#it’s my duty

[chopshajen]

12-2.

Tuggoffelees (almost) smooching! I’ll never fully fall off this bandwagon.

That being said, why is my probably-aromantic ass trying to draw kissing. Probably because it’s very cute or whatever, I hope, I’m a bad judge of these things LOL

[lupeloto]

okay time to listen to taylor’s new album and decide which ones can apply to those gays on shameless🫡

[thealmightyven]

there is not nearly enough teddy appreciation on this website. i am here to fill this void

[vannistilldraws]

My actual honest to god expression after hearing Arata say he would marry Miyo:

[brodasgay]

*shaking you* thank you for the brodave content holy shit

Im so fucking starved of it man. Sobbing and crying and just heart eyes

my daily ritual consists of finding all the old brodave art and re-blogging it here for y’all like an old lady scattering seeds for pigeons to eat at the park.

[haunted-xander]

If you skip a meal Senshi will materialize next to you w/ food at the ready

[bookshelf-dust]

OMG YOU BOOPER

not me manically laughing rn 😈😈

[itsbrucey]

Big fan of sun motifs in characters not necessarily being about positivity and happiness and how they're so " bright and warm" but instead being about fucking brutal they are.

Radiant. A FORCE of nature that will turn you to ash. That warmth that burns so hot it feels like ice. Piercing yellow and red and white. A character being a Sun because you cannot challenge a Sun without burning alive or taking everything down with them if victorious.

[fludderpy]

They didn’t see each other for 3 days so it’s understandable that they crush each other 🫤

[evilgwrl]

SIMON IS PRACTICALLY FERAL FOR YOU

Wherever you go, this man is next to you, one hand always touching you.

You’re showering? Ok so is he. It’s not his fault you’re pushed up against the glass, ass flushed against him as he pounds into you from behind, hands clawing at your flesh as he grunts.

You’re watching a movie? This man is lying flat on you, groping at your tits before he takes them in his mouth. He has a hard time concentrating and he promises this helps him.

You’re working from home? Let him help you. And by help he means, cock-warm him while you work and every time you complete a task he’ll fuck up into you as a reward!

You’re going to bed. You already know he’s fucking you to sleep, eating your gushing pussy before he’s denting your gummy walls with the outline of his cock, fucking against your sweet spot as you make a mess of the sheets, desperate pussy clenching around him as he fills you up.

“This pussy’s always ready for me, I fuckin’ love you, sweet’art.”

[mentoskova]

"Have you seen that bigboy with a skullface??"

[urmomschocolatemilk]

I 🩷 bikers

Biker!Simon who’s tatted uppp. He’s rolling up his sleeves while he rides to let everyone get a look at his muscly arms laced with inked designs because yes, he does want to show off

Biker!Simon who's rolling up next to you at a red light, head turning while he thrums his fingers on the seat under him. He can feel your heated gaze through your window.

Biker!Simon who flips open his visor and lets his eyes find yours. He wants you to know that he sees you staring and he's staring right back at you

Biker!Simon who passes his phone to you with the new contact sheet open on his screen, ready for you to fill out

Biker!Simon who trashes on the TikTok bikers and calls them cornballs but doesn’t hesitate to send you photos of him in a compression shirt and helmet at any chance he gets

Biker!Simon who buys you a helmet before your first date, and takes you home. And no matter how much you beg him that night, he refuses to go above sixty on the highway because he why would he ever put his girl at risk like that?

[evermoreal]

price would be strangely possessive over his assistant.

referring to her as things that really aren’t work appropriate at all. “swee’eart,” “dolly,” “sugar.” once, a “baby” slipped through his teeth, but he was switching the subject before she could really catch on.

it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it was he started tacking “my” in front of his pet names. “my angel,” “my love.”

even when she wasn’t in the room — it was impossible to know he was talking about a colleague with the way he spoke about her. “my woman’s always on my case abou’ shit like that — cholesterol levels, sugar intake. fuckin’ bullshit, but i do it to make ‘er happy.” or “can’t stay long, lads — got my lady waitin’ on me.”

in the summer months, her skirts get a bit shorter and her tops a bit tighter. he doesn’t blame her, the AC is shit and the heat can be suffocating. what does bother him, though, is the way his men ogle her as they stroll past her desk. how they’re coming up with excuses to visit her throughout the day.

it’s an easy enough fix. “why don’t ye come work in my office for the day, lovey?” he’s already collecting her paperwork. “keep an old man company, would ye? i’ve got a nice little fan too, keep ye nice an’ cool.”

though the job came with benefits, perhaps more than an assistant should be getting, price didn’t think it was enough. when her phone started to slow and the screen cracked, he left a new one on her desk. didn’t bother mentioning it came out of his paycheque. if she complains about her outfit — all my good clothes are in the wash — he’ll take her shopping, doesn’t let her worry about the totals. and, hey, if they end up at a lingerie shop, no one has to know, right? he’s just being a good boss. it’s only crossing a few boundaries when he gets her to model it for him in the fitting rooms. when she disappears behind the curtain, john adjusts himself in his slacks — it’s a natural reaction. on that note, it would make too much of a fuss if he were to correct the worker when she asks if his wife needs any help.

when day turns to night and she’s refusing price’s suggestion of hitting another shop, he pulls into a nearby restaurant, insists on treating her to a glass of wine to end the night. finding out she’s a lightweight is a pleasant discovery — two glasses in and her skin is warm to the touch, she’s giggling and hanging onto his every word. he likes her like this, he decides — but it’s not safe to leave her alone. no, she should stay with him tonight. another few sips and she’s agreeing, changing into one of her new lingerie sets and falling into john’s bed, dozing off with his hand splayed over her tummy, beard tickling the back of her neck.

it’s been too long since he’s had a woman in his life. his wires have gotten a bit crossed. you can’t blame him, can you?

edit! here’s more <3

[starsofang]

Simon didn’t like to hold you. He liked to be held.

At first, you didn’t understand why he’d turn his back to you in bed without saying anything. You thought you’d done something to him, or maybe he was in a bad mood. You couldn’t be any more wrong.

Simon Riley, an absolute brute of a soldier, was silently asking for you to be the big spoon. You nearly didn’t believe it when he finally brought it to your attention.

He was too embarrassed to ask you, so he’d resort to flipping on to his side and wait. And wait. Until he realized you didn’t catch the memo, even after many hopeless attempts.

In his mind, he thought being the big spoon would somehow convince you he wasn’t manly enough, as if his title in the service or his pure stature wasn’t proof enough of his masculinity.

To him, being held was a blanket of security. Where he’d always have to watch his back out on the field, both literally and metaphorically, he didn’t have to keep an eye out at all times with you. It was a chance for him to find solace in a person, and when he explained this to you, he was surprised to find you so willing.

And oh, when it happened, Simon nearly kicked himself for holding back on verbalizing it for so long.

The warmth of your arms when they wrapped around him from behind, your face buried between his shoulder blades, legs tangled in his, he thought that this was what inner peace felt like.

He was silly to think you’d ever be the one to judge him for what most deemed ‘unmasculine’. In all of his broad glory, he felt safe the moment you held him, like a child does when they feel a mother’s embrace except it was from someone he loved dearest to his heart.

And you? You found that being the big spoon was rather enjoyable when the man you’re holding was so damn comfortable to snuggle up to. It was a win-win for you both.

You just wished he wasn’t an idiot that left you wondering all those hopeless nights until the truth came out.

[cobaltbeam]

Normal conversations to have on the plane

I'm also doing more cod art on Patreon!

[theorist-fox]

Can I interest you in some silly sex with Simon? 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

18+

Word count: 1k.

CW: nothing really. Just silly sex. Just giggling sex. Just I-need-to-give-this-man-some-humanity sex. Simon is ticklish and you find out, that's the plot.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

You look delectable straddling his hips.

Naked and soft, plump tits sitting prettily in his hands. His thumbs swipe idly around your perked nipples as you ride him slowly, early morning sun peeking through the curtains and lapping at your skin. What a way to wake up, what a sight.

He stares at your lips and how they part for him—something he still has to get used to, though he probably never truly will. How dulcet does his name sound if it’s your voice whispering it, how beautiful your eyes when they take in his face.

Soft hands are pressed on his chest for leverage, and you’re treating him with a view he keeps pinned to the forefront of his brain—gliding your cunt until you’re chock-full of him, stroking yourself until you’re shivering.

He likes it when he’s on top, sure. He’s used to taking the lead and orchestrating every detail, in and out of the job. 

But when you allow him to sit back and take it? Hell, sign him up. He’d do it every day. Especially when it’s this lazy sex here, in which you’re canting your hips to cum before he does, giving him the blissful chance of feeling you clench around him when he's still hard. 

Goosebumps rise under your nails as they graze down his chest and brush his stomach. Your hands wander blindly on his belly, then his sides, as you clock his eyes with your heavy ones, panting softly, idly—my beautiful, beautiful girl.

But then you inadvertently brush his ribs, and he stiffens—even squirms, and your movements come to a halt.

You blink as conscience returns to you slowly, and the room sinks into tense silence. His cock twitches inside of you when you tilt your head inquisitively, squinting your eyes.

Experimentally, you brush your fingertips against his ribs again, and his biceps flatten to his sides, trapping your hands.

Your eyes widen, and his do the same.

“Don’t.”

You gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Darling, no.” He warns, but you’ve clearly made up your mind already.

Your lips are curled in a smile that promises mischief, and he can only give up, sit back, and count his losses.

“Darling, yes.”

Simon feels your fingers wiggle under the tight press of his arms, but no matter his strength, they're seemingly useless against that playful resolve you're displaying.

His cock is still embarrassingly hard inside you, and Simon reckons it won't soften any time soon. You don’t seem eager to get off him either, thus prolonging the torture with each tiny movement you make.

He inhales sharply and fights tooth and nail to school his expression into neutrality. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is locked tight. The only thing giving him away is the flush of his cheeks, getting pinker by the second because he refuses to open his mouth to breathe a much-needed lungful of air. Knowing that if he would, he'd bark a laugh that would proclaim you as the winner of this fight.

He would never.

You roll your hips, then—cheap trick. He unravels with a shaky breath, and his biceps give out enough for you to slip your hands away.

And then, he knows he's done for.

“Cut it out.” He barks, trying to sound stern and miserably failing. He knows because you're laughing even harder.

Your fingers feel like tiny bugs crawling up his sides, and they make his breath catch in his throat.

“Never.” You say, with a grin that scrunches your nose. A smile that would normally make his heart throb, but right now just makes him wish he were a lesser man so he could throttle you.

“Fuckin’-“

You chuckle.

You evil little cunt.

Resistance lasts a few more seconds before he bursts.

It’s not a full laugh that leaves him; more of a wheeze that makes you chortle like a wicked witch. His chest heaves as your fingers frantically tickle his sides. Tries to get you off him by shaking his hips, but that only makes the two of you falter and moan, and then chuckle and catch your breaths.

His shoulders shake in a breathless, choking laugh that pitches upward as you continue with your assault (yes, assault—he is not being dramatic), eyes veiled with tears of frustration and mirth. He shrieks when your hands travel under his armpits—the sound makes you giggle in a way that would have him melt. 

“That laugh’s lovely, baby.” You say with a smarmy grin he wishes he could wipe with a kiss, hands unrelenting against his sides. “Sound like a kettle whistling.”

He tries to glower and push you off, but you’re surprisingly strong when you’re focused. Right now, your only goal is to apparently make him hate you—he'd rather be held at gunpoint than being forced to hold in a laugh that makes his stomach hurt.

Simon now looks shockingly harmless, with his cheeks flushed bright red and his voice an octave too high—wouldn't look dangerous if he tried.

“Tea ready, yet?” You add, batting your lashes, because why not rub salt into the already embarrassing wound marring his pride.

It’s that unfathomably stupid joke that finally makes Simon crack. He barks out a laugh that bubbles up his throat, rippling through his stomach so suddenly that you bounce above him. Your own laugh follows soon after, because each time you manage to steal one from him, your heart vibrates with loving triumph.

But still—he is Simon Riley, isn’t he? Member of Task Force 141. Lieutenant in the UK Special Forces, SAS. The Ghost. There is some pride in there, one he'd like to keep intact.

He tries to recollect his breath, sniffling, and his arms shoot out to wrap around your waist. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him.

It’s then that you find yourself in a position of utter disadvantage, on your back with your big brute of a boyfriend holding you down. You’re wide-eyed and still smiling with barely contained giggles, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn't make his heart soar.

Sure, he’s panting, still proper flushed and apple-cheeked, with shivers wrecking his spine and unshed tears in his eyes—but he takes great pride in having won yet another fight (again, not overreacting at all, if you ask him).

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You fix him with a look. “Simon, no.”

Before you can add more to your complaint, he rams his cock into you until your chest stutters, your lips mouthing around a shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

He fucks you into the mattress, then—once, twice, until the remnants of laughter vanish from your face and you’re trembling in bliss, eyes rolled back under heavy eyelids.

He places a sloppy kiss down to your collarbone.

“Simon, yes.”