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she's so cute, the poor thing. what the fuck is he supposed to do with a pretty girl like this? (18+, a little smidge of dark!simon)

she's so dumb. she nods when he talks, says yes, simon, yeah when he asks her if he can take her home. she purrs yes, simon, m-more when he buries his masked face between her thighs as he makes her ride his covered mouth. she sings when he touches her, cries when his gloved fingers fuck her open, and she whines s-so good, simon, please, more, simon when he bottoms out into her soft cunt with all of his clothes still on.

vest strapped, thigh holsters still buckled, cargo pants still around his waist, nothing but his belt buckle open and his zipper down when he fucks you into the cushions of your couch. you're drooling, positively cock-stupid, bouncing with the rough rhythm he keeps. it's salvation, coming home to a pretty girl underneath him, and he wants to hold you hard enough to make you bleed when he grips the meat of your hips and watches your ass push back against him.

so dumb. so stupid. the prettiest girl he has ever seen, and she has no idea what it is that fucks the shape of them into her so that they will know if someone else has been here. she has no idea what the thing on top of her has done, has no idea how deranged and terrible his mind is, she doesn't know.

she never asked how he knew where she lived. she never asked how he knew which button to press in the elevator. she never asked how he knew to turn left instead of right. she never asked where he got that key, or why it worked when he opened up the door of her flat.

all she asks for is for him to fuck, please, simon--m-more!

she's so cute. she'll do just fine.

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cw pregnancy

My personal headcanon is that Simon doesn't have accidental children because that man doesn't have one night stands and if he does he layers three condoms on his cock and cums outside for good measure.

But God forbid he finds trust and stability in a relationship—that man wants to lock it down. He craves a family and will make it his number one priority to build one

Literally you can run but you can't hide he knows your menstrual cycle by heart and can smell you ovulating from the tarmac back at HQ

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I think....I think we should talk abt all the more mundane stuff ghost cant do....yeah....

Ghost, whos trauma follows him everywhere. Its not something he can easily package away, not after growing up in that house, not after those months spent as a captive.

Ghost cant stand to eat most soups, because thats what his mom made when she was having one of her 'bad days'. He doesnt like to sit in certain chairs because they remind him of sitting at the dinner table and listening to his dad berate his mom. Its annoying, because ghost struggles to enjoy dinners with his team. Even after they're gone, his parents refuse to let ghost rest.

Fuck, he cant even enjoy dinners on his own. Grocery stores play mainstream pop songs that sound close enough to what one of the gaurds used to hum. It makes ghost anxious in ways he never is on the field, like his own home is being broken into. Invaded by memories of pain. Ghost takes the long way home because the street lamp in front of the deli flickers just like the one in his cell.

And thats how he lives. One big act to avoid feeling like hes stuck in a cage with a tiger. Not safe, but at least outside of its maw. He doesnt tell anyone this. About all the tiny things that freak him out. How would he do that? He can run into active fire, but cant eat carrots? What kind of a person does that?

So ghost keeps quiet. Dodges the things that scares him. Refuses to think about it at night.

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“you can write non-con and dark fics as long as you’re not romanticizing it”

“you can write non-con and dark fics as long as it’s your way of coping with your trauma”

“you can write non-con and dark fics as long as —”

actually, anybody — including you — can write non-con and dark fics, and any other fucked up things, however they want, for whatever reasons.

wanna romanticize the fuck out of your non-con / dead dove do not eat fic? go ahead. don’t let anybody stop you from creating the art you want to create.

wanna write non-con fic even if you were never a victim? go ahead. you don’t have to meet any specific criteria in order to create the art you want to create.

just tag your works properly so that you don’t accidentally expose those who might not want to be exposed to such topics to the topics, and you’re all good.

art does not have to be for everybody.

art has never been strictly about rainbow and sunshine. art can also be about the horror and the macabre.

art can be outright disgusting and messed up, and being disgusting and messed up can be just what makes the art a masterpiece.

write whatever you want to write and say fuck you to censorship.

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Ftm!soap is the kind of guy to take you to a sex shop, silently observe your reactions to each dildo he points out, then proceed to grab the one youre most nervous about for his strap.

Oh also ftm!ghost totally pierces all his straps because he'll die before he lets a strap ruin his carefully curated pierced aesthetic

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Hare!Ghost really fucked around and found out bunnies are good at multiplying

oh he's well aware. fucking like rabbits and all, it's bound to lead to something. a very predictable something.

see ghost is nothing if he isn't observant, and he's had his eye on you for a while. he knows your heats, knows your prospective leave times, he knows a window as a foot in the door. he knows that when you do take your week's leave, you'll find yourself strangely heatless. the same way he knows that you'll show up three days in and hold your arm out for medical to take a blood pregnancy test, and he'll be right there beside you.

hares, after all, mate for life and he isn't about to let his mate go through something as dangerous as a pregnancy without him. especially when he can blame your pre-heat hormones for his sudden inability to control himself.

"fucking like rabbits, eh?" the doctor will joke to your sour expression and ghost's eyes will crinkle with his smile when he replies:

"can't help instinct."

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Simon had signed the DNR with the same hand he cleans his knives— steady and devoid of sentiment. Back then, it was a simple truth; when the ticker stopped, so did he. No dramatics, no interventions. No third chances.

The world had already taken everything worth waking up for. What remained was routine: the sound of paperwork, the clanking of rifles, the weight of his own breath and the dull ache of days that bled into each other without consequence. Death wasn't a threat. It was a courtesy.

Then you came. Sweet little thing, all warm hands and soft laughter, with sugar on your lips and honey in your voice, and a smile that could undo him in seconds. (And a craving for dessert that matched his craving for you.)

Simon didn't stand a chance.

You married him like it was the easiest decision you ever made. Loved him like he wasn't stitched together from scraps. Fed him cake and kisses like they were both medicine.

And then somewhere down the road— after the quiet mornings and burnt toast— that DNR wasn't about giving in anymore. It was about respecting the rules of the house. Because if his heart stops and someone brings him back?

You're finishing the job.

("You think you get to scare me like that and live to tell about it?")

He wouldn't have it any other way. He's got something to live for now, and it's got frosting on it. And a temper. Someone who'd decided his continued existence was non-negotiable.

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being anti ai is making me feel like in going insane. "you asked for thoughts about your characters backstory and i put it into chat gpt for ideas". studies have proven its making people dumber. "i asked ai to generate this meal plan". its causing water shortages where its data centers are built. "ill generate some pictures for the dnd campaign". its spreading misinformation. "meta, generate an image of this guy doing something stupid". its trained off stolen images, writing, video, audio. "i was talking with my snapchat ai-" theres no way to verify what its doing with the information it collects. "youtube is impletmenting ai based age verification". my work has an entire graphics media department and has still put ai generated motivational posters up everywhere. ai playlists. ai facial verification. google ai microsoft ai meta ai snapchat ai. everyone treats it as a novelty. every treats it as a mandatory part of life. am i the only one who sees it? am i paranoid? am i going insane? jesus fucking christ. if i have to hear one more "well at least-" "but it does-" "but you can-" im about to lose it. i shouldnt have to jump through hoops to avoid the evil machine. have you no principles? no goddamn spine? am i the weird one here?

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Got too many asks for more of this comic to endure..

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there's nothing more freeing for Ghost than knowing he might never have sex with you. holding your face between his hands and kissing you without an agenda, without a reason for it, sometimes soft and gentle, sometimes hard and desperate. he likes picking you out of his teeth, likes the popcorn kernels of affection that rot down to the root leaving cavities he won't find until he's deployed and they start to ache.

he could put a ring on your finger without ever feeling your cunt wrap around him, and it isnt something so respectable as the religious fanaticism that soap has, its more akin to a whale fall. the soft critters sucking pollution out of the dead tissue, the saltwater purging contamination from the blood, food and homes found in his ribs, bones repurposed into something bigger than him.

"biblically" thats how he'd heard it described once, knowing someone biblically. but what does he need a book for? he knows the whorl of your fingerprints, the veins of your eyes, the bpm of your heart —his fingers pressed tight against your wrist counting softly in the dark, one, two, three— so what could be closer, deeper? he doesn’t want it to just be sex, he doesn’t want to end the dance, he doesn’t want to be human with you, because he has erred so much, so deeply, he is so deeply human

and he doesn’t want to have sex,

and you don't make him,

and he doesn't have to wonder why.

it's because you love him too

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Seeing a lot of new people show up in my notes with like "proship dni" or whatever so RENT LOWERING GUNSHOT: IM AN ADULT WHO DOES NOT CARE IF PEOPLE HAVE PROBLEMATIC SHIPS, IM OLD AND BELIEVE TABOO FICTION IS SAFE AND HEALTHY, IM AN OLD MAN WHO THINKS IT'S FINE TO HAVE SHIPS THAT WOULD BE BAD IN REAL LIFE, I BELIEVE IN TABOO KINKS AS HEALING PLACES, I DO NOT DO SHIP DISCOURSE, I THINK IT'S OKAY TO WRITE ABOUT BAD THINGS HAPPENING TO GOOD PEOPLE WITHOUT CONDEMNING IT IN THE NARRATIVE, I THINK IT'S OKAY TO GET OFF TO MAKE BELIEVE BAD THINGS!!! THANKS

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rant but how is it that jk rowling just gets more and more fucking demonic every single day. genuinely every time i hear about her im like "surely she's the same level of bad" and she never is, she's always worse. why won't one of her children but the rest of us out of our misery and take her fucking internet access away

also semi-regular reminder that trans women are women, trans men are men, and if you engage in any sort of transvestigating or shaming of trans "looking" people you're morally rotten and i want you off my blog. yes that includes "feminists" who think they can target a vulnerable population based purely on features they deem to be masculine. saying a woman must be a man because she has too wide a jaw for your liking is disgusting and i don't want you within spitting distance of me ever. kys

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How their relationships with their mothers have ruined them

a/n: this is mostly headcanon stuff, as their families aren’t heavily touched upon for the most part, so take it with a grain of salt

Gaz has extremely loving and supportive mom. Always made nice family dinners, always on time to pick him up rain or shine, always knew just what he’d want for his birthday and gave it to him. But she also had high expectations. Grades, sports, extracurricular— she wanted him to be the best no matter what he did. And while for the most part he attributes his successes to that, it also makes him insanely hard on himself. He views all things as having to be earned, to be worked hard for— he doesn’t realize that there are things he deserves even if he does nothing, or that sometimes encountering adversity doesn’t mean you should keep pushing yourself through it.

Soap’s mom will forever and always see him as her perfect baby. As such? He does that thing favorite children do sometimes. Where he’ll do something genuinely fucking annoying and think it’s quite cute. Because when he was growing up, everything he did was so darling. Sometimes he doesn’t realize he’s not still a fat little bairn tucked up in a high chair and covered in spaghetti sauce. He’s an adult, and this was a white couch.

There were moments when Price looked to his mother for help, and she looked away. In his rational mind, he knows that there’s no way he could understand her pain. As much as his father had been a tyrant to him, he’d been a tyrant to her for longer. But inside, he can’t help feeling abandoned by someone he wanted to depend on. So he can’t let go, he can’t let anything of his fall entirely into someone else’s hands. He really does believe that when it comes down to brass tacks, people will always save themselves first.

Simon loved his mother. Wanted the best for her, the same way she did for him. And so how do you show a person that when you’re just a kid, and you barely have anything of your own to give? You show it by lessening their troubles. Their burdens. So he learned to hide every problem, every rotten mood, every disappointment, want, or need. He shuts it all away, hoping it can make the world an easier place to live in for people he loves.

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and if i said that there's a version of ps!ghost that already has you bent over the edge of the leather couch, big hands steering your hips the way he wants them, tugging the lace of your knickers to the side (not even off, just enough to get what he wants) before the director's even let you know the camera's rolling.

"you nervous?" he murmurs, cloth mask brushing your ear as the red light beams, alive. "don't be."

he doesn't say it because he's gentle, but because he knows exactly what he's doing. knows your tells; how your breath snags in your throat when he spreads your thighs wider, how your lips tremble when he spits just to smear it in with his fingers.

"you're my favorite to shoot with," he says it like it's casual, like you're not already pulsing around the first inch of him.

no one can see his face behind the mask, but you feel the smile when he fucks in the rest of the way with a stretch that borders on unbearable, burying himself with a groan that vibrates in your bones.

"fuckin' perfect," he breathes, to no one and everyone.

"don't care what he script says." his hips grind, not fast but deep, and the sound of him— generously wet, dragging, greedy— makes the scene feel too intimate. too real.

"'m not pullin' out."

(ik he's nice in the other one i wrote but like cmon. CMON. he's even worse once the cameras stop rolling and the crew starts packing up omg)

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this is a transgender zone you either support trans rights or you die dude

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ghost as that one tom selleck photo right

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never done a hybrid au or anything but I keep thinking about hare!Ghost and rabbit!reader

he's so big, limbs and ears stretched too long, scent eerily similar to something you could almost call familiar, his shape is uncanny, cousin to your own but corded with different muscles. his nose twitches differently, his ears stand too tall, his penchant for open spaces felt quirky at first but now you watch him lay out in an open field and the way he disappears against the ground sends a chill down your spine. he is so much like you and yet every inch of you knows he's different.

but no one else seems to care. they pair you up like alarm bells don't ring each time you stand next to him. they joke about leaving rabbits together and you swallow the need to scream that he's not like you, that it isn't natural, it doesn't work, that when his eyes slink towards you they read as foreign as a predator. it's like staring down a funhouse mirror of your species, some convergent evolution gone wrong, shifted for a harsher environment, your families separated enough that you never should have been faced with someone like him.

you thump your foot at him when he gets too close and your entire body heats in embarrassment. it's an empty threat, you're hardly fit for fighting without the guns and knives that soldiers carry but ghost- ghost studies you like an insect, like he can't quite figure out why you're so soft and round where he isn't. he stares at you in every room his existence corners you into. he tugs at one of your ears when you pass him in the hall, he gropes at the fat of your hips when you stand in line at mess, he grips your tail so hard you have to stop yourself from yelping. so you thump at him, because you're tired of whatever measurements he's taking, whatever comparisons he's drawing between the two of you, silent observer to your fear of him, using it to keep you quiet against the persistent harassment; his nose twitches.

he's faster than you, you already knew that, you shouldn't be surprised when he lunges at you the way he does. you still scramble to get away, launch yourself into movement, some hind-brain instinct propelling you forward, searching for somewhere small and dark to hide yourself. Even though you know he'll catch you, that his big hands will grip you hard and then, well, you don't have to think too hard about what he wants.

you'd seen the way his hard cock strained against his fatigues at every mention of fucking like rabbits.