#deployment tips

[remarkablewriters-blog]

Easy Tips You Need To Consider While Deploying SharePoint 

SharePoint is the best platform to increase your company’s productivity, sales, and revenue. If you want the same for your business, then you need to deploy this program. There are many benefits; you can get from this platform. If you are new to this platform, then probably you do not know about the things to deploy this platform. For this, you can take the proper support from the professionals,…

[cj-theyoungling]

Husband Ghost who is obsessed with his wife. He refuses to tell her no, whatever his wife wants, she gets. Anything she even mentions wanting ends up in their shared home. She mentions a beautiful cookware set, she finds it in the cabinets later that week. She complains that her nails are grown out, later her nail tech calls and says that Ghost has paid for a years worth of nail appointments (with tip). Anything to make his wife smile

When Ghost is home his wife doesn't have to lift a finger. He loves the idea of a "traditional marriage" but he's actually a traditional man. He comes home and and does any repairs you need on the house. He's going to buy groceries, doing car maintenance, landscaping the lawn, doing the laundry. Anything his little wifey needs.

Any hobbies she has are always encouraged and paid for by Ghost. Constantly sending packages full of cooking supplies, yarn, stationary, and paints to the house while he's gone. He always wears the things she makes for him. They are bundled in blankets she knitted while eating brownies she baked. All while you are going through the scrapbook you had made while he was on deployment.

He refuses to argue with his wife. A firm believer in "happy wife, happy life". Anything his wifey doesn't like or want to do doesn't happen. She doesn't like his tie, he's changing. She doesn't feel like going out, he's helping her out of her dress and making them hot cocoa. Nothing she can do can upset him. He's so in love with her that anything she does is perfect to him.

[syoddeye]

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.  “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

[skyrigel]

Simon who doesn't know that his unmated roomate is in heat.

He's happy to go back to you after deployment, his omega — no well, not his. Not yet, this is what he means. And unaware he goes with a happy heart which races for the giddiness to see you again making his cheek burst into colours.

That until he clicks open the door. His whole body reacts to the humid, wet, sweet slick scent of you. It's everywhere. It's intoxicating, physically heavy, and it lingers over him. He breaths into your pheromones, rock hard in his pants.

Everything is a mess, which is unlike you.

“Simon…” It's so soft, like a whisper. He swallows hard to turn around at the marvelous, needy sight of you.

A huge t-shirt which he recognises as his own is down over your thighs, your skin is sweat sheen — rosey with heat, eyes droopy and lashes fluttering. “Si, I was waiting for you.” You say, and tip toe towards him.

Simon is fixated when you hug him, face cradling over his chest, sniffing into his scent. He feels you damp all over, “You are in heat.” Simon states, and you look up with puppy eyes.

“I missed you.” You grab over his abs, squeezing and moaning in it. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

His heart skips a beat. “I missed you too.”

“Fuck me.” you cry, hot tears welling up in your needy eyes. Please, please, please is what they chant.

“I—” Simon's cock does turns, he's so hard, and he wants nothing more than to give you his knot.

You press closer to him, trying to grind over his erection and Simon, with all his restraint manages to pull your open mouth away from biting in his neck, and keeps you one arm apart by a strong hold on your shoulders. His voice is a gravelled rasp, tighter than a chokehold. “Lovie… I can’t—this ain't what ya want.”

You whimper, fingers curling into his shirt and moving against his grip, hips still trying to move, seeking friction and you bet there's a wet spot over his pants.

“I need you, Si. C’mon it hurts .”

Simon’s heart twists with ache, he knows it hurts and it's hurting him as well. But you’re flushed and trembling and driven by your heat, that said — out of your mind with it.

You’d take him right here against the wall if he let you go along with it.

He wants you, he loves you. You were the only constant he thought about all the time away.

“Please, please…I—” you sob, trying to squirm away and flush into him. “I will be G-good for you…please Alpha.”

“You are good to me.” He bends slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing deep and your sweetness filling his lungs. “But I won't do it until you consent to —”

“I want you !” You jump on your feet, exposing your throat in a tantrum.

“When you consent properly.” Simon looks away, it's so hard for him. He can't bear it, and almost loses himself in wanting to fuck you, give you knot, make you ride over it because that will make you feel good. Fuck — he wants to see you pregnant with his pups, full of em’ and the rise of your belly, and the sway of your hips, the mark of his claim over the delicate skin of your neck. His, his, his omega.

But properly — because you are the best thing that ever happened to him. “Do you trust me, huh ?” Simon asks.

Your eyes flutter, glossy and wet, lips parted. “Yes.”

“Then let me help you out. Properly. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Just not like this—not until I know you’re really mine.”

You make a wounded noise of a maimed kitten, but Simon slides down his palm from your shoulder to waist, and pulls you in his arms, alpha pheromones calming you down, even the pain stiffles.

“Have you eaten something ?”

His big palm soothes over your head and you shake your head, more immersed in breathing him in and of course, trying to get as much friction you could against his leg. Simon doesn't roll his eyes but his breathing is ragged. “Since when ?”

“I don't know, I was waiting for you.” You mumble softly, listening to his fast heartbeats.

“Okay, so —” Simon forgets when your navel pushes too hard against his erection and he hisses. You grin, with teary cheeks, and lick your lips.

“Let's get you something to eat then, hands off me now.”

You don't follow and whine when Simon backs off from you and starts to move into the kitchen. “No.” You chase after him.

“If you eat something for me, I will eat something from you.” Simon negotiates and opens the cabinets clueless as to what to make for you, something healthy.

“Promise ?” You stand beside the fridge, holding back your hands by keeping them curled at the hem of Simon's t-shirt. The only companion in your suffering from the past two days. All of his clothes are spoiled with your slick, and his pillows, and his sheets, and his whole room where you spent your heat unsatisfied and aching over dildos that felt nothing like he would feel.

“Promise.” Simon pulls out a mac-n-cheese box and thinks of sauteing vegetables and perhaps orange juice.

You nod, slowly, sitting over the counter and watching him work.

Trusting. Needy. Waiting. And thinking without any influence whatsoever —he’s your Alpha.

Masterlist

[sanriovin]

steamy shower sex with simon.

the man's just come home from a deployment which took you away from him and him away from you for a whole month. a whole month of both of you having no sexual contact with each other, no calls, no photos, no nothing.

so just imagine the desperation and the raw need between the two of you as he stepped foot back into the place that finally felt like home after so many years of trying to find it, dropping his bag to the wooden floor, not even bothering to take his shoes off as his arms found themselves wrapped tightly around your smaller body, holding you close, so close.

"missed you, lovey." his voice was deep, low, as usual, yet his tone was softened, into one of vulnerability, love, desire, and need. one that he only ever used towards you. only you were deserving of hearing and seeing his true emotions, which were hidden behind a cold mask to others.

you insisted he should take a shower, clean himself up from the messy deployment, ease his stiff, aching joints, slowly ground himself back into the domestic side of his life, even if it wouldn't last forever. not yet, at least, one day, maybe.

however, simon didn't want to be alone yet, no, not after he just came back to his sweetheart. so in the end, the two of you ended up showering together. it started as a normal shower, which slowly escalated into more.

which is how you found yourself, in simon's big, well-trained arms, his scarred fingers pressing tightly into your thighs, back against his muscled chest, as he fucked up into you, his fat cock stretching out your pulsing, clenching walls with a slight new found difficulty from how long he was separated from you. but, that just means he has to get you nice and stretched out, doesn't he?

the running water did little to conceal the groans and low moans from him, and the higher, louder moans and whines from you. your head was leaning against his shoulder, eyes barely open, as his tip repeatedly pressed against your sweetest spots inside you, making you feel dizzy from the unwavering pleasure.

rutting his hips up into you, his grip on you tightened, as he slowly lowered his head, whispering into your ear amidst his noises of pleasure and relief. "feeling good, pretty girl? getting close? i can fucking feel you clenching around me so hard. you wanna cum, yeah?"

he was teasing you with his words, as he soon began to simultaneously bring your wet pussy down onto his dick while fucking up into you, but you knew he was just as wanting as you were in this moment.

your moans grew louder in noise, stirring him on to do the same, his groans and grunts of your name and dirty words growing louder and more rushed. your wetness was dripping down his cock, slipping down his bare, marked skin, leaving a trail which almost immediately got washed off by the running water in the shower.

the glass was steamed up, a white sheet of condensation hiding your two bodies away from the outside. the air was getting hotter and thinner, which, along with your current states, didn't really help much. but, none of that mattered in the moment. what mattered was that you were with simon again, getting one of the best sex experiences in your life.

"g'nna cum, wanna cum, pleasee, 'leasee!" you cried out, turning your head, trying to capture simon's lips in a long-awaited kiss. you could see his eyes moving to look down at your lips, as he lowered his head down, capturing your lips in a wet, messy kiss, one with tongue's meeting, fighting for the dominance, which undoubtedly you had lost quickly.

"you wanna cum, huh?" he muttered out, his pace constant, not speeding or slowing down. "wanna cum so desperately? then do it. be a good girl for me and make a fucking filthy mess."

and that was all it took for you to snap, your body jerking and trembling as the tension in your lower abdomen snapped, mind blank, save for simon's name, as your orgasm hit you so intensely, squirting so hard as your body shook from it. your pussy clenched and twitched so much that that in itself was enough to bring poor simon to the breaking point.

holding you down tightly on him, which was definite to leave many loving, reminiscent marks of what had happened, he let out a lusty, heavy moan, burying his face in your shoulder, as hot spurts of his cum shot into you, intertwining with yours, creating a sticky mess between the two of you as it began to dribble out, getting flushed away through the shower water.

it took you some time to gather yourselves; to catch your breaths, come back to reality, to ground yourselves from the orgasms you had just experienced. simon slowly let you down, turning the shower off, looking down at you, as you slumped against him, barely managing to stand on quivering legs.

"well, that shower was pointless, wasn't it?"

but he wouldn't trade these moments for anything in the world.

(author's note: wrote this on a whim, not too proud of it 🤞)

[dmitriene]

sending simon riley a pretty pic on his deployment, the one that leaves him fisting his rudy cock in public bathroom, veiny girth hard and aching in his tight calloused palm, leaving him throbbing with leaking precum, jaw clenched tight under his balaclava.

it was nothing, just you in barely any cloth, white panties low on your hips with prominent, wet path where your pussy hides, puffy folds sticking to the fabric, longing for some attention, the one that simon can't currently give you.

and it kills simon to look at you like that, far away from him, through the one teasing pic you sent him, knowing damn well what you're doing to him, cunning like a fox, and pretty like one too.

image remains read in your chat, making you gaze at the bright screen of your phone, brows furrowed in mild doubt if your fleeting decision to send simon something like this was the right one, before there's a sharp ping.

simon's answer, a bright pic of his own cock, all thick and hot even through the screen, bulbous tip angry red with milkish drops of cum, coating his veiny girth and calloused palm, sticky, gross mess that stains his boots and tile floor.

a small, teasing text coming next — “look what' yau're doing to me, sweitheart', can't' wait' to stchuff it all back into yau, just' wait'„ to catch your lidding gaze, soft whimpers bubbling up in your throat, pussy aching with more need than before.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[alanisstonedd]

marine!rafe getting home with a fresh buzzcut and some stubble bullying his fattttt cock into you as soon as he can... the dirty talk would be nasty as hell

LIKE COME ONNNNNNN.

cw: MDNI smuttttttyyyy, nasty nasty talk, p in v, light choking, little cum play, rough sex

an: i love him hes so nasty its romantic & writing ts was TOO fun

OKAY dude doesn't even give you a chance to breathe before he's kicking the door shut behind him, the sharp slam echoing through the house. his fresh buzzcut catches the dim light of your entryway, beautiful tattoos rippling along with his muscles, and the rough stubble on his jaw scratches DELICIOUSLY against your skin as he crashes his lips against yours. yall are both so desperate its not even funny, practically heaving into each others mouths, too excited to slow down for even a second.

hes always away for such long periods of time, it rlly hurts him :( all he has is his extensive collection of nasty pics and vids of you to hold him over, poor baby, tugging his dick every night to the thought of fucking his sexy girl again.

but once hes backkkkk girl his big hands are everywhere at once, gripping your hips, sliding up under your shirt, pressing so possessively into your lower back. "fuck, baby," he groans into your mouth, voice thick with all that pent-up hunger from deployment he spent every second of yearning for you. "you taste even sweeter than i remember" he can't help but lick over every inch of skin he can get to, wanting to taste you fully for all the nights he couldn't, "its all that whip' cream you put on me before you left rafe" you giggle into his neck, reveling in his total worship of you.

girl he wastes absolutely no time, lifting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, his hard cock pressing insistently against your core through his army fatigues. yall would probably dry hump until you both cum all over yourselves if you didn't miss the delicious rush of fucking each other so much. and the GROWLS when you grind down against him?? you just end up grinding 10x harder, trying to catch your clit on him - hes so fine it makes you that much more hungry to cum all over him.

he'll bully you down onto the nearest surface, barely breaking your heated kiss to tear your clothes off like its his literal mission. his eyes glaze over, jaw clenched as he frees his thick cock, already hot, flushed, and leaking at the tip - hes actually been thinking about this since the moment he left.

he teases you, like he consistently loves to do upon arriving home, lovingggg the way your face mirrors the same frustration he felt for you the entirety of his deployment. he licks his lips, bottom one pinned by his top teeth, sliding his cock head through your dripping entrance, watching your face scrunch up with anticipation, and your breath skipping in your heaving chest.

"look at you, baby," he breathes harshly, feeling his own chest clench at how sexy you look all disheveled. he missed you like hell - and he most definitely missed that pre-fuck hazy look you give him. hes sliding justttttt the head inside, stretching you slowly. "already fuckin' soaked, you been waitin' for this cock, huh baby?" hes so locked in that he can't concentrate on one thing, whipping his head up and down trying to see everything at once - the way he stretches you so nicely all the way up to your face relaxing and straining in pleasure.

his head dives into your neck to lick at you, stubble scratching your chest, "yes, fuck—rafe, please," you whine. your hips canting beneath him, you wish he'd just fuck you already, so frustrated with his torture. his thumb will alwayssss find your clit, circling firmly just how you like until you're legs are shaking, eyes rolling back into your head.

"begging already? c'mon, baby, i barely started," he smirks, pushing in deeper, inch by devastating fucking inch. "whose pussy is this? tell me" unfortunately he can't help but play with his food, LOVING the way your body practically begs for him, finally back where you belong - on his dick ofc.

"it's yours—fuck, rafe, it's yours," you gasp, the air feeling too thick in the fog created by his extremely unhurried movements, nails digging into his muscular shoulders, streaking his intricate tattoos with bright red.

"damn right," he growls, FINALLY sinking in to the hilt, full balls pressing tight against your ass. he immediately sets a brutal pace, hips snapping forward relentlessly, cock dragging against your walls, perfectly hitting every spot left untouched for so long. "gonna fuck your beautiful ass so stupid, make sure you never forget the only dick that fills you up like this."

his hand wraps loosely around your throat, forcing you to meet his intense blue-eyed gaze. "you missed me, huh? missed bein' stuffed full every fuckin' night. don't worry, bae—imma spend alllllllll night remindin' you."

and girl you BEEN spiraling for a minute now, body clenching soo tight around him, sparkling tears of pleasure blurring your vision. he grins - that absolutely wicked rafe grin - grinding deep, his dog tags and chain jingling with every powerful thrust. "cum on my cock, baby. drain my balls."

and LITERALLY at his command you shatter violently, crying out like a whore as your vision goes white, your pussy spasming uncontrollably around him. and ofc instead of slowing down, rafe grabs your hips even tighter, fingers bruising your skin as he pounds into you even HARDER, chasing his own release down like an enemy target - he'd fuck you through an earthquake in this state... more like - fuck you so hard an earthquake actually starts.

"fuck... look at that messy pussy," he groans like a pervert, licking into your mouth, wishing you could taste yourself on his tongue. "makin' such a fuckin' mess for me baby," he growls, voice strained with lust and hunger. but he pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your stomach and thrusting back inside like he needs you to feel it deep in your guts - MEANNN. his huge palm smacking your ass sharply, leaving it stinging and hot. "gonna fill you up, fuckin' ruin you, baby. you're not walkin' tomorrow."

he leans forward, teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers so deep and harsh, "and this pussy better not even dream of another dick. you hear me? i'm fuckin' claiming you from the inside out." you moan out like a complete slut, his words sending a delicious thrum through your core.

"y-yes—fuck— rafe, it's all yours," you whimper brokenly, practically hiccuping, overstimulated and absolutely wrecked.

he grunts loudly, "fuck—i love you so fuckin' much bae", finally unloading inside you with thick, hot ropes of cum, so deep you swear you can taste it, salty zing in the back of your throat. "i love you baby—i love you s-so much" you groan, in complete bliss at the feel of his warm cum spilling out of you. panting heavily, he leans over your trembling form, licking and sucking at the salty sweat on your neck.

"welcome home, baby," you whisper-laugh, voice already hoarse from screaming, grinning at him like a fool, still shaking beneath him.

he chuckles darkly, slowly grinding his hips to fuck his cum even deeper into you. "baby, we're just gettin' started. im fuckin' you all night, nasty girl." he murmurs the last bit against your lips, getting lost in your sweetness all over again as your tongues mingle. you squeek happily from a firm smack to your booty, "mmm, delicious... fuckin' made for me.."

©  alanisstonedd 2025 — do not steal, plagiarize, or modify my content.

hope y'all liked this! likes, reblogs and all the rest are much appreciated!!!

xoxo, lana 💋💋💋

[virtualizationhowto]

GitLab CI CD Pipelines for Home Lab: A Step-by-Step Guide

GitLab CI CD Pipelines for Home Lab: A Step-by-Step Guide #homelab #selfhosted #GitLabCICDtutorial #HomeLabCICDsetup #StepByStepGitLabguide #CICDPipelinesexplained #GitLabhomelabprojects #ContinuousDeploymentHomeLab #ContinuousIntegration#GitLabPipeline

If you are like me, for years, you have used scheduled tasks in the home lab and production to accomplish various tasks. However, delving into the world of CI CD opens many opportunities to learn how to use this instead of rudimentary scheduled tasks to carry out automation. And the benefits are tremendous, especially when you use source to manage your DevOps code. However, many see the term “ci…

[codnasties]

p!link collection 4 👻🚬🧢🧼🪦🗡🐺🦿🇷🇺🦌🤠 (🌽 links)

ghost 👻

ghost always meet bratty manners with some form of punishment, like slapping your ass raw

sucking ghost's soul out as he tries not to buck his hips up and push his thick cock deeper into your mouth

ghost may miss you, but his cock misses you even more. proof of it is how hard he is and how much he cums

ghost pinning you to the bed in prone bone with his whole body, deep inside of you and balls slappign your clit with each thrust

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

price 🚬

freshly shaved pussy? don't worry, price will make sure his pretty cunt stays warm by stuffing it with his fingers

price might me the real much in 141, always between your legs, getting himself a taste

price sending you little videos so you can appreciate his thick uncut cock and fuzzy stomach and pecs

price stretching your pussy out, fisting you until you squirt all over his hairy belly

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

gaz 🧢

coming back horny from deployment, gaz doesn't even make it home, making a mess of himself in the parking lot

gaz loves eating pussy from the back, specially because it gives him full access to your ass

gaz throat training you so you are able to take him full into your mouth and slobber all over his balls

brother's best friend gaz using the chance that he went out to fuck you nicely

gaz loves backshots, nothing compares to the view of your plush ass and the recoil with each thrust

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

soap 🧼

soap is definitely the type to pull you into the closest barthroom and try to get you pregnant at the thought of wife-ing you up

sunset watching date with soap ends with you getting fucked on the hood of the car

soap getting himself a front row seat to your face twisting with pleasure as he fingers you mercilessly

you can't go around the house in pretty sundresses, beacuse soap won't hessitate to spread your legs and eat you out like a savage man

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

graves 🪦

graves' possessive ass won't do threesomes, but he will have a fucking machine plunging into your pussy as he takes your ass

horny graves doesn't even make it to the bedroom most of the time, so he just takes you in the sofa

as much as graves lokes fucking your pussy, he loves cumming in yout pussy, watching his cum drip onto your fluttering empty cunt

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

konig 🗡

having konig take viagra and getting to play with his incessantly hard cock until he's shooting blanks

konig fucking your soft thighs and humping his leaking tip against your plump lower lips

konig is definitely the type to ask you to cosplay his favourite characters just to fuck you

so pent up and with his balls so full, konig has to show you how much the videos you send him make him cum

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

makarov 🐺

makarov is the type to finger you while he drives, sliding your panties to the side and pushing his digits knuckle deep in your soaking pussy

makarov does really try to not cum inside of you when he's fucking you without a condom on, but he can't resist you when you tell him to

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

alejandro🤠

alejandro turning putty in your hands as you use an fleshling on his sensitive cock

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

alex 🦿

alex is a messy eater, tongue lapping at your juices and playing with your pussy until your arousal is staining his chin

[mrsparrasblog]

COD porn links

MDNI

I tried to add some more inclusive vids like male X male plus sized and fetishes

Kyle

He is mad at you for flirting with another guy

Dryhumping childhood best friend Kyle

Kyle fucks you while you're handcuffed

Sucking his dick after deployment

After he tells you I love you for the first time (mxm)

Kyle being a good boy

Kyle and his wife

Price

John teaches his rookies some respect (mxm)

You talked back Infront of the team ( god he looks so much like price - respectable drooling not from the mouth)

Husband Price

He apologised for being so long on Deployment

John price with his new insecure sergeant

Sucking older bf price

Price is hungry for your cunt

Simon

Simon uses your cum as lube (male X male)

You're not allowed to cum (mxm)

Pre military Simon fucking his first girlfriend

Just the tip love

Simon always loved them bigger

Soap

The minute he comes back from deployment (male X male)

Johnny in lingerie

The video Johnny shows when someone asks how you look

(never shows your face but your cunt is okay -idiot)

Johnny has a foot fetish

Johnny loves you

Please let me play with your tits

Johnny is a needy bastard

Extra

The video you got after sending them a nude

But why does it give Johnny and Simon "we're just friends" vibes

Threesome with Simon and Johnny

Johnny getting himself off in the barracks

Sunshine and price from my fanfic

Valeria and Alejandro sharing you

[plutotheplum]

chapter three | the chariot

caleb x fem!reader

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “You’re not leaving.” Caleb stalks towards you, his fingers sliding under your chin, tilting your head up. “You’re not leaving until you’re fucked full of my cum.” He dips his head, the tip of his nose grazing yours. “Understand, sweetheart?”

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, modern au, smut, fluff, kissing, oral sex, p in v, breeding kink, praise kink, unprotected sex, biting, bondage, vaginal fingering, handjob, dog tags, inappropriate photos, confessions

wc: 6.9k

a/n: this turned out to have a little more romance than i was expecting to write but i hope you enjoy! caleb is just soooo 🫦

also on ao3!

series masterlist | next up: the emperor

“Why are you wearing a scarf?”

You clear your throat, fingers tapping against the side of your glass of juice agitatedly. 

“It’s quite cold, isn’t it?” you supply lamely, fingers itching to reach up and tug the scarf tighter around your neck, desperately hoping that Caleb hadn’t taken notice of the marks that were now in full bloom.

“Cold?” he echoes, raising his brows. “We’re in the middle of spring. Are you feeling sick?”

You hardly hear his question because you’re too busy trying to tilt your head in a way that doesn’t look too suspicious. The stupid fabric was beginning to itch, and it was driving you crazy.

Xavier had offered to help when he’d found you in his kitchen in the morning, desperately twirling a whisk against your neck. It had hardly helped. You would’ve opted for a turtleneck, but there was a certain lack of them in your closet. Instead, you’d rummaged around, managing to fish out an oddly-patterned scarf from the depths.

“C’mon, are you sick?” Caleb prods, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, the couch dipping under both your weights as you shift.

“No,” you mumble, silently wishing that this wasn’t happening right now. All you can manage is a pitiful excuse. “I just happen to really like scarves, Caleb.”

“Well, it looks ridiculous,” he says drily, nuzzling into your cheek. “You gonna take it off anytime soon?”

“It’s chic,” you correct, trying to squirm away from him. “And no, I’m still cold.”

Caleb huffs out a laugh, his lips pressing against your cheek fondly. You bite your lip when he picks you up, situating you on his lap, his chest warm against your back. Normally, it’d feel nice if you weren’t currently overheating and overwhelmed. 

You stiffen when Caleb rests his chin on your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you closer. His lips drag across your jaw in a fleeting kiss and you can feel your eyes sliding shut, lulled into a state of comfort by his thumbs gently rubbing circles into your stomach through your dress.

Out of everyone, Caleb was the one you’d known the longest. You’d grown up together, until he’d moved away for a couple of years before coming back, his demeanor a little more intense than you’d remembered. You still weren’t sure of the reason, but Caleb had gotten sterner over the years, less willing to let you go.

He’d been your first kiss back then, your lips clumsy and inexperienced when he’d kissed you and shy, fleeting glances exchanged between you when he’d walked you home, his hand grasping yours firmly.

You’d never quite gotten the chance to explore the possibility of something more… serious with him, not when Caleb was joining the military soon after. You’d hardly even seen him around until the past few months, his schedule freeing up while he awaited deployment. 

“I missed you,” Caleb murmurs, his nose nudging against the side of your head.

“I missed you too,” you mumble, playing with his fingers, your palm pressing against his a few moments later, hands locking together.

He smiles, and you hum when he squeezes your hand, wiggling on his lap happily. Caleb lets out a low noise, one his hands curling over your hip to stop you.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re no fun.”

Caleb huffs out a breath, his face pressing into your neck with the intention of mouthing across your skin. He lets out an irritated noise when he’s met with a faceful of your woolly scarf, letting out an exasperated breath.

“Please take the damn thing off.”

“Can’t,” you reply, feigning innocence, “it’s too cold.”

Caleb narrows his eyes. “I can warm you up.”

You shake your head, jerking out of his grasp when he tries to tug your scarf free from around your neck. You’re at your wits end, squeaking when Caleb tries to lunge for you again.

“I want to have sex with the scarf on, Caleb!”

“Is that a new kink?” he laughs, his eyes lighting up, “c’mon baby, you gotta take it off.”

You squeal when he manages to catch you, your little dance around his coffee table coming to an end when he pulls you into his chest, his arms firm and unrelenting, preventing your escape.

“S- stop!” you yelp, trying to squirm out of his arms, shrieking when he hooks his fingers into the gap between your scarf and neck, pulling it free. “Caleb!”

Caleb catches your hand when you try to cover up your neck, his expression dropping when he sees the extent of damage Xavier had laid to your skin. You stare up at him, swallowing nervously, fingers itching at your side, desperately wanting to snatch the scarf back from him.

“What,” he sucks in a shaky breath, “what the fuck is that?”

“N- nothing!” you protest, trying to turn your back to him. “It’s- it’s probably just an allergic reaction to my scarf!” You manage to twist yourself, hand shooting out to grab your scarf, pretending to give the little tag a once-over. “Mhm, yep, definitely an allergic reaction. I- I am, in fact, allergic to wool.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Caleb scoffs, “I know you aren’t allergic to anything.”

“It happens with age,” you lie through your teeth, “ever heard of dermatitis?”

Caleb stares at you blankly, shaking his head incredulously after a moment. “You’ve been spending too much time with Zayne,” he mutters. You watch uneasily as he balls his hands up into fists before he unclenches them, his fingers spreading out in a strained gesture. “Who did it?”

“Xavier,” you mumble, playing with your fingers. 

“I’m going to missile strike his apartment.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t so on edge. “You can’t do that,” you reply exasperatedly, “I live in the same apartment complex, remember? Besides, wouldn’t that be like a crime?”

“That is a crime,” Caleb snaps, pointing at your neck accusingly, “I mean what the fuck did you do with him? He’s practically tried to devour you whole.”

You flush when you remember what you had done with Xavier. The teasing, the feeling of his mouth on your tits, you’d enjoyed it.

Caleb glares at you when he sees the faraway look in your eyes, his arms crossing over his chest. “You don’t have to look so satisfied.”

“Well, he did satisfy me,” you mutter under your breath, shifting on your feet awkwardly.

Caleb scrubs a hand over his face before running his fingers through his hair. His jaw clenches as he stares down at you, gaze fixated on the discolored splotches that cover your neck. There’s an uncomfortable tension in the air and you wring your hands together, averting your gaze from his.

“I can leave,” you offer quietly, “if that’s what you w-”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “You’re not leaving.” Caleb stalks towards you, his fingers sliding under your chin, tilting your head up. “You’re not leaving until you’re fucked full of my cum.” He dips his head, the tip of his nose grazing yours. “Understand, sweetheart?”

“What?” you ask breathlessly, somehow pinned in place by his darkened gaze and stern expression, holding none of the playful humor that you were accustomed to.

“You’re not leaving my apartment until I fuck you full of my cum,” Caleb repeats, tightening his grip on you. “Do you understand?”

“Well, I-” you sputter, cheeks hot, struggling to comprehend his words. 

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, spinning you around, his palm warm against your stomach. You bite back a whimper when he caresses your stomach, his hand pressing down firmly when you turn your head, eyes fluttering shut.

Caleb keeps his hand there, fingers splaying out, trying to encompass every inch of you that he can. His nose nudges against the side of your head, his breath hot against your skin. “Cat got your tongue, hm? You can go and sleep with those two pieces of shit but you can’t answer a simple question, huh?”

“Xavier’s not a piece of shit,” you shoot back agitatedly, eyes opening to send him an irritated look. “And neither is Rafayel. Grow up, Caleb.”

“I was right here,” he hisses, glaring down at you. “I was right fucking here and you decided you wanted to fuck four other men to have a fucking baby.”

“Yes, I did,” you retort sharply, turning in his arms, your finger pressing into his chest harshly. “If you can’t handle that, then maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

Caleb’s eyes flash with anger, his grip on you loosening when you take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I agreed first,” he snaps, “or did you forget about that little detail?”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” you say exasperatedly, throwing your arms up. “I’m here, in your fucking apartment, Caleb! And yes,” you snap harshly, blinded by your irritation, not quite paying attention to the words slipping out of your mouth, “I want to be fucked full of your cum!”

Caleb’s expression falters when he hears the latter part of your outburst, his eyes widening. Your chest heaves, a frustrated sound leaving you when you realize what you’ve said. You may as well have grabbed a shovel and started looking for a plot of land to bury yourself in.

Instead, you send him a glare that you hope is venomous enough, shoving past him to save face, storming into his bedroom.

“Hey, what are you-” Caleb begins, trailing after you awkwardly, his movements unsure. 

Still fuming, you unzip your dress, flinging the fabric at his stupidly handsome face, irritated by his bewildered expression. Caleb’s face disappears for a moment while he sputters, managing to ball your dress up before you throw your bra and panties in his face too. His cheeks flush at the sight of your panties, his fingers clenching around the lace.

“I’m ready,” you announce, well aware of the marks Xavier had left on your breasts and a few more that were hidden between your thighs. You gesture towards yourself. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Fuck me.”

“Uh-” Caleb clears his throat, taken aback by your sudden burst of determination, “maybe you should… calm down first?”

“You think I should calm down?” you retort sharply, “you’re the one that was throwing a temper tantrum!”

“For good reason!” he protests, setting your clothes down on top of his dresser before stepping towards you. “All someone needs to do is take one look at your neck and they’d understand where I’m coming from.”

“You started it with Xavier,” you hiss, finger prodding into his chest once again, “if you hadn’t riled him up, then maybe he wouldn’t have done this.” You gesture towards your neck agitatedly.

“Clearly it’s not just your neck, is it?” Caleb murmurs, his hand sliding up over your waist, his warm, calloused hand cupping your breast, squeezing gently. “All over your tits too.” He frowns at the sight, leaning back to watch your nipples harden at his ministrations, his eyes narrowing when he sees the splotchy marks left by Xavier. “You call that fair, sweetheart?”

All you can manage is a stubborn pout, averting your gaze. He sighs, and you shuffle forward, pressing your face into his chest. “He apologized,” you say, remembering the way Xavier had been on his knees. You let out a heavy breath. “Turns out he’s really good at apologizing.”

“I bet he is,” Caleb grumbles bitterly, his fingers pinching at your nipple absentmindedly.

You whimper, silently cursing yourself for being so weak. Caleb’s other hand comes up to cup your other breast, weighing it in his hand. The breath he lets out sounds a little too strained to be considered normal, your head tilting upwards to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” he says finally, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, his expression turning slightly serious.

Caleb lowers his head, his nose brushing against yours. He doesn’t go any further, simply staring into your eyes. It’s a little unnerving until you realize what he wants from you. Fingers curling into his shirt, you bring him a little closer to you, eyes slipping shut as your lips meet his in a chaste kiss.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper against his lips, “for not being understanding of your um-” you pause, trying to think of the right word, “preferences?”

He hums, his hand sliding up over the side of your neck to cup your cheek. “Yeah,” Caleb murmurs, “I still don’t think you understand what you mean to me.”

You blink up at him, brows furrowing in confusion. Caleb’s eyes bore down into yours, his expression conflicted. You stare into his eyes searchingly when you think you spot a hint of wistfulness breaking through. “Caleb?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he whispers, both of his hands cupping your cheeks now. “I like you, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you say, the tension bleeding out from you. “I like you too, Caleb,” you chirp, a smile on your face, “you didn’t have to scare me like that.”

“What?”

“What?” you parrot back, confusion marring your expression yet again.

“No,” Caleb huffs out an irritated breath, “no, I like you.”

You give him a blank look. “...I know. You just said that.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, “I like you as in romantically. As in I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my fucking life pining after you.”

What? Your mouth opens before you close it, stunned into silence. You always knew Caleb had a little thing for you, but fifteen years? 

“And you didn’t say anything earlier?” you manage out, “and you chose to confess now?” You gesture towards your bare body, cheeks flushing.

“The timing was never right,” he replies stubbornly, his eyes narrowing, “and yes.”

“I don’t think the timing is right now!” you protest, shaking your head.

“You don’t feel the same way.”

You shoot him an indignant look. “I didn’t say that, Caleb. It’s just… it’s complicated. You know it is.”

“Always is with you, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his jaw clenching.

“Are you serious?” you begin, feeling cornered, “if you had just said some-”

You’re cut off when Caleb dips his head, pressing a bruising kiss against your lips, one that steals the air from your lungs, leaving your vision blurry when he pulls back.

“It’s okay,” Caleb says, his arms sliding under your thighs to pick you up before he dumps you on his bed unceremoniously. “The baby’s going to be mine, and when it is, I’m going to put a pretty fucking ring on this finger.”

“Marriage?” you squeak out, your complaints muffled by his mouth when he crawls over you, his mouth working against yours hungrily.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, pecking your lips gentler this time, “‘m gonna marry you, sweetheart.”

You were fairly certain the constant high altitudes he was flying at had gotten to his brain. Zayne could help, you think belatedly, until that thought is brushed away when he kisses your cheek, his lips returning to yours soon after, his tongue licking into your mouth, 

“What if the baby’s not yours?” you ask him breathlessly, thighs spreading wider when he settles his hips between them.

Caleb frowns at you, his grip adjusting on your hip. “It’ll be mine,” he says self-assuredly, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You can’t be sure-”

“I’ll cum twice,” Caleb retorts.

“That’s- that’s against the rules!” you try to protest, a needy sigh slipping out of you when he mouths at your neck, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin as though trying to erase the marks laid there. “You- you all agreed to cum once ah- to- to make it fair!”

“Nothing fair about this whole thing, honey.”

Your toes curl when he calls you honey, an unbidden giggle slipping out of you. Caleb leans back to stare at your expression, a smile pulling at his lips when he sees you trying to hide away in the pillows, his nose nuzzling into your cheek, pressing soft kisses all over.

“You like that,” he laughs, his hand finding its way between your thighs.

“So- so what?” you ask breathlessly, moaning against his mouth when he slides his fingers between your puffy folds, your lips meeting his for a brief kiss, hips bucking when Caleb rubs your clit.

“So stop pretending like you don’t.”

You paw at his broad shoulders, fingers latching onto his biceps greedily. Caleb groans softly at your groping, his eyes going half-lidded, a pretty pink tinging his cheeks when you run your hands over his chest, squeezing his firm pecs.

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to feel his bare skin.

Caleb complies, sitting back on his knees. You watch as he pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, the silver chain around his neck grabbing your attention, the metal of his dog tags clinking together. 

“You still wear these?” you muse as you sit up, your fingers coming up to fiddle with his dog tags, flipping one of them over to read his name stamped into the metal. “Even when you’re not deployed?”

“All the time,” he murmurs, his fingers encircling your wrist, lips brushing over your knuckles.

You shiver at the fleeting kiss, leaning forward, your hands pushing at his chest to get him to lie down. Swinging a leg over his hip, you settle down on his lap, watching the way his dog tags settle between his pecs.

“I suppose you are a big shot, Caleb,” you sigh, biting your lip, fingers skimming down his chest teasingly.

“Colonel,” he corrects, watching hazily as you squirm down to settle on his thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats and boxers to pull them down.

Caleb’s cock slaps against his abdomen, hard and thick and somewhat imposing. You stare down at his arousal, cheeks flushing at the sight, watching as his cock twitches, pre-cum smearing across his skin.

“‘s nice,” you offer, hand wrapping around his cock, cunt throbbing when you feel the weight of him in your hand. “And- and big.”

“Bigger than theirs?” he asks, raising his brows, watching you closely as you begin to stroke his cock lazily.

Sylus’ was comparable, but you decide against telling him that, lest he throw another fit. Instead you nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes when Caleb’s chest puffs out, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

His hand slides between your thighs and you shift, settling on top of it, grinding your hips across his calloused palm, wetness coating his skin. Caleb lets out a heavy breath and you whine, mouth opening and tongue lolling out to let spit drip from your mouth onto his cock. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, throwing an arm over his face to hide his flushed expression, “baby, you’re fucking insane.”

“You wanted to missile strike another man’s apartment,” you shoot back, trying to pry his arm away from his face, eager to see his expressions. “Wanna see, Caleb.”

“I never said the idea was off the table,” he grouses, tilting his head to the side to let you mouth at his neck, his hips bucking up into your touch, trying to fuck his cock into the confines of your hand. “He could be a security threat,” Caleb mutters, his hands groping at your ass, squeezing and kneading. “Remind me to do a background check.”

“You’re such a baby,” you sigh, peering down to watch his cock move through your hand, tightening your grip.

A glob of pre-cum pools from the tip of his cock and you squirm, trying and failing to shuffle down and take his cock into your mouth, glaring at him when he keeps you anchored against him, on his lap.

“Always hungry for cock, hm?” Caleb coos, drawing out a loud moan from you when he curls his fingers, sinking them into your clenching pussy. “My cock-hungry little slut.”

You stifle a whimper, hips rising and falling as you fuck yourself on his fingers. His cock throbs in your hand and you squeeze, watching as more globs of thick pre-cum bead at the tip, smearing across when you spit down on his cock again, your lustful gaze meeting his.

“What?” you mumble, pecking his lips gently, eyes fluttering shut.

“Nothing,” he breathes out against your lips, his fingers crooking further, your head tipping back when his fingers hit the sensitive spot inside of you, the feeling enough to have you crying out. “You’re just… pretty.”

You blink up at him, lower lip jutting out in a pout, heart lurching uncomfortably in your chest. You press your face into the crook of his neck, your wrist twisting at a faster pace, jerking him off more desperately.

“Ah-” Caleb moans, his hand on your hip tightening when you rock your hips faster, his eyes squeezing shut when he feels the clench of your pussy around his fingers. “Slow down, honey.”

“I wanna watch you cum,” you say, teeth scraping along his shoulder, thumb brushing over the head of his cock, smiling when you feel Caleb jolt and grunt.

“No-” he shakes his head, “no, shit- I can’t cum now, baby.”

You ignore him, hand stroking faster, your other hand drifting to cup his balls, massaging them gently. Caleb curses and you squeal when he slaps your ass, the view of his room changing suddenly when he grabs you by your hips and pins you down into the bed.

You open your mouth to protest, to tell him that you weren’t done stroking his cock, but you’re only met with the creak of Caleb’s bed as he gets off of it, disappearing through the door. Your brows furrow, the bed dipping as you crawl to the edge of the bed. “Caleb?” you call out, “are- are you coming back?”

Your confusion only grows when he returns with your scarf in hand. “I- I wasn’t serious,” you begin, feeling disoriented when he moves towards you, “I don’t actually want to have sex with the scarf on.”

Caleb smiles, his eyes glittering with mirth. “I thought it might help you keep your hands to yourself,” he murmurs, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, making your face scrunch up. 

You stare up at him, head tilting in question. Caleb huffs out a laugh at your expression, nose nudging against yours to land a kiss to your lips this time. His hands slide under you, picking you up before placing you closer to the headboard of his bed. You squirm under him, watching as he straddles you.

While he’s too busy pinning your wrists together, you lean forward, mouth enveloping his cock. Caleb jerks at the sudden sensation, cursing loudly, his body hunching over as you lap at the head of the cock.

“Can you listen for once?” he asks exasperatedly, his eyes narrowing down to look at you as you try to crane your neck forward, trying to take him deeper into your mouth.

Caleb rolls his eyes when you don’t listen, his fingers sliding over your wrists, winding your woolly scarf around and around, effectively binding them together. You whine when his cock slips out of your mouth with a soft pop, trying to sit up only to find your movement restricted. Your head tilts back, a huff of air leaving you when you realize he’s tied your wrists to the railing of the headboard of his bed.

“I didn’t know you were into bondage, Caleb.”

“It’s not-” Caleb sputters for a moment, before he stares at you suspiciously, “how do you know what bondage is?”

You smile up at him sweetly. “I like to read.”

He decides against chastising you, instead making a mental note to pry into whatever it was that you were reading. Your eyes flutter shut when he strokes his hand over your hair, his lips slotting over yours. “Is this okay?” he asks, fingers trailing down your sides to grip your hips, “being tied up?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, pecking his lips gently, “it’s okay.”

You bite your lip as you watch him slink down your body, his lips leaving kisses as he moves. A soft sigh escapes you when he swirls his tongue around your nipple, his teeth biting down gently before he kisses your nipple, smiling against your skin when you twitch.

Caleb’s fingers slide over your stomach, his teeth scraping across your skin. You whimper when he settles between your thighs finally, trying to reach down to run your fingers through your hair only to be reminded of the fact that you’ve been tied up.

“Hands to yourself, honey,” he reminds you, his eyes twinkling with amusement when you pout.

“Jerk,” you murmur, head tipping back when his breath ghosts over your puffy folds, his fingers spreading you open.

“Think you like that about me,” Caleb mumbles, swallowing at the sight of your wet pussy, letting out a strained breath, “‘s pretty, baby. Really fucking pretty.”

You flush, pussy clenching when he licks over your clit, thighs twitching. Caleb’s fingers wrap around your thighs, placing them over his broad shoulders, his mouth opening wider. Tongue sliding through your folds, he laps at your cunt obscenely, your eyes squeezing shut at the sensation. 

He thinks he could die a happy man when you squeeze your thighs around his head, his mouth wrapping around your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue against the swollen bud. 

Caleb’s name spills out of your mouth repeatedly in a pleading chant, tears pricking at your eyes when he digs his fingers into your thighs roughly. It all feels so good, his mouth on you, the tight grip he has on as though you might just disappear out from under you if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You blink down at him when Caleb pulls away to lick his lips, his mouth and chin glistening with your slick and his spit, his gaze heady. A whimper leaves you when he bites your inner thigh, over the marks Xavier left, his teeth imprinted into your skin as you surrender yourself to him.

Caleb decides it’s not enough, pressing a kiss to your clit before he’s moving you to flip onto your back, your scarf twisting with you.

“Get on your knees, baby,” he rasps, tapping your hips.

You do your best, face shoved into the pillows as you squirm up onto your knees, feeling slightly mortified when Caleb spreads you apart, his hands kneading at your asscheeks. 

“Don’t- don’t do that,” you whine, body jerking forward when Caleb runs his tongue through your folds unexpectedly.

“You’re shy now?” he laughs softly, biting into the fat of your ass playfully.

You ignore him, too busy moaning into the pillows when Caleb rubs your clit, his face pressing between your thighs, nose pressing up against your pussy. A sharp gasp leaves you, hips rocking back, trying to grind against the bridge of his nose while his tongue joins his fingers, lapping over your swollen clit.

“Caleb,” you mewl, hands gripping onto the railing of his headboard, the wool of your scarf rubbing against your wrists, “nghhh- ah- you’re so-”

“Charming?” he offers.

You let out a strangled laugh, squeaking when his hand comes down on your ass. He spanks you again, and you make a noise in protest, trying to crawl away, except you have nowhere to go, the scarf fastened enough to prevent you. It’s all too much when his tongue presses into your aching cunt, a cry escaping you as Caleb fucks his tongue in and out of you.

He squeezes your thigh harshly and your movements grow more desperate, trying to sway your hips back when his mouth latches onto you clit again, the press of his nose too much to handle. 

“Gonna cum?” Caleb asks, his voice a low growl, “huh, baby? Gonna cum on my fucking tongue?”

“Y- yes!” you squeal, your knees giving out under you when he shoves his tongue back into your cunt, fucking it in and out of you. “Oh fuck, Caleb- oh fuck!”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum for me,” he growls, his fingers rubbing at your clit fast and with just enough pressure that you give a trembling cry of his name, slumping down against the sheets as your thighs twitch uncontrollably, panting raggedly to try and catch your breath, toes curling in delirium. 

Caleb loosens the scarf binding your wrists when he sees you struggling to move, his cock smearing pre-cum across your thighs and stomach as he turns you over, lips slotting over yours in a desperate kiss. 

He’s picking you up soon after, chasing after your lips when you pull away to catch your breath, capturing them again, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Caleb’s kisses are messy, spit leaking out from the sides of your mouth as he settles you onto his lap, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.

“Can’t- can’t breathe,” you complain, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

Caleb grumbles his displeasure under his breath before his eyes catch sight of your reddened wrists. Letting out a sigh, he grabs one of them, fingers running over your wrist gently, lifting it up to his lips to press soft kisses.

“You okay?” he murmurs, reaching for your other wrist, repeating his ministrations. “Was it too much?”

“No,” you say quietly, kissing his jaw, “it was good. I- I um- enjoyed it.”

Caleb smiles when you meet his eyes, his lips pressing up against the pads of your fingers. You smile back, feeling a little shy despite everything. He tucks your messy hair behind your ear, his touch skimming down your throat fleetingly.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he confesses, letting out a heavy breath, his head tipping back to rest against the headboard.

“I’m here,” you whisper, feeling unsure about what else to say, your fingers playing with his dog tags, bringing them up towards you to kiss the small, metal plates.

Caleb’s expression softens as he watches you, his heart thudding in his chest.

“I’m yours, Caleb,” you continue, kissing him sweetly. “See?”

You reach out, fingers sliding under his silver chain to lift it up over his head before you place it around his neck. The metal chimes softly, his dog tags settling between your breasts.

Caleb nearly cums at the sight. You know exactly how to rile him up, know exactly what to do to make him feel like a lovesick fool. He stares down at you, his adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows, fingers flexing against your hips.

You look so sweet, so soft, perched atop his lap delicately. He doesn’t know what to say when you peer up at him, feeling short of breath when you lean forward to kiss his cheek gently. Caleb’s fingers reach out to graze his dog tags, the cool metal grounding him at least for a moment.

“I hate how you make me feel,” he murmurs finally, hands smoothing over your sides, dragging you closer, groaning softly when your breasts squish up against his chest.

“Sorry?” you offer meekly, biting your lip when he squeezes the fat of your ass.

“Don’t be,” Caleb sighs, his forehead pressing against yours.

He kisses you gently, lips smacking against yours in the quiet of his bedroom. You rock your hips, pussy sliding over the length of his cock. Caleb grunts into your mouth, lifting you up, his hands grasping you under your thighs while you mewl, hand grasping his cock to line him up against your entrance.

“Caleb,” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut when he sinks you down slowly onto his cock, nails scratching his pecs at the feeling of him stretching you out, his cock thick enough to have you feeling like you’re being split open.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispers, “doing so good for me. Taking my cock so well, yeah?”

You nod, still scrabbling at his chest, whining when he sinks you down onto the entire length of his cock, your pussy trying to accommodate his size. Caleb smiles against your cheek, kneading at your hips, muttering soft words of encouragement.

Your eyes meet his, hands sliding over his shoulders to let your arms wrap around his neck. Caleb leans back, resting against the headboard as you shuffle on his lap to get more comfortable, beginning to roll your hips.

“Good girl,” Caleb says hoarsely, “just like that, baby. Take your time.”

Spreading your legs to set a wider base, you rise up before dropping your hips back down, making Caleb groan when he feels you beginning to bounce on his cock, his eyes fluttering shut. You bite your lip at the sight, arms tightening around his neck, fucking yourself on his cock, gasping when you feel his cock twitch.

You think you might feel him in your stomach, his cock so fat and thick that it has your cunt clenching in quick succession in an attempt to readjust with every rise and fall of your hips. Caleb’s dog tags jingle with every bounce of you on his lap, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder, his teeth scraping across your shoulder.

“Wanna feel you fuck me full,” you mumble, nuzzling against his jaw, “please?”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, “you wanna be bred, sweetheart? Wanna have my baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod eagerly, sending him a drunken smile when he stares down at you.

Caleb’s fingers hook into the chain around your neck, tugging you closer until you’re moaning against his mouth, his darkened eyes watch the bounce and sway of your tits as you fuck yourself on his cock.

“Good fucking girl,” Caleb grunts, “ride my cock, sweetheart. Gonna fill you to the fucking brim.”

His words are obscene, his teeth biting at your lower lip, fingers pinching at your nipples until you’re writhing on his lap. You squeak when he wraps his hands around your waist, letting out a sharp gasp when he picks you up as though you weigh nothing and slams you down onto the length of his cock.

“C- Caleb! ‘s too much!” you wail, nails scratching down his back, unable to meet his eyes properly, not when he’s using you, taking you like you’re nothing but a ragdoll.

“No,” Caleb snaps, “it’s not too much; fucking take it.”

You squeal when he bites your breast, hands flailing for purchase, trying to grab out for something, anything, but it’s hard when he’s fucking you onto his cock like this, your hands landing on his shoulders briefly. The clank of his dog tags is drowned out by the sounds of his balls slapping against you, the lewd noises of his cock thrusting in and out of your clenching pussy.

“Do you like me?”

“Wh- what?” you manage out, lashes fluttering rapidly as you try to blink clearly. 

“Do you like me?” Caleb asks, his voice hoarse and raspy, enough to have you clenching around his cock. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond. “Say yes,” he breathes out, pressing his chest more firmly against yours, as though trying to meld your bodies together. 

You feel lightheaded and short of breath when his fingers shift, pressing into your lower stomach. His voice turns into something softer, something more pleading. “Say yes, sweetheart.”

“Y- yes,” you hiccup, heart fluttering in your chest, “I- I like you Caleb.”

“Again,” he demands, nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering above yours.

“I like you,” you say breathlessly, kissing his jaw, “like you so much, Caleb. Wanna be bred, please- please cum inside.” You don’t exactly why you utter the next words, but you figure Caleb ought to be into that sort of thing, the power trip it gives him when he’s clinging to control. “Please, Colonel?”

“Oh my- fuck!” Caleb swears sharply, and you can feel his hips jerk, his grip on you faltering when you call him by his title. “You little minx- fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Sorry,” you whine, smiling against his mouth, pawing at his thick pecs, tongue licking over his lips. “‘m sorry, Colonel. Just- just wanna have your baby.”

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum,” Caleb groans loudly, fingers dimpling the flesh of your hips, “‘m gonna fill this pretty pussy up, sweetheart.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, feeling beyond fucked out, your head a swirl of Caleb, and Caleb only, unable to register anything other than the feeling of his cock snug inside your cunt, the cool metal of his dog tags against your skin, his mouth on yours.

“Ah-” Caleb whines, high and broken, the sound enough to make your back arch, nails digging into his chest.

He manages to fuck you on his cock a few more times, his hands pushing at your hips until your pussy hugs the entirety of his cock, your ass snug against his balls. Caleb moans into your ear, panting and whining as he cums, his cock twitching inside of you as hot spurts of cum spill out, filling you up.

You twitch atop him, the walls of your cunt fluttering around him, eyes squeezing shut as you feel your own orgasm wash over you.

Caleb clicks his tongue when you try to squirm off of him, rubbing his hands over your thighs when you complain about the ache settling in your muscles.

“Stay,” he whispers, kissing your temple, “gotta make sure it takes.”

A few minutes later, you curl up into his side when he lays you down gently, his hand rubbing over your side soothingly. Only the sounds of your breathing fill his room, Caleb’s fingers stroking across you gently. Your lips meet his when he lowers his head, sighing when he squeezes your thighs, massaging them gently.

“We don’t have to do it twice,” he whispers, “I was just- it was the heat of the moment.”

You stare at him, taking in the softness in his eyes, your head tilting to nuzzle into his palm when he strokes his thumb across your cheek. It’s against the rules, you remind yourself, and yet fifteen years… the number is enough to make your stomach flip.

“Did you mean it?” you ask quietly, your fingers tracing across his chest, over the ridges and dips of his muscles.

Caleb lets out a low sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. “Every word, sweetheart.”

There’s a long stretch of silence and Caleb presses his nose into your hair, his eyes opening when he hears the clink of metal. You give him a shy smile, leg swinging over his hip as you straddle him.

The man under you groans softly when you roll your hips, his eyes raptly watching the gentle sway of his dog tags between your breasts. The soft, sweet sentence that you utter next has Caleb closing his eyes in a silent prayer. You truly were going to drive him to madness.

“Better make up for lost time, Colonel.”

- 

Caleb has never seen you more disarmed than when you’re asleep.

He supposes it’s a bit creepy to stare at you while you’re sleeping, but he can’t help it, having been stirred awake by a cramp in his leg. His fingers ghost across the curve of your cheek, careful not to wake you, an uncomfortable ache piercing through his heart. 

If only he could keep you here with him.

But Caleb knows how stubborn you are, and he knows the rules of this little scheme that he agreed to, even if they are stupid and he’s already broken one of them. He stiffens when you stir, a smile pulling at his lips when drool slips out the side of your mouth, your body squirming as you roll over onto your back.

When he catches a glimpse of your marked neck, his irritation flares again, lips thinning. Caleb supposes he is driven by jealousy, there’s no point in denying it, not when the ugly head of envy rears his head and he finds his vision tinted with a hue of green that makes it difficult to think clearly.

His fingers are curling over your thigh gently, prying your legs apart carefully, his breath catching in his throat when he sees his cum smeared between your thighs and all over your pussy. Messy, he thinks, lowering his head to kiss your hip affectionately.

The flash of his phone camera isn’t bright enough to wake you up. Caleb stifles a groan at the picture, trying to will away the throb in his cock, his gaze entranced by the image of your messy pussy, covered and filled up with two loads of his cum. 

Just like how it should be, he thinks belatedly. Caleb would make it his lockscreen if it wasn’t so intimate. 

His fingers tap across his screen, finding Xavier’s number. There’s no need for unnecessary texts. The image is sent, Caleb’s lips pulling up into a sneer at the thought of the silver-haired man. 

Caleb tosses his phone onto his bedside table, wrapping his arms around, brushing a gentle kiss to your forehead, humming softly as you curl up into his arms, snuggling closer as you seek out his warmth. The soft sounds of his clinking dog tags catch his attention.

Caleb decides he’ll need to get an extra one stamped. 

One with your name.

taglist >///<

@serenitymaria @kreishin @qyuin @wegottastayfocus @novthirty @syluslittlecrows @blorbohunter @luvleixo @crimsonmarabou @skylaryoung2002 @multisstuff @chirikoheina @supermissnkta @serenity-loves-red @shi-thats-kiera @froleineeeee @jaynawayna @schooki @minyoongi-pouts @mizienjoyer @isagistar @zaynesnowflake @athena-portgas @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @cutelittlesugarfairy @pookiei-bookie @dooopiee @rafshottestgf @thetimetravelernightmare @slytherin-min99 @envy-of-greed @paninisstuff @h0ngh0ngh0ng @nezuswritingdesk @teeheeheartless @flwerie @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @babyx91 @thisaintviolet69 @scoupsonlycherry @blubearxy @midiplier @young-adult-summer @daisys-mushroom-garden @sunsethw4 @lads-ficrecs @buffytheangelslayer @helios-eyre @browneyedgirl22 @straows @lennysnicket @actuallynarii

[kruegerspillow]

thinking about desperate simon coming home from an extended deployment, and he's just all soft and kind with you during an intimate moment :(

MINORS DNI, NSFW BELOW THE CUT ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"Bloody 'ell, look at me, love."

His voice came out raspy, breathless, and desperate for you. His breath catched in his throat as his eyes bore into yours, watching your every move as he thrusted into you. Your mewls were followed by the sound of the bed, with every movement he made, the bed creaked beneath the both of you. He groaned, one of his hands shakily reaching up to cup your cheeks.

"Look at me, yeah? C'mon, you can do that f'me, can't ya?" He grunted, his voice low and almost careful.

You turned your head as you met his intense gaze, his dark, amber eyes looking down at you with an overwhelming intensity. He moaned, murmuring a bunch of praises before devouring your mouth fully. His tongue eagerly but softly danced with yours, saliva mixing and dripping down your chin without a care in the world. You could feel him twitch inside of you, indicating that he's close. He pulled away from the kiss, his chest rising up and down with every breath.

"Lovie, 'm close. Please come with me. You will, righ'? Like a good girl..."

His praises echoed inside your head when you let out a small moan, hips bucking up in an erratic rhythm. His eyes closed shut before he buried his head into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he spilled his load inside of you. Your juices splattered against his lower abdomen. The noises you made mixed with his, hearing the way he groaned your name out before tipping right over the edge. His thrusts slowed down to an end, cock softening before he laid on top of you, making sure you weren't entirely crushed by his weight. His head laid on your chest, hearing the way your heartbeat quickened.

"Fuck, I missed ya... God, why'd they have to separate us for this long?"

kruegerspillow © 2024 — reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[waves-against-a-cliff]

It's Christmas Eve. You're working the night shift. Correction. You've been working the day shift but it carried over into the night shift. Do you have family? Maybe, but bills are looming and holy day cheer does not fill your stomach like food does. Food that you will be getting from this mildly run down diner off the side of a road.

Most of your customers are military men fresh off deployment or rookies who got their first paycheck. Truckers stop by as well and university students who want something cheap. You've seen all sorts of come and go. But the man in the plain balaclava, who always wears those cheeky little skeleton gloves you'd wanted back in high school, is always a mystery. He doesn't say his name, he pays with cash and always tips well. And from the few years you've been working here, he stays here all Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day.

"It's 24/7 isn't it?" He'd asked when you had suggested maybe he wants to go home after his 6th cup of badly brewed cup of coffee.

So after finally clocking out you slide into the booth with him and eat your dinner/breakfast. You don't ask questions, just keep him company. The silence is finally parted when he looks outside and sees snow starting to flitter down from the sky. "Simon," he'd said so softly that'd you'd half missed it.

"huh?"

"My name is Simon,"

"Oh, nice to meet you Simon," and you tell him yours like he doesn't already know from your name tag.

[tacticalprincess]

könig p!links masterlist (ongoing)

₊˚ ୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧ ˚₊

what könig means when he says “just the tip”

virgin!könig

size difference… 1 & 2

“it won’t fit!” könig’s honest reaction:

inexperienced!könig getting overwhelmed by how good you feel <3

waking you up in the middle of the night when he’s too hard to wait till morning

helping you ride him because you can’t do anything for yourself :(

decided to surprise you by coming back home early from deployment <3

taking a picture to show you just how big he is compared to you

könig loves when he can see himself in your stomach!!

letting sub!könig cum on your tits

splitting his virgin gf open for the first time

fucking yourself on his cock

pervy boyfriend!könig is always touching you…

he’ll pick you up like this whenever he wants <3

doing this to pervy boyfriend!könig

he doesn’t let you leave the bed during ovulation week

you’re ovulating again…

lazy sex

don’t you just take him so well? <3

könig breeding you & watching his cum seep out

nerd!könig pausing your study session to plough you

sleepy sex

how sitting on his lap always ends

helping him relieve stress

letting him squeeze in your underwear

how he fingers you

[dmitriene]

inspired by @suimon thought.

cw: filth, cum, really pussydrunk simon.

simon ghost riley had decided to grow a moustache, the change of appearance, albeit sudden, seemed like a good emough idea to him during his next shave, he had only recently returned home from deployment, and his patchy stubble had grown enough to form a small beard, surrounding his lips and running up his sharp jaw, covering his pale skin with darkish, coarse hairs, the shaving of which was a relief, refreshing his face, however, when he had only a small part above his upper lip to trim, his hand lingered in the air, and he changed his mind.

“you look silly, si”

was the only response you offered, which wasn't actually true, on the contrary, his smooth, well groomed, and thick mustache enhanced his appearance, making him look even more stern and rugged, stirred a certain lump of feelings within you, compelling your legs to cross in response to the warmth that began in the pit of your belly and radiated outward, suffusing your limbs with a gentle, yet insistent heat, kindling in your cheeks, making your eyes flicker across his face and body with a familiar, bashful anxiety that simon recognized all too well, his thinned lips curling into a broad, sharply fanged grin.

simon is sure that he can convince you otherwise, or at the very least, acknowledge the reality that you have been keeping buried beneath your rapidly expanding ribcage, which will eventually turn out as sporadic keens and whimpers tumbling from gasping mouth, because it is not at all that difficult to nudge his face between your trembling thighs, lay down between your spread legs, calves gripped by his tightly grasping, scarred fingers, not allowing them to snap shut, his lips preoccupied by being put against your cunt.

parting your folds with his tongue, already soaking and slick with ooze of your arousal, tangy, sweet lasting taste smearing against his moustache, hole fluttering against the tip of his curling tongue, teasing over the pulsing entrance, no words remained in your thoughts or mouth, devolving into clear, need brimming hiccups, hips spasming, grinding down to meet the pistoning of his tongue, the ocassional mouthing on the exposed, soft skin of your thigh, quivering beneath at the rasp of his facial hair, before you were arching into his open lapping mouth again, slowly falling apart at the unraveling seams, panting for more, not enough, too good.

it'll leave the tang of you on his tongue and face for a long time, drench him in the cum and sweat, syrupy sweet, unwilling to scrub it off, a permanent reminder of the way you taste, which simon shares with you, crawling up to plunge his still slick coated tongue in your waiting mouth, making you swallow, gasp and moan around insistent, swirling muscle, mapping around, grunting around the weak sob you let out, sound wet with spit, and pulling away to meet your dazed, bleary gaze properly, he knows the mustache would have to linger.

main masterlist. quidelines.