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His bones are drilled hollow, emptied of all marrow, his sinew taken and replaced by interweaving grief. He is an amalgamation of sorrow made sentient by latent radiation. He doesn’t know how to be a person again and yet, Betty pushed his life back into his hands once more.
After Fionna, the multiverse, Betty’s lesson – it’s still hard. Better, but Simon finds himself staring at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan at times, laying there, thinking, waiting for, for. Something, nothing, for that final grain of sand maybe.
Finn comes by often now, after helping him move. Had clapped his back hard to nearly topple him over afterwards, stating he can already see the change do him some good.
It’s a quaint little homestead, not dissimilar to his old apartment but not entirely so it’ll be as easy to fall into old complacency. There is still a familiar menagerie, a cozy, clutterness of an academic he will never shake off, but there’s an openness to it now. A brightening. A large grassy field through the windows, Up-Ton just beyond and the Candy Kingdom a little ways further.
Marcy and Bonnie come by every so often and have given him a small compact robotic helper of Bonnie’s own invention to help him around the house. Simon has yet to put the batteries in, despite always meaning to when he was ready. Baby steps, baby steps.
Finn comes by more, in between adventures. Always says Simon’s was along the way. They did little more than talk, at first. Finn’s confident camaraderie and his own awkward self-consciousness bumbling along. Then his faucet began leaking, followed by a creaky door, then the uneven legs of his table, Finn decided to take it upon himself to fix these issues despite Simon’s insistence that he can take care of all his leaks and breaks himself. He’s been a down-on-his-luck youth once upon a time, with a slim grad stipend that would force him to pick between a call to the plumber or groceries for the month and a borrowed wrench, he knows his way around a tool box.
“I like doing this kind of stuff,” Finn had said, his head inside the cabinets below his sink to tinker at the pipes. “It’s nice. Plus you always look happier after I do it, even if you don’t say it. You look good when you’re happy. This is nuthin’.”
“Well,” Simon said, unsure how to really reply to the weight of those words. “Thank you. For the help.”
Then Finn began staying for a meal and then some, because it’s the least he could do for his help. Even if he could eat Simon out of hearth and home.
The conversation sounds through easier over time, familiar, in these moments where Simon can feel less like a disarray of collected mistakes and missteps haphazardly tied together by lingering shame – and more like an individual. With Finn’s attentions focused on him in his visits, Simon feels witnessed back into humanity. He feels needed, his company wanted. In his deepest heart of hearts, Simon hopes Finn doesn’t grow bored of him, once he thinks the job is done.
And perhaps that can explain why he finds himself in this sort of situation now. Lying on his back, watching the fan blades go round and round, his breath hitching with each wet mouthing against his neck as Finn presses himself dizzyingly between Simon’s legs. The heft of him covers every inch of Simon, heavy and weighty like a thick blanket, soothing something deep and innate in him. It’s nothing more than clumsy frottage with Finn’s hot breath puffing against his slick sensitive skin, groaning in breathy wonderment on how good this feels.
Simon can’t quite recall the lead up, just that they had been sitting on the floor of his living room and something had been said, by him or by Finn, and then Simon happened upon his back, pressed flat and an eager mouth against his own.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter how it happened, only that it’s happening. A small gasp pulls out of him when teeth find landing, feeling not unlike a chew toy. Simon squirms and tries to nudge Finn’s broad chest away, but a particularly rough hip rub drives a shiver through him. “F–Finn,” Simon tries instead. “Finn, ahh, listen. We shouldn’t,” do this, Simon thinks half inanely, weak in the moment of naming whatever this is. “We shouldn’t,” he settles to say again, emphatic.
Finn pulls up then, his organic arm held above him to hold himself up over Simon while his metal one holds him by the hips, lifting his bottom up to aid in rubbing himself against him. In his horror, his cock twitches at the casual display of strength while he’s reminded how Finn had always been a rather strong kid. Had tossed him around more times in his youth than he could remember in his hazy memory. “Why not?” Finn asks, simple. “It’s making you feel good too. You look really good like this.”
The warmth in his face spreads quicker at the brazen words. Simon shakes his head, shutting his eyes to not see how Finn’s hungry gaze center at his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Finn kisses at his jaw, beard scratching along his neck. There’s a weight on his forehead, and Finn murmurs against his mouth, “Then you should show me what I’m doing.”
Another shiver runs down his spine as Finn kisses him again, open mouth and sloppy, licking the inside of his mouth. Saliva dripples over his chin and cheeks. Simon feels like he can barely breathe. Finn’s tongue runs along his teeth and gums, across his palette, into the soft tissue of his cheek in a way that Simon is half hysterically reminded of a passage he once read on how wolves greet each other. Though pinned the way he is, Simon feels more like prey.
It’s overwhelming. Each drive of Finn’s hips plays hot. Through the layers he can feel Finn’s eagerness strain and twitch while his own desperation matches. When Finn’s grip drops, Simon’s thighs clench around him to keep from falling and make his own hips shoot up in meeting. They both share a groan.
He should stop it, really. By Glob, he knew Finn since he was a noodle-armed whip of a boy, had even given him some fatherly words now and again when Simon was finally sane enough to give it and before then terrorized him when he was still lost in his mind. This should not happen, he shouldn’t let it happen. He should shove and kick and pry himself out of this and send Finn away with a harsh reprime. He should flagellate himself afterwards for letting it get to this point.
And yet. His chest feels caved in. Empty, hollowness winding inside him. As Finn’s warming metal arm finds a path under his vest and shirt, caressing his back and causing him to arch deeper into the sensation of Finn’s broad, heavy chest, that desperate rawness extrapolates.
When was the last time he’s been touched like this?
He’s so fucked up. He can’t stop himself from trembling as Finn gives another facsimile fuck against him, and thinks, hysterically, this is all he needs. The final piece of it. To be wanted, needed, in any way he could be had.
He could cum like this, to his horror. Pinned to the ground, rutted against through layers, suffocated.
Finn pulls away. His pupils are blown so wide that Simon could see himself reflected, disheveled and desperate.
Simon swallows, trembling under the weight of him and the sensation of his twitching cock. “I have… something. Lotion, maybe. Oil,” he whispers, admits like a death sentence. “It’s, it’s in the kitchen.”
“Yeah?”
Simon nods, jerkily. “Yeah.”
Finn stays there between his legs for a long moment that he nearly thinks he won’t get up and instead will choose to finish like this. Simon considers for half a second in dawning realization if Finn even knows what he is referring to. Has he been taught this? Does he even know the concept of intimacy, of sex? Afterall, who in the world would teach him if Simon was his first prolonged interaction with another human throughout his impressionable, developing adolescence – as if Simon could even be such a teacher, insane as he was.
Then Finn lifts off of him.
He gives himself the moment to catch his breath and slump back on the floor. He can hear Finn’s quick, heavy steps reverberate on the hardwood as he potters around looking for something slick to use. When hearing Finn’s aha! Simon makes work in opening and discarding his trousers and vest but keeps his shirt, not quite ready to steel himself for the vulnerability of being fully naked in his living room.
“Hand it here,” Simon said once Finn returned, sat up. The dark colored jar is placed in his hand and he fills his hand with the viscous liquid. He hikes one leg up to give himself access as he reaches beyond his hard cock to his hole. The maneuvers are familiar like walking through the steps of a childhood room, fingering himself open like this. Delicate spreading, scissoring, and though his erection flags some, he could get lost in the efficiency of the action. Pumping two fingers into himself with an accompanying snck-snck, shivering from the sensation, while his wrist begins to twinge. He thinks briefly of adding a third just to feel that ache, but two had always been enough. When he pulls his fingers out, he realizes the obscene wet sounds weren’t only his own, but Finn’s too, encaptured by the motion of Simon’s hand while he pumps himself.
Simon swallows at the sight of Finn’s cock, large, red, and eager.
“Come here,” Simon murmurs, spreading his legs wide in offering. His heart is going crazy, beating against the cage of his ribs like it is ready to burst into confetti as Finn knee-walks back between the splay. The warmed metal hand touches his outer thigh and makes him flinch more out of surprise than actual temperature.
“It’s going to go in there, right?” Finn asks, moving in even closer. His voice is full of wonder and curiosity. Boy-like. Simon’s stretched hole squeezes around nothing. “That’s how it gets inside.”
His throat is dry. He doesn’t think he can answer. Only nod dumbly and lean back onto his elbows. He finds his voice once Finn gets the memo of helping push his legs up. Simon isn’t quite as limber as he once was. “Yes – yes. In there, ah, slowly. I’ll help.”
Simon reaches between his legs to touch Finn’s erection. It’s thick and hot in his still-slicked hand, twitching as Finn groans in his throat and unable to stop himself from rutting his hips into his wet grip as he slicks it up. Once wet enough, Simon gently tugs the fat cock and guides it until it bluntly kisses his hole.
“Go slow,” Simon repeats, softly. “I haven’t… done this in a while, to say the least.”
“‘S okay, I’ll be careful.”
Simon focuses on bearing down as Finn presses in. His hole stubbornly holds against the blunt cockhead for a few long moments until it finally pops in. He clicks his tongue and tries not to get overly tense at the invading feeling. Finn gasps and his hips twitch further inward.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Finn said, strained and out of breath. “It just feels, feels good. Glob, Simon.”
Finn then pulls out a little to thrust back in a little deeper, burrowing. The ache dulls and Simon feels too big for his ribs. It’s been so long since last he’s been speared like this, slowly fucked open. Finn can’t help the sounds that pour out of his mouth, quiet moans and expletives the deeper he buries himself, his hands gripping the back of Simon’s thighs sporadically with each deeper swallow. Simon can only hold on and try to focus his breathing.
Eventually Finn’s pelvis meets his own and they stop for a moment. Simon can feel every nerve alight at this fullness. “Fuck.”
“Right back atcha,” Simon quips with a trembling smile. Above him, Finn has his eyes squeezed shut like the pleasure was too overwhelming for him. He reaches up and touches Finn’s bearded cheek, fingertips sliding beneath his signature white hat to caress more of his face and guide him to meet his gaze. Finn does. “Whenever you’re ready.”
As soon as the words left Simon’s mouth, Finn pulls his hips back and fucks back inside hard enough to make him yelp. He doesn’t stop. Desperate, erratic thrusts like he couldn’t bear to stay out of him long, strong enough to make Simon’s body shake. If they were on a bed, Simon is sure the headboard would be displaced several inches off and into the wall. Instead, Simon’s body rocks up and down in a way he’s sure to feel in his back tomorrow.
Pleasure sparks through him, the fat cock in him rubbing against his walls. The obscene sounds of slapping skin intermingled with Finn’s gasps and fucked out moans make him feel hot that Simon reaches down to take himself in hand. So good, so good, so good, Finn says against his ear, fucking him into the floor and squeezing him with that delicious weight of his, his cock bullying. Simon, how do you feel so good?
A groan rips through him when Finn finds his prostate and makes him squeeze his own cock so hard it hurts. Because this is what he needs. He needs this. Held down and fucked open. Wanted, needed – until he’s dumb. Until he can’t remember a thing. Until he doesn’t know who he is, like he’s Ice King again.
Even if it's from a man who he watched grow up. This is where he can fit. Maybe it makes sense it is Finn of all people, their past selves superimposed onto this.
“Oh Glob,” Finn cries out, devastatingly. His hips thrust sporadically, trying to get as deep as possible, fucking like a machine with a loose bolt. Suddenly Simon’s insides feel hot and flooding. He came. There’s so much, he’s sure it’s dripping onto the floor.
Finn’s thrusts devolve into twitches as he milks himself inside him. Simon gives himself a few more tugs and comes too, spitting across his belly and his hand.
They stay like that for a while, breathing hard. Simon can feel the last twitching spats of Finn’s cock inside him.
Eventually Finn lifts off of him, delicately pulling out, and rests right next to him, there on the floor.
“It’s kind of funny,” Finn suddenly says. “You were part of my first sexual experience and now years later, we actually got to meet buns.”
Simon chokes, quickly turns over to his side to have a coughing fit. Finn laughs and pats his side. Once he’s sure he’s no longer dying, he replies, airly, “Please don’t tell me anymore of that.”
Finn hums and pulls himself close to wrap an arm around him. His hairy chest meets his tacky back. “No problem,” he teases, planting a kiss on his neck. “As long as we get to do this again later. That is, if you can handle it, old man.”
Something nudges at his behind.
Perhaps this is where he fits in. What he needs. There are only a few short places where he can find himself after everything. Perhaps with the last person of his past, in that haze he doesn’t quite remember himself, is where he can feel real once more.