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@agentmarvel
☆ JJ | 31 | she/they ♡ black cat energy, fat!reader enthusiast, lover of all things spooky, probably a goblin
☆ my content is nsfw; mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked
☆ current hyperfixation: cod
☆ find my ao3 here
☆ requests are: open
☆ inbox is: open
☆ anon is: on
John Price
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
König
Keegan P. Russ
Valeria Garza
141 +
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.
something in the way you lay - preview
oh, look! jj has another wip while she procrastinates finishing another chapter of bury me. part of the prologue.
mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked
premise: you are selected to serve as a functional free-use assistant to the 141 while they hunt for makarov. actual progress on this post.
♡
Laswell doesn’t do drop-ins.
Traveling from Langley to a safehouse in Middle of Nowhere, Romania isn’t exactly convenient, especially when it has nothing to do with the mission at hand.
Her knocks come in quick succession, a rapid trio with all the force and finesse she’s known for. The boys startle; their captain had neglected to mention her visit when he received word. He settles them with a wave of his hand before palming his Desert Eagle and cracking the door slowly.
“John,” she greets firmly, a large manila envelope tucked beneath her arm.
“Laswell,” he responds in kind, opening the door wider and ushering her in. “Cuppa?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She’s welcomed by the all too familiar scent of gunpowder and sweat as she follows him into the kitchen, acknowledging the rest of his team with a curt nod before taking a seat. Price refills the kettle and kicks the stovetop burner on before settling it. A clean mug awaits on the counter. He drops a fresh bag in unceremoniously, the only item that seems to stay permanently stocked in the stashes.
“How’d this last one go?” she asks, folding her hands together on the table top. John hums affirmatively, but non-committal as he says nothing. It stays silent until the kettle begins to whistle. He wastes no time pouring the steaming water into the cup and pushing it towards Kate, noting a regrettable lack of milk, honey, or sugar.
“And your mom? How’s she?”
“Laswell, as chuffed as I am to see you, I know dear Auntie Kate didn’t just decide to pop in to check on her wayward nephews. Let’s skip the small talk, shall we? Why are you here?”
“Right. Do you recall the pilot program we discussed a few months back?” He nods once. “The test runs were successful. Seven operatives cleared training, and the teams involved saw a marked improvement in performance. While the 141 isn’t exactly underperforming, the next mission is not going to be easy. It’ll be long, grueling, stressful. You’ve done this dance with Makarov before, and you know how hard it is. Having relief options would be ideal. I’m not going to force you, John, but I’m going to strongly recommend that you consider allowing one of my operatives to temporarily step in. We can always pull them out if they become a distraction or if they’re proving not to be beneficial.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
Kate smiles, albeit a little crookedly, as she lays it flat on the table. Her palm settles atop the folder.
“Say yes, and you’ll find out.”
John huffs, scrubbing a hand over his beard. He’s weighing the options, she can tell. This bunch takes the threat of Makarov quite seriously, given their shared history. Can they afford a distraction? No, but that’s why she reserves the right to pull her agent at any time.
John knows she won’t ever hesitate to pull the trigger, literally or metaphorically. After a few silent moments of flipping through his mental rolodex of risks and reservations, he concedes.
“Alright, Laswell. I’ll bite. But I catch even a whiff of something being off, with them or my team, they’re gone. Understood? I’m not taking any chances on missing that bastard again.”
“Understood.”
Kate slides the envelope across the table. John takes it, finger sliding beneath the loose edge of the seal, awaiting her confirmation. She provides it with a tilt of her head, and he tears through the thin flap. From inside, he produces a septet of photos and lays them across the table. Reaching back in, he retrieves four black portfolios, neat gold spine pins gleaming back in the low light of the kitchen.
“While I’m sure your tastes vary, you’ll need to select an agent cooperatively.”
“What’s all this about?” Garrick inquires, peering over John’s shoulder.
“Ask her.”
Those dark, warm eyes find hers, silently asking again.
“Three years ago, the CIA began work on a program to provide a more efficient form of stress relief to SpecOps groups. Tension and trauma tend to build over time, especially on longer missions, and instead of forcing teams to endure, we were looking for a better way to expel that energy. Intimacy proved to be the best method; sex boosts endorphins, promotes better cognitive function, better sleep, and decreases stress and anxiety.”
“Yer offerin’ us a government issue hooker?” MacTavish chimes in, one eyebrow cocked curiously. Ghost scoffs behind him, arms folded across his chest.
“No.” She has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m offering you a resolution. Statistically, you’re more likely to catch Makarov with one of my operatives assisting.”
Ghost begins to protest, ready to argue his reticence, but Price is quick to silence him, noting it’s worth a shot if it helps put a bullet between that fucker’s eyes. Begrudgingly, he settles back against the wall. Laswell can see the cylinders in his head firing voraciously, smoke practically pouring from his ears as he bites his tongue.
MacTavish and Garrick share a look of agreement and simultaneously lean forward to view the photos. In unnerving synchronicity, they point at the same one. Price chuckles, humming his agreement. He lifts the page, holding it up for Ghost, who grunts out a gruff ‘yeah’ in response. The picture is handed back to Laswell. She pauses.
“Are you sure?”
Price nods.
“Quite like some soft curves ‘round here.”
“Good. You’ll have 48 hours to complete the forms inside the folders once you return to base. STI tests are scheduled in med bay for all four of you tomorrow morning. You will not miss them.” She looks Ghost in the eye, and he nods. “I’ll meet you stateside Saturday morning to introduce you to your new assistant.”
“‘nother safehouse?” Garrick asks with a grimace. Kate nods.
“Unfortunately. At least it’s one of the nice ones. Wouldn’t want her first impression to be soured by meeting at a rundown shack in the middle of the woods.”
aaah your hitman ghost series is amazingggf i hope you update it i cannot wait to see what’s next
thank you! after a mental health break, i'm back to writing, so an update is coming! 😁
don't worry, i'm not dead!
took some time away from the internet for a mental health break, but i'll be back to writing soon!🖤
MDNI means MDNI.
it doesn’t mean “16-17 year olds are welcome”. literally fuck off
Heaven is Here (If You Want It)
Part 1 of 3 (or 4 idk yet) for a mini-series about John Price and his wife romantically "adopting" Simon into their marriage.
(I'll work on a cover and a masterlist, etc. but have this first part in the meantime)
Content: Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy, Semi-Exhibitionism
Not for the first time today, you feel like you’re doing something wrong.
Several pairs of eyes watch you inch your sedan between a big fuck-off SUV and an even bigger fuck-off Humvee. (At least you think it’s a Humvee. You’ve hardly memorized all the stupid, complicated names the military has for just about everything.)
Whatever the vehicle is, it’s huge and intimidating and looks like it’s about to eat your little hybrid.
You glance at your phone, double-checking the explicit set of instructions your husband sent to direct you right to him. It’s excruciatingly detailed – as you requested – and everything seems to match. Yet you can’t squash the paranoid sense that you don’t belong here.
Which, to be fair, you don’t.
Civilians have no business on an active military base – at least not in “serious operations” section.
Everyone milling in the garage is visibly government, from their high-and-tight buzzes down to the scuffed toes of their heavy boots.
“Military” is still an unusual recipe to you, a ratio of ingredients that creates different flavors of the same product. Two parts rigid training, one part lethality, a cup of sacrifice, a dash of protocol. Bake in 450-degrees of authority, then broil with duty. Garnish with a generous sprinkle of uniformity. Violence optional.
By comparison, you’re like a cupcake in a butcher shop: pretty, but out of place.
The metaphor isn’t too far off with your soft pastel sweater, mid-thigh skirt, and patterned thigh-highs. Walking confection – though you can admit that was the goal when you dressed this morning.
You’re nothing if not a gleeful stereotype.
Shifting to park, you flip down your visor to fidget with your appearance. Assure yourself that nothing has smudge or worn or migrated. Pretend you don’t notice the baby-faced gaggle of recruits ogling from one of the workbenches.
Your phone lights up with a text; your husband has come to fetch you.
Fluffing your hair one last time, you slip out of the car, purse looped over your shoulder.
“Ma’am?” someone starts.
And then the voice you’ve been dreaming of calls, “Stand down, corporal, she’s with me.”
You pivot with a squeal of delight, abandoning your car to launch at his wide chest. Thick arms coil around your waist and lift you, kicking with glee, from the asphalt. You press your nose into his stiff collar and breathe deep.
All military bases and uniforms tend to smell the same and it usually drives you crazy. However, you’re delighted to find that a combination of cigar smoke and aftershave overpowers it this time.
“Hello, love,” John murmurs into your temple.
“Hi,” you giggle.
He sets you on your feet again but keeps you close, keeps you warm. You beam up at him with hands pressed to his collarbones, counting heartbeats.
He’s so fucking handsome. Sparkling blue eyes crinkled at the corners, straight nose, full bottom lip curved with a mirroring grin. His facial hair is neatly trimmed, soft against your fingertips when you affectionately scritch at it.
He drops a kiss to your mouth, comes away with a rosy smudge on his bottom lip. You thumb it away, unable to get your dopey smile under control.
“Look at you all dolled up.” He fits his big hands around your hips, holds you in place as he takes a half step back – as if you’ll disappear. His eyes glint as he gives you a thorough, appreciative onceover. “You’re too pretty for an old codger like me.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, swatting at his broad shoulder. “You’re not old.”
You did, admittedly, dress up a bit. It’s been a month since you last saw each other, after all, and you wanted to make it special.
You don’t need validation, but receiving it from your husband is always nice. (Though, you’re pretty sure he’d shower you in compliments even if you had the flu and dressed in a garbage bag, hair unwashed.)
“You look good enough to eat, sweetheart,” he rumbles, nipping your cheek.
“Hey!” you laugh, palm against his smirk. “You’re gonna mess up my makeup, you brute.”
He mumbles empty apologies, peppering kisses up your jaw, against your ear. One of his hands slides up your back, thumb tucking into the divot of your spine.
He’s here, you think ecstatically. Real and solid, breathing against your hairline and groaning softly at the scent of your shampoo. Not memory, not a dream. Here.
“Missed you,” you sigh, curling your fingers in the front of his shirt.
“I thought of you every second,” he replies.
Chest aching with warmth, you tuck into another hug, humming when he reciprocates. It feels like he’s pressing your frayed edges back together again, cementing all the cracks that have formed without him there as your foundation.
He graces you with one last forehead kiss before pulling away. You take the opportunity to perform your own scan of his person. Looking first for obvious new injuries or scars – none, thankfully – and then appreciating his clothes.
He hardly ever comes home in uniform; says he likes to leave work at work. So, seeing him in his green fatigues is… well. You didn’t think you had a thing for it until just this moment.
“Look at you,” you tease, smoothing out the sleeves to feel the firm muscles beneath. “So official!”
He chuckles. “Someone seems to think I should be in charge.”
“Their mistake, hm?”
“Brat.”
You snicker, feather a kiss at his jaw. Your tempted to leave the lipstick mark this time but end up wiping it away again.
“So, where to?” you ask.
He arches an eyebrow and nods over your shoulder. “Forgetting something?”
You follow his gaze, realize your car door is still wide open. “Shit!”
John gives you a brief tour of the immediate area, explaining which buildings are you-appropriate and which ones are not. Among the former – the mess, rec center, and outdoor PT areas. You try to memorize identifying landmarks, though you doubt you’ll ever be unescorted to need it.
The “tour” ends in his office. You “ooh” at the engraved Cpt. Price plaque on the door, and “ah” at the wide desk dominating the room. He lets you peruse the shelves behind his rolling chair, tells you what he can about medallions with intimidating names like “Operation Widowmaker.”
There are pictures, too. One of him and Kate at some sort of official-looking event. Much younger, likely before you two even met.
There’s another of him with the infamous Task Force 141, all four of them standing proud and tall, solemn faced. Well, all except the infamous “Ghost,” who could be sticking his tongue out beneath his mask for all you know.
And that’s about all you see before your husband backs you against his desk, hungry mouth slanted over yours. Any questions or comments about décor vaporize into puffs of smoke, fogging your mind. His tongue teases along your bottom lip, curls against yours when you happily open to him.
“Fucking missed you,” he growls.
You squeak as he scoops you up, deposits you on his desk. You’re no stranger to your husband’s strength but seeing him display it so casually like this makes your stomach clench low and hot.
Paper crinkles beneath your ass as you wiggle forward.
“Are those important?” you ask between claiming kisses.
“Not more important than you.” He wedges himself between your welcoming thighs, a rough hand pawing at the hem of your skirt. It feels like his callouses could tear the delicate stitching of your tights. You kind of hope they do.
His other hand plants on the desk just behind you and John looms. He’s already an imposing man, but the uniform makes him bigger – if not physically, then in presence. It turns him into a version of your husband that you’ve never met.
“I need you, love,” he rasps.
“Here?” you breathe, amused. “Aren’t there, like, rules about that?”
“Fuck the rules.”
You snort. “Thought you wanted to fuck me.”
He tangles his fingers in your hair, guides your head back to a steeper, more vulnerable angle. You go without protest, eyes lidded and mouth parted. His eyes lock on the pink tip of your tongue, licking at the lingering taste of him on your lips.
“Watch that mouth, little girl, or I’ll fuck that instead.”
Your breath hitches at the low, commanding gravel of his voice. It makes your head spin, the combination of time and place and him.
“You like that idea, eh? Want me to ruin your pretty makeup? Show the whole base how good their captain has it at home?”
You nod like a puppet and John’s thick fingers are around the strings. Needy, your fluttering hands tug at his shirt. You want him closer, closer.
“That’s my girl,” he chuckles, wicked and dark. You shiver. “Bet you’re already making a mess in your panties, hm?”
Your face burns with delicious embarrassment, eyes sliding away. Caught. “N-no…”
“No?” he coos, tsking. “I think you’re lying.”
“’M not.”
“You know what happens to naughty girls that lie?” He tucks his fingertips in your waistband like he’s going to confirm for himself.
Conflicted, you squirm and squeezes your thighs around him. The breadth of him always takes your breath away.
“Noooo,” you whine. “D-Don’t be mean!”
He arches his brows. “Is it mean to keep little brats in line?”
“You… I’m not…”
It’s hard to think with his lips skimming the delicate skin of your neck. The bristles of his beard tickle the underside of your jaw and scrape your collarbone; you’ve had to hide red marks after he’s come home before.
He chuckles. “Hm? What was that?”
You gather words to–
A shrill ring splits the moment. John’s phone.
You both freeze, the haze of arousal draining away. John sighs, resignation shadowing his features. You pet soothingly at his ribs as he drops his forehead to your shoulder.
“I have to take this,” he admits, drawing himself away like it physically hurts. “Been waiting for this bloody call all day, ‘course now they decide – give us a tic, love, and then I’m all yours.”
“It’s alright, baby,” you assure, smiling. “I know you still have to work.”
He fishes the phone from one of his many, many (you’re a little jealous) pockets and hits the answer icon, barking, “Price.”
You snicker quietly, slipping from the desk as he starts for the door. He pauses when you tug his arm, tilting his head at the tissue you offer. Arching an eyebrow, you gesture to his mouth, where your lipstick has smeared… everywhere. As much as he boasted about showing off, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t want to look like a dollar-store Joker in the hallways.
He blinks in understanding, accepts the wipe with a quick thank-you kiss to your knuckles. Just as he’s about to step out, he makes a gesture to your own face.
Right, you must be a mess too.
You plop into John’s desk chair (it’s definitely not ergonomic, no wonder his back always hurts) and whip out your compact. This isn’t the first time this has happened.
You dab the smears and smudges with a spare wipe, touch up your foundation and lipstick, and try to blend out any weird patches with your fingers. Hopefully, you don’t look silly now. The military doesn’t install lighting with makeup application in mind – who would have guessed.
You’re just smoothing your hair when you hear voices approaching. Finish making yourself presentable as the door swings in. A skull greets you.
You blink, unprepared to see the mask in person for the first time. John has told you about Simon “Ghost” Riley of course, about his dedication to hiding his identity. Hell, you just saw a picture on the shelf behind you. But seeing it in the flesh – or bone, in this case – on the huge man it’s attached to… that’s something else.
“Oh,” you say aloud. Catch yourself and add, “hi!”
A head pokes around his shoulder, blue eyes and a brown shock of hair. That’ll be John “Soap” MacTavish, then.
“John will be right back,” you offer his curious frown.
A voice pipes up from behind both of them, still stuck in the hall.
“Is that—” Big brown eyes beneath a blue baseball cap peer above his teammates. They light up at the sight of you. “Well, look who it is!”
You pop to your feet. “Kyle!”
He shoves the other two aside to meet you halfway, snatching you up and spinning you ‘round. You laugh as he smacks a loud kiss against your cheek and sets you on your feet again. A boyish grin greets you as you catch your breath.
“The old man didn’t say you’d be visiting,” he chuckles.
“What is it with you two?” you huff, swatting at his shoulder. “He’s not that old!”
A throat clears loud and conspicuous by the door. You turn to the other two members of the task force, the pair gauging you with varying levels of suspicion and curiosity.
“Oh hell, sorry,” you say, smoothing down your skirt. “It’s nice to finally meet you!”
“Aye, and… who’re you, ma’am?” MacTavish asks, brows twisted like he can’t figure out if he should be polite or not.
And as if he’s been divinely summoned, John appears in the doorway.
“That would be my wife, Sergeant. Show some respect.”
You snort softly as the blood drains from Soap’s face. Poor guy.
“He was,” you defend.
John grunts, unimpressed, as you sidle closer and offer your hand. Soap takes it with a rakish, crooked grin. It draws attention to the little scar slanting across his chin. Combined with his mohawk and bright blue eyes, he becomes charmingly roguish as the uncertainty melts away.
His hand is firm around yours, scars and callouses pressing against your palm. Warm, too. You appreciate that he doesn’t squeeze too hard.
“I’ve heard so much about you from John and Kyle,” you say. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“’S all lies, lass,” he declares, “lies ‘n exaggerations.”
You tilt your head, putting on your best doe eyes. “So, you’re not loyal to a fault, wicked smart, and incredibly competent?”
He falters, sputters to recover, and you break as soon as you hear Kyle laughing behind you.
“Och, well, I s’pose…” he manages, flushing from the tips of his ears across his cheeks and nose.
“Is it alright if I call you Soap?” you ask.
“Aye, I reckon s’alright ‘f it’s a bonnie bird like you.”
You pretend not to notice John cuffing him upside the head as you turn to the lieutenant.
And he really is as intimidating as John made him out to be. Not that John used that word exactly, but tales of grown men trembling at the mere sight of Ghost and seeing the picture on John’s shelf gave you an impression.
He’s not just tall, he’s broad – even bigger than your husband – and makes no effort to appear smaller. He stands firm, takes up as much space as he needs. Dressed in black head to toe and sporting that haunting mask, he cuts a striking figure.
Almost like he wants to appear inhuman. Just a killing machine that the military treats him as.
Well. There’s a very good reason you’re not in the military.
“Hi,” you chirp, “you must be Lieutenant Riley.”
He stares at you. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. It’s just a pair of charcoal dark eyes, something shell-shocked in the painted skin around them. You don’t back down, keeping the curve of your mouth relaxed and pleasant. He stares long enough that Soap clears his throat, and you blink, arching your eyebrows to prompt him.
“Simon,” he grunts finally. And to your pleasant surprise, he offers his hand. “Call me Simon, ma’am.”
His hand dwarfs yours and yet his hold is so gentle. Like he’s handling something delicate and breakable, cupping his palm as if to protect you from his grip.
“I like your gloves, Simon,” you say.
His fingers spasm, twisting his wrist as if to confirm you’re talking about the skeleton hands printed on them.
“Thanks.”
You grin. “Do they glow in the dark?”
“Wouldn’t be very covert if they did.”
You like his voice, you decide immediately. It comes from his chest, deep and resonant, practically purring in his throat. Crushed velvet. If John hadn’t warned you that Simon’s a bit “rough around the edges” you’d take the flat affect to be unfriendly. Instead, he sounds endearingly awkward as his arm drops to his side again.
“I guess not, but it would be cool,” you reply, “and isn’t that more important?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. You think that means he’s smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.”
You nod solemnly, as if your work here is done. Without stepping away from him, you turn to John. He’s watching the two of you with a bright, thoughtful glint in his eye. Even as his wife, you’re not sure what that means – you’ll try to remember to ask later.
“How was your call?” you ask, aware that he probably can’t say much.
“Bollocks as usual,” he sighs, crossing his arms, “but I do need a quick word with my sergeants. I’m sorry, darling.”
You smile, easy and understanding. “John, it’s really okay. I promise.”
It may be okay with you, but clearly not with him. He sighs, index finger tapping his bicep. You know what that means at least.
“Talk to the sergeants, have a cigar,” you soothe. “I’ll be here.”
“You’re a lamb,” he coos, kissing the top of your head. “Simon will keep you company in the meantime.”
You arch your eyebrows, a bit surprised, but nod.
“We’ll clear out so you can talk,” you offer. “I wanted to see more of the training area anyway.”
John nods, takes your hand to press one last kiss to your knuckles, the corner of his mouth touching your wedding ring. Your face warms with the sweet gesture, self-conscious of his men watching. When his lowers your hand (doesn’t drop it, never) his eyes flick over your head.
“Take care of my wife, Simon.”
Your smile slips at the gravity in his tone, equal parts flustered and baffled by the change. He guides you to the door with a hand on the small of your back, a gentleman down to the last.
“Aye, sir,” Simon replies, just as solemn.
“Goodness!” you blurt to break the tension, shaking your head. “It’s a stroll down the sidewalk, not witness protection.”
John huffs, shoulders relaxing, and the grim atmosphere disappears. “Humor me, darling. I worry.”
“You’re overprotective.”
“I happen to protect you the perfect amount for a man in my situation.”
You roll your eyes, boop his nose as you pass. “Whatever you say, oh captain, my captain.”
His eyes spark with a dark, lustful glint. There and gone again, but you know what you saw. Well then. That’ll be something to explore later.
“Stay out of trouble,” he says, a warning for you this time. Not nearly as dire.
“We’ll see!”
You flounce out of his office with a parting wiggle of your fingers. Simon follows, closing the door after himself.
He meets you at the end of the hallway; you’re fascinated by his gait. Long, confident strides and yet absolutely silent. His clothes don’t even rustle. If you weren’t watching him, you wouldn’t know he was moving. That nickname (what’s the word? A callsign?) really is apt.
“So, Simon,” you begin, clasping your hands behind your back, “where to?”
“You wanted to see the training grounds?” he asks. His voice is quiet, a low rumble. Almost subsonic.
“Mhmm!”
“There are recruits there now.”
You perk up. “Even better! I’ve always wondered what training looks like.”
“You’ve never seen it before?”
You shrug, falling into step as he starts down the hallway, opposite the way you first came.
“I’ve only ever visited for quick errands before. He usually meets me at the commissary for lunch or at the gate.”
He’s slowing his steps, you notice. Adjusting to accommodate your little heels. The realization makes you bite the corner of your mouth to keep from grinning.
“What changed?” he asks.
“He wanted to introduce you boys,” you answer with all the warmth John’s transferred to you through stories.
If Simon is surprised, he doesn’t say so – but the silence that follows your answer feels stunned.
Then again, what do you know? You just met the man today.
“Price ‘s a good captain,” Simon says finally. Gruff and abrupt. You tilt your head to show you’re listening. “Solid.”
You assume that’s high praise coming from him.
“He’s a good man,” you say, thinking of your husband. A man duty-bound and solid as the ground you walk on. A man you can do nothing but love – even years later feel a bit like a schoolgirl with butterflies in your tummy and lovesick sigh on your lips when he does… well just about anything.
“The best of ‘em,” Simon agrees.
You slide him a sideways look. Maybe you’re daft, but you could swear there’s something almost… regretful, clinging at the edges of his voice.
It’s a hard job they have, you know that, even if you’re blissfully ignorant to the burdens on their shoulders. Broad as they are, you’re sure even Simon feels the weight sometimes.
“He’s a good judge of character too,” you muse. “Could make saints out of sinners, I think. Even if his own hands aren’t very clean.”
You turn away just as you feel his gaze shifting. Keep your expression light, don’t let on that you notice.
“Oh!” you say, pointing. “Are those recruits?”
There’s a noticeable beat before he follows your eyes. “They’re running combat drills.”
Down the hill, men and women in tactical gear scramble around fake buildings and walls. They move in little groups of threes and fours, shouting to each other and ducking for cover. Two or three people stand at the edges of the “combat zone” shouting the occasional reprimand.
As you wander closer, you detect little pop, pop, pop noises. “Are those… BB guns?”
“Aye, and they hurt like a bitch,” Simon warns.
“I bet.”
You let him take the lead, not sure how close you’re allowed to get. The hill is a bit steep since you’ve stepped off the paved path, the grass lush and green, a little wet. When you wobble, Simon takes an extra step forward and half turns, offering his hand.
“Oh, thank you!” you say, fitting your fingers into his palm. He jerks his head in a nod; you hope that doesn’t mean he’s annoyed.
He escorts you the rest of the way like that, always ready to catch you if you slip. If you weren’t so flattered by his manners, you’d be embarrassed about needing help down a hill.
He stops a few good meters from what seems like the boundary of the training zone. Here, you have a better view of what’s going on and can even hear bits and pieces of the soldiers calling to each other.
“What are they doing?” you ask. “Do you know the scenario?”
Simon begins explaining the drill to you, pointing out different members of each “squad” and commenting on their actions and reactions at intervals. You listen with rapt attention, asking questions when there’s space for it. Don’t even notice that he’s purposefully placed himself in front of you until something pings off his chest. A little blue pellet bounces off his boot.
“Oy!” he barks, startling you. “Watch the friendly fire, corporal.”
The man he’s just reprimanded nearly falls over himself when he sees who’s speaking. You giggle a bit at the way he salutes and then immediately gets shot to hell by the “enemy.”
“John wasn’t kidding, you really are spooky,” you say.
He snorts. “You think I’m spooky?”
“I didn’t say that.”
His gaze drops to yours and this time you don’t turn away, making sure he sees all the mischief in them when you grin.
“Do you think I’m spooky?”
“Nah,” you reply, shrugging. “I think you’re a big softy.”
“What.” His voice is flat, shock in those flinty eyes. You swallow back laughter.
“Mhmm. I think you’re secretly a teddy bear. You don’t scare me, Lieutenant Riley.”
He huffs softly, shoulders dropping. Huh – you hadn’t even noticed they were tense.
Out on the training grounds, the drill seems to be wrapping up. It’s a mess of noise and shouting, so you almost don’t catch it when Simon murmurs, “good.”
TBC...
all the boys
center image by @/ave661
PART IV
hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage
mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked
rating: explicit
word count: 3,106
cw: genre-typical violence, non-descript injury
♡
Or perhaps you won’t.
You’re seething, teeth clenched and hands flailing as you express your resolute displeasure.
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Simon! I’m old enough to shop alone!”
The tone of your voice borders on shrill, pitch rising with your temper. Fury rolls off of you in waves, incensed by the notion that you’d need one of his men following you around. Simon pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, taking a measured breath as he contemplates what information you need to placate you. Perhaps he should’ve laid out the simpler rules first…
“Not a babysitter,” he grumbles, scrubbing that same hand across his jaw. “They’ll only be there to keep you safe.”
“From what? A fucking can of soup, Simon? New shoes? Rogue cart in a parking lot? Or, god forbid, a cashier that might ask how my day is going?”
“That’s not it - “
“Then what is it? Am I some sort of prisoner now? Scared I’m going catch a flight home and you’ll have to settle your debts like a grown man? Or is it just improper to have a lady in public without supervision? What fucking century are you living in?” You’re venomous in mocking him, fangs dripping with no intent of mercy, coiled up and ready to strike as soon as you find a soft spot. He’d like to say he understands, but you really have no reason to bite the hand that feeds. You don’t appreciate the gravity of the situation.
Simon utters your name softly, trying to pull you from your diatribe long enough to listen to reason. You’re not having it.
“I’m a person, Simon. I’m not your fucking property. I don’t need to be stalked by some half-wit thug with a God complex just because you are insecure. Believe it or not, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You can’t - “
“Just listen - “
“What’s next? Lo-jacking my phone? Hiding a tracker in my purse lining? Chipping me like a fucking dog?”
“Enough!” he snarls, curt and cold. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, pounding like a drum. His fingers curl into his palms, fists clenching. Your eyes go wide at his thunderous bark, but your face doesn’t betray your surprise otherwise. “My job is… dangerous sometimes, alright? Enemies come easy, and a lot of ‘em. Rules are in place to keep you safe, and you will follow them. Don’t like it? I don’t fuckin’ care. This ain’t a game, love. Your life is not a fuckin’ game.”
“What do you mean, ‘dangerous’?”
He stays quiet.
“Simon, tell me.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Simon?” You’re almost pleading at this point, anger all but draining. In fact, there’s an edge of fear when you say his name. He hates the sound.
Your beautiful doe eyes stare at him expectantly, and he folds like a lawn chair. Stubborn little thing, prodding like a needle until you get what you’re after. He’ll never confess how weak he is for that darling gaze.
Simon sighs, shoulders sagging from their tense, defensive position.
“I’m a black market contractor.” It’s a half-truth, a muted admission, but it’s better than handing you a live wire and throwing you in the deep end. You’ve had enough shocks in recent weeks; if he can save you from one more, he will.
“That’s how you know my father,” you say after a beat of silence. He nods.
“More or less.”
“Okay.” It’s followed by a heavy exhale that puffs out your lips and round cheeks. As inappropriate as the thought is in the moment, Simon can’t help but find it winsome. “Can you just, uhm, can you tell me the rest of the rules now, please?”
“‘course.”
He takes his time explaining as he guides you through your new home; the importance of setting the perimeter alarm while he’s away, the necessity of privatizing your social media accounts, a solid boundary of not having guests in the house without him vetting them first. You listen raptly, doll eyes staring up at him. Whether they’re full of engrossment or dread, he isn’t quite sure, but he enjoys your attention all the same.
You don’t ask many questions. Through the hallways, you generally acquiesce to his requests without resistance and ignore the closed doors. But one door seems to grab your attention at the end of the corridor, and when you ask about it, he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.
Simon pays attention, you see. Your socials gave away far too many of your interests and hobbies (don’t read into that - he only spent days digging back nearly a decade). He spent nearly a month cautiously cultivating the contents beyond the multitudes that were already in his possession, and he knows that room will be your favorite.
“That’s the library,” he comments casually, feigning no knowledge of the depth of your enthusiasm. Your face lights up, though you try to bury the delight behind your collected façade.
“Am I allowed in there?”
“Of course.”
You pause a moment before asking, “Are there any rooms I’m not allowed in?”
He shakes his head. There’s no need to disclose the armory to you, really; you’ll never need to use it. His gallery of weaponry and wares hides behind a covert veneer, a door that doesn’t appear as a door, something you’d never think twice of in cursory glances. And that door is behind a door that remains locked at all times inside Simon’s office. The thought does occur that it may behoove him to teach you how to defend yourself, but what are the odds anyone would ever get close enough? Near zero.
“Only thing I ask is that you knock ‘fore you come in the study. Prefer to keep my work separate from my personal life. Rest of the house is fair game; it’s yours now, too.”
Like a broken record, he keeps slipping that in wherever possible. Repetition breeds remembrance, and he’d hate for you to forget that you’re a Riley now…
♡
The staff gathers in the foyer shortly before breakfast.
Simon regards them all fondly. Each is a well-oiled cog in a seamless machine; some pieces newer than others, but all perfectly functional. He hates to reduce them from sum to parts, but they’re all instrumental in his operations. He couldn’t do what he does without them, especially not now that he’s married. You’ll learn their functions, fragments, and faces. You’ll come to love and trust them as deeply as he does.
Your soft footfalls pad down the stairs right on time. The hitch in your breathing indicates a yawn, and he can hear a nearly imperceptible swish of fabric as you cover your mouth to hide it. Step-by-step, he tracks your progress until you reach what should be the last stair. You stop. He glances over his shoulder and offers a muted smile, taking in the only mildly disheveled sight of you first thing in the morning - wet hair, sweatpants, and a faded t-shirt. You’re stunning… and a bit surprised by the number of people in your house.
“C’mere,” he says softly. It’s as much a command as a suggestion, but you’re likely to be a bit more receptive if he isn’t too pushy, right? See, he’s learning, bit-by-bit, how to communicate with you to his advantage. Manipulation tactics aren’t ideal, but if it gets you on his side sooner, so be it.
Finicky thing, aren’t you? Emotional. Reactive. You respond to him like a feral creature backed into a corner, all claws and quarrel. Lashing out, he understands. He’s seen that deer-in-the-headlights look a million times over - though usually, it’s right before he unloads a clip in some sleazy nobody’s head or right after he makes a near impossible shot on a corrupt high-powered target. It’s something entirely different to see that look on his wife. Something that sets his teeth on edge.
So, he’ll adapt. Even if that means one-sided psychological warfare until you’re willing to meet him in the middle.
“Good morning,” you greet, enthusiasm absent but polite nonetheless, as you approach his side. To the dismay of the gnawing ache in his bones to pull you close, you stay just out of arm's reach, folding yours across your chest.
His host of guests responds in kind, scattered smatterings of verbal responses and mere nods mixed together.
“Our staff,” Simon announces. “I’m sure you recognize them from the wedding, but that’s Johnny and Kyle.”
He points to each in kind, Johnny giving you a charming grin and Kyle tipping the brim of his ballcap.
“My babysitters, right?” you ask blankly with an edge of snark. Johnny snickers, but tries to mask his amusement as soon as Simon hits him with a sharp, warning glare.
He ignores your comment, though.
“Farah and Alex are in charge of housekeeping; they bring in a team twice weekly for thorough cleans. If you’d like them to not touch your room, please let them know. They’re good about that.” What he doesn’t say is that Farah is also his head of private security, ensuring all safety protocols are in place, and Alex is in charge of the armory. He keeps an accurate inventory of what comes in and out, makes sure everything is organized and in working order, spends the bulk of his time methodically cleaning the instruments Simon takes on each assignment until no trace is left.
“Roach runs the kitchen - ” Double duty - chef and personal trainer. Sanderson oversees Johnny and Kyle’s nutrition, workout regimen, and training drills to keep them in peak shape to keep up with their boss.
“- Nikolai is my driver - “ Primarily a pilot, really, but he’s a man of many talents. He’s saved Simon’s hide more than once in a pinch, trained as a medic with the Russian Army, and is, by all accounts, an absolute fucking Savant when it comes to mechanics. He’s a force to be reckoned, akin to a hurricane when prompted.
“- Yuri handles landscaping - ” And assists Farah with external security. He does routine perimeter checks and looks for flaws in the system. When he’s not lurking about outside, he’s assisting Nikolai with transportation repairs or in the armory with Alex. Jack of all trades, in a sense; always willing to lend a hand. He’s even volunteered to act as your personal chauffeur when Nikolai is away. How chivalrous.
“- and I’ve picked you up a new mobile for emergencies.” He holds out a new phone for you, knowing the old one was conveniently left inside his jet and was subsequently smashed beyond recognition. This one is identical in model to your previous in all ways but one - an invisible tracking app pre-installed by Kyle. You’ll find absolutely no indication of tampering, and he’ll be able to keep tabs on you from a distance.
You’re hesitant, but take it from his grasp.
“We’re still looking for your old one. Finish setting it up after brekkie, yeah?”
He’s met with silence and a wary glance. It’s almost like you know he’s lying - which he is, but only mostly. They’re still sweeping the floors for fragments of your screen.
“Right, off you fuck, the lot of ya,” Simon announces with a lopsided grin. “Breakfast is on the table - thanks, Roach - and we’ll join you in a sec.”
“Not sure how I feel about a guy called ‘Roach’ being in charge of the kitchen,” you reply automatically, clapping a horrified hand over your mouth as soon as you realize what you’ve said. Roach laughs, full and hearty, at that. You can only offer a bashful smile and an apologetic shrug, the embarrassment evident on your face.
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am. I wash my hands, promise.” You giggle at that. “And, if it helps, you can just call me Gary instead.”
You agree, testing the taste of his name with gratitude. Simon would love to hear you say his name with something other than contempt right now. He understands how complex this all is, but he’s your husband, for fuck’s sake. Doesn’t that buy him any wiggle room?
No. No, it doesn’t.
He has to remind himself that while he knows everything about you (that he could find online, that is), you don’t really know him. You don’t know the lengths to which he’d go for you, that he now lives for the happiness of the pretty little specter that haunts his dreams. Don’t worry, he’ll fix that soon.
♡
Blood drips into the water, cardinal beads leaching color as they slip into hazy translucency. Simon watches the streaks circle the drain as the faucet runs on low.
It was a local job, quick and dirty. Solicitor with a nasty penchant for underage girls and enough money to weasel his way out of the legal ramifications. Surveillance indicated his wife was out of town, but Simon didn’t bank on the other woman. The one that stabbed him.
She snuck up on him, striking right after he pulled the trigger. The tip of her blade sliced a neat strip across the side of his neck. Not deep enough to need stitches, but deep enough to piss him off. Her gray matter is splattered all over a nice painting in the solicitor’s flat.
However, a faint sense of guilt gnaws at his nerves. There are no qualms about his actions, no concerns about the successes of his work, but in doing so, he’s lied to you once more. The excuse of a late night meeting shaded the edges just enough to discolor the true intent. That’s what places the unscratchable itch in the back of his mind.
Coming home, freckled in red, river of rivulets pooling in the curve of his clavicle and dripping down his chest, he doesn’t want you to see that. All the care and caution that has gone into shielding you this one bitter truth would be all for naught if you caught him. Hell, Johnny had to find a way to sneak him back into the house just for Simon to clean up.
It’s late, though; you’re probably already asleep anyway, right?
He turns the faucet off, shaking the loose droplets from his hands before snatching the pair of butterfly bandages from the counter. Each layer peeled away feels like another stripped from Simon himself. Symbolic, almost, the way it mimics your being burrowing deeper into him. Beneath the skin, the fat, the fascia, the muscle; weaving through the fibrous tissue and veins until you’re settled in the deepest part of him. He closes the superficial wound with unflinching hands, but you… It’s far too late to keep you from getting inside.
Tossing his blood and sweat-laden clothing aside, he’s halfway into pulling on a fresh pair of sweats when he hears a tentative knock at his bedroom door. He grumbles something bordering on foul, an unheard warning that there better be a damn good reason for Johnny bugging him right now, but he’s colored a lively shade of surprised when he finds his wife awaiting instead.
“What are you doing up, lovie?” he asks softly, trying to decipher the timid look on your face. You look tired, but there’s a wild awareness in your eyes. They dart across his form, lingering briefly on the bandages before combing the bare planes of his broad chest. He swears he can feel the heat coming off your pretty face when you realize you’ve been caught staring, but no mind is paid as he awaits an answer.
After a beat, you speak - low and soft, hesitant, like you’re trying to tiptoe out loud.
“Can we talk?”
Simon nods, stepping back from the door frame to gesture you inside. The steps you take are calculated; you’re mindful of each separate footfall on the carpet. Trepidatious like a rabbit, ready to bolt at the first sign of a threat, but you won’t find one here. Not with him.
His focus narrows in on you, following so succinctly behind that he can feel the shift of your hips in his palms. A phantom of your perfume trails at your back, beckoning him along. Silly, but he swears he can feel the threads of your sweatshirt between his fingers. He blinks, attention shifting to the tear in the collar and the stain on the sleeve. He actually does know that material well; it used to be his, after all.
“S’that my shirt?”
The stretched sleeve cuffs are long enough to hide your hands, the hands that are wringing together.
“It was in my laundry,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, I can wash it again and - “
“No. It looks good on you, dove. Keep it.”
He makes a mental note to slip Alex a little extra for taking the initiative. Seeing you in something of his does something to him. Something vulgar and very ungentlemanly, something that tests his restraint, something not at all appropriate for this conversation. He’s subtle in the way he palms then adjusts himself.
Respect, Simon. Show her respect.
“What’s on your mind?”
You sigh, fingers fidgeting.
“I, uh, wanted to apologize. Again. I haven’t really been fair to you. This last month or so has been a lot to cope with, and I’ve just… God, Simon, I’ve been so angry. I don’t know how to deal with it, and it keeps boiling over. It’s never been my intention to take it out on you, and I feel awful that you’re really taking the brunt of it. You don’t deserve that. You’re just as much a victim in this as I am, and - “
“You don’t get it, do you?” His interruption is a bit harsh, he knows, but how many times does he have to say it? “I’m not a victim, love. I chose this. I chose you.”
He doesn’t want to lie to you anymore - can’t, won’t continue to hide things from you. You’ll never be able to truly want him the way he wants you if you don’t wholly know him. This way, you’ll have time to process. You’ll have all the time you need to come to terms with whatever you need to make peace with. It’s better this way, easier. You’d have found out eventually, right?
So, laying his cards on the table, he tells you everything. No stone left unturned, no facet unfaced. He watches your pretty face pale and twist in abject horror as he publishes each element in a bold font. By the time he’s done, no secrets remain.
Tears run down your cheeks as you try to catch your breath. The second he reaches out to comfort you, you’re gone.
part v - coming soon!
hello hello there, hope yer well!
are u still doing those emoji thingies?? If so,
🩷🔦, -- reader, Laswells wife (because cannon), who absolutely despises Laswell smoking, so every time Laswell opens up/even buys a pack, they replace all of her cigarettes with those little candy cigar things u get at those spanish corner shops 🫠 Laswells just silently cursing under her breath and complaining to Price, who, probably isnt even listening
if not, then, same idea, but like .. ignore the emojis.
sorry if i seem awkward im just abit confused 😭
hello there! 🥰 i'll be doing the emoji prompts for as long as people send them! thank you so much for dropping in!
i started writing this request, but saw this post. because of the specificity of the request, i don't quite feel comfortable finishing the piece. it has nothing to do with the writer or you personally as the requester, i promise - rather the fact that i don't want to have that extensive an overlap with another writer's hard work. i hope you understand, and i'm sorry🖤 if you'd like to submit something different, i'll gladly write it!
kms. just thinking about Ghost coming home to (roommate! reader) after months of deployment..
cw: fluff :3
✦•······················•✦•·········
Ghost's boots felt heavier than usual as he treks up the stairs to your shared flat in the middle of the night, heavy duffel bag strung over his shoulder seemingly weighing heavier than normal as he pulls out the keys of his jeans to unlock the door. Good girl, he idly thinks, you had a habit of keeping it unlocked until he came along and started to live with you, so he couldn't deny the metaphorical praise he gave to you in his mind for heeding his warnings and remembering to lock the goddamn door.
The lieutenant cracks open the door and walks inside, frowning beneath his mask as the dirt on the bottom of his boots flake off onto the hardwood flooring of the foyer hallway. Ghost keeps his movements light despite his fatigue, the aforementioned action being deceivingly easy for a man of his stature. He decides to kick off his boots, the pressure alleviating from his ankles and the slightly lessened weight makes him groan softly before padding deeper into to the apartment before stopping in his tracks, weighing the idea of calling for you and possibly waking you up.
Before he even registers it, Ghost calls out your name softly into the darkness apartment, loud enough for you to hear if you were awake, but quiet enough that it would wake you up out of your usual sound sleeps. After a few quiet seconds with nothing but the ticking of a clock nearby he moves to take another step but stops when he hears the sound of padded footsteps racing down the hall. Ghost spins around just in time to see you emerge from the nearby hallway, watching as you turn on one of the lamps on a small end table and revealing his shadowy form to your eyes.
Seeing him after countless months, wondering if he was okay, how he was holding up, ate at you. You really hadn't expected to grow so fond of this emotionally distant and aloof masked man that decided to room with you after he realized there was no point in him owning a whole goddamn house or apartment. Against the dead quiet air in the room you murmur his name, and it stabs Ghost in the heart. The sound of your voice after so long causing a high to hit him that's better than any drag of a cigarette or sip of alcohol could provide him.
"Yeah, it's me lov-"
Before the endearing pet name escapes his lips he's cut off by the warmest hug you could offer, your arms wrapping around his wide torso while your hands grip the back of his hoodie in a death grip. Fuck, you really missed him that much, didn't you? Ghost stands still, his heart and mind stuttering before he wraps his arms around you as well, cradling the back of your head with one gloved hand and resting the other on the middle of your back. The two of you just stand there in the dim lighting of the room, the only sound now filling the apartment is the sound of slowed breathing coming from both of you, simply embracing each others presence. Surely there was nothing else to it, right? You just missed your good friend, Simon.
✦•······················•✦•·········
hii guys... i'm so scared rn babies first tumblr post. please have mercy on my soul and tell me what you guys think! also, check out my pinned post to request a fic from my menu :3
thanks!!
- emile
Hiii! I was wondering if I could request f!reader x the cod boys reaction to her taking a sick day after having an IUD placed, either platonic or an established relationship with one of them, up to you. I can only imagine mixed reactions, especially after learning what all goes into the procedure. This is totally self indulgent so I was hoping for it to be on the fluffier side, BUT no worries if you’re not interested!!
Thank you!!🤍💐
i love this🖤 thank you for requesting, kat! hope you enjoy!
mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked
141 x afab!reader (individual pairings - head canon format)
☆
john is worried.
“not like you to take a sick day, dove. you sure you’ll be alright ‘til i get back?”
tbh, he’s so pressed about it. he knew in advance what the procedure would look like - educated himself after the birth control discussion came up - but your body isn’t reacting the way either of you had hoped. it’s far worse.
scared the hell out of him when you called yesterday afternoon and asked that he pick you up. obstinate, headstrong thing that you are, you declined his offer to accompany you to the appointment in the first place. you were in no condition to drive.
the thought of leaving you now, even for morning pt with the team, sets his teeth on edge. you’re strong, he knows. you can handle yourself just fine. but what kind of man would he be to leave his girl when she feels this fucking awful? - spoiler alert: he’s not going anywhere.
with your reassurance (and telling him he’s being a bigger baby than you about it), he tucks you into your nest of pillows and blankets, leaves ibuprofen and a cup of water on your side table, and makes sure your heating pad is plugged in and within reach.
simon is supportive.
“i’ve seen you shot, stabbed, blown up, burnt, broken bones; you’re a tough bird, you can handle it.”
you’ve been through worse. you both know that. doesn’t mean that he isn’t sympathetic to the pain you’re feeling, though. he watches you like a hawk, monitoring every scrunch of your nose or pained grimace or you squeezing your eyes shut just a little too tight. you’ll take the meds he picked up for you like clockwork with the fresh cuppa he brings you every four hours. he’ll take the day off with you, let you squeeze his hand when a cramp or muscle spasm is particularly gnarly.
he’ll hold you while you nap, too - playing with your hair, keeping you centered on top of him with one bulky arm slung across your hips, wishing the whole time that he could trade bodies with you until the aches are gone.
johnny is pissed.
“an’ they donnae give ye fuckin’ anesthetic? och! tha’s fuckin’ cruel s’what tha’ is!”
this man is L I V I D. he didn’t know the details of iud placement until you made him watch a video, and he’s been going off the rails since. it infuriates him to no end that you’re expected to just tough it out with nothing more than basic fucking pain relievers. don’t even get him started on that medieval torture device you called a ‘tenaculum’ that they stabbed you with!
he’s planning a murder while he orders a delivery of supplies. angrily, his thumbs punch at his screen as he selects all the things he even thinks you might need to get through the week - even though you keep telling him you’re sure you’ll be fine tomorrow.
“not gonna stab my hen and get away with it.”
(when you ask what he’s muttering about over there, he tosses his phone aside, rolls you into his arms, kisses the top of your head, and tells you lunch is on the way.)
kyle is sympathetic.
“poor thing,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “what can i do to help?”
like price, kyle took the liberty of doing his research.
cramps and muscle aches/spasms are common after placement, and some women will actually pass out in the minutes following the procedure. he texted a medic friend to get ahold of some muscle relaxers for you, picked up standard issue pain meds, bananas for potassium to combat the cramps, a second heating pad (one for each side), chocolates, tea, and a new plushy for you to squeeze on. your boyfriend was adamant that he take you to and from your appointment, even if you didn’t want him in the room while it was happening. every single base is covered in advance to mitigate the worst case scenario.
when you curl into the fetal position, gritting out an abrupt “all good”, he wraps himself around you like a shield.
your boyfriend wants you to see how pretty you are on a day you don’t really feel it.
mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked
kyle “gaz” garrick x afab!fem!reader
tags: established relationship, bdsm elements, fingering, squirting, praise, gaz is a good boyfriend
*could be considered dub-con w/ reader’s mental state; discussion and consent are implied but not explicitly stated
♡
kyle “gaz” garrick, who voraciously detests the days your brain is unkind to you. it’s not your fault, he knows that; but he loathes that little voice in your head that degrades you, tarnishes your confidence, makes you question what he sees in you. he’s been stupid in love with you since day one, and no amount of bad brain days will change that.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who tries his hardest to make those days even the slightest bit better. he can see the storm clouds brewing overheard the moment you wake up, so he’ll love on you just that much more to combat the noise.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who feels his heart break just a little when you tell him between sniffles that you don’t feel pretty. you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his goddamn life, and the fact that you can’t see any fraction of that some days makes him want to cry.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who is so horrendously down bad for his girl that he’ll do anything to show you just how fucking pretty he thinks you are.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who waits for that next bad day to sit you down on the bedroom floor. he has you sit between his legs, facing the large, full-length mirror beside the closet. his arms wrap around your waist, chin tucked into the curve of your shoulder as he reassures you that he loves you, all of you, every little part of you. he asks if you need more from him, but you don't quite respond.
kyle “gaz” garrick, whose patience and insistence can only guide him so far down the right path before his sense of self-restraint snaps. that’s how you end up locked in a spreader bar that’s tucked beneath his legs, knees splayed atop his thighs, stripped bare and on display in his lap. you writhe, desperate to look at him, begging for just a little kiss, but his firm grip is locked vise-like around your jaw, forcing you to stay focused on the mirror.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who starts slow, spreading your puffy, slick folds open with two fingers - ring and index. he demands that you look, asks if you see it now. when you shake your head a little, he taps your clit with his middle finger a couple times, silvery strings of arousal clinging to the grooves of his prints.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who tortures you this way for almost 20 minutes before dipping a finger into your now drooling hole. he’s methodically inconsistent with pace and depth, keeping you guessing. your breathing is ragged, hips twisting as you try to put your thighs together. he laughs, low and almost cruel.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who slips in a second finger without warning, earning a near shriek from his darling girl. you claw at his wrists, pleading so sweetly with him to make you cum. he tuts in your ear, shaking his head as he declines, promising you can have more when you tell him how pretty you are.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who doubles his efforts when your voice turns saccharine -
“please, ky - oh, fuck! - please!”
- and those dexterous fingers curl up, finding that perfect spot with expert precision. your back bows off his chest, eyes rolling back, your head tipping against his shoulder, and he none-too-gently pulls your face forward again.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who keeps telling you how fucking stunning you look, how pretty his baby is, how much he loves every inch of you. heat rises in your cheeks, he can feel it where your skin is pressed to his, and he asks if you see it, too. you shake your head, brows furrowing under beads of sweat.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who assures you will as he kisses your temple before sliding in a third finger. you let out a gut-punched gasp, grinding against the heel of his palm. you’re salivating, a line of spit puddling behind your lower lip. the pressure he applies tilts your chin down, and the thin stream dribbles out. it lands on your tits, glossy and slick.
“you gonna be a good girl and keep
your eyes on that mirror for me, lovie?”
kyle “gaz” garrick, who awaits your eager nod before releasing your jaw. his fingers withdraw, and he uses both hands to spread you open. fuck, he wants to bury his cock inside you. he wants to watch your perfect cunt struggle to swallow his entire length, lips gripping him for dear life while you sob and beg for more. he wants to ruin you and make you look yourself in the eye the whole time so maybe you’ll see a fraction of what he sees.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who smacks your pretty pussy in triplicate, sharp and stinging. he revels in the actual shriek you let out before stuffing two fingers back into you, finding that spot again automatically.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who rubs your stiff, swollen clit in neat, tight circles. you nearly sob at the contact, the tears pooling along your lashes finally spilling over. it doesn’t take long before you’re hiccuping incomprehensible pleas, delirious with pleasure, begging.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who refuses to let up.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who wants to see his girl squirt.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who won’t fucking stop until you give. him. what. he. wants.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who spits a slew of praise as your filthy little cunt gushes around his fingers. his ears ring with your compelled moans and whines as he drags the orgasm out of you until you’re pleading with him to stop.
kyle “gaz” garrick, who’s vision blurs a little as he cums untouched.
“tha’s my girl, tha’s my fuckin’ girl,
that’s my good fuckin’ girl.”
kyle “gaz” garrick, who holds your gaze in the reflection. he slows his pace as he gingerly nips at your skin. you’re panting, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. the floor in front of you is soaked, as are kyle’s thighs. he asks you one more time if you see how pretty you look like this, and this time, you nod with a sated smile, adding a hazy “yes, sir”.
i’ve never really seen dark and unhinged reader x 141 tbh
You know, anon. I am not one to write an unhinged or dark reader. Not that it hasn't ever occured to me, but I just haven't written it. So, to you, I tip my hat for pushing me out of my comfort zone a little bit. I figured that if I was going to write a reader that is dark and unhinged, then I'm going for it. All in. Give me the blood and gore. I want it all. No limits.
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Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: Stalker AU, Serial Killer AU, Detective AU, Cartel AU, canon-typical violence, descriptions of bodily injury, surveillance, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), arranged marriage, creampie, oral sex, knife play, gunplay, brief blood consumption, hostage situations, abductions, using a knife as a dental instrument
Word Count: 3.2k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John "Soap" MacTavish (Detective/Serial Killer AU)
“Need some company?”
While it’s a question, you don’t really intend for the man to answer. You sit yourself on the stool at the bar, one arm resting against the polished wood.
His dreary demeanor shifts, morphing into interest.
“That’d be lovely,” he replies.
The Scottish lilt to his voice is downright sexy. Your smile grows. There is real attraction in it, even if your purpose is nefarious. This conversation is no accident. You did not stumble into this specific bar on the off chance that you’d find the exact man you’ve been looking for.
No. Not a coincidence.
You’ve been stalking Detective MacTavish for the last couple of weeks. It’s not because you want to fuck him—although that is very much on the table now that you’re sitting here—but because this man is hunting a killer.
Not just any killer.
He’s hunting you.
But not you. Because he doesn’t know. No one does.
At least, not yet. That’s why you’re here after all. To worm your way in, to find out if they’re close to fracturing it all, and bringing you in.
By the appreciative look on Detective MacTavish’s face, you suspect that you’re likely in the clear. Yet knowing for sure won’t hurt anything. Plus, Detective MacTavish is easy on the eyes. Having a bit of fun and playing with your food first won’t hurt anything.
“What are you drinking?”
“Scotch.”
“A gentleman’s drink,” you reply softly, almost a coo.
The smirk on his face widens into a devious grin. “Cheeky.” He downs the rest and gestures at the bartender. “Two. One for the lass here.”
When the glass appears before you, you scent it first, enjoying the smoky aroma. You take a sip. It bites—but it’s delicious.
“You like it?” he asks.
You slowly run your tongue over your lip. It’s a calculated move. Seductive. Detective MacTavish notices, his gaze following your tongue like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
“Puts some hair on my chest,” you reply, smiling against the glass as you take another sip.
Detective MacTavish laughs. It’s genuine and sweet. Casually, you scan his body. No wedding ring. But that doesn’t mean much. Public records showed no marriage certificates or even divorce papers.
Not that it would matter. This is about saving your ass.
“To be honest, I’ve been watching you.”
Detective MacTavish cocks an eyebrow. “Watching me?”
In more ways than you know.
“I always walk by here on my way home from work. Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I don’t. Always see you though. On Tuesday and Thursday.” You shrug casually. “Thought I’d finally stop in. Have a drink with you.”
“That’s bold.”
“It is,” you agree. You present your hand and introduce yourself.
“John MacTavish. Friends call me ‘Soap.’”
“Why is that?” you ask, placing your chin in your hand.
You already know, but you want to hear what his version is.
“Got it while serving in the military.”
“So, a secret then?”
He nods. “You could say that.”
You give him your best smile. “And what will it take to get you to spill a few secrets?”
Turns out, not much.
Detective MacTavish groans loudly, his skin glossy with sweat. You take him deeper into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head as you lazily suck. He is a gorgeous specimen. Solid, thick muscle in all the right places.
You retreat slowly, lips tightening to suck a bit harder before his cock pops from your mouth.
The next moan from his lips is sweet. Pushing upward with your hands, you lean into him, and he greets you, lips meeting. The kiss is brief and sweet, and then it becomes anything but. Detective MacTavish grabs the back of your neck and drags you against him, deepening the kiss until you’re breathless.
“Get on your back, lass,” he growls.
You obediently do so, spreading your legs in invitation.
The condom goes on and then he’s inside you again. Detective MacTavish has stamina, and you’re near the breaking point. He pants above you, thrusting perfectly deep, making your toes curl. Your legs settle against him, thighs cradling his hips as skin meets skin.
He dives in for another kiss, and then you’re gone. Completely wrecked.
The orgasm claws its way up to the surface, bursting from your throat to saturated his mouth. Detective MacTavish swallows down the moan, staunching the noise with his own pleasure.
It ends with the two of you tangled up. Sweaty. Chests heaving. Eyelids heavy with lust.
“They call me ‘Soap’ because of who well I clean out a place.” His voice is a but rough—a little husky. It’s sex-laced and perfectly content.
“I’m guessing that doesn’t mean you’re a beast with a mop and bucket.”
MacTavish chuckles. “Aye. I’m good with that, too.”
You turn over in his arms, the two of you gently stroking the other until sleep creeps in. At least, for him it does. Once he’s settled and snoring, you slip from the bed, moving silently into the kitchen.
On the table are stacks of files. Carefully, you open each one, scanning them until you find what you’re looking for. It’s the case file on your hits. You comb through it, but there is nothing about you. Not a peep. And the possible list of suspects are just characteristics. They think it’s some middle-aged white man. How fucking wrong they are.
Gently, you return the file where you found it, slipping back into the bedroom.
No. You don’t need to kill Detective MacTavish. Not yet.
You can still have a bit of fun.
John Price
Every step is a second lost, yet ground gained.
Like a swarm of wasps, bullets fly past Price, striking concrete. Little chunks fly, and then whole pieces go airborne.
Price dives. Rolls. Lands back on his feet.
It’s hell on his knees, and fucking worse on his back, but he hardly feels it. The goal is retrieval. The goal is to find you alive.
Teammates don’t leave each other behind. If one falls, they go back, even if it’s later down the line. You pick them up. Drag them if you fucking have to.
The thing is, you aren’t lost.
Just taken. A hostage.
The wankers that took you didn’t make it far. You’ve only been gone for forty-eight hours. Not long, but long enough that anything could have happened.
Price doesn’t want to linger on it. Doesn’t want to think about what may or may not have occurred while you’ve been away. Doing that won’t help things. It will only take his mind off the task ahead. His focus needs to be on you and you alone.
Price’s heart hammers in his chest. It thumps so loud it nearly drowns out the buzzing of the flying metal. Sweats sticks to his brow, rubbing against his helmet.
Lifting his rifle, John pulls the trigger twice.
A sharp cry followed by a spray of dark red paints the surrounding area in a pretty little arc.
“Do you have a visual?” asks Price into the comms.
Ghost’s reply is immediate. “No, sir.”
Sighing, Price peers over the barrier he’s hiding behind.
Nothing.
No sound. No movement.
Slowly, Price emerges, rifle raised. Each step is a stalk, a predator seeking prey. Price will happily empty more lead into the next person that crosses his path.
Entering the next room, he finds this one empty. There are stacks of crates but nothing else. The only thing of note is a door in the far wall. It is plain and unassuming. Price heads for it.
Reaching out, he curls his gloved hand around the handle. He pushes down, quickly pulls back, opening it wide before aiming the firing end of his rifle into the opening.
No one emerges.
No one stirs.
But of course, they wouldn’t.
There is a secondary door behind this. It is solid and made of metal with a keypad. Price enters the code he got from intel and the door beeps, the light turning green.
It swings open, and inside is a bloodbath.
In the middle of the room is a simple, plain table. It’s unpolished, rough wood. Untreated and left to the elements. There are stacks of cards and beer bottles on top, and not much else.
Of the four chairs, only one is occupied.
But the occupant has no head.
It’s not blown off. It’s sawed off. Placed in the middle of the table.
The three other people who must have occupied the chairs are strewn across the room. Some are gutted, insides around their downed corpses like they were yanked out by a rabid animal.
Price steps around them, his boots touching more blood than concrete floor.
“I have four down. Maybe more.”
“You have a visual on her?” comes Ghost’s response.
“No,” replies Price, throat suddenly dry.
He sweeps the room, but no one comes out to fire at him, or to try and halt his progress. It is entirely quiet.
The light overhead flickers. Price turns, noticing another door. This one stands open, revealing a flight of stairs.
Price approaches, and stops at the top.
There is another body here. It’s near the top, arms outstretched, fingers digging like they tried to claw themselves forward. Price steps around it and nearly slips in the blood.
It’s fucking everywhere.
All over the place.
He descends, exiting out into another room, this one much smaller than the previous one.
At first, Price keeps his rifle raised, but then he lowers it, back straightening.
You are there. In the middle of the room.
Sitting.
Sitting atop a large pile of corpses. Your left boot digs into the top of someone’s skull, but you don’t seem to notice. You’re humming a little tune, almost whistling.
There is blood in your hair. Blood on your face.
It is under your nails and soaked into your clothes.
Leaning back, you curl back your lip, the tip of the knife coming to rest between two teeth as you dig something out.
Price swears he sees bloody chunks there, too.
Something comes out, and Price flinches.
Only then do you glance up.
"Took you long enough, Captain."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick (Cartel AU)
There’s a body on the floor.
Not yours. And not Kyle’s.
A competitor. A rival.
You brought the man before Kyle. Tracked him down. Dragged him up for execution.
When the original marriage deal was drawn up, Kyle thought he’d get a pretty face with nice tits that would keep his dick wet and give him some sons to carry on the family legacy.
You do keep his dick wet. But you’re not a spoiled cartel daughter.
Oh, no.
You’re a serpent. A viper.
You are venom and steel.
With you, there is an equal. There is a companion. There is a woman who will give him what he needs to carry on but will happily pull the trigger to see it done.
You are just as fucking bloodthirsty as he is.
Kyle twists his wrist, observing the barrel.
The body on the floor is twisted and broken. The bullet was a mercy.
He glances up, notices the knife you’re holding. At first, you’re not looking at Kyle. You’re staring at the dead man with a blank face. But Kyle reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek, smearing red.
You turn then, smiling.
“Open your mouth,” he murmurs.
You do so, presenting your tongue. Kyle slides the barrel over your tongue, and then it’s in your mouth. He fucks your mouth with it, and you take it happily. Kyle grabs the front of your throat, turning you away from the scene on the ground.
The knife goes up, presses against his neck.
“Fucking do it, love.”
Your lips are suctioned around the barrel of the gun. Eyes wicked. Knowing. The knife slowly slides upwards, the flat side pressing against Kyle’s lips. He parts his lips, licks off some of the blood.
Kyle eases his hand on your throat, and the gun slowly slides out with a wet pop.
“Show me that pretty pussy.”
Kyle drops his hand, and you saunter backward. Leaning back on the low table, you present yourself, legs spread, pussy bare for him.
He presses the barrel of the gun to your pussy.
“Safety on?” you ask.
Kyle shrugs, and then he thrusts forward a bit, the barrel breaching. You moan loudly, and Kyle gives you more. He moves it in and out of your pussy, watching it appear and disappear, becoming slicker with your juices.
You whimper, and Kyle retreats, placing the gun on the table. Reaching for the knife you discarded, Kyle runs the flat edge over his palm, removing the blood.
Pressing his palm to your mouth, you lick it off—lick him clean as Kyle undoes the front of his pants.
It doesn’t matter that there is a dead man in the room.
Possibly dead.
Kyle didn’t really look. He just shot. He might have missed something vital. The guy isn’t moving but he must still be slightly aware. In pain. The very idea fuels his erection.
Kyle is inside you and thrusts in seconds, every stroke frantic and needy. You take it all, fingernails clawing at him, tearing at his clothes and likely breaking skin.
When you grin, there is blood in your teeth. Kyle matches the smile, and then he’s kissing you, tasting you and the gore. It is salty. Tangy. And you are sweet.
It sends him right over.
His lower back tightens, and then he’s grinding forward, flooding your pussy with his release. Kyle feels it dripping out and around him.
The kisses slow. Becoming soft.
Your fingers lightly brush against his cheek.
Kyle leans in for one more kiss, but a groan comes from somewhere behind him. You glance over his shoulder, the middle of your brow furrowing.
Without taking your eyes off the man, you reach for the gun.
Simon "Ghost" Riley (Stalker AU)
It’s gorgeously easy. You’re oblivious. A perfect victim.
Ghost will ensnare you in his trap and reel you in until you can’t untwine yourself from him. You will become him. You will have no identity. No want or desire that isn’t dipped with his own.
The shadows are his friend. Ghost sticks to the dark, lingering near corners, observing from afar.
You are so oblivious. So adorable.
Breaking you will be sweet. Delicious.
You live on the outskirts of the city. The house isn’t much on the outside. It is the interior where you’ve curated a space just for yourself. You’ve done an excellent job fixing it up.
At least, Ghost thinks so. He’s been inside a few times. Pressed your clothes against his balaclava just to inhale your scent. Sometimes he’d just walk around, picking things up only to place them elsewhere for you to find. It always makes you uneasy when you come home and everything feels a bit off.
It isn’t the only thing Ghost has done while alone in your home. There are gifts he’s left behind. Cameras, actually. He’s been watching you for months now. Learning your habits. Memorizing your routes and schedules.
Tonight is the end of your work week. There are two full days where you won’t be missed. Ghost plan on taking full advantage of every minutes.
Each step leads him closer. Pulls him nearer.
When you enter your home, he waits a full five minutes before approaching from the back, heading for the patio door. In his pocket is a copy of your house key. He retrieves it, sliding it into the lock.
It clicks as he slowly turns it, and the door gives way without it’s usual screech of resistance. He fixed it when he entered your home to tap your cell phone.
Ghost softly shuts the door behind him, crouching slightly as he observers the space around him. All the lights are off except for a small lamp in the living room. From his vantage point in the kitchen, Ghost can hardly see it. The light only reaches so far, and he is still in shadow.
You are not in the kitchen, and as he stalks into the living room, you are not there either. The little office you have on this floor is also empty. The second floor is his best bet. That will make it easier, too. The only way for you to run from him is down the stairs or to leap from a window. The drop isn’t far but he can’t see you risking yourself like that.
As Ghost turns the corner to ascend the staircase, he comes to an abrupt stop.
Next to the front door is the coat closet. It stands open, all the items inside pushed off to either end, revealing a wall.
But not a wall. No.
It’s another door.
This one stands open, and from it comes an artificial, almost white-blue light.
Frowning, Ghost approaches, pausing to glance back into the rest of the house. You are not there. And you don’t linger at the stop of the stairs.
It is still dark. Still absent of you.
Ghost takes a step inside.
Another. Then, another.
The darkness around him gives way to the light. And it is artificial.
At first, Ghost doesn’t understand. Not completely. It’s just a room. A room with no other doors. No windows. On the opposite side—the far side—are computer monitors. The wall is full of them, nearly floor to ceiling. There’s a small desk in front of them and a folding chair.
The light comes from above.
“I know you’re watching me.”
Ghost spins, finding you in the opening of the doorway.
“I’ve been watching you, too.”
You hold something in your hand. It is black and square. Your thumb brushes over it, and then more light floods the room, coming from behind him. Ghost turns just enough to glance over his shoulder.
The monitors are on. And each one shows something of his.
Every room of his flat. The interior of his car. His place of work. Ghost’s favorite pub. Even the corner store he shops at.
“I didn’t have enough time to prepare a room. But I will! I promise!”
You sound so sweet—so earnest, as if you mean every word.
Ghost turns fully toward you. His muscles clench, and then he’s walking, aiming for you and the doorway.
You jump back, and then the door is closing in his face.
You are too quick, and Ghost’s hands slam against solid metal.
“Sorry!” you say, voice muffled. “I’ll let you out soon. But only if you’re good!”
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gloom, you fucking N A I L E D this🖤 i cannot make enough chef's kiss gestures to encompass my enthusiasm. beautiful... just beautiful!
I’ve been wanting to write Captain Daddy again for a while so… I DID. (Also I didn’t edit this at all really. I wrote it in a horny frenzy)
This is a free use scenario, so warnings and specific kinks below the cut. Have a picture of him if it’s not to your taste.
Content: Consensual Free Use, Healthy Polyamory, Safe/Sane/Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Blowjobs, Frotting, Rimming, Anal, PIV, Overstim, BDSM elements, aftercare.
It’s a basic fact that Castle is good to you.
Good to the entire team, really.
He’s patient but firm, direct but sincere. Looks out for his own without crossing boundaries - and the rare times he does, he takes responsibility and apologizes. A proud man, and only a little arrogant - it’s not unwarranted.
Even temporary placements on the team end up a bit starry eyed under his leadership. He’s certainly the best captain you’ve ever had.
He’s an even better partner.
No unilateral decisions or jealousy issues there, not at all. His needs tend to be contingent on everyone else’s being met. Water and food and rest for Nikto. Cuddles and affection to Nova. Quality time with Keegan. Reassurance and communication maintained with you.
He gives and gives and gives, looking out for your team with a keen eye and a gentle (or not so gentle) hand when needed. He’s protection, guidance, solace, and discipline all wrapped up into one delectable package. An anchor you’ve all happily tied yourselves to.
And then some days he just needs to provide.
He doesn’t want to make hard decisions, or think three steps ahead. The checks and balances of being captain tip a bit too far and he just wants things to be easy.
“Was thinking about wearing my bracelet,” he says one morning, voice still sleep rough.
Keegan’s eyes snap up from his oatmeal. You blink owlishly while Nova hums into her tea with intrigue. Nikto shifts and places a hand flat on the table.
For his part, Castle is as cool and calm as always. No special dressing or playacting around the offer. Just a statement to be answered in its own time.
“This weekend?” Nova asks.
Castle nods, mopping up egg yoke with his toast. “Figure we’ll start first thing Saturday morning and go through the evening,” he explains. “Spend Sunday recovering.”
“I’m down,” Keegan says instantly.
You snort and nudge him under the table. “Are you okay, cap?”
He smiles at you, affectionate. “All good, sunshine.”
“I will be minder,” Nikto pipes up.
Castle nods, takes a sip of coffee. “Nova will take over if you want a turn.”
Nikto grunts the affirmative.
By your side, Keegan presses his thigh into yours, arches his brows when he catches your eye. He’s already excited, and Saturday is still three days out. Christ, you’d better start hydrating now.
“Saturday, then?” Nova asks.
“Saturday.”
Castle has a bracelet. It's a woven leather band with a thick silver clasp. You don’t know where he got the base from, but the four charms that decorate it have been provided by each of you.
A silver circle cut from Nikto’s original dog tags. A skull for Keegan. A star for Nova. And a sunflower for you.
It’s replaced his thick sports watch come Saturday morning, wrapped tight around his wrist as he pours coffee.
“Good morning, Daddy,” you coo, worming between him and the counter (and his precious caffeine).
His shoulders already look looser, eyelids heavy with the clinging gossamer of sleep.
“Mornin’ Sunshine,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his nose against your cheek.
You giggle as his stubble scraps your jaw, contrasting the sweet, lazy kisses he trails up to your temple.
“Need somethin’?”
He’s already half-hard against your hip and your stomach flutters in response.
“Not yet,” you hum, scritching blunt nails through the shorn hair at the back of his head. “Have your coffee first.”
He grunts, curls an arm around your waist while he reaches past you to grab his mug. You know it’s scalding hot and bitter as hell, but you still lick into his mouth after his first sip.
“Thought you wanted me to have coffee first,” he rumbles, thumb sweeping over your hip.
“What, I can’t have a bit of caffeine too?” you simper.
He snorts and hauls you over to the couch, plops down with a groan while you curl into him. He doesn’t put on the news like usual, just hands you the remote to put on whatever catches your fancy.
While you two snuggle, the others begin wandering in.
Nova, freshly showered from her morning jog in the gym. Nikto, brewing a double-strong cup of tea, only a fabric mask to cover the lower half of his face today. Keegan is in last, no mask in sight for once, just a loose t-shirt and sweatpants.
“Who’s that fine looking man?” you catcall, grinning when he shoots you an exasperated look.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replies.
While you listen to the others bustle about the kitchen, fixing up their breakfasts, your hands begin to travel.
Castle is built so thick, hard muscle and broad shoulders, barrel-chested. You trace over the scars hidden beneath his shirt, reading his history like braille. Trail down his abdomen, over the packed muscle beneath a healthy, hydrated layer of fat. Dance along the stretchy band of his exercise shorts, grinning into his shoulder when he widens his knees to give you better access. He’s gets harder as you tease, fingertips coasting over thick thighs.
“Done with coffee?” you ask.
He tilts the mug back and downs whatever is left like a shot. “Am now.”
You giggle, nipping at the corner of his jaw as you fish his cock out. No underwear, of course. Not today.
“Ooh, I love this set,” you coo, running your thumb over the first gold bar in his Jacob’s ladder.
He hums, laying his arm across the back of the couch behind you. Already pleasantly dazed, you think, tilting your head to kiss him.
“Getting daddy warmed up?” Nova asks, licking yogurt off a spoon.
You and Castle zero in on her pretty little tongue coated in white.
“Just playing right now,” you reply, shrugging, “but I can get him ready if you want something.”
She hums. “I’m pretty hungry this morning… don’t think this is gonna do it,” she says, shaking her fruit-laden yogurt meaningfully.
“Need something warm in your belly?” you tease, grinning.
“You know it, babes,” she agrees, winking.
You feel more than hear Castle groan, low and deep in his chest. When you glance at him, he’s tilted his head back against the cushions, watching you both lazily. He’s not even rocking into your hand, just breathing along to each slow stroke, even while his cock twitches hard.
By the time she finishes her breakfast, his dick is hot and leaky, the tip flushed bright. Nova lounges elegantly over your lap and dips her head, following your hand on the next downstroke with her mouth.
“Fuck,” Castle rasps.
She hums around his length, drawing back up with a lewd slurp.
“All day, Daddy,” she purrs.
You take the liberty of squeezing her gorgeous ass, since she’s so graciously draped herself across you. Pleased, she wiggles her hips, inviting you to take her tight leggings off. You peel them down to mid-thigh, groan softly at the slick already glistening on her skin.
“Want me to get you ready too?” You ask, feathering your fingers over her pussy lips.
Unwilling to part from Castle’s cock, she comes up enough to hum out an eager “mhmm” before swallowing him down again.
You work one, then two fingers into her, rocking them in and out at a steady pace while she bobs over his dick. When you scissor them to stretch her out a bit more, her hips jerk and Castle curses softly.
“Love breakfast with a view,” Keegan chuckles, taking a seat in the armchair nearby.
You make eye contact with him as you work a third finger into Nova, listening to her moan raw and needy when you curl them.
“You two are so fucking hot,” you sigh, twisting your wrist to rub leisurely circles around Nova’s clit.
“Not just those two,” Nikto rumbles, tugging your head back.
You gasp softly as he presses his thumb onto your tongue, pinning it to the floor of your mouth.
“You are full of energy today,” he observes. “Then we spar, da?”
You moan softly. On a day like today, there’s nothing you want more than to spar.
“Da, sudar,” you mumble.
He forces your mouth open wider and reaches for his mask. You close your eyes and stick out your tongue, make an absolutely obscene noise as he spits.
That seems to snap Nova’s patience. She’s scrambling up and it’s all you can do to help her while she kicks off her pants entirely.
Castle picks his head up just in time for her to sink onto his cock. She’s not slow or careful about it - doesn’t have to be. Not with the prep and how wet she is, and definitely not on a day when he’s not going to scold her for going too fast.
She wastes no time bouncing and rocking in his lap, gripping his wide shoulders for leverage. Nikto settles just behind you, where Nova’s legs had been spread. You lean back into him to watch, mind blank at the gorgeous display your partners make. Keegan really wasn’t kidding about the view.
You know she’s close when Nova grinds down. Castle does too and dips a hand down, pressing his thumb against her swollen clit. All it takes is a few more rocks of her hips and she’s gone, throwing her head back to keen high and sweet.
Castle is panting but still as she recovers, slumped against his chest to catch her breath. Keegan stands from the armchair and helps her off Castle’s cock - throbbing and harder than ever.
“Give,” Nikto says, holding out his arms.
Keegan deposits her gently into his lap, where she curls up with a content sigh.
When you turn back, Keegan’s already ducking down to lick and suck the combined juices from Castle length.
“Keegs, no fair,” you complain.
Without a word, he grabs your jaw and smashes your lips together, tongue-fucking the taste of Nova and Castle into your mouth. You moan and forget what you were so upset about in the first place.
During the team workout in the gym, you jump on Castle while he’s on the bench press. He quickly re-racks as you yank his waistband down, tucking it beneath his heavy balls.
His cock is laying flat against his stomach, never really stopped being hard from an hour ago. You straddle him and use his fat, pierced cock as a grind toy, frotting along each rung of his Jacob’s ladder and riding your clit on the head.
At some point, Nova joins you from the other side, bracing herself on the heavy bar to sit on his face. Castle moans while he lavishes her cunt, calloused hands spasming on your thighs. You exchange wet kisses with Nova over the length of his body until all three of you cum.
Keegan and Nikto haul you and Nova off respectively, sitting you both with water on the yoga mats while they help Castle finish his set.
Nikto pins you down for the third time, wrists at the small of your back and legs knocked out from under you, unable to get leverage. He calls Castle over and keeps you trapped there as your captain eats you out and fingers you.
Right as you’re nearing the edge, Keegan drops to his knees behind Castle, tugs his shorts down, spits on his ass, and slides home. The ragged groan your captain lets out sends you over, squirting all over his face and the sparring mats.
Nikto gently scoops you out from under him and delivers you to Nova for cleanup while Keegan pounds into Castle in the ring.
He’s barely gotten through any paperwork when you come strolling into his office, shoving files aside.
You make him fuck you on his desk, legs thrown over his shoulders and whimpering how your daddy is your favorite dildo. Rub your clit until it throbs, clenching down and refusing to cum until he does.
And then again from behind for Keegan to watch while you warm the head of his cock in your mouth.
While you lay sweating on the cool wooden surface, Keegan fucks his hand until he cums all over Castle’s dick and balls. Only for him to fuck it into Nova’s ass when she wanders in as well, eyes bright with desire.
He’s napping when you decide to ride him reverse cowgirl, wakes with a choked shout when you clench down hard. You’re not slow or careful about either, ramming yourself down the length of him with each rock of your hips.
“Fuck me!” you demand, scraping your nails down his thigh. “Want it hard and fast, daddy. Give it to me.”
And he does, grabbing your hips and manhandling you up and down his shaft. Snapping his hips up to meet you, absolutely brutal with it, just like you asked.
When you cum and he tries to slow down, you plants your hands on the bed.
“Don’t stop!” you snap. “Keep going, keep going. Want daddy to cum in me!”
He does with stuttering hips, hands finally beginning to shake.
Before dinner, Keegan fucks another load into Castle’s ass. And after, he licks it out again - while Nova holds your thighs open for Castle to warm your clit.
Nikto tsks at you for not finishing your veggies and spanks your asshole with Castle’s cock until you cum untouched.
At the end of the night, Nikto tucks you, Nova, and Keegan into bed. Washed and hydrated, any sore muscles massaged loose and gooey.
The three of you fall asleep to the soft sighs and whispered words of Nikto jerking his and Castle’s cocks off together.
IT HAS RETURNED 🤤
honestly, my fave series. thank you, charlie, for this gift🖤
Ugh dubcon this, dubcon that. Go back to writing normal shit
here y’all go again
