a simp2025

You’re partially awake when he comes home, registering the quiet footsteps throughout your home, the distant sound of the shower running, the rustle of fabric in your bedroom. The blankets move and for a moment your back is exposed to cool air, before the mattress dips and he’s pressed up against you, solid and comforting.  

“Are you awake?”  

You huff. “No.” 

He laughs, soft and beautiful, his breath puffing out and ticking the skin on your neck. You prepare to wiggle away from him, but you’re sluggish with exhaustion and don’t feel like moving. Plus, his lips press to that same spot on your neck, and his pestering you while you’re trying to sleep doesn’t seem so bad (you never really minded in the first place, anyway). 

“You’re not going to turn around and face me?” If you were more awake you would, because you’d be rewarded with the sight of his face, illuminated by the faint moonlight glittering through the window—his hair was wet still, probably, darker from the water and pushed back out of his face—would his freckles be visible, lit up like stars and constellations, mirroring that of the night sky?  

He would kiss you if you were facing him, pushing his lips against yours, molding them to fit perfectly to yours. He’d kiss you until you had no breath left, and when you pull away, he’d start kissing you again before you’d even caught your breath.  

“I’m tired,” you refuse, even if the idea is appealing. You loved to kiss him, to feel him real and alive against you. Shouldn’t he be the one moving to face you? He probably knows that you’re thinking exactly that, because you can feel him smiling against you.  

“That’s alright, baby.” You can sense him above you, and for a minute you think he’s going to lean all the way over to capture your lips, but he presses them against your cheek instead.  

He settles back against you, supposedly going to sleep, until his hands make their way down your body and brush against your upper thigh. “Is this okay?” When you hum in response, he touches you, working you up until he can push into you. There isn’t any force or power—it will be one of those nights, where he rolls into you and the two of you are quietly breathing and moaning and for a while you are one. You liked those nights, where there was nothing to prove or say. The love always reverberated, filling the room until it was overwhelming.  

It’s leisurely, a slow enough pace that you could fall back asleep. But it was pleasant, constant pressure that built ever so slowly until you were both gasping against each other and the sheets. He touches you, caressing you, feeling you like it was the last time he’d be able to. 

The two of you are back to front, his chest pressed right up against your back. He grinds into you from behind, rubbing your insides in a way that has you whimpering, limp while he does all the work. It is faint but you can hear it, the noise of wet sliding, a subtle squelching each time he rolls into you a certain way. Neither of you speak, but you don’t need to, too drained to do anything but the unhurried push and pull, taking from each other what you both wanted.  

 His movements feel heavy, like it was taking up all his energy, and you realize that he was probably just as exhausted as you, having been away for a work trip the past week. Your heart swells painfully in your chest, big enough to burst. How much sleep had he gotten while he was away? 

 If only there was a way to keep him here, to keep him away from the dangers that he so willingly throws himself into. You know it would be wrong, like trapping a bird in a cage, clipping its wings and preventing it from flying. It’s impossible to keep Childe away from his line of work. He needed it the way you needed him, desperate and endless—to take him out of work would be equivalent to taking part of him away. He’d already been ripped apart all those years ago, when the ground had swallowed him whole. He clawed his way out and put himself back together the only way he knew how, forever different, tainted with some dark shadow that hung over him like storm clouds. There would be no changing him, no taking him apart and putting him back together, no carefully cutting that darkness away from the rest of his being—that was just who he was, now.  

Suddenly you feel devastated. Before you really register it and can stop it, you’re crying. Tears overflow like a pot of boiling water. You hiccup and sob, and him touching your face, feeling the tears and trying to wipe them just makes you cry harder. 

“Please don’t cry.”  

You’re more awake than you’ve been this whole time, but you can’t see him through hazy, tear-filled eyes. He is there, though, in front of you now, apologetic and sad while you clutch him with shaking hands.  

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I’m sorry. Don’t cry.” 

You want to be angry, but your anger died out to smolders and then ash long ago. There were only cold coals now, leaving you subdued. You wouldn’t scream or yell or beg him—you would not even ask. You have not cried about this since the beginning, when he’d come home bruised and banged up, acting like nothing was off at all. He had that look in his eyes, dull and lifeless but crazed—this was who he was. You loved him dearly despite tracking bloody footsteps through your house, and you loved him now. You loved him, but you feared for him, and what would one day become of him from following this path. 

He comforts you until the tears have soaked your pillow and your cheeks were dried, placing light kisses over your eyelids, on your cheeks, your forehead, and your lips. Only when you finally fall asleep does he kiss you again, long and slow, whispering a final “I’m sorry” to your sleeping face. 

Tomorrow, you’d wake up and he may be there, beside you in bed, looking more peaceful asleep than he’d ever look when awake. He’d wake up after you, allowing you time to drink in his presence, absorb it like rays of the sun. You would share a morning together, having breakfast and then falling back into bed, more desperate and carnal than the night before. In a perfect world, he’d stay for multiple days, and you’d have a schedule involving him, him, him. But this was not your dreams, and definitely not a perfect world. 

“What does our pet want today?” Dottore leers down at you, but lets you into his laboratory, where Scaramouche sits shirtless on the central table. Various vials and flasks sit on the benchtop, all meticulously labelled. The sight brings a sense of calm to your anxious mind. Dottore’s lab technique is impeccable, as always, and it’s soothing to you in ways you can’t explain. He closes and locks the door behind you, then follows you in. 

“It’s just us today, dear.” As if sensing what you’re thinking, Dottore gives you a sharp-toothed smile. You breathe a sigh of relief. All of Dottore’s clones love you— he’s loved you since even before he was a young scientist in Sumeru, struggling to make a name for himself— but none could love you quite like Dottore Prime himself. You weren’t quite in the mood to appease the younger versions of Dottore, who were a little less controlled and a little more overbearing. 

“Back again?” Scaramouche hops up off the table, sneering at you as he presses an incongruously gentle kiss to your forehead. “Well, you heard the good Doctor. What the fuck are you here for?”

“I want you to be mean to me,” you say, and Dottore’s eyebrows shoot up, past his mask. Even Scaramouche looks slightly startled. There’s a careful, weighed silence as they communicate silently over your head.

“If that is what you really want, my dear—”

“Shut the fuck up and say what you mean, Dottore.” Scaramouche grabs your chin, wrenching your face over to look you in the eyes. “Do you want really mean things? Or just fake mean things that still make you feel nice? Because you know we are fully capable of both.”

“The second one, please,” you say, sinking into his rough touch. As blunt as Scaramouche is, you appreciate his ability to cut through all of you and Dottore’s “flowery bullshit”, as he likes to call it. 

“Good.” The word sits strangely in Scaramouche’s mouth, but he doesn’t back down, placing a rough pat to your head. “Glad we got that sorted out. Dottore, get the fuck over here.”

“So uncouth.” Dottore walks to you anyways, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. His lips move against yours gently, and he lets you sink into his arms as he pulls you close. He smells clean, aseptic, with a tang of iron and something uniquely him. Your eyes flutter closed, and he practically devours you with long, slow kisses.

When you part, Dottore cups your face tenderly. “Hello, dear.” 

“Hi,” you respond, and you would be embarrassed at how breathy you sound if not for the firm bulge that presses against your body. Dottore, it seems, is not quite unaffected by your presence, and your hands travel down his body, feeling the hard lines of his stomach, the harder bulge between his legs. 

“Eager,” he teases, tugging your hand closer, putting his hand over yours as you rub his cock over his pants.

“For you? Always,” you brush another needy little kiss to his jaw, relishing in the quiet hitch in his breath as you squeeze him firmly.

Rough hands tug at your hips, and you giggle. “Aww, feeling left out, Scaramouche?” 

“Shut up.” 

Scaramouche kisses like he fights— dirty, a little nasty, a little mean. Your head spins as he bites at your lips, licking into your mouth with abandon. Dottore’s low chuckle only serves to work you up more, and you moan into Scaramouche’s mouth. You can feel Dottore shifting against you, taking off his mask and reaching over his lab table to grab… to grab something, before he settles, pulling you and Scaramouche into his embrace.

Deft fingers work at your clothing, but you barely notice Dottore undressing you as Scaramouche ravages your mouth. It’s only when you stand between them, completely exposed, that the cool air breaks you free from the dizzying spell of Scaramouche’s kisses. You’re aware of how this must look— two Harbingers, fully clothed, with their needy, sex-drunk pet pawing and rubbing up against them. The first traces of humiliation begin to lick at your core, stoking your arousal like fire in a hearth.

“Before we continue, dear, can we hear your word for stop?”

“Red,” you say, nuzzling against Dottore’s chest. His uniform is a bit scratchy, a bit rough, but it feels deliciously dirty against your bare skin.

“Good,” Dottore says, and the praise sends you spiralling.

“And what if your mouth is full?” Scaramouche’s voice is gruff, serious.

“Three taps, anywhere I can reach.” You demonstrate, tapping Scaramouche’s cheek three times. Your heart melts at the obvious effort Scaramouche puts into being tender with you, and you can’t help but lean back against him, pulling him into another kiss, needy and wanting. 

“What a dirty little toy we have to play with, Scaramouche,” Dottore laughs meanly, hands trailing down your body. He gropes at your chest, rolling your nipples between his fingers, before sucking one into his mouth. The sudden, engulfing heat has you crying out into Scaramouche’s mouth, and your hips rock forward on instinct, meeting the thick muscle of Dottore’s leg. 

“Oh, fuck—”

Dottore wrenches you from Scaramouche’s grasp, forcing you to straddle his thigh. He tugs your hips this way and that, grinding you against him. Your dripping pussy leaves wet patches on his clothes, and the subtle humiliation makes your cheeks burn.

“Leaky little thing,” he murmurs, dragging an elegant finger over your slit. “Look at them. They’re already making a mess out of my nice pants, and we’ve barely even touched them.”

“I haven’t even touched them at all,” Scaramouche grumbles, petulant. 

“There, there,” Dottore’s smarmy grin is evident in his voice. “You can play with them once I get them ready, okay?” “Fuck that and fuck you. I’ll use them however I want, whenever I want.” Despite his words, Scaramouche backs off, reaching behind you and Dottore to grab something from the table. “Prep ‘em with this.” 

You let out the neediest, most embarrassing little whine when you catch sight of the toy that Scaramouche is holding. It’s one of your favorites— it’s long and thick, modelled after Dottore’s cock, and it vibrates deliciously in a pattern designed specifically by Dottore to guide you into orgasm after mind-melting orgasm.

“Ah, don’t drool, dear. It’s unbecoming.” Dottore’s smile is sharp, but his voice is soft, tinged with a hint of gentle condescension. He swipes at the edge of your lips, and sure enough, his fingers come away wet. Had you really been drooling? Fuck. “You remember this toy, don’t you? I wager you’d love to have it deep inside of you… so deep you can feel it in your stomach… It feels so good, doesn’t it? A nice, thick cock for our toy to play with…” 

Archons, you’re so desperate that your skin crawls with it, but you know this game. You know it won’t be that easy. It never is.

“Oh, but it’s such a shame that you’re leaking from your mouth, too. I hardly want to clean up after a dirty toy like you.” He taps his chin, the picture of thoughtfulness. “What can we do about them, Scaramouche?”

“Well, when their pussy leaks, we plug them. If their mouth is leaking, too…”

“What a lovely idea,” Dottore says, and pushes the fake cock against your lips. You open for him willingly, enthusiastically, letting him fuck your mouth in long, luxurious strokes. “Mmm, you’re such a desperate thing, aren’t you? So needy for cock that you’d even suck a fake one? Here— keep this inside.”

Dottore shoves the dildo down your throat, grinning widely at the way your eyes flutter, go a little misty. It’s a little uncomfortable, but the weight of the toy on your tongue is undeniably arousing, and you find yourself sucking and licking the fake cock even as Dottore and Scaramouche rearrange your limbs, helping you up onto Dottore’s laboratory bench and laying you down face-down across it. 

Your head hangs over the edge of the table, and Dottore walks around the table to help support your neck while Scaramouche settles between your legs. With your body sprawled across the table like this, you feel horribly, deliciously exposed, and it only gets worse when Scaramouche spreads your thighs. You’re laid out for them like some sort of specimen to be studied, and the absentminded way in which Dottore continues to fuck your mouth with the dildo only makes your body burn hotter.

“Are they prepped here?” Scaramouche presses a thumb to the tight furl of your ass. The question is directed to Dottore, but Scaramouche’s eyes stay firmly fixed on you as he dips the tip of his thumb inside. Deliberately, you reach behind you for Scaramouche’s hand and tap once, and he nods. 

“Of course they are,” Dottore coos, patting your face proudly like a trainer would do with a particularly obedient pet. “All of their holes are so desperate— they probably spent hours stuffing themselves with their fingers before realizing it wasn’t enough for them.”

“Pathetic,” Scaramouche says, so lovingly it makes your head spin. His thumb sinks further into your ass, and you can’t help but rock back against him, needing more. It’s only when Scaramouche sinks to his knees and presses a long, dirty kiss to your asshole that you let out a pitiful noise of protest.

Immediately, Dottore takes the toy out of your mouth, barely-hidden concern fading when you shake your head and whine.

“N— no, don’t— it’s dirty—” 

“Perfect for a dirty little thing like you,” Dottore simpers, shoving the toy back down your throat. Scaramouche doesn’t bother to reply at all, licking into you with a desperate sort of hunger. Muffled whines escape your throat as Scaramouche kisses and sucks at your rim, lavishing your hole with attention. It’s so filthy, so humiliating, to be put on display and fondled like this, but you love it. 

“Such a little slut.” Scaramouche would sound more convincing if his voice wasn’t hoarse and trembling with desire. “Could you feel your ass clenching around my tongue? It’s almost like it was kissing me back.”

His words send heat blazing through your core, and you make a hurt little noise as he buries his face back in your ass. His fingers slip inside your pussy, first one, then two, and he gently stretches you even as he continues to kiss your soft, loose rim. It’s nearly too much for you— you thrash under his unrelenting attention, begging wordlessly around the toy in your mouth. Already, your mind feels heavy with the weight of submission, and your eyes cross ever so slightly as all of your holes are filled and stimulated.

“So perfect,” Dottore says, crouching down to be eye level with you. You can’t focus on his face at first, eyes rolled back in pleasure, and he slaps you gently, pulls the fake cock out of your mouth. “Look at you, so debauched from having a tongue up your ass. Are you not ashamed?”

A tiny, fuck-drunk smile spreads over your face, and you shake your head no.  

“No, I guess you wouldn’t be,” Dottore smiles at you, and it’s fonder, more genuine, than you think he means it to be. “I suppose that’s what happens when you spoil your pets.”

You make a high, pleading noise at the back of your throat, and he kisses you softly.  “What do you want, dear?”

“May I— may I cum— ah!” You choke around a gasp as Scaramouche’s attention turns to your poor, throbbing clit. “Oh, oh, oh, please, may I—?” 

“Do you think you deserve it?” Dottore kisses you again to soothe the sting of his question, then speaks over the loud, lewd noises coming from behind you. “Scaramouche. Are they prepared?”

Scaramouche pulls back, and you nearly cry at the sudden lack of stimulation. The lower half of your body practically tingles with the phantom sensations that roll through you, echoes of Scaramouche’s lips and fingers and tongue.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Dottore stands back up, walking around the table. You twist around to track his progress, but your gaze is quickly ensnared by Scaramouche.

“Are they prepared?” Dottore repeats. He tilts Scaramouche’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze, and you swallow heavily. Scaramouche looks dazed, practically drunk on the taste of your pleasure, and his pupils spill across his irises like ink, leaving only the barest ring of color in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Scaramouche licks his lips, blinking up at Dottore. He’s too dazed to be anything but putty in Dottore’s hands, and the sheer contrast between his normal belligerence and this sweet, pleasure-drunk man has your head spinning. “Yeah, they’re ready.”

“Good boy,” Dottore says, patting him on the cheek and brushing a sweet kiss on his forehead. “As a reward, you can take their mouth. It’s nice and warmed up for you.”

Movements jerky, Scaramouche comes around the table. He looks almost lost, and his hands are soft as he cups your face with his palms.

“Open,” he says, and there’s nothing you can do— nothing you want to do— but obey. He taps the head of his cock against your tongue, once, twice, teasing you with the taste of it before he finally slides home. His groan of satisfaction rumbles through your body, and you moan in response, practically begging him to move.

Harsh pants fill the room as Scaramouche fucks your mouth. The lack of oxygen alone is enough to send you spiralling back into the soft, sweet place in your mind, the one where the only thing that matters is pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure. Combined with the familiar, lovely weight of Scaramouche’s cock in your mouth, you don’t stand a chance against the wave of bliss that drowns you.

The head of his cock nudges against the back of your soft palate, and your eyes sting with tears as you fight your gag reflex, deliberately relaxing to let him into the tight, hot space of your throat. You glance up, and— oh. Oh.

The lights of Dottore’s lab shine from above, outlining Scaramouche in a halo of bright white. He looks heavenly, divine— every bit the little god he was rumored to be. His head lolls back, eyelids fluttering as he takes his pleasure from you, and you see the toned muscles of his stomach flexing as his hips stutter.

“How are they, Scaramouche?” Dottore’s voice takes on that sweet, seductive quality, the one that has both you and Scaramouche melting. “Are they a suitable reward for you?”

“Yes, yes, ngh— fuuuck,” Scaramouche groans, voice practically dripping with indulgent pleasure. It’s the only warning you get before he spills into your mouth, pumping hot, creamy seed down your throat. “Oh, fuck— they feel so good—”

You swallow around him eagerly, milking his cock through his orgasm, and he shudders. You swear you see his knees wobble as your throat flutters around him, and when he pulls back, you see the glint of tears at his lashline. 

“Slutty little mouth…” Scaramouche trails off. His hands tremble as he leans down to rub his cheek against yours, seemingly overwhelmed by sheer affection. 

“Slutty little mouth, indeed.” Dottore chuckles. Something hot and blunt presses against your pussy. Your face goes slack. Dottore’s cock is wonderfully thick, and he teases you with it, dragging the head through your swollen, dripping folds. “There’s a slutty little mouth down here, too. It’s practically sucking me in… How lewd.”

Desperation blazes through you, a wildfire through dry brush, and you rock your hips back, a wretched sort of anguish burning through your chest as his hard cock catches on your dripping slit. “Dottore, Dottore, please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, Master,” you whisper, “please fuck me, I’ve been so good— I’ve been so good, please help me cum.”

“How could I say no when you beg so prettily?” 

His cock finally, finally slides home. The stretch alone takes your breath away, but when the tip of his cock nuzzles sweetly against your sweet spot, your vision whites out for a brief, blinding moment. Your back arches, and you cry out, unable to handle the overwhelming, unyielding press of his cock as he splits you open. 

“Ngh!” Your eyes roll back in your skull as he fucks you lovingly, thoroughly. Through the fog of pleasure that sinks low over your mind, you search for the syllables to beg, but all you can muster are pathetic little whimpers of his name. “Dottore— oh, oh, Dottore—”

“What a silly, stupid toy,” Dottore says, and the undercurrent of adoration in his condescending tone makes you burn. “Are you going to cum? Already? But I’ve barely even started to fuck you.”

You sob, toes curling as he mercilessly grinds up against you. He’s just so good, so thick. There’s nothing you can do but cling to the last shreds of your sanity as he does his best to fuck your mind away.

“Oh, pet. I know. I know it feels good. Needy toys like you crave cumming on nice, hard cocks, don’t you? I bet it feels good to cum on something so thick…” Dottore’s breathing speeds up, and he swallows heavily as your pussy flutters around his cock. He leans forward, blanketing your body with his, and his hand slips between your legs, rubbing steady circles on your clit. His breath brushes over your ear. “Go ahead and cum, dear. Give in to me.”

Your body obeys before your mind can even comprehend the order, and you go flying over the edge with a loud wail. Distantly, you’re aware of Scaramouche capturing your lips in a kiss, drinking every pleasured sound from your slack mouth.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful,” Dottore sighs, slowing his thrusts to a gentle, steady grind, letting you really feel every inch of him as you shudder and come down from your high. “Such a pretty, filthy toy… do you think you’ve earned my cum today, dear?”

Words fail you, but you weakly push back against him, limbs loose from the aftershocks of your pleasure. 

“Give it to them, Dottore,” Scaramouche says, eyes fixed on your face. He presses his forehead to yours, a wordless comfort. “Empty toys deserve to be filled, don’t you think?”

“Ah, but they’re already so messy.” Despite his words, Dottore resumes his thrusts, hips losing their steady rhythm as he draws closer to completion. “Fuck, I forgot how good they feel after they’ve cum… they’re so soft inside, Scaramouche. So hot.”

Dottore’s cock jerks inside of you, and you squeeze around him on instinct as he hisses and finally, finally cums, painting your insides white. His cum flows into you, making you feel warm and loved and full. There’s a content silence as you all catch your breaths, broken only by the sweet kisses that Dottore and Scaramouche pepper over your shoulders, your neck, your face. Then, Scaramouche chuckles.

“We were supposed to be mean to you today,” he says. “But somehow, you still ended up getting everything you wanted from us. How the fuck do you do it?”

You grin widely. “It’s my secret power,” you joke. “Some people get Visions, others get Delusions. I got the ability to look sad and pathetic to make people feel bad for me.”

Dottore lets out a huff of amusement, pulls out of you. “It also doesn’t hurt that we love you. We’d give you anything if you just said the word.” He presses a kiss to the small of your back and helps you off the table. Your legs wobble, knees turned to jelly, and he steadies you.

“But really, how was it, dear? Are you feeling better?”

“It was perfect.” You sigh, letting Dottore lead you over to the little couch that he keeps in his lab especially for times like these. Scaramouche joins you, running gentle hands over your body in wide, comforting strokes. He’s always been a little soft around the edges after a good orgasm, and it shows as he absentmindedly pets you.

Dottore cleans you up efficiently, then dramatically flops over you and Scaramouche, adding to your cuddle pile. 

“I need to get back to work soon,” Dottore murmurs, and Scaramouche whacks him gently across the head.

“No. You’re staying with us, and that’s a threat.”

“Please, Dottore?” You dogpile on, giving Dottore your best pleading eyes. “You were so mean today. If you leave now, I might perish from how mean you were— you need to take responsibility.”

“Evil. You’re both evil.” Dottore’s lips press together in a thin line, but you can hear the beginnings of a laugh in his voice. “I suppose it can’t be helped, then. If the Balladeer himself is threatening me, and you are clearly on the verge of death, I have no choice but to stay. But only for a few minutes, do you hear me?”

None of you end up leaving the couch until nightfall.

© FAETUI, 2022. do not copy, modify, or repost.