while taking your wedding pictures in a park, little kids come up to you believing you're a magical princess! so obviously sukuna is your knight in shining armor!
it was supposed to be a simple photo-shoot; one setting of many to come. the park was beautiful and the nature was perfect for the vibe you were going for so it was only natural to take your pictures there. you and sukuna had taken your first look pictures here and of course, he cried no matter how much he tried to stop the waterworks. you were now taking your solo shots, the wind blowing in your veil and dress making the shots perfect. so perfect that you seemed to attract a crowd of onlookers— very tiny onlookers.
you heard their whispers and turned to the side to see a small group of children crowded together. they point at you and mutter as sukuna narrows his eyes slightly, he never was a fan of the leeches called children.
"oh hi there!" you say, voice kind. "i'm sorry, were you guys trying to play here in the grass?"
sukuna is close to telling them to scram when one of the young girls steps forward, "miss, are you a princess?" the others behind her nod in agreement and you even hear comments of them calling you magical.
your heart swells at this, "oh sweetie, i'm not a princess."
"you have to be!" one of the boys exclaims, seeming to be sure of himself. "you're pretty like a princess and you're wearing a dress!"
"yeah and he's a knight!" another girl says, pointing at sukuna who was standing to the side, arms crossed.
before sukuna can even defend himself, another adult jogs up to them. "oh my goodness, i am so sorry! kids lets go, leave the nice lady to take her pictures." the woman seems to be a mother of some of the children and she tries to usher them away as she apologizes to you.
"please, can we take a picture with the princess!" one of the kids asks. the others are quick with their pleads, all asking to get a picture and talk with you, the "princess".
the mom goes to apologize again but you wave her off, "i truly don't mind taking a pictures with the kiddos." the kids cheer and swerve around the woman just as you finish your sentence. and while they swarm around you, you can tell that they are careful to not step on your dress. you crouch down to be at their level as you compliment their hair and ask them what they like to play at the park. some of them are still shy, truly believing that you were a magical princess from some story book. the others were lively and asked you all sorts of questions. like what kind of princess you were, where your kingdom was, and why your knight seemed so grumpy. you ultimately gave up on trying to convince them that you were no princess but you did laugh at the comment of them asking why your knight was always seen with a scowl.
you take your pictures with them, some on their parents' phones and others with your photographer. after all, how perfect was it to capture this moment. being authentically called a princess on your wedding day was practically a sign from the universe. just before the kids leave, they all to take one last group photo but this time, with your 'grumpy knight'.
"you must be pretty strong to protect the princess, huh mister knight," one of the boys asks.
sukuna doesn't know why, but even he decides to play along, "gotta protect her from the monsters, kid."
the kids are in awe and sukuna doesn't even know what possessed him to pick up two of the kids and put one on each shoulder. all the kids giggle in excitement as two more kids jump on him, one on each arm that was used to keep the kids on his shoulders stable. the last kid is the girl that first approached you. you pick her up and tell the kids to smile at the cameras. after some photos were snapped, you and sukuna put the kids down even with their protests. each of their respective parents come to take them away, all apologizing for the trouble and offering congratulations on your wedding.
as the kids wave you goodbye, you see sukuna wave back out of the corner of your eye. you turn to him with a grin on your face, "since when were you such a fan of kids, ryo?"
"i'm not," he says gruffly, quickly putting his hand down to stop waving. "hate those booger brats."
"mhm, sure you do."
EXTRA:
years after your wedding and a handful of anniversaries, you always find yourself looking through the photo album of your wedding. no matter how many times you look at the photos, you always find yourself stopping at a certain page. the page that contained several pictures of you and sukuna at the park surrounded by children that were not yours.
sukuna finds you reminiscing on the photo album and doesn't even need to look to know exactly what page you're on.
"wonder where those brats are at now," sukuna says. you hum in response, allowing him to continue with, "probably still walking around calling your ass a princess."
"are you saying im not a princess, ryomen?"
"with how long i've been married to you? you're a queen now, baby."
a/n: first post in a while omg. ive been working back to back #freeme (i say knowing i asked for that sched so i could make money) this is also based off the cutest tt i saw last week but forgot to save :(( ALSO WANTED TO BUST THIS OUT DURING COMMERICIAL. MY CREAM CHEESE CHIVE KNICKS IN FIVEEEEE
choso is so infuriatingly polite to you. even if you've been dating for a few months and you've established that he can touch you wherever he damn well wants without needing to ask, he still gets so nervous that you might not like where his hands go and just keeps them on your face, the safe option.
you'll have to drag him down on top of you and lock your arms and legs around him so he doesn't shy away with bumbling apologies about how this is too vulgar, and put one hand on your tits with the other in your hair or around your throat so he knows where you want him. but he's still so gentle with you because he's bigger than you and he doesn't want to suffocate you or crush you under his weight, and he keeps trying to pull his mouth off yours - as you're doing all this while making out - to ask if what he's doing is okay, as if you're not the one who directed everything.
finally, you pull back, lips coming off his with a wet mwah accompanied by gooey strings of saliva and say, "choso, if you ask me one more time if i'm sure, or pull away, i'm not going to fuck you for a month."
his face pales slightly, pretty eyes slightly glazed. "but i..."
you shake your head quickly. "no buts. i want you to not ask me anything. just do what you want to me and stop worrying so much."
he stares down at you all pink cheeked, analyzing your ultimatum. it can't be hard, can it? to just bury his trepidation when it comes to sex and the possibility of hurting you. or he won't get to be inside you for thirty whole days. with a deep breath, he sits up, muttering encouragements to himself, and fumbles with the waistband of his sweats, pulling it down and revealing his cock that's turned red and swollen from holding in his cum so long. he didn't want to finish while kissing you, he thought you'd hate it.
you pant and grab his dick, thumbing the drooly tip and smudging around pearly precum while you guide him to your hole, wanting to take it raw.
choso sinks in without much resistance since you're soaked from kissing and being under him for such a long period of time. he notches the swollen crown at your entrance and hilts inside you while you're both staring into each other's eyes, your moans coming out in unison.
his drive to not let you down causes him to start with a rough pace, his cock pumping in and out of you so fast that your juices are wrung out of you and drip down from where you're both connected. his heavy balls slap against tour ass, the weight and movement of them a promise of the thick load he plans to empty inside you.
your puffy, slick walls stretch and mold around his thick girth, gripping him like a velvet vice. each thrust sends a fresh gush of her arousal dripping down to pool on the sheets below.
choso leans down to capture your lips again, kissing you sloppy and open-mouthed. your tongues tangle messily, while he ruts into you clumsily, dragging his heavy cock through your soft insides and then pulling back, making sure no part of you goes untouched.
you're swapping spit and breath with choso as he continues to fuck you. his cock stuffs inside you each time, and makes a point to roll his hips forward and grind his tip against your sweet spot each time he hilts inside you.
one hand snakes up to touch your tits, squeezing a soft mound roughly in his hand and kneading at your nipple until it swells against his fingers. the other grips your hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped indents, holding you in place as he pounds into you.
you're whining into his mouth, nails raking down his back and bucking your hips upwards to meet his thrusts. he's finally being rough with you, and it's more than you could've asked for. your pussy's literally slobbering around his cock with how much he's enjoying himself. he pulls off your mouth again to place sloppy kisses to your throat and jaw.
your pussy starting to tighten around him, clenching and rippling around his pistoning cock. the feeling of your velvet walls fluttering around him, milking his cock, brings him closer to the edge. with one more thrusts, he buries himself as deep as he can go, and for a moment you think he might pop straight into your womb, but he just pushes up against it, leaning over you and watching your folds stretch and twitch around him, trying to suck him in impossibly deeper.
he throws his head back and moans loudly as thick, hot ropes of cum spill inside you, sticking to your walls and painting them white. there's so much that excess spills out from inside you, pooling on the sheets beneath you.
choso rocks his cock into you, stirring his seed and ensuring as much of his cum takes as possible. his balls rest flat against your ass, and he stills, his cock plugging your messy hole to prevent any more of his load from spilling out. he's going to keep fucking you with you stuffed with his cream.
You didn't know what to expect from the transfer to KorTac, from what Laswell said there were mostly betas with the exception of two alphas: Konig and Nikto. Except for the fact that after being captured and tortured Nikto's scent glands ended up so severely damaged due to acid burns that he doesn't have a smell anymore. Losing one's scent was equal to losing a part of your identity, you still had your scent at least, not that you were able to feel anything, but the knowledge of its existence was a small comfort. After being discharged you remember frantically looking through your closet in the hopes of finding anything that might make you smell something familiar, but it was no use. That night you laid in bed rubbing your scent glands raw in the hopes that maybe just for a moment you might feel something. You had to stop when the medic threatened to patch them off completely.
There was some talk around the base about Price and the other contesting your transfer, you don't know if it was true and at that point didn't really care anymore. Johnny tried making one last attempt to try and talk to you, but you screamed at him to get away from you. It's hard to say if your outburst or the sight of the destroyed nest was what made him go away. You spend the next few weeks in a state of hypervigilance, not trusting your instincts anymore, instead obsessively checking for microexpressions, nervous tics or tone changes everytime you have to talk with someone. It is stressful and exhausting, but it's the only way to put your mind at ease.
The first thing you feel when meeting KorTac is panic, they're all wearing some kind of masks, the one called Horangi even has sunglasses on. The introduction goes really awkward and you debate if it's too soon to contact Laswell again or if you should just hand in your resignation and save her the paperwork. But then things start going in another direction when they invite you for a movie night as a bonding activity. Which goes surprisingly well, watching Konig cook while scolding Horangi everytime he catches him snacking on ingredients and when he sneaks you a couple of pieces of carrots while winking conspirationally you can't help but smile a little.
There's a silent understanding between you and Nikto, he's the first to sense any small change in your behaviour, always somewhere close. This time there's always one of them watching your back and nobody is left behind. You see the 141 a few more times when the two tasks need to collaborate and anytime one of them tried talking to you one of your teamates, usually Horangi, would just wisk you away to try another of Konig's recipes. You lost count to how many staring contest Ghost and Nikto had, none of them saying anything, not blinking, you're not sure if half the time they were even breathing.
When Gaz's foot gets stucked under a piece of concrete when the wall collapses you're the first person to arrive there and by the time Price and Soap get there you're half carrying Gaz out of the building. Right before the medic takes him away he asks why did you do that to which you answer simply:
"I'm not gonna let people get hurt because of personal grudges."
There's a shadow of shame falling over their faces, but you're already going back with Nikto to the base, Price's raised hand remains still for a moment, the words on the tip of his tongue, but you're already gone.
You start a treatment to slowly regain your sense of smell, but the process is tedious and frustrating, the medication tastes terrible and sometimes it makes you nauseous. You're not sure when the guys start carrying candy around with them so you always have a sweet treat right after the last pill. Konig even brings some fancy chocolate that Horangi tries to steal from only half of the time, none of them ever gets the last piece, instead presenting it to you like some kind of prize.
After a mission that almost goes wrong, you wake up in the infirmary, your teamates sitting around on uncomfortable chairs, rising up at the first sign you're conscious. Despite his severe social anxiety Konig takes off his mask, his hands holding your face and encouraging you to look him in the eyes so you know he's not lying. Nikto brings your hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating eratically:
you find your husband valarr with your daughter doing his makeup like a pretty princess ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
The door to the royal chambers creaked softly as you pushed it open, the sound swallowed by the light spilling from the hearth. You had expected to find the room empty, or perhaps Valarr bent over his ledgers, frowning at some petition from a distant lord. What you found was far, far better.
"Papa, you must hold still” came a tiny, imperious voice, filled with a concentration that was wholly adorable. "You're going to ruin it!”
You stopped dead in the doorway, a smile already spreading across your face. There, in the center of the room, sat your husband, perched on a low, cushioned stool, his long legs stretched out before him, looking for all the world like a captured dragon. His head was tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips were pressed into a thin line of exaggerated patience.
And on his lap, wielding a small, paint-smeared brush with the utmost gravity, was your daughter. Little Rhaenys, barely three years old, was dressed in a miniature gown of soft blue silk that was already sporting a fresh daub of crimson paint. Her dark hair, so like her father’s, was a wild cloud of curls around her cherubic face, a few stray strands sticking to her cheeks. Her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth, a sure sign that she was engaged in a task of monumental importance.
"Rhaenys, ñuhys qēlītsos” you said softly, announcing your presence. You were utterly captivated by the scene before you and didn't want to startle her into ruining her masterpiece. "What are you doing?"
Her head snapped up, her violet eyes—mismatched—lighting up with pure joy. "Mama! Mama, look! I'm making Papa into a princess!"
Valarr’s eyes flew open, and he gave you a look of such comical, long-suffering despair that you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. A smear of bright, rouge-like red was daubed unceremoniously across his cheekbones, and what appeared to be kohl—your precious, expensive kohl from Lys—was smudged inelegantly around his eyes, making him look like a very handsome, very startled raccoon. His hair was a disaster, tufts of it pulled into tiny, lopsided braids that stuck out at odd angles, secured with ribbons of red and black.
"Princess” he repeated "I am a princess. A very pretty one, apparently." He shot you a desperate look. "Help me."
"Oh, I don't know” you said, gliding into the room, you crouched down beside them "You make a rather lovely princess, my love. Though I think the rouge is a little heavy on the left side."
Rhaenys nodded sagely, her little brow furrowed. "It's war paint, Mama. Papa is a warrior princess."
"Of course” you agreed , biting your lip to keep from laughing. "A Targaryen warrior princess. Visenya envies your braids from the dark lands of the afterlife”
Valarr groaned, a sound of pure suffering. "Gods, you are both conspiring against me." He tried to shift, but Rhaenys immediately placed a small, paint-covered hand on his chest.
"No, Papa! You have to sit! I'm not done!"
"But sweetling," he tried, his voice wheedling, "your mother is here. Surely she should be the princess. She's much prettier than I am."
Rhaenys considered this, tapping the paintbrush against her chin and leaving a small red spot. She turned her head to look at you, her gaze critical.
"Hmm," she said, the sound so much like a miniature maester that you nearly laughed again. "Mama's hair is too neat. Princess hair has to be messy. And she doesn't have a crown."
"Ah, but I do” you said, winking at Valarr. You reached up and pulled out the ornate silver-and-ruby pin that held your braids in place. "See? A crown for a princess."
Rhaenys shook her head with such violent certainty that her curls bounced. "No, that's not a crown. There’s a better one." She gestured to the large, heavy circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies that sat abandoned on a small table nearby.
Your eyebrows shot up. "You want to put that on your Papa's head?"
"Papa needs a proper crown” she declared. "A princess crown." She scrambled off his lap and toddled over to the table. Valarr and you shared a look of pure parental panic as she strained on her tiptoes to reach it. The crown was heavier than she was, and you were already moving to intercept her when she grabbed it, grunting with effort.
"Rhaenys, careful, darling” he said.
"Papa, lower your head!”
Valarr, who would command armies and face down enemies without flinching, immediately obeyed his three-year-old daughter. He leaned his head forward, and with a solemn reverence that was hilarious, Rhaenys placed the crown upon his head. It was, of course, far too big. It slipped down over his brow, covering his eyes and coming to rest on the bridge of his nose.
"There” she declared, her voice full of pride. "Now Papa’s a beautiful princess."
Valarr pushed the crown up with a finger, peering out from beneath it. He looked at you, "A princess” he repeated. "Am i a pretty princess, my love?"
You couldn't hold it in any longer. A laugh bubbled up from your chest, uncontrollable. Valarr’s lips twitched, and then he was laughing too. Rhaenys, hearing you, began to giggle.
"Let me see” you said, wiping tears of mirth from your eyes. "The complete picture." You stepped back to take them in. There was your husband, the Prince of Dragonstone, with his dark eyes, his red cheeks, his lopsided braids, and the crown perched on his head.
"Papa is the best princess” Rhaenys announced, throwing her arms around his neck. Valarr caught her, holding her close, careful not to transfer too much paint to her gown. He pressed a kiss to her temple, leaving a faint red smudge on her skin. The single action made you want to give him 10 more children.
"I am the luckiest princess in all of Westeros."
You walked over to them, your own eyes stinging. You knelt down, wrapping your arms around them both, breathing in the scent of your family.
"And I” you whispered, "am the luckiest lady in the world, to have such a beautiful princess for a husband and the bravest little dragon for a daughter."
Valarr kissed your hair softly, looking at you through those raccoon eyes.
Summary: Oscar's girlfriend has seemingly always ran into things, bruised herself and Oscar had got used to preventing her from doing more harm to herself. But then she finally gets her eyes tested and to say the least suddenly she's seeing a whole new world.
Author's notes: This is literally me getting my eyes tested recently and it turning out I need glasses :D but I'm single so no one saved me from my lack of ability to see and hurt myself due to that.
Word count: 1.3k
Oscar's hand slips between y/n's forehead and the open cupboard as she turns completely unaware of the impending hit.
"We agreed." Oscar states as he releases her head and closes the cupboard.
"But it's not because I didn't see it, it's just because-"
"You agreed, y/n." Oscar repeats since he's been on y/n about getting her eyes checked for nearly a year now.
It doesn't help that she's a product of their generation and glued to a screen whenever possible. Not that she ignores Oscar in favour of a screen but her phone is rarely not in her hand if she's conscious.
But y/n's sight has plummeted in her ability to just see things and it's started to cause issues in terms of constantly injuring her. Oscar has been pretty good at preventing injury over the past few months but after the black eye from a car door she didn't realise was as close as it was, Oscar has been hounding her none stop and threatening to drag her there against her.
Y/n sighs knowing her boyfriend has reason to be concerned, he caught some strays in accusations when y/n arrived with a black eye to a race following a really bad weekend for him the previous weekend.
They both had to thank god that Kym had captured the moment on camera otherwise there might've been some issues getting people to believe that y/n's injury was self-inflicted.
"Alright, I'll get an appointment." Y/n nods earning a nod and smile from the Aussie. "But I don't know what we're gonna do if they say my sight isn't a problem."
"They won't say that. There's no risk of that." Oscar assures her since there's not a doubt in his system that y/n is not in need of visual aid.
-
Y/n wasn't told she is legally blind but the optician was not the slightest bit surprised that she couldn't navigate by signs, that she'd had more bumps and curb scraps while driving and injured herself more than your average person.
"You wouldn't be willing to just lie, would you?" Y/n asks making optician give her a deadpanned expression.
"You need glasses to drive. Legally." The optician states earning a sigh, that's not really something she'd like to put on her licence. Not that she drives all that much, a perk of having a boyfriend who drives for a living. She has given up that sort of thing. "Really I would advise you wear glasses whenever you are up out of bed."
"That bad?" Y/n mumbles before he places the lenses he'd pieced together for her to show her just how clear the world is. "What if it turns out my boyfriend is hideous?"
"You love him?"
"Yeah."
"Then he won't be...but if he's that bad then the perk of glasses is you can take them off when you don't want them to work."
Y/n laughs a little, actually grateful the optician played along with her joking concern before she sighs.
"I hope he's here to make sure you're not thinking about driving yourself home."
"He's here." Y/n smiles with a flush before she sighs a little and stands up. "He knew I needed glasses but I've been putting it off. Guess I have to find a pair that I actually like and want to wear then?"
"That's usually how we do it."
Y/n steps out with a sigh looking at Oscar's form as he stands up waiting for her.
"So what's the verdict?"
"I need glasses, and I legally need them to drive."
"Well we knew that after that poor old lady got rear-ended." Oscar smiles earning a huff since y/n did not need the reminder of that moment since the elderly woman really gave her a stern talking to while she just about cried. "I was looking at some frames you might like."
Y/n softens as she looks at him and he walks her around watching her try on different glasses and helping her since y/n does care what he thinks even if he's a little unhelpful.
"Alright, these are the ones." Y/n decides after managing to get a good look at herself and being happy that they don't make her feel completely hideous.
So after paying for that and being told it'll be about a week for them to process and get the glasses made before shipping them out to her.
It means another week of Oscar preventing injury, though her does fail when y/n manages to get a bruise in her side when she's walking around the garage and managed to smack into one of the counters dodging a mechanic and not realising how close she was to something so solid.
But finally the glasses arrive and y/n feels like she's looking at a whole new world.
"I didn't know glasses would come with you excessively staring at me." Oscar comments as y/n settles herself down to lie down on top of him and just watches him, eyes looking at him with focused admiration. "Did you think I'd be ugly when you could see me properly?"
"No. But I guess I didn't realise how beautiful you'd be when I could see the details I couldn't see before." Y/n sighs dreamily then settling down while Oscar just smiles at y/n.
"I'm just glad we've eradicated risk of more black eyes-even if it's just because the glasses are a bit of protection rather than preventative."
"I'm not that bad."
"Yes, you are baby." Oscar smiles using one hand to grab her face so he can squish her cheeks together. "But you look cute so I can't hold it against you."
"You can't hold it against me anyway. It's not my fault my eyes don't work like they should. And can I just say it does suck that I have to pay to see? Like how is it fair?"
"I'll cover the cost so you can see me and stare as much as you like." Oscar states earning a small sigh before he moves his hand to gently stroke her cheek. "I think you look beautiful with your glasses."
"Thank you."
Oscar smiles feeling the heat of her skin increase as she gets a little flustered from his compliment and gentle touch. Y/n pulls off her glasses to lie down and get some sleep while Oscar takes them folding them up and putting them in a safe place that they aren't at risk of being crushed and broken by a body.
He doesn't so much as care about the cost of replacing them, obviously money isn't an issue for her, but it's mainly about her going another week without glasses to see.
"Does it feel different without glasses?" Oscar asks while starting to play with y/n's hair, feeling her relaxing down against him at the action.
"Not really, but I've not been going long without them. They did say I could get headaches not wearing them now. But I haven't so far...mainly just take them off for showering and sleeping so not much chance. I think it's because your eyes just get used to not having to focus on their own." Y/n theorises before shrugging. "But I don't know. They help me actually see that's my only concern."
"I just want you to not get hurt and they've helped so far." Oscar smiles while y/n hums already starting to drift off.
I would like to request a dark story. fem reader gets kidnapped by an orc chieftain and his warriors are in charge of making sure his new bride is nice and wet for his fat cock.
The Clan Needs Your Warm Holes (orc chieftain and clan x fem reader)
You are captured by an orc chieftain and his war band. His warriors are tasked with preparing every inch of your body for his massive cock...
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, kidnapping, non-con, forced arousal, group sex, oral penetration (fingers), nipple suckling, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, double penetration, triple penetration, gangbang, forced orgasm, size kink, humiliation, dub con, implied stockholm syndrome acceptance at the end, fluids, dirty talk.
The furs beneath your back reek of musk and smoke.
The sack rips from your head and torchlight sears your vision.
Mud, leather, and male musk bodies fills your nostrils. You're on your knees, wrists bound behind you, surrounded by a circle of massive green-skinned figures whose tusks gleam yellow in the firelight. Orcs.
The chieftain sits on a throne of stacked skulls. He's broader than the others, his chest scarred and broad, one tusk chipped in battle. His eyes crawl over you, making goosebumps rise on your skin.
"You're the tribute," he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates in your ribs. "The village finally sent someone pretty."
"I'm not—" Your protest dies when he lifts one finger.
"I am Grothak. You will call me Chieftain. You will call none of my warriors by name because you don't deserve to know them yet. Right now, you're just a hole that needs stretching."
Three orcs grab you before you can scramble backward. Thick fingers close around your arms, your thighs, your waist. The binds around your wrists get sliced through with a blade, but freedom lasts half a heartbeat before they pin you flat on the fur-covered platform.
"Hold her still," Grothak commands. "Prepare her thoroughly. I want her weeping around my cock before sunrise."
You buck. "Don't—"
A thick finger presses against your lips. "Hush. You'll thank us when he splits you open."
You thrash. Your heel connects with something solid—an orc's knee—and he grunts but doesn't budge. They manipulate you to lie on your back. Another orc straddles your calves, his weight crushing your legs flat.
"Stop! Don't—"
Hands rip your linen dress from collar to hem. The fabric tears. Cool air hits your breasts, your belly, the thatch of hair between your thighs. You try to curl inward but they force your arms above your head, pinning your wrists in a double-fisted grip.
"So small," one orc remarks. He runs a calloused thumb down your sternum. "Look how her nipples are already pebbling."
"I'm cold," you spit.
The orc who spoke—the one with a jagged scar across his throat—laughs. "Cold, oh, we'll warm you up, little rabbit."
Then there are hands everywhere.
One orc cups your left breast, his palm so wide it covers the whole mound. He kneads roughly, squeezing until you gasp, then releases and watches the flesh swell back. Another orc takes your right breast between both hands and compresses, pushes the tissue together until your nipples touch.
"Soft," he grunts. "Human females are so fucking soft."
"Her areolas are so cute," observes a third, leaning over your shoulder. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "Tiny. Like little coins."
They don't stop talking. They don't stop touching.
A mouth closes over your left nipple. Not gentle, a hard sucking pull that draws the bud deep between green lips. You feel the rasp of his tongue, the scrape of a tusk against the underside of your breast. Your back arches involuntarily.
"No—"
Another mouth finds your right nipple. This orc has a wider tongue, and he licks broad strokes across the sensitive peak while the first one sucks. They establish a rhythm: pull, release, swirl, bite. Not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make you whimper.
Your hips jerk. The orc pinning your legs shoves them apart, kneeling between your thighs to keep you spread.
"Look at this," he says, and you feel one thick finger drag through your slit. "Dry as old leather. We've got work to do."
"Kiss her neck," Scar-Throat commands. "She's a woman. They like that."
An orc you hadn't noticed—younger, his tusks barely erupted—drops his head to the curve of your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft. He mouths at your pulse point, teeth grazing, tongue tracing the tendon down to your collarbone. You hate the shiver that races down your spine.
"She's trembling," he murmurs against your skin.
"Keep going," Scar-Throat says. "Open her legs wider."
The orc between your thighs hooks his elbows behind your knees and pushes. Your knees bend toward your shoulders, exposing everything. The torchlight is on you. You feel seen in ways that make your face burn.
"Such a pretty little cunt," he says. "Look at these lips. Plump. She's going to grip the Chieftain like a fist."
"Stop describing—ah!"
Two fingers part your outer labia. Cool air hits the slick inner flesh that you know is starting to glisten despite your horror. Your body is betraying you. The mouths on your breasts, the lips on your neck, the rough handling—it's all firing wires you didn't know existed.
"Getting wet," the orc observes. He drags one finger from your entrance up to your clit, just barely grazing the hooded nub. "There she is."
"Don't—that's not—gnnn!"
Another finger joins the first, and they spread you open like a flower. You feel exposed to the bone. The orc lowers his head, and for one terrible moment you think he's going to put his mouth there, but instead he spits.
A thick glob of saliva lands directly on your clit.
You jerk. "What the—"
"Wet is wet," he says, and rubs the saliva into your flesh with the flat of his thumb. The friction sends sparks up your spine. Your hips try to close but you can't.
"She's clenching," announces the orc at your breasts. He's switched from sucking to licking, broad stripes that catch your nipple and drag it toward his tusk. "Every time I do this, her whole body twitches."
"Mine too," says Neck-Kisser. He's moved to your ear now, nibbling the lobe. "Her breath keeps catching."
"Fingers," Scar-Throat orders. "Let's see how tight she is."
The orc between your thighs—you're starting to think of him as The Breaker—slides one thick finger inside you. You clamp down instinctively. Your walls try to push him out, but he's too big, too unyielding. The knuckle stretches your entrance.
"Tight," he confirms. He pushes deeper, curls the finger slightly, and you feel the pad of it press against your front wall. "There's the sweet spot."
"No, don't—" Your protest strangles into a moan when he presses harder.
"That's it. That's the sound." He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes your eyes water. "Two already feels like four in a human. Chieftain's cock is thicker than my wrist."
"He'll split her," someone says with satisfaction.
"Good."
The Breaker's fingers pump slowly. Each thrust pushes a wet sound from your cunt—a sticky, obscene noise that echoes in the quiet of the circle. The other orcs have gone still, watching, listening.
"Her ass," Scar-Throat says. "Don't neglect her ass."
"No—I haven't—I've never—"
A new pair of hands. These ones are oiled and a slick finger circles your anus. You tense every muscle in your body.
"Relax," says the orc behind you. You can't see his face, only feel the warm oil and the pressure. "Fighting makes it hurt more."
"I don't want—"
His fingertip breaches you. Just the tip, just past the tight ring of muscle, and you whine. Not from pain exactly—though there is pain—a sweet unexpected ache. An ache from the sense of being opened in a place you'd never allowed anyone to touch. Your whole body locks up.
"She's crying," Neck-Kisser observes. He's pulled back to watch your face. Tears streak down your temples into your hair.
"She's supposed to cry," Grothak says from his throne. His voice hasn't changed pitch. He watches like a man examining livestock. "Keep going."
The finger in your ass pushes deeper. The two fingers in your cunt resume their rhythm. The mouths return to your nipples—sucking, biting, laving. The hands on your breasts squeeze and release, squeeze and release, plumping the flesh until your areolas look swollen, darker.
"She's wet enough now," The Breaker announces. He pulls his fingers from your cunt and holds them up. They glisten in the torchlight, strings of your arousal stretching between them. "Look at this. Dripping."
"Taste her," Scar-Throat commands.
The Breaker puts his fingers in his own mouth, sucks them clean with noisy relish. "Sweet. Little bit sharp. Human women always taste like copper and honey."
"Let me." An orc you haven't seen before pushes forward. He's broader than the others, with a flat, smashed nose. He doesn't ask, just lowers his head between your spread thighs and drags his tongue from your perineum to your clit.
You buck. Your hands strain against the grip holding them. "Oh—fuck—"
He laughs against your flesh, then he does it again, slower, flattening his tongue to lap at your inner lips. He dips into your entrance, gathers a mouthful of your wetness, and pulls back to show the others.
"Look. She's making soup."
The orcs around you chuckle. You want to die. You want to crawl out of your own skin. But your hips are tilting upward, seeking more of that tongue, and you hate yourself for it.
"She likes it," Neck-Kisser says. He's returned to your throat, kissing and sucking. You'll have bruises tomorrow, purple badges of our attention. "Her pulse is racing."
"No, don't want—"
"Fingers in her mouth," Scar-Throat orders. "She's still arguing too much."
You open your mouth to scream but thick fingers shove between your lips before you can form the words. Two of them. Calloused. Tasting of leather and smoke. They press down on your tongue, and you gag.
"Suck," the orc commands. His hand is attached to a thick arm, which is attached to a chest with a tattoo of a wolf skull. "Get them wet. We're going to use every hole."
You try to bite down. He pinches your nose closed with his other hand.
"Suck or breathe. Your choice."
You suck. Saliva floods your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his knuckles against your will, coating them in slickness. He withdraws them slowly, strings of spit connecting his fingers to your lower lip.
"Good little bride," he says, and smears your saliva across your cheek.
"Turn her over," Scar-Throat commands. "Let's see her from behind."
Hands roll you onto your stomach. Your breasts press into the fur, nipples dragging against coarse hair. Someone grabs your hips and lifts them, forcing you onto your hands and knees. Your cheek is pressed sideways into the pelt.
"Spread her."
Knees kick your feet wider. Your thighs separate. You feel exposed from behind—the cool air on your wet cunt, on the oil-slicked entrance to your ass.
"Much better." The Breaker has moved behind you. You feel his thumbs part your outer lips, exposing the darker color of your inner flesh. "Look at this view. Everything glistening."
"Fuck her with something bigger than fingers," someone suggests.
"Get the handled club."
"No—" You try to crawl forward. An orc grabs your hair, fisting it at the roots, and thrusts his fingers in your mouth.
"Good. We said prepare her," Scar-Throat reminds you. "Not comfort her."
The handled club turns out to be exactly that—a wooden shaft, smoothed and polished, with a rounded bulb at one end. It's smaller than a cock but larger than fingers. The orc who holds it—The Breaker again—lathers the bulb in oil.
"This will stretch your cunt open," he says, pressing the cool wood against your entrance. "Get you ready for what's coming."
He pushes.
The bulb spreads your inner lips wide. You feel the stretch in your perineum, in the ring of muscle that guards your core. The wood is nothing like flesh, and every ridge and grain scrapes your sensitive walls.
"More," Scar-Throat says.
The Breaker shoves the bulb deeper. You gag around the fingers in your mouth as your cunt clenches around the intrusion, trying to expel it, but the shape locks it in place. He twists the handle, and you feel your insides rotate around the shaft.
"Now her ass," someone says.
"Ngnnn—" you cry mutely even with your finger stuffed mouth. "Ghphhh!! Can't—Ghprrrphh!"
Another bulb. Smaller this time, but still too large. Oiled. Probing your ass. The orc behind you—a different one, with sharper tusks—doesn't wait for your permission. He pushes the bulb past the tight ring, and you scream around the fingers, then suckle them hard.
The sensation is too much. Too full. Too stretched. You have fingers in your mouth, and something in your cunt and something in your ass and they're all moving, twisting, pumping in opposite rhythms. Your whole lower body feels packed, stuffed, invaded.
"That's it," Scar-Throat says. He's stroking your hair now, almost tender. "Take it. Take all of it. The Chieftain wants you gaping."
The fingers leave your mouth, and another set joines them. You manage to grumble, "Can't—too much—grpphhh!"
"You can. You will. Keep sucking." Scar-Throat grips your jaw, turns your face toward Grothak's throne. "Look at him. He's been watching this whole time. Be a good girl for him."
The chieftain hasn't moved. His massive arms are crossed over his chest, and his cock—you see it now, jutting from between his thighs—is enormous. Thicker than your thigh. Long enough to bruise your cervix. The head is dark purple, almost black, and beads of fluid glisten at the slit.
"That's going inside you," Scar-Throat says. "Every inch. And you're going to thank him for it."
"She's not ready," The Breaker announces, pulling the club from your cunt with a wet pop. "Still too tight. She needs more preparation."
"Then give her more."
What follows has no shape, no sequence, only sensation.
Orcs take turns on your body.
One kneels in front of your face and feeds you his cock while you choke and drool around it. Another fucks your cunt with his fingers while a third tongues your ass, his rough tongue lapping at the oiled rim. Someone bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then sucks the bruise.
You lose track of who is where. Three hands on your breasts at once—one pinching your left nipple, one tugging your right, one kneading the underside of your left breast where the skin is thin. Hands plump your tits together, squeezing until the flesh bulges between green fingers.
"The nipples are darker now," observes an orc. "From all the sucking."
"Her areolas spread," agrees another. "Look how wide they are."
You glance down at your own chest and barely recognize it. Your breasts are flushed, the nipples swollen to twice their normal size, the areolas crinkled and damp. Every breath makes them ache.
"Rub her here, too," someone says, and you feel fingers close around your clit. Circling. Pulling the hood back until the exposed nub is raw against the air. You sob.
"Stop—ghhphhh!! I'll come—"
"Good. That's the point."
You come with a scream that tears your throat. Your whole body convulses—back arching, hips bucking, thighs clamping around the head between your legs. The orc doesn't stop teasing your clit through the spasms, drawing out the peak until you're weeping from overstimulation.
"One," Scar-Throat counts. "She needs three before the Chieftain."
"Can't—"
"You can."
They build you up again. An orc fucks your cunt with his tongue, dipping into your entrance, swirling, then dragging up to your clit. Another orc slides two fingers into your ass and crooks them, searching until he finds the thin wall between your channels. You feel his fingertips press against the tongue in your cunt through the membrane.
"That's it," he growls. "Feel that?"
The second orgasm rips through you while you're still trembling from the first. This one is sharper but your body doesn't care. It keeps going. Your cunt gushes around the tongue inside it, and you hear someone laugh.
"She's leaking," The Breaker says. "Like a cracked waterskin."
"One more," Scar-Throat insists. "Then the Chieftain."
"No—I have nothing left—"
They prove you wrong. An orc with a clever tongue licks slow circles around your clit while another pinches both your nipples, rolling the sensitive buds between thumb and forefinger. A third kisses you—actually kisses your mouth, tongue pushing past your lips, tasting you. The intimacy of it breaks something inside you.
You come for the third time silently. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Your vision whites out. When you come back, you're on your back again, legs spread, and Grothak is standing over you.
"Good work," he says to his warriors. "She's ready."
He is naked now and his cock... it's even larger up close. Twice thicker than the wooden club. The head alone looks bigger than your fist. Veins rope along the shaft and his balls hang heavy beneath, tight with need.
"Please," you whisper. You don't know if you're begging him to stop or to start.
Grothak, the chieftain kneels between your thighs. He doesn't bother with foreplay, his warriors have prepared you thoroughly so he just spits on his palm, slicks his cock, and lines the head up with your entrance.
"Look at me," he commands.
You look.
He pushes.
The head stretches your cunt wider than anything that's been inside you. Wider than orc fingers, wider than the club. You feel your inner lips flatten against the sides of his shaft, feel your perineum strain. The burning is intense, a fire that makes you claw at the furs beneath you.
"Breathe," he says, and you realize you've been holding your breath.
You exhale in a shuddering gasp. He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another. Your walls try to clamp down but there's no room—he's already filled every space, stretched every muscle.
"Halfway," he grunts. Sweat beads on his brow. "Tightest cunt I've ever had."
"I can't— too big—"
"You can. You will." He pulls back slightly, then shoves forward. The head of his cock punches past your cervix, and you scream.
The pain is white-hot. But underneath it, buried beneath the stretch and the burn, something else flickers. A fullness that borders on pleasure. A sense of being completely, utterly filled.
"There," Grothak says. "Pushing against your womb."
He begins to move. Slow thrusts at first, each one dragging his ridges against your raw inner walls. Then faster. Harder. The furs beneath you bunch and slide as he pounds into you, his balls slapping against your ass with each stroke.
"You're taking it," he growls. "Look at you. Dripping down my shaft. Soaking my balls."
You are. You can feel your own wetness coating his cock, making each thrust easier, slicker. Your hips have started moving, matching his rhythm, tilting up to meet him.
"Please," you moan, and this time you know what you're begging for.
"Please what?"
"More—harder—I don't care—just don't stop—"
He laughs, and it's the first time you've heard him laugh. It's not cruel. It's triumphant.
"Warriors," he calls. "Come join your chieftain as he claims his bride."
They don't wait. They descend like wolves.
Grothak lies back and keeps pounding your pussy while one orc kneels beside your head and feeds you his cock. You open your mouth without being told, suck without being commanded. Your tongue swirls around his shaft, traces the vein along the underside, laps at the slit.
Two orcs position themselves behind you and spread your asscheeks. They rub around where you pussy is spread wide by their boss then rub your pucker. You whimper around a mouthfool of cock when one pushes into your ass—you feel the stretch, the burn, but it's nothing compared to the cunt-stretch of the chieftain.
The other orc—where does he go? There's no room—
"Spread her cheeks wider," Scar-Throat orders.
Grothak pumps to the hilts and spreads your ass wide apart and the orc behind you slides into your ass alongside the other. Two cocks in one hole. You feel impossibly full—split open—stuffed beyond reason.
"Fuck," Grothak groans and keeps fucking your pussy. "She's magic."
The orcs in your ass begin to move, too, pumping in opposite rhythm. The orc in your mouth thrusts to the back of your throat. You're being fucked from every direction, every hole filled, every inch of your body claimed.
"Look at her taking her clan," Grothak says with satisfaction. "Not many humans can take that."
"She's not human anymore," Scar-Throat replies. "She's orc-bride now."
The orgasm that builds is different from the earlier ones. It doesn't crest, it drowns. You feel it rise from your core, spread through your belly, flood your limbs. When it breaks, you're screaming around the cock in your mouth, your whole body convulsing, your cunt and ass clamping down so hard the orcs groan.
"She's coming," Grothak says. "Again. Give her more."
They don't stop. They switch positions, swap holes, take turns. You lose count of how many cocks have been inside you. You're passed from orc to orc, each one fucking you until they spill, then the next one taking their place.
You are now on your side, Grothak stretching your throat with deep slides. You open for him, greedy now, desperate. Your lips stretch around his shaft, your tongue laves at the head.
An orc is spooning you from behind, fucking your ass and when he spurts his cum and pulls out, someone else slides in immediately—thicker this time, longer. The orc in your cunt fucks you so hard your vision blurs. Someone's fingers pinch your clit, another set on your nipples, rolling the swollen nub suntil you scream.
You're a thing of holes and need, a vessel for orc seed, a bride being broken open and remade.
At last, hours later, Grothak takes you again, but this time he's alone. The warriors have pulled back, all of them spent and satisfied, their seed dripping down your thighs, your chin, your chest. Your whole body is covered in it—sticky, hot, reeking of musk.
The chieftain lays you on your back, spreads your legs, and slides home in one thrust. You're too gaping to feel the stretch anymore. Your cunt has softened, loosened, shaped itself to orc cocks. His slides in easily, his ridges scraping against walls that have learned to accept.
"Look at you," he says, fucking you slow and deep. "Crying. Drooling. Covered in my warriors' seed. And you're still trying to fuck back on my cock."
You are. Your hips are rolling, meeting his thrusts, pulling him deeper. Your inner muscles clench around him, milking, begging.
"Please," you sob. "Please come in me. Please fill me up. I need it—I need your seed—"
He growls and picks up speed. "Take it," he snarls. "Take every drop."
His orgasm is explosive. He roars and you feel his cock pulse inside you, flooding your cunt with loads of cum. It fills you, overflows you, drips down your ass to mix with the other orcs' spend. He stays inside you, seed pumping.
When he finally pulls out, you're empty. Hollow. Your cunt gapes open, dripping orc seed, trickling down your thighs. Grothak cups your face in one massive hand. His thumb wipes tears from your cheek.
"You'll do," he says as you fall into exhausted sleep.
It starts with something innocent, like everything you do. Jack has been complaining about the [lack of] good food at the hospital, and coincidentally, you've wanted to make food content on your tiktok account for a while. So, you start to test the waters, slowly.
You have some leftover lasagna, so it doesn't start as a big gesture, just something nice enough to make his day easier, he would've picked up some for himself no matter what.
"Oh, I packed you some leftovers for your shift tonight, baby," you try to sound indifferent to it, but nothing goes missing under Jack Abbot's gaze.
"Ow, you're always taking such good care of me darling," his voice sounds lower than usal as he presses his body to yours and kisses your cheek. "Thank you."
Next morning, when he comes back from work, there's a gift card for clothes sitting right where the lunchbox you made was. The lunchbox, along with the tupper inside is cleaned and already in its place.
This is why you need to ease him into making something nice for him, because Jack had the tendency of spoiling you over the smallest thing, and as much as you liked it, sometimes it felt like you were taking advantage of his kindness.
Two months after that day, his lunchbox is almost the size of his backpack. Your tiktok account is about to hit 20,000 followers and he can't be happier, the huge lunchbox was his idea as he slowly started to ask for more food, you were sure he would cry if you asked him to get something for himself.
At first, you thought he was sharing the food with his staff and making you believe it was all him, but Lena said he would sometimes walk aroung with his food and ate every single thing you packed. Not even Shen dared to steal something from you.
"That smells so good", he says, his head peeking from behind you, his hand reaches to grab a french fry and you slap him off, it all gets captured on camera dn you already know your followers will beg for a face reveal endlessly and your excuses won't be enough to stop them.
"Hey!! No peeking," you laugh, and you should know better, you really should.
It's not hard for him to grab you by the waist and pull you away from the counter, and before you know it, he already took a massive handful of fries and there's nothing you can do about it as he shoves half of them into his mouth.
"I'll make it up to you," he whispers and kisses your cheek, now covered in salt and seasoning.
"Don't eat your lunch at home, that's how you make it up to me," he kisses your lips, probably to distract you so he can eat the rest of his fries. "You really don't want to share with your coworkers?"
"The minute I start feeding my residents they will never stop begging for more food and might show up here begging for more," he kisses you again. "You can send them cookies."
"I love you so much," you kiss his cheek a couple of times. "Can I send more for the shift change?"
"Jesus Christ," he laughs. "Just make sure I don't look crazy."
He does look crazy when he leaves.
Besides his lunchbox, he leaves with about four dozen chocolate chip cookies for his staff, and he really thinks he's gonna come back with half of the cookies. He should know better, he really should.
He forgets the small detail of his staff bein nothing short of hungry feral animals, because the tray is completely empty after 20 minutes. Damn, he didn't even get a cookie for himself!!
"You better be taking good care of your wife, Abbot," Lena says as she takes a bite of her cookie. "I'm staying with her if you ever divorce."
"Would you betray me like that, Lena?" he says, fake anger in his voice.
"Is she happily married, or just married?" Santos asks from behind him and Abbot has to control every muscle on his face to not look at her in disgust. "Does she need a wife?" she asks, laughing, two cookies in her hand.
"Hey! One cookie per person!" he complains.
"This is for huckleberry. Let me know if your wife says yes," she mumbles, still laughing as she walks away.
He comes back the next morning, as he sits on the couch, defeated and waits for you to come over, he's still savoring the cookies he never got to try.
"How was work, dear?" you ask, he pulls you into his lap and waste no time straddling him.
"They want more cookies, and asked if you can make cupcakes," he replies, nuzzling his head on your neck. "I didn't get a cookie."
"Owww, I'll bake a dozen just for you," you promise him.
"Thank you for the burgers, they were delicious," he whispers, and sounds truly defeated. "But I got no dessert."
Watching her from the water for a few minutes, intrigued by what she was doing, Randall eventually caught on, and upon seeing her failure to get a spark, he climbed out of the water (pausing to wriggle a little to dry off) and approached, pushing the twigs a little closer together before taking the stones from Emily. Careful not to get them too wet, he clicked them a little before striking them together, and with a few quick tries, a small blaze appeared, taking off quickly. It was enough to cook the fish, Randall having helped to mount it on a long stick, while Emily showing him how to rotate it over the fire. It fascinated him, and he couldn’t help but smile to Emily when she showed him.
