Guilty Pleasures

Paddy Mayne, the dark stain on the porn industry. 

You had heard of him before, never positive. It was either an insult or denouncing his work in the industry. Everyone you knew had a horror story about working with him⎯production staff, other actors, even the janitors had horror stories about him. Nobody wanted to work with him. Nobody. He was practically blacklisted because of his shitty temper and outbursts. So it was surprising that your agent would allow you to film with him. Most girls who filmed with him either got blacklisted, or made a quick shift to only doing cam girl and Onlyfans stuff. But, the pay must be good enough to look past all of Paddy’s…unfavorable habits. Or perhaps, they saw the traction that it would bring to you and it was worth the risk of just filming one stupid video with him. 

Wrinkling your nose up in disgust, you cringe at the thick layer of setting spray sprayed over your body, the body glitter was stupid but supposedly going to look good on camera. Coughing as they spray up to your neck, you wave a hand, trying to clear the air. Ugh, you didn’t need stupid body glitter. Using some watered down baby oil would’ve had the same effect on camera. Hearing the back door slam shut violently, the make-up artist jumps up at the sound, her face scrunching up in thick tension. Furrowing your brows at her sudden shift from calm to tense, you glance from the corner of your eye, watching as Paddy walks in. His cheeks a bright pink from what you were almost certain was anger, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. 

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” You mumble, flicking your gaze between him and the rest of the production crew. 

“That’s just…kinda how he is.” She weakly explains, fiddling with the setting spray bottle.

“You’re kidding.” You scoff, rolling your eyes hard as everyone in the room tenses as Paddy walks past them. 

“No..” She whispers back, avoiding eye contact.

God, he was so unprofessional. 

If you had dared to act the way he does, Twitter would have a field day in cancelling you before your career could take off. Putting the can of setting spray down, the make-up artist grabs a can of hairspray, not warning you before spraying your hair. Coughing as a cloud of hair spray hits you right in the face, Paddy glances over his shoulder to you, brows raising up at the sight of you choking on hair spray. Turning your head away from the cloud of hair spray, you wave your hand around, attempting to disburse it to be able to breathe. You didn’t really know why you needed to be covered in body glitter or caked in pounds of make-up or have your hair curled like you were starring in an old Hollywood film and not porn. It was all going to get ruined anyways. 

“Christ, trying to kill me before I have to film?” You joke, grimacing as you can taste it in the back of your throat. 

“Sorry.” She apologies, looking like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

“Hey, it’s fine.” You joke bitterly, putting on an overly fake grumpy face. “I would rather choke on hair spray than a dick.” 

“I bet.” She weakly jokes back, weakly smiling at your attempt to cheer her up.

Flicking her eyes over your shoulder, she tense up instantly, looking like she had just seen a monster standing behind you. Hearing the chair beside you scuff against the floor, you turn your head to find Paddy sitting there, staring you down intensely. You didn’t know why he was staring, it could've been an intimation tactic or that just that he had staring problems on top of his other problems. Either way, it was stupidly childish. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes at the stare, you look him up and down slowly, taking a moment to really look at him. He was smaller than you had originally imagined, the camera’s always made him look like this monster. But, he was handsome. 

Streaks of blonde blended in with the dark strands that were slicked back. Piercing blue eyes that felt like they were inspecting the darkest parts of you. A slightly crooked nose from you had a feeling was from getting his ass handed to him for being such a dick. Letting out a low hum at the sight of him, you turn your head back to the make-up artist, watching her try to shrink into herself. Paddy wasn’t even that intimidating. Besides, he seemed like the kind to feed off of people being all scared of him. He continues to stare you down, not making a single noise. Not a huff or grunt. Slowly exhaling, he blows some smoke in your direction, making you glare.

“I am going to assume that you’re staring at me because you can’t remember my name and not because you’re a massive dick who lacks professionalism.” You cut the silence short, patience already wearing thin for him.

“Sure.” He grunts out, eyes narrowing on you.

“It’s ( Y/n ), or ( PS/n ).” You force a professional smile on your face as you look at him, “It’s nice to meet you officially, Mr Mayne.”

He doesn’t respond back, just narrows his eyes further. 

Gritting your teeth tensely at his silence, you tried to be as professional as possible, to just shrug all this bad behavior off. But, god was it really fucking hard. He was a grown ass man, and incapable of being professional about this. Taking a sharp breath in through your nose, you turn your head away, looking at the make-up artist to finish up your hair. The sooner you got ready, the sooner the two of you could film and then go your separate ways. Throwing the cigarette between his teeth on the ground in front of you, you narrow your eyes hard, watching as he just lets it burn. Asshole. At least have the decency to put it out. Stretching your leg out, you crush it with the bottom of your flip flop, barely resisting the urge to shoot him a glare for being such a dick.

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” He huffs, making you raise a brow as you catch the distinct barking Irish accent he had.

“You’re kidding, right?” You raise a brow, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

Nice accent, was on the tip of your tongue. But, you stop yourself from saying out loud. It might just give him an ego boost, and the last thing that you needed was a cocky Paddy Mayne before you both filmed. You had made that mistake once and learned the hard way. 

“No, I am not.” He grumbles, acting like talking was as painful as pulling teeth.

“Because you’re blacklisted, Paddy. You can either film with me or jerk off alone in front of the camera like a total cuck. Which we both know, won’t sell. You’re not that interesting.” You argue, not bothering to sugar coat your words.

He doesn’t respond, looking you up and down condescendingly.

“That’s what I thought.” You scoff, “Look, we’re getting paid ten thousand pounds for this stupid video, just shut up and film it so we can go our separate ways.” 

“You’re a bitch.” 

“And you’re not?” You snap back sarcastically, “Do excuse me for not kissing your ass, Paddy. I’m being paid to fuck it, not kiss it.” 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ » [ Mayne meets his match in Industry Brat ] « ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

✧ 0 : 09 ─────〇────────────────────────── 1 : 30 : 09

Chewing on your bottom lip in fake innocence, you stare at the camera lens, putting on your best look of sultry innocence. The air in the room felt sticky hot, and the leather of the couch was sticking to the back of your thighs uncomfortably making a sickening pulling sound each time you shifted even the slightest. There was nothing sexy about how you were feeling, but what the fuck could you do? There was no air conditioning in the stupid building and you couldn’t push back filming. Slowly lowering the camera from your face down to your feet, you tilt your head to the side, pretending like you were enjoying every second of this. You were a professional. You had worked in far worse conditions and could handle some minor discomfort for an hour.

“State your name for the camera, sweetheart.” The cameraman questions, a dead professional look on his face. “Don’t be shy.” 

“I’m not shy. As for my name?” You let out a ditzy giggle, “I’m ( PS/n ).”

“Are you excited for today?”

“What’s today?” You fake a pout, pretending to be confused.

“Don’t act coy, sweetheart.” He fakes a chuckle, sharing a knowing look with you.

Ugh, god you hated this demeaning ditzy “Oh, I’m just a girl” persona. But, horny suckers paid premium for it. Rarely did you get to be the dominant one in your films, always ditzy or the ditzy brat. But, then again, it was porn. So it wasn’t like you could play a philosophical character. Lifting the camera back up your legs, the cameraman zooms in on the lace of your garter belt, nodding for you to tug at them. Understanding what he was asking of you, you teasingly trail a hand down your hips to your thighs. Hooking a finger against the garter belt, you pull it back teasingly, then let it go so it snaps back against your skin. The skin reddening from the impact. 

Nodding his head in approval, he flicks his eyes between you and the lens, making sure that it was picking up everything that was needed. Spreading your legs teasingly slow, he zooms in on the body glitter just above your navel, the dim lighting giving it a glow. Resisting the urge to check the monitor off to the side to see how it looked, he tilts the camera lower, only capturing the lower half of your body and hands. Taking advantage of your top half not being in camera, you glance at the monitor mildly surprised at how good the body glitter looks on camera. If this wasn’t porn, you’d have thought that it was a cool camera effect for a movie. But, this was porn so it was..decent.

“Do you like how I look?” You tease, eye twitching at how corny the line sounds outloud.

“Mm-hm, you look so pretty.” He chuckles, looking like he was ready to clock out.

“Yeah? But, just pretty?” You giggle, mimicking his check out expression. 

“Stunning.” 

God, doing this stupid fan service stuff was soul draining. 

Rolling your eyes hard at how cheesy the script was, you glance away from the monitor, locking eyes with Paddy. Shamelessly leaning against an empty chair, he doesn’t even bother to hide his nakedness, watching you and the cameraman with an amused expression like he was trying not to crack up at how horrid this script truly was. Unable to resist the urge, you steal a quick glance over him, surprised that he was shamelessly naked. He didn’t need to be naked just yet. But, he didn’t seem to care in the slightest about that in true Paddy fashion. Letting out a low chuckle at your reaction, you wrinkle your nose up at the stark tan lines and hair on his chest. It wasn’t gross, it was just hair after all. It was just…surprising to see it on him. Most men in porn were clean shaven and with perfect fake tans. But, Paddy was different. He was wild..He…He didn’t give a fuck about it. 

“You still there, sweetheart?” The cameraman snaps you out of your daze, “You’re all quiet.” 

“Sorry..just..taking it all in.” You lie, trying to get back on track.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” He shoots you a look, motioning to keep your focus.

“Yeah.” You nod.

“But, you’re no virgin, right?”

No shit, asshole. Lifting the camera up to your face before you could respond back, you quickly snap back into character, fluttering your lashes at the lens seductively. You wanted to be snarky about the stupid question, but refrained from doing so. Chewing on your bottom lip softly as he begins to slowly circle, you let out a fake giggle, turning your head to follow it. Your thong goes up your ass uncomfortably, the urge to pick it free high. Stupid fucking lingerie. Shit didn’t cover what it needed to and always found a way to be uncomfortable. Hearing a low snort off camera, you glance away, finding Paddy cracking up at the cameraman scrambling to record every inch of you.

“( PS/n ), you like leather?” The cameraman asks, making you raise a brow up. 

“Mm-hm, why?” You nod.

“Then, you’re going to love knowing that we’re gonna tie you up.” 

Wait…what? 

Your face falls before you can stop it, the answer on the tip of your tongue dying as you scramble to remember if that was in the script. The more that you think, the more that you just know that it was not script. You had read it thoroughly, it didn’t mention any bondage. Hell, that shit was on your lists of ‘will not film’. Along with choking and hair pulling. Opening your mouth to argue back, nothing comes out of your mouth, too shocked by his words. He was fucking with you, right? It was just going to be you and Paddy fucking on the couch, there was no bondage. Digging your nails into the leather of the couch, you shift your eyes between the lens and the cameraman, waiting for him to start laughing and saying how he had got you good with his joke. 

He doesn’t laugh, just stares at you.

“You’re fucking with me?” You ask, knowing that this was probably totally off script and would earn you a scolding for ‘ruining the vibe’ of the film. 

He doesn’t respond, and that only makes things worse.

“Cut the shit, you’re joking, right?” You press, your face turning serious as no one on set cuts you off. “Don’t just fucking stare at me, answer me. That’s not in my contract.”  

Still, he doesn’t respond. 

Clenching your jaw tightly as the silence drags on and on, the shock slowly morphs into burning hot anger, your nails digging harder into the couch cushion. Seriously? They were going to try to sneak this shit on you? That was fucked up, and that was saying a lot. But, then again, that is how this fucked up industry worked⎯loopholes in contracts so that they can exploit you. This just like all those other times you had things thrown at you the day of filming.  Jolting as a hand suddenly grabs the back of your hair, your head is pulled back, forcing you to look at Paddy upside down. 

You could smell the cigarette on his breath and something spicy⎯a scent that you knew well from assholes who would show up drunk at work⎯Irish whiskey. Looking over your face slowly, you shiver at his intense stare, almost forgetting for a second that the two of you were filming. This was the Paddy Mayne that you knew of⎯the one who made girls switch to live streams. The one that was blacklisted from the industry. Swallowing the dry lump in your throat, you shrug his hand off, suddenly aware of how trapped he had you. Not just physically, but contractually. If your agent didn’t catch this little bondage slip, what else was snuck into there? 

“Should’ve read the fine print.” Paddy taunts, shaking his head with a snicker.

✧ 1 : 01 : 20 ────〇───────────────────────── 1 : 30 : 09

Letting out a choked gasp at the hard squeeze to your throat, you dig your nails into the leather cushion of the couch, your legs aching from the restraints. The leather is sticky from sweat, only adding to the uncomfortableness. You should’ve fought harder⎯bitten at him, scratched at his eyes, pulled at his hair, twisted his balls until they turned a ghastly purple color⎯something more than what you had done. You should’ve forced the crew to interfere before it crossed into a dangerous work environment. But, you didn’t. You just froze up, not believe that Paddy would actually be that fucking stupid. And look where that got you…bent over the armrest of the couch with a stupid spreader bar digging into your ankles, like some stupid breeding sow.

Tears involuntarily stream down your flushed cheeks, your lungs burning as he keeps the hard grip on your throat, denying you a breath. Eleven…Twelve..seconds now. Not long enough yet to make your vision blur and black spots to float around, but enough to make it really hurt and linger⎯to silently remind you who exactly had the upper ground right now. Him. A stubbornness in you remained unbroken, refusing to let Paddy Mayne, of all fucking people, be the one to break you down. You would not allow it. He may have overpowered you physically, but he would not break your spirit. Pressing more of his weight on your back, it forces you deeper into the couch cushion, straining to stand on your tippy-toes. Your nails drag against the cushion, trying to wiggle free.

“Stubborn little thing you are, I like that.” He purrs, enjoying getting a rise out of you.

You don’t respond, spite and a lack of air keep you silent.

“Oh, cat your tongue…or rather, old Paddy got your breath?” He snickers, finding amusement in his own stupid jokes. “Look at you..turning all red.”

Cunt. 

Finally releasing his grip on your throat, you sink harder into the couch cushion, gasping heavily as you swallow as much air as possible before it gets taken away. Trailing his fingers down the column of your throat, he grabs a handful of your breast, thumb flicking over the remains of what once was a bra. He hadn’t removed any of it, just tore holes in them⎯a clear way to humiliate you. You weren’t worthy of being undressed, of basic respect. Pressing himself harder against your ass, you sneer as the head of his cock slaps against your inner thigh, sticky and leaking pre-cum. It was revolting. He hadn’t stuck himself in you..yet. It felt like a mind game with him, just dragging out the minutes with “will he” or “won’t he” kind of game of when he’d finally push in. 

“That’s it.” He coos, voice surprisingly tender as you cough violently. “Breath it all in.”

No shit, Paddy. 

“Go on, cry if ya’ need to.” He mumbles, “Weren’t breathing for a while.”

Because you deprived me of air, you wanted to snap back. 

Shutting your eyes softly, you choke a couple of times, a mixture of spit pooling in your mouth and a desperate need for air clashing together. Your lungs hurt. Your legs hurt. Your lower back hurt. Your head hurts. Your…Your everything hurts really. You could only amuse that it had been hours since you had been trapped like this, it would explain why your body was aching so much. Trying to shift your hips to ease some of his weight off, the spreader bar keeps your feet trapped in place, the thick metal digging into the skin. Letting out a low grunt of pain at the sensation, you try again, but the spreader bar was firm in keeping you trapped in an awkward position. 

Clicking his tongue scoldingly as you squirm around, you turn your head to the side, your cheek pressing against the cushion. Sweaty strands of hair fall in your face, but you peek through it to find the production team still filming. They didn’t look concerned, or interested really. They looked bored, like it was another day in the office. Glaring daggers at everyone of them that you could find, he trails his hand down from your breasts, feeling the thin layer of sweat on your skin. Hiding his face in the back of your head, he rubs soothing circles over your sore hips, confusing you further. One moment he was degrading you, now he was comforting you. Was this a part of his trick? To make you lower your guard down?

“Shhh, there is a good girl.” He whispers, tenderly rubbing at a bruise on your hip.

“What the fuck was that for?” You grit your teeth, trying to push him off.

“What was that for?” He chuckles, pushing you back down onto the couch firmly.

“Yes.” You sneer, trying to shrug him off.

“You think that you can talk shit about me before filming and I wouldn’t think about it?” He whispers, some spit hitting your cheek. “That I would just let it go?”

“You’re unprofessional and⎯” 

“Me?” He mocks, “Says the brat who had to be tied up cause she tried to back out of her contract.” 

A snarky comment was on the tip of your tongue, just itching to unload on him and the rest of the crew. You were so going to review your contract then sue the fuck out of each and everyone of them. Their children’s children would die with the debt you would put them all in. Straining to stand on your tippy toes, you swing your legs back, using the spreader bar as a weapon to whack his calf. Cursing lowly at the whack, he lets go of your hip, grabbing the back of your neck to smush your face into the couch cushion. The gentleness from before, gone in an instant. 

Was it stupid of you? Yes. But, this fucker had kept you bent over for hours with the stupid spreader bar digging into your skin. You weren’t going to be on your best behavior,and he was stupid if he expected that. Spitting a fat glob of spit in your face, you clench your jaw tighter, cheeks flushing red at his attempt of humiliation. You did porn for a living, a little spit was nothing compared to shit you go on the daily. Tangling his fingers into your hair, he pushes your face harder into the couch, using the cushions to smother you for a moment before letting go.

“I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking cut your brakes in the parking lot and watch you crash into on-coming traffic.” You sneer, not caring if the cameras could pick up on your threat. 

“Then, I guess I should leave you with a parting gift.” He clicks his tongue, “Yeah, yeah, should knock you up and make you live the rest of your life with a piece of me forever at your side.”

“I’ll take the morning-after pill.” You argue, raging at his threat.

“I’ll keep you here for the night. Nah, maybe I’ll just extend the contract, make you film for seven days back-to-back.” He rambles, “You’d like that huh? Seven days with old Paddy.”

Maybe if he was the one tied up and in agonizing pain because of the stupid spreader bar, you would enjoy it. But, considering you were the one tied up, not likely. Not fucking likely. Digging his nails into your scalp, he drags you off the couch by the hair, throwing you roughly onto the floor. Your hip smacks hard into the armrest of the couch before pain flares up your legs. The metal spreader bar digs deep into your skin, feeling like someone had just poured lava on your skin. The leather strap that was supposed to protect your skin from damage did nothing, it was as useful as putting a piece of tape over a broken pipe gushing water. Fuck useless. Kinda like the crew.

Hitting the ground with a pained wheeze, you wrap your arms around your head, tensing up in anticipation of a kick. But, the kick never comes. Peeking through the gaps of your fingers, he just towers over you, taking in every reaction like this was a sick game of chicken. Casually crouching down to your level, you tense up further, recoiling back from him. Clicking his tongue scoldingly at your reaction, you try to curl up in a ball, but the bar keeps your legs forced open. Kicking at the bar in a weak attempt to remove it, it clatters around, digging into one ankle then the other. Letting out a chuckle at your reaction, he grabs a handful of your hair, dragging you across the ground. 

“You keep on fighting and I’ll do worse than I already did.” He mocks, clearly attempting to rile you up. 

“Fuck you, you potato fucking irishman.” You snap back, trying to grab onto the leg of the couch to stop him from dragging you any closer.

“You already are. You know, maybe I will extend the contract. Sperm can live up to seven days in the cervix. That’s all the time I need with you.” He chuckles condescendingly, his last comment making your stomach drop.

✧ 1 : 20 : 59 ─────〇──────────────────────── 1 : 30 : 09

Pressing his thumb harder into your mouth, you gag slightly as he forces it a little further down your throat, your eyes watering up. Fucking bastard. Smirking even more at your gagging, he picks up his pace, practically battering your cervix with the head of his cock. The stretch burns, nothing could’ve prepared you for the sheer girth that was Paddy’s cock. The camera’s didn’t do it justice. Clawing at the carpet with your nails, he uses his free hand to lift your legs up, the stupid spreader bar still in place. It was humiliating the way that he kept it on, forcing your legs open. Growling lowly to hide his trembling breath, you let out a choked noise, trying to spit out his fingers. 

Removing his fingers from your mouth, he hooks both of his hands under your knees, forcing your legs up higher. He'd be able to hook them over his shoulders if it wasn’t for the spreader bar, and it seemingly starts to realize it too. Gritting his teeth in annoyance as the spreader bar gets in the way, he adjusts his grip on your legs, awkwardly holding them up in the air. You’d laugh in his face if it wasn't for the fact that your legs were numb. Punching out sobs from you with each hard snap of his hips against the back of your thighs, you choke on a breath, eyes rolling into the back of your head. You hated him, but, fuck was he acutally really good at this.

“Look what happens when you behave, love.” He chuckles, sweat trickling down his brow. “Feels nice, eh?”

“F…Fuck…Y…God, fuck you, Paddy. You bastard.” You stutter out, forcing yourself to get the words out.

“Say that without moaning, love.” He mocks, “And I might just take you seriously.”

Opening your mouth to argue back, he cuts you off by shoving his thumb further down your throat, choking you once again. What the hell was his deal with choking? Gagging again as he pushes them further back, you try to spit them out, drool pooling out of your mouth and down your chin. But, it only fuels him further. Spitting a fat glob of spit into your mouth, you swallow instinctively, body reacting before your mind can tell you to spit back at him instead. Letting out a soft hum of approval as you swallow, you turn your head away, not wanting to meet his eyes. Clicking his tongue in disapproval, he curls his thumb to gather as much of your spit as possible, smearing the saliva across your cheeks like it was a face cream. Your cringe deeply at the sensation.

“Stop being dramatic about some spit.” He shakes his head, “You’ve taken worse.” 

“It’s fucking gross.” You argue, spitting in his face.

“And the video of you taking it up the ass, isn’t?” He scoffs, wiping away the spit from his face.

His pace stops abruptly, and for a moment you think that he might pull out. Taking a sharp breath in through his gritted teeth, he digs his nails into your legs, making you cringe at the stinging sensation. Please, just pull out. Staring at you blankly, it was more unnerving than any glare or biting insult he could shoot your way. Opening your mouth to scold him, he shuts you up with a hard thrust, your eyes rolling the back of your head. The torturous drag of his cock inside you makes your brain swirl. It was a delicious torture that only made you unbelievably wet. It should be a crime that he was capable of making you feel so good⎯he was an asshole.

“You like that?” 

You don’t respond, fearing the only thing that would come out is a moan.

“Of course you are, old Paddy is giving it to you good.” 

Tearing up at his words, you bite hard on the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to focus on the pain instead of the thickening lump in your throat. You hated him. You hated the crew. You hated everyone behind this. But, there was a sick and twisted part of you that liked this. You liked the way that he touched you, like he hated you. You liked the feeling of his body pressed tightly against you. You liked the feeling of his cock inside of you. Licking away some sweat from his top lip, he keeps a straight face, his brows furrowed together in focus. Tightening his grip on your legs, you squirm at his grip, your legs straining from the spreader bar. God, you wanted to burn this shit.

“Do that again.” He whispers, wiping away some stray tears from your cheek. “Cry again for me, you look so pretty when you cry, love.”

“You’re a sick fuck.” You argue, struggling to maintain a sternness.

“Don’t lie, a little part of you is liking this.” He argues, “I can see it in your eyes. You can lie to the camera, but I know.”

“I don’t⎯” 

Digging his nail hard into your skin, he picks up his pace, punching out air from your lungs with each thrust. Nipping at your calf with his teeth, you blush a bright pink from embarrassment, hating yourself for not being strong enough. Hating him should be easy⎯it was. He tricked you. But, he also made you feel good. The first time where you didn’t have to fake moans and play the bimbo nymphomaniac. The filthy sounds of wetness squelching filling the air. Lifting your legs up a little higher, you ass lifts off the ground, earning a strangled moan from you at the deeper angle. 

“Paddy⎯” 

“That’s the spot?” He chuckles, “Only took an hour.”

“Don’t⎯” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t?” He mocks, “At least try to sound convincing if you’re gonna tell me to stop.”

Biting harder on your bottom lip, it takes everything in you to not shove him off, to try to strangle him. Or maybe you would try to ride him as best as you could with the spreader bar. God, if only it weren’t for the fact that Paddy had twice your strength. Smugly smirking at your growing frustration, he slowly rolls his hips, dragging his cock along your walls. Slow. Agonizingly slow and cruel. Trailing his lips down your calf to the strap of the spreader bar, he switches between biting and sucking dark marks into your raw skin, lingering on the marks already there from hours ago. 

Sweat trickles down your forehead, your body jerking involuntarily at each torturous slap of his hips against your hips, forcing you pleasure against your better judgement. Hiding his face in the crook of your neck, he digs his nails deeper into your skin, making you wince in pain again. The sound of your wet, sloppy fucking echoing off the walls. It’s horrid. It’s sickening. It’s cruel. It’s worse knowing that the camera was filming it all. Nipping at your inner ankle, he reaches down with his free hand, rubbing face circles over your swollen clit. It sends heat down your spine.

“I want you to look at that camera.” He whispers, “I want you to look at it and remember this, no matter how much you squirmed and cursed and fought. It didn’t matter.”

You don’t respond, not trusting your voice.

“Because you ended up exactly where whores like you always do, on your back.” 

Biting down on his bottom lip hard, he thrust on last time before tensing up, his cheeks flushing a bright red as he finally cums. That familiar heat between your legs comes back, the one you felt every time you filmed with someone. The orgasm that had been building up dying in a cruel second, leaving you overly sensitive and frustrated. It felt like you were going to burst at any second and he just took that from you. Selfish. Incredibly fucking selfish. If he was going to put you through hell for hours, the least he could do was finish you off properly. 

Taking a sharp breath in through his nose as he rides out the waves of his orgasm, a sickening wet squelching sound fills the air as his hips jerks forward, pushing more cum inside of you. Staring up at the ceiling in a daze, you wonder if it was finally over. Normally whenever the guy cums, the production crew ends filming. Was this it? Was it finally over? Could you go home now? Taking a second to catch his breath, he grinds against you, making you hiss at the overstimulation. Your clit burns, the grinding torturous. But, then again, it was in true Paddy fashion to inflict that on you.

“You didn’t think this was over, did you?” He chuckles at your hopeful expression, “Still got half an hour.”

✧ 1 : 30 : 01 ─────〇──────────────────────── 1 : 30 : 09

Staring at the key light off to the side, you bite back a hiss as Paddy unstraps the spreader bar, the skin around your ankles raw. You don’t dare to look at them, dreading the sight. It was probably bruised, at best. At worst, it was so red and raw that you would need to go to urgent care to get it tended to. Curling your nails into the couch, you flinch as he rubs at the skin, surprisingly gentle despite moments ago. That switch from gentle to cruel was like whiplash. You’d have preferred him to just stay cruel, it would make it easier to hate him. But, the sudden switches kept on giving you false hope that he’d snap out of it and release that he was crossing a thousand lines. 

Then again, this was Paddy Mayne. There was no getting through to that man, not unless you were his stupid agent⎯Eoin McGonigal. Pressing a kiss onto your shoulder blade, you grind your teeth together, stomach churning. Finally pulling himself away from you, you kick him away roughly, scrambling to the other side of the couch. The soreness in your legs and between your thighs was killing you. You needed some pain killers, a hot bath, and to get far far away from Paddy Mayne. Tucking your knees up to your chest for comfort, you don’t cry, refusing to allow yourself to. You would not cry, not on camera. Swallowing the thickening lump in your throat, you tense up as Paddy sits beside you, casually pushing back sweaty strands of hair from his face. 

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” The camera man asks, his voice cutting through the tense air. 

You don’t respond, trying to piece yourself back together.

“( PS/n ), how are you feeling after that?” He asks again, making your anger spike up.

It was shit. What else were they expecting you to say? Some bullshit like, “Oh, I am so happy and enjoyed being lied to! I loved being tied up and my repeated protests ignored! It just gets me so wet!”.

"Answer." Someone off camera hisses, making your jaw clench.

"Answer him, ( Y/n )." Another adds, only adding more to your anger.

What. The. Fuck. If everything had gone the way it was supposed to, you would be able to say that it was nice. But, the fact that everyone knew that they weren’t going to follow the script that was sent to you, was beyond fucked up. They had exploited you. They used you. They lied to you. Clearing his throat sternly to get your attention, you refuse to look at the camera, staring down at the nail polish on your toes. The sparkly iridescent purple brings you little comfort.

“Answer him, love.” Paddy demands, wiping a glob of saliva from your chin with his thumb.

“Answer him? You want me to answer him, Paddy?” You scoff, unable to stop yourself from responding snarkily.

“Don’t be difficult, love. You don’t want me to have to remind you what manners are, do you?” He warns, the underlying threat clear in his words.

You don't answer back, biting on your tongue hard.

"( PS/n )." Paddy repeats, leaning his face in closer to intimidate you into submission.

Smacking his hand away from your face roughly, he shoots you a warning look, but restrains from retaliating back. You didn’t fear being hit. Being hit was far kinder than what he had done. Sure, you had consented at the beginning to all of this. But, that was before they changed things. You were angry. You were hurt. You wanted to go home and cry. Grabbing onto your chin firmly, he forces you to stare at the camera, the blinking red light staring right back at you. Your reflection makes tears bubble up in your eyes. Your once pristine curls are ruined and greasy. The make-up and body glittered so smeared on you that you looked like one of those zombies from a horror film.

“Answer him.”

"I heard." You pipe in, finally responding.

"Then anger him, don't be difficult." He presses his thumb harder into your chin.

"I'm not." You argue, lowering your gaze down as a few tears bubble in your eyes.

"You are." He argues, shaking his head.

“Okay, I’ll answer.” You hiss, staring back at your reflection. “Hope you got a good lawyer, cause I'm about to make you my bitch.”

Remmick had been alive long enough to watch sacred things become entertainment.

Lúnasa had once meant smoke caught in wool, grain split beneath calloused hands and prayers murmured by people who understood how little stood between a full winter store and starvation. Now it meant food trucks, plastic cups of cider and a laminated sign beside the bonfire reminding guests not to climb the decorative hay bales.

He regarded the sign with open contempt.

“You’re not supposed to climb them,” you said.

“I can read.”

“You’ve been staring at it like you’re planning something.”

Remmick glanced toward the pyramid of straw stacked beyond the ropes, then back at you. Firelight warmed one side of his face, turning the blue of his eyes almost silver while the other remained shadowed beneath tousled dark hair. He’d ignored every suggestion that he dress less conspicuously, arriving in a light blue button-down shirt with the collar loosened, black trousers and suspenders, his thin gold chain catching whenever he moved. Among the festival’s linen dresses, knitted shawls and carefully distressed boots, he almost blended in.

Almost.

Then someone passed too close and instinctively veered away, unsettled by something they couldn’t name.

“I’m considering whether the organisers understand the difference between a harvest celebration and a petting zoo,” he said.

“You’ve complained about the music, the cider and the historical demonstration.”

“The man with the scythe nearly removed his own foot.”

“It would’ve made the demonstration memorable.”

Remmick’s mouth curved. “There’s my sweet girl.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile escaped anyway.

The festival sprawled across the grounds of a converted estate, all strings of amber bulbs, market stalls and bonfires glowing against the darkening fields. Somewhere beyond the vendors, fiddles and drums battled with a speaker playing modern folk music. Smoke drifted through the August air, carrying roasted apples, trampled grass and the metallic promise of rain.

Remmick had been amused when you first suggested coming. By sunset, amusement had given way to something quieter. He watched dancers circle the fire with a stillness that didn’t suit him, one thumb rubbing slowly over the ring on his smallest finger. Every so often, his mouth moved around the shape of a lyric nobody else seemed to know. The modern arrangement bore only the faintest resemblance to what he remembered, but the bones remained buried beneath it.

You slipped your hand into his, and his fingers closed immediately, cool and strong.

“You miss it,” you said.

“Which part?”

“The old way.”

Remmick looked across the field. “People always imagine the past as simpler because they didn’t have to survive it.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“No.” His thumb moved across your knuckles. “It wasn’t.”

You knew better than to push when his voice took on that distant quality. Remmick told stories readily when they served him, but the ones that mattered usually had to be coaxed from between long silences. Thirteen centuries had left him with an endless supply of anecdotes and remarkably little willingness to discuss what any of them had cost.

The dancers broke apart before joining hands again in a wider circle. Remmick followed the change with unsettling precision, his attention shifting toward every step before it occurred.

“You know this one,” you said.

“I knew something that wore the same bones.”

“Did you dance it?”

“Once or twice.”

The modest answer made you laugh. Remmick could turn his own execution into an amusing story told over drinks, but mention dancing and suddenly he discovered restraint.

“With who?”

His gaze remained on the fire. “People whose names aren’t spoken anymore.”

The answer quieted you. For a moment, the electric lights seemed to recede, and you imagined another field beneath the same moon, the soil unpaved and the darkness absolute beyond the reach of torches. Remmick without his gold chain or carefully rolled sleeves. Remmick warm, perhaps, with a pulse beating beneath skin that sunlight hadn’t yet learned to punish.

“Did you love any of them?” you asked.

His eyes shifted to you. “I was young.”

“That must’ve been terrible.”

A low laugh left him. “Cruel woman.”

“You adore me.”

“I do.”

He said it casually, but his fingers tightened around yours.

A woman at the next stall called you over before the silence could deepen. Bundles of dried wheat, rushes and coloured thread covered her table, with samples hanging from the canvas roof in braided circles, crosses and small, intricate knots tied with narrow loops. A handwritten card described them as traditional harvest tokens once exchanged during courtship.

You picked up one of the unfinished knots.

Remmick’s attention shifted.

The woman began explaining how to weave the strands, guiding your fingers through a simple pattern while Remmick stood beside you. He didn’t correct her technique, though you could feel the effort it required. His silence became almost theatrical.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I’ve said nothing.”

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

“Perhaps I’m admiring your craftsmanship.”

“It looks like a dead spider.”

The woman laughed politely.

Remmick didn’t.

By the time you finished, the knot sat unevenly in your palm, one side tighter than the other and a loose strand poking from the centre. You held it up for inspection.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’ve had considerable practice.”

The vendor offered you a small brass pin, mentioning again that the knots were often given as signs of affection. You turned toward Remmick and positioned it against the strap of his suspenders, just above his heart.

“There,” you said. “Apparently, I’ve proposed.”

He caught your wrist before you could withdraw.

The playful answer you expected never came. His gaze moved from your face to the little knot pinned against his chest, and although the festival continued around you in fragments of noise and flame, Remmick had gone utterly still.

“You know what you’re giving me?” he asked.

“A badly woven piece of straw.”

“That all?”

His thumb rested over your pulse. The woman behind the stall had suddenly found something very important to arrange beneath the table.

You studied Remmick’s face. “A courtship token.”

“And you want me to keep it?”

The question carried more weight than the moment should’ve allowed. You could’ve teased him, but something in his expression stopped you. Beneath the familiar charm sat an older hunger, not the sharp appetite you recognised before feeding, but something patient and ceremonial.

“Yes,” you said. “Keep it.”

His eyes held yours for another long second before he smiled, warm enough to make you question why you’d felt uneasy at all. Remmick lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.

“Gladly.”

The vendor avoided looking at either of you while accepting payment. As you walked away, Remmick glanced back at the tokens hanging beneath the canvas.

“She left out part of the custom,” he said.

“Of course she did.”

“Tradition becomes easier to sell once you remove everything unpleasant.”

“What was the unpleasant part?”

“The giver couldn’t always ask for it back.”

You stopped beside a stall selling honey cakes. “That sounds less like courtship and more like theft.”

“Courtship has always had an alarming amount in common with conquest.”

“And here I thought romance was dead.”

“It frequently is.”

He leaned close, his breath cooling the shell of your ear.

“Still beautiful, though.”

Before you could ask whether he meant the custom or the dead thing, Remmick straightened and purchased one of the cakes. He broke off a piece and held it to your mouth, watching you take it from his fingers with an intensity that made the perfectly innocent act feel indecent.

“You’re being strange,” you said around the sweetness.

“I’m enjoying my proposal.”

“I didn’t actually propose.”

His gaze lowered to the knot. “Didn’t you?”

You shoved the rest of the cake against his chest, but he caught it before it smeared the striped fabric, laughing as you walked ahead.

He didn’t remove the knot for the rest of the evening. You caught him touching it twice, once while watching the dancers and again when the bonfire collapsed inward with a fountain of sparks. The second time, his fingers lingered over the braided straw as though confirming it remained there.

By then, the cider had softened the edges of the night. You leaned into his side while musicians played beneath the lights, his arm settled around your waist and his mouth occasionally brushing your temple. Remmick had fed from you before leaving home, just enough to take the strain from his features without leaving you weak, and you could feel the quiet pulse of contentment beneath his skin.

Feeding had rules.

Your relationship with Remmick had several.

He could drink from you when you offered. He could use his strength during sex, provided he never made you feel trapped without warning. He could frighten you when you asked, chase you when you wanted and leave marks anywhere that clothing could hide.

He could not turn you.

That rule had existed from the beginning. Remmick called mortality a prison with unusual conviction for someone who’d spent centuries breaking into other people’s homes, while you called vampirism a collective nightmare dressed up as fellowship. The first time you refused his offer, he laughed and kissed your forehead, treating your answer as something time would correct for him. Months later, you woke from a fever to find him sitting beside your bed with two fingers around your wrist, listening to your weakened pulse with an expression that made you feel as though death had already entered the room. He asked what you expected him to do when your body eventually failed in some ordinary, preventable way.

You told him to grieve.

The water glass shattered in his hand.

Afterward, Remmick cleaned the floor, replaced the glass and promised not to raise the question again unless you did first. He kept that promise, technically, though sometimes you caught his hand spread across your chest while you slept, counting the beats he had no intention of losing.

The festival began thinning near midnight. Families left first, then older couples and tourists who’d underestimated the cold sweeping across the fields. Rain hung in the air without falling, and the remaining crowd gathered closer to the fire, drunk enough that nobody noticed Remmick guiding you away from the lights.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

He nodded toward the darkness beyond the farthest hedgerow. “Walk with me.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s a field, love.”

“You once described a mass grave as an interesting patch of earth.”

“It was historically significant.”

His hand rested at the small of your back as you crossed the damp grass. Music followed in a muffled rhythm, weakening with every step until the night belonged to insects, distant laughter and the soft brush of grain against your legs.

Beyond the hedgerow stood an abandoned farmhouse. Its roof sagged slightly over a dark porch, windows reflecting nothing but the distant glow of the festival. Brambles smothered the stone wall, and a narrow barn leaned beside it as though exhausted by the effort of remaining upright.

You stopped at the broken gate. “You knew this was here.”

“I know many things.”

“You planned this.”

Remmick turned to face you, the harvest knot pale against his suspenders. “You told me you wanted to play.”

A week earlier, half asleep beside him, you’d admitted that you sometimes wondered what it would feel like if he stopped pretending the chase challenged him. Remmick had kissed the gland beneath your jaw and asked how much fear you could bear from someone you trusted.

You hadn’t expected him to remember.

That was stupid. Remmick remembered everything.

“You chose tonight?” you asked.

“You gave me something worth celebrating.”

The farmhouse stood behind him, hollow and waiting. Excitement moved low in your stomach, sharpened by the awareness that Remmick could hear every change in your heartbeat.

“What are the rules?”

His smile widened. “You run. I follow.”

“How much of a head start?”

“Enough to make you hopeful.”

“And when you catch me?”

Remmick stepped closer, his voice lowering. “I remind you what hunts in the dark.”

The red hadn’t entered his eyes yet, but you could already imagine it.

“No turning,” you said.

His expression barely changed. “No turning.”

“Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

The answer came smoothly, but you caught his chin between your fingers and held him there.

“Remmick.”

His eyes softened with practiced patience. “I won’t turn you tonight.”

The addition bothered you. He kissed your palm before you could press him on it.

“Go.”

You remained where you were, and Remmick’s mouth twitched.

“Your time’s already started.”

That sent you running.

The first stretch of field was nearly flat, silvered by moonlight and broken only by waist-high grass. You lifted your skirt and sprinted toward the farmhouse, breath tearing quickly from your lungs while Remmick remained behind.

He didn’t follow at first.

You could feel the distance between you, the unnatural absence of footfalls where there should’ve been pursuit. When you risked a glance over your shoulder, he stood beside the gate with his hands folded behind his back.

Watching.

Then the clouds covered the moon. Darkness swallowed the field for no more than a second, and when the light returned, the gate was empty.

Your pulse kicked.

You changed direction, cutting toward the barn instead of the house. Wet grain caught against your legs, slowing you, and the ground dipped unexpectedly beneath one foot. You stumbled but kept moving, listening for anything beyond your own breath.

Nothing.

That was worse.

“Remmick?”

His laughter came from somewhere to your left. You spun toward it and found only grass bending in the wind.

“You’re supposed to chase me,” you called.

“I am.”

His voice sounded close enough to touch, then impossibly distant on the final word.

You ran harder.

A neglected orchard stretched between the field and the barn, the trees planted in rows that had long since lost their discipline. Branches bowed beneath small apples while fallen fruit softened beneath your shoes. You slipped between the trunks, hoping the deeper shadows might hide you despite knowing Remmick didn’t need light to see.

A twig snapped behind you.

You ducked beneath a branch and turned sharply, but nobody followed. Another sound came from ahead, and Remmick was suddenly leaning against the next tree with his arms folded, the striped shirt bright between strips of shadow.

You stopped so abruptly your shoe crushed an apple beneath its heel.

“You said you’d follow.”

“I did.”

“You’re in front of me.”

“I’m very quick.”

His eyes remained blue, which somehow made his sudden appearance worse. He looked perfectly composed, without even the suggestion of exertion, while your breath came hard enough to hurt.

“You’re meant to give me a chance.”

“I gave you several.”

Remmick pushed away from the trunk.

You fled before he completed the first step.

His laughter followed you through the orchard. Damp leaves brushed your face, branches dragged lightly across your sleeves, and every few seconds you heard him somewhere different: a boot striking earth behind you, his breath beside your ear, the faint hum of the festival melody drifting between the trees. Once, cold fingers grazed the back of your neck before disappearing so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had been rain.

He was letting you run, not because he needed to tire you, but because he enjoyed the moment when your body began understanding what your mind already knew.

There was nowhere he couldn’t reach you.

By the time you reached the barn, your lungs burned. The doors stood partly open, leaving a narrow slice of black between them. You squeezed through and pressed your back against the timber, trying to silence your breathing.

Inside, moonlight leaked through holes in the roof. Old machinery crouched beneath canvas sheets, their shapes too suggestive of waiting bodies, while dried straw covered the floor and released a sweet, dusty smell beneath your shoes.

You listened.

A step sounded outside, followed by another, slow and unhurried. Remmick’s fingers curled around the edge of the door.

You bolted deeper into the barn as he entered, his pale shirt bright in the darkness. His eyes had turned red. His smile exposed a crowded row of short, sharpened fangs, his forked tongue flicking briefly over their points as something subtly inhuman sharpened every angle of his face.

“There you are.”

You darted around a support post.

He let you.

Remmick could’ve crossed the space before you took two steps, but he followed at walking pace, boots grinding straw into the dirt. His restraint felt more predatory than speed. He wanted you conscious of every second he chose not to catch you.

“Still hopeful?” he asked.

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually.”

You reached the rear door and shoved against it.

Locked.

Remmick stopped behind you, not touching yet. Your breath fogged the wood while his presence settled across your back, cold enough to raise gooseflesh despite the warmth beneath your skin.

“Caught,” he murmured.

You turned. The red in his eyes burned brighter at the scent of fear and arousal mingling between you, and his forked tongue flickered briefly across one fang before disappearing, an uncontrolled glimpse of what his careful human shape concealed.

“You cheated.”

“I waited.”

“You knew the door was locked.”

“I’ve been here before.”

Remmick reached for your wrist but paused before making contact. “Still playing?”

The question steadied you.

“Yes.”

His hand closed around you. The world shifted in a blur, your back striking the post without pain because Remmick absorbed the force with one arm while his other hand caught both your wrists above your head. Straw dust trembled through the moonlight as his mouth hovered beside your throat.

“You ran beautifully.”

“You barely chased me.”

“I was savouring it.”

He inhaled along the line of your neck, fangs grazing without breaking skin. A shiver moved through you, and his hold tightened in response.

“Did you know,” he asked, “that knots were sometimes carried until the courtship was answered?”

“I answered.”

“You did.”

His free hand moved to the token pinned over his heart. The little braid looked almost ridiculous against him now, crooked and homemade, but Remmick touched it with reverence.

“You asked me to keep it.”

“I did.”

“And invited me to hunt you.”

“Yes.”

“And when we reach the house?”

You looked past him toward the farmhouse. “You’ll need another invitation.”

Satisfaction flickered across his face. “Exactly.”

He released you, and the sudden freedom was almost disorienting. Remmick opened the barn door and gestured toward the house with courtly politeness, as though he hadn’t just held you helpless against a beam.

“After you.”

The farmhouse smelled of wet stone and old wood. You stepped onto the porch first, Remmick following until the threshold stopped him. He could cross oceans, break bone with one hand and enter another vampire’s thoughts across miles, yet an invisible line held him outside a ruined house whose owner had likely been dead for decades.

He stood beneath the sagging roof, red eyes returned to blue, one hand resting against the doorframe.

“Invite me in.”

The words raised another pulse of unease.

“You brought me here because you can’t enter.”

“I brought you because I wanted to hear you say it.”

Rain finally began, tapping softly against the porch and darkening his shirt at the shoulders. The festival lights glowed faintly beyond the field, too distant now to offer any real connection to the world you’d left.

Remmick extended his hand. “You know what I am.”

“Yes.”

“You know what an invitation means.”

“I know what it lets you do.”

His smile was gentle. “Then there’s no deception between us.”

That wasn’t entirely true, though you couldn’t yet say why. You placed your hand in his.

“Come inside, Remmick.”

The threshold released him. He entered with a small exhale, almost pleasure, and closed the door behind him. The bolt slid into place with a heavy scrape.

Candles waited throughout the front room.

Dozens of them.

Some stood in chipped saucers along the mantel, others clustered on the floor around a narrow table draped in linen. Dried grain hung from the rafters in carefully tied bundles, while braided straw cords lay coiled beside a silver bowl, their patterns far more intricate than the uneven knot pinned to his chest. A ring of grain surrounded the table, and several candles had been placed inside hollowed turnips whose crude faces grimaced from the corners.

You stared at the preparations, then back at him. “You couldn’t have come inside to do all this.”

“I didn’t.” Remmick’s smile barely shifted. “I arranged for a mortal pair of hands to prepare the room.”

“Who?”

“No one you need concern yourself with. The invitation was always meant to come from you.”

A colder understanding settled beneath your ribs. Someone had carried out every instruction, left the farmhouse and denied him entry, preserving this final part of the ritual for you alone.

“This wasn’t spontaneous.”

“No.”

“How long have you been planning it?”

Remmick pulled his wet cuffs from beneath his suspenders and rolled them with deliberate care. “Long enough.”

“You didn’t know I’d give you the knot.”

“I hoped you would.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“Another night.”

The answer was too calm. You turned toward the locked door, not intending to leave so much as needing to see it. The rain-streaked window returned your own reflection and the candlelit room behind you, but there was no sign of Remmick in the glass.

“What exactly do you think I gave you?”

“A promise.”

“It was a courtship token.”

“Yes.”

“Not ownership.”

“Those distinctions are newer than either of us.”

“I’m considerably newer than both.”

His expression softened, almost indulgent. “You offered me a harvest bond over the heart, asked that I keep it, ran when I pursued you and invited me in.”

“Because we were playing.”

“Play has always been rehearsal for something true.”

The charm hadn’t left his face, but it had become a surface stretched over certainty.

“We agreed no turning,” you said.

“We did.”

“And this doesn’t change that.”

Remmick approached slowly. “You’re frightened.”

“I’m paying attention.”

“Good.”

He lifted one of the braided cords from the table and ran it through his fingers. “Then listen carefully. I won’t do anything here that you haven’t asked me to do before. You wanted the chase, the restraints and the chance to know what it felt like when I stopped pretending to be weaker than I am.”

“That isn’t what I’m asking.”

“No.” His gaze remained on yours. “It isn’t.”

“Tell me this ends when I say it ends.”

The silence lasted one second too long. Beneath the rain, you thought you heard the faintest thread of humming, a melody without any clear direction that seemed to emerge from the walls and Remmick’s closed mouth at once.

He offered you the cord.

“You may leave now.”

His body didn’t block the door, and the bolt was within your reach. He’d given you a genuine opening, or one convincing enough that your body couldn’t identify the difference.

Outside waited the wet field, the distant festival and hundreds of people who would never believe what he was. Inside waited the monster you loved, surrounded by evidence that he’d been preparing this long before you placed straw over his heart. You knew leaving wouldn’t destroy the ritual. He would simply wait until another night, because time had always favoured him.

You should’ve left.

Instead, you took the cord.

Remmick smiled with such quiet satisfaction that regret moved through you immediately. He raised your hand and kissed your fingertips.

“Sweet girl.”

Remmick took the cord from your hand and guided you through the ring of scattered grain toward the narrow table, his touch gentle enough to make the unease beneath your ribs feel unreasonable. Rain had gathered strength since you crossed the porch, drumming against the warped windowpanes and slipping through cracks in the farmhouse roof, while the air grew thick with the smell of old wood, damp grain and burning tallow. The silver bowl still waited on the linen beside a cluster of candles, its polished surface reflecting the flames as he helped you lie back, the rough fabric catching against your bare calves.

Remmick moved through the shadows with the quiet assurance of something that had already decided how the night would end. He lifted the tightly braided cord, uneven beneath his fingers and still smelling faintly of harvest dust, then looked down at you.

“Arms up, a stóirín.”

His voice was soft, almost gentle, the Irish lilt curling around the words like smoke. You obeyed, raising your wrists above your head, and he bound them together with the straw, pulling the knot snug enough to hold without letting the fibres bite too deeply. After checking the give with two fingers between the cord and your skin, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your palm.

“Tell me who you are tonight.”

“I’m yours tonight.”

The words came easily because they contained their own ending. Tonight. Nothing beyond the rain, the candles and the game you’d agreed to play.

Something flickered in his red eyes when you said it, a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. His smile exposed the short, sharpened points of his teeth as his forked tongue briefly swept across his lower lip.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours tonight.”

He hummed low in his chest, his cold fingers tracing down your arm and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. The gold chain at his open collar caught the candlelight when he leaned over you, drawing your attention to the uneven harvest knot pinned above his heart, still pale and freshly woven from where you’d tied it only hours ago. He treated the crooked little thing like a relic. Like a vow.

“You’ve no idea what that does to me, mo chroí, hearing you say it.” His hand followed the line of your side over the thin white shift before settling across your hip. “But you’ll learn.”

He eased the shift upward in one slow pull, the fabric whispering over your skin as the cold air found the warmth beneath it. A rough sound caught in his throat while his gaze travelled over you with the focus of someone committing each familiar detail to memory again.

“Sweet girl,” he said, his touch turning reverent. “You’ve been so good for me. You deserve a reward.”

His mouth found your throat first, cold lips pressing against the pulse that fluttered there, and you felt the faint scrape of his fangs. Not breaking skin. Just promising. His forked tongue traced the line of your jugular, the split tip flickering against your skin, and you shivered, your hips tilting up without permission. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. "Eager, are we?" His hand slid down your belly, fingers dipping between your thighs, and he found you already slick. "Oh, a stóirín. Look at you. Soaked for me."

He didn't rush. He never rushed. His fingers parted you slowly, spreading your wetness, and the sound of it filled the quiet room—slick and obscene. He pressed one finger inside you, just one, and the stretch of it made you gasp. "That's it. Take it. Take me." He worked it deeper, curling against that spot he knew so well, and you felt your thighs begin to tremble. "So tight. You always feel like this for me, don't you?"

"Yes." The word came out breathless, broken. He added a second finger, and you cried out, your bound wrists straining against the straw. He shushed you, soft and soothing, even as he fucked you with his fingers, slow and deliberate. "Shh, shh. I've got you. You're doing so well." His thumb found your clit, pressing in tight circles, and your back arched off the linen. "That's my girl. Let me feel you."

His mouth never left your throat, his fangs grazing your skin as he worked you toward the edge. You could feel the heat building, coiling low in your belly, and you knew he could feel it too—your pulse hammering against his lips, the way your cunt clenched around his fingers. "Please," you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. "Remmick, please—"

"Please what, mo chroí?" His fingers curled inside you, pressing hard against that spot, and your vision went white at the edges. "Tell me what you need."

"You. I need you. Inside me."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and brought them to his mouth. His forked tongue lapped at them, his red eyes never leaving yours, and the sight of it made your cunt clench around nothing. "Ask me nicely."

"Please." Your voice cracked. "Please, Remmick. I want you inside me. I want to feel you."

He smiled, and it was a predator's smile, all teeth and patience. "There's my good girl."

He unbuckled his pants and slipped his suspenders off his shoulder to let his trousers fall and free his cock, and you'd seen it before, but it still made your breath catch—thick and hard, the head flushed dark, already leaking. He positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head pressing against your entrance, and he held there. Waiting. "Look at me." You did. His red eyes burned in the candlelight. "I'm yours tonight." He repeated your words back to you, and the weight of them made your skin prickle. "Remember that."

He pushed inside you in one slow, relentless thrust, and you felt every inch of him stretch you open. The sound he made—low and guttural, almost pained—sent a shudder through your whole body. "Fuck," he breathed, the word rough and foreign in his courtly mouth. "You feel like heaven, a stóirín. Like you were made for me."

He fucked you slow at first, deep, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and the pleasure built like a tide. The straw cord bit into your wrists as you tugged against it, not to escape—never to escape—but to anchor yourself. He noticed, and his hand came up to grip your bound wrists, pinning them above your head with an ease that made your stomach flip. He wasn't even trying. He was holding you down with one hand, and you couldn't move an inch. "Feel that?" His voice was low, almost amused. "Feel how easily I could keep you here? How easily I could take whatever I wanted?"

You nodded, breathless, and he rewarded you with a harder thrust, the slap of skin echoing off the damp walls. "That's right. But you don't need to worry about that, do you? You trust me." It wasn't a question. "Say it."

"I trust you."

"Again." He picked up the pace, fucking you harder, the table creaking beneath you.

"I trust you."

His fangs grazed your throat again, and you felt the faint sting—just a scratch, a barely-there break in the skin. He moaned at the taste, his hips stuttering, and his forked tongue lapped at the tiny wound. "So sweet," he murmured against your skin. "I could drink from you forever."

You were close. So close. The pleasure was winding tight, ready to snap, and he knew it. He slowed, just enough to make you whimper, and his hand slid down to where your bodies joined. His thumb found your clit, pressing hard, and he leaned in close, his voice a whisper against your ear. "Come for me, mo chroí. Let me feel you."

You shattered. Your cunt clenched around him, your whole body arching off the table, and he groaned, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. He came with a low, shuddering growl, his hips pressed deep, and you felt him spill inside you, hot and thick. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, and then he pulled out slowly, the loss making you whimper.

He looked down at you—spent, trembling, the straw cords still loose around your wrists—and something in his expression shifted. Softened. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, gentle and reverent.

“You did so well, a stóirín. So good for me.”

His thumb traced the small wound on your throat, and warm dizziness spread through you, your limbs growing heavier beneath his touch.

“Rest now,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Afterward, the candles had burned lower. Rain whispered against the windows while you lay wrapped in linen on the narrow table, wrists still loosely circled by the braided cords. Remmick stood beside you fully dressed again, save for the open collar of his shirt, cleaning blood from his fingers with a cloth.

Your blood.

The room felt distant around the edges. Feeding always left a pleasant heaviness behind, but this was deeper, almost narcotic. Every heartbeat arrived slowly, each one followed by a widening silence. The silver bowl sat beneath the table now, a dark smear marking its rim, though you couldn’t remember him placing it there.

“Too much,” you murmured.

Remmick looked down, his eyes red again.

“No,” he said. “Just enough.”

Fear cleared some of the haze. You tried to sit, but his hand settled against your sternum and returned you gently to the linen.

“What did you do?”

“What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“You asked me to keep what you gave.”

“The knot.”

“The promise.”

Your pulse stumbled beneath his palm.

“Remmick, stop.”

His expression softened with unbearable tenderness. “It’s already done, love.”

Cold spread through you that had nothing to do with his skin. You pulled against the cords, but they tightened at once, straw biting into your wrists as Remmick’s hand moved from your chest to your cheek.

“No turning,” you said, the words coming weakly. “You promised.”

“I promised I wouldn’t turn you tonight.”

“It’s still tonight.”

“Not for much longer.”

Understanding arrived with the faint paling of the window.

Dawn approached behind the storm clouds.

Remmick had measured every word.

“You knew.”

“I knew you were afraid.”

“I said no.”

“You said many things while death still had its hand around your throat.”

His thumb stroked the corner of your mouth. Somewhere beneath his voice, another tone moved, followed by another: a woman humming, a man laughing softly, dozens of breaths layered together until the room seemed full of invisible witnesses.

The hivemind.

You’d felt traces of it while he fed before, distant impressions leaking through his control, but never this close. Foreign memories pressed against the edges of your mind: hands on piano keys, bare feet on red earth, sunlight remembered with aching clarity, Remmick dancing beneath a moon that belonged to another century.

“No,” you whispered.

“We were lonely once too,” the voices said through him.

His mouth moved, but the words belonged to many.

“You told me it would still be me.”

“It will.”

“With all of you inside my head.”

“With all of us beside you.”

You tried to turn away. Remmick caught your face gently between both hands and leaned close, the bloodstained harvest knot still pinned over his heart.

“I have watched every person I loved become dust,” he said, his own voice briefly separate from the others. “I won’t watch it happen again because you mistake an ending for freedom.”

“That was my choice.”

“Mortality makes cowards of us. It teaches you to defend the blade because you were born with it already at your throat.”

The red in his eyes blurred as tears filled yours.

“You’re betraying me.”

Pain flickered across his face, real enough to make everything worse.

“No,” Remmick said. “I’m keeping you.”

His fangs entered your throat before the sun rose.

There was pain, then cold, then the strange sensation of falling inward rather than down. The farmhouse dissolved around you. Your final heartbeat thundered through the collective, heard and felt by every mind attached to his, a private death made communal before it had even finished.

Remmick held you through all of it. He murmured in Irish first, words too old and soft for you to understand, then shifted into promises you did.

No more fear.

No more endings.

No more waking to an empty place beside you.

The hivemind crowded closer as your heartbeat weakened, offering glimpses of fields buried beneath snow, cities rising where forests had once stood and faces loved across generations until their names blurred together. Their welcome pressed against you from every direction, warm and ravenous, trying to persuade you that surrender was the same thing as being held.

The last thing you felt as yourself was his thumb brushing the blood from your cheek.

When you opened your eyes again, dawn pressed silver against the curtained windows. You heard the rain, the mice moving beneath the floorboards, birds sheltering beneath the roof and the weakened pulse of a fox crossing the field outside. Far beyond the hedgerow, workers were dismantling the festival, canvas snapping in the wind while someone complained about the weather.

Beneath all of it came the hivemind: thoughts and songs, memories and appetites, strangers greeting you with a joy so intimate it felt obscene.

Your body no longer breathed.

Remmick sat beside the table, watching. His eyes were blue again, and the harvest knot remained pinned neatly to his suspenders, its uneven strands darkened with your blood.

Rage arrived before hunger.

You lunged at him.

Remmick caught you easily, gathering you against his chest while you clawed at his shirt and screamed every vicious thing you could find. The collective shuddered with your anger. Some recoiled, others welcomed it, and Remmick absorbed every blow without loosening his hold.

“There she is,” he murmured.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“I’ll kill you.”

His mouth pressed to your temple. “You may try for as long as you like.”

You went still.

The terrible truth opened inside you: there would be time. Years, centuries, whole civilisations turning to dust while his mind remained woven through yours, impossible to escape without tearing yourself apart with him.

Remmick drew back enough to see your face. His expression held no triumph, only devotion stripped of every human restraint that might’ve made it merciful.

“You asked me to keep it, love.”

His fingers touched the bloodstained knot.

Beyond the curtains, the first light reached the farmhouse walls, trapping you inside with him until nightfall.

The Jimmies had found a box for you, though it was much too small to hide inside and much too pretty to be mistaken for a coffin.

Once, it had held a washing machine. Jimmima had wrapped the cardboard in faded Christmas paper scavenged from an abandoned shop, overlapping strips covered in silver stars and smiling snowmen until only the bottom remained bare. Jimmy Jones contributed a purple satin ribbon that still carried the stink of damp and moss, while Jimmy Fox perforated one side with the tip of his hunting knife.

They argued over whether the holes spoiled the surprise.

“They’ll stop her from suffocating,” Jimmy Ink reasoned.

“Could always give him something else if she does,” Jimmima replied.

You’d been hiding when the Fingers found you, aware enough to understand that their laughter never meant anything was safe. They’d dragged you from an abandoned service station three weeks earlier, killing the two people travelling with you before deciding your face was too pretty to waste. Since then, you’d slept behind a locked door in what had once been the leisure centre’s changing room, your ankle chained to a rusted bench and your meals delivered according to whichever Jimmy remembered you existed.

Cruelty was entertainment to them, something invented to fill the empty hours between raids and Sir Lord Jimmy’s sermons. Each atrocity earned points according to how loudly he laughed when they described it afterward. Even their kindness carried an edge. Jimmy Ink had smuggled you extra water during your first night, then warned you not to thank her where the others could hear.

Gratitude suggested preference. Preference became weakness, and weakness became entertainment.

Now Ink crouched beside the box, checking the knot around your wrists for the third time. The rope was snug rather than painful, more decorative than practical, because your ankles were tied beneath the pale dress and seven armed disciples waited outside. Beyond the cardboard, trainers squeaked against the tiles, followed by muffled bickering and furniture being dragged into place.

Someone had found a battery-powered keyboard. The same six notes repeated until Jimmy Snake cursed and threatened to break every finger responsible.

“Don’t fight today,” Ink called through the opening. “It’s meant to be special.”

“It is special,” Jimmima answered. “Means the Lord might let us watch.”

Ink’s hands paused at your wrists.

You couldn’t see her face through the narrow gap, only matted synthetic yellow hair and the sleeve of her turquoise tracksuit. “Don’t listen to her.”

The absurdity nearly made you laugh. Everyone listened to Jimmima because refusing made her interested, but everyone listened to Sir Lord Jimmy because there was no longer a self left among them capable of imagining disobedience.

You’d watched him reduce armed survivors to trembling silence with a smile and a nonsensical story about Old Nick whispering inside his skull. You’d seen the Fingers compete for his approval, desperate to prove themselves loyal enough, vicious enough, useful enough to remain attached to the invisible hand holding up his crown. He ruled them with affection distributed as sparingly as clean water, and they thanked him for every drop.

The frightening part was how quickly you’d begun watching for it too.

“You said this was my idea,” you whispered.

Ink glanced toward the sounds outside. “It was.”

“I said he’d been staring at me.”

“You said you wanted him in a better mood.”

“Because he broke Jimmy Fox’s nose when he wasn’t.”

Ink’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Jimmima thought of the box.”

That explained the ribbon around your throat.

It was loose enough that you could breathe, the bow placed at the front as though you were a parcel waiting to be torn open. Beneath it, they’d dressed you in something soft and pale scavenged from a sealed wardrobe, cleaner than anything you’d worn since being captured. Jimmima had washed your skin herself with cold water, humming while she worked and explaining that Sir Lord Jimmy had refined tastes.

You hadn’t asked how she knew.

“You can tell him you don’t want it,” Ink murmured.

“Would he listen?”

Her silence answered for her.

“And what happens to you if I embarrass him?”

Ink looked down at the ropes.

There was the real choice. You could refuse and discover what Sir Lord Jimmy did when rejected before his congregation, or you could say whatever kept his smile in place and hope submission bought you another morning.

The cardboard shifted as Ink stood. A moment later, the top folded shut and darkness swallowed you, close and stale, carrying the smell of dust, ribbon and your own fear. Hands lifted the box from beneath. Your shoulder struck one side as the Jimmies carried you forward, their movements poorly coordinated because no one trusted anyone else enough to call the pace.

The keyboard stopped.

Silence spread through the building with startling speed.

Then a familiar Scottish voice drifted over the cardboard.

“What’s all this, then?”

Sir Lord Jimmy sounded delighted already.

Jimmima launched into a speech she’d clearly rehearsed, welcoming the favourite son of Old Nick to a celebration honouring the day he’d been placed upon the earth. Jimmy Jones interrupted to point out that nobody knew whether it was actually his birthday. Fox called her a faithless cow, which started another argument until a sharp clap cracked through the room.

“Peeps,” Jimmy said. “You’re spoiling it.”

The box descended onto something hard. Pool tiles, judging by the hollow echo beneath you.

The leisure centre’s main pool had been drained long before the Jimmies claimed it. They used the deep end for initiations, executions and games that moved between the two so casually it was difficult to tell which one had been intended. Sir Lord Jimmy liked to sit above it in the lifeguard’s chair, dressed in purple velour and gold, watching violence unfold below as though the cracked plastic seat were a throne.

A few uneven notes sounded on the keyboard.

The Jimmies began singing.

It was recognisable as “Happy Birthday” only because the melody had survived longer than most of the people who once knew it. Half the Fingers replaced Jimmy’s name with his full title, creating a jumble of syllables that tripped over the music. Jimmima sang louder whenever anyone overtook her, while Jimmy Snake abandoned the tune entirely and shouted praise to Old Nick over the final line.

Jimmy applauded when they finished.

“Fucking knockout. Howzat?”

The Fingers cheered, parroting back, "HOWZAT!"

You heard him descend the metal steps, each footfall ringing through the empty pool as he approached. He took his time, circling the box before tapping the side with his knuckles.

“Cake?”

“No,” Jimmima said.

“Bomb?”

Jimmy Fox laughed too hard. No one joined him.

Sir Lord Jimmy tapped again, closer to your head. “Tellytummy?”

“It’s better than that,” Jimmima promised. “We found you a present.”

“We already had her,” Ink said.

Silence returned.

Even inside the box, you felt the atmosphere change.

“Did we?” Jimmy asked pleasantly.

Ink didn’t answer.

The paper ripped above you. Light flooded through the opening as Jimmy tore back the cardboard flaps and peered inside, his face framed by damaged silver stars. His bleached hair had been combed back from his forehead, although one strand had already fallen loose. Gold chains lay against the zipped collar of his purple tracksuit, one bearing the inverted cross that knocked lightly against the cardboard when he leaned closer.

His gaze travelled over the bow at your throat, the ropes around your wrists and the clean dress selected for his approval.

The amusement in his face sharpened.

“Hello, you.”

“Sir Lord Jimmy.”

“Very nice.” His fingers hooked beneath the ribbon, testing its tension without pulling. “Very fucking festive.”

Behind him, the Fingers shifted eagerly.

Jimmima stepped closer. “Do you like her?”

Jimmy’s attention remained on you. “Ask me after I’ve opened her.”

Laughter burst around the pool.

He held out his hand.

Getting out required accepting it, which was probably the point. You placed your fingers in his, and Jimmy’s smile warmed as though you’d proven something important. He helped you stand, supporting you when the ropes around your ankles made you stumble, then turned you slowly before the others while the satin bow trailed against your chest.

“Look at that,” he said. “My peeps do have initiative.”

Praise transformed them. Shoulders straightened and faces brightened beneath grimy yellow wigs. Even Ink lowered her head, concealing whatever guilt remained behind an expression of dutiful satisfaction.

Jimmy inspected the knot around your wrists. “Who tied this?”

“I did,” Ink admitted.

“Bit gentle.”

“She knows what happens if she runs.”

Jimmy looked at you. “Does she?”

You stared back, conscious of Fox’s blade, Jimmima’s expectant smile and the drained pool rising around you like a tiled grave.

“Yes.”

Jimmy laughed, loud and abrupt enough to make Fox flinch. “Clever little thing.”

He kept hold of your wrists as he paced along the line of his disciples. Their bright tracksuits created crude splashes of colour against the mold-stained tiles, like a children’s television program left playing after the world ended.

“What makes a gift?” Jimmy asked.

No one answered immediately, and his expression cooled.

Jimmy Jones tried first. “Something offered to the Lord.”

“Could be.”

“Something you want,” Fox added.

“Usually helps.”

Jimmima smiled. “Something that belongs to you once it’s given.”

Jimmy pointed at her with obvious approval. “There she is. Our scholar.”

He returned to you, keeping the rope looped around one hand. “But there’s a little problem, isn’t there?”

You said nothing.

“Nobody’s asked whether you’re giving anything.” His head tilted as he studied you. “They’ve wrapped you up, stuck a pretty bow on you and dropped you at my feet. Lovely effort. Ten out of ten for presentation. But Old Nick doesn’t care for stolen tribute.”

You almost believed he was offering you a way out.

That was one of Jimmy’s talents. He could make an unlocked door look real while positioning seven people with knives on the other side. Even now, your ankles remained bound and the rope around your wrists was wound through his fist.

Jimmima’s smile had vanished. Ink watched you with quiet dread. The others waited with the stillness of believers anticipating either a miracle or an execution, both outcomes capable of validating their faith.

Jimmy untied the ribbon at your throat. The satin slid free and pooled in his palm.

“Tell me plain,” he said. “Did you come to me?”

Your gaze dropped to the rope joining you.

His fingers tightened.

“Eyes up.”

You obeyed.

“Did you come to me?” he repeated.

There was only one answer that didn’t end with someone bleeding.

“Yes.”

His smile returned.

“Did you come because they frightened you?”

Jimmima stared at you from behind him.

“No.”

“Because they locked you downstairs?”

“No.”

“Because Jimmy Fox said he’d cut your pretty face if you made trouble?”

Fox looked suddenly nervous.

You swallowed. “No.”

Jimmy’s thumb stroked the ribbon as though rewarding each lie. “Because you’re hungry?”

“No.”

“Because you think I’ll keep the demons from ripping your belly open?”

The infected still shrieked beyond the building after dark. Some nights, the sound travelled through the walls until nobody slept.

“That’s part of it.”

Jimmy’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Honest too. Getting better by the second.”

He wrapped the ribbon once around his fist, adding it to the rope, and drew you closer. It didn’t choke you now, but the gesture reminded you how easily it could have.

“And the other part?”

You’d rehearsed something reverent inside the box, yet the words deserted you beneath the attention of the Fingers. Jimmy waited, the pleasant expression on his face growing thinner with every second.

“Because I wanted you to see me,” you said.

Something changed behind his eyes.

It wasn’t softness. Jimmy had carved that out of himself long ago and replaced it with spectacle, scripture and an audience that never dared look away. What remained was recognition, intense and possessive, the satisfaction of discovering a need he could use.

“Oh, I see you.”

He touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The gesture was almost tender, which made the watching cult worse.

“I saw you the first night,” he continued. “All filthy and shaking, trying not to look scared while my Fingers dragged you in. You looked at me like you already knew who mattered.”

You remembered looking at him because he was the only person not carrying his knife openly.

“You’ve been waiting for me to notice properly, haven’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. The rope between you made that clear.

Jimmy’s fingers closed around your jaw. “Say it.”

“Yes, Sir Lord Jimmy.”

“On your knees.”

You lowered yourself onto the cold tiles, awkward with your ankles still tied. The Fingers exhaled together.

Jimmy stood over you in purple velour, gold glinting at his throat, while his disciples formed a bright semicircle behind him. From the floor, the empty pool looked deeper than it had from above. Its walls rose on either side, impossible to climb quickly, and the old waterline stained into the tiles resembled a dark ring left by something drowned there.

Jimmy placed two fingers beneath your chin.

“Who released the demons?”

“Old Nick.”

“And who speaks for him?”

“You do.”

“Who are my Fingers?”

“The faithful.”

His thumb pressed against your lower lip. “And what do the Fingers hold?”

“Your crown.”

The disciples answered with you this time, voices overlapping until the words filled the pool.

Jimmy beamed at them, then returned his attention to you. “Hear that? Family.”

Family had once meant people who protected you without first demanding that you bleed for the privilege. The Jimmies had replaced it with matching names, matching clothes and matching scars cut upside down into their skin.

Jimmima approached carrying a narrow knife and a metal cup.

Jimmy took the blade.

“You aren’t one of us yet,” he said. “Can’t give me a present with one foot still outside the door."

The flat edge touched the center of your forehead, cold enough to make you flinch. He traced the bare skin where the others bore Old Nick’s inverted cross.

Ink turned her face away.

“You want to be attached to the hand?” Jimmy asked.

The blade remained poised against your skin. Your wrists were bound, your ankles tied and every exit from the pool guarded. Still, he waited as though this were a sacred choice freely placed before you.

You hesitated too long.

His smile vanished.

“Maybe she doesn’t,” Fox said.

Jimmy glanced over his shoulder, and Fox recoiled immediately.

“Did I ask you?”

“No, Sir Lord Jimmy.”

“You think she doesn’t understand?”

“No.”

“You think she needs convincing?”

Fox’s face drained of colour. “No.”

Jimmy looked back at you. His smile returned as easily as a light switching on.

“See what you’ve done?” he asked. “Got my Fingers doubting you already.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not me you’ve embarrassed.”

You looked toward Fox. “I’m sorry.”

Jimmy laughed softly. “There. Manners.”

The knife pressed closer, opening a bright point of pain beneath the serrated teeth.

“You want to be attached to the hand?” he asked again.

“Yes, Sir Lord Jimmy.”

“Good."

The cut came quickly. Pain burned beneath your skin as he drew one short line, then another, blood welling along the inverted mark before a warm bead slipped down the slope of your nose. You held still because every Finger was watching and because Jimmy’s approval had become more necessary than relief.

When he finished, he caught some of the blood in the metal cup, dipped his thumb into it and painted a streak down the centre of your lower lip.

The Jimmies applauded.

Jimmy examined his work, satisfaction settling over his features. “Now that is a gift."

He crouched in front of you, gripping your jaw with a hand that smelled of copper and stale sweat, turning your face toward the watching eyes. His thumb pressed beneath your cheekbone while the other fingers bracketed your chin, forcing your head up despite the ache burning through the fresh mark on your forehead. Around the drained pool, the Fingers leaned closer, their bright tracksuits and synthetic yellow hair crowding the edges of your vision as they waited for their lord to make a spectacle of his newest gift.

“Say it again, love.” Jimmy’s voice carried easily through the hollow leisure centre, playful enough to disguise the threat beneath it. “Tell them why they brought you here.”

Your tongue felt thick in your dry mouth. “To be your gift.”

His smile sharpened, but his grip didn’t loosen. “That’s what they decided. I asked what you decided.”

The Fingers watched in expectant silence. Somewhere behind him, rubber squeaked against the empty tiles as one of them shifted closer, eager for the answer Jimmy had already chosen for you.

“To be accepted by Sir Lord Jimmy,” you managed.

“Better.” His thumb pressed harder into your cheek, tilting your face toward the congregation. “But they can’t hear you at the back.”

His fingers dug in until your lips parted around the pressure.

“I came here to be accepted by Sir Lord Jimmy.”

Approval moved through the pool in murmurs and breathless laughter. Someone repeated the words as though they were part of a prayer, and the others quickly joined in, your frightened declaration passing from mouth to mouth until it no longer sounded like anything you had said.

Jimmy’s smile widened as though he had coaxed the confession from you freely. He stroked his thumb once across your cheek before releasing your jaw, leaving your face turned toward the congregation for another long, humiliating moment.

The Fingers murmured, a low, hungry sound that bounced off the chipped tile walls. The drip from the deep end kept its steady rhythm, like a pulse counting down.

Jimmy grinned, and you saw the rot in his teeth up close, the yellowed gaps, the inflamed tissue of his gums. "Good girl." He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, and you caught the sour tang of it. "Now we consummate the ceremony."

He stood, and there was a theatrical slowness to the way he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his track pants, pushing them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, half-hard, pink and veined, and the others shifted closer, a collective intake of breath.

"Suck it," he said, not a request. He fisted a hand in your hair and pulled your face toward him.

Your mouth opened because it must. The taste of him was salt and skin, pre-cum slicking your lips as he pushed past them. He wasn't gentle, thrusting shallow at first, then deeper, his hips finding a rhythm that was clumsy but eager. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your skull, guiding you down until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base.

"That's it," he groaned, his voice pitching up. "That's it, love."

You gagged, your throat convulsing around him, and he moaned, a broken sound that almost seemed surprised. He pulled out just enough for you to breathe, spit stringing from your lips to his cock, and then he thrust back in, deeper this time, his hips stuttering with inexperience.

His thumb found the ribbon around your throat, tugging at it, and you felt the knot loosen, the silk sliding away. He wrapped the ribbon around his fist, using it as a leash, pulling you harder onto him, and you heard yourself make a sound that was half whimper, half desperate swallow.

"Fuck," he exhaled, and it was almost reverent. "Fuck, that's good."

He pulled out entirely, his cock slick with your spit, and pushed you over onto your side with a hand on your shoulder. The tile scraped your hip, your bound wrists grinding against the concrete as he positioned himself behind you, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading them.

"Been waiting for this," he muttered, and you feel the blunt press of him at your entrance, wet and insistent. "Twenty-eight years since the world ended. Twenty-eight years of nothing. And then you."

He pushed in, and it was a stretch, a burn, your body resisting before it yielded, the slick of your arousal making way. He was inside you, fully, his hips flush against your ass, and he stilles for a moment, breathing hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Oh," he said, small and stunned, and then he started to move.

His thrusts were uneven, frantic, learning the rhythm as he went. He fucked you with a desperate enthusiasm, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet sound that echoed in the empty pool, the Fingers watching in silence, their eyes hungry. He leaned over you, his chest against your back, his mouth finding yours, and you tasted the rot of his teeth, the sour heat of his breath, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he kept driving his hips in an out, in and out.

"Mine," he gasped against your lips. "Mine now."

His hand found the front of you, fingers pressing, searching, and you gasped into his mouth as he found the right spot, rubbing in clumsy circles. He was close, you couls feel it in the way his rhythm broke, the way his breath came in short, sharp pants.

"Come with me," he ordered, his voice cracking. "Come on my cock, love."

And your body obeyed because it must, because his fingers were relentless and his cock was buried deep, and the orgasm ripped through you, your cunt clenching around him. He followed a second later, with a broken moan, his hips slamming into you as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you.

He stayed there, breathing hard, his weight pressing you into the tile. When he finally withdrew, his cum leaked from you, a slow, warm trickle down your thigh. He rolled you onto your back, his eyes scanning your face, his thumb tracing the raw cross on your forehead.

"You'll wear that forever," he murmured, and it sounded like a promise and a threat. He stood once again, pulling his track pants up, and the others began to stir, their murmurs rising.

You lied on the cold tile, the ribbon still coiled in his fist, your wrists still bound, the mark on your forehead throbbing with every beat of your heart. Somewhere above, the drip from the deep end keeps counting, and you know this was only the beginning. 

Afterward, Jimmy retied the purple ribbon around your throat.

The bow was crooked now, the satin crushed and damp from the fist he’d kept wrapped around it, but he fussed over the loops with surprising concentration, tugging one side and then the other until they sat to his satisfaction. It was an absurdly delicate gesture after everything he’d done, his brow drawn tight as though he were arranging flowers rather than restoring the decoration on a parcel he’d already torn apart.

“There,” he murmured, admiring his work. “Lovely.”

Around you, the Fingers remained in the semicircle where he’d ordered them, too disciplined to move without permission and too exhilarated to hide their staring. Their bright tracksuits crowded the edge of the drained pool, synthetic yellow hair glowing beneath the salvaged fairy lights. Some examined the fresh mark on your forehead with open fascination. Most watched Jimmy, waiting for him to show them whether they ought to laugh, applaud or kneel.

“Up,” he said.

Your legs trembled when you tried to stand. The first attempt barely lifted you from the cold tile before your knees threatened to fold again, earning a few smothered snickers from the congregation. Jimmy silenced them with a glance, then caught you beneath the arm and hauled you upright with none of the care he’d shown the ribbon. The rope remained knotted around your wrists, its coarse fibres biting deeper when he raised your bound hands and presented you to the others.

You no longer resembled the clean parcel they’d prepared. The pale fabric clung where it had become damp, the bow hung unevenly at your throat and grime from the pool floor streaked your skin. Jimmima looked pleased with herself anyway, her smile swelling with the satisfaction of someone whose handiwork had survived its intended destruction.

Jimmy Ink looked ill.

She stood slightly apart from the others, shoulders drawn inward and gaze fixed upon a chipped tile near your feet. Whenever her eyes threatened to rise, they stopped somewhere below your face, as though refusing to look at you properly might absolve her of standing there.

“Peeps,” Jimmy announced, spreading one arm toward you, “our present needs a name.”

Suggestions came immediately, shouted over one another with the unruly enthusiasm of children naming a stray animal. Jimmy Fox offered something crude, apparently grateful to be included again. Jones proposed Jimmy Valentine because of the ribbon, gesturing toward the bow as though the connection required explanation. Snake shouted Jimmy Sacrifice, which earned him a disgusted glance from their Lord.

“Bit obvious,” Jimmy said. “No artistry.”

Snake’s grin vanished.

Jimmy circled you once, considering the matter with exaggerated seriousness. He tapped one finger against his lips, head tilting as he inspected the result of the ceremony from every angle. You forced yourself not to follow him with your eyes. The ribbon shifted whenever he passed behind you, its loose end trailing from his hand and brushing your shoulder, a quiet reminder that he hadn’t truly released it.

“Just Jimmy for tonight,” he decided at last. “We’ll find the rest once she’s earned it.”

The phrase settled heavily in your stomach.

You’d believed the ceremony was the earning. The box, the rehearsed answers, the blade and everything that followed should have purchased whatever thin protection came with being counted among them. Jimmy’s wording made it clear there would always be another threshold, another demonstration demanded before you could feel secure. Even a name could be promised, bestowed and taken away again according to his mood.

That was how he kept the Fingers loyal. Belonging was never granted permanently; it had to be purchased again each morning. Every scrap of approval became precious because he alone decided how long it remained valid, and every humiliation could be recast as another opportunity to prove their devotion.

Jimmy drew his knife once more. The scrape of metal made your muscles lock before you could stop them, but he only crouched and sliced through the rope around your ankles. The loosened coils fell away, leaving angry ridges circling your skin.

He left your wrists tied.

“Can’t have you tripping over yourself,” he said as he returned the knife to its place. “Makes the whole family look amateur.”

Fox laughed too loudly. Nobody joined him.

Jimmy straightened and turned you toward the congregation with a firm hand at your shoulder. “Thank your Fingers.”

You looked at the figures gathered around the drained pool, their tracksuits stained with mud and age, their faces open and expectant beneath synthetic yellow hair. They had carried you between them, debated the arrangement of your limbs and wrapped the box while you listened from inside. Now they waited for gratitude as though kidnapping you had been an act of hospitality.

Jimmima wore the smug expectation of someone waiting to be praised for selecting the perfect present. Jones glanced between you and Jimmy, eager but uncertain. Snake rocked on his heels. Fox had already puffed out his chest in anticipation.

Ink still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Thank you.”

The slight tightening at the corner of Jimmy’s mouth told you the answer wasn’t enough.

“Properly.”

Your throat hurt when you swallowed. You forced warmth into your voice, smoothing the words until fear could almost be mistaken for sincerity.

“Thank you for bringing me to Sir Lord Jimmy.”

Approval rippled through the Fingers. Jimmima gave an elaborate bow, one hand sweeping toward the floor, while Fox thumped a fist against his chest, apparently reassured that his earlier mistake had been forgotten. Jones clapped twice before realising no one else had and hastily lowered his hands.

Jimmy lifted your bound wrists and kissed your knuckles with courtly tenderness. He angled the gesture outward so every disciple could witness his acceptance and understand that your gratitude had pleased him.

“Welcome to the family. Howzat?”

The Jimmies repeated it, seven voices briefly becoming one.

The words struck the hollow walls and returned distorted, multiplied by the acoustics until it sounded as though the ruined leisure centre itself had welcomed you. Jimmy smiled at the echo. He seemed to feed upon their devotion more readily than anything scavenged from abandoned towns, standing a little taller whenever their voices aligned with his.

You understood then that the ceremony had never truly been about receiving you. You were a lesson dressed in pale fabric and damp ribbon, proof that anything dragged before him could eventually be taught to call itself willing. The Fingers weren’t merely spectators. They were the intended audience for the transformation, each of them reminded that resistance could be rewritten if Jimmy controlled the story long enough.

“Right,” he announced, loosening his grip on your hands without untying them. “Celebration’s not finished because the present’s been opened. Somebody find us a drink.”

The command shattered their reverent formation. Jones hurried toward the metal stairs while Snake and Fox began arguing over who had hidden the last bottle. Another Finger rushed to rescue the battered keyboard from the poolside, cradling it with greater care than anyone had shown you. Jimmima followed close beside Jimmy, fishing shamelessly for another compliment about the wrapping paper.

“Silver stars were my idea,” she reminded him. “Thought they looked proper royal.”

Jimmy ignored her in favour of winding the purple ribbon around his fist.

The other end remained tied at your throat.

“Come along, then.”

He guided you toward the shallow end, the satin tightening whenever your pace fell behind his. Your legs were still unreliable, each step sending a dull tremor through muscles struggling to hold you upright, but Jimmy never slowed enough to accommodate you. When you stumbled, he gave the ribbon an impatient tug rather than offering his arm.

The discarded box sat beneath the salvaged fairy lights, torn open and listing to one side. Silver stars split where Jimmy’s hands had ripped through the paper, exposing the washing-machine logo beneath. Loose strands of tape hung from the collapsed flaps, catching the coloured bulbs whenever they moved in the draught.

From a distance, it no longer resembled a gift box at all.

It looked like the remains of something that had hatched.

You slowed near it. The impulse was irrational but immediate, your body remembering the cramped shelter before your mind could recall the panic of being sealed inside. The cardboard had pressed against your shoulders and trapped every breath, but there had been a finality to the darkness. Nobody had been looking at you. Jimmy hadn’t yet touched you or decided what your fear meant.

He noticed your hesitation immediately. “Something back there you want?”

For one desperate second, you imagined climbing inside again and folding the cardboard over your head, returning to the last place where Jimmy hadn’t yet seen you. The darkness had been close and airless, but at least it had belonged entirely to you. You could almost feel the walls closing around your knees, hiding your expression and swallowing every word before he could demand it.

The ribbon tightened.

“No, Sir Lord Jimmy.”

“That’s right.”

His satisfaction was quiet but unmistakable. He drew you onward while the Fingers gathered behind him carrying bottles, the keyboard and the remains of whatever food had been saved for the occasion. A dented tin rolled across the tiles before Fox chased it down with a curse. Someone began playing those same six notes again, hesitant at first, then louder when Jimmy failed to object.

This time, nobody threatened to break her fingers.

The procession assembled without being ordered. They fell into place behind their lord, voices rising around half-finished jokes and arguments as though the spectacle in the deep end had already become another piece of the evening’s entertainment. Jimmima launched into a detailed account of how difficult you had been to wrap. Fox interrupted to insist the holes in the box had been his contribution. Jones claimed he had stopped the entire thing collapsing, which prompted Snake to call him a liar.

Their version of the night was taking shape before you had even left the pool.

Soon, you knew, the box would become grander in the telling. The ribbon would have been silk instead of damp satin, the paper finer, your arrival greeted by music rather than quarrelling and six uncertain notes. They would forget the fear in your voice and remember only the answers Jimmy had demanded. Perhaps Jimmima would insist you’d smiled when the cardboard opened. Perhaps Fox would swear you’d thanked him before anyone told you to.

At the metal steps, Jimmy paused and looked back at the congregation. The Fingers quieted in stages, one by one noticing that he expected their attention.

“What do we do with gifts, peeps?”

“Treasure them,” Ink answered quietly.

His voice nearly disappeared beneath the hum of the fairy lights, but Jimmy heard him. For the first time since the ceremony ended, Ink looked directly at you. Something tightened across his face before shame dragged his gaze away again.

“Show them off,” Jimmima said.

Fox grinned. “Don’t let anybody nick ’em.”

“Keep them clean,” Jones offered, earning doubtful looks from the others.

Jimmy’s laughter rang against the empty tiles. “There we are. Learning something, aren’t we?”

His hand settled at the back of your neck, directly above the bow, and he guided you onto the first step. The metal was cold beneath your bare foot. Your balance faltered as you climbed with your wrists still bound, but his grip held you upright, not from kindness but because allowing you to fall would spoil the presentation.

The Jimmies followed in a bright, unruly procession. Their voices crowded the leisure centre, already reshaping what had happened below into a story they would repeat until coercion became devotion and fear became gratitude. By morning, they would remember you thanking them. By the end of the week, they might genuinely believe you had arrived by choice.

At the top of the steps, Jimmy drew you against his side and surveyed the ruin as though it were a palace awaiting its queen. The old reception desk had been turned into a makeshift banquet table, covered with mismatched bottles, scavenged sweets and tins pried open with knives. A plastic birthday banner sagged between two dead vending machines, several letters missing so that the message no longer made sense. Someone had pushed a candle into the centre of a stale sponge cake, though the wick had burned down to a blackened nub long before your arrival.

A plastic crown sat beside the keyboard, its metallic points bent and stained. When Jimmima reached for it, Jimmy slapped her hand away and placed it upon his own head.

“Birthday boy first,” he said.

The Fingers cheered.

He basked in the noise, arms spread and chin raised, while the cheap crown slipped sideways across his hair. Jimmima adjusted it for him, laughing too loudly when he called her useful. Fox began banging the flat of his palm against the reception desk in lieu of a drumbeat, and Snake joined in until the abandoned foyer filled with a clumsy rhythm.

Jimmy pulled you into the centre of them by the ribbon and raised one of the bottles. A little liquid remained at the bottom, cloudy and amber beneath the fluorescent lights. He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pressed the rim to your lips.

“To family,” he said.

You drank because the alternative had already been demonstrated below. The alcohol was warm and bitter, carrying the taste of rust from the bottle’s mouth. Jimmy watched your throat move, smiling as though the swallow completed some final private ritual.

“To family,” you repeated.

The Fingers answered in chorus.

Someone shoved the stale cake toward Jimmy. He tore away a piece with his fingers, chewed once and grimaced before dropping the rest back onto the desk. Fox laughed until Jimmy looked at him, then abruptly pretended to cough. Jimmima demanded a song, and the keyboard started again, its thin electronic notes swallowed by the cavernous building.

Jimmy tucked you beneath his arm while the others passed bottles from hand to hand. He kept the ribbon looped around his fist throughout it all, even when he laughed, even when Fox attempted to dance and collided with a stack of plastic chairs. Every movement of your body travelled along the satin to him. Every attempt to create an inch of distance was corrected before it could become visible.

When someone asked whether the new Jimmy would be allowed to sleep near their Lord, he answered without looking at you.

“Course she will. Can’t leave presents lying about, can we?”

The Fingers laughed.

His arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you nearer until the plastic crown brushed your temple. To anyone watching, the pose might have resembled affection: Jimmy presiding over his birthday feast with his newest disciple held proudly against his side. The ribbon concealed between your bodies told the truth.

You finally understood why Jimmy had made you speak your willingness aloud.

A captive could struggle, escape or be rescued. A captive might still remember that she had belonged somewhere else before the Fingers found her. A captive remained evidence of a crime, a living contradiction to every tender word Jimmy used to describe what he had done.

”eric love?” you say, closing the cell door. the guard agreed to let you go inside with him.

the prisoner nods, looking at you attentively. he has blue eyes. he’s cuffed, sitting in front of you.

”you here to save me?” he asks. ”that depends”, you answer. ”on what?” eric asks, tilting his head slightly. ”on why you did it”, you say.

eric lets out a sigh, grabbing his head. ”i told ’em, i blacked out. i didn’t wanna kill her”, he whimpers.

”i’m here to help, okay?” you say, opening your notes.

eric love, 28 years old. he’s been in and out of jail his whole life. he killed a guard who was supposedly trying to help him.

”so, you said you blacked out?” you ask. eric nods. ”i was so angry.. i don’t know..” he says. ”i just- something snapped, i don’t remember”, he says.

”well, i’ll try my best to help you”, you assure. ”if you don’t remember it, you probably need hospitalization and-”, you’re cut off by a gunshot.

you immediately stand, looking outside. the guard is dead on the ground. ”what the-”, you start panicking, trying the cell door. it’s locked.

a prisoner steps into your view, taking some keys off the guard’s pocket. he grins.

”eric, my boy, show her a good time before everyone else gets to her”, he says.

then he leaves. ”hey!” you yell, but he’s gone.

you start hearing screaming and gunshots, doors banging, chairs being thrown. it’s a riot.

”you’ll be safe here”, eric says. "i have to call someone-" you say, but eric stands, yanking the phone from your hand. "what are you doing?" you ask. "you shouldn’t have done that", eric murmurs. he throws your phone on the floor and steps on it, breaking it. "hey!" you yell, but eric ignores you.

you rush to the cell door, desperately trying to break it open. it obviously doesn’t budge.

eric moves quick, putting his cuffed hands around your neck. he starts choking you, planting small kisses on your cheek. "don’t fight it, luv", he murmurs.

your eyes water, you desperately try to squirm off his grip, but he’s way too strong. "you gonna be calm for me?" eric asks. you nod. he lets you go, and you start coughing and crying.

"aww, luv, don’t cry", eric says. he puts his hands around your head, pulling you to him with the cuffs. "stop-" you start, but are cut by him kissing you.

you feel your body going into panic mode as eric explores your mouth, sucking on your lower lip. his tongue slides in with ease and he lets out a content hum, licking into you.

you freeze with fear, eric notices. "aww, luv, are you scared?" he asks. you can’t respond, you just close your eyes as eric starts kissing on your neck, moving his hands on your breasts.

he gently fondles your tits while kissing your neck, the loose handcuffs not stopping him from violating you.

your heart is banging out of your chest, you feel sweat forming on your forehead. your vision blurs as eric lifts up your shirt, exposing your breasts.

he uses your fear to do as he wants, starting to kiss all over your body. small smacks leave his lips as he kisses on your tits, belly and sides.

his mouth moves onto your breasts as he starts suckling on them, tongue lapping at your nipples.

you don’t resist, you can’t. you’re frozen in fear, panic creeping up your whole body as eric sucks on your tits.

he starts kissing on your belly, hands already groping your thighs.

he unzips your jeans, pulling them down. "aww, luv, you’re shakin’", eric coos. he pulls your underwear down with his teeth, letting it drop to your feet.

then he leans in on your cunt, inhaling. "no", you manage to blurt out. eric looks up at you with a smirk. "jus’ relax, luv", he purrs.

then his mouth crashes against your cunt. not soft, not gentle. hard, hungry, like you’re his last meal.

he starts making out with your pussy like a starved man, moaning and groaning against your folds.

you let out a cry as his tongue finds your clit. he starts licking it like ice cream, lips curled to a satisfied grin.

"shit, luv, you taste really good", he coos.

his lips close around your clit as he starts sucking, making your legs shake.

you let out a loud sob, feeling hot spurts of clear liquid splashing out of your cunt on eric’s face. eric moans, opening his mouth, drinking it all up.

he keeps going until you come, hard. legs shaking, more squirt splashing on his face. he licks you clean and stands up, grinning at you.

he pushes you against the wall, face-first. fondling your ass, his finger goes to your leaking cunt, pushing inside, like he’s testing you.

"tight as fuck", he says.

you whimper as you hear him pulling down his sweatpants. they drop to his knees and his cock, now sprung free slaps your ass. it feels big, but you don’t dare look.

he spreads your ass and starts pushing inside your cunt, furrowing his brows in pleasure.

it’s huge, spreading you open painfully. you cry as he bottoms out, and it only gets worse as he starts thrusting.

hard, fast thrusts. wet smacks fill the cell as he fucks into you, cuffed hands squeezing your hips.

you dissociate, faintly hearing screams and loud bangs from the outside. oh right, there’s a riot going on.

you choke on a sob as he reaches your g-spot, your fluids leaking on his cock.

"that’s a good girl", eric praises you, picking up his pace.

harder, faster. in, out. your head is spinning as he fucks you, not slowing down.

you barely register him starting to moan louder, burying his face into your neck.

he trembles as he comes, flooding your cunt with his warm cum. he kisses your hair, pulling out.

"i enjoyed killing her, you know", he says. "you... what?" you whisper, tears in your eyes still. "yeah, i loved the way she begged", eric continues. "i was gonna kill you, but you’re much too pretty for that", he murmurs.

suddenly, a man rushes in the room and starts opening the cell door. "eric! let’s get the hell out of here", he says.

eric nods.

it all started from a simple smile. you were a new waitress at lion’s favorite diner. so sweet and pure, with your braided hair and rose-colored lipgloss.

he shouldn’t have fallen that hard, but he did. he kept going back every day, always hoping you’d be working.

he never asked you out, never even told you how pretty you were. he didn’t have the guts to do it, what if you rejected him?

stan always tells him that girls are a distraction, and oh boy, you really were a distraction. you popped into his thoughts even during matches. he’d imagine you in the crowd, cheering him on.

he always told himself: ’this is the day’, he’s going to do it, to ask you out. but that day never came.

he even started following you home, waited until you got off from work. he’d watch you from outside your window, standing behind a tree, careful not to get caught.

then, he came across something. at one of those stupid new-age magic shops, he went in because something drew him there.

"one wish willow"

"amaze your friends!"

he took the little box in his hand, studying carefully. it promised one wish, one wish that would come true.

he bought it without a second thought. maybe it would give him some luck when he eventually asked you out.

lion’s at the diner again, after a match, it’s already dark outside. stan told him to go home, but here he is, watching you.

the way you giggle at a customer’s joke, the way you sneer at your coworker behind the counter. you’re so perfect, you’d be perfect for him.

"another beer?" you ask him as lion’s deeply distracted by his own fantasies. he flinches at your sudden presence.

"i-i’m good, thanks", he stutters.

"you a boxer or something? always so bruised", you ask him with a smile. that fucking smile. "y-yeah", lion says. "why do you always come here?" you ask him. lion freezes. `because of you`, he thinks, but doesn’t dare to say it. "i like the food", he says.

you chuckle. "it’s not that good", you say. "h-hey, listen.." lion says, trying to gather up some courage. "what is it?" you ask. "i-" lion starts, but doesn’t manage to finish the sentence. "it’s nothing", he finally gives up. "alright then", you say, walking away. fuck.

at his car lion takes out the one wish willow, staring at it. it was stupid, so goddamn stupid. life doesn’t work like that, you don’t just get to make a wish and have it come true. and yet, he takes out the one wish willow.

snaps it in half, says the words. he wishes for you to love him more than anyone else in the world.

silence.

whatever, next time he was going to ask you out.

he’s already started the car when you knock on the car window. lion flinches again, did he leave something behind? he opens the car window.

"i’m sorry, i don’t even know your name, and..." you start, cheeks warming up. "it’s walter, but everyone calls me lion", lion says. "lion", you repeat with a smile. "listen, lion, i don’t know what came over me, but i really need to be with you right now", you say.

what? did it actually...

"can i come inside?" you ask. "d-don’t you have to work?" lion asks. "i clocked out early", you say. "s-sure, come inside", lion says, opening the door for you.

"can we go to your place?" you ask him. lion’s bruised cheeks get a deep flush to them. "i-i guess", he stutters. you smile.

"so.. what else do you do other than boxing?" you ask him as lion starts driving. "not much", he says. you chuckle. "you don’t have friends?" you ask. "i have my brother", lion says. "he nice?" you ask. "not really", lion chuckles.

"i could kill him for you", you say. "what?" lion scoffs. you start laughing. "i was joking!" you say. "oh, yeah.." lion mumbles.

"it’s pretty messy.." lion warns you at his door. "i used to live with my brother but i have my own place now", he adds.

he was right, it is messy. clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink. "you need a woman’s touch in here", you chuckle. "yeah?" lion says. `yours`, he thinks to himself.

"so.. what do you wanna do?" lion asks you.

you don’t hesitate. wrapping your arms around his neck you lean in, pressing a passionate kiss on his lips. lion whimpers, not sure what to make of it. but he responds to the kiss, opening his mouth, letting you push your tongue inside his mouth.

so it worked.

you make out as lion walks you to the bedroom, stumbling a bit on his clothes on the floor.

"please, lion, please.." you whine, breaking the kiss. "i need you to touch me", you say, kissing his neck.

lion lets out a grunt and lifts your shirt, peeling it off. he latches onto your breasts, licking and sucking eagerly. "get on top of me", you say, lying on the bed. lion obeys, pinning you down, starting to suckle your breasts again.

you’re letting out soft moans as his tongue laps at your nipples. impatiently, lion pulls down your skirt, starting to kiss on your belly.

"sit on my face", he murmurs, lying next to you. you nod, peeling off your panties, they already have a wet spot on them.

you climb on top of his face, trembling from anticipation. you sit on him carefully, not putting your whole weight in. lion grunts and grabs your hips, forcing you to do so.

you let out a moan as he starts hungrily making out with your pussy, tongue lapping up your fluids.

"you taste so fucking good", he mumbles, lips smacking wetly on your folds.

"oh, fuck, lion.." you cry as his lips move on your clit, closing around it.

he starts sucking hard, teasing your clit until your legs shake. he slaps your ass, pulling a whimper out of you.

you’re moaning loud, some tears starting to roll down your warm cheeks. it’s too good. and yet, you don’t really want it. the real you doesn’t.

lion is moaning as well, like you’re the best meal he’s ever had. he loves your taste.

his beard tickles your sensitive skin as he eats you. he’s not taking any breaks, doesn’t care that he can’t breathe.

as he starts sucking harder you feel a warm sensation in your lower stomach. then you feel it, warm spurts of clear liquid falling on his face, wetting his beard. lion moans, lapping up every drop of your squirt.

his face is drenched in you as he keeps suckling, sending lighting-like sensations through your entire body.

"lion, i’m gonna-" you whimper, legs shaking.

your orgasm floods through you, electrifying. you call out his name as you come, more squirt splashing on his face. lion groans and drinks it all up, gently kissing your sensitive nub.

he tries to continue eating you but you climb off his face, nestling between his thighs.

you unzip his jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers. his cock slaps you in the face. it’s huge, nothing like you’ve seen before. the tip is red and oozing pre-cum, aching for your touch.

"p-please", lion whimpers, glossy-eyed. you let out a soft chuckle and take his tip inside your mouth, the salty taste of his pre-cum lingering on your tongue.

you tease his tip by flicking your tongue on it, gently squeezing his balls. "stop teasing, baby", lion whines. you lock eyes with him, he’s almost crying.

you slowly take his cock all the way, the tip tickling your throat. you gag, but manage to breathe through it. lion lets out a messy whimper as you start sucking him off, steadily moving your mouth around his dick.

you play with his balls as you suck, gently squeezing and fondling them.

you feel your fluids running down your inner thigh, you’re getting off from his pleasure.

lion’s moaning and whimpering loud, tears starting to fall down his flushed cheeks.

he moans your name and puts his hand on your head. he doesn’t force his cock inside your throat, doesn’t put pressure on you. just gently pets your hair.

"baby, stop, i don’t wanna cum yet", he whimpers. you withdraw your mouth, looking at him with a pout. "i wanted you to cum", you say. lion grabs you, pinning you down on the bed.

"i wanna come like this, is that okay?" he asks. you nod, cupping his cheeks, giving him a wet kiss.

lion lines up, rubbing his broad tip on your entrance. you cry out as the tip enters, it’s almost too big.

he opens you up by pushing in more, bottoming out quickly. you’re drenched, so it’s easy for him.

he stays still for a while, panting on top of you. "baby, you feel..", he breathes, kissing your forehead. "fuck me", you whisper, wrapping your arms and legs around him.

lion starts thrusting, slow and gentle. he doesn’t want to hurt you. he buries his face into your neck, sucking hickeys on your skin.

his cock is oozing pre-cum inside you as he fuck you softly, fighting the urge to slam inside you with force.

"harder", you whine. "you sure?" lion asks. you nod.

he pulls out almost completely, only to slam back inside you with a force so strong you let out a cry. he starts pounding you hard, balls slamming against your ass.

"fuck, lion-", you moan, holding onto him tight, his toned body flush against yours.

"you like that?" lion pants, not letting you answer, pressing a sloppy kiss on your lips. you whimper, hungrily responding to his kiss.

he’s moaning inside your mouth, whole body shuddering from pleasure.

he’s so happy to finally have you, to feel you. all those months fantasizing and now you’re actually here, under him.

"say my name", he mumbles against your lips. "lion!" you moan, caging his mouth into another kiss.

you can feel his cock twitching inside you, he’s close. your walls clench around his length as he starts going rougher, faster.

you feel him starting to pull out, but you squeeze your legs harder around him, not letting him.

"do it inside", you whine. "y-you sure?" lion asks, surprised. you nod.

lion is panting hard, slamming inside you, wet smacks filling the room. your fluids are wetting his cock as he fucks you like it’s his last day on earth.

"baby, i’m gonna cum", he whimpers. "yeah!" you moan, sinking your teeth into his shoulder.

lion buries himself deep inside you, warm spurts of cum flooding your cunt. he crashes on top of you, panting, pressing soft kisses on your neck.

"i love you", he whispers, instantly regretting it. fuck. why would he say something like that?

"i love you too", you say. "you- you do?" lion asks. "of course, more than anyone", you say, embracing him tight.

lion wakes up to you watching him. "what are you doing?" he asks. you smile. "i like watching you sleep", you say. lion kisses you, soft and loving.

"i have to go to the gym, gotta train for the match next weekend", lion says, standing up.

"i’ll come with you!" you say. "really? don’t you have work?" lion ask. you shake your head. "it’s my day off", you say. "my brother won’t like that you’re there.." lion sighs. "who cares about what your brother thinks?" you say. "okay, okay, you can come", lion says.

you take a shower together, making out. lion even fucks you again under the running water.

then you head to the gym.

stan is surprised to see you. "who is this?" he asks. "this is-", lion starts, but you cut him off. "i’m lion’s girlfriend", you say. lion looks at you, shocked. "you are?" he ask. you nod. "of course i am, silly", you say.

"well, nice to meet you..." stan says, but he clearly doesn’t mean it.

you watch as lion trains with his brother, always reminding him to drink water, giving him kisses between sets. stan seems frustrated about your presence, but doesn’t say anything.

it’s already dark outside when stan decides that they’re done. "can i talk to you alone?" stan asks. lion looks at you, like he’s asking for permission. you pout, but eventually agree.

"listen, she has to go", stan says to lion as they’re alone in the locker room. "what?" lion asks. "she’s a distraction! you don’t need a girlfriend, where did she even come from?" stan ask, his voice raising slightly. "look, i love her", lion says. stan scoffs. "love, huh..." he murmurs. "she’ll make you loose your matches, you’ll see", he says. lion rolls his eyes. "don’t fucking do that!" stan hisses. "you should listen to me, i know what’s best for you", he says. "well maybe i don’t want you ordering me around anymore!" lion says. then he grabs his bag, walking out the door. "lion!" stan yells. "fuck you!" lion hisses.

"what did you talk about?" you ask lion as he wraps his arm around you. "nothing", he says. "wanna come over?" he asks you. you nod, kissing his cheek.

from that point on you do everything together. you’re almost always around when he’s training for a match, despite stan’s resistance.

you’re always there for his matches, cheering him on from the crowd. you love seeing him fight.

only times when you’re not with him is when you have to work. you’ve already asked your boss for less hours to be with him more, though.

you haven’t seen your friends since starting your relationship with lion, you don’t care about anything else but him anymore.

your friends are all worried, since this is not like you at all. you would never leave your friends behind for a man, and yet here you are.

lion is overjoyed to finally have you, even though you do act weird at times.

staying up to watch him sleep, being overly protective and jealous. you joke about killing every girl that looks his way, which makes lion somewhat uncomfortable.

one time you even slapped a girl at a bar for flirting with lion. afterwards you cried, constantly apologizing and saying that you’d never do it again. lion hushed and held you, promising that it’s okay, he loves you the way you are.

stan is absolutely furious about the situation. he hates how he’s not able to control lion anymore. and lion is definitely less focused on boxing now, since he’s thinking about you all the time.

one day stan decides to confront you, only that it doesn’t go according to plan...

a knock on the door.

you go open it, and see stan standing in the doorway. "stan.." you say, slightly frowning. "can i come in?" stan asks. "i guess.. lion’s in the shower, though", you say. "that’s fine, it’s you who i’m here to see", stan says. "me?" you ask.

stan sits down, letting out a sigh. "listen.." he starts, rubbing his head. "i need you to stop seeing lion", he says. "what?" you scoff. "you heard me", stan says. "you’re a distraction", he says. "lion is a fighter, not a fucking lover", he adds, looking at you intensely.

"he loves me", you argue. "yeah, yeah, sure.." stan sighs. "but what about his career? if you love him you’ll do what’s best for him", he says. "i’m what’s best for him!" you hiss. "no you’re not!" stan says, raising his voice at you.

"look, if you don’t leave him i’ll make him leave you", he says. "so choose", he adds. "he’d never leave me!" you say. "we’ll see about that", stan says. "look, you’re hot and all, i get he wanted to stick his dick in you, but-" stan starts, but you cut him off by slapping him in the face.

"fucking bitch!" stan hisses, grabbing you by the hair, pulling you to him. "i won’t let you come between us!" you say, grabbing a knife from the kitchen counter.

"woah, what the fuck are you-" stan starts, but is immediately cut off by you sinking the knife into his chest. you pull the knife out and repeat the motion, stabbing him again.

stan lets out a guttural sound, blood splashing everywhere. "you- crazy bitch", he stutters. he falls down on the floor, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

you stare at him coldly, tilting your head. you have blood all over your face. you set the knife on the table, looking as life slowly leaves stan’s eyes.

"what the fuck?" lion yells, stepping in the room. he’s wearing nothing but sweatpants, hair still wet from showering.

"i’m so sorry, baby.." you whine, tears starting to fall down your cheeks. "i-i had to! he was gonna come between us!" you continue sobbing.

"stan!" lion cries, kneeling down to try to stop the bleeding. "stan, c’mon man. wake up", he says, tears falling down his face.

"he won’t wake up", you say coldly. "you killed him!" lion yells, fully crying now. "he was an asshole!" you say.

lion stands, looking at you with teary eyes. you go to him, gently cupping his cheek. lion doesn’t pull away, instead he leans on your hand like he wants you to comfort him.

you gently pet his cheek. "i love you so, so so so so so so much, baby", you murmur. "i- i love you too", lion whispers.

you kiss him then. lion hesitates for a while before answering your kiss, but he wraps his arms around you, squeezing you tight.

"i wanna taste you", you whisper, taking the knife again. "baby.. what are you doing?" lion asks. "you trust me, right?" you say. lion nods.

you take the knife, pressing the blade on his chest. then you make a small cut. lion cries out from pain, but doesn’t try to stop you.

you lean in, putting your lips on the fresh wound. then you lick, slow and savoring, tasting his blood.

"you taste so good", you purr, licking again. lion lets out a small whimper as you keep licking his blood, kissing his wound.

then you suddenly snap out of it. withdrawing your lips from his wound, you look at stan’s dead body, then at lion.

"no, no no no no no", you keep repeating, grabbing your head. "what is it, baby?" lion asks. "you fucking cursed me!" you yell, enraged. "baby.. you love me", lion tries to calm you down. "no i don’t!" you hiss. "this is your fault, you killed him!" you cry, backing off from lion.

lion grabs your wrist, pulling you back to him. "let go of me!" you yell. "you love me", lion repeats, looking at you with a blank expression.

he slams you against the kitchen counter, ass up. he rips off your skirt and underwear, leaving you bare. you start squirming, but he’s holding you down. "stay still or i’ll call the police, whose dna will they find, huh?" he hisses.

you start bawling. "shh, shh, baby, don’t cry.. we’re so happy together, right?" lion coos, kissing your hair.

he pulls down his sweatpants, letting them drop to his feet. his cock slaps your ass. "don’t!" you cry, but lion starts lining up, pushing inside your cunt.

you cry as he slowly enters you, savoring every moment. he furrows his brows in pleasure as he bottoms out, slapping your ass.

stan’s body is still warm. he’s lying lifeless on the ground as lion starts slamming inside you, hard and rough, fingers digging into the fat of your hips.

you’re crying, horrified about you future. lion would surely force you to stay with him, he wouldn’t let you go. not after you murdered his brother.

"baby, you feel so good", lion moans, his cock hitting your g-spot again and again.

he’s rough now, not caring if you’re hurting or not. he’s punishing you. not for killing his brother, but for saying you don’t love him.

he slaps your ass, hard, leaving a red mark. you whimper.

"you love me", lion pants, like saying it will make the spell come back.

he’s relentless, fucking into you like he wants to break you from the inside out. you just cry, completely devastated.

your cunt starts lubricating itself as a defense mechanism, and lion notices. "oh? you’re wet, fucking slut, aren’t you? getting off to killing my brother", he torments you. "you’re drooling all over my cock", he adds, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

wet, brutal smacks fill the room as he violates you, your walls involuntarily clenching around his cock. "you need this", lion moans, slapping your ass again. "you need me", he adds. another slap. your ass is red and bruised by the time he starts going faster, getting closer to his release.

lion lets out a loud moan, burying himself deep inside you. you feel warm spurts of cum flooding inside you.

he doesn’t pull out right away, but stays buried inside, kissing the back of your head, murmuring sweet promises. "it’s gonna be alright, baby", he murmurs. "i’ll make you my wife, make you the mother to my kids", he continues.

"no!" you sob. "we’ll be so happy, baby", lion says. "you’re my everything", he adds, wrapping his arms around you.

you feel her coming back. you try to fight it, but end up losing yourself again.

"i love you, lion", you say. lion freezes. "you do, baby?" he asks. you nod. "more than anyone", you whisper, tears still in your eyes.

"I fucking hate you." You've lost count of how many times he's almost brought you off only to snatch your release away at the last second, but it's definitely approaching the double digits because it hurts.

Not just your cunt, either; half hovering and half straddling his lap like this you can't even close your legs without him forcing them open again with his own, overextended muscles starting to burn as well-worn denim rub against the insides of your thighs. With one hand in an iron grip your hip and the other buried between your legs there's no escape, no relief.

"I know, sweet thing…" The words are gentle and as soft as silk, dripping with false pity, breath ghosting over your lips in an almost-kiss. But as he cups your cunt in his palm, he doesn't look sorry at all. "So make me stop."

"…No." As if you could, even if you wanted to. Besides, if he actually stopped now you might cry. Or maybe punch him. Possibly both at the same time.

"Thought not." Circling your entrance with a fingertip, the corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins, wide and sharp and perfect. "Jus' one more time, then." Which is precisely what he's been saying for the last twenty minutes, though he doesn't give you the opportunity to point that out as he slips two fingers inside. After being wound up again and again there's barely any resistance, your body greedily swallowing every tiny bit that he'll let you have. A third digit slides in just as easily, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your head drop onto his shoulder with a pitiful little whine.

"Oh, you're so damn mean, you—" With a huff of laughter he adds a fourth finger, making your words cut off with an involuntary squeak as he hooks them up around your pubic bone, all but trapping you on the spot, completely unable to move.

"Funny, that." Breath tickling the shell of your ear, you can hear the grin in his voice. "'Cause I distinctly remember you singin' a different tune jus' a minute ago." There's no use trying to argue, not that he gives you the time to before pushing those gorgeous fingers into you with purpose, so methodical that it's almost cruel. After this long he knows exactly how to take you apart, and every practiced stroke has tension building at your core steadily and so infuriatingly easy. Stuffed so perfectly full there's barely room to breathe or to even think, and as release starts to coil at the bottom of you, sharp and urgent, all you can do is cling to him as every thrust knocks a hiccuping little gasp from you.

"Please, I'm gonna, please, let me, let me, please just let me, fuck…" As you mindlessly grab at any part of him you can reach, you don't even care that you must sound like a broken record. All that matters is his hand, the tips of his fingers nudging against the spot deep inside that always turns you dumb with pleasure and any second now it's going to happen, you can feel it, so close that it's nearly painful. "Please, yes, ye–" As it keeps building you can barely keep still, breath speeding up until your head spins and it feels like you could float away. And then his lips are on yours, swallowing every needy little sound as he as at first slows down and then simply stops, making you keen as your release is kept out of reach once again. He's smiling when he pulls away, completely smug as he greedily drinks in your desperation.

"You're damn cute when you're whinin' for it."

"Stop saying things like that." Slapping weakly at his chest you try to ignore the ache at your core, though the way he keeps wiggling his fingers in teasing little twitches is making it all but impossible.

"Shan't." He sounds incredibly pleased with himself, so smug that despite everything he's still got you wrapped around his fingers in more ways than one. "You gon' hold on for me, now." It's not a question and it clearly isn't meant to be, because he doesn't wait for a response this time either. While not starting completely over he still takes his time when he starts back up again, pushing his fingers deep and pressing the heel of his hand against your clit. It's an all but hopeless battle; with the deep, firm, delicious pressure right where you need it most it's only a matter of when, not if. It doesn't matter that he's hardly even moving, every glacial press-and-release has pleasure lapping at you in syrupy waves.

"Don't stop, you can't, please, I'm—" You're trying, you really are, but as your cunt starts to twitch and tighten all on its own you can't fight it anymore. This time he has to let you come, he has to.

"No, you fuckin' don't." The words are quick, raw, and you dimly realize that he's far from unaffected despite trying to pretend otherwise. "Look at me, lass." You can feel his thighs trembling underneath you, and as he grabs at the back of your neck to force your gaze up it's almost clumsy. "Don't you fuckin' dare." With him wringing the pleasure out of you like you're a wet rag it's an impossible ask. You're not sure how he can expect you to even be able to, not when he's dragging his fingers against the upper wall of your cunt until you can feel yourself starting to drip with it. "Not 'til I say." Push, drag. "Gods, jus' listen to that…" As if you have any choice; the slick noise of his fingers thrusting into you is obscene, too loud in the small room. "So damn wet an' needy, all for me." You're barely holding on as it is, and if he's going to keep talking there's no way you can keep it up. A quick change of his grip has him pushing the pad of his thumb to your clit, focused and merciless, and that's when it finally dawns on you; he's making it impossible on purpose. He was never expecting you to manage it at all.

Asshole. Beautiful fucking bastard.

"Don't you dare fuckin' come," he grits out, breathless and filthy and too good and just like that, you're pushed past the point of no return no matter how hard you try to hold back.

"I'm sorry, I can't, please—" For a second you're sure that he's going to ruin it somehow, that he's going to take it all away again, but he doesn't. Instead he groans, raw and perfect as he drives his fingers in deep, pushing against the front wall of your cunt. As you convulse around his fingers, words lose all meaning. There's only the release that tears through you in great choking waves, leaving you unable to do anything but try to hold on to him, muffling your pathetic cries in the crook of his shoulder as you gush all over his hand. There's a brief moment where you're hazily aware that you're drooling on his shirt but he doesn't seem to care and you can't either, not when he's dragging your release out, pushing back when your body pulls until your legs give out. After, as you sag bonelessly in his lap and struggle to catch your breath he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you in a steadying grip that's surprisingly gentle, all things considered.

"Y'made a mess all over me, sugar." Even though he's still tense and wound up underneath you, he looks almost fiercely proud, satisfied in a way that sends a brief stab of irritation through you. Feeling the sticky fabric cling to your skin as it cools has heat flooding your cheeks, and you quickly duck your head down under the pretense of kissing the side of his neck. Mostly pretense, anyway. While you're there it's too hard to resist nibbling at the heated skin, the salt of exertion stinging your lips. His usually slow pulse is thrumming under your tongue, a beat that you can't resist chasing with your mouth even though it muffles your words.

"You did that on purpose." It's nowhere near as reproachful as it's intended to be, but it probably wouldn't make much of a difference, anyway. If the unrepentant grin on his face is any indication, it definitely wouldn't.

"Couldn't resist." You can feel him through the soaked denim, thick and hard and lovely as he shifts underneath you, hips mindlessly chasing any hint of friction they can find. "An' apparently, neither could you."

"Do feel free to shut up."

"Or what?" The grin widens, turning positively indecent as he grinds up against you. "You're gon' get me back?"

"Something like that."

"Yeah?" Another roll of his hips, the drag of denim against your still oversensitive cunt making you twitch, breath catching as you can feel him pulse through the soaked fabric. Hands going to your hips again he holds you there, not letting you pull away as he leans in for another kiss, slowly rocking against you. "Do your worst, then."

Oh, you are going to enjoy making him regret saying that. As soon as your legs start working again, that is.

Masterlist ★The Master-masterlist

The house looked abandoned from the street, which was precisely why you'd chosen it.

Break in, find something valuable, get out before anyone knew you were there.

You'd done it a dozen times before.

You hadn't counted on Paddy Mayne being home.

The first thing you noticed was the smell—industrial cleaner, old wood, and something metallic underneath. Then you heard the footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate.

You froze in the hallway, your flashlight beam trembling across the walls.

"Thought I heard a mouse," a voice rumbled from the darkness.

Irish. Low. Dangerous.

You ran.

God, you ran.

But he knew this house—every creaking floorboard, every shadow. The blow came from nowhere, sending you sprawling.

When you woke, you were downstairs. The cellar.

He'd stripped you down to your underwear. Your wrists were chained to the wall with heavy manacles, the kind that didn't budge. The room was sparse—a mattress on the floor, a bucket in the corner, and shelves lined with supplies. Canned food. Water. Prenatal vitamins.

Your throat seized when you saw those.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy boots descending slowly.

Paddy Mayne filled the doorway.

Almost six feet of solid muscle, scarred knuckles, eyes that tracked you with predatory focus. He wasn't wearing his uniform. Just a thin white undershirt and trousers, suspenders hanging loose.

"Awake, finally." He stepped into the light, and you saw the scar tracing his cheekbone. "What's your name, love?"

You didn't answer.

You were too busy staring at the gun in his hand—not pointed at you, just held loosely at his side.

"Doesn't matter." He set the weapon on a shelf, well out of your reach. "You'll answer to something else soon enough."

"Let me go," you whispered.

He laughed.

It wasn't a kind sound. "You broke into my home, little thief. That makes you mine. And I've been alone a very long time."

He moved closer.

You pressed back against the cold stone wall, chains rattling. He stopped just inches away, close enough that you could smell whiskey on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him.

"See, the war's over," he murmured, reaching out to trace your jaw with a calloused thumb. You flinched, but he held you steady. "And I came back with nothing. No family. No legacy. Just this house and my memories."

His hand drifted lower, rough fingers grazing your collarbone, then the strap of your bra. "But you walked in. Gift from God, I'd call it."

"Please—"

"You'll call me Paddy," he interrupted, grip tightening just enough to hurt. "And you'll learn to be grateful. I'm going to give you a purpose, girl. Something to live for. Something to grow."

He gestured to the vitamins on the shelf. Your stomach dropped through the floor.

"No," you breathed.

"Yes." He caught your chin, forced you to meet his eyes. They were blue and utterly merciless. "You're young. Healthy. And I'm done waiting."

He released your face only to grip the hem of his undershirt, pulling it over his head. His torso was a map of violence—scars from knives, burns, the puckered mark of a bullet wound near his ribs. Muscle shifted beneath ruined skin as he tossed the shirt aside.

"Fight me," he said quietly, beginning to unbuckle his trousers. "Please. I like it when they fight."

You fought.

Of course you fought.

When he unlocked the manacle from the wall—keeping your wrists bound together—you lunged for the stairs.

He caught you around the waist and threw you onto the mattress with casual strength.

He was on you before you could roll away, pinning your hips with his weight. You bucked, tried to knee him, but he wedged himself between your thighs and laughed against your throat.

"That's it," he growled, capturing your bound wrists and forcing them above your head. "Struggle. Makes the victory sweeter."

"Paddy, don't—"

He cut you off with his mouth.

The kiss was brutal, all teeth and demand, his beard scraping your skin raw. When he pulled back, your lip was bleeding. He licked it clean, eyes darkening.

"Say it again," he commanded.

You stared up at him, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. "Paddy…"

"Good girl."

He ripped your underwear—actually tore the fabric like paper.

The violence of it shocked you into stillness.

He took advantage, shoving his trousers down enough to free himself. He was thick and heavy against your thigh, impossibly hot.

"Look at me," he ordered. When you squeezed your eyes shut, he slapped your cheek—not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to sting. "Eyes open. I want you to know who's breeding you."

You looked.

He entered you in one brutal thrust.

No preparation, no gentleness.

You cried out, back arching off the mattress, and he groaned—a sound like gravel scraping stone—at the tight heat of you.

"Christ," he muttered, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Christ, you're perfect."

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving you against the mattress springs. You were dry, unprepared, and the friction burned—but your body betrayed you.

As he rutted into you, relentless, your nerves began to spark despite your terror. Shame heated your face as you felt yourself slicken around him.

He noticed. He always noticed.

"There's a good lass," he purred, shifting his angle to grind against that spot inside you. Your traitorous body responded, hips lifting to meet him. "Knew you'd come around. Body knows what it needs, even if the mind's stupid about it."

"Stop," you whimpered, even as your legs wrapped around his waist involuntarily.

"Liar." He captured your mouth again, softer now, almost tender. The contrast made your head spin. "Feel you tightening. Feel you milking me."

He released your wrists to grip your thighs, pushing them wider, opening you completely to his gaze. His thrusts became erratic, losing their rhythm as his own pleasure mounted.

"Going to fill you," he grunted against your neck, teeth finding your pulse. "Going to put my child in your belly, and you're going to stay here, safe and fed and mine, until it shows. Until everyone who looks at you knows you're claimed."

"No—"

"Yes." He drove deep, pinning you with his weight, his hips jerking as he spent himself.

You felt it—the hot pulse, the flooding warmth. He stayed buried, rocking gently, making sure nothing spilled. "Yes, that's it. Take it all. Every drop."

He didn't pull out immediately.

Instead, he rolled to his side, keeping you impaled on him, one hand possessively over your lower belly.

"Sleep now," he murmured into your hair, like he hadn't just shattered your life. "We'll start proper in the morning. Vitamins. Good food. And me. Every night until it takes."

You lay there in the dark, feeling him softening inside you, his seed already beginning to leak onto your thighs, and knew with terrible certainty that he would keep you here until he succeeded.

And some part of you—a dark, broken part you didn't want to examine—wasn't sure you wanted him to fail.

A/N: if you couldn't tell this was self-indulgent by the breeding kink, i genuinely don't know what to tell you.

You rest practically on top of him, Jacks strong arms looped around you , letting your head tuck into the crook of his neck, keeping close. Its warm, comfortable, safe as the TV play's some show you'd lost focus on a while ago, too wrapped up in the heat of jacks body beneath yours.

One of his large hands drifts from rubbing over your back when you shift against his chest, a soft whine passing pouty lips half conscious. Mind struggling to drift off all the way despite the overtired exhaustion in your bones.

You dont notice that shift, too preoccupied in between dream and drift off. Not when the pads of his fingertips span your belly beneath your top, thumb soothing carefully, nor do you make a peep when they tuck just beneath the band of your sweats. Infact, if anything, you seem to press into the warmth of him like a kitten it's mother.

Still, he waits until you grumble again, scratchy stubble on his jaw rubbing your hair when you nuzzle in, before he lets them dip any further.

They creep down, slow and gentle, until he's cupping you over the cotton of your panties, pressure light to keep you drifting. You feel hot, even with the fabric barrier keeping your pussy from full contact.

Jacks fingers move back up the gusset, two chubby pads offering just a little more pressure, rubbing lazily. His chin dipping to plant a soft kiss to your temple.

The combination stirs you, makes your hand grip into the center of his shirt just a little tighter, sleepy eyes blinking up oh so blearily.

"Jack? What- mmph- what're you?-"You mumble, hips unconsciously tilting into the fingers that are still working your covered cunt.

Jack just smiles against you, cooing quietly, a freckled arm squeezing you a little tighter to him. "Shhh S'okay, Jus wanna feel my baby f' a bit, s'that alright? Jus' my fingers, Help you get all sleepy"

You must think about it for a single moment, a fleeting millisecond of coherence in that fuzzy little brain, before your head tucks back in and your leg drapes over his middle to allow more access.

Every whine, every whimper, you let bubble out holding a fragility that makes Jack's chest (and cock) ache.

And that, for a while, is how it goes. You, mewling into his neck, while Jack rubs your pussy over your panties. Just enough to keep you calm, to let you doze gently without drifting too far.

That is, until he finally slides the now drenched cotton to the side, his fingers making complete contact with the puffy, sticky lips of your vulva. Your head peaks out to moan, a sound that goes straight to Jack's cock.

"Ohh, s'that feel better? Hm?" he breathes, meeting your lips in a sloppy press that just about resembles a kiss.

Every brush, every lick of pressure to your clit has your hole drooling out arousal, pulsing as it tries to pull the digits that tease the outer edges in.

"Whats the matter, you need somethin inside?" your hips only tilt down, letting the tip of his middle dip just a little into where you need him. "Yeah.. Yeah you do, Alright, Nice n easy.. Big breaths, Jus feel it"

You take that breath against his mouth, shakey and tapering off into a soft cry, the thickness of his middle finger snug as it pushes inside your walls to the knuckle. He relishes in the moment, driving the single digit in and out, letting your wetness libricate the move before he begins to curl it with expert ease.

Jack can feel the heat radiating off of you, feel it pushed against his chest, every puff of your breath fanning hot. Even when you begin to squirm, rocking your hips in time as he presses against that spot that makes you keen, you remain devastatingly close- practically on top of him.

"S' Right there isn't it, thats the spot.." he murmers knowly, drawing out to circle your clit wetly. "Gonna give you another 'kay, big breaths good girl"

And If the first finger felt good, the stretch of two is like heaven, his middle and ring finger slipping in with little resistance. The rough pads curling up and pushing so perfectly against you that its obscene. Especially how, with every full plunge into your weepy cunt, you can feel the cool band of his wedding ring grow warmer- wetter.

And then, palm flush against your core once more, you hear it. The Filthy, muffled squelches that only make the lewdness of the situation worse.

Torn between nuzzling in deep to hide and the need to feel Jacks lips devour yours, You end up somewhere between the two when you mewl next, Cheek dragging open mouthed along the stubble of his jaw. Nimble fingers scrabbling to grip onto his forearm as the warmth in your belly burns hotter. "A-ah m' so- s'close Jack"

"Oh i know, i know.. S'right there isn't it" he shushes, squeezing your arm again, a faux kind of sympathy on his tongue. The heel of his palm plap, plap, plaping against your sticky, puffy clit as he curls his fingers perfectly deep. "cmon, cum it out sweetheart. Haven't gotta do nothin but let go, you can do it"

And truly, it doesn't take much more encouragement than that to make you shatter. His rough voice in your ear, fingers deep inside your rippling pussy as it squeezes him tight. The intensity has you shaking, lips dragging along his neck as you cry out. Each breath wracking your lungs as you heave it in. Heartbeat so loud in your ears you just about catch the gravelly drawl of jacks praise in your hair.

"That's my girl, yeaaahhh, there we go, makin me proud"

And jack, nothing if not totally content in your pleasure, doesn't stop, not until your squirming anyway. Struggling in his hold, hips writhing from the sensitivity, his fingers making sure to draw out the final sparks of heaven from your cunt before he snakes them free from you entirely.

Sticky, soaked and covered in the creamy mess of your release as they slide out of your panties and waistband up to his mouth.

You more so feel the guteral grumble at the taste, what with the way sleep finally seems to flood your system, fuzzy little head just about coherent enough to catch his final hum.

"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.”

"Yes!" PJ crows. "Absolutely, we must."

"Dude, no. I'm not fucking around with that shit."

"You've literally said you don't believe in ghosts."

You shrug, pushing the game at his chest. "Every single movie in history, my guy. I'm not a fucking chump. I'm not taking that chance, because with my luck, that's when I'd get proven wrong."

—

Wine happens. More.

Spirits, we implore you to—dude, do you think this house's actually got ghosts?—

—

You see PJ off in his rideshare and slowly sway your way back up to your bedroom, your hands pressing carefully against the walls as you climb the stairs. You stop to laugh, hunched over, at absolutely nothing, just softly chuckling to yourself.

You're gonna be fucked in the morning.

Can't bear the harsh lights, you keep them off as you collapse into bed, phone on your pillow beside your nasty wine-breath mouth. Stay in that position for longer than you should, immediately asleep.

Rolling over at some point, your hand thudding against something hard. You and PJ must've moved your bed against the wall like you'd discussed…?

Out of the murky dark, the wall grows large pale arms that come down and around you, pulling you into a body that is materializing itself, ripping a shrill scream out of your sticky throat.

"Quiet," the new body in your bed — not the wall — says gruffly. The arms tighten around you, banding you until you can't squirm without nausea slithering out of your belly up your throat.

"—be sick," you croak, and pull away fast enough to puke over the side of the bed, hitting the mattress on your way. Hammered. Nightmare. Sleep paralysis. No different than being drunk in bed and continuously dreaming about someone in the doorway with a glass of cold water for you. "Fuck," you grunt. You lay your head flat on the cool bedsheet, trying to force your heavy eyes open. Should get up and clean it now, not wait til morning.

Sleep rips you away before you even feel ashamed.

—

You're moaning. That's what wakes you up.

Thick and gummy moans humming through your body, like you're a cat trying to heal itself with low vibrational purrs. But you're not moaning to heal your hangover; you're moaning because something hard is rocking hard and hot against your cunt, sliding against your slipperiness, between your plump lips. Staying in the shallow end.

"What'fu—" You lift your concrete block of a head with a loud, hot grunt, and twist slowly to not make your stomach roil.

Your sleep paralysis demon in the still-dark, a pale-bodied stack of muscles working in sync to fuck at your cunt without actually going in. It makes a disgustingly harsh noise of pleasure, and clamps a hand over your bare hip to keep you in the same position. Your face stays on its side, stretched flat where his rocking motions are pushing you forward and pulling you back.

He's a man, but not human. Not earthly. In an instant glance, some deep-primal part of you understands that without turning any cerebral senses on. This is when your tether to reality snaps altogether. The surreality blunts fear and panic and confusion into a dreamy film that casts itself to your skin, present, but part of you.

"Am I dreaming."

"If y'want to tell yerself that, be my guest."

"Am I dead."

"Nah."

You moan and it might be the start of tears but you don't actually know anymore.

"Are you real."

Something shifts behind you, and then his cock is stroking up inside you, hitting your walls and stretching tight against you. This is when the dream would break apart and you'd wake up, a sensation too vivid and too real — achingly hot flesh against yours — yanking you from the cloudy haze of unconsciousness. But instead, it only takes a couple strokes until you're crying out, your pillow wet under your face still turned away, your body pitching itself up and over the climax all on its own while the thing behind you grunts and groans heavy and dark, dragging you down with it. Its hand is bruising on your waist until it's fucking you so hard that all you can do is sob and take it, a receptacle for its tension and urgency until the voice is ragged and hollowed out, and you feel heat slipping out of you. Liquid and silky.

You cry yourself back to sleep, unwilling to turn around and pretending the hand on your hip isn't there.

When you come to, the room is light and still. You roll over to see an empty bed. The covers are all fucked up, but it's empty.

Your pillow's marked up with mascara and a small dried puddle. You lean over the bed blearily; a little bit of bile on the floor. Fuck.

Between your legs — the throb, the wet.

You pull on baggy shorts and a t-shirt and clean up the puke while trying not to gag. You scrub at your face in the bathroom and do not make eye contact with yourself.

The pale thing is sitting on your couch. It's naked, arms crossed over its chest and legs resting out on your coffee table. Cock slumbering fat against its hairy thigh. Its eyes open to see you standing there, shaking like a little dog.

"Y'wanna know what you did?"

You just stare.

"Yer little game. Shouldn't poke around with things you don't know, bird. Heard your sweet little voice. You never know who's gonna answer back."

You don't make it to the bathroom. You catch it with your hands.

The thing grunts in disgust. "God, yer a right mess. Can't handle yer liquor."

—

He makes the rules clear over time.

You called out; he answered. There's no returning him. When you try to flee to a hotel, he just chuckles low and dark in your ear in the big king bed.

House didn't summon me, lovie. You did.

The spectrality of his form depends on the day. The days you ignore him, he's amorphous and weak. Terrible housemate, not able to carry his own weight. When you argue with him, which is useless because he has no earthly concerns and derives joy from pissing you off, he looks as real as a human. Those nights are the most haunting; his cock is the hardest, stiffest, driving up inside you as you push against him and fight it the whole way. You can't let yourself actually accept your reality: that you hate him with your whole being and that he is the best sex you've ever had. He tells you later that fucking you makes him feel, for a bit, at least "put back together," although the sensation never lasts.

He doesn't remember how or when or where he died. Doesn't matter to him, so the matter's dropped eventually. Given that he loves your bed better than any place in the whole house and doesn't recognize any modern conveniences, you surmise he'd been milling around wherever, waiting to answer your call, for hundreds of years.

All he tells you is that he thinks he was probably a shit.

"You still are," you grouse as he grips your thick thighs and pries them apart.

"Exactly my point. Now be quiet," he grunts between your legs, his tongue lashing out at you. Never tiring. No ego between his sucks and laps of your cunt. No impatient tongue trying to roll you over the edge so it can be his turn. No sore back that means he has to change position constantly. A real thing eating your cunt until you yell at him to stop, uttering a low unbothered chuckle.

you’re deep asleep, dreaming about jimmy. you of course don’t know that he’s wide awake, staring at you.

he’s stroking his cock slowly, looking at your breasts almost hanging out from your ripped nightgown.

”pretty lass”, he whispers, petting your shoulder.

he gently squeezes your nipple, careful not to wake you up. you let out a small whimper.

”there she is”, jimmy cooes.

his hand wanders between your legs, you’re not wearing any underwear.

jimmy starts rubbing his thumb on your clit, drawing circles.

you let out a small moan in your sleep. you’re dreaming of jimmy doing the exact thing he’s doing to you now.

”dreamin’ about me?” jimmy chuckles.

he presses a slow kiss on your slightly parted lips, not wanting to wake you up yet.

he keeps teasing your clit gently, whispering sweet words to you.

”me pretty lass, all mine..” he cooes.

he can’t help himself anymore, so he shoves two thick fingers inside your cunt.

that’s what gets you to wake up.

”mmh, jimmy…” you whimper, confused.

”shh, shh, i know, i know, sorry fer wakin’ ye up”, he purrs.

”w-what are you doing?” you ask, trying to move away.

”shh, keep still fer me”, jimmy whispers.

you moan as jimmy keeps drawing circles on your clit, pumping his fingers in and out of you.

”ye like this, wee lass feelin’ good?” jimmy cooes.

you nod, letting out small whimpers.

”me wee slag”, jimmy purrs, pressing his thumb against your clit, hard.

you cry out in pleasure.

”come fer me, lovey”, jimmy says.

and you do. you squirt on jimmy’s fingers, an overwhelming sensation running through your body like lightning.

”good lass”, jimmy says.

then he kisses you, soft and gentle. he starts placing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck and shoulder, moving onto your breasts. he pulls your nightgown slightly to the side so that your breasts are exposed to him. then he starts suckling on them, loud smacking noises filling the room.

he keeps moving down, kissing on your belly. then he starts gently nibbling on your inner thigh.

”w-wait, it’s too much”, you say, looking at jimmy.

”shh, ye’re gonna give me another one”, he says.

then he licks through your folds, slow and savoring.

you moan, still sensitive.

jimmy closes his lips around your clit, sucking on it gently.

”f-fuck, jimmy…” you moan.

jimmy chuckles against your cunt and keeps eagerly licking into you.

he keeps focusing on your clit, switching back and forth from sucking on it to flicking his tongue on it.

he’s out of breath, but doesn’t seem to mind it.

you squirt on his face, and he happily swallows everything.

”ye taste like honey”, jimmy cooes.

you feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release. your body feels incredibly hot.

”j-jimmy, i’m gonna-”, you whimper.

”that’s it”, jimmy says, smushing his lips against your clit.

you let out a loud moan as you come inside jimmy’s mouth, and he drinks up your liquids.

jimmy gives your clit a gentle kiss and starts kissing on your body. your thighs, your belly, your breasts, your neck.

then he pulls his pants and boxers down. his cock is so hard it looks painful, the tip already wet with precum.

jimmy rubs the tip against your entrance.

”beg fer it”, he says.

”please!”, you whimper.

”please what?” jimmy asks, grinning.

”please just fuck me!” you say, grinding your cunt against his cock.

jimmy gives you a kiss and starts pushing in, slowly. he wants you to feel every inch of him.

you moan as he finally bottoms out.

he doesn’t start moving, though. he stays still inside you, panting.

”f-fuck, i’m gonna cum if i start movin’”, jimmy says.

he keeps still, laying on top of you, placing soft kisses on your neck.

”please, jimmy”, you breathe. ”please fuck me!”, you whine, wrapping your legs around him.

jimmy chuckles and gives you a deep, indulgent kiss.

then he almost pulls out, only to slam back in with a force so strong your legs shake.

”fuck”, he moans. he starts snapping his hips back and forth, pounding inside you, wet smacks echoing in the room.

”ye like this, yeah? fuckin’ dirty slag”, jimmy says, panting.

”whose cunt is this?” he asks.

”yours”, you moan.

”whose?” he repeats.

”yours, jimmy!” you whimper.

”thought so”, he chuckles.

in

out

he’s fucking into you relentlessly, moaning and grunting in your ear.

”fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck”, he breathes.

”ye feel so goddamn tight and good”, he says, licking your ear.

his pace changes, becoming more rushed, his thrusts turning sloppy.

”gonna cum, gonna fuckin’ breed this cunt”, he moans.

”ye’d like that, mummy?” he asks.

you nod, moaning.

”can’t hear ye”, jimmy says.

”yes! i want your baby”, you cry out.

”gonna make those tits full of milk fer me”, he pants.

then he stops, burying inside you for one last time. you feel thick ropes of cum pouring inside you.

jimmy crashes on top of you, not pulling out. he lets his cock go soft inside you.

”i love ye so fuckin’ much”, he says, kissing your neck.

”i love you too”, you say, petting his hair.

jimmy pulls out, his cum leaking on the bed and on your thighs.

he lays next to you and takes you into his arms, giving you constant kisses.

”sleep tight, baby”, he says.