Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

His Majesty the King - pt one

King!Viktor x Fem!Reader Royal AU

Series Masterlist - Arcane Masterlist - AO3 - Ko-fi

Series Synopsis: After your family cannot afford to pay a tax, they have the option to offer something up to the King as collateral to buy them more time. They decide to send their oldest daughter: you.

Warnings: sexual tension, fluff, nsfw content, yearning (so much yearning), anachronisms for any historical fiction lovers (I'm sorry, this wasn't researched), viktor undoing your dress, stolen kisses/forbidden romance (sorta), viktor feeding you, dirty talk, fingering

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: The royal au series i wrote off-the-cuff all put into an official series. Parts one through three are found here. Enjoy!

pt one:

You'd been sold, for lack of a better term. Bartered? Traded? Your parents owed money. A tax they couldn't pay one too many times. We need collateral came after begging for an extension for the umpteenth time. There were a few options they could've offered up. The deed to the house, to their general store. Two easy ones. Locked in the safe in your father's office. It would've taken a matter of minutes to retrieve. But he remained planted in the mud outside your house. Modest, but nothing to brag about. A show for outsiders when there wasn't always food on the table.

"My daughter," he exclaimed, yanking your forward with a harsh grip on your wrist, "take her. Put her to use. Surely you could use another hand around the castle."

You were the only one to protest. Which was cut short as you glanced between your mother, father, and younger sister. Not a word was said between the three as you were tossed towards the soldiers. Into the grips of knights you knew weren't there to save. They were there doing the king's duty, identities hidden beneath the freezing metal. The winter weather pierced your thin cloak like needles when you slammed against their chest plates. Had their gloves close around your wrists, yanking them behind your back.

"She will do," one murmured entirely unimpressed. "For now."

The ride to the castle, wrists bound behind your back with chains you'd mentioned weren't necessary. You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to flee to. You'd been offered up on the slab like a piece of meat. Quite literally.

You have no idea what to expect inside the castle walls. It was hard to like a King that often kept himself out of sight. Who seemed entirely okay accepting a person as collateral for his high taxes. Granted, it was his soldiers that had accepted the bargain. But you doubted they would've agreed had the King not been okay with the barter.

Once upon a time, he wasn't that bad. He and his council of advisors kept the kingdom safe. It flourished. But in the last few years, it'd started to deteriorate. Taxes were raised, days felt desolate, those that wore jewels like they weren't worth your entire house lived beyond reason. Parading around wealth worth the entirety of your family's store. Worth you. Wealth that would've paid the debt that you were currently fulfilling without putting a scratch in their jewels.

Those unsure expectations were satiated quickly upon pulling into the castle gates. Luxurious. That's what the inside was. Rich velvets and silks lined the halls, colors vibrant and bleeding an obvious wealth. Rich aromas of foods you'd never even dreamed of tasting. Fireplaces that warmed each room, making the vast halls feel cold and unwelcoming.

They were taking you to meet the king. In your beige dress, unkempt hair, watery eyes as your demise set in. He had to be informed of your joining the staff. Kitchen or cleaning, the knights had decided. They'll make good use of you. But you were stuck on meeting the king. As if it were some casual introduction. Your heart was lodged in your throat as they opened two massive double doors and shoved you inside, surely hoping you'd fall on your face. That you'd embarrass yourself like the peasant you were in the eyes of royalty.

You nearly did, falling to your knees in front of a lavish throne. You tugged on the cuffs, cursed beneath your breath, fought the way your heart wanted to leap from your chest. Too many emotions too fast. Home, gone. Betrayal from those meant to protect you. Thrown into the fray of working until enough time had passed for your family to pay back the debt. And then what? Would they keep you to make sure your family kept paying? Or give you back with the threat they'd take you back in a heartbeat if they couldn't pay again?

And now you were sat before the king. Knees aching, wrists chaffed, fighting fear.

You locked onto a set of gold eyes. Ensnared with a darkness like the hair on his head. Face angular, two beauty marks dotting his face. Beneath his right eye and above the left corner of his mouth. Grayish purple bags were stark against his pale skin, the exhaustion stretching throughout his lean figure. A thin frame of metal braced his right leg, creaking slightly when he moved. He ran a gloved hand lazily along a cane he held, carefully coming to rest on the gold handle. His thick brows furrowed as he scanned you, and he frowned.

"Who is she?" A man you hadn't even bothered to notice asked. Standing beside the king. Shorter, rosier cheeks, significantly older. His blond hair was combed back with hints of gray poking through.

"Collateral." One of the soldiers stepped forward, motioning to you. He came so close to smacking your head that you flinched. The King kept his eyes on you. His frown deepened.

"She was sent as collateral?" The short man asked.

You couldn't tell if he was offended that someone had sent their daughter in place of a family heirloom or a property deed, or if they were wondering if you were even decent enough to be considered collateral. Something told you it was a mixture of the two.

"For the (Y/L/N) family." The soldier rolled their shoulders, armor clinking. "Unable to pay for the fourth time in a row. When told they needed to offer collateral, they gave us her."

"Well." The short man sighed. "Throw her in with the maid staff for now. See if she can make herself useful there."

"Yes, sir," the soldier said, grabbing the chain between your cuffs and jerking up. A searing pain shot into your shoulders, and you winced as your knees were yanked from the ground only to smack right back down. Not enough strength to lift you entirely, but enough to remind you who was in charge.

You rose on wobbly legs, stealing one last glance at the King as the soldier turned you, and you felt the metal dig into your flesh. At the King whose eyes narrowed as you were dragged from the room. The King who the public envied, hated, feared. Worshipped, put their lives on the line for. Whose name was treated like a curse in one circle and a god's in another.

It was most definitely the former for you as the double doors were reopened. You hated the perfectly tailored shirt he wore. The thin gold crown that glinted under the chandelier that dripped wax down the crystals that hung beneath like a taunt. A reminder that this was what the townsfolks were paying for. What you were covering your family for.

You were shoved out the door despite offering up little resistance to the knight's movements. But your feet stalled at the sound that cut through the room. Quiet. Calm, even. It drew everyone's attention back into the room.

You blinked at the King as he sat expectantly.

"Your name."

Two simple words. He knew your name. Or the one that mattered. You were covering for your family so you'd become just another nameless maid expected to do her tasks without question. Your path would never cross with the King again after this. You were nothing to him. A name wouldn't matter.

But still, he waited.

"(Y/N)," you murmured, forcing your voice to remain steady. His eyes burned with an intensity that you couldn't pinpoint. You swallowed as he nodded.

"Well," he muttered, voice wrapping around you like the silk curtains that lined the hall. You were practically out of the room, but it felt like you were standing beside each other, whispering secrets only the two of you knew. "Welcome to the castle, (Y/N)."

pt two:

You weren't supposed to see him again. One in your position wasn't meant to cross paths with the King. You were to be tossed into a cramped room, given a uniform that felt a size too small, shoes that hurt your feet, and were expected to do your duty without complaint. Conversations forbidden unless they were hushed and behind closed doors. No contact was to be made with anyone, let alone the royals, without permission. So you stuck to your duties. Cleaning, tidying, washing clothes you had only ever dreamed of touching. Getting your hands swatted when you messed up. Verbally berated when you weren't quick enough. Even if you were more efficient than some of those who worked by your side.

Your entire body ached by day four. You could barely move on day six. It was day seven when you were brought to the library in the middle of the night and were instructed to clean it--spotless--due to your lackluster attempts earlier in the day. It was code for those who had cleaned the library earlier hadn't done a good enough job and since you were feeling the repercussions of the job, you were forced to fix their mistakes.

And you had no choice. So you cleaned. You dusted, swept, mopped. Scrubbed and organized. Stole one too many glances at the leather-bound novels. Settled beside the fireplace for a moment longer than you knew you should've. But it just felt so good to just sit for a moment.

And then you heard a voice and you froze, hands stretched out towards the fire, feet tucked beneath you as you warmed up your calloused hands. Your wrists were still raw from the cuffs they'd kept you in as long as they could when you'd first arrived.

"Careful," he whispered. His cane clinked against the floor. "If they catch you slacking, they will not be happy."

You slowly rose and pulled your hands away from the fire but a gentle hand stopped you. He stood beside you, frowning as the tips of his fingers ran over your chaffed wrists. The uniform felt infinitely tighter, making each breath impossible.

"Please, warm yourself." His hand lingered until you stretched your arms back out.

The air in the room felt thick and heavy.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He winced, sliding the hand that'd once been on you into his pocket. His gaze perused your frame and you felt yourself starting to shake, unsure what he was looking at. Unsure how you were supposed to act in front of the King.

"It's too small." He was frowning again.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Your attire. It is too small. That cannot be comfortable." He eyed the string crisscrossing across your back, holding your dress firm to your body. Too tight, too small. His hand twitched on his cane before he turned his attention to your face. His concentrated expression softened. His gold eyes flickering in the firelight. "I, er, I am sorry for the circumstances that brought you here, Miss (Y/N)."

You blinked at the King, breath catching in your throat. You blatantly ignored the fact that he'd remembered your name.

Instead, you focused on if he'd been wearing his crown, you would've plucked it from his head, pointed to one of the jewels that glittered the band, and screamed about how half of one would've absolved your family of what was owed. That if he hadn't crave such lavish items, the taxes wouldn't be so high, and you wouldn't even be there in the first place. If he were wearing his crown, of course. And if you suddenly gained a bravery you knew was hidden deep beneath the breath you couldn't quite get enough of.

Still, to your surprise, a smidge snuck out.

"You're sorry? Really?" You laughed bitterly. Right in the King's face. In a heartbeat, you threw your hand over your mouth and stepped back. Fear tingled your skin, all the way down your back. "Oh--shit--I'm so sorry, Your Majesty."

Both cursed and beloved, you had no idea how the King reacted to such behavior. You weren't given much of a chance to see as you backed into a bookcase and yelped, thinking you'd bumped into a guard or even another servant. You spun tripped over your own feet. You expected the ground to knock the wind from you, but the King caught you, both hands on your shoulders, his cane thumping softly on the ground. His grip soft, gently trailing down your arms until he got to your elbows, where the sleeves of your dress stopped, and his skin brushed yours once more.

"Relax, Miss (Y/N)," he whispered, mouth beside your ear. "You are free to speak your mind to me."

It took a moment for you to gather words.

"You apologize when it is because of your laws that I am here. If you were sorry, you'd let me go home and give us the extension anyway."

He was quiet. His hands twitched on your elbows before they dropped. A slow breath. Then another. His hair tickled your neck.

When he finally spoke, his words sounded stilted.

"If I were to make an exception for one, I would have to to make an exception for all. Taxes have to be paid. One way or another."

You would've laughed if tears hadn't been welling up. So you stepped away, wiping away the wrinkles on your skirt, and cleared your throat. You hadn't expected any other answer, but it still hurt to hear. And it hurt knowing that you were stuck at the castle until the debt could be paid.

At least there was food every night. Even if you'd been forced to miss dinner due to cleaning the library.

You wanted to cry. You missed your parents cooking, listening to your sister run around wreaking havoc as you set the table. Your bed that was endlessly more comfortable than the poor excuse they gave you here.

Now, you were standing beside the King, his words like the key locking the door to a cage. You couldn't chirp, you couldn't fly. All you could do was speak when your master commanded it. You wanted to hit him. Maybe upside the head. Maybe with his cane that he was subtly reaching for. Your brows furrowed when you glanced at his leg. He wasn't wearing the brace. Nor was he wearing anything that fancy. Just a basic white shirt and pants. They looked like something you would've thrown on when you snuck out during the night to visit your friends, long past when your parents had gone to sleep.

"I ought to get back to work then," you mumbled. Voice more broken than you ever wanted the bastard to hear. It was his fault you were here. Fucking his. His damn taxes. His damn knights. Being goddamn collateral-

Without warning, you were led to the side.

If someone would've told you that you would've ended up in a compromising position with someone while you were at the castle, you would've shrugged. You had to pass the time somehow. And doing so with some nice company? That'd be the way to do it. But if they told you that it was with the King? You would've called them delusional. That perhaps they needed to get their head checked.

But when the library door opened, its hinges squeaking and two distinct voices carried between the bookcases, a tender hand on your wrist guided you into a crevasse beside the fireplace. Where you'd pulled a potted plant and a vase out earlier to clean. It wedged back far enough for neither of you to be seen.

It did, however, mean that the two of you were wedged so close together that you felt every inch of the other's body. Your back was against the King's chest, one hand reaching out to grab his cane before it fell as his hand came to cover your mouth. His other arm wrapped around your waist and held you as tight as you figured he could. You tried not to scream against his hand, and he held it firm when you tried to drag it away.

His breathing was surprisingly even, contrasting your desperate attempts. Each rhythmic movement making his chest brush against your back. You closed your eyes and counted to ten, trying your best to calm down. But it was growing increasingly harder in the small space. Especially so when his thumb ran reassuring lines along your ribs. An action that felt like fire was licking your skin. That the thin dress had caught the flames just on the other side of the wall.

He shushed you, turning his head towards the voices as they got closer. He tensed and you knew whoever was in the room was right there. If they found you--the King and some collateral hiding in a little corner in the library--you wouldn't be collateral any longer. You'd be six feet under.

"This is where he usually goes when he's not in his room."

It sounded like the old man who'd been in the throne room. Heimer, he went by, you found out shortly after. Your paths had crossed no more than what you could count on one hand, and each time he gave you a glance you couldn't read. Uncaring curiosity? You weren't sure.

"He might have gone to see the cook for a snack," the other voice said. "Or he is with the blacksmith, trying to see the progress on the latest weaponry."

"He's not you, Jayce. You're the one who prefers to do the heavy lifting. Viktor prefers to exercise his mind."

You were shaking, and the King slowly--very, very slowly--lowered the hand over your mouth. It skimmed down your throat, circling back until it slid between the two of you. You let out a shuddering exhale as he tugged on the strings holding the dress against you like a second skin, and very carefully loosened each cross. Each gentle tug of his finger made you silently gasp. The last few times someone had undone your dress even remotely as slowly, tender, and carefully, was not because you couldn't breathe. And the memories were tricking you, with each flick of a touch. Each graze and tug. As the fabric hung loosely around your chest. Not low-cut enough to cause worry of potential exposure. But it did dip lower than appropriate for someone to be wearing near the King. Especially with such a difference between classes. Especially with someone you despised.

Yet as you took your first full breath of the evening, you could've sworn you felt him relax ever so slightly.

"Alright, I'll go check in the kitchen and see if he found his way there. Get to bed, old man, I'll catch him up on what he missed from the council meeting."

"Fine. But I am trusting you to return him to his room, Mr. Talis."

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

Two sets of footsteps retreated and the library door closed shortly after. The King waited a beat before fully relaxing, his head falling back against the wall. He didn't guide you out of the small space.

Your mind seemed to catch up with you as he pulled you to rest against him, subconsciously, it seemed.

"Your Majesty," you whispered even though the two had left. "If I may venture a question?"

"You may." He seemed fond of whispering in your ear. And you weren't fond of the way it made your body shiver in a way that should've been disgust but was the exact opposite. It also wasn't helping that his hand was still firmly on your ribs, thumb running that same teasing circle.

"I can understand why you hid, but why me as well?"

His arms tightened for a brief moment around you before they fell and frustratingly so, you missed the contact.

"I, er." He cleared his throat. You couldn't tell if he was trying to choose his words carefully or if he was stalling. "I did not want you to get questioned. You have already been through enough on my behalf."

Silence. Neither of you moved. Your bodies were still practically pressed together. And without much warning, his hand came atop yours as he reached for his cane. You owed him nothing, yet you felt the urge to say what you certainly should've kept to yourself.

"I wouldn't have said you were here."

He leaned forward, one hand on his cane, the other reaching over your shoulder and pressing against the wall. You clenched your jaw as you felt all of him meld to you.

"I appreciate that, Miss (Y/N)." His breath fanned against your neck. And he stayed like that for a second before sliding out. "Genuinely."

When he was out, he gave you his hand. You hesitated before taking it. It was soft yet calloused, his fingers bony against yours. He didn't let go even once you were out of space.

"Spin," he murmured, eyes alight with something that made your cheeks burn. He held his cane underneath his arm, an obvious well-practiced stance. You did as he said, and he laced up your dress, not nearly as tight as it had been before. You noted how close he was standing. Closer than he needed to be, but you didn't step away. And it wasn't because he was the King and you feared potential repercussions. The exact opposite. It made you clench your jaw.

"I ought to return to my bed chambers," he said when he finished, hands hovering over your waist before falling to his side. "My apologies for interrupting you during your duty. I hope you are not kept up much later in pursuit of cleaning this place. I must apologize for its state of disarray. It's my fault that things are often out of place."

You stared at him in disbelief. He was...apologizing to you? You tried to fan the flames of irritation you'd felt towards him days ago, hours ago, goddamn minutes ago. But the soft, crooked grin he gave you pierced you like a damn dagger. So hard you nearly staggered back. You would've had you not locked your knees. But the damn thing made his entire face light up. Made his eyes sparkle and soften his demeanor.

"It's...alright, Your Majesty."

"Call me Viktor, please, when it's just you and me." You swore there was a dimple on his cheek when his smile deepened. You felt the strange urge to kiss it and you hated it.

"Yes Your...Yes, Viktor."

"Thank you." He nodded, studying you for one last moment before starting towards the door. "Sweet dreams, Miss (Y/N). "

The library door closed gently behind him.

When it's just you and m. Sweet dreams.

You bit your lip as you tried to process the slew of emotions. He expected the two of you to spend more time together. Alone. Something that should've angered you, worried you, shouldn't have made you excited. Secretly, you told yourself. You were secretly excited. But there was a strange curiosity there that you couldn't ignore. That bubbled to the surface.

The King--Viktor--was very much not who he seemed.

pt three:

You saw Viktor dozens of more times after that. All during your duties. In between conflicting feelings about the man you should hate, missing your family, and trying to figure out the relationship between Viktor and the council he seemed to meet with every few days. Meetings he often tried to avoid, you discovered, as you overheard who you discovered to be Jayce telling him that he needed to start showing up again.

That was in the throne room, where you'd been started to get sent more and more shortly after your midnight meeting with Viktor. One that you hadn't stopped thinking about since it'd happened. It was growing increasingly frustrating that you were getting less and less sleep each night as you thought back to that evening.

You saw more of the castle as the days passed. Bringing tea, coffee, and fruits into offices with members who you figured to be of the council. They talked of politics you only somewhat understood. Of wars you hadn't known were in talks of being waged. You felt privy to information you knew they weren't in fear of leaking--who were you going to tell, after all? You were there until your family paid a tax that felt more and more impossible to meet as each day went by.

Saying you met the members was a reach. You were simply able to put names to faces. Kirraman and Bolbok, who cared far more for those inside the walls of the castle than those beyond. Hoskel and Salo, who cared only for trade routes, talked of lowering the pay of the workers since the roads had become nicer, in order to pocket more for themselves.

Then there was Mel and Shoola, the only two who seemed to acknowledge the existence of those beyond the castle walls. Of where you and many of your friends and family lived. Where many of those who funded their lavish lifestyle lived.

The final two, Jayce and Heimer, seemed to be the closest with Viktor. But one thing became clear as you traveled from room to room, witnessed the same Viktor you'd seen on day one. The man with puffy eye bags, unkempt hair, clothes and a crown that reminded everyone of his royal status. The man who you watched turn away begging citizens. His hand gripped the armrest of the throne tighter when each denial he had to give. His jaw clenching, hair curling over his forehead.

"It's for the greater good," you heard Heimer whisper to him.

"We need the money to continue expanding our arsenal," Jayce said. "You saw how well the advancements are coming. They're almost there, Vik."

Viktor didn't always meet your gaze when you offered him a snack. A cup of tea. But he almost always made sure he acknowledged you in some manner. Hands brushing as you passed him a cup or a plate. Whispering a very undeserving and etiquette-breaking thank you that he only ever spared you. Handing you his cane if he needed both hands to be free. He'd even asked you to fetch him a book from the library once.

"On the bookcase you nearly fell into that night. Second shelf, middle, right beside the fireplace."

He hadn't spoken loud enough for anyone but you to hear. And it made your entire body burn up. You hoped you hadn't looked as flustered as you felt as you fetched it for him.

It was after about two weeks of the behavior that you realized he was most likely doing it because he wanted you to feel comfortable. Almost like a distraction from why you were there. And it angered you, strangely, that it was working. That he was even trying to do that.

It made the only alone time the two of you ever got...well, different.

Usually, it was your paths crossing while you were left alone to clean while Viktor was trying to just get a moment to himself. Hiding in one of the random bathing chambers, bedrooms, the kitchen, even outdoors in the garden. The latter was your favorite. The one that stuck with you the longest. The hardest.

The rest were momentary meetings. You both knowing you only have minutes at the most together, sharing small talk as you worked and Viktor took a breather, before someone else came passing through. And the King couldn't be seen conversing so calmly and casually with you.

You hated how you longed for the meetings. The way his hands would graze your skin as he brushed your hair from your face. Passed you a rag that royal hands had never once touched. Wiped the corner of your mouth when he fed you a piece of food that was not meant for a mouth of a maid. Of the collateral. He grinned when you practically moaned at the taste. You'd never tasted something so damn flavorful. It was infuriating.

And then there was the garden. Where he'd found you while strolling, a book in his hand that went unread as soon as he saw you. He sat on the bench beside you as you trimmed plants and plucked flowers for a centerpiece that'd been requested for the dinner that evening. But the sunny weather hadn't lasted long. As thunder crashed and rain poured down, Viktor whisked you away to a small gazebo hidden away in an overgrown section. Away from the castle. Away from the rest of your responsibilities for the day. At least during that moment, they felt far, far away.

He tripped on his way in, falling forward and pinning you against a wooden pillar. The roof sheltered you from the rain, but you were both already soaked to the bone. Freezing. Shivering. He didn't right himself, panting as his breath puffed out in a visible cloud. He was so close. You'd never stared at the mole above his mouth for so long. So desperately. So infuriatingly.

But all the two of you did was pant. Pressed against each other, a cold hand coming up to cup your jaw. You gasped. You hadn't meant to, and you tried to tell him that it was because his hand was cold. But the deep-set shivers made your words stutter. And it'd just made Viktor grin. A sight for sore eyes. Sometimes it made you wonder how he could sit there and frown for most of the day when his entire face lit up with just one crooked grin. One that warmed you like a fire. As did he as he settled between your legs, nose nudging yours as an arm hooked around your waist. You hadn't even noticed that you'd started to part your legs for him. Neither of you, it seemed, were going to comment on it.

Neither that nor the way he held onto you like you would slip through his fingers if he let go.

You wanted to stab him. You wanted to kiss him.

Perhaps both.

But your time was short-lived.

"Your Majesty," someone had called out. "We must get you inside before you catch a chill."

"Forgive me, Miss (Y/N)," he murmured as his hand traveled down your neck, trailing over your exposed clavicle in a touch more teasing than anything you'd ever felt. And you'd done a lot more with someone than a simple light touch. "As much as I do not want to, I must say goodbye for now. Please, do not stay out much longer. I fear the council would have my head if I tried to nurse you back to health if you were to get sick."

A laugh bubbled in your throat at the image. The King taking care of a sickly maid because she'd caught a common cold. An image that was difficult to imagine even if he was right in front of you, whispering it to you himself. The ruthless King. The man who wanted to take care of someone. The man you couldn't get your fingers around enough. His neck or him.

"They would if they knew you were even out here with me," you'd said back, breathless. You blamed that damn tight dress. But you knew it was much more than that. You hoped he wouldn't notice.

"Perhaps." He grinned. "But I am starting to realize that listening to the council may not be in my best interest."

He was gone, walking as fast as he could with the leg brace on. You stood shivering in the gazebo as the train pelted down until the tightness in your abdomen subsided. You went back to your duties once the warmth faded. The bouquet for the centerpiece was small and unfinished, so you expect it to be discarded as a waste. But when you stepped into the dining hall that evening to help clear plates, it was still sat right in the center.

The entire encounter was with you for weeks. You thought you couldn't sleep after your meeting in the library. You really couldn't after that. Sharing a bedroom with four other people was devastating when you got more wound up each night. Thoughts drifting into places they shouldn't have been about him.

Anger was the appropriate reaction. Wishing to take that anger out on him physically? Also appropriate. But the ways in which you wished to? Very much inappropriate. You were starting to understand why some of your roommates tried to pry specific...information...from Viktor's personal servant. A man he rarely ever asked for assistance from. Also a man who spilled absolutely nothing. Except to you after they'd asked if he'd be interested in a bedmate.

"Not from any of you," he'd said, eyeing them with amusement as they frowned and pouted. So they left to return to their duties, dismayed and unimpressed. To them, the King was a man to flirt and attempt with. Not the man who was the reason you were at the castle in the first place. A man who your family had willingly given you to without a damn question. Worth more than a deed. Or, perhaps less. More expendable. But you weren't a fan of dwelling on that thought.

Then, he turned to you. "He already has his eye on someone."

And that was all he ever said on the subject.

Because the next time you were alone with Viktor, the sentiment was proven true.

It was a month later. A very tense month where Viktor had been spending a lot more time with the council. And they'd been dismissing far angrier than when they'd started. Except for Mel and Shoola, those two were the only ones who walked out looking even remotely amused.

Taxes were being argued, trade routes disputed, the parties that the castle once threw every few weeks had become few and far between. Only three had been held since you'd been there. And not once had you even been allowed to peep inside. You'd been forced somewhere else, along with half of the other maids and servants, to do other duties. It was after the third party when you discovered that Viktor had snuck out and often snuck out of the parties.

You'd been instructed to clean a servant's quarters downstairs. It'd taken longer than it should have, but you couldn't shake the anger that came with each party thrown. Funded by the money that could've sent you home. That would've let you be with your family again.

But it was off being spent on fancy gowns and jewelry and crowns. On food that you'd only get to smell, to dream of tasting. On music you'd only ever hear muffled and mixed into a sea on conversations. You wanted to tear the rag you'd been using in half. But that risked consequences you weren't interested in facing. You'd already been yelled at for wearing your uniform too loose. They'd tied it extra tight the past few days as a reminder. It made bending down hurt.

You were walking down a hall, bucket and rag discarded, trying to steal and glance at the party you were to be nowhere near. Just a whiff of the food made your stomach twist. A glance through a cracked door that you dared not to get close to showed a glittering sea of rich colors and fabrics you wished you could touch.

Of gowns and jewelry that you wished to burn and break.

And then you rounded a corner and, when you smacked right dab in the middle of someone, you saw your life flash before your eyes. You thought about sprinting off and hoping they hadn't seen your face. That they'd never recognize you again. Or perhaps dropping to your knees and apologizing profusely.

Then he spoke and you'd be damned if you didn't relax.

"Ah, Miss (Y/N), are you alright?"

You glanced at Viktor and swallowed. He had to know you were supposed to be here. You glanced at the two guards positioned a few doors up.

"Y-Yes Your Majesty. My apologies. I'm terribly sorry. If you'll excuse me, I really must get back to my quarters. I'm sorry for the intrusion."

Viktor frowned, and you only caught it momentarily as your gaze fell to the ground. Just as it was supposed to when you were to talk with anyone above your station. You panicked and curtsied, sucking in a sharp breath of pain as you dipped, wincing as your stomach churned in a mixture of pain and hunger.

A hand on your arm stopped you and you stepped around him, and you froze, peering back at him wide-eyed.

"Come," he murmured. "I would be a horrible King if I let you go off without feeding you."

You bit back the words. You already are thought to be one.

You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. If you were found out to have gone with the King, you'd face consequences. If they found out you'd denied the King, you'd face consequences. You already were once they discovered you'd ventured into part of the castle that'd been off-limits to you for the evening. So you nodded and went with the man you were still conflicted about.

He brought you to a small office where a desk sat unused, the curtains were drawn, and a couch seemed way too plush. Stay he said before he disappeared, so you sat atop the desk, a small sign of disobedience you hoped Viktor wouldn't punish you for. A small part of you figured he wouldn't, but he was still the King. Even if your small interactions made your heart flutter in a confusing way, he was still the fucking King.

The King who came back with a plate of food that smelled so delicious you were worried you'd started drooling. He said nothing about you sitting on the desk. All he did was smile, walk up, and sat his cane and the plate down. He held up a piece of what looked like steak, his eyes twinkling like the damn stars in the sky, as he waited for you to part your lips before he fed it to you.

You moaned. You'd tried not to, but when it was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted and it was fed to you but the literal King, it was hard not to. And the smile he gave you, so self-indulgent and cocky, one you never expected from the man who oozed anger whenever he sat on that damn throne, who'd only given you boyish grins until now. It made your heart stop.

"Good?" He asked. You nodded. "Then have more."

"I do believe," you spoke slowly as to not sound so affected by his presence," that I am the one who's to be feeding you, Your Majesty."

Something sparked and Viktor leaned in.

"Oh, you are?" His hand came up and cupped your jaw. "I thought I was the one who made the rules, considering I'm the one with the crown on my head."

Your eyes shot up to that damn band of gold. You wanted to snap it in half.

"You hate it just as much, don't you?" He spoke against your cheek, breath tickling your skin.

"W-What?" You weren't sure if you were stuttering at the close contact, because you wanted more, or because he'd called you out so blatantly.

"The crown," he said as he picked up another small piece of food from the plate. His lips grazed your cheek as he fed you the dessert. A tang of strawberry, a hint of sponge, and the sweetness of cream. You sighed. "You glare at it every time I wear it."

How he could've expected any answer besides you melting against him was beyond you. His closeness, his lips grazing you, the damn food. You wanted to strangle him. You thought about it, too.

"Your Majesty-"

"Viktor," he cooed, "I love hearing you say my name, Miss (Y/N). It drives me wild."

"Viktor," you breathed, but not much came out. The damn tight dress. Too many emotions at once. Too many thoughts. Your eyes closed but you couldn't get your heart to stop racing. You clutched onto his sleeve as you trembled and you heard Viktor mutter something indistinguishable under his breath.

"I really ought to have a talk with them personally," he said, sounding as angry as he did when he spoke with Heimer and Jayce once. Hating how much he had to turn so many begging citizens away. "About these damn dresses."

He was between your legs, stepping forward until his chest was against yours, his hands sliding down your back. It wasn't as slow or methodical as it had been in the library. He tugged without restraint on the crisscrossing strings that held your dress tight. Each jerk making you gasp, and you wrapped your arms--and, shamefully, legs--around him until the dress was loose and free.

"There," he breathed out quietly. You didn't drop your legs from around him when you desperately knew you should have. It didn't help that when he pulled back, your dress caught against him, and it fell down your shoulders, exposing the low-cut slip you wore beneath. Neither of you parted.

A comprising situation with the King once more. Once again you would've laughed at the idea. Called them crazy. More so if they told you his eyes would drop to your chest, his hands would twitch on your waist, and his gaze would come up to meet your so hungry that they would draw you in like a magnet. You simply wouldn't believe them if they said he'd kiss you.

But, in fairness, he hadn't.

He devoured you.

And you devoured right back.

You weren't entirely sure who'd made the move. Just one moment you were staring at his mouth, silently begging to know what it felt like against yours. And the next, you were leaning forward and you had that question answered. Amazing. Soft and amazing. Perfect. He tasted like coffee and vanilla.

His hands roamed up to your ribs, but strayed no higher. He held you against him, hips still between your legs, and you held him even firmer against you. You wanted so much from him. To yell and scream, to strangle and kick, to kiss and devour. To take him right there. To let him take you right there.

You grabbed onto his shirt, wincing at the poor soul who was going to have to press out the wrinkles. But the guilt hadn't lasted long. Not when Viktor's tongue grazed yours and all intelligent thoughts drifted right out of your head. You'd tried to keep composure, but when one hand came up and skimmed your jaw, reaching back to tangle in your hair, you were hanging on by a thread. One that snapped as his nails scraped your scalp and he tugged your head back just enough to make you gasp. And you'd be damned if you didn't moan when he took that opportunity to deepen the kiss, his hips finally moving between your legs.

Not much, but enough to tell you how much he wanted you.

And, damn it, you didn't want it to stop. As shameful as you felt after everything, you wanted more. You were dazed from the kiss, barely able to keep up with your thoughts as you unclamped your fingers and attempted at undoing his shirt. Practically clawing at it to get it off.

That's when Viktor paused, breaking the kiss, huffing. You prepared yourself for disappointment. That he was just a King exercising his power, his intelligence, his charisma to play with you. Make you want something you could never in a million years have.

"Not here," he muttered. "If I am going to fuck you, Miss (Y/N), it's going to be in my bed where I can strip you down and taste every inch of you."

You moaned. Practically sobbed. Guilty pierced your heart but you'd be damned if you let it break it.

"And if I wasn't expected back at the damned ball..." He cupped your jaw so tenderly and shook his head. "That is where we'd be right now."

You cursed whatever compelled you to speak because all you managed was, "don't go."

And Viktor laughed. He laughed. That was your undoing.

"Do not worry," he breathed, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and kissing the soft spot beneath your ear. "I do not intend to leave you in such disarray."

His hand snuck beneath the skirt of your dress and you practically vibrated as it skimmed your inner thighs. Your teeth captured your bottom lip and you whined--never once had you whined for someone until now--when he stopped just before he reached the apex.

"May I?"

You would've begged if you'd had it in you. But you were trying to maintain some dignity. So you nodded. And it all disappeared when his fingers ran between your folds, the tips grazing your clit and making you jump.

"Miss (Y/N)," he breathed as he ran the same teasing line. "Fuck."

You'd said the word dozens of times yourself. But from him? It felt a dozen times dirtier. And you committed it to memory. You were going to hear it every time you thought about the evening. Every time you looked at him. You'd think about him whispering it against your neck as his fingers spread you, his teeth dug into your skin, as he visibly ached to touch you.

And then his fingers found your clit. So damn easily, too. The precise, languid circles he ran over it were already driving you mad, your legs shaking as you tried to slow the coil that was tightening in your abdomen.

"I have not stopped thinking about you," he whispered as he slipped two fingers into your entrance. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to hide your whimpers. "My mind, I must admit, does do not you justice."

You nearly lost yourself at that. He angled himself so his palm grazed your clit with each pump of his fingers, with every movement of his hand as he curled them inside you. You wanted more than his fingers. You wanted him to take you right there on the damn desk. He could've. You would've let him without a second thought. Who needed a bed when you'd throw him in the desk chair and ride him until you were moaning his name. Until he was moaning yours.

"Fuck," you whined and Viktor sped up his fingers.

He felt so damn good. You'd watched him use those fingers to write, to eat, to argue. Hands gesturing, fingers twirling quills, it was torture. What little alone time you got by yourself, you imagined they were the ones making you bite your lip to the point of nearly breaking the skin. That he had you on his lap, legs spread, whispering how good you felt as you came around his fingers.

"Please," he spoke against your skin. "Do not make me leave this room without making do on my promise."

You would've laughed if you weren't on the edge already. Your walls squeezed his fingers and he grinned against you. He curled them a little harder, a little faster. He sucked, licked, dragged his teeth along your neck. Reached his hand up and yanked on your hair, angling to give him better access.

You weren't a begger. Not with him. You'd told yourself that.

"Please," you whimpered. "Don't stop."

"As if I have zero intention of doing so." His mouth brushed the shell of your ear. "Now be good and cum for me like I know you want to."

You did. He held your head back so you couldn't bury your face in his neck. And he watched. He watched you come undone. As your walls strangled his fingers, as your back arched, your eyes closed. As your muscles tensed and you fought the moan that still burst its way out. A strangled mixture of his name and just fuck.

He didn't remove his fingers until a few tears slipped down your cheeks and you slumped against him.

"Now that," he cooed as he brought his fingers up to his mouth. He groaned as he licked them clean, and you were ever thankful you decided to open your eyes as he spoke. "Is what's going to get me through the days until I can have you for myself."

"And when, Your Majesty, do you expect that to be?"

He cocked a brow.

"For all we know," you huffed, "my parents could pay off the debt before our paths ever cross again. I am kept rather busy here."

He grinned and kissed you. Long and hard. He redid your dress before speaking. Waiting until he was at the door to the room, ever the dramatic, he was.

"Then I better start sneaking away more often. Good night, Miss (Y/N)." He nodded towards the plate. "And, please, do make sure you eat."

ok reverse the TROPE !!!!!! sugar-mommy!f!reader x retired!simon <333 (18+)

he got discharged on a medical injury. his knee flares up now, phantom pains that shoot up his leg and pinch his spine. he feels like a failure--a lieutenant in his prime, and now he has to acclimate to civilian life and grit his teeth instead of drown the voices in his head out with gunfire.

he's been deployed as much as he could be just to stay away from this kind of place. so he didn't have to get on a train, or take the tube. so he didn't have to think about looking over his shoulder in the shops or learn how to pay a wifi bill. he hates going to the doctor's office, and he hates learning how to properly open his bank account, just to learn that there's nearly nothing in it.

the numbers just dwindle before his very eyes. the rent is too high, even in his shitty studio. when did cable cost that much? why can't he go to the pub for just a few pounds anymore? where is the compensation for giving more than a decade of his life in service of his country just to have to wait in fucking lines to get his medication and argue over the phone about where all his fucking money went.

maybe he never had any. maybe it's all lost somewhere. he'd ask his former captain, but he's halfway across the world, and over his dead body would he hold a hand out and ask for charity when he's 36 years old.

"don't get that one."

simon turns his head, a snarl caught in his throat. there's a pretty thing standing beside him, also staring at the array of ramen packages in focus. you take the orange package out of his hand and put it back on the shelf before reaching for a different package. it's got japanese characters on it, so he can't read the label, but you smile up at him.

"this one is way better. good price for it, too."

"'s more expensive."

"yeah, but you get eight packets in this one. that one only gives you five."

at the till, you notice him subtly counting the notes in his wallet. you pretend not to notice, rocking back and forth on your heels, but just as he picks up his bag to leave, you speak up.

"you wanna get a drink? on me."

and fuck, he could use a bourbon. on the first one, he thought your presence was pleasantly tolerable. by the fourth, he's staring down your shirt, dark eyes mapping out what the curves of your breasts might look like in the palm of his big hand. by the sixth, you're pressed up against a sticky bathroom wall and holding on for dear life as he pounds into you from behind, knickers in his back pocket, manicured nails digging slits into his tattooed forearm.

you sink those claws in that night; and you do not let go.

the third night you ask him out, he sees your flat for the first time. in a nice building downtown, doorman holding the door open for you. the elevator ride is long enough for him to see the tops of buildings, and when you step inside your flat, he swallows hard when he realizes you are way out of his league.

gorgeous leather seats and couch. large tv with surround sound. a french kitchen with a gas stove. your flat is filled with knickknacks and candles, low yellow lights and wonderful collections of art and little glass vases and sculptures. your home is filled with warmth, and you don't belong with him.

just as he thinks about backing out of the place, you turn and grip the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. you touch your nose to his over his mask, smiling, and you push the door closed behind him and press him up against it.

"so, which room do you wanna christen first? i thought we could start in the kitchen."

you're a woman that knows what she wants, he'll give you that; and he doesn't have it in him to say no.

the sun wakes him up in the morning. he doesn't remember falling asleep--he doesn't like to make staying over a habit. when he sits up on his elbows, he takes a deep breath, realizing his back hurts a lot less. the mattress of your bed is wonderful, much more supportive than the flat mess he has on the floor in his own place, and he blinks himself awake when you come out of the bathroom.

you're freshly dressed, makeup on, and you're putting on your jewelry when you see him. you smile at him, coming towards the bed, and you bend down to kiss where his mouth would be under the mask.

"good morning, simon. sleep well?"

"mmm..."

you take that as a yes, cupping his jaw, and you kiss him over his mask again before going to get some shoes from your closet. he doesn't comment on the fact that when you open it, he realizes the closet there is only for shoes...

"you hungry, baby? want some breakfast?"

"i--oh..." simon lays back down when his back tweaks, and you reach for him when you see him fall back in the mirror. you smooth a hand down the side of his body, frowning.

"why don't you stay in bed? i'll have my assistant bring you something."

"no, tha's--"

"i'm not asking, simon, i'm telling you," you coo. you pick up one of his hands and trace one of his scars with your finger. you have long, almond-shaped nails. there's pretty chrome nail art over the wine red color you wear, and he focuses on it as you kiss his knuckles gently. "will you wait for me to come home?"

"where y'goin'?"

"gotta work, honey," you wink down at him. "and i want you to be here when i get back."

"tha' so?"

"mhm," you smile. "right here. in my bed--" you lift the covers a little and peek, giggling as you put it back down after getting a glimpse at his cock resting against his lower stomach. "just like this, simon."

he doesn't remember if he ever goes back to his flat. he thinks he went one more time, to grab a few bottles of his medication, but the tick in his knee hadn't been so bad with the great physical therapy you started paying for and the warm massages you gave him every night.

and his back--your bed always contours perfectly against the muscles of his back, and he finds himself sleeping a full seven hours every single night.

not to mention his new work outs. simon hadn't been to the gym much since coming home, but he knows he must be burning hundreds of calories with you. you test his limits. as soon as you're home, you jump on him, and the stress relief your pussy brings him is just what he needs to get the edge off. you're a fiend, especially after a rough day, and the way you bounce on his cock in every room of your flat keeps him up at night sometimes with the most glorious wet dreams.

you're up late that night. you're curled up on the couch in one of simon's shirts and a glass of red wine, and there's a mountain of papers around you that you're focusing on reading. you have a huge presentation tomorrow, and everything needs to be perfect. simon comes into the living room, shirtless, and you smile when you see him standing there. he's wearing the new sweats you got him, but you can't focus on that too much when you're staring at his pudgy, toned stomach and his nice pecs. you bite your lip, taking a long sip of your wine, and simon hikes up his mask to take a bite out of his bowl of ice cream.

"gonna be up late tonight?" he asks, and you nod. "want me to sit with ya?" you nod again, lifting up your legs, and when he takes a seat next to you, you drape them across his lap. you lean over to give his scarred cheek a kiss, and when you turn back to your paperwork, a thought comes across your mind.

"we should get married," you say softly, circling a note over something. simon keeps eating, as if what you said doesn't phase him.

"why's tha', love?"

"tax benefits."

"mmm..." simon drops one of his hands and thumbs against your ankle. the flat is warm. his stomach is full. his body hurts less, and his heart aches with something nice. "olright then."

you smile.

"good. cause i already bought the ring."

School refund just hit my bank acc, shii almost made me gush 😭

Something, something, I only ever seem to post wips, something, something. (what even is rendering?? like, wtf?? how do you do it??)

guys. please

mail-order bride x simon "ghost" riley masterlist

banner by @cynicalrosebud

this story is meant to be open-ended and vague. a collection of scenarios between simon and his mail-ordered bride.

cw: this piece isn't necessarily nsfw or dark, but i will not promise it won't contain these themes as these pieces are literally posted on the spot with random prompts (18+)

early delivery

no privacy

help wanted

get off my lawn

views

quiet hours

expectations

necessity

no past

laundry day

stars align

comfort place

summer heat

movie night

mirror thoughts

left behind

it's orange

oopsies

plan b

besties

lunch date

reality

dinner date

honesty

make a wish

open book

wants and needs

the same sky

no control

easy

show off

tactical

perfect height

too pretty

before

googly eyes

in every life

helping hand

a past life

#mail-order tag (lore + more lmao)

elon musk did a nazi salute twice at the inauguration, and republicans are defending him.

trump revoked executive order 11246, which prohibited discrimination.

trump put all dei employees on leave to be fired.

trump banned all lgbtq+ flags from being hung in government buildings.

trump rolled back biden’s executive order to lower prescription drug costs for people using medicare and medicaid.

trump rescinded the $35 cap on insulin, and prices are expected to rise to $1500 a month.

trump ordered the national institutes of health to cancel their review panels on cancer research.

when sean hannity asked trump about the economy, he said “i don’t care”, after campaigning with the economy as his main talking point.

trump has withdrawn the us from the world health organization.

trump is ordering health agencies to stop reporting on bird flu and halt publications of scientific reports.

trump has pardoned over 1500 people who stormed the capitol on january 6th.

trump changed mount denali back to mount mckinley.

trump signed an executive order to rename the gulf of mexico to gulf of america.

trump shut down cbp one, an app which granted legal entry to 1 million+ immigrants.

trump is allowing ice raids at churches and elementary schools.

trump announced plans to declare a national emergency at the us-mexico border.

trump signed an executive order to expand the use of the death penalty.

trump disbanded the school safety board that works to prevent school shootings. it was comprised of survivors, educators, and gun violence prevention advocates and formed after the school shooting in parkland.

trump withdrew from the paris climate act.

trump revoked all protections for transgender troops in the us military.

trump rescinded executive orders made by biden that benefited and protected women, lgbtq+ people, black americans, hispanic americans, asian americans, native hawaiians, and pacific islanders.

trump is attempting to make it legal to refuse to hire or fire pregnant women.

multiple state legislators are drafting bills to allow the punishment for abortion to be the death penalty.

trump pardoned 23 individuals convicted under the freedom of access to clinic entrances (FACE) act for their anti-abortion activism, including oftentimes violent protests at abortion clinics.

trump signed an executive order allowing deportation of foreign students who they believe express support for hamas or hezbollah.

trump announced that the us government will from here on out only recognize male and female as sexes. intersex is not legally recognized anymore.

trump refused to swear on the bible during his inauguration.

andy ogles drafted a constitutional amendment to allow trump to be president for a third term.

georgia republican congressman mike collins called for the deportation of new jersey born mariann budde, the bishop who urged trump to “have mercy” on the lgbtq+ community and immigrants during a service at the national cathedral.

amazon revoked protections for lgbtq+ and black employees.

every single republican told us we were overreacting. trump swore he had nothing to do with project 2025 yet continues implementing details outlined in it. not a single person has the right to tell us we’re being dramatic anymore.

hope the possibility of cheaper eggs and gas was worth it.

So I'm never going to recover.

Salt to the Wound

pairing: simon riley x fem!reader

word count: 8.7k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, sex being used as a coping mechanism, heavy angst, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, complicated grief, mentions of death, displaced aggression, marital issues, panic attacks, religious speak, mention of calories, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of dead relative, simon being pretty aggravating, purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & did i mention this is all angst?

author’s note: oh my god, this has been such a bitch to complete! i’ve been working on this for months in between my nasty smut fics bc this truthfully made me so sad to write, so i had to take breaks in between. there is only angst; i cannot hold your hand…you must walk alone…i’m sorry. read at your own discretion.

divider by @plum98 & for my taglist click—>here!

Simon can't move on from Johnny's death.

"Johnny's dead."

You remember the line clear as day.

In fact, you remember almost every single detail about that day. 

The weather had been docile, a change from the feverish heat the day before.

The air was slightly damp.

The weatherman chimed that a promising stormcloud was brewing in the distance, which could bring a couple of inches of rain, typical of January.

Your neighbor's son came to your front door, meekly asking to retrieve his ball from your backyard. 

The postman had hand-delivered your new dress, complimenting the new planters Simon built in the front yard.

Your favorite body wash that smelt of fruit ran out. 

You had made pie, apple instead of your usual cherry.

You had accidentally poured too much cinnamon in the apple mixture, shooing Simon away when you finally pulled it out of the oven because it was a "bad pie."

Simon had never heard such ridiculous words.

No pie is a bad pie.

He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as you went to answer the house phone, quietly laughing as he hissed at the hotness. 

Then it happened. 

"Johnny's dead," the voice on the other end of the line announced, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

They were the only words that flowed through the phone line.

The very words you had selfishly cursed for the past year.

The words that had single-handedly eroded everything you and Simon had built together.

Because that day, on every level except physical, the Simon you knew had died with Johnny.

His mind merged with the very soil Johnny lay in, leaving his physical body on the surface while his soul wandered beyond your grasp. 

So out of touch, so disconnected from reality. 

Simon had become a shell of a human. 

He wasn't living, merely surviving—going through the motions. 

It was devasting to watch the man for whom you gave your heart slowly disengage right before your eyes. 

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

Until there was no more man left to see.

Just mere flesh and bones.

It was such unfamiliar territory since Simon relied on you as he relied on oxygen to breathe.

You were his sustenance, his reservoir. 

An eternal flame that burned with an unyielding passion. 

Now it seems he couldn't get far enough away from you.

However, it wasn't always that way. 

The evolution of his disconnect hadn't been linear; it was ever-changing. 

Some days, he would act just like your sweet Simon before; other days, you felt like he resented you.

Resented you for what? 

You're not entirely sure. 

You didn't kill Johnny.

But with how Simon reacted to your mere presence, it felt as though you might as well have.

You can still recall Simon's noticeable change, apart from his defining silence, which occurred exactly two weeks after Johnny's death.

The bitter taste of anise, accompanied by the sharp taste of mint, coated your tongue; experimenting with new cocktail recipes had become something of a hobby for you.

Kept you occupied while Simon worked in his office.

You had insisted he take some time off, some real time off.

Price wouldn't let him return to work, so he supplemented by hiding in his office all day and doing paperwork and other such tasks.

It wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but it was the best he could give you.

He would have gone truly mad without his work to drown out his thoughts.

So, you bit your tongue every morning as he trudged out of the sanctity of the warm bed you shared, leaving you alone in the silence, and headed straight to the room across from yours that had him so consumed.

It was funny, really. 

You always thought that perhaps a pretty woman would eventually come around and attempt to steal your Simon from your hands, not a spare room with cream walls. 

Digression aside, you selfishly enjoyed the time alone. 

Simon would only speak a couple words to you daily, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing day.

You fault him none, though it was exhausting trying to help someone who despises being helped to any degree, even if they so clearly needed it.

That was why you enjoyed the alone time. 

Though it could be occasionally dull.

So, finding a hobby to fill your time was not just a choice but a necessity for your sense of fulfillment.

Even if it consisted of the occasion day drinking.

You'll repent later.

Now, you just needed the burning taste of rum down your throat.

Your face sourced at the combination before you scribbled, 'absolute shit,' on a small notebook you kept to keep track of all of your combinations and rated them in excruciating detail. 

Hearing his office door creak open, you shoved the notebook into your pocket. 

Not because you cared if he saw, but because his office door opening earlier than ten-forty-five startled you, abruptly shifting your emotions. 

You heard his heavy boots thunk against the vinyl flooring, inching ever so close to the kitchen where you stood. 

Your heart quickened from anticipation, and you tried to steady your breathing, not wanting to give away your guilt.

"You eaten?" His voice is deep and strained as he stands still across the island.

You stay completely still, refusing to budge even a little. Instead, you choose to shake your head from side to side slowly.

"Can pick up pizza?" He suggests.

His presence now stirred a strange mix of emotions within you.

He would never lay a finger on you.

It was the news that had thrown everything off balance, leaving you both in a state of discomfort and awkwardness.

Johnny was dead.

And you could feel his haunt everywhere.

"Pizza's good," you say softly, pretending to adjust a tilted bottle of tequila.

An uneasy silence lingers between you for a moment, and then you finally turn to meet his gaze.

He looks…like shit.

You let out a soft sigh as you take him in fully.

He has dark circles under his eyes, tinged with shades of purple and blue.

His once bright blue eyes have lost their luster, and his lids now hang heavy and fatigued.

His hair is unkempt, and his beard is starting to grow, giving it a scraggly appearance.

"You don't look so good," you find yourself saying without much thought.

"Just tired," he mutters, swiping his car keys off the counter.

You move to stand. "You've been working like crazy," you say, gently pressing your hand into his shoulder.

He tightens at your touch.

Whole body going taut.

You try not to take it personally.

You fail.

"Yeah…I, I'll get the pizza," he murmurs, moving towards the front door.

Then he leaves without a goodbye. 

You thought it was just bullshit.

What the articles said about coping with a loss.

Dealing with grief.

They all seemed like distant concepts.

But, he was so evidently disconnecting from you.

You felt your head swarm at the admission.

Simon was isolated, lost in a vast ocean of grief and despair. 

And you didn't know if you were enough to reel him back in.

Three weeks later, you're cozied on your sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, the soft cushions embracing you in their cozy warmth. 

The clouds, heavy with water, have transformed from soft white to an ominous smoky gray, a stark contrast to your cozy sofa and warm blanket. 

You have your favorite tea in your favorite mug, a book wide open though long forgotten on the cushion next to you.

Your eyes are now captivated by a trashy British reality television show, a guilty pleasure that adds to the coziness of your setting. 

Usually, Simon and you snuggle up and watch the show.

Always on the edge of your seats, eagerly anticipating the outcome.

Will the man stay on the island, sacrificing his share of the prize fund, to be with the woman he's grown close to?

Or will he choose the money over her?

It's always more enthralling with Simon.

Though, you're not sure where he is.

He didn't say where he was going when he left about half an hour ago.

And you didn't bother asking.

Maybe that makes you a lousy wife.

Or perhaps, you're just exhausted.

It feels like you're tearing your own flesh, trying to get him to answer anything. 

You guessed the latter.

The television crackles to life, the sound of synthesizers and strings filling the room, creating a sense of suspense.

"Henry's decision will be…" The host's voice begins.

You find yourself sitting up, the hot cup of tea between your hands, and your eyes glued to the television.

"…revealed right after the break," the host chimes as the camera cuts to a condom commercial.

You sink into the couch with a deep sigh as you hear the front door open.

The thud of heavy boots moves into the kitchen, near earshot.

You turn to see Simon grabbing a glass and slipping it under the tap for some water.

Your teeth dig at the flesh of your cheek, your foot steadily tapping on the vinyl flooring.

He takes a deep sip of the water, sucking it between his teeth and swishing it around his mouth before he spits it back in the sink, running the water to clean out the saliva now lining the metal sink.

You'd rather be shot than deal with the taciturn.

It was egregious.

You felt awkward in your own home.

With your own husband. 

"Simon," you say with nerves on your tongue.

He turns towards you, taking a proper sip of the water.

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He shakes his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm—I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

You decide to push your luck. "Come on. Would be nice to see you." 

"Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood." 

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

He didn't yell, but you wish he did.

So, you could get some type of God-damn emotion from him.

Instead, his voice was low, commanding.

A voice a lieutenant would use on his inferiors. 

Not on his wife.

His eyes widen as your lips purse.

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly.

Your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

But instead of being a man and apologizing, he leaves for his office like a fucking coward.

You're left there, eyes still on the spot where he stood, cheek now bleeding onto your tongue as the television announces, "...leaving the villa."

And you can't even find it in yourself to care.

It feels awkward when you finally gather enough courage to slither into the bedroom.

You had been paralyzed to the couch even a couple hours after the whole ordeal.

Not a word was breached between either of you. 

He had shut himself in his office while you had become one with the couch.

What a match made in fucking heaven.

You slip into some soft pajamas, then into the bed, the heavy comforter offering you comfort.

You rest your weary head on the pillow, eyes already heavy with emotional exhaustion. 

Before you fall into sleep, you hear the same thud of his boots streaking along to the bedroom, where you catch a glimpse of him slipping something into his sock drawer. 

The warm brown of the book cover in his hand catches your eye.

There was no mistaking what it read on the front: large, gold Cardo font with a cross hovering above the text.

"Holy Bible."

He shoves some loose papers overtop of the Bible and shuts the drawer, moving the flick of the light switch off.

His boots came off in a thud as he slipped off his shirt and jeans, slipping into the bed far from you.

Not a word was shared.

You should sleep, but instead, your mind is tormented by what you saw.

Had Simon prayed?

Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.

If he hit his knees, splayed open the Holy doctrine, and prayed within the hopes that, by some miracle, he should get to see his brother again.

"Simon," you murmur lightly, regretting breaking the silence as his name leaves your tongue.

"Yeah?" He asks, back to you.

"Were you...praying?" Your question comes out fatigued.

"Ye—Yeah," he mutters skittishly.

You say nothing more.

Your weary eyes drift closed as you pull your blanket taut against your face, peacefully drifting off.

That night, you're plagued by a disturbing dream. Your teeth fall out one by one, leaving only protruding gums. A looming figure stands behind you, tightening your throat with fear.

You spring awake at 3:37 am.

You are drenched in your own perspiration, eyes lingering over to where Simon should be.

He's gone.

You should feel slightly relieved, but you only feel overwhelming dread.

Your skin crawls with a sense of unease, as if something is lurking just out of sight, watching you.

You blink, and it's March.

Two months since Johnny's passing.

You thought the time would pass achingly slow, but time has unfortunately moved forward at an exceptional pace.

It always felt like time should stop.

People should stop.

Because why do they get to carry on and lead an everyday life as if you aren't getting swallowed, eaten alive by the confines of your own home?

It's not fucking fair.

You are not only having to mourn the loss of a good friend but the loss of your own husband, who's still breathing.

It felt like some cruel joke was being played on you that you found no humor in.

But, regardless of the loss, you had to keep moving.

For yourself.

Or you'd probably drive yourself into madness, and nothing good ever came from a mad woman, or so they say anyway.

It was a Friday night, and you had decided to try a new recipe from your grandmother's cookbook. 

You couldn't remember the last time you had a homecooked meal that wasn't full of M.S.G and far too many calories.

But tonight, you were about to change that.

With a simple button swipe, your groceries appeared at your front door, and you got straight into it.

The large russet potatoes were peeled and cut into chunks. They were then plopped in heavily salted boiling water and smashed along with many tablespoons of butter and cream.

Chicken thighs were seasoned and marinated for half an hour, not a minute less, before being seared on cast iron. 

The asparagus and parsnips were lightly oiled before being pan-seared, and then they were sprinkled with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese.

And before you knew it, you had transformed a handful of ingredients into a feast that was elegantly presented on some fine china you snagged from the cabinet for you and Simon.

You took a seat, admiring your hard work and savoring the delightful aroma of the chicken as it filled the room.

Hearing the same thud of the boots you had come to ignore coming from down the hall, your head shot up to see Simon with his keys in hand. 

"Where are you going?" You ask, curiosity and a bit of disappointment evident in your tone.

"Out," his voice was snipped as he marched towards the front door, not sparing the dinner a glance.

You sit up with a frown. "I made dinner, Simon."

"Not hungry," he says mechanically, like he was planning on shooing away any plans you offered. "Don't wait up for me," he murmurs, shoving on his coat, moving out of the front door, and pulling it closed.

And suddenly, the optimism you had clung to like a lifeline died, wholly and truly, leaving you in a void of despair.

You sit at that comedically large dining table for what feels like ages, pushing your vegetables around with your fork until they're practically mush on your plate.

There's nowhere else to go.

You feel utterly stuck as if the weight of the disappointment has rooted you to the spot.

Your head flings to the front door, as keys get shoved into the keyhole, before the door is pushed open to reveal a flushed Simon.

"Where have you been?" Your voice is warm yet firm.

He doesn't respond, only throwing his keys the bowl and moving to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

"Simon," his name comes off your tongue almost in warning.

"What?" He turns to you, face red from the cold.

"Where the fuck have you been?" You snap, the sound of your chair scraping against the floor as you stand up, adding to the tension in the room.

His eyes widen at your tone.

Your mind was ablaze with conflicting emotions.

Tongue hot with accusations.

"Were you with another woman?" You tack on, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Christ, no," he says immediately with a scoff. "Why would you even ask me that?"

You knew it was ridiculous.

He may be a fool, but he wasn't a cheater.

"I never have a God-damned clue where you go!" You step from around the table, voice rising. "You're my husband!"

"You're my wife!" He tosses the bottle of water into the sink. The plastic crinkles against the metal, as his voice rises with yours. 

"Then act like it!" You yell, throwing your hands in the air. 

You're both practically heaving with anger.

Seathing with so much untouched and unsaid verbiage.

The silence hangs between your two before you hurdling yourself into his arms, slamming your lips onto his with so much devotion and heat.

His hands grip your cheeks tight as his tongue slides over your teeth and any piece of flesh he can.

You pant into his mouth as his hands move to grip the backs of your thighs, quickly pulling you up to lock your legs around his waist.

He moves to place you on the dinner table, standing between your legs, and you reach out behind you, sweeping your plate full of mushy food and wine glass onto the floor to make space.

The glass shattered, and the china burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a loud crash.

Neither of you cares in the slightest.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your loose top as your lips practically turn blue from losing circulation.

It had been months since you and Simon had been intimate.

Well, since...

You didn't think you needed it during this time in mourning.

Hardly ever thought about it.

Because you two rarely exchanged words, the silence between you became a barrier.

How could you be expected to share such an intimate moment when your words seemed to fail you?

Somehow, you found yourself yearning for it, a deep-seated longing that you couldn't explain or ignore.

It felt like an insatiable desire you couldn't shake.

And when his teeth sunk into your lips, you felt the soft, erotic sting of your skin break; all bets were off.

"Simon," you mewl into his mouth. "Please."

He doesn't answer in words.

Just moves to remove his belt, tossing it to the side where the leather slaps over the broken china and mushed vegetables.

Strips himself of his jeans, boxers following suit.

His fingers move back to grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it on the table, lips moving to skim between the dip of your breast as he moves to grip on the fat of your waist.

Your hands move to thread through the back of his air, earning a deep groan from him that rumbles against your skin.

"Shouldn't be touchin' you like this," he mutters into your skin, rough hand skimming down your stomach to slide under your pajama shorts.

"Why?" Your breathing is labored as his fingers push down into your cunt, underwear sticking to the skin due to your dripping arousal.

His finger presses into you further making you release a shallow moan.

He opens his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking.

"Just fuckin' yelled at ya, bug," he grits out the first part, like he's angry at himself for ever raising his voice, no matter if you did the same thing, then says your nickname warmly.

"I yelled first," your voice is sweet like honeydew as your hand moves under his chin, gently forcing his chin up so he can look you in the eyes, and he wants to kill himself even more.

You're an angel.

A fucking divine entity, a wellspring of goodwill.

He doesn't deserve you now.

He's not sure he ever has.

"Needed to hear it," he mumbles, slipping your shorts and panties off in one pull, eyes taking in your arousal-soaked cunt. "Don't deserve ya," he murmurs, with a hint of despair.

"You do," you assure, sitting up more to kiss the corners of his mouth.

He turns his head to the side, almost in guilt; you don't have time to question why before he's lining himself up with your entrance, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck for support as he slips inside you gently.

There's no rush, no urgency to get off.

His movements are slow, unrushed.

This wasn't just a quick fuck.

It felt like he was trying to get a tangible connection to you.

Just bodies melting into each other with ease and familiarity. 

Your moans echo off the walls.

Fingernails digging into Simon's back through his shirt.

The barrier does nothing to meddle with your touch.

Nothing could ever diminish your touch.

He lets out a curse, baring his teeth as his fingers dig into the tender flesh on your hips.

His name comes off your sweet tongue in a plea.

You're about to fucking erupt.

Stomach on fire, skin slick.

He shoves his finger in your mouth, collecting some saliva before using that as a lubricant to stimulate your clit.

You let out a string of incoherent words as the stimulation hits you everywhere, all at once.

His head dips back as he comes inside you, eyes shutting closed.

Your breathing is ragged as you both come down from your highs.

However, when you breathe, you feel tightness in your chest.

A squeezing pain that only elongates.

"You okay?" Simon presses his hand into your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Must have overexerted myself," you jest.

You suck in a deep breath, desperate for more air or something to suppress the pressure you feel. 

Simon quips a brow, opting to move away from you to grab you some cool water. "Drink," he commands, nudging the glass to you.

The water feels like a relief flowing down your throat and is so refreshing you can feel it move through every vein in your body. 

"Better?" He asks warmly.

"Better," you agree, nodding as water drips down your lip and onto your chin.

But you can't shake the feeling something is off.

It almost feels like an impending doom looming over you.

"Feel like a shower?" He taps your thigh in question.

You nod with a smile, forgetting what you were even concerned with.

You shake off the feeling of doom as you wander behind Simon to the shower.

But doom is inevitable, a fate that cannot be escaped.

The following month, April, brought fickle weather with chilly rain and bright blue skies.

Along with the fruition of tulips and daffodils came your plan.

To finally speak to Simon about Johnny.

Even just thinking his name made you feel like you were indulging in some dark code.

It felt wrong.

Even though it was far from.

You had planned to talk to him a week ago, but you chickened out at the last minute, your fear of confrontation winning over your resolve, instead opting for an awkward conversation about cats.

Safe to say he had no idea you had other objectives at play.

Just thought you were a little kooky.

He had been more receptive to conversations since your sex-capade.

Felt connected to you again.

What a perfect time to ruin it all.

He's sitting at the dining table eating a sandwich.

With no pickles because he despises them.

You smile softly.

You know him so well.

Approaching him slowly, you pull out a chair adjacent to his.

"Nice weather," he says, looking out the window at the blue skies.

"It is," you hum in agreement, shifting in your seat.

"Might go for a run later." He takes a bite of a sandwich, and you chew on your cheek. "You want to come?"

"We should talk," you blurt, deciding you need to cut the cord as soon as possible before you chicken out again.

He quips a brow, sets down the sandwich, and wipes the crumbs off a rag. "About?"

You chew on your lip nervously. "Johnny."

His eyes lock to yours in an instant, and his chewing halts.

And you can feel anxiety claw up your clothes.

"You just—you seem," you try, stumbling over your words.

You knew you should have practiced more.

"We aren't having this conversation." His tone is low and carries a finality.

"It might help if you talked to me." There's desperation in your words.

"Stop," he holds up his hand like he's giving you a fucking command.

"I'm not a fucking dog," you grit. "You can't just give me a command to shut up."

"I know you're not a damn dog," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper.

"Good. Glad you could clear that up," you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. "Since you can't clear up anything else."

You knew you shouldn't have said that the second it slipped off your tongue.

It's defensive.

You were supposed to sympathize, not defend. 

He stands up abruptly. "Not taking this shit."

"What shit, Simon?" You throw your hands up in a shrug. "Your wife asking you to speak to her?" You let out a dry laugh. "That shit?" 

He moves around to swipe his keys from the bowl, not uttering a word.

"Where the hell are you going?" You stand, moving over to him.

His eyes bore into your jaw clenched. "Anywhere but here."

And he was gone again.

Just leaves when times get too trying, apparently. 

You stand there, your eyes brimming with tears.

What was to become of you two?

You let out an anguished yell before going to your room, hands planted firmly into the soft mattress, before letting your emotions overcome you.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands, as you prop yourself on your elbows.

Knees becoming bare from the shitty carpet while your shirt moistens from your tears.

This—this can't be it.

What was life to be without your husband?

You'd be subject to destitution.

A life of isolation, a terrifying prospect, filled with unbearable loneliness. 

Bile crawls up your throat, threatening to escape as the thoughts flood your mind. 

Your heart pounded violently, threatening to crack your ribs. 

You can't breathe.

Throat too tight to get any air through.

A stabbing pain erupted in your chest like it had before, but this was worse.

You clench your chest, tears spilling faster due to the physical pain.

You don't even process Simon hovering over you, hand clenching your shoulder.

Your head turns, and you see his mouth moving, eyes wide in concern, but you can't process what he's saying.

You can only focus on the crushing sensation in your chest. 

His eyes are scrambling, watching you push your mouth into the mattress to release a deep, tormented groan.

You were in unbearable pain.

He wastes no time grabbing and holding you in his arms, bridal style. 

You don't have it in you to scream at him.

You just sob into his chest.

This was surely going to kill you.

He grabs a stray blanket and tosses it on you quickly before swiping his keys off the counter. He then moves outside and places you in the car.

He drives in a rush, reckless.

His eyes darting over to you, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, sobbing, hand resting over your chest.

He doesn't know what to do.

He can't crawl in your body and demand your body to be kind to you.

So, instead he brushes his hand over your wrist, attmepting to give you some comfort and he pushes the pedal further to get you to the hospital.

Desperate to heal you.

He pulls into the ER parking lot, not bothering to straighten his wheels, sprints around to your side and gently places you in his arms, all but sprinting to the ER door.

The receptionist greets you before she hears your cries and pleas.

"She, she needs help," Simon frantically says. "Please."

Nurses flood out from the large door that seperates you and Simon from the rooms.

"Sir, you'll need to wait out here," one of them says, helping you into a wheelchair and wheeling you back through the door.

"She's my fucking wife!" He shouts, though to no avail.

The door shuts in his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.

He doesn't sit, he can't.

The thought of him being comfortable while you're in agony disturbs him.

He instead stalks around the room, hands wiping across his face.

Surely, this wasn't...

Could it have worked so soon?

He grabs a trashcan, promptly puking in it at the thought.

It, it has to be a grim coincidence. 

Yeah, yeah.

Has to be.

He waits in the waiting room for what feels like ages before a doctor comes in asking for a Simon Riley.

"Is she okay?" Simon searches the doctor's face.

"She's stable," the doctor says, his voice steady and reassuring. "For now."

"For now?" Simon echos the question.

"We ran some blood tests and did an ECG on her heart," the doctor reads over his papers. 

"And?" Simon says impatiently. 

"Does she have any familial history of heart disease in her family?" the doctor asks, scribbling on the paper.

"No, no," Simon stutters. "Why?"

"The ECG results showed that your wife has coronary heart disease," the doctor says.

Simon's eyes widen, his fear palpable. "Heart disease? What—what does this mean?"

"The arteries in her heart have become too narrow, which reduces blood flow to the heart. There are treatments available to manage the condition and improve her quality of life," the doctor reassures Simon as he sees him start to get frantic.

"Are you talking about fucking surgery?" Simon's hands move through his hair anxiously, his body tense with worry.

"Not necessarily. We can start with medication," the doctor says confidently. "A standard dose of Atorvastatin daily can help manage her cholesterol and fat levels." The doctor messily scribbles the prescription on a paper and tears it off.

"Along with some lifestyle changes to help manage her condition. If needed, we can discuss other options, like angioplasty or surgery. But first, let's see how she does with the medication." He hands over the prescription to Simon.

Simon grabs the paper, nodding his head. "Alright. Can I, can I see her?" His voice is desperate.

"Of course," the doctor nods his head reassuringly. "Follow me."

The doctor leads Simon through the hallway until he reaches your room, carefully opening the door to let Simon step through.

His stomach drops, a wave of concern washing over him, when he sees you.

Eyes swollen and red from your cries.

They hang low from your apparent exhaustion.

"Simon," you greet him with a weak smile, the familiarity in your voice comforting him.

Your voice is weak and raspy.

You look sick.

And he can't handle it.

"Hey, I'm okay," you assure, as you see him examine you, worry written on his face. 

"I know you are, bug," tears brimming his eyes; he moves over to you, gripping your hand tightly. "I know you are."

To you, it felt like a source of comfort amidst the chaos. 

And that's why Simon said it.

But deep down, he knew.

Nothing could undo what he had done.

No amount of praying, begging, or bargaining could change that.

He had selfishly sealed your fate.

And now, all he could do was wait.

It had been two months since your diagnosis, July.

Things had been decent in that regard.

No better, no worse.

The medication proved helpful.

It reduced the pain you get in your chest, so that was nice.

Over the two months, you persistently urged Simon to join you in counseling.

For your sake.

For the sake of your marriage.

At the beginning of July, he finally agreed, a hopeful sign after a turbulent period that had you ready to leave him.

"What are you doing?" Simon roughly asks as he follows you to your bedroom, hands anxiously running through his graying hair. 

"I'm fucking leaving, Simon," your voice quakes, tears spilling down your face as you struggle to pack a duffle bag.

"Don't, don't do that," he stumbled over his words, moving over to you. "Just, just calm down," he placed his hand on your shoulder in comfort.

You shook his hand off before eyeing him. "Calm down?" You repeat his words. "You want me to calm down?"

"Yes. Please," he pleads, hand hovering on the drawer handle.

"You want me to calm down?" You repeat again, your voice dripping with anger. "Fuck you." 

His eyes widen; clearly, he's taken aback. 

You finish packing, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you lean against the nightstand. "Simon, you need help," you say, grabbing your wallet. "You need to see someone. Anyone."

He exhales a sharp breath. "Fine."

Your head shoots up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"

He wipes his face with his hand frantically. "If that's what it takes," he shrugs, nodding. "I'll get the help. Just, just don't leave me, bug."

"Nice to see you again." You snap out of your daze as the therapist greets you.

"Likewise," you murmur, glancing over at Simon sitting beside you.

His leg is tapping a mile a minute.

He's nervous.

You're surprised he actually managed to get in the car and come here.

"Hello, Simon," she sticks her hand out for Simon to take. "I'm Doctor Shaw," she greets with a warm and inviting smile.

Simon takes her hand, giving her a firm shake, and nods in acknowledgment. 

"Please," Dr. Shaw brings her hands up. "Follow me."

You and Simon both stand, a sense of anticipation in the air, as you follow Dr. Shaw to her office.

The office looks the same as it has since the last two times you came by yourself.

Warm and inviting.

Only some outside light spilled into the room, opting instead for a warm orange hue from a small lamp illuminating the space.

It exudes a sense of calm, wrapping you in its soothing embrace.

"Please," Dr. Shaw gestured to the couch as she sat in her chair. "Sit."

You and Simon both take a seat and you grab a pillow to hold. Simon leans timidly, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting.

"So," Dr. Shaw begins, eyes moving to Simon. "Simon." His eyes flick to hers. "Talk to me about some of your hobbies."

Simon sits back on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. "Like to run, I guess," he mutters. 

She nods with a smile. "Good, good. Exercise is good. It can help clear the mind," she scribbles some notes on a notepad. "Now, I would like to know more about you two and your marriage," she hums.

Simon takes a deep gulp, and now you're shifting into the cushions.

"How are we doing in that regard?" Doctor Shaw purses her lips as she fixes her pen to start taking notes.

You shift in your seat, glancing at Simon next to you. "It's been...hard," you breathe out nervously. 

"Interesting," she scribbles in her notebook. "Can you tell me when you think it became difficult?"

You gulp. "Um...a couple, a couple months ago."

"Can you think of any factors that may have caused difficulties?" She tips her head back, offering you a comforting smile.

You tap your foot against the soft blue carpet, finger tapping anxiously against your thigh.

"Simon's friend, um, passed away in January." You choke on your words halfway through before completely finishing the sentence.

Her eyes flick to Simon. "I'm so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, Simon."

Her voice grinds Simon's gears.

Simon is pessimistic, a cynic.

Has an excruciating time finding sincerity in anything anyone says. 

This is no exception.

"Simon," she begins. "If you're willing, I would like to know more about your friend."

"Thought we were here to talk about my wife and I?" Simon's tone is dry without hesitation.

She nods lightly. "We are. It could be helpful for your wife to hear you talk about some of your feelings," she sits up in her chair.

"Did my wife tell you that?" He sits back in the chair, shoulders taut.

She quips a brow. "Tell me what, Simon?"

"That I don't share? Is that why I'm here?" He glances at you, already sinking further into the cushioning of the couch. 

You don't say anything, opting to stay silent. 

This was a setup.

A ploy to psychoanalyze Simon's psyche.

"You brought me so she could pick my brain," he voices plainly, pointing his finger lazily towards Dr. Shaw.

"No. I wanted you to come so we could fix our marriage," your voice is full of irritation.

"Because it's all my fault it's bad. Right?" His voice raises louder than he intended. 

His eyes soften as you widen in surprise, your waterline brimming with tears. 

"Shit," he exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says to you with care, closing his eyes slightly as he wipes his face. 

"I understand this is difficult for you," Dr. Shaw begins, voice solace. "And I want to acknowledge your discomfort. It takes courage to confront painful emotions," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward.

Simon's eyes narrow. "Spare me the shrink bullshit, doc," his voice is critical. 

"It's important to express your feelings, Simon," The doctor urges, to Simon's dismay.

"Why?" He retorts coldly. "Because you won't get paid if I don't?"

Dr. Shaw sits up straighter as Simon lets out an irritated sigh.

"Look," he turns to you. "I know you think this is helpful, but it's not," he says with as much delicacy as he can muster.

"You aren't even trying," you murmur.

"Sweetheart, this is just...not for me. Never has been," he holds your hand softly. "If this helps you, keep coming. I'll pay whatever she charges, okay?" He moves to stand, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "I just...I can't."

Your head flicks up to meet his as his voice cracks slightly, eyes glossed over, revealing his vulnerability.

"See you at home," he bid you goodbye, not sparing the doctor another look before stepping out of the room.

"There is no right way to grieve, and I can understand your frustration," Dr. Shaw says to you, offering a small smile. "Just be there for him when he needs you. He'll come back around," she affirms, turning to grab your receipt for the session.

"Thanks," you say meekly, hand reaching for the receipt.

"This isn't your fault," she confidently says before you step out the door.

You give only a small smile in response. 

It was strange.

You and Simon had fiery love. 

Two timid souls burning with such passion, desire.

A flame to a flame. 

It was a love that felt like sparks igniting each other, creating a blistering and rapid heat that was impossible to ignore. 

But in the end, the flames of love can burn each other out, consuming everything in their path, including the ones who ignited them.

Despite your prayers, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was your inevitable reality.

The rest of the summer and the beginning of fall blur through to September. 

You were seething with anger.

The kind of anger that has you near in tears. 

Simon had missed your sister's funeral, the one event that you had hoped would bring you both closer in your shared grief.

You had told him multiple times throughout the last week where and when to meet you.

He assured you he would be there for you.

He was a fucking liar. 

You practically spring out of your car, parked next to his idle truck, taking heavy steps up to the house door.

The door pulls open, slamming against the house's side, making Simon awake on the couch.

The sight makes your eye twitch.

He lay dormant, several beer bottles strung across the coffee table.

And to think things were going pretty well between you two, but this was beyond belief, unforgivable.

While you were crying over your sister's casket, he was here.

Sleeping his drunkenness away. 

"Don't tell me you're drunk," you ballistically say, tossing your purse onto the kitchen table with force. 

"I'm not tellin' you a thing," he monotonously says like this is some joke. 

"I needed you, and you were proper drunk?" Your voice rises. "I—I needed you, Simon," your voice shakes. "You gave up on me."

He says nothing, just lies there.

Your jaw ticks.

You rush over to him, forcing him to stand. "It's been—get up! It's been months, Simon!" You shout out, your voice filled with desperation. "Johnny is dead—gone," you snap out, eyes locking onto his. "He's been gone, and so have you. Except Johnny has an excuse. You don't," your chest is heaving. 

Simon's eyes widen, noticeably aggravated. "I—" 

"People die every day—and don't get me wrong, I am so fucking sorry, so fucking sorry, that it was Johnny—" You begin, sincerity in your voice as tears prickle down your cheeks. 

"Don't—" He starts in a warning tone. 

"Truly, I am. And I get it; you didn't need things from each other. But I need you. And I need to know you won't just abandon me when times get tough for you," your hands move through your hair, attempting to soothe yourself before more words flow out. "You need to grow the fuck up and talk to me like a grown-ass man and not a fucking pubescent boy!"

"Fuck, fine! Simon snaps. "It fuckin' killed me when Johnny died. I—he was my best friend, my brother. My only family. Gone." Tears spill down his cheeks as his arms flail around. 

You stand silently before your tongue comes out, wiping away the salty tears coating your lips. 

"Simon, I know you don't believe this, but we are family—me and you," you breathe out, trying to control your breathing.

"It broke me," he whispers solemnly. "Split me in half."

"I get that," you begin nodding your head, emotion clogging your throat. "But I need you to be whole."

"I, I can't," he stares at the floor, his hand closing into a tight fist. 

"Simon. You, you can't let it fester. It's consuming your life. Our marriage." Your desperate eyes drift to him, filled with fear. "Let me help you," you beg. "I can help put you back together again." 

"No. You don't understand," he lifts his head back to look at you, his eyes pleading for comprehension. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."

That was before.

It was December now.

You find yourself in the chilling hospital room, tears streaming down your face as you ponder the disintegration of your marriage with Simon.

You suffered a massive heart attack some days ago. 

A complication from the heart disease. 

It had weakened your heart muscle and lead to some brain damage. 

The doctor said treatment options were no longer available. 

So, instead of that, he switched his focus to comfort care.

Essentially, he's making it easier for you to die. 

It's strange. 

You know you're dying.

And you thought that death brings people together.

But you and Simon might as well be light-years apart.

You glance at Simon sitting in the chair across from you, anxiously tapping his foot. 

He's nervous.

But not about you dying.

About something else entirely.

You can tell.

You can always tell.

Your eyes flick to the hospital room door, opening wide before your doctor beckons Simon to come outside with him. 

Their conversation is muffled, but you catch the tail-end of it. 

"It would be best to take her home. Keep her comfortable."

Now you have the confirmation. 

You're going to die.

Just not sure when it will come.

You just have to sit and wait while slowly withering into oblivion.

"Hospice care can be provided to support and comfort her during this time," the doctor adds, his voice a distant echo.

A hot tear slips down your cheek, pooling onto your hospital gown.

You see Simon nodding his head along, finger resting on his chin in thought.

You want to scream.

And cry.

And punch someone.

And pray.

And move back home.

But you can't.

You feel utterly and hopelessly helpless in your own body. 

Life works in a mysterious, fucked up kind of way.

It's not fair. 

It's not linear.

And it's certainly not always kind.

All that's left to do is do what Simon did when Johnny died, go through the motions, the daily routine that feels like a never-ending cycle, and eventually, your physical body will leave you.

Your mind will wander far beyond anyone's grasp, yearning for a connection bond that cannot be.

MONTH ONE: January

You took up journaling.

Your hospice nurse suggested you take up the hobby.

So you did.

It wasn't as therapeutic as you thought.

It was just recounting what you ate that morning and what you planned to do the next day, the mundane details of life that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Boring, menial thoughts.

You didn't have much to say.

The only thing you thought of these days was what would happen in death.

Simon was kinder now.

Said he wanted to leave with you. 

You feel guilty for having to leave him alone.

Even though you have no choice in the matter.

You hope you don't see him in the afterlife. 

His life belongs here.

On the surface.

You've had some trouble walking.

Even fell in the hallway while trying to reach for a side rail Simon had installed.

You cried and pleaded for him not to help you up.

He managed to gather your heaving body in his arms and held you tight as you sobbed into his shirt about how you didn't want to die.

He didn't sleep that night.

Mind was too riddled with guilt; instead, he prayed.

With a cross to his heart, he hit his knees and closed his eyes, murmuring into the darkness to any entity who would listen. 

You thought it was nice when you turned to your side to hear his hushed whispers. 

He was praying for you to get better, you thought.

You didn't even realize he was praying for forgiveness for his own sins. 

MONTH TWO: February

Your journal hobby has quickly dissipated as quickly as it began. 

It's become harder to move.

You have to rely on Simon to do measly tasks. 

It's humiliating, to say the least.

"You okay, bug?" Simon asks as the warm, sudsy sponge moves across your back, shining you clean.

"Yeah," your voice is hushed as your lips flatline. "I can do it," you assure, reaching for the sponge.

"You sure?" His eyebrow lifts. "I'm happy to—"

"Just give me the fucking sponge," you grit, ripping the sponge away from him to scrub your arm.

You find you're weaker than you thought. 

You can barely hold up the light sponge to clean yourself. 

Your hand sinks down into the warm bath water before you attempt to pull it up higher, over and over, until you toss the sponge over the lip of the tub.

It hits the tile, releasing water and bubbles on the floor.

Your head drops into your hands, tears mixing with the bath water.

"It's, it's really happening," you heave into your hands. "I can't even lift a fucking sponge, Simon," you say, disgust coating your words. 

Simon leans forward, hand grazing your back. "I'm so sorry, bug," his voice trembles.

You turn to look at him, with red, puffy eyes and slick tears slipping down and into his beard. 

"Don't apologize," you affirm with a sniffle. "You didn't do this to me."

He almost throws up but chokes down the bile to speak. 

"Can I, can I finish?" He almost pleads.

You give him a soft nod and a gentle smile. 

He grabs a fresh sponge and repeats the same process, this time being more gentle.

Like he's purposely trying to remember the feeling of your body under his hands. 

It makes you feel loved again.

MONTH THREE: March

You were slowly withering away right before your own eyes. 

You didn't even recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your skin has gone pale and blotchy and started mottling.

It's cold to the touch, void of any warmth.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Simon cooly says, pressing a kiss on your head.

"Where are you going?" You ask curiously. 

"I told you I had to pick up Price's kid from school," he says warmly. "You don't remember?"

"Yeah. I, I remember," you nod your head, plastering a reassuring smile.

You really didn't remember.

Memory is a slippery thing these days, evading your grasp like a wisp of smoke. 

The moment something touches your brain, it usually escapes within an hour. 

It's a constant source of frustration, a relentless storm that rages within you.

Makes you want to throw a chair across the room.

He leaves, not even realizing the question has you spiraling.

Proding and pinching at your skull's skin to regain control of your brain. 

You must look insane.

But to you, this is the only thing that makes you feel sane and in control of your body.

The feeling of inability is one of the most haunting prospects.

The hunger for control gnaws at you, a ruthless creature that refuses to be sated.

But it's slipping through your very fingers like sand.

Fast and all at once. 

MONTH FOUR: April

By mid-April, your body feels hollow.

You can't do much of anything.

Though you did find some peace with your morality. 

Finally, you came to terms with your reality. 

And then, a spark of courage ignited, urging you to step out of the house for the first time in a while. 

There was an unusual, almost compelling, need to visit Johnny's grave.

You had only done so once, but it would be nice to leave some flowers.

Your hospice nurse drives you and waits in the car as you find his grave slightly disheveled like someone had messed with it.

Maybe even crawled out of it.

You're too tired to investigate.

You sit in the soft dirt, legs crossed as the sun beats on your head.

The lull of sleep licks your brain and makes your eyes close and unclose lightly. 

You yawn, stretching your arms out before the feeling of sleep becomes too strong. 

You find yourself lying next to Johnny, separated only by a few feet of dirt. 

You feel calm, peaceful even. 

Though when your eyes shut for the last time, you don't see the bright, ethereal light you imagined.

You see nothing but darkness. 

And smell brimstone.

It couldn't be. 

This wasn't the heaven you were promised, a place of eternal peace and joy. 

It was a cruel joke, a betrayal of the highest order.

You were supposed to be in a place of eternal love.

An incomparable beauty. 

This looked more like—

"Bastard sold you out, m'afraid," a voice croaked in the darkness.

The figure was indistinct, a mere shadow in the darkness, but its presence was suffocating, a palpable sense of doom that felt all too familiar, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. 

"Who—who are you?" You speak into the darkness, not paying much heed to what he said. 

"I shall not speak my name, my dear," the voice remarks. "You shall find out soon enough," he assures, pure humor coating his tongue.

Your voice trembled with fear, barely audible in the oppressive darkness. "How—how am I here?" You managed to stammer, your terror evident. 

A heinous laugh comes from the dark and shoots into your eardrum. "Your husband called upon me some time ago," he says. "He wanted his friend back, so he offered me your soul in return for him back." His voice is simple and casual as if it were ordinary. 

Your heart thumps in your chest, and your lungs deflate quicker than they inflate. 

"N—no. Simon...he loves me," you try to contradict. "He—he wouldn't do that," you speak into the darkness, voice tight. 

"Loves his friend more," he casually says.

Your eyes widen as tears begin to pour down in a consistent stream down your face; you try to move your arms but find your arms are magically constricted to your side. 

"Don't worry. We'll have fun—you and I," his tone is insidious.

Simon had bartered your life for his own selfish volition and damned you to an eternity in hell.

That—that serpent. 

What kind of diabolical monster would do something so heinous.

He promised you a lifetime of love.

A baby that you would share.

A tangible tell of your love.

He was a false prophet. 

When did he find time to do this deal?

Oh. Oh.

He did act skittish that night. 

That—that night that you asked about him praying.

You just assumed he was praying to God to help him cope by perhaps showing some signs of Johnny.

Help him deal with the trauma in any way he could. 

He was instead striking up a deal.

And it wasn't with God.

mini author’s note: do share your tearful thoughts in the comments!

Everyone wanted to be thicc but nobody wanted to be fat. Everyone wanted the dad bod but nobody wanted to be fat. Everyone wants fat mommy milkers but nobody wants mommy to be fat. Everyone wants to be a bear but not like, an actual fat bear. You get what i’m saying