#round 1 :Tank grunt

[grimbunnies]

Johnny: "Is there anything you want? I'm sorry I can't grab dinner with you, but we can squeeze in a quick ice cream before I head to work!"

Tank: "Hey!"

Johnny: "What do you want, Tank? Oh, nothing to say now? Come on, Phi. Let's just get our—"

Ophelia: "Johnny! Look out!"

Tank: "Consider yourself lucky I don't keep pulverizing you."

Ophelia: "What the hell is wrong with you? Do you get off on randomly attacking sims?"

Johnny: I just want him to leave us alone... I have to try! What if he attacks Phi next?

Johnny: YOU NEED TO COOL OFF. GO SOAK YOUR HEAD!

Tank: Why the fuck did I do that? Shit, it's cold!

Johnny: "It worked!"

Ophelia: "What worked? Why did he do that?"

Johnny: "I-I don't know, but let's get ice cream and grab dinner!"

Ophelia: "Don't you have work?"

Johnny: "They're not going to fire me. Come on!"

[tamtam-go92]

Tank knew, Violet Jocque was one of the easier to get girls in school. She was four years younger than him, so it was probably unethical to take advantage of her, but he wanted to prove his siblings, that he could also get one of the girls. Not that he had seen Ripp make out with any girl at school at all. But he was always surrounded by a flock of pretty girls, giggling and touching his forearm. Tank also wanted that attention. He was happy when Violet agreed to come home with him. Strangetown was a pretty long bus drive from Desiderata Valley, where Violet lived, away. But here he was, finally snatching that very first kiss from a cute girl!

Buck: Who was that pretty girl? Dad saw you two too.

Tank didn't say anything. But he was pleased, the General had seen them,

[strangetownreject]

Strangetown ♢ Round 1 ♢ Grunt

I really didn't take many pictures of the Grunts on this round, but to summarize:

General Grunt was being a menace around town, as one does.

Tank grew up into an adult. He had wants to get into the Athletic career and the Military career. He considered enlisting to make his father proud, but ended up deciding to follow his dream of becoming a big sports star instead ( a.k.a. it was the first job available in the newspaper and I took it as a sign). General Grunt is a little disappointed, but it could always be worse. He hopes Tank will eventually give up on his silly dream and enlist in the Military.

General Grunt finds himself very enticed by a secret lover. For someone who hates aliens so much he does seem to have a lot of chemistry with a certain green romance sim... Wait, was that a bell I heard?

Ripp grew up into an adult, and they kept getting into fights and annoying the hell out of me so I decided yeah, he's getting kicked out. A homeless challenge side quest sounds fun (It was, for me. Ripp hated every second of it.)

Buck also grew up into a teenager.

[sapphicandgraphic]

Safe House—Chapter 1

Synopsis: Natasha is a lawyer, and you’re a key witness in one of her cases. She offers her home as a safe house during trial prep. While living there, she and her wife Wanda start to fall for you.

Chapter: 1/10 (The Proposal)

Series Warnings: Non-Marvel AU, angst, crime, drama, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, protective WandaNat, fem reader, age difference, WLW

Chapter Warnings:  Mentions of violence

—————

Natasha rounded the last length of the indoor track, legs and arms pumping in perfect rhythm as she pulled ahead of her sister. What had started as a friendly cooldown jog had escalated into a flat-out sprint when Yelena challenged Natasha to a race halfway through their last lap. 

Leaning forward, Natasha dug deep and found a final burst of energy. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, and the lactic acid in her leg muscles was burning as she exploded across the finish line a full three strides ahead of Yelena. 

“You cheated,” her sister called, clutching a stitch in her side.

“How?” Natasha demanded. 

Yelena gestured vaguely. “Longer legs.”

Natasha chuckled as Yelena slumped forward, propping her hands on her knees. “Best three out of five?” 

Just then, Natasha’s phone rang. 

“Saved by bell,” Yelena taunted. 

She grabbed a bottle of water and a hand towel, eyes darting around the gym. It was a private facility, and at this late hour it was mostly empty. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

“Yeah, I’ll let you know when I’m heading home,” Natasha murmured, voice low. “Miss you too, detka.” 

Ending the call, the redhead slipped her phone back into her pocket and followed Yelena toward the changing room.

“How’s Wanda?” 

“She sounds tired,” Natasha said, peeling off her shirt. “Her flight’s delayed until tomorrow.” 

Yelena grunted in something like sympathy. Natasha pulled her hair back, tying it into a messy top knot. Her sister’s bright eyes shifted around the room uneasily. 

“You’re acting weird,” Natasha observed. 

“Am not,” Yelena scoffed as she shrugged out of her own sweaty tank top.

Natasha frowned. Her sister’s nervous energy was infectious. 

“Are too.” 

Yelena rolled her eyes but didn’t bother arguing.

Together they walked toward the sauna and slipped inside. Natasha took a seat on one end of the cedar bench and crossed her legs, drawing from a deep well of patience as she waited for her sister to explain who exactly she was supposed to be meeting, and why the circumstances had to be so clandestine. 

Yelena, however, said nothing. A minute went by. Then another. She glanced at her wristwatch, leaning back as sweat began to bead on her forehead. 

Suddenly the door to the sauna opened.

“There you are,” Yelena grumbled, standing up and pulling you into an aggressive hug. “I was getting worried.” 

“Sorry,” you said, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Had to make sure nobody was following me.” 

Natasha watched the interaction with interest. She thought she knew most of Yelena’s friends, but she didn’t recognize you. And you were definitely someone she would have remembered meeting. You were quite striking—tall, muscular, with a faint, thin scar over one of your hazel eyes.

“You must be Nat,” you said, gently disentangling from your friend. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Natasha gave you a tight smile. “Wish I could say the same.” 

“Oh,” you said, voice tinged with a preamble of apologetic regret. “I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of me.” 

You smiled wearily and extended a hand. Natasha’s eyes narrowed when she heard your last name.  

“As in…”

You nodded. 

“Guess that explains all the cloak and daggers.” She fixed her sister with a stare. “What exactly are we doing here?”

Yelena locked the door and took a seat. “She needs your help.”

“That much I gathered,” Natasha said dryly. You took a seat on the bench opposite the sisters, collecting your thoughts. 

“My family’s reputation obviously precedes me,” you began with another crooked smile that Natasha tried not to find endearing. She watched as you ran a hand through your short sandy- blonde hair, took a steadying breath.

“I emancipated myself when I was 17. Cut off all ties with my family and did my best to disappear. Put myself through pre-med, carved out a little life in the city. Then last year, my father died.”

“I saw in the news,” Natasha inclined her head. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” you said, swallowing around an unexpected lump in your throat. ”He was…”

You trailed off. In many ways, you were still processing your father’s unexpected passing. There was rage, yes, but also grief. 

“A violent criminal?” Yelena offered bluntly. 

You laughed. 

“Yes,” you agreed, getting back on track. “And I’m an only child, making my uncle the heir apparent to the empire my father built.” 

“And that’s a problem because?” Natasha prompted.

Your gaze hardened. 

“My father was far from perfect, but he operated…by a code, of sorts,” you explained, struggling to articulate what you meant. “His brother is…nothing like him. He doesn’t care who gets hurt. He’s dangerous, evil.” 

You paused, eyes flickering to Yelena. She nodded, as if encouraging you to contine. “Tell her.” 

Natasha frowned. “Tell me what?” 

You paused, lifting the hem of your shirt to wipe the gathering sweat from your face, and Natasha’s gaze flickered briefly to your toned stomach.

“Last week, his people…made contact,” you said. “They’ve extended me an offer, to rejoin the business.“ 

You looked at Natasha, trying to gauge her reaction, but she seemed to be lost in thought. Her face was scrunched into a frown of concentration. Your gaze drifted lower, to her full pink lips, and then even lower, to the golden skin of her neck and chest glistening with sweat. You licked your lips. The heat was making you feel a bit light-headed.

“Not to be rude,” she said, and your eyes snapped back up to her face. “But why the invite? What do you bring to the table?”

“That actually is pretty rude,” Yelena muttered.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted, ignoring your friend. “My father was extremely paranoid, and my uncle is the same way. Could be that he just wants to keep tabs on me, and having me on the payroll is the easiest way to do that.” 

Natasha tilted her head to the side, considering this. From what she knew of your family’s crime syndicate, they traded mostly in illegal arms deals. They were also rumored to have eyes and ears everywhere.

“I’m guessing you haven’t gone to the cops?” 

You nodded. “Too risky.” 

Natasha took a deep breath, turning everything over in her mind. “How do you know this isn’t a trap?” She asked. “To lure you back in, then take you out of the picture?

You shrugged, and Natasha couldn’t help but feel a little impressed by your casual bravery. “If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it already.”

She nodded and leaned back, considering all the information you had shared. 

“Last question,” she said finally. 

“Thank god,” Yelena grumbled. “I’m melting.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Natasha’s dark eyes sparkled with obvious curiosity, even as she tried to school her face into a neutral expression. 

“Well,” you licked your lips, leaning forward slightly. “You’re a lawyer, right?”

“She’s the best prosecutor in the city,” Yelena corrected, voice tinged with pride. 

A small smile tugged at the corners of Natasha’s mouth. “She’s not wrong.” 

You met her gaze evenly, squaring your broad shoulders. 

“I want you to help me take them down.” 

>>Subscribe to my Patreon for early chapter updates<<

[oddity036]

UNCLE MIKE PT 1:

I was visiting my dad's adopted brother, Uncle Mike, for the weekend as my parents were out of town, and this was a big problem for me. See, I'm 19, but they'd rather not leave me home alone after an accident last year. Now, the reason it was bad for me? Well...

I've always had this... Fantasy, you could call it? Of going up and just rubbing on his glorious gut... God, it's so big and hairy, but smooth at the same time. I just want to shove my face into it every time i see it and listen for hours.

Que me arriving there and my parents leaving. Everything was fine at first, i sat down watching the current baseball game with him, but the only "ball" i could really think about was the round sphere of a gut on Mike...

Then, the worst possible thing happened. Mike got up with a grunt and began to take his shirt off- "Whew son, it's hot as hell in here. That AC don't make a damn difference. Hope ya dont mind"

As you could imagine, I wanted to die on the spot.

"Hey, kid, come to think of it, mind grabbin me a cold one?"

I gladly went to the kitchen, happy to have any excuse to get him out of my line of sight, but when i returned and gave him the beer, he said

"Hey, before ya sit down... I dunno uh, how to put this but... I've noticed for a couple years now how ya been lookin at me. Specifically my gut. Of course, i can't blame ya, look at this thing! Ya dont get a gut like this off of nothin but beer and good mama's style food, huh?"

I could only sheepishly nod and stare back, terrified that I had been read so quickly and easily.

"Anyways, I wanted to ask, if you'll keep this between you and me, if ya wanna come get all those temptations outta yer system? I'm down for a good rubbin if you're good to give it"

I couldnt believe my ears, this was like a dream come true for me! Of course I (a bit too eagerly) agreed, and knealt down to get face to face with the gut i'd been admiring for years, running my fingers along the hairy surface, stretched taught with years of beer and mounds of food...

Then he asked...

"Hey... Y'know I aint got a whole lot of cash... It's a bit hard to afford too much food, especially for two people, so i have a... proposition of sorts. You eat dinner tonight, and I put you in my tank for the night to hold me over. I'll let ya out in the morning, promise."

I could only look at him, bewildered with what he was asking... It had to be a joke, right? He didnt really think he could swallow me whole, did he? But something in his eyes was telling me he was dead serious.

"Well, if that's a yes, you can help yourself to whatever ya want in the kitchen, just dont eat me out of house and home..."

20 minutes later, i returned to the living room, haven eaten a pack of ramen noodles. I looked at Mike with a questioning glance as he motioned for me to get closer

"Ya done then? Great. Cmere, " he said, as he grabbed me by the underarms and opened his mouth wide... I could smell the beer on his breath as he brought me closer, his mouth stretching impossibly wide, or was i getting smaller? At this point who knows...

He grabbed my shirt and quickly pulled it off as he then grabbed me and shoved me headfirst into the gaping maw. It was like nothing i'd ever felt before... then came the panic, I started to flail, fully realizing just what was happening only then, but it was too late. He slipped off my pants and socks, savoring the flavor until I fell entirely past his lips and into his stomach. In there, I could hear the gurgling of everything going on inside of him and his muffled voice from outside:

"Ohhh yeah kid... you really hit the spot. Well, I guess i'll see you in the morning, huh?"

I was about to reply as i felt his gut tighten and squeeze as he sat upright again, watching the game once more.

"Oh- Hell yeah, home run!"

[ba9go]

50 rounds of uppercuts (pt. 1)

gymbro!bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

part 2 💥 part 3 (coming soon!)

you’re at your usual gym doing your reps of hip thrusts when you notice number 2 pro-hero bakugou katsuki glaring at you in the mirror, mid-shoulder press.

“what?” you frowned. “is my form that shitty?”

“nah, your form’s fine,” he grunted. you can’t help the way your gaze drifts to his deltoids as he drops his dumbbells to the ground and walks over to the rack of weight plates. wow, he looks really good in that tank top. “just don’t know why you’re thrustin’ that puny weight.”

“excuse me?” you look over at him, offended. you were doing your best over here! your ass was in pain!

bakugou ignores you and you watch in horror as he plucks TWO 50-POUND PLATES from the rack and SLAPS THEM ON EITHER SIDE OF THE BARBELL RESTING OVER YOUR LAP.

“you got this,” bakugou says, and you think he’s making fun of you but he looks you dead in the eye and gives you a thumbs-up.

“this is like, 250 pounds.”

“yeah,” bakugou raises a brow at you, then shrugs. “you got this.”

ok but if a random guy did this to me in the gym irl i’d be so pressed LMAO bkg gets a pass tho 😋

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @nemisimp @an-na-bella @valeriyaaak @buggie07 @v3n7s @deimosjay @iguanahykhv @zaiban2989 @girls-overflower @notmeduhh @busdriver-move-that-ass

[ishestillapunk]

Crashing on the rocks

part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader (+18)

summary: a serie of tales of the strained, complicated and intimate marriage that takes place in Jackson. Joel and his wife, who seem to sometimes hate each other.

tags: established relationship, age gap (30s-60s), smut (ofc there is), porn and plot, no use of y/n, pretty lewd (yeehaw), fingering, kissing.

w/c: 1.2k

Sometimes, the lack of sleep takes you to do whatever that might work to tire you out. Cleaning, reading, folding.

Cooking.

The eggs sizzle while you stir them in the pan. The sun hasn't come out yet, it's five am, but it's also winter. The darkish blue paints the sky you can see through the small window above the kitchen sink.

Some men intermittently walk by on the street, on their horses or bikes. Maybe patrollers on their way to the gate, mostly patrollers on their way to the gate.

“Why yer up so early for?” That gravel like murmur doesn't make you jump on the spot but it gets to startle you lightly, dropping the spoon on the counter. With a half turn, you look over your shoulder at his form standing in the doorway.

He is already in his winter clothes. The rough faded jeans, the holster around the hips, the scarlet Marlboro metal box peeking out of one of the front pockets of the denim shirt that below keeps a long sleeve gray shirt, then, the heavy brown jacket that makes him look bigger than he already is.

“Cooking” You answer.

“I'm aware. But why.”

He takes steps that crack slowly over the wooden tables of the old floor. One, two, three. Now he's beside you looking at the pan. Your toes curl lightly, afraid of him accidentally stepping on them with his boots.

“I'm making your lunch. I've had enough of you heading out on patrol without eating a damn thing. That habit of yours, spending eight hours with nothing in your stomach will make you faint on the spot one day” The rice boils and he takes it out of the stove, putting it in a plastic tupper. He looks down at your profile for a moment, in silence.

“It wasn’t necessary, tho. Next time, jus’ give me some leftovers from dinner. Don’t prepare a whole meal” The heat of the stoves keeps the kitchen warm, the robe around your body draw his gaze to the curve of your back. “You look tired”

“I’ll get back to bed once you’re gone. Don’t worry” You move to fill his thermo with coffee from the bialetti.

“Mhm.” He just walks around the counter to take his bag and slings the strap across his chest while looking at your back. Then, when you turn around, he drops his gaze to the zipper of the bag, opening it and letting you slip the tupper between his things. He looks at the soft features of your tired face and says below his breath, almost inaudible. “Thanks”

You avoid his gaze, almost like an automatic kind of movement.

“I'll walk you out”

He walks behind you, grabbing what he needs for patrol as usual. In the porch, your hands take the lace of your robe, tying it round your waist while you look side to side at the still dark and empty street of the neighborhood. Finally, your body turn to his.

“Be safe. Come back.” Your face tilt up to look him in the eye. He was already looking down with one hand resting on the strap of the bag and the other in the pocket of his jacket. Your hands straighten the wrinkles of his sleeves, almost by inertia, only to touch him.

“You go to sleep. Be grateful that you get to sleep until nine am” The corner of his mouth tilt upward in a small smirk. “I'll be back, I promise” He then lean lightly to kiss your cheek with a chaste kiss.

About to pull away and leave, he pulls back and moves to turn around and descend the steps, but your hand grabs his wrist, pulling him back.

It's awkward, and also nostalgic. Your mouth attaches to his like a fish kissing the glass of the fish tank, smooching two wet pecks on his lips. Then, giving a brief look into his eyes, you lean into a kiss again, this time, deeper.

It's mostly teeth bumping accidentally and small grunts from him. It reminds him of the first time he kissed you six years ago at the dark alley next to Tipsy Bison—Back when you both hated each other. You'd smacked his cheek out anger, then he doubled it by kissing you with charged heat.

You were extremely awkward at it. Maybe because you grew too away from everyone in the apocalypse, maybe because you never had time for those kinds of things. Love, liking someone, kisses, flirting.

Sex.

Both his hands cup your jaw and his thumb tilted your chin, opening way to your mouth. His tongue slides over the bottom lip, caressing, promising, almost hesitant. Until he was already inside, then, he licks your tongue, tangling it with yours.

One hand moves down, undoing the robe knot. Joel's hand moves over the exposed skin, caress your lower back and brings you closer as if the short distance wasn't close enough. As if his mouth devouring yours wasn't enough of feeling you.

“You can't do this to me right before patrol….” He murmur gruffly against your mouth, but he doesn't pull away

“Fuck the patrol, Joel, Jesus” You almost beg into his mouth. Your lips pull back a bit, your head tilt down slightly to look between your bodies. Then, you look around the dark street.

Nobody is around.

You look down between you both again and grab his hand. Then, your head tilts up.

“Look what you're doing to me..” Your voice comes like a broken but feverish plea. Your hand around his wrist brings his larger hand below the elastic of the sleep shorts you're wearing below the robe. His two fingers slide into the seam of your lips, gathering the slippery wetness that makes him visibly clench his jaw.

“Oh fuuuck…” He closes his eyes for a second and breathes heavily, sighing sharply. His face nuzzle into your neck, his mouth attaching to your neck leaving heavy strips of hot saliva that his raspy tongue gives “You're a fucking… Menace… Fuck” Joel whispers muffled.

He pushes you against the wall of the house and his hand dives even further, his palm brushing directly against your clitoris, rubbing it with the heel of his hand while his fingertips push up to the second phalanx, curling inwards slowly.

“God… You're fucking sopping…” He murmur against your temple while you both are looking down at the sight below your shorts. His hand, the threads of slickness.

He is fighting against his desire to stay to dive into you, and his natural need to answer to the call of duty. He licks his lips briefly and groans, sliding his hand out of your shorts.

“Go to sleep.” And all the walls come back up just like that. You stand there, suddenly feeling a wave of shame, almost humiliation while he turns around and leaves walking to the gates.

Your eyes follow him until he disappears, and you finally walk back inside.

On the other hand, Joel walks with heavy steps, his member hard like a rock, throbbing uncomfortable in his denims. He puffs hot breaths while staring straight forward.

He takes his hand out of the pocket of his jacket while he walks.

And he licks you off his fingers.

thx 4 reading!!! I hope this serie of short chapters become of your liking<3 I will explore many themes in this so please, like if you'd like to see more!

[puck-luck]

hiiiii bestie boo. happy 1st birthday to my fav blog xoxo. for my first request in a hot minute, could i please have a cappuccino with cold foam for matt boldy 🤭 (my vision: phone cheer up sex… more specifically, phone sex after game 1 vs vgk- kinda comforting/distracting him, but also rewarding/hyping him up a lil bc he slayed and scored 2 goals!!! go bolds wooooo)

ITS BEEN A MINUTE! but u r here. requesting again. my skin is clear and the world is healed. crazy that the boldy request came before the q one but hey we all know where your head's at nowadays... if you feel the prickle of a curse coming on, let me know.... (i'm teasing! we've already had this discourse on imessage! anyway your blurb got changed a bit because it's been so long since the first round of the playoffs but you knew that too ok cool bye)

“Matty, you did so well,” you say gently. “You had the most playoff goals on the team, baby. I’m proud of you.”

“Tied,” Matt corrects in a sullen voice. “I tied for the most goals in post-season.”

You don’t have a reply for him, instead biting the inside of your cheek and tilting your head to watch him more closely through the screen. You’re on FaceTime now, with Matt at his place after the game, unpacking his hockey bag rather violently. He’s not in the mood to hang out, but he’s also not in the mood to be alone. He’s not so much talking as he is grunting when you say something he agrees with and correcting you when you say something he disagrees with and it’s getting pretty fucking old. 

You love Matt. You’ve been dating Matt for almost a year now. One bad mood won’t kill you, but this one is testing your patience.

“Matt, I know you’re disappointed, but you guys were really good out there,” you say. “You fought hard and made it to six games and I know it’s not the outcome you wanted, but it’s the outcome you got. You did really well. You’re a good hockey player.”

It’s Matt’s turn to be quiet. You know he’s got doubts racing through his head, retorts bubbling up that are along the lines of “not good enough,” but you’re not willing to hear them.

“Really, Matty,” you continue. You might as well try a new tactic, one that Matt always seems to fall for. “You looked so good out there.” You adjust against your pillows, the rustling catching Matt’s attention. “Soo good.”

His gaze is laser-sharp, zeroing in on you. “How good?” he asks.

“So fucking good, Matt,” you repeat. “I could barely take my eyes off of you. Whenever I saw you spit on the ice, I swear I could feel it on my cunt.”

Matt’s eyebrows lift toward his hairline and all the grumpiness in his expression vanishes. For a moment he stalls, but then a smile creeps across his face. “‘So fucking good’ that you… touched yourself while you watched me?”

“Hm, believe it or not, I didn’t touch myself to my boyfriend’s televised hockey game,” you laugh. You shake your hair out of your face and snuggle into the pillows a bit further. “I was waiting for you to come home before I touched myself.”

“Good,” Matt says. “Do it. Touch yourself now.”

It sounds like a dare, the way he says it, but you were scheming to get to this point. Being alone in your bed and imagining Matt isn’t as good as the real thing, but you’re happy to do this if it gets his mind off of the loss. 

“How should I do it?”

“Slow,” Matt instructs. “I want to see everything.”

“Everything?” you tease.

“Everything,” Matt confirms in a deadly serious voice. “Spit on your fingers and touch your clit.”

You grin at Matt and bring your fingers to your mouth. “Yes, sir,” you say before fulfilling Matt’s request and wiggling your slick fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. He can probably see that your nipples are already straining against your thin tank top, the one you’d decided to wear to bed before Matt decided he wasn’t coming over. 

The pads of your fingertips pet over your clit, which has been aching for a touch all night. The waiting was worth it, because your first circle over the sensitive bundle of nerves rewards you. A shiver runs through your body and you’re inclined to apply more pressure and rub faster, but you keep yourself in check. You want to put on a good show for Matt, since he’d put on such a good show for you earlier tonight. 

His hands are absentmindedly moving on the screen, keeping themselves busy albeit lagging while his eyes trace your movements. Matt pulls a shirt from his hockey bag and folds it badly, fabric slipping from his grip when you decide to mess with him and moan out loud. He’s easy.

“I wish you were here,” you say. Matt’s going to reply, then you spread your folds and plunge a finger inside of yourself. You know he saw what you did from the way your hand has stretched the fabric of your panties, the angle causing them to pull away from your body. “Been horny all night. I bet I taste good, Matty.”

He bites down on and releases his lower lip when your hand retracts from your panties. As you slide your finger into your mouth, sucking the juices away with hollowed cheeks and whimpering around the digit, Matt’s jaw goes slack. “Let me see,” he says.

With a self-satisfied little smile, you remove your panties. You run your fingers up your slit, gathering wetness before spreading your folds with your index and middle finger.

“Shit,” Matt mumbles. One of his hands drifts down to adjust himself in his sweats, then stays hovering there. He’s not quite stroking himself, but his hand rests on his rapidly-filling length.

“You always make me so wet,” you say. “You’re so messy, baby. You like making out with my hole, don’t you?”

Matt offers you a sheepish grin. “You know I love it.”

“If you were here…” you trail off, fingers stroking your clit. You try to emulate the way his tongue flicks over the bud, but it’s futile. Nothing is like Matt. “Does it ever kiss back, baby?”

Matt chuckles, but he considers the question seriously. He nods after a moment. “When I fuck you with my tongue and you squeeze me,” he says. “Sometimes when you react, it feels like that.”

“That’s when you start fucking me with your fingers, though,” you say.

“Because you’re so needy,” Matt replies. “You must be dying to be filled, baby.”

“Dying for it,” you agree. “I wish there was a big cock inside me.” You pout for him, jutting out your bottom lip. “All I have are these little fingers.” You wiggle them at the camera, as if you’re waving playfully at your boyfriend.

“I bet they’ll work,” Matt says. “If you make yourself come on them now, I’ll come over and fuck you real nice.”

“I thought you didn’t want to come over tonight,” you reply as you slide your index finger back into your eager hole. It barely stretches you, your pussy accepting it as light work. You start to curl and pump it slowly, making sure Matt can see how your wrist flexes and twists. “I thought you were in a bad mood.”

“About what? I’m not in a bad mood.” Matt genuinely pulls his eyebrows together in confusion, eyes flickering up to your face before it dawns on him. “Oh, the game? No, I don’t care about that. Add another finger.”

You obey him and try to hide the smug look on your face. “Tit for tat, Matt,” you say.

“What?”

“Show me the cock that’ll stuff me full later tonight,” you purr in your most sensual voice, really turning on the charm. You wiggle your two fingers inside of yourself, the space becoming a little crowded now. “I need to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“You’ve seen it before,” Matt laughs, but he pushes his waistband down anyway. His cock bobs free and he wraps a hand around its base, giving you his best angle.

You bite down on the tip of your tongue to tamper your physical response to the sight of Matt’s cock, then speak. Now you’re just playing with him. “Do you think it’ll fit, Matty? Or should I fuck myself with three fingers?”

“Three,” Matt confirms in an instant, waltzing right into the trap you’d set up for him. 

“Do you like seeing how I stretch for you, Matt?” you ask. All of your questions might as well be rhetorical, knowing your boyfriend well enough to answer them for him, but you like hearing him. “How I take as many fingers as I can, and I’ll still feel tight around your cock? Gonna milk all the cum from you and make you eat me out after. Make up for missing my first orgasm. So mean of you to leave me all on my own…”

Matt reacts appropriately, yanking his sweats back up and grabbing his phone from where it was propped up on his bedside table. You can hear him grabbing his keys and cursing under his breath when he steals another look at you, your ring finger joining the other two. “Fuck, Y/N, don’t fucking come before I get there,” he commands in a strangled voice. 

“But you told me to?” You play dumb, tilting your head to the side. You curl your fingers up and rub against your inner walls, breaking the ploy to moan and affect Matt even more. 

“Don’t– fucking– if I get pulled over, it’s on you,” Matt declares before your screen goes black. He shoved you in his pocket, as if that will bring him peace. His phone automatically connects to the speakers in his car, which he’d had redone so the sound is even better. You whimper, high-pitched, and you hear Matt curse again.

The next ten minutes are going to be very difficult for him.

[askarsjustsoswedish]

GENERATION KILL - MILITARY TERMINOLOGY AND SLANG USED IN THE MINISERIES (Part 2, N-Z)

N.J.P. (Non-Judicial Punishment):  next to a court martial, the most severe form of punishment to which a Marine can be subjected.  It usually involves a loss of rank and pay grade.

Navy Hospitalman, Doc Bryan:  the medic, though medics in the Marine Corps are technically part of the Navy’s hospital corps and are never referred to as “medics” but as Corpsmen.

Negligent Discharge:  accidental firing of a weapon;  aka N.D.

Nine-lines:  a procedure for directing air strikes on ground targets.

No salute zone:  forward areas where officers are not to be acknowledged with salutes, in order to conceal rank from potential enemy observers.

O Dark Hundred:  until darkness falls.  Note: “O dark 30” typically means half an hour before dawn, or any ridiculously early hour of the morning.

Oakley sunglasses:  surfer sunglasses worn by just about all Marines in Iraq.  Iraqis believe Oakleys give Marines X-ray powers to see through women’s clothing and are a constant source of tension.

One M.E.F. (First Marine Expeditionary Force):  the overall Marine invasion force in the Middle East, which comprises the First Division (ground troops) under command of Gen. Mattis, the Air Wing and a logistics battalion.  The entire One M.E.F. is under the command of General James Conway.

Oscar Mike:  “On the Move” from the phonetic alphabet.

Overwatch:  a position that offers protective fire for a given area.

“Paint me”:  to paint something is to shine one’s gunsight laser designator on a target in preparation for shooting it.

PAS-13 Thermal:  a night vision device, about the size of an old video camera, that can see heat signatures.  Note:  A single device is usually referred to in the plural, e.g. ,“Pass me the thermals” refers to one device.

Pec-fours, Pec-thirteens:  night and infrared vision scopes.

POG (Person Other than Grunt):  a pejorative term for anyone who is in the rear echelon and therefore not in a recon or infantry unit.  This is one of the most insulting terms in the Marine Corps, almost the equivalent of the “N” word.  Note:  POG is pronounced with a long “o.”

Police:  to clean up or correct, as in “Police your tent,” or clean it up.  (1-16)

Psy-Ops:   Psychological-Operations units, which in Iraq relied on leaflets, radio and loudspeaker broadcasts to encourage enemy forces to surrender.

Pyro and Smoke protocol:  codes involving use of smoke grenades and flares.

R.C.T. (Regimental Combat Team):  a super-regiment of about 7,000 Marines; the First Division consisted of three RCTs – RCT 1, RCT 5 and RCT 7 – plus First Recon, which operated on its own.

R.C.T. One (Regimental Combat Team One):  a motorized, armored infantry regiment of about 7,000 Marines.

R.O.E. (The Rules of Engagement):  the all important, ever-changing and always ambiguous rules governing when a Marine may fire his weapon.

R.T.O. (Radio Transceiver Operator):  radioman, the most important guy on the team and usually the calmest and smartest next to the team leader.  (1-23)

Rack:  nautical for sleeping area.

Ranger Graves:  sleeping holes dug by marines to protect from shrapnel and gunshots.

Raptor:  radio call-sign for First Recon’s Charlie company.

Recon Mission:  a reconnaissance mission performed specifically by Recon Marines who are the Marine Corps special forces; there are only a few hundred Recon Marines in the entire Corps.

Red-Con One:  a loaded weapon with a round in its chamber, but with the safety on.

Revetment:  crude fortifications made from earth or concrete or sandbags.

Ripped Fuel:  brand name of a popular over-the-counter stimulant, banned by the military but widely used.

RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade):   anti-tank rocket first developed by the Germans as the “panzerfaust,” then adopted by Soviets and as common to Iraqi forces and insurgents as Skittles candies are to Marines.  Not very accurate, but devastating when fired in mass by five- or ten-man RPG teams.  RPGs were famously used to bring down U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopters in Somalia.

S.O.P. (Standard Operating Procedure):  S.O.P. is sometimes informally used as a synonym for common sense.

Saffwon Hill:  a low hill on the Iraq side of the border with Kuwait, believed to be the locale of a dug-in Iraqi division.

Sapi plates:  12-inch square ceramic plates worn in front and back of one’s flak vest, rated to stop the enemy’s preferred 7.62 round.

Schwack:  to kill; origin believed to be a popular video game.

Screwby:  either “That sucks,” or “That’s really cool,” from Cpl. Stafford’s personal hip-hop lexicon.

Senior NCOs:  anyone from staff-sergeant to Sergeant Major.  Corporals and Sergeants are also NCOs, but they are never referred to junior NCOs, simply as NCOs.  (1-18)

Sergeant Major:  the highest possible rank a non-commissioned officer can earn in the Marine Corps; invariably a ball-buster who speaks in a semi-illiterate southern sounding accent no matter where he is from.  This battalion has just one Sergeant Major.

Shamal:  hellacious wind and dust storms endemic to Iraq.

Sit-Rep:  situation report:; often used as a more confusing way to say “situation.”

Skittles:  chewy fruit-flavored children’s candy, which is a dietary staple in U.S. military.

Slackman:  team machine gunner, armed with a SAW.

Snatch:  a specific Marine term for abducting an enemy combatant in order to gather intelligence.

Soft Cover:  same as a boonie cap.  Note:  the word “hat” does not exist in the Marine Corps; anything you place on your head is a cover.

Sparrow:  a small reaction force held in reserve while another unit attacks; an “eagle” is a large reaction force.

Spread load his excitement:  to calm down;  from the tradition of foot patrols spreading a heavy load equally among all troops.

T-55:  Soviet-era tank ubiquitous in Iraq; older and much less feared than the newer, but less-common T-72 Soviet tanks also in Iraq.

TAD-two, TAD-three:  Tactical Air Direct radio bands for communicating directly with pilots in attack aircraft.

Task Force Tarawa:  a four thousand-strong Marine unit outside of the First Division Command Structure.  This American unit was initially put under the command of the British at Basra, then moved north to Nasariyah.

Team Leader:  the sergeant in command of each combat team.  Fick’s platoon is divided into three teams, but spread across four Humvees (not counting Fick’s command vehicle, the fifth Humvee).  Since Fick’s platoon is a special forces unit trained in coastal raids, they have no experience with Humvees.  Technically each team has a specialty, with team one being the dive (or SCUBA) team, team two being the boat team and team three the para-jump team.  But here, ironically, they are all in a desert.

The Three:  the battalion’s intelligence unit.

T-rats:  T-rations; pre-manufactured military food heated and served in mess halls of forward units.

Triple-A:  Anti-Aircraft Artillery; towed or self-propelled guns designed to shoot down aircraft but often used by Iraqis against American forces on the ground.

Two o’clock:  direction of enemy forces.  Orientation of the lead vehicle puts 12 o’clock at the center of the hood and six o’clock at the rear.

Two-Oh-Three:  an M-203 grenade launcher, which is a single shot self-propelled weapon mounted beneath the barrel of a standard Marine rifle.  The M-203 fires the same 40mm round as the M-19.

Unfucking:  a verb peculiar to the Marine Corps meaning to get out of a fucked-up situation.

U-two:  a reference to venerable U2 spy planes.

Victors:  vehicles.  The military uses the phonetic alphabet as a shorthand code:  the phonetic alphabet replaces letters with words, i.e., Alpha, Bravo Charlie, Delta, Echo.  These phonetic word for each letter of the alphabet can be used to replace any word starting with the corresponding letter.  Hence, vehicle becomes “victor,” terrorist becomes “tango” and white trash becomes “whiskey tango,” as in, “He grew up in a whiskey tango trailer park in the Ozarks.”

Whiskey Tango:  white trash, from the phonetic alphabet version.

Zil truck:  Russian-made truck popular in Iraq.

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

“Nothing Permanent But Change” pt.1

A cod Omegaverse AU of poly/pack 141

[ tw for foul language and brief mild innuendo ]

cross-posted on ao3

Millen Coelho-Grey squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun as he stepped out of the plane.

He had been cramped in the small quarters for several hours now, and he suppressed a groan of relief when he was finally able to stretch his lanky legs. He was reminded again of the doctor’s knee replacement suggestion when his joints popped loudly. Who needed surgery when paracetamol and willpower worked just fine? He gave himself a little shake, like an old dog juddering out its pelt, and then brushed his curly hair out of his eyes. It had grown a bit past what regulations permitted, but Millen hoped that the commanding officer of the new team he had been assigned to wouldn’t notice. He really should get it cut, and he hoped that if he had it shorter, it might help hide the grey that was already touching at his temples. He briefly wondered how close thirty-five was to middle age.

He lofted his duffel bag, scanning the tarmac, and saw a singular figure leaning against the wall of the hanger. They pushed off and stepped forward as Millen’s head swivelled around.

Millen walked to meet them, his gaze zeroing in on the insignia of a lieutenant. He saluted. “Sir.”

The lieutenant was a tank of a man, well over six foot tall, broad across his clavicle and with a thick, muscular torso. His arms were crossed over his chest, bloodshot hazel eyes glaring out from behind a skull mask stitched onto a black balaclava. “At ease,” he grunted, his voice thick with a Manchester accent. “Name’s Ghost. Here to show you to your quarters.”

Millen tried to take a not-so-subtle sniff. By the looks of the lieutenant, he’d have to be an alpha, and yet there was no pheromones at all wafting from him. The only viable scent was gunmetal and the natural salt of sweat.

Ghost made another low noise, and Millen got the feeling that he’d already started off on the wrong foot. “Don’t bother. Nothing there.”

Millen’s face ran hot at that. Yeah, he’d been caught. “Sorry, sir. Force of habit.”

“Better break it, or there’s gonna be some ‘round here that’ll sock you in the nose for being so blatant.” Ghost was already lumbering away towards the gargantuan building of the officer’s quarters. “You might be considered experienced back in the regular infantry, but this is an entire new ballpark. Dynamics aren’t worth dirt here.”

Millen loped to catch up, his legs cramping in protest at being forced to exert themselves so soon. “What d’you mean?”

Ghost shot a glare at the other man. “It means that nobody gives a damn if you’re an alpha or not. You want respect, you earn it with a rifle in your hand and the enemy’s blood on your uniform. Is that understood?”

Millen’s head was already reeling. So much for the welcome wagon. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Ghost made a noise of gruff approval. “Maybe you aren’t entirely stupid. Now, you’ll be meeting the rest of the Task Force soon. We’re a pack, the lot of us, and that now includes you. Unfortunately. Our Captain, Price, is the pack alpha, and he doesn’t tolerate bullshit. Fair warning.”

Millen’s wiry eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’re not the pack alpha?”

“The hell gave you that idea?”

“You’re… I don’t know, the stereotypical candidate for the position.”

“Just because I’m big doesn’t mean I run the show. You’d best learn that size doesn’t equal rank here. I’m second-in-command because I’m a lieutenant, not because of my dynamic.”

“Which is…?” Millen probed, deciding to risk prying just a bit.

Ghost shot him a scathing look, one that could have melted glass. “San.”

Millen blinked. A san? That was about as common as a wooly mammoth chilling in a hot tub. Sans were products of trauma or genetic defect that caused them to lack a dynamic. Sometimes it was due to injury or malformed scent glands, sometimes it was from something so terrible that the brain chose to blot it out by completely scrubbing over the entire biological code that made up the foundations of a person’s secondary gender. Either way, they were pariahs even among outcasts.

There was an awkward pause. “Er… sorry about that,” Millen tried. His voice hitched at the end to form more of a question than an allude to sympathy.

Ghost gave a low snarl. Wrong answer. “Don’t be. Walk.”

They entered the officer’s quarters, and Ghost steered Millen towards a large room with three beds but no other soldiers in sight. Only two of the beds looked slept-in, with the last having plain military-standard sheets, a pillow, and nothing else. That third of the room was completely bare, a stark contrast to the personalizations of the rest of the walls and surfaces.

Millen caught sight of a Scottish flag and a shelving unit overstuffed to bowing with books. There was a large shared closet and a portable space heater in the corner, along with a pack of cards and some snacks left out.

“This is your room,” said Ghost. “You’ll share it with Sergeants Kyle Garrick and John MacTavish. Keep it clean, God knows these pups don’t.”

Millen nodded, moving to sling his duffel bag onto the bed. It was full to bursting— army-issued shirts and fatigue trousers, along with a weathered old Nintendo DS and a water bottle with a Halo sticker on it. But those weren’t what took up the limited space, no, that was courtesy of the Doritos. There was at least three of the party-sized bags and several of the smaller, single-serving packages that were probably crushed to crumbs from the rough travel.

Ghost cocked a silent eyebrow.

Millen paid no mind. He had a chronic snacking problem, eating when he was nervous, eating when he was bored, eating when he was upset. It was a quicker fix than therapy, anyway, and he had a metabolism as fast as an Italian greyhound, so he managed to stay up to the fitness level required by his work. He lovingly arranged his crisps on the empty shelf beside his bed and then folded his clothes away.

“Hurry it up,” Ghost ordered. “We don’t have all day for you to piddle around. Captain’s waiting for us in the rec room.”

Millen hurried to stuff his now-empty duffel bag under the bed and catch up with Ghost, who was already halfway down the hall. What was with the hulking man and leaving people behind?

They walked down the long expanse of the hallway, passing dozens of other shared rooms, the communal showers and locker room, along with two bathrooms and several supply closets.

Finally, they made it to the rec room. It wasn’t very big, but was nicely furnished with a large, slightly misshapen plush blob of a couch with an armchair on either side, along with a pool table in one corner and a card table and some folding chairs in the other. The floor was covered with a thick rug and there was a wall-mounted flatscreen telly, cords hanging down to connect to a DVD player and a gaming system that were set up on a small stand.

There were four men in the vicinity, all of whom looked up instantly upon Millen and Ghost’s arrival.

Millen’s nose twitched as he was blasted with the smell of a pack. Pheromones interwoven, the different scents of dynamics combining and mingling to form something unique to the unit. One scent, however, stood out loudly and proudly as that of the pack alpha. Millen recognized the man who must be John Price as the Captain stood and sized the newest member of Task Force 141 up.

Price was an intimidating man, built like a bear with a barrel-like chest and arms as thick as small tree trunks. He wore a boonie hat and his face bristled with greying brown muttonchops and a thick mustache. His expression was stern but not unwelcoming, though there was no doubt that he would have no qualms about scruffing Millen back into his place at the bottom of the pecking order if the younger man got any ideas about trying to take over Price’s position as protector and provider of the pack.

Millen, in turn, lowered his gaze out of instinct. Price gave a barely perceptible nod. They would stand on good terms, at least for now.

Another man, this one shorter but stout and athletic, with piercing blue eyed and a short, scruffy mohawk, stepped forward eagerly. “He th’ new bloke?” he asked, his baritone voice holding a heavy Scottish brogue. He radiated the scent of a happy beta.

Ghost grunted in affirmation. Caveman-esque speech seemed to be his preferred mode of communication. Maybe he was categorized as a san because there was no dynamic type called ‘completely antisocial bastard.’

The Scottish fellow grabbed Millen’s hand in a firm, slightly over-enthusiastic shake that left Millen’s arm wobbly and his introvertive brain begging him to slink away into a corner and hide.

“Ah’m John MacTavish, but ye can call me Soap. S’good tae meet ye, we’ve been needin’ an operative who ain’t still wet be’ind the ears like all the rookies are, ye ken. Whit’s your name?” He snuffled curiously at Millen’s neck, trying to discern his secondary gender and if he would be a good addition to the pack. Millen stepped back, hunching his shoulders a bit and flashing his fangs— Soap was too forward, and he didn’t like it.

“Soap, back off,” Price ordered, making Soap’s excitement deflate visible as the beta scuttled back over to the captain like a trained heeler, mumbling a “Sorry, sir.”

Price turned to Millen. “And you,” he said, addressing the clearly unsettled man, “keep your fangs to yourself. We don’t tolerate that sort of behavior here. You have something to say, you say it with words, not by gettin’ nippy. That clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Millen murmured. He dipped his head.

Price’s ascertaining gaze was steady on the smaller man. There was something off about Millen’s behavior. His file had classified him as an alpha, but he was submitting without hesitance, not even attempting to test the limits as to what dominant behavior he could get away with without Price asserting his authority as both commanding officer and pack alpha. As well as that, Millen’s scent was considerably subdued, almost muted as if he had a scent-blocker patch on, but his neck was bare, showing no signs of one.

“Good. It’s good to have you on the team, Staff Sergeant,” Price rumbled. “I hope there won’t be any issues?”

“No, sir.” 

One of the other men was sniffing the air, having also picked up on Millen’s relatively bland scent. The soldier was the shortest out of the five, with a trim, lightly muscled build and messy blonde hair peeking out from under a ski mask. He had baby-blue irises that shone with an amiable light, and the citrus-sweet scent of an omega clung to him. He made no move forward, but instead stepped a bit closer to the soldier — a lithe man with handsome dark skin, short buzzed black hair, and warm brown eyes — beside him.

“I’m Kyle Garrick,” the second fellow said. “But Gaz is preferred. This here is Roach.” He nodded down towards the shorter man, who gave a small wave.

Millen inclined his head to both of them. His gaze lingered a moment on Roach, feeling a hot flush of instinctive interest, but was interrupted by a low growl from Ghost.

“It’s dinnertime. Chow hall will be closed if we loiter around here.”

Soap perked up considerably at the thought of food. “Ah could eat.”

Gaz laughed. “Soap, you would eat an old leather shoe if it was dunked in gravy.”

“Aye, so? Ah’m hungry. Le’s go.” Soap trotted towards the door, Roach trailing after him. The omega made a gesture for Millen to follow, and so he did, keeping a decent ways back from the pack. Gaz and Soap were already scuffling and talking between themselves with an easy familiarity that made something ache inside of Millen. He couldn’t help but notice the packmarks on the napes of their necks, multiple bite scars pale and defined, where they had been bonded as part of the pack, each of them in turn based on rank and where they stood in the pack hierarchy.

Millen’s own neck was unloved in comparison, without even any faded imprints from a previous pack. Not that he minded. He wasn’t a thing to be owned, an object to be grouped with others only on the orders of whoever had assigned him there.

Ghost drew up beside him as they walked. The san towered over Millen, even though he wasn’t small by any means, and seemed to be studying him.

“Can’t decide if you’re a xi or a zeta,” Ghost finally grumbled. “You aren’t a plain alpha, that’s for sure.”

Millen glanced up at him. “Xi, I think.”

“Socially neutral alpha. Hmph.”

“Issue with that?”

Millen probably shouldn’t have been speaking so tersely with a superior officer, but it was more of a defensive, kneejerk reaction to feeling judged, rather than a desire to be tetchy. It wasn’t the first time someone had deemed him ‘too odd’ to be integrated into a pack setting because of the non-dominant hardwiring in his brain. He simply felt no desire to dominate or compete, felt no primal satisfaction at an omega’s submittance or threat from an another alpha’s power. He still had ruts, though they were short and dry, and still occasionally felt a vague want for a smaller, warm body snuggled up beside him. However, for the most part, he was more than content to watch from the sidelines as everyone else battled it out for control over their instincts.

Ghost’s lips twitched upwards into a small smirk behind his balaclava. “None at all.”

A comprehensive guide to my omegaverse au can be found here.

This is just basically a crackfic with some fluff and some mild angst. I doubt there will be anything spicy, even in later chapters ( if I make it that far ).

Should I continue the series?

[tamtam-go92]

Loki: So how is it, having such a horrible green thing in your house? Lazlo: Loki, you can't say stuff like that around here. You know my sisters are green and my nephew is green and now my niece is green. They are people like you and I. Winona is a baby like any other. Johnny was a baby like any other, I don't think they develop differntly form us. Loki: Circe would kill me if I got myself alien pregnant. I'm always very careful when stargazing at night. You know, we decided to not have kids. With our risky jobs it's probably better that way. Johnny, Pascal and Vidcund thinking: Why is this idiot even here?

[melanieph321]

SEVEN DAYS OF REQUESTS 2.0

(DAY 1)

Why has no one introduced me to this maaaaan!

The request got lost in my inbox but all it read was "Joško Gvardiol"

Thank God for anon 😭🙏

Joško Gvardiol x Reader - Talk Me Through It

18+

Where Joško likes it rough but has to introduce Reader to his ways.

Enjoy!

It was a date night full of laughs and giggles. Your relationship with Joško was relatively new. The two of you were still getting to know each other. He had treated you to a lovely dinner and a movie and insisted on driving you home at the end of the night.

"Hold up." Joško said, as he took his car off the highway. "I just need to stop for petrol."

"Oh, can I pump it!" You uttered excitedly, bouncing up and down in the passenger seat.

"Pump what?"

"The gas, of course."

"I guess..." He chuckled, with an expression that revealed his suprise. "But take my card." He said, reaching for his wallet.

Pulling into the self managed gas station, Joško handed you his credit card as you hopped out of his car. He rolled down the window to the drivers seat as you rounded the vehicle. "Don't forget, Petrol, not Diesel."

"Yes daddy." You joked, although a spark lit up in his eyes.

The concrete beneath you made your steps uneven wearing high heels. You grabbed the petrol pump and carefully made your way to the back of the car. You spread your legs wide, trying to maintain an even stance as you plugged the gas pump into the tank. You noticed how Joško was watching you from where he sat in the car. Your eyes met in the side view mirror. You gave him a smile and he returned it with a wink of his eye.

"There." You sighed and put the gas pump back on its hanger. You climbed back into the passenger seat and handed Joško back his credit card.

"All done?" He placed a hand on your thigh. Your dress cut way above your knees which caused goosebumps to grow with his touch.

"Jupp, all done." You squealed.

He pulled out of the gas station like that,  with one hand on the steering wheel, the other one on your thigh, stroking it up and down. Joško insisted on opening the door for you once his car pulled up to your apparment complex.

"A gentleman." You giggled.

He even offered you an arm as he escorted you up the stairs to your front door.

"I had a great night." He said, as you stood turned to each other, with your back against the door.

"You'll always have a good time with me baby, you should know that by now."

He grinned and grabbed your arms to wrap around his neck. "I like it when you call me that."

What, baby?" You smiled.

"That and other things."

"Other things?" You frowned. "What else have I been calling...?"

You gasped as you were brought forward. Joško's hands made their way up the back of your thighs, squeezing your ass. "Joško."

He hymned in response. His neck now burried in the crease of your neck, serenading it with filthy kisses.

"The neighbors." You whimpered as he gave your ass another squeeze, pressing you against what you could only assume to be his growing erection.

"Open the door." He grunted.

His grip of your ass loosened to allow you to turn around and reach for the key in your purse. However, his lips, still attached to your neck, made it hard for you to pinpoint where to insert it.

"I loved it when you called me daddy." He whispered, lips bracing your naked shoulder. "I want to hear you say it again."

You gasped as his hand made its way between your legs, his fingertips slipping between your panties.

"Joško, please."

"Nah." He chuckled, his laugher deep and rich. It was almost evil. "You know what I want you to call me "

You bit back another whimper. "Daddy please." You begged, to which Joško's free hand helped you insert the key into the lock. From there things escalated quickly. You had never seen him this way, so eager to have you.

"Take off your dress."

You stood in the door to your living room. Neither of you had gone to turn on the lights, but judging by how intense the moment felt, the task was of no importance.

You did what you had been told and stepped out of your dress, to which Joško grunted approvingly. His eyes traveled from your bouncong breast to the stringy patterns on your panties.

"Turn around."

You were compelled to do as you were told since the look on Joško eyes dared you not to defy him. Still you felt a need to issue some kind of consent by asking, "What are you going to do to me?"

You stood with your back to him. The sound of his approaching footsteps causing the floor below you to crack.

"Do you really want to know?"

A shiver ran down your spine as Joško lips braced your earlobe. There was a shift in your stance, feeling how his full-fledged erection pocked you in the ass. "Yes." You whispered, although your voice trembled. "You need to tell me."

His laughter vibrated against your back. "Fair enough."

You were nudged to take a step forward, towards your couch. You paused once your legs hit its armrests and Joško's hand came up behind you, resting on the flat of your belly.

"I'm gonna make you bend over for me and watch you play with your pussy until it's dripping wet."

You swallowed a rock. But was determined to have him recite the full turn of events before he even thought to have his way with you. "And then?"

"And then...." He said, voice hoarse. "Then I'm gonna push your panties to the side and circle my dick around your entrance, at least until you beg me to put it in."

"And then..."

"And then..." He chuckled. "I'm going to fuck you until you scream my name. "

Your lips parted, with the ghost of your breath.

"But I won't stop there."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

You sensed his urgencey, perhaps your questions teased him in ways he hadn't anticipated. His hand on your belly was slowly moving downwards, into the pocket of your panties. Your head fell back against his shoulder, his fingertips making small circle around your already swollen clit.

"Why not?" He groand. "Don't you trust me baby?"

"I do." You stammered. "I just don't like surprises."

His lips against yours cheek were gentle, soft kisses tracing the length of your neck. "I won't stop until you call me daddy again."

And there it was, you thought. As faint as his words had been, they were to your assurance, assurance that you were in control of the situation, the safe word being, daddy.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Joško mouth left your neck, lifting your head from his shoulders. You turned around to face him, nodding in approval.  "You may bend me over."

His grin was unobtainable. He leaned down to kiss you, his scruffy beard tickling your face. "Don't worry, baby. I'll talk you through it."

He turned you around, bending you over like he said he would. You faithfully followed the next step, placing your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit.

"Good girl."

You heard the unbuckling of his belt, followed by his pants that slid down his legs and onto the floor. He then spoke through a clenched jaw. "Are you ready for me, baby?"

"I don't know, you tell me?"

He chuckled, but did not hesitate to align himself behind you, the tip of his cock circling your wet entrance.

"Fuck, already so wet for me."

You placed your hands in front of you, flat against the cuchens of the couch. Your eyes squinted shut, anticipating the first thrust. However, it never came.

"I won't do anything until you tell me that you're ready for me."

"I'm ready." You nodded and barely uttered the words before your stomach was pushed down against the armrest. Joško was relentless, showing into you like a madman. You loved it.

"Yes, more." You begged.

"Are you sure you can take it?"

"No. But do it anyways."

It was electric, simply electric. Joško had you bent over before him, legs spread wide with your panties pushed to the side.

"At the gas station...." He grunted, with no intention of stop pushing in and out of you. "I imagined fucking you like this whilst you were pumping gas into my car."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. You looked so fucking hot. And when you called me daddy..."

"Yeah?"

His thrust were getting sloppier, his cock slipping out of your entrance ones, then twice.

"Fuck, you feel so good."

"Daddy?"

All movement stopped as Joško's body went stiff. You didn't even have to shout.

"You okay?" He worried.

"Yes." You giggled, exploiting your control over him. "Don't stop, finish me off."

He laughed nervously. He laughed and then picked up where he left off. Fucking you with a newfound strength that shot right through your arching spin. He had you coming over the edge with a moan of his name. His orgasm followed right after with the two of you falling back against the couch, embracing each other in the dark. Skin against skin. Lips against lips.

[bigmpregnm]

A Moody Mayternity - Part 1 (Preview)

Patreon-exclusive Mayternity Special

Matthias blinked awake in his darkened bedroom, expecting a peaceful morning. But inside his body, it was anything but calm. His first breath came out as a whimper, and the second one, a grunt. By the time he made his third, he was shifting in bed with the clumsy frustration of a man who couldn’t find comfort no matter how he positioned his aching body.

His back was screaming again. It had been permanently sore and aching for the last few months. His ribs ached too, pushed high and outward from within. The twins growing in his belly had made a game of testing his limits from the inside out. And now that he was full-term, ready to pop, and on the verge of desperation, that game felt like torture. 40 weeks pregnant with twins—large twins. Each word in that sentence sounded more ridiculous than the other.

Matthias groaned softly and tried to sit up, but that simple motion was awkward. He had to roll to his side and lever himself up with both hands pressed to the mattress. His belly was enormous for his 5’7” frame, stretching impossibly tight beneath the thin fabric of his tank top. It was round and high, taut with the weight of two large and healthy babies that had long since outgrown all the available space inside their daddy.

[zillazumi]

blood on the freesia stalks | charlie swan/carlisle cullen

link to ao3

Summary: There are men turning up dead in the woods, and Chief of Police Charlie Swan has a job to do—figure out what, or who, left the poor bastards torn up as they are. Chief of Police Charlie Swan is too old for this mess. Too old and too sick of this shit to pretend Forks is just a sleepy old rural town anymore. Between the gruesome corpses and the quiet, unsettling doctor Cullen who shows up like a statue in pressed slacks, lying through his teeth, Charlie’s got more questions than answers—and no one seems too keen on giving him either. Charlie’s trying not to notice how his breath catches when the doc gets too close. He’s also trying not to notice how the bodies keep piling up, unsolved. Neither effort is going particularly well. And if one more person tells him it was a bear, he’s going to shoot something. Probably not a bear. Warnings: descriptions of a dead body, violence, not too bad but it's there!

carlisle cullen x charlie swan, 2.8k words, chapter 1 of many. bear with me as i haven't written in a while!

Chapter 1: 1. Fall, 2004: BOGACHIEL PEAK

BOGACHIEL PEAK; FORKS, WASHINGTON; THURSDAY, 11.50AM

“Looks like your lunch plans are shot, Chief.” Charlie grunted in reply, gripping the wheel tighter as the rain lashed against his windshield and the wind howled over the roof of his cruiser. His car-radio had been nothing but grating static all morning—that’s what he gets for being a cop in the sticks—which meant he only had the relentless percussion of rain on glass, and the occasional crackle of Deputy Porter’s voice through the receiver at his belt to keep him company. He flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, eyeing the rainfall streaming down the mountain-road in his wake. “Lunch plans? Try the whole damn day…” he muttered, and the receiver crackled into silence again. The cruiser rattled slightly as he rounded another sharp curve onto the narrow dirt track up to Bogachiel Peak, dirty water spraying up from the ditches his wheels spun through. Already, Charlie’s head hurt from squinting through the downpour. And from other things too, he supposed. Like, for example, this dead body in Forks.

‘Washed up near the old trailhead by Bogachiel River,’ dispatch had said. He shifted in his seat, knuckles flexing uncomfortably on the wheel. Charlie hadn’t exactly been planning on seeing a corpse today. Not right before his lunch break, not ever, really. Accidents happen, sure—dumb kids getting tanked and crashing into trees, tourists losing their footing near the cliffs—but a body washing up on the river shores? Didn’t happen here. Not in Charlie’s town. Hell, people here worried more about raccoons tipping trashcans, not bodies turning up in the woods. As his car heaved higher into the hills, the forest began to thicken around him. His headlights flickered on. Apparently, some hiker had stumbled across it early that morning, nearly passed out on his way back to the ranger station. Finally, his car rocked out onto a gravelly opening. He exhaled through his nose as his two deputies—Mark and Steve—waved him into the haphazard parking lot, their own vehicles’ headlights glaring through the rain, engines still thrumming.

An ambulance sat idly, its back doors shut tight. No rush, Charlie thought grimly. He rolled to a stop, cut the engine, and sat for a moment, rubbing a palm over his face. He relished the car-heater’s faint warmth ghosting across his skin for a little while longer, before reaching for his cap, seeing his breath fog the window before he stepped out. The steady drum of the rain against the roof of his car soon turned into a relentless assault as he shut the door behind him, boots landing on wet gravel with a crunch. Christ. He shivered, pulling the brim of his cap down lower. “Chief Charles!” Deputy Steve Porter shouted over the downpour, waving him over. Charlie squinted at him and trudged his way over through the mud, swearing under his breath. Porter looked soaked to the bone, raincoat drenched and sagging over his wiry frame.

There was a small decline down towards the bank of the river where the hikers’ trail began. Charlie snorted despite himself as Porter clutched his shoulder on the sway down, slipping awkwardly in the mud—it reminded him of all the times he’d taken Bella along here in the summer when she was a kid, when they’d both inch their way down to the river on their backsides, coming home to Renee with ruined trousers and scuffed elbows. “Nice of you to show up, Chief,” Porter said with a wry grin, half side-stepping, half-falling down the path, teeth chattering. He ducked under the flapping police tape and Charlie followed close behind.

“Didn’t realise I was the last to show,” Charlie muttered. He scrubbed a hand against the rain-dotted face of his watch, squinting. “Came here as soon as I got the call, but the roads have been hell.” Porter waved a hand dismissively, before pointing ahead towards a stretch of yellow tarp just visible through the blanket of rain. “Body’s down there. Male, mid-thirties, looks like a hiker—he’s in pretty bad shape though Chief, just a warning.” Charlie squared his shoulders, nodding. That’s fine. “Mark’s with it now, and Dr. Cullen’s taking a look too—he got here maybe ten minutes before you.” Damn, he really was the last guy to the party. Everybody and their mom’s shown up before him. Wait.

Dr. Cullen? “Cullen?” Charlie asked, raising an eyebrow at Porter, craning his neck to try and make out the two silhouettes by the riverbank. “Yeah, the doc from the hospital. County brought him in to help with the autopsy,” Porter explained. “Guess they figured a doctor’d be useful for this… kinda thing.” Charlie grunted. Fair enough. He exhaled through his nose, then clapped Porter on the shoulder. “Right, thanks Porter. I’ll take it from here.” As he neared the trailhead, the mud began to turn to water and stones and empty beer cans. Deputy Mark Davis stood by the river’s edge, his usual easy grin replaced by a tight frown. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards a stretch of yellow tarp, his frame hunched over in the rain. “Morning, Chief,” Mark said briskly. “It’s uh… not pretty down there.” “Figured as much,” Charlie replied, arching an eyebrow. Mark’s gaze flickered towards the tarp uneasily. Deputy Davis was a burly man, been on the job a long time, past his fifties. Big guy’s seen his fair share, Charlie was sure. But, he didn’t miss the tension in his deputy’s stance– it wasn’t every day a guy met eyes with an actual corpse, not in Forks. “You alright, Davis?” Mark hesitated, but Charlie caught his gray eyes flicker again. “Yeah, just…” This time, he followed them. They landed on a tall figure by the body. The man was knelt down in the rain, bent over the body with the chilling precision of someone used to grim work.

 “Dr. Cullen’s here,” Mark muttered. Charlie glanced from his deputy to the silhouetted doctor in the rain, and back again.

 “And?” Mark tensed, shifting his weight. “And nothing, I guess. People talk, Chief. That’s all.” Charlie blinked, knitting his brows before rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was like he could hear Billy’s gruff voice in every local in Forks. Small towns are all about gossip, Forks was no different, and a new face like Dr. Cullen’s was like fresh meat for the wolves. “Let’s just focus on what’s in front of us, yeah?” “Yessir,” Mark stepped aside, yanking his coat tighter around his broad shoulders, and Charlie moved past him.

He pulled his flashlight out from his pocket, hitting it hard a few times with his palm before it flickered to life. The beam cut through the sheets of rain like a knife, lighting up the grisly mess in front of him. The yellow tarp rattled angrily in the wind, only barely weighed down by sodden rocks on its corners; beneath it, a dark stain seeped into the ground. Crimson, thick. Dr. Cullen looked up as Charlie stepped closer, eyes immediately locking with his own. Jesus Christ. Charlie cleared his throat. Even through the torrent, Dr. Cullen’s face was composed, hair unruffled. Clothes soaked, of course, but sophisticated. Charlie was almost jealous—he’d only been here what, ten minutes? And he already looked—and felt—like a drowned dog. But the doctor looked… well, like he didn’t even belong to the same damn planet as them. The rain on his skin looked like tear-tracks on the cheek of a porcelain statue.

“Chief Swan,” the doctor greeted, his voice smooth, even. He stood up from where he’d been crouching down; he was tall, and strikingly pale in his long, dark coat, which swept around him, all expensive fabrics and sharp-cut lines, accentuating a lean frame. He extended a gloved hand to Charlie. “Dr. Carlisle Cullen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I just wish it were under better circumstances.” Charlie swallowed, then sighed gruffly. “You can say that again, Doc.” He shook the doctor’s hand. His grip was firm, his palm cool through the latex glove. “I appreciate you being here.” Unlike some. He glanced back at Mark, whose eyes he could feel digging into the back of his skull. “Of course. It’s important that we do this right.” The doctor’s voice was soft with sympathy, smiling almost apologetically, his eyes lingering on his own. There was a quiet confidence to him that put Charlie at ease—an unspoken understanding that he was here to help, but also a professional detachment. No nonsense. “So, what’ve we got?” Charlie sighed, crouching down near the edge of the tarp. Charlie looked up just in time to catch Carlisle hesitating briefly, before crouching back down beside him, his gloved hands moving with measured precision as he lifts the tarp. He felt his stomach lurch as the distinct smell of decay mingled with the damp, musty fir of the forest. The smell of copper. Of blood. “The victim is male, mid-to-late thirties. His injuries are... pretty severe.” Carlisle eyed Charlie cautiously, and he nodded, staring at the mangled mess of the hiker in front of them. He blinked as Carlisle began to walk him through the various wounds across the man’s body with clinical composure, each slice hitting him like a punch to the gut: torn flesh, jagged, broken bones, blood-soaked hair. Finally, the doctor pointed carefully to a deep, clean gash across the man’s neck. Charlie frowned. It seemed almost out of place amongst the other, rougher tears. “Christ,” Charlie muttered under his breath, leaning back a little. The smell was making him feel light-headed. “So, uh… what’re you thinking? Animal attack?” Carlisle’s pause was almost imperceptible, but Charlie Swan was nothing if not observant. And, maybe he’d been staring right at the guy. Couldn’t help it. He watched the doctor’s eyes flicker briefly to the surrounding woods before settling on the body, lips pursed in thought. For a moment, those eyes seemed to gleam golden in the weak light of the woods. Contacts? The thought flitted across Charlie’s mind before quickly disappearing under the weight of everything else. “An animal attack is the most likely explanation. A large predator, likely a bear or perhaps a cougar.” “Yeah?” Charlie frowned, shifting uncomfortably as he eyed the great gashes across the man’s body. “Not doubting your call, Doc, but this doesn’t look like any bear attack I’ve seen. See the neck?” He clicked his flashlight, which was dying again. When it didn’t turn on, he smacked it against his knee, making the poor doctor beside him jump slightly. He murmured an apology, then shined the now-working beam over the deep, clean gash that stretched across the victim’s bared throat. “Too neat, ain’t it?” Carlisle’s long, gloved fingers hovered just above the wound, careful not to disturb the evidence. “It’s unusual,” he agreed softly. A silence lingered for a moment, Carlisle’s hand hovering, before he continued. “But, not impossible. Predators often target the neck to incapacitate their prey. The size of the wound, the force of the attack—it’s consistent with a large animal. Though, I must admit it’s hard to say for certain without further examination.” Charlie squinted at the doctor through the rain. The more he heard the guy talk, the harder it was to place his accent—it was American, sure, but old-timey, almost Transatlantic, British. There was a smoothness to it, despite the circumstances, like the way the charming monochrome actors in his dad’s tapes used to sound.

“Huh,” he said after a beat, leaning back. “Some animal. The rest of him…” Charlie gestured vaguely to the jagged tears along the torso, the sight making his stomach sink. “Looks like he was dragged through the lumber-mill.” Carlisle shifted slightly, the folds of his coat settling heavily around him. “There may have been a struggle… which could explain some of these wounds. Teeth or claws catching flesh during the attack.” He took a deep breath. “I saw similar cases in rural areas. Bears can be particularly aggressive this time of year, Chief Swan.”

Charlie snorted softly. “You say that like you’ve been wrestling a few.”

Something passed through Carlisle’s expression briefly—humour? “I’ve had… experience.”

Arching an eyebrow, Charlie takes his cap off and runs a hand roughly through his hair, before putting it back on again. “Right… so, bears.”

He clicked his flashlight off and sat back on his heels. He glanced back at Carlisle again, and for the first time, the doctor’s faint frown cracked through his polished veneer. His blonde brows were knitted slightly, a flicker of unease passing across his face. He nodded. Charlie cleared his throat, looking away. “If you say so,” he yielded. He straightened up and coughed roughly into his elbow, before stepping back and resting his hands on his hips. He still felt like he was being pranked. Bears had never given Forks trouble before. Why now? “Well, I guess this is why they called you in, huh?” Carlisle stood with him and inclined his head, a modest smile returning to his previously solemn lips. Charlie watched those same soft lips open to respond, but they were interrupted by the sharp crackle of his radio, static erupting from his belt and making him flinch. “Chief Swan?” Deputy Porter’s gruff, tinny voice came through. Charlie rubbed his face with a palm before pulling the radio from his belt. “Yeah?” “I’ve got Mark talking to the witness from this morning. Says he’s pretty shaken, but didn’t see anything else. Anything you want me to do?” Charlie chewed the inside of his cheek, watching the river run rapid with the rain, remembering, absent-mindedly, how he and Bella used to fish here before starting the hiking trail. He found his gaze wandering to Dr. Cullen, who was peeling off his gloves with practiced ease, revealing long, slender fingers. “Trail cams,” he said suddenly, the idea striking him mid-thought. “They’re all over these woods. Have Mark check with the park rangers, see if they’ve got any footage we can pull—might give us a clue about what kind of animal we’re dealing with. Or anything else.” “Got it, Chief. Trail cams,” Porter responded, and the line cut to static once again. The trail cams here had been installed a few years back after a spate of illegal poaching in the area; it was his friend Harry Clearwater that had suggested it, was getting wary of guys hunting on ‘his land’ without a license. Most of the time, the cams caught nothing more than deer grazing. Still, they were the closest thing they had to an eyewitness. Charlie clipped the radio back to his belt and exhaled. “Hell of a day,” he muttered. Carlisle nodded, his gaze somewhat far-off for a moment, before returning to Charlie. “If the cameras show anything of note, I’d be happy to assist in interpreting it— if needed,” Carlisle offered. “Appreciate it, Doc,” Charlie said, before coughing gruffly, damp air catching in his chest. He lifted an elbow to muffle it, but it rattled a little more than he’d have liked. Carlisle’s eyes flickered back to him instantly. Ah, shit.

“You should really have that checked out, Chief,” he advised, as if automatically. Charlie—also automatically—waved him off. “Nah, it’s nothing. Must be the weather.”

“Or maybe you’ve just been ignoring it a little too long.”

That pulled Charlie up short. Carlisle fixed him with a sceptical look, and the attention made him look to the side. “I’m pretty familiar with stubborn patients,” the doctor noted offhandedly. “Yeah, well, I’m not much of a hospital guy,” Charlie sniffed, adjusting the brim of his cap. “I could always take a look myself? Off the clock.” The words hung in the air for a moment, until Charlie’s stomach growled, and he grunted in embarrassment, tugging his cap lower. “Right… yeah, thanks. It’s just a smokers’ cough though, Doc. Nothin’ worth fussing over.” Carlisle’s golden eyes—seriously, contacts?—lingered on him for a beat longer, before he seemingly gave up. The doctor lifted his hands in surrender before turning to gather his things. He was smiling. As he turned to leave, Charlie caught himself watching the guy’s retreating figure a touch longer than he’d meant to, contemplating the perfect style of his hair, the way his coat seemed impervious to the rain. Back in the cruiser, Charlie yanked his sodden cap off and ran a hand through his wet hair. He sighed, twisting his car keys and gripping the steering wheel as the engine rumbled to life, the wipers beginning to thump rhythmically. ‘Off the clock,’ he thought wryly. Weird guy. Stretching his neck and reversing out of the parking lot, he grunted, pushing the thought into the same box where he kept everything else he didn’t want to deal with.

[alltheotherblogs]

My problem with the 3D Fallout's and their carry-weight mechanic.

I mean, the title basically says it all. Right? Let me elaborate for those who may not know. Fallout is an alternate history Atompunk universe where humanity discovered nuclear technology earlier and began investing into it much more heavily, which not only led to an entirely different first, second, and third world war, but basically made certain countries obsolete. The lack of the infamous Red Menace is a distinct thing in the universe of fallout. Instead, what takes it's place is China. The only Country whose industry is able to compete with ours. The early jets of this universe far exceed our own modern ones, they have robots, cyborg dogs, living computers, sentient coffee makers, and a bunch of sci-fi tech that could theoretically exist, and some of it is even drawn from real life! For instance, nuclear cars and plasma guns. Two things which, one was going to be made, the other may actually exist... But on the hush hush. It takes place in America after an all out nuclear war devastated all the worlds infrastructure. Basically the only people unaffected in Fallout are some miscellaneous groups way too far from civilization to be touched. I'm talking Canada, South America, I mean, Africa. lmao, africa would've dramatically cooled down in the Fallout Universe due to the nuclear war. I mean, the whole world would've. We'll get to my personal problem with the carryweight soon, but first, check out this fuck-ugly tank

This has been nicknamed the "Christless Patton" For a lot of reasons. If you know me, you know I LOVE Military history, Alternate history, and EVERYTHING to do with mankinds various armaments. It's basically made in this universe in place of our real life Patton 1, the M46.

I think it's easy to tell what the first problem is with the Christless Patton. The size. As you can tell by this image alone, the Christless is WAY too small to even be operational. The size alone makes this thing a stupid idiot tank designed and modeled by idiots. The twin guns are supposed to be nearly twice the size of the 90mm on the Patton, they are supposed to be 140 somethings? I don't recall and I don't care. But you can tell, like a lot of problems with fallout 4, the tanks are not correct. I mean, the Christless can't even do a full traverse of it's turret. That's right, that butt ugly twin barrel can't even look behind itself and it can barely rotate 45 degrees to the left or right. It's useless. I'll get to my actual problem now, lol.

Finally, the actual issue.

Carryweight in the 3d fallouts is handled with the strength modifier. This may seem like it's obvious for some and for those who are more experienced you are gonna realize it's really really dumb. "oh strength of course cause you have to be stronger to lift more" Yeah, that statement makes sense for about two seconds, in those two seconds you watch a guy put that weight back down. Endurance is the real stat which is required to carry things. Check it, so a strongman can lift 300 lbs with his arms, he then gets tired of lifting it and has to put that weight back down. That strongman weighs like 220lbs himself, and can't reach his middle back. (what a dork) meanwhile, the marine grunt, he's expected to regularly *carry* 150 lbs. How does he do this? Well, it's simple really. Endurance. This marine grunt weighs about as much as he's carrying on his person, 180 give or take, but he trained to displace this around his frame, and carry it long distances using his entire body to lift it. The strongman isn't doing that, and can't do that, those big muscles weigh more than the gear he's meant to carry and he'll tire out in the second round, the third round he's gonna get knocked out. This is why boxers aren't giant buff men, they are kind of schlubby dudes with a little bit of belly and big pectoral's & back muscles. That's what it really takes to win a fight. Back, chest, and legs. And the marines know that. Fallout apparently does not. Strength in fallout measures dozens of factors which make perfect sense. Meanwhile, Endurance measures your stamina, (action points) and health pool. Why is endurance not responsible for carryweight? I do not know. The fallout devs think strength is for carryweight. Strength is for melee damage, bursts of muscular power. You know, fast twitch and all that. If both played a factor I would be happy, it would make the most sense, but they don't, it's only strength. Which is dumb, really dumb. "Ohh you have to do stuff like that for game balance" let me show you how much Bethesda cares about game balance. Look up the Fallout New Vegas Wikipedia article for tweezers and tell me how much they WEIGH! That's right, the TWEEZERS WEIGH A FUCKING POUND. Various other items in the game have excessive weight such as empty tin cans also weighing a pound. Empty bottles, scrap metal, scrap electronics, stuff you or me could put in our pocket and the difference is measured in the length of a quark. Various other items have accurate weight! Stuff measured in the decimals, or stuff with no weight at all since you'd have to be carrying a whole lot to even notice it and by then you'd reach stack overflow and the game would crash. That's my problem with this game, not only do they make ammo have excessive weight, but they make crafting items have excessive weight. "Ohh game balance" WHAT DID I JUST TELL YOU ABOUT THE TWEEZERS???? DID WE NOT JUST GO OVER HOW CARRYWEIGHT WORKS IN REAL LIFE??? I Did construction, I did strongman training, I did cleaning work. I had to carry stuff. I'm good at carrying stuff. I'm not an expert, but I know strength played no factor. Yeah an anemic anorexic couldn't carry a pencil two feet but we're not talking about an anemic anorexic we're talking about the Courier, a guy who canonically has a similar kill count to Stalin. (I hope i can't get banned for saying that lmao) The courier is Thanatos, death incarnate, a man who delivers heaven or hell to those he deems it necessary. Couriers are awesome throughout all of history. So when designing this game, why did they fuck up this badly? I honestly have no idea. And for this reason, I always cheat. I never play Fallout 3, fallout new vegas, or fallout 4 fairly as intended. Cause, it was an oversight, it wasn't intended, nobody was communicating when these decisions were made otherwise someone would've said "hey why the fuck are these tweezers 1lb?" So I make my carryweight 400. cause that seems fucking fair.

[ratedfleur]

quiet down.

↳ an excerpt to ganda and pogi’s world.

zhanghao x fem reader 600 word count genre ୭ explicit

🏷️ : dom!hao, parking lot sex, breeding, praising, degredation.

part 1.

after a few rounds of letting hao fuck you in his car, he quickly got tired of staying cooped up inside the cramped space.

whilst he let you take a breather after a rough fuck where he got you shaking underneath him, your pussy quivering around his cock as you came, agad agad namang nag bihis ng pang-baba si hao bago lumabas, surveying the area.

the run down gas station was peaceful and quiet, simply umiingay lang dahil sainyo ni hao.

“hey, get out.” he says, ducking down to the open door while you turned to look over at him, confused.

“pero—“ you answered before getting cut off.

“labas.” hao replies.

begrudgingly, you went out, only dressed in your skirt, soiled panties, and tank top that you slipped on.

“will you let me fuck you? here? wala namang makaka-kita, al. it’s just us.” hao purrs, bringing you over to the hood of his bmw.

he makes you face the hood, hands planted on the warm surface. “won’t people see? baka may dumaan, hao..” you muttered.

you could hear hao hum as he flipped your skirt up, letting the fabric settle on your ass, quickly slipping off your panties before he groped your cheeks, watching globes of cum drip out of you as you clenched over nothing, feeling the cold air against your skin.

“so? gusto mo naman yung ganoon, al.. ‘di ba?”

you sigh because you know that it’s true, you love the thrill na may dadaan na kotse where they could see yours and hao’s sexcapade.

“see? good girl.” hao purrs as he toys with himself, slapping his head against your pussy lips, smearing the cum around as his lube.

“aahh..” you sigh, feeling hao slowly sink into you. your hands felt weak, slowly letting your arms rest on the car hood instead, further bending down for hao.

“mhm, that’s it. bend over for me.” hao grunts as he thrusts into you, pulling out and in as one hand held onto your shoulder, easing himself towards you.

you cried out loud when hao started pounding into you, skin slapping each other along with your moans and his grunts.

“not going to last long if you clench like that.. fuck!” hao groaned when you clenched around him tighter, nearly tight enough to stop him from moving.

your hips moved on instinct, moving back and forth on his cock, making hao halt as he watched you fuck yourself on him.

“sige lang, puta.” hao cursed as he started thrusting once more, making you legs fall weak as you properly plopped your front down on the hood while hao fucked you.

tuloy tuloy lang ang mga bayo ni hao, now using a stable rhythm to make you cum in an instant. tuloy tuloy lang din naman ang mga ungol mo, echoing in the quiet area with your skin slapping.

“h-hao! oh my god, fuck fuck! ‘m gonna—“ you gasped when you came on him, hao’s rhythm slowly becoming erratic as you came around him, squeezing him tightly inside of you.

hao becomes silent as he cums in you, mouth empty from his curses and grunts. he drops down, chest against your back as he creates broken thrusts into you whilst he came.

“please tell me you liked that kasi i don’t think i’ll ever stop doing this.” hao panted against your shoulder while you shook under him, laughing.

“hoy, behave.” you laughed when hao whined, slowly getting up and pulling out of you, immediately kneeling down to slip your panties on, keeping both yours and his cum in the already soiled panties.

© RATEDFLEUR — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.