And When I Say Kyle ‘gaz’ Garrick,,

your can’t get it up piece STOPPPP THE WORMS IN MY BRAIN ARE GOING FERAL HELP! i have noooo clue what this is called or if it’s an official thing but i loveeee when a guy cums too quickly, can’t get it up, is so pent up they’re blushing blubbering etc and all of these are such older boyfriend simon like he is old and sometimes his body doesn’t work the way he wants it to. i love it like yesss blush and get all embarrassed because you just came in your pants simply because we were making out or because you came as soon as you put your cock in and thrusted like twice…yum!

JESUS idk what it’s called either but it drives me fucking batty 🫶🏼

there’s this line older bf!simon walks with you of either feeling like a dirty old man or a fucking teenager- often there’s no in between.

when he’s got you on your back and you’re looking up at him with those starry eyes like he hung the fucking moon and you’re biting on the tip of your finger as you fucking giggle for him.

“mmm si, you’re so fucking handsome”

and you’re dragging a hand up his abs and pushing your hips closer to him as he’s trying to clear his mind enough to sink just the tip in.

fucking focus, stupid git.

it’s no use when you’re touching him like that and you sound so fucking sweet and your eyes are crossing when he’s only just notched in the head of his cock.

done for.

you’re tight- practically choking him on entry and it’s all falling to pieces. strangled moan breaking out his chest as his hips are stuttering and he’s flooded you with cum.

you gasp, fingers moving to spread yourself a little to watch the way it spills out of you. the blush is already creeping up simon’s neck and he’s burying his face in your chest.

“m’so fuckin’ sorry, sweet’art”

rubbing his back and gently cooing in his ear, you’re pulling him on top of you to let him curl into your side.

“sorry f’what? thinking that highly of me?”

he feels like a fucking loser with this pretty little thing, he should be able to fuck you within an inch of your life. and he can! he does!

but not all the time.

not when you’ve been perched in his lap kissing on him for the better part of an hour and your hips roll into his when his hands move just right.

the little noises you make when the meeting of your thighs move over the hard line of his cock, simon’s head is fucking spinning.

he wants to tell you he needs a breather, he knows you’d understand but he also doesn’t want you to move. he doesn’t want to take a hand off you.

but when you’re leaning back and pulling your shirt over your head, taking his hands and placing them right on your chest- he’s done for.

simon’s hips lift off the couch and there’s a breathy little whimper and he doesn’t even know where the fuck it came from. but he’s cumming.

and he’s cumming hard.

he’s embarrassed, feeling like if anyone else knew that’d just happened- he’d probably have to kill them.

not you though, not you who looks at him with that heady little smile and starts kissing up the column of his throat.

“fuck, si- you sound so fucking sexy when you cum for me”

but when he’s feeling like a dirty old man, already getting on at himself for not being young enough for you. then his cock goes soft on him and he actually might break something.

you don’t even look bothered, when he’s sitting on the edge of the bed feeling sorry for himself and you’re wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders.

nuzzling your face in the crown of his head, pressing kisses to his scalp as you bring a hand down to stroke it soft.

“that feel good?”

simon’s chest stutters as he breathes out an affirmative, sinking back into your chest as your other hand comes to play with his balls.

“you’ve had a long week, yeah?”

and he remembers that yeah, he has actually. maybe his body isn’t giving up, maybe he isn’t the worst man to ever walk the planet, maybe- just maybe he does deserve you.

so he lets himself relax into you as your teeth gently scrape the shell of his ear while you stroke him. never firming, but still making that heat thunder away in his stomach.

“let me take care of you, like you always do f’me”

Simon Riley who took you home after a night out, expecting sex but you couldn't go through with it.

You were both already naked, your hands on his chest, straddling the large man when you just ... couldn't do it. Being a virgin at this age felt embarrassing, and tonight you wanted to get rid of the title.

Simon, saw the dismay on your face and wrapped a blanket around you. Your face was bright red from embarrassment, god, what was holding you back?

"it's alrigh' love."

You felt the need to leave. You hadn't given him what he wanted...so you guessed it was time to hit the road.

So, both of you got up to do very different things.

You started putting on your dress and shoes, but when Simon turned around, he had a pair of his shirts and large sweat pants for you to wear.

His gruff voice was so gentle.

"You don't 'ave to leave..."

You weren't expecting this. There were no alarm bells, nothing in your stomach to say 'run.' But Simon Riley knew the dangers that women faced and he never wanted to make another woman feel that way.

"I uh, just want you to know, you can do whatever you like. I just ... fucking hell. What I'm tryin' to say is, I'd like to spend more time with ya...if that's alrigh' by you..."

He offered you a shower, and god did you want one. Surprisingly enough, Simon had pretty good products in his bathroom. None of that 30 in 1 shampoo. Clean towels. Everything was in perfect order; neat, tidy.

When you had changed into the perfectly oversized clothes (he is like 6'6?), and walked downstairs, Simon was waiting on the lounge with various drink options, and a sheepish grin.

"Thought you'd need some water, but I also have whiskey, coffee, tea..."

"Oh, thank you! Um, I'm fine with water...and maybe a tea."

"Woman after me own heart," he said with a grin and went on to make the best cuppa he's made in his life.

YOU hates terfs

Simon Riley wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes. And right now, those actions consisted of him sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, arms resting on his thighs, watching you like a man utterly engrossed in the most intense thriller of his life. His sharp, brown eyes followed every single one of your movements with laser focus—so much so that you had to stop and arch a brow at him through the mirror.

“You’re staring,” you mused, dragging a cotton pad soaked in toner across your skin.

Simon didn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

A slow shrug. “You do this every night, and it still feels like watchin’ a bloody mission unfold.”

You snorted, shaking your head at his dramatics. “It’s just skincare, Si.”

“To you,” he countered, tilting his head as you reached for your serum. “To me? It’s an operation. You’ve got phases, precise steps, different solutions. Looks like chemical warfare.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Simon, this big, lethal man, who faced warzones and threats on a daily basis, was utterly captivated by something as mundane as your skincare routine. He never complained—not once. In fact, you were convinced he could sit there for hours if given the chance.

As you dropped a few dots of serum onto your cheeks, his fingers twitched. You caught it immediately. “You wanna do it?”

He exhaled through his nose, pretending to contemplate, but the answer was obvious. “Yeah.”

You turned to him, holding out the dropper. “Be gentle.”

His bare hand wrapped around the bottle as he squeezed out a tiny amount. His touch was surprisingly delicate as he smoothed the serum over your skin with slow, deliberate motions.

“There,” he murmured, voice low, like he had just completed something of grave importance. “Good?”

You hummed, leaning into his touch. “Perfect.”

Simon nodded, satisfied, before leaning back to watch the rest of your routine unfold. His girl, in her element. Nothing in the world could pull him away from this.

The door slammed open—well, as much as it could with Simon catching it at the last second, his reflexes kicking in. You stumbled in, barely managing to toe off your heels, giggling at absolutely nothing. The room swayed around you, the effects of one too many drinks wrapping around your mind like a thick haze.

Simon, ever the patient man, just sighed. “You’re pissed.”

You blinked up at him, your pupils blown wide. “M’not.”

“You are.” He exhaled sharply, stepping forward just as your knees buckled. One strong arm wrapped around your waist before you could faceplant onto the floor. “Alright, c’mon, love. Let’s get you sorted.”

You melted against him, cheek pressing against the hard planes of his chest. “You smell good,” you murmured, voice muffled.

Simon huffed out a small chuckle. “Yeah, yeah.”

He guided you toward the bed, setting you down with an ease that made you feel weightless. As soon as your body hit the mattress, exhaustion washed over you in waves, your limbs heavy, your mind sluggish. But just as you were about to succumb to sleep, Simon’s voice cut through the haze.

“You gotta clean your face first.”

You whined, attempting to burrow into the pillows. “Don’t wanna.”

“Doesn’t matter.” There was no room for argument in his tone, but there was something else there too—something soft, something… fond.

Through half-lidded eyes, you watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of cabinets opening and closing filling the space. When he returned, he had a small cotton pad in one hand and your bottle of micellar water in the other. Your sluggish brain could barely comprehend what was happening as he crouched in front of you, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he cupped your jaw.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low, as if afraid to startle you.

You hummed, too dazed to do anything but comply. With careful precision—like he was handling something fragile—he pressed the damp cotton pad against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your foundation. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was performing some sort of sacred ritual.

The cool sensation against your skin was oddly soothing, and you sighed, leaning into his touch.

Simon shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Didn’t think I’d be doin’ this, but here we are.

You smiled sleepily. “Taught you well, huh?”

“That you did.” His thumb brushed over your cheekbone before he continued, working his way down to your chin, your forehead, even swiping a fresh pad over your lips with the utmost care.

When he reached your eyes, he hesitated. “Close ‘em for me, love.”

You did as he asked, feeling the gentle sweep of the cotton against your lids, ridding them of mascara and eyeliner. His touch never faltered, never rushed.

By the time he was done, your skin felt fresh, clean, and your body… impossibly heavy. Sleep tugged at you, lulling you into a warm, blissful state.

Simon sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. “Alright, bed.”

You barely registered the blankets being pulled over you, barely noticed the way he lingered for just a moment longer, watching over you like a silent guardian.

But just before sleep fully claimed you, you mumbled, “Love you, Si.”

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet, barely-there response.

“Love you too, sweetheart…”

subtitles should be on automatically. people who don’t want them should have to turn them off

TRUNCATED DECACHORON

SPREAD THIS ALL OVER TUMBLR FOR NO REASON

I need to go feral in bed like a restless, overstimulated kitten. I'm not talking sexually (surprise, I fucking know). And I need Simon to lay next to me on his back, one arm tucked behind his head as he observes quietly, all calm and slightly amused at my antics—until he sees that look on my face that makes him sigh in exasperation.

"No. Don't." He warns, already bracing himself for the inevitable. "I'll kick yer little arse, lovie."

But it's too late, and I'm already lunging at him with a playful snarl, pawing and groping at his torso, egging him in to playfight me into submission, knowing fully well only his massive body on top of me can calm me down somewhat.

When I lift his shirt to chomp down on the bit of pudge on his lower tummy, he lets out a rough yelp, cursing under his breath.

"Olright, enough 'o tha'," he growls before using two humble percent of his strength to pin me down underneath his weight until I yield with a helpless soft giggle.

"Every damn time ya gotta be a difficult, little shite," he huffs, nosing along my fluttering pulse.

"But fuck if I don't love to teach ya a good lesson, luv."

And he huffs before sinking his own crooked teeth into my neck.

Like/reblog if you think that you don't need to medically transition to be transgender

does anyone wanna hold hands until we feel a little braver