PORN AT LAST, PORN AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHTY THERE'S PORN AT LAST
Title: Two Heads Are Better Than One
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Garlock/Simon
Genre: Porn, kind of musey drama.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for a kink meme. Garlock has decided to tell Simon like it is, and secks him up in the meantime.
Simon had fallen asleep atop his paperwork...again. Who could honestly blame him? Signature after signature with his cute little drill pen -God, he loved that stupid thing- on form after form after form of the same old diplomatic bullshit that no one had even considered in Jiha because hell, there were far more important things to do. Like actually surviving. As he'd skimmed another article noting complaints from the citizens about the dirt on the streets, Simon wondered how many of them remembered digging in a filthy tunnel for hours a day, knowing that with one little twitch the entire thing could crush you before you could even scream. Shrugging, he'd scribbled his name at the bottom and passed it on. With dull work like that, it was no surprise that he'd simply slumped over into the bliss of a dream world where he was sleeping on a stone ground with a warm, strong arm around his shoulders.
Or he had been. Because quite suddenly, his collar was grabbed, he was hefted to his feet and before he could even blink blearily at his assaulter he was-
He was-
Holy hell, he was pressed against the glass window and being thoroughly ravaged by himself. "This is the weirdest dream ever," he said aloud, and his look-alike lifted his face briefly to smirk at him. Was it wrong to think that was hot? Was it narcissism? What did he even call him?
"Just call me Garlock," his-face-but-not-his-face purred, and Simon swallowed. Garlock's deft hands had already untied the sash at his waist and, instead of tossing it aside like he'd expected, flung it around his neck like some kind of trophy. It hung like a scarf, but Simon was reminded briefly of blue tattoos and gold clasps and before he knew it, his hands were clutching the collar of...well, of a damn fine jacket, actually. Finally taking a step back -or as much as one could, with that glass behind them- Simon examined the alternate version of himself. Was that a corset? Whatever it was it looked pretty good, not to mention the belts and the boots and wow, those were very, very tight pants. "You can take them off," Garlock offered, "considering I'm liable to do the same in a minute anyhow."
Sex with himself?
Simon glanced at the nearby desk and pondered for all of three seconds. It took even less than that to have Garlock pinned against it by hips and palms flat on the wood, arms caging him in and rough rocking motions rubbing them together in a way that Simon didn't think he'd ever experienced. It was pretty nice.
"Just pretty nice?" Garlock panted, and his hands were already down the back of Simon's pants like they were supposed to be there. Simon let him know that this was not the case by unbuckling the belts and just dropping Garlock's trousers, tugging down the rough material and in a move that impressed even himself, managed to wrench off the boots and the last of the pants in one fluid motion. It was art, a masterpiece. Garlock gave a whistle of appreciation at the technique, but that didn't get far because Simon had already pushed one of those knees into the chest and was probing a finger downwards and inside.
"You seem to think you're in charge here," growled Garlock, and a hand fisted in Simon's hair and tugged. "You think a couple signatures make you a man? You think that little hologram and that 'stop resisting the government' bit is going to convince anyone? Aniki would've had you flat on your back and whimpering like a baby ten minutes ago." Simon scowled, and thrust his finger inside particularly hard to shut him up. "You could t-talk like a normal person," Garlock managed to stutter out, even as his chest rose -the corset and neck brace and jacket were staying on, hell yes they were- with his quickened breaths. "You could open up your mouth and say something. If you want to start small, go down to the Chief's and deck him for using you and Aniki as promotional pieces. Tell everyone that the only way you got steak was if you worked a twelve hour day at the age of ten. Tell them that he beat Aniki all the time, tell them that."
Simon faltered, and Garlock shoved his knee against his gut to dislodge him and flipped them around, coat turning in a way that was so cool as he shoved Simon against the desk instead, and wrenched his loose cotton bottoms down to his ankles. "You want me to do it for you?"
"Who are you?" Simon gasped; the maneuver had knocked the wind out of him and he needed to catch it.
"Someone you wish you were," Garlock muttered. "Someone I wish you were." He looked disappointed and released Simon, backing up a few steps to let the digger-turned-politician push himself upright and give him a confused stare. "Your back isn't nearly as straight as it was when we faced Guame. You've bent over for everyone; you always did. You always do. He's not there to act as your buffer anymore, you know." Garlock didn't need to say who.
Simon clenched his fist, looked down at it.
The silence was deafening; a breeze from somewhere -the AC vents, possibly- lifted the hem of Garlock's coat, flapped it against his calves. Simon's sash moved against Garlock’s neck, and Simon was reminded of sunrises and sunsets, sitting inside his tiny, unimpressive Lagann and exchanging words and philosophical ideas -as philosophical as two uneducated teenagers living in a cave could get- before passing out next to each other. Nails bit into his palm; Simon realized belatedly that they were his, and he uncurled his fist. "I'm not Aniki. I'm Simon the Digger."
"You're Simon the Lapdog," Garlock shot back, and once again Simon found himself against the desk, only this time the knob from his drawer was digging into his stomach and he could see a couple inches from his nose a request to plant some trees along main street. Kamina's statue was blocking out the sun to their front yard; ridiculous. Kamina's statue wasn't that big. Wasn't big enough. Simon was only vaguely aware of an intruding sensation as he let his eyes wander among the papers. Tax reforms, not enough schools, construction too noisy, expansion projects, food shortages...
Ow. That stung. Garlock was already buried inside of him and had his fist in his hair, yanking his head back. "Don't look at that shit," he muttered into Simon's ear. "Stop reading it. Stop it. You think you're good at this kind of thing? You should've known better." A hard thrust sent the point home -in multiple ways- and even though it hurt, Simon couldn't help a groan. What was the phrase? Hurts so good? Obviously the person who'd thought it up had been getting rammed in the ass, because it was a mighty fine description. Taking his advice, Simon pushed the papers from his desk, getting a grim sort of satisfaction out of watching them flutter to the floor in disarray. Not even a second later, he realized with a spot of dread that Rossiu would probably get very upset at him for doing that.
"Since when did you start taking orders from him?" Garlock demanded, and ground down inside of him. A crackle behind his ear alerted Simon that Garlock was gritting his teeth, which was all good considering he was clutching hard at the edge of the desk with one hand and muffling his screams with the other. Who'd taught him to fuck like this? Even though it was just a dream and Simon was a virgin, he was pretty sure it was familiar. A little bit, anyways. Then Garlock shifted and stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he scrabbled at the desk in an effort to keep from falling off before demanding that whatever Garlock had done, he had damn well better do it again, or there would be hell to pay. "That's a start," Garlock chuckled, but did it again anyways. And again, and again, and thank you merciful deity he did it again.
After a few more "agains," Simon felt something twist hard inside of him and he was lost for a moment. A hand, large and calloused, stroked his hair back from his sweaty forehead and Simon wished he'd had the sense to take off his own shirt so he could feel warm skin against his back. The weight on him wasn't heavy in a bad way, and lips were against his ear and his cheek feather light and Simon had to wonder if he was dead. Death by fucking. What better way to go?
But no. When Simon came to, he was bent over his desk, his hand on his softening length and his own release trickling down his fingers. His sash was around his neck, and his papers were strewn across the floor. Damn. Simon rummaged in a drawer and produced a tissue, wiping his hand and the side of his desk before discreetly stowing it away in the bottom of his trash can. Pulling up his pants and tying his sash again around his waist, Simon moved to collect the papers on the ground. He stacked them neatly; signed here, unsigned here, pending here. Just how it was supposed to be. Then he took his pen -Goddamn, it was just so novel- and scribbled out a little note, leaving it atop the forms as he strode for the door, his fingers already touching the core drill hanging at his neck. The papers would be there in the morning.
But the sunset wouldn't wait.
Title: Decisions, Decisions
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Simon/Kamina/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon (yes that is correct)
Genre: Blatent porn.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for kink meme. Kamina has himself a Simon harem.
There comes a time in a man’s life where he has to make a very, very careful decision. Most men mark this as their proposal, or the night before a battle or something equally dramatic. Some men considered it a day of an exam to get into that prestigious college, or standing at the edge of a cliff with only a rubber rope tied around their ankle to keep their heads from cracking open on the stone below like an egg over a skillet. Regardless of the situation, any man could understand that feeling, that pumping of adrenaline and the tightness along their frames that accompanies the need to make that important decision. Kamina faced such a circumstance today.
Because he was looking at seven different Simons.
And he wanted all of them.
There were four little ones -he says little as if they were toddlers, but Simon was just a runt- and three larger ones. Very nice larger ones. There was the Simon he remembered, with the smile and the drill but the haze of doubt in his eyes that Kamina wished he’d been able to erase. Beside him was the same Simon, but empty eyes and dark circles beneath them, a bitter scowl turning his lips down. He hunched over and gave his doppelgangers a dark look, as if they weren’t supposed to be there. Maybe they weren’t; or maybe he wasn’t.
There was another Simon, content but seemingly not all there, in a strange, light-blue buttoned down shirt and missing his drill. He swayed a little bit, and Kamina watched as a larger Simon put his hand on his shoulder to steady him, receiving a vacant smile for thanks. Odd. The last small Simon, though, made Kamina burst with pride; he was in regular attire, but he was filthy. His face was lined with weariness, but his shoulders were squared and his grin was devilish and strong and he had a fire in his gaze that Kamina had tried to hard to light in all the years he’d known him. When had this Simon come along? He’d have to ask him.
The three taller Simons -Kamina noted with a bit of sourness that they appeared to be a few inches taller than him even- stood and talked amongst themselves, occasionally looking after the smaller Simons if one of them chose to wander off. The meekest of the three was dressed in white with a red sash at his waist, a blue and gold coat with a star on the back that Kamina didn’t recognize at all. He was easy with his smiles, but he reminded Kamina too much of the quiet meekness Simon assumed in Jiha for him to be comfortable. The other two, though…
Well. They both each wore a long coat and a long cape respectively and had their arms folded over their chests in a gesture that Kamina recognized as his own; this gave him a bit of smug satisfaction to know that Simon would imitate him like that. One had goggles on his head, what looked like a metal corset at his waist and one on his neck, tight pants -very, very nice- with even tighter boots. The back of the jacket boldly displayed the Gurren logo, and the bottom was fringed with flame. Kamina liked.
The second was dressed somewhat similarly, but lacked the goggles and the armor and substitute the two white belts for a tie with a skull buckle in the center. The grin on his face was one Kamina never expected to see on Simon, but he found that he liked it a lot anyways, especially when his gaze shifted to look over at Kamina and he gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine. A good kind of chill. The “I’m going to strip you naked and fuck you mercilessly,” kind. Always welcome.
So now comes the decision. Which first? He had seven Simons, and who knew for how long; he had eternity for all he knew, but then again he may only have an hour, so whichever one he chose would have to be the one he wanted the most. Almost as if sensing the intensity of the situation the Simons shifted to stare at him, watching him carefully. Some of the younger Simons gave him a pleading look, and Kamina felt his resolve sway just a little until two of the three older Simons gave him that “you’d better come here,” look and he found he just couldn’t ignore a request like that. But then the Simons that needed him, and the Simons that looked downtrodden and tired and could use his support…
It was a horrible decision to make.
It was also apparently not his decision to make at all, because once the two dangerous-looking Simons nodded at the starred older one, they ushered the four younger Simons forward in a stampede of dark blue hair and, “Aniki!” and soon Kamina found himself buried in the most blissful pile he’d ever encountered. Could this beat being hugged to the breasts of a beautiful woman?
Hands down. Yes it did. Especially when the skull-buckled Simon reached across to grab the starred Simon’s chin and wrench him in for a searing kiss right above Kamina. He was content to simply watch the show, face heating up at the sounds the older Simons were making and wishing he had something else to capture the moment with besides just his memory. There were quite a few hands touching his chest, legs and-
“S-Simon!” He wasn’t sure which one, but someone had found the crotch of his pants. Judging by the size of the hands, it was probably a teenage Simon. Who the hell cared which one, though, especially when another -the confident, smaller Simon- was wrenching at his belt and untying the knot in an effort to tug his pants down? Simon with the corset had decided to take it upon himself to start raising a bruise on his neck and Kamina stuttered out something that could have been, “holy shit,” when someone’s lips from somewhere touched his erection. Reaching out blindly, Kamina found a head of hair and curled his fingers in it, skull smacking back against the ground as he panted.
“You’re so fucking hot like that,” murmured a larger Simon -one without goggles, the dangerous one with the skull buckle- as he broke off from the blushing starred Simon to duck his head and trail his tongue across Kamina’s chest. The dark, depressed Simon protested at being shoved aside and glared sourly, moving instead to massage Kamina’s stomach, thigh and hip. He writhed, and teeth lightly scraped over his length in a way that made his world go white. Every muscle tightened like a steel cable and he was only vaguely aware of being lifted up against someone’s chest, his back against a mixture of cool metal and bare skin and his knees being pressed up. The warmth left his groin and he groaned, arching helplessly.
“That’s mean,” chuckled the confident teenage Simon, and he gave the digger Simon a chiding smack to the head. “Don’t do that to him.”
“I need to catch my breath,” he protested, and rubbed at his jaw.
“That’s fine anyways, because you two were in my way,” no-goggles-but-dangerous Simon informed them- when the hell did he get down there? And he sucked on a couple fingers before wriggling one inside of Kamina.
“H-hey,” Kamina protested, and was about to push himself up when the mouth returned to the back of his neck and nibbled, and Simon-with-the-oxford-shirt decided to take it upon himself to duck over his stomach and give his cock a little squeeze. Coherency took second place to voicing the overall feeling of, “hell yes,” and Kamina settled for a loud moan, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He lifted his hips into the motion and a second finger joined the first before finding something that made him lose his sense of place again. When he came back, there was a chorus of Simon laughter, deep and high and rough and smooth alike, and he wondered what he’d done to get something like that.
“Do it again!” one of the younger Simons encouraged, and Kamina let out a muted cry, arching when fire shot straight to his gut and someone’s mouth was on his erection again, yes it was. Hands stroked his chest and stomach, his thighs and his shoulders, and two mouths were at either side of his neck and one on his nipple. Good God. He was going to explode.
Then someone pushed inside of him and he was sure he was going to explode; an older Simon -dangerous-no-goggles- was above him and soon was thrusting inside of him and even though Kamina was sure he’d have hated it, he found with every movement that he…did not. At all. And the Simons closed in on him, touching him and stroking him and sucking and licking and biting and it wasn’t very long at all before he was lost, clutching at someone’s hair and biting a hoarse scream behind clenched teeth. A couple more movements jarred him, and something hot rushed inside and he stiffened, eyes open and blankly staring up before he caught his breath and his sense of self. A Simon edged into his vision.
“Aniki?” There were a few echoes of this, and Kamina sighed, closing his eyes, laying spread-eagle (or the best he could, with that dangerously sexy Simon still buried inside of him recovering from his own climax).
“…you’ve made me proud, Simons,” he told them plainly, and a few of them laughed. Grinning back, he prepared himself to sleep when a large hand shook him awake and he saw himself looking up at a rather indignant set of older Simons.
“You’re not done yet, Aniki.” Then six of the seven Simons exchanged looks before turning back down to look at him. “We’re next.”
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Garlock/Simon
Genre: Porn, kind of musey drama.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for a kink meme. Garlock has decided to tell Simon like it is, and secks him up in the meantime.
Simon had fallen asleep atop his paperwork...again. Who could honestly blame him? Signature after signature with his cute little drill pen -God, he loved that stupid thing- on form after form after form of the same old diplomatic bullshit that no one had even considered in Jiha because hell, there were far more important things to do. Like actually surviving. As he'd skimmed another article noting complaints from the citizens about the dirt on the streets, Simon wondered how many of them remembered digging in a filthy tunnel for hours a day, knowing that with one little twitch the entire thing could crush you before you could even scream. Shrugging, he'd scribbled his name at the bottom and passed it on. With dull work like that, it was no surprise that he'd simply slumped over into the bliss of a dream world where he was sleeping on a stone ground with a warm, strong arm around his shoulders.
Or he had been. Because quite suddenly, his collar was grabbed, he was hefted to his feet and before he could even blink blearily at his assaulter he was-
He was-
Holy hell, he was pressed against the glass window and being thoroughly ravaged by himself. "This is the weirdest dream ever," he said aloud, and his look-alike lifted his face briefly to smirk at him. Was it wrong to think that was hot? Was it narcissism? What did he even call him?
"Just call me Garlock," his-face-but-not-his-face purred, and Simon swallowed. Garlock's deft hands had already untied the sash at his waist and, instead of tossing it aside like he'd expected, flung it around his neck like some kind of trophy. It hung like a scarf, but Simon was reminded briefly of blue tattoos and gold clasps and before he knew it, his hands were clutching the collar of...well, of a damn fine jacket, actually. Finally taking a step back -or as much as one could, with that glass behind them- Simon examined the alternate version of himself. Was that a corset? Whatever it was it looked pretty good, not to mention the belts and the boots and wow, those were very, very tight pants. "You can take them off," Garlock offered, "considering I'm liable to do the same in a minute anyhow."
Sex with himself?
Simon glanced at the nearby desk and pondered for all of three seconds. It took even less than that to have Garlock pinned against it by hips and palms flat on the wood, arms caging him in and rough rocking motions rubbing them together in a way that Simon didn't think he'd ever experienced. It was pretty nice.
"Just pretty nice?" Garlock panted, and his hands were already down the back of Simon's pants like they were supposed to be there. Simon let him know that this was not the case by unbuckling the belts and just dropping Garlock's trousers, tugging down the rough material and in a move that impressed even himself, managed to wrench off the boots and the last of the pants in one fluid motion. It was art, a masterpiece. Garlock gave a whistle of appreciation at the technique, but that didn't get far because Simon had already pushed one of those knees into the chest and was probing a finger downwards and inside.
"You seem to think you're in charge here," growled Garlock, and a hand fisted in Simon's hair and tugged. "You think a couple signatures make you a man? You think that little hologram and that 'stop resisting the government' bit is going to convince anyone? Aniki would've had you flat on your back and whimpering like a baby ten minutes ago." Simon scowled, and thrust his finger inside particularly hard to shut him up. "You could t-talk like a normal person," Garlock managed to stutter out, even as his chest rose -the corset and neck brace and jacket were staying on, hell yes they were- with his quickened breaths. "You could open up your mouth and say something. If you want to start small, go down to the Chief's and deck him for using you and Aniki as promotional pieces. Tell everyone that the only way you got steak was if you worked a twelve hour day at the age of ten. Tell them that he beat Aniki all the time, tell them that."
Simon faltered, and Garlock shoved his knee against his gut to dislodge him and flipped them around, coat turning in a way that was so cool as he shoved Simon against the desk instead, and wrenched his loose cotton bottoms down to his ankles. "You want me to do it for you?"
"Who are you?" Simon gasped; the maneuver had knocked the wind out of him and he needed to catch it.
"Someone you wish you were," Garlock muttered. "Someone I wish you were." He looked disappointed and released Simon, backing up a few steps to let the digger-turned-politician push himself upright and give him a confused stare. "Your back isn't nearly as straight as it was when we faced Guame. You've bent over for everyone; you always did. You always do. He's not there to act as your buffer anymore, you know." Garlock didn't need to say who.
Simon clenched his fist, looked down at it.
The silence was deafening; a breeze from somewhere -the AC vents, possibly- lifted the hem of Garlock's coat, flapped it against his calves. Simon's sash moved against Garlock’s neck, and Simon was reminded of sunrises and sunsets, sitting inside his tiny, unimpressive Lagann and exchanging words and philosophical ideas -as philosophical as two uneducated teenagers living in a cave could get- before passing out next to each other. Nails bit into his palm; Simon realized belatedly that they were his, and he uncurled his fist. "I'm not Aniki. I'm Simon the Digger."
"You're Simon the Lapdog," Garlock shot back, and once again Simon found himself against the desk, only this time the knob from his drawer was digging into his stomach and he could see a couple inches from his nose a request to plant some trees along main street. Kamina's statue was blocking out the sun to their front yard; ridiculous. Kamina's statue wasn't that big. Wasn't big enough. Simon was only vaguely aware of an intruding sensation as he let his eyes wander among the papers. Tax reforms, not enough schools, construction too noisy, expansion projects, food shortages...
Ow. That stung. Garlock was already buried inside of him and had his fist in his hair, yanking his head back. "Don't look at that shit," he muttered into Simon's ear. "Stop reading it. Stop it. You think you're good at this kind of thing? You should've known better." A hard thrust sent the point home -in multiple ways- and even though it hurt, Simon couldn't help a groan. What was the phrase? Hurts so good? Obviously the person who'd thought it up had been getting rammed in the ass, because it was a mighty fine description. Taking his advice, Simon pushed the papers from his desk, getting a grim sort of satisfaction out of watching them flutter to the floor in disarray. Not even a second later, he realized with a spot of dread that Rossiu would probably get very upset at him for doing that.
"Since when did you start taking orders from him?" Garlock demanded, and ground down inside of him. A crackle behind his ear alerted Simon that Garlock was gritting his teeth, which was all good considering he was clutching hard at the edge of the desk with one hand and muffling his screams with the other. Who'd taught him to fuck like this? Even though it was just a dream and Simon was a virgin, he was pretty sure it was familiar. A little bit, anyways. Then Garlock shifted and stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he scrabbled at the desk in an effort to keep from falling off before demanding that whatever Garlock had done, he had damn well better do it again, or there would be hell to pay. "That's a start," Garlock chuckled, but did it again anyways. And again, and again, and thank you merciful deity he did it again.
After a few more "agains," Simon felt something twist hard inside of him and he was lost for a moment. A hand, large and calloused, stroked his hair back from his sweaty forehead and Simon wished he'd had the sense to take off his own shirt so he could feel warm skin against his back. The weight on him wasn't heavy in a bad way, and lips were against his ear and his cheek feather light and Simon had to wonder if he was dead. Death by fucking. What better way to go?
But no. When Simon came to, he was bent over his desk, his hand on his softening length and his own release trickling down his fingers. His sash was around his neck, and his papers were strewn across the floor. Damn. Simon rummaged in a drawer and produced a tissue, wiping his hand and the side of his desk before discreetly stowing it away in the bottom of his trash can. Pulling up his pants and tying his sash again around his waist, Simon moved to collect the papers on the ground. He stacked them neatly; signed here, unsigned here, pending here. Just how it was supposed to be. Then he took his pen -Goddamn, it was just so novel- and scribbled out a little note, leaving it atop the forms as he strode for the door, his fingers already touching the core drill hanging at his neck. The papers would be there in the morning.
But the sunset wouldn't wait.
Title: Decisions, Decisions
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters/Pairings: Simon/Kamina/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon/Simon (yes that is correct)
Genre: Blatent porn.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for kink meme. Kamina has himself a Simon harem.
There comes a time in a man’s life where he has to make a very, very careful decision. Most men mark this as their proposal, or the night before a battle or something equally dramatic. Some men considered it a day of an exam to get into that prestigious college, or standing at the edge of a cliff with only a rubber rope tied around their ankle to keep their heads from cracking open on the stone below like an egg over a skillet. Regardless of the situation, any man could understand that feeling, that pumping of adrenaline and the tightness along their frames that accompanies the need to make that important decision. Kamina faced such a circumstance today.
Because he was looking at seven different Simons.
And he wanted all of them.
There were four little ones -he says little as if they were toddlers, but Simon was just a runt- and three larger ones. Very nice larger ones. There was the Simon he remembered, with the smile and the drill but the haze of doubt in his eyes that Kamina wished he’d been able to erase. Beside him was the same Simon, but empty eyes and dark circles beneath them, a bitter scowl turning his lips down. He hunched over and gave his doppelgangers a dark look, as if they weren’t supposed to be there. Maybe they weren’t; or maybe he wasn’t.
There was another Simon, content but seemingly not all there, in a strange, light-blue buttoned down shirt and missing his drill. He swayed a little bit, and Kamina watched as a larger Simon put his hand on his shoulder to steady him, receiving a vacant smile for thanks. Odd. The last small Simon, though, made Kamina burst with pride; he was in regular attire, but he was filthy. His face was lined with weariness, but his shoulders were squared and his grin was devilish and strong and he had a fire in his gaze that Kamina had tried to hard to light in all the years he’d known him. When had this Simon come along? He’d have to ask him.
The three taller Simons -Kamina noted with a bit of sourness that they appeared to be a few inches taller than him even- stood and talked amongst themselves, occasionally looking after the smaller Simons if one of them chose to wander off. The meekest of the three was dressed in white with a red sash at his waist, a blue and gold coat with a star on the back that Kamina didn’t recognize at all. He was easy with his smiles, but he reminded Kamina too much of the quiet meekness Simon assumed in Jiha for him to be comfortable. The other two, though…
Well. They both each wore a long coat and a long cape respectively and had their arms folded over their chests in a gesture that Kamina recognized as his own; this gave him a bit of smug satisfaction to know that Simon would imitate him like that. One had goggles on his head, what looked like a metal corset at his waist and one on his neck, tight pants -very, very nice- with even tighter boots. The back of the jacket boldly displayed the Gurren logo, and the bottom was fringed with flame. Kamina liked.
The second was dressed somewhat similarly, but lacked the goggles and the armor and substitute the two white belts for a tie with a skull buckle in the center. The grin on his face was one Kamina never expected to see on Simon, but he found that he liked it a lot anyways, especially when his gaze shifted to look over at Kamina and he gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine. A good kind of chill. The “I’m going to strip you naked and fuck you mercilessly,” kind. Always welcome.
So now comes the decision. Which first? He had seven Simons, and who knew for how long; he had eternity for all he knew, but then again he may only have an hour, so whichever one he chose would have to be the one he wanted the most. Almost as if sensing the intensity of the situation the Simons shifted to stare at him, watching him carefully. Some of the younger Simons gave him a pleading look, and Kamina felt his resolve sway just a little until two of the three older Simons gave him that “you’d better come here,” look and he found he just couldn’t ignore a request like that. But then the Simons that needed him, and the Simons that looked downtrodden and tired and could use his support…
It was a horrible decision to make.
It was also apparently not his decision to make at all, because once the two dangerous-looking Simons nodded at the starred older one, they ushered the four younger Simons forward in a stampede of dark blue hair and, “Aniki!” and soon Kamina found himself buried in the most blissful pile he’d ever encountered. Could this beat being hugged to the breasts of a beautiful woman?
Hands down. Yes it did. Especially when the skull-buckled Simon reached across to grab the starred Simon’s chin and wrench him in for a searing kiss right above Kamina. He was content to simply watch the show, face heating up at the sounds the older Simons were making and wishing he had something else to capture the moment with besides just his memory. There were quite a few hands touching his chest, legs and-
“S-Simon!” He wasn’t sure which one, but someone had found the crotch of his pants. Judging by the size of the hands, it was probably a teenage Simon. Who the hell cared which one, though, especially when another -the confident, smaller Simon- was wrenching at his belt and untying the knot in an effort to tug his pants down? Simon with the corset had decided to take it upon himself to start raising a bruise on his neck and Kamina stuttered out something that could have been, “holy shit,” when someone’s lips from somewhere touched his erection. Reaching out blindly, Kamina found a head of hair and curled his fingers in it, skull smacking back against the ground as he panted.
“You’re so fucking hot like that,” murmured a larger Simon -one without goggles, the dangerous one with the skull buckle- as he broke off from the blushing starred Simon to duck his head and trail his tongue across Kamina’s chest. The dark, depressed Simon protested at being shoved aside and glared sourly, moving instead to massage Kamina’s stomach, thigh and hip. He writhed, and teeth lightly scraped over his length in a way that made his world go white. Every muscle tightened like a steel cable and he was only vaguely aware of being lifted up against someone’s chest, his back against a mixture of cool metal and bare skin and his knees being pressed up. The warmth left his groin and he groaned, arching helplessly.
“That’s mean,” chuckled the confident teenage Simon, and he gave the digger Simon a chiding smack to the head. “Don’t do that to him.”
“I need to catch my breath,” he protested, and rubbed at his jaw.
“That’s fine anyways, because you two were in my way,” no-goggles-but-dangerous Simon informed them- when the hell did he get down there? And he sucked on a couple fingers before wriggling one inside of Kamina.
“H-hey,” Kamina protested, and was about to push himself up when the mouth returned to the back of his neck and nibbled, and Simon-with-the-oxford-shirt decided to take it upon himself to duck over his stomach and give his cock a little squeeze. Coherency took second place to voicing the overall feeling of, “hell yes,” and Kamina settled for a loud moan, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He lifted his hips into the motion and a second finger joined the first before finding something that made him lose his sense of place again. When he came back, there was a chorus of Simon laughter, deep and high and rough and smooth alike, and he wondered what he’d done to get something like that.
“Do it again!” one of the younger Simons encouraged, and Kamina let out a muted cry, arching when fire shot straight to his gut and someone’s mouth was on his erection again, yes it was. Hands stroked his chest and stomach, his thighs and his shoulders, and two mouths were at either side of his neck and one on his nipple. Good God. He was going to explode.
Then someone pushed inside of him and he was sure he was going to explode; an older Simon -dangerous-no-goggles- was above him and soon was thrusting inside of him and even though Kamina was sure he’d have hated it, he found with every movement that he…did not. At all. And the Simons closed in on him, touching him and stroking him and sucking and licking and biting and it wasn’t very long at all before he was lost, clutching at someone’s hair and biting a hoarse scream behind clenched teeth. A couple more movements jarred him, and something hot rushed inside and he stiffened, eyes open and blankly staring up before he caught his breath and his sense of self. A Simon edged into his vision.
“Aniki?” There were a few echoes of this, and Kamina sighed, closing his eyes, laying spread-eagle (or the best he could, with that dangerously sexy Simon still buried inside of him recovering from his own climax).
“…you’ve made me proud, Simons,” he told them plainly, and a few of them laughed. Grinning back, he prepared himself to sleep when a large hand shook him awake and he saw himself looking up at a rather indignant set of older Simons.
“You’re not done yet, Aniki.” Then six of the seven Simons exchanged looks before turning back down to look at him. “We’re next.”