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spider-stark · 9 hours ago

Text

TAKE THAT

pairing | simon bellamy x reader

summary | nathan takes his smartassery too far, making simon walk off during community service – and you decide to follow him

warnings | set in s1, reader doesn't like alisha for the plot, briefly mentions simon piss kink (lmao), could be ooc? but i did my best so just throw a tomato if you hate it alright, no beta/only spellchecked

word count | 2.5k

“Where’re you going?” Nathan cried.

You whirled back to him, face screwed up in a look of pure rage. “Are you that fucking daft?” you asked him.

A bead of sweat dripped from your hairline down your temple. It wasn’t hot, per say, but the humidity was killer and did nothing but worsen your already shit mood.

Nathan leaned his weight on one hip, pouting slightly. “Oh, c’mon. It was a joke! A silly little mess-around between friends.”

“And you consider Simon your friend now, do you?”

His nose wrinkled – and that was answer enough.

You scoffed, heading shaking as you turned back to the Community Centre. “You’re an asshole, Nathan.”

“Wait! Are you seriously gonna make me do all this work myself?”

Never breaking stride, you stuck your hand up in a good ole one-finger salute.

There was a loud huff, a sound like Nathan kicked a bin over – there were several around him, all lined up for today’s gross community service task. “Fine,” he shouted after you, “no problem! So much for ‘teamwork makes the dream work,’ eh? I don’t need you anyway!”

Up the short steps leading to the Community Centre’s double-doors, you tugged the handle to be greeted by a welcoming rush of ice-cold air conditioning.

Before the door closed behind you, Nathan gave one last shout: “But don’t come crying for my help when it’s your panties the weird kid’s sniffing!”

Prick, you thought to yourself.

A part of you did feel bad for leaving today’s task to Nathan. It wasn’t a fun one – not that any part of community service was what you considered fun.

Sally had split the six of you into two groups. Kelly, Curtis, and Super Slag were to go around gathering up all the bins – from inside and outside – to drag them out to where you, Nathan, and Simon had been stationed to give them a good scrubbing.

It was a vile job.

The inside bins weren’t so bad. They smelled like sour milk and rotting food, doubtless caused by the dried liquid spilled down the insides and the moldy sandwich crusts smushed in the bottoms; but they were objectively cleaner than the outside bins, which were just as rank but with the bonus torture of being caked in bird shit. Not to mention the occasional used condom taking the place of moldy crusts…

It didn’t help that none of you were given gloves. Only cheap sponges and a shared bucket of sudsy water; which meant after cleaning the first bin, you’d all be dipping your bare hands into cummy shit-water.

Your shoes squeaked as you turned a corner to head down the hallway.

Yes, a part of you did feel bad for Nathan – but a part wasn’t anywhere near the whole. He had done this to himself after all, and maybe a few hours scrubbing bins would make him reconsider his jerkface attitude.

If only he knew how to shut his trap, you thought, or how to not be such a fucking wanker.

The locker room was at the end of the hallway. It was on the place you knew to check, the only place you thought Simon might go, and when you reached the door you nearly busted straight inside before hesitating.

What if he was changing? That was what you would do if you were him: strip out of this ugly jumpsuit and ditch early, before you caught an actual prison sentence for stuffing your foot so far up Nathan’s ass he’d need a dentist to remove the rubber sole of your shoe from his teeth.

But Simon wasn’t you. You doubted he would ditch, or kick Nathan’s ass.

You frowned at the door, brows drawn as if it was hiding something from you and intimidation might make it spill the deets. What if Simon was crying? Or fuming? Or what if he wanted to be alone, or what if he didn’t but you just weren’t the person he wanted chasing after him?

Memories of the other week had been stuck in your mind like gum in someone’s hair. You couldn’t stop hearing Simon’s voice, seeing Super Slag’s manicured hand on his neck.

I’m so hard for you–

–I wanna rip your clothes off and piss on your tits.

It bothered you. It shouldn’t have – but it did.

It wasn’t like you were desperate for him to want to piss on your tits or anything – because you weren’t, alright? But if Simon Bellamy was bound and determined to piss on someone, you weren’t sure why it couldn’t be you.

What did Alisha Daniels have that you didn’t?

A power, you thought helplessly, a damn good one at that.

This was all beside the point, anyway. Sure – you might’ve had a bit of a schoolyard crush on Simon, but it wasn’t like you had chased after him for a chance at shagging him while he was down. You wanted to check on him, to make sure Nathan’s sharp tongue hadn’t finally cut too deep.

You shook the nerves out from your hands before lifting a fist, knocking on the door very, very gently.

“Simon?”

Air conditioning hummed through the vent over your head. Lights buzzed in the annoying way fluorescents always did. Somewhere in the distance you could hear voices – Sally’s, you were pretty sure, and a male voice you didn’t care to place.

But from inside the locker room?

Not a sound.

“Can I come in?” you asked, only to immediately feel like a total milksop.

The locker room was a public space. You didn’t need Simon’s permission to go in, and if he couldn’t get control of his tongue long enough to tell you no, then it seemed like fair game to do whatever you wanted.

Easing the door open, you gave him the small courtesy of calling out, “Last call to cover yourself if you’re naked or something, yeah?”

You hoped he was naked.

But unfortunately, you found Simon fully clothed.

He was on the far side of the room, sitting perfectly straight on a too-small bench stuffed between two lockers. His head lifted at your entrance. Blue eyes blinked at you. You couldn’t tell whether he was anxious or surprised or confused. It was always difficult to tell exactly what Simon was thinking – but you liked to think you were getting better at it.

For example: his left leg was bouncing, so slight it was nearly imperceptible, and he was fidgeting with his fingers in a way that made it clear he didn’t know he was fidgeting.

Anxious, you decided. Definitely anxious.

Now whether he was anxious because of Nathan’s smartassery or your unexpected presence, however… well, that was another question entirely.

You hovered by the door, watching him. “You okay?”

Blue eyes dropped back to his lap. In lieu of a verbal response, he nodded his head – but only once, and far too stiff to be believable.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Has spending so much time with the rest of us turned you to the dark side,” you teased, “or have you always been such a liar?”

“I’m not a liar,” he defended, quick and almost-toneless.

Your smile grew wider as you hummed. “And that, my friend, is another lie.”

A deep crease formed between his brows, as if your words held some secret meaning he needed to decode, each syllable shifting in his brain like a jumbled Rubik’s Cube.

Casually, you crossed the room to stop just short of him. His stare shifted from his lap to your shoes. When you gestured at the bench, his breath seemed to hitch in his chest.

“Can I sit?”

His body must’ve been on autopilot, because Simon instantly went to stand before your laughter made him freeze.

“With you, dummy! Honest, Si – do you really think I’d kick you from your own seat?”

“Simon,” he managed to say. At your questioning look, he (uncomfortably) clarified, “You called me Si. That’s not my name.”

Your chest felt about to burst, a million butterflies fluttering inside your ribcage. How precious could a person be? How sweetly oblivious?

“It’s a nickname.” Playfully, you knocked the toe of your shoe against his. “Surely you know what those are,” you said.

“I know,” Simon said quickly. “It’s just… no one’s ever…”

Rather than finish his sentence, Simon scooted over. Even with his shoulder squished firmly against the side of the locker, there was still hardly any room on the bench.

You sat down anyway.

Warmth emanated through the orange fabric of your jumpsuits, the side of your thigh pressed against his. His elbow was a mere millimeter shift from jabbing you in the side. And he smelled good – really good, like soap and sugared citrus, fresh with a zesty sweetness that brought your senses to life.

Your mouth started watering. Would he taste sweet, you wondered? His lips, his tongue, his neck, his–

“Why did you come after me?”

Simon’s voice was hesitant, like each word had to be pried up his throat.

“Because Nathan’s a cock-muncher,” you said on instinct, “and I figured I’d get your blessing before kicking his ass on your behalf.”

You swore Simon almost smiled; not with his mouth, but his eyes, still fixed on his lap. “You shouldn’t kick his ass,” he said matter-of-factly. “Violence never helps.”

“Says the arsonist,” you quipped.

“I put the fire out,” he defended.

“Oh, I see. So you’re just a regular do-gooder then? Here by accident, are you?” Without thinking, you bumped your shoulder into his. His whole body tensed, but he looked no more uncomfortable than usual. “No,” you said softly, casually. “You’re one of us, Si.”

There it was again – that look of shifting syllables.

“A criminal?” he guessed.

“A misfit,” you corrected. You tilted your head slightly lower, trying to force him to look at you. “And us misfits have to stick together, don’t you think?”

That was the truth of it, wasn’t it? You told yourself this wasn’t just about Simon, that you would’ve followed any of them if they were upset, even Nathan, as big of a prick as he was.

But that wasn’t true.

Simon was the only one you would do this for. Maybe because you knew none of the others would. Kelly would check on Nathan, Curtis on Super Slag – but Simon? No. None of them would check on Simon. They might not even notice he was gone.

You noticed, though.

Simon loosed a small breath from his nostrils, staring miserably at the closed door leading out to the rest of the Community Centre. “Everyone thinks I’m strange. Not just here, but everywhere. No one ever finds me… interesting,” he decided.

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, considering.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Simon wasn’t just a boy.

Maybe he was a raw nerve, a wound still bleeding.

Or maybe it didn’t even matter exactly what he was.

Maybe – just maybe – all that mattered was that for reasons you couldn’t quite name, you wanted nothing more than to kick dirt into the eyes of anyone who had ever been mean to him.

“Well… you are strange, Simon.”

His brow furrowed, shoulders slumping slightly.

“But that isn’t a bad thing,” you rushed to say. “Honest. Why else do you think I chased after you?”

He repeated your earlier statement. “To get my blessing to kick Nathan’s ass.”

The sound of him swearing nearly made you laugh. His voice was too sweetly subdued to make dirty words sound anything other than nice.

“Aside from that,” you said.

He thought about it. “To get out of cleaning bins?”

Well… maybe a little bit, you thought.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a piss-poor guesser?” you said instead.

Simon’s shoulders seemed to slump further, his body at risk of caving in on itself. But then blue eyes dared a flighty glance at you. You were smiling at him, and for the first time since you met Simon Bellamy, his lips twitched as if he might actually know how to smile too.

“No,” he said. “They haven’t.”

“Well let me be the first,” you teased, “because I’m not sure how much clearer I can make it without writing it smack on your forehead, Si. Normal is overrated. Being strange is what makes you interesting, yeah? That’s why I followed you, because I’ve got more interest in the arson-loving panty sniffer–”

Simon’s ears turned bright red. “I’m not a panty sniffer,” he defended.

“–over an almost-Olympian with powder nose,” you continued seamlessly, “and a mouthy prick who got caught nicking some Pick-n-Mix.” A fake story, you were pretty sure; Nathan wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but you doubted he was stupid enough to get booked over something like that.

Simon looked back at the door. His voice was quiet. “He fancies you, you know.”

You frowned. “Nathan?”

Simon nodded.

You weren’t exactly surprised. Even if you hadn’t considered the idea yourself, it was easy to see that Nathan did have a way of honing in on you: picking on you differently than he did the rest, always gazing at you like a lost puppy trying not to look lost.

“Yeah? How do you figure that?”

“His feet.”

Simon had spoken so gravely, so end-of-the-end, that you simply couldn’t help yourself.

His head snapped to yours. “You’re laughing.” Not quite a question, but not a statement either. “It’s not funny. I–... I’m being serious,” he told you. “They’re always pointed at you. I read it in an article online – that when men are attracted to someone, their feet automatically point in that person’s direction.”

You glanced down, feeling awfully giddy. “And how about your feet?”

He glanced, too.

Suddenly, it wasn’t just his ears that were red – it was his whole face, pale skin covered by splotches of embarrassment.

Given the two of you were seated side-by-side, it would be an overstatement to say his feet were truly pointing at you. But they were angled your way, the rubber toe of his all-black shoe practically touching yours, as if remembering the way you’d playfully kicked him earlier, now desperate to regain what little contact you had freely given him.

Before he could reply – if he could reply, looking like he was about to be sick with nerves – you moved your feet so your shoes were angled at his, too.

This time, there were no syllables for him to shift, no Rubik’s Cube to solve.

“You… you find me interesting?”

You shifted your arm out from between the two of you – a movement made awkward by your close proximity – and dared to lay your hand just above his knee. His leg tensed beneath your touch, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of smug satisfaction when his hips jolted slightly.

Holding his stare, you smiled at him and said, "I think you're the most interesting person I've ever met, Si."

You didn't have a power. But it turned out you didn't need one to have Simon Bellamy wrapped around your finger.

Take that, Super Slag.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | wrote this to try and survive the hell that is writing my philosophy paper. probably don't have the best grasp on simon's character, but that's cause i basically ditched misfits before even finishing s2 lmao but i love iwan rheon and freaky weird dudes, so now this exists and we all just gotta deal with it

thanks for reading!!

#simon bellamy imagine #simon bellamy fic #simon bellamy one shot #misfits imagine #misfits fic #misfits simon imagine #misfits simon fic #simon misfits imagine #simon misfits fic #simon bellamy x reader #simon bellamy x you

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spider-stark · 10 hours ago

Text

FILTHY

pairing | ramsay bolton x reader

summary | the new-made lord wants a bath

warnings | 18+ MDNI, mentions of flaying, preestablished situationship that's on hold (lol), reader is a servant, could be ooc but idk i tried, ramsay is a bitch and you shouldn't trust anything he says OR DOESN'T SAY ever, spellchecked but that's it cause #yolo

word count | 2.0k

A strand of hair clung to your forehead, sweat slick from countless trips up and down the steep steps of Winterfell. Your biceps ached as you heaved the bucket onto the tub’s edge, palms burning from the raw bite of its thin, rusted handle.

Blowing the hair from your face, you glared across the room. “You’re enjoying this.”

Ramsay grinned from where he lounged on his bed. He was dressed in nothing but a thin robe, tied loose enough to expose much of his pale chest, marred by slashing scars.

His body was nothing you hadn’t seen before. Nothing you hadn’t mapped with your tongue.

And yet he captivated you still.

“My lord,” he corrected. “You’re enjoying this, my lord.”

Your teeth gritted.

Would it be wrong, you wondered, to cross the room and dump the bucket’s contents over his head? The water was near boiling. Perhaps it would burn his pretty face off, melting the stupid spell he had over you.

Or perhaps it would end with you strung up in the dungeon, skin kissed by a flaying blade...

Tilting the bucket, you hoped the steady splash of water might drown your thoughts. The tub was nearly full now. You would be able to leave Ramsay’s rooms after this – so long as my lord didn’t take issue with the temperature (again).

Five times you had been made to fill and drain then fill the tub again.

Five times you had resisted the urge to smack Ramsay upside his head.

When the last drop had dripped, you set the bucket aside to assess the water’s temperature with your fingertips. Instantly, tension released from your muscles. It felt nice – not so cold as he claimed the first bath to be, not so hot as the third, and nicer than any bath you had ever taken.

You dried your hand on your apron. “Better,” you told him stiffly.

Ramsay swung his legs off the side of his bed. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

He waited until he was in front of you, on the other side of the tub, to undo his robe and let it slide from his shoulders. Broad shoulders. Good for gripping and biting and–

Ramsay stepped into the tub. You fought to keep your eyes on his – pale and violent, yet oh-so pretty, like ice gleaming on the surface of a lake. Water lapped at the tub’s edge as he moved a foot throughout it, assessing the temperature for himself. The sound was a siren song, urging coaxing begging you to look down. You didn’t want to. You did want to. Your mouth salivated at the thought of what you would see, the flat plain of his stomach and the impressive length between his legs.

As if able to read your mind, Ramsay smirked at you before lowering into the water. “Tepid,” he said, “but I suppose I’ll make do.”

Make do. He’ll make do, you thought incredulously.

Most days, you and other servants were expected to sponge off with leftover dishwater. Others, your Lord Roose Bolton might allow you each a bucket from the kennels, whatever the hounds hadn’t drank before having their water refreshed. The former left your skin dry and smelling sour, while the latter left it sticky with drool.

You would kill for one of the clean, oil-scented baths enjoyed by nobles – tepid or not.

With your arms crossed behind your back, you fisted the thin linen of your dress. “I am glad it meets your standards,” you made yourself say.

“That’s not even close to what I said.”

“But if it pleases you,” you ignored him, snatching the bucket up by its handle, “I will be taking my leave for the night.”

You made it no more than a step backwards from him when he began to tut. “You think you’re done?” he asked, amused. “You forget yourself. This is Winterfell, little pet – and I am to be the Warden of the North someday.” As if you could forget… the smug bastard reminded you daily. “Do you truly think wardens are meant to trouble themselves with tasks so menial as bathing?”

“If a man can be trusted to ward the North,” you said tiredly, “then surely he can be trusted to scrub his own balls.”

If Ramsay was another lord – his father, or even the patient Lord Eddard Stark – you would face punishment for speaking out of turn. Lord Roose might’ve even yanked the forked tongue straight from your mouth, plopping it into a jar of vinegar to decorate his council room.

But Ramsay was not Roose, nor Eddard.

Ramsay found humor in insolence.

Grinning, he said, “Oh, but you’re so much better at it.” He swiped the sponge off the bath tray set up beside the tub, holding it out to you like a gift. You only stared at it. Impatience sprouted like weeds between his teeth. “Would you like me to say please?”

You would.

“Don’t bother.” You dropped the bucket with a loud clang, adjusting your skirt to kneel beside the tub. “I worry the word might burn your tongue.” And who would tend to that wound if not you? And how quickly would your resolve falter that close to his mouth, his lips, the sharp points of his teeth?

Ramsay ignored your snark. But as you took the sponge from his hand, your fingertips grazing his palm, he said, “Good girl.”

There was a sudden tightness in your gut.

You assured yourself it was due to loathing – not lust.

Ignoring him as he had done you, you dipped the sponge in the water – careful to avoid looking at anything, ahem, important – and wrung it out before grabbing his favorite cypress soap off the bath tray. When the sponge was thoroughly lathered with fresh-scented bubbles, you tapped the back of Ramsay’s shoulder a bit harder than necessary.

“Lean up.”

“My lord,” he corrected again, even while doing as you commanded.

Ramsay’s back was as impressive as his front. Well-muscled from years of archery and hunting with his hounds. Still pale, still flecked with scars – some deep and vicious, from prey with a bit more fight in them; others long and sensual, from pets like you or Myranda.

There were freckles on his back, too. Cute, dainty – words that couldn’t be used to describe Ramsay Snow Bolton in any other way. Soap waterfalled over them as you scrubbed between his shoulder blades, your mind drifting to nights spent beneath his sheets. How often had you laid awake, trying to count each one amidst the soft hum of his snores? How often had you traced a finger from one to the next, mapping them into constellations more beautiful than any maester had discovered?

You had thought you would marry him, once. Imagined babes with dark hair growing into smiles that were all teeth, their pale skin spotted with stars. Not so crazy a dream, once… A bastard marrying a serving girl was no queer thing, after all. It happened all the time.

But now he was a lord.

Your lord.

“Either I’m filthy,” Ramsay said, disrupting the haze that had fallen over you, “or you’re distracted. Are you admiring your handiwork?” In truth, you couldn’t tell which of the claw marks had come from you, Myranda, or any of the other girls Ramsay had taken to bed.

Could he tell? You hoped so – and hated yourself for it.

“You had it right the first time,” you said, stiff and awkward, with a familiarity not befitting a lord and his servant. “You are filthy.”

He chuckled. “Then perhaps you should bathe me more often.”

A smile twitched at your lips, rinsing the soap from his back with cupped hands. “It’s not your body that needs cleansing.” It was his mind, his mouth, his hands – especially his hands, pristinely groomed, yet stained bone deep with the lifeblood of every man, woman, and child who had met his flaying knife. “There isn’t enough soap in the world to make you pure.” Nor any title that can change what you are.

Tommen Baratheon’s decree might have legitimized Ramsay, given him a name to match his blood, but in the eyes of a trueborn lord? A bastard was a bastard from birth ‘til death, no matter the scribblings of a boy king. If Fat Walda bore Roose a son, he would be named heir – and as for Ramsay? There would be only two options: death or the Wall. And while the bastard looked swell in black, you knew he would swear no oath to the Nights Watch.

When you were done rinsing, Ramsay leaned back and laid his arms along the side of the tub. He watched as you wet the sponge again. He looked calm – a façade betrayed by the subtle tap tap tap of his index finger.

“Would you like me better if I were pure?”

Your eyes widened.

“Servants aren’t meant to hold such opinions of their lord,” you managed evenly. The sponge was already well lathered, but you coated it with more soap anyway, avoiding Ramsay’s stare.

He snorted. “We both know you hold no shortage of opinions.”

“Such as?”

“You think I should wash my own balls, to start.”

“That’s not an opinion,” you argued. “It’s fact. Do you think Eddard Stark needed someone to bathe him below the waist? Or how about his son?” The Young Wolf, they had called him. “That one died a king,” you said, “yet I’d bet my last coin no servant ever had to scrub his cock.”

The water rippled as Ramsay shrugged. “Perhaps that’s why they failed to hold Winterfell. Too much time spent polishing the ole sweaty jewels rather than ruling the lands they were given.” You could hear the smile in his voice, lazy and cruel. “Or perhaps they just fools, cut down by smarter, more worthy men.”

“Is that what you are now?” you asked without thinking. “A smarter, more worthy man?”

You cursed yourself for looking at him then, for noticing how his eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. He was offended. Hurt, even – or as hurt as someone like him could be. Was I not smart before? he refused to ask. Did you, too, not consider me worthy?

But then he blinked, all childish vulnerability faded into a look of trained boredom.

“I changed my mind. A servant shouldn’t hold opinions of their lord – they’re too stupid to be trusted.”

His words coiled in your chest, a barbed serpent around your heart.

You knew better than to get upset. It was the nature of hurt things, after all, to hurt those around them. And who was more adept at getting under the skin than a pretty boy with sharp teeth, death on his heels and power at his fingertips?

Squaring your shoulders with a deep breath, you set the sopping sponge on the bath try. “Apologies, my lord, but I’m afraid I’m in no position to be of further use to you tonight. I will fetch another servant to–”

Ramsay caught you by the wrist as you stood up, intending to escape. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub from the force of his movement. Your skin burned where he touched you. Not like fire, hot with bubbling blisters – but like frostbite, a cold sting burrowing underneath your flesh.

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “If I wanted another servant, I would call for one myself.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t think.

Slowly, Ramsay loosened his hold on your wrist.

Even slower, he let go completely.

“You’ll stay.” He grabbed the sponge off the bath tray and began scrubbing his own chest. “If not to wash my balls, then to provide entertainment.” There was stiffness in his voice that undermined his humor, his command.

No title will change him, you thought, sadness pulling at your heartstrings.

He would always be a bastard with no friends, save for those he forged out of suffering and pain, cruelty wrapped in deceptive adoration. No amount of power would ever purge his need for acceptance. No victory would ever eradicate the loneliness in his bones.

There would be no marriage. No babes with dark hair and star-flecked skin.

But Ramsay was still Ramsay, and you had never been any good at denying him what he wanted.

You knelt back down beside the tub. “Entertain you how?” you asked.

He began to grin.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

super sick bolton divider made by @/valyrianvibranium !!

a/n | i'm of the belief that after the cut ramsay pulls her into the bath, fully clothed, and the rest of their night is actually just smutty and as cute as a night with ramsay can get. definitely doesn't last beyond the night tho - reader is for sure gonna end up dog food at some point. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

anyways, thanks for reading! and an extra special thanks to @polaris-daydreams for being my newest mutual to yap about ramsay and theon with lmao🫶

#ramsay bolton imagine #ramsay snow imagine #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay snow x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones imagines #game of thrones x reader #got imagine #got x reader #asoiaf imagine #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf fic #ramsay bolton fic #ramsay bolton x you #game of thrones fic

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