hi i'm hit tumblr user profbootliker and this is a NO MINORS ZONE !!
i'm pervert positive, puppy coded, a military fetishist, and generally fond of evil and grotesque and torturous yaois. i try to keep it half and half on reblogs and original freak thoughts. my inbox is always a free and open space for freaks.
here is more about me and here is my tag library. all my writing is #from the desk. and all my asks are #from the mailbox.
i write on ao3, and i also write poetry and meta. i love x reader stuff but i can't write it smth in my brain doesn't let me sigh. i also draw sometimes.
the media i'm currently rotating in my brain is: call of duty! this could change. i keep fandom tags consistent so feel free to filter things out.
be kind and normal or you eat an instablock. no ai or you eat an instablock.
i have a lot of random topics i know a lot about and i like my aus to be weirdly intricate in worldbuilding so any au i talk abt prolly has like. 2 essays of thoughts behind it. even the porn ones. especially the porn ones even
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | one shot/drabble
you have something that belongs to simon. something he wants back.
cw: intoxication, dub-con to non-con, force masc, afab and fem presenting reader, misgendering
It's been three years since Simon watched Johnny's body crumble to the ground—brains scattered on cement, blood soaking into stone, blue eyes rolling behind eyelids he'll never watch flutter again—so he's a bit taken aback when he sees him at the pub.
He's younger. Stubble hardly even noticeable along his jaw and lips, skin softer with less worry lines. That scar that used to bisect his eyebrow is even gone. Smoothed out. Fully covered and wrinkling as he smiles. It's so tangible Simon can almost smell him. Sour gun powder coated in the mint gum he always chewed on deployments. A tick. Not a nervous one. Johnny was always thrumming with life, with the need for movement, a desire to do something with his hands.
Then, you look over your shoulder at him.
You slap your wallet shut, smothering the image of Johnny behind faux patterned leather before shoving it into your pocket. The glare on your face is challenging. A silent spitting at his feet as you look him up and down, drinking in the height and broadness of him like the mere size of him is a challenge. A threat.
"Can I help you?" Short. Cutting. You don't trust him, and he doesn't blame you. A stranger in a pub with his chest nearly up against your back as you try to order a drink after a long week of work.
"Maybe."
Your distaste at his lack of tactfulness screws the features on your face until your fingers are curling. Simon's not sure why, but he wouldn't mind the taste of your knuckles against his cheek, bone pushing flesh into his teeth until the blood floods his mouth to wash down the aftertaste of you.
"How do you know 'im?" Simon questions, chin tilting up as his words die down.
"The fuck are you talking about?" you bite.
"Johnny. MacTavish."
Recognition freezes over your features until your fingers are tracing over the thickness in your pocket where his old teammate (No, something more, someone more. An importance he doesn't know how to utter but something that burns through him all the same) resides like an urn upon a mantle.
"Do you know him?" You answer his question with another one. Simon refuses to speak until you're breaking, eyes falling to the floor, teeth catching between your lips. "He was my donor."
Your response only stirs up more confusion in Simon's mind. "Donor?"
"Yeah, like…" You awkwardly glance around the area before your fingers move up to the collar of your shirt and then gently pull down. You're not showing much that he cares to look at, except the scar. It's long. Vanishing beyond where you refuse to show, it spans the length of your sternum. A straight line, still puffy. Still healing. "My heart donor."
Everything makes sense. Why he's drawn to you. Why you have a picture of Johnny in your wallet. It's so fitting of him to give up the best parts of himself. That man gave you a gilded heart so you could continue to draw breath all while his stopped deep in that tunnel, too far from the Scottish highlands he always spoke so fondly of. Now, his Johnny resides within you—so deep he's not sure he can dig him out.
"Let me buy you a drink," Simon offers, fingers twitching. "I can tell you everythin' you wanna know 'bout 'im."
You fold easy. Tissue paper caught in the rain, dissolving at the mere touch of his fingers against your arm, leading you towards a private booth once you've both got a proper pint in your hands. He tells you everything. The pristine details of it, anyway.
Johnny's a hero. A good man. Died fighting for what he believed in, and apparently continued to save lives even after his death. You got to taste the fruit of his labor. You taste it every day in the blood running through your veins, pooling on your tongue, warm and tangy. Simon wonders, if he shoved his mouth onto yours, would he be able to taste him? The essence of the man he loved to get lost in?
A few more pints later, and you share your side of the story. It was a birth defect that got you like this. Sick your whole childhood, it wasn't caught until it was nearly too late for you. Hospital stays, missed school days, the loss of friendships and events that should have been special but were tainted by medication and needles. Johnny's heart isn't your first. In fact, it's your third. Complication after complication—a body that rejects all the help that's shoved inside of it.
"It's been almost three years since the transplant, and I've never felt better," you admit, speech slurred, eyes shining with the tears you've been fighting back the whole conversation. "I've tried to meet his family, but either he doesn't have any, or they want nothing to do with me. I guess I can't blame them. I get to live because he died. How fucked is that?" You wash a sniffle down with a gulp of beer before you wipe your mouth. "You don't know how nice it is to meet you, Simon. I can't thank you enough for this. For letting me know more about Johnny."
He likes the way you say his name. He likes how it sounds like him saying it. Cotton swirls in Simon's head as heat flushes throughout his body, superheating his loins until his hips are rolling in his seat.
If you note the change in his demeanor, you don't say anything. Your ignorance only makes the space in his pants tighter.
"How 'bout we take this back to my place, yeah?" Simon prompts. He would shove his fingers in your mouth at the way you nod at him—glassy-eyed and slow—if there weren't so many people around. "Good boy."
It's easy getting you on his bed. Your clothes slide off of your body as if the very weaving of the fabric comes undone at the hungry prodding of his fingers. When you're undressed, he can't help but trace the path along your sternum to feel the raised skin that slices through you. An old war wound. A roughness he recognizes like stubble on the inside of his neck. Johnny's heart jumps out at him like he's kissing him. Trying to break free. Trying to return to where he should be.
Simon stares down his nose at you while he unfastens his trousers, pulling himself free, hot and eager. His thighs knock against the edge of the mattress as he beckons you forward with two fingers. "C'mon, you know what you gotta do. 'Nless you want it to tear."
He can see how your head spins in the way your eyes are unable to lock onto one place for longer than half a second, and it only worsens as you crawl towards him. Your mouth is on him quick. Tongue lapping along the underside of his cock as you bob your head and hum at the sourness of his skin.
If he closes his eyes and leans his head back, Simon can almost pretend your mouth is Johnny's. You're a bit softer around the edges than he was, and he wishes you'd use more teeth, but the fantasy alone is enough to get the tension building in his abdomen as his thighs begin to shake. It's been a long time. Too long. He feels the end arriving before he's even had the time to enjoy this.
Rigid fingers curl into the back of your neck as Simon pulls out of your mouth. You cough and spit drips down your chin as you stare up at him, trying to catch your breath. A smile breaks over your lips as his fingers gather the mess before he's digging in the back of your throat. He goes until you choke. Until you gag. He yanks his fingers out with a content chuckle.
"Atta boy."
Your brows draw together. "I'm not a-"
Your protest is silenced with his cock in your mouth again. This time, he doesn't allow you to bob your head, but rather forces himself until he's reaching the back of your throat and then holds himself there as his still wet hand reaches for your rump. You try to squeal as his fingers prod the tight ring of your ass. There's little give to you, but Simon's always been good with breaking things in.
"Not a what now?" Simon asks facetiously as he manages to stretch you out on one, lonely finger. "Not a boy? Got a boy's heart in ya, yeah? My boy's heart. I already know everythin' 'bout ya, handsome."
It's easy to spin you around when you're already intoxicated. Body stumbling, crumpling on your stomach, hands desperately attempting to claw at your mouth as you suck in as much air as your lungs will allow. Simon's weight dips down on either side of you once he's managed to shuck his trousers off. Hairy thighs pressing your own together as he paws at your ass until your hole is exposed enough for him to butt up against. There's no amount of wiggling that you can do that will knock him off course.
"W-Wait, not there, please," you beg. You squeeze so tight around him that it's difficult for Simon to get the head in. He grunts as he pushes through despite your whimpering. "I can't, not there."
"Just shut up 'n let me have this, yeah?" Simon grunts, now halfway in. "I'll give your cock all the attention it wants afterwards."
Your moans are animalistic. Grunting, teeth biting into the bedding, fingers curling until your nails pierce flesh—primal. Just like him. As Simon begins to piston into you, it's all he can imagine. Him. His boy. His Johnny.
"Missed you so fuckin' much," he hisses through his teeth, fingers curling deep enough into your hips to dent the bone. "What'd I always tell ya, huh? Gonna find ya in every life. Not gettin' away from me."
Simon comes without warning. It shudders through your body until he's spilling into you with no care for the weak cries that wet your nose. He can hardly keep himself up, and when you collapse underneath the weight of him, he follows not too far after you. Body curling over yours, head resting between your scapulas as he tries to catch his breath. Dull teeth nip at you in places you can't reach yourself, but you don't say anything as he continues to mutter words you wish you could cut from his vocabulary.
My boy, good boy, did so well. Don't worry, I found ya, here to take care of ya again. Can't do much without me, huh?
The two of you lie there long enough for your cries to die down as you quietly mourn the ache of your body instead. Content with the silence, Simon stays where he is, ear pressed against your body, listening to each heartbeat reverberate through you.
With each lub-dub, lub-dub that hits the side of his face, he can only hear:
As in the Metamorphoses, union is seen as a form of regression. The desire for identification with another turns into a coincidentia oppositorum that creates monstruous hybrids [...] or results in parodies of communion and marriage: [...] the two brothers "D'un corpo usciro" ("issued from one body") who in their hatred have returned to an infernal womb....
wostan, erotic composition // bacon, two figures with a monkey // wood&geasland, twins // de beer, two girls // de bruyckere, into one another iii
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
for those who live in a day-to-day world of can’t-find-the-clit, i think there’s something really alluring about the visible immediacy of a hard cock. both in the sense of “the stark clarity of the boner as a barometer of want” (James Frankie Thomas, Idlewild) but also in the (portrayed) comparative ease of casual gay sex acts like frotting and handjobs. your desire is easily known and seen (in the dickprint) and it is easily quenched (with a quick wad of spit and a few pumps). compare this to the torture nexus of the average cisgender woman’s experience of heterosexual intercourse, and also to the less torturous but factual reality that satisfying sex (for anyone!) requires some amount of communication and trial/error. the fantasy is that your needs are immediately known and met without having to ask or direct. the fantasy is that the clit becomes unmissable and unignorable!!!
see also: extreme focus on precome/wetness, ass eating as literary pseudo-cunnilingus, the prostate as a literary pseudo-g-spot, the general glossing-over of bottom prep
you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
so if you not on testosterone you are not a trans right? then what makes you a “man”? your brain? maybe you should go to the psychologist? (not hate)
Hi nonnnyyy :3 usually I delete these asks but considering its pride month, I wanna make something clear to all my Trans folk on my page!
I support trans folk regardless of their efforts towards a physical transition.
There are many reasons someone may be unable to achieve gender affirming care, whether that be from lack of finances or medical issues or personal beliefs. Regardless they are still trans and just as valid as someone who's been on hormones for years.
More than that, I support trans folk regardless of the amount of dysphoria they experience! Gender is far too complex to boil down into dysphoria and a desire to transition. The only thing that makes someone a man is if they say they are one. That's literally it. Yes I'm serious.
If you want to look more into gender and why transmed thinking is harmful, my friend @profbuppy in gender studies recommended these to read: [light reading] [medium reading] [heavy reading]
its me im the gender studies guyyyyyy a few additional points for the bold and curious:
- medical definitions are just as made up as regular definitions!! we used to diagnose women with "wandering womb" when they were being difficult just as an excuse to lock them up. medicine has not come especially far from this.
- the medical definition of being trans includes dysphoria, but this is because DYSPHORIA IS THE THING THAT GETS TREATED. euphoria is also a huge part of being trans, but its not in the medical definition bc doctors dont care about it for the purposes of treatment. its safe to assume there are 5 billion more things that the definition doesnt include. being trans is a mindset and self identification and lifestyle, not a diagnosis. (think of how most people with adhd experience caffeine having a weird calming effect on them, but thats not in the medical definition bc who gaf)
- happy pride month :3
more complex gender theory under the cut bc i ended up rambling
- this is more complex: how the fuck does anybody know theyre a man? ask a cis person in your life (including you potentially) how they know they're a woman/man and then ask them more questions. how would they feel as the opposite gender? have they ever crossdressed? how did that feel? what does being a woman/man mean to them? how much of it is just stereotype and how much is real?
there's a lot of answers to this question, but i'm going to use judith butler's definition: the only "real" part of gender is the performance, the things we do, say, wear, and impose on each other. nothing is stopping you technically from waking up tomorrow and deciding to completely live as another gender (i encourage trying this actually). gender is an idea thats created by society, learned by young children, and then replicated and re-performed by those children as they grow up.
in this sense, what makes somebody a man is performing "man-ness" or masculinity. but how do butch lesbians (an incredibly important and time honored gender expression) factor into this? i dont fucking know man thats up to them. once you realize that men can be feminine and women can be masculine and anyone can wear anything the whole concept becomes kind of soupy.
Thinking about kidnapper!price who always takes a little bird with him on his leave...
Has his fun the last few days, there's a nice meadow in a government protected forest that has been thriving since he's started his little tradition. Though, the real joy is the hunt.
Price doesn't mix work and pleasure, not like ghost in that regard, but recently a pretty little secretary has joined on base...
She's price's exact type. Feminine, young, a little shy. Naive enough to leave her curtains only half-drawn when she changes in her bedroom, giving price a good look at her naked body. He takes photos, enough to compare to how she'll look afterwards.
Price tries to be subtle about it, needs to he if he wants it to work.
He doesn't show favoritism to her, instead picking some mediocre secretary to run all his stuff. He's sure the poor lad knows who he'd prefer by the way price looks at his target, but secretaries are easy to write off. He can afford to oggle those perky tits and nice ass, at least a bit to hold him over.
When the time comes, price tampers with the wiring on a little pink car that parks just off the lines in the back corner of the lot. Of course his sweet thing needs a ride home, so he graciously offers.
Gets a little hard when he suffocates her in the back seat, ties her up in the basement of his cabin. He still has to retrieve her car, get rid of it, but afterwards....
He's so focused on his rager, on that tight cunt waiting for him in the basement that he doesn't notice the car parked around back or the shift in the air until a cloth is being pressed to his face.
Price drops with a thud, and in his bleary vision you lean over him, the secretary he's been giving all his work to. You smile, cup his jaw and coo at him.
"Had to take a few, hm? Those girls just don't scratch the itch I can." You move price far too easily, using the chains he himself installed to keep him in place "we're gonna have so much fun..."
Imagine being price's kid that he hardly seemed interested in raising, right? [CHECK THE TAGS]
He liked the idea of having a sweet little kid to keep in his wallet and show off to his work buddies, but he wasn't so fond of actually having you around. Since you could remember you've been fighting for your dad's attention, begging for a "good job, kid." or at least you used to.
That whole dream died when he couldn't be arsed to show up after you landed in the hospital. You spent the last days in that house hardly speaking to your father, then moved out the second you could. You celebrate your 25th birthday alone, finding it difficult to make friends, but it's still more comfortable than any birthday in that house was.
And now you're here.
In a shitty bar, trying to feel anything close to something. It probably says something about you that all of your partners so far come from the kind of bars full of veterans and men old enough to be your dad.
Which, ironically, hadn't meant you expected to see him tonight.
Your dad, captain john price.
...you don't know what compels you to slide up next to him, but whatever plan you had is instantly destroyed when he rests a hand on your hip, mutters a deep "hey there, lovie. Wots a soft thing like you doing here?"
Holy shit.
...your own dad doesn't recognize you. He's looking at you without a hint of recognition, eyeing you up like he's assessing if you're worth the effort of flirting with.
You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. That's your dad, your literal fucking dad.
....john still has the same bedsheets he had when you moved out. His body bowed over yours, panting and groaning as he ruts into you. Fuck, it feels good. It feels wrong and horrible but this is the most your dad has looked at you in years.
"So good for me, love. Fuck– mgh– doing good–" you've never heard your dad say that before, and in your mind you store that memory and scrub the context around it clean.
Some sick part of you loves this, loves the attention and the praise and the usefulness. You can pretend he loves you when he kisses your lips and bites bruises into your neck.
You almost wish he wasn't wearing a condom when he groans, hips stuttering. Now this is what you've been waiting for.
You arch your back, clench down on him in a way that doesn't need to be faked, and moan out "fuck! Yes, dad! Dad!!"
For a moment price just grinds into it, believes it's some little fantasy for you. You can feel the exact moment it clicks, price pulling back to stare at your face.
The disgust at realizing what he did, the horror when he realizes how much he enjoyed it.
Let him try to ignore you now, you're not letting go.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I neeeeeed more amab reader getting passed between Simon and Kyle [this is completely inspired by @rawme-price design for Ghost]
You didn't think about seeing any other soldiers at the club, the dim lights and warm hues casting shadows across your skin and making the harness your wearing shine. It's been so long since you've been stationed long enough to even find a good bdsm club, but you're happy to be back in the scene finally.
Except, you didn't expect to see your lieutenant and fellow sergeant at the club, both of them dressed in proper attire. Riley is on his knees wearing nothing but a cock ring and a harness with a leash. Edging closer from your position at the bar, it's obvious to see that Garrick is using his mouth, dick entered into the hole of Riley's cheek that you've only ever caught glimpses of. Garrick himself is dressed fairly simple, a buttoned dress shirt and some grey slacks, but you can just barely see the hint of a chest harness like your own.
They saw you the moment you walked in, had been waiting for you to venture over to them. It didn't feel as awkward as you thought it would be, sitting next to Garrick and watching as Riley's tongue works around the thick cock stuffed into his cheek, his mouth hanging open and unused. Garrick guides your hand to Riley's hair, shows you how to tug at certain spots and how his body jerks.
It's somewhere between Garrick asking you to call him Kyle, and Ril- Simon moving to lay his head on your lap instead, that you end up sitting on Kyle's thigh. You're not sure exactly how you got there, too many sweet words clouding your mind, unable to think straight when Simon is nosing at your dick.
"Just relax, sweet thing. He doesn't bite, not when you're with me."
Simon's skills on the field aren't his only talents. The mutt is wicked with his tongue, and seeing yourself enter his mouth, only to exit from his cheek, is like a taser to the back. Everything feels like electricity, your hands grabbing at Kyle's slacks, his cock rubbing against the soft fabric of your pants, all of it has your brain turning into a puddle.
When you cum, it's with Kyle's lips against your ear and his dog's tongue lapping at the base of your cock. White seed spills onto Simon's face through the hole in his cheek, and the sight has you blacking out for just a moment, coming back just as Simon finishes licking you clean.
"There we go, hey there, sweet boy. Lost you for a moment, yeah? Don't worry, you can sleep as long as you'd like while we play."
Soap would be hard pressed to say he likes any of Ghost’s scars, however, there is one running down the length of his throat, seamless in its cruelty and intersected horizontally from where he'd barely kept himself from being garotted. He finds himself running his fingers over them often in lieu of the the crucifix around his neck. Trails his touch down to the chain of Ghost’s tags where the metal slips by beneath his thumb like the beads of a rosary.
He wonders what his maw would say if she knew he'd never felt closer to god than he does when Ghost tilts his head back in absentminded faith.
