John’s stamina was forged in the fires of endless ops, a battle-hardened SAS captain who could stay up for three days straight and work like clockwork. Of course he takes advantage of his strength while he’s fucking you, slamming into you with savage force as he flips you like a ragdoll, pounding your pussy raw across every filthy angle until your fourth orgasm leaves you a quivering mess, cunt spasming and gushing around his shaft. You slumped forward, body drenched in sticky perspiration, your oversensitive walls twitching with aftershocks that had you biting your lip to stifle the sobs of overwhelmed bliss. Your tits heaved with each gasp, nipples scraped raw against the sheets, and a deep, bone-melting exhaustion settled in, but the filthy hunger in your core kept you clenching, desperate for his next invasion despite the burn.
Price growled low, his massive frame looming over you, veins bulging on his forearms as he gripped your thighs, his cock throbbing against your slick inner leg, smeared with your juices and his own leaking precum. The musky stench of sex hung heavy—cum, sweat, and your arousal mixing into a heady fog that made his balls tighten with fresh need. Seeing you wrecked like this—your cunt puffy and gaping slightly from his abuse—sent a dark thrill through him; he wanted to soil you more, mark every inch as his.
“I'm just getting started”, he grins, voice thick with lust, the words hitting you like a slap to your clit, making it throb painfully. Before you can even whimper in response he shoves your face into the sheets “stay there” he orders, voice rough and demanding. You stay still, fingers gripping the sheets as his rough hands pried your ass cheeks apart. Cool air immediately hit your soaked holes, your thighs trembling as his previous load oozed from your pussy, trailing down to coat your clit and pool on the bed. Your mouth watered involuntarily, tongue lolling out as the humiliation twisted into heat, your body a slick, filthy offering.
He drank in the sight, eyes dark with possession—your arched back forcing your ass up high, cheeks spread wide to show off the creamy mess he left inside, your holes glistening under the soft light of the bedroom like they beg for more abuse. “Look at that, leaking my load like a proper whore,” he rasped, admiration laced with dirtiness, before his palm smacked down hard on your ass, making you jolt and whine “John!”. The pain sparked straight to your core, nerves firing wildly, and you ground back against nothing, chasing the degradation.
“I can't—” you gasped, voice muffled and broken, nails digging into the mattress as tears of overstimulation pricked your eyes. “Come on, love, just one more for me. Can you be a good girl and give me one more?” he cooed, his beard scraping your skin as he leaned in, hot breath fanning your exposed flesh. You nodded frantically in need of his approval, arching your back further into him, “that’s my girl”.
But he couldn’t help himself, not when you moaned his name so prettily, not with your fucked up expression and hazy eyes looking at him so sweetly, not with how gorgeous your cunt looked stretched out around his dick. He needed to see you cum until you physically couldn’t.
Price is a man of strength and stamina, and a liar whenever he says “just one more”.
All you can feel is John. The soft bristles of his beard rub against the nape of your neck. His hairy, warm body pressed against your back. His large, strong hands, one holding your thigh, the other gently squeezing your tits.
Soft, breathy moans escape you. John lazily fucks his cock into you. You could so easily fall asleep like this. It's just so comforting, being wrapped in John's arms. Of course, the way his cock rubs against your G-spot helps.
You squeak softly when John pinches your nipple, breaking you out of your haze. John laughs roughly in your ear.
"Can't have ya fallin' asleep on my cock, baby. Ah- fuck, ya feel good." John groans, steadily grinding his cock into you. "Yer doin' good, darling."
You moan, high and needy. John pulls your thigh back and over his, spreading you open for him, giving him access to your clit. He gently rubs, making sure that you feel good, too.
Your orgasm sneaks up on you with no warning. You convulse, choking on whines. John fucks you through it, gently, slowly. He's not even fucking you, really. He's making love to you.
John spills inside you with a strangled groan, and he stays there. You let him. It's a Saturday anyway, you can afford a nap.
summary: nobody expects the frat boy and the chubby, nerdy girl to ever look in each others’ direction. but who cares what people expect?
word count: 3.5k
contains: fluff & smut. frat clark the wonderful gorgeous sassy little gentleman, reader is a weird literary nerd, lois lane being kickass propaganda. college kids being pretentious to turn each other on, my fav. some talk of drinking/being drunk, fraternity parties. clark and reader uhaul lesbian tf outta each other, first kiss/boyfriend trope. *piv, protected sex, light and bubbly and sweet because ughhhh… *no use of y/n
a/n: well yes, @intwoweeks ! i love frat clark, if you guys want more i will definitely do more with him– fics, blurbs, whatevs. hope you like ;)
————————————͙͘͡★———————————
If we asked anyone to explain how you and Clark Kent went well together, they would be at a loss for words. From the outside, it just… didn’t make sense. But then again, neither of you really made sense as individuals. That is, you didn’t fit into boxes in the way college kids like to.
Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark.
And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one.
It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?
You and Clark worked from the beginning.
He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.
—͙͘͡★—
“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…
“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout.
Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”
You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”
Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”
With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”
“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.
He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off.
All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…
“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”
“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”
“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.
You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”
“What, you think I’m an idiot?”
“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted.
Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”
“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”
“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”
By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname.
—͙͘͡★—
It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless.
You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”
And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight.
You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest.
It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter.
He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin.
Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…
—͙͘͡★—
“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”
Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought.
You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”
“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.
You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out.
“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”
“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”
“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely.
“I love you,” you countered.
“Yeah?”
“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”
“Maybe.”
“What would I be?”
“My girlfriend.”
“And you’d be my boyfriend,”
“Hopefully.”
“And you want that?”
“Sure I do.”
“You don’t think I'm fat?”
“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”
“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”
“That’s fine,” a kiss.
“I might get needy,”
“Mm, please do…” a nip.
Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”
“So do I.”
“I vote in every election,”
“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.
“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”
“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”
“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”
“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”
“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”
“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”
“Oh, god… yes.”
“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”
—͙͘͡★—
So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face.
It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips.
Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:
—͙͘͡★—
You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.
Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?
And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks.
“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”
You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”
His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway.
You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses.
“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”
You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”
—͙͘͡★—
No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library.
He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”
Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair.
Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too.
He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up.
It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.
And you know what? It didn’t have to make sense. You two were the odd couple. Soulmates exist like flames in the eyes of girls who float in the wind. He was yours, backwards hat and all, and there was nothing easier than that.
I just conjured the juiciest, most self-indulgent cross-over of an idea ever that I don’t know if anyone would read but…
Imagine being a military medic, a nurse in the British SAS, you know John Price well, his reputation as the Captain of the 141 preceding him. But, after tagging along on a campaign here and there you’ve grown close to him like most men you’ve worked with and pieced back together in the military. Just maybe edging into knowing him too well with the half-jokes and half-flirts you share.
Enter Jack Abbot, the combat medic you meet when the 141 has to cooperate with an American branch during an operation. You hit it off well, being in the same field within the military, sharing war stories. He’s painfully American in some aspects, but so unlike his patrons in other ways. And something about him, maybe that he’s closer to your age despite his hair already having greyed, makes you excited to spend downtime between missions with him.
Now, Price and Abbot aren’t stupid, they have eyes, they’re men, they know they have one thing in common: you. They give each other cordial nods and tight-lipped smiles, but they recognise the look in the other man’s eyes, in they why their jaws work when the other interrupts a conversation and the smugness radiating in the air when they successfully gain your attention.
You’re not clueless either, you’ve worked long enough with soldiers to see when they’re peacocking. But you never thought that Price and Abbot’s friendly, but highly competitive, rivalry would end with you between them. Price’s hands on your hips, lips pressed against your ear, his beard scratching your skin, accent thick like it always gets during exertion, ”Think the Yankee fucks ye better, love?” Meanwhile, Abbot’s fingers grip your chin, gentle but firmly making you face him, that gaze that always burns into yours, ”Baby, I’m not against proving another Englishman he’s wrong,” he says with that barely there smile and tip of his head.
task force 141 finding a pregnant and scared reader in a zombie apocalypse… 💭
(mature content, pregnancy and dead people!)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
in the quiet hush of what used to be a world full of noise and life, you had somehow managed to carve out a fragile, solitary existence in your isolated cabin. it was nestled deep in the dense woods of what had once been rural georgia, a place far removed from the crumbling cities and highways where the dead now roamed in endless, groaning hordes…
the apocalypse had erupted like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from, a virus that spread through bites and scratches, turning people into mindless shamblers. their skin would gray and flake away over time, their eyes turning a milky white, empty and eternally hungry.
not all of them were the slow, dragging types you’d seen in old zombie movies, some of the freshly turned ones moved with a frantic, almost desperate speed, lunging with agility that could catch you off guard before their bodies fully decayed and stiffened.
but most, after a day or two, devolved into that familiar shuffle, drawn relentlessly by any sound, any scent of the living, or the slightest movement in their blurred vision.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
you’d been surviving here for months now, exactly five months into this hellish new reality, and every day felt like a battle won against impossible odds. the cabin itself had been yours long before the world ended, a cozy weekend getaway you’d inherited from your grandparents after they passed away peacefully in their old age. it wasn’t anything fancy, just a single story wooden structure with weathered logs that creaked in the wind, a wraparound porch that overlooked a small, overgrown clearing encircled by towering pines and oaks that whispered secrets in the breeze.
you’d managed to rig up a couple of solar panels on the slanted roof, salvaged from a nearby abandoned farm, providing just enough intermittent power to run a single lamp in the evenings or charge the old radio that mostly spat out static and the occasional garbled emergency broadcast that hadn’t updated in years. water came from a rusty hand pumped well out back, and you’d learned the hard way to boil every drop over a small fire pit to kill off whatever contaminants might lurk in it.
inside the cabin, it felt like a stubborn holdout of normalcy against the encroaching decay of the world outside. the walls were painted a soft, faded blue, the color reminiscent of clear summer skies you’d almost forgotten, and they were adorned with framed photographs of your family from better times, smiles captured at birthdays, holidays, and lazy sunday picnics.
some of the frames were dusty now, but you wiped them clean every few weeks, a ritual that kept the memories alive. scattered among them were wildflowers you’d picked from the woods in the early days, pressed flat under glass and hung as simple decorations, their petals still holding hints of purple and yellow even as they dried. one shelf in the living room held your collection of books, escapes that had become lifelines in the silence. classics like jane austen’s pride and prejudice, where you could lose yourself in witty banter and romantic entanglements that felt worlds away from your reality, or stephen king’s the stand, which now read like a chilling prophecy with its tales of a post apocalyptic plague.
the spines were worn thin from rereads, pages yellowed and dog eared where you’d paused to savor a line or let tears fall unchecked.
your bedroom was the most intimate space, simple and unadorned. a double bed with crisp white sheets that you’d washed by hand in a basin outside, hanging them to dry on lines strung between trees. in one corner, you’d improvised a crib from an old dresser drawer, lining it with the softest blankets you could find, stuffing pillows around the edges for cushioning. it stood empty for now, a silent promise or perhaps a looming worry, waiting for the baby that was growing steadily inside you.
surviving alone in this setup hadn’t been easy, especially not with the pregnancy that had complicated everything. it stemmed from an encounter you tried hard not to dwell on, a night in the chaotic early days of the outbreak when you’d been part of a loose group of survivors scavenging for supplies in the ruins of a small town. the man had been one of them, tall and rough edged with a jagged scar across his cheek and eyes shadowed by too much loss and desperation.
it happened in the dim back room of an abandoned convenience store, a moment born out of fear and the raw need for human connection amid the horror. it wasn’t violent, but it wasn’t right either, consent blurred by the adrenaline and the unspoken understanding that tomorrow might not come.
he’d vanished with the rest of the group the next morning, leaving you alone with the dawning realization weeks later when the nausea struck like a wave, morning sickness that had you vomiting into the underbrush as you fled to the cabin. your body changed gradually, breasts tender, belly swelling under your loose fitting shirts, and the first flutters of movement confirmed what you already knew deep down. no pregnancy tests survived the looting, but the signs were undeniable, a life forming amid death.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
adapting had been your only option. you’d turned foraging into a meticulous routine, venturing out at dawn when the shamblers were often less active, gathering blackberries and wild strawberries from thorny bushes in the summer months, their tart sweetness a rare treat. roots like dandelions and cattails were dug up with a small trowel, boiled into nutritious if bland soups. you’d studied a survival guide from the cabin’s attic, learning to set snares for rabbits and squirrels, skinning them with your knife on a flat rock outside, cooking the meat slowly over the fire pit to preserve every bit of protein.
water was pumped daily, boiled in a large cast iron pot, then cooled and stored in glass jugs lined up on the kitchen counter. to avoid the dead, you’d reinforced the doors with heavy wooden bars each night, sleeping fitfully with your knife clutched under the pillow and a pistol, its magazine holding only six bullets now, resting on the nightstand within easy reach.
mornings were dedicated to the tiny garden you’d scratched out behind the cabin, a patch of fertile soil where you’d planted potatoes and carrots from seeds scavenged from an old hardware store. you’d weed it carefully, hands sinking into the cool earth, feeling the sun warm your back as you whispered encouragements to the sprouting greens, as if your words could coax them to grow faster.
it was therapeutic, that connection to the soil, a reminder that not everything was lost. afternoons passed in quieter pursuits, mending clothes with a needle and thread from your grandmother’s sewing kit, patching holes in jeans or darning socks that had worn thin from constant use. or you’d read, curling up on the couch with a book, your free hand resting on your belly, feeling the baby’s kicks that started as gentle flutters and grew into insistent nudges, each one a spark of hope and terror.
“you’re strong, little one.” you’d murmur, imagining a future where you could teach her to read these same books, where the world might heal enough for laughter and play.
but the isolation gnawed at you, especially as the months stretched on. at three months, the bump was barely noticeable, but by four, it was undeniable, and now at five, it protruded enough to make bending over a chore.
the baby kicked more vigorously, a fighter’s spirit that made you smile through the ache. you’d talk to her in the quiet hours, spinning stories of fairy tales and adventures, promising a world better than this one, even as doubts whispered in your mind.
how would you deliver alone? what if complications arose? the cabin was safe for now, its location remote enough to avoid most herds, but it felt like a fragile bubble, one loud noise or bad luck away from bursting.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
that sense of unease had been building for days, but today, it peaked. it was late afternoon, the sun hanging low in the sky, painting the woods in golden hues and casting long, eerie shadows across the clearing. you were in the kitchen, standing over the wood stove, stirring a pot of vegetable stew made from your garden’s harvest, carrots and potatoes simmered with a handful of wild onions you’d foraged. the aroma filled the small space, comforting in its simplicity, and you hummed a half remembered tune under your breath, one hand on your belly as the baby shifted lazily. a kick landed squarely against your palm, and you chuckled softly. “easy there, kiddo. dinner’s almost ready.”
then, the sound cut through the peace, a distant crunch of leaves under boots, not the mindless drag of shambler feet, but purposeful steps, multiple pairs, at least four. your spoon clattered against the pot’s edge as your heart leaped into your throat. straining to listen, you heard low voices carried on the wind, accents that sounded british, clipped and military like. survivors. your mind raced with possibilities, raiders? scouts? in this world, the living could be far more dangerous than the dead. you’d encountered groups before, shadowy figures testing your defenses from afar, but you’d always hidden or fired warning shots to drive them off.
panic flooded your veins like cold water.
you snatched your knife from the counter, its handle familiar and reassuring in your grip, and quickly extinguished the stove’s flame with a puff of breath, snuffing out any telltale smoke. moving as silently as your pregnant body allowed, you slipped into the bedroom, heart pounding so loudly you feared they’d hear it. the closet was your go to hiding spot, a narrow alcove behind hanging coats and stacked boxes of canned goods.
you pulled the door almost shut, leaving just a thin slit to peer through, knife raised in one hand while the other cradled your belly protectively. “shh, baby, stay still…” you whispered silently, the baby obliging with a gentle roll that felt like reassurance. sweat beaded on your forehead as the front door creaked open slowly, the lock you’d never bothered to fix giving way easily.
“entry clear.” came a voice with a thick scottish accent, rough but alert. “no walkers inside. but this place is lived in, lads. look at the setup, fresh herbs drying, books arranged neat like. someone’s turned this into a proper home.”
a deeper, gruffer voice replied, laced with caution. “stay sharp, soap. could be a trap or ambush. fan out and check the rooms.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
their footsteps echoed through the cabin, deliberate and trained, not the clumsy stomps of desperate looters. you heard the kitchen drawers being opened carefully, the quilt in the living room being lifted and set back down. then, the bedroom door swung inward, and your breath caught. through the slit, you saw him, a man with a distinctive mohawk, stubble shadowing his jaw, blue eyes sharp as they scanned the room.
he was dressed in tactical gear, a vest bulging with ammo and tools, a rifle slung across his back. his gaze landed on the closet, and he approached slowly, hand on the door knob.
the door flew open, light spilling in, and his eyes widened as they met yours, taking in your curled position, the knife brandished defensively, your swollen belly obvious even in the shadows.
“whoa, easy there, lass!” he said, hands raising slowly in a gesture of peace, his rifle remaining shouldered to show no threat. “i’m not here to hurt you. name’s johnny mactavish, but they call me soap. you the one living here?”
you froze, adrenaline surging, eyes flicking over his face for signs of deceit. he looked hardened by the world, scars on his knuckles and a faint one above his eyebrow, but his expression was one of genuine surprise, not malice. trust was a rare commodity, but something in his open palms kept you from lunging.
“get out.” you hissed, voice low and trembling with fear and defiance. “this is my house. leave.”
once john price realizes you've been sucking in your stomach around him–oof. are you in for it...
in for it being him purchasing an enormous mirror to hang against your bedroom wall so he can rail you at all angles possible. each position john contorts you in never strays too far from the reflection he orders you to observe, your sweaty body and bouncing every pound of his hips. the mattress bobs along with you as john loses himself in every part of you. completely drunk and half-gone at the sight of you moving the way you do. rambling at the shell of your ear with slurred words and hot pants.
"'m hurt, love. been hidin' yourself from me."
"s'the end of that now, tho, huh?"
"see that? hm? all soft 'n plush f'me. just like i like ya..."
"don't want you doin' that shite anymore. want all of you... wanna see all of you. all the time. understand?"
The unintended side effect of your desk being moved to a central location…more people got to hear what the boys were saying to you.
One morning, Soap gave a particularly loud and proud “hey, sexy!”
…and that’s how you landed here…in HR.
The five of you sat sheepishly in the mismatched chairs (they had to bring in more and squeeze them in for you all to fit) in front of the desk for the head of the HR department.
“Now, sweetie…if these men are making you uncomfortable, you need to let someone know. Help is always available.”
Someone snorted and was quickly shot a nasty glare.
Your face is hot. Even as a kid, you didn’t like getting in trouble. Just being called to the counselors office (it always ended up being for an award or something, never you in trouble) would make you cry, so this situation was highly uncomfortable.
“No…no it’s fine.” You were looking at your folded hands in your lap, but spared a quick glance up. She did not look impressed. You straightened and tried to speak louder, “really! I’m fine…I’m not…uncomfortable…”
Can you just say…if this was truly a situation where you were being made uncomfortable, being in the same room as the perpetrators talking about it would not make you feel better. But what do you know, you’re not HR.
She leans forward on the desk, looking over her eyeglasses to you and stage whispers like the boys somehow can’t hear it, “you’re comfortable…being called sexy.”
You were going to die.
Truly, this had to be your final resting place. You could not think of a more embarrassing situation. Because for all your fussing when they talk to you…it really does make you feel nice. Wanted. Appreciated…not invisible…and they’re quite attractive too.
But now you had to sit here—in front of them!—and admit that you liked when they called you sexy! How humiliating was this!
You purse your lips, “yes.”
Gaz is pulling his cap further down and covering his mouth with his hand, trying to hide how he’s about to burst out laughing. The captain is trying to remain composed as well, seeing as he’s the captain and by all means should be fearing for his job right now! Instead, he’s just smug, crossing his arms and looking at you expectantly. Soap is unabashedly beaming at you (probably in some weird way proud that he was the one that landed the lot of you here). And Simon still has his mask on, but at some point during the meeting he tossed his arm over the back of your chair like some ‘fuck you’ to this HR lady…which for the record is a horrible idea.
She leans back, adjusts her glasses, and picks her pen back up, writing something down on some form. “Well, alright then, hun. I can’t keep askin’, but I can write you all up for some mandatory training.”
That finally mellows them out. “…training?” Price finally asks.
“Mhmmm,” she rips a paper out of her book and slides it to him.
“Harassment in the workplace…” he reads out.
That’s the final straw, your face falls into your hands to hide your embarrassment. “I’m fine!” You mumble out behind them.
“That well may be, sweetheart, but you’ll still be going to this training.”
And that’s how you find yourself here. In a damp room in the basement on a Saturday. Like this is some adult version of detention and you’re all the fucked up Breakfast Club replacements.
The instructor doesn’t look like he wants to be here either as he pulls the projector screen up and down trying to get it to stick in the right position.
On…a different note. This is the first time you’ve seen the boys out of uniform. And as much as you do love the uniform…there’s certainly an appeal to their civvies. Something about Simon Riley in a leather jacket and the captain in a brown Carharrt is invoking images of motorcycles and early mornings on a farm…
“Good morning, sweet’eart,” Price snaps you out of your reverie, placing a to-go cup in front of you.
“Uh, uh! No pet names! We will be covering that!” The instructor briefly looks up from his computer and points a finger at John.
Price shoots him a side-eye before just looking back at you.
You stare at the cup like you’ve never seen one before. “Did…did you bring me coffee?”
“In fact, I did.” Again, his stupid smug mug is back…but still, you are very grateful.
“Thank you.” You say reluctantly.
Despite the size of the table in this presentation room, the boys fill in the seats immediately next to you, which you’re sure concerns the instructor.
Again, Simon’s arm somehow finds its way onto the back of your chair, which earns him a glare.
The instructor goes over the basics of what counts as harassment and where to report it before he gets to an activity portion where you need the brainstorm some examples.
Soap raises his hand and you’re already preparing for the worst. “So…for example…if I was to tell the wee bird that those jeans do wonders for—“
“Yes! Sergeant…that would count.” He cuts him off.
Soap just nods like he deeply understands, “right, yes, that makes sense.”
“And if I were to—hypothetically—ask the sweet thing on a date—“ Kyle joins in on the torture of the instructor.
“Yes! That would be inappropriate!”
Every suggestion you’re sinking further into your seat with your mind sent reeling. Would Kyle actually ask you out? Would any of them?
“Is it safe to assume touching is off the table?” Simon sneaks his arm off your chair and onto your shoulders.
“It is! Remove that arm, young man!”
“Right…so just to clarify…no calling our sweetheart, sweetheart.” John jumps in.
“No! You just did it, captain! Have any of you been paying attention?” He looks on the verge of a heart attack.
“Oh, yes we have. We were just making sure we understood.” John gives him his shit-eating grin and suddenly the boys are all on their best behaviors.
For the rest of the seminar, no complements, no touches, no innuendos. You’re almost inclined to believe you imagined the whole thing.
The instructor wraps up, giving you all the green-light, and seeming very proud of the progress they made.
Finally, he makes his exit.
Immediatley, they’re on you like vultures.
Simon’s arm wraps back around your shoulders while John picks up your cup to throw away. Kyle shoulders your bag and Johnny grabs your coat for you.
4:30 pm—your last appointment of the day at Hung and Wrung Donor Centre.
As you walk along the sterile corridor, feet tapping against the marble, you check your next client's details on your tablet.
Mr John Price, 42, 6ft7, half-orc.
Orcs, or even half-orcs, admittedly, weren't your favourite clients.
Their brusque nature was something you learned to handle as your skin thickened whilst working here. But when you were new at your job and nervous around every client, it had been an Orc who had made your experience miserable, an Orc who tried to get you sacked while on probation.
But this half-orc was older, probably wiser, and hopefully nowhere near as much of an arsehole as those previous clients.
Before the door to the collection room, you take a deep breath, determined to approach Mr Price with the same courtesy and professionalism you extend to every client.
You knock on the door and wait to be welcomed in.
"Hello, Mr Price," you call out as you step into the room, only to be taken aback as soon as you lay eyes on the man.
What catches your eye first is just how fucking handsome he is, so annoyingly your type.
Many humans detest the orcish and their looks, but their brutish appearance only draws you in under their spell, especially when, like the man before you, those fearsome features are paired with such kind eyes.
Two polished tusks jut out from his lower jaw, arching over fluffy facial hair that adds a commanding stature to an already striking face. And if that wasn't bad enough, the rest of him was unbelievable.
Working in a monster specimen collection facility wasn't the easiest thing in the world for most people. Despite the clinical use of various monster specimens and how they contribute to your species' medicine, most humans saw it as difficult work, but more than anything, dirty work. Though the dirty aspect is what you liked most about it.
It's not unusual for humans with a monster attraction to take up a post here, and as long as professional boundaries are maintained, such individuals are encouraged to apply.
It had started for you as a simple curiosity combined with a way to make ends meet, and had exposed you to a whole other side of life.
For you, though, your attraction made things complicated, as there was more than one occasion you rather liked the client you found in your collection chair.
Today was different. Mr John Price had you completely floored.
Most clients opt to strip down below the waist and cover themselves until the last possible moment, but John Price was not most clients. The privacy sheet was still folded neatly on the rolling table, and the glory of John Price's cock was bared for all to see.
Or, in this case, just you, and your greedy eyes.
Your gaze trails down from his face, taking in his hulking shoulders and arms, his full and muscular middle, and how both strain the fabric of a t-shirt that you could use as a tent.
Between two hairy, muscular thighs awaits his colossal cock, nestled beneath a thatch of full hair. Thick from base to tip, ridged in all the right places, pale green like the rest of him until it reaches the tip, which looks more ruddy in colour.
He's already leaking, flowing actually, his full balls barely able to contain what he has to offer. It might just be the most beautiful cock you've ever seen.
Today, you love your job.
A lot of orcs prefer a fellow monster to conduct their collections, their larger hands working more efficiently at the process.
You only hope you don't disappoint Mr Price too much as you take a seat on the rolling stool before him, and try to play off your blatant inspection of his form.
"Hi, darling," he greets, voice impossibly low, the polite smile on his face matching yours.
Darling, the word reverberates around your skull, ping ponging from side to side and rattling your brain with it. You need to get it together, and fast.
You avert your gaze back to your tablet, quickly tapping through the information and pretending to be doing something.
"Nice to meet you. I see it's your first time?" You set the pad down now, knowing the diversion won't save you. When you look back up to him, his eyes are already fixed on you.
Heavy, imposing, just like his figure.
"Sure is," he nods quickly, before readjusting like he's trying to get more comfortable. His arms cross his chest, his legs widen further, posture all confident, almost cocky.
It takes everything within you to keep your customer-facing smile plastered on your face when really you just want to bite your lip and let the man know just how much you're struggling.
"Okay, let me know if anything is not to your liking at any time." You roll around the room on your stool, running through a mental checklist before you get started.
The room has been expertly prepped, as usual, by the technicians, but you have your own checks to conduct before you can continue.
Silence settles over the room, with your client not opting to fill it. Usually, more nervous clients will ask questions or chatter away to fill the void. John Price is clearly confident in both his skin and his silence.
It's worth asking now how he'd like to proceed.
You turn to him, face burning as his gaze is still fixed on you, watching your every move. "Would you prefer a quiet session, or a conversation and explanation of the process?"
His brow twitches in thought, but his response is quick and decisive.
"Talk me through it, love," he requests.
Surely he knows what he's doing, surely he's making it harder on purpose.
"Yes, sir," you mutter back, adding the formality as a way to remind yourself that this man is a client, that you are about to perform a specimen collection, not a sex act. "Everything is all cleaned and sanitised on my end. I just need to put my gloves on."
At that, he huffs. "No gloves."
Some despise the sensation, prefer the skin-on-skin contact, the more personal touch.
"Okay, Mr Price." You offer him a shaky grin, hoping not to betray your hesitation.
Another layer of professionalism stripped away can only spell trouble for you. This whole time, you've had to steady yourself to not stare at his weeping cock, a first since your trial week.
You turn away again, missing the pleased smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips.
"Even though you're uncut, I'd still like to use some lube, if that's okay?" you ask over your shoulder.
"Perfect," he replies.
You move to the large pump on the wall, decanting some lube into a smaller container, which you then press into the specially made heating apparatus. "I'm just warming it up first," you explain.
You hear John's amused huff. "VIP treatment, it seems." His tone is dry but teasing, an easy humour tumbling out from him.
"Some facilities are very subpar," you shrug, not thinking much of the comment at first, before you start to worry about the impression it gives. You glance back over your shoulder, catching the man's smirk, and still, he's watching you.
Any other client and you'd be unnerved, but with John Price, you don't think you mind.
"I don't just say that because I work here," you offer up in addition, hoping not to seem petty with your comment directed at the other facilities.
John just watches you until he turns away, offering no judgement or admonishment. "You like your job?"
"Well enough. Most of the clients are great." The heater dings, and you draw the container from the apparatus to test the temperature--a perfect warmth that you hope pleases John.
"Good."
One last check of your collection equipment, the suction apparatus and the collection tank, and you wheel back before the man, taking residence between his legs, just inches from where his cock is hanging, waiting for you.
A deep breath, a thick swallow, and then you're ready to look him in the eye without betraying your hunger or your rapidly slipping professional facade.
"Are you ready, Mr Price?"
"Born ready, love."
Admittedly, you might have rushed then, eager to lube up your hands and get to work so you have something to focus on other than the intense look in John's eye.
You focus on the head first, slathering it in a generous application of thick lube.
"Fuck," he hisses as soon as your small hands struggle to wrap around the tip.
Such reactions weren't uncommon, especially for first timers, but your own burst of arousal was intense and unfamiliar. You feel your hands tremble, your mouth begins to water, as your mind swirls with forbidden thoughts.
Still, you persist, focusing on your job. John, or your supervisors, don't need to know you're enjoying every second of it.
You work your hands down the thick shaft, needing both to encompass all that the orc has to offer. Your smooth skin meets his ridges, and you try not to notice the way John shudders in his chair or how the leather of the armrests squeaks under his grip.
Fuck.
When all of his length is coated and slick, you get to work, stroking from base to tip with generous, firm tugs that echo throughout the room with your fervour.
You can't look up at the man's face, instead spying his posture for feedback on your performance. The muscles in his thighs clench as his cock twitches under your reverent touch.
"Is the speed and pressure okay for you, Mr Price?" Your question comes out unsteady, breath hitching, hopefully in a way only you notice.
John groans, low and resonant, before he seems to remember his words. "Perfect, love." His voice is deeper, already strained with need, and his use of that sweet name once more has you spiralling.
"If that changes, let me know," you whisper quickly, falling silent before you're left whimpering yourself.
Orc cocks might be your favourite, or maybe it's just John's that has caused such an opinion to form.
They're ridged and pebbled, impossibly thick and accompanied by a small, rigid nub that sits atop the base, which looked perfect to stimulate a clit. An interesting anatomical fact considering female orcs' clitorises are located internally.
You've never taken an orc cock, never taken a monster cock at all, but you know John's would be divine--the push and stretch, the depths it would reach.
No human could compare; you know you'd be ruined forever. On top of his gorgeous physique, something about the man screams patience, experience.
Your mind wanders to how he would prep you to take him, stretch you out on thick orc fingers with talons filed just for you. The thought is dizzying, your body overheating with the sheer need you feel flooding you.
Your core is tight, your cunt dripping in your panties, and your thighs clenching, but at least you can channel such energy into worshipping the divine cock before you.
It's the perfect fit for both hands, heavy and wide, but just right in that your fingers barely touch when wrapping around it. John's foreskin makes for easy stimulation, and you quickly notice how much the man enjoys the focus you apply to the head.
You're thankful that specimen collection is usually a quiet affair, as you worry that opening your mouth to speak would have drool dripping from your tongue and down onto the floor.
You want to take him in your mouth, to taste him, to greedily steal all of his cum for yourself instead. One encounter and you're already insatiable.
How would such a mammoth appendage even fit in your mouth? Would you simply suckle at the tip, delighting in John's reaction to such a sensitive act? Would he gently coax your jaw to open, stuff you full until he could fit no more? Would he use your whole face to fuck, to rub his lubed-up cock over you until you're snuggled up to the base, nuzzled into his balls?
His cock is bigger than your head, wider than your mouth, surely.
Still, you want it.
You know your thoughts spill out into your touch when the orc beneath you growls, feral and satisfied.
It's a delicious feedback loop--your desire fuels your touch, which draws inhuman growls that blow your spark of arousal into a roaring fire.
Never mind want; it's a need.
"What about your balls, would you like them played with?" Offering such an act is at the clinician's discretion, and is usually one you only resort to when needed. This is more for you than him.
But then a strangled noise leaves his throat, his jaw clenched. "Please."
How can you resist that?
You move downwards slowly, caressing every inch before you move to John's balls. His sack hangs low with how full and heavy he is, how much he has to give. Cupping them in your hand, you carefully roll them around, appreciating the weight, the texture, the way they tighten as you play.
You work the balls and shaft in tandem then, arms growing weak from the strength needed to stimulate such an appendage--but it's a sweet burn, one you'd endure forever as long as you get to see John’s reactions.
The way his nostrils flare as he grunts heavily, his chest rising and falling like a tidal wave with each pump of your hand, the jolt of his thick thigh muscles.
It's dizzying, intoxicating, addictive.
"Love." His grunt draws your attention, and his expression looks downright tortured.
You don't need to know the man to know he's right there, right on the edge, and so soon too. "Are you close?"
His eyes screw shut, his tusks digging into his upper lip. "Right there."
"I'm just going to collect it with this." You move quickly, one hand remaining on John while the other grabs the suction tool and seals it over the head of his cock, ready to collect.
"Gonna come for you, little one." His eyes flash open, his head hangs low, and he roars, as he shoots rope after rope of thick cum, emptying himself of everything he has. He convulses and shakes as you stroke him through it, milking him of every last drop.
"Yeah, you're doing great," you whisper, unable to stop yourself, as your eyes glance between John's deliciously enraptured expression and the rapidly filling collection tank. "Give it to me."
Your words spur him on for one last push, dick convulsing in the suction device as he truly empties out. He's going to set a record, you think.
His head falls back into the chair with a thud, his body going limp and boneless--he looks ethereal, blissed out and spent as you pull away and remove the suction.
It's just a shame that it's over.
"Would you like me to clean you, or would you prefer to do it yourself?" you ask quietly, already knowing which answer you would prefer him to give.
"Please," he says, gesturing to his softening cock.
His size doesn't change much as the blood drains away, and you wonder how he walks around with that thing dangling there all the time.
You fetch a cloth, run it under the hot tap, before returning to clean John of cum and lube. You start at his balls, which hang looser and seem less full now he's been drained--the thought makes you prickle with satisfaction.
Once he's clean there, you move up the shaft, carefully caressing every inch with the flannel and leaving him sparkling clean and well taken care of.
It's important that he's satisfied with his experience.
You flip the cloth over and clean off your hands. It almost seems a waste that a few stray ropes of cum are being wiped away instead of left for you to sample.
Fuck, this man has you spiralling, unravelling.
You force an unsteady smile to your face, trying to use humour to lighten the mood. "Well, Mr Price, you're my biggest donor in quite some time."
"Don't know whether to say sorry or you're welcome," he grumbles, but you see the way his chest puffs out in pride.
You turn away then to give him some privacy to redress, not that dignity feels pertinent after what the two of you shared. Instead, you focus on disposing of the cloth, cleaning your hands of the evidence of shared bliss. "It's not a problem at all. I'm glad you'll be getting a hefty payday."
You've seen the payouts orcs get for such voluminous donations, especially in older men who tend to have more of a specific enzyme that is useful in certain applications.
"I'll be sure to leave you a big tip," he chuckles, a resonant and sultry sound that makes warmth bloom from your chest.
"That's not necessary, you already did."
Shit.
You turn, mouth agape. You didn't mean to make such a suggestive comment, but it's like your cunt is controlling your brain and eroding all good sense. "Sorry, Mr Price, that wasn't professional."
He fucking smirks, a smug look as he stares you down--you can only focus on his hands, how they're pulling up his underwear and trousers, tucking himself in, fastening up around that gorgeous bulge. "You're not wrong—about the tip, not the professionalism."
You force yourself to look away and scramble for your tablet, again needing a distraction from the temptation before you. A few taps bring you to the input screen, and you proudly input John's numbers.
"See you another time?" you ask, voice schooled into a calm and casual demeanour, or the best you can manage considering the circumstances.
"If I come back, can I ask for you specifically?" His tone is decidedly less casual.
"Yes, if I'm working that day, I'd be happy to have you again." You can't help but laugh, really laugh, a release valve of all of the built-up tension, the nerves. It overtakes you, giggles bordering on hysteria that make John crack too.
You can't fight it, so you might as well embrace it. "You know what I mean." The smile on your face is wide and untameable. "But usually clients like to experiment before committing."
"No need." Two words, no debate. He offers you a nod then, as he makes his way to the doorway. "See you soon, love."
"Goodbye, Mr Price."
The door closes behind him, and you collapse into your stool with a level of emotional exhaustion.
Mr John Price will be the end of your career.
You emerge from the collection room once your duties are attended to, then head to the staff room to change before clocking out for the day.
At the reception, a thick tip envelope awaits, clutched between the fingers of the receptionist, Laura.
Your name is written in block script, underlined with intent.
Inside was the entire amount of John's donation payment, alongside a note.
My number, should you decide you need a more personal donation. -JP
its finally winter. im all cozied up under my blanket and reading fics at 2 am, giggling and kicking my feet without a care in the world god could it get any better than this?
like he’ll send you a video of him on a hike, sweaty and breathing hard with messy, damp hair, rasping into the camera saying “missing you sweetheart.”
and doesn’t quite understand why you respond with a pic of your hand buried in your cunt, but he won’t complain.
In response to Slate's article on the possibility having non-heteromative team in figure skating (particularly, ice dance and pairs), Oniceperspective shared a glimpse of Gabriella Papadakis (FRA) and Madison Hubbell (USA) working on their same-sex program. You can see how they switch the leading figure between them.
“Hot take but I’m a hater of the "crybaby during sex" tropes. Reader inserts are fake as hell, no one whines during sex. No one cries. Women don't beg like that. Be so for fucking real.”
Price overhears you say this with one elbow on the pub table and just enough whiskey in him to call that bet.
He doesn't argue, doesn't launch into a lecture about physiology or the psychology of denial. He just drags his thumb along the rim of his glass, eyes on your mouth, and says, "Bet I can make you eat those words, dove."
Back at his place, the whole thing starts deceptively sweet. He's careful with you, painfully careful for a man built like a wall and armed to the teeth. Shirt off, beard rasp, the smell of cedar soap and tobacco. He kisses you stupid on the couch first, teeth grazing, breath stolen, hand around your throat to control where your head is angled, thumb catching the corner of your jaw just to keep you still while he drinks you in. When he pulls back, you're dazed, lips swollen, heartbeat off kilter; your hips are already tilting; your skepticism is already slipping.
When his cock finally slides into you, the world narrows heat and the blunt stretch of him. He drives you right up to the edge, steady-steady-steady... and then he stops.
Just... stops.
He's still seated deep, thick and perfect and there, the kind of pressure that makes your eyes sting because your body can feel the shape of a coming relief and then the relief is gone. He braces on his elbows, pupils blown, breath warm at your cheek. Not moving. Not even a grind.
"Price- ," your voice breaks on his name. "Why'd you- ?"
You hear yourself. You hear the rasp, the wobble. It pisses you off. You swallow, try again with dignity. "This isn't- funny."
He kisses the corner of your mouth and doesn't budge. "Not laughing." A beat, then a coo. "Feels good, hm? Tell me how good."
Annoyance sparks. You try and lift your hips and he pins them. The thwarted friction hits like a live wire. Heat flashes, then frustration, then a brimming embarrassing want that makes your throat go tight.
"Come on," you snap, trying for dry. It lands breathless. "You can't just.. stop."
"I can." A soft cluck of his tongue. "Question is... can you ask?"
Your face goes hot. You won't whine. You don't whine. That's the point. You plant your palms on his chest, mean to shove; end up clutching instead. The muscles under your hands flex when you tremble. Something traitorous inside you edges close to the surface.
He strokes your cheeks with two knuckles, thumb catching the wet at your lash you absolutely refuse to acknowledge. "Use your words, dove."
It unravels you. Annoyance calcifies into anger, then melts into helpless need, leaving you raw and wanting.
"No- no, why'd you stop, p-please... I n-need it. I need it so bad."
The plea is out before pride can catch it. Your voice shakes; your lip wobbles too. He hums like a man winning the bet.
"Oh yeah?" he breathes against your ear. "And what exactly do you want, dove? You know I can't give you what you want if you don't use that pretty mouth of yours- use your words for me."
You try, stumble, try again. "Want you to move. Want you to- fuck John- please."
Satisfaction flickers across his face. "Attagirl." He rolls his hips in one slow devastating thrust that knocks a sob loose from your chest. Mortifying. A small, hiccuping sound you would deny in a court of law.
He hears it though. Oh, he hears it. "That's it." Another measured push, deeper. "Let me have it. Let me hear you."
You cling. The tears come hot and unfair, stingy little things from the sheer ache of being kept there and being given exactly what you asked for.
"There's my good girl. Knew you'd sound sweet when you begged for it. Look at you, so loud with that mouth, and now you're shaking for it."
Just thinking of a slow makeout session with John Price.
Neither of you had even thought to undress yet, too preoccupied with gliding your tongues over one another. You're on your back in bed, he's hovering above you. Enough of his weight leans on you to keep you in place, but not enough to get uncomfortable.
One of your hands is on his shoulderblade, the other threaded through his soft hair, both desperately pulling him closer. He does the same to you, holding you with one hand on the back of your neck and one on your head.
You can't help the whimper that's released when he angles his hips to grind his hard on against your thigh through his pants. You're almost getting too hot and bothered to keep wearing all your clothes.
You move back and forth between you two, getting as much friction as possible all the while you're still shoving each other so close it's like you're trying to merge into a single person.
There's no rush to get on with it. He's away for such long stretches of time that you've learned to value your time together. You'd gladly lay there for hours exchanging spit, lips slipping against one another passionately.
thinking of how soft price is after a particularly shitty mission.
all he can do is cradle you, hold you tightly, whisper how much he loves you. he reminds you that the entire reason he comes back home is for you, so that you wouldn't be alone.
apart from his men, it's just you. he always finds his way back to you, price promises you that everytime he leaves and everytime he comes back.
but some days, it does get hard. it gets hard to lead his team, to hold a brave face, to finish the stupid fucking paperwork. some nights, he finds himself at his desk, face in his hands and damn close to tears with how much he misses you.
it's an ache that doesn't go away.
when the moment's passed, when he feels satisfied with the tears he's shed, when he doesn't feel as empty.. price presses a kiss to your urn and puts it back on the fireplace mantle. his hands are careful, you're the most precious thing he has.
he comes home for you.
because price knows how if you were still here, you'd absolutely hate it if he stopped trying to find his way back to you.
Price isn't one for lingerie. The lace, the bows, the straps, all of it was nice, but it didn't get him going. He'd let you know early in your relationship that it just wasn't his thing. He'd much rather see you in his shirt and underwear than lots of lace and bows.
That was until you started wearing nightgowns around the house. Loose flowing fabric that hung just under your ass, hugging you just enough to make Price's eye trace your body. He hadn't ever thought a piece of fabric could drive him so crazy.
From the moment you got the night gowns, it was like Price couldn't keep his hands off of you, and it was worse in the winter when you wore the floor-length gowns. He would take his time hiking it up your legs and over your ass, baring your skin to the cold air in the room.
Price doesn't need any bells and whistles to get him going. Put on a night gown, and it's over for him.
