TBI Simon and the sweet nurse heās convinced himself is actually his wife. Doesnāt help that your attending, Price, is encouraging you to play into it to increase your patient satisfaction scores because theyāre low (theyāre not). He just likes watching you scurry about and toe that line between professional and mildly uncomfortable when Simon lays a thick hand over yours on the bed.
Even his friends play into it. A boisterous Scot that claps him on the shoulder like heās not in a hospital bed and a sweet talking guy with kind eyes but a grin thatās slightly too sharp to put you at ease.
Only now begs the question- what happens when heās discharged?
priceghost in their divorce era Ć la the new trailer except they were both in a relationship with you before and neither could break up with you.
cut to having essentially a shared custody agreement where they agree to be civil just to switch who gets you staying with them. but theyāre still petty assholes so price fills you with cum every time before he drops you back.
itās fine though because simon fucks you right there in the car in whatever dingy half abandoned place theyād agreed in that week, hard enough for the car to rock visibly so price can watch from his drivers seat
hmmmmm thinking thoughtsā¦. thoughts about Robby not planning do actually use his sabbatical to off himselfā¦ instead using it to see all the disgusting cheesy tourist shit other states have to offer because fuck it he may as well see it before he goes and that giant corn statue has been a stupid thing on his bucket list for since he was a teenagerā¦ planning on following through once he gets back.. thoughts of exhausted from the road Robby dropping into a little cafe or restaurant for some caffeine and something to fill his stomach only to meet the only server on shift and deciding he could probably stay in town a couple more weeks
thinking again about nik and his big mitts... he'd show you exactly where you need it most and then patronize you when he catches you struggling to do it yourself, batting your hands away as he takes over. he's got his fingers sunk to the webbing and they're not leaving, massaging against you insistently just there, right over that spot that makes you twitchy and breathless. talking all i't's right here, milaya. can't you feel it?' as he works you through your second orgasm with no regard for a breath in between.
As Google has worked to overtake the internet, its search algorithm has not just gotten worse.Ā It has been designed to prioritize advertisers and popular pages often times excluding pages and content that better matches your search termsĀ
As a writer in need of information for my stories, I find this unacceptable.Ā As a proponent of availability of information so the populace can actually educate itself, it is unforgivable.
Below is a concise list of useful research sites compiled by Edward Clark over on Facebook. I was familiar with some, but not all of these.
ā
Google is so powerful that it āhidesā other search systems from us. We just donāt know the existence of most of them. Meanwhile, there are still a huge number of excellent searchers in the world who specialize in books, science, other smart information. Keep a list of sites you never heard of.
www.refseek.com - Academic Resource Search. More than a billion sources: encyclopedia, monographies, magazines.
www.worldcat.org - a search for the contents of 20 thousand worldwide libraries. Find out where lies the nearest rare book you need.
https://link.springer.com - access to more than 10 million scientific documents: books, articles, research protocols.
www.bioline.org.br is a library of scientific bioscience journals published in developing countries.
http://repec.org - volunteers from 102 countries have collected almost 4 million publications on economics and related science.
www.science.gov is an American state search engine on 2200+ scientific sites. More than 200 million articles are indexed.
www.pdfdrive.com is the largest website for free download of books in PDF format. Claiming over 225 million names.
www.base-search.net is one of the most powerful researches on academic studies texts. More than 100 million scientific documents, 70% of them are free
youāre at a friendās house party, and your crush is there. after an (admittedly mediocre) makeout seshāand too much alcoholāyou decide to be bold, and scent-mark his jacket while heās in the bathroom. you hope it will be a nice reminder of your time together the morning after, once heās sober.
the only hitch in your brilliant plan is that you leave your sweet scent on someone elseās clothing. and its owner is intent on making you his.
Y'all just getting on the 'Jayce is a sub/Jayce is a bottom' train?
Did you miss the way he let Miss Medarda push him on the bed in S1??????
He's tall and muscular and whatever but that man will fold like a house of cards in the bedroom and growing a beard/psychological torment did not turn him into a dom. If anything, months of isolation and lack of physical touch has made him more submissive and desperate to please. In this essay, I will--
cw: (unspecified) holiday gift shopping. overstimulation (but not that kind). cockwarming. oral. russian pet names taken from a list off google so we're being so niceys about it. (also the one reader goes crazy about means good/smart girl)
this is entirely @3amfanfiction 's fault. she may as well have come into my home the other day and shot me point blank in the chest when she said (completely unprovoked, by the way):
nik turns to reader and asks 'do we need to go to the car so you can calm down?' and you know it's code for suckling at his cock, cockwarming him until your emotions are a bit more level
so blame her
He's too big to fit properly in the back of his SUV, let alone with you squeezed between his thighs, his ankles bracketing your hips, but you make it work: front seat slid as far forward as it could possibly go, both back rows folded down into a platform he sprawls across with his back pressed into the corner by the door. On your belly, his thick legs encase your head, crowd around you protectively and shield you from would-be onlookers even beyond the capabilities of the tinted windows. He makes it easy to forget where you are, keeps you clothed so the scratchiness of the seat backs doesn't abrade your elbow, hums absently in a language he knows you don't speak to drown out the droning of the incessantly cheery holiday music blaring loud enough to be heard faintly across the car park, where you're sequestered to one of the quieter corners of the over packed lot. You think they must be playing it from on high, tinny sleigh bells ringing from weatherbeaten speakers hidden in the lot lights.
It would make you grind your teeth, if your mouth weren't full - soft flesh and thick musk, your tongue working over silken skin because it's so good and sweet and tender and -
Distracting.
"Shh, malĆ½shka. Settle, little one."Ā
Easier said than done when your brain feels like a boiled soft drink, sticky and hot, carbonated through your very bloodstream. You're flighty, a little shuddering dog vibrating at a speed that staves off the cold eking through the thin shell of the car, small drafts of chill you can feel against the skin of your hip when you shuffle too much and your jacket rides up. Your eyelids flutter, annoyed, Nik's obnoxious, striped undershirt coming into view, blue on blue in the dark. He shifts, wraps a heavy leg over you to keep you warm with the soft-worn pit of his denim-clad knee, and you melt a little further.
"That's it, radnaja, easy."
You're much better than you were, at least, the way you'd been spitting and hissing at him while he'd calmly marched you out to the car and had you stand at the taillight while he shuffled seats about playing on an embarrassing loop, casting an ugly pallor over the quiet moment he's created for you. You want to apologize, don't want to lose the comforting weight on your tongue long enough to do it. You slurp a little more aggressively instead, tongue chasing the saliva that slips past your soaked lips to leech into the fabric of his boxer briefs, and hope that illustrates your gratefulness.
"No playing, sweet thing. We're just taking a minute to unwind, remember?"
Even the mention of it - of the need to unwind - has you snuffling deeper, your nose pressed against the fly of his pants, trying to drown out the memory of what awaits you outside the relative safety of the car: the blaring music, the sputtering blue-bright LEDs, the raucous coughing of flu season and the bustle of too many bodies shifting past you, coarse wool coats and pet dander.
And responsibilities. Those, too. Entire aisles of nearly-identical, impersonal throw pillows for people you've only met twice. Or candles, cheap fragrance sticking in your sinuses until each one bled into the next, a putrid, garish bouquet you knew no one would like, let alone your mother. Let alone his mother, or -.
Your hand pushes against the tent of his pants, tucking the fabric behind his heavy balls so you can pull him deeper, suckle a bit harder. Your tongue slides against the loose skin of his sac and he sighs, hand heavy on the back of your head.Ā
"If you can't behave, I'll make you sit out here by yourself, and we both know it will take you so long to calm down that you'll miss dinner." Muttering, he tacks on, "Know how fussy you get when you're hungry."
It's sorely tempting, your disinterest in returning to the shops strong enough you briefly consider trying your luck, but there's no tempting Nik when he's decided you're not going to get a treat no matter how hard you try. Besides, he'll say you're in timeout, which lands just a hair out of bounds on the wrong side of demeaning for you. So you relax your jaw again, let your drool drip past his balls unimpeded. One decision down.
"Ćmnitsa," he hums, and then chuckles quietly when your whole body loosens. Even through the fog of overstimulation, you know that one - have twisted yourself into many knots just to hear it, have never earned it until you let him unwind you from them. You're conditioned by now, the word instantly unclenching something in your belly and letting you sink deeper into the impromptu scene he's crafted for you, the quiet pocket of warmth and silence he's carved into the bitter chaos of holiday shopping. This time you know how to thank him, head resting heavy against the soft flesh over his pelvis as you focus on what he lets you feel, the weight of his hands and the warmth of his thighs, the damp weave of his pants and the scratchiness of the bellyhair that pokes through his shirt. Like this, he fills your mouth better than your own tongue, pliant and soft, pulse a subtle countermeasure to your own. He never started the car - probably thought the hum of the engine and the dry wash of the heat would annoy you. He'd have been right, but you think you'd rather hear that than the lingering notes of jingle bells. Still, it's hard to be mad when he does his best to cover that as well, his quiet, lullaby interrupted sporadically so he can coo about how well you're doing for him, comment absently on how he knew you just needed papa to take care of you. It's enough to keep that small kernel of excitement alive in your belly, popcorn just waiting for its moment over the burner.
You find it when he shifts too much, rousing you from your reverie with a whine which he hushes a bit too loudly, hands a touch too heavy on your scalp when he apologizes. "Sorry, malĆ½shka. I'm only a man."
He chuckles, but you're far enough gone that the words snag on their way through, drift in the lazy stream of your thoughts for a minute before you can catch them, untangle them enough to make sense. And then you're not laughing, letting his cock loll from between your lips with an embarrassingly sloppy sound, a wordless whine following after it as you try to get the cogs of your thoughts to slot together, petting his belly absently as you look up at him.
Nik's so handsome like this, slick hair shining gold and blue in the lot lights, disheveled from where it's been catching on the ceiling because he's far too tall to be folded in the back like this but he's done it anyway. For your benefit, let you use his body even as it probably drove him up a wall to feel the wet heat of your mouth on him, the tight control he's capable of applied here, on himself, denying his own needs because you'd been acting like the babies inside, kept out too late, crying under the fluorescent lights of an apathetic box store as their mothers broke down with them because the last fashion dolly had been snatched up minutes before they'd arrived.
"Please, papa?"
He hums contemplatively, hand slipping down to massage your shoulders. "Please, what, little one?"
"Youā¦ you needā¦?"
Brows arching to his high hairline, Nik takes a minute to settle your cheek against his hip again, turning you just slightly so you rest more firmly against his leg, your hip and shoulder bearing most of your weight. "Do you think you can handle it, radnaja?" he asks, knowing full well that the answer is no, but that you'll ask for it anyway because it's what you want. To be useful, to treat him. To be reduced to some mindless receptacle, not expected to decide between Nerf guns for graceless little nephews who would break them in less than a day anyway.
"Yes. Please, papa. Please. Let me -."
Nik has to snag your wrist to keep you from pawing at him too eagerly, tucking it behind your hip so he can lean forward and pin it there with the hand that slides heavily down your back, the fabric of your puff jacket hissing as the down parts for him. (Only the best and the warmest for his little one.) Leaning forward, his belly blocks out most of the remnant light from behind the tinted windows, lulls you further under with the soft-firm pressure. When his free hand pulls back to adjust himself, you're engulfed completely, lips parting blindly to accept him and huffing when he reprimands you with a gentle squeeze of your wrist for trying to pull more of his length in with your tongue.
"Take what I give, you, malĆ½shka. Nothing more." His voice is warning when it finally registers, gravel deep. As far from soothing as it's been since you snapped at him about gift bags and he made you leave your entire shopping cart in the middle of the stationary aisle, but you want to listen to him so you do, jaw going slack as your tongue simply pulses against him, trying to coax that first drop from his slit.Ā
He doesn't give it to you, not yet anyway. Pumping himself to full hardness with a careless clutch of three fingers without your help at all. Nik makes you squirm until you wear yourself out, quiet pleas falling on deaf ears as he returns to humming absently. At one point you hear his head thump against the back of the headrest and the tune goes thin, ragged. You picture the strong column of his neck, shaded dark with stubble and low light, flexing around the garbled Russian that spills from his lips. It's familiar, somehow, the cadence more than the pitch, but trying to place it when your brain is so fuzzy is like trying to catch a snowflake on your fingernail. Won't happen until you're not trying. So you slip in and out of it, focus more on the way his voice gets reedy if you cup your tongue around his head, give him a nice, warm pad to lay on.Ā
When you rock against the flex of your own thighs, Nik's leg draws close to your front, his knee slotting up to your cunt and you shift until you feel the hard press of your seam on your clit, whining around the intrusion in your mouth just to hear him shush you.Ā
"Said take what I give you, greedy thing. Don't be impatient."
But despite his words, it seems Nik himself is. Hand climbing to the back of your head, he pushes you down until he prods at the back of your throat, bouncing you there until his thigh flexes against your tummy, an odd jump of his quad you've come to know quite well. You hum happily and relax your throat, let him sink past the ring of muscle just to feel the catch, painting your tongue as he pulls back out and orders you not to swallow, whispers how he wants to see. You know what he means anyway, swallowing just enough that you don't make a mess, let it overflow and soak your skin, your clothes, his upholstery.
As if you'd ever waste it.
It's bad. Bitter with the hot coffee he'd had earlier, steam wafting around him as he'd carried the bags piled in the front seat now, hand dwarfing the cup. You rock against your inseam more at the memory than at the taste, listening to the relieved groan he emits as he finally finishes, one last pulse dribbling against your chin as he pulls himself free. You close your mouth as he manhandles you to your knees in front of him, opening again for his inspection when he lets slip a long string of Russian you don't understand. You hear Ćmnitsa a few times between licks to your lips, the overheated skin of your jaw. His grip changes, cradling your face to let you melt into him and you shudder past your last swallow so he can pull you against his chest, showering your crown in kisses and you melt, his voice washing over you, driving the remaining overcrowding in your brain away until it's just that, just being good for him.
It's why you don't quite notice the weight of his palm on your hip, the warmth against your crotch when he drags it lower, content just to let him choose, happy to be pulled along. His fingers are deft on the button of your jeans, the first two fingers of his gloves cut off, allowing him to be nimble. You're done for the second he gets the pad of his middle finger against your clit, working you over until you're gasping against his chest, clutching at his strong arms like some wilting maiden.
You're fawn-legged and docile when he walks you back toward the shops, muttering something about a table at the nice Italian place which goes over your head. In your defense, he's gutted you so thoroughly and stuffed you so full of cotton that the jangling music doesn't even register anymore, let alone his words. Blocked off, plugged up right at the ear, Ćmnitsa left to simmer on the hot plate of your cranial floor instead, drowning out the crunch of snow underfoot and the din of holiday chaos alike. You barely even notice when he ducks close to kiss your temple and says you'll stop for warm cookies after dinner, motioning to a bustling little shop which bursts at the seams with warm light and warmer vanilla. You just nod graciously, somewhat beyond speech.
The restaurant is blessedly quiet, lights dimmed to let the twinkle of their warm icicle lighting set the tone. The colors are muted, too. Quiet creams and golds, deep reds which settle you further into your own softness. The spell briefly lifts when you spot your other date, the silver in his beard catching the low light fetchingly. Stumbling ahead of Nik, you duck past the newspaper he's reading and plant a soft kiss on his whiskery cheek. "Sorry for being a brat, daddy," you whisper, folding yourself into the seat next to him so you can rest your head on his strong shoulder.Ā
John just hums, folding his reading material up as Nik sits on your other side. You can't see the captain's face, but you can almost hear the curl of his lip when he speaks to Nik, voice mildly annoyed by the stickiness he must have caught on your lips, but soft nonetheless. Just for the two of them. "Bad one, was it?"
You'd be embarrassed, if Nik was. "Would not go under for me. All I could think to do. Practically begged for it."
"You spoil her," John chastises, but it's rich coming from someone who's got the contents of your abandoned shopping cart bagged and hidden under the table. You give his shoulder a kiss and his big palm finds your thigh, warm and soothing.
"Well, it worked."
"That's true." John squeezes your leg, voice taking on a patronizing tone as he addresses you for the first time. "You're a lot sweeter when you're not throwing a fit."
"Wasn't a fit," you grumble, but it would be no use trying to describe your state, and you've no words to do so besides.
John just grunts noncommittally, tips his menu your way. "Well, what do you want, sweet -?"
"I've got it," Nik interjects, barely even deigning to look away from his own booklet.Ā
"You've got it?"
"You want the pork milanese, yes, malĆ½shka?"
Unconcerned with what it means when Nik's thick accent sifts through Italian, you just nod. You're hungry enough not to be picky, anyway. They lapse into a stretch of silence after, for which you're a little grateful. Especially when Nik takes up his humming again, voice lilting through and adding to the orchestral score which plays softly overhead and now you hear it with the alto added in, you recognize it for what it is, voice climbing perilously close to angered after how hard he'd just worked to settle you.
"Were you singing me Christmas music back there?"
oh, and three's assassination attempt ended with:
but price just wants to keep winding you up, 'they're not going to the car. they're going to sit here and we're going to enjoy a meal as a family'
>:)
also, there exists a fully written version of this which culminated in a human urinal scene instead cause i wanted to to treat myself so lmk if anyone is interested in that version
ā°ā .š„ Ż Ė MDNI/18+ ONLY, f!curvy!reader x nikprice
oh to be the plump little treat devoured by nik and price. sandwiched between two bulky, beefy, bears of men. kept warm by their burly chests, both their bodies pressed into your sides. their whiskers tickle your cheeks and ears, murmuring accented praise through kisses and long drags of cigars. all while thick, corded arms wrap around you from all angles, eager hands searching, squeezing -- savoring how deliciously ripe your plush thighs are...and then your tummy, your tits, your ass...
it's so hard to focus :( smoke utterly hazes the room, that spicy, oaky smell so heady it slows your breath. and when he deems you relaxed enough, price gently grabs you by the chin and kisses you deep, tonguing you into subservience and exhaling into your mouth while nik sucks at the side of your throat. ugh their musk, their whiskeyed breaths that they pant and grunt against your skin as they use you at the same time...oh you're sure to reek of them by the end of this.
Oh my gosh. I just found this website that walks you though creating a believable society. It breaks each facet down into individual questions and makes it so simple! It seems really helpful for worldbuilding!
Heads up that this is a very extensive questionnaire and might be daunting to a lot of writers (myself included). That being said, it is also an amazing questionnaire and I will definitely be using it (or at the very least, some of it).
"How do you plan on securing an invite to an exclusive, heavily guarded black market auction?"
"Well, you donāt necessarily need an invitation, per se."
THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITERāS DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES IāVE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMNĀ IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT IāM USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS
