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feirceangel · 2 months

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Imagine | Dance (Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen)

Imagine Feyd attending a ball and being bored to tears until you appear in the crowd.

A/n- thanks to everyone who read and supported my other Feyd fic!! I hope you all enjoy this one too :)

Word Count: 1,353

Warnings: none

The ballroom is overrun with diplomats and politicians. All dressed up in their very best attire, each one is hoping to impress those richer and more influential than themselves.

Feyd observes with a bored demeanour, swirling the blood red wine in his goblet. He’s leaning against a white pillar, staring out at the people with keen dark eyes.

A celebration of this degree isn’t something to be missed, his Uncle had said, insisting on his attendance.

So he attends, although he is bored from the lack of any meaningful conversations or actions. The feast was the best part, his favourite piece a bloody rare steak that practically melted in his mouth.

No one has come to speak with him out of a desire to just chat. No, each person who spoke had an ulterior motive and fear in their eyes. They want to be on the Harkonnen’s good side, lest they become victims instead. So, they chat about inconsequential things, all the while their hands shake and betray their frayed nerves.

Feyd found it amusing at first, but has since grown tired of it. These fickle politics and the endless pursuit of money. Money and power make this universe worth living in.

Music begins to play, a sensual drum beat joined by the strumming of string instruments and an angelic vocalizer. The sea of mingling people part as they allow the dancers the necessary space to move.

Feyd’s lips curl as he watches people join in the dance, the ballroom finally used for its original purpose.

People in skin tight dresses, fashionable suits, those showing too much skin, some showing none- the room is flooded with a menagerie of humans.

Each one is dancing with a partner, bending and swaying to the rhythm. All accept one.

He watches her move in perfect synchronization with the lilting music, lifting her arms high in the air. She avoids the stuffy aristocratic dancers who hardly allow the music to carry them.

She looks like a woman possessed. As if the melody has taken root deep within her and bids her to perform a marvellous spell.

It must be a spell, for he finds himself bewitched.

No one else has captured his attention so profoundly this whole event. He hasn’t even spoken with her yet and oh how he wishes too.

He must.

Feyd has never before desired to dance. Not unless it was the dance of battle, of blades clashing and blood dripping.

You have changed that.

As he watches you deftly twirling and clapping gently to the song, he cannot stop his body from acting on its own accord.

And Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, fearsome warrior, finds himself pushing through the crowd to join you in your hypnotic dance.

You notice when the handsome stranger leaves his spot by the pillar, his eyes fixated only on you. You’re not sure how to feel.

During the dinner, you had walked by him on the way to your designated place. You’re from a minor house, not fit to sit with the guests from the major ones. Not that you minded, it’s always been this way.

He had caught your attention immediately. Brooding and gorgeous, with full, sensual lips and the palest skin you’ve ever seen, how could you resist admiring him?

He hadn’t noticed you then.

He notices you now.

A soft smile graces your lips as he reaches you, dark eyes boring into yours. You stop as he reaches out a sculpted hand.

You take it.

His hand is warm, and you can sense the strength hiding just beneath his skin. This man is dangerous, you realized that when you first spotted him.

To your surprise, he is an excellent dancer, leading you in perfect harmony to the music. You can barely hear the music over the pounding of your heart.

This wasn’t what you expected.

“You are a wonderful dancer,” you whisper once you’re close enough to hear each other.

His smirk is prideful, “A fighter must be lithe and nimble, my lady.”

His voice is raspy, deep. Again, you are taken by surprise.

“You must be an excellent warrior too.”

You spin around, his hand guiding you. He has dropped his smile, replaced it with a predatory look reminiscent of a hungry panther.

“The best,” he replies, supporting your back as he dips you downwards.

The other dancers seem to fade away as you dance with him, this frightening stranger. His touches are like a fire unto you, his gaze a steady burning.

He dances as if it’s a battle of dominance. He leads without hesitation, and you answer with the fluidity and grace befitting a lady.

It’s exhilarating.

And it’s gone too soon as the music dies down and the other clap for the musicians.

Breathing heavily, you simply stare at this man who joined you in rapturous movement, not wanting it to end.

He hasn’t let go of your hand.

You don’t want him to.

“What’s your name?” You ask before he can slip away and disappear forever. If he did, you’d at least want to remember his name.

He smirks, “You don’t know me?”

“No, or I would not have asked,” you point out.

He chuckles, revealing blacked teeth, “I am na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, my lady.”

You blink at this revelation. You’ve never met a Harkonnen before, let alone a such a high ranking one.

Feyd expects you to recoil in fright, surely knowing the brutality his house is known for. He is taken aback when you smile.

“I am pleased to meet you,” you in line your head slightly as you supply your own name.

He realizes his hand is still clasping yours and that you don’t seem to mind it one bit. Feyd gently tugs you towards him, “Come, it is too crowded here.”

Perhaps foolishly, you allow yourself to be led away from the ballroom and into a quiet hall.

It’s late, and you can see the stars through the sheer curtains of the hallway.

“Are you enjoying the festivities? You seemed unhappy,” you ask. “I saw you by the pillar.”

“I was bored,” he admits without care. “Before the dance.”

“And now?”

“And now I have welcome company and my boredom has fled in the wake of your beauty.”

He traces a hand, still so warm, down your cheek. You bask in the attention, wondering if this is all a dream you’ll wake from in a moment.

Feyd’s hand goes lower, until it grasps around your neck and tightens. Not enough to cause damage, but enough to still your breathing. With his grip tight, he pulls you forward and kisses you deeply.

It’s intoxicating.

He kisses like he dances, dominating and alluring. You bring your hands up to grip his shoulders as he continues his assault on your senses.

“Everything was dull until you danced into my sight,” he rasps as you catch your breath. “I’ve never seen such a vision.”

“I have never seen a man like you,” you confess, resting a hand on his chest. “You have such intensity…”

“Does it frighten you?”

“No, no it thrills me, my lord.”

The way those words roll off your tongue has Feyd hooked, his mouth latching onto your neck as he cups your face with one hand.

“Do you know what I’ve done?” He asks, unsure why he’s asking.

“I know you’ve danced beautifully,” you smile. “And I know your touch feels electrifying. And I know you’re going to take me into an empty room.”

You withdraw from him slightly, awestruck at the hunger in his eyes.

“And what happens then?”

He retakes your hand, not too gently this time, and practically drags you to the nearest room, slamming the pen the door.

Luckily, no one is in there.

“You know what happens next,” you say, already stripping him of his fine shirt before doing the same to yourself.

Feyd is glad he decided to come to this festival, thanking his lucky stars as he stares in awe at your beauty.

He wonders if you make love as spellbindingly as you dance.

He’ll soon find out.

#female reader #reader insert #feyd x you #feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd oneshot #feyd x reader #feyd-rautha harkonnen #dune part two #dune x reader #feyd imagine #dune

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goosita · 5 months

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working as young!politician!coryo’s secretary is usually a fairly calm job, not too stress inducing.

most days, you greet people who come in for meetings with coriolanus, send out emails and faxes, make and take phone calls for his office, and keep a steady flow of fresh coffee at all hours. then, you tidy up your desk when the day is done and you wait for your best friend to come pick you up and drive you home from work.

today was going according to plan, having been an especially easy day. mr. snow had been out for most of the afternoon, only returning about an hour ago. the phones had been quiet as well, giving you time to finish all of your work on the computer you had put off. it was rounding out to be quite the easy day, until your best friend called 5 minutes before you were due to clock out for the evening.

“i’m sorry! the tire just exploded, literally. and now i’m stuck waiting here for god knows how long for a tow truck. i’m so sorry,” they babble, clearly feeling incredibly guilty.

“it’s fine, i promise. i can just call a taxi or something.”

out of the corner of your eye, you see coriolanus leave his office, turning to lock the door behind him. he glances at you curiously.

“are you sure? i don’t know how long it’ll take but—“

“yes, i’m sure,” you cut them off, sighing. “cab fair to my place is only a few dollars, i’ll survive. let me know when you make it home though, alright?”

your friend laments and agrees to send you a message when they’re home, hanging up. you barely hold in a heavy sigh, sliding your phone into your bag.

“need a ride?” coriolanus asks, tilting his head to the side just-so. it startles you for a moment, having forgotten he was standing right there.

“oh, no. thank you, mr. snow, but i’ll be okay. i can call a cab,” you tell him, cheeks warming.

“nonsense, can’t let a lovely young lady like you risk getting into some seedy cab,” he insists. he gives you that charming grin, the one that makes the smile line near his cheek deepen prettily. you hesitate for a moment longer before he steps closer, offering his arm.

you try not to let it show that your fingers tremble just slightly, slipping your arm through his and resting your hand in the cradle of his elbow. coriolanus smiles even wider, leading you outside to the parking garage reserved for the building.

“thank you, mr. snow,” you say quietly as you walk beside him. he shakes his head and chuckles under his breath.

“it’s past business hours. you can call me by my first name, you know.”

you don’t know what exactly to say to that, simply offering a hum in response. coriolanus leads you to a sleek black car where a man in an equally sleek black suit stands at the driver’s side door. coriolanus holds his hand out to the man, who gives a look of surprise but drops the car keys into his palm.

“i’d like to drive myself this evening, gerald. thank you.”

he leaves no room for questioning as he walks you to the passenger side, his driver quickly disappearing. coriolanus opens the door for you and gently holds your hand as you slide in, giving you a soft grin as he closes the door. when he walks around the front to the driver’s side door, you speak up.

“i live on pr—“

“i know,” he cuts you off. you swallow, watching him sit down and start the car. he must sense your confused before he sees it on your face, because he speaks again.

“i have a good memory. i saw it on your application last year and remembered you live on the same street as an old friend,” he explains. you nod, looking down at your hands in your lap.

coriolanus smoothly pulls out of the parking spot, resting his hand on your headrest as he turns to look out of the back window. it’s so hard not to stare, to look at the way his neck is exposed like this. his jaw is so sharp, skin smooth and pale. you can smell his scent lingering in the small space between you; that intoxicating mix of roses and spice and metal.

“it’s not polite to stare,” he teases, turning his body back to the front. his hands settle comfortably on the wheel, his icy stare focused on the road.

“i-i’m sorry, mr. snow. i didn’t mean to.”

“coriolanus,” he purrs. “coryo, if you prefer.”

coryo. not just his first name, but a nickname. your hands feel clammy.

“coryo,” you say softly, almost under your breath. he hums in acknowledgment, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

it goes silent in the car after that, your mind working overtime to try and figure him out. the last few weeks have been nothing short of dizzying, his lingering gazes and teasing quips, just shy of innuendos. you think back to the way he had watched you with the lollipop in his mouth, the way he had dragged his tongue over the red candy and the stain it had left on his plush lips. the way you’d been unable to stop thinking about what those lips would taste like against your own, sticky with cherry and sugar.

a warm hand settled on your thigh, breaking you out of your thoughts as you jump slightly, looking over at him. still, his eyes are glued to the road, as if he wasn’t doing anything at all besides driving.

“coriolanus…?” you murmur, glancing down at his hand. his fingers are long, spanning over your clothed thigh almost completely. his fingertips just barely brush the inseam of your trousers, but he’s still about it. he doesn’t move to stroke or caress, just rests there in your lap.

“yes, darling?” he says evenly. you don’t know why, but the petname makes your breath hitch. “everything alright?”

you breathe out slowly, slightly shakily. “yeah— yes.”

coriolanus smiles, eyes flickering to you just once before returning to the street. after a few more moments, he’s pulling onto your street and parking outside your apartment.

“here we are,” he says unceremoniously. like his palm isn’t burning through your pants on your leg, making you hold in a shudder. “home, safe and sound.”

it takes you a few moments to find your voice again, nodding. “thank you for the ride, mr. sn—….coryo.”

“you’re very welcome, my darling,” he says; and there it is again. that endearment. “i’ll see you in the morning.”

you nod and go to open the car door, letting his hand fall from your thigh. you grab your back and close the door behind you, turning and quickly hurrying up the sidewalk to the front steps of your building before you hear his voice call out again.

“miss y/n?”

you stop and turn, seeing that he rolled the window down.

“sweet dreams.”

#politician!coryo x secretary!reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow #tom blyth #coryo

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missmatchablossom · 2 months

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Gojo x Reader Royalty AU | Part III.

summary: you are a princess in an arranged marriage with the crown prince of the country, satoru gojo. when you finally come of age and move into his palace, the two of you are forced to spend time together as the future queen and king of the nation. the future king definitely seems to have a thing for you though.

a.n: here is the link to part II of the story! enjoy the fluff <3

It was the night of yet another ball, and since it started you’ve been roped into what felt like thousands of meaningless conversations with nobles, politicians, random rich people, you name it.

The job of a princess, apparently. It helped that Gojo was by your side the entire time, refusing to leave you alone. Literally refusing, because you tried to step away from him for a moment to grab a much needed glass of champagne, but he caught your gloved hand in his. You looked at him funny as he dazzled you with one of his princely grins.

“No,” he said.

“No?” you repeated, looking at him in confusion.

“Don’t leave me here alone,” he pleaded desperately, contrasting the charming smile on his face. You grinned back, squeezing his hand.

“What will you give me if I stay?” you asked, taking a playful step into his space. You allowed your eyes to unabashedly rake over him, looking like a vision in his regalia. The cerulean jewels decorating his crown truly made his eyes pop, and it was a lie to say you weren't proud to have a matching tiara. You tugged on the lapels of his navy suit, acting as if you were dusting something off when you really just wanted an excuse to touch him.

By the smile that reached his eyes, he was eating up the attention you were giving him.

“I’ll give you all of the cupcakes in this nation,” he promised, earning another laugh from you.

“You couldn’t possibly get all of them,” you countered, as he scoffed playfully.

“I’m the crown prince of this nation baby, there’s nothing I couldn’t get for you,” he said, winking at you. You raised your eyebrows in disbelief, torn between laughing and blushing. No matter how hard you tried fighting it, you loved the way he flirted with you.

Before you could reply, another noble called Gojo’s name from a few yards away. He seamlessly smoothed his countenance as he faced the noble, tugging you close so you looped your arm through his. He laid his free hand over your own, rubbing the back of your fingers with his thumb.

You finally broke free from the prince when some other royal approached the two of you to offer greetings. You didn’t miss the way Gojo’s smile tightened as he faced the man you later learned was named Mahito. Barely seconds into your conversation with Mahito, Gojo suddenly drew your attention to a friend of yours who apparently just walked in. Giving his hand a squeeze, you excused yourself to talk to Prince Yuta. You wanted to press him further on why he didn’t want you talking to this Mahito, but now didn’t seem like the best time.

The ball was finally dying down by the time you made your way out to your favorite balcony. Conversations finally fizzled out, most of the guests focused on enjoying the endless alcohol the palace supplied. You came here whenever you wanted to escape, when you got tired of talking and just wanted to be.

The moon shone on the palace gardens just below you - another favorite place of yours to be. You laid your hands atop the stone railing, leaving forward to soak in the moonlight. Your navy dress did nothing to protect you from the cold at this time of night, but you didn’t care.

“I thought I’d find you here,” a familiar voice said.

You turned and smiled at your prince who looked as devastating as ever, like the past few hours of the party hadn’t ruffled him at all. He was casually leaning against the doorway with two mugs in his hand, and somehow he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“I think my social battery is officially dead,” you admitted, eyeing the mugs in his hand.

He chuckled, following your gaze.

He settled himself next to you, copying your position leaning against the railing. Shoulder to shoulder, or at least your shoulder to the middle of his arm.

“That makes two of us. Thought you could use this,” he said, handing you the mug filled with warm liquid.

The comforting smell of Oolong wafted up towards you, the warmth of the mug easing the chill at your fingertips. That warmth traveled up to your chest, and suddenly you didn’t feel cold anymore.

“How’d you know I was craving this?” you asked, peering into the mug to avoid his eyes.

“You haven’t had it yet today,” he said, leaning towards you. You gulped as you thought about how much attention he was paying to you, that he knew that you had a cup of Oolong tea everyday, because it was the one thing that reminded you of home. And that you were so busy with party prep today that you hadn’t had a chance to have some.

You felt tears begin to prick at your eyes as you met his gaze, the silver flecks in his eyes sparkling in the moonlight, distracting you from the emotions threatening to overflow.

Not trusting yourself with words, you leaned up to press a featherlight kiss against his cheek, almost laughing at the way his jaw slacked ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” you said, voice thick with feeling as you sipped the tea. You wanted to capture the look on his face forever, the faintest of blushes adorning his pale skin, making him looking younger than his years.

“Anytime princess,” he added after a beat, clinking his mug against yours. The flash of green liquid inside caught your attention.

“What are you drinking?” you asked, peering into his cup.

“Melon soda,” he said, giving you a toothy grin. Prince Gojo everyone, ending his night with a mug of melon soda.

You laughed again, reflecting on how many times he’s made you laugh since you moved here.

The two of you fell into comfortable silence, enjoying each other’s presence.

“Cold?” he asked, studying you again.

“Hm? Oh, yeah I guess I am,” you said, noticing your goosebumps and wondering if he did too.

“This dress doesn’t do much to keep me warm,” you admitted, rubbing your hands up and down your arms.

“I imagine not, but you look gorgeous in it,” he said, the usual flirtatious note in his voice absent. It was the first time he ever outright told you he thought you were gorgeous, and you felt the butterflies travel your entire body. You muttered your thanks and looked away, not feeling brave enough to face him while you blushed.

You jumped as he captured his chin between his fingers, gently turning you to face him.

“I mean it princess, navy is truly your color,” he said, even closer than usual. His eyes flicked down to your lips, and you couldn’t help staring at his own.

“Hmm, you’re just saying that because I’m matching you tonight,” you teased, gently removing his hand from your chin but making no move to release his hand from yours. The navy of his suit was an exact match to the navy of your gown, and you loved it. It felt like proof that you belonged together.

“I admit I do love when you match me, but I’m telling the truth. You are stunning always, but I’m partial to you in blue,” he said honestly. You made a mental note to bring out everything blue you ever owned, already making plans to go shopping for more.

“You are such a sweet talker,” you said breathlessly, smiling shyly at him as you fought yourself from fanning the heat away from your face.

“No sweet talk, just the truth,” he said, rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand.

A beat of silence passed of you two simply looking into each other's eyes, unspoken words flowing between your gazes.

“Lucky for you, the cold is about to turn me blue,” you joked, beginning to shiver. He laughed, his real laugh, not the polite chuckle he used when he was entertaining.

You heard the rustling of fabric right before you were suddenly enclosed in something warm and heavy - the prince’s blazer.

“Finally being a gentleman and giving me your blazer?” you asked cheekily, hoping the tease distracted him from how embarassed and giddy his gesture made you feel.

“Please accept my most sincerest apologies my princess. Do punish me as you see fit,” he said, making a show of bowing to you while a grin split his cheeks.

Rolling your eyes, you lightly smacked his shoulder, earning you a boyish chuckle from him. You smiled to yourself as the oversized blazer draped across your shoulders enveloped you in his warmth and heavenly scent.

“Hmm, I’m still a little cold,” you began, willing all your nerves to shut off for the moment.

“Let’s head back ins-” Gojo paused mid-sentence as you gingerly grabbed his arm, lifting it up until you draped it across your shoulders, right where you wanted it.

“Ah, much better,” you said, giggling at his stunned expression. The prince was stiff for a second before he relaxed, drawing you even closer to himself as he breathed out a laugh of disbelief.

“If the cold weather is what brings this side out of you, remind me to install air conditioning in ever room of the palace,” he said.

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hufflepuffwritingstuff2 · 4 months

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An Offer You Can't Refuse- Part 1

Hero stirred to the sound of muffled voices. They tried to open their eyes, but there was a weight over them preventing them from doing so. They tried to move something, but that also proved futile as something thick and unyielding kept their limbs pressed tightly together. Some kind of cloth had been stuffed in their mouth, and judging by the sticky feeling on the lower half of their face, had been sealed shut with tape.

Hero wriggled in their restraints. They couldn’t stretch out much; padded, soft walls from all sides kept them tucked in a fetal position. How were they going to get out of this? They couldn’t see, speak, or move. They summoned their power, but any ice crystals that they formed couldn’t penetrate the uncomfortably tight material that encased them.

How did they even end up in this situation? The last thing they remembered was… oh. The fight with Villain. They never exactly played fair, but they really took that to another level when they hit Hero from behind with some kind of knockout dart.

“And now, what you’ve all come here for!” a muffled voice- Villain’s- rang out.

The voices became clearer as cool air wafted into the tight space. Villain must have opened the lid to the box they were in. Gasps and noises of awe sounded out from all around them.

Hero glared under the blindfold. They were ready for a fight. They were just about to try and sit up when there was a jab in their shoulder. Their body sank into the padded floor against their will, and Hero let out a very muffled cry.

“The city’s beloved human blizzard, Hero!” Villain announced, “you couldn’t hope for a better living weapon. With some training, you’ll be able to freeze out any adversary with one command! Let’s start the bidding at, say, five hundred dollars?”

“Five hundred dollars!”

Hero stiffened in shock. Was Villain really doing this!? They tried to fight the drug, but it was quickly pulling them under.

“Five hundred, do I hear six hundred?”

“Six hundred!”

“Six hundred, do I hear seven hundred?”

“One thousand!”

This went on for some time, the numbers going farther up and Hero growing more drowsy.

“five hundred thousand.”

“Five hundred thousand from General in the back, do I hear six hundred thousand? Going once… going twice…”

“One million,” a voice said.

The crowd gasped.

“O-one million dollars,” Villain said, surprise in their voice, “Will you meet that, General?”

“Two million dollars.”

“Two million dollars, how about it, Mx…?”

“Supervillain,” the voice replied, “three million dollars.”

The crowd gasped again.

Hero was too tired to be properly afraid. Their fate was down to the military, or to the most feared leader of the largest criminal syndicate in the world. Somewhere in the back of their mind they wished one of those corrupt politicians had bought them instead.

“Three million dollars, General?”

“Four million dollars.”

“Eight million dollars,” Supervillain replied coolly.

“Eight million dollars. General? Going once…”

“Nine million dollars.”

“One hundred million dollars,” Supervillain said.

“O-one hundred million dollars!” Villain squeaked, “going once, going twice…General? No? Then sold! Please have your payment presented in cash to me by the end of the week. Congratulations, Supervillain.”

The lid of the box was closed, and Hero drifted off completely.

Part 2

#hero x villain #hero x supervillain #superhero whump #whump #hurt/comfort #writeblr #writing #creative writing #drugging #kidnapping #sold at an auction #auction #heroes and villains #series #snippet

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tired-space-politician · 8 months

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The Beach Episode

@askrobouteguilliman40k (and @ all other interested primarch blogs)

"Did we requisition everything? I have this planet and beach rented for a week." Robbee certainly does not gnaw on his stylus as he taps away at his dataslate.

#tired space politician #the sillies #askrobouteguilliman40k #the beach episode

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seat-safety-switch · 7 months

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There's been a lot of talk about small towns in the news lately. If you believe the cultural hive mind, small towns have a unique and distinct way of life that just can't be found in big cities. Friends, I am here to tell you that the only thing you can find more of in small towns is parking, followed shortly by inexplicable multi-generational feuds. The latter idea bores me, so we're gonna talk about all the places you can cram a car when you live in the boonies.

Where I live, in a part of town that used to be called a suburb, back when the cops could drive through it without locking their doors and changing their hats, there's only a few places to park. Driveway. Street. Alley. Back yard, if you're frisky. Out in the Great Unknown, you can park right on your front yard if you so please. You can build a simulated junkyard on your back forty. Maybe shove your cars in something called an "out-building," which despite the name is not where you poop (it is, however, where mice poop.) This bounty of parking space means that you can acquire many, many cars and spend the majority of your life not having to move them for the street sweeper every alternating Tuesday.

So what does this mean? It means that rurals are hoarding all the cars. Without space pressure forcing you to get rid of, say, your 17th Dodge Omni, then it stands to reason that they will just stay there, slowly rotting into the ground. For this reason, I recommend that new car hunters visit the sticks in order to ask farmers to sell them their never-gonna-get-around-to-it hoopties.

Of course, there are some problems. If you roll around out there in a new electric car, or even a moderately clean pickup truck, you'll probably get shot at. They can smell the city slicker on you, and they know that cities are a hotbed of crimes, such as illegally parking, or turning right on a stop sign without coming to a complete stop first. You might be coming there to steal their precious shitboxes!

There is a solution, though. I've gotten ahold of one really shitty 1953 GMC pickup truck. There's no floors, there's not much of a bed, its tires are made out of rubber sourced from floor mats people forgot at the car wash, and the three-speed manual transmission is about as synchronized as the last time I tried to do karaoke. What it does have is honesty, though. You can drive right onto a farmer's property, park it amongst their shitty old pickup trucks, and wait until nightfall without anyone being the wiser. Have your pick! They won't even notice they're gone.

Just bring back the pickup truck. I need it back so I can sell it for way too much money to an authentic, hard-working rural politician who spends all his time in the city.

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of terror, domestic!Simon, intimacy in the shower, hand job, vaginal fingering, brief oral sex (female receiving), non-penetrative sex, the mask comes off

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Part Fourteen of Ink & Needle

Simon doesn't see you again for two weeks. Amelia intervenes. Simon removes his mask in front of you.

Chapter Thirteen // Chapter Fifteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Repetition.

Fingers counting bottles. Counting colors. Counting labels.

White paper. Blank spaces. Pencil. Graphite tip.

Breaking. Breaking. Over. Over. Over, again.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

Simon counts the little rows, falling deeper into distraction. It’s a way to quiet his mind, to turn off the fucking noise that’s buzzing there in the back like an annoyingly curious bee. But all this inventory counting isn’t working. Nothing is keeping his thoughts at bay.

A week has passed. An entire fucking week and your absence is a festering wound. Simon isn’t taking it personally. Really. He isn’t. But fuck he misses you. Part of him blames himself, insisting that your distance has to do with something he did. It’s not entirely far from the truth. While Simon hasn’t exactly lied to you, he has omitted crucial information.

British Intelligence may very well be coming to call, but Simon doesn’t know that information explicitly. The situation is precarious. Delicate. The information Simon shifted through with Price, Kyle, and Johnny unnerved him.

Kit Walsh is not your local nationalist prick who spouts shit off in chatrooms or on social media for influencers to stitch. Kit Walsh moved beyond that. Beyond walking in to corner stores or a school or a church for innocent people to understand his lead-drenched wrath. Beyond a week or two of media frenzy. Beyond mugshots and a jury sentence.

This man moves between. One minute he’s supplying arms to opposing sides in another country to destabilize a region, and then turns around to whisper in some politician’s ear to convince them to “intercede” on the behalf of “global peace.”

He pushes weapons, pushes people, pushes drugs.

But he’s not a businessman. That’s just a front for his true intentions. Kit Walsh thinks on global levels and how he intends to make the world into his image. He takes his time. He observes and then moves.

It makes the man more dangerous because he also understands that acts at the local level are just as or even more powerful than the global ones. Nothing is more terrifying than when your own neighbor turns their words of hate into hateful actions.

Kit Walsh knows this.

Which is why Simon didn’t give a fuck when he received all those injuries. He thought he took the fucker out for good. That Walsh was a burnt-up corpse. Simon rarely considers any of his scars to be marks of pride. Yet the ones he received when he shoved his knife into Walsh’s chest were ones he didn’t mind having.

But none of that matters now.

Walsh is alive. And he might have fucking blown the back of Lord Archibald Williams’ head off. For what? Simon doesn’t fucking know. Price didn’t know either which means that British Intelligence likely doesn’t.

And you don’t need to know any of that. Why burden you? Why put any of these worries and issues on your plate when they might not land there at all? Why exhaust you further?

When you brought up Archie, Simon panicked, knowing you were already tired—already stressed. It’s not right that this happened to your friend, but Simon truly believes there isn’t anything to particularly worry about at the moment. That is reason enough not to dump this on you.

Simon’s fingers hover above the lid of an ink bottle. He pauses there, thinking, forgetting the number he just uttered.

Lost count. Starts over.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

“Fuck!” shouts Simon, his tatted knuckles turning white as the pencil clenched in his fist snaps in half.

Simon stares at the broken pencil. At the fractured graphite.

Sighing heavily, Simon drops the clipboard and steps away from the storage cabinets. He’s fucking distracted, and it’s not only because of the shit he read in Price’s file. Simon hasn’t seen you—hasn’t touched you in almost a week. Somehow, the separation is difficult, more frustrating than Simon previously thought.

He went three years without knowing your touch. But a week is now too much?

Simon clenches his fists. Releases them. Inhales deeply through his nostrils and exhales slowly through his mouth. He repeats until there isn’t any tension in his limbs and his mind quiets. Using the silence, Simon takes notes of the aches and pains. The leg that always gives him trouble isn’t hurting much today, but that might be a different story tomorrow. Everything else is dull and fine, better than it has been.

Checking his scheduling book, Simon pulls up the name of the next client, retrieving the sketches and preparing the stencil. This is work he knows. This is work that’s natural to him. Safe and secure. When the client arrives, Simon shifts into work mode, slipping into his professional mask, dipping into his creativity.

For these few hours, Simon doesn’t think about you at all and he certainly doesn’t think about Walsh. He’s only thinking about the tattoo and the client and the goddamn inventory sheet that looks ready to slip right off the desk.

But when Simon’s client leaves, and he is left in an empty shop with a snoozing Bravo, thoughts of you come roaring back to the forefront of his mind. There really is no reason to worry. It’s not like Simon is only receiving radio silence from you. You just haven’t been with him. That’s all.

The two of you have talked. Well—not extensively. It’s only been flashes of conversation, brief texts and even shorter phone calls. It is the tiredness and exhaustion that Simon hears in your voice every time he speaks with you that worries him. He knows why you’re staying away, and it’s not because of him. At least, that is what you tell him.

Yet Simon cannot help but linger in those spaces, questioning whether or not he somehow messed up. That he didn’t do enough. Worse, it’s not fair to you to think this way. You have been clear about why you’re not around, but it still chews at him. Simon stills wants to see you, to hold you close even if it’s for a fleeting moment.

He knows there is a baby. He knows you have responsibilities to your friend. He knows and yet Simon is fucking selfish because he wants—no. Needs to breathe you in even if it is just the sweet scent of your skin.

But evening comes as Simon closes up shop for the night, and there is not a text or call from you.

There are none the next day or the day after that.

By Sunday morning, Simon is boiling from the inside out, gripping his phone like a goddamn lunatic.

He hasn’t heard from you, and the few calls and texts he’s sent have gone unanswered. If he were his old self, he’d have already gone to your place demanding to see you. But things have changed for him in some respects. Simon is trying hard not to fall into old habits and behaviors when it comes to you.

Simon has failed on several occasions, but he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to be better for you.

The decision he makes is like pulled teeth. Necessary sometimes but fucking painful without the proper numbing. Simon does not go to your place. Every step he takes in the opposite direction of Amelia’s home are dull razors against the skin. He forces himself to leash Bravo, to go to Dancing Faun, to sit down on his usual fucking stool and pretend that everything is fine.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon is going to leave it—leave you—and give you some needed space. There is a newborn in Amelia’s house, and the last thing Simon needs to do is to barge in and step all over that dynamic just because he hasn’t seen you in a few days.

“Look who it is,” chuckles Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun. He sets down a newly polished pint glass. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Simon grins behind the balaclava, the familiar face a much-needed welcome. “You’re forgettable. But your wife?” Simon whistles and settles on his usual stool.

Ben guffaws and wags a finger in Simon’s direction. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’d leave me in an instant if you asked.”

“Better ask her then,” replies Simon, pretending to get up.

“Oi. Sit down,” mumbles Ben, shaking his polishing rag in Simon’s direction. “Cheeky bastard.”

Ben leaves and returns with Simon’s usual full English and tea. The two of them chat, Ben forgetting not to talk politics on Sunday while Simon listens and shakes his head, knowing the big guy does it on purpose to mess with him. After breakfast, Simon starts with a pint of dark amber ale, moving on to a second as the first customers begin to trickle in.

For a few hours, Simon forgets about the outside world. He watches a rugby match. Drinks a third beer. Considers whether he should switch over to whiskey. It’s just like all his other Sundays since retirement.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon lifts the pint glass to his mouth, downing the last of his third drink. He sets it down on the bar top, unsuspecting of the coming intrusion.

Reality is such a fickle thing. Sometimes it is a clawing, creeping blob that lurks in the corner of a dark room. Sometimes, it is an abrupt shaking, as if hands are on you, imploring you to look.

“Amelia!”

Simon’s stomach flips at the sound of Ben’s voice calling out to the older woman. Glancing away from the television, Simon turns, seeking you. Hope expands in his chest like an inflating balloon. Sparks pop off in his head with the belief that you will enter in behind Amelia. That you will walk through the door and Simon can finally see you again.

But you’re not here.

You’re not with her.

It’s just Amelia.

Her cheeks are rosy from the November cold, and her coat swallows her up.

“I have photos of the grandbaby,” she says, voice cheery as she removes her leather gloves and stuffs them in her coat pockets.

Ben’s smile widens. “Congratulations.”

Several patrons around the pub hold up their drinks in salute, echoing Ben’s initial statement. Without taking off her coat, Amelia travels from person to person, her wire rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of her nose as she scrolls through photos on her phone. She lingers with each person, telling the same story, showing the same pictures.

Simon patiently waits because that’s all he can do. Inside, he’s boiling in an agonizing twisting of alertness that pulls every muscle in his body taut with tension.

Is she doing this on purpose to mess with him? Did he really fuck up and this is her version of punishment?

When Amelia finally approaches Simon, some of that tension evaporates. Her smile is genuine. Soothing. She’s not upset with him. If anything, Amelia is relieved to see him.

“Morning, Simon,” she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly.

“Morning,” he replies, not recognizing the gruffness in his voice. Simon swallows, tapping the side of his empty glass with a single finger.

Amelia holds up her phone. “Interested in seeing pictures of my grandbaby?”

Fucking hell, he can’t say no to her.

Simon only nods because he cannot trust his voice. Is he fracturing? What the bloody hell is wrong with him? Is it this distance? Does Simon truly miss you so much that it’s causing him to slip?

Amelia settles herself on the stool next to Simon. Bravo’s head doesn’t even lift in greeting. The German Shepard is out, completely relaxed and dozing on the floor. With phone clutched in one hand, Amelia begins to scroll through multiple pictures. Most of them are just of the baby asleep or cradled in someone’s arms.

“Her name is Lillian,” says Amelia, smiling fondly. “Named after Archie’s younger sister. Poor thing didn’t even get to see the age of three.”

The mention of Archie’s name twists Simon’s stomach. The file, its contents, and the conversation he had with Price, Johnny, and Kyle comes creeping back, wanting to sink its claws in.

“This,” and Amelia brings her phone a bit closer. “Is the day we brought her back.” Amelia hums softly. “So rosy cheeked.”

Simon grunts in agreement. It’s not the kindest response but it’s not because he doesn’t agree. Lillian is cute. She is rosy cheeked. Simon is good with kids and he likes them. But he just wants to know what is happening with you.

Amelia slides her finger across the phone’s screen only to reveal a glimpse of a possible answer to all of his questions.

This picture is one of you. In your arms, you are holding Lillian. This wasn’t taken at the hospital. This is at Amelia’s home on the sofa. Simon recognizes the fucking fabric. You’re smiling down at the girl as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.

At first, Simon’s mind is steady. Resolute.

But then, it drifts. Keeps floating. Floating further away until Simon is imagining that you are not holding Amelia’s grandchild at all. You are holding your child. The one you might have with him.

The thought—this image of you—is sudden and fierce. Simon cannot shake it. His mind fixates on this future as if it’s a completely plausible thing. It sticks to him like honey. Like tar. No fingers can dig in and scrape it away. No cleaning solution could scrub it off. There is no box or hole or wasteland that Simon can hurdle this idea into in the hope that he might forget it.

It has bloomed. Flowered. Roots sinking between the soft folds of his brain.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“She needs a break,” says Amelia, her tone drifting to a far-off place, pulling Simon from his wayward dreaming.

She is looking down at her phone. She is looking at the photo of you. Amelia glances up at Simon, her features softening into gentle sadness. “That’s really why I came. Hoped you’d be here.” She shrugs.

“Here I am,” replies Simon.

Amelia nods. “Here you are,” she echoes.

Locking her phone, Amelia exchanges it for the gloves in her pockets. Simon glances over at Ben and lightly moves his empty glass in the man’s direction. He comes over and retrieves the glass.

“She’s working herself to the bone. Doing everything for Evie and I when it’s not necessary.” Amelia taps her gloves against her open palm. “And she’s too stubborn to hand the reigns over to me. The woman needs a break. Away from all of us.”

Simon understands. You’re too selfless to step aside. You need to be forced or prompted. Amelia knows this too which is why she came searching for him. Hearing that you’re overworking yourself displeases him, but he’s also bloody fucking happy that he can have you to himself for a bit.

“For how long?” asks Simon, smothering the hopefulness that wants to burst forth.

Amelia frowns in thought. “A few days. Maybe a week. If she accepts that.”

Oh, you’ll accept. Simon will see to it.

“Another drink?” Ben meanders over from the other side of the bar.

Simon shakes his head. “Paying out, Ben.”

Amelia smirks and slips on her gloves as Simon hands off what’s owed. The tension and confusion from earlier are now raw energy, pumping through his loins like electricity. The entire walk to Amelia’s is easy, all the aches and pains in his body suddenly silent as if they too are excited to see you.

When Simon enters Amelia’s home, he finds you sitting on the floor in the living room. You’re surrounded by piles of laundry. Closest to Simon are small stacks of papers. They’re scattered off to the side in some sort of organized chaos that he can’t figure out. Your laptop is open in front of you resting on an ottoman. You’re reading emails while folding laundry.

Bravo stands to the right of Simon but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for Simon’s command but even he can feel the dog’s excitement to greet you.

You haven’t noticed Simon yet but he certainly notices you. While he’d love to stop and just bask in your beauty, there are so many other things catching his attention that give life to what Amelia was telling him.

Tiredness covers you like a weighted blanket. You’re slouched forward, each movement accompanied by a sigh and a delay that Simon doesn’t like. His gaze focuses and it is then that he sees the slight tremble in your hands as you smooth the top of a folded towel.

Behind Simon, Amelia shuts the front door. The sound of it closing jostles you. Your head snaps in his direction.

“Simon.”

It is a relief. A surprise.

The exhaustion in your voice is cold and palpable like butter right out of the fridge. You’re ready to fall over. Simon doesn’t need to guess because when you attempt to stand, you wobble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself on the sofa.

Amelia is right. You are overworking yourself.

It takes Simon three strides to get to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he lightly presses, indicating that you should sit back down. Without protest, you follow his silent command, and Simon sinks to your level.

“What is all this?” he asks, keeping his tone calm.

Beneath the mask, Simon is furious. Not with you but with himself. He should have listened to his instinct. He should have given in to those old impulses. If he had, he could be helping you right now and perhaps you wouldn’t be so goddamn tired.

The sigh you release if heavy like a boulder. It presses on Simon’s chest. His hand on your shoulder shifts, cradling the side of your throat, his thumb brushing against your jawline. You don’t say anything. You’re too defeated—too exhausted.

Bravo cannot reach you with Simon in the way. The German Shepard opts for the ottoman, resting his head on it, ears drooping slightly.

“Simon is going to take you for a bit.” Amelia’s voice drifts over Simon’s shoulder and your eyes widen as you glance at the woman.

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” snaps Amelia. “You’re doing far too much. Let us help.”

That’s a fucking understatement.

Simon presents his other hand and you take it. His hand on your neck slips away to reach behind you to help you guide you to your feet.

“Go pack a bag,” murmurs Simon, his palm splaying wide across your lower back. “You’re staying with me.”

Your lips part as if to form a protest but Simon isn’t having that. He arches a single eyebrow, daring you to question what he’s told you to do.

Your mouth snaps shut.

Simon leans in. “Good girl,” he whispers.

This time when your lips part, it is with surprise. You blink, a bit stunned, and then a flood of warmth rushes up your neck and cheeks, your gaze dropping to the floor, face turning away in embarrassment.

Your reaction is something. It is something other than tiredness. Other than exhaustion and weakness. This is a piece of you he’s seen before and wants to see again. You shouldn’t be shoving it away to take care of others.

Against his chest is your flattened palm. Your fingers curl inward as your embarrassed demeanor turns into observance. You’re staring at the laundry, upper body twisting back and forth as you look for something.

“What is it?” prompts Simon, following your movements as if he can read your mind and know what it is you’re searching for.

Reaching down, you toss a few unfolded pieces of laundry aside to reveal your phone. Retrieving it, you glance down at the screen.

“Shit,” you mutter. It doesn’t light up. Your phone is dead. No wonder you haven’t been answering him.

“We’ll worry about that later.” Simon nods toward the stairs. “Go.”

Back at his flat, Simon takes your packed bag and drops it off in the bedroom. You stand in the space between the living room and kitchen, lingering with your hands clasped in front of you.

“Sit. I’ll make us something.” Simon gestures toward the couch and you slowly unfurl, nearly falling into the sofa once you get there.

Simon rummages around in his pantry and fridge, knowing that it’s best to find a snack for you to munch on while he cooks dinner. When is the last time you ate a real meal or fucking slept? Would you even admit the truth to him?

He eventually brings you tea and a variety of crisps. Your “thank you” is slightly slurred like you’re close to falling into the lands of Morpheus. Bravo curls up next to you, one paw touching your thigh while the rest of his body reclines away.

Simon stays in the kitchen. When he emerges to bring you food, he finds you asleep, grasping one of the bags of crisps against your chest. The opened end is facing Bravo and the poor dog is having an existential crisis on whether or not he should stick his face in or leave the bag be.

He should let you sleep, but Simon also knows you need to fucking eat something.

Gently, Simon places your plates on the coffee table. He removes the bag of crisps from your arms before rousing you. The meal is devoured. Tea is had. Simon throws on a movie, and you snuggle up to him, sinking into his warmth.

This is how it should be. With you in his arms.

Twenty minutes in and you’re asleep again. Simon doesn’t care at all. You are here. You are close. You are safe. Like this, Simon can protect you. He can take care of you. Simon finishes the movie by himself, deciding that only after he’ll carry you to bed.

As he shifts to lift you, you awaken slightly, arms sliding around his neck to snuggle closer. Simon turns his face into you, breathes you in, allowing your scent to fill his lungs. You’re drifting off again as he adjusts his grip and stands. His bad leg wants to give out but Simon bites back the quick flare of pain.

Fuck that. Simon is stronger than that.

In the bedroom, Simon bends at the knees, thighs straining as he tosses back the covers on one side of the bed. Sliding you underneath, he tucks you in. You turn over to face the opposite direction, arms curling around his pillow like it’s him. He watches as you bring it closer, nostrils flaring as if you’re inhaling him too.

Simon changes into more comfortable clothing before sliding in next to you.

For him, his sleep is absent of dreams.

There are no shadows or fire. No memory. Just blankness. Nothing.

He wakes early, well before the time he actually needs to open up the shop for customers. Simon doesn’t want to. He’d like to stay in bed all day with you, but he also knows that trying to rearrange today’s schedule just for a bit of personal gratification is a fucking rude thing to do.

Simon stretches, all the joints in his body popping as Bravo’s head appears above the end of the bed. The dog tilts his head and Simon gestures toward the door. Bravo takes off, heading outside to go guard the place from squirrels.

Shifting to the edge of the bed, Simon rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. More popping but the stiffness quickly recedes. Glancing behind him, Simon finds you still asleep. Things have changed though. The bedding is twisted around your body and you’ve removed some clothes in the night.

He cannot help himself. Simon’s gaze glides over all the exposed skin. The itch to reach out and run just his fingertips across the curve of your hip is unbearable. Simon has to clench his hands into fists just to stop himself from touching you.

Pushing off from the bed, Simon enters the bathroom, seeking a hot shower. All his clothes including his mask go on the floor. He is aching between his legs, all the blood in his body rushing happily to his quickly swelling cock.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping under the water.

Wrapping his hand around the base, Simon begins to stroke. The small bit of underwear he kept as a token is still tucked away in his dresser, but he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. He now has the memory of you, and the fact that you are currently in his bed. It’s enough to drive that pulsing desire higher.

Simon rests his forearm against the shower wall. He leans forward, his forehead coming into contact with that arm. He’s so fucking busy stroking his cock, that he doesn’t hear the opening of the bathroom door.

He doesn’t hear it close.

Nor does he hear the shower door.

It isn’t until your hand slides over his that Simon realizes what’s happening.

Your other hand rests against his back, splaying wide, moving up and down in gentle passes.

“Let me,” you murmur and Simon releases himself, only for you take his place, stroking him perfectly in utter pleasure.

A shiver rattles up his spine. You’re not looking at his face. You stand off to his right, face lightly pressed against the right side of his upper back near his shoulder. Lips move against skin, leaving kisses behind. You give Simon these small gifts with each stroke of your hand along his shaft.

Do you know that your mouth and hand on his back are caressing his scars? Do you know? Because Simon does, and it make him feel unworthy. Those are no longer earned marks but ones of failure.

But it’s not like you know that.

Over the scars is ink. Black ink. Perhaps you feel their lines and ridges under the tattoos. Perhaps you don’t. Yet Simon knows, and he doesn’t hate the touch. Other people he’s fucked have touched them, commented on them, tried to even sexualize them.

You’re not touching the scars. You are but you aren’t. You’re touching him. Touching Simon.

With a gentle twist of your wrist, you glide down his cock and circle the head with your thumb. Simon groans, leaning into your hold. He imagines you sinking to your knees and taking him into your mouth. He imagines you spreading your legs wide in open invitation. Of him sliding into you, watching himself disappear into your welcoming body.

Your pace increases slightly, just enough to drag Simon toward his end.

He bursts, his release marking the wall, but Simon is already grabbing your wrist, twisting around to face you.

You’re fast. Already, you have one hand thrown over your eyes, a playful smile plastered on your face.

Simon doesn’t care. Not really. The mask is just habit.

Gently, Simon guides your hand away from your face and yet you still keep your eyes closed.

“Don’t want to look at me?” he asks teasingly.

You giggle. “Feels a bit wrong.”

Simon smirks and then grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the shower wall. He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear. “Your turn.”

Your hands go out to steady yourself as Simon slides his hand between your legs. He moans softly at the contact. You’re already wet for him, and it’s not because of the water. You’re fucking aroused. Needy. All Simon can think about is fucking you with his fingers before he fucks you with his tongue.

Simon wants to give you more but that has to wait. When he takes you like that, he needs to have all of you. Without interruptions. Without distractions. That’s how he wanted it to be three years ago at Riot Room. He wanted to take you home and fuck you on and over every surface in his flat. He wanted to make you scream his name until your voice went hoarse.

He circles your clit with his thumb a few times before testing with a finger. It slides right in and Simon feels the gentle flutter of your pussy adjusting to him. With his other hand, Simon slides it up your body to grab the front of your throat, holding you still. He presses his lips to the top of your head, not caring that the water is close to running into his eyes.

Simon begins to thrust and swirl, inserting a second finger quickly, wanting to feel how you’ll stretch for him. You whimper when his thumb makes another pass over your clit. It is sweet and Simon grins against your scalp, drinking in your little sounds.

But you are also reaching for him, left hand dropping from the wall to move behind you, palming his cock back to hardness even as Simon’s fingers fuck your pussy. You rock back, indicating what you want.

Simon nearly loses it right then.

He nearly snaps.

All he has to do is arch your hips a bit, maybe bend slightly at the knee. He’d fucking slide right in. He could fuck you right here against the shower wall, watch you whimper and beg, pinned between two hard surfaces.

You arch your back. Rub against him. His cock slides against the spot where your cunt and his fingers meet.

A vision of you clawing at the shower wall as he fucks you senseless clouds his mind. It infiltrates. Digs its feet in.

Simon nearly gives in right then as you orgasm, squeezing around his fingers. He nearly breaks the promise to himself.

But he somehow controls himself. Instead of giving in, Simon removes his hand from between your legs and twists his fingers in your hair, tugging to arch your back and bend you enough so he can reach that gorgeous fucking mouth.

His lips come down on yours and you moan against him. Simon’s hand at your throat eases, slips away, trailing over breast and waist and hip before stabilizing on your lower stomach. With this support, Simon slides his cock between your legs.

He does not penetrate, just rocks back and forth. With your thighs pressed together, and the slickness of your orgasm freshly coating your sex, he can pretend he’s inside you. Simon knows it isn’t enough but it’ll have to do for now.

The hand on your stomach sinks lower, shifting to your pelvis. His fingers find your clit. You’re already so sensitive from the previous orgasm that the second takes moments to come to life. Simon savors it, allows it to feed his own movements until he cannot contain his own. Pressing on your pelvis, Simon keeps you in place as finishes, his cock soaking in your juices.

The water is growing cold and Simon is fucking smug.

Slowly, he eases his cock from between your thighs, perfectly content with what just transpired. But his cum is fucking everywhere. It’s literally dripping from your sex.

“Fuck,” murmurs Simon, gently wiping some of that away with water.

That’s something the two of you need to fucking discuss. The first time the two of you had sex, there was a condom. This time, Simon doesn’t want there to be any barriers, but that cannot fucking happen without birth control. You might not be on it, and if that’s the case, the two of you will have to figure something else out.

You press into him. “Simon,” you groan, lips parting in wanton need.

A growl leaves his throat as he gives you what he wants. He nips and sucks on your bottom lip before drawing away, leaving you to face the shower wall. Simon shuts off the water and lightly tugs on your hand.

“Come on.”

He tugs on your hand again but you don’t move. Frowning, Simon grabs your shoulders and forces you to turn.

He blinks and then bursts out laughing. “What are you doing?” Your eyes are closed and your mouth is a thin line. “You can look at me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Simon chuckles, releasing your shoulders. He places one hand flat against the shower wall. Leaning in, Simon drops his voice to low purr. “Think I’m monstrous?”

With his words come the pebbling of your skin. He watches in real time as it fans out across your body. He grins in triumph.

“The very worst,” you reply softly.

Pushing off from the wall, Simon stands tall, shoulders squared, chest forward. “Look at me,” he says, and this time it’s a command.

You suck in a breath before one eye opens. It’s more of a squint but then you open the other, blinking a few times.

For some stupid fucking reason, Simon is a bit nervous. He’s never been nervous like this. Not when it comes to his face.

At first, your eyes widen, and Simon’s chest clenches tight as if a ribbon is twisted around his ribcage. Then, your brow softens, and your mouth forms the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen. Your hands instantly reach toward his face in eagerness only to pause just before making contact.

The retreat is shallow. You’re asking permission.

“It’s okay,” murmurs Simon, because it is.

You close this distance and Simon turns his face into your soft hands. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks. Your fingers trace his brow and nose. Every touch is exploratory and gentle, but fucking bliss.

“Hiding all this from me?” you tease. “You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.”

He chuckles, happiness vibrating in his chest. Clasping your hands with his own, Simon brings them down to his chest. In one motion, the two of you are coming together, lips meeting. This is all softness. All tenderness.

Simon draws back, licks his lips. “Will you go away with me?”

“On a trip?”

He nods, stealing one more kiss before continuing. “Next weekend? I can move a few things around.”

“I’m not sure,” you say slowly.

“If you say no I’m telling Amelia.”

You laugh, almost snort, and shake your head. “Fine. Where to?”

“It’s a surprise,” whispers Simon.

You pull back slightly, an amused expression on your face. Simon grins and steps out of the shower, bringing you with him. With towel in hand, Simon soaks up the droplets on his skin. He never takes his eyes off you as you dry yourself. The moment you’re done, Simon snags the towel from you and tosses it to the side.

“Come here,” he growls, needing you all over again.

You playfully bat at his hands but it’s all for show. You easily give in to him, allowing Simon to drag you onto the bed. He sighs as he pushes your legs wide, settling between them to drape one over each of his shoulders.

Dragging you to his mouth, Simon forgoes all teasing and closes the distance. Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his head as his tongue penetrates your pussy.

It is morning.

He’s simply enjoying his breakfast.

And Simon won’t leave the table until he’s finished his meal.

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befemininenow · 13 days

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Then, it doesn’t help that trans safe spaces are in constant attack either by transphobes who refuse to acknowledge our existence or by doms who see us as sissies.

Flashback Friday isn’t always positive, but I definitely have to let some steam out. On the outside, I look okay. But on the inside, I feel like I need to burst. What motivated me to make this caption? Two things:

One: The media and their disgusting need to capitalize on transphobia. They have been profiting off of transphobes for the past two years and it seems to be getting worse. Not only does it get tiring seeing transphobic comments everywhere online, but it’s even worse when peers being it up on conversations and talk negatively about trans people.

Two: Seeing this pic being used on sissy captions in a very degrading manner. Seriously, why am I still seeing those kind of captions on my feed?

From the time I saw this pic, I don’t recall seeing transphobia being this bad. Trans people weren’t as out as today, but it seemed that they were becoming slowly accepted by the public. Meanwhile, this pic was used as a R-rated form. (To make it simple, some people cry as a form of pleasure while others get hard seeing someone weak cry to their knees.)

Nowadays, with grumpy politicians outlawing HRT and gender therapy to under-25s and fighting hard to push back trans people to the closet, I don’t think you can see this pic the same again. Realistically, we’re not crying for pleasure anymore, but because we had enough of being seen as anything but trans.

As much as transphobia is getting to the point of becoming a legitimate danger, I will never submit to their desires of going back to the closet. They can shove their wet dreams up their you know where.

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misguidedasgardian · 1 year

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The Dragon's Mistress (9)

9. Is it I, the younger brother

MASTERLIST

Summary: You can’t catch a break

Warnings: cursing, mentions of war, mentions of death, humiliation, use of the word bastard and traitor, incest, smut, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 2.9 k

Notes: Please do not hate me for what I'm about to do…

Aemond walked the hallways hastily, with only one objective in mind

He found his cousin in a big dining room where they held small banquets for members of the court. He was talking to other lesser lords.

As soon as he saw him coming he smiled weirdly and triumphantly at him

“Cousin, long time no see”, he greeted

“It is Your grace, to you”, he said shortly and bitterly, Abelon’s demeanor changed in a second, “Go away”, he said to the other lords and they obeyed immediately after bowing shortly, then his attention returned to his cousin

They stared at each other for a while

“I’m glad you brought Dragonstone back into the fold”, he said weirdly, he was truly an ass-licker, Aemond thought, not a warrior, but only a politician, and that is why he was now the heir to Old Town without even as much as lifting a finger in the war

“And why is that, cousin?”, he asked bitterly

“Well, it was the seat of the traitor, and many of her followers”, he said nervously. Aemond could see why he would be worthy of you, he was a… somehow decent man, thich brown locks, green eyes, he was skinny though, nothing remarkable about his height

“Something else might make you glad I took it?”, he pressed, Abelon just straightened his posture, and drew a small smile

“Well, your grace, it is no secret… her Grace the Queen has been most gracious on offer, the princesses’ hand”

“You will deny the offer”, he said, no open for discussion

But Abelon wasn’t the smartest of men, unfortunately

“I am afraid I cannot do that, your grace”, he said, “is it not only the Queen Mother, but my family, my father, and the future of my house, the house I share with you in blood”, he said solemnly. Aemond only snickered, leaning into him, invading his personal space until the young man began to sweat heavily

“I know you think so highly of yourself”, he murmured, “what would you think of your betrothed if I tell you she is my personal whore?”, he asked, looking at him intensely with his one good eye. He swallowed, hard

“I’m aware of the rumors”, he said, trying to keep his composure

“And what do you think about them?”

“She is not going to be the first impure betrothed and she is not going to be the last”, Aemond only hummed, entertained

“I don’t know how you are going to do it, but you will refuse this betrothal”, it is the only thing he said before he walked away, leaving his cousin trembling in the middle of the dining room.

Alicent left you shortly after, and you took as second to keep admiring the room, and then you walked towards the beautiful balcony to gaze upon the view

You breathed in, and you had to admit that you didn’t like the smell

Those who had lived out of King’s Landing would agree, the sights of the beautiful city were eclipsed by the stench. The sun was setting and you already felt so tired you wanted to curl into the bed and sleep

But again, when could you ever do what you wanted?

The door to your rooms opened and Aemond appeared through them, once he set his eye on you he walked hastily towards you to grab you by your upper arms

“My love, sorry I abandoned you”, he said huskily, his eye roaming all over your face and frame

“It is alright my prince”, you whispered, you smiled at him, trying to calm him down, he did seem… excited… should you ask him about your betrothal? but again you didn’t want to make him feel like you were asking for explanations

You avoided his eye, looking at everywhere nervously, you didn’t know why, but you did felt like you were doing something you shouldn’t be doing

What if the Queen mother saw him here in your chambers?

he caressed your upper arms

“Nothing will change”, it was some sort of warning, “everything will remain the same between us two”, you only nodded, finally looking into his eye

“Of course”, you whispered

“You will not marry that man”, he added, and you barely nodded

“I don’t want to make things difficult”. you whispered, meaning that you were here in enemy territory and the last thing you could do was refusing direct orders from the Queen herself

“You are not making anything difficult”, he said, “you are obeying me, and that is the only thing that matters”, you nodded

“Of course my prince”, you whispered, he chuckled darkly, leaning in

“Soon it will be “my King”, he purred, and you smiled

“Are you happy to be home?”, you asked

“I am”, he said, “tomorrow morning I have an audience with my brother”

“Is the King alright?”, you asked

“HIs burns have rotten”, he said, “the amount of milk of the poppy they are giving is so high his mind has melted, he will not recognize me even if he saw me”

“That is horrible, my prince, I am very sorry”, you offered, that did indeed sounded terrible

“Thank you”, he said solemnly, “no one deserves to suffer like that, regardless of how… depraved they might behave”, you nodded, giving him the reason.

Soon the moment turned awkward, he kept looking into your face for something, and you didn’t even think

He kept smiling arranging a wild lock of hair behind your ear

“I will send for our dinner, and then we will lay together in that bed”, he whispered ludly, you just nodded

“Yes, my prince”

“I’ve trained you well”, he said so fleetingly that you thought you had imagined it, he walked away from you and towards the doors to your chambers

You turned again to the view of the balcony and you sighed loudly

You had been in these chambers so many times when you were little, looking for your mother. You whined when you felt the tingles in your nose that indicated you were about to cry

You couldn’t cry

No when Aemond was so near

You shaked with uncertainty and fear

The meal seemed to appear out of thin air as the maids brought in plates and silverware and set the table for just the two of you

You sat and ate in silence, Aemond couldn’t take his eye off of you the entire meal, he seemed to prefer to eat you than the roasted duck they have served you

But as you were in the middle of dinner, the doors to your chambers opened up abruptly

Alicent came in with that disturbed face, trailing behind her was Criston Cole

“AEMOND!”, Alicent called, and you believed you had never seen her so angry.

“Mother”, he said simply, wiping his mouth with a napkin

“What do you think you are doing?”, she asked, looking at you

“Having dinner with my betrothed”

“Enough!”, she said, you have never seen her like this, “a word? please?”, she asked after calming herself a bit, she seemed nervous

And you wondered

What could possibly make her nervous after all the hell you all been through?

Aemond sighed loudly but he stood up from the table, nodding

“Yes, mother”, he said lightly, and they all three abandoned your rooms quickly

You kept wondering if you were going to have privacy and a little bit of respect, or if people was going to keep barging in your rooms unannounced

Was Alicent going to convince Aemond to leave you alone for you to marry someone else? did she know her son had taken your maidenhead? Was Aemond powerful enough to do as he pleased?

The power of a King was an illusion, you thought bitterly, you still depended on the lords and ladies of the seats of power, you still depended on your family, or even the smallfolk if they knew how to press enough.

And you didn’t know what you wanted.

But the Queen did, she knew what she wanted from you. Aemond didn’t return in the night, so you did what you thought you should do, you put on your night dress, and cuddled yourself on the bed.

The very next morning you found a new dress the Queen had sent for you to wear, it was light green and when you looked at it, you wanted to throw up. But disobeying her wasn’t smart, so you sucked it up, and got dressed with the help of a nice maid Alicent has sent your way as well

You had an “invitation” to break your fast in the gardens with Abelon Hightower

And you decided to attend

When you saw him you realized happily you had never seen him before, and that somehow gave you comfort, because if he was on the Green’s side he didn’t quite make much in the war

“Good morrow M’lady”, he greeted with a smile, and you smiled back

“Good morrow My Lord”, he invited you to sit in a small table in the middle of the gardens

You soon realized he was a little full of himself, speaking of how powerful he was, of what he was going to do once he was the Lord of OldTown, and other things, he just kept yapping and yapping

“It is an honor to marry into the Targaryen Bloodline”, that did went through your haze of disinterest

“You are too kind My Lord”, you whispered

“Even though it come with strings attached, I know about the relationship between the Crown Prince and you”, he said, like he didn’t like that part and he didn’t, “But I believe we can work past this”, he said mindlessly

“I’m thankful for that”, you said

“Just make sure you are not with child”, he said, annoyed, and a shiver went through you, “after the ceremony we will leave for Old Town, as soon as we can”, you nodded, even though, you couldn’t show yourself too happy or content, if this didn’t work, you didn’t want to make it look like you were looking forwards to it

This could go terribly wrong

Aemond was a man you should fear, you had learned that the hard way.

You kept talking, or rather, he was talking.

You were constantly looking into the eyes of Arryk, like looking for help, and he couldn’t help his smile

Was this big-mouth fool a better choice for you than Aemond?

Yes he was full of himself, and he was kind of misplaced on what to say, a bit of a loose tongue, but… he didn’t seem cruel, he didn’t seem like he would like to play sick games with you to bend you to his will

Perhaps a live with him would be more bearable

But leaving Aemond seemed harder for you that you would like to admit, he was the only person you felt… comfortable with, the only one you truly knew

But your pondering of what your life might look like in Old Town was cut short, Arryk moved hastily, bowing, as Aemond appeared in the garden. Abelon stood hastily from his chair, making a mess of the table, he seemed genuinely scared

“Y-your grace!”, he stuttered

“Cousin”, and you never have seen Aemond so angry, he then looked at you, “my dear, why won’t you walk back to your chambers? Arryk will escort you”, you barely nodded, “Abalon”, the man beside froze at his name being called

“Your grace”, he stutters, again

“A word”, he wasn’t asking

The skinny man shakily bowed to you as a sign of respect and then walked towards him fearfully, and he abandoned the Gardens. Aemond turned to you

“You will not marry that man, I told you already, don’t make me say it again”, he said with a deep grunt, you only nodded, “I will have you on the throne room at noon”

“Yes my prince”, you whispered. And then he also left the gardens following his cousin.

Arryk walked towards you, nodding. You stood up from the table, grabbing one last lemon cake for the walk back to your chambers

“Perhaps your mother dropped you on your head as an infant”, Aemond spitted out as soon as he had his cousin away from all ears and eyes

“Your grace please, my dear aunt, the Queen…!”

“I don’t give a shit about my mother”, he spitted out, Abelon sighed

“Your grace, please… I”

“You will go away from this court”, he said shortly, no room for answers, “you will withdraw your offer for her hand, and you will not marry”, Abelon looked into his cousin’s face, “or I will kill you”

“Your grace”, he whispered, truly frightened, “you would kill your own cousin?”, Aemond laughed, cruelly

“I killed my own nephew and the man I most admired, who was also my uncle and you don’t think I will kill you?”, he mocked him, and Abelon almost peed his pants

“I see”, he said shakily

“I think you just got a letter from your father calling you back to Old Town”, it was not a suggestion

Abelon walked… rather… he ran away from Aemond, away from the gardens and later that day away from the Keep, and away from King’s Landing, never to be seen again.

With him out of this way, Aemond sighed loudly, now he had you all to himself, but he feared you were not going to have him all to yourself.

He as probably the most powerful man in all the seven Kingdoms and yet he could not do as he pleased

Today, at his mother’s pleasure, the entire court was going to be summoned to the Throne room. Aegon was not well, he didn’t even recognize him, he didn’t even recognize his mother, so she decided for the realm’s sake, to introduce him as the King, King regent for now, King when the stranger decided to take him.

And alongside his appointment, he had to announce something that will cement him as the King, his alliances and his appointments for the small council

Members that had already been carefully selected and named

You were concerned, to say the least

You took advantage of the fact that the Queen was distracted for you to change into a dress of the colors of your family, black and red, you will not use green as they intended for you to use. You used a old dress from your mother

If you were not going to marry Abelon, and not have a new life away from all this mess, and Aemond was determined you marry him, you were going to be the next Queen of the Seven kingdoms

perhaps this was divine justice, for all that had been done to your family

With this you could actually make everything worth it, no more wars, no more conflicts, unity, your mother’s blood on the throne. This what was meant for you, your purpose, your mission, you had to do this, the ultimate revenge, for your mother.

Noon came faster than you anticipated, and you found it strange nobody came looking for you, so you found your own way to the throne room

People were already gathered towards the throne, so you walked back and over at one of the side hallways, to have a better view. As soon as you placed your hands on the stone bannister you caught Aemond’s attention, he was standing by the feet of the throne, which was empty, the Queen was by his side, and she followed his gaze towards you.

Her mouth twisted disapprovingly when she spotted what you were wearing, but Aemond only smirked a little

Criston Cole stood in front of everyone

“I present the court this day, the King Regent, Aemond Targaryen”, he said aloud, and the throne room started clapping

It didn’t surprise them, he had been acting as King regent for the moment Aegon got injured badly, he ha seemed to heal from his wounds, but then relapsed under unknown circumstances to you

The realm wanted him, at least, the court and the city did

He was a hero of war, he had murdered half your family, and for them, that made him a hero.

He walked the unsteady steps until he could sit on the Iron throne. Arryk approached with the crown of the conqueror in a pillow and offered it to Criston, who ceremoniously placed it atop of Aemond’s head.

Not content with that, he placed Blakfyre on his hands as well

Aemond sitting on the throne, with the crown on his head and the sword on his hands, it was an imposing view, incredible view, certainly, it made you tremble

The people applauded, as the Queen did

“King Aemond!”, cheered Arryk, and everyone followed him, everyone cheered the name of their next King

He stood up, with the sword still in his hands.

“My first act as King is to name the small council, that will help me to lead this Kingdom to its future”, he started naming old men you didn’t know, except for Tyland Lannister who had somehow survived your mother’s torturing when it was demanded of him to return the treasury. And also Borros Baratheon was named, surprisingly, as the hand of the King.

“And also, to announce the most important alliance of all”, you never notice how thunderous Aemond’s voice could be when he spoke aloud, it certainly make you feel something, He found you, he looked straight at you, and Alicent noticed, Cole noticed it, a few people noticed.

You shook were you stood

Were the people going to accept you?

“I am to marry”, he announced to the court, and he looked at you fleetingly, but then he looked back out front, “the lady Floris Baratheon”, he said aloud, and right then and there, you felt like you were truly going to die.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x alys rivers #aemond x oc #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen #hbo house of the dragon #house of the dragon #house targaryen #alicent hightower #targaryen!oc #targaryen!reader

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