a million times this. âI donât like these xyz ficsâ then donât read them. THEY ARE NOT FOR YOU!!!!!!! no one forces you to read anything you donât want to read. no one forces you to consume art you donât enjoy. itâs so easy to click that mute or block button. instead of insulting fanfics or fan art for not fitting your personal liking, either choose something that does fit your personal liking, or write the fic you want to read yourself / draw the art you want to consume yourself.
fanfic writers and fan artists create as THEIR hobbies. they create for themselves and their own enjoyment. they donât create for strangersâ approval
Bill's more iconic feature: his eyes. Huge, beautiful, expressive. He can convey all sorts of emotions through them. They have a hypnotic quality you cannot resist, not that you want to.
Summary: Working on a science project with a partner is not your favourite thing, you prefer solving equations to socializing. But being paired with Simon, possibly the only person in the whole class who likes people less than you, is an exercise in insanity. Â
Word Count: 3523
Warnings: NSFW, handjobs, I guess VERY slightly dubious consent?
MDNI, fic under the cut
A little scrap of paper lands on your desk, and you flatten your palm over it reflexively before peeking at the handwriting through your fingers.
You look pretty when youâre concentrating.
You feel a smile threaten to tug at the corners of your mouth, and you press your lips into a hard line to stop it, knowing heâs watching you from across the room. You wonât give him the satisfaction, when you know heâs teasing.
You freeze, your fingers curling around the offending paper on your desk as you lift your eyes and find half the class and your teacher staring at you.
âIs this true?â
You open your mouth, then close it again.
âI saw it. Martin threw a piece of paper to her, there was writing on it.â
âSimon,â Mrs Blake sighs. âIt isnât nice to tattle.â
Simon wrinkles his nose. âBut passing notes is against the school code of conduct. Section four, paragraph three. Passing notes in class is disruptive to other students and disrespectful of your teacherâs time.â
âYouâre such a fucking spaz,â Martin says, and Simonâs cheeks pink.
âThat isnât a nice word. And Iâm not spastic, I donât have any of the neurological conditions that cause involuntary muscle spasms. I have Aspergers Syndrome.â
âMartin, go to the principals office.â Mrs Blake sounds exasperated by everybody involved at this point. âYou know that language isnât acceptable.â She doesnât demand he apologize to Simon, and you huff a quiet laugh under your breath.
âNor is finding amusement in the misbehaviour of others.â She looks sternly at you, and you slink down in your seat.
âShe should be sent to the principal as well.â Simon spares you the tiniest of glances before fixing his wide, unblinking green eyes on Mrs Blake again. âShe broke the rules.â
âWhy donât you just-â
âThatâs enough.â Mrs Blake raises her voice an octave, and you flinch. She never raises her voice, and you know with a sinking sense of dread that your squabbles with Simon have gone too far this time. âIâm sick of the two of you fighting like cats and dogs week in, week out. Itâs time you learned to get along.â
âNo,â you say.
âImpossible.â Simon says at the same moment.
Mrs Blake rolls her eyes. âAlright, everybody. Time for a little physics lesson. She walks back to her desk, plucking up two white and red magnetic blocks. Every magnet has a north and a south pole. Two like poles will repel each other,â she holds the red ends together, demonstrating the way they push each other away. âBut opposites attract.â She presses the red end of one against the white end of the other, and the magnets snap together with a little click. âFor our summer projects, Iâm going to pair you with the person in the class I think most represents your opposite. Iâve gotten to know you all quite well over the course of the year, so I think Iâm up to the task.â
There is a general ripple of grumbles around the room, but nobody dares to complain. Not with the smug smirk on Mrs Blakeâs face, and the looming threat of being sent to the principal. She levels a finger at you, and you feel the dread settle heavy in your bones before she even opens her mouth. âPack up your things. Youâll be sitting with Simon for the rest of the semester.â
*
âYouâre kicking me.â
âIâm not.â
Simon makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. âYes, you are. Your foot is touching the leg of my stool, and every third kick it brushes my calf.â
âSo?â
âSo I want you to stop it.â
You huff, rolling your eyes as you cross your legs in the opposite direction. âYouâre such a baby.â
âIâm not a baby. I was born 1990.â
âYouâre always so goddamn literal.â
Simonâs brows furrow as he glares at you. âOf course Iâm literal. Am I supposed to be figurative? Nothing you say makes sense.â
You stick your tongue out at him, and Simon wrinkles his nose as he leans as far away from you as he can get.
The assignment isnât difficult; define natural selection, find an example in nature, and write a paper exploring it. The only thing making the project impossible was the thought of working with Simon. You drum your fingers against the desk as Simon runs his finger down the page on his textbook.
âYou canât possibly be reading that fast.â
âYes.â
âYou canât be taking any of it in.â
âYes, I am. Iâm much smarter than you.â
You scoff, reaching for his book and yanking it out from under his hand. âHey!â
Simonâs fingers close around your wrist, and youâre so shocked at the contact that you drop the book back to the desk with a clatter. âYouâre touching me.â
Simon releases your hand so fast he almost topples off his stool. âNo, I didnât.â Thereâs a pretty pink blush creeping up over his face, and you feel your stomach do a little flip at how uncomfortable he looks. Serves him right, actually.
âMartin is going to be so mad at you for getting him in trouble.â
Simon shrugs, relieved youâve changed the subject. His palm itches from where heâd pressed his hand to your skin, and thereâs an unfamiliar churning low in his stomach that he doesnât want to think about. âHe broke the rules.â
You roll your eyes. âAlways with the rules, Simon? Youâre so boring.â
Simon flushes a deeper red, feeling a thickness in the back of his throat like he might cry. He hates that you have this effect on him. Heâs hated it since the moment he met you, and heâs hated you almost as long because itâs easier to hate you than it is to address⊠whatever you make him feel. âIt isnât boring to be a good citizen. Rules keep us safe.â
Heâs so condescending. Heâs so condescending and heâs so smug. You look at the slight rounding of his shoulders, the way his perfectly combed hair sits against his forehead, the zipper on his hoodie done all the way up to the top, and you hate him. You want to push him off the stool. You want to run your fingers through his hair until he looks fucked.
Instead, you slide your hand off the desk and drop it onto his thigh. âBeing safe isnât fun, Simon.â
All his words leave his brain as all his blood rushes south. Youâre touching him. Youâre touching him there, just inches from the rapidly thickening length of his cock in his pants. He shifts underneath your hand, but you donât move it. This is both a blessing and a curse, because if you wiggled just a little higher youâd feel his erection, which would be BAD. But if you wonât release his thigh, Simon wonât be able to stop his cock from throbbing with how badly it wants you to touch it.
Simon isnât in the habit of referring to parts of himself as working outside of his consciousness, but heâll make an exception for his cock because he really, really doesnât understand it. Getting hard in Biology because youâre touching him is mortifying. Itâs a betrayal of his intelligent, logically thinking mind. He grips the edge of the desk until his knuckles go white, taking short, shallow breaths in through his mouth.
âYou look a little flustered.â You whisper, and Simon feels your breath on the side of his neck. It makes his skin crawl. It makes his cock throb.
âIâm not. I donât like to be touched.â
You lean forward, dropping your eyes to the prominent jab of his cock against his jeans. âLiar.â
âIâm not a liar.â Simonâs face is so red its burning, he can hear the thunder of his heartbeat in his own ears as your fingers lift from his leg for a fraction of a second and then⊠press down into a squeeze.
The sound that comes out of Simon is another thing he wonât claim as a part of his consciousness, because itâs squeaky and embarrassing.
Your eyes widen, clit throbbing at the needy, slutty little moan he releases. âWhat did you say?â
âIâŠâ Simon swallows, tongue licking over his lips as he tries desperately to string a sentence together. âI donât like to be touched.â
You hum, dragging your palm over his thigh and up and⊠oh, no. Oh no, your fingers graze against the bulge in his pants and Simonâs nails dig so hard into the desk he leaves little crescent indents in the lacquer on the wood. âI think maybe you do.â You whisper, leaning in close enough for his hair to tickle the tip of your nose. âOr at least, you do by me. Isnât that interesting?â
You withdraw your hand, leaning back on your stool and picking up your pen like nothing had happened, and Simon takes a full minute to recover his breathing enough to release the table from his grip. His fingers ache, and thereâs a sensory nightmare of sticky precum damp in his boxers. âI think we should look at mimicry in butterflies.â You say conversationally. âThe pattern on the Monarch is really-â
Simon almost falls off his seat in his haste to get away. He leaves his book open on the table, dipping to scoop his messenger bag from the floor before he bolts from the room. Mrs Blake turns to you, frowning. âWhat did you do?â
You shake your head and shrug, the picture of innocence, but something that might be guilt gnaws at your insides as you look at the empty seat beside you for the rest of the period.
As the bell rings to signal the end of the period, Simon is sitting in the library because itâs his safe place. On campus, at least, where he doesnât have access to his spaceship or the familiar four walls of his bedroom. The books and the enforced silence of the library help to muffle the chaos a little bit, and the librarian doesnât ever bother him or expect him to talk to her.
Heâs erratic and panicky as he turns through the stacks, coming to rest in the astronomy section and picking a shelf at eye level. Simon runs his fingers over the spines of the books, reading the title and author of each one. The routine of it calms him down, he knows every book in this section by heart. Heâs read them all over and over again.
He smells you before he sees you, and something icy twists in his stomach as he listens to the soft thud, thud of your footsteps. âSimon?â
âGo away.â
âI⊠we need to work on the project.â Youâd meant to apologize. You really, really had, the words had been on the tip of your tongue but then youâd seen him and heâd told you to go away and the irritation that always flared up in his presence had surfaced.
âI donât want to work with you. I will tell Mrs Blake to switch us.â
You lean against a bookshelf. âShe wonât do it. Working with our⊠opposites is part of the project.â
âYouâre not my opposite.â
âYeah?â You push off from the shelf and close the distance between your body and his. Simon is much taller than you, all gangly awkward limbs. You poke him in the stomach, surprised at the hard press of muscle, and wonder what he might look like underneath his ill-fitting hoodie. âWhat am I, then?â
âYouâŠâ Simon swallows, eyes flicking to your mouth and lower, to the swell of your breasts against your shirt for a moment. âYouâre annoying. You⊠youâre rude to me. You think you know everything but you donât.â
You hum. âYou think you know everything, Simon.â You walk your fingers up the closed zipper on the front of his hoodie, pinching the slider and dragging it down to reveal the soft cotton of his shirt beneath. âBut you donât.â
Simonâs brain is on fire. Youâre too close, and thereâs an insane impulsive part of him that wants to pull you closer. He presses himself back against the shelves, feeling the bite of the metal against his shoulders and his spine, but it does nothing to relieve the anxiety of feeling so trapped. âI donât like you.â
You nod. âI donât like you, either.â
Simon knows this. He doesnât know why it stings to hear you say it out loud. âViceroy butterflies evolved to resemble the visual patterns of the monarch, a toxic species.â Â
âI donât need Batesian mimicry explained to me, Simon. I picked the topic, remember?â
âI know. But did you know that recent studies have proven that it isnât Batesian.â
You frown, releasing his zipper and taking a half step back. âWhat do you mean?â
Simon licks his lips, feeling the grounding calm of reason flooding through him as he recites the learned information. âRecent studies have shown that the viceroy butterfly is also toxic to predators. It isnât a harmless species mimicking a toxic one. Itâs just a different type of poison.â
âMĂŒllerian mimicry, then,â you say quietly. âI didnât know that.â
Simon feels emboldened by your retreat, and he takes a step forward, bracing his hand on the shelf beside your head and leaning in closer than heâs ever voluntarily been to anyone who wasnât a blood relative. âYouâre like the viceroy. Everybody thinks youâre harmless, but you arenât. Youâre dangerous and Iâm the only one who sees it.â
With him leaning over you your eyes are almost level with his mouth, and you watch his plush, full lips form the words with a growing arousal coiling in your stomach. Heâd never spoken to you like this. Heâd never looked so⊠predatory. And for the first time ever you were noticing that Simon was actually kinda hot. Interesting.
*
âShut up.â
Simon groans against your hand, his hips bucking helplessly as your thumb rubs mercilessly over the sticky head of his cock. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, watching as his pupils dilate and his tongue licks at the palm you have pressed over his lips to muffle his moans. Simonâs bedroom is weird. The red and blue outfit he wears to school every single day is only an extension of the rest of him, because everything in his room is red and blue too. Thereâs an oil drum in the middle of the room that he wonât talk about, and you arenât really interested enough to care. Not with Simonâs cock in your hand. Not with the glassy look in his eyes.
It hadnât been hard to get him to this point, once youâd decided to push his buttons. He was so tightly wound already, heâd been hard from the moment you sat on his bed and ran your fingers up the inside of his thigh. Your books lay forgotten on the floor, but that doesnât matter either. Youâd already written the assignment and would just add Simonâs contributions before submitting it.
Simon whimpers as you drag your slick thumb down over the ridges of his cock, gripping him hard at the base. âShut up, Simon.â
Simon really tries to. He really tries to keep his mouth shut, but the feeling of your hand on his cock is both the best thing heâs ever experienced and the worst kind of overstimulation. His skin is on fire, electricity itching in his veins, but thereâs a deep, throbbing pleasure radiating out from the point where youâre jerking your fist up and down his cock and heâs pretty sure heâll cry if you stop.
Your breasts press against your shirt, the thin cotton of your bra and the thinner cotton of your shirt providing little padding. Simon can see the little stiff peaks of your nipples through the fabric, and his cock twitches in your palm at the sight. Heâd imagined you. Another thing his conscious mind wouldnât claim, of course, but heâd done it. Pictured your face, your breasts, the thick plushness of your thighs on the few occasions when heâd jerked off at night.
You remove your hand from him, and Simon makes a pitiful sound of protest as you lift your hand to your face and spit into your palm. âIf I let you go, will you scream?â
Simon shakes his head, though heâs not actually sure he wonât. You remove your hand from his mouth, and he licks the salt of your sweat from his lips. It should be gross. It is gross. âSpitting is a dirty habit.â
You scoff, wrapping your saliva-slick hand around his cock and jerking his length with a brutal rhythm. âIâll show you a dirty habit.â
Simon sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hands fisting the sheets either side of his thighs desperately as his hips begin to fuck up into your fist. âI canât-â
âTell me about viceroy butterflies.â
Simon looks at you, a confused, irritated expression on his pretty face. âIâm not doing the project for you, youâll have to go to the library and-ahhh,â he breaks off with a breathy groan as you squeeze and twist the head of his cock in your palm before increasing your pace on his shaft. âVi-viceroy catepillars consume p-p-poisonous plants.â
âMmhmm,â you hum, shuffling closer so you can lift your hand to brush his damp hair away from his sweaty forehead.
âBut they donât- ah,â he whimpers, hips lifting rapidly as his long fingers twist in the sheets. âThey donât get sick. They store the poison until they⊠transform.â
You lean in, brushing the tip of your nose against his shoulder. Simon smells like shampoo and fabric softener. Itâs babyish, and your core throbs in response. âThe picture of innocence.â
Simon sobs, his bottom lip wobbling as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm. Itâs not that heâs enjoying this, not exactly. But the thought of coming like this, of spilling white and sticky over your hand and his thighs⊠it makes him sick. Heâd never live such a thing down.
âUntil they⊠they store it until theyâŠâ Simon chews his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard enough to taste the metal of his blood as he watches your fist become a blur against his cock. His precum and your spit glisten on your fingers, and Simonâs stomach rolls over as the coil in his lower abdomen winds tighter and tighter.
âUntil theyâre consumed,â you whisper. You cup his jaw, turning his head and coaxing his mouth to yours so you can press your lips against his. Simonâs mouth is just as soft and warm and lovely as youâd expected, and he whines against your tongue as his release washes through him.
Simonâs hips jerk up violently as you suck his tongue into your mouth and bite down on the sensitive flesh. He can taste your gum, and itâs the best and the worst thing heâs ever felt. But then his cock is spurting thick ropes of cum and he feels the splashes against his thighs. You begin to pull away, and Simon canât let you see what he did. His hands lift from the sheets and tangle in your hair instead, the soft strands looping easily around his fingers as he holds you close and massages your lips with his own.
The hand on his cock slows down, stroking him carefully through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and you sigh into his mouth. His cum is cooling on your fingers, and you release his cock with a parting squeeze before pulling away from the kiss to examine the slick dripping off your knuckles. âWell.â
âDonât.â Simon says softly. His face is pink, his expression pained.
âYou donât know what I was going to say.â
He swallows, tucking his softening, sensitive cock back into his underpants and lifting his hips to pull his jeans back up. âI do. That I shouldnât have done that. Made the mess.â
You tilt your head to the side. âI liked that, Simon. Donât get me wrong, youâre the most infuriating know-it-all on the planet. But I liked that. I liked touching you. I liked making you cum.â
Simon groans, squeezing his eyes shut as you bring your fingers to your mouth and lick his cum from them one by one. âShut up.â
You huff a laugh, reaching out to ruffle his hair aggressively. Simon yelps, shuffling away from you and further back onto the bed. âStop it! Why did you do that?â
You shrug. âI just always wanted to, I guess.â
Simon shakes his head, shifting uncomfortably with the cum drying on his thighs and the awful sparkle in your eye. âI donât like to be touched.â
You crawl onto the bed, and Simonâs thighs part automatically as you settle between his legs. âI think maybe you do.â You whisper, leaning in close enough for his breath to tickle the tip of your nose. âOr at least, you do by me. Isnât that interesting?â
