when you ask your dear friend kyle to help you with your pregnancy, you expect him to donate some sperm, drive you to your ivf appointments, etc etc.
what you don't expect is him to press your knees to your chest one evening, slamming his cock so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel it entering your womb.
"s'fuckin' good for me," he groans, applying more pressure to the back of your thighs, "takin' my cock like a champ, baby," somehow he manages to thrust deeper, a soft whine leaving your lips.
he doesn't stop praising you throughout the whole ordeal, admiration entering one ear then shooting down into your body, pussy squeezing after every phrase.
such a sweet girl. absolutely perfect. gonna be such a good mama.
the way you tighten up at that last bit has kyle gritting his teeth, eyes clenched up before opening to reveal fully dilated pupils, "yeah? you like when i call you that? mama?" the word gets the same physical reaction from you, and kyle grins.
he adjusts himself, chest nearly touching yours as he raises his hips till only the tips insde. then, he slams home.
"can't wait to make you a mama. gonna ruin this cunt every day till it takes. yeah? you want that?" the drag of his cock inside of you is so distracting, addicting. you almost don't answer his question, but the high-pitched mewl he punches out of you is answer enough.
he keeps talking to you, how excited he is to watch your soft belly expand, to see your tits swell up, have your stretchmarks extend.
you hear him say something along the lines of i'll be such a good daddy, mama, jus' you wait, but you blame the cotton in your ears. after all, the only thing you can focus on is the warm feeling of his cum coating your insides and making good on his previous promises.
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Relationships: Dave’s Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dirk’s Bro | Alpha Dave Strider
Characters: Dirk’s Bro | Alpha Dave Strider, Dave’s Bro | Beta Dirk Strider, Jake English, Roxy Lalonde, Jane Crocker
Additional Tags: Love at First Sight, Copious Mentions of Movies, Body Horror, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Human/Monster Romance, More tags to be added
Summary:
You can learn a lot from movies. You can learn more from people when you consider the movies they like.
Alphonse "Al" Walker, onboard the spaceship UFSS Ishimura, has struck an odd relationship with Bro Strider.
After an accident during a routine maintenance run, Al and Bro become closer and closer, navigating the ship's politics, crew, and unique circumstances.
To be honest, Al just wants to mack on Bro but M A N, does shit hit the fan.
hook-up culture was one of the only ways you could get your fix without commitment. it’s hard to maintain any real relationships now, especially as a full time student (and slut). but you’d always been careful, having taken contraceptives, keeping condoms on you, etc etc.
though, none of them are 100% full proof.
you stare at the pregnancy test, wide-eyed. someone bangs on the bathroom door of the gas station, urging you to hurry up. but you can’t, the implications of those two little lines keeping you stuck to the seat.
when you ask your friends, they dismiss you, saying “you’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out.” and when you call your parents..
you block out the interaction from your memory.
with no financial or emotional support, you are forced to scour the internet for a solution. an abortion is too expensive, and you can’t raise this thing when you’re about to enter your junior year of college.
all hope seems lost, till you find the shadiest ad on craigslist;
Looking for Baby to adopt. Surrogate or already pregnant. Will provide care for entire pregnancy.
it seems like a scam, even more so as you open it and skim through the benefits (a roof over your head, food and water, nearly $25k to start). everything about this seems too good to be true. after all, can you really trust something you saw on craigslist?
still, your eyes find a phone number and email address at the bottom of the ad, belonging to some guy named johnny mactavish. the foreign name throws you off even more, surely a name like that isn’t located in the united states of fuck all. though, it seems like you have no other solutions.
hesitantly, your mouse hovers over the ‘reply’ button, the clicking sound ringing in your ears, settling your fate.
——
johnny knew it was futile to post an ad looking for a surrogate on craigslist, but he didn’t see any other options (or rather, he ignores them). simon and him have been retired for some time now, settling in some small state. the woods offer some sort of privacy, a silence that comforts them rather than makes them shake in their sleep.
it seemed natural that having children would be the next step after living here for so long. johnny thanks tommy for finding a pretty bird and producing a nephew since it would’ve been harder to convince simon otherwise. the riley’s don’t seem like family men, yet simon is carving a little bear to send back to manchester, congratulating tommy on the announcement of his baby girl.
it makes johnny warm, but he can’t help but feel jealous. sure, simon is everything to him, his whole world, but it’s hard to procreate when all you got is a prick and shitter.
so he set up his little offer, though he might as well be suppressed with how nearly no one has reached out to him.
johnny’s about to take down the ad, ready to talk to simon about doing things a different way, when he suddenly gets a reply.
> this isn’t a joke, right?
johnny raises a brow at this, swiveling back to the computer and typing up his response.
< would nevr joke bout smth srs
and when five minutes passed, he presumed that would be the end of this little interaction, fueling johnny’s desire to take down the post.
that is, till he gets another response.
> well, is the position still open then?
he feels his heart stop, eyes widening as he reads the phrase over and over. a certain excitement wells in his chest, and he gets back on the keyboard before he can run out the room and tell simon the good news.
——
his last reply consists of a time, date, and address.
constantly craving their attention, hissing and snapping at anyone who tries to pull him away.
the hairs on his nape, ears, and tail will perk up in defense, baring his teeth at all who come close. it’s suffocating to with him, and you have to be considering how he mauled someone the other day just because he wasn’t you.
the stench of your co-worker lingers on his lips as his rough tongue laves over your palm, pupils dilated to the highest degree, making sure you know it’s him whose doing this to you.
even worse after hours, files littering the floor as he fucks you on your back, spreading you nice and wide. his for the taking. grunting harshly as he slams home inside of you, unable to move too far thanks to his spikes keeping you two together.
it’s a painful coupling, even worse when his canines find your nipple, pinching it between his teeth, puncturing a small wound that draws blood. his lips quickly wrap around it. sucking as if he were a cub, swallowing down milk from his mothers teat.
(little did you know, that’s why he’s doing this. wanting to get you nice and full of his litter even if it isn’t genetically possible. you created him, it’s about time you return the favor by creating something for him)
i've been thinking a lot about stripper!reader x pricenik so here's price and reader meeting for the first time
you're tired.
you're always tired but especially tonight, bones aching, legs sore, face strained from smiling at men whose eyes veer lower. it's a good thing though, while the half-lidded gaze on your face may come off as seductive it is nothing but pure exhaustion.
as your hands trail over patrons, curving your body this way and arching it the other, you run through the night. playing through it to see how much money you made. you got called over to a group twice, letting them tuck various bills against the waistband of your panties. they brought you on stage, albeit in a group. the newcomers got better tips than you, and you swore you heard one of the regulars say you needed to retire (which is ironic because he looks like he has one foot in the grave).
all that on top of the barest of bare minimum wages, your total for tonight is: not enough.
the loud bass of the club hides the grumble of your stomach, trying to sway to the music as if you aren't about to topple over. there are less people than they were an hour ago, men retreating back to their wives as if they weren't squirming under someone else's stare.
briefly, you think back to earlier on stage, and maybe that man has a point. you should retire. well. quit in this case. unlike him, you're nowhere near the age to retire. you can't imagine living out the rest of your days like this, performing till the day you die. breaking your neck taking a wrong step in your heels, slipping in the middle of a performance.
the calling of your name, stage name, breaks you out of your morbid mindset. the bouncer by the private rooms nods at you, gesturing for you to go inside. it's a distraction from your head, but not a nice one.
as you pass the man, he tells you the room number. four. not your usual station, but the couch there is a bit nicer. and velvet.
pulling back the curtain, you find him already waiting. he's a decent lookin man, mutton chops connecting to a ‘stache, with a slightly receding hairline. where his looks excel is with his body, a stereotypical show of masculine faith. if you were new, you'd find him charming.
if only.
throwing on a coy smile, you drop the curtain behind you, feeling it brush your exposed body, "usually i'm the first one in here.”
his eyes meet yours, a light color unknown due to the harsh violet that shrouds the room. his mustache curves, eyes crinkling at your statement, “i was eager to sit.”
funny. so were you.
you slowly move towards him, hips swaying in that way most guys love. his eyes watch you carefully, one of his hands resting on his leg, fingers drumming against his knee cap.
the space between his legs is filled by you, looking down at the man before you, "mind if i take a seat?' a classic. men love having a pretty thing perched in their lap, to have something so beautiful within arms reach appealing.
"not at all," muttonchops shuffles in his seat, moving to the side and patting the space next to him.
for a moment, you wonder if you're seeing things, if his hand meant to gesture there instead of his lap. that being said, you don't get paid to wonder. hiding your confusion, you take the seat beside him, leaning against the back of the couch.
"so, what brings you here mister.." the word hangs off your tongue as you tilt your head, elbow pressed against the couch while you brace your cheek against your fist. even as you shift in your seat, his eyes never leave your face, haven't left your face since the moment you walked in. "john," he responds, repositioning himself so he doesn't have to twist his head to the side to stare, "and you are?"
you shake your head playfully, "i asked you a question first. think it's fair you answer it before you ask your own," the toe of your heel pokes at his leg, eyes darting to the appendage smoothly. so he can look elsewhere.
he shrugs, "fair. well," he crosses his arms, staring at the ceiling, "i'm here 'cause.. i want to be," it's cheeky, his answer and the stare he sends your way after.
"that's pretty vague," you pout, leading him to chuckle, the baritone echoing in your ear, "i s'pose it is. now," he mirrors your pose, opting to rest his arm on the back of the couch. "your name?"
a part of you doesn't want to give it to him, extend more of this banter, but guys are only here for one thing, and you'd rather get it over with, "dolly." one of his eyebrows raise at that, "dolly?" he parrots it back at you, and you nod.
john hums, staring deep into your eyes before breaking out into a smile, "that's pretty," and his smile is warm enough to almost flatter you. almost.
"you say that to all the girls, john?" his name is said in a huskier tone, slowly beginning to closing the distance as you lean towards him. john remains unphased, not moving an inch, "only the pretty ones," it comes off more matter the fact than cheeky, but you don't let it dissuade you.
instead, you just grin, inching closer to him, "well, i'm glad you think i am," a hand comes up to caress his face, brushing his cheek. there's something in your eyes, it being hard to read due to the lights. you get even closer, your chest nearly touching his-
"think we can save the touchin' for some other time, dolly?"
your whole body stills, the request taking you aback but john just looks down at you sweetly, like a parent gently chiding a child. slowly, your hand retreat from his face, sitting back a little. the shift earns an approving hum from john, "good girl. now," he adjusts in his seat, arm laying over the back of the couch again. this time it brushes your shoulders, "heard them say y'were a good listener. that the truth?" he fishes a carton of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, opening it with one hand and grabbing a cigarette.
"..yes," a meek response, all your focus on him. like how he places the cigarette between his lips, fetching a lighter from his coat. the sound of it igniting echoes in the small room, the warm light of the flame letting you see the detail of his lips.
capping it, he tucks the lighter back into his pocket, inhaling before prying the cigarette from his lips, smoke billowing past his lips.
what feels like hours becomes seconds as his eyes are back on you, an easy smile on his face, "think y'can listen to an old muppet and his woes?" it's teasing, like he's daring you to say no.
your head begins to nod, but his eyes narrow, only softening when you reply with an audible "yes."
"good," is all he says before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth, taking another puff before recounting his grievances.
----
you're having one of those weird dreams again.
you got invited into one of the private rooms, but the client didn't want to touch you, nor the other way around. all he wanted to do was talk, ramble on about his miseries, how his marriage is falling apart and the domestic life isn't made for a man like him.
what an odd character for your mind to make up. usually, it's someone more violent, cruel. but for once, he seems normal.
dolly.
maybe even nice.
dolly.
slowly, your eyes blink open, someone rousing you form your stupor. looking to the side, there's a man beside you. he matches the man from your dreams; bushy mustache, thick muttonchops, caterpillar eyebrows and-
this man isn't from your dreams. he's from the club. from the present.
you jolt awake, leaning away from him. hands automatically come to fix yourself, your lips stumbling over apologies -i'm sorry i- i'm so so sorry i didn't mean to.
you don't know how it happened. one moment, you were nodding along to his words and the next? you nodded off. fuck, he's probably going to complain to the manager, make him cut your pay for being so negligent with a client.
you can hardly hear john over your own frantic apologies, having to direct your attention back to him by touching your shoulder, "hey, hey, stay with me pretty, you're okay."
it takes you longer than you like to calm down, john guiding you through a couple of breaths. once your breathing is even, he speaks again, "do you want to sleep?"
guilt gnaws at you because yes, you do want to sleep, desperately. you're exhausted, having worked endlessly for little to money, but you also don't want to lose it by literally sleeping on the job.
"no," the response makes john's stare harden, like earlier, and you know there's only one way to revert it, "..yes."
like clockwork, his gaze softens, his hand falling from your shoulder, "okay," is all he has to say.
he readjusts the two of you, positioning yourselves like earlier. your head rests against his shoulder, and you realize john has to slump a little more in his seat to make it so. swallowing down the lump in your throat, you begin to open your mouth but john beats you to it.
"don't want to hear a peep from you, understood? just sleep, dolly," it's a command, albeit a gentle one. you're tempted to argue, to tell him that this is weird, isn't what you're meant to do, but your eyelids get heavier and heavier with each passing second, and you pass out against his shoulder.
----
the following morning, you leave work well rested, a hand on your back guiding you to your car,
you wake up in a bed thats not your own, in a house you know you can’t afford. at the end of that bed is a man, a disheveled stranger.
fear clouds confusion, as you wonder where you are, who you are.
he’s quick to reassure you, saying he found you by the river, an inch from death. he would’ve taken you to a hospital, but the closest one is nearly an hour out, and that was a risk he couldn’t take.
strangely enough, his words have a calming effect on you. despite having met him a mere minute ago, you can’t help but feel a sense of familiarity. a face that has no name, the john to your jane.
he offers you to stay with him while you recover, and while you’re tempted to say ‘no’, there’s no denying you can’t take care of yourself. hell, you don’t even know yourself.
so you say yes, and he promises to take care of you.
for as long as you need.
he leaves out the part about how he has been taking care of you, coming up on three months now. he didn’t know that slamming your head down on the ground would reset that memory of yours.
if he knew sooner, he wouldn’t have had to chase you through the woods.
still, it’s worth it, the concussion providing him with another chance. to make you truly his.
and if he so much as has an inkling that you’re starting to remember.
imagine being kyle’s partner. met him at some bar a few months back, the one night stand turning into two. then four. then more.
it’s jarring to see how where you two are now. sure, he was a good fuck, but he’s an even better boyfriend. everyone you know loves him, and everyone he knows loves you.
well, except price.
and it would be so much easier to ignore him if he wasn’t so significant to kyle. boss, captain, father figure. if kyle puts you on a pedestal, he has built a shrine for price.
fondness that teeters on obsession.
still, it’s not your place to say anything. he’s probably just looking out for him! after all, you’ve heard about his nasty divorce (it was kyle who told you. you can count the amount of conversations you’ve had with price on one hand), and that he just wants the best for his sergeant. his son.
so you leave it. whatever is between them is none of your business. besides, the worst thing price has done is send you a sharp glare. there’s absolutely nothing to be worried about.
until you catch your boyfriend on his knees for his captain, face pressed right into john’s pubic hair. his adam’s apple is more pronounced, thanks to the thick cock jammed in his throat.
it seems his adoration leaned more towards affection then.
dinner, and the conversations we have over dessert (jud x f!reader)
wc: 2,066 | ao3 link
“y’know, you really don’t have to make me dinner,” jud says, watching as you set your utensils on his empty plate, stacking it on your own.
flashing him a small smile before turning towards the sink, you shake your head dismissively, “father, just because i don’t have to do something doesn’t mean i don’t want to,” you look over your shoulder and wink at him, watching the man roll his eyes at the gesture.
leaning back in his seat, he crosses his arms, “well, i appreciate it, but a home-cooked meal doesn’t absolve you of your sins,” the smirk in his voice is evident, being heard even over the sound of running water against ceramic. clicking your tongue, you let your shoulders slump, “and here i thought the stomach offered the same path to heaven as it did the heart.”
this gets a generous chuckle out of jud this time, the scrap of a chair covering up his footsteps. he stands beside you seamlessly, rolling up his sleeves as he stands beside you shoulder to shoulder (or more accurately, shoulder to a quarter of his bicep).
“here, let me help,” reaching for one of the rinsed off plates, jud grabs a nearby towel and begins to dry them before setting them down at the rack. it’s mechanical, an event that’s bound to happen once a week. his inclusion in your routine started a week after the investigation took place, the somewhat quiet town of chimney rock increasing by a decibel.
you remember your colleagues at the daycare center would speculate about the crime during nap time. hushed, harsh whispers of the “who” “how” and “why”. when it came to give your piece, all you offered was a disinterested shrug and a brief, “whatever it is, not our business.”
the older ladies stare at you for what feels like an hour before creating conspiracy another conspiracy.
once the truth was revealed, the town got louder instead of quieter, reporters extending their stay to get a statement from all involved. they constantly swarmed the church, the young father having no real knowledge of peace for a while. you pitied him, that nurturing instinct in you carrying you to the kitchen, packing up something edible in a container, and driving over to the rectory.
it was late evening when he peaked through the window, expecting a gaggle of cameras and microphones when all he saw was just one woman with a container in her hands. “you look hungry in those pictures they snapped of you,” in response to the confusion on his face. you expect him to take the container, offer an awkward “thanks” and be on your merry way. instead, he invited you inside with a warm smile, shoulders lax as you entered the rectory.
you smile fondly at the memory; his welcoming aura, the complimentary groans of eating a decent (“fantastic,” he described to you, but it was muffled by the food in his mouth) meal for the first time in a while, and his smile, that damn smile. the type to bring out the roundness of his cheeks, smile lines strained against stubble.
an offhand comment from him, something about making this a regular thing, if i were to make this i'd set the whole church on fire. the expected chuckle is replaced with an, “i don’t mind,” that had him staring at you like you confessed something heinous.
“you don’t?”
all he got in return was a swift nod in response.
that little movement led you to now, jud toweling off the last plate as you dry your hands on your jeans, “well i’d call that another successful supper, wouldn’t you say father?” you turn your head to him, his face already mirroring yours.
“i’d say that it was,” he replies, setting the towel down and leaning against the sink, “you always manage to outdo yourself.”
the comment has heat rushing to your cheeks, pushing his chest lightly as you walk towards the fridge, “you know i hate flattery,” you reach for the freezer handle, struggling to pull it open. shaking his head, jud pushes off the sink, his hand finding the space above yours as he pulls in sync with you. the door swings open after one particularly hard yank, rewarding you with a tub of cookies and cream ice cream. the good kind.
casting a glance is way, you cross your arms, “i could’ve gotten it on my own,” as jud reaches into the box. he offers you a small smirk, one that says sure you could, grabbing the tub with one hand and closing it with the other. his hands are huge, a characteristic you try your damnedest to ignore. sometimes, you imagine them in your kitchen, chopping up shallots, kneading dough, pouring you a cup of coffee after a night of interlocking your fingers with his-
“is this enough?” your pulled out of the fantasy to stare into a bowl, filled with ice cream. taking a deep breath, you force a smile as you nod, “yeah, thanks.”
the rest of the evening is uneventful, the drawing room filled with the sounds of mindless chatter and metal spoons scraping against bowls. jud is in the middle of telling a story as you begin to tune out, focusing on his hands again, then his legs. he’s lanky, one long limb crossed over another. he’s still in his pants from this afternoons service, save for the star patterned socks on his feet (a gift from one of the youth group kids. you witnessed the whole interaction, the pink dusting off her cheeks as the father took it and expressed his thanks).
the details of his appendages are a mystery to you, what falls between them even more so. you imagine it to be long, consistent with his proportions. a bit skinny, with a few veins and a nice curvature. you ponder on how he uses it, if he can roll his hips in all the right ways, or if he has a secret technique only known to him and a few lovers (if any).
it’s as he reaches the climax of the story do you suddenly blurt out, “have you ever had sex, father?” and the man immediately stops talking.
“what?” it comes out highs pitched, and the weight of your words fall on you in an instant, magma pooling in your cheeks and spreading across your face as you push out an apology, “oh my god- gosh, i’m sorry, father i didn’t mean to- i shouldn’t have asked- fuck,” you land on, placing your face in your hands.
“..this counts as a sin, doesn’t it?” it’s more so a question for you than him, mumbled into your palms, slightly cold from the ice cream. despite that, your face remains hot to the touch.
“um,” jud starts, searching for the right words in hopes to make this less embarrassing for you, a damn near impossible task, “i mean we didn’t study this so i don’t think it is.” it’s a weak attempt to make you feel better, one that would be appreciated if the question was less secular.
dragging your hands down your face, they fall limp into your lap. avoiding the priests eyes you lean your head back, content with staring at the beams above you, “i’m so sorry, jud. i don’t know what came over me and even then i- i shouldn’t be thinking about, that,” you wonder what his expression is right now, one of disgust? judgment?
deep down, you know its passive, possibly even understanding. jud made it clear that he aims to run this church on acceptance, honesty, and compassion. countless of times you have witnessed him open his arms to a scorned member of the community, offer aide to the reporters who wanted to record every detail of his life, and sit down with those who didn’t believe any of his teachings, calling it bullshit straight to his face. despite the vitriol spewed at him, he listened, never argued or defended himself, just sat there and listened because that’s what they needed.
unfortunately, you don’t want him to listen. you want him to forget this and never see him again so long as you two live in this town.
at his prolonged silence, you begin to think he left, “jud?”
“i have.”
another beat, and then the sound of fabric shifting draws your attention, tilting your head down to find jud looking off to the side, lips pressed against his knuckles to support his chin. slowly, his eyes drift to yours, “i’ve had sex.”
the two of you stare at each other in silence, teetering on the edge of awkward.
you’re taken aback by his nonchalance, probably an effort to get you to relax. adjusting in his seat, he uncrosses his legs, and it takes everything in you to not look down.
placing his hands near a place you refuse to look, jud starts, “when i was a boxer, i overindulged in a lot of things. drugs, violence, alcohol,” he says that one with a chuckle, as if it were an inside joke.
there’s an expression on your face, you’re sure of it because when he meets your eyes again does he answer it, “sex wasn’t one of those. i did it a couple times before deciding that fighting is more gratifying than that,” the corners of his lips quirk upward, “that answer your questions?”
it did, but then it raised a thousand more. why don’t you like it? does it not feel good? did she did not feel good?
would you like it if it were me?
the question hangs on the tip of your tongue, and you have to remind yourself. he’s a priest, a reverend, father jud. you’re a daycare worker who likes to cook but loves doing it for him. he made an oath to not partake in such earthly desires. you haven’t been laid since your ex-husband left you for his co-worker, dumping you in chimney rock.
clearing your throat, you nod, “yeah. it does.”
he reads you all too well, or maybe its your face giving you away once again as he stands up, walking over to you. he leans down, and your brain flashes a billion different scenarios at you as his arm reaches out, brushing your bicep and you think he might trail it upward. the closer he gets the more your breathing speeds up, threatening to stop breathing if any part of him were to make contact with you right now.
“five hail mary’s.”
the statement catches you off guard, eyes moving to his arm, then his hand. he grabbed the ice cream bowl by the table beside you because of course he was going to. he definitely wasn’t going to grip your bicep, than your face, cheekily asking if you want to help him change that.
yeah. definitely wasn’t going to do that.
jud leans away quicker than he leaned in to the point were you think it was deliberate, grabbing his bowl and heading towards he kitchen. standing up, you call out to him, “i- what?”
“five hail mary’s. in case it is a sin,” he responds from the kitchen, voice echoing throughout the house. he walks back over, standing in the hallway and wiping his hands with a towel, “prefer you going home with a clean slate, wouldn’t you?”
for the first time in your life, the father has done what the monsignor would do regularly- annoy you.
nodding, you take a deep breath, “yeah, yeah no uh, that makes sense,” a hand finds the back of your neck, rubbing it awkwardly.
you grab your jacket and bag from the coat rack, offering one more apology which jud just waves his hand dismissively, “don’t worry about it. and for the record i was joking, about the hail mary’s.”
it doesn’t make you feel any better.
when you get home, in the comfort of your bed, you think back to how he looked at you when offering his answer. how lax he was, treating it as no big deal and not an invasion of his privacy. it eggs at you, and another question comes to mind: would he be that transparent with anyone else?
the question has heat brushing over your face and before you know it, you're muttering out those five hail mary's. just in case.
