#foXy

[theorist-fox]

Simon makes love to you

Drabble to get me out of the block

Word Count: 1.6k

18+

CW: fluff, smut, contains themes of depression

Simon fucks you hard.

It's an unsaid promise, a sort of bargain. 

You need someone to fuck your head empty, he needs someone who'll let him unload whatever's mess is brewing inside of him. 

You like it hard.

He needs it hard.

Mutual agreement. Everything had clicked so easily you two had never even bothered setting ground rules or whatnot. They flowed naturally, as if you knew, and he did as well.

Whenever you wanted, you just knocked. If he was up for it, you'd spend the night in his bed until your throat would go raw and your limbs would turn floppy.

The same happened when he was on the other side of the door.

Independently on who asked, the outcomes rarely changed. If ever.

Yet Simon now finds himself in front of a crossroads, when you knock on his door with bloodshot eyes and a tiredness so horrible that, for a moment, he feels afraid.

That lasts a swift second, though, because the next thing he registers is complete discomfort. Helplessness.

He doesn't think he can fuck that out of you. Not when your eyes are so chock full of tears yet so hollow.

Your lips look cracked and swollen, like you've spent a while nibbling at the flakes of dry skin. He's sure they'd taste of iron if he were to kiss them.

As he takes in your state, he narrowly misses your sniffle, the tremble of your hands. Or the way your voice, so feeble and strained, as if exhausted from the words themselves, whispers:

"Can you make love to me tonight?"

Simon barely reacts as it reaches his ears. On the outside, he's impassive as ever—inside, on the other hand, he's rattled to the bone.

Because he doesn't know how to do that. 

What he does know, is that he could tell you no, and you wouldn't so much as bat an eye. You're not one to push, and neither is he. It's always been such a balanced thing. 

And yet he'd rather gouge his eyes out than watch you tremble any more than you already are.

Which is why he doesn't answer verbally—doesn't trust himself to do that, to sound as kind as you need him to be. He simply curls his hand at the nape of your neck and pulls you in, lips to lips.

And exactly as he thought, taste of iron they do.

Simon's kiss is not devouring. It's hesitant because he's new to it, soft because you asked. There's no tongue yet, simply lips smacking and a gentle hand on your hips. The white lights of the building's hallway flicker overhead—some old place in which neighbours don't ask much about what's happening in the other flats, which is exactly what he needs.

Gently, he guides you inside, closing the door behind you with the flat of his hand. Feels the salt of your tears on his own lips, like he's cried them as well. 

Your hands cradle his neck, fingers dreadfully cold and rough—callouses you've bitten in anxious habit, perhaps to cause pain so the one inside would quell. 

Simon guides your back against his door, as his hand blindly reaches for the lock. It twists smoothly in his fingers. Clicks. You unravel there, like the sound's given you permission to do so.

Simon is used to drinking up your moans, never your sobs. He tries as you hiccup in his mouth, holding you gently yet firmly, grounding you to where it matters.

Careful as ever, his fingers tug at the zipper of your coat, and then helps you out of it. Similarly, your own lift his shirt up and off his head. And then it's a dance he knows by heart, hands tracing the shape of you the more it gets exposed.

Loose clothes on the floor. Your cold hands holding onto him for dear life. His own guiding you to the bed, steering your body where he needs it—where you do.

But differently from previous times, there's so much softness in his fingers that they tremble almost as much as yours, like he's afraid he'd bruise you when he bloody well knows he's held you far more harshly and you never complained once.

And then you're on his bed, on your back with his own body as an anchor to reality. A big arm snakes in the sliver of space between your bodies to reach your sex.

He kisses your cheeks first, as his fingers draw soft circles at your clit to get you wet. Your chest stutters with hiccups to catch your breath, tired hands threaded through his hair—perhaps to keep him closer, perhaps to ground yourself.

Whatever the reason, he lets you. Feels your breath—thick, heavy, wet—brush his skin. Your lips reciprocate his kisses, landing damp and swollen on his shoulder, on his neck.

That night, Simon fucks you softly.

He doesn't thrust into you until you can't breathe but keeps his hips flush to yours instead. He rolls idle circles that sheath him fully inside and cradles your head to keep you still—to keep you comfortable, to give you what you asked.

Can you make love to me tonight?

Simon is not sure he can, doesn't think he has what it takes.

But still, his hands hold you gently, instead of marking you blue. His mouth draws in your breath, like he's trying to even it out when you can't. 

"That's it," he whispers when he feels the stutters in your chest settle down. "That's it—deep breaths. Good girl, y're doing so good." 

Your hands come to hold him like he is you, and then you cum around him breathing hard and burying your face in his neck instead of moaning and clawing at his skin.

"There it is," he tells you quietly when your pussy clenches around him. His voice chokes on itself because you're not the only one affected by this—not by a long shot. "There it is, swee'heart. Jus' like that."

He keeps his focus on you as you come down from it, satisfied when he notices that the trickles down your temples are of sweat and not tears anymore. 

But there's something in your eyes, he thinks. Something that has been torn to shreds so many times you gave up even trying to fix it. A loneliness so fierce it’s burning you to ashes, an exhaustion so deeply engraved you carry it within your bones.

How a man as attentive as him has never noticed is beyond him, but now he finds himself wanting to see it, to try and help you mend it until you're whole again.

"Fuck, you're lovely, yeah?" He murmurs when your hands come to cradle his cheeks and his do the same. "Sight f'sore eyes."

You smile for the first time since you knocked on his door. 

Can you make love to me tonight?

Simon is not sure he can, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try—if it means you smile like that again.

Your hips start moving to meet him, ankles locked at his tailbone. Simon cums inside of you for the first time since you two started seeing each other, rocking his hips as you caress the back of his head.

He’s always tried his damned hardest to avoid leaving strands of any kind that could tie you to him. He's a dangerous man, one you shouldn't be tangled with. 

But if you look so safe in his arms, enough to seek him at your lowest, enough to smile even when your world seems torn asunder, then there's little he can do to fight it. 

To fight you.

He collapses, chest to chest, knocking the breath out of your lungs—a sound so soft it tickles his ear enough to raise goosebumps.

Simon holds onto you something fierce, arms tucked under the hollow of your spine—inked skin, rough and thickened by a harsh life, against the velvet of yours.

Usually, you’d spare a few moments for the two of you to catch a breath, and then you’d leave, or he would, and life would roll on by. Tonight, he senses your hesitation in the tremble of your arms, and how they’re still holding on tight, wrapped like a silk ribbon around his neck.

Simon finds himself at a crossroads again, but this time it’s so much easier to make a choice.

Can you make love to me tonight?

As he nuzzles your skin, Simon realizes he never even had to try.

“Stay,” he whispers into your neck. 

It’s then that you suck in a deep breath, one that bullies its way into his own lungs too. The curve of your cheek presses into his temple, as if you might be smiling. There, something fills him just right.

He wants to look up and see if he’s fixed a few of those shreds, if he’s managed to at least squeeze a thread in there, within the broken seams. 

Perhaps he has, because your voice quivers less, and there’s that golden touch of hope in it, refreshing and bright—somehow louder than the sobs he’s been striving to take from you all night.

“Okay,” you breathe. “O-okay, I’ll stay.”

Thing is, you never leave. 

If not once or twice, with Simon in tow, carrying a few boxes in his hands with your initials scribbled on one side.

Until your books are on his shelves, your toothbrush on his sink, and your name on the doorbell, right next to his own.

[callmebread]

Yeeee angst my favorite

✨REBLOGS APPRECIATED✨

[miiilowo]

some doodles from a magma i was in

[honeybee-melody]

𝘼𝙎𝙆 𝙂𝙊𝙇𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝙔𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂

I was contemplating wether I should make them female or male. But I decided to stick with male. I may change up that hairstyle. Hope you like it @nickitynackity

Want to make a art request? comment down below :)

[bs-fangirl]

Of course the other animatronics killed people but between mauling the guy directly in the face, hamstringing Mike, and setting off Afton’s spring-locks, the Cupcake had the most blood on its teeth.

Vicious little thing! 🧁

[fictionproblem]

i regret to inform you that i have tism-ed them all

[beanzbeanz001]

Fnaf fanart 👍

[ladylylla]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

FROM MIKE, ABBY, VANESSA, AND THE BAND!

I hope you all have a very spooky halloween, get lots of treats!

‼️Good news! I just made prints of this! Check it out here on my shop! 💜💜💜‼️

[endless-shelter]

Congrats already, Fazbear Entertainment, go beat that theoretical physicist!!

[non-blurred version under the cut]

[cookieruma29]

After 8 years of waiting.... Har har har

(Hope everyone gets to watch the movie💕❤️💕 :D)

[renumuro]

[theorist-fox]

I keep thinking about Simon and how impassive he is.

Bit of a brute. 

Socially inept (because he doesn't want to be social, not because he can't be). 

Dispassionate. Bored. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Bastard at times. Measuredly. Likes to keep people on their toes about that.

But God, does Simon kiss like you might die tomorrow.

He grabs your jaw, cocks your head back and dips in. 

Opens your lips with the tip of his tongue and he's not gentle with it.

That's where he pours all his passion into: open-mouthed kisses that make your knees buckle every time. The flat of his tongue on yours, his gaze hooded at first, watching intently to see how he can make you come undone. Only to shut the world out later, drawing in a deep breath as his lids finally fall closed.

His hands match the fervour of his mouth; they pull you in, curve in the hollow of your spine, clutching at your clothes. His fingers in your hair, tilting your neck sideways or however he pleases, just so he can deepen a kiss that's already breathtaking.

Sometimes, he pushes your back to the wall, wrists snatched and trapped above your head using only one of his big paws, while the other one busies itself with your breasts or your tummy. Palm chock full of you—rolls, flesh, cotton (if it's still in the way and he hasn't ripped it off of you yet).

You're fully aware that you could breathe through it all, no biggie, but somehow you can't. He nullifies whatever survival instinct you have the moment he takes hold of you and crashes his lips to yours.

And by the time he's done, your knees are weak and your panties are wet.

To him, this is not inherently sexual. It's just the way he does it—and as you bloody well know, Simon never half-asses a single thing.

Not even kissing you goodbye as he leaves for work in the morning.

[renata-dp]

HAPPIEST DAY

next

[batpersik-art]

celebration

[fluffygif]

Completely happy foxy  ❤️