fouldawg

writer, monster fucker, (wo)man enjoyer [commissions open! - Ao3!] - 21+ & MDNI

[fouldawg]

nuts and bolts

You watch TF141 day in and day out. They bicker and talk like every close task force does and you can't help but be a viewer to their chaos and strength. It's a nice change of pace to you day; usually spent wrist deep in weapons with hands covered in grease. Your days as an armorer aren't easy but they blend together all the same. Except suddenly all of TF141 barge into your space like a damn bull in a China shop.

Ao3 link!

Newest chapter: Digging

[prokopetz]

Survival-themed cyberpunk RPG where instead of weapons having durability, you need to purchase subscriptions for each of your weapons, which deplete based on how much damage you inflict. Hit points exist in-universe as a value calculated by your weapons' built-in biometric scanners to meter subscription usage. You can top up a weapon's subscription credits at conveniently located kiosks, or "bank" extra credits beyond a given weapon's rated capacity by carrying gift cards.

[prokopetz]

If you hurt someone by hitting them with a rock or some other non-networked object, this is a serious felony – not because of the violence, but because due to a series of obscure legal precedents, using an object with no associated weapon subscription to cause measurable harm counts as circumventing copy protection.

[flying-butter]

What about beating someone to death with a firearm? Is that considered jailbreaking?

[prokopetz]

Assuming the gun has a linked weapon subscription, it just deducts from your credits in the usual fashion. Remember, you're being charged per hit point of damage inflicted, not per shot fired; the biometric monitors don't care how you inflicted them, as long as it was done using a weapon with an up-to-date subscription.

(Of course, the trick is, if you're firing the gun, it can helpfully prevent you from going over your credit limit by refusing to chamber the next round. If you're just pistol-whipping people senseless, you need to keep an eye on the readout manually!)

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just ghost taking some medical classes, and you're the instructor, right?

Ghost has long since accepted that he has a few screw loose, but it's a whole new thing when he has to confront how hot it is hearing you talk about medicine. On multiple occasions he's had to space-out with the effort not to pop a boner in the middle of your demonstration of suture techniques.

This lesson, though, is really testing his patience.

"Now, I'm using gloves because the blood we use will stain everything," you announce to the small group standing around the table. On a tray, a little silicone cube with a hole spurts blood rhythmically. "But we can treat infection better than death, so dirty hands are fine if that's all you have."

Suddenly, you begin packing gauze into the cube, fingers roughly pushing the fabric deep inside. It looks so fucking erotica ghost can't help but shiver. He knows you're probably saying something more, but the only thing he picks up is "it can take more than you think, might hurt but that's unimportant."

Your gloves glisten red and slick with blood, fingers pushing into soft silicone again and again. All ghost can think about is those same gloved hands pushing into him–

It's been months since ghost has found it in himself to masturbate, but with the image of you fresh in his mind it feels only natural to slip a hand into his boxers.

He thinks, maybe, he wants to fuck you. Tries to imagine you naked and under him, maybe on top of him, but it feels empty and all too uninteresting. Your hips, thighs, chest do nothing for him.

But those gloved hands....

Unbidden, the image of your hands packing the silicone come back to him, and he's startlingly close at just the thought. He imagines you there, with ghost spread out on the table like another demonstration, gloves wrapped around his cock and talking to the class like he isn't there—

With a whine, ghost spills into his hands.

...he...didn't realize he was into that. Ghost still has two weeks of the class left, how the hell will he manage?

[fouldawg]

Post-coital

He looks at you with a new softness. One that emphasizes his crows feet and makes his eyes shine in the low light. This is the first time he holds your hand. Laying naked in your bed, the duvet bunched up and half falling. His hand is rough and you can feel it in his fingers. Warm and weighty. You lay on him, shoulder to bicep. Forearms touching, fingers in between each other. Your legs are hanging off the side of the bed and they occasionally brush his, hair brushing against your shin. He rumbles a comment. How good it was. How good you were. Something unfurls in your chest, an apple blossom.

Your fingers are sore. A massage owed, sex received.

You lightly laugh, soft and sweet. You look to him and he's already looking at you. His light eyes against his dark hair always seems to captivate you. Your hands are still gently clasped together. He brushes his thumb over yours. Intimate and gentle. The sweat on your back is cooling. He's breathing slower. Coming down from the high, drifting back to earth. The smell of sex slowly permeates the air, soaking the room and duvet in a heady, earthen smell. He laments that he used to last much longer. You nod and goad him into possibly coming back. The blossom shakes. He smiles, accent catching on his vowels. You still have no idea where he's from.

The sharp pinch of latex in the air catches your attention. The condom he wore rests against his thigh, soft cock doing little to keep it from falling. The tip is full of cum. Pretty and pearlescent. He chuckles to himself.

"So much. And I had a wank earlier too."

The condom makes a sticky sound as he pulls it from his cock and ties it off. You shake your head and watch as he goes to the bathroom. You touch the spot he was just in. Warm and sex-soaked. The flower in your chest tilts down.

You sit between his legs, at the foot of the bed. His toes tenderly brush against the base of your spine. Gentle and steady. His other foot brushes idly against your crossed leg. Tender like a real lover. He pulls his phone from his crumpled jeans, insistent that he shows you something. His eyes are still so soft at the edges. Shiny and gentle. He shows you his phone, playing some movie clip. You do your best to pay attention. His knee is twitchy under your touch. You dig your thumbs in around the kneecap and he groans. You keep your eyes on the phone, doing your best to keep them from drifting to his face. But you feel him staring at you. Watching your reactions. Metering your breaths or logging how your hands feel against his kneecaps.

His cock is fully soft. Velvet and musk. His balls rest heavily between his legs. Intimate and personal. How many have seen him like this?

You hope he wants like you do. Familiar and fuzzy. Right on the brink of yearning. You wonder if he feels the same. Between his ambiguous schedule and lack of a family. You hope he cares about you. In the fleeting moments between his cock sliding in and out of you and the sips he takes from his glass. The way his hands cradled your face and how he looked at you in the dim of the pub. But somewhere, no matter how good he kisses you and how good he smells. You will only get what he gives. Right on the edge of his life, where the ocean meets the dock. Where blossoms go to drown.

[dokelsss]

$20 Creature Design Sketches are Back!

these were fairly popular so im bringing them back! - Must be Animal or Animal related - Not Anthropomorphic - Chimeras/Fantasy allowed! Using Paypal, Wise and Zelle only, DM if interested! Coloring is Free!

[hearnoweevil]

Last year I finally had an excuse to illustrate this simple little Tumblr story by @bees-with-swords I've had bookmarked forever for class.

I hope you like it :]

Image ID under the cut

[id: a series of five watercolor and guache paintings with digital text added to each one. the paintings depict the conversation between the whale, the tuna, and the salmon from the story in the post.

the first painting shows a humpback whale swimming with a bluefin tuna as they talk, with a skeleton of a whale in a small panel above them. the skeleton is labeled to note the skull, ribcage, spine, pelvis, and other major structures. "Do you ever dream of land?" the whale asks the tuna. "No." says the tuna, "Do you?" "I have never seen it." says the whale, "but deep in my body, I remember it." "Why do you care," says the tuna, "if you will never see it?"

the second painting shows the humpback and the tuna from a different angle, the faint impression of trees surrounding them in the water. the humpback has a series of skeletons extending behind it, each showing a progressively older evolutionary ancestor and showing the change from land animal to ocean animal. it also notes the whale's own small but still present pelvis and femur bones. "There are bones in my body built to walk through the forests and the mountains." says the whale. "They will disappear." says the tuna. "One day, your body will forget the forests and the mountains."

the third painting shows a whale skeleton at the bottom of the ocean being picked at by scavengers. a small panel below the skeleton shows the salmon joining the conversation. "Maybe I don't want to forget," says the whale. "The forests were once my home." "I have seen the forests." whispers the salmon, almost to itself.

the fourth painting shows the progression of a salmon growing from egg to adulthood as it swims downstream, with panels showing the eye of the whale and the salmon looking at one another. "Tell me what you have seen," says the whale. "The forests spawned me." says the salmon. "They sent me to the ocean to grow. When I am fat with the bounty of the ocean, I will bring it home."

the fifth and final painting shows the whale, the tuna, and the salmon from below, backlit by filtering sunlight and surrounded by other silhouettes of fish. in the foreground are tiny, microscopic plants labeled "proterocladus antiquus, oldest land plant ancestor, alive one billion years ago." "Why would the forests seek the bounty of the oceans?" asks the whale. "They have bounty of their own." "You forget," says the salmon, "That the oceans were once their home."

/end id.]

(Thank you @saffronlesbian for the beautifully descriptive id)

Post by @bees-with-swords

💬 71  🔁 55337  ❤️ 60344 · "Do you ever dream of land?" The whale asks the tuna. "No." Says the tuna, "Do you?" "I have never seen it." Say

[fouldawg]

this is terribly self indulgent but hybrid pangolin!reader (aka me :D)

needs specialized tac equipment since their back, arms, and legs are fully armored (including boots lmao)

cannot use standard firearms because of large, stiff claws

walks with a heavyyyyy lean forward (since giant pangolins cannot walk biped)

hella fat tail that they carry/drag behind them

can definitely curl up into a ball

has a lil scruff of hair at the top of the head instead of full scales

they work demolition but instead of running with explosives they simply tear the building down with their own claws

needs assistive tech to write reposts or do anything that needs fine motor skills

[fouldawg]

far gone - bad ending

(this is an extended thought from this post)

CW: flashback, blood

Ghost stood there in silence with Price and Gaz, feeling the emptiness that Soap filled immensely. He watches as Soap's ashes flutter on the wind and disappear over the cliff edge. It was quiet except for the sound of whistling wind, the crash of the waves below, and the lid of the now empty urn being capped. It was horrible and weighty. Ghost's tongue felt like lead.

A few weeks later, a thick folder landed on Price's desk. Ghost's discharge papers. Maybe it was coincidence or divine intervention, but Ghost's SAS contract was up by the end of the month. Price flipped open the folder and moved to sign the final page that would cut Simon free. But Price hesitates. He would miss Simon and he knows that the other would suffer from loneliness without the structure of the base. He also knows that Simon doesn't really have anywhere else to go. However, Price also knows that Soap's death has weighted on Simon heavily. Possibly more than he and Gaz combined. He signs away one of his best.

Ghost wakes at the crack of dawn. His heart and chest ache with an emptiness that he hasn't felt before. He spends a moment to listen to his own heartbeat. It bumps in a slow, steady rhythm. If he focuses, he can pick out when the ventricles open and close, intake and outtake. Ghost stares up at the ceiling. He lies there, watching the light from the sun creep across his room until it's high in the sky and hunger pulls at his gut. He stands from his bed, legs firm and anchored. Moving to the kitchen he unpacks an MRE. The food is mushy and mediocre. But eating from the crinkly packet fills the hole in Simon's chest slightly. It reminds him of his fellows. The then world crashes in. He hears radio chatter in his ear, his own voice speaks for him from the side of his mouth. The sounds of helicopter rotors whir to life and the sound of a hoist line dropping has his hands twitching to grasp at nothing. He pinches his eyes closed to block the sound out. But the sight of Johnny's still body replaces the dark behind his eyelids. Just as it began, it ends. The garbled radio stops whispering and the helicopter takes off. But Simon will never unsee the blood that Johnny lost pooled on the floor. The smell of crumbling concrete and the stench of still water.

[fouldawg]

not in regulation

ok so listen here, i have a funny fic idea. theres an account called 'notinregs' and its people posting fellow soldiers who arent in military regulations and i wanted to write a quick something (also for those of you who have seen the account, i know that it's only american soldiers and regs means something completely different in the uk but let me have this one haha)

everyone knows that sergeant mctavish and lieutenant riley from the sas are not in regs, that's something everyone figures out within a couple of days into their time on base. it was the talk of every coc (chain of command), insisting that none of the regulations for hair or face coverings have changed. your poor nco (noncommission officer) friend has to keep explaining to every boot that 'yes, i know they're not in regs' and 'no you cannot dress like that'. it was hellish for everyone except those two apparently.

you flick through your social media feed, scanning videos quickly before moving on to the next one. until, you see a clip of that stupid mohawk. the video is a fast 5 seconds but the hairstyle is unmissable. the person recording doesn't say anything but they track sergeant mctavish before the clip ends.

you look at the comments, many of them are civvies complaining that the armed forces have gone to shit while the vast majority of the comments are commending the sergeants bravery and waiting for an update of the man's head fully shaved as punishment. you look at the account name, NotInRegs

the account is popular, that's a given based on the sheer number of comments on any given video. according to the comments, there are a lot of current and former military watching simply based on the fact that the comments are full of people commiserating and sharing stories. what's surprising is that the account features all kinds of clips, from ones filmed on base, in the field, hell even during down time and late night fire watch. the clips also come from a variety of bases all across the UK. what's funny about the content is that there are constantly new clips of mctavish and riley walking around bases. they thankfully don't make up too much of the posts but there are an impressive amount of videos and photos.

you decide to follow the account, figuring that you can send in a video or two of the stupid ass shit that goes on around you.

[fouldawg]

ok so im pretty sure that there’s a call of duty fic on here that’s has a character with stitches in their lips… right??? it’s driving mad that i dont know the title, please help!

[rawme-price]

Gender queer ghost??? Yes please!!

You find ghost one morning sitting at your vanity, makeup bag open and lipstick clumsily applied.

He's staring at his reflection, for once in his life unaware of any other soul in the room. The lipstick jumps and drags over the scar that splits his lip, but Ghost hardly notices it. He notices the way it brings out the blush in his cheeks, the warm glow of his eyes. He's looking at himself like he's never truly seen his reflection before.

Then you make the mistake of stepping further into the room, shifting the air just slightly and ghost whips around. Hes frozen in place, eyes locked with yours and completely silent. Silence rolls through him.

He quickly tries to smudge the lipstick off, voice stuttering over an excuse you don't listen to. Instead you cross the room and kneel so ghost may see you. He has tears clinging to blonde lashes. His cheek is warm under your palm, "hey, hey baby, don't cry. Im not upset okay?"

You attempt to soothe, cooing reassurance that you dont mind, that you aren't upset or angry. Ghost only nods, voiceless. He refuses to meet your eyes when you gently ask what he was doing with the lipstick. Memories flashing behind his eyelids, angry father and a disgusted mother.

The feeling sloshes around in his gut, thick gelatinous shame. Thats what it is, shame that he could not possibly give voice to. How would he even begin to describe it? The way his heart picks up at rosy cheeks and long lashes, how he watches soap and kyle style themselves and wishes he could do the same?

So he keeps stubbornly silent, long enough for you to get the message. Giving simon a nod, a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. You leave him alone, close the door behind him.

You don't comment when a small eyeshadow kit and lip gloss appear on his bed later that week, and neither does she.

[jeleynai]

How B squad met their father

[fouldawg]

thoughts thoughts thoughts

after soaps death, simon leaves the sas consumed by grief and the images of his body laid on the ground and the smell of his ashes spread on the wind. hes aimless, trying desperately to hold down jobs and leave the military world behind but he cant for one reason or another. he lived off of benefits and his savings as much as he can but with the constantly rising cost of living hes left with nothing but his camo, rucksack, and his masks.

he's left to wander the country by foot and clean himself when he can. the seasons change and the world spins without him for years. until one day he sees gaz and price. they look at him in shock and worry. simon runs. he cant stand to see them in this state and they chase and chase, left wondering if it really was simon or just a ghost

(lil bit of prose as a treat)

[fouldawg]

reunion

Price x Reader (Trans Masc)

Explicit! (mentions of cunt, tdick, chest scars)

Word Count: 3,535

"The hell kind of safe house is this, Laswell?" Price asks, aggravated and tired.

It's been a long couple of months. All he and the rest of 141 want to do is collapse in a bed and be undisturbed. But here they are in a Cornish city that's bustling with weekend life and loud cars driving by. People laugh and talk, heels click against the cobblestone road behind them. The clubs are beginning to wake up and the bass hums through the air.

"One that's on short notice Captain." Laswell says.

"This is residential. Are you sure this is it?" Gaz asks, leaning over Price's shoulder.

"Yes. Take it or leave it. This is an old friend who said he could help." Laswell says sternly before the line goes dead.

Price sighs and rubs his face. He looks to each of his men and they all look as tired as he feels. He turns back to the door in front of them and knocks. There's a voice and the sliding of locks before the door opens. A man dressed in lounge wear greets them.

"You must be who Laswell told me to expect. Come in." You say before turning away and walking further into the house.

The men file through the narrow door and Ghost closes the door behind them, making sure to slide all of the locks back. Price takes a moment to look at the entrance way. It's classic Cornish architecture. Low ceiling, a staircase to the left, a doorway to the left and right, and presumably a kitchen straight through.

"I'm former SAS, call me Wilder." You say to the group, shaking each of the 141's hands.

"Good to see ya. Glad to see that retirement is treating you well." Price says, returning a firm hand shake. "Didn't expect to see you so soon after your farewell though."

You laugh, "Don't sound so excited to see me." You say before disappearing up the stairs.

"Wilder. That name is familiar." Gaz says as he unlaces his boots.

"Yeah. Rings a bell." Soap agrees.

"He's before your time but only by a few years. He's a good man." Price nods, tucking his own boots to the side of the entrance way before moving towards the door on the right.

Price pokes his head in. A couch sits against the wall with a coffee table and a couple of armchairs scattered in the room. A fire place sits opposite the doorway and a large bookshelf stands in the far corner. A window sits at the far side of the room by the couch and it shows a small back garden with a stone patio area and a few more chairs nestled outside.

"The rooms are up here. There's enough for each of you. I'll sleep on the sofa." You call from the top of the stairs to the group.

"Y'sure mate? We can make Soap sleep on sofa no problem." Gaz says in return, looking up the stairs at you.

"No, no. You got back from a mission." You tell them. The stairs creak underneath your feet. "Get set up. I'll whip up some scran." You tell the group as you pass by to go to the kitchen.

"Fuck man I could go for some scran." Soap says as he hauls his bags up the stairs.

Price and Ghost hum in agreement and follow Soap up the stairs. The rooms at the top are split, two on the right side and two more on the left side up a couple more steps. There a bathroom sits in front of the group. Price turns to the left and chooses the furthest room on the right. Ghost moves to the second room on the left. Soap goes for the room next to Price and Gaz picks the room next to Ghost's. Each room has a window and a bed. Gaz's room is clearly yours.

Band posters are stuck to the walls, some he recognizes but most he doesn't. A large desk sits in front of the window with a computer tucked under it with a monitor on the desk with a mouse and keyboard. There is a stack of books sitting at the foot of your bed and Gaz pauses to read the spines of a few. Some of the books are manuals while others might be fiction. He doesn't recognize the books either. The smell of a fry up wafts through the house and you can hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Is that a fry up?" Soap calls as he walks into the kitchen.

The kitchen is surprisingly spacious, with plenty of counter space and cabinets. You're standing in front of the hobs with two pans. One pan has thick cut bacon sizzling away while the other has a couple of eggs cracked onto it. A full pack of bacon sits on the side next to the hobs, along a full dozen eggs. The oven light is on, casting warm light onto your legs. Soap notices a large scar that cuts through the front of your shin that disappears underneath the knee brace you're wearing.

"Yeah. I always craved grease when I got back from an OP." You tell him as you flip the bacon and nudge the eggs with a spatula.

"Ah, a man after my own heart." Soap says, simply watching you cook and move through the kitchen.

"Don't go stealin' Johnny from us." Price's voice says from the doorway. You look over and see him with Gaz and Ghost as well. "We're not done just yet."

"Never in a million. He's yours to keep. Had one like him with me and she was a handful." You explain as you dump frozen hash browns onto a tray. You drizzle some oil over the food and slide it into the oven.

"Go sit. It'll be ready when it's ready." You tell the group.

Everyone leaves but Price. Ghost pats the man's shoulder before following the other men to the lounge.

Price approaches you and you feel nervous. You keep your eyes on the food, watching the grease pop from the bacon in an effort to distract from Price's presence. You can practically feel him standing next to you. It reminds you of your younger days in the SAS, everyone above you and watching. Especially Price.

"So," Price begins in a quiet voice. "This is where you've been? In Truro?" He asks.

"For the most part. Been in Plymouth and Brighton too."

Price hums a noise of acknowledgment. "You find any good work?"

"Sure. I'm a veteran consultant for video games."

Price hums again. "Didn't tell me you cared about that kind of stuff."

You move the cooked bacon onto a plate with kitchen roll on it to absorb the extra oil then add a few new pieces onto the now empty pan. You remove the eggs too and they go on a different plate. You one hand crack a few more eggs and watch as they hit the pan and the white goes from translucent to opaque.

"Didn't have much time to, did we?" You ask, finally looking at Price. He looks nostalgic, eyes soft at the corners and a small smile on his lips.

"We didn't." Price says. "But I wish we did." He confesses.

You look back to the food and kneel in front of the oven. You open the over door and find a mitt to grab the tray. You quickly flick the tray a few times to make sure each of the hash browns are flipped over before putting them back into the oven and close the door. You can feel Price's eyes on you and it makes your skin crawl.

"Can't just drop that on me. Sounds like you've been missin' me." You say lightly, trying to diffuse the tension in the air and under your fingertips. You feel nervous.

"Guess I have." Price says softly.

You watch as Price's hand comes to touch yours. You're holding onto the pan that's cooking bacon and his hand slides against your ring and pinky fingers in something that's far too gentle for a man like Price. He's moving in slow motion, waiting for you to reject him and his nostalgia. His hands are calloused and the backs of them have the barest layer of hair that drifts with his movements.

"You can't still want me after all these years." You say quietly, letting Price take the pan handle from you. He grips it into his hand and you move over to let him work on the bacon. You plate the eggs and add more onto the pan. Price flips the bacon with his hands instead of the tongs that sit on the plate with the already cooked bacon.

"Why not?" price asks, Now keeping his eyes trained on the food in front of him.

"You know damn well that it's no fair. It's been years since we worked together, let alone seen each other." You explain, feeling a little cornered—exposed—even.

"That doesn't matter." Price says, eyes still watching the bacon.

"I think it does." You tell him, "I've changed since then. So have you. Haven't you thought about any one else?"

"I haven't." Price admits.

He looks over to you and you feel small under his gaze. It's something hungry and old. You know the look well from hidden closets and dim storage areas. Something tugs at you gut and pulls at your heart. Memories spring up like weeds behind your eyes and you're forced to reckon with them. Moments of hot breath, teeth at your neck, hands under your uniform. Quiet confessions and warm metal. Gentle fingertips at your chest and rough skin under your hands.

"We can't do this." You tell Price, ripping your eyes from his. "It's not fair to you or your boys."

Price doesn't respond. You work with him in silence. Food comes and goes. The sky darkens.

--

The TV casts light in harsh shadows around the room. The video is one you've watched many times, something about diverse perspectives in media and breaking long standing traditions in every industry. The floor creaks upstairs, a door closes, the water heater kicks on. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of water running. The house is old, so everything creaks a little bit. The stairs shiver when it's cold, the doors get stuck when the humidity is high, the house is alive in its own way. You open your eyes and watch the info-graphics pop up on screen and the host talk through them.

The water stops running at some point and another door closes. The stairs creak properly. Someone is coming down them.

You keep you eyes on the TV and the person stands at the lounge entrance. You know who it is.

"Wilder." Price prompts.

You look over. He's dressed in comfortable clothes, clearly meaning to be in bed.

"How can I help?" You ask, looking back to the TV.

Footsteps approach the sofa and a new weight is next to you. You look over and Price is already watching you. He looks extremely tired in this light, the screen throwing dark line across his face. He looks through you.

"Earlier."

You nod and hum.

"You said that it's not fair to me." Price says, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"That I did." You agree.

"I've come to the conclusion that I don't give a shit." Price says, a little firmly.

You're surprised. You feel your eyebrows twitch up and you mouth open slightly. You quickly school your expression into something more relaxed. You feel antsy under Price's eyes again. He leans in and touches the back of one your hands. The light dims slightly. You keep your breathing quiet. The light returns.

"Why now?" You whisper.

"I missed you."

Price's mouth is on yours in a flash. Has hands move up your arms and anchor themselves against your shoulders. His hands are warm and it seeps through your clothes. His mustache is soft against you upper lip. You open your mouth and push your tongue forward to tap at Price's teeth. He relents and your tongues brush in a motion that's intimate and dirty. He sighs into you mouth and you swallow up the sound. You push Price away and straddle him, his hands move to your waist. You grab the collar of his shirt.

"You fucker." You mutter.

His breath fans out against your face and he grins, "That's the plan."

Price pushes your face to his and you kiss again. One of his hands slide up from your waist to lay flat against your shoulders. He grips you like you'll float away. It feels like you already are. You grind down, pressing the seam of your sweatpants to your cunt. It makes you shiver and it makes Price rumble. The two of you sit there, grinding like teenagers, pushing and pulling to see who breaks first. Price's hand slithers under your shirt and presses against the scars on your chest. You sigh. His hand is beyond warm and is roams over your back and chest. It gropes at your pecs and sides, feeling out the muscles and building a picture in Price's head.

"Just as I remembered." Price mutters into your mouth.

"Oh really?" You tease back, grinding down with more force than before.

"Let me show you."

Price's other hand that's not under your shirt moves to grab your ass. He presses his fingertips into the muscle to the point of pain before releasing and rubbing at the spot. His other hand continues playing with your chest, touching the scars with feather-light pressure. Price stops kissing you and you open your eyes to him moving you off of him. Before you can ask, he moves to kneel in front of the sofa. He looks at you in the dark and pulls your legs over to him.

"Will you let me?" Price asks quietly, fingers already under the waistband of your sweats.

"God, fuck. Okay." You rush out, feeling breathless.

Price makes no issue pulling down your sweats and boxers. He makes a quiet, reverent noise in his throat. He wets his fingers in his mouth before bringing them to your dick. He presses down and you arch. He plays with your dick, drawing out the little noises that escape from your mouth. He leans up from the floor and kisses you with all teeth. You feel them chew at you lips and they click against your own. He massages your hood and you whine in your throat. He hums and moves down your neck in a waterfall of kisses and scrapped teeth. Price makes his home at the base of your throat. He bites and sucks, gently rolling the skin between his teeth in a show of multitasking. He jerks your dick and little and you press you nose to the side of Price's head and inhale to keep yourself from moaning. He moves to the other side of your neck and you get the chance to look down.

One hand is playing with your cunt and dick, while the other is roughly fisting his own dick. At some point he freed his dick and balls from his own trousers and has been fucking into his fist. The head of his dick is dark with flush and you try to remember how it felt inside of you from your bygone days. Price's hand suddenly disappears from your dick but before you can complain, he's already sliding two fingers inside of you. His fingers feel huge.

"Jesus." You mutter.

Price doesn't respond, too busy marking up your neck. He curls his fingers and drags them down inside of you, pressing his fingers against your g-spot. You bite your lips and whine. He repeats the motion, the sounds of squelching makes your face go red.

"That good?" Price asks, from you neck. He sounds smug.

"'Course it is." You grit out.

"Good." Price says before finally pulling his teeth away from you. He takes his hand from his dick to grip you jaw roughly, turning your head from side to side. He inspects the already darkening marks and pulls you in for a dirty kiss. His tongue forces its way into your mouth and it feels like he's trying to suffocate you.

He pulls away suddenly and lowers his mouth to you cunt. He swallows you up and your legs flex around Price's head. You close your eyes and it feels like he's trying to eat his way back into your life and thoughts through your legs. His tongue laps at the under side of your dick and plays with your hood. His mouth is wet and hot, tacky with your slick and his spit. You feel you lower back tighten in anticipation.

"Shit." You pant, "Please fuck me already."

Price smiles like he's won the lottery. He stands up from the floor, his dick hardly shifts and you swallow. He leans forward and he pulls you closer. You wrap your legs around his hips and he braces one hand against the back of the sofa. He pulls one of your arms around his neck and you get what hes asking. You wrap your arms around his neck and flex, holding your own weight with your arms and legs. He glances down and you feel his dick pressing at your cunt. You do your best to relax.

He's large, that you remember. But the feeling of Price pushing in is just as intense as it used to be. You get flashes of your last hook up. It was dark like this, but the sounds of drinking and laugher swam through the air. It was a goodbye celebration, at a pub close to base. It was you, Price and a few other colleagues that you cared about. He pulled you aside and asked, essentially begged, for one more. He was a gentleman as much as he could be while the two of you fucked in the disabled toilet. You whimper, feeling that Price is now fully sheathed inside of you. He groans above you. The hand that's not resting against the couch rests against your lower back.

"God, you're tight. Seems like someone hasn't gotten any." Price taunts meanly as he flexes his dick inside of you.

"Not nearly enough to impress me." You reply, clenching down.

Price hums and begins thrusting. You bite your lip and sigh. The angle is more than awkward but the way Price's dick feels as it thrusts in and out is heavenly. You keep your core flexed to have some stability but your arms are shaking and your thighs hurt. You bounce off of his pelvis in a dirty rebound and smack as his balls make contact with you ass. Price groans a little in your ear and you whine. The smell of sweat permeates the air between the two of you and you head spins. You can feel the dick inside of you flex and tense and you cunt responds in kind, clenching and rolling. The head of his dick is almost kissing your cervix. It's rough and nasty in the best way.

"Sound so pretty for me. Just like old times." Price says in you ear, giving you a brutal thrust.

All you can do is nod. Your dick meets Price's pelvis and it makes you shudder feeling the sensitive head press into his pubic hair and the muscle hidden underneath. You feel your lower back tensing up again and you know that you're close. The wire is taut and ready to snap. You fall into the sensations of Price fucking the life out of you and your gut clenches. The way his dick fills you is pure ecstasy. You drop one of your hands from his neck and press your finger into Price's mouth. He accepts it and wets your fingers for you. You bring you wet fingertips to your dick and gently wrap a couple of them around your dick and jerk it in time with price's thrusting.

"C'mon sweet thing. Come on me." Price grunts out. "Want me to come in ya?"

You whine and nod, muttering affirmations to his question, jerking yourself faster. The wet sounds of your reunion make you lightheaded and something deep inside of your brain still worries about rank and infidelity even though you're no longer in the SAS. The wire in your lower back snaps and you orgasm. It rolls through you like the aftershocks of an earthquake, making your squirm and your cunt flex.

A rush of curses fall out of Price's mouth as he comes soon after. He fills you with liquid fire, his hips pressed firmly against yours. The two of you are silent, panting into each other's face with closed eyes. You crack an eye open. Price is leaned over you and your video is long over. His muscles flex as he stands upright, and sits on the couch, keeping you attached to his dick.

After a moment, Price opens his eyes and he grins.

"So, think you can put up with me for a little longer?"

(a.n. what if i were to say that this was my first time writing smut lol)

[fouldawg]

this is suuuuuper niche so i doubt this’ll get any traction but people who have an interest in NDS emulation and conservation!! im preparing to write a fully comprehensive post about a rare ds game called Shepherd’s Crossing 2 (in essence, this game is a very unique farm sim. it allows the player to slaughter their animals, experience naturally occurring crop issues, and mush more!)

i need help to figure out all of the recipes in the game and it’s driving me up the wall to not have this information! whether youve played it or watched someone else play, i’d like your help! i’d hate for this game to be buried in the annals of NDS history

if you’re interested in emulating this game i’m more than willing to help and will be posting a ‘how to’ if you’re looking into emulation!

[nthewriter]

The 141 dating a reader who is older than them… 🤌🏻 chef’s kiss

Bonus point if they have a higher military grade than them

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

Continuation