of him. “I am selfish. greedy. I would take you for myself if the world would let me. If you would let me.”

The confession burned through the air between you, a wildfire set to consume.

His hands clenched at his sides, his body taut with restraint, with the awful, unbearable need to close the distance between you. His fingers twitched. His breath was uneven. “I would tear the flesh from anyone who dared harm you. I would kill in cold blood if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you mine.”

Mine.

He turned his head slightly, just enough that the moonlight traced the sharp lines of his face. He was waiting, as if expecting disgust, as if bracing for rejection.

You did not give him either.

You stepped forward and reached for him. Your fingers skimmed over the rough ridge of a scar, tracing the jagged path it carved down his jaw. His breath hitched, sharp and barely there, that small touch was more than he had ever allowed himself to want.

You wondered how long he had waited. How long he had stood in the dark corners of your world, silent and unseen, wanting, but never daring to take.

And then he moved.

Not to pull away. Not to flinch from your touch. But to drop to one knee.

His head bowed, his broad shoulders folding inward, his entire body sinking down before you as though gravity itself had given way. It was not submission, not in the way the knights of the court would kneel before their king.

This was devotion.

A knight kneeling at the altar, swearing himself not to god, nor country, nor crown, but to you.

Your breath was shallow, unsteady, as you reached for the blade at your waist. The weight of it was familiar, solid in your grip, a symbol of the power that rested in your hands alone. You lifted it, the metal catching the pale glow of the moon, and pressed the flat of the blade to his bowed head.

Simon did not move.

He would have stayed like this forever, knelt in the quiet sanctuary of the garden, in the cathedral of ivy and crumbling stone, if you had asked him to. If it meant being yours.

And as the night stretched on, as the stars burned above you, you realized with startling, terrifying certainty—

He already was.

You held your blade to his head, the cold steel pressing against his hair, and Simon remained kneeling, utterly still, as though he had been carved from the stone beneath him. He had given himself over to you completely, the same way knights swore fealty before kings, the same way the devout knelt in prayer before silent gods.

Except you were no king.

And Simon had never been a knight.

Your hand trembled slightly on the hilt, but not from fear. No, this was something else. Something darker. Something that stirred in the deepest parts of you.

This was no mere oath.

He had never been noble, had never sought the path of righteous men. But for you?

For you, he would be a sword.

A ghost.

A terror.

His eyes lifted slowly, dark as a storm, as fathomless as the abyss that had carved him into the man before you. He did not ask for permission. Did not beg for acceptance. Simon was not that kind of man. But he let you look at him, let you see him, all of him, without the mask, without the silence, without the barriers he had built over a lifetime of bloodshed and war.

The blade in your hand felt heavier than it should have.

You could end it here. You could cut him down, sever whatever bound him to you before it consumed you both. A part of you knew that would be the wiser choice. That taking him as yours, keeping him at your side, would not lead to salvation.

But you did not want salvation.

You lowered the blade from his head, drawing the sharp edge down until the tip rested just beneath his chin. You lifted it slightly, forcing him to tilt his head back, forcing him to meet your gaze fully.

“You would have killed him.” Your voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. “Prince Florian...Cedric...any other suitor.”

Simon didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it.

“I would have,” he said, his voice steady. “If you had asked it of me.”

The certainty in his words sent something sharp and electric down your spine.

If you had asked it of him.

Not because they had deserved it. Not because it would have served some greater purpose. But simply because it was you who would have spoken the words.

“And if I asked you to leave?” you murmured, tilting the blade just slightly, watching the way his breath hitched as the steel traced the line of his throat.

Simon’s lips parted slightly, his jaw tightening beneath the press of metal. For the first time, there was hesitation in his eyes. Not because he feared you, never that. But because leaving? That, above all else, was the one thing he could not do.

“If that is what you wish.” The words came hoarse, almost forced from him. A lie, because Simon did not know how to live without you. He never had.

You should have let him go.

But you didn’t.

You stepped closer instead, until the warmth of his body was just a breath away, until you could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, could hear the quiet restraint in every breath he took. Your grip on the blade tightened.

“I do not want a noble man at my side.” The words were slower this time. You wanted him to feel them, to understand them fully. “I do not want a man bound by duty, by chivalry or law.”

The wind stirred through the garden, rustling the plants curling over the stone walls, whispering secrets that only the night could hear.

“I want you.”

The admission tasted like sin, dark and aching on your tongue, and the moment it left your lips, you saw the change in him.

The sharp inhale, the way his hands clenched against his thighs, the way his eyes darkened with something that went beyond want, beyond devotion.

You lifted the blade from his throat.

And then, with slow, deliberate finality, you turned the hilt and offered it to him.

His fingers brushed yours as he took it. And then, in one swift movement, he reversed the grip and pressed the blade flat to his own heart.

A vow.

His voice, when it came, was lower than a whisper, rough as the edge of a well-worn dagger.

“I am yours.”

It settled deep in your marrow, you knew that he would never leave. That no force in this world or the next could sever what bound him to you.

And he would follow you into the dark without hesitation.

[wishful-thinking-is-dumb]

Ok imagine your a “street rat” (medieval AU) and you steal a piece of bread to eat and you get stopped by knight ghost and taken to be punished your absolutely terrified thinking that he’s going to kill you but he’s oddly obsessed over you

lotsss of angst please 🙏 thank you!!

Simon Riley - Medieval Au

Knight Simon Riley x Thief Reader

It's a busy day in the market, you practically have to swim in between people since the streets are so packed. Surely no one would see you take a slice of bread?

You swipe a piece of bread, hiding it in your pocket. It's something you've done a million times. You were a pickpocket, it's how you survived. You only took what you needed, surely no one would blame you for wanting something to eat?

You maneuver your way to an alleyway, empty and isolated from the crowd. You take the bread out of your pocket and take a bite out. It instantly soothes the ache in your stomach, a constant feeling.

You are so hungry that you don't care to notice the clank of metallic armor coming into the alley and towards you. You have eaten the whole slice of bread when a cold gauntlet grabs you by the scruff of your shirt. You almost choke on the last bite of your stolen meal.

“You gotta pay for that, thief.” A low voice booms from behind you, you are roughly turned around. You turn to see a knight and your heart stops. You know what happens to thieves, they cut off your fingers and hang you.

“I- I was hungry-!” Your excuse is no help as he throws you into the alley wall, you groan in pain as you fall to the ground. That will leave a nasty bruise for sure. The air is knocked out of your lungs and you scramble away from the knight, farther down the dark alley.

“Shut up, don’t make this harder for yourself.” He spits, his tone makes your blood go cold. He draws his sword and you feel tears run down your face. He's going to kill you, right in the alley. You hope he at least makes it quick.

“Please.. Please- I don’t wanna die… Please don’t hurt me..” You beg the man as he points his sword at you. He follows you with slow steps as you scramble back, still on the ground. He scoffs at your begging.

“On your feet.” He orders you, and you quickly obey. He sheaths his sword and you feel relief run through you, but that is short lived as he grabs you by the collar of your shirt and drags you out of the alley with no remorse.

It's hard to breathe, the collar held so tight that it restricts a majority of your air flow. The people in the streets stop and stare, letting the man pass with a lot of room to spare. They seem to also be afraid of the man. You keep begging for him not to kill you as he drags you through the streets.

You are cut up and bruised, you try to get up to your feet but he pulls you down when you try. He doesn’t say a word as he drags you beside him. He ignores your pleading, your tears.

You are so distraught that you don't realise that he isn't even taking you towards the castle, where the prisoners are kept in the dungeon. He takes you to the outskirts of the city, where the crowd starts to thin out and the city blocks get longer.