About me: Iâm a black writer! Iâve 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 ËđˇË! I love talking to people so donât 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 thatâs on you and after this warning I am not responsible for what you decide to consume. If you donât like it donât read it. Blocking helps too.
Asks and suggests are always open.
Usually when Iâm writing a fic or blurb itâs a fem/afab!reader.
Please be kind! No one likes bigots, racists, homophobes etc! DNI if youâre 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.
Wonât write: Scat, piss, heavy angst, necrophilia, cannibalism, race play.
Please remember, weâre just here to have fun and read! Donât take anything personally :)!
And unfortunately, as much as Iâd 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. Iâm talking about weaponized incompetence and emotional unavailablity, those types of things. Thereâs just no way he could be this amazing guy, in fact I believe heâs an undiagnosed piece of shit. But itâs okay I still love him tho.
MORE AUTISTIC SIMON MORE AUTISTIC SIMON MORE AUTISTIC SIMON
thank u:3
- đ
Hi đ!! More Autistic!Simon for my enthusiasts đđŤśđ˝
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 didnât care about the rings, it was about the fact that you two were getting married, but he cared. Heâs 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. Itâs 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 isnât a fan of the mens matching ring, heâs 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 couldnât 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 doesnât understand why it makes him feel so uncomfortable but it just does. He supposes itâs 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 doesnât prefer jeans either but heâs grown used to wearing them and he can ignore the discomfort for the most part. âItâs jusâ a ring. Donâ be a wuss.â 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 heâs 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 couldnât 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 didnât really get the memo at first either. He didnât think youâd 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 friendâs 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.
âLook, Simon. I love you but can you at least wear boxers around the house?â
âWhy?â
âBecause I donât like having to see your ass when I eat. And I canât take you seriously when youâre butt naked trying to lecture me about safety knives.â
âWhatâs wrong with my ass?â
Eventually, he relented. He agreed to boxers. And it worked. Peace was restored. You had no further complaints.
Until he got an idea. AÂ 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 youâd 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.
âUgh! Everything I wear is uncomfortable and itchy!â 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. âWhat Iâve been sayinâ, love. Clothes are the curse of people.â
You pouted, flopping down beside him with crossed arms. âMaybe Iâll just go nude like you.â
His grin stretched wide, wolfish and smug.
âWould never say no to that.â
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 shouldâve been mad. But you werenât. You just smiled to yourself, grabbed the bottle, and poured a little bit into his boxers.
Letâs 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 theyâre balls deep theyâre always talking to it. âShiiitt bon, sheâs so hungry, suckinâ me up jusâ right aye? Hungry girl, donâ worry, âm gonna fill ye up jussssssâ right. Promise sweet girl.â Or a âLook at thaâ yeah? Greedy girl is takinâ me like a champ. A right greedy pussy arenât ya? Yeah, see how she clenched âround me baby? She likes when I talk to âer.â Theyâre broth insufferable with it, you stopped telling them to knock it off because every time you did theyâd just bury themselves deeper and claim that âShe liked itâ because you clenched around them. <3
Simon Riley whoâs 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 heâs 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 couldnât even attempt to make out what it said even if he tried. Every-time he tries to conjure up a memory itâs blurred and eerie. Her voice is a thousand different voices but no voice at all, her face isnât a face, itâs a concept of a face. Itâs 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 canât help but feel crazy. He knows she existed, he remembers how he felt about her. Yet thereâs no physical evidence of her and heâs so tattered that he canât even remember who she is. He doesnât have the heart to go to his childhood home, heâs sure thereâs a picture in there somewhere of them but going home is a whole different box of demons that he doesnât want to open up. Heâs not sure if heâs 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 sheâs somewhere out there. A prayer that wonât be answered because heâs not allowed to have anything good in his life. And he knows that. So he just wallows in his misery. Thinking of what ifâs and what could have beenâs. Wondering if heâll 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. Heâs just so happy he has someone to share his interests with. You donât 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. Heâs really been into brass knuckles lately, you have no clue why but he says: âIâ dunno. Brass knuckles jusâ speak tâme. Look at âem. Dâyou think they have like aâŚbrass knuckle and knife hybrid..?â Turns out they do, because heâs 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 youâre drinking your morning smoothie. While he opens them heâs rambling about what heâs found about them. âLovie, Didâya know these things were invented durinâ the first World War? I mean not really, but they were like early prototypes of âem. Oh yeah, theyâre called trench knives by the way. Made for close combat clearly, this one is a replica of one from 1918. Dâya think I can find a real one? Probably can..â 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. Heâd already watched it a billion times, over analyzing the entire thing. Donât let him find a real trench knife, heâs talking about it all. day. long. Youâre 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. âSiâ please tell me what you want for dinner while Iâm at the store.â âOkay Lovie, but what about the trench knife?â Heâs 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 heâs rambling about it between every grunt, heâs 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 youâre all headed.
Every year for Halloween, youâre doing the matching family costumes. Walking around the block together, trick or treating like itâs tradition. And when her little candy basket gets too full for her to carry? You bet heâs holding it for herâ after sneaking a few pieces, of course.
He totally gives off grill dad energy too. And not the âjust stands there with a spatulaâ 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 itâs the grossest thing in the world.
You can bet heâs gonna spoil her rotten, too. Not just when sheâs 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, heâll say, donât worry about the tag, sweetheart.Â
Definitely her biggest cheerleader. Dance recital? Heâs front row, filming the whole thing. Soccer game? Heâs on the sidelines yelling encouragement loud enough for everyone to hear. Any hobby sheâs into, arts, sports, music, whatever. Heâs right there learning it with her.
Tea parties are no joke. Heâll sit cross legged on the floor in a tiara, pink feather scarf around his neck, sipping from a tiny plastic teacup like itâs the real deal. Uses his poshest British accent. Calls her âmaâamâ and asks about her day like sheâs the queen.
I couldnât really think of a ending to kinda tie this all together đââď¸
Okay but what about telling Soap that youâre âstronger than himâ just so he can manhandle you. You know what youâre doing. Egging him on just so he can overpower you. âI dunno..I just feel like Iâm stronger than you. I think itâs obvious..â You say, trying to hide your smirk. He raises an eyebrow, glancing at you as he tilts his head to the side. âEr-..last time I checked ye couldnae even do a wee five push-ups hen. Now yer claiming thaâ yer stronger than me? A lil ridiculous aye?â He let out a little incredulous laugh. âNo no, Iâm definitely stronger than you, see, look at my muscles. My biceps are wayyyy larger than yours..â You added, watching his face twist up in a look of slight amusement and skepticism. âNae, lass ye wish ye had biceps like mine. Biceps âre basically bigger than yer head. I could pop yer head off if I squeezed ye between them.â 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. âI bet you canât even pick me up..or win a wrestling match with me.â You sigh like youâre uninterested. His face twists up even more. âI betcha I can! Câmere.â He picked you up right off the couch, holding you like a trophy, basically bench pressing you. âSee hen??? Yer light as a feather. Ah could bench press four of ye without breakinâ a sweat ye ken??â 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. Thatâs when he understands what youâre doing. When it clicks for him, he smirks. Tightening his hold again before he lays on top of you, grinding himself into your ass. âAh. I see what yer doinâ now hen. If ye wanted me ta manhandle ye, shoulda jusâ said that lass..â Youâre not registering anything heâs 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 heâs rutting into you. Heâs so into this, something about having his girl under him and pressing his entire weight onto her body really gets him going. Youâre trying to push back into his crotch, heâs groaning and youâre a moaning mess. When he finally lets up heâs picking you up and folding you in half, youâre not even able to testify against his before heâs shoving your shorts off and theyâre halfway across the room. His face immediately between your thighs as strong hands hold them up and push your knees back into your chest. Itâs safe to say he definitely shows you how strong he is that night đ.
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. Youâre sexy in an effortless way, looking him up and down and giving him pretty smiles. Heâs a bit aloof, but he also thinks youâre pretty. So when you approach him the first thing that spills out of his mouth is âI have a lot oâ guns inside my house.â 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. âThis one âere is Riley. Real special tâme, gets the job done. Quick ân easy. Yâwanna hold âer?â 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 heâs 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. ââS a damn good sniper. Ever seen someone get hit bullseye in the head with its bullet? Noâ a pretty sight Iâll tell you that much, but sheâs a right beaut. Silent and efficient.â 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, itâs hot. Watching him rattle on and on about a plethora of guns shouldnât 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 bugâs favorite flavor changes every time they go â it was Lemonberry Crunch last week, now itâsä¸
âA scoop of the⌠Maple⌠Buttercream Delight.âÂ
âTwo.â 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 doesnât 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. Heâs been meaning to buy her a new one after she pulled the pom-pom off.
âNo, sweetheart. Jusâ one, yeah? Twoâll make your tummy upset.â
The sulking, woeful look shrouds her face in an instant. Itâs fatal. Her little hand drops from his jacket to her side, and heâd buy out all the tubs of ice cream for her if he could.Â
âSorry, bug. Jusâ donât want you gettinâ sick âcause oâ me anymore.â he apologizes, nodding and mouthing âoneâ 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.Â
âItâll be three-oh-four, sir.â
He opens his wallet (the one his little girl made for him herself with zebra-print duct tape and neon-colored construction paper â 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.Â
âI wanna give it, Daddy!â she says, buoyant on the tips of her toes, hopping up and down.
âYâdo, do ya?âÂ
âYes! Please!â Sheâs already being given the tenner, a wide smile on her face as she clumsily pushes the note into the womanâs hand. âHere yâgo!â
He canât 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 oneâs been obsessed with collecting one from everywhere they go â 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.
Itâs 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 heâs a servant whoâs fallen behind. Not much of a difference anyway, is there?
They settle down in the chairs, and she digs into the creamy dessert.Â
âOh, this is excellent.â she sighs, nodding. Heâs raised an ice cream critic. Terrible influence, he is. âFive hundred stars.â
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 tableä¸
She stops him and grabs the napkin. Tiny hand with a determined grip. âI can do it, Daddy.â
The words dig at his heart. He almost frowns, but lets go of the napkin for her.
âAlright, bug.â
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 clothesä¸has been for a while now. He doesnât say anything, doesnât 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.Â
The rain is picking up, and he wonders if youâre still sleeping in. Should be, he hopes. You need the rest.
âDaddy?â
âYeah, love.â he hums. Â
âDo you want some?âÂ
âNo, sweetheart.â he chuckles. âMâalright, thank you.â
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, sheâs prancing ahead.
Her feet land her in every puddle she can find, her voice says a seraphic âhelloâ to everything they pass (even the lonesome squirrel she spots at the park and the jogger with headphones in), and sheâs dancing in the rain like a little drunken man with no worries or doubts in the world.
âCâmon, bug, up,â He lifts her up, sitting her on his forearm and pulling her hood over her head. âGotta geâ âome before it starts storminâ.â
She lays her padded head on his shoulder, and he pats her back. Sheâs stopped gluing her hand to her fatherâs everyday, but she still burrows into his chest like a kitten. Itâs the safest place she knows.
âCan we all huggle when weâre âome, Daddy?âÂ
âYâwanâ a huggle, love?â
âYes, with Mum anâ Chunky. When it rains, itâs the⌠the best time for a huggle.â 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 daughterâs cherished friend.
