kylorengarbagedump

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 26 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 25 here.

Summary: Conflict of interest, schmonflict of schminterest.

Words: 7000

Warnings: snowballing

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Hi! Welcome back <3

Sorry for the delay in chapters - the next couple may or may not be slow to arrive as I am still recovering and it is taking up far more of this household's mental and physical energy than we anticipated! Despite that, it is going very well.

We just love fucking Tavington. Can we just do that? Must we address all of the incoming conflicts because of our choices?

I suppose we shall next chapter! <3 Love y'all so so very much.

A tugging, like a fishing rod begging its line to return, and you awoke, hissing at the pull on your scalp.

“Ow!” Your eyes fluttered open, meeting a half-bare chest, your lashes dragging against the edge of a robe. The body before you shifted, attempting to remove an arm from under your head and yanking your hair in the process.

“Have a care, won’t you?” you grumbled, flipping your hair from where it was pinned before wiggling back into comfort.

A hiss, this time not your own, forced your eyes back open as the body entwined with yours stiffened, a large hand seizing your hip. “Won’t you?”

As you blinked into lucidity, the reality of your situation crystallized: your legs, threaded with William Tavington’s. His chest, solid against your cheek. Your arms, looped around the swell of his shoulders. And his hand, immobilizing your hips, which had just nestled themselves snugly against his hot, leaking, very erect cock.

“Oh,” you whispered. A surge of arousal burst the dam of your drowsiness, flushing your face and fattening your tongue. You swallowed.

“Oh,” he repeated tightly.

You exhaled, turning your face into his chest as if that might stymie the flow of heat coursing from your cheeks all the way to your thighs.

“Well,” you murmured, nuzzling into the patch of hair between his pectorals, “I did try to offer you a solution last night.” Slowly, experimentally, your hand dragged from his shoulder as you spoke, trailing down the firm, broad plane of his back, to his hip, feeling his glutes flex beneath your fingertips. “A perfectly suitable one, in my opinion.”

As your hand crept toward his thigh, his grip on your waist tightened, making your breath catch.

“Perfectly suitable, was it?” William hummed, his fingertips sinking into soft flesh. “I seem to recall you nearly falling unconscious on my floor.”

“Ah.” You hid a smile against his chest. “And that is… not suitable to your taste?”

At that he snorted. “Perhaps suitable for quieting your errant tongue.”

“Oh, indeed.” You circled your nails up the front edge of his hip, desire emboldening you. ”But you like my tongue.”

William’s responding exhale stirred your hair, his fingers twitching at your side. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You skimmed your lips up his sternum to his collarbone. “You told me so.”

“Did I?” His hand finally released your waist, sliding to envelop the wrist of your wandering hand and snaring it in place. “I can’t seem to recall.”

The smirk in his voice made your own smile tug wider, bolder, and you traced the tip of your nose along the hollow of his throat. “Intoxicated, were you?”

“Preoccupied.”

“I see.” The fingers of your trapped hand wiggled, straining to brush against the patch of hair at his groin just out of reach. “I suppose I cannot begrudge you. No woman alive could compete with so alluring a bedfellow as Machiavelli.”

He hummed his agreement. “Alive, nor half dead of agues.”

You took a tiny pinch of skin along his jugular between your teeth, and his hand tightened around your wrist in response.

“How auspicious, then,” you said through a grin as you released him, “that I emerged victorious against such odds.”

“If you believe a compromise equates victory.”

You exhaled against his clavicle, skating your mouth over it. “Perhaps,” you said, outlining the bone with your lips, “the outcome is yet to be decided.”

His cock twitched against your belly. You felt his throat work. “And you flatter yourself fit to ascertain that outcome?”

“Why, sir,” you replied, jaw dropped playfully, “are you offering a solution?”

William shifted, his other hand slipping beneath your neck to cradle your head, tipping it back until you met the shimmering pale dawn of his eyes.

“I might,” he muttered, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your cheeks, your hair, the parted pout of your lips. “Should you convince me of your wellness to receive it.”

Your breath stalled, unwilling to produce a single word that might dissuade him now.

“You claimed that I like your tongue.” His thumb stroked casually across your scalp, earning a wave of shivers. “Tell me, then. What else bore my flattery?”

“I…” You swallowed, trying to find your voice within the thickening need that clogged your throat. “What do you…”

“Think very hard, dandelion,” he said, and his hand around your wrist shifted, drawing it inward between your bodies. “You may yet earn what you desire.”

His thumb slid up your palm, pried your fingers open, and then wrapped them around the thick, pulsing root of his cock. Your breath escaped in a rush, as if it could clear the volley of gunsmoke flooding your mind. A whine slipped from your throat, your hand reflexively tightening in an attempt to slide up his length.

William locked your wrist in place again, only a flare of his nostrils betraying the restraint he preserved. “Tell me.”

“My…” Your lashes fluttered as a new wave of heat doused your cheeks and dripped downward, pooling in your core. “My eyes,” you finally managed to whisper. “You flattered my eyes.”

“Very good,” he breathed, releasing your wrist to allow you to draw your hand up his length in one long, languid stroke. A breath released from deep in his chest, his jaw flexing, gaze searing into yours. “What else?”

He hooked your thigh and hoisted it over his hip before trailing his fingers down to tease the swollen, soaked flesh now exposed at your center. Your jaw fell, your gaze unfocused, and his fingers wound into the hair at the back of your skull, tugging your head back until you met his eyes again.

You whimpered, hips seeking, your thumb collecting a pearl of wetness at the tip of his cock and slicking it over the head. William seethed, his grip tightening on your scalp.

“What else?” he snarled.

“M—my…” You couldn’t say the words. The sheer filth of them wouldn’t gather on your tongue, wouldn’t even form in the stark haze of your mind. “My…” You rocked your hips against his fingers, hoping your body could spell out the debauched, unutterable syllables that his voice formed in your memory. Your own voice, for its part, only collapsed in a whine.

William tugged you closer, his cheek brushing yours, lips grazing heat to your ear.

“Your tight—” he seized your backside and hauled your hips forward, “—little—” his hand wrapped over yours, forcing you to position him between your legs, “—virgin—” he spread your wet, tender flesh with his fingers, “—cunt.”

With a single thrust, William speared you belly-deep on his cock.

You buried a cry into his neck, your body sundering at the intrusion, splitting with a pain and a pleasure that convalesced into something utterly, wretchedly whole. He growled, thrust again, and seared the hollow ache from your bones, teeth tearing fire into your flesh, branding you anew. Again, and he breathed his relief against your throat, again, and his hand slid to the small of your back, clutched your body against his.

As he pressed you close, stretched you deep and full, you melted against the quiver of his muscles. His pace quickened, hips hammering into your own, only to falter again just as quickly. His breaths shuddered, rasping across your ear, your neck, your shoulder.

The realization glinted on your mind’s horizon—he was already on the edge.

And as this realization grew into a flare, you found in its glow only a consummate, radiant relief. In this realization, you found refracted every shard of your own inner turmoil, felt the dagger-sharp loneliness that had stabbed through the endless mire of your illness, recalled every fissure of your thoughts that had fused and shattered, day after day, only to form without fail around the shape of William.

“William,” you whispered against his jaw, giving voice and name to your turmoil, settling it into repose.

“Deeper,” you moaned as your limbs tightened around him, because you’d missed him, by God, you’d missed him desperately.

“More, I—yes, I want you to—,” you pleaded as he bottomed out inside you and then growled, tensed, crushed into the very depths of your belly, as if to bury his understanding inside of you, as if to immure there the simple, unnameable reply:

I’ve missed you, too.

William shuddered, biting a roar into your shoulder. Seizing your hand in his own, he pulled free of your cunt, wrapping your fingers around his cock. A groan bled from him as he fucked your fist, his own grip gouging divots into the soft flesh of your waist, until his seed pulsed over your fingers in a long, copious release. Finally, his hips slowed, his body slackening.

His head fell to the pillow in a sprawl of dark waves, chest swelling with his breath, lashes brushing his cheeks before his eyes locked to yours. In them, a spark of heat, of something unresolved, lingered.

Before you could begin to formulate words, he took your wrist and raised your hand between you, anointed as it was with the cooling essence of him. A tiny, devilish twitch of his lips, and he drew your index finger into the hot cavern of his mouth.

Your lips parted in awe as he sucked the digit clean with a firm stroke of his tongue. Then he followed with your middle, ring, and little fingers—diligent, almost reverent in receiving this hand-fed sacrament, licking out along your palm to collect every spare drop.

Raising himself up on one elbow, he hovered over you, sunrise gilding his irises, and you could do nothing but melt like wax into his hand as he tipped your jaw open, brought his lips to yours, and swept the obscene communion across your tongue.

You moaned into his mouth, hungry for the offering, taking it with as much fervor as he had from your fingers. He grunted, his hand shifting downward from your jaw to your throat, until the pad of his thumb rested on your larynx. He withdrew an inch, a thread of saliva connecting you.

“Swallow,” he murmured.

You obeyed.

As your throat bobbed against his thumb, his nostrils flared, satisfaction rippling over his expression, slackening his jaw and driving his breath out in a huff.

“What a very good little creature you’ve become,” he said, and before you could conjure anything resembling a retort, he was rolling you fully onto your back, scooping your hips into position until he settled atop them and brought his lips back to yours.

He kissed you with dizzying force, his weight pressing you into the bed, his hair cascading down to tickle your face. His warmth soaked into you, wrapping every nerve in bliss. You gasped for air as he released your mouth to descend along your jaw, your throat, down to your sternum. He took two indulgent handfuls of your breasts as he passed, pinching and rolling your nipples over the fabric of your nightgown, making you whine and arch into him. A dark chuckle against your belly, and he slid lower, leaving you to press your own palms against your cheeks in an effort to quell the scorching fire there.

“Devil,” you breathed.

“You continue to name me as such.” William’s palms slid up your thighs, bringing the hem of your nightgown with them. “Which devil would that be, exactly?”

You scoffed, but the sound turned into a gasp as cool air kissed the wet, swollen flesh between your legs. William’s lips grazed your inner thigh.

“Hm?” he purred, pushing your nightgown up around your waist, smoothing his hands down your hips and tickling your skin with the stubble on his jaw. “I confess myself curious.”

“The very worst one,” you groaned, draping a forearm over your eyes, your hips instinctively seeking his mouth. He evaded you, switching to softly bite your other thigh, earning a gasp and clench, your hands twisting into the sheets. “The most wicked beast to ever leave a hoofprint in hell.”

William’s lips twitched, a hum rumbling into your flesh before he dragged his teeth through the meat of your thigh, leaving a delicious sting behind.

“And that is…” He lifted his head, met your eyes as he draped one thigh over his shoulder, then the other. “Not suitable to your taste?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then his chin dipped between your legs, and the silken heat of his tongue parted you down the middle, gently enveloping your clit.

Your head collided with the pillows. Words perished in your throat, transfigured instead into the longest, neediest moan that had ever escaped your lips. The room itself came untethered around you. And then his tongue began to flutter in velvet crescents, his mouth sealing possessively over that little pearl of sensation.

Bliss doused your mind, pushed a tiny sob from your lips, because somehow, impossibly, his mouth felt even better than it had the first time. Somehow, irrationally, his tongue had mapped your pleasure like a fine needlework and was now tracing every exquisite stitch, swirling along the seams, finding each precise point from which to unravel you.

And unravel you did. You arched on the bed, squeezed his head between your thighs and he groaned, burying deeper into your cunt. The strokes of his tongue grew firmer, more refined, gathering the heat scattered like embers across your skin and guiding them toward a devastating firestorm building in your center.

You trembled, clenched, felt sweat bead behind your knees. Before you realized what you were doing, your hands unwound from the sheets and buried themselves in his hair. William rumbled his assent into the very core of you, sending shockwaves up your spine that burst like golden pollen clouds along each vertebrae. With a gasp, you raised from the pillows to catch a glimpse of him. What you saw stole your breath.

Between your legs lay a picture of Luciferian beauty. A shaft of morning sunlight had crested through the window, crowning him in dawn. In this coronation he basked, indulgent and purposeful, slowly feasting upon the offering of your willing, mortal body.

Captivated, you twisted your fingers in his hair, watched threads of red-gold weave through it in the light. His eyes flickered up to catch yours. And then he shifted, muscles rippling beneath your thighs, and two thick fingers eased themselves into your cunt.

The sound that left you was something unholy. You collapsed, convulsed, pleaded, your existence reduced to a tangle of need and sensation. The only reality you were sure of was the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the sheer presence of him between your legs, drawing your consciousness to a precipice upon his lips.

Then his fingers curled against pure rapture inside you, and he sucked your clit softly into his mouth. The precipice vanished, and you floated, suspended, nothing but light and sky around you. And then you were falling, crashing, cascading around him as your orgasm slammed the earth up to meet you. It pitched you, flung you high and dragged you down again, over and over, cresting and falling in peaks.

William did not hurry. He fucked you slowly on his fingers, savored your undoing on his tongue, drew your climax to agonizing lengths. Finally you frayed at the edges, pushed his head away before sinking into a twitching, oversensitive pile on the sheets. He groaned, withdrew his soaked fingers from you, and slid them into his mouth.

Your own fingers creaked as they released his hair, rising instead to cover your face. You tried to ignore how this only made the scent of his pomade flood you, sending skittering aftershocks of pleasure through your body.

“Foul, obscene man,” you muttered into your palms. “Have you not had enough?”

William hummed a sound dangerously close to excitement, and you heard the lewd, wet pop of his fingers leaving his mouth. He extracted himself from beneath your thighs and crawled over you once more, looming to block the sunlight.

“Is gluttony not the devil’s domain?”

You spread your fingers to peek at him, some scalding remark primed on your tongue, but for the second time, it faltered before it was born. Seeing him like this—hovering above you edged in light, some perplexing softness in the teasing slant of his features and his chin still glistening with your effluence—the only instinct remaining to you was to sweep his hair back from one side of his face to better behold him. Your hand moved to follow this instinct. You did not resist.

“Soon he may have nothing left to consume,” you whispered, coiling a pretty, dark wave around your finger as you tucked it behind his ear, your fingers brushing his cheek.

William’s eyes flashed to your lips, the faintest flicker pulling between his brows.

“More fool, he,” he murmured, and whatever had passed over his expression was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a wry smirk. He lowered his lips toward yours. “For I have not begun to sate my hunger.”

A quick, light rap against the door made both of you seize. Your body tried to curl in on itself, but William was in the way, his head whipping toward the sound, his arm shielding your side from its source. Everything in you stilled. A hearth opened in your ribcage, your throat tightening with some unknown, addictive warmth. It was tender, this feeling. Like you were a fragile thing, cradled protectively in a bear’s paw.

You blinked up at his profile, neither of you so much as twitching as you waited for another sound beyond the door.

“Oh,” you breathed after a moment, slackening. “Of course.”

William turned to frown down at you, the question written across his face.

“It’s Lottie.” You tapped him lightly on the ribs to signal him to roll off of you. He hesitated, his hand flexing against your side, and then, slowly, he did.

As you pulled yourself to the floor, you felt William’s eyes on you, watching you steady yourself and tug your nightgown back to your ankles.

“And why were you expecting Miss Goddard?” he asked with some degree of dread.

You snorted. “When you galloped across the colony to obtain medicine for my particular ailment,” you replied, moving toward the door, “did you believe yourself subtle in applying your favor?”

“My favor, is it,” he replied boredly.

You tossed a look over your shoulder at him before cracking the door open, peeking both ways down an empty hallway, and grabbing the tray sitting at the threshold. On one side Lottie had neatly folded a change of clothes—shoes and stays included—and on the other were slices of bread, a pot of tea, and a single cup. You sighed, warmed at her thoughtfulness.

It was not a trait you had much experience cultivating.

Closing the door behind you, you turned with the tray in hand, finding William at the basin, running a rag over his naked body. Your mouth dried, your eyes lingering on the thick power in his waist, the cords of muscle tensing in his thighs, the divot at his hip that rolled into the pert, beautiful swell of his ass.

Wlliam cleared his throat. Your eyes snapped to his. He was smirking.

“Appreciating the sights?”

“Shut up,” you grumbled, your face hot. “Perhaps.”

You dropped the tray on the credenza and poured yourself a cup of tea. The scent of Peruvian bark curdled your nostrils, so you set it aside with a grimace—just to cool, of course—before wiggling out of your nightgown and moving to the basin. Sidling next to him, you bumped him with your hip before grabbing a spare cloth.

“Pardon me,” you said, grinning.

“Plenty of room,” he grumbled, resuming his previous position so his leg rested against yours.

You only shrugged, beginning to wash yourself as well, scrubbing the cloth underneath your breasts, pressing cool water into the throbbing reminders of William’s mouth, dipping it between your legs to wash it fully of your slick and his tongue.

Realizing he’d stilled, you glimpsed him from the corner of your eye, unable to prevent the smile breaking your face. “Now who’s appreciating the sights?”

William stepped behind you to tug you close, pressing his lips to your throat, meeting your gaze in the mirror.

“Appreciating my victory,” he purred against your skin.

Wooziness wobbled you, and you grabbed the basin to steady yourself. “I see,” you replied, ignoring how much enjoyment he seemed to glean from unmooring you. “How amusing.”

With that, you dropped the cloth, pinching his side before spinning from his hold and returning to your clothes. Both of you remained in comfortable silence for that moment—him shaving and dressing, you pulling your chemise and petticoats on layer by layer and wrangling your hair into presentability. As you secured it, you glanced back over to him.

William was stepping to the mirror, ribbon between his teeth, combing his hair back into the beginnings of a queue. You rolled your eyes, marched over to him, and plucked the ribbon from his mouth before climbing a chair as you’d done before and beginning to strand his hair.

“I do—”

“Beg my pardon?” you teased.

Almost against his will, his brow relaxed, his head steady against your ministrations.

You grinned to yourself. “So,” you said, beginning to thread the ribbon into his plait, “what sort of tasks consume a colonel’s day when he’s not making bedsport with the nurse?”

William’s lip twitched. “Far quicker to identify those tasks that do not,” he replied. “You happened upon me on an unusually early evening, for they usually consume the night as well.”

“Oh?” You allowed the silk of his hair to fan across your knuckles as you braided it. “Are you not typically lounging in your robe in the evening?”

“Hardly,” he replied, “but I made an exception following a particularly arduous journey.”

“I see,” you said, then nodded your head toward the teapot. “I don’t suppose you’d like to taste the spoils of said journey?”

His brows lifted in nonchalance. “I believe I’ve already done so.”

You gasped. “William!” you said, tugging a strand of hair.

Barely, just barely, he grinned.

“But honestly,” you said, tying off the braid and beginning to wrap it with the ribbon. “Do they simply lock you in an office if you aren’t off burning farms?”

He rolled his eyes. “They may as well,” he replied, tidying a cuff. “Though today I find myself presiding over several courts martial.” Under his breath, he added, “At least one of which promises to be brief and tidy.”

Something wriggled in your chest, like a larva wanting to burrow into your heart and gorge itself on your fear. But you had seen his gaze as you curled his hair behind his ear, eyes paler than panes of glass—

You crushed the larva beneath that memory, instead. For just a few moments more, you wanted to remain in this room, a reality separate from the war beyond the door.

“Sounds fascinating,” you said, taking the pomade that he passed you and smoothing it through his hair. He slid a hand into yours before you could return to the floor, allowing you to balance your weight onto him as you stepped down. “T-thank you.”

William said nothing, only continued to collect his belongings. You moved to your stays, shrugging them on, fingers grappling with the lace in the back. From the corner of his eye, he spotted this, and stepped behind you without a word, hands wrapping over yours to attend to your laces himself.

“Ah—I beg—”

“My pardon?”

You scowled and tried to turn around, but he held you fast by the harness of your stays.

“You shouldn’t strain,” he muttered, hands moving deftly. “And I hardly trust you not to tie too tightly so as to give the illusion of wellness.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You were,” he sighed.

You frowned. That was almost certainly what you were about to do. “I’m not a girl,” you said, heat glowing in your cheeks again. “I am fully capable of lacing my own stays and making my own decisions.”

“Indeed,” he said, “as evidenced by the litany of unwise decisions you’ve made in my presence. And the frequency with which I’ve found you without stays.”

“I—” You jerked in place, yanked back by his grip on your laces. “Well, who might I hold responsible for removing them?”

He tutted. “You’re not a girl,” he replied. “Are you not the one responsible?”

Despite this, and despite the warmth eking its way like slugs down your neck and chest, you made no attempt to bat him away.

“Next time I shall be sure to seek your advisement before dressing.” You paused at your own words.

That tender part of you, the part that had revelled in fragility, the part that melted into his lap the night prior—the part that had allowed him to remove your proverbial muzzle and card his fingers through your hair—had wrestled its way to life. And you found, to your horror, it was starving.

“Next time,” William mused, adjusting the tension on your laces.

You shrugged, forcing yourself to peek at him from over your shoulder. “Perhaps tonight.”

He huffed, tying you off. “I fear you may find yourself breaching the devil’s nest alone,” he replied. “The hells demand his labor.”

“Then I shall make myself comfortable where he rests his head.”

William exhaled, his hands steady on your hips. He pulled you against him and pressed his mouth to your neck before stepping away.

You drew a long breath, glancing at him as he strapped on his spurs and scabbard. After pinning your bodice, there was only one thing left you needed to do. So you grabbed your teacup from the tray and swallowed the entirety in one tepid gulp.

That foul deed finished, you took the tray and opened the door, setting it outside the threshold before turning to look at William. In wordless acknowledgement, he glanced around a final time before exiting the room to join you.

It felt strange, as if following the steps of a dance neither of you had the opportunity to rehearse. Yet each movement was summoned from memory in synchronicity, performed as if it was your hundredth night in his arms.

Your throat tightened at the mere idea—one hundred nights, one hundred mornings in his arms.

William closed the door behind you and met your eyes. You stood in the hall, winding your hands in your petticoats, and nodded toward him to indicate your readiness. The ritual movement of it seemed so typical, so domestic that your stomach lurched in some mixture of delight and disgust.

No, you were certain: you wanted this moment tomorrow morning, and the morning after that.

But before you could ponder that too deeply, William raised his brows, gestured for you to take a step, and so you did, a terrible little thrill lighting your heart when he stepped with you.

“Are you escorting me?” you asked, giving him a sideways glance as you walked.

“Given your head’s recent affinity for the floor,” he replied, “it’s only prudent.”

You grinned, beginning to descend the stairs. “Not one’s affinity for anything else, then?”

“Perhaps.” Fingertips, feather-light, grazed your lower back. “Depends on how one defines affinity.”

“Well,” you said, tossing a look over your shoulder, “I might define it as awakening—”

“Ah!” came a voice from the bottom of the steps. You stopped, felt William stall against your back. His hand gripped the banister. “There you are!”

Your stomach crashed to the ground.

“God—Ensign Goddard.” You traipsed down the rest of the staircase. “A pleasure to see you again.” Behind you, William descended each step in a calculated stride. You swallowed. “Have you—where is your sister? Have you spoken with your sister?”

“Ensign,” said William.

Goddard’s eyes widened. “Colonel Tavington,” he said stiffly, before looking back at you. “Actually, I was hoping to—”

“Finally returned from your temporary leave, have you?” William asked, sauntering into your periphery.

Goddard straightened. “Ah, yes, sir,” he replied, folding his hands behind his back. “Colonel, if I may, I planned to speak with the nurse here.”

“Very well.” William stood, unmoving. “Then speak.”

Your stomach churned. William’s eyes were like sharpened silver trained on Goddard’s throat. Stupidly, Goddard hesitated.

“Well, sir,” he said, glancing at the floor before straightening again. “I'm afraid it's rather personal.”

William frowned. “Personal,” he said, like it was a word he'd had to pry from the dirt. “A similar personal concern that necessitated your leave?” he asked. “Second in as many months, isn't it?”

Your tongue curled in your mouth. The gleam in William’s gaze was one you recognized—one you'd only seen when you dared lie to his face.

“Family matters?” William asked, and then pursed his lips in thought. “No, I seem to recall your family tragically passed on.” A pause as he held Goddard’s attention in suspense. “Apart from Miss Goddard, of course.”

Goddard’s face flickered through emotions like a breeze through grass. He tightened his lips over his teeth and tilted his chin toward the air. Your palms dampened with sweat.

“That’s correct, sir,” he replied. “And this is regarding Miss Goddard, as a matter of fact. I apologize that I am not inclined to discuss my sister's private concerns.”

William’s eyebrow twitched, and like a hawk surveying its roost, turned his attention on you. Every fond, delicate feeling you'd been nursing since the night prior disintegrated to dust. The man standing before you now was not the William Tavington into whose arms you'd awoken.

This man was the William Tavington you'd met in Catawba.

The William Tavington you knew as The Butcher.

“One of the courts martial today is arranged for a man almost certainly guilty of mutiny,” William drawled before staring at Goddard again. “I'd advise that you take interest in the sentencing.” With a final glance at you, he side-stepped the both of you, marching until he'd exited the main house entirely.

You nearly collapsed into a pile of organs. Wiping your hands on your petticoats, you leered at Goddard.

“What in the unholy, tormented, blisteringly awful Hell was that?” you hissed, glancing around. You were alone, but there was no knowing who else was in the house and waiting to eavesdrop on your conversation. “Are you—you know what, nevermind.” You nodded your head toward the back of the house.

Without another word, you left him, skirts swishing at your heels as you navigated to and out of the back door. In the yard, officers shouted to lines of infantry, who raised and dropped their muskets in tandem. You exhaled—that would provide decent cover to any conversation while you still remained in casual view to prevent suspicion.

After a moment, Goddard opened the door, head poking out to consider his surroundings before shutting it behind him and taking an unbothered stance next to you.

“So,” you said, staring straight at the infantry, “has your brain matter left your skull entirely?”

“What? That’s hardly fair!” Goddard huffed. “I have something of the utmost importance to tell you.”

“In front of Colonel Tavington?”

“How was I to bloody well know he would be there?”

You set your jaw. “You assured me you’d be careful, Goddard.”

He laughed, and you spotted him glaring at you from the corner of your eye. “And you told me you were working on his suspicions—what in the hell are you working on half past dawn? His engine?”

“Ugh!” You smacked him on the shoulder. “You villain!”

“Ow…”

“Watch your mouth, then.” You smacked him again, then folded your arms across your chest. “I said I was working on his suspicions of me, not of you. What’s all this about a temporary leave?”

Goddard was still rubbing his shoulder as if you’d done any actual damage. “Well, that’s why I wished to speak to you.”

You frowned. “I hope it’s been worth your assignment to the colonel’s purview of suspicion.”

“That’s not important to me,” he replied with a far steelier tone than he’d had a moment before. “I’ve not a care what that bastard thinks of me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said, giving him a swift nudge with your foot. “Your behavior doesn’t only endanger you, so if you believe yourself to be some sort of—”

“I was in the rebel camp,” he said, leveling you with his stare. “I stayed there.”

Your eyes widened. Your arms fell to your side.

Goddard held up his hands. “And before you—”

“You what?” You blinked, hoping you’d wake up from the terrible dream where you’d been embroiled in an intelligence plot and partnered to a seventeen-year-old boy who coddled a desire to hang from the gallows. “Are you…” You laughed. “Are you utterly daft?”

“No,” he replied, “I’m shrewd.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“It’s so.”

“Whom did you speak to? Which officer approved of this?” You snorted. “Certainly not my father. He would have knocked you over the head for your stupidity.”

“Your surname isn’t secretly Cleveland, is it?” He scoffed. “Because a man by that name did threaten to make me cut off my own ears before he’d hear me out.”

“Goddard—”

“I never inquired after your father, all right? I was focused.”

“On what?”

He looked out toward the infantry again. “The militia colonels knew of Ferguson, but since I’ve been vetted, I was able to lead them straight to him. Told them his every weakness and set them like dogs on the hunt.”

The stony conviction in his voice made your stomach drop. “How can you be sure you weren’t identified?”

He shook his head. “I left yesterday, before we approached enemy lines. None even noticed.”

“Clearly Tavington noticed,” you snapped.

Goddard groaned. “That won’t matter after what I’ve done, I’m certain of it. I thought you’d be proud of me.” He looked at you and grinned. “You’re far too careful, you know. It gets nothing of note accomplished. ”

You balked. “Too careful—” Your hands curled into fists. “Did you not just hear of the courts martial?”

“Did you not just hear how he spoke of my family?” he growled. “Even if you have no care for myself, surely you must have it for my sister.”

“It is exactly because of that care that I urge you toward caution!”

He waved you off. “If you truly cared for her, then you’d understand that I made a sensible decision.”

“If I—” You spun on him, ignoring the dip in your balance that nearly knocked you over. “Don’t you dare insinuate I lack care, Benedict Goddard. You’ve no idea—”

“And you’ve no idea of the significance of my actions. I am doing something brave. You continue to play the deuce with some devil of a British officer. So I beg your utmost pardon, but I refuse to be lectured on caring by a desperate spinster!”

You screeched, stepped toward him. He winced.

Fury rippled over you like electricity. The infantry trudged to orders shouted beyond the cotton of rage in your ears. A long, slow breath left your nose.

He wasn’t worth it.

“Very well,” you muttered. “Good day, Ensign.”

Without another word, you stomped toward the hospital. Dr. Moore’s services had been requisitioned at Fort Ninety Six, leaving you and Lottie to manage alone. And you needed to be alone.

By the time you arrived, your head had started pounding. Seething, you scrounged a cup of water from the barrel and drank it in a few furious gulps.

How dare a little boy speak to you with such familiarity—how dare he imply your commitment paled next to his. How dare he endanger your life, his sister's life, your sister's life with his thoughtless, reckless behavior?

And how dare he insinuate your relationship with William posed a distraction for you.

You wiped your mouth, got yourself another cupful.

That was the problem, though, wasn't it? You drank, ignoring how your stomach wound around itself.

How dare he, on at least that account, be so horrendously right?

You'd spent the evening curled in William's arms and the morning with his fingers curled in you. He'd made you laugh, made you come, made you inexplicably warm just by thinking of him. If you truly planned to continue your operation, you would need to acknowledge that you were openly and actively deceiving this man who you were giving far too much of your limited time and even more limited affection.

But you didn't want to acknowledge that. You wanted to continue living in a world where William Tavington’s attention meant nothing other than orgasms and an infuriatingly pleasant flutter in your chest.

You suspected—and if you knew William, you knew—that he hadn't appreciated your conversation with Goddard. So perhaps that fantasy world was already in rapid decay.

With a gasp, you finished your second cup of water and resolved to at least review your inventory.

It was mid-afternoon when you'd decided to take a break. Your head had begun to ache, your vision to haze. There was also the task of writing another letter to Grace, though she hadn’t responded to your last one. So you returned to your and Lottie’s shared room in the main house, where Lottie was already tucked in the corner of her bed, a copy of Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded in her hands. When you entered, she squeaked, greeting you with a bright smile.

“Good day to you!” she said. “How are you feeling?”

You grinned. “Like I could use another cup of that awful tea.”

“Oh!” Lottie plopped the book onto the mattress. “Shall I get you one?”

“No, no!” you said, holding up your hand. “Relax. I’ll get it myself in a moment. I’m much improved.”

Settling back against the wall, a smirk lighted her lips. “I bet you are, after your evening.”

“Hush.” You rolled your eyes despite the heat flushing your face. “Thank you, though. For the tea. And the, ah…” You gestured to your outfit. “Well, all of it.”

Lottie shrugged noncommittally, picking up her book again. “It’s not every day you watch a shrew be tamed.”

“I am not,” you said, crossing to your desk and slipping into the chair. “Reading Pamela for the first time?”

“I am, in fact.”

“What do you think of it?”

“What do I think…” She tapped her chin. “It’s rather licentious, isn’t it? So much seduction. Attempted seduction.”

You turned to look at her, grinning. “My, my, Charlotte.”

“Well, it’s no Fanny Hill,” she replied, pursing her lips. “And Mr. B is an utter rake.” A pause, and she flipped a page. “You’d hate it.”

“Would I?” you laughed, retrieving a blank piece of parchment and inkwell before sweeping your pen across the heading: 7th October, 1780.

“Oh, yes,” she said, with a great, tired sigh. “All Pamela cares for is her virtue. All Mr. B cares to do is take it from her. And yet she’s fallen in love with him despite all he’s done to her.” She laughed. “I’ve not gotten to the end yet, but I don’t believe you’d feel fondly toward a story about a woman surrendering to the whims of any man. Especially not one who seems to resent her values.”

You flinched, knocking over the well. Ink flooded the paper. “Damn it all—”

“Oh!” Lottie tossed the book to the side. “Hold on, let me help—”

“No,” you said, flicking the well upright and pushing your chair out. “No, it’s all right.”

You grabbed more parchment, layering it over to soak up what was there, your hands shaking as you blotted away the little black pools leftover. The ground wobbled beneath you.

“Goodness,” she said, climbing from the bed. “Perhaps we ought to acquire you some tea now.”

You swallowed, dabbing away the final drops. You’d finish the letter when you returned. “Perhaps.”

“Let’s go, then,” Lottie said, looping her arm through yours. “I’ll not hear any argument.”

“Taking after Mr. B, are you?”

She giggled, nudging you playfully. “Oh, you’re awful.”

You cleared your throat, your smile faltering.

Lottie led you back to the hospital and sat you down in the ward, alone, before disappearing to prepare you another nostril-curling serving of Peruvian bark tea. Your shoulders shrank in her absence.

Empty beds surrounded you, haunted by the lost ghosts of their former occupants. Though you could have been one of those ghosts, you sat today alive, all due to the one whose bed you did wish to haunt.

Was it so wrong to seek his company tonight despite the contradictions and deception trenching your futures wider apart, when he was responsible for ensuring your future altogether?

Something, perhaps exploiting the hollow air between the walls, informed you that yes, indeed. It was.

In the silence, you studied your hands, your feet, your heartbeat thrumming in your teeth. And your toes. And then beyond the walls of the ward. You paused and held your breath, glancing at the door. The hinges rattled. The ground shook.

This was not your heartbeat.

Men hollered strings of unintelligible words. Hooves thundered into the gate, a chorus of voices rising and falling, descending to the hospital’s perimeter.

“Where's the doctor?” shouted a man outside.

You looked around, as if Dr. Moore would materialize from the dust in the air.

He didn't.

You cursed.

Pulling yourself to your feet, you scrambled to the door, holding it open, greeted by an incoming bevy of mounted soldiers. Their heads snapped toward you, one of them leaping from his horse, his uniform matted with dirt, his forehead shining.

“Here!” you called. “In here!”

This man acknowledged you, gesturing to someone behind him, out of your line of sight. “Get him off!”

A shuffle, the sound of someone groaning, and then a terrified, feminine voice.

“Please, let me through, sir, I must stay with him,” the voice said. “Patrick, I'm here, all right?”

You gripped the doorframe, your heart hurled into your throat. You knew that voice.

But before you could make sense of it—or make sense of anything at all—seconds later, two soldiers dragged Patrick Ferguson, wheezing like a half-slaughtered hog, beyond the threshold. On their heels, breathless and covered in blood, was Grace.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Patriot (2000) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: William Tavington/Anne Howard Characters: Anne Howard, William Tavington Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anne stays at Charlotte Selton’s place for protection. it does not go well, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, but only the vaguest indications thereof, Canon-Typical Violence, just a little raiding and kidnapping, Captivity, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Forced Marriage, Attempted Seduction, Menstruation, Bloodplay, Blood Kink, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Menstrual Sex, Period Cramps, RIP anne. so sorry about that last one, and once again:, William Tavington Is His Own Warning, i’m back on the pool noodle but this time with red sunglasses, you know. to represent the blood Summary:

Anne had never thought that protracted terror and terrible dullness could coexist so readily before her captivity. But that was before so many things–before the war, before William Tavington, and before the soulmark burning through her shoulder.

or: Anne gets captured, gets her period, and gets eaten out by the most brutal man in the British Army. Featuring Tavington’s poorly-hidden blood kink, Anne’s complicated feelings at the idea of being a captive bride, and vague references to the concept of soulmates–- but only with the most unnerving implications, of course.

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I’m sure you’re tired of hearing praise for FYA but it’s literally maybe my favorite work of fiction ever. In the least weird way possible it just made me feel so seen, like I exist in this world along with the other freaks😂maybe I’m just an erotica addict idk but it was so beautiful. Got me through the worst period of my entire life, and I recently reread it and was just as star struck by the amazing characterizations and vivid scenes you created. As a fellow artist, thank you so much for making your works and putting them out into the world!

I never tire of hearing that something I created touched someone else🩷 That's half the joy of creating - getting to connect with others through what you write!

Thank you so much for your kind words. I'm so happy to hear you connected with it so deeply. 🩷🩷🩷

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Hii sorry if this is random but I'm so glad I decided to check out your fics on ao3 because your writing is FIRE. I got obsessed with Kylo Ren (again...) and was disappointed to see no one really writes him like the monster he can be. I adore your interpretation of the character. Please never stop writing disgusting, vile fics. You make us freaks of the world feel understood 🤍🤍🤍🤍 have a great day/night!

Omg 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 THANK YOU SO MUCH. That makes me so happy. Knowing you enjoy his characterization so much is really gratifying - it's something I worked hard on throughout my time writing him.

As a self-identified freak, it's all I could ask for to make my fellow freaks feel seen. Thank you again 🩷🩷🩷

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Kylo Ren’s portrait commission for the wonderful @cal-tastrophe! thank you for letting me have so much fun with this one🙃

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I... what? did we watch the same movies I don't--

a true caring feminist... margaret atwood would be ashamed of what I've done to him in both of my fics by destroying the legacy of this gentle champion of women

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people who follow my blog: who the hell writes noncon that shit is disgusting

me:

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Hey hello I didn't want to bother you while you were recovering BUT. I love love love Playing Soldier. It's a delight to read a well written Tav x reader fic, and I just love your writing. Flawless and so fluid!! Thank you so much to share it with all of us thirsty, unredeemable Tavington enjoyers <3

(This is @piiovra btw)

THANK YOU SO MUCH? @bastillia and I truly love writing it so knowing Tavington enjoyers adore it so is really really satisfying and validating.

Also, regardless of my status, never a bother. We love talking Tavington at any time and especially if I'm able to do nothing but sit around HAHAHA.

Thank you so much again 🩷

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 25 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 24 here. Part 26 here.

Summary: If malaria thinks it can kill you, it's got another thing coming.

Words: 7000

Warnings: dirty talk

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

HI welcome back!! Is this? Fluff? We've integrated? GASP??? HAVE A FEW PRAYERS BEEN ANSWERED???

Perhaps so. Thank you so much for all of your patience and well-wishes - I am doing well and was well-bolstered by the gratefulness I have toward the engagement and enthusiasm we get for our funny little fic, hehe.

Thank you so much to all of you and I hope you continue to enjoy <3

The second dose of Peruvian bark tea was nearly as vile as the first. But you'd managed to swallow that, a whole bowl of porridge, two rolls, and a small ocean’s worth of water by midday. And though your skin still ached and your muscles still twisted into knots, your mind was finally, finally starting to clear.

“Someone appears in fine fettle this afternoon,” said Lottie as she gathered the dishes from your bedside, holding up a bowl to display its emptiness. “And a veritable glutton besides.”

“Yes, well,” you rolled onto your side to face her, “it seems even marsh fever flees in fear of your porridge.”

Lottie grumbled, playfully flicking your nose. “Fine fettle indeed,” she muttered, stacking your dishes and whisking them away.

You grinned, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam.

“You’re fortunate that the sight of color in your cheeks has my spirits so lightened,” Lottie said, flouncing back over to gather one of the blankets from your bed, “or it’d be porridge for every meal henceforth.”

“You wouldn’t be so cruel.”

“Oh, I would,” she said, folding up the blanket and peering down her nose at you with an attempt at iciness that her warm features could not physically sustain. “I’ve become ruthless in your absence, you know. Someone had to fill the void.”

You snorted a laugh, rolling your eyes and flopping onto your back.

“See,” Lottie said, pointing a finger at you, “that’s how I know you’re feeling yourself again.”

“I am,” you said with a sigh, letting your eyes fall closed and relishing the way the room remained anchored around you. “Perhaps I’ll even manage to leave this bed for something other than the chamber pot. Thank Providence.”

A singsong hum from Lottie made you crack an eye open in suspicion.

“I believe you might have someone more corporeal to thank,” she said, impishly avoiding your one-eyed squint. “Perhaps with a kiss, if you’re so inclined to be up and about.”

You groaned. “Quiet.”

Lottie cackled, delighted with herself.

You’d not even spoken to him since he’d arrived. You remembered prying your eyes apart, suspended in the air by clouds at your back, remembered taking a sip of the tea Lottie had cradled in her hands. Remembered gagging so hard at the taste that the world had regained a few of its edges. Remembered the outline of him beside you, his hand leaving your back, his eyes meeting yours a single time and ordering Lottie to ensure you drank it all before he fled the hospital altogether.

It’d been weeks, now, since your lips had been on his, since you’d felt the warmth of his body against yours—and this was almost a relief. The shadow of your dreams had not receded from your thoughts, and with Goddard assuming more responsibility, the potential for your fears to become reality hung like a collection of familiar bodies over your head.

You’d admitted that you no longer despised William, that you even cared for him. Were you tempting fate by indulging your desire? It was not a question you cared to answer.

Despite all of this, there was, perhaps, a small, insignificant, very very tiny and not at all important part of you that wanted to thank him. Charleston was a week’s journey under ordinary conditions, and he’d made it there—and back—in six days. That deserved some gratitude, even if that handsome chestnut of his likely lay dead at the bottom of the hill. But the thought of prostrating yourself before him and admitting you’d become indebted to his mercy made illness crawl back over you.

You sighed, dropped your face into your pillow, and immediately grimaced. The awakening of your mind came with the awakening of all of your senses; the awakening to the fact that you, your clothes, your mouth, your everything reeked of averted death.

A gaggle of pathetic thoughts: William had stood near you like this? Would he even want to lie with you after inhaling such a malodorous stench? Perhaps he’d realized his journey had been a waste after returning to a woman whose body was capable of creating such a collection of… aromas.

You weren’t sure what was more revolting—the smell, or the insecurity it inspired.

“Lottie,” you called, and she spun to attention, a tiny hm? punctuating the airy tune she’d been humming. “I have quite the favor to ask of you.”

She shook her head. “No more rolls ‘til supper, you’ll burst.”

“It’s far more arduous than fetching rolls, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t possibly be,” Lottie said with a scoff, “what with Alice in the kitchen lying in wait to either bite or gossip my ear off, and myself never the wiser as to which fate might befall me upon entering.”

“God, you’re right, that is arduous,” you said with a grimace, rolling up to sit and stretch your hamstrings. They tugged like old leather against your bones.

“And it isn’t even good gossip, which makes the risk all the less sensible.” She sighed, gliding to your bedside and pushing a stray lock from your face. “After all,” she dipped into a whisper, “I’m privy to the best gossip in this fort, and it’s all locked safely behind my lips.”

She smirked, tapping a forefinger to her mouth, and you hid a reluctant smile behind a shake of your head. “I appreciate that, Lottie.”

“Now,” she said, clapping her hands together. “What would you require of me? You need simply name it.”

You chewed your lip. It would be labor intensive. But you needed it. And though you had no intention of seeking William out, if this happened to make you more appealing to him should your paths coincidentally cross, that would be an additional benefit.

“Would you… perhaps consider drawing me a bath?”

Lottie laughed. “Surely you jest,” she replied. “It would be my pleasure to do so.”

You frowned. “Is it that bad?”

“No, that’s not why!” she said, hands going to her hips. “You’ve been in awful condition. The fact that you feel well enough to bathe brings me great joy, that’s all.”

You studied her face. “But it is bad.”

“Well… I wouldn’t say bad so much as…” Her lips twisted, and she offered you a placating smile. “That you could use a freshening up, perhaps.”

“Sure.” Grumbling, you gathered your blankets and pillows around you, curling tightly into yourself beneath them as if you could barricade the air from escaping your skin. “I’ll be ready whenever it’s prepared.”

She nodded. “I’ll get started on it shortly. Should be finished by the evening.”

“Thank you,” you said from beneath your cushion fortress.

“Don’t thank me,” she chirped.

You grunted.

Lottie finished her tasks in the hospital before leaving to boil the first pots of water for your bath, and in the absence of her bustling and humming, the ward’s silence suffocated you. You turned onto your side, flipped, turned again, but failed to quiet your mind. After weeks confined to your bed, you craved to use your muscles, to engage your hands with work. But you’d been scolded enough times to know that Lottie would never allow it.

Or at least, she wouldn’t if she wasn’t occupied.

You glanced around and shucked the sheets from you like a second skin. They felt heavy and slick with your illness—you pitied whoever would be tasked with laundering them. Wrapping yourself in a robe and slippers, you toddled your way over to your workspace, surveying your stock and making notes of what you’d need to gather when you returned. The mint was relatively well-maintained, so you took a few leaves for your bath later. As you reached onto a shelf to take inventory of your fever reducers, your vision flipped upside down.

You gripped the table, staring into your feet as the room whirled and the floor dropped from under you. Then stood, breathing, until it all re-settled into place.

Dammit.

With a long, deep sigh, you returned to your bed and burrowed under the slime that composed your sheets until your bath was ready.

You'd had your third dose of tea and the night had fallen before you were released to bathe. The moment you managed to claw free of your mattress Lottie had stripped the sheets and sent them to be laundered with a prim swiftness. That would be a relief, too, you figured—clean sheets, freshly bathed, newly functional? You'd be back to work by tomorrow, you were certain of it.

After laying your change of clothing out on your bed, Lottie wrapped you in a wool cloak and bundled you up to the main house, where a water closet had been arranged complete with a bathtub, now full and steaming, as well as a basin and mirror along the wall. She fussed over you for only a few minutes, urging you to please call for me if you need even a moment of assistance as I’ll just be in the drawing room, and then left you to your privacy.

The grime melted from your skin in the water, sloughed off with the top layer. You remained there, scrubbing soap into your flesh and hair until your arms ached, gnashing on a chew twig and sucking on mint leaves until your mouth was cold.

William drifted unbidden to your thoughts, as he did with increasing frequency as of late. There was no denying that a part of you wished to see him. Also no denying that if you did see him, you'd need to express the gratitude that you reluctantly, factually harbored. He had endured no small hardship to save your life. Your chest tightened with an uncomfortable, unfamiliar warmth.

Wasn't he supposed to want you dead?

Weren't you supposed to despise him?

When and why had everything become so strange?

Your head thumped back against the copper edge of the bathtub, eyes fluttering shut as you worked soap down your torso, around your hips, between your legs. The idea of him galloping across a countryside crawling with rebel militia, evading death, capture, and the elements themselves, all to bring you medicine—it was like something out of a mad fantasy.

And yet, imaginations of his journey continued to flash through your mind. His breath rolling through him as he galloped, that stony set of his jaw, the hellish determination within the clear blue heaven of his eyes. Your fingers traced over tender flesh between your legs, and your breath quickened, imagining him storming into the Charleston hospital, demanding the medicine, returning without a moment’s hesitation for you.

For you.

All for you.

Long-dormant nerves crackled to life under the pads of your fingers, sending pleasure knifing up your spine, making you twitch, your vision blur. You stilled, panting. This wasn’t a good idea yet. This much you knew.

So you dragged your hand from between your legs and sunk to your chin with a sigh. Blood beat in your temples, your forehead, your fingertips, the water’s heat soaking your bones until the steam finally dissipated from the room.

When you stood, you wobbled, the world flipping again, but you grabbed the sides of the tub and breathed.

You would be fine. You were getting good at this.

A fresh shift and nightgown waited in your satchel. As you clambered out of the tub and began to sort through in search of it, your fingers skimmed over an unfamiliar piece of parchment.

“Huh.” You plucked it from the pocket, and groaned, rolling your eyes. “Dammit, Grace.”

She’d packed Pearce’s letter, no doubt as a tease for you to discover. The imp. Despite the irritation of being reminded this man existed, you smiled. You hadn't received a letter from her in a couple of weeks now and the reminder of her presence comforted you. Perhaps the post was as gummed up as the supply lines.

With a sigh, you stuffed it back in your satchel. You’d burn it later. You were too tired to monitor a candle now.

Once you had donned your shift, nightgown, and cloak, you drew a deep breath. You were already exhausted. But you'd be fine tomorrow. Surely.

Your things gathered, you made your way to the drawing room, stopping to lean against the doorframe and catch your breath. Inside, the glowing hearth threw Lottie’s curls into relief like a halo of wild flames, half-illuminating her face where she frowned at a checkerboard. Her freckles scrunched in thought before she clicked a piece across it. Then she rose, circled to the other side of the table, and frowned again, nibbling a fingernail as she strategized against her own move.

“I survived,” you announced from your place in the doorway, resting your head against the wood.

Lottie spun, brightened, and skipped toward you. “How do you feel?” she asked, pressing a hand to your forehead and examining you up and down. “You look a bit faint, was the water too hot?”

You shook your head. “It was perfect. I feel like a new person.”

“Smell like one, too,” she teased, grinning.

You poked out your tongue at her and she giggled, taking your hand.

“Shall we get you back to bed?”

You sighed, adjusting your hold on your bag. Tempting as it was to avoid the complication of seeing William, to postpone the task of thanking him until its enormity in your mind could diminish, you knew that you had to at least try.

“There’s something I need to do, first.” Somehow, the idea of going another night without seeing him chafed you just as much as the thought of confronting him. Whatever that was supposed to indicate. “I just…” You glanced around toward the staircase leading up to the officers’ quarters. “It won’t take long. I can make my way back to the hospital on my own.”

Lottie’s lips twisted into a skeptical smirk, her eyebrows rising.

“What?” you scoffed.

She shrugged, shaking her head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

Lottie pinched her lip between her teeth, poorly hiding a grin as she avoided your eyes, instead adjusting your cloak and plucking a stray eyelash from your cheek.

“I’ll bring up your clothes and tea in the morning,” she whispered.

“Lottie. I’m not spending the night.”

“Mm-hm,” she sang with a nod. “Of course you aren’t.”

“Charlotte.”

She spun past you toward the main entrance. “See you later,” she called airily. “Or earlier.”

A delighted giggle, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Sighing, you rested the back of your hand across your forehead, gathering your resolve. Might as well get it over and done with.

You picked your way slowly up the stairs, pausing for breath at the top before continuing on, guided through the halls by the slits of candlelight peeking through the officers’ bedrooms. One such room still lit belonged, you knew, to William Tavington.

You paused at the threshold. Raised your fist in the air.

If you were going to thank him, you needed to do it quickly so as to move on from this entire event and all of the feelings it inspired. You rapped on the door.

Beyond the threshold, not a sound. You strained to listen, catching not even a footstep or a swish of a quill. Perhaps he was in his office and you’d be able to say you tried without having to actually do anything. You took a step. Bit your lip.

Dammit.

You knocked again. “William?”

Before you could lower your hand, the door swung open. If you’d had any semblance of a sentence on your tongue before, it evaporated.

William stood in the door, his hair thrown about his shoulders, soft shadow on his cheeks. From what you could tell, he wore only a robe that was buttoned haphazardly at his waist, the top slung open and revealing a swathe of his chest, the curve of his pectorals, the dark dusting of hair leading between them to his stomach.

You unfortunately had decided to inventory all of this before saying a word, and then dragged your gaze to his, catching him in the process of doing the very same. His eyes lingered on the beads of water still fresh on your neck, strands of hair gilding them like jewels.

You swallowed every sprout of desire that had grown in your throat. “Good—”

William grabbed your wrist and tugged you into the room, his other hand coming around your waist and sealing you against him. Your belongings dropped to the ground. The door, at some point, shut behind you, though you were only made aware of this when your back pressed against it and his lips crashed against your own.

You sighed into him, gripping his hips for stability, the world snapping into focus with a clarity you hadn’t possessed for weeks. His tongue flicked into your mouth, his hand slid down to caress your ass, another hand tangling itself in your still-wet hair. His body was warm—hot—and you gasped, groping at his sides, wanting to meld into his increasingly firm hold.

When your hands crawled up his shoulder blades, he groaned into you, his fingers digging into your flesh. His mouth fell from yours to your neck, flush with heat, and began to suck and bite at every exposed inch of skin it could find, one hand freeing the tie of your cloak and wrenching it from your shoulders. You twitched, whimpered, the pain from his teeth peeling away whatever healing your body had begun, rending open your nerves like an axe to wood.

“Lord,” you panted.

The world flipped yet again, knocked from under your feet—until you realized this was William, bending you backwards so that your knees buckled, so that you needed to hook your arms around his neck to remain standing. He hummed into your throat, relishing all he tasted, returned to your lips again, kissing you once, twice, stuffing his tongue back in your mouth before pulling away and moving to the other side of your neck.

“William.” Your vision blurred, and you were unable to discern whether it was from illness or desire. “I…” Whatever had been on your mind before he took you in his arms was now lost to that same encompassing blur. You pressed your lips to his ear. “Take me.”

“If only those were the two sole words I ever heard from your mouth,” he grunted, and lifted you to your feet.

Just as he did, the world flipped a fourth time.

Then the floor rushed your face.

It stopped, inches from your nose, and you hung as if suspended by rope. An exhale escaped you, your eyes fluttered, and your vision finally refocused. Barring your teeth from meeting the hardwood was William’s arm curled around your waist, now guiding you to stand.

“Ah,” he said, propping you upright, “did you mean for me to take you to the hospital, then?”

You snorted, placing a hand on his bare chest, reveling in the heat, the excited kick of his heart against your palm. “No,” you said, pretending you hadn’t almost eaten the ground for supper, “I want you to take me to bed.”

He appraised you. “If you so wish.”

With that, he swept you behind your knees, collecting you in his arms, only to deposit you like a slaughtered deer onto the bed in a limp tangle of limbs. He studied you, examining the steam rising from your skin, the dizzy whirl to your sight. You wobbled up onto your elbows and glared at him.

“You don’t truly intend to convince me that you were prepared to be bedded, do you?”

“I was,” you insisted. “I am.” Especially if your cunt, now undoubtedly awake, had any input on the matter.

“Mm.” William’s eyes flicked over you. “No.” He crossed to the candle in the corner of the room, snuffing it. “Perhaps a more gentle man could appease you,” he said, as if he were discussing the weather, “but you could not bear the activities I’ve planned with the proper enthusiasm.”

Your heart thumped. Your thighs pressed together. “Please feel at leisure to share the explicit details of your plans, Colonel.”

William’s lip curled in a smirk. “Such plans are better anticipated and experienced than disclosed,” he drawled. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“How might I anticipate without any sort of indication?” you asked coyly.

“You shan’t.” With that, William pulled aside the sheets and slipped underneath them.

You pouted, pulling your legs into your body, wanting now to occupy as little space as possible in this bed if he was going to refuse to fuck you in it. Yes, you’d just been debating the wisdom of lying with him, and yes, this hadn’t been at all why you’d chosen to stop at his door. But now you’d glimpsed the relief of his touch and no longer wanted to deny yourself of it.

How cruel of him to deny you instead.

Beside you, William pulled a book from his bedside table—Il Principe, of course—thumbed to the page marked with the dried sprig and began to read. You watched him with growing irritation, for now not only was he not preoccupying himself with your body, but he’d chosen to do so by reading a book in a language you could not parse.

And to look so regal, so irresistible as he did it, too, with his bared chest and strong nose and thoughtful, pale eyes skimming the words. Frowning, you peeked at the open face and saw the pages had already been tarnished by a dozen annotations in the margins. These you could also not read, for they too were in Italian. A sense of unease crept over you, not unlike nausea but certainly distinct from it. Your skin felt too tight on your bones; the bed, too small for two bodies.

You sighed, your hands twisting around one another. Then you stuck an arm into his line of sight, pointing plainly at one of the printed paragraphs unmarred by his hand.

“What does that say?” you asked.

With a crisp accent, he replied, “Un uomo che voglia fare in tutte le—”

You slapped your hand lightly across his mouth, silencing him in a muffled mph. “Oh, do kiss my arse,” you said, rolling over with a pout. “Bastard, you are.”

He huffed. “Have you no reading material of your own to satisfy you?”

“Not all of us have the capacity to travel with libraries of foreign tomes,” you grumbled. “Peasantry must make do with what we have at present.”

“That must account for the general fecundity,” he mused, flipping a page.

“You are such a jester,” you said flatly. “Perhaps I’ll laugh all the way back to my own bed.”

You craned up to sit and swing your legs from the bed, but his finger caught the collar of your nightgown. With a single deft yank, he brought you sprawling down into the crook of his arm, kicking like a cast horse.

“Ugh—unhand me, you fiend!”

“No.”

His voice rumbled just behind your ear, tinged with satisfaction. To your chagrin, this instantly sapped the power from your struggle, your traitorous body instead aching to slacken into his hold. Refusing to give him the gratification of your surrender, you kept your back to him and curled once more into a stiff, cross-armed ball, diligently ignoring the way his arm still cradled your neck.

William sighed. Without a word, you heard the book thump shut and return to his beside table, and his arm slid out from beneath you. The mattress shifted as he rose from it.

“I can scarcely believe you have nothing of your own,” he said, picking up your satchel and beginning to rifle through it.

Your head shot up. “Excuse me!” A realization, and you scrambled to the edge of the bed, wincing when this made you nearly spill over from wooziness. “Wait, don’t—William, those are my—”

William’s brow rose, then furrowed in recognition that he’d landed on something. His gaze met yours, finding there the admission: this something you desperately did not want him to have. Frowning, he fished his prize free from your satchel and displayed it like a trophy.

Pearce’s letter.

Your eyes widened. There was nothing incriminating in the letter, to your memory—not even a mention of his status as a captain—but the thought of William poring over this man’s insipid attempts at romance made you consider defenestration before taking another breath.

“What’s this?” He wiggled it in his fingers. “To Miss,” he emphasized, before reading your name as the addressee. “Very formal indeed.”

Groaning, you flopped onto the bed. “It could not be more of nothing if there was no ink on the page.” For some reason, you worried he would suspect you kept this letter out of sentiment. “My scheming little demon of a sister placed it in my bag, I suppose believing herself to be amusing.”

“Is that so?” William opened the letter, reading as he crossed to the bed. “I pray this correspondence meets not with that degree of cynicism which I am undoubtedly due…”

You whined, covering your face. “Have I not suffered enough these past weeks?”

A tiny, cruel grin on his lips. “Oh, you truly resent its existence, don’t you?” he asked, brandishing the letter.

“I told her to burn the damn thing,” you replied through your hands.

William returned to the bed, still reading aloud, and you moved to make room for him. “... Your father had described you as intelligent and strong-willed—did he now? Strong-willed would be the most generous adjective to use, I suppose—and I was unprepared to make your acquaintance and present myself with propriety as he failed to mention your arresting beauty.”

He eyed you briefly at that. Heat rushed your face, as you’d never once heard William comment positively upon your appearance apart from the time you had your mouth around his cock. Yet he continued to read, as if Pearce’s letter was a shared amusement he was allowing you to enjoy.

“... my name is Christopher Pearce, and if you would permit me, I would name what of you I admire so that you may see the truth in my intention.” William snorted, settling back against the pillows. “What, did you twist your claws into his balls upon first meeting?”

You rolled your eyes. “No more than any other man’s.”

“He has been well and truly gelded, then.”

“Shut up,” you said, nudging him. “You seemed to have maintained your manhood without injury.”

William glimpsed you. “Unlike your Christopher Pearce,” he replied, “upon first meeting, I recognized a creature in need of breaking.”

You returned his stare, curled onto your side in his bed. A chill rushed you, inviting the awful ache to return to your muscles. Shivering, you decided to join him beneath the blankets, the unnamable unease binding you from inching any closer, despite how comforting the glow of heat from his body seemed. Exhaling softly through his nose, he continued reading.

“Your hands, well-worn by work, I would seek to soften through my labor. Your laughter, though I have yet to earn it, I would seek to gift you daily. And your eyes, ferocious as those of a tiger—”

William paused there, tongue pressing against his cheek before he continued.

“Your eyes, ferocious as those of a tiger, I would seek to gaze upon me with affection.” His brow twitched, and he skimmed the rest of the letter, mumbling under his breath, “Not precisely how I would phrase it…”

You blinked, sitting up. “What was that?”

He looked at you. “Hm?”

“What did you mean by that?” You reached for the letter, and he jerked it away.

“What did I mean by—” when you went for it again, he held it to the side, “—what?”

“Lord—” You scrambled across him until you straddled his legs, trying to snatch it free, the hem of your nightgown climbing your bare thighs. “You—God, you’re impossible.”

William held it above his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“What did you mean,” you said, settling now in his lap, “by ‘that isn’t how you would phrase it’?” You nodded toward the letter.

His eyes widened—he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “Ah.” He lowered the letter, scanned it. His throat knocked. “Well.” He put the parchment to the side, searching the air. “I don’t believe I’d choose the words ferocious or tiger to describe your eyes.”

Your heart tripped over itself. “Truly?” you said, cocking your head. “And how, might I ask, would you choose to amend such a description, William?”

William sighed, directing a withering look to the wall. “The words ferocious and tiger are obscenely shallow,” he said, “and trite from the open.”

Then he gazed at you again. He went to speak, then paused, lips pinching together. Silent, he pushed a strand of hair from your face, allowed it to draw over the pad of his finger before he spoke.

“One could consider Dionaea muscipula,” he began. The blue in his irises shimmered like ice. His finger trailed over your cheekbone. “Its mouths are laden with teeth, purposefully unappealing to any who threaten to consume it.”

A crack in the ice, like the first thaw of a river. The same finger curved around your jaw, to your chin.

“But if provided the proper attentions. Appeased at its roots and fed with regularity…”

Embers licked away the fridigity in his gaze. Gripping your chin, he passed his thumb over it, watching your lips part in response.

“... it raises a single stalk, high above its mouths, and yields delicate, pristine flowers. Ripe for harvest.”

William’s thumb traced your lower lip, his eyes flooding with an open, unbound twilight.

“Perhaps that’s where I might begin.”

Your jaw was slack, your thighs perched on either side of his own, your core thumping between them. Unbidden, your hand landed on his stomach, smoothing over it. The warmth there tempted you to draw even closer, to discover if his desire mirrored yours. For now, you could not even bring yourself to look.

“Well,” you said, voice tight in your throat, “I suppose… that’s a marginal improvement.”

Swallowing, you took the hand at your jaw in yours, hoping he would not feel how rapid your pulse was beneath your flesh, and skimmed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Was… Did…” Your tongue felt fat in your mouth, like it had never spoken a word before this moment. “How, ah… I…” You cleared your throat. “I hope you, ah, haven’t over-exerted yourself with such phrasing.”

William’s lip twitched, his chest falling in an exhale. “Oh, utterly exhausted.” He met your eyes, a glint of mischief in them. “More taxing than a ride to Charleston and back, for certain.”

You bit back a smile. “Is that so?” Despite your efforts, your grin prevailed. “By paying me a single kind word you have robbed yourself of every last humor?”

“Am I to believe you’ve paid a single kind word to any blood outside your own?”

“Of course I have!”

“I doubt that very much.”

You smacked his shoulder. “Must you witness everything to believe it?”

William shrugged. “I draw conclusions from the evidence at hand.”

“Well, perhaps you should take into account that… uh.” You shifted, straightening your spine. “That… Um. I believe. That. You.” You inched closer to him, your heat flush against the crux of his thighs, the warmth between bearing sweat. “Are…” The words felt like paste. You glanced at your entwined hands. “Very. Handsome.”

You met his eyes again. They flashed with triumph.

“Impressive.” He squeezed your hand before releasing it to cradle your face. “Although,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I dread to imagine how taxing you found those four words.”

Pinching your jaw in his hand, he grazed his lips over yours.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed, muttering a scant shut up before liquefying against his mouth.

William’s fingers spanned your nape, holding you in place as he adjusted his angle, his touch tentative, deliberate. Open-mouthed, he kissed you again, slipped his tongue across your lower lip, and you shivered, easing closer to him, wanting more, more of everything he possessed.

In response, he deepened the kiss, absent of the urgent hunger he’d embodied moments ago—he kissed you as if testing a theory, as if to explore you to the brittle edge. Your hand fell to his thigh, stroking him there, feeling the thick sinew of muscle tense under your palm, and you moaned into his mouth.

Drawing a breath through his nose, he glided a free hand down your arm, over your hip, slipped beneath your nightgown to rub circles into the curve, his fingers reaching to squeeze your ass. You whined again, dropping your hips—his cock was hard, poking through his robe, and you ground slickly against it, the whine tumbling into a groan. William released you, breaking away to meet your eyes, the both of you panting and needy.

“I will make you come on my fingers,” he breathed. “But you may not touch me.”

You blinked, frowning. “How can—”

His thumb crooked into your mouth, depressed your tongue. “Hush,” he said. “Hands on my shoulders.”

At this point, you were too aroused to argue. You obeyed.

“If you attempt,” he said, “by any measure, to incite me to take you.” He wagged your chin back and forth. “I will stop.” His stare sunk into yours. “Nod if you understand.”

You nodded.

“Good.” His lip quirked, and he released your tongue to pat your cheek. “Now behave.”

With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, William slid a warm, smooth palm up your inner thigh, earning little trembles of muscle as you fought the urge to drive into it. You kept your eyes on his face, watching as he followed his own motion: fingers teasing up to where your leg creased your torso, combing through the patch of curls that veiled your heat, dipping to pet your outer folds.

You nearly buckled, but bit your lip instead, taking a slow breath through your nose while William sketched the perimeter of your cunt, glancing over your entrance to stroke the inside of your other thigh.

“You are eager,” he murmured, gently massaging your flesh. “Were you made so by my words? Hm?” His hand slid back up to your center, grazing your folds again, and your pelvis jerked toward him. “Have you long waited to hear praise from my tongue?”

“No,” you replied, your eyes closing, hips seeking. “Why would I await the devil’s praise?”

“Is that not something all little beasts do?” William’s finger slipped between your folds, coating itself in your slick, skimming your throbbing clit. “Await patiently the day they receive validation from their master?”

You shivered, your head falling to his shoulder as he guided the pad of his finger around your clit in lazy circles. “Hardly,” you managed. “I dare say you—ah—chided me for my nature more than flattered me.”

“You found my efforts unsatisfying?” His voice fell into his chest, his finger daring to dip past your entrance with every other round it drew. “A shame.”

“It is,” you agreed, trying to roll your hips to swallow his finger. He dodged you, and you whined. “But I hear it’s not uncommon for men to—ngh—fail to satisfy.”

William huffed—a dark sound you felt in ripples over your skin. Two fingers pressed to your entrance, and a second hand locked your hips in place, preventing you from riding them. You grumbled, grip biting his shoulders, but far too weak to meaningfully protest.

“What if,” William drawled, his fingers swirling in your wetness before softly stroking your clit, “I told you something to which no other man would be capable of attesting?” You clenched in need, trying to draw him in, and he hummed appreciatively. “Do relax, woman. You’ll get what you so badly crave.”

“William,” you whimpered. “I—please—”

He laughed. “What if,” he said again, “I told you…” He pressed his hot mouth to your ear. “... that it is this ferocity which provokes me to fill and stretch you with my cock?”

You collapsed against him with a moan, arms wrapping around his neck, and as you did, he drove his fingers inside of you, the heel of his palm pressing your clit. Another moan, and your walls squeezed him, aching to trap him there as your pelvis jerked in vain.

Words like his were wholly unfamiliar to your ears. And they instantly demanded you come off around him.

“I had assumed you’d appreciate that,” he whispered.

You were too numb with pleasure, too depleted from illness to do anything but agree.

William curled his fingers inside of you, his wrist rolling with steady rhythm as he panted in your ear. You melded to him, your mouth nibbling his throat between gasps, your legs still straddling him by sheer strength of his grip. And as he moved inside you, pleasure built, his fingers stretching you open, the kiss of his palm rubbing your stiff, swollen clit. You tensed, tightened around him, feeling how easily he slipped in and out of your core.

“What if I told you,” he said, more strained with effort, pushing a third finger inside of you, “that your little virgin cunt is the tightest, most exquisite thing I’ve ever fucked?”

You sobbed, your walls beginning to flutter with your building orgasm. “William,” you said, “you’re—you’re going to—”

He grunted, and his hand released your thigh, clamping around your throat and squeezing. You gagged, eyes rolling back, hips bucking on his hand, your senses blurring with a haze of distorted delight. All you felt was your stuttering breath, the girth of his fingers pumping into you, the pressure of his hand on your clit—deep, firm, wet, and following your every movement.

“What if I told you,” he growled, “that feeling you gasping and struggling against my palm gives me greater pleasure than spending all over your pretty face?”

A twisted moan fled you, your teeth scraping against the slope between William’s neck and shoulder, and his thumb played at your pulse, shooting stars behind your eyes. Euphoria burgeoned between your quaking thighs, primed to pour through you with a single command. William sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“Take what you need,” he muttered. “Come, dandelion.”

It was all you required. You wheezed against his hand, jaw dropping in silence as your orgasm ripped through you, your body riding each peak until you feared losing saddle in your own mind. William’s thumb circled your clit, his fingers fucking into you as you convulsed around them. Tattered, honeyed coos of praise breezed your ear—that’s right, that’s it, good, good—and his hand fell from your throat, returning to prop up your hip as you crumbled against his strength.

Your head spun. Your heart slammed in your ears, your chest heaving. Bliss still sparkled on your skin. Drool had pooled onto his robe, his throat. And you were puddling into his lap. Sighing, you nuzzled into his pleasant warmth as the remnants of your climax echoed through you.

William removed himself from your cunt with a squelch, and you grumbled from the hollow discomfort. Without a word, you heard him wrap his lips around his fingers, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he sucked them clean, as if he were savoring a confection.

An exhale, and he popped them from his mouth. “Mm,” he mused, “even better than I recall.”

“Good sweet Lord,” you groaned, pressing your eyes into his shoulder. “You are an utter deviant.”

He squeezed your hip. “And you are thrilled by deviance.”

You snorted. “Perhaps,” you said. “Perhaps I am.”

William released you, and you fully fell into his lap, his still-ardent erection pinned between you. You flinched, not sure if you could sustain any more attention—but he did not move, instead allowing you to rest there, your arms still bound around his neck, your face nestled in his shoulder.

His own hands hovered somewhere by your sides, his body stiff, but you had neither the strength nor will remaining to roll off of him. Exhaustion was now filling the cracks your desire had rent, its weight seeping and settling through your body. And he was so… solid. So warm. So present.

“Thank you,” you murmured into his collarbone.

“My my,” he said, his throat vibrating against your cheek, “need I return you to the hospital after all?”

You exhaled, shaking your head, nuzzling further into the crook of his neck with the movement. “It’s what I came here to say,” you explained, “before you distracted me.”

You breathed him in, soaked your lungs in the familiar clean musk of his skin, the faint notes of sandalwood, leather, and apple that clung to him. As you exhaled, you melted deeper against his body and, by degrees, felt his own muscles relax beneath you.

“Is that so,” he finally muttered.

“Mhm.”

William took a breath, and then the weight of his forearm draped across the small of your back. His other hand glided up your spine, between your shoulder blades, his fingers dragging delicately, almost tentatively, through the hairs at the nape of your neck.

A little sigh of pleasure left you, eased forth by the fog of sleep now gathering in the valleys of your mind. It numbed your limbs, swirled one sensation into the next. His hand on your flank splayed wide, his thumb tracing a pattern there that raised gooseflesh, followed shortly by an unbidden shiver.

He reached aside to snuff the candle. Then his arms tightened, and everything tipped—he rolled your combined forms onto the side, making no effort to untangle your limbs from around him. You felt a pillow cradle your head, his arm a perfect cushion beneath your neck, the other reaching to gather the covers over you both before sealing around you again.

“I mean it,” you murmured somewhere into the heat of his chest. “I am grateful. Truly.”

William’s ribs expanded and fell, his exhale cascading across your ear. His knee slipped between your thighs, your legs vining together beneath the sheets. With your last mote of consciousness, you felt his whispered reply.

“I know.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Star Wars movies (1977 - ) // The Fallen Angel (detail) - Alexandre Cabanel, 1847

[kylorengarbagedump]

Have a Nice Vacation (NSFW)

Read on AO3.

Summary: The White Lotus was boring. The ocean, food, nor pool could make up for the gaping deficiency in what you’d really come here to seek: the men.

But this new man was easily in his late fifties: a flash of white edged his sideburns, his hair greying but still thick and full, lines swept into his forehead. A familiar shadow hung over him, a manifestation of unsatisfied anxiety, crinkling at the corners of his eyes—and his eyes. Large, pale blue, stark against the rich-man-tan so many of his ilk maintained. Busy with selfish concern.

He was perfect.

Words: 6500

Warnings: daddy kink, older man/younger woman, infidelity

Characters: Timothy Ratliff x Reader

A/N: Hi, this is me taking a break from the porn I'm writing to write new, other, different porn.

I saw Jason Isaacs' (prosthetic) cock and I simply could not get this idea out of my head. I've always dreamed of being a famous OnlyFans creator but I've neither the tits nor the patience to market myself. But I can live vicariously in reader's stead.

Hope you all enjoyed!! I sure had fun writing it, LOL. <3

All things considered, the White Lotus was boring.

Yes, when you rose in the morning to gaze out of your villa, you met a vision of the sky consuming the sea. Yes, the food had managed to fill your stomach without bringing on bloat. And yes, the pool temperature stole the endless waves of sweat from your skin. But neither the ocean, food, nor pool could make up for the gaping deficiency in what you’d really come here to seek: the men.

And every single one of them made you want to fucking gag.

Your current vomit inspiration was the man who’d stretched himself out on the lounge chair next to you like a proud lion. The moment he’d groaned, pulled his arms over his head to display his chest, you'd decided to check your recent subscribers.

For some reason, that wasn't deterring him.

“Finally, someone with some sense,” he said.

You snorted like mucus had caught in your throat. The trends on your most recent posts were pointing down and there was no sign of increasing interest.

If you didn't turn it around soon, you’d need to start actually trying.

Horrific.

The man laughed. “Yeah, I didn't wanna ditch the phone, but my dad made us.” He sighed, curling into his side to face you, sun-bleached brown hair sweeping his green eyes. “You here by yourself?”

You glimpsed him from behind your sunglasses. He wasn't bad looking. But getting past the obnoxious swagger would be a challenge. And he wasn't the type of man you made content with, anyway.

“Saxon,” he said, holding out his hand.

Puckering your lips, you looked pointedly at his hand before returning your attention to your phone. He withdrew it, laughing again.

“All right, all right.”

Even without looking at him, you felt the slime of his eyes trickle over your body, eat up every hill of your flesh, and consume the complex collection of straps making up what you called your bathing suit. He clucked his tongue, sitting up.

“Hey,” Saxon said, cocking his head. “Aren't you EasyDoesThem?”

You released the slightest exhale. Fuck.

“You are!” he said. “I thought I recognized you. Holy shit, do you want to film something together?” His voice dropped, and he sat up straighter. “I'm totally down. I can get my brother to film it, hold on—Lochy! Come here!”

“Wow. Actually, I have to get going,” you said, giving him a tight smile as you got to your feet. “Thanks so much for the offer, though.”

Saxon groaned playfully. “Aw, come on. Really?” His neck spun on a swivel. “Seriously, at least meet my brother, he’s a total virgin and it would be—”

“Later, Saxon.” With a swish of your hips, you abandoned him to whatever inclinations he’d dreamed of dragging his brother into, making your way to the bar.

There was no drink that appealed to you with men like him around, but your skin was prickling from the sun and you needed something to lower your core temperature. You jerked a chair free and plopped into it, requesting the lightest and fruitiest mocktail available before surveying your fellow patrons.

More men. At least these ones were over fifty—far more viable for potential content—but they were engrossed in conversation with each other, exchanging words like liquidity and amortization and other terms that you’d rather burn alive in this sun than become familiar with. Chewing on your lip, you pulled out your phone, deciding if you couldn’t be generating new subscribers, you could at least interact with the ones you had.

You took a selfie, tapped open the app and scrolled to the Polls section, typing out a quick and stupid question with some quick and stupid answers.

Thailand is HOT. 🥵🥵🥵 I can barely keep this on! What should I wear when I fuck my next Daddy? 💦🍆🔥😈 ⭕ Bikini ⭕ Lingerie ⭕ His clothes ⭕ Nothing

You attached the photo and hit submit, shaking your head. This was pathetic. At least that would keep them busy for a few hours while you tried to figure out what to do.

The bartender placed your drink in front of you with a pretty clink. As you went to take a sip, a new man took a seat next to you with a weighty, exhausted sigh. You frowned, peeked up from the rim of your glass. Stared.

This man was easily in his late fifties: a flash of white edged his sideburns, his hair greying but still thick and full, lines swept into his forehead. A familiar shadow hung over him, a manifestation of unsatisfied anxiety, crinkling at the corners of his eyes—and his eyes. Large, pale blue, stark against the rich-man-tan so many of his ilk maintained. Busy with selfish concern.

He was perfect.

You sat up, leaning towards the bar and into his line of sight, arms pushing your tits together. “Hi there,” you chirped. “Another day in paradise, hm?”

The man didn’t even spare your tits a passing glance. Considering how much effort it had been to pull this suit on, you were a little offended. What he did glance at, though, was your phone. His gaze narrowed.

“Is that your phone?” he asked, in an accent that was as southern as it was affluent. “We’re not supposed to have those out here.”

You pursed your lips, shrugged your shoulder. “Probably.” Holding it up, you presented it to the bar. “I’d like to see them take it from me, though.”

“Right…” Those gorgeous eyes of his settled on yours, then your phone, and he raised his eyebrows, as if to deny himself a line of thought. “You have a nice vacation.”

“Hey, hey.” You placed a hand on his shoulder, throat thickening at how sturdy and solid he felt underneath his linen shirt. “Don’t be shy.”

The man twisted in his seat, leering at your hand like it had pinched him. “What?”

“Come on,” you said, rubbing a small circle into his shoulder. “I can tell you wanted to ask me something.”

“No, I…” He stared at your hand. With a frown, his jaw shifted, and he bit back a snarl, rubbing his brow in exasperation. “Would you mind?” he said, like it pained him to ask. “If I used your phone?”

You smiled. He was hooked. “What for?” you purred, shifting your arms so your breasts became more pronounced.

Despite this, he still did not acknowledge you even had breasts. “I need to call someone,” he said. “It’ll be quick.”

“International?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“That’s no problem.” Humming, you took a sip of your drink. “But we’ll need to head back to my villa for it. I don’t use the cell service for international calls. Just wifi.”

The man considered you, his eyes glued to yours. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s the only place I can actually use the internet,” you lied.

Then, miraculously, his gaze flicked to your tits. To your face. To your tits again. He sighed, voice whittling to a whisper as he displayed his left hand. “I’m married.”

You studied him. I’m married was a desperate protest by men of his ilk. It was the acknowledgement that he would be tempted, the demand that your morality win out over his own—a foisting of responsibility in your hands, as these men had been aching to rebuke that burden at first opportunity.

But you didn’t particularly care about the marriages of men who were willing to utter this sentence. Nor did you care to bear any of the terrible weight he considered fidelity. What you cared about, to be very honest, was getting his cock inside of you, and getting it on film.

The promise of the first typically spurred men into agreeing to the second.

Eyes wide like a fawn’s, you replied, “What are you saying? I’m talking about using my phone.” Shrugging to yourself, you started to place your phone into your handbag. “I guess you’re just as weird about this digital detox stuff as everyone else…”

“No, no, wait,” he grumbled, and you paused, eyeing him. He surveyed the group, drawing a slow breath. You lingered on how it swelled his broad chest, his stomach, your thighs pressing together. With an exhale and flourish of his hand, he shooed away the last of his restraint. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

You laughed. “Awesome.” Standing, you held out your hand, giving him both your name and your most charming smile.

He stared, sneered at what you could only assume to be his own weakness, and gripped your hand with his own. “Tim.”

“Nice to meet you, Tim,” you replied, giggling. “Very firm handshake.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, brows raising as he averted his gaze. “Thanks.”

Giving him a final grin, you strode past him, calling, “Follow me!”

The return to your villa was longer than you would’ve liked. You’d made comments along the way, receiving nothing but short, detached engagement from Tim throughout the journey. This was typical, you thought, of men considering whether or not they’d betray their marriage vows—or, at least, men who were pretending to consider it.

Regardless of their presentation, a sense of entitlement ran in canyons through the blood of men like Tim; a desire to obtain anything forbidden to the plebian, whether that be luxury, or freedom, or the soft, naked body of a woman half his age. Even if he’d gone his entire life never believing he’d seek comfort from anyone other than his wife, there came the question most men asked when presented the opportunity…

Well, why the fuck not?

You sauntered into your villa, holding the door open for him as he stalked inside, his neck twisting as if to make sure you were alone.

“It's just me staying here,” you said, shutting the door behind you. “Don't worry.”

“Yeah.” He held out his hand expectantly. “Is it connected to wifi, yet?” he asked. “Your phone?”

You stopped yourself from frowning. For a man nervous about following a woman in a bikini alone to her villa, he certainly seemed preoccupied with anything except said woman.

“Let me look.” You pulled it out and pretended to check before presenting it to him, unlocked. “Yep! You're good to go.”

“Thanks.” Tim grabbed it from you and started tapping away. “So you're staying here by yourself?” he asked as if the answer mattered less than anything he'd ever inquired about in his life.

“Mhm.” You decided to turn around and bend over, pulling the straps from your sandals. “Just me.”

“Uh huh.” He cursed under his breath and then cleared his throat. “Awfully young to afford a place like this all by yourself.”

With a wiggle of your hips, you stood, casting a glance over your shoulder. “Are you asking me what I do for work, Tim?”

Tim did not reply. He scrolled through something on your phone, his face scrunching in irritation. “God Almighty,” he growled. “Dammit.”

“I thought you said you had to call someone.”

“No, I didn't,” he replied, still scrolling. He rubbed at his brow like a farmer who'd just finished ploughing a field. “Lord…”

You actually allowed yourself to frown. Maybe he was one of those social media addicts getting bent out of shape over a Twitter war he was losing. Maybe he'd needed to check the stock market for his amortization or his liquidity or whatever. Either way, you were a little bit over it.

“Hey,” you said, walking over to him and running a finger down his arm. “Why don't we put the phone down and I can show you the view around here?”

He glimpsed you, scanned your figure. Resumed reading. “Sure. In a second.”

“Aw, come on,” you said, shifting your weight in a way that made your tits bounce. A teasing smile pulled at your cheeks. “The reviews of the latest Marvel movie can’t be that bad.”

Tim’s eyes widened. His jaw slackened. “Shit,” he hissed. “God-fucking-dammit!”

You retreated a step. There was a rash growing on his neck; his knuckles were starting to punch through his skin. This was way more than infidelity anxiety. Way, way more than you'd been prepared to soothe with your pussy.

“Uh. Everything all right, Tim?”

He cursed again. “No, everything is not fucking all right.” Head falling back, he rubbed his brow again, staring into the ceiling. “I'm fucked. I'm fucked!”

You swallowed. All right. This was a mistake. You'd misread him entirely.

“Why don't I just…” You tiptoed toward him, reaching for the phone. “Take that back—”

“Fuck the damn phone!” He met your gaze, his eyes pale with terror. “You don't get it, I—”

“You're right, I don't, and—”

Your phone hit the floor. “I'm fucked!” Tim grasped your shoulders, shaking you like a stringless marionette. “Everything is fucking fucked!”

You reeled back and slapped him across the face. He stilled.

Panting, his focus fell to the walls, the floor, your feet, traveling up your bare legs, your thighs, your stomach, stopping at your chest.

One of your tits had popped free from its binding. Your nipple poked out, pert and ripe. Breath rolling through you, you stared at his face, watched as the panic, the fury in his gaze hooked onto a different avenue of release, ice blue melting to something molten. Mercurial. Urgent.

“S-sorry,” he muttered, his hands falling from your shoulders, skimming the tops of your arms.

You swallowed. There was calculated risk, here. But the strength of his grip, the smooth plane of his palms on your skin, the primal spark in those eyes—your belly tightened with a low pull of its own, willing to ignite.

(And dear God, would this be good content.)

Breath held, you stepped closer, ghosting your fingertips down his side.

“It's… all right,” you said. “Are you… uh… Everything good?”

Tim stared at you like a tiger with taut haunches. His attention switched again to the phone on the ground, jaw clenching as he considered it. Then his eyes trailed a long, languid journey up your body once more, lingering on the curve of your hips, the supple flesh swelling between the gaps in your swimsuit. Your exposed breast.

His mouth parted. His throat bobbed. Glimpsing the phone a final time, he met your gaze.

“Fuck it,” he said, and clutched both cheeks of your ass as he captured your mouth with his.

You groaned, clasping both sides of his face, flattening yourself along his frame, seeking connection with him at every new opportunity his body offered. Growling, Tim stuffed his tongue in your mouth, deepening the kiss to something filthy and desperate seconds after it had begun. His fingers dug into your backside, he tugged your pelvis to his, and he rocked against you, holding you there, like he was grounding himself to you, grounding himself to this reality.

Fingers running through his hair, you met him in kind, licking into his mouth, rolling your hips so he could feel the heat of your cunt against his growing need. The scents of honeydew and aftershave flooded your nose, the pulse between your thighs came alive. You curled a leg around him, trapping him to you while you teased thumbs over the shell of his ears, earning a jerk of his body, a broken kiss, a deep, trembling groan.

Tim hunched over you, found himself nestled in your throat and took your bare skin as an invitation. His lips latched to your pulse, kissing, suckling, his hands caressing your sides, squeezing every new offering of flesh it found.

“Fuck,” you whispered, looping your arms under his so you clung to his back. “Oh, fuck, yes—”

“Where’s the bedroom?” he murmured against your neck.

You laughed. Why did men like him always prefer the bedroom? “That way,” you said, indicating with a tilt of your head.

Voice thick with need, he replied, “Let’s go.”

Tim grabbed your hips, stood you upright and spun you around, urging you forward. Before you moved, you turned to snag your phone from the floor, and when you stood, you met his frowning face.

“What do you need that for?” he said, pushing on your hip again as if to remind you of what you were doing. It was impossible to ignore the tent that had sprouted in his trousers. “Let’s go.”

You figured now was the best time—with him already hard and hounding at your heels—to present your plan.

“Hold on.” You squeezed his wrist, eyeing him coyly. “I want to ask you something.”

Tim exhaled, glancing between your tits and the door. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be like that.” Pouting, you pulled him close and grazed your nails through his hair, down his neck to keep him pliant. “You said that I seem young to afford this place by myself, right?”

He stared.

“I make little videos,” you said, holding up your phone, “of me and the guys I spend time with.” Grinning at him, you traced a finger from the divot in his throat down the buttons of his shirt. “And I think that you…” Your palm grazed over his erection. “Would be an awesome addition.”

Tim’s tongue sketched his lips. His eyes, swallowed by lust, flicked over your figure. “That isn’t going to work,” he said, shaking his head. “I—I’m married, I can’t be—”

“No, no, it’s not like that!” You patted his chest, pushed against him. “I don’t film anyone’s face but mine.” With a smirk, you added, “And you can hold the camera too, if you want.” To make your point, you gripped his length through his clothing. Your jaw dropped. “Holy fuck, you’re big.”

For the first time since meeting him, he cracked a smile. He gazed at you, head to toe yet again, finally recognizing what he’d be getting out of this arrangement. “And you won’t film my face?”

Your lashes fluttered, and you stroked him through his trousers, your core clenching when he throbbed in response. You let out a moan—you couldn’t help yourself. He felt thicker than any man you’d ever had inside of you. And that number was not insignificant.

“No,” you said, desire creeping into your throat as you met his eyes. “I won’t.”

Tim’s jaw was loose. He rocked his hips, perhaps only half-knowingly, into your grip. “Fine,” he said, and caught you in another kiss before pulling away and spinning you toward the bedroom again. “Now let’s go.” A hand cracked you across your ass.

You squealed, hopped forward with a giggle and skipped toward your room. Peering at him over your shoulder to ensure he was following, you caught him adjusting his cock, saw how thick it looked in his own, powerful hands. A thrill shot up your spine, and you bit your lip, bouncing on the balls of your feet into your bedroom to then flop backwards onto your bed. As Tim entered the room, you quickly checked the results of your poll.

Bikini - 32% |||||||||||||||||| Lingerie - 28% |||||||||||||||| His clothes - 14% ||||||| Nothing - 26% ||||||||||||||||

Well—at least they were getting what they’d asked for.

Lowering your phone, you were greeted with the sight of Tim unbuttoning his shirt, his attention trained entirely on you. Your mind staticked.

Tim’s body was broad and heavy, soft flesh underlaid with a layer of muscle still evident in his arms and shoulders and chest. Grey hair bloomed at the inner crest of his pectorals, filtered to a sparse line of darkening hair over his thick, strong stomach. Between this and the promise of stretching around his cock, you felt ready to forgo the camera altogether, wrap your legs around his waist, and force him inside of you. But he had other ideas.

Shoes were flung across the floor, and Tim climbed on top of you, following you as you moved to the head of the bed, straddling your legs, his eyes frantic, hands clawing at the bottom straps of your suit. You giggled, squirmed with excitement, and he growled and yanked back. The fabric in his fist snapped.

“Jesus!” you gasped, looking up at him. “Someone’s excited.”

“Yeah,” he said, kneading the exposed flesh of your hip and belly. “You might say that.” Grunting, he tugged longingly at the part that concealed what was left to conceal your tits. “Take it off.”

Instead, you jerked the suit aside, your breasts jiggling as they were exposed, and you gazed up at him. Biting your tongue playfully, you squeezed his erection through his pants again. “Does that work,” you murmured, “Daddy?”

Tim’s brow furrowed. His face twisted in disgust. But his cock jumped in your palm, and his hips bucked as if to hold off a sudden climax.

“Don’t call me that.” He moved to unbuckle his belt anyway.

You gazed up at him, leaning back onto the pillows as he unbuttoned his pants, exposing his boxer-briefs. Batting your eyes again, you wedged your hand against his bulge, stroking it through the cotton, mouth watering at its steel need.

“Call you what?” you asked. “Daddy?”

His cock twitched again, the head poking over the Calvin Klein waistband. He swallowed, then exhaled. “Do whatever you want.”

Yeah. That’s what you thought.

He went to ease himself over the waistband, but you grabbed his hand. “Wait,” you said. “I want to record this part.” Nodding toward the other side of the bed, you said, “Lie back.”

Tim’s brows raised. But he relented, shifting to relax against the headboard beside you.

Phone in hand, you opened the camera and aimed the back lens at your face (a skill requiring an irritating amount of practice), pouting before turning your attention to Tim. You crawled over his legs and settled between them, your free hand sliding over his body. The heat of his skin sent goosebumps over yours, and he stared down at you, transfixed. Gaze focused on his cock, your jaw dropped as he released it from its confines.

You’d known it would have girth. You hadn’t expected, though, to wonder if you could fit it in your mouth, if you could even encircle it with your hand. A pulsing vein creeked from the base toward the tip, echoing his heartbeat, and the head was flushed with blood, leaking precum, the shaft fat with the ache to fuck you.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you said, and took him in your fist.

Tim groaned, cursing under his breath, and you cursed, too. He weighed huge and hot in your palm, like a stone furnace you stoked with every roll of your wrist. Each stroke earned a new twitch of his hips, a new throb of his cock, and he gazed down at you through half-lidded eyes, part hunger, part disbelief.

This was, you thought, your favorite part of fucking men like him. Every single time, despite the initial hesitance, or compensated swagger, or feigned dismissal—every single time, they’d shed that armor, reveal themselves as men who craved your cunt; men who had never believed they’d be able to get hands on flesh like yours again; men who, given a single gift of permission, would bury themselves to the balls in your young, tight pussy and flood it with their cum.

You eased yourself forward, licked at the tip of his cock, and his head fell back in a deep moan.

“Can I suck your cock, Daddy?” you asked, gazing up at him with the sweetest, most innocent gaze you could muster.

Tim glimpsed you, wove his thick fingers through your hair, and pushed your lips onto his length.

Keeping the camera focused on your face was the biggest challenge, and usually one you approached with concentration. But as your mouth slipped over his shaft, as he pressed on your tongue and stretched your jaw and hit the back of your throat, you found the importance of the camera falling to the back of your mind, only remembering at the last second to adjust it to the ideal angle. Your clit was swollen, clamoring for pressure, for friction. Tim’s breath was stalled, waiting for you to withdraw.

You sealed your lips around him, vision blurring as you dragged back, a groan rumbling in your chest. Tim’s grip on your head tightened; he locked you from pulling away, instead holding you still as he thrust slowly once, twice, pace torturous and casual, like he was priming himself to ruin you. Whimpering, you stared into his shuttering eyes, your free hand ringing the base of his cock, spit threading from your lips and spilling onto your chin.

“That’s it, honey…” he drawled, voice wrought with pleasure. “Just like that.”

This only encouraged you—your eyes flicked to the camera, as if to say, look, he loves it, and you sucked, twisted your wrist, caressed his shaft with your tongue. Another moan, his cock pulsing between your lips, and you hummed, gazing up at him, drooling over every inch, jaw already sore from how wide he forced it open. You were aching, your cunt soaked. You weren’t sure how long you could continue sucking him off without needing to cum yourself.

Tim met your eyes, something burgeoning underneath the thin ice of his irises. A twitch of cruelty at his upper lip. His grip tightened, and he fucked into your mouth, jabbing the back of your throat, his size making you retch despite your experience. Jerking his hips faster, the taste of his precum coated your tongue, the scent of him—clean musk—infiltrating your nose. The phone trembled in your grasp, and you glanced at the camera again, eyes flooding, moaning gratefully onto his shaft.

“Fuck.” He held either side of your head and drove his cock deep until your nose met the coarse hair at the base. You writhed, choking, and he studied you, words trapped behind his teeth, admiring your pleading face and your jiggling tits and the saliva running from your lips in rivers. “Fuck, yes.”

A final restrained sneer, and he released your head, allowing you to wrench yourself free. You spluttered and coughed, slinging spit across his stomach, your cheeks damp with tears. Lips swollen, you grinned up at him.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you said, earning another eager twitch from his cock.

Tim laid there, his pants still halfway down his thighs. A hundred ideas for the camera flit through your mind—him bending you over the bed, or your hands on his chest while you bounced in his lap, or your back pinned to the wall while he wrapped one leg around his waist—but spying the repression in his face made all of it seem completely unimportant.

Fuck the numbers. You’d find someone else at this godforsaken resort. You wanted him—all of him—without a single performance.

But you would at least get one more shot.

“You wanna hold the camera?” you asked, offering it to him.

He raised a brow. “If you want,” he replied, and took it in his hands, looking between you and the phone. “What do I do with it?”

Wetting your lips, you crawled up to straddle him, rocking your hips to tease your cunt over his cock and coasting a hand from his chest, down his stomach. “Film yourself,” you said, reaching between your legs to give his length a single stroke, “sliding that thick cock of yours inside of me.”

He allowed himself half a smirk. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Is that right?”

“Hmm…” You grinned. “I think you’re trying to get me to say it, now.”

Tim snorted. “Sure.”

He placed the phone down and flipped you onto your back, shucking the rest of his clothing before returning to loom over you. Your mouth watered again, devouring his exposed thighs, the swing of his cock between them, the shadow of hair surrounding it.

Giggling, you spread your legs to welcome him. Tim picked up the phone again, face screwing as he fumbled with the screen.

“How do I—”

“The camera—”

“—turn this—”

“—app, you just open it and—”

“—thing—I got it, I got it—”

You nodded, stilling, holding your breath as he aimed the camera at the crux of your legs.

Tim’s free hand smoothed over your thigh, caressing every naked inch, thumb brushing your concealed folds. You bucked your hips, whining, begging with your body, but he was unmoved, teasing over your heat again, again, adding pressure each time, until he finally stroked your needy clit, and you cried out in bliss.

“Please,” you said, pushing out your lower lip for effect. “Please, fuck me, Daddy.”

Tim’s jaw tensed, as if he wanted to speak but his tongue was pinned. Camera still on you, he guided his cock to your cunt, the fat tip easing the fabric of your swimsuit to the side. Your breath caught in your throat, air whispering in your wetness, and you stared into the camera, wiggling your hips, trying to entice him.

Swirling the head of his cock in your slick, Tim’s breath quickened until he pressed himself to your entrance, his mouth parting and eyes rolling as he sank into your cunt.

“Oh, fuck, yes.”

“Oh, fuck, yes—”

If he had felt big in your hand, or huge in your mouth, he felt massive inside of your pussy. Tim was now, verifiably, the thickest man you’d had inside of you, and he filled you like a beast glutting itself on blood, stretching you until you were certain he’d pressed your pelvis. You were paralyzed, mind muddled, only able to focus on the air in your lungs, your fingers entwined in the sheets. Seething with bliss, Tim’s grip bruised you, and he slid out to sink in again, this time exhaling as pleasure washed over him.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he cooed. “I… I—” He shook off whatever he’d wanted to say, and resumed his rhythm, thrusting deep, his hips smacking your thighs, your tits bouncing, his head dipped in awe. “God…”

The camera wobbled, unsteady in his hand. It was time to relinquish him of responsibility. With a smirk, you snatched it from him, switched off the recording and laid it on your bedside table.

“That’s enough of that,” you said.

Tim was frozen, apparently uncertain if this meant he needed to stop fucking you, which he seemed very certain he did not want to do.

“You’re holding back,” you said, gliding your hands up his sides and curving around to his back to coax him over you. “I want to hear everything you want to say.” As he settled on top of you, his cock pulsing at your entrance, you nuzzled your head against his, and said, “I want you to fuck me.”

Tim tensed above you. You heard his throat work. Then he withdrew his hips, and drove into you, grunting at your ear, resuming a patient and painful rhythm. Each thrust split you wider, his hips snapping like springs, and you jolted with every connection of skin, your eyes shutting, your mouth hanging open with staccatoed sobs of delight.

“Yeah,” he growled, “fuck. You don’t care who fucks your pretty pussy, do you?” His voice scraped the depth of his chest. “You just want it—fuck—filled up.”

You nodded with a whine, voice lost to the intensity of how he stretched you. One of your legs wound around him, your nails skated down his back, and he slammed into you, his spine arching as if to pinch a desperate need. Shifting, Tim pushed you forward, your hips lifting from the bed, and then plunged into your cunt, spearing through you over, and over. You wailed, clinging to him, sweat slicking between you, enduring the onslaught of bliss and agony that shrieked in your skin.

With every new thrust, ripples of contact ricocheted to your clit, now more swollen and sensitive than a naked nerve. It throbbed, ached, pleaded with you to cum. Obliging, you reached between your legs, giving it only the suggestion of touch, and you shook with utter ecstasy.

“Yes,” you said, “I need—please, more, fuck—”

Tim’s ragged breath quickened. “That’s it,” he said, “play with that little cunt.” He groaned, bit it off with a growl. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking tight.” Faster, voice fraying at the edges. “So wet, so—” He stammered on his own pleasure, and laughed. “So much…”

Humming in recognition, you purred, “So much—ah—so much better than your wife?”

He laughed again. “Yeah.” Pumping deeper, muscles locking, he bowed his head, kissing, sucking at your neck like he could draw blood through your skin. “Fuck yeah.”

Smiling, you swirled your clit faster, passing your fingers over its throbbing edge, rocking your hips with his thrusts, meeting him again, again, wanting to break him, wanting to feel him fuck you full of cum.

“Yes,” you whispered, “I—Tim—”

Tim snarled, pushed himself off of you, and pulled out. You howled in protest, squirming with emptiness until he snatched your legs and flipped you onto your stomach. There was only time to blink before he yanked your hips backward, situated his cock at your pulsing core, and rammed in. This time, you screamed.

The man behind you was transformed from the anxious husk you’d met at the bar. This man was the echo of the one who’d shook you, who’d cursed the world before you, this man was the realization of the danger you’d seen flash in Tim’s eyes. He hammered your cunt, pounded your cervix, and your back bent, your hips canted, starving to take every single fucking inch.

Words escaped you, garbled nonsense that filled the room, and behind you, Tim was bestial, every breath fleeing his chest wrought with a frenzied, agonized euphoria. He subsumed you, saturated you, his thick cock stretching your cunt deeper, deeper. Lost to sensation, you reached toward your clit, grazing it with your fingertips, and twisted with ecstasy, sobbing in relief.

“That’s right, honey,” he said, barely intelligible himself. “You take it. You take—take Daddy’s cock.”

This shot straight to your clit, and you choked. “Yes, Daddy, yes, fuck me,” you sputtered, “I love your cock—”

“Yeah, you do,” he replied, “this is the best fucking cock you’ve ever had.”

“It is,” you said, panting, wailing into the mattress, “I want to cum on it, Daddy, please!”

“Oh, fuck.”

Tim’s grip tightened, you felt him hunch, felt him begin to piston his hips. You glimpsed behind you, and saw a man utterly awash in bliss—eyes shut, mouth open, chest flush with sweat—and the pressure and friction on your clit collided into a single cataclysmic peak.

“Fuck yes,” Tim hissed, “cum on it. Cum on Daddy’s cock.”

Inhaling a breath, you exhaled a sob, your climax short-circuiting every thought and every instinct in your mind. You became a bucking, twitching doll, orchestrated entirely by euphoria, your words lost to the ether besides fuck, and Daddy, and please. Tim fucked you through it, milked by your spasming walls until his hips stuttered, his breath collapsed into sound, and you felt the twitching of his shaft at your core, pulsing you full of his cum.

“Fuck.” Through his gnarled breath, Tim pulled at your ass, watching himself unload inside you. Humming in delight, you clenched around him, hoping to draw out an aftershock. “Oh, my fucking God.”

You giggled, wiggled your ass as he descended to reality, his softening cock slowly slipping free of your pussy. His cum drooled from your core, dribbled down your folds and onto your thighs.

Lowering to your belly, you craned your neck to look at him. Tim was staring into your cunt, watching his cum leak out of you, his cock shining with the combination of your fluids. To be honest, you were a little impressed.

“You actually came inside of me,” you said, easing onto your back. When he just looked at you and said nothing, you continued, “I mean, I’m on birth control, don’t get me wrong. But you didn’t know that. And you still did.” You laughed. “Most guys won’t risk it.”

Tim snorted. “Well,” he said, turning around to start grabbing his clothes. “Wouldn’t have mattered either way.”

You frowned. “Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tim dressed in silence, collecting only short glimpses of your body. When he finished, he looked toward your phone. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Uh, sure,” you said, sitting up and pulling your bathing suit back into place. “Did you, like, want to stay a little longer? Or come by tom—”

“No.” He looked in the mirror, making sure his hair was in place before turning back to you. “I don’t think you’ll be hearing from me again.” Realizing how cold that sounded, he cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry.” He met your eyes. “It’s nothing personal.”

You raised a brow. Shrugged. Not like it mattered to you. Though you would be sad to say goodbye to that perfect, beautiful cock of his. “All right, Tim,” you said. “Well, if I see you around, we won’t say a word.”

He nodded, glanced at his wedding ring. “Agreed.”

With that, he slipped into his shoes and departed the villa, haunted by the same shadow you’d seen at the bar. You sighed, snuggling into your sheets and grabbing your phone. You’d need to shower in a second, but you could at least post what you’d managed to get before doing so.

After uploading the videos (‼️NEW‼️ VIDEO 🫢🔥 I FUCK A HOT RICH DADDY 🤤🤤🤤🔥), you got into the shower, cleaning yourself of sweat, of cum, of man. Tim had been a nice enough guy, but like almost every other man you’d met at this resort, he’d carried too many skeletons in his suitcase for you to feel particularly bad for whatever his current situation was.

Once clean, you wrapped yourself in a towel and bounded back to your bed, hoping that the new content had managed to excite some of your subscribers and potentially entice a few more to join. To your surprise, the comments on the video of Tim fucking you were already exploding in ratio. You opened them, skimming through.

is that the guy from the NYT article? holy shit, that’s the sho-kel dude whoa did you fuck timothy ratliff????

Your eyes widened. Tim? Timothy Ratliff? But…

You tapped on the video.

“How do I—”

“The camera—”

“—turn this—”

“—app, you just open it and—”

Your jaw dropped. He’d started recording with the front-facing camera. You’d just posted his face to all of your subscribers.

this is so hot i had no idea sho kel guy had such a huge cock his prison buddies are gonna like that!!!!! im getting my friends to subscribe they have to see this lol

Blinking, you examined your numbers. There’d been a huge jump in just the past half an hour and still climbing.

Thank God. You were going to get something out of coming here.

It was unfortunate, sure, that he’d accidentally recorded his face. But from what you could tell, Tim had bigger problems than worrying about his face on your amateur porn. Grinning to yourself, you placed your phone on your bedside table, and turned over for a nap.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 24

Read on AO3. Part 23 here. Part 25 here.

Summary: Weak is for the sleep. Er, weep is for the sleak. Err, wait, where are you and what's happening? Why are all these men yelling around you and will someone please get you a glass of water?

Words: 4200

Warnings: illness, unreality

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Hellooo, my loves! We were trying out something a little different with this chapter - wanted to flex a different writing muscle or two so hopefully you enjoyed it! <3

Heads up - next week I (kassanovella) will be having (voluntary, no worries) surgery and probably will be out of sorts recovering for the next couple of weeks afterwards and Bastillia will be dutifully obeying my orders caring for me, so no guarantees on a chapter publishing date (especially because this upcoming chapter promises to be fun and we'll want to get it right haha).

SO, please let me re-iterate how deeply pleased we are with those of who you read and engage and just in general make writing this story such a pleasure and joy. Creating little communities like this is the greatest gift of fanfic!! Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and time with us. We love y'all sm and your comments make our week <3

(also shoutout to all my homies who recognized the John Andre name drop last chapter... mayhaps we are Turn enjoyers as well...)

Darkness hung in the chapel.

It banked the pews, swaddled the pillars, draped like silk from the rafters. Above you, it yawned into vacuous nothingness, up, and up, and up. Below your feet lay more pews. More pillars. More darkness. The same darkness.

A mirror.

One step forward, and the surface rippled. The darkness shuddered. A web, sensing an intruder.

You froze. Silence settled on your shoulders. Weighed you down. Molded your shape into the gloom.

It was suffocating. Scrutinizing.

You wanted to struggle, to jerk and thrash against it, but your limbs were leaden. Like the hour hand of a clock, your head swiveled around. And as your view eclipsed the altar, you exhaled relief.

His back was turned to you, his shape traced with light. Some of the darkness lifted from your lungs.

“William,” you breathed, a smile finding your lips. Your voice echoed, too loud.

He turned to look at you. His own smile met yours, and he reached out, his hand upturned, inviting.

You took a step toward him, then paused, your smile faltering. Something dark was trickling from his mouth.

Blood.

It dripped from his lips, sliced scarlet streaks upon his shirt. Then it began to pour. Down his chin, onto the mirrored floor. Through it. As if suspended in water.

You looked down and found the water up to your waist. You gasped, palms slapping the surface and sending ripples out to the edges of the room. Or where the edges had been. Now they were gone, and there was only water, rippling out into silky black nothingness.

You looked back up, searching for a tether, for an anchor, for William.

But he seemed farther away, and as he watched you flounder in fear, he began to laugh. The sound—hollow and cold—echoed into eternity.

The blood still flowed from him, swirling toward you, saturating the water, surrounding you. You stumbled backwards. Something caught against your foot, dislodging from the bottom and bobbing to the surface to turn face-up. A person, no—a body.

As you stared into the wide, lifeless eyes, you recognized the militiaman from Dorchester, his chest still gaping with your shot, spurting more blood into the water.

“No,” you tried to say, but your throat was clogged with wet iron. You staggered back again, bumping another shape below the surface.

Another body floated up, then another, and another. Nathaniel Jones, Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, Mary Hutchins. Each rose in turn, breaching the surface, faces frozen in silent screams of death toward the plunging dark above.

The laughter echoed louder, crueler. A cry lodged in your throat and you choked, sputtered, coughed out blood. It gushed from your mouth, joining the water, the gore, and you kicked away, hands gouging the surface, trying to propel yourself from the bodies, but something blocked you.

You wrested yourself around, grabbed blindly at the floating obstruction. One hand curled around a silver-buttoned lapel, the other tangled into a sickeningly familiar snarl of hair.

Papa and Grace.

Your scream split the web of darkness, and it tightened, the echoing laughter coiling around your neck to smother you.

You awoke into a sheet of sweat.

Hands gripped your shoulders, pushed them down, toward the water, the bodies, no—

“Shh, it’s all right.” The hands cupped your face, turned you to meet warm brown eyes honeyed with concern. “Hush, now. It’s only me.”

You gulped air, heart crashing against your ribs, your hand seeking your throat. It was slick, but not with blood. You glanced around. You were in your bed, in the hospital. There was a plaster ceiling above you, planks of wood beneath you. The only bodies in this room belonged to you and Lottie, and you were both still alive.

“Lottie,” you mumbled, relaxing into the mattress. She swiped your forehead with a vinegar-scented cloth. “Thank you.”

“What happened?” Lottie asked. “You were making such a fuss before you awoke.”

“Nothing.” You curled into yourself as your stomach cramped. “A nightmare.”

Lottie clucked her tongue. “Oh, that’s awful.” She continued to dab your forehead, your cheeks. It didn’t seem to affect the sweat. “Is there anything I can fetch for you? Spoonful of honey? That was my mother’s remedy for bad dreams.”

You tried to shake your head and failed. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“Oh!” She grabbed a stool and sat down next to your bed. “I know. I can tell you about my dream, if you’d like!” Her cheeks grew round and pink with her smile. “It was a very good dream. I’ve dwelt on it all morning.”

This managed to tug the muscles at your mouth into the semblance of a grin. “All right, then,” you said, forcing one eye to remain open. “Tell me of your dream.”

“Well,” she said, as if she were beginning the greatest tale ever told. “I dreamt I attended a party. A very grand party. I was wearing a handsome gown, the kind that the rich Philadelphia ladies wear. With silk fabric and a bright shimmery bodice like pure moonlight.” She positioned her hands in the air, plucking up the skirts of her imagined dress. “Everyone was having a lovely time, there were so many little hors d'oeuvres and special foods that I’d never tried before.”

“Hopefully no olives,” you grumbled.

Lottie giggled. “Oh, hundreds of olives!” she teased. “Anyway. I found myself in a massive ballroom. It had windows up to the ceiling, and a chandelier, and in the background there was a string quartet playing the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard. And then…” She sighed. “The most handsome man I’ve ever seen approached me. And you’ll never guess what he asked me.”

“Ah.” You exhaled—the only kind of laugh you could muster. “‘Which way to the privy, my dear lady?’”

“Don’t be so silly!” she said, lightly flicking your nose. “He asked me to dance.” She sighed again, her gaze drifting to the far wall. “I can think of nothing more romantic.”

Another exhale. You closed your eyes. “I can think of a few things.”

“Oh?” She hummed in pretend thought. “Like chess?”

Your brow furrowed. “Shut up.”

She giggled again. “That was romantic, though, wasn’t it?”

“No.” With a pained groan, you rolled over onto your back, as if this would end the discussion of William’s intentions. “It was a distraction.”

“A romantic distraction.” She prodded your hand gently. “Oh, come now. He knows you quite well, don’t you think?”

Cracking another eyelid open, you gazed at her. “What do you mean?”

“He recognized the perfect thing to lift your spirits!” She gestured to you laid out in your bed, as if to demonstrate that you hadn’t wandered off out of boredom and died in the forest. “And it worked, did it not?”

Even if that were true—that both of you equally knew the other well—it wasn’t something you wanted to ruminate on at the moment.

You sighed. “Not if my nightmare is any indication.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself with those thoughts,” she said, folding the vinegar cloth and laying it across your forehead and temples. It felt blissfully cool. “Dreams don’t really mean anything. They’re just… reflections. Of our fears and desires.” She met your eyes to silence you before you could begin to protest being afraid of or desiring anything. “It’s up to our actions to lend or deprive them of power. Don’t let it hold sway over you, and it won’t.” She patted your hand and stood. “Simple as that.”

As she shuffled around the room, you watched her, her words washing over you. Getting caught up in this war business hadn’t been entirely bad, you supposed. Without it, you’d have never made her acquaintance.

“Thank you, Lottie,” you said. “That was very wise.”

“Mhm. It was.” She placed something on a tray and bustled back to you. “And I have more sagely advice for you.”

“Really,” you said, allowing your eyes to close again. “And what might that be?”

Lottie plopped the tray on your lap and you flinched with a half-eaten yelp, cloth falling down over your face. Wincing, you batted it away, deciding to look at what she’d delivered: a bowl of steaming porridge, a spoon stabbed into its thick body.

“Eat your breakfast,” she said.

The only meal less appealing to you would’ve been a bowl of olives. But you knew she was right.

You sighed and pried the spoon from the bowl, carrying a lump of porridge toward your mouth. “If I must.”

You took a bite. Shuddered. You might have preferred the olives.

Not more than an hour later, your breakfast returned to greet you, and you vomited it into the bucket beside your bed. Despite Lottie’s attempts to keep you nourished, the same occurred with your lunch. And as if these spasms had inspired an infinite array of aftershocks, you continued to heave out almost every ounce of fluid you had into the afternoon.

By the time you spied the shadows of trees reaching across the yard, your head felt as if it had been soaked in fog. Every shift of your body brought a new, painful dry heave, shook your muscles until they trembled like hot jelly.

“I’m here,” Lottie cooed into your ear. Her hand rubbed circles into your back. “Don’t fret.”

You flinched as your stomach tried to turn itself out over the edge of your bed, your head hovering over the clean pot she held for you. You knew you needed to drink water. But thoughts could barely form in your mind, and you imagined it would meet the same fate as your meals, anyway.

A distant sound through the fog—the door to the hospital opening. Lottie leapt from your side, the pot clattering on the floor.

“Colonel Tavington,” you heard her say, and your heart twisted into a network of roots. “Sir, my apologies, but she’s—she’s not—excuse me—”

Boots hit the wood, crossed to your bed, the force vibrating up your skin. You felt him stop at the edge of your bed, could sense him hovering, but your body refused to move, refused to nudge your head from its place in the crook of your arm. A shaking breath entered your lungs, and you exhaled—a dry, rotten sound.

William stepped closer. As if cued, your stomach clenched, and you tried to vomit nothingness. Lottie darted over with a gasp, trying to cloak your body with hers.

“As you can see, Colonel, she’s not well enough to—”

William bit out your name. You wanted to meet his gaze, but found your eyes too sore, your mind too exhausted. For reasons that were not fully comprehensible to you in your current state, this fact made you ache to die.

“How long,” he asked, lethally calm, “has she been in this condition?”

Lottie rubbed your back. “All day, sir,” she replied. “Since breakfast.”

Boots beat the floor again, storming from your bed. “Moore!”

The sensation made you shudder with another convulsion, another groan. Lottie shushed you, her soothing winnowing to ambience as those same footsteps returned, this time accompanied by another pair. William’s voice sliced it all through, restrained in volume, but his tone perched on the edge of fury.

“... and your patients suffer as you whittle meaninglessly at your desk.”

“Colonel,” said a second, weary voice belonging to Dr. Moore, “I assure you I’ve provided all the care to her that’s available to me here.”

William snorted. “Then it’s no wonder why so many men die of disease under your watch,” he replied. “If you bothered to spare her a glance, you’d see she’s in clear need of additional care.”

“While your advisement is appreciated,” Moore said, approaching your bed, “we’ve given her fluids, provided her with the medicine we have to reduce her fever and relieve her nausea. That is the prescribed treatment for a patient with her symptoms.”

“And yet her condition deteriorates.”

Moore sighed. “That is true,” he said, more thoughtful than you could ever remember hearing him. “But if her ailment is what I suspect, there is little more I can do for her.”

“And what,” William said, as if he was seconds from snapping Moore’s neck, “do you suspect?”

A pause hung in the air. This was a question to which not even you knew the answer, but it was also one you’d been in denial of pursuing. Perhaps you’d hoped that by refusing to acknowledge the existence of your illness, it would simply dissipate into the ether. Now, though, it seemed as if it would sooner have you dissipate into the ether yourself. All of your dismissal had done nothing but make it demand your obedience.

“Marsh fever,” Moore replied, finally. “Ague, if you like. Or malaria, if you want the academic consensus.”

“I do not.” William stepped closer to Dr. Moore. “Marsh fever is hardly incurable, Moore,” he snipped, “so I’m uncertain how I am to entrust my soldiers to your substandard care if you cannot resolve illness in a nurse.”

“Well, Colonel,” said Moore, footsteps carrying him away from William, “if that is indeed her ailment, what she requires is Peruvian bark. And I’ve unfortunately used the last in curing your soldiers with my meager skill.”

“Then obtain more.”

Lottie leaned close to your ear. “I can make them leave, if you’d like.”

You grumbled. You weren’t sure if you wanted William closer or further away.

Pages shuffled. A quill began to scribble. “My stock is back in Charleston. As are most additional supplies I’ve been denied here.” Moore continued to write. “I’ve sent correspondence to the quartermaster for a shipment, but it could be a month before it is on its way, what with the supply line troubles.” His voice softened. “She’s likely to succumb before it arrives.”

A slight intake of breath next to you. Not even a gasp of disbelief. You knew, then, that if Lottie saw no reason to protest, your condition was more serious than you’d estimated. Dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of thoughts crossed your mind at once, none of them assignable to words, and none of the words able to be spoken aloud in your state regardless.

Would you really, truly die in a British fort hospital? Bested by fever?

“Does she have a week?” William asked.

Moore was silent for a moment. “That’s… likely. But—”

“I’ll deliver it myself.” William paced toward your bed, paused, then back toward Moore. “Where in Charleston, doctor?”

“Colonel—”

“Where in Charleston?” he growled.

“The hospital.” For the first time in perhaps the entire time you’d known him, Moore sounded stunned. “The matron will know. Mrs. Smith.”

“Very well.” Without sparing another second, William stalked to the hospital door and threw it open. “Wilkins! My horse!”

It slammed behind him, quaking the walls.

Beside you, Lottie dared to breathe. You felt her eyes on you, felt her clammy palm as it smoothed over your damp shoulder. Grunting, you shifted, but she shushed you again, forcing you to still.

“Don’t.” She massaged your back. “It’s all right.” With a non-negligible degree of incredulity, she added, “Colonel Tavington will be… he’ll make sure you’re well.” As the statement hung unchallenged, she laughed to herself. “You had better be well.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you… well, there will be no one with whom I can discuss this. And I simply must.” A tiny pout. “When you’re well.”

You grunted again in assent.

Exhaustion collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Or, at least, you believed it to be sleep. Beyond the naive edge of your awareness, the world had melted into a shimmering aurora, a flitting collection of sounds and impressions that your conscious mind floated through like petals on a pond. Thoughts circled you in the aimless current.

Marsh fever. Malaria. Peruvian bark. Without it you would die. Die. Would never see Grace again. Never see Papa again. Never see William again.

William. Worried. Worried for you. Off to Charleston for you. You.

Why you?

Why?

Water dribbled from your mind down your chin and neck.

William was too late.

Your brain was leaking.

Why?

More water, smothering your lips, spilling over your tongue. You coughed, sputtered, choked on your brain’s own fluid.

Why?

“Why?” you groaned.

Lottie cradled your neck, forced another sip into your mouth.

“Because you must drink,” she demanded, adding your name in admonishment. “Please. Please, drink.”

Your throat worked as if it were forcing a boulder down your burning esophagus. Your brain wasn’t leaking after all.

Another gulp, another, until your mouth felt clean of your own bile and the heat on your skin began to cool. Your stomach, mercifully, was cooperative, and did not squirm like a mouse pup impaled on a needle. That cup finished, you gasped, every little particle of your flesh screaming for more, more, more water, to be flooded with it, to drown in it, more, more—

“More,” you spat, stuffing the cup back in her hands. “More.”

“Oh, thank the Lord…” Lottie whirled around, skittering to the barrel to fetch you another.

You swallowed a second cup and a third, exhaling when you realized you could salivate again and your tongue had swelled to its normal size. A fourth cup, and the air ceased pulsing. Noise stopped assaulting your ears.

“Thank you,” you managed to mumble.

“Good,” she said, and held out a roll of bread. “Now eat.”

You clawed the roll from her and scarfed it in seconds. It felt light and full, like it was stuffing itself into the cracks in your stomach lining, plugging it from coiling around itself. Relief rushed your blood, forced an exhale from your veins.

Now an over-saturated stem, you flopped back to the bed, the sheets and mattress gritty with your sweat. You didn’t care. The sleep that took you this time was certainly and most verifiably rest.

Rest that lasted until a buzzing poked through the barrier of your unconscious.

“Psst.”

A mosquito. You swatted at the air, twisted in your bed, hoping to shoo it away. Then it spoke, saying your name as if it were trapped beneath a blanket.

“Psst!”

Grumbling, you swatted again, this time connecting with soft, warm flesh.

“Ow!”

You jolted awake, seething with ache, greeted not by a talking mosquito but by Benedict Goddard, his face glowing in the moonlit dark.

“Wh—” You shook your head, ignoring the way your brain seemed to slosh inside your skull. “Goddard?”

“Well, good evening to you as well,” he whispered, rubbing his cheek.

“There’s no way that caused you injury.” You tried to shove his shoulder, but found your muscles offered little in the way of power. “What are you doing? Get out of here.”

“Lottie mentioned you finally managed to eat for the first time in days,” he said. “I thought maybe you were feeling better.”

“Days?”

Had William already been gone that long? You rubbed your eyes. They hurt no less.

He nodded. “Yes, I've been trying to meet with you since we returned, but Lottie kept barring me from entering, saying, she's far too ill she's far too ill, but she's asleep right now, so I—”

“All right, all right. Be quiet.” You sank into your pillow, speaking between your teeth. “What do you want?”

He snuck closer, voice meeting yours in volume. “Thought you might want to know that I’ve received new instructions from the drop,” he said. “The information I provided was verified—they’ve approved me to convey intelligence.” He nudged you. “This means I can take your place while you’re ill! Isn’t that fantastic!”

“Hush!” you hissed, craning up to glance around the hospital.

“It’s all right, you’re the only one in here right now,” he said as you flopped painfully back to your pillow. “I made sure, I’m not daft.”

You sighed, not necessarily pleased your fate was in the hands of a boy.

“I’m not a boy,” he said. “I’m seventeen.”

“Ah.” You’d said that out loud, then. “Yes, of course.” You considered him, unable to find fault with the earnest desire in his gaze to be recognized as a man. “You must exercise caution, though, Goddard. Even speaking about this here—”

“But you’ve been ill, how else—”

“I understand.” Nausea crawled over you. There was no way to tell if it came from the conversation or the malaria. “I just urge you to be ten times as cautious as you typically might be.”

He nodded. “You can rely on me. I promise you.”

“Fine.” You nestled further into the mattress. You were exhausted already. “What news from the other side, then?”

Goddard screwed his lip in thought. “British supply lines are still being decimated... Major Ferguson is preparing to march over the mountains toward North Carolina... Patriots are not happy about that…”

Hopefully unhappy enough to kill him. “Anything else?”

He hummed in thought.

“What of my father?” It had officially been weeks since you’d heard anything about or from him, and now, being ill, you worried if he’d ever learn if you did succumb. “Any word on him?”

Goddard shrugged. “I wasn’t given specifics on particular people.”

“Of course.” The danger involved in revealing data on individuals risked not only the safety of those individuals, but also the safety of anyone in close association with them. Including you. Though that did not change how you wished to hear from him. A shiver rippled over you, and you pulled the sheets closer. “Very well, then.”

“I could ask?”

You leered at him. “Goddard, the danger in—”

“No, you’re right, you’re right,” he said, holding up his hands. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Another shiver, this time shaking your bones. Wincing, you pulled another blanket on top of you, folding yourself into as tight of a ball as you could manage, your teeth chattering. The five minutes you’d spent speaking had apparently expended all the energy you’d built for the past however many days it had been. “Move along, then.”

“Oh, dear.” Worry tinged his voice, which eliminated the last of your patience. “You really are ill,” he said. “Will you be all right?”

“I’ve never been better,” you growled. “Quit my sight now, won’t you?”

“All right, all right,” he said. “Don’t despair. I won’t disappoint you.”

You mumbled an acknowledgement and turned your back to him, holding your breath until you heard his footsteps disappear.

Perhaps he hadn’t been deserving of your ire—but you would refuse to reconsider your application of it. You were near-death, had been held under the surface by your sickness for days you’d not even had the presence of mind to count, only to awaken and be informed that your father was as intangible as the wind and the intelligence you worked so diligently to procure and produce was now to come from the hands of a man-shaped puppy.

The hazard and its consequences resembled a noose too closely for your comfort. If Goddard were to be caught, if you were to be caught…

An ache surfaced again, this time from somewhere far too deep within you to be from fever. It hovered above you as you drifted into darkness, a flash of feeling, like a lighthouse signaling you from the shore.

What was it trying to tell you?

You watched it from the distant waves of unconscious rumination—a flicker, a pulse, a heartbeat, shining brighter, blinding you to everything but its reality—

William. William. William.

Fingers curling into your face, you hid from its cruel demand, from what it lit before your eyes, until its brightness became heat, fire, burning, scorching you alive to illuminate what you knew to be true:

You cared for William Tavington.

The horror of it ensnared you like a sea beast and dragged you to the depths, chased by this unquenchable fire to the belly of the earth. You realized then, this fire would continue to hunt you despite all you’d done to starve it, that it would follow you from the flower-filled field to the blood-flooded chapel if you allowed it, that you would either die by its flame or drown in your attempts to extinguish it. This fire was inextricable from you now, despite reality, despite the knowledge that subverting him and caring for him were as incompatible as him wanting your father dead and caring for you.

And why didn't you know if Papa was safe? And why couldn't you know? And why were you constrained to a bed while a man-boy endangered your life?

And why, why, why did you care about this bastard of a British officer?

You stared into the fire, refusing to burn. As it recognized it had been tended, its source winked into the night and you cooled, skin scoured by its touch. Returning to the surface, you were left now at the mercy of the waves.

One swelled beneath you, lifting you toward unfamiliar constellations. Perhaps caring was not as damning as you initially conceived. Perhaps, another dipped to inform you, it was possible to care like a pastor cared for his parishioners, like a shepherd cared for his sheep. A caring absent of romantic, erotic influence. Perhaps, insisted the undulating ocean, you could care for William Tavington and still, like the patient pastor observing his errant flock, see him condemned.

The sky twinkled above you. Beneath you, the sea dropped off a cliff. A rumble, crack like a quake, and it fractured, stars linked by fissures, the sun splitting through them. Chunks of it crumbled away, falling toward you, discarded pieces of the world. They crashed, one, then another, then another, into the ocean, throwing it toward the sun.

All of it loomed, waves waiting to consume you, to crush you into nothingness and turn your body to bubbles.

“I’ve got the tea, right here, sir,” said one of the waves in a voice sweeter than kelp. “She just needs to drink it.”

“Rouse her, then,” said another, this voice arrogant and irritable and more comforting than any sound you'd heard in days.

“Well, I would, but my hands are occupied and she's quite difficult to—”

“Fine.”

This wave subsumed you, crashed down around you, its enormity suspended above you before it swooped beneath your shoulders and dashed you alive against the shore.

“Listen, you little beast,” you thought it whispered, and then knew it demanded, “wake up.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

I thought about you the second the robe opened 🫡

thank you so much........ this is the legacy i leave

[kylorengarbagedump]

BABES—are you watching the new season of white lotus? jason isaacs and that accent is literally tearing me apart

BABES WE'RE LITERALLY WATCHING EPISODE 4 RN AND IM DYING!!!!!!!!!!

[kylorengarbagedump]

In honour of chapter 23, I present to you and @fakehusbandgarbagedump

This is being framed and hung inside the temple of Will Tavington’s Big Fat Ass Appreciators, Inc