#simon bellamy

Propaganda:

Nathan & Simon

The community center empties in stages.

First the voices fade. Kelly’s laugh echoing down the corridor, Alisha’s sharper comments cutting through it. A door bangs somewhere. Footsteps recede. Then, silence settling in layers.

You wait—counting to be sure.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Nothing.

You wait longer than you need to, until you’re absolutely sure you don’t hear anything else.

The building is finally quiet.

Then, you close the bathroom door and lock it.

It rattles in the frame, the sound too loud in the empty building. You grimace, then strip anyway, tugging your clothes off and shoving them into a heap on the cracked bench. The air is cool against your bare skin. Your shoulders ache from scrubbing windows that never seem to stay clean. You’re sweaty, sticky, and irritated.

You want the grime off you. Now.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

The showers are old, tiled in that chipped off-white that never quite looks clean. The space is narrow—two steps wide, barely enough room to turn around without bumping the tile. You twist the knob and the pipes shriek before the water punches out, hot and aggressive. You step under it without hesitation and hiss, before adjusting the temperature down, sighing when it hits just right.

Steam begins to bloom and curl around your naked form, fogging the mirror and blurring the room into something softer. Safer.

Your body loosens in stages. Neck first. Then your shoulders drop. The tension sinks lower, into your hips, then thighs. Closing your eyes, you spread your feet a little, letting the hot water run down your back—letting it rinse the ache of the day off.

In the room, unseen, Simon stands very still.

He hadn’t meant to stay. He told himself that. He told himself he was checking the building, making sure no one else was around. That you weren’t alone in a place like this. He even followed Kelly and Alisha out, then quickly circled back to you. And waited.

The sound of the running water fills the room. Simon stays invisible, back pressed against the tiled wall, watching the way steam beads small droplets on your skin.

He can see everything—your back, your hips, your ass, the way your stomach softens when you relax. He could reach out and touch you without even leaning forward.

He doesn’t.

You tilt your head forward and let the water soak your hair. You drag a hand through it, fingers scraping your scalp. Your breasts shift with the movement. The water runs down the back of your neck, a loud sigh sound leaving your lips when it hits another sore spot.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You scrub shampoo through your hair, elbows lifted, posture unguarded. You roll your neck, easing tension, eyes still closed. You scrub yourself. Palm over collarbone. Down your ribs. Over your chest. The water traces lines over body parts you don’t think about with no one around. You’re tired. You’re sweaty. You just want to feel clean.

You hum quietly to yourself.

In the background, Simon swallows. Hard.

He knows he should leave. The thought barely registers as he watches the way you tilt your head back, throat exposed, lips parted as you breathe. Watches the way your nipples pebble as your hands glide over your breasts, washing yourself slowly and absent-mindedly, like your body finally belongs to you again for the first time all day.

Simon’s jaw tightens.

The stall feels smaller by the second. Steam sticks to his lungs. The air tastes like soap and metal and you. He’s so close he can see every naked curve as you turn around to rinse your hair, goosebumps erupting along your arms and thighs as the temperature shifts.

You rest your head against the cool tile for a moment, shoulders slumping. Vulnerable. Alone. So sure no one can see you like this.

Simon’s chest tightens, awe curdling into something raw and impatient, so much so it almost hurts. He shifts his stance, the hard outline of his cock straining against his pants impossible to ignore now.

The damp fabric clings as he adjusts himself in small, almost imperceptible movements—fingers hooking into his waistband, tugging it down (dragging his briefs with them) just enough to ease the tight pressure pulling low in his gut. There’s a faint rasp of clothes sliding against his hips as he frees himself, his cock springing out heavy and flushed red, hard from base to tip.

Cool air hits him and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as he presses a palm over his crotch, bluntly wrapping a hand around his cock, thumb settling at the head as his fingers close around the shaft. The contact makes his jaw clench and eyes roll to the back of his head, throat working as he gives himself a slow, testing pull.

Simon braces his shoulder against the tile, cock in his fist, as he watches you through the mist like he’s starving. His breathing falters, chest rising and falling in measured pulls he’s trying—and failing—to keep silent.

You stiffen.

The stall suddenly feels… crowded.

It’s not a thought so much as a pressure—like standing too close to someone on a packed bus. Heat where there shouldn’t be heat. Air that feels breathed. The feeling hits you all at once—that prickle between your shoulder blades. The hairs at the nape of your neck standing at attention. The sense of being observed.

Every muscle in your body locks at once. Your head snaps up, eyes open, heart slamming hard enough it feels like it might crack a rib. You slightly turn in place, scanning the edge of the stall and glancing towards the direction of fogged mirror down the hallway.

“Hello?” you call out, voice echoing oddly in the tiled room.

No answers. Just the water continuing to pour down. The lights buzzing and flickering overhead.

Simon doesn’t breathe.

You stand there—naked and dripping—listening, suddenly very aware of how small the space is. How boxed in and exposed you are. How if someone were here, there’d be nowhere to go.

After a beat too long, you swallow and shake your head, “Get it together,” you mutter, irritated at yourself.

You swallow and rinse yourself off faster now. Rougher. Less relaxed. With your back towards the wall, eyes kept open, glancing towards the curtain the whole time.

You angle your foot toward the drain to keep the water from pooling.

The water temperature jumps.

You swear—muttering under your breath, annoyed and overstimulated—before you lean back, readjusting, when something warm suddenly hits you, sliding down along the back of your thigh.

You jerk in surprise, heart spiking hard enough to make your ears ring. You half-turn, scanning the fogged tile again, the corner of the stall where there is barely enough room for you, let alone—

Nothing.

Your breath comes shallow. Get a grip.

You look down, frowning.

There’s a pale streak clinging to your skin, thicker than the water, cloudy for a second before the spray starts thinning it. You touch it without thinking, thumb and forefinger coming away slick.

“What the fuck…” you murmur, rubbing the mysterious substance between your fingers.

You sniff your fingers, confused. Soap? Conditioner? The cheap stuff from the dispenser smells like nothing and everything.

“Gross,” you mutter, assuming soap scum. Or whatever ancient gunk these pipes cough up when they’re hot too fast. This place is a dump. Of course the drains are fucked. You grimace, feeling stupid and a little embarrassed at yourself, before rinsing your hand under the spray.

More of it trails down your leg, diluted immediately, swirling past your feet. Your frown deepens as you nudge it with your big toe. The water eddies, cloudy for a second, then clears.

You watch it disappear down the drain, and something in your stomach tightens as it goes. The way it clung for half a second too long. The way it looked against your skin before it was gone.

Your pulse won’t slow.

You rinse your foot, unsettled without knowing why.

Turning the water off, the sudden quiet is somehow worse—your own breathing loud in your ears, the fluorescent lights buzzing like they’re right above your skull. You grab your towel and wrap it around yourself quickly, skin still tingling, nerves on edge for no good reason you can name.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

When nothing happens, you step out and dry off fast—dressing even faster. Your pulse doesn’t slow until you’re halfway down the corridor, hair still damp, replaying the shower back in your mind like you missed something important.

Later, at home, you shower again.

Longer this time. Hotter. You keep your eyes open the entire time, heart racing at every shift of air, every creak of the pipes. When you dry off, you check your skin twice, three times, like you expect to find something there.

That night, lying in bed, you can’t get comfortable.

Every brush of the sheets feels too intimate. Every shift of your own body makes you tense. You’re acutely aware of yourself in a way you never felt before—of how you breathe, how you move, how exposed you are even alone.

You check the door to make sure it’s locked.

Again.

And again.

You tell yourself it was nothing.

That it was just exhaustion.

That old buildings just make noise.

That it’s just your imagination running away with you because you were tired and wired and alone in a place that never feels safe.

You won’t think about how warm it felt. How little room there was in that stall. And you definitely won’t think about how it felt like there was another person behind you, breathing down your neck.

Because somewhere deep, buried under denial and confusion, something in you knows:

You weren’t alone.

You just don’t know how to prove it.

Sleep is difficult to come.

You roll onto your side. Then your back. Then your other side. The sheets drag across your skin and every shift feels too noticeable, like you’re brushing up against someone instead of cotton.

You try to focus on your breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

You check the clock.

12:17 p.m.

You huff and throw an arm over your eyes.

Your body is exhausted. Your brain won’t shut up. Every time you start to drift, you’re back in that shower stall. Back in that heat. Still feeling sensitive. Still feeling like your body isn't fully yours.

That thought irritates you.

No.

It is yours.

Your pulse keeps landing low in your belly instead of your chest.

You press your thighs together instinctively, the pressure sending a small spark running through you.

You freeze.

Then, slowly, your mind reroutes.

Community service. Nathan. Loud, careless, uncomplicated Nathan.

You think about the way he'd looked at you earlier today. The way he smirked when you rolled your eyes at him. The way his mouth quirked up when you told him to shut up. The way his voice dropped when he said something filthy just to get a reaction out of the group.

Heat curls low in your stomach, this time on your terms.

You slightly lift your hips off the bed, giving you space to scoot your underwear down your legs and throw them off towards a corner of the room, unseen and forgotten.

Your hand slips lower.

Not because you’re dreamy.

But because you’re wired, and if you’re going to feel this wound up, you might as well use it.

And maybe, if you burn this feeling out of your system, you’ll finally sleep—release might finally quiet your head.

You’re on your knees on the bed, torso folded forward so your chest is laying flat against the mattress. The T-shirt you sleep in hangs loosely off of you—a few sizes too big, collar stretched too wide, hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs so there’s nothing between your skin and the open air. Your bare ass is raised up high, back arched, spine tense, breath coming too fast through your mouth.

Your head is turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, lips slightly parted open. You can hear yourself panting, sharp little pulls of air like you’ve been running. One hand is braced near your face, fingers fisting the pillow, knuckles clenched hard, nails clawing at the fabric. The other is wedged between your thighs, still moving because stopping now feels impossible.

Every snap of your wrist sends a pulse of heat blooming through you, an overwhelming sensation that makes your toes curl and your hips rock back against your hand. You tell yourself it’s just nerves, stress. That you’ve had worse nights than this. But your body does not care what story you tell yourself.

The inner skin of your thighs is slick, and you are painfully aware of how open you are—how nothing is hidden in this position. How the mattress creaks faintly under you, the slide of skin on skin loud in the quiet room.

Your fingers are clumsy, unsatisfying, and a poor substitute. You know that. They slip and falter, never quite hitting what you need, never quite enough—leaving you more frustrated than satisfied—but you keep going anyway, chasing the edge more out of frustration than hunger.

Your thoughts slide back towards him.

Towards Nathan.

With that stupid mouth of his. The way he looks at you like everything’s a joke and he’s already in on the punchline. The way his eyes linger a second too long when he thinks no one’s looking. The exchanges you and him have had, across rooms and crowded moments—heated, charged, blink and you miss it. Like stolen cigarettes behind the trash bins. Like trouble you pretended not to want.

You wonder if he thinks about you too. If he notices the same things. If he ever replays those moments the way you do, alone, late at night, when your mind refuses to cooperate. You wonder how he'd react if he was here, right now, in your room. If he’d hesitate and ask permission. Or if he’d lose control. Would he use his tongue? His fingers? Would he take his time? Or simply rush in to bury his cock in your aching, sopping wet pussy.

The idea tightens low in your belly.

“I want those long fingers of his… to tease me till I cum. Want him to lick my pussy with that hot tongue of his—mm—want him to suck… mm… and play with all of me till I can’t think no more.”

The room’s silence fractured under the sound of your panting—breathless mewls and needy whines spilling from your lips, filling the space—underscored by the sloppy, wet noises of your fingers fucking a frantic rhythm into your slick cunt.

You shouldn’t be thinking about Nathan.

And you definitely shouldn’t be thinking about the way Simon has been watching you watch him.

That thought—Simon noticing—slides in uninvited as your mind, stupidly, drifts.

You try not to let them. You really do. But they slide towards him instead.

The way his questions linger too long afterward. Too casual. And him, just… there. Watching. Always watching. That quiet intensity of his, the careful way his eyes track things other people miss, like he’s always thinking three steps ahead. And you think of the way his jaw tightens when Nathan is near.

Jealousy, barely disguised.

The thought sours something in your chest.

You shove it away, drag your mind back where it belongs. Back to Nathan’s grin. His mouth running off before his brain catches up. You picture him saying something filthy just to see if it makes you stutter. You picture his hands, careless and rougher than he lets on, moving with no reverence, no hesitation—just that irritating confidence, like he could do exactly what he wanted and dare you to stop him.

“Even if I tell him to stop, I know he’d be relentless… would I even want him to stop?”

The thought twists strangely in your chest. Would he? Or would he just apologize under his breath and keep going, convinced you didn’t really mean it?

Your breath breaks. Your back arches despite yourself.

“I wonder how his dick feels when it’s hard? Would it fit inside me? I might tell him it hurts at first, but I’m sure it’d feel incredible. He’d hold me in his embrace, so tightly I could break at any second. Pounding me deep inside… and then filling me up with his—”

That thought tips you over before you can rein it in. Your whole body tenses, toes digging painfully into the sheets as your orgasm rips through you with violent force.

“—athan!”

You moan out his name without thinking. It slips out rough and half-swallowed, like you meant to bite it back but failed.

You clamp your teeth around the inside of your wrist, biting down hard and stifling your whines. Heat floods your face as your chest heaves, breath uneven. You were half-lost in it, fingers slick with evidence you refused to think too hard about. The room spins slightly, dark and lit only by the orange wash of a streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

“ngh—Ah—It feels so good!”

You shouldn’t have been thinking about him.

You definitely shouldn’t have said his name aloud.

But you’re alone in your room—safe—his name a continuing cry spilling out from your lips between ragged gasps and breathy moans. Soft. Embarrassing. Honest.

“Nathan—”

The pressure in the room changes. Just like back then. In the shower stall.

The air suddenly shifts like something has stepped into it. Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Your hand stills between your thighs, fingers freezing where they are. For one horrible second you stay like that, caught in the act, ass in the air, heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts.

Then you hear it.

A soft sound. An exhale of breath that isn’t yours.

Your eyes fly open—

“—so that’s who you were thinking about,” a voice says quietly.

—and see he’s there.

Simon.

Standing at the foot of your bed.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise his voice—he rarely does. He just looks at you. Staring directly with wide unblinking eyes, looking almost as shocked as you feel. His ears are red, jaw clenched tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. His gaze flicks to where your hand rests, slick evidence glinting faintly in the low light.

Then back to your face.

Something sharp and ugly moves behind his eyes.

A scream tangles in the back of your throat as you twist, scrambling backwards, the sheets tangling around your legs. “What the fuck, Simon?! What are you doing here?” You snap, voice cracking as your mind races in wild, panicked circles. “Get the hell out! How did you even—get out!”

How did he get in?

How long has he been there?

Did he hear—

“Nathan,” he repeats, like he’s testing the name. Like he’s turning it over to see where it cuts. There’s a tightness in his face now, something pinched and resentful, his jaw working as if he’s chewing on a thought he doesn’t like.

You push yourself up on one elbow, heart skidding. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” Your face burns hot. "So what? That’s not any of your—”

“You were touching yourself,” he says, blunt and awful. Matter-of-fact. His eyes trail down your frame. “Thinking about Nathan.”

Your skin prickles.

Nathan’s laugh flashes through your mind unbidden—too loud, too pleased with itself.

Simon’s gaze hardens, reading your silence as a confession.

“So that’s what you do,” he says quietly. “You think about him when you’re alone.”

There’s accusation there, but also something possessive. Like he’s been cheated out of something he’s owed.

“But you know how he is. Says whatever comes into his head. Touches whatever he wants and laughs it off after… makes everything mean nothing.”

His hands curl tighter at his sides. Knuckles whitening.

“You think he sees you?” Simon asks. “Really sees you?”

Outside, somewhere across the street, someone shouts. A door slams. The distant hum of traffic bleeds in through the cracked window. Life going on, oblivious.

Simon takes a step closer now.

“I do,” he says, voice low, certainty lacing every syllable. “I see you—I always have.”

Your stomach twists.

There’s a version of Nathan in your head—grinning, careless, already moving on to the next thing. And there’s a version of Simon standing in front of you that feels far more dangerous: quiet, observant, and convinced he’s been overlooked.

“You don’t even realise what you give away,” Simon continues, softer now, like he’s talking to himself. “The way you look when you think you’re alone. The sounds you make when you forget yourself.”

“Get out,” you snap, anger and humiliation tangling sharply together. “Right now.”

Something changes in his face then. That wounded look. That soft, awful hurt like you’ve done something to him.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay…” he says. “He wouldn’t care if you were,” Simon adds, resolve tightening his words.

You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go. The bed dips as he comes even closer. A hand lands on your ankle—hesitant for half a second, then firmer, fingers spreading like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.

Before you could react, you were dragged down the bed, sprawled flat on your back, the breath punched from your lungs as his body covers yours. At the same time, his hands close around your wrists, pinning them above your head. Simon’s mouth crashes onto yours. Teeth knocking, breath hot and frantic, kissing you like he’s starving. Like if he doesn’t do this right now, he’ll come apart.

Your body betrays you first, breath stuttering, thighs tensing, the awful reflex of freezing instead of fighting. Shock locks you in place. Your body doesn’t catch up fast enough to fight, to shove, to scream.

“Simon—stop,” you gasp against his mouth, but he swallows it, kissing harder, sloppier, like he’s trying to crawl inside you. His tongue licks the inside of your mouth. His hands tremble where they hold you down.

“Don’t,” you try again. “Simon—please.”

“I thought you might need someone,” he says. “Someone who actually pays attention.”

Nathan becomes a caricature in his mind as he speaks: loud, flippant, antagonistic, all elbows and jokes. Nathan wouldn’t notice fear. Wouldn’t notice hesitation. Nathan would laugh it off, push too far, walk away.

Simon would never do that.

“I’m not hurting you,” he says immediately, voice thin, almost pleading. “I wouldn’t. I’d never. I just—look at you. You’re already like this… and I-I think you misunderstand me.”

His hand slides, slow and deliberate, following the curve of your body like he’s memorizing it. You shudder despite yourself, thoughts scattering, ugly and loud. The awareness of your own body turns sharp and humiliating.

Simon notices it all. He always does.

“I knew it,” he whispers against your lips, sounding breathless, wrecked and relieved. “See, I knew you wanted me.”

Your eyes sting.

“Please,” you choke, the word coming out thin and small. “You have to stop—”

Simon does not respond. He only exhales, slow and patient, like you are being unreasonable. His knee settles between your legs, spreading you just enough to make a point. Your heart slams so hard it makes your vision blur. You can feel him everywhere now: his weight, his leg holding you open, the unmistakable press of his bulge against you with every shift of his body.

“Simon,” your voice cracks on his name. You try again, softer now. “Please. I don’t want—please, I just need—”

Your protests die on your lips as your thoughts skid. You cannot decide what you are pleading for. Time. Space. Mercy. A version of him that listens.

Instead, he leans closer.

You can smell soap on his skin, something clean and wrong for the way his body cages yours. His free hand goes to his belt, fingers fumbling briefly with it, then stilling, as if reconsidering how to proceed.

A wash of cold floods your skin, terror slides down your spine as your chest locks tight and every breath feels borrowed.

“Simon, stop,” you say again, louder, panic sharpening it. “I’m serious. Please—please, don’t—”

You start pleading faster, words tumbling over each other, promising things you do not mean, offering explanations he did not ask for. If you keep him listening, maybe you can keep him still.

He tilts his head, studying you, brows drawn together in something like confusion. “I thought you wanted me too,” he says calmly, “because you looked like you didn’t want to be alone.”

His eyes soften, almost pleading now.

“And if I was wrong,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper, “you would’ve already told me no. Wouldn’t you?”

Your mouth opens to argue, to explain, to claw back control. “You’re not listening to me. I just—please, I don’t want this. I swear I don’t—"

He exhales through his nose again, almost annoyed. “You talk too much,” he says, mild as a correction.

Then his hand is over your mouth.

Not a slap, nor violent, or out of anger, but rather firm and practiced. Covering your mouth like he’s done this a thousand times in his head before.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

You taste skin as your words die against his palm, reduced to breath and a small, muffled sound in your throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know, I know, I just—promise you won’t shout… please.”

The bed creaks under your combined weight as he cages you in, sweat already slicking his skin, the room feels thick with heat and tension. You can feel him shaking. Feel how badly he wants this to be okay.

Your chest feels too tight, ribs locked around panic. You shake your head, a small, frantic movement, but he only presses closer, like that means comfort.

“Shh—shh, you’re okay,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re just overwhelmed. I should’ve been gentler.”

His face is close enough that you can see the focus in his eyes, the way he has already decided how this goes. Only when you're completely still does the hand covering your mouth drop. Somewhere below your line of sight, you hear him finally loosen his belt buckle with a soft metallic click. The sound lands heavy in your chest like a verdict, your body going cold with the understanding of it.

You start crying in earnest then. Silent at first. Hot tears spilling over, streaking down your temples and soaking into your hair.

His breath stutters when he sees it.

“Oh—no, no,” he whispers, frantically wiping your cheeks to rid evidence of your tears. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I hate when you cry.”

As if that makes it better.

He nuzzles clumsily at your neck, murmuring apologies that don’t stop anything. His words a jumbled mess—I’m sorry, I’m trying, I just want you safe and cared for—while his body presses in closer, without him seeming to notice, claiming space you don’t have to give.

“I-I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, voice thin and strained, almost desperate. “You just—You looked at me and talked to me. You’re always so nice. And you always do that thing where you see me when nobody ever does. And I thought—God, I thought maybe this time—”

You shake beneath him, breath coming in broken, shallow gasps.

“I know you’re upset,” he continues, rushing it out, breath hitching. “But it’s okay, yeah? I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you. I swear I won’t—I’d never hurt you. I just need you to be quiet. Just for a bit, yeah?”

Your pulse is screaming in your ears. Your body has gone horribly still, the way it does when your brain can’t keep up. You hate that he feels that stillness and mistakes it for permission.

He notices and his voice cracks.

“See?” he says softly, desperately. “You’re not fighting me. You’re just nervous. That’s normal. I’m nervous too.”

His hand trembles as he caresses your face, thumb brushing your lips in a way that makes your stomach twist. He swallows, eyes glassy, almost tearful, as if this is something happening to him.

“I’ll make it better,” he promises, leaning closer, kissing the corner of your eye as tears continue to spill out. “I always mess things up. Just—just let me fix it, yeah? Please.”

He takes your hand again, fingers closing around your wrist, firm enough that you feel the bones shift under his grip. It is the same hand that had been between your thighs. Cradling it in his, the way he turns it palm-up, like he is checking for evidence, makes your stomach drop.

“Hey,” he murmurs, almost curious.

Your fingers tremble in his grip. He brings your hand up to his face, close enough that you can feel his breath spill over your palm, his nose brushing against the backs of your knuckles. He inhales, deep and unguarded, eyes fluttering shut as if the smell alone is enough to ground him.

“This,” he says quietly, almost reverent. “This is the hand you were using.”

Your pulse stutters.

“It felt good,” he adds, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t it?”

Your fingers curl instinctively as you try to pull the hand back. He notices immediately and tightens his grip, just enough to stop you.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he adds, voice gentler, like he was consoling you. “Everybody does it.”

His mouth brushes your skin—tongue dragging along your palm, warm and wet. Your whole body recoils. He lingers there too long, taking his time, breathing against your hand like he is learning you by scent and taste alone. Your stomach twists hard enough to make you dizzy.

“You smell—” he breaks off, swallowing hard. “You smell incredible.”

Panic coils tighter in your chest as his other hand slips under the hem of your shirt. The fabric bunches in his fist as he drags it up your ribs without ceremony, exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

Simon’s hands move to cup your breasts. His thumb presses over a nipple, rolling it, testing how it tightens under pressure. You flinch. He mistakes it for sensitivity.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so responsive.”

He leans in, and smooshes his face to your chest, his cheek, nose, and open mouth moving clumsily against your skin, like he cannot decide where to put himself. His lips and tongue drag with each movement, wet and insistent, leaving slick trails of spit and drool behind. He nuzzles the space between your breasts, breathing hard, like he is trying to anchor himself.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he says quickly, like he needs to hear it out loud. “I’m just touching you. You’d leave if you didn’t want it.”

“Simon—please—” you weakly try again, but the words barely form.

He makes a small, broken sound, like desperation, at your chest. His mouth hastily closes around a nipple, latching on and sucking greedily—the shock of it steals whatever protest you had left.

You gasp before you can stop yourself.

He hears it and softens instantly, eyes shining, convinced.

“That’s what I mean,” he whispers against your skin, almost grateful, relieved even.

Your hands curl uselessly at your sides. Your body reacts in ways you hate, traitorous and immediate.

“You’re not pulling away,” he whispers, misreading the way you’ve gone rigid. “You just don’t know how to ask.”

Your heart is hammering so hard it makes your ears ring.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises, already not doing that. “I swear. I just… needed to be sure you wanted me too.”

The room feels too small. Too warm. His breathing is loud in your ears, uneven, like he is barely holding himself together.

“Please,” he murmurs again, not to stop, but to continue. “Just let me.”

With a hand fondling one of your breasts, his mouth closes around the other nipple again. His hand kneads at your breast, fingers rough, thumb circling with too much pressure. He pinches experimentally, then softens, like he’s correcting himself. His mouth is messy and unfocused. Teeth grazing just enough to make you flinch. His tongue flicks out, clumsy and insistent, before flattening broad and wet against your nipple. He sucks harder this time, too hard, jaw tense like he is afraid to let go.

Simon lets out a small sound like something has finally clicked into place for him. He is fully convinced—by your warmth, your breathing, the way your body reacts—that this is mutual.

You are so caught inside your own head that you don’t register the hand at your breast moving until the weight of it settles low and firm against your bare mound. Just there—warm palm, fingers spread, fully cupping you.

The sound that rips out of you is sharp and startled, more breath than voice.

“Aah—!”

“You’re so wet…” he groans, panting open-mouthed while his head rests between your breasts. His fingers are insistent, dragging through your cunt with quick, harsh strokes, parting your folds and scooping the wetness gathered at your entrance. “You get like this thinking about me… and only me, don’t you?”

Easing his hand away, he lifts it up towards you, inspecting the shine of your slick coating his fingers.

“Look at all this,” he murmurs, voice low, awed, spreading his fingers and admiring the way long sticky lines stretch, cling, and come apart in between. “You’re soaked. That’s—that’s because of me… not Nathan.”

You feel heat crawling up your throat—mortified because he’s wrong, and he isn’t. Because the truth is, only minutes ago, your hand had been there instead of his, fingers rubbing your pussy raw while your mind helplessly chased him away, seeking release with someone else instead.

But it didn’t matter because he’s already decided. Because in his mind, this is proof.

And you can’t correct him.

In your silence—your lack of objection—Simon’s mouth curves faintly, wounded pride soothed into certainty. “I knew it,” he says under his breath, like he’s been bracing for the answer and finally got it. His thumb smears the wetness back across his fingers, satisfied. “You don’t even have to say it.”

Your stomach twists. He thinks he’s won something.

“Stop—just stop,” you gasp, finally finding your voice. You shove at his shoulders, desperate, clumsy, trying to create enough space to slip out from under him. “Why are you doing this?”

He lifts his head from the valley of your breasts, blinking at you like you’ve said something cruel. His expression folds into hurt again, confusion clouding his eyes as if the answer should be obvious.

“Do I really have to say it out loud?”

Simon shifts from where he’s laying on top of you, enough to re-center his weight. The mattress dips hard beneath you. The headboard knocks softly against the wall.

He straddles you fully with his thighs braced on either side of you. The weight of him presses down, inescapable. Your pelvis is trapped, pinned beneath him. Every inhale feels smaller by his proximity.

“I’m doing this because I love you,” he says, breath uneven, gripping your jaw and tilting your face towards his. “I’d kill for you. You should know that.”

Your breath stutters, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

You try to turn your head away. He catches your jaw between his fingers and turns it back, firm enough that it stings.

“Hey,” he murmurs, wounded. “Don’t do that.”

Leaning forward so your foreheads touch, in a seemingly intimate gesture, one hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing back and forth like he’s soothing you. His other hand reaches back down to settle between your thighs, the heel of his palm pressed firm against the soft center of your cunt, fingers parting your folds enough that you feel the open air hit you. The sensation makes your hips jolt once, sharp and reflexive.

His thumb brushes higher until it finds that little bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, pressing rough circles where your clit sits swollen and too sensitive. Your thighs tense instantly, knees drawing up, trying to close around his wrist and failing. Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping hard enough to wrinkle the fabric under your fists. The bed creaks as your back arches a fraction, a sound that feels too loud in the room.

“Mm—nnh—“

Your mouth falls open around wet, uneven pants and choked back whines you can’t swallow back.

“Ah—ah—ah—!”

“Good,” he exhales softly, satisfaction threading his voice, almost proud of himself for dragging such reactions out of you. “I want to hear how loud you can be when you cum… Just like… you always are.”

His thumb works your clit with purpose now, in tight, insistent circles. The touch sends a sharp flare of heat sparking low in your belly, before snapping upward along your spine like a struck match. Your muscles draw tight around the feeling, pulse hammering in your ears. You can feel it building fast—too fast—that inevitable, creeping pressure that makes your pulse roar in your ears.

“W-wait, that—that feels—”

Your stomach knots.

If he keeps touching me like that…

You can hear it: the slick, obscene sound of his fingers moving against you. Your vision blurs as tears gather along your lashes. Your grip on his shoulders tightens, fingers curling into the fabric, not pulling him closer or pushing him away—just holding on, desperate for something to steady you.

Simon notices and mistakes it for you wanting more.

“Hey,” he says timidly, uncertain, almost embarrassed. “Can I—can I…?” He swallows. “Can I eat you out?”

The question is absurd after everything he has already done. The sheer nerve of it steals the air from your lungs.

“Huh? Wh-what are you—?”

He smiles at you then, small and earnest, as if he’s asking permission for something sweet. He leans in and brushes a quick, clumsy kiss against your mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

Before you had the chance to react—to voice your displeasure—he was already moving. His body scooting down yours with awkward urgency, until he’s kneeling between your legs, nestling himself there.

“H-hey… Simon—stop.”

He doesn’t.

Hooking his arms under and around your thighs, he tugs you closer, dragging your hips towards his face. His breath spills hot over your bare cunt, close enough to make your skin prickle.

“It’ll feel good,” he insists, breathless. “I know it will… Promise.”

His hands frame the inner soft skin of your thighs, thumbs pressing into either side of your pussy, spreading your lips apart like he’s unveiling something he’s been waiting ages to see up close.

You bite down on a gasp.

“Look at you,” he whispers, awe creeping into his voice. “You’re—you’re glistening.”

You feel exposed in the worst way—your cunt bared under his gaze, folds parted under his fingers, slick and flushed. He stares like it’s something precious, special, meant just for him alone.

“All pink,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath fanning directly over your exposed core with every uttered syllable. “God… you’re beautiful.”

He leans in close enough that you can feel the heat of his mouth hovering there, without him touching. Yet.

“Even better up close,” he adds quietly, like he’s talking to himself.

Then, without warning, without giving you time to brace yourself, Simon leans in and drags his tongue in a single, deliberate stripe up the full length of your cunt—starting low, from the slick heat gathering at your entrance, drawing it slowly upward until he reaches your clit at the top.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the shock of it. One hand drops instinctively to cover his, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, but his grip at the backs of your thighs stays firm—doesn’t loosen even an inch.

He takes your reaction as encouragement, spurring him on further.

Simon’s mouth turns messy and unfocused—licking and sucking at your juices without rhythm, like he can’t decide where to linger between your legs. The wet sounds of his slurping fill your ears, each movement careless and hungry. Your nails dig into his wrist, crescents biting into his skin as another wave of sensation rolls through you, stealing whatever words you meant to say, leaving your thoughts a scattered, jumbled mess.

The room feels too small. Too loud with your breathing. Too aware of every inch of skin he’s touching, crowding, claiming.

You feel betrayed by your initial kindness towards him… and how your body has failed you in this moment. How it responds, how easily it gives him what he wants. You think of how different this could have been—maybe if you’d been tipsy enough—how you might have entertained the ideas of this, how you might have been willing to actually sleep with him, if only he’d asked. Instead, he takes, acting as if you already belonged to him and your body was already his.

“I don’t want his mouth there,” you think weakly. “I should stop him…”

But your limbs feel heavy, uncooperative, your resolve slipping every time his tongue drags over you again.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “You’re so silky soft.”

You’re laying flat on your back on the bed, feeling helpless with your legs spread wide under his grip. Simon kneels between them, leaning into you, hands braced behind your knees, holding you open while his mouth works you over.

Your breath tears out of you in uneven, wet pants. Your hips twitch and jerk towards his mouth, thighs trembling, trying to close around his head and failing. You can feel how soaked you are, feel your slick dribbling out, coating the insides of your inner thighs.

“It’s just… flooding out of you,” he says quietly, almost curious. “That’s normal for you, right?”

“Please—mm—nnh!”

A proper reply from you never comes. It can’t.

The feeling crests too quickly, too loudly in you, stealing the shape of words clean out your mouth.

Instead, your nails bite harder into his hand, like that might stop the way everything inside you is tightening and spilling at once. Your jaw locks as you bite down into your bottom lip, hard enough to sting and draw blood, iron blooming on your tongue—desperately choking back the sounds threatening to spill out.

It only makes them break loose—small, helpless little mewls slipping out.

Simon feels the way your body tips toward him, grinding against his face, chasing sensation even as you try to pull yourself together. The tremor running through you gives you away, leaves you shaking and wordless—caught between wanting him to stop and wanting the pressure to finally break.

“Does my tongue feel good?” he mutters against your slick cunt, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “You—you can tell me…”

He murmurs your name.

“You like being touched here, don’t you?”

He’s referring to where his mouth is buried between your thighs, focusing on your clit, working at it without mercy. You squirm under him, but he refuses to ease up. He flicks at it with the tip of his tongue, then flattening and giving broad strokes, before his lips seal around you to slurp, hard and noisily. The room fills with the sounds of his mouth working you, all mouth and spit—slick, sloppy pulls and the rough, breathless cry yanked out of you every time he sucks at you like he’s parched.

“No! Simon, stop—”

“Don’t lie, I know you do,” he cuts you off, voice muffled against you, yet still managing to sound almost defensive. “I’ve watched you every day. You always touch yourself. Always rubbing… right… here.”

His mouth doesn’t let up as he talks, continuing to swipe at and circle your clit as he talks, never giving you a second to think. He laps at you languidly, then flicks fast and mean, making your hips jolt.

Your thoughts derail completely. What's he saying? Watched me every day? When—How—?

Your heart slams erratically against your ribs, struggling to pull in air. The idea of Simon peeping on you, watching you at your most vulnerable, makes your stomach drop. The shower stall flashes in your mind. The heat at your back. The feeling of someone behind you. The streak of white against your flesh.

Simon’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

“I’ve been doing it too, you know?”

At some point he’d stopped eating you out and shifted back up your body, straddling you again. You’d barely registered the movement until he picks up talking again.

“Thinking about you,” he says, almost shyly proud. “Picturing you while jerking off…”

His pants hang open and loose, riding low on his hips. His cock sprung free—thick and flushed a deep angry red, the head swollen and shiny. A fist is wrapped tight around the shaft, stroking. It bobs just mere inches from your face with every pump.

You can’t stop looking—can’t seem to make your eyes move to anything else.

A bead of precum gathers at the slit and slides down, smearing glossy along the head before dripping off.

“I always wondered how soft you’d be,” he continues, breath thickening, pumping himself slower now, thumb dragging over the tip. “How good you’d smell… how sweet you’d taste.”

Simon’s grip on his cock tightens, knuckles whitening as he gives himself a few clumsy tugs, fist sliding over skin slick with spit and precum. Your stomach twists. You know you should look away. But you can’t seem to make your head move, your eyes drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“I always wondered what fucking you would feel like.”

Your thoughts skid, sharp and panicked.

What the hell is wrong with this guy—Is he for real?

Simon either doesn’t notice your silence or refuses to acknowledge it. He scoots closer up towards your face, knees pressing tight on either side of your ribs. His cock hangs heavier now, swaying nearer with each movement, crowding your space until it floods your vision and it’s all you see.

“During community service,” he rushes on, breath turning ragged, “you’re just—you’re so beautiful. Innocent. Pure… You shouldn’t be there—don’t belong. Not with those bastards.”

With every word, he gets more worked up, fist sliding faster along his shaft, pumping himself in short, messy strokes.

“I’m not like them,” he insists, voice pitching high, almost whining. “I’m a good guy. I don’t just pounce on you. Not like Nathan would.”

His hand works frantically now, fingers squeezing a tight circle around the base before dragging up again, thumb smearing precum gathering at the tip.

“Look,” he pants, strained, desperate for your attention. “I’m so hard because of you—you got me dripping everywhere.”

Warm drops splatter onto your chest, landing softly against your bare breasts—still exposed to the air from Simon having rucked up your shirt earlier. The liquid is sticky as it spreads across your skin.

Somewhere along the way, you distantly realize you’ve propped yourself up on your elbows, drawn forward without meaning to. You’re frozen—horrified, transfixed—eyes locked on the way his fist moves, the way his cock jerks and twitches with every stroke.

I’m scared, you think dimly, but I can’t stop staring.

Your lip trembles, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. Each sloppy thrust into his fist drives the swollen head of his cock forward until it knocks against your mouth, smearing streaks of precum across your lips and down your chin.

The contact makes you flinch. Your tongue darting out on reflex, catching the slick saltiness before you realize what you’ve done. You recoil instantly, gagging on the taste, jerking your head back with a broken sound of disgust as the sticky fluid glistens across your lips.

Simon lets out a strangled moan, dragged up from deep within his chest, his whole body shuddering as he ruts into his own fist. He looks pathetic as he whines.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he warns, voice trembling, “I won’t be able to stop.”

His rhythm falters.

For a split second his face tightens; eyes squeezing shut, jaw clenching hard enough to tremble. “Shit—” he mutters under his breath, hips stuttering against his own fist like he’s losing the fight with his own body to hold back.

“I—I can’t hold it anymore… oh, fuck, fuck.” A flicker of panic crosses his face. “Wait—Wait—I need you.”

Everything changes in an instant.

One second he was upright, hovering over you, jerking off in your face.

The next he’s scrambling downward in a desperate, frantic rush to reposition himself. His knees awkwardly knock against yours as he tries to wedge himself between your legs, nearly losing balance in the process. There’s nothing controlled about him in that moment. Just clumsy urgency. It would almost be ridiculous if it weren’t happening so fast.

You instinctively lift your head at the same time he drops his.

And then—

There’s a sickening, blunt crack.

Bone against bone.

His forehead slamming directly into the bridge of your nose.

For half a second you don’t even register what happened, there’s no pain, just shock. A white flash bursting behind your eyes.

Then it hits.

A sharp, blinding spike of pain explodes through the center of your face, radiating outward into your skull. Your head snaps back into the pillow as your vision floods instantly, tears spilling uncontrollably as if someone dunked your head underwater. You squeeze your eyes shut on reflex.

“Fuck—!” Simon jerks back, clutching his own forehead.

You gasp, but it turns into a broken whimper. Warmth rushes down over your upper lip almost instantly—thick and metallic. The taste of iron coats your tongue and slides to the back of your throat before you even realize what’s happening. You swallow instinctively and gag.

Bringing a hand up shakily, you wince as you gingerly touch your nose and it comes away smeared red.

Your nostrils burn. Each breath sends another sharp pulse of pain through the tender cartilage. The sensation is overwhelming at first—sharp and all consuming… almost nauseating. Your eyes won’t stop watering. You can’t seem to focus. Your head feels like it’s ringing from the inside.

Simon is staring at you, wide-eyed and breathing fast.

“Oh my God. Shit! I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” His words trip over themselves. “You moved—I mean, I moved—fuck—I just—”

He swallows hard. His hands hover uselessly in the air, unsure where to touch.

You press your palm under your nose, trying to stem the flow. The blood keeps dripping between your fingers anyways, staining your hands and dotting the pillow. Every throb of pain pulses in time with your heartbeat.

Simon looks smaller suddenly. The fantasy version of himself—the one who narrates and preens and insists he’s different—is gone.

He apologizes repeatedly, his hands suddenly everywhere all at once, wiping at your face, shushing you, hoping to soothe you. He cups your face, then pulls back at the sight of the blood, then presses his thumbs under your eyes like he can wipe the tears away faster if he just tries hard enough.

“Hey—hey, shh. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” he pleads, voice tight.

You whimper again as your body instinctively wants to curl in on itself, but find you can’t—not with Simon still straddling you, the shock of his cock still pressed against your pelvis a stiff reminder that he hasn’t budged an inch.

“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—ohh fuck, sh shh, don’t cry. Please—“

He grabs the collar of your shirt and hastily wipes at the lower half of your face, further smudging the blood coming out of your nose across your cheeks, lips, and chin.

“You’re in pain, yeah?” he says quickly, like he’s had an idea. “I know what’ll help. I can make you forget. Just—please stop crying. I hate seeing you cry.”

The words barely register.

You don’t pay attention to what he’s saying, your mind still reeling from the pain pulsating from your nose. Your thoughts feel thick and delayed, like wading through water.

It doesn’t click what he means until his hands grab your hips, aligning his with yours.

The realization hits a second too late.

Before you have the chance to stop him, Simon thrusts into you in one quick, fluid motion.

The shock of it punches all the air from your lungs.

Everything goes tight and breathless all at once—pain and confusion crashing together—and for a moment you can’t even form a sound.

Your thighs tense instinctively from the sudden fullness, trying to close, trying to push him out and away—anything to force space between the two of you. A sharp pulse of adrenaline fires through your limbs. Your spine presses hard into the sheets, like you’re trying to sink through them and disappear. Your hands shove back against his shoulders, but he’s already crowding you; his weight settling over you, heavy and inescapable.

You recoil at the raw heat of him pressed against you—mind lagging half a second behind the physical reality of what just happened. Your heart is pounding so hard it makes your vision darken at the edges.

The room feels smaller again.

Like the shower stall.

Like there’s nowhere to go.

Simon’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, pupils blown dark, a flicker of panic buried under raw need. His hips stutter, jerky and uncoordinated—but the moment he feels himself fully seated inside you, something in him snaps. The hesitation vanishes, and the desperate urge to keep moving takes over.

He folds your legs up toward your chest, forcing your knees back, gripping them tight with both hands. His knuckles go white as he tries to steady himself, even as his hips start bucking into you. The bed creaks, frame squealing, shifting under the force of it.

There’s no rhythm.

Just force.

Each thrust lands wrong—too fast, too hard, too shallow, then suddenly too deep, punching the air from your lungs as you try to stifle all sounds from escaping your lips.

A pathetic, high pitched whine slips past his lips, thick with desperation. “Fuck… shit… God… so tight…”

Every word is punctuated with a harsh snap of his hips forward as he feels your pussy walls clamp and squeeze around him, muscles tightening whether you want them to or not, trying to accommodate to the intrusion.

His voice cracks, caught between a mix of frustration and pleasure, as he tries to find a steady pace of fucking you. He mutters your name in broken, strangled syllables, hands gripping your knees so tightly you can already feel the bruises that will surely bloom on your skin come tomorrow morning.

It’s too much.

Unable to bear it, you turn your head away to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, jaw clenched tight and eyes squeezed shut. You can’t look at him. You can’t be here.

The world fractures into pieces.

The creak of the bedframe.

The harsh sound of his ragged breathing.

The wet, sharp slap of skin against skin.

You let go.

Your mind slips, drifting away—retreating inward and dissociating deep into somewhere else that isn’t here.

Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere safer.

Where your kindness isn’t twisted into something to be taken advantage of.

Where he can’t reach you. Can’t touch you.

Where—

“Ohh—!”

A loud, needy mewl is suddenly ripped out of you—raw and humiliating—as his dick hits a spot so deep, so achingly sensitive, it violently yanks your attention back into your body before you can disappear completely.

His fingers fumble between your thighs, clumsy and insistent. They drag through your pussy without care, circling your clit in rough, unsteady strokes. You find yourself thrust back into the place you were so desperately trying to hide from.

Back into the room.

Back into the noise, the smell, the crushing weight of his body pressed over yours.

Back into the wet heat between your thighs.

Back into the undeniable reality of him—still inside you, still fucking you.

Your senses crash over you all at once, leaving no room to run. No space to disappear into and hide. You are here, pinned beneath Simon, with every inch of you claiming him—whether you want it to or not—as urgently as he claims you.

His breath is hot and ragged against your jaw and neck, your name a continuing whine spilling from his lips, as he fucks you with frantic, sloppy urgency.

“You—you’re so… God… I can’t… oh shit… I can’t stop—oh fuck, I need you…” The words tumble out, tripping over themselves, swallowed by the wet, relentless sound of him quickly losing control.

His fingers falter as he clumsily presses down against your dripping slit, barely getting the right angle. “I… I wanna… I just…” His words break into a strangled moan as he tries to find that spot again that makes you cry out. He stumbles over his own coordination, sliding his fingers over your pussy while keeping his cock buried, pumping sluggishly, all desperate and needy.

“Oh fuck… you’re… so… so good,” he pants, voice cracking, lips brushing your temple and cheeks, kissing away your tears and drying blood without even noticing.

Your thighs tremble around him, trying to chase that spiraling coil building inside you.

You hate it.

Hate the heat pooling inside you.

Hate the way your nipples harden painfully under the rough scrape of his shirt against your chest.

Hate how your body can’t tell the difference—can’t separate the revulsion from the rising, undeniable pull of arousal twisting through you.

Your hands claw at his shoulders, fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt before moving to wrap around him, gripping tight as your body gives in beneath the chaos of him—caught between pushing him away and holding on just to survive the intensity of it.

“Ah—S-imon… nohhh—” your moans break free, half frustration, half need, as your body trembles beneath him. He whines at each sound, almost pitiful, cock twitching in response, eyes glazed and unfocused as he keeps rubbing against your clit.

The pressure builds fast, tightening low in your belly and climbing higher until it feels like it’s pressing in behind your eyes.

Simon moans, utterly undone, pressing more sloppy kisses to your shoulder, jaw, temple, anything he can reach without pulling away.

The combination of his fingers and cock tips you over the edge, pressure building until—

A sharp, sudden pulse shoots through you, breaking somewhere at the base of your skull. Your pussy clamps down around his cock, your thighs quaking as your stomach locks and your back arches involuntarily into him. Simon is still murmuring your name, over and over, like he doesn’t know how to stop.

You gasp as it hits—your whole body trembling violently as your release floods out of you in ways you can’t control. Your nails dig painfully into him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Simon groans, low and needy, overwhelmed by the feel of you clinging onto him, his fingers still rubbing against your oversensitive cunt, soaking in your juices.

“I—I need… oh fuck—I need you, I need you, I—I’m gonna—” he pants, voice breaking, tone raw with panic and need.

His hips stutter and falter, then jerk forward one last time before he spills himself inside you. Thick, hot spurts of cum flood your cunt, his release spilling deep, fast, and messy, filling you completely. He shudders hard against you, whole body trembling, chest pressed flush to yours as he rides out the wave of his own orgasm in uneven, desperate thrusts.

You feel your own body answer him without permission—pussy tightening and spasming, milking him completely as you both come down.

Simon groans, almost whimpering at the sensation of you clinging to him. After a moment, he pulls out, and you feel him dragging the softening length of his dick through your slick folds, rubbing his cum all over your pussy, further smearing the mess between your thighs.

“S-sorry, you—you feel… oh fuck…”

You feel wrung out.

Boneless.

Every muscle slack, like your bones have dissolved and your body has melted into the mattress beneath you. Your thighs fall open, faint tremors running through you, skin damp and oversensitive. You can feel the slow, slick warmth of his cum dribbling out of you, trailing down between your ass.

Your chest rises and falls in slow, shallow pulls, breath finally starting to steady after everything crashed through you all at once.

Simon collapses almost fully onto you. His forehead carelessly bumps your aching nose again, accidental but he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he presses closer, lips finding yours in a clumsy, needy kiss.

It’s wet and messy. Tongue sliding against yours, teeth catching your lips as he nuzzles into your mouth.

He lets out a strangled moan against your mouth, like he can’t believe he’s actually here, inside you, touching you like this.

When he pulls back, his eyes flutter open, watching you with a mix of shame and awe.

“I… I didn’t mean… I just…” He tries to pull words out, but fails.

Instead, he drops his head awkwardly, tucking it into the crook of your shoulder, small puffs of hot, uneven breaths fanning against your neck. For a moment, he just stays there, not moving. Just breathing.

Like he doesn’t know what comes next. What to do now that it’s over.

“Hey,” he mutters finally, voice hoarse. Softer now. Almost small.

“You alright?”

It’s a little too late to ask that.

But it’s the first time he’s sounded like he’s actually looking at you, instead of through you.

You don’t answer. Your gaze stays fixed on the ceiling, unfocused. Your mouth feels dry. Your body doesn’t want to move. Everything feels distant now, dull and unreal.

He shifts slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you properly. You don’t meet his eyes, refusing to look at him, but you can feel him watching—trying to read something in your face, and not liking what he sees.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, then stops himself again. Swallowing hard.

“…I just… got carried away.”

His thumb brushes your shoulder, awkward, almost careful now. A poor imitation of gentleness.

“You’re okay,” he says quickly, like he’s deciding it for you. “Yeah? You’re alright.”

Then, quieter, more intent:

“You’re mine, yeah?”

It doesn’t sound like a question. Not really.

He shifts his weight just enough to ease the pressure off your chest, but not enough to fully move away. His hand slides back to your waist, resting there.

“I don’t want you around him anymore,” Simon adds, voice tightening just a little. “Nathan. I don’t like it.”

His jaw flexes. Eyes flicking over your face again, searching.

“You don’t need him,” he says. “You’ve got me now.”

Another pause. Softer this time, almost uncertain:

“…Right?”

His hand moves, rubbing slow circles around your shoulder again, like he’s trying to soothe you, but it feels more like he’s reassuring himself.

Then, after a moment—awkward and almost shy in a way that doesn’t match anything that just happened—he huffs out a quiet breath and glances away.

“Hey…” he starts, voice dropping. Hesitating.

He scratches lightly at the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes.

“…next time—”

He falters, like he’s debating whether to say it at all.

Then he forces it out anyway, quick and almost embarrassed: