People assume a lot about Ghost. Everyone knows he keeps his private life secret and that he doesn't like to show his face. So people assume he is one of those broken soldier types who only lives for the mission and hates taking breaks and all that.
They would be surprised to find out that he takes all his vacations and they somehow always align with school holidays and such. People rarely notice though, because they are busy with their families themselves. Soap tried to invite him over Christmas once, but Ghost declined.
But it just happened that one of Soaps sisters moved to a new city and since the team is on leave Soap offered to help. It's a beautiful street, single houses, family friendly, quiet part of the town. Peaceful in a way that reminded Soap of everything he wanted to protect.
He is in the middle of assembling a cupboard when there is a knock on the door. He can hear his sister opening the door and immediately there is chatter and the sound of children.
"So sorry they insisted they wanted to help and show you the neighbourhood. I told them you already know your way around and that you chose to move here because you like it already, but they are so excited. Oh and I brought a meat pie for later, you said your brother is helping? If he is anything like my Simon he will eat whatever you set in front of him."
That must be the neighbour his sister had talked about a sweet middle aged women with three children, who happened to be married to military. That's how they bonded, but she seemed to be the unofficial ruler of the street as well, according to his sister.
"No worries, the boys can help my brother if they like. Oh, Simon, hello, I really appreciate the help with that. There is beer in the fridge if you like."
He hears a grunt and steps and then a voice he knows too well.
"Happy to help, m' angel told me you wanted everything up before your wife comes back from the business trip. Hope you are aware that you will be the talk of the street for a while. They don't mean it but people here are a bit excited when anything happens."
Soap almost drops the hammer and it takes just a second for him to get downstairs to to kitchen where his fucking LT Ghost, the man nobody wants to meet in the dark, is casually leaning against the wall, taking a swing from his beer and smiling at the gorgeous women who must be the neighbour his sister had talked about. He is absolutely sure that this is Ghost, but then it hits him. This isn't Ghost. This is Simon. And Simon is a husband, father, neighbour. A completely normal guy. And for a second he wants to introduce himself as if he was a stranger, but Simon already looks at him.
"No need, I already saw your family picture. Let's have a chat, yeah?"
And this is how Soap learned that his commanding officer has a family and does everything he can to be a normal husband and father whenever he is on leave.
And that he will do anything to protect them. Which includes his sister and her family as well, now that they live across the street.
Simon "Ghost" Riley had a system. It was a good system, and it had kept him alive for longer than most people in his line of work managed. It was simple:
1. Trust no one.
2. Feel nothing.
3. Never, under any circumstances, get attached.
It was a system built on cold steel and high walls, and it had worked perfectly.
Until you.
You were the latest officer assigned to Task Force 141, a whirlwind of brightly coloured stationery, cheerful efficiency, and an alarming tendency to leave open containers of glitter on communal surfaces. You were everything Simon's system was designed to repel.
The first crack in his fortress appeared on a Tuesday. You had collated all the post-mission reports, colour-coded them, and left a summary on his desk with a bright pink sticky note that read, "LT, All done! :) — [yer name 🐰]". The smiley face felt like an act of psychological warfare. He scowled at it for a full five minutes.
The second crack came when Johnny MacTavish, the human equivalent of a golden retriever, decided you were his new best friend.
"Simon, c'mon, we're gettin' a pint wi' the new lass," Johnny declared, slinging an arm around Simon's shoulders.
"No," Simon grunted, not looking up from cleaning his rifle.
"Aye, you are. She said she wanted to pick our brains about operational procedure, said it was 'invaluable for her professional development'." Johnny waggled his eyebrows. "And she's got a laugh like a fuckin' melody, mate. You'll love her."
No. Simon didn't love her. He was deeply, profoundly annoyed by her.
Yet somehow, he still found himself at the pub later that night. Sitting in a dark corner, he watched you laugh at something Johnny said. You were gesturing with a pint glass, your eyes sparkling, when you suddenly looked over at him and smiled. It was a real, genuine, 'I see you sitting there like a brooding motherfucker and I'm still glad you're here' smile.
It was a critical hit to his defences. His system started throwing up error messages.
Things escalated from there. One morning you brought him a coffee, black with two sugars, exactly how he liked it. He didn't remember telling you how he liked it. He grunted a thanks, but the coffee sat warm on his desk an hour later because he couldn't bring himself to drink it. It felt too much like a peace offering.
The turning point came during a training exercise in the Welsh mountains. It was pouring, a miserable, bone-chilling rain that turned the ground into slippery mud. Trying to prove you weren't just a desk jockey, you had volunteered for the route-clearing team, but disaster struck when you twisted your ankle badly.
You tried to hide it, gritting your teeth and pushing on, but Simon saw. He noticed the wince, the subtle way you were favouring your left leg, and he was at your side in an instant.
"Sergeant," he barked, his voice cutting through the rain.
"LT, I'm fine," you insisted, your face pale from the sheer pain of it.
"You're not."
Before you could protest, he swept you up into his arms and started striding back to base. You sputtered in embarrassment, heat rushing to your face despite the freezing air.
"Put me down! I can walk!"
"No, you can't," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Stop wriggling."
You fell silent, but you didn't stop looking up at him. He could feel your gaze on the side of his face and the warmth of your body seeping through his gear. That was when he noticed it: when you frowned, a pair of the most adorable dimples he had ever seen appeared. It was a direct attack. He was a soldier, for Christ's sake, he couldn't be undone by dimples.
He looked down, and your eyes met his. They were wide, a little startled, and full of something that made his chest feel tight.
"Thank you, Simon," you whispered softly.
And just like that, his system crashed.
Error: Fatal Exception <????>
From that day on, he was a changed man. A man on a mission. His acts of service became less subtle and far more dedicated. He became the one to recalibrate your sidearm before a mission, ensuring the sight was perfect for you. He would "casually" end up carrying the heaviest part of your shared equipment. When the team got hit with a bout of food poisoning from some dodgy MREs, he was the one who made you a simple, bland meal from the fresh ingredients he had "found" (meaning he specifically went out and bought them for you).
Johnny watched it all unfold with an expression of absolute glee.
"He's courtin' you, hen," Johnny whispered to you one day while Simon was currently intimidating a supply clerk into giving you a new comms set. "It's his version of a bloody sonnet. He's probably gonna bring you a dead deer next."
"Johnny, be nice," you hissed, though you felt warmth bloom across your skin.
Simon noticed. He noticed everything. He noticed how you pulled your hair back when concentrating, or the way you bit your lip while reviewing a map. He noticed how you looked in tactical gear, which was a revelation in itself. He had always respected you as a professional, but now he was noticing the curve of your hips, the slenderness of your waist, and the strength in your stance. You were, in a word, stunning, and it was a deeply distracting, dangerous realization.
The final blow came late one night in the rec room. You had both been working late, and you had fallen asleep on the couch with a file open on your chest. He walked in to find you looking peaceful and vulnerable, standing there for a full ten minutes just watching you breathe.
Gently, he removed the file and covered you with a spare blanket. As he did, you stirred, your eyes blinking open. You looked up at him, sleepy and soft, and smiled.
"Hi," you mumbled.
"Hi," he replied, his voice quieter than he had ever heard it.
"You're always looking out for me," you said with a sleepy accusation.
"Someone has to," he grunted, though there was no heat behind it.
You reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the back of the sofa. "I like it when you do."
That was it. Game over. Total system failure. Simon Riley was in love.
He didn't say it, not for a long time, but he showed it. He showed it in the way he automatically took the seat next to you in briefings, the way he saved the last piece of cake for you, and the way he looked at you across the room with dark eyes full of an emotion he had kept locked away for years.
Eventually, Johnny, the self-appointed cheerleader for the whole operation, cornered him.
"Right, LT," Johnny said, leaning against the wall of the gym. "I've given you time. I've watched you do your weird, brooding, gift-giving thing. It's time. You tell her."
Simon finished his set of pull-ups, dropping down to wipe his face with a towel. "Don't know what you're on about, MacTavish."
"Aye, you do. You're in love with her. It's written all over your ugly mug. Now, you're gonna march in there and tell her, or I swear to God, I'll do it for you. And I'll make it embarrassin'. I'll use poetry."
The sheer horror of Johnny professing love on his behalf was enough to spur Simon into action. That evening, he found you in your office.
You looked up from your laptop, a smile already forming on your lips. "Simon. Everything okay?"
He just looked at you, staring at the dimples he was now completely defenceless against and the eyes that held more warmth than he had ever known. He took a breath.
"The coffee you make is shit," he said.
Your smile faltered. "Oh. Okay. I can try a different roast?"
"No," he said, stepping closer. "It's the worst coffee I've ever had. But I drink it every day because you make it."
You stared at him, bewildered.
He ran a hand over his masked face in a gesture of pure frustration. "I'm shit at this. What I'm trying to say is that I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings. It's a problem."
"A problem?" you asked, your voice quiet.
"A massive one. It's compromising my operational focus. I think about your dimples during firefights. It's unacceptable."
You tried very hard not to laugh, but your eyes were sparkling. "Simon... are you trying to tell me you like me?"
"Yes," he ground out. "I like you. I'm falling in love with you, and apparently, I'm an idiot about it."
That was when you got up from your chair and walked over to him. You reached up and gently tugged his mask, just enough to free his mouth.
"You big, beautiful idiot," you whispered, and then you kissed him.
It was soft and sweet, tasting like the future. When you pulled back, he looked utterly dazed.
"So," you said, warmth radiating from your smile. "Does this mean I can keep making you terrible coffee?"
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, pulling you back in for another kiss. "Yes," he murmured against your lips. "You can make me whatever you want."
From the hallway, Johnny watched with a triumphant grin, giving a quiet little fist pump. Task Force 141's latest mission was a resounding success.
a/n: sooo i didn’t post much this week so i thought i could make it up to you with some simon x fem!reader fluff. hope you like it!🪽🪽🩷 xoxo
Warnings/tags: minors DNI, fem!reader, no use of y/n, injury, blood, graphic, English is not my first language.
A/N: Not quite satisfied with this one, idk
Everything is needlessly funny when you loose a lot of blood.
It wasn't gushing, there wasn't a dramatic puddle, more like a steady trickle from your lower abdomen. It left a thin trail behind you until Ghost plugged the wound and picked you up.
"Why such serious faces?" You grinned. The question was met with sullen silence.
It was hard to keep track of what was happening and where they were carrying you. Just now there were gunshots and screams, and now just a forest all around. Or maybe not. Perhaps those were poles, not trees. Though more like pines.
You were laid on the floor. Does a bottom of a van count as a floor?
"Grab the aid kit under the seat! Get me some gauze," Price said to someone, kneeling by your side.
The fabric of your jacket was soaked through with blood, they had to cut it. In the dim light, you saw the jagged cut of your flesh, the scarlet smears on your skin, and Johnny's pale face on the other side of you. Finally, the boys would appreciate your rich inner world.
"Wet the rag, that one over there, yeah," John spoke quietly, but faster than usual. His hands seemed to be shaking. Maybe you imagined it. You can't trust yourself in this state.
"Did you know that... ah, that... you know, water isn't wet. Wetness is a state, and water itself... well, you get it?"
Your tongue felt too big for your mouth, your words mixed, and sentences tangled.
Pain got worse. With the last of your strength, you cried and writhed under the grip of strong hands as John stitched your wound. Warm palms soothed you as best they could with their warmth — Gaz stroked your head, brushing the hair stuck to your sweaty forehead, covered your eyes so you wouldn't see the hastily performed surgery. His skin was rough and warm, the kind of warm you wanted to cling to.
"Garrik, more threads—"
"No, stay..." You reached out without thinking to hold his hand on your head. The movement was awkward, the limb felt like cotton wool. "What... w-what..." Why is the letter W called double u? Shouldn't it be called double V?
"It's fine, I got it," Ghost said. He'd been quiet the whole time, pinning your arms to the floor. Through the slit in his mask, his eyes were wide and wild, watching your every twitch and wince. The whole situation made you feel absurdly sorry for him.
"If suddenly I won't make it—"
"Bonnie, just haud yer wheesht, please!" Soap grew nervous.
"No, no, l-listen... Simon!"
He looked up at you, visibly tense, "Sweetheart, you don't know what you're saying, you're confused."
"No, wait, I n-need to get this weight off my chest—" The smell was heavy in the confined space, a thick, suffocating stench of blood. You felt drowsy and nauseous, it wasn't entirely clear whether your stomach was churning from the urge to puke or from the hole in your lower abdomen.
"Just know... I've had the best sex of my life with you."
Soap let go of your ankles and buried his face in his hands, and it was hard to tell from the way his body was shaking whether he was crying or laughing hysterically.
The voices blended into white noise as Price secured the last stitch.
-> pairing :: task force 141 + gender neutral reader
-> contents :: reader isn’t normal, at least from what the 141 can see. | tw/ reader death (theyre fine dw)
-> word count :: 2.7k
-> an :: feel free to take a guess at what reader actually is 🤫🤫 reader doesn’t behave like a normal person ,, this is part one of a little series ima do :)
There was something off about you, something Ghost couldn’t figure out. He’s read through your files many times, eyes scanning over everything it had to offer. There wasn’t a line of any black, nothing in your file to hide about you. And yet, why does he not trust you?
It wasn’t as if you were strange, you acted completely normal for someone who was new to special forces, let alone being teamed with the 141 Task Force. Was it the abruptness of your arrival? Laswell had called only a week ago to inform Captain Price of your new presence amongst the team. Regarded you highly for your skills and behavior.
You got along with Soap and Gaz easily, weren’t too secretive yet not too open with your new members.
There were a few things Simon wasn’t sure about. The way you would join the team in the mess hall, yet never make a plate for yourself. “Not hungry,” you told Soap when he asked. Simon stared whilst he ate from his own tray, not caring for the bitter taste of what was served for lunch.
When he confronted Price about it, he chalked it up to you being shy.
“They may not be comfortable eating around others. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it,” he replied gruffly as his eyes scanned over the papers on his desk.
It could be true. Maybe you were just shy, or didn’t enjoy people seeing you eat. He remembers how long it took for him to warm up enough to the team. How long it took until he finally lifted his mask just enough to fit food in his mouth. He also remembered how Soap would pester him about not eating with the team, for skulking around in some random room instead of sitting in the mess hall with the rest of the lot.
Yet, he didn’t excuse the behavior from you. It seemed as though you never ate, yet never showed any signs of malnourishment. Your body still had meat on its bones, and during training you never showed any resistance to the drills.
So how come you didn’t eat with them? Why wasn’t Soap as pushy with you as he was with him?
It was far from normal. At least he seemed to think so.
Not to mention the way you look at them. It’s not as though it’s wrong to look, as if you’re forbidden. It’s the creeping feeling inside Ghost that makes him hate it. It feels like he’s being stalked, hunted even. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he feels goosebumps on his arms when he catches you staring at him from afar.
He’s used to being the hunter, not the hunted. He’s aware of the way new recruits look at him, as though he came straight out of a horror story. The way you don’t even flinch when his cynical eyes search you up and down is enough to put him on edge.
Why aren’t you scared of him? He’s built quite well, muscular and tall height, the mask he wears doesn’t help to soften his appearance. Why don’t you stand down when he stares back at you?
Why does it feel like you never blink? Why has he never seen you blink?
The thought alone makes him shudder the longer he dwells on it. Not once has he seen you blink. He watches you often, and yet your eyelids never move. They stay wide open, your eyes alert and your pupils almost seem too small. As though they’ve never once dilated
He hates it. He hates the way you make him feel, how on edge you make him. And yet, he doesn’t even have solid evidence as to why you do. He doesn’t have a lick of proof as to why the team shouldn’t trust you.
Yet, Ghost isn’t the only one to notice your odd behavior. Captain Price is more than aware of your odd file. How everything is open about you and what you’ve done. Usually, the American Military would have at least a few black bars over their soldiers’ files, something to hide from others. With you, there’s nothing. You’re a regular soldier, someone who has climbed their way through the ranks and yet you haven’t done anything to earn yourself the same level of concealment that they do.
Being your first Special Operations team, you’d had to have at least something to put you up there with them. Yet, Laswell sent them a nobody in a way.
The way you looked was generic, nothing too unique about you. If he were asked to point you out in a room of different people, he wasn’t too sure how well he would do so. At least, not without having seen your photo beforehand. He wasn’t sure how well he could describe you, and yet he’s seen your face countless times when he trains you alongside his team.
As though you’re just there, blending in the wall. A blank state, a blank face, a nobody.
When he does look at your file, at your picture, he feels wrong seeing your face. As though something was wrong, as if it weren’t even real. That’s nonsense, your face has looked the same as it does when he sees you in the hallway. It looks as real as Soap or Gaz’s, and yet it feels like you’re made of clay. The face you wear isn’t yours. He holds his tongue, he doesn’t say anything about it.
He nods to whatever rant Ghost is on, listening to his latest hysteria about the new teammate.
He files what Ghost notices, keeps it in the back of his head for later usage. He uses what he’s learned, and tests it for himself. He finds himself wondering when and what you eat. If you don’t eat in the mess with the rest of them, then when do you?
Your training shows no fault, no signs of illness. You don’t stagger behind the rest, yet you don’t improve on your best scores.
You’re not competitive in the same way Soap is. You don’t bother with Gaz asking to race with you, to try and one up the other. You don’t back down from Ghost’s intense wrestling matches on the mat, yet you don’t put your all in to pin him down.
He notices the way you don’t do more than necessary in training. Only the minimal, only what is asked.
And when Ghost isn’t the first to come to him about questions, he starts to dig deeper.
Soap becomes more aware of how his other teammates feel towards you. He reassured you many times that Ghost will take some time to warm up to you, and yet he wonders if its true.
He sees the way Ghost glares at you from across the room. The way he tries to pick you apart and make you confess to whatever it is you’ve done. But he notices the oddities about you.
He’s aware of how little you talk. How your voice is disorted in his mind when he tries to recall what you’ve said. He can never remember anything you say for the life of him.
There’s nothing wrong with your voice, at least he doesn’t think so.
The way you answer questions, however, begs to differ. He remembers how you didn't do anything in your free time, no hobbies you enjoyed. You didn't partake in any sports, nor did you seem like the arts and crafts type. You never commented on any musical instruments you play.
You did mention liking music that was more instrumental than songs that had lyrics. Something about feeling the vibrations from the instruments, the way it felt against your ears.
Soap would ask you about your childhood, wondering if there were any fond memories you had to share. He's aware not everyone had a great childhood, yet he was still curious. Even more so when you couldn't even recount anything. You never talked of a mother who made you warm meals on cold nights, or a father who helped shape you into the person you currently are.
No stories of siblings who you often fought against, or any grandparents that would watch over you when mom and dad were busy. No aunts, or uncles, to go against your parents' wishes and made you feel special. No cousins to see every once a few months for family gatherings.
No family. No home.
Maybe you had a rough family? Maybe your parents weren't in the picture, or you were an only child. You could be an orphan, and yet Soap isn't even too sure how true that would be.
He barely remembers the only memory you shared with him. Memory of the woods, of the creatures in it. How the woods bring you a sense of calm you have yet to feel anywhere else. The ocean doesn't provide the same sense of tranquil. No birds singing their songs, or foxes chittering in the distance.
There's no doe with their babies prancing amongst the grass, and certainly no freedom like there is in the woods.
You remember how much you enjoy the trees, climbing them and resting against the trunk. As though they were placed on this earth just for your enjoyment.
That was the only thing you shared, the only thing you mentioned liking.
It didn't seem odd to him at the time. Soap had his fair shares of moments in the woods. Most of them were filled with combat, but the moments he gets to appreciate the beauty, he finds himself enjoying the silence of it all.
Gaz wasn't sure how to feel about you. It isn't every day their task force gets a new member, especially one that acts the way you do.
He remembers the confusion upon reading your file, and how Laswell didn't supply any other information other than what was provided. It seemed like even she wasn't too sure who you were.
He played his part, though. Welcomed you to the team, shook your hand, and sat beside you in the mess hall. He found it strange you never ate, at least not with them. Strange that your body was cold against his.
The first time he felt your hand in his, he could feel how cold you were. It wasn't even the usual coldness you'd feel with someone who normally has cold hands. He would know, he's felt Captain Price's hands many times to know. Your's felt almost akin to that of a dead body.
Before training, he swore he could hear your joints pop and flex when you stretched. It was almost a pet peeve of his, hearing other's pop their joints. You didn't seem to care, and he didn't bother to bring it up. He simply moved to stand next to Ghost or Soap instead.
The more he observed your mannerisms, the more he wondered why he never saw your chest move. Not in a weird, dirty minded way, but in a form of breathing. Your body stayed still, no sign of any breathing. Yet you had to breathe, right?
Humans had to breathe, it was a required function. He never heard you breathe either. Soap always heaved when his legs were finally giving up on him during a run. He's had his own moments of gasping for breathe when going up one too many flights of stairs. So why did you never gasp for air? Why didn't you heave after an hour of continuously running?
Why didn't your body move the same way theirs did?
The way you walked seemed strange to him. Who walks in continuous strides, the same length apart each time. Why did it seem like every time your feet moved it was calculated, rehearsed almost. As though you were forbidden to take smaller, uneven steps.
Why was it obvious how different you were, and yet at the same time it didn't feel so obvious.
Everything you did was calculated, measured and rehearsed to an extent. You did everything a specific way, from the way you walked to the way you slowly glanced around the room.
The way you forced expressions on your face, the forced anger and forced smiles. As though you weren't even sure how to express your emotions freely.
Their suspicions would slowly start to die down. You didn't offer any explanation for them, and the lot had gotten too busy to dig further. It didn't mean that they never thought on it. Your behavior still lingered in the back of Ghost's mind, especially as he sat posted up next to you.
It was a stealth mission, meant to cover Gaz as he slowly moved down the hill. Your precision was almost admirable, clean kills to any potential threat. You never involved yourself with idle chatter, not the same way Soap would. Even Gaz remained quiet, focused on the mission instead of offering a friendly banter between the three of you.
The way you perked up suddenly was enough to tip Ghost off. He hadn't heard anything to raise any suspicions, yet you were more alert than before.
"What is it, soldier?" His voice was dark and gruff, casting a glance to the side at you.
You remained silent, your head moving on a swivel around your position. He wasn't sure how to describe the noise that came from your mouth, but he didn't like it nonetheless.
"What is it?" He asked once again, slightly irritated you hadn't answered him beforehand.
"Around us," was all you offered him. His brows furrowed under his headgear, giving a quick look around. He felt a strange paranoia start to creep up his spine, suddenly uncomfortable in his prone position. You were right, something was off. You noticed before he had, and he wasn't even sure how that managed to happen.
A tire screech was enough to give him a pump of adrenaline through his veins. Somehow, enemy vehicles had passed his sharp radar and were parked not too far from where you were both positioned. Men had stepped out of the vehicles, weapons loaded and ready to fire if need be.
"Move slowly and carefully. The ghillie suits will provide for cover, anticipate their movements."
He only gave a brief instruction before slowly making his way towards the treeline. It would provide cover, and would be better than staying in the open area.
It didn't take long for him to reach the edge of the treeline, casting a look over his shoulder to try and find you. Only for the scene before him to make him pause entirely. His blood ran cold, seeing where your rifle had poked out just enough to be noticeable.
The man standing above you pointed his own gun to your skull, spitting out some insult in a foreign language. The other men had gathered around you. Ghost didn't get enough time to react before a few gunshots had sounded through the forest, loud and recognizable.
Your body laid limp in the grass, blood spattering onto the greenery around you and on the boots of the man above you.
cw: none? but i didn’t proofread so be warned lolz
viking!ghost who is believed to be killed in battle but really washes upon shore to some new coastline with people who speak a language he’s never heard before (he chalks it up to swimming in and out of consciousness)
viking!ghost who awakes violently, realizing he’s nowhere near home, thrashing and cursing anyone who tries (and fails) to console him and usher him back to bed
viking!ghost who finally shuts up when you, tiny thing beneath him, pick up a stick and promptly begin beating him with it, shouting what he can only imagine to be curses with weight behind them only a women could muster
viking!ghost who’s so taken away by your raw beauty, and quite annoyed (and impressed) that your swings are actually stinging his skin, lets himself fall back into bed, only grabbing the stick after he lets you get a few more swings in. you can’t blame him he’s quite enthralled by your passion
viking!ghost who begrudgingly resigns himself to trying his best to acclimate while he gets over nasty pneumonia and frostbite. he hasn’t quite shaken being seen without his covering, but it’s a strange type of freedom, that these people knew not of his past. it was dangerous for bimn to feel like a new man in this new place, with fiery little you sporadically making appearances
viking!ghost won’t admit to himself that he purposefully acts difficult with others in hopes you’d be tasked with his care more often. it works.
viking!ghost who’s picked up some of your language. “your.. name?” he tries in your tongue one night. you pause, he’s deeply satisfied when he sees recognition flicker across your face. you scowl and raise your eyebrow at him. “y/n”. he tells you his name. his real name. and when you stare at him and you frown a little less, he thinks he’s never seen someone more beautiful. he vaguely notes that you must be the kind of women that inspire heroes.
viking!ghost who after that interaction has a sudden urge to be useful. to prove himself to you. the language was just the start. he stops being a pain, taking whatever is offered and resting when told. he slowly gets better, starts helping around your community. he sees you watch him as he picks fruit with the older adults and children. in the coming weeks he’s stronger, chopping wood and hunting with your best.
viking!ghost who tells himself he’s just repaying a debt. your people used valuable resources on saving him, it was only the honorable thing to do. never mind the beautiful woman who nursed him to health and won’t give him the time of day. it has nothing to do with that.
viking!ghost who finally catches you at a celebration to usher in spring, the entire village buzzing with excitement at warming weather. the women you are with, aunts he’s come to learn, shove you towards him, giggling while they scamper off.
viking!ghost who can’t help but smile, scars stretching when you say his name curtly. “y/n. spring,” he dumbly points around, trying his best with what words he’s been able to learn. you smile. it outshines the sun. “spring.” you nod.
viking!ghost who trails you around the rest of the night. you let him. he sees a new side of you, carefree, engaging in traditions, joyous. towards the end of the night he’s drank something that’s made him feel light in a way he never has, and he tries his luck one more time.
viking!ghost who’s surprised when you beat him to the punch. well, kind of. you sit next to him suddenly, head titled. “you. why… stay?” he’s shocked hearing his language for the first time in months. he wonders where you’ve learned it from he sits for a moment. he’s not sure how to answer. when he fails to respond, you hum and offer him a piece of fruit. you don’t ask again, you just sit with him in silence. he relishes in it.
viking!ghost who keeps putting off figuring out a way back home. it’s summer now, he can carry simple conversation, he’s found a routine. you’ve warmed to him greatly, how could you not when he works so hard and gets you fruit from high up in the trees? you don’t want to talk about how you feel when he’s kind to the children who swarm him as if he’s an oddity.
viking!ghost who knows he faces a choice sooner than later. he had loyalties back home, no matter how it heart sunk at the thought of leaving you. he won’t allow himself to confront the startling truth of how much this place feels of a home he’s never truly known. how you feel like home.
viking!ghost who doesn’t have to make the decision in the end. his men have plans of pillage, and they’ve landed their sights on your little village…
cw: none? but i didn’t proofread so be warned lolz
viking!ghost who is believed to be killed in battle but really washes upon shore to some new coastline with people who speak a language he’s never heard before (he chalks it up to swimming in and out of consciousness)
viking!ghost who awakes violently, realizing he’s nowhere near home, thrashing and cursing anyone who tries (and fails) to console him and usher him back to bed
viking!ghost who finally shuts up when you, tiny thing beneath him, pick up a stick and promptly begin beating him with it, shouting what he can only imagine to be curses with weight behind them only a women could muster
viking!ghost who’s so taken away by your raw beauty, and quite annoyed (and impressed) that your swings are actually stinging his skin, lets himself fall back into bed, only grabbing the stick after he lets you get a few more swings in. you can’t blame him he’s quite enthralled by your passion
viking!ghost who begrudgingly resigns himself to trying his best to acclimate while he gets over nasty pneumonia and frostbite. he hasn’t quite shaken being seen without his covering, but it’s a strange type of freedom, that these people knew not of his past. it was dangerous for bimn to feel like a new man in this new place, with fiery little you sporadically making appearances
viking!ghost won’t admit to himself that he purposefully acts difficult with others in hopes you’d be tasked with his care more often. it works.
viking!ghost who’s picked up some of your language. “your.. name?” he tries in your tongue one night. you pause, he’s deeply satisfied when he sees recognition flicker across your face. you scowl and raise your eyebrow at him. “y/n”. he tells you his name. his real name. and when you stare at him and you frown a little less, he thinks he’s never seen someone more beautiful. he vaguely notes that you must be the kind of women that inspire heroes.
viking!ghost who after that interaction has a sudden urge to be useful. to prove himself to you. the language was just the start. he stops being a pain, taking whatever is offered and resting when told. he slowly gets better, starts helping around your community. he sees you watch him as he picks fruit with the older adults and children. in the coming weeks he’s stronger, chopping wood and hunting with your best.
viking!ghost who tells himself he’s just repaying a debt. your people used valuable resources on saving him, it was only the honorable thing to do. never mind the beautiful woman who nursed him to health and won’t give him the time of day. it has nothing to do with that.
viking!ghost who finally catches you at a celebration to usher in spring, the entire village buzzing with excitement at warming weather. the women you are with, aunts he’s come to learn, shove you towards him, giggling while they scamper off.
viking!ghost who can’t help but smile, scars stretching when you say his name curtly. “y/n. spring,” he dumbly points around, trying his best with what words he’s been able to learn. you smile. it outshines the sun. “spring.” you nod.
viking!ghost who trails you around the rest of the night. you let him. he sees a new side of you, carefree, engaging in traditions, joyous. towards the end of the night he’s drank something that’s made him feel light in a way he never has, and he tries his luck one more time.
viking!ghost who’s surprised when you beat him to the punch. well, kind of. you sit next to him suddenly, head titled. “you. why… stay?” he’s shocked hearing his language for the first time in months. he wonders where you’ve learned it from he sits for a moment. he’s not sure how to answer. when he fails to respond, you hum and offer him a piece of fruit. you don’t ask again, you just sit with him in silence. he relishes in it.
viking!ghost who keeps putting off figuring out a way back home. it’s summer now, he can carry simple conversation, he’s found a routine. you’ve warmed to him greatly, how could you not when he works so hard and gets you fruit from high up in the trees? you don’t want to talk about how you feel when he’s kind to the children who swarm him as if he’s an oddity.
viking!ghost who knows he faces a choice sooner than later. he had loyalties back home, no matter how it heart sunk at the thought of leaving you. he won’t allow himself to confront the startling truth of how much this place feels of a home he’s never truly known. how you feel like home.
viking!ghost who doesn’t have to make the decision in the end. his men have plans of pillage, and they’ve landed their sights on your little village…
Dumb ramblings but I looooove the accidental pregnancy trope when it’s like a one night stand or like a friends with benefits thing
I think Johnny knocking up the lass he met at a New Year’s party his mate back home threw and then finding out at the next years party she’s not there because she couldn’t get a babysitter. Johnny moping to his LT about it but Ghost isn’t as dense and does some digging. And yup sure as shit, he’d recognize those bright blue eyes anywhere, the timeline fits. Cheekily hands Soap a photo he’d printed of the babe with his ma and tells the man he’s excited to be an uncle. The Sargent is just lucky the couch was nearby to collapse into as he stared reverently at the photo of them.
Ghost and the secretary at one of their rotation of bases they crash at have been fooling around to blow off steam for at least two years. Every few months when their paths would cross, they’d sneak off or crash at her place, they’d shag, watch movies, order takeaway and shoot the shit. She made him laugh and he’d fuck her brains out. A win-win really. Turns out contrary to their knowledge, IUDs can, in fact, fail. So when he shows up after a few months away to her awkwardly greeting him with a noticeable bump, he’s not too stupid to put it together. Guess he’ll have to find a way to be around more or transfer her to their primary location. Simon will be damned if you think he’s not going to be an involved father.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
John traverses Skyrim to rescue you from the vampire's keep, but it may be too late to stop the curse.
cw: Brief mention of suicide told through a legend, Violence typical of both Skyrim and COD, Blood, Fighting/Battling, NPC Death, John War-Criminal-Price, Capitivity, Scars
3.1k Words
A03
"I never took you for a brute." You scowl, kicking your feet and shoving at his back.
"A brute?" He repeats flatly, not engaging. "I'm rescuing you, love. Bit of generosity wouldn't kill you." His hand slides up the back of your leg until his thumb brushes the sensitive flesh where thigh meets hip. "Just settle."
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[Price Masterlist]
John had been walking for two days straight. It wasn't long in the grand scheme of things — especially not when your life was at stake — but regardless. His knees ached and groaned with every step and he'd slept on his back funny last night. It certainly hadn't helped that he was still sore from slaying trolls and wraiths along his journey to Markarth, but he pushed through, gritting his teeth.
The promise of a warm bed and shelter that had dangled above his head prior was cruelly snatched away the moment he had entered the city. The moment he saw the crowds gathered around the temple he knew there would be no rest. He curses the vampire that he's out here traversing rough terrain rather than indulging in a nice mug of ale by the fire, but he can't come to regret his position. No. For his sweet little priestess he would wander endlessly over this land and the next to return you to your temple in health.
Thankfully, endless travels to seek out your location wouldn't be necessary beacuse the vampire had taken a horse and cart back to whatever lair he was keeping you at. The wheels had left tracks obvious enough to follow, so he trails them through the mountainside to the ruins of a crumbling Charnel Castle.
John sneers when he recalls the stories that surround the misty land. He'd first heard of the legends passed to him during his time in the Dark Brotherhood: The tales of a lonely Lord Morlon and his many wives.
The estate had first belonged to Lord Harkon under the name of Castle Volkihar. When a Dragonborn had cleared the site of him and the majority of his vamperic family, a vagrant called Morlon had moved in and claimed the renamed walls for himself, along with the title of Lord.
His first marriage had ended when the Lady decided to run away with one of the guards. His second wife had been tragically torn apart by some creature of the hills. A werewolf perhaps, or maybe a bear. The third, it was fabled, had taken her own life and is sometimes still seen through a shimmering blue veil, haunting the surrounding land with her cries.
It was said that the false Lord had gone mad with grief and anger after the tradgedy of his third wife, locking himself away until the staff eventually left and the estate fell further into disrepair. Rumors of his strange affliction began to circulate amongst locals when he refused to venture out during hours of the sun. Children were warned to keep away, but the stories were gradually forgotten when he faded into obscurity.
Nearly.
John approaches the location before dusk, cautiously drawing his weapon. He knows these parts to be crawling with hostiles. Whether the legends of ghosts and demons were true or not, there were certainly reports of wolves and spiders in the area. All the more reason to get to you quicker. Battle was something he was well versed in, but you? He knew your hands only to heal, never harm. You wouldn't last out here alone.
Just as he expected, the moment he steps onto the castle grounds he's greeted by enemies. A fledgling vampire springs out from behind a pillar, ready to attack. Tendrils of dark magic weave around her slender fingers but it's not her that he's worried about. John's focus is on the mage following behind her, charging a flame spell.
"You never should have come here!" The mage cries.
John snorts. He's heard that one before. With a flurry of quick strikes, he manages to down the witch before she has a chance to cast even a single spark.
Once she's taken care of, he pivots just in time to evade the fledglings dagger. He skirts the blade while simultaneously raising his own and bringing it down heavily. The force has the young vampire stumbling and John is upon her in an instant. He shoves her to the ground and pins her there with his weight, knocking the weapon from her grasp and pressing her own blade to her throat.
"Where is your master?" John growls, barely panting from the scuffle. "Where is Lord Morlon?"
The fledgling flails, panicked and angry but still no match for the seasoned warrior. He sighs when she hisses and tries to scratch him, grabbing her wrist to avoid her claws and slamming it to the earth. A trickle of blood dribbles down her neck when he presses the steel deeper into flesh.
"Where's the girl he brought, hm? She still here?" He tries again, falsified patience running thin. "She still alive?"
"Are you?" She laughs, gurgling when his blade saws deeper into her throat. "Are any of us?"
John snarls and leans in until his breath is hot against the vampire's cheek.
"If she's dead, I am going to bring you back from beyond the grave just to kill you again. And again. And as many times as I feel like it."
It's not a bluff. He was versed in the necromancy scrolls.
When she realizes that not even death can protect him from this bear-clad madman, the fledgling stiffens beneath him as if ready to fight. As if she actually still stood a chance.
"Yeah," John grins sadistically at the fear blooming in her eyes. "Where's he keeping her?"
"The– tower." She splutters. "Please, wi–"
He doesn't care about her fruitless plea to spare her existence. The dagger tears through her neck easily, releasing her blackened soul. It flits in the air for a moment before John entraps it's powerful essence in a black soul gem.
"Good." He mutters to himself, thumbing the stone absently. "Maybe you'll prove useful afterall." Her soul glistens, powers docile and harnessed within the crystal before he stashes it away for later use. Can never have too many soul gems.
With his weapon drawn and bloody, John rises from the limp body to rinse and repeat.
The dungeon was damp and cold. Beads of dank moisture clung to stone walls and hanging moss sprouted between the cracks. There were no windows in the room you were kept, so the only source of light came from a smouldering torch near the heavy wooden door. It flickered every now and again when the whispering draft swept through the hold and threatened to extinguish the ever dwindling flame.
You weren't sure how much time had passed since the vampire had deposited you here. It was impossible to know whether it was day or night when you'd woken without reference in a large iron cell. There weren't even any guards to ask, only the odd rat scuttling by in the dark.
The most unsettling part of all, perhaps, was that you'd found yourself in a dress you didn't recall changing into. It was admittedly exquisite, with dark, lacy skirts and fine bodice. It could have been mistaken for a wedding dress if not for the colour — black.
Your shoulders remained bare, the top of the garment not granting your chest the same warmth that the heavy skirts offered your legs. Tentatively, you bring your fingers to your collarbone where the vampire had slashed you back in the temple and press them to the scars. It was strange. The gashes were nearly healed already after such a short period.
The wound was barely more than raised, paler flesh now. It didn't even hurt on the surface anymore, but below the skin it burned something fierce. It felt wrong, like the heat of your blood was molten as it coursed through your veins and every nerve tingled and sparked. You felt on edge without really knowing why, but something was simmering within you. It went deeper than the fear of being kidnapped. That was there too, but you felt your control was slipping through your fingers. Even as you tightened your proverbial fist around something so intangible.
In place of humanity, a bloodthirsty beast was hollowing out space in your chest. A monster was awakening behind your ribs, clawing and snarling with its need for violence. Brutality. Everything you abhorred.
"Fledglings!" The voice of the vampire Lord reverberates through your skull despite his absence. He must posses some physic power, too. You'd determined as much after he'd put you under some sort of trance-like sleep in the carriage. "A daywalker has followed us here. You must not let him reach my bride." The voice seers itself into your mind, reminding you of your newfound fate.
A silver wedding band encrusted with a red diamond glints on your left hand. Grimacing, you rip the ring from your finger and fling it across the dungeon floor where it rolls away into some dusty corner. Good riddance.
Then you hear something you shouldn't be able to. Somewhere through the thick, stone walls of the castle, you hear the rush of dark magic. The sweep of a blade through air before it connects with something soft and gushing. You can hear the gurgles and last breaths of fledglings and the heavy, but controlled breathing of someone new.
"Do NOT let him reach her, she is to be MINE!" The Lord roars, leaving your ears ringing and causing you to wince. The very tower in which you're trapped seems to tremble at the force of the psychically projected words and you listen still as the stranger draws nearer, slaying whoever tries to block his path with relative ease. Your heart picks up with both anxiety and anticipation when you hear the passages fall silent. No more fighting. No more battle cries or grunts. Just sturdy boots moving steadily up the steps to your hold.
The heavy wooden door opens with a groan on it's hinges and new, stale air rushes into the room, carrying with it the metallic smell of blood. It sticks in the back of your throat and the monster behind your ribs brays delightedly at the conjured images of the village girl from the alter. You shudder, trying to push the thoughts aside as you lay eyes on your would be saviour. Honestly, you mistake him for a beast at first.
His figure is huge; tall and hulking. He wears a cave bear pelt over his back with the hood kept up, the skull of the animal still attached as a grotesque helmet. Its only when he throws back the cloak that you recognize him as the well known adventurer immediately.
"John?" You dare to breathe.
"Thank the divines you're alive." Pure, unbridled relief is etched into every line of his blood splattered face. In an instant he's across the room and on his knees before you, reaching through the bars to cup your face. "Are you alright?"
He turns your head this way and that until he's satisfied with the state of you. The motions are gentle but deliberate. Firm, as if he won't let you pull away before he's done.
Like you would.
"Yes, but... I– How did you find me?" You whisper. "How did you know I was here?" Perhaps the gods themselves had sent him for you. "How did you know I was gone?"
"Got into the city two days ago and I heard what happened. If I'd only moved quicker... Fuck, sweetheart, I'm so sorry." You can feel the weight of his concerned gaze lingering on the fine dress, and then fix on your scarred collarbone. "Did he do this?"
John grazes his knuckles softly over the jagged lines, a dark intensity clouding his vision.
"Yes." You hands close around his wrist, gripping him tight. "But I think it's healing."
"I'll kill him slow for it." He growls, meeting your gaze and holding it. It was not a threat. It was a promise for retribution.
The intensity of his anger towards the vampire is deeply contrasted by his tenderness towards you. Slowly... carefully... he covers your hands with his other. His skin is warm and rough against your frigid fingers, but in that moment there is no question about your security.
You're no longer afraid.
"I've got you now." John says in that low, gentle tone he reserves only for you. "You're safe, I promise. Let's get you out of here and check you over, then we'll get you home. Yeah?"
He rises before you can answer, already having made up his mind about the plan. His absence leaves you cold when he pulls away and you watch, rubbing at your arms as he goes about the room in search for your cell's key.
A spell tome, the ring you had flung, and an entire wheel of cheese all disappear into the depths of his cloak before he finds the key hanging on the wall. He also pockets a handful of coins for good measure and you pretend to look the other way at the theft.
His heartbeat thrums steady and rhythmic in your ears despite him being locked in battle mere minutes ago. It's as if the bloodshed had barely phased him, the only thing that caused his pulse to spike had been upon seeing you. It's only when you tune into the way his blood sings through his veins that you remember your affliction. Mortals shouldn't be able to hear life's essence. Then again, you weren't a mortal anymore, were you? No, you won't be able to go back to the city — back to your life before now.
"Wait!" You call as he slides the key into the cage's lock. "I can't go with you."
John hesitates, shooting you a quizzical look before unlocking the cell. You scramble back, pressing yourself against the cold bite of he bars. A fresh wave of fear sweeps over you. How can you be sure you won't lose control of this thing inside of you and hurt him? Or worse — lose control and force him to hurt you.
"Yes you can." He says, swinging the door open. "Let's go." John holds out a hand, expecting you to take it. When you don't, he huffs. "We are leaving. Both of us."
"I can't." Your voice wavers when you insist. Instinctively, you reach for your necklace only to find your collar bare. "I can't go home. I'm cursed... the townsfolk will kill me if I return a monster. He — the man who took me — he turned me into a vampire. A vampire, John."
Somehow he doesn't seem taken aback by the news of your affliction. He only shakes his head and thrusts out his palm again, more insistant this time.
"Nobody is going to kill you, but we need to go. Now."
Did he not believe you?
"No!" You plead. "You don't understand, I'm something that tarnishes the land now. Something dangerous. Something you kill. And I– I don't know if I'll be able to keep from killing innocents when I turn. Like the girl..." You choke on your grief.
His eyes soften and he finally drops his hand to his side.
"I understand more than you think. I'm sorry about the girl. If I'd got there sooner I could have–" He cuts himself off and sucks in a breath. "But you need to come with me. I won't ask again."
"You won't be safe from me." You protest in a choked whisper. The changes inside you were getting stronger with every passing hour. There's an edge you are quickly approaching and you aren't sure that you'll be able to control it by nightfall.
"I've fell dragons and giants alike. I think I'll manage a thing you just fine." He steps into the cage and looms over your huddled form. "C'mon."
He's hauling you to your feet before you realize what's happening and you find yourself slung over his broad shoulder as if you were nothing more than a sack of flour. You gasp, digging your fingers into his pelt as you teeter precariously but he doesn't let you fall. One of his meaty arms wraps around your middle and the other snakes beneath your many skirts. His fingers grip your thigh and you squeal at the indignity of such a bold touch.
"Hush" He murmurs, marching out of the cage and grabbing the torch from the wall. "I told you I was done asking. Listen, I know you're scared, but you need to stop your protests. Alright? Because they're not going to get you anywhere but here." He squeezes your leg for emphasis.
"I never took you for a brute." You scowl, kicking your feet and shoving at his back.
"A brute?" He repeats flatly, not engaging. "I'm rescuing you, love. Bit of generosity wouldn't kill you." His hand slides up the back of your leg until his thumb brushes the sensitive flesh where thigh meets hip. "Just settle."
"I would if you put me down." Your breath hitches, but you find yourself stilling anyway. More so due to the fact that his touch is precariously close to slipping beneath your underwear than actually choosing to obey him.
"And risk you running? Not a chance."
"I wont run."
"Liar." A laugh rumbles through his chest.
You make a pouty huff, bouncing with every step he takes. He isn't exactly wrong. You probably would have tried to run at the first chance you got. You couldn't stomach the idea of losing yourself to the blood curse and harming him. Or anyone else, for that matter.
John has almost reached the main doors of this decrepit old castle when the exit is cut off. The same vampire Lord that had ravaged your temple and stolen you away with him materializes in front of you both, blocking the way.
"And just where do you think you're going with my wife, Daywalker?" The Lord asks, amused. You stiffen at his awful voice, cringing as if he'd dragged his claws down every individual vertebrae.
"I'm not your wife." You say at the same time that John snarls, "She's not your wife."
"Well I suppose not yet, no." He sighs dramatically. "Not until the ceremony tonight. Only then will she turn and be truly mine..." He grins a cruel, malicious grin.
John finally sets you to your feet but doesn't let go of you straight away. His fingers remain locked around your wrist and he leans in to speak directly into your ear as if he knew your thoughts.
"Don't even think about running."
"Come, my darling." The vampire croons. He raises a palm, indicating for you to join him at his side. "You don't need him. He will be dead soon anyway — just like all my children he murdered in his plight to reach you."
"They were already dead to begin with." You frown, remaining where you are.
"Not quite," He tsks. "Something akin to death, rather. Something beyond."
"She's not your plaything, Molor." John spits, tone low and more aggressive than you've ever heard.
"No." The vampire, apparently named Molor, agrees, eyes flickering red now. "But now that all my fledglings are dead, I'll need to keep myself occupied somehow." His sneer is sickening, and that's all it takes for Price to step in front of you and draw his weapon in an obvious display of hostility.
"You won't touch her again." He snarls. "I swore to kill you slow for what you've done to her. Curse and her scars."
"Scars? On her shoulder?" Lord Molor rolls his eyes. "Those have already healed. Did you really think I would mark up my beautiful, soon-to-be wife? No, She'll remain unblemished. Shame I can't say the same for you."
And then there was a big fight <3 (I really dont want to write it though and I've been stuck on it for literally a whole year SO I'm saving that for the next part. Coming out in another year LMAO 😬💀)
Me when I try to write a cod fanfic without using dialogue from the game challenge level: impossible. Plus, you know I had to add a cheese wheel cameo because this is a Skyrim au 🙏
Title Lore: Beyond Death is the name of the main quest in the Dawnguard (Vampire) DLC for Skyrim.
𓃦(Y/N) has grown up in Jorrvaskr with Farkas since being rescued by The Companions. Slowly, as (Y/N) grows up, she notices Farkas grow cold and distant. When they are sent away on a mission together, (Y/N) learns why he has become so distant... It's the wolf inside of him that wants her, and he's been fighting it for longer than she knows.𓃦
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
Life in Skyrim was short.
So short that (Y/N) remembered every aspect of it, even before joining The Companions.
She was a nord, the daughter of traders and treasure hunters with a vagabond lifestyle that would rival a wandering khajiit trader. There was never a time in which (Y/N) ever walked through a door and called the room inside her home.
The home of the (L/N) dynasty was under the stars. Though it wasn’t much, it was enough for the ignorance of (Y/N)’s heart, for she knew no walls save the mountains that watched the roads, and no ceiling save the endless vault of heaven strewn with stars. The turning of the seasons was her inheritance, and every winding path seemed not to lead her away from home, but ever deeper into it.
That was until they wandered into a cave that had no light, and when the light came, it was a cruel radiance that spilled from the depths like the awakening of something that had long been left undisturbed.
It came for the souls of her parents.
There was no cry that reached her, no farewell carried upon the stale air. The young (Y/N) was left alone in the coldness of the cave, left with all the treasure that a trader would pay a hefty sum of gold for.
Then one night, when (Y/N) had grown hungry and tired from listening to tales from the bandits that had made their home in the cave, they came.
There was bloodshed. More bloodshed than the mountain had swallowed in a hundred winters. The steel of greatswords colliding with shields caused the cave to shake. Firelight danced around screams that were cut short almost as soon as they rang.
Curled into the narrow crevice where she had hidden for days, (Y/N) squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, yet she could not escape the dreadful symphony. Boots thundered past her hiding place, allowing her the simple peace of thinking she was invisible.
Then, a lone figure appeared. Broad shouldered, with armor she had only seen on royal hunters. Suddenly, the figure paused before the cleft in the stone, right where (Y/N) was hiding.
"Come out," a deep voice said with a gruff. "There are no wolves left in this den."
(Y/N) did not move, choosing to cover her face with her arms as though they would shield her from his greatsword.
The figure then knelt, though the wolfskin draped across his shoulders still brushed the stone. His beard was silver as frost upon the pines, and the years had carved deep lines into his face, yet there was nothing of the brigand in his eyes. He looked upon her as one might regard a frightened fawn caught alone before winter.
“And who might you be?”
(Y/N) did not respond, but held her face tighter.
"Kodlak! The cave's clear." Another voice rang from deeper in the cave.
"See to the wounded. We'll be along shortly." He returned in the same gruff voice. But the man called Kodlak did not turn his gaze from the shivering child.
His companions moved away, their footsteps fading until only the old warrior remained.
"You've been here some time."
(Y/N) did not move.
"Hungry?"
(Y/N) then nodded, removing her arms from her face which earned her a smile from the old warrior who unfastened a small leather pouch from his belt. He pulled out a coarse heel of bread and a strip of dried venison. He set them upon the stone between them before easing back a step.
For the past month, (Y/N) had been eating the cold scraps and crumbs left from the bandits. It had been some time in which she had a meal.
"I'm not asking you to trust me. Trust isn't given because a man asks for it."
“Then why are you giving me food?” (Y/N) asked from her hiding spot.
"Because no child should have to wonder whether her next meal comes from thieves."
The small and frail (Y/N) hesitated before inching forward. Her fingers trembled as she snatched the bread, retreating into the crevice as though expecting him to seize her.
But he did not.
He simply waited while she ate. When she had finished, Kodlak rose to his feet and held out a weathered hand.
"My name is Kodlak Whitemane. You've nowhere left to go, have you?"
“No.” (Y/N) answered softly to his gentle question.
"Then come with me."
"Where?"
"To Jorrvaskr. There you'll find warm food, a roof that doesn't leak, and folk who know that strength isn't measured by the weight of a sword alone," He answered with a softened expression. “But you must first answer my question?”
(Y/N) looked at him with a confused look but took his hand.
“What is your name?” he asked.
And this time, she answered.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
Kodlak carried her out of the cave, for her legs were too frail to walk. (Y/N) hugged onto him, as though if she let go then she would fall back into the cave.
Outside, the night air was sharp and clean, causing (Y/N) to take a huge gasp. A short distance away, torches burned in a loose ring where the Companions had made camp. Horses stamped softly at the edge of the firelight. Steel was being cleaned and wounds were being bound from their onslaught.
A young man stood near one of the horses, adjusting the saddle with the impatient strength of someone still growing into his own power. His hair was as dark as the night and he had war paint on his eyes that made him look tired. Even then, he was broad-shouldered and large—Farkas looked up when Kodlak approached.
“Kodlak,” he said, nodding as he looked between the girl that held onto the older warrior.
“We’ll be moving soon.” Kodlak responded.
Farkas glanced toward the cave entrance, where smoke still drifted lazily from the dying torches within. “No survivors?”
“None worth leaving behind,” Kodlak answered. “But this one’s coming with us.”
Farkas straightened slightly. “With us? To Jorrvaskr?”
“Aye.”
There was a brief silence. It was not judgment, just a short stint of confusion but alas, the one named Farkas decided to trust the older warrior who had years of experience above him.
Kodlak stepped a little closer to the horse Farkas was preparing. “She’ll ride in front of you. She’s not used to horses or people either . You’ll go slow. Keep her steady.”
Farkas looked down at the girl again who now stood properly this time. She didn’t look at him at first, only at the horse who seemed large and grand though scary at the same time. Maybe if she looked for too long, they would all turn into monsters.
Then, after some time, she did look up.
“Aye,” he said at last, giving a short nod. “I can do that.”
Kodlak gave a faint, approving hum. “Good.”
He placed a hand briefly on Farkas’ shoulder as he passed, a silent passing of responsibility more than command. Then, softer he whispered.
“Take care with her. The world has already been too sharp.”
Farkas didn’t answer with words. Instead, he went over to the horse loosened the reins, and held out a hand, not quite as gentle as Kodlak’s, but careful enough.
“Come on, then,” he said. “I’ll get you to a safer place.”
And (Y/N) stepped forward and Farkas leaned down, hooking his hands beneath her arms and lifting her onto the horse as though she weighed no more than a bundle of hay.
(Y/N) became stiff at her new found hight and her hands shot out to grip the pommel of the saddle until her knuckles went pale.
"Easy," Farkas said, swinging up behind her. "Horse won't buck. Not with Kodlak's lot around to hear it complain."
Something inside her loosened and she waited for them to move. The rest of the warriors gathered themselves in the dark as they attached their belongings and loot to their horses. . Kodlak rode near the front, though he glanced back more than once to where Farkas held the reins with the girl tucked against him.
They rode through the night. (Y/N) didn't sleep, though her eyes grew heavy more than once. She watched the mountains pass, their vast shoulders lost to the night, black upon black beneath a sky thick with stars like cold fire scattered across the dome of the world.
For the first time in a month, she did not feel the cold quite so sharply, wedged as she was between Farkas' arms and the warmth of the horse beneath her.
"You've got a name," Farkas said at some point, not quite a question.
"(Y/N)," she said, so quiet he nearly missed it over the wind.
"Farkas." He said simply before speaking again. "That's my brother's tunic you're eyeing, by the way. Vilkas won't be pleased I let a stranger stare at his stitching."
She hadn't been looking at anyone's tunic. But she looked up at him anyway, confused, and caught the corner of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, but close enough that some of the tightness in her chest eased.
They came upon Whiterun as dawn was breaking over the plains, and the first pale light of morning lay like silvered mist upon the grasslands, stirring faintly in the breath of the wind. Far off, the city rose upon its ancient stone. (Y/N) had seen cities before, from a distance, always at the edge of some trade road with her parents pointing out which gate offered the fairest tolls. She had never ridden through one at the head of a company of warriors, never had guards on the wall call down greetings to the man riding beside her.
"Companions return!" someone shouted from above, and the gate groaned open before they'd even slowed.
As they entered the city, (Y/N) watched as market stalls were just beginning to open, the smell of sweet rolls from a bakery, a blacksmith already hammering away despite the early hour. And then, at the top of the hill, stood Jorrvaskr.
Farkas brought the horse to a stop in the yard below the mead hall's weathered steps. "Here we are," he said, and swung down first before lifting her off after him, setting her feet on solid ground.
Kodlak dismounted nearby, stretching the ride from his back before crossing to them. Companions filed past in twos and threes, some casting curious glances at the small girl standing stiff and silent beside Farkas, but none of them lingered on it.
"This way," Kodlak said, and started up the steps.
(Y/N) hesitated, until Farkas' hand settled briefly, lightly pushing her to follow the older warrior.
The doors of Jorrvaskr opened onto warmth and firelight and the low murmur of voices, long tables scarred by years of blades and tankards, the smell of mead and roasting meat thick in the air. It was louder and stranger than anything she'd known, and for a moment she stood still in the doorway.
“Come along,” Kodlak said. “We need to get some meat on your bones before we start training you.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
Winters came and passed at Jorrvaskr, and (Y/N) was no longer cold. She now had blankets and a bed she found every night. She had grown taller and stronger with calluses that had grown on her palms from Farkas’ relentless drilling.
He was not much older than she, she would come to learn. Though he was stronger and faster and was in the circle.
She was no longer the frail fawn Kodlak had carried out of that cave, but a warrior who could hold a sword steady and could even hold her own against Aela, her shield sister.
The training yard behind Jorrvaskr had become as familiar to her as her family's old wagon once was. Sun-warmed dirt, the clang of practice blades, Aela's dry commentary from the sidelines, Vilkas' needling. It was home now, in the way the mountains once had been.
But Farkas had changed.
Not all at once of course, but she couldn't point to the day it started. It had crept in slowly, the way frost creeps up a window pane before you notice the whole thing's gone white.
Where he'd once ruffled her hair or tossed her an apple from the kitchens, now he mostly just nodded. Where he'd once lingered to talk after sparring, now he ended their sessions quickly, already turning for the mead hall before she'd caught her breath.
But to her, he had always seemed as steadfast as the mountains. Even as he grew to be the man every tale promised he would become. He was now as broad as Gildergreen, strong enough to split a shield with a single stroke, his laughter capable of filling the great hall when it escaped him.
Perhaps that was why her heart, foolish and unbidden, had settled upon him.
It had happened so gradually she scarcely noticed. A lingering glance when he returned from a contract. A warmth she could not name when he praised her footing. The quiet disappointment whenever he chose another training partner. She kept these feelings locked away.
"Get up, shieldsister" he said flatly, circling her with his practice sword loose in his grip.
The training yard echoed with the commonplace sound of its music.
(Y/N) lunged, but Farkas’ blade was too fast as it turned hers aside with his finesse. Before she could recover, the flat of his sword tapped sharply against her shoulder.
"Dead." He said. No humor in his voice. Not even the ghost of the crooked half-smile she used to be able to coax out of him without trying.
"I almost had you."
"You almost lost your footing."
He offered no smile, only another stance. So she offered hers.
(Y/N) struck, he parried, and the blow rattled up her arm hard enough to sting. He didn't ease off the way he used to when she was smaller. He fought her now like he fought Vilkas, no softness left in it at all, and some stubborn, foolish part of her chest ached at that. She wanted the softness back, wanted to know what she'd done to lose it.
"You don't have to knock me down every time." (Y/N) said getting up.
"If I don't, the Silver Hand will."
She searched his face for the warmth she remembered from years before, the patient young Companion who had spoken softly so she would not fear climbing onto his horse. But she found only stone.
"Farkas." She lowered her blade. "Did I do something?"
He didn't meet her eyes. "You're dropping your shoulder before you swing. Fix it."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only thing that matters right now.”
“When did you become so miserable?" (Y/N) nearly yelled at him, lowering her blade.
Farkas then lowered his blade in return.
"If you're tired, we're done." He said firmly.
"I'm not tired."
"Then stop complaining."
"I’m just asking why you treat me differently than everyone else."
The yard continued to serve its purpose around them. Axes and arrows struck their targets as their wielders laughed amongst each other. Farkas looked away, turning as to put space between them and realign his stance. He said nothing, giving (Y/N) the opportunity to say what she was feeling.
"Come on Farkas… I mean, you smiled more at the training dummies than you've smiled at me this spring."
Something moved across his face, and then it was gone just as fast as it appeared.
"Pick up your sword," he said in a way that told her the conversation was over whether she wanted it to be or not. "If you're going to be a Companion, stop looking for kindness in a sparring ring."
(Y/N) felt a pang in her heart, as though it clenched her ribcage.
It became dark, and the women's barracks lay hushed beneath the blanket of midnight. (Y/N) laid on her bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling above, replaying the whole exchange the way she always did. She didn't understand how that boy who had helped her on the horse and the man circling her with a blade could be the same person. It sat heavy in her chest long after the torches in the hall had burned low.
"You're doing that thing again," came a voice from the bed across the room. Njada, propped up on one elbow, watching her.
"What thing?"
"That thing. The sighing." Njada smirked. "Is it some boy in the market you're smitten with? Some farm lad who smiled at you buying turnips?"
"I'm not smitten with anyone."
"Mm." Njada didn't look remotely convinced. "So who is he?"
“I already told you that there isn't anyone.” (Y/N) said annoyingly, flipping herself over on the bed so that she was facing the wall.
"Is it some boy guard?" Njada asked, still not convinced. "One of those smith's apprentices? Maybe a merchant's son? You do disappear long enough after errands."
"No."
"A bard?"
"I'd sooner wrestle a troll."
Njada barked a laugh loud enough to earn a sleepy groan from another Companion.
“Or maybe it's a nord twice your size who won't say two nice words to you in the yard."
(Y/N) sat up sharply. "That's not … it's not like that."
"Sure it isn't. Go to sleep, lovesick pup. You've got an early spar."
(Y/N) threw a balled-up shirt at her, which Njada batted away without even opening her eyes, laughing quietly to herself in the dark. (Y/N) pulled her blanket up and said nothing else, though sleep was a long time coming.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
The seasons turned again, and again, until the girl Kodlak had carried out of a cave was a shieldsister any of the Companions would be glad to have at their side. She'd bled for Jorrvaskr, bled for Whiterun, bled for strangers on roads she'd never have walked if not for the wolfskin cloak she now wore over her shoulders.
The night it happened, the whole of the circle had gathered with nothing but torchlight casting their faces.
“You have proven yourself, (Y/N) (L/N),” Skjor said. "In blood, in honor, and in loyalty to this circle. Rise as one of us. You are Companion, and you are worthy."
(Y/N) then drank Aela's blood and became what the companions were rumored to be.
She had been given the blessing of lycanthropy.
There was a beat of silence, and then the hall broke into it, Aela's hand clasping her shoulder, Vilkas' rare approving nod, and Skjor’s low laugh and rough congratulations. Kodlak embraced her the way he had that very first night, with everything unsaid folded into it.
Farkas said nothing.
He stood near the back of the circle, arms crossed, and when her eyes found him through the crowd he only gave the smallest nod before turning and heading up the stairs, gone before anyone else seemed to notice he'd left.
The pride she felt that night dimmed.
Later, when the hall had thinned and most had gone to celebrate properly with mead upstairs, Aela found her alone near the training yard.
"You're wondering why he didn't say anything."
(Y/N) looked up at her.
"I'm not … "
"You are." Aela said sharply. "Listen to me. Stay away from him. There are things about him — about what happens in the circle… that you don't understand yet. Things you're not ready to carry."
"Then tell me."
"Not tonight." Aela's hand found her shoulder, firm. "Just trust me on this one thing. For your own sake … keep your distance from Farkas, whatever you're feeling toward him. Let it go before it becomes something you can't."
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
It wasn’t long before (Y/N) and Farkas were arguing again.
(Y/N) had been readying herself for a day out in the town when she noticed she was missing her…
"My dagger!" She said loud enough for all those around her to hear.
Farkas didn't even look up from the stone in his hands as he sharpened his own steel dagger.
"What about it?"
"My elven dagger. The one I took from that cave near the mountain."
"I don't know." He responded. The scraping of steel against stone continued and of course, Farkas did not look up.
"You don't know? It was on the nightstand above my bed this morning."
"Mhm."
"And now it's gone."
"So find it."
"I am finding it," (Y/N) said as she planted both hands upon the table between them. "And somehow I've ended up here."
"...Meaning?" Now Farkas finally looked up.
"Meaning you're the last person I saw anywhere near my room."
Around them, conversations throughout Jorrvaskr had begun to die as the rest of its inhabitants began to eavesdrop on the growing argument.
"Oh, this should be good." Vilkas said as he leaned comfortably against a pillar.
"I know you took it," (Y/N) insisted.
"And why," Farkas asked slowly, "would I steal your dagger?"
"Because mine is sharper than yours."
Laughter erupted from half the hall and Vilkas nearly dropped his mug.
"I have six other blades."
"None of them are mine."
"I don't want yours."
"Then where is it?"
"I don't know, (Y/N)!"
They had become loud enough for Skjor to emerge from the end of the hall, his footsteps were loud which caused everyone to turn and look as he walked by, obviously not in a good mood.
"What in Shor's name..." His gaze swept over the gathered Companions before settling on the two standing nose to nose. "...is this?"
Both of them answered at once, their voices frightening over each other.
"He stole…"
"She’s accusing me of…"
Skjor raised one hand and yelled "Enough!" for the whole hall to hear.
He sighed the sigh of a man who had dealt with this far too many times.
"Farkas."
"I didn't touch her dagger."
"(Y/N)."
"He absolutely did."
"I absolutely didn't."
"I don't care." Skjor's eyes flicked between them. "There's a troll problem harrying travelers on the road near Riverwood. The two of you are going to go deal with it. Together. And you're not welcome back in this hall until it's handled and you've remembered how to speak to each other like Companions instead of children."
(Y/N)'s smile vanished.
"...Together?"
"Together."
"That wasn't a request." He was already turning away. "You'll spend three days on the road together so I suggest you pack your things and leave quickly."
(Y/N) then shot Farkas one last look before storming to her bed, packing fresh provisions into her satchel. Farkas found his way into the stables and was tightening the straps on his armor when Vilkas wandered over.
“Three days on the road with her,” Vilkas drawled, voice low enough that the stable hands wouldn’t overhear. “Alone. Just the two of you, the wilds, and that pretty little warwolf you’ve been pretending not to notice.”
Farkas didn’t look up. “Not now, brother.”
“Oh, I think now is exactly the time.” Vilkas pushed off the post and stepped closer, voice dropping further. “ I can smell it on you, Farkas. The Circle can smell it. That beast inside you doesn’t give a damn about your noble silences anymore. She’s one of us now. And it’s only gotten worse, hasn’t it?”
Farkas finally straightened, turning to glare at his brother. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to grab an axe. “She’s a shieldsister. That’s all.”
“A shield-sister whose scent makes you want to pin her against the nearest tree and mate her until she is claimed. Don’t bother denying it. I’ve seen the way you watch her when she shifts back after a hunt. You are howling for her, brother. Loud enough that even Kodlak’s probably noticed by now. You nearly broke Torvar's arm because he called her pretty.”
"He called her distracting."
Vilkas folded his arms.
"I've spent so many years telling myself she was the frightened little girl Kodlak carried home..." Farkas’s eyes flicked toward the doors of Jorrvaskr, then back. Heat crawled up his neck, not all of it from anger. The beast inside grew at his words. "...that I don't know when she became a woman."
Ever since (Y/N) had joined the Circle, the pull had become unbearable. Her scent had changed, deeper, richer, laced with the same feral power that ran through his own veins. It called to him in ways no ordinary woman ever had.
“But I’m not some mindless beast,” Farkas growled.
“She’s stronger than you think. And she looks at you the same way, but keep snarling and pretending. See how well that works when you’re sharing a campfire for three nights and her scent is all over the wind.” Vilkas then stepped back, noticing (Y/N) approach the stables. “Try not to mount her against a rock before you even reach Riverwood. Or do. Might solve both your problems.”
Vilkas disappeared before (Y/N) approached Farkas with her satchel slung over her shoulder and her bow at her hip.
“Ready?” she asked.
He gave a short nod, swinging up onto his horse without offering her a hand up her horse this time. The wolf inside him paced and growled, thrilled and tormented by the coming journey.
It was going to be a long journey for the both of them.
And a long journey it was.
On the first day, they were ambushed by a group of orc bandits. (Y/N) was scrapped but nothing came of it, Farkas didn’t even offer to help her tend to her wound.
On the second day, they covered more ground than they expected until they were ambushed once more, this time by a troll. The troll clawed at (Y/N), causing her to be thrown off her horse and for the stallion to run off into the tree line. It was only when (Y/N) gave her finishing blow to the troll did she notice her horse was gone.
She screamed into the treeline for him to come back.
Farkas brought his own horse around at a slow walk, surveying the empty tree line where her stallion had vanished. For a moment he remained quiet, and she braced herself for some cutting remark about her horsemanship, or lack of it.
Instead he just sighed, and reached down to check the strap of her satchel where it hung crooked off one shoulder.
"You're bleeding."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, it's dripping down your side." He said as he swung down off his horse. He closed the distance between them and pulled back the torn edge of her tunic to look at the gashes beneath. "Deep enough to need binding," he murmured, already digging through his pack for cloth. His hands were rougher than she remembered, but he made sure to be careful.
He wrapped her wound with the clean cloth, and she watched his face as he did so. At the war paint that dripped down from his eyes which were sharp and cold.
"There." He tied off the bandage and stepped back, some of the distance already creeping back into his expression. "That'll hold till we make camp."
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He grunted something that might have been acknowledgment, then looked past her toward the empty road, the problem of her missing horse settling over his features. "Riverwood's still the better part of a day off. Can't leave you here to wait on a horse that might not come back at all."
"So what, I walk as a beast?"
"You'll slow us both down walking with that wound." He said it plainly. For a moment he looked around the trees. They were close enough to the town now, and if anyone were to see her in her beast form she would surely be attacked and their presence unwelcome. After a long moment, he spoke again. "You'll ride with me."
“But…”
"Unless you'd rather wait here alone in troll country," he said, already moving to remount, "in which case, good luck to you."
(Y/N) huffed but moved to jump behind the saddle behind him.
"Hold on," he said, gruff, not looking back at her.
She hesitated only a moment before her arms came around his middle, hands finding purchase against the worn leather of his armor. He was warm, and solid, and smelled of pine sap and horse and steel, and she was suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of space that no longer existed between them.
Farkas said nothing, but she felt him take one slow breath before nudging the horse forward, and the wolf pacing behind his ribs went quiet. Or at least he tried to make it quiet, but being in close proximity to the unclaimed woman made it hard for him to keep focus.
Farkas could feel (Y/N)’s untamed heat, and the sound of her heart as it beat against his back.
When they laid out their bedrolls for the night, Farkas found himself unable to sleep while (Y/N) had found perfect rest.
She slept curled on her side in her bedroll a few feet away, the clean linen of her fresh bandage just visible beneath the edge of her cloak. The wound he’d bound earlier still carried the faint copper tang of her blood on the night air.
His body betrayed him.
The wolf inside stirred again, drawn by the lingering scent of her.
He shifted, as one of his hands unconsciously pressed down over the growing hardness as if he could will it away.
She’s hurt. She’s unclaimed. She’s… right there.
The thought came unbidden, raw and primal.
He could cross the space between them in two strides. Peel back her bedroll. Wake her with his mouth on her neck, his hands sliding under her tunic to feel the warmth of her skin, the curve of her waist, the softness…
The wolf growled approval at the thought, urging him to claim what his instincts screamed was his to take. To bury himself in her and drown out the constant pacing in his blood.
Farkas sat up slowly, muscles coiled tight. His breathing had grown heavier, the front of his trousers tented obscenely. He stared at her sleeping form, the way her hair spilled across the ground, the subtle rise and fall of her chest. One step. That was all it would take. She might even welcome it.
But he stopped himself.
His fists clenched at his sides until the knuckles cracked. The wolf howled in protest.
He forced himself to lie back down, turning onto his side away from her. The ache in his groin throbbed insistently, but he ignored it.
“Damn it,” he huffed under his breath.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
They reached Riverwood by midmorning, the mill wheel turning lazy and steady over the river, smoke curling up from chimneys into a sky gone the color of pale steel. Alvor met them at the edge of town, wiping soot from his hands, relief plain on his face at the sight of two Companions riding in with weapons already drawn.
"Thank Talos you've come. Lost two sheep and near lost a boy last week, thing's been coming down from the hills past the old mill, tearing through anything that moves..."
"Big one," Farkas said, crouching to look at the tracks.
"Big and hungry," (Y/N) added, testing the draw on her bow.
It didn't take long for them to find it. Trolls rarely hid and when they did, they weren’t that hard to find.
Farkas drew its attention head-on, greatsword flashing, while (Y/N) circled wide and put arrow after arrow into the thing's hide until it staggered. When it finally turned to swipe at her, Farkas was already there, blade opening its throat before it could land the blow.
"That's that," Farkas said.
(Y/N) lowered her bow, some of the tension she'd carried since the ambush finally draining out of her shoulders. "They will be pleased."
They walked the horse back toward town together, the animal plodding along riderless between them now that the danger had passed, and Riverwood came alive with quiet gratitude as they passed through, a nod from the miller, a murmured thanks from a woman gathering her children in from the yard, Alvor himself pressing a small pouch of coin into Farkas' hand.
By the time the sun began sinking gold behind the mountains, painting the river in long amber ribbons, (Y/N) could feel the ache of the last three days catching up with her all at once. She turned towards the inn ahead and at Farkas who kept his gaze straight.
"We should stay the night," she said. "At the Sleeping Giant."
"Skjor said to handle the trolls and come back."
“But it will be dark out soon. I’d rather sleep tonight in a bed with a hot meal and possibly a sweet roll. I'd rather not reopen this wound riding through the night."
He considered it a moment before giving her a nod. "One night."
They led the horse to the stable round back, and (Y/N) pushed open the door of the Sleeping Giant to a wash of firelight and the smell of roasting meat.
"Companions," Delphine, the innkeeper, said, setting down a rag. "Heard there was trouble up near the mill."
"Not anymore," Farkas said.
"Good." She reached beneath the counter for the keys as they exchanged coin.
(Y/N) took one key, and Farkas took the other.
(Y/N) lingered at the top of the narrow stairs, key warm in her palm. The hall was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearth downstairs and the occasional creak of old timber. Farkas stood at the door across from hers.
“Goodnight, Farkas,” she said softly.
He met her eyes for a beat longer than necessary.
“Sleep,” he grunted. “You need it.”
She slipped into her room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. The bed was lumpy but blessedly soft after three days on the road. She peeled off her armor, cleaned the wound as best she could with the water basin, and crawled beneath the furs still wearing her light tunic. Exhaustion pulled her under quickly.
Hours later, the inn was silent with nothing back the sound of crickets offering noise.
A soft sound pulled (Y/N) from sleep, a faint thud of a boot outside her door. She sat up, heart suddenly pounding, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger beneath her pillow. The floor creaked again. Someone was there.
She rose on bare feet, padded silently to the door, and cracked it open just enough to peer out.
Farkas filled the doorway.
Before she could speak, he stepped forward, pushing the door open with one massive shoulder. In the same motion he crowded her back into the room, one large hand closing the door behind him with a decisive thud. The next second her back hit the rough wooden wall, the impact not painful but firm enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
He loomed over her, one thick forearm braced beside her head, the other hand gripping her hip hard enough she could feel the heat of his palm through the thin tunic. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths. The war paint around his eyes looked darker in the moonlight, his gaze burning as it dropped to her mouth, then lower, tracing the line of her neck and the curve of her breasts.
“I tried to stay away,” he growled, voice low and rough, edged with the wolf. “But I can’t. Not tonight.”
(Y/N) could feel the hardened press of his member against her core. It proved how much he needed her, making (Y/N)’s breath hitch as she grew weary.
“I need you,” he rasped, the words dragged from deep in his chest like a confession. “Like a man needs a woman.”
The rawness of his voice sent a shiver racing down her spine. Before she could respond, his mouth crashed down on hers. His kiss was wanting and hungry, showcasing the years of his discipline breaking.
Here she was: limp as he pressed her against the wall, ready for him to take.
Farkas grew harder as his length throbbed against her, trapped between them. He rolled his hips, grinding into her as she panted against him.
Heat pooled low in her womb, making her thighs clench around the solid muscle of his leg. (Y/N) looked up at him, lips parted, eyes dark with the same need.
“Then take me,” she whispered.
A deep, feral growl tore from his throat. In one swift motion, he shoved her tunic up around her waist, his large hand gripping the back of her thigh and hoisting her leg up around his hip. He pinned her firmly against the wall with his body, the rough wood biting into her back as he freed himself from his breeches. His thick, heavy cock sprang free, hot and throbbing, the head already slick as it nudged against her entrance.
“Good girl,” Farkas rasped against her ear, the praise low. “So fucking ready for me.”
He didn’t wait. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt, stretching her open around his girth. (Y/N) cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as her walls clenched tight around him.
His fullness was overwhelming, but the burn melted into sharp pleasure almost instantly.
Farkas groaned, pushing deeper into her core as he began to thrust.
The song of her moans and his grunts filled the small room as he fucked her hard against the wall, each thrust driving her higher up the wooden planks.
“Talos… you’re so tight.” he growled.
He kept her pinned, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her ass as he drove into her again and again. The angle had him hitting that perfect spot inside her with every roll of his hips, making her moan and whimper against his neck.
“That’s it… good girl,” he praised, breath hot against her skin, fangs grazing her throat. “Take every inch like a good girl.”
The wolf was fully awake now, rumbling in his chest as he fucked her like he’d been starving for her.
(Y/N)’s back arched as she tightened around him, her core growing wetter.
Farkas snarled in satisfaction as he came inside of her, filling her with his seed. He stayed buried deep, holding her pinned against the wall as aftershocks trembled through both of them, his lips brushing soft, almost reverent kisses along her jaw.
“…Good girl,” he murmured again, softer this time, voice thick with lingering hunger. “But we’re not done yet.”
Farkas held her there for a moment longer, buried deep inside her as her walls fluttered around him. Then, with a low, possessive growl, he pulled out and spun her around in one fluid motion. Before she could catch her breath, he scooped her up and threw her onto the bed.
(Y/N) landed on her stomach with a surprised gasp, the furs soft beneath her. She barely had time to push up onto her hands and knees before Farkas was behind her, knees sinking into the mattress. His big hands gripped her hips hard, yanking her ass up and back toward him.
“On your knees,” he ordered, voice dark and rough.
He didn’t give her a chance to settle. One large hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her chest down into the furs while he kept her hips raised high. The new position left her completely exposed to him.
“Good girl,” he praised, voice thick as he rubbed the thick head of his cock along her folds. “Look at you… dripping for me… Do you want more?”
(Y/N) had tears in her eyes as she nodded, pressing her ass against him.
Then he thrust back in, tearing deep into her core. (Y/N) moaned loudly into the furs as he filled her again, even deeper due to the angle.
Farkas groaned deeply as he sank back into her tight heat, the slick sound of her pussy taking every thick inch filling the room.
“You want this, don’t you?” he growled as he slowly dragged his cock out and slammed back in. “You want me to fuck you like this… hard and deep.”
(Y/N) moaned helplessly into the furs, nodding frantically. Her body trembled beneath him, completely at his mercy. The bed creaked loudly under the force of his thrusts, each one driving him impossibly deeper.
“That’s right… good girl, You want my seed, don’t you? You want me to fill this tight little cunt until it’s dripping with it.”
He punctuated his words with a particularly hard thrust, making her cry out. His pace grew faster, more primal, the wolf riding him hard now as he fucked her relentlessly from behind.
“Answer me,” he demanded, one hand sliding up to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her possessively as he railed her. “Tell me you want my seed. Tell me you want me to claim you as my own.”
(Y/N) whimpered.
“You do want it. You want me to pump you full until it takes.”
He reached beneath her again, rough fingers circling her swollen clit while he drove into her without mercy. His thrusts grew, more desperate as he neared the edge, whispering filthy promises against her skin between heavy breaths.
He seeded her again, coming inside of her as his body stiffened. He pulled out from her and laid down next to her, tracing her breasts with his finger tips.
Farkas rolled over, his back now towards (Y/N). The sudden shift left the air between them strangely cold despite the heat still lingering in her body.
“You should get some sleep.” He said.
(Y/N) lay there for a moment, chest still heaving, thighs slick with his seed. She reached out slowly, fingertips brushing along the warm skin of his back.
“Farkas…”
He tensed under her touch, muscles tightening like coiled steel, but he didn’t pull away.
“I shouldn’t have come in here. “The wolf… it doesn’t settle easy around you. Especially not after that.”
He rolled onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling beams. One arm came around her almost instinctively, pulling her against his side. His hand resumed its slow, absent tracing along the curve of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple in lazy strokes as if he couldn’t quite stop touching her.
“You’re hurt. We’ve got a long ride back to Whiterun tomorrow. You need rest.” His voice softened just a fraction. “Not me keeping you up all night like some damn beast.”
Despite his words, his cock twitched against her thigh, already half-hard again.
(Y/N) shifted closer, draping one leg over his, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “I’m not complaining,” she murmured against his warm skin.
“Greedy woman,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. He turned his head to look at her, eyes still dark with lingering hunger. “Sleep. That’s an order.”
He pulled the furs over them both, tucking her against his large frame.
For now, though, he held her close and tender after the way he’d just ruined her against the wall and on the bed.
They would return in three days, and he would hope that his scent would disappear from her in time.
Or else he’d never hear the end of it from Vilkas.
Thank you for reading! I would like to thank : @/im-not-a-pleeb for making the beautiful dividers (the sword ones) and also @/droideplane for the rose dividers.
Farkas (Skyrim) x Reader | Farkas writes a letter to Vilkas, regarding Reader
Dear Brother,
I'm sorry that I have to write you a letter, but I've been told you wouldn't be back from your mission before I leave for mine, and I believe this cannot wait. I know you do not like my writing and struggle to read it, so I will try to make this short.
This is about our latest recruit. I am pretty sure you rolled your eyes reading this, but this has nothing to do with their charm what you're thinking of. As you know, I have been sent along on their first quest, so I could prove their honour. I have told everyone else that it all went well, because I am not quite sure what I should actually think about their behaviour. And since you are the smartest of us two, I now seek your opinion.
The recruit is an amazing fighter. While I am not an expert regarding lighter weapons or bows, they perfectly switch between sneaking, shooting, and fighting. However, as we had left Jorrvaskr, while I believed we were on our way to the Cairn, the recruit went across the whole country, completing an absurd amount of tasks with my help. I do believe I would have accepted to help if they had asked, but I do not understand why they wouldn't tell me beforehand. Maybe Sjkor had told them I could help ?
But this, however, was only a slight inconvenience (though a long one). During their quest, I was about to compliment their fighting ability, but as I turned to them I was flabbergasted to see them cracking coffins open and stealing the few coins they found inside. I do agree that those may not be useful for dead people, but this seemed rather disrespectful...
Moreover, for some reason, the recruit wouldn't walk on normal paths. They kept jumping on tables and shelves, would open any closet they could find, even read through most of the old books there. While this wasn't a problem, I felt strangely spooked.
And lastly, you see, we have run into a few bandits on our way back. You know that, of course, it wasn't much trouble for us, and neither was it for them. But after we were done fighting, the recruit observed the bodies in silence. I curiously looked too, and the second one's armor emitted a light glow, the recruit —and believe me, I am not making this up— the recruit began stripping them naked ! I looked in horror, wondering if we had mistakingly hired a thief, and when they met my gaze, they asked for my help !
I now understand why you had told me before that I should learn to say no, as I have indeed helped to strip the corpses.
I could go on about their behaviour for more pages, but these are the parts on which I need your opinion. I believe none of these things are against our rules, but should I warn Kodlak about it ? Please, do not make fun of me, brother. I am truly lost.
Respectfully,
Your brother.
PS: They ate a surprising amount of cheese during the whole adventure. Could this have to do with anything ?
________
Just a quick thing i thought of while playing haha
Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): brief blood, body horror, horror elements, alien anatomy, suggestive themes
Word Count: 5k
The Dragonborn and Hermaeus Mora make a deal.
Part One // Part Three
ao3 // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist
Sticky. Stringy.
When you blink—or try to—it’s thick, as if someone smeared honey over your eyelids while you slept. You try again, but whatever covers your eyes resists the pull. Shaking your head, you attempt to throw off this shade. Perhaps it is something tangible that simply needs to be dislodged.
No luck. It stays.
Slowly, you reach out, lightly pressing around your eyes. Immediately, just along your cheekbone, you discover a gluey substance. You recoil, but your fingers stay, stuck in the muck. A distressed whimper leaves your lips as reality starts to set in.
You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. You are captured. A fox in a cage. And you are unable to see.
Panic sets in and then you start clawing at the sticky substance, nearly growling like a feral animal in an attempt to remove the gunk from around your eyes.
“Stop,” comes a masculine voice. It isn’t deep, but on the higher side, and the tone indicates concern. You immediately pause, chest heaving, waiting for this person to speak again.
They do not.
Licking your lips, you tilt your head in the direction in which you think the voice came from.
“Who are you?” you ask hesitantly.
A long moment of silence follows. It stretches, and the uninterrupted quiet chills you to the bone. Sorrow and despair threads through your nerves, but then the voice comes again, this time much closer.
“Don’t rub it off. It’ll help.”
You clench your fist, the muscles in your arm tighten with the anticipation of throwing a punch. Even though you’re blinded, you want answers. “Who are you?” you ask again.
“I am but a servant.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” you growl.
Of all the strangeness you’ve experienced while in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, the silence is the oddest. Even though you cannot see where you are, there is no sound other than what you and this man make. There is no dripping water, no chirping of bugs, or the squeak of rats. Nothing. Just absolute silence that fills the space between breaths.
“My name is irrelevant,” comes his reply. “And it has been lost to time. I could not tell you.”
He is close, but you’re not sure how close. This man—this servant—is near enough that he doesn’t need to go above soft speaking. Which means, he might be in range of your hand. You’ll have to play this right. Keep him talking. Rely on other senses.
“All this knowledge around you and you don’t know your own name?” you mock, voice dripping with cruelty. The idea is absurd. How could you dwell in a realm like this with no knowledge of who you are?
“In order to do my work for my master, I had to relinquish the ties I had to the mortal realm,” he answers, as if it’s so simple.
Slowly, you draw your hand away from your face and to the floor. Rock. You shift a bit and then frown. Your feet are bare. You didn’t notice before. Reaching out, you grab your foot, and then your naked ankle. Horror seizes you as you quickly take note of your body.
You make it to mid-thigh before you find clothing. From there, you realize that what you have on is just a sack. Your armor and weapons are gone. The fact that you’re in different clothes means someone stripped you. Someone’s gaze was on your naked body.
Before you even have the chance to demand where your stuff is, the man answers as if already knowing your question. “It’s all somewhere safe. I saw to it myself.”
Fury burns in your veins. It doesn’t matter that you might be in an actual cage. You’re ready to rage.
“You put your hands on me,” you growl, venom seeping into every word. This man will die for touching you.
“Earthly needs are unimportant to me. They have been since I entered my master’s realm.” He says it blandly, like he cannot believe you’d even imagine such a thing. “You are His guest here, and will remain unspoiled unless he wills it.”
Unspoiled. As if you’re a piece of ripe fruit ready for the knife.
“What a benevolent master,” you mutter, seeking out with your fingers, your hands slowly sliding across the floor.
The man hums softly in agreement. “The paste on your eyes needs a bit more time.”
So far, you’ve only found more stone beneath your palms. “What is it for?” You check both ankles, wrists, and neck. There are no chains or restraints.
“To curb the madness.”
You freeze. “The what?”
“Hermaeus Mora’s influence starts to take effect the moment you enter his realm. For those of us who serve him, the influence is desired, but Lord Mora suspected this is something you did not wish for.”
Slowly, you drop your hands into your lap. Master Neloth mentioned black spots in the eyes as a sign of Hermaeus Mora’s influence in the body. Perhaps this is what the paste prevents.
Even though you wish to slit this man’s throat, you restrain some of the rising violence, opting for a more civil tone. “That is generous. Thoughtful.” The words taste foul on your tongue.
“Lord Mora understands many things.”
You don’t answer him. Instead, you sit in the silence, awaiting your opportunity.
Time passes, and you have no idea for how long. But the stranger eventually speaks again. “I do believe it is time to remove the paste.” There is soft jingling, and then the creak of hinges.
So, you are in a cage.
This stranger claims you are a guest of Hermaeus Mora, but guests are not kept in cages or stripped of their clothes. The weapons are understandable. You can forgive that but not the sack that drapes your body.
What was it that Hermaeus Mora said on the bridge just before you slipped into unconsciousness?
You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.
What does the Prince of Fate mean by that? Will the two of you actually talk? Or will he pull your memories from your mind, turning you into one of his followers? The very idea makes your skin crawl. Autonomy is important, and though you’ve completed many quests and tasks for some of Mora’s siblings, none of them will truly be able to claim you in the afterlife.
You are Dovahkiin. After you are gone, your soul will dwell within the Hall of Valor in Sovngarde. But if you are trapped here, in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, will your death not ascend your soul to Shor’s mead hall?
You’ll need to play along for the time being. An opportunity will present itself, and you will escape this wretched place with its sickly green sky and tentacle-infested inky waters.
“Crawl forward,” instructs the stranger. “The door is a bit low.”
The act of moving toward this man on your hands and knees is degrading, but you do it anyway, reaching out to get a sense of the cage that you’re in. This servant of Mora is right. The door is low, and you nearly knock your head on it but prevent yourself from doing so when your raised hand clips the top of it.
“Very good. You’re out now. I’ll start cleaning around your eyes.” His voice is calm, almost fatherly, and it only makes you want to claw his eyes out. Why is he trying to comfort you? Did Hermaeus Mora tell him to? Does the Prince of Fate want you soft and compliant?
The moment the stranger’s cold hands touch your face, you lunge. It’s more of a reaction than anything, the instinctual need to protect yourself burning like a hot iron. Your hands wrap around his throat and squeeze.
The two of you fall together, and then you’re bashing his head against the floor in sharp blows that bring the scent of blood to your nostrils.
It’s over quickly. Not because you kill him, but because you’re prevented from doing so.
Long, thin fingers with sharp nails grab at your arms and effortlessly toss you aside. You roll into it, landing on your knees. You pivot, bare your teeth, ready to lunge again.
It doesn’t matter that you cannot see. You’ve fought in true dark before and yet came out alive. This is no different.
A rippling burst of air slams into you. It’s not enough to send you to the ground but you do recoil from the sudden blow. Another crashes into you, and then another. This time, you do start to bend.
Throwing your arms over your head, you tuck in and take it. Perhaps it’s only seconds of time, but they eventually recede, and then you’re shaking. You feel drained, as if your very soul has slowly been extracted from you through a small hole. The energy within you is limited, but you still have something none of them can take away.
Your Thu’um.
Rising to one knee, you inhale sharply, ready to unleash an unrelenting force of power. The moment you exhale—the moment your lips shape the words—you choke. All breath is snatched from you. Lungs shriveled. Unable to take in oxygen.
Panic spikes, and you try again, only for you to choke harder.
“I advise against it. You’ll only hurt yourself.” It’s the man, but his voice is distant and shaky, an almost moan of pain when he speaks.
You don’t care if this act won’t allow you to speak again. Your Thu’um is your lifeblood. It is the thing that beats underneath your skin alongside your heart.
This next attempt chokes you to the point that your hands come up and claw at your throat. It is agonizing, a squeeze so tight that even with the paste over your eyes, you still feel the formation of tears.
You do not try again, and the invisible grip on your throat eases.
You collapse to the floor, chest heaving. Those thin, long fingers with sharp nails curl around your forearms. There is no strength left in you to resist this time. You’re lifted off the floor, guided to your knees, and then human hands are on your face, a damp cloth moving slowly over your eyelids.
“Stay still,” comes the voice, and it is not the same man who you’ve been talking to. It’s a different one.
Slowly, the stickiness fades, replaced with a cool dampness from the cloth.
“It is done.”
You blink, and this time you see the black stone beneath your knees. Your eyelids flutter, and your gaze shifts from the floor to the person standing before you. They’re bent at the waist, a damp cloth balled up in one hand.
The man before you, who is old enough to be your father, peers into your face. He is completely bald and wears simple black robes that stop at his feet. The signs of madness that Master Neloth spoke of is evident. There are dark spots in the whites of his eyes, but that isn’t the only unsettling aspect.
The dark spots aren’t perfect circles, more blob-like in appearance, just like Hermaeus Mora. The dots that linger near the edges of his eyes seep outward onto his skin. From there, they form black lines, like dead veins under his skin. They stretch away to create little webs across his flesh.
He smiles, showing his teeth. They are stained with ink.
You immediately recoil but the man doesn’t seem to care that you’ve drawn back from him. The sudden movement startles whomever is holding you. The sound they make is not human. You twist enough to glance over your shoulder and find one of those creatures you’ve slain.
Its face tentacles flare slightly in agitation.
“You killed several Seekers before you were subdued. They’re not particularly happy to see that you’re alive. Or that their master spared you.”
The corner of your lip curls as you turn back to the man.
Now that the paste is gone from your eyes, the room you’re being held in becomes clearer. Just behind you is the cage. It’s all gnarled black metal. Embedded into the metal are jagged spikes that jut outward. It’s clear that they are meant to keep things out rather than the captive individual inside.
The room itself is relatively small. The walls are books including the support pillar in the center of the room. Within the ceiling are holes, and through it, you distantly see Apocrypha’s green sky. There is no door but an open archway.
At the stranger’s feet, but off to the right, is the man you choked. His eyes are vacant, staring up at the ceiling, a halo of blood crowns his head. The new stranger’s gaze follows yours and then he sighs when he lands on the dead man.
A Seeker floats in through the open archway and heads for the dead man. Using its four hands, it grabs hold of the man, dragging him out, the blood smearing across the stone.
You swallow, and your saliva sticks in your throat. “What happened to my Voice?”
The bald man in black robes bows slightly, and then straightens. “Welcome to Apocrypha, Dragonborn. I am one of the endless Ciphers of the Eye. Lord Mora asked that we look after you until we bring you at his summons.” He steps around your question.
“Why can’t I use my Thu’um,” you prompt, wanting an answer. You’re far more willing to cooperate if he’d just be reasonable. “Have you taken it?”
“Taken it?” he asks with a hint of surprise. “No. The Prince of Fate cannot steal your Thu’um. That is a gift bestowed upon you by another, and is not in his realm of control.”
“And yet, you silence me.”
The man inclines his head. “He did. But it is temporary. I assure you.” That does not bring you any comfort. “I am to escort you to him.”
You don’t need to ask to know who him is. “Now?”
“Indeed.”
You lick your lips and find only dryness. “Where are we going?”
“One of the many scriptoriums of Apocrypha. It is where we prepare the Black Books for our master. It is rewarding work. Few ever witness it from an…outside perspective.”
From the open archway, two more Seekers appear, mandibles flaring.
The Cipher bows slightly to the Seekers and takes a step back. “You will not be chained if you behave on our journey. It is not far. This I promise.”
He could promise you your release and you still wouldn’t believe him. Without your Thu’um, you’re almost powerless. While there are magic basics you understand and can control with ease, you are no mage. This man, this Cipher, may wield magic, and you have nothing to defend yourself with other than your fists.
You are vulnerable, and the bareness of this reality is tar that sticks to the skin.
Instead of pushing the issue, you comply reluctantly, following the Cipher through the archway as three Seekers drift behind you.
The walk to the scriptorium is short. The Cipher was honest about that, and you appreciate it even if you’re hesitant to do so. You also remain unrestrained, and no chains are brought.
The entrance to the scriptorium is a wide yet short bridge with two archways. One is rather simple, while the other is more intricate, narrower, and the black rock has a green glow deep within in. When you pass under it, you enter one of the many massive towers you noticed when you first entered Apocrypha.
This entryway is large, the ceiling of which juts upward sharply. From the ceiling, black tentacles hang, swaying softly, their suckers pulsing with a faint green glow. There is a simple stone pathway and it’s covered in worn, rotting paper. On either side of this stone path is that inky black water.
It’s completely still. Silent. And that is somehow even more ominous than the water that roils outside this hall.
At the end of this small path is a massive double door, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora carved into the center. The tower itself is built from stone and an endless number of books. You’re not sure if the books are the wall or the stone is. It’s all fused together.
Your small herd moves toward the doors, and as you approach, they start to open. The sound the doors makes as they open is awful. There is no creaking of metal hinges or wood, but a wet, slippery sound, like you’re trying to hold onto a wiggling eel.
As you, your guide, and your guards pass through, you’re spit out into an open atrium. You’re outside again, but it’s clear that won’t be for long. From the atrium are multiple bridges and pathways, all of which connect to various towers.
In the center of the atrium is a stone statue of a person seated on a throne. Their hands rest on the arms of the throne, but their head is covered by an open Black Book as if the tome has suctioned itself to their face.
This image calls back those brief moments before the Black Book sucked you into Apocrypha. Darkness bled from the binding only for tentacles to follow, wrapping around you tightly to drag you into Hermaeus Mora’s realm.
All around the statue are more books. Some are neatly stacked while others appear tossed. But there is little time to linger. You’re only in this atrium for a minute.
The Cipher leads you on, taking a bridge to the left. When you enter this tower, you arrive in what has to be a workshop. Your guide mentioned that the scriptoriums are places where Black Books are made, and that few outsiders ever see the process.
You are an outsider, witnessing the creation happen in real time.
Seekers and Ciphers work together. There is a mechanical-like efficiency to the whole process. The two groups work in almost near silence, as if their communications are all done internally, almost like a hive of worker bees.
There are vats of bubbling ink and some that might contain a clear glue. All the mortal helpers are bald and it is a varied mix of men and women across multiple races.
“This way,” murmurs your guide, and the two of you branch off into a much smaller room.
This one is still littered with books, all stacked high and part of the architecture. But here, it’s warmer, with actual lanterns hanging from various points around the room. The ceiling is fairly low, and there are several stone tables, all of which have stacks of books on them.
“Leave us,” comes a deep, primordial voice.
Hermaeus Mora swells into existence before you. He is not nearly as large or imposing as on the bridge, but he isn’t any less creepy.
The Cipher bows deeply, his bald head nearly touching the stone floor. He keeps his eyes turned downward as if looking on Hermaeus Mora is a privilege. He backs out of the room slowly, never turning his back from his master. The Seekers follow suit.
Hermaeus Mora floats nearer, and his form shrinks a bit more. The large eye in the center blinks slowly.
“Are you rested?”
“One cannot rest in a cage,” you snap.
The eye blinks again, followed by an amused chuckle. “A necessary precaution.”
You run your tongue over your teeth and frown. “Are you afraid of me, Prince of Fate?”
The low rumble from Hermaeus Mora is surprisingly human-like. “I’ve watched you for some time, Dovahkiin. The lure of Apocrypha is too great to ignore. Not when it is tied to your fate.”
“Then why do you wish to talk? It sounds like you have all the answers.”
“You are Dragonborn, like my servant Miraak. You are following in his footsteps, seeking power that is your birthright.”
Miraak. So, he is a servant of Hermaeus Mora. Does he walk these halls? Would you find him if you looked? Would you find him if you asked Hermaeus Mora?
Evading his questions or even outright lying won’t do you any good. He will know, maybe not completely, but he will see through a deception.
“You called to me through your book.”
“Did I?” he replies, almost breathy with surprise. That large, center eye blinks slowly again.
“Is that not what happened?” You take a step back and reach out to place your hand on a nearby stone table.
“All who seek after the secrets of my world are my servants. Willing or not. By opening that book, you served me. You…worshipped me.” That word—worshipped—rolls out in a purr. It slides over your skin as if invisible tentacles roam over your limbs.
“How do I worship you?” you counter. “I enter your realm without permission. I slay your servants. That does not sound like a loyal devotee.”
Hermaeus Mora’s form ripples like he’s shaking off a shiver. “You’ve come for secrets. You’ve come for knowledge. You’ve come for answers. All of which can be provided.”
You take another step and position yourself on the other side of the stone table, creating some sort of distance between yourself and the Daedric Prince.
Within Hermaeus Mora’s mass are smaller eyes. They blink at random, some of them disappearing entirely before returning. “Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here. To my realm. To me. As I knew it would.”
Storn Crag-Strider talked about how Hermaeus Mora likes to possess things just for the sake of possessing them. If Miraak is like you, if he is Dragonborn, then you are one more object for the Daedric Prince to hoard.
He called Apocrypha your new home, but you’re not interested in staying here, falling to the same madness the Ciphers have.
As if sensing your unease, Hermaeus Mora retreats a bit more, his form receding in shape. Like this, he isn’t nearly as frightening, but you still know who he is, and that is enough to ward off any attempt to bolt.
“What can you tell me about Miraak?” You want to divert this line of conversation to something else. Hermaeus Mora is too focused on you, and you do not care for his wandering eye. It moves in the socket, assessing, and it gives you a sense of objectification, like he’s trying to decide how valuable you are to his goals.
“Does my form disturb you?” he asks gently, not answering your question. “Would you prefer something more familiar to your mortality?”
Before you have the chance to object, Mora turns inward, his tentacles folding in as if he’s being pushed through a keyhole in a door. It all melds together and then drips to the floor. Those tentacles unfurl slowly in an upward arch, binding with each other to present a humanoid perversion of Hermaeus Mora.
He has two hands. Two feet. Two arms. Two legs. The Daedric Lord stands tall in this form, easily closing in on seven feet tall. These features are the only normal parts about him. His entire body is shiny, reflective like the inky water of his realm. Briefly, you consider whether or not it would part like water, or if it’s solid like skin. There are no anatomical features like nipples. It’s all smooth, including the space between his legs.
In the center of Mora’s face is a large, singular eye. There is no mouth, but that isn’t a surprise. Even in his true form, Hermaeus Mora has no physical mouth from which to speak. He simply does.
“Is this more pleasing to you, Dovahkiin?” Hermaeus Mora extends his hands outward, flexing each finger. A lone tentacle appears from behind his back to slide over and around his right leg. It stays put.
“Not particularly,” you answer, knowing that the truth is best.
“You offend me,” he laughs softly. Mora isn’t insulted at all. It’s clear that your discomfort amuses him. He strides forward, and there is a purposeful swagger. It’s very… human.
His hand reaches out toward the stone table, the tips of his fingers brushing along the curved edge as he circles the rocky slab. Instinct has you walking backward, but this version of Mora is tall, and his stride covers twice the distance yours does.
“You didn’t answer my question about Miraak,” you state, the fine hairs on your neck standing on end as Mora’s humanoid form advances into your personal space.
“All that he knows, he learned from me.” Hermaeus Mora’s hand reaches up, the tip of one finger running along the curve of your jaw. He is not cold or hot. In fact, there is no temperature, but his touch is tangible like flesh.
“That is not an answer and you know it,” you retort.
That large eye softens, the eyelids closing slighting as if your stubbornness is something to be enjoyed. “Miraak has been my loyal servant for many years. He has served me well, but he…grows restless under my guidance.”
Another tentacle appears from behind Mora’s back. This one wiggles upward before sliding over his shoulder and around his neck like a collar. It stays in place, shifting only when he does.
“Miraak desires to return to your world. It would spread my influence more widely across Tamriel, but it will also release him from my direct control.” Mora demonstrates his meaning by lifting a clenched fist and releasing the tension in the muscles, exposing his open palm. Within the palm, the blackness parts, and an eye appears. It briefly glances in your direction before retreating.
The finger tracing your jaw shifts into his hand. Mora steps closer and you have to crane your neck upward to see him properly. “It may be time to replace him with a more loyal servant. One who still appreciates the gifts I have to offer,” he purrs, the touch becoming a caress against your cheek.
For a moment, you lean into the touch, your body surrendering to his power. It lasts for only a handful of seconds. You’re quickly thrown out of the pull to submit, reality and awareness slamming into you like a battering ram. You stumble backward, nearly fall, and only steady yourself by reaching out to grab the stone table.
“Your words are poison,” you hiss.
“No,” replies Mora. “I am your freedom.”
He is still so close, and you need to find some distance. If that means you need to stay on the other side of the room, then that’s what you’re going to do.
The second the muscles in your legs tighten with tension, Hermaeus Mora’s gaze narrows. You begin to walk backward, moving away from the Daedric Prince, but he is having none of that.
Four large tentacles shoot out from his body, each one grabbing hold of your arms and legs. He draws you back to him, your body floating above the floor. The Prince of Fate is dangerously close. If he were truly human, the two of you would likely be touching noses.
“I know what you want,” he says softly even as the tentacles tighten around your limbs. “You want to learn a Word of Power. You want to use you power as Dragonborn to bend the world to your will. You. Crave. Power.”
You have always served others. You have always done everything for everyone else. When have you stopped to do something just for you?
Hermaeus Mora’s words are tempting, a sweet song of promise that lulls you slowly into compliance. What were those symptoms Master Neloth spoke of? Signs of corruption? Signs of madness?
Loss of will.
Have you lost it? Are you being influenced by Mora or is this your own desire finally floating to the surface?
“An exchange, Dovahkiin. What say you?”
It’s not like you have anywhere to go, and you’re not sure if your Thu’um has returned. Even if it has, would it truly do anything against the Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate? Doubtful. In his realm, he suppressed your Thu’um for a time, which means he could do it again. Why tempt fate when the odds are not on your side.
“I’m listening,” you whisper, hating that you’re giving in to him.
His shoulders soften with pleasure when you acquiesce. “Knowledge for knowledge. I bestow upon you a missing piece, and in return, you give me one of your secrets.” Hermaeus Mora clarifies his meaning by running the back of his hand down your throat.
There are worse things. There are worse deals. And this will be temporary. You will make it so.
You swallow, and deal the killing blow. “I will serve you in this way in exchange for your knowledge.”
Hermaeus Mora’s humanoid forms swells with pride. “Here then is the knowledge you need. Although,” he laughs. “You did not know you needed it. Not until you came to me.”
That massive singular eye of his closes. The tentacles around your limbs draw you closer until the two of you are almost touching. Then, the Daedric Prince clears the distance, resting his forehead against your own, joining your flesh with his.
“The second Word of Power. Use it to bend the wills of mortals to your purpose.”
The connection is immediate. It’s a blow to the face. A sharp tug on your hair. The strike of a sword against a shield.
The language of the dragons’ batters against your skull. The Word of Power appears before you, and your body immediately responds, absorbing all its knowledge and memory into yourself. It tastes like fire, and everything vibrates with a thudding thrum like the beat of dragon wings.
Your body takes it in, melts the Word of Power down into blood, and injects into your marrow, fusing yourself with the innate ability to wield it. It is your history. It is your truth. A piece that has always been with you.
Your eyes snap open and there is Mora’s singular eye.
The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.
Part Two
ao3 // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist
On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.
Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.
It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.
Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.
You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.
“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”
Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”
Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”
“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”
“Naturally.”
The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.
Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.
It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.
Master Neloth was that person.
Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.
As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”
“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.
“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.
“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”
“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”
“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”
Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.
The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.
“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”
His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”
You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.
“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”
Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.
“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.
Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.
“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.
Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.
“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”
The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.
Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.
“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.
The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.
“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.
This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.
Better to face it all now.
“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.
“I know.” The admission is painful.
“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”
You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”
“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”
“You only say that because I pay you well.”
Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”
The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”
Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”
“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.
With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.
The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.
Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.
Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.
The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.
At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.
The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.
Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.
Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.
Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.
The abyss is gone, and instead…
You’re not entirely sure where you are.
Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.
You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.
Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.
Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.
Nothing.
The pages are blank.
You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.
You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.
Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.
Is that what you fell through?
As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.
Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.
Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.
With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.
The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.
Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.
It is so very different now.
Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.
What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.
Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.
As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.
But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.
The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.
There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.
Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.
A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.
It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.
With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.
Your finger slips from the bowstring.
The arrow whistles.
It lifts its head in curiosity.
Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.
There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.
Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.
Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.
As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.
A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.
There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.
You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.
This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.
With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.
It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.
Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.
The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.
The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.
The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.
The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.
The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.
“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.
You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.
But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.
Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.
All expect one.
With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.
You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.
Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.
A roar from behind you stirs your feet.
“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.
“Dovahkiin!”
The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.
With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.
A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.
“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”
No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?
You’re…certain?
A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.
Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?
If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.
The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”
Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.
“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”
Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”
The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.
Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.
“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”
From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.
“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”
short chapters to get into the groove, if you saw my intro post :). let me know if you have any feedback srsly!
wc: 860
Rogue
Coming to consciousness, a woman warns, “If one thing goes wrong, you’ll be held responsible, Diego. My way.” Opening my eyes, bright industrial lights burn my vision, before my hand can cover my eyes, a chain tightens around my wrist.
I hear a buzz before my entire body lights on fire. I scream as the electricity works its way through my body.
“She’s awake; stop!
The smell of sweat, grass, and metal fills my nostrils- second to a good cigarette. I lay on the edge of a high cliff, tall grass hiding my body as I watch over Las Almas, the beautiful, bustling city. Peering through the scope of my gun, I notice a green glow on my SDR transmitter. Someone else is here. Picking it up, I scan the city area for enemy radio frequencies.
Hoping they're ain’ any, I open the journal they gave me when I woke up. So many entries, helpful tips too, I mean logistically; coordinate tracking, scent blocking, frequency jamming, you name it. The journal has eight entries about people, seven of them are all about Simon, one is about ma.
I don’t know what they did to me that day or why. Since the experiment I haven't been able to remember anything, but reading the journal entries gives me a few pieces to the puzzle I used to call life. I know that ma is dead and can remember his voice, the words he spoke, the feeling. Before I can get lost in my head my radio cracks.
“Rogue, this is Salgado. How copy?” The beeping of my transmitter finishes for him.
“Salgado,” Diego Salgado, right hand to el sin nombre. “Good copy. Just got a hit. If I had to guess… seven miles northwest,” Another signal hits, on the other side of the city, they’re talking.
“Follow up on it. Update me once you have the situation controlled,” the radio goes silent as I reattach it to my belt. I write down the last updated coordinates before folding up my sdr and shoving it in my pack.
I take off towards my goal, jogging through the grass and into the trees. It almost feels freeing to run through the woods. It would feel a lot better if bugs weren't flying into my eyes. After following the pin for about 40 minutes I reach the edge of the other end of the forest. I take a deep breath feeling my chest expand.
Squatting down next to a tall tree, I brace my rifle against my shoulder to scope out the area. Tall grass and wildflowers cover the plain. Nothing looks out of the ordinary until a skull enters my line of sight- a man. He sprints toward me. I drop the gun, strap tightening against my shoulder, chest tight. I take off in the opposite direction. My hair whipping against my face, gun bouncing against my hip with every stride, wind deafening. A loud crack breaks my focus, looking over my shoulder the man is standing, his rifle pointed at me. Before I hear the sound a boiling bullet slams through my right shoulder, throwing me to the ground. I taste the dirt as a throbbing pain wracks through my body.
Simon
“Soap, I’ve got somethin’- or someone,” a soldier.
My voice is steady. She runs quickly, cutting a clean wake through the tall grass towards the cliffside. I track her path, stop, and exhale. Letting the rifle settle into my shoulder, I trace my target with the scope and squeeze the trigger.
I watch as the round connects, her body jerks, sending her to the dirt. Good shot. I sling the rifle across my back, drawing my combat knife. Closing the distance with measured strides. A few meters away, I watch as she shakily stands. She steps backwards- fear riddling all of her pretty features. She grabs the knife from her belt, stepping back and stumbling onto her arse. If I weren't busy, I’d laugh at her pathetic attempt at salvation.
Rogue
Pushing off the ground with my good arm, he's only meters away. I grab my blade, stepping away from him I stumble over a rock. Scrambling to my knees again, I push back onto my feet. Looking behind me over the cliffside, the river runs rampant this time of the year. Thick whitewater rapids swallow each other whole. Mist rising up the rock face.
He's stepping out of the grass, closing the gap. Trapped, the sun gleams against his combat blade. Dark eyes behind a bright white mask, I’m gonna die either way. In desperate need of a chance I jumped off the cliffside.
Simon
Stepping into the shallow grass, knife ready. Expecting her to be halfway dead. Instead she's already scrambling to her feet like a kicked dog. She hits the edge of the plateau, cornered. Below us, the river is a white water tyrant, rapids smashing against the rocks.
She doesn't even hesitate, flinging herself over the edge. Smart.
I tap my comms as I sprint for the drop. “Soap! Change of plans. Target jumped. Tell the team we’re getting picked up early.”
I don't pause at the edge. I sheath my knife, diving off the ledge after her.
| bishop x f!reader | notes: had two requests of Bishop with sad/introvert reader so here’s a mashup ayeee | warnings: stripper work, reader has A BAD BOYFRIEND, reader smokes, just very sad, angsty, kinda fluff, just emotions going through, etc | mdni18+ | wc: 1k |
Working as a stripper wasn’t exactly the ideal job.
But neither was not being able to pay your rent.
So, taking a job at a place called ‘Silver Springs’ was a desperate need on your life. Alamo and Big Eddy were ‘ok’ bosses. You didn’t really interact much with them or the girls. You were quiet, shy, and reserved. Still, you had good potential and it’s why you would be placed to dance most nights.
It was something about those eyes of yours. A sad look on them. A hint of tiredness that made your moves more sensual and intimate.
The more you danced, the more Bishop noticed.
Bishop is a reserved man, always kept his thoughts to himself and never entered anyone’s business. But something about you made him so interested. Why would you pick this job in the first place? Was there something in your life that made you look so sad? Why was he urging to talk to you?
Your boyfriend wasn’t exactly a help when it came to your job. It’s not that he was against it, he actually was the one who encouraged you. But it was nights like this that he would become a completely different person. It made you wonder why you were still with him in the first place.
“I told you I had this party a week ago, and I don’t understand why you can’t just ask someone in there to give you a ride.” You were outside the strip club, cigarette in hand and phone on your ear, arguing with your boyfriend for what felt like the sixth time that day.
“First of all, I thought you didn’t fuck with that guy anymore, and second of all, you brought it up just to complain about it! And why would you go without me?” You face that was covered in tears was starting to get dry form the wind that was blowing outside. “Connections! Connections! What can’t you fucking get? I really have to explain to you everything like if you were a toddler.” He fights back, only making your lip tremble.
“I don’t need this.” You mutter, inhaling your cigarette, “Yeah. you fucking don’t— so I’m sorry but I can’t exactly—” You hung up the phone right there. You didn’t need to hear anymore bullshit explanations of him. More tears fell out your face, no sobs. Just pure sadness taking over your body.
That’s when you hear the door open, quickly looking to your right, you see him. Alamo’s worker, Bishop. He stays still for a moment, taking in that you were sitting down with a small hoodie and a cigarette, teary faced and red eyes.
“Sorry.” He says, slowly closing the door. Bishop doesn’t know why he apologized, it’s not like he was going to bother you. Or he thought. Quickly you wiped your tears away with the back of your hand, calming your breathing, “It’s okay.” You choke out, not really able to look at him. Not because you were embarrassed, you just literally couldn’t with how blurry your eyes got.
While you practically rubbed your whole face, you didn’t notice Bishop had gotten closer, “Here.” When you opened your eyes, you see a small tissue on his hand, his prayer beads hanging on the side. “Oh— thank you.” You sniff, taking the tissue you quickly pass it through your face to dry out the tears.
Bishop slowly takes a sit beside you, observing how you had put your cigarette out, you cleared your throat and blew your nose a couple of times. “Sorry…” You whispered but Bishop just shook his head, “Nonsense.” You smile at him. The small moment is ruined when your phone buzzes again, your boyfriend. You just sigh deeply before hanging it up.
“Why were you crying?” Bishop asks softly, as if he didn’t read the phone call and wasn’t starting to put the pieces together. You just scoff at his question, “It’s nothing really…” and you could’ve left it at that, I mean it was so much to unpack about the problems you had with your boyfriend. You didn’t want to be that person with Bishop.
He stays looking at you for a moment before he gives a small nod, “Got it—” “It’s just that my boyfriend has been such an asshole to me the moment I got this job. It’s not that he doesn’t mind that I’m a dancer— it’s just like— he doesn’t see me as his girlfriend anymore. As if we don’t live in my apartment and I pay the rent. And he— he— he goes to every party in the city and flirts with girls and then brush it off as him being ‘friendly’ but God forbid I talk with one guy and now he’s ongoing joke is that I’m with him to get with his friends.” You vomit out all the feelings you had bottled up.
It made Bishop now understand why you always looked so sad. Why on your breaks you were always fighting on the phone. Probably why you smoked and why you were here crying. Crying, you hadn’t noticed that more tears were pouring down your face. That’s when you felt his finger brush your cheek, wiping a tear away.
Your eyes meet again, really meet this time. The world got so quiet so quickly. A wave of calmness going down your body. For a small moment, you felt peace. “I’d take you home but, I don’t think I’d want you staying with that guy.” You feel your heart drop at Bishop’s words. Suddenly reading this situation in a different way, but it also wouldn’t be right to overthink it this way.
“Um…” You sniffle, looking down at your phone before looking back up. “I can stay with a friend, but I’d need to get my stuff.” Bishop hums before staying still, his mind working quickly before standing up. “Then let’s go.”
꧂
The drive to your house wasn’t far, especially not driving in your boyfriend’s beat up car anyway. Bishop stood on the corner of your house while you took your things of most value and put them on a bag. “If I were you, I’d leave.” Bishop said, making you stop dead on your tracks.
You just smile shyly, looking around and then back to your bag, “I don’t know if I should overstay my welcome to my friend.” But Bishop just takes the bag of your hands, “I have a spare room.” You feel your cheeks getting red at the sudden invite, I mean, you and Bishop never talked much, now he’s inviting you to be roommates?
The drive to your friend was a little far from your apartment. She told you that you were welcome as much as you liked which it definitely made you feel better. Now in the car, you and Bishop sat in silence while on the drive. It didn’t take long for you to get cold, quietly shivering, pressing your bare thighs together for warmth. Bishop quickly noticed, making sure to turn the heat on his car.
“Thanks.” You whisper, looking at Bishop, who was already looking at your direction, he shares the smallest smile. “You enjoy working in Silver Springs?” Bishop asks you after some minutes. “I mean, it’s nice and all but— it’s not exactly the dream job. At least for me.” You quickly add that last sentence, even though it was just you and Bishop in the car you didn’t want to seem like a prude. “I understand.” He replies.
“You can always just quit, Alamo won’t mind.” Bishop talks again. “Yeah, and then I’d be unemployed.” You whisper, “Why? Does he want me to quit?” You suddenly ask, now thinking that this was all just Bishop letting you know you were getting fired. But he shuts it down quicker than you thought, “No. But I know you don’t enjoy working there.” He looks back at you. “Don’t you think that?” Your body feels heavier when his eyes are on you, feeling wavering emotions all over you. A small shrug appears on you, “I guess.”
Approaching your friend’s house, you and Bishop talked for what felt like for hours about anything. It felt good to si and just talk about things without an end. You hadn’t had something like this in so long. “I can’t thank you enough, really.” You spoke softly. Bishop had his car parked right outside your friend’s house.
“Don’t worry.” He mutters softly, looking around the streets, memorizing the place just in case. “I meant what I said you know.” He speaks again, looking at your doe eyes. “A woman like you shouldn’t be wasting her time with a man like that.” His words sink into you, Bishop was encouraging you to get the life you deserved.
You hadn’t noticed you were looking down into you felt his hand under your chin, making you look at him. “You’re beautiful.” He whispered. Your eyes for the first time shine bright and not with tears. Feeling validated by Bishop made you feel good about yourself. Without thinking you lean to embrace Bishop, his warm body against your cold one. It didn’t take long before quiet sobs came out of you, “Thank you.” You whimper out.
Bishop’s soft hand was caressing your back, fingers running through your spine that was covered with the material of your hoodie. “It’s ok.” He shushes your light sobs. You pull away wiping the tears left before groaning, “I wet your shirt, I’m sorry.” I’m Bishop’s left side was damped with the tears you had just cried. “Now you’re apologizing too much.” He jokes, making you laugh.
The door opening catches your attention, seeing your friend wave. You and Bishop get out, making your way to the truck, he hands you your bag. “I’ll let Alamo know you’re coming back Tuesday.” He speaks, “Oh— Bishop you don’t have to—” “Don’t.” He quickly cuts you off.
You stand there in the cold night for a moment, looking at each other. But then you snap back, remembering your friend is waiting for you. “Thanks again.” You point to his hand, where you had previously written your phone number, “You know where to find me.” Bishop looks down, then back at you, giving you a warm smile. “Take care.”
You quickly nod, putting your bag over your shoulder. It was now or never, following your heart, you lean to give Bishop a kiss on the cheek. Flashing a quick smile, you quickly walk towards the door. “Thank you!”
Now inside your friend quickly shut the door, unstoppable giggles as she dragged you to the couch, “Bro— who was that!?” She asks, but you just continue to giggle. It didn’t take long for the two of you to crawl towards the window, peeking to see Bishop get in the car, staying there for a moment, he just scoffs before driving away.
On the drive, he touches the cheek that you kissed, hard to push down the emotions his beating heart was giving him. He then quietly smiles to himself. Satisfied he got to finally see a side of you he had been waiting to know.
Your friend smacks your head lightly, “What about you boyfriend?” You just groan making your way to the bathroom.
“Forget him.” You had a new man to look forward to.
He loved that the first thing his eyes saw, other than your ceiling, was your sleeping figure on top of him. Feeling your soft breaths against him.
He loved when you woke up, a small stretch and a grumble when your eyes met with the sun that entered through your window.
Bishop loves you.
“Did you dream about me?”
“You always ask me that.”
Bishop had you on top him, your face on his hand, slowly looking at every single detail on your face. “I actually dreamt of San Diego.” He answered, seeing your eyes light up, “Really?” “Mmhmm.”
You sigh, taking his hand to interlock it with yours. A wicked smile creeping on your face, you looked at him again, “What were we doing?”
“I have to shower.” Bishop quickly tries to stand up, but your burst of laughter and giggles pushed him down, your lips meeting. “Bishop…” You whispered, feeling his erection bump against your clothed cunt.
Bishop just kept kissing you, especially over the small bruise he had left on top of your shoulder, “What?” He whispers back, making you grind against him. It didn’t take long for you to take over, slow grinds becoming desperate.
You quickly reach to push your panties to the side and take Bishop’s dick out his boxers. Bringing your fingers to your mouth, you spit quickly to give Bishop quick strokes.
“Just like that, baby.” Bishop groans, seeing you grind yourself against his head, before sinking all the way down. He felt so much bigger like this, especially when he wasn’t bothering to lead you as he did.
He just placed his hands behind his head, giving you a beautiful view of his toned arms, “Show me, baby. Show me how you want to bounce on this dick.” You moan at his request, placing your hands on his chest, going up until his head was the only thing inside of you, until you went down to meet your clit against his pelvis.
Bishop was in love with the image in front of him. He loved seeing you work yourself on his cock almost as if he was your toy. He had taken your sleep shirt off, admiring your bouncing tits.
Quickly you leaned down to kiss him. How couldn’t you kiss him? He was here on your bed, under you, making you feel and unforgettable pleasure that not even your favorite vibrator could replace. “I feel you in my stomach.” You whimpered against his mouth, taking his hand and leading it to where his dick was pushing out to create a bulge.
Bishop groans feeling himself like this. Looking down to see for himself. “That’s me, huh?” He pushes his hand down, “That’s me that’s fucking you this good?” You quickly agree, bouncing faster and faster.
The word escaped your mouth before you could even catch it. It’s not even like you wanted it to mean something, it just felt right in the moment. “That’s you fucking me, daddy.” Bishop looks up at you, how your eyes were completely shut, and mouth open leaving out high pitch moans.
Bishop could feel your cunt grip him harder, your movements getting weak with how close you were getting. He thinks fast, grabbing you by the waist and pushing you against the pillows. “Yeah? Daddy’s fucking you this good?” He had your legs spread open for him, letting him not just have a view of your body but fuck you as deep as he could.
“Yes! Daddy you’re fucking me so good!” You moan, unable to control the flow of emotions with the new position Bishop locked you down on. He was gone, too focused on his thrusts that he pushed in and out of you. “You take it so good, puppy…this pussy knows who owns it yeah?” “Oh, it’s yours! — daddy I’m yours.”
Bishop nods, feeling your climax get closer with your grip. “Cum on this dick. Show me how you cum for me.” You quietly sobbed, reaching for your clit you start rubbing it. After 2 and 3 rubs, short moans came out of you, your orgasm making want to close your legs shut, but Bishop wasn’t having it.
Fastening his thrusts, he held your shaking legs open, “Show me, Bunny, show me who’s making you cum.” From short moans to sobs you continued to come on Bishop’s dick, slobbering it with your juices. It hurt so good.
Now, Bishop loved when he came inside of you, it was like he had a slice of heaven on this living hell. Especially with you. But— a plan b does cost $50 dollars, and he wasn’t exactly planning to waste $100 dollars under a week. Four more thrusts, he quickly pulls out to cum on you.
But you didn’t want that.
“No!” You quickly whine, taking his dick, you pushed it inside ignoring the small burn, but looking at Bishop’s face. “Inside—” You hiccup, “I want it inside.” “Oh— fuck!” Bishop shuts his eyes at the feeling of sliding inside your pussy again. He didn’t stop cumming— he couldn’t it. Your cunt felt so good and warm, he genuinely couldn’t pull away. Coming down his high, Bishop opened his eyes to look at you, a shy smile, dry drool on the side of your mouth.
He scoffs, “You’re crazy.” Slowly pushing away he looks down seeing all his cum flood out. “So much, B…” You whisper, rubbing his cum through your puffy lips. “Now I have to buy you another...” Bishop mutters, referring to the pill but you shot up to open your drawer from your bedside table. “Magick had an extra one.” You smile, holding an extra box of Plan B.
Bishop went to open his mouth. but you shut him off, “I’m going on the pill, too. If you want to come to my appointment.” Bishop felt his heart flutter, it was getting serious. “You know, unprotected sex doesn’t just lead to pregnancy.” He muttered, softly rubbing your thigh. You roll your eyes, “Grandpa, that I know…” You sit up, eye to eye. “I’m clean.” “Grandma, I’m clean too.” He mocks you, a small smile creeping on him seeing you laugh.
It’s cuts off with a kiss, Bishop lightly massaging your jaw, “Daddy…huh?” You squeal, covering his mouth quickly shy with his comment.
꧂
“Maaaan, I don’t know who’s fucking Lola, but imma need a piece of that with how happy you come to work.” Midnight spoke up the moment you walked in, huge smile and a calm expression. The rest of the girls threw in some ‘oohs’, making you giggle as you sat on your chair.
“What can I say? I’m satisfied.” You said coyly, making the girls laugh and giggle. “I know the last time I got fucked good had to be with my last baby daddy.” Rochelle spoke up, doing Magick’s hair. “La última vez que yo follé,” Magick speaks up, raising her pinkie with a frown. “This small was the dick, not even exaggerating.” The girls groaned, overlapping stories about their previous hookups.
That’s when Magick points to you, “Cuenta. How big is it?” You feel a warm blush creep on your cheeks, repeating all the sexual times you had with Bishop, including this morning. “Guess.” You speak up, already changing onto your feather top of the night.
Midnight clears her throat, hands clasp together until she talked, “Say when bitch.” She starts separating them, implying how big Bishop’s dick was. Funny, no one knew it was Bishop the man you were seeing.
Giggling, you kept saying ‘more’ each time she thought about stopping, leaving the girls squeal to this information. “I know you’re fucking lying!” Midnight expressed, her hands still not stopping. The room was erupted with giggles and laughs, that was until—
“Lola Bunny.” Bishop.
All the girls, including you, quickly shut up to look at the doorway, there stood Bishop’s tall figure, Rue behind him with a dorky smile. You gulp, looking at the girls before looking at him. “Yes?” You ask, seeing his eyes go to Midnight’s extended hands, she quickly puts them down.
“Tonight, you’ll be bringing some of Rue’s clients to the private.” He starts talking. “Meet us in 10.” Bishop was going to turn, head out with Rue to continue their errands, that was until he stopped, turning to look at you again. “Do I make myself clear?” He says in a harsh tone.
You start nodding before speaking up, “Yes, Bishop.” He gives a side smile, looking again at the whole room, “Ladies.” He dismisses himself with that.
“There go Babadook.” Rochelle mutters, the girls giggling, except you, just giving a small smile.
꧂
10 minutes, you get there on the dot, seeing Bishop and Rue stand by the open private room. “Bishop.” You whisper, quickly looking up and down at Rue. You sigh, “Rue.”
Rue just smiles, making her way in. “Check it out! Selling guns for Mexico!” She displays the number of guns she had aligned on the table. You stay looking at them for a while, before looking towards to Bishop, “You’re doing this too?” “No. Just monitoring.” He quickly responds, slow eyes finding yours. “What about the ones from San Diego?” You ask again. Bishop points to two of them in the corner, “Those two, the rest are with Alamo.”
“What happened in San Diego?” Rue asks, looking at you quickly. “These are the men that are going to come in today.” Bishop completely ignores Rue’s question, starting to explain to you your agenda. “You bring them, Rue sells, call it a day.” He finishes explaining. “Ok.” You mumbled, seeing the pictures of all the men.
Rue clears her throat, making you and Bishop look up. “…yes, Rue.” Bishop mutters, clearly feeling bothered and it wasn’t even the afternoon. “I just— I don’t know let’s all stay in the same page.” She points towards you, whispering, “She knows about Tish.” It took you everything in you to not laugh at her huge statement. You and Bishop look at each other, a secret knowing look.
“Rue, Lola was who found Tish.” He replies, turning to you, seeing you giggle quietly. “Oh God, Lola, I’m— I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard.” You quickly shut off into a serious face towards her. “Yeah. Yeah, Rue it was pretty fucking awful.”
You look at Bishop, “And no one did nothing about it so—” You shrug, “Great to know the care under this place.” You just got angry all over, Bishop couldn’t even mind about the fact Tish had died, how he didn’t fight enough for her.
Before he could speak up, you just turn to walk away, his lingering eyes going down your rack. God you were so happy this morning. “She’s gorgeous.” Rue speaks up, making Bishop pop his thought bubble. Looking at her one last time, he walks away, “Clean up the bathrooms.” Was the last thing he ordered Rue.
꧂
Through the rest of the day, you and Bishop barely talked. I mean you never technically did, in person. You personally believed it was for the better. Keep a distance for once.
Bishop knew you head to toe. He wasn’t going to push himself onto you if that wasn’t what you wanted. The only small times he saw you was when you brought the assigned clients. He could feel his heart warm up at just looking at you, only you.
The day was regular, at least that’s what you thought.
You were flirting your way with this customer for money, that was until hell broke loose, hearing a pig scream and erupt inside the club, it was the only thing everyone focused on. The pig was a mess, pushing things around and pissing on the carpet. The gunshot felt almost too quick, blood drawn everywhere especially all over one of the dancers. Gross.
Now on the makeup room, Alamo dismissed all of the dancers for the day, needing time to get the image of a shot pig out of everyone’s brains, clean the club, it was practically a day off.
You stood outside for a moment, seeing the sky reach the afternoon. “You got nowhere to be?” You didn’t need to turn around to know who was talking to you. “Why do you ask?” Now looking at him eye to eye, you felt your heart get warm, it wasn’t easy to not feel happy with him.
Bishop shrugs looking at how pretty you looked in a dark blue comfy two set, “Don’t know. Thought you had some things to do.” And he was right, you had mentioned about things you needed to do and now you had the free time to do so. “And you wanna come with?” “You don’t own a car.” He steps closer, seeing you still had your makeup on. You only thought about it for a minute before agreeing to run errands with Bishop. “Sure.”
꧂
It wasn’t exactly like you had that many errands to run, just return some clothes, pick up mail, and of course, go to the mall. But it was 10 times more fun doing it with Bishop.
You dragged Bishop to every single store at the mall you guys were in. You tried on clothes, shoes, jewelry, even hats. Bishop just stood by your side, holding your purse and any bag of the things you had bought through the day. The best part was that each time you went to the cashier, you were blessed to hear Bishop say, “I’ll pay for it.” You don’t know how possible it was for your smile to grow harder each time.
Now standing in a park bench, frozen yogurt in hand, Bishop was getting a phone call order from Alamo. You stood quiet, trying to hear most of the conversation, which was hard considering there was a park full of kids in front of you, and you could mostly only hear the crunch of some of the bites your dessert had.
“Where are you right now?” Alamo asked Bishop through the phone, who had his other hand slowly massaging your neck, a comforting touch to let you know he wasn’t putting you aside. “My mother.” Yet he lied his way to not put you or him on any type of danger.
He hears Alamo grunt through the phone, “Gonna need you for tomorrow with Rue. That bitch not smart enough to go over to Laurie’s. And those crackhead morons not taking her from us.” Bishop lightly grips your neck, making you turn your him for a brief moment. “She has a wedding tomorrow.” “Then afterwards, hearing some vows not going to take her the whole night!”
The phone call only lasted two more minutes before Bishop hangs up, a deep sigh escaping his lips. “Look at this dog.” You quietly say, showing Bishop a funny video of a dog riding a skateboard. “Hilarious.” He mutters, standing up and taking most of your bags. “Let’s go.” You obey, throwing away your dessert before grabbing Bishop’s free hand.
꧂
Back at your place, Bishop quietly saw you put away all the things you bought. He could tell you had a long day, the sun setting outside on your balcony. “I’m not going to be here tomorrow.” He whispers, testing the waters on your reaction. “Why?” You just ask, too busy sending a text, still making your way towards him.
Bishop waits until you lay across from him, softly caressing your head, “Work.” You hum to his words, looking at him. “Did you mean what you said the night Tish died?” Bishop asks again, suddenly making you give him more of your attention.
“What are you talking about?” “You were asleep, and when I laid with you, you cried and said, ‘I wish I never met you.’ Did you mean that?” Bishop doesn’t know why he’s bringing it up now. It’s like it wasn’t possible to have a good day between the two of you without bringing up a problem. You stand on your knees, fiddling your sheets. “I mean, no but— I wish—” You didn’t think it would be this hard to actually talk about, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“I don’t know. I wish we could’ve met another way. But I don’t regret being with you is what I mean.” You whisper, seeing his face trying to read any emotion from that straight face of his. Bishop sits up, “I know I’m not a perfect person. I don’t work a usual job and you’ve seen me do things that are not exactly actions that lead to world peace.” Bishop said. “I want to apologize. I’m sorry that— I’m sorry that this isn’t the ideal life you wanted.”
Bishop’s words sink down on you. Letting all the memories and thoughts flow through your mind. You think back at when you first met Bishop. Not paying much mind to him at first, still holding an eye out for him. Who would’ve thought it was to go this far.
Your attention snaps back when you hear Bishop call your name. Making you look around for a moment. “Don’t.” You whisper, leaning in to kiss him. “Don’t ever feel this way.” You mumble through kisses before laying on his chest. Bishop quickly relaxes, resting his head on top of yours. “I’ll miss you.” You whisper hearing him hum, “It’s only a day. You won’t even notice.”
A giggle escapes your lips, “Guess you’ll have to leave.” You sit up, seeing his reaction. Bishop had furrowed his brows, “You’re hilarious.” He says but you just start shaking your head. “I’m serious! I don’t see why you’re here if you’re not gonna fuck me or give me your money…” It didn’t take long for Bishop to reach for you and start tickling. Which it may sound silly, Bishop out of all people tickling you but— he was more than just a guy to you.
