If You’re Asexual… (18+)

can i say something crazy? cw: piss

simon who has absolutely no respect for his bird's privacy.

comes back home from work; all sweaty and churlish and dour, soot caked on his face and hands, welder boots announcing his arrival in heavy, lazy footsteps. he doesn't call for you, but your gentle hey babe sounds from the bathroom anyway, half-distracted by the videos on your phone. the idea of you coddled at home since he left at dawn that morning — cushioned in bed until late, one hand in a bowl of cherries on ice that still drips condensation over your nightstand, the other pushing a new record for screen time on tiktok, the lengths of your legs all soft, bitten, exposed in set of flimsy shorts, cooled by the fan overhead, all ready evidence to why he puts up with as much shit as he does — drives him a little mad to think about. stokes a hunger in him, a mix of pride and masculinity and possessiveness that has him pushing into the room. despite the fact that his needs aren't urgent, not pressing enough to justify this.

this — standing right before you, so that your manicured toes kiss his leather soles. saying nothing as he unbuckles his belt, gruff, quiet, completely uninterested in addressing your concerns when you look up at him with those squinted eyes. it isn't above simon to make you suck him off while you're on the toilet, and really you wouldn't mind, but you get the sense that isn't what this is when he knocks your legs apart with his knees. little fuss to the action, little reaction to your spread pussy.

his cock bounces out about eye level with you. soft. nonetheless hefty and thick and large, bowing down even as he wraps a rough palm around its base. he can see the revelation find you in real time when he places his free hand on the wall behind you. the cresting arch of your brows. the grimace mangling your cheeks. the prissy pout of your lips. if he weren't so exhausted, he might have it in him to take your face right there. it's just the right combination of horror and fascination to get him going.

"simon noooo," you whine, throwing your phone somewhere, scrambling back until you can't anymore, porcelain tank pressing flush to your back. "just wait your turn. please!"

"'nuff of tha'. shush now." he huffs, chuckling a bit when he realises that you only made things worse for yourself by leaning away. your hips now jut out, cunt propped centre of the bowl.

there's no shyness, no stall on the release. his piss comes out in one, hot stream, washing right on target to hit your little clit. you shake your head, so disgusted with him he knows he'll have to make it up later. still, you do nothing to discourage it, sitting in place like a good pet, only occasionally tensing your legs against the steaming shower. some splashes on your belly, some on your thighs and the rim, yet it's never ending. you wonder if he planned this all day, held in the four cans of san pellegrino you packed for his lunch, just so he could give them back to you.

you just don't realise that not all of it is his.

"sad t'be missin' out on th' fun?" simon mocks, finally pulling away. he shakes the last of it off his cock, swiping a hand over his tip, before tucking himself back in. you blink, look down, and realise that somewhere along the lines, you started peeing too.

and have yet to stop.

"it's natural!" you wail, squeezing your pelvis floor in a last ditch attempt to save your dignity. it's no use. having started, it's near impossible to stop. your necks discovers a new type of heat in the humiliation, burn licking its way up your face. your ears tuck into your shoulder.

"yeah, yeah." he patiently waits for you to finish, cupping a hand under your elbow to keep you upright as you stand on fawn legs. his lips are paper thin, fleeting, when they press fondly to your temple. "now off to th' shower w'ya."

your nose crinkles. "you know you need one more than i do, right?"

"and wha's a shared bath?"

cleanse me (bsf!johnny mactavish x reader, fluff with groping)

it had been a rough mission. the kind where the team gets out by a hair, bleeding and scraped as they ran to exfil. the kind with a silent ride back to base, neither you nor johnny able to fill the air with a laugh or two. the kind where you think of what could have happened if things hadn’t fell into place at the last second, who you could be mourning now.

johnny’s your best friend, and maybe something more. late night cuddles, waist hugs and forehead kisses all feel like a little more. that night with the drunken marriage pact (you both were only tipsy, but you like to use alcohol as your reasoning for stupidity) that you both ignore to this day.

so when you see him in the communal showers, a man whose seen you naked in every way, you can’t help but seek comfort from your other half. you strip your clothes into a pile on the floor and walk over to where this scottish god stands under a shower head, letting the water wash off his sins.

he hears you come up from behind him and tenses a bit, still in fight mode from the mission. you take a hand and smooth out his tense back muscles, his body relaxing at the familiar feel of your calluses. his mohawk has grown out, almost breaking regulation standards, but you like the feel, sliding your hand from his neck to his longer strands. your nails scrape his scalp, every movement reminding you that you didn’t lose him, he’s still here. you reach your other hand around him, and he silently squirts shampoo into it.

you take your time massaging his hair, getting out the dried bomb residue and drops of blood. the water finally runs clean after a few minutes, and you finish him off with your own conditioner since you know he doesn’t own one.

you move on to body wash, massaging him up and down until he’s covered in suds, in soap. you take your time with his back, tracing scars and healed-over bullet wounds. you crouch and get the back of his legs, kneading tense muscles. he turns around and you choke back a whine, coming face to face with his hardened cock, but now isn’t the time. instead, you lather the front of his legs and slowly stand, giving his cock a couple pumps to make everything gets cleaned.

finally you clean his torso, playing with his light chest hair as you work in the last of the soap. his arms are so masculine, thick veins protruding as you work him down to the fingers. and now you’re done.

you make eye contact nervously, for the first time since this entire endeavor started. his blue eyes sear into you, a world of want and understanding found behind them. johnny grabs your chin and pulls you closer, forcing you into the cleansing stream of water. “leannan.” darling. love. you had looked it up before, his tender nickname for you, never really understanding the breadth of it until he looked at you like this. like you were his love.

“johnny.” he was cleaning you now, with the same care you gave him. the hands of a soldier, a bomb maker, an engineer, practiced in deft and slight movements. “ye take care of me so well.” you nodded, choking back some unknown emotion. he was cupping your pussy, muttering sweet nothings about treating her right and my wet little thing, things in his language you didn’t understand.

“how long do i have to wait to marry ye again?” he moved from your cunt to your breasts, memorizing their feel. storing it for later, in the darkness of his room, fist pumping his cock with rough strokes. “five-“ his hand gripped your throat, thumb stroking your jaw, distracting you for a second. “five years.” he hummed. “i’ll marry ye tomorrow if ye want, just say the word.” your mouth opened and closed, resembling a gaping fish. he laughed and gave you that cheeky grin, slowly returning to himself. because of you.

“cmon, let’s get some food in ye.”

—

best friend!johnny GETS ME

Some more of the boys… recon hugging 🫶

THE DATE!! ITS HAPPENING EVERYBODY STAY FUCKING CALM ‼️‼️‼️

Ghost never defines your relationship, and in a lot of ways what is allowed is determined by him. And he’s fine with the loose boundaries of your relationship until he realizes that you also have other people in your phone. It only really crosses his mind when you ask him to come as your date to some event and when he inevitably declines that offer what does he look like getting dressed up and forced to go talk to a bunch of fucking idiots you hit him with a shrug and mention that you’ll ask someone else. You don’t even look up from your phone but he is staring a hole into the side of your head cause who the fuck else would you ask?

Simon Riley appreciates hand jobs more than anything else.

He's surprised that you're even interested in him, so when you initiate intimacy, he's over the moon, because as feared as he might be on the battlefield, he's an inexperienced, insecure man in private.

When you pull his throbbing cock out and spit on his flushed, ruddy tip for the first time, he immediately cums all over your hands with a broken groan and quivering thighs while you kneel between them.

His face is flushed and his chest tight with embarrassment and fear—fear that you'll get up and leave after this, but all you do is smile ever so sweetly, still pumping his twitching prick while cooing gentle reassurances at him—and it keeps him rock hard while your saccharine voice and your soft hands are everything he can focus on.

The slick sounds and sight are driving him mad, just as mad as the fact that you need both hands to properly stroke and massage his thick shaft and heavy balls.

And when his second orgasm sneaks up on him, pooling hot and tight at the base of his spine, while his back arches and his hands nearly rip the couch cushions apart, Simon can't even hear his own wanton moans through the cotton filling his skull as his cockhead gushes with another massive load of sticky white cum, painting your supple skin with his very essence.

You don't let up. "One more, baby," you purr, flashing a wicked grin up at him, eyes twinkling like gemstones in the lowlight of your living room. "I need one more from you, okay? You sound so good when you come for me."

He's dizzy with arousal, burning up under his clothes, utterly spent and overstimulated, and yet he can't bring himself to say no—well aware that you won't let him, anyway.

Simon nods, swallowing thickly. "Olright," he gruffs, breath hitching when your thumb rubs over his sensitive, slick slit.

His body trembles, his chest heaves before he lets out the most pathetic whimper when you pick up the pace again.

You giggle softly, and his toes curl so hard in his boots, his feet nearly cramp up. "Atta boy, just like that. Let me hear you."

Your praise makes his pulse spike and the vein in his temple throb. "F–Fuck." Simon's head tips against the backrest, eyes rolling back as his balls draw up tightly again—too soon. Way too soon.

He's a goner—and your hands are bloody magical.

Some old poly 141 art. i dont think i like this one too much but still. Eepy boys that were trying to watch a movie.

• I love this trend sm!! 💫

Have some more ✨Suggestive Boots✨

soap, somewhere in the base: "CAPTAIN GARRICK IN THE HOUSE!!!"