(I wouldn't exactly call her a bimbo. But it's like that for dog hybrids where she's just low-key kinda dumb. Nothing in the head yk)
You're there mainly as the base's emotional support dog, but really it's like they're emotionally supporting you. When you first arrived, you were nothing but tongue out, happy panting and smiling. Nothing behind those eyes. The temporary handler had your leash on, practically getting dragged by you.
Price stood there, hands behind his back as he got ready to greet the new member. Expecting professional behavior from an emotional support dog. Nope. Instead he got jumped on.
"Hi! Hi! Hello! Hi!"
You panted right in his face before Giving him a long lick from his chin, up to his forehead. Tail going 100mph.
Then he had to lead you into the base, pain in the ass because you kept trying to follow everyone you see. Of course those who stopped to coo and pet you did not help your behavior at all.
The captain decided it would be better to get you alone, hopefully allowing you to calm down before he introduced you to the others. For twenty minutes it worked. You curled up at the tiny couch in his office. A heavy sigh left from you as you began closing your eyes. Until..
Knock..
Knock..
"capt? You in there? Need you to look at some papers-"
Kyle. Oh poor Kyle. He came in holding the papers. And within a blink of an eye they were flying everywhere. Kyle was on the ground. You on top of him wagging your tail and licking his fsce
" Hi! Hello! Hi!"
You pant.
" get off the sergeant girl"
Price grumbled tiredly.
You huffed before prancing back to the couch. Sitting down but tail still wagging. Poor Kyle was dazed and confused.
" She's our emotional support??"
Kyle asked flabbergasted, picking up his papers and giving it to Price.
" show her to Johnny and Simon. "
Price ordered.
Kyle looked nervous but shrugged. You couldn't be that bad right?
Wrong.
"GET AWAY FROM MA CROTCH"
Johnny jumped. You nose deep getting his scent as you were on your knees. Tail wagging, you panting.
Then you ran up Simon. Who was just trying to sit and relax. Instantly cobbing his mask... Then trying to take his mask off. Like a game of tug of war. Playful grows as Simon fights for his life.
𐔌 cw: age gap with reader mentioned to be student, casual sex to not so casual sex, panty stealing .ᐟ
simon didn't care about keeping his flat clean, not in the slightest. gis neglect boiled down to two typical reasons, he either had no time due to being deployed, or when he finally did have it, he was far too exhausted to even lift a finger.
his sinewy muscles would go leaden with bone deep fatigue, a consequence of the constant, relentless lack of sleep that left bruised, lilac shadows carved beneath his eyes. the laundry basket was always piling high with unwashed sheets and sweat soaked gear, while the kitchen sink held a graveyard of dishes encrusted with dried ketchup and grease.
fridge remaining mostly empty, stocked with nothing but beer bootles and the protein yogurts he choked down to maintain his heavy muscle mass. a bottle of bourbon sat hidden in the wooden cupboard, his freezer hadn't seen a decent steak in years.
his routine was always the same, order some greasy takeout, wolf it down standing up, and call it breakfast, even if it was midnight, which was usually the exact hour his internal clock woke him closest to. afterward, he would opt for a quick, scalding shower and a few minutes of mindless masturbation, bony knuckles locked tight as his fist squeezed the heavy, blood flushed base of his cock.
if kyle hadn't told him that hiring a housekeeper was an option, having wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sheer chaos during a previous visit, simon probably would have never known such a service even existed, let alone that the internet was teeming with websites dedicated to it.
your profile had been remarkably simple, a straightforward list of what you could do, cleaning, laundry, shopping, and meal preparation. you had listed no demanding requirements, and for some inexplicable reason, your requested salary was incredibly low. it was an absolute dream, though he had been fully prepared to pay an inflated price just to have his squalor managed.
following a characteristically brief, dry exchange of messages on his part, he scheduled an evening meeting with you. not making the slightest effort to clean up before your arrival. when he threw the door open, his hair was a shaggy mess, a week's worth of patchy stubble shadowed his square jawline, and a pair of stained gray sweatpants hung low on his wide hips beneath a crumpled shirt that was entirely too tight for his massive form.
yet, you didn't even blink at the sight of the jagged scars marring his face, nor did you falter at his unkempt clothes. instead, you fixed your gaze strictly on the surrounding mess, doing so without a single grimace or frown, an unbothered composure that pulled a rare grin from his lips behind your back.
“what', no scream?” simon grunted, clearly amused now. he took a slow step closer, tracking the way your eyes flitted about, systematically scanning the wreckage of his living room and kitchen with the callous efficiency of a trained robot, only looking back at him when you let out a fickle, noncommittal hum.
“seen worse” you answered shortly, offering a small, indifferent shrug, craning your neck at an angle to look directly into his face, holding a steady, unblinking gaze with his honey speckled irises. the blackout curtains were parted just enough to let in the fading light, the amber sunbeams catching the edges of simon’s messy hair and bleeding into his eyes.
“yau look a bit' too yaung to hav' sein much” he remarked, and it was the truth, you looked far younger than him, and certainly younger than the hardened faces he was used to surrounding himself with. your expression didn't even flicker, holding his stare, maintaining a heavy, awkward silence that nearly made his skin crawl.
“i’m a witch” you finally grumbled, tone blunt and clipped in a lazy drawl as you quirked a single eyebrow upward. simon went dead silent, mirroring your stillness for a heartbeat, before he suddenly barked a loud, booming laugh, baring his crooked teeth in genuine entertainment, and the tension dissolved there.
you moved on to discuss the payment, admitting that he was right about your age, a student simply looking to earn what she could when your schedule permitted. when he offered a significantly higher rate than you had asked for, you declined politely, fixing him with a scowling glare that openly labeled him a creep. leaving your number in his phone, you agreed to return tomorrow, once again in the evening.
what simon had expected would take no less than a month to clean had been thoroughly tidied up in less than a week, every single corner scrubbed bare and dust cleared from places he hadn't even known existed. for the first few days, he had slept through most your shifts, knowing you were there and setting his alarm strictly for the hour you were about to leave.
every night he’d wake to a new miracle, finding you’d somehow hauled the heavy sofa across the floorboards to clean the dust bunnies beneath it, and had dusted behind the television without breaking a wrist or even a sweat. amused, he changed your contact name in his cracked phone to witch.
when you accidentally caught a glimpse of the screen one evening, you flashed him a smile so unexpectedly sweet that it nearly gave him a stroke, accustomed as he was to seeing you either plain faced or frowning in deep concentration over chores.
your cooking was something he would actively brag about to johnny and kyle, never in his life had he wanted to lick a plate clean, yet whatever you prepared whether roasted, baked, meat, fish, or soup he devoured it like a starved stray dog, licking his lips and declaring aloud “shit', nevuh tasted anything bettuh than this”
crucially, you never commented on the cum stains on the boxers he frequently dropped into the laundry basket when sorting out the clothes. nor did you find it strange when he abruptly altered his sleep schedule just to stay awake while you were cleaning.
watching you patiently from the couch, his long legs spread wide and his head cocked, while the television hummed with the very show you had earlier dismissed as utter shit out in the background.
“stay for dinnuh next' tim', my treat', i’ll do the cooking” simon offered one evening. it had been nearly a month since you started working for him, and because you stubbornly refused all his attempts to raise your salary, this was the only compromise his mind could conjure, at least a dinner, a chance to treat you to something fancy.
“since when do you cook?” you had asked, your voice far more amused than curious, openly teasing him considering you’d been the one fixing every bite he ate, down to the chalky protein shakes he needed for his workouts, possessing far too much culinary expertise for your age.
“i can handl' a stov'” he let out a gravelly huff, rolling his shoulders as he watched you tie your shoelaces, bent over with your pert ass curved beautifully in his direct line of sight. your clothes weren't revealing, just simple jeans pulled taut against the swell and stretchy shirt, yet his cock stirred in response, chubbing behind the sweats and boxers.
simon knew damn well you caught the outline the moment you spun around to accept the dinner invitation. actually lingering behind the following evening for a flawlessly seared steak draped in a rich bourbon garlic cream sauce, paired with crispy roasted potatoes.
you finished the plate, warmed up and satisfied with your belly full, and ended up straddling his fuzzy thighs right there on the sagging couch. hips rolled down onto his brawny lap, and his swelled girth thrust in brutal and deep, plunging itself within your tight, sappy cunt. walls convulsing around his bottoming base as he pistoned in, your jiggly ass smacking against his heavy balls.
“christ', even yauh cunt' the best'” his humid breath hit your face in a thoroughly ragged rasp, hooded eyes wandering, darting from your eyes, which had gone completely glassy, veiled in a thick fog of pleasure, to the way slick rolls in tacky rivulets in response to how he rams in. scarred hips angled to hit deeper, battering the lumpy spot that makes your thighs cramp and shake.
you were uninhibited and deliciously loud, answering his heavy rhythm with nothing but breathless, sharp moans and high pitched whines as you rode him completely dry, tight walls contracting in a vice like grip around his veined girth, spilling an abundant, glossy slick that churned into froth.
this wasn't his first lay in weeks, but you were driving him entirely out of his mind, leaving him so dazed and overwhelmed that his vision blurred and his umber eyes nearly crossed. broad paw clamped flat against your hip, dimpling the supple skin as he kept your weight down, his fingers toying idly with the waistband of the panties you hadn't even bothered to take off.
he didn't tighten his grip to hurt, but his blunt fingernails still bit hard into your curves, branding your flesh with stinging raw indents. he slams in, and you leak out, strings of arousal stretching in glimmery strings, matting coarse pubes that rub across your pulsing clit, making your body seize taut, squealing “a—ahn, s—simon!”
heavy lidded eyes grew long since glassy with desire, even further as he nuzzled in to press his mouth hungrily against your sternum. peppering a path of biting kisses outward until his mouth was filled with the lush, bouncing swell of your breast, tongue swirling in demanding, drooling circles around your pebbled nipple.
simon cums quick, you don't know about that, but he acknowledges that his peak comes much more earlier than he's used to, heat pooling within his bulging veins and spreading mercilessly, rapture hot pressure gathering at the rise of his spine and traveling, your own tummy threatening to snap with feverish coil.
heat clenching sporadically around him, encouraging on, and he follows, jerking when your cunt wraps tight and spasms, creaming his length while his balls twitch. thick cum plugging you deep, the excess a creamy, frothing mess that coats your thighs in pearlescent dews alongside lacquering slick.
he let's out guttive groan, words ripping raw from his chest “that''s it — feiling so good, lovi', fucking best'” large hands had long since moved from the slope of your hips, roughened fingers now buried deep, kneading the round, plump curve of your ass, gripping to hold you flush to his pelvis while he floods your satiating hole, nicked lips pressed softly against your sweaty temple.
you shuddered on his lap, slumped heavily against sturdy chest, sore yet adorably content, huddling closer as hushed, exhausted whimpers slipped past your teeth. hiding your sweltering face beneath the rough scruff of his jawline, breath ghosting uneven against his blotchy skin, and he wished with all his horny heart that this could happen every damn day.
nothing changed outwardly when you left, just a polite goodbye and a brief, muttered “until sunday, yeah?” tossed between you in the hallway, a flat, unimpressed frown marring your face when you noticed your soiled panties stuffed casually into his pocket, despite his earlier claim that they had simply been ripped during the frenzy.
simon spent his weekends as usually, sleeping, eating the meals you had so lovingly prepared and packed for him, working out, and then fisting his leaky cock while single mindedly sniffing your stolen underwear, over and over again, until you finally returned on sunday.
both acting as usual, showing no avoidance and no lingering tension, but somehow you ended up with his weathered face buried right against your gooey cunt, bent over the kitchen counter while your fingers still gripped a microfiber cloth, now knuckling it. he knelt down behind you, calloused hands spreading your asscheeks to hold you open to his eager tongue.
by the time he let you up, you left his flat on wobbly legs, far later than you ever should have, the skin of your inner thighs raw and chafed from the relentless scrape of his rough stubble, making your muscles clench with ache. behind your back, simon had already pulled out his phone, display lit up and mirroring his toothy grin, thick thumb swiping to change your contact name once more, my witch.
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 1
masterlist
It must be the mother of all quarter-life crises for you to be as torn up about this as you are.
(‘Mother of all’—what an apt phrase for a time like this.)
Two of your friends have babies and suddenly it’s all you can think about. Chubby cheeks and wrinkly fingers; diaper bags stuffed to the brim and shrill baby screams piercing through the house.
You try to help them out as best you can in those first few months, coming over with dinner wrapped in foil and snacks in Tupperware for the exhausted parents, offering to help run errands or tidy up the place while they try to catch up on sleep. The picture perfect friend.
You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder.
It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it.
All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance.
They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another.
You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually.
Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke.
You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy.
Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying.
Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them.
So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story.
A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way.
It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method.
And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months.
It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.
The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.
There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch.
And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in.
A man this time, all by his lonesome.
And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.
After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours.
Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you.
In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.
Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey.
The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.
You swallow, that thought catching you off guard.
Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity.
He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.
It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.
“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment.
“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”
Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”
“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”
You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.
“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”
His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest.
You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse.
He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”
It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”
“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”
It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused.
“Excuse me?” you ask.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”
“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”
“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”
“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned.
“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”
You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order.
“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out.
That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”
“You do know we’re in public, right?”
“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”
The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”
“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”
Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”
“Not what I meant.”
Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates.
“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”
He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight.
He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave.
And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down.
“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”
You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid.
That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you.
The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.
You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall.
And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand.
Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.
Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?
“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price.
That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.
“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.”
IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to just and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop.
“There’s no…first time discount?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”
She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”
It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”
You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.
No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate.
You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive.
If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take.
Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning.
It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back.
Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality.
This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.
There’s got to be another way.
It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it.
You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all.
A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.
You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—
How do the members of 141 handle reader with a high sex drive? Reader is insatiable. Can they keep up or do they tap out early? Do they beg for more or beg for rest?
requested by @/unknownbooklady
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): sexual content, oral sex, rough sex, swearing, established relationship, gn!reader
Word Count: 800
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“Trying to kill me?” huffs John, chest heaving.
Sweat-slick and naked, John runs his palm over his face, fisting the hair at the top of his head. The man is exhausted, but you said over text that you wanted to breed him, and you’re not finished now that you’re home.
Head bobbing, you bring John back to aching hardness, relentless in your pursuit of having it off. There isn’t nearly enough of John’s cum in you. Fullness is the goal. To leave him empty and you stuffed to the brim.
With a wet pop, the head of his cock bounces from between your lips, pointing toward the ceiling. “John,” you sigh, dream-drenched and heavy. “You don’t need to do anything.”
Hands slide up his hairy chest. Come back down. Fingers running over thick muscles. You take your time, curling those fingers to lightly drag your nails over his skin. He inhales sharply, and you grin.
“Bloody hell,” he groans, hips lifting as you tease him with your tongue. “You’re insatiable.”
With a mischievous smile, you shift, giving John your back. Lifting your ass, you provide him with a clear of you sliding down on him before you start to bounce.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
The room smells of sweat and sex.
“I need a moment,” says Kyle, his breathing deep. “Shit. Give me a moment.”
Kyle holds you in his arms, face nuzzling the top of your head, his eyes closed as he attempts to steady himself. You, on the other hand, are perfectly fine. As Kyle contemplates life and his sanity, you play with his dick.
“If I recall,” you begin.
“Hush, you,” mutters Kyle.
“You said you could keep up with me.”
Kyle grunts, a sliver of annoyed defeat in it. “I did.”
Hand roaming down to cup his balls, you gently squeeze them. “Are you sure now?”
A long pause, and then Kyle finally speaks. “Don’t know if I can come again that fast.”
You shrug, snuggling closer. “Sure about that?” You bring your hand back to his dick. “Feels hard to me.”
Kyle snorts and gently grasps your wrist. You cease stroking him. “I’m serious, love. Might be done.”
Drawing your hand away, you bring it to rest on his chest, placing a soft kiss on Kyle’s cheekbone. “Tomorrow?”
Kyle’s arm tightens, bringing you in until you’re smushed. “Telling Price you’re putting me on the path to an early retirement.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
Fisting the base of Johnny’s cock, you give it a loving squeeze. A dribble of cum emerges from the tip, you suck it up greedily. And yet, you’re not finished. Hardly even started. Already you’re stroking him, teasing up that build until Johnny is rock-hard and throbbing.
“Oh, aye.” Johnny chuckles at your eagerness. “Want another round?”
You arch an eyebrow but don’t cease. “That a problem?”
Johnny shakes his head. Bringing his arms up, he tucks them under his head, a pleased smile forming on his lips. “No. Surprised is all.”
“Surprised?” you question, almost mocking. “Didn’t think I could fuck like this?”
Johnny snorts, clearly amused by the exchange. He’s trying to turn this around, to bring you to heel. Funny how he thinks you’ll take orders from him. A quick swirl of your tongue and the man is chocking.
“Talking about the stamina,” he manages, eyelids fluttering as you take more of him.
You head slowly ascends, lips suctioning until his eyes briefly roll back into his head. When the head of his cock pops out, you speak. “Is my stamina too much for you?”
Johnny’s gaze returns to your face. “Maybe. Won’t know unless we try.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Beneath you, the sofa shifts, imperceptibly moving with each hard thrust.
At your ear, is Simon’s voice, gruff and thick like he’s smoked too many cigarettes. “Think I can’t keep up?”
You know that tone. Simon uses it when you’re in trouble, or you’ve pushed him a bit too far and he drawn up a punishment. You hold your tongue. While you want to brat over this, to continuously poke at him, that’ll only take you further than you can go.
Simon doubles his efforts at your silence, fucking you harder. His fingers are in your mouth, cutting off your words anyway, though you could use your teeth. Simon’s brute strength severs your ability to do anything except take his cock.
“Always think you can out pace me, bird.”
He’s the one poking now, shifting the power to his hands, leaving you helpless. It’s always where you want to be with him, but the thrill is not knowing how much he’ll deal out.
Saliva pools around Simon’s fingers, dripping onto your lips and chin. Deep enough to stifle but not choke.
Simon lands a sharp slap to your ass. “This is mine. Always mine. You’ll be the one who tires.”
Your date with Ryomen Sukuna had been going great, almost too great considering he was currently several inches deep inside you while speeding on the highway, impatient to get you two home.
It’d started as an innocent makeout session in his car after dinner, you still in the passenger seat.
He had one hand settled on your jaw, bringing you closer, while yours found its way into his hair, angling him to reach deeper into his mouth.
His other hand then started trailing up your thigh and up your skirt, sliding under the elastic of your panties as his thumb traced gentle circles onto your hip.
You shifted ever so slightly in your seat in an attempt to get physically closer to him, making him giggle inside your mouth.
You pulled away at the sound, looking at him a little confused because you had no idea what he was smirking so hard for.
His eyes never leaving yours, one of his hands went to the side of his seat to make it slide back before gently tapping on his thigh, signalling you to hop on.
Your heart was racing, this was so hot. So you didn’t waste another second and climbed over to straddle him, soaked panties now pressing against his clothed erection.
Your breath hitched at the contact while he groaned, hands once again trailing up your thighs to settle on your waist as he started leaving open-mouthed kisses along your neck.
You were totally enjoying yourself, a whine escaping you as your date nibbled at your skin, hips mindlessly grinding on top of him, searching for that friction you so desperately needed.
You felt him grin against you, and both his hands suddenly tensed up and stopped your motion with such strength you thought it’d likely bruise later.
“Now, baby. If you wanted it that bad, you should’ve just said so.” He looked at you with blazing eyes, and you could tell he was just as hungry as you were.
Before you could reply anything, you hear a small zipping sound coming from below you. And sure enough, once you look down, you’re met with what you could only describe as a monster of a dick.
No way you were surviving this, you thought to yourself as you took in the sight. And it was like he’d read your mind.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out, darling…” Feigning sadness and disappointment, a playful pout on his face, Sukuna was nonetheless searching for your eyes, for a sign to know whether to continue or not.
You swallowed, hard. You grabbed the base of his cock and began moving your hand up and down as you finally met his gaze, and his face instantly softened, a familiar grin forming.
He threw his head back slightly, groaning at the way you were slowly jerking him off, motion teasingly stopping from time to time, hoping for a reaction out of him.
When his eyes met yours once again, he looked like a completely different person, eyebrows furrowed and gaze filled with neediness.
You obviously took it as a sign to stop messing around. So you sat up a bit, pushed your panties to the side before angling yourself right over his throbbing dick, your slick dripping down on it from how turned on you were.
But just when you were going to softly go back down, you were suddenly slammed with a huge force, causing you to let out a guttural scream.
An avalanche of curse words from the both of you filled the car as you both struggled to breathe properly.
He was filling you up so good, and you were squeezing just right around him. You stayed still for a while to take in the feeling before he started to gently move you up and down his length, grip painfully hard (in such a good way though) on your hips.
No one had ever hit this deep inside you before, so you’d never known it was possible to feel this good. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as very lewd moans escaped your lips with each thrust.
Sukuna’s head was buried in the crook of your neck, each vibration of his groans travelling all the way down your body, making your walls flutter even more around him.
It was so good, which is why a whine of disappointment instantly came out of your mouth when his hand were suddenly off of you and he’d stopped matching your rhythm.
Just then you heard the sound of the engine go off, complete pulling you out of your daze. What the hell was he doing???
Once again, like he’d read your mind, he answered your question.
“You’re way too good for this, y’know?” He started, reversing the car from the spot you were parked in onto the road before flooring the gas pedal.
“Hold on tight yea? We’ll be at my place in 10, no, 5. And I promise to fuck you proper.” He purred into your ear as he gently slapped your ass.
So that was how you’d ended up with your date reaching the deepest parts of your cunt while swerving on the highway, which was not how you’d imagined your night would go at all.
And although his last sentence very much sounded like a threat coming from him, a part of you wished he’d go even faster than he already was.
With the way his cock was already filling you up so nice and hitting all your good spots, you just couldn’t wait for him to fuck you senseless, even if it meant not being able to do anything for the next couple of days.
———
IM BAAAAAAACK sorry i was so inactive recently lol exams were craaazyyy but im on break now so ill try and post consistently again 😛
can we have more wolf!soap with cat!reader....? Please
Guys im sooo bad at writing smut so part two is in the works, let's just do some headcanons to keep yall fed because oof
Tw: jealousy, possessiveness, bit of violence but way less than canon typical, implied sex, very dirty Johnny:), but they both freaks frl, implied open 141 relationship kinda thing. I mean their not all together but they've definetly done some friendship-incest and all fuck around, pantystealing is always gonna be relevant in this story. Kitty has a problem, she yells or shuts down,
(Hybrids are not omegaverse, but i do picture a more animalistic way of mating. I dont think its like a permanent connection that can't be broken, but instead a deeper connection of romantic partners in an animalistic way, I guess? Atleast specifically for this au)
NOT edited, written in one sitting
o firstly, Cat!Reader is extremely possessive. She doesnt sleep with just anyone, especially not someone she'd be seeing regularly. One time she saw Johnny talking to a new recruit, another wolf, and the jealousy that scorched through her veins was unmatched.
Johnny was standing straight, but within arms distance of a twenty-somethimg brunette woman, who was leaned against the wall, twirling her hair around her finger. Johnny looked good. He was wearing a green zip up (with J. MACTAVISH on one arm and "Seargent" on the back) that looked a bit tight around his biceps, and loose around his chest where he had it half zipped up, a black wife beater underneath.
The woman, somehow, was wearing a thin, cropped tank top. It was always cold on base, so when Kitty!Reader walked in, the girl was trembling, a bit preformatively in her opinion. It was almost like she waited until she saw Kitty to whine out "Sergeant, its sooo colddd! You wouldn't mind lending me your jumper would you?"
Johnny furrowed his brows. Wasn't she just saying she was perfectly warm when he made fun of her for being in such thin layers? Kitty, however, marched over, not even taking a second thought before pushing the shewolfs head into the heard cement wall. She didnt push hard, not hard enough to get a concussion, maybe just a headache and a bit of a bump.
"Jesus bonnie" was minced in with Kittys cold words, as the whole rec room was now watching, Simon standing to interfere between a possible dispute, looking to Johnny as if to tell him to keep a close eye on how his new partner is smelling, what emotions shes feeling.
And Johnny is, oh god is he. he's relishing in the scent of jealousy and possession seeping out of Kitty!Reader. "You listen to me because I'll say this once, loud and clear yeah? You are a dumb runt and if you talk to my mate one more time, I'll really remind you of where your place is on this team."
God it was harsh to say when the crime was flirting, but it wasnt wrong. Recruits were runts in a large pack dynamic such as the 141. She was new and in kitty's mind, and no place talking to her seargent outside of work duties. Perhaps a but classist, but she really didn't care what "vibe" she gave off when it came to Johnny.
The recruit looked nervously between the two, as if Johnny would save her. Instead he took a step closer to Kitty, and put a hand on the small of her back. She leaned into his touch, letting her guard down and forgoing her previously hostile demeanor. "Do. Not. Let it happen again. Do you understand me?" She still had ice in her words, but Johnny could smell her calm, rolling off him and into her like waves.
That whole encounter sends a flame through Johnny. He had never heard you actually call him your mate. I mean, yes, you called him your boyfriend when you approached humans, and hybrids typically use that and marital terms interchangeably, but he didnt really know. Now he did. Johnny loves being wanted, and he wouldnt give that up by testing her limits. He did, however like to occasionally tease your jealousy...
Perhaps by wearing those sweatpants that make his ass and bulge stand out in just the right way, paired with a tight, cropped babytee, the hem of his Calvin Klein boxers peaking out. He was dressed well. Better then a lot of men would be and he looked good. I mean fuck he usually looked good to Kitty, but he was a sweatpants and tactical pants kinda guy normally.
Now he's doing this purposefully when you go to the mall, or maybe out for lunch for some fast food, simply because he knows that if someone, anyone, takes even a look at him, he will get manhandled at home.
He loves it, and she knows he does, but it doesnt cause the urge to stop at any point. She's on him like an animal, throwing him on the bed and tying him up, legs spread. He just has that stupid smirk on his face that invalidates all her jealousy and she wants to wipe it off of him. Replace it with moans and him screaming her name loud enough for that twink working at Wendy's who stared at Johnny's ass, to hear.
Panties in the mouth became a regular occurrence when she was on top, not everytime and certainly not the whole time (she wanted needed to hear her pretty bird sing), but usually at the beginning when he was still capable of being mouthy.
After nights like this, Johnnys cock was drained, asshole was sore, and body was covered in hickeys. The first time, as in the very first time, Price asked johnny who he picked a fight with to get so badly bruised up, and Johnny was more than happy to tell him who gave, and how he got them.
Okay enough about her jealousy. More about some little quirks in their relationship, especially to do with their hybrids.
Firstly, Kitty is a little minx who is generally quite cold, she has a good heart just takes some warming up too, and a very dry sense of humor. Her and price get along good that way. Shes very choosy who she spends time with and who she gets too close to. With Johnny however, shes a clingy, sleepy little creature who curls up under his arm, on his chest, or lap, anywhere.
One time, during exfill, when the team was on a plane rather than a helicopter (as the mission was quite far away, and not as violent as others, more intel based.) Johnny was sirting in the corner of one of the seats, sort of diagonal with his knee hitched up and a blanket draped over his whole body, neck down.
Kyle made a joke, asking if he was getting head down there, but there was a hint a genuine curiosity, he wouldnt put it past them, and Johnny was smiling like a madman, as if he was lost in heaven. Carefully, Johnny peels the blanket down to reveal her sleeping form, curled right into his bicep and the thigh that was propped up. She was purring strongly, evident by the little rumble of her chest and the way her hair moved.
"Well if that ain't the life I don't know what is" Price muttered, jokingly grumbling. He was happy for Johnny, truly, but that didn't mean he didnt wish he had a sweet'art of his own.
So as if mentioned, many a time, Johnny is a dirty dog who clearly hasn't been trained. It's very much Marie and Tramp, or like princess and thief peasant aesthetic. Oftentimes you'll see her yelling at him, or pulling his hair out of rooms, calling him by the last name and receiving a "yes ma'am" and a prompt exit out of the room. Don't save him he's EXACTLY where he wants to be. He loves it everytime.
"John Mactavish you disgusting, pantystealing mutt!" You threw yourself into the private 141 recroom, everyone stopping their activities, Gaz taking multiple steps away from where he was playing pool from Johnny. He on the other hand, had a growing smirk as she marched up to him, yanked his mohawk till he was on his knees and she was looking down at him. Simon muttered a little "bloody hell" but was watching, perhaps with a slightly growing chub.
After she wasdone chastising him, she pulled him back up, his legs naturally complying as he looked at her with a smile, eyes in a trance staring at her face. She coulsnt look him in the eye without blushing a tiny bit at his clearly devotional status.
Irregardless she searched through this pant pockets, having to check through the two top ones before finding a pair of red panties in his second left pocket. She held it out accusingly in front of his face. "These are out of the fucking laundry! What the fuck is your problem, dog?" It was getting pretty heated in their before Price said something. If he hadn't he mightve gotten on his knees infront of her and asked to be next.
"Should we go? Or are you gonna take this weird foreplay to your barracks Mactavish?"
So besides being sexually dirty, He's also just plain gross. He doesnt guve a fuck about sharing a tooth brush with you, will have an open conversation about how bad he has diarrhea, etc etc.
He has totally done the whole going onto the bathroom and pissing in-between Kitty's legs while shes trynna use the toilet.
Kitty gets no privacy either! Good time to mention that. She doesnt mind, if she wanted to get away from him she knew the places to go, where to slip into the shadows and out of scents length, She just really didnt need to.
Despite his joking demeanor and insistent need to piss Kitty off, he is a really good partner, especially when it comes to communication, and handling bratty Kitty.
For some girls, brattiness needs to be fixed with sexual attention, but for Kitty it came from pure uncomftorability and required gentle coaxing and the right tools to fix. Sometimes, after the emotions had been fully worked through Johnny might follow with something sexual, usually some overstimulation or forcing her not to move on his cock for hours, but never in punishment of her emotions, merely in the way she expresses them.
He knows she can't control it, and through the course of their relationship shes gotten much better, but its still a bit fun to "punish" her the same way she would "punish" him for making her jealous.
After a particularly hard solo mission, her first during their relationship, he can smell it off her immediately. She gives him a long hug and kiss when she first comes home, slipping into their bed together and falling asleep with him, saying they'll talk in the morning.
They didnt talk in the morning. She yelled and shut down.
She was gone before he woke up, which was particularly early as he wanted to enjoy having her back in his arms before the day started, and he briefly wondered if he dreamed her arrival home. He looked around the room for any sign of her, and she was sitting in the corner on her phone, one leg up with a grumpy pout on her face. Before he even had time to register what was going on, or what time it was (6 am on an off work day), she spoke up. Her voice was cracked like she had been crying, but put on a cold front. "I woke up over an hour ago and you haven't moved. You didnt even notice, do you even want me here?" Her words were aggressive, but after seconds allowing Johnny to register what was happening and what she said, he could tell they were coming from a very unplaced sense of anxiety.
Johnny sat up and took a breath, turning on the lamp. He decided placating her would be the best option, for now. "Im sorry, bon, 'las 'nigh was a pain on ta body. Knew you were finally safe, could finally 'leep." He didnt feel he genuinely had much to apologize for, kitty was stealth regardless of what she was doing and he had often joked about her needing to wear a bell. He couldn't possibly have felt that at four or five am. He wasn't even in bed until one.
"Bonnie why 're you outta bed? You got home at 'tree-'tirty." He tried to direct the conversation to find out the real reason she was so upset.
She glared at little bit remained quiet for a bit. After a second she gestured to the room around her like he was stupid for not getting it. Within seconds he understood, but she beat him to the punch. "Anything look different to you, soap?" she said the name all the time when she was mad at him. He noticed she did it whenever she was irritated with anyone.
John instantly became Price or even "The captain" when he lost your document one time, because his desk was so unorganized. Kyle became "your ****** *** ******* friend over there" (or whatever curses she's worked up) when he said something particularly stupid. She momentarily disconnects herself from the person.
Luckily, Johnny didn't take it too personally. If he couldn't handle her personality he wouldn't be there. He tried to speak up but you cut him off. "One thing i asked you to do huh? Keep. our. room. clean! That's it. Put the laundry in the fucking hamper, put away things, what the fuck did i walk into last night?"
To be fair on both points, this is completely his fault, he was asked to make sure it was clean so when she came home she could relax, and on top of that he knew how untidy rooms mess with her instincts. She didnt like it. She had decided in where her stuff and agreed to where Johnny he would keep his stuff when they first moved into the joint room. Sharing a space without total control is a big leap already, so why the hell would he screw with that by messing up the whole room?
"Bonnie im so sorry-"
"No. No Bonnie or lassie or Hen or wee thing," he wanted to interrupt to correct and say it was 'wee yin', but decided better not. "Im pissed Johnny! You had a hard night? I had a hard week outside by myself, and i dont even get to sleep when I come home? I had to stay up and clean up this mess!"
Johnny felt legitimately bad, but saying that would only warrant a snide remark from his extremely angry, extremely beautiful mate. He notices the laundry full and jumps out of bed, repeating an "im sorry baby. Get some sleep" quietly because he didnt know what else to say as he takes the laundry to the machines.
Action is always the best communication tool to show her he's really sorry, so he gets ti doing the laundry quickly, and then makes a little breakfast that'll ease her back into eating normal food and not ration packs. Just two thin pancakes, some strawberry jam, an airfryed hash brown patty with a sausage patty and fried egg on top.
By the time he brings it back he's very careful opening the door. If shes sleeping he will not wake her up. He will eat this breakfast himself and make another in an hour when she begins to stir. He knew she never was able to sleep well by herself when they weren't together.
Like he figured, she was now sitting up in bed, doing nothing but looking at the door. Kitty took the breakfast with a very small "thanks", and as he tried to sit beside her thighs, she pointed her finger to the end of the bed. Like an obedient dog he sat where she told him to.
"I was looking for you" he muttered out. Her eyes flickered up from the plate and snapped to him.
"What?"
"My animal. By the sixth night we weren't doing great, he took over a bit and all he could smell was you. Your clothes, your blankets, your chair, everything smelt so strongly of you it blinded us. I should've cleaned when I came too but I was too much enjoying the nest of your belongings I had created. Im sorry."
The explanation made sense logically, and emotionally she could feel the shame coming off of him. She sighed and pushed the food away from her., crawling the the edge of the bed where she had commanded him go.
"Like I wasnt sleeping with your shirt pressed to my nose every night trying to simulate you being their. I almost suffocated myself Johnny." She giggled a little and at the sound and of his name, all was right in the world.
I mean, she would hold this over his head for a week, but he was exactly where he wanted to be.
