Dutiful Wildcraft

"You are a pervert."

"That's slanderous fae a man that's rimmed me tae hell an back."

"You just started a conversation about wanking while we're eating breakfast."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare

hii trans nik!!! trans nik!!!!!!! he’s got inverted-t scars + a faint dog ear that’s kind of hard to see with this pose

also him at the beach because i’m going on vacation soon and am very excited

the cuffs are funny, sure. but there’s really nothing funny about the way he looks right now. broad and bare-chested and already flushed down his throat, the same color blooming across his chest like a sunburn, hair mussed where you dragged your fingers through it getting him settled. the pink fluff sits absurdly against the thick bones of his wrists — you realize he could very easily break them.

“comfy?” you ask.

“bit snug,” he grunts, mouth twitching at the corner. “s’pose you planned that.”

they’re actually on the loosest notch, but, he doesn’t need to know.

you settle astride his thighs and watch the increasing rise of his chest, the swallow that rolls down his throat, the way his stomach tightens under your fingertips. there’s a sheen on him already, sweat beading in his collarbone and at his temples, dampening the edges of his hair. you drag a finger down his sternum, through the coarse hair there, and he pulls against the cuffs, the links rattling against the metal bars.

“ah-ah.” you lift your hand off of him and gently grip his jaw. ”struggling only makes it worse.”

he goes even redder, and you can feel his heart thudding, faster, harder.

“you’re enjoying this a bit too much,” he manages, voice rough, wiggling his jaw loose.

“says the man who’s already hard and i’ve done nothing yet.”

“i wouldn’t call this nothing,” he grumbles.

you lean in until your lips brush his ear, until you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and slide your hand down to palm him through his boxers.

the sound he makes is ruinous; punched out of him, half a growl, humid against your neck.

“love.” a warning strained through clenched teeth, his hips lifting into your hand. “when i get out of these…”

“if you get out of these.” you squeeze him, and his head thumps back against the headboard, breath wet and ragged. “big if, captain.”