About me: I’m a black writer! I’ve been writing for a little bit, still new to everything but I really enjoy it! I do community theater and really love musicals. I also like drawing and shopping and I typically spend my days working on school activities or sleeping ˙𐃷˙! I love talking to people so don’t be shy to drop a greeting in my ask box!
I write suggestive and NSFW, so please 18+! MDNI! If you do decide to interact as a minor and I find out you will be blocked! If you decide to read that’s on you and after this warning I am not responsible for what you decide to consume. If you don’t like it don’t read it. Blocking helps too.
Asks and suggests are always open.
Usually when I’m writing a fic or blurb it’s a fem/afab!reader.
Please be kind! No one likes bigots, racists, homophobes etc! DNI if you’re just wanting to be hateful.
Will write: FemxFem/Wlw, NSFW, panty sniffing/play, power dynamics, ddlg, degradation, praise, cnc, dub-con, non-con, stalking, etc.
Won’t write: Scat, piss, heavy angst, necrophilia, cannibalism, race play.
Please remember, we’re just here to have fun and read! Don’t take anything personally :)!
And unfortunately, as much as I’d like to believe Simon would be this great slightly aloof yet well meaning partner something is telling me that he would be such a man in the most derogatory manner. I’m talking about weaponized incompetence and emotional unavailablity, those types of things. There’s just no way he could be this amazing guy, in fact I believe he’s an undiagnosed piece of shit. But it’s okay I still love him tho.
MORE AUTISTIC SIMON MORE AUTISTIC SIMON MORE AUTISTIC SIMON
thank u:3
- 😜
Hi 😜!! More Autistic!Simon for my enthusiasts 😭🫶🏽
Pt. 1 Pt. 2
Autistic!Simon whose been spending the last couple of nights staying up and looking for the perfect ring. It has to be perfect. An engagement and wedding ring that embodies you to the T. Your past conversations had made it clear that you didn’t care about the rings, it was about the fact that you two were getting married, but he cared. He’s too particular to NOT care. He even goes inside of jewelry stores to pick out rings despite his immense distaste for going out in public. But see, some rings are too big and it annoys him how they slip off his fingers, some are too small and hug his finger in a weird way that makes him immensely uncomfortable. It’s not until he comes across two beautiful diamond rings, one is 1.0 carats and the other is 1.5 carats and sculpted beautifully. It reminds him of you so much. Only downside is that he isn’t a fan of the mens matching ring, he’s not a ring guy anyways and if he were to wear one he wants a simple silver band. But this one was encrusted with diamonds, and the band was too rough for his liking, it made his face twist up. But the ring for you was perfect, and it was bundled so he couldn’t even switch it out. He sighed as he glanced between both rings, his face scowling even more before he sighed. It was just a texture thing, he doesn’t understand why it makes him feel so uncomfortable but it just does. He supposes it’s the same reason he prefers 100% cotton shirts with the back tag cut out instead of a cotton poly blend. (Trust he can definitely tell the difference.) He doesn’t prefer jeans either but he’s grown used to wearing them and he can ignore the discomfort for the most part. “It’s jus’ a ring. Don’ be a wuss.” He tells himself. So he buys the rings, sighing and frowning all the way home, one hand on the steering wheel as he fiddles with his pocket knife over and over. Now he’s got to plan the perfect engagement too.
(This one was very short and anticlimactic but I plan on making at least 4 more blurbs for this sweet lil guy! :3)
Simon loathed clothes. Ever since birth, he couldn’t stand wearing them. Tight shirts felt suffocating, clinging in all the wrong places, while loose shirts bunched up every time he sat down, irritating his skin like sandpaper. Socks made his toes feel trapped. Jeans? Felt like leg prisons.
So as he got older and lonelier, finally getting a place to call his own, he took full advantage of the one thing he had control over: being bare. Naked, free, relaxed. It was like finally exhaling after holding his breath for years.
He slept nude, cooked nude, cleaned nude, and lounged nude. If a neighbor caught a glimpse through the blinds? So be it. This was his damn house. His sanctuary.
He never had a problem with it… until he got a partner.
Simon didn’t really get the memo at first either. He didn’t think you’d mind. You were his, after all. And besides, he trusted you enough to be comfortable in his own skin and scars. And at first, you said nothing. You were happy he felt that at ease around you. Proud even.
But there came a point. A moment where things tipped.
A point where you could no longer ignore the way his balls quite literally stared at you while you were trying to eat lunch. A point where his nuts were uncomfortably pressed against your back at night because he liked to sleep curled around you. Hell, you could barely take him seriously during conversations not when all you could see was his ass swaying as he turned to grab something off the counter.
Still, you let it slide. Until that day.
Your friend was over, and Simon: tired from work and on autopilot made his way inside, tugging off his shirt, undoing his belt, already stepping out of his cargo pants and down to his boxers. The same boxers he was about to take off when he walked into the living room… and froze.
Silence.
Your friend’s face was a picture of horror. Yours was painted in full body embarrassment. Simon? Confused, holding the waistband in his hand.
That was it. The final straw.
You sat him down that night and had the talk.
“Look, Simon. I love you but can you at least wear boxers around the house?”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like having to see your ass when I eat. And I can’t take you seriously when you’re butt naked trying to lecture me about safety knives.”
“What’s wrong with my ass?”
Eventually, he relented. He agreed to boxers. And it worked. Peace was restored. You had no further complaints.
Until he got an idea. A plan.
What if he converted you?
It started subtle. He hid a few of your shorts. Nothing major. And soon you were walking around the house in nothing but your panties and one of your shirts. Then he escalated. Began hiding your shirts too. But you simply grabbed his, oversized and soft.
So he played dirty.
He ordered some itching powder off the internet. Just adding a little sprinkle in your shirts, his too: he had to sell the lie. And sure, you could just wash them. But that took hours. Hours you’d be bare.
So when you said you were hopping in the shower, he smiled and sat back.
The door swung open as you stomped out of the bedroom, frustration written all over your face.
“Ugh! Everything I wear is uncomfortable and itchy!” you whined, dumping handfuls of clothes into the washer with enough force to shake the drum.
Simon sat on the couch, arms behind his head, casual as ever. “What I’ve been sayin’, love. Clothes are the curse of people.”
You pouted, flopping down beside him with crossed arms. “Maybe I’ll just go nude like you.”
His grin stretched wide, wolfish and smug.
“Would never say no to that.”
And from that day on, the conversion was complete.
You were barefoot, panty clad, and happy. No shirt, no pants, no problem. Sunlight touched your bare skin as you made breakfast, as you lay in his arms on the couch, skin to skin. You slept bare chest to bare chest with him every night, feeling every steady breath and heartbeat. It was peaceful. Intimate. Freeing.
Until you found the itching powder tucked behind some boxes in the closet.
You almost laughed.
Sneaky bastard.
You should’ve been mad. But you weren’t. You just smiled to yourself, grabbed the bottle, and poured a little bit into his boxers.
Let’s see how he liked it.
Might write more for theses two if I have any ideas since I liked making this
Okay but we all know that Soap and Gaz refer to your pussy with her own pronouns. Like i KNOW when they’re balls deep they’re always talking to it. “Shiiitt bon, she’s so hungry, suckin’ me up jus’ right aye? Hungry girl, don’ worry, ‘m gonna fill ye up jussssss’ right. Promise sweet girl.” Or a “Look at tha’ yeah? Greedy girl is takin’ me like a champ. A right greedy pussy aren’t ya? Yeah, see how she clenched ‘round me baby? She likes when I talk to ‘er.” They’re broth insufferable with it, you stopped telling them to knock it off because every time you did they’d just bury themselves deeper and claim that ‘She liked it’ because you clenched around them. <3
Simon Riley who’s only ever been in love once in his life but he can no longer remember her face or voice anymore :(. It was back when he was a teenager. Early 2005 to late 2007. It was such a long time ago and so much has happened in the span of 18 years, so many memories repressed yet so many that remain engraved in his head no matter how many times he’s tried to push them back. He still thinks about her, or the idea of her. He knows she exists because he still has the ring she exchanged with him. Along with old tattered notes she used to slip into his backpack. The ink is smudged and faded, no longer visible, the paper is crumpled and torn. She wrote in cursive, and he was never good at reading cursive so he couldn’t even attempt to make out what it said even if he tried. Every-time he tries to conjure up a memory it’s blurred and eerie. Her voice is a thousand different voices but no voice at all, her face isn’t a face, it’s a concept of a face. It’s like if a blind person tried to describe what a their face was like. They broke up because he enlisted, he never heard from her again. He misses her so much, but he can’t help but feel crazy. He knows she existed, he remembers how he felt about her. Yet there’s no physical evidence of her and he’s so tattered that he can’t even remember who she is. He doesn’t have the heart to go to his childhood home, he’s sure there’s a picture in there somewhere of them but going home is a whole different box of demons that he doesn’t want to open up. He’s not sure if he’s religious or not, but on rare nights, alone in his flat, he prays for her to be sent back to him. To have a sign that she’s somewhere out there. A prayer that won’t be answered because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life. And he knows that. So he just wallows in his misery. Thinking of what if’s and what could have been’s. Wondering if he’ll ever get to see the love of his life again.
What about more Autistic!Simon Riley who moved said bird into his flat. Took you hunting and showed you how to use and not use guns. Even gifted you your very own knives, one you could keep in your nightstand and the other you keep in your purse. He’s just so happy he has someone to share his interests with. You don’t bother him when more guns show up, you just watch him as he gets a feel for them. You even helps him organize the set up of them along with his knives. Rearranging them by color, weight, shape, and style (His preference) in a case you bought him. He’s really been into brass knuckles lately, you have no clue why but he says: ‘I’ dunno. Brass knuckles jus’ speak t’me. Look at ‘em. D’you think they have like a…brass knuckle and knife hybrid..?” Turns out they do, because he’s spent all night looking that up. The next week there are like two packages at the door and he sees them on the table while you’re drinking your morning smoothie. While he opens them he’s rambling about what he’s found about them. “Lovie, Did’ya know these things were invented durin’ the first World War? I mean not really, but they were like early prototypes of ‘em. Oh yeah, they’re called trench knives by the way. Made for close combat clearly, this one is a replica of one from 1918. D’ya think I can find a real one? Probably can..” He rambled to you. He was so in his element, so happy to tell you all the facts he learned, showing you the replica and comparing it to what a real one would look like. You smiled and listened to your boyfriend, even letting him show you a YouTube video he found on them. He’d already watched it a billion times, over analyzing the entire thing. Don’t let him find a real trench knife, he’s talking about it all. day. long. You’re brushing your teeth? Trench knife from 1918. Making breakfast? Trench knife from 1918. You have to go in for work? Oh yeah, the trench knife from 1918. “Si’ please tell me what you want for dinner while I’m at the store.” “Okay Lovie, but what about the trench knife?” He’s deep in your guts, bent you over, giving you the fucking of a lifetime. His body draped over your back as he grips your hair? Guess what, the fucking trench knife from 1918. And while he’s rambling about it between every grunt, he’s thrusting into you while holding said trench knife in front of your face.
The kind who takes real pride in dressing her up: bows in her hair, a cute dress, and that big proud smile on his face as he walks her wherever you’re all headed.
Every year for Halloween, you’re doing the matching family costumes. Walking around the block together, trick or treating like it’s tradition. And when her little candy basket gets too full for her to carry? You bet he’s holding it for her— after sneaking a few pieces, of course.
He totally gives off grill dad energy too. And not the “just stands there with a spatula” kind like he can actually cook. Probably wears one of those cheesy aprons that says kiss the cook, which your daughter always grimaces at after catching you two kiss, sticking her tongue out like it’s the grossest thing in the world.
You can bet he’s gonna spoil her rotten, too. Not just when she’s little with toys and candy and princess dresses but as she grows up. A brand new car for her sweet sixteen. Whatever prom dress she wants, no matter the price. Just like he does with you, he’ll say, don’t worry about the tag, sweetheart.
Definitely her biggest cheerleader. Dance recital? He’s front row, filming the whole thing. Soccer game? He’s on the sidelines yelling encouragement loud enough for everyone to hear. Any hobby she’s into, arts, sports, music, whatever. He’s right there learning it with her.
Tea parties are no joke. He’ll sit cross legged on the floor in a tiara, pink feather scarf around his neck, sipping from a tiny plastic teacup like it’s the real deal. Uses his poshest British accent. Calls her “ma’am” and asks about her day like she’s the queen.
I couldn’t really think of a ending to kinda tie this all together 🙂↕️
Okay but what about telling Soap that you’re ’stronger than him’ just so he can manhandle you. You know what you’re doing. Egging him on just so he can overpower you. “I dunno..I just feel like I’m stronger than you. I think it’s obvious..” You say, trying to hide your smirk. He raises an eyebrow, glancing at you as he tilts his head to the side. “Er-..last time I checked ye couldnae even do a wee five push-ups hen. Now yer claiming tha’ yer stronger than me? A lil ridiculous aye?” He let out a little incredulous laugh. “No no, I’m definitely stronger than you, see, look at my muscles. My biceps are wayyyy larger than yours..” You added, watching his face twist up in a look of slight amusement and skepticism. “Nae, lass ye wish ye had biceps like mine. Biceps ‘re basically bigger than yer head. I could pop yer head off if I squeezed ye between them.” He scoffed as he flexed his muscles, the tight compression shirt he wore hugged his body so nicely. You were basically eye fucking him while he tried to figure out why the hell you were discrediting and underestimating his strength and physique. You took it a step further. “I bet you can’t even pick me up..or win a wrestling match with me.” You sigh like you’re uninterested. His face twists up even more. “I betcha I can! C’mere.” He picked you up right off the couch, holding you like a trophy, basically bench pressing you. “See hen??? Yer light as a feather. Ah could bench press four of ye without breakin’ a sweat ye ken??” He says, genuinely trying to show you that he is stronger than you. He even flips you over, pressing you into the couch, putting you in a headlock which makes you let out a moan. He loosens his hold, eyebrows raising as he looks down. That’s when he understands what you’re doing. When it clicks for him, he smirks. Tightening his hold again before he lays on top of you, grinding himself into your ass. “Ah. I see what yer doin’ now hen. If ye wanted me ta manhandle ye, shoulda jus’ said that lass..” You’re not registering anything he’s saying, like at all. All you know is that you have a big man on top of you, thick bicep and forearm around your neck while he’s rutting into you. He’s so into this, something about having his girl under him and pressing his entire weight onto her body really gets him going. You’re trying to push back into his crotch, he’s groaning and you’re a moaning mess. When he finally lets up he’s picking you up and folding you in half, you’re not even able to testify against his before he’s shoving your shorts off and they’re halfway across the room. His face immediately between your thighs as strong hands hold them up and push your knees back into your chest. It’s safe to say he definitely shows you how strong he is that night 💝.
Okay but what about autistic!Simon Riley bagging a beautiful bombshell of a woman just by simply being weird and abnormal about his interests?? He meets this pretty bird at a pub. You’re sexy in an effortless way, looking him up and down and giving him pretty smiles. He’s a bit aloof, but he also thinks you’re pretty. So when you approach him the first thing that spills out of his mouth is “I have a lot o’ guns inside my house.” It takes you by surprise. You just smile and nod, a little freaked out by it and he takes that as the chance to continue. Even pulls out a knife. “This one ‘ere is Riley. Real special t’me, gets the job done. Quick ‘n easy. Y’wanna hold ‘er?” He sticks a large hand out, offering you his knife. You hold it, letting the weight of it rest in your hands, you give him an awkward smile. He gives you a slight grin, thinking he’s really got you in the bag. So he pulls out his phone, showing you pictures of guns. One in particular being a picture of a L115A3. “‘S a damn good sniper. Ever seen someone get hit bullseye in the head with its bullet? No’ a pretty sight I’ll tell you that much, but she’s a right beaut. Silent and efficient.” He rambles about how he knows to use it and how he can easily take it apart and put it back together again. You have to admit, it’s hot. Watching him rattle on and on about a plethora of guns shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. So you just smile and nod, actually listening to him and boy does that excite him. He ends up taking you to his flat, holding up and showing you every gun while you throat him and listen <3.
It's been seven months since she's stopped holding his hand all the time and started walking four little steps ahead.
Simon grapples with his daughter's newfound independence.
She is his measure of time.
Simon makes sure to count every inch his daughter grows. How much bigger and looser it feels every time she holds his hand while they walk down the block to see what the new weekly special is at the ice cream parlor. His little bug’s favorite flavor changes every time they go – it was Lemonberry Crunch last week, now it’s一
“A scoop of the… Maple… Buttercream Delight.”
“Two.” she corrects him, tugging on his hand. Her eyes sparkle at him, and a soft quiver hits her lips. She got that look from you. Simon doesn’t approve of it, not at all. It weakens him and makes it harder to deny you both anything, but he pushes through today with a pat on her beanie-covered head. He’s been meaning to buy her a new one after she pulled the pom-pom off.
“No, sweetheart. Jus’ one, yeah? Two’ll make your tummy upset.”
The sulking, woeful look shrouds her face in an instant. It’s fatal. Her little hand drops from his jacket to her side, and he’d buy out all the tubs of ice cream for her if he could.
“Sorry, bug. Jus’ don’t want you gettin’ sick ‘cause o’ me anymore.” he apologizes, nodding and mouthing ‘one’ to the girl on the other side of the counter to confirm. She smiles and fills the stubby paper cup up with one scoop, and his daughter sighs and longingly looks up at it as they weigh it, tiny fingers twiddling at the edge of her puffer.
“It’ll be three-oh-four, sir.”
He opens his wallet (the one his little girl made for him herself with zebra-print duct tape and neon-colored construction paper – incredible what kids can do) and pulls a tenner out. Before he can hand it to the young lady, his hand knocks on his thigh, smacking with urgency.
“I wanna give it, Daddy!” she says, buoyant on the tips of her toes, hopping up and down.
“Y’do, do ya?”
“Yes! Please!” She’s already being given the tenner, a wide smile on her face as she clumsily pushes the note into the woman’s hand. “Here y’go!”
He can’t help but chuckle a bit, thanking them before telling them to keep the change. Asks for a single pence back before they leave just because his little one’s been obsessed with collecting one from everywhere they go – she likes to tape them inside a notebook and label their source. Simon takes the ice cream and drops the coin into her waiting hands. She pockets it with a toothy grin, cheering and skipping over to their usual booth by the window.
It's been seven months since she's stopped holding his hand all the time and started walking four little steps ahead.
Simon grapples with his daughter's newfound independence.
It’s a funny thing to mull over in the middle of an ice cream shop, yet so easy to do when he watches her act so brazen with him, waving him over like he’s a servant who’s fallen behind. Not much of a difference anyway, is there?
They settle down in the chairs, and she digs into the creamy dessert.
“Oh, this is excellent.” she sighs, nodding. He’s raised an ice cream critic. Terrible influence, he is. “Five hundred stars.”
A smile tugs on his lips again, and he folds a napkin to wipe off the ice cream she unintentionally smears on the corners of her lips, leaning over the table一
She stops him and grabs the napkin. Tiny hand with a determined grip. “I can do it, Daddy.”
The words dig at his heart. He almost frowns, but lets go of the napkin for her.
“Alright, bug.”
It gets harder every time, facing the inevitable interruption of a constant in his life. He loves to see it though. Loves to watch her grow into her own person. She picks out her own clothes一has been for a while now. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare to. He thinks the lion on her shirt pairs nicely with the blue camo pants anyway, topped off with the purple puffer she picked out last month, and yellow, squeaky rain boots.
The rain is picking up, and he wonders if you’re still sleeping in. Should be, he hopes. You need the rest.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, love.” he hums.
“Do you want some?”
“No, sweetheart.” he chuckles. “M’alright, thank you.”
She eats until two more spoonfuls are left, not bothering to hide the unpleasant expression on her face from a full belly. Simon finishes it for her before they leave to walk it off, and again, she’s prancing ahead.
Her feet land her in every puddle she can find, her voice says a seraphic ‘hello’ to everything they pass (even the lonesome squirrel she spots at the park and the jogger with headphones in), and she’s dancing in the rain like a little drunken man with no worries or doubts in the world.
“C’mon, bug, up,” He lifts her up, sitting her on his forearm and pulling her hood over her head. “Gotta ge’ ‘ome before it starts stormin’.”
She lays her padded head on his shoulder, and he pats her back. She’s stopped gluing her hand to her father’s everyday, but she still burrows into his chest like a kitten. It’s the safest place she knows.
“Can we all huggle when we’re ‘ome, Daddy?”
“Y’wan’ a huggle, love?”
“Yes, with Mum an’ Chunky. When it rains, it’s the… the best time for a huggle.” Chunky, her beloved toy gorilla. Simon recalls catching her bathing the poor thing in the soapy water-filled sink. It took him half a day to figure out how to properly dry the toy without permanently damaging his daughter’s cherished friend.
