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chronically-ghosted · 5 months

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bloody kisses — part three: cinnamon girl boy

pairing: shane morrissey/tim rockford rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 10K content: vaguely takes place in the 00s, age gap (shane is 23, tim is 40), internalized homophobia, self-doubt, shame, worries about aging, heavy petting, oral (male receiving), first time giving head, gag reflex training, assplay, doggy style, protected p in a, discussions of dom/sub and top/bottom, bad family dynamics, hints of poverty, discussions around divorce, tim's internal battles, dominant!tim, bratty!shane, nasty dirty talk (anyone who identifies my favorite line gets a gold star), lmk if anything has been missed! dividers: @saradika-graphics a/n: i wanna cry @perotovar let me play with their beautiful blorbos and i had so much fun. i've never written m/m before so they took a HUGE risk on me - thank you so much for trusting me to treat them well!

series summary: shane has been in denial about himself for a while. newly single and with the help of one of his favorite singers, he opens his eyes to a new venture he could possibly take: the cop he sees on a semi-regular basis, detective tim rockford.

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(from @chronically-ghosted: if you liked my humble take on this, you can find my masterlist here!) ♥♥

Russet streaks of late afternoon light filter in through the vinyl slats over the grungy carpet when Shane opens the apartment door. He shuts it with a sigh, locking it behind his back, before tipping his head against the frame, closing his eyes, and taking a long inhale. On the exhale verging on a sigh, he tosses his keys onto the ripped and faded black couch to his right before trudging into the linoleum kitchen.

There’s a note on the counter:

Gone to visit Barry’s kids in New Jersey. Be back on the 10th. Money for food is on the fridge.

Shane’s dark eyes flit to the M magnet that Samantha left here the last time she visited from Maine. Even their father came that time.

He snorts resentfully when he sees it: twenty bucks to last him two weeks – thanks Mom.

Chances that she left him anything in the freezer are lower than the chance he’ll be able to stretch this twenty till Friday.

Shane slips off his leather duster and tosses it over one of the precarious bar stools. He snatches up the half empty packet of cigarettes from the scuffed living room table, takes one out, and lights it. He flops into the cracked leather, stuffing fluttering out of the cushions on impact, one of the metal springs stabbing him in his flat ass. Head against the ridge of the couch, Shane lazily puffs out smoke rings, his lips pursed, up to the ceiling.

There’s about a dozen – maybe even twice as many – feelings in his chest right now, all bubbling and curling and spitting and scratching at his insides. Some of them are good – most of them are great, actually (god he can’t remember when he last felt this fucking ecstatic about anything) but some of them . . . some of them scare him so much he can barely breathe.

Call, Tim had said, in his soft, low voice, the smell of sweet syrup still in the air, the plates with pancake crumbs sitting in the sink behind him. Call, if you need anything.

The detective’s card sits in the left pocket of his duster.

Shane shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. Can I call if I’m just fucking lonely without you?

He sips at the cigarette a bit, following the hazy trail of smoke as it wafts around the room. His eyes fall on the cracks of his life, this apartment he shares with his mother and her boyfriend. Stacks of newspapers by the bookcase that’s missing a few shelves. A cereal bowl he left by the window two days ago when a few friends invited him out to go check out Maxxx’s new stereo system. Takeout boxes and beer cans. Unfolded laundry in a plastic bin, the edges cracked and torn off. A few pictures when he was a wiry kid, then a wiry teen. He has a few good memories with Samantha, when he was fourteen and she was seven. That was the only time in his life when anything ever made any sense.

When she’d ask if he’d play her a s–

Shane’s eyes narrow at his bedroom door. Without looking, he snuffs the cigarette out in the nearest ashtray and stands up. Barry knows what would happen if he went into Shane’s room without Shane’s express permission – mother’s boyfriend or not – but Shane locks up every time. He keys open his bedroom door and finds everything as he left it. But that’s not what has him moving down onto his hands and knees, laying flat on his stomach to get a long arm under his bed. With a bit of searching, Shane’s face breaks open wide in surprise as he fingers curl around the long wooden neck. Slowly, Shane crawls back and with him comes his old acoustic guitar.

By the line of dust on it, it really had been several years since he played this thing, but turning it over, the rightness of it settles into his hands, his hips, his bones. This is where it was always meant to be.

Seems like I’m finding all kinds of rightness out of nowhere.

He strums once. The strings are horrifically out of tune, but the thoughts swirling around in his brain make him smile. Fist under his chin, he props his head up on the guitar’s body, contemplating.

He can still smell the sugar from breakfast and Tim’s aftershave from after breakfast. His heart squeezes without his control . . . and his ass twinges. Heat roars up his entire chest and he has to curl in on himself, rolling onto his back, to keep from exploding, a big stupid grin all over his face. The last twelve hours flit across his memory, each moment better than the next.

Call, if you need anything, Tim had said.

I need you to tell me what to do now. Am I the same person? Do I want to be? If I left all of this and everyone behind, who would I be tomorrow? Would you keep me around then?

Do you even really like me now?

He takes his hands down from his eyes, sighing and staring up at his popcorn ceiling, not unlike Tim’s.

Beneath his right hand, his metal bracelets clatter with the wood of the guitar.

Samantha.

Samantha likes him, or at least used to. She loved some version of him. Little sisters are always supposed to love you, but maybe he could find that version again. If it’s still there.

Shane sits up and begins to clean his room.

Night comes and the light from the Morrissey apartment stays on a young man gathering trash and throwing it away.

Tim hasn’t been this on edge since the four or five times he’s tried to quit smoking. He sits in his car, rain pouring down, heating set on low for an early November evening, and he thinks about all the ways this can go wrong. He stares up at the second floor of the tenement apartment, his fingers flexing around the steering wheel.

Like file folders, he sorts his worries from least to most earth-shattering.

Shane is vulnerable right now. There is no one else in his life he can turn to with questions, and he had been left to fend for himself on and off since he was fifteen (Tim has pulled up his file only half a dozen times for follow up work on the shooting and Shane’s rap sheet often catches his eye). Of course, he wants nothing more than to be the person who Shane comes to with questions or concerns, or fuck, even just an ear to listen to. But, at his age, Tim is all too aware of what a situation like that could do to him.

He’s already in too deep and he fucking knows it.

Earth-shattering worry number two: he is a cop and he has booked this kid more times than he can count. Just for petty stuff and he was never the one to press charges – always the DA looking for an easy numbers game to boost his image before the elections. Tim fucking agonized over that and not just in Shane’s case – these kids weren’t in need of help, the attorney’s office said, they were problems that needed to be put down. So how fast would the DA’s head spin around and explode if he showed up to the policeman’s ball with the “Satanic Temple” on his arm, nevermind just another man? While that would be a sight Tim would cherish until he died, he can’t ask anyone – especially someone as new to all of this as Shane – to handle something like that.

Which brings him to his final worry, the big concern that has him nearly start up his car and drive off, to call Shane on a payphone and apologize for not being able to ever see him again. Tim’s old. He’s fucking old and Shane shouldn’t have to carry decades worth of baggage when the kid’s got a fucking trunk of it himself. He’s old and a has-been and Shane has the rest of his life ahead of him.

Of course, this is all assuming Shane would ever want something more with him and this isn’t just sex for him. But maybe that’s all it should be. Both of them dirty little secrets to each other that can fuel Tim’s fantasies until his cock finally stops working (which is probably pretty fucking imminent), and something that Shane can laugh about with his partner some day.

With a sigh, Tim watches a figure move around behind dirty windows on the second floor.

The only way Tim would walk away now is if Shane told him to take a fucking hike. And that’s a really big problem.

He turns off the car, grabs his tan raincoat, and heads towards the apartment building.

When Shane opens the door, Tim wonders if he had a stroke and is seeing things that aren’t really there. Shane still has all his earrings, his rings with his unusually jet-black hair, but the duster is gone. Shane has answered the door in a black sleeveless shirt, with faded but roughly-intact jeans, and bare feet. He looks –

“Laundry day.” Tim’s eyes snap up and Shane frowns petulantly. “‘S laundry day . . . n’ this is all I had.” His fingers around the doorframe tighten. “You gonna come in or just stand there and make me look like a fuckin’ rat?”

Tim is very much aware of how much he looks like a cop even in plain clothes, and the tie with slacks isn’t helping. But he can understand why it might make things difficult for Shane to be seen with him.

But, fuck, if he only knew . . .

“Sorry.”

He steps across the threshold and Shane shuts the door behind him, sticking very close to the wood to give as much space between the two of them as possible. The rain patters in the silence as Tim tries not to stare too much, but that pattern-picking part of his brain can’t help but lurch into overdrive.

The apartment is empty. That’s the first thing he clocks. The second are several black garbage bags by the front door and the distinct smell of Pinesol in the air, sitting only faintly above the stench of cigarettes. Tim’s eyes fall to the cracked patio door, then the ashtray that has three very freshly stamped-out cigarettes in the bowl. Either two of Shane’s friends just left or –

“You want, um, something to drink?”

Shane moves swiftly from behind him to the kitchen and Tim’s gaze latches to his back. His ears are by his shoulders and Tim gets a brief flash of the borderline fear in those dark eyes before he disappears behind the wall.

“No, uh –,” Tim clears his throat and takes off his coat, then his holster, laying both flat on the counter that separates the living room from the kitchen. “I’m good. Mind if I smoke though?”

Shane returns, a beer can in his hand and slides into the plastic chair on the left side of the chipped table beneath a sickly, hanging fluorescent light. He cracks it and takes two long pulls before putting it on the table with a thud. He picks up his own packet and Tim thinks he might see a tremble in his hand.

He’s not sure if he feels vindicated, even elated, that Shane might be as nervous as he is, or just terribly awkward.

“Make yourself at home.” Shane indicates the chair across from him with a jerk of his head before he lights up. The chair squeaks on the linoleum as Tim pulls it back and gingerly sits down. He stabilizes his elbows on the table to keep his hands steady as he takes out a cigarette from his own packet and lights it against his mouth.

The heady rush of smoke combined with the fresh scent of rain soothes something and he forcibly tugs at his own courage.

“So, um, how’ve you been?” Fantastic start, Rockford.

Shane lifts those thin shoulders, eyes skirting the edge of the table. “Good. Went, uh, to see X the other day. He’s getting better. Says the hospital should let him out soon.”

“Good. That’s good.”

The room is so quiet, he can hear the paper burn and curl from the smoldering end of the cigarette between his fingers.

“And you? You've been – um?”

“Yeah, I’ve been good. Xavier – sorry – X’s testimony was really useful for identifying the shooter and establishing a timeline. Should be a pretty open and shut case.”

At that, a wry smirk curls across Shane’s face. He looks at Tim with something that might be described as a teasing grin as he knocks loose a line of ash. “Probably the last and only time X is gonna be helpful to the police.”

Tim responds with his own grin. “Wouldn’t expect anything different. Where’s the fun in easy cases?”

They both chuckle, eyes on anywhere but each other. And yet the tension has cracked, just a bit. Enough to let Tim lean back in his chair and breathe out a long, relaxed plume of smoke.

“But, uh, you called because you wanted to ask me something?”

Shane’s ink-wet eyes glance up at him and Tim feels the knot beneath his chest bone throb.

“Oh – yeah, right. Um, I was thinking about something you said over breakfast the other day . . .” Tim’s heart swells; he thinks about that morning all the fucking time too. Soft golden light and harsh black hair, spread across his chest. “And I was wondering if you still talk to your old friend in the NYU music department.”

That is not the question Tim had been expecting.

“John? Who works at the guitar shop on 7th?”

“I’m not thinking of going to school,” Shane adds quickly, the tips of his ears going red and Tim has to make an effort to keep his eyes on Shane’s face. “I still think school is a fuckin’ racket made for rich people to make themselves richer and maintain authority over –,”

“Yes, I still talk to John from time to time. Why?”

At this, Shane shifts in his seat, eyes low, shoulders rigid with tension. He taps his thumb on his knee uncomfortably.

“Iwanajob . . .”

“Sorry?”

Shane scrunches his nose (the band around Tim’s chest tightens – god, he’s so fucking cute) and huffs.

“I want . . . a job. At the guitar shop . . . and I was hoping . . . you could introduce me to your friend. John, or whatever.” He adds sullenly as if Tim hadn’t just said his name twice.

The buzzing awareness that is always present at the back of Tim’s mind suddenly clicks on. Like a camera taking film, he looks around the room. The trash bags. The tidy apartment. Fucking laundry day.

“Oh,” he says flatly. “Why, uh – why that place?”

Shane stiffens imperceptibly again. He’s got that “caught-in-a-trap” look about him – the kind his suspects get when they’re about to confess something, willingly or otherwise. Shane’s wide eyes glance over Tim’s shoulder as if he had pointed a finger. Tim turns and is rail-roaded again for the second time since coming here.

“Is that yours?” Tim stands, leaving the cigarette in the ash tray, and crosses the room, careful not to touch the shining guitar on its holder but getting as close as possible to examine it. It is a beautiful guitar, the body waxed and the silver of the tuning pegs bright in the low light. It takes Shane a second to answer.

“Yeah.” The admission is breathy, a release from a too-long-held inhale. Tim thinks his voice wobbles a bit but he dare not turn around to see what’s on Shane’s face. “I used to play a lot. I loved music as a kid, thought I was pretty good. Samantha loved it when I wrote songs for her. When we got older, she’d sing along with me.”

Tim clocked a white note stuck on the counter when he walked in, but he was too far away to read it. The way Shane said her name, Tim gathers that she’s not an ex, but someone closer. However, his file never mentioned any Samantha, so she must not live nearby or be someone he sees frequently.

When we got older . . .

Tim straightens up and looks at Shane. “Is Samantha your sister?”

Shane stares at him wide-eyed for a minute before shaking his head, smiling faintly.

“I hate it when you fucking do that.”

Tim’s stomach knots. “Do what?”

“Figure me out as soon as you look at me. Yeah, dude, Samantha is my sister. Half-sister anyway. Mom and Dad tried to do the whole divorced parents who get along thing for a while, but it didn’t last. Now I don’t see her unless she can get the car for the weekend. But she says she won’t come if she’s not invited and I . . . it’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

Tim nods, the sick knot in his stomach melting into butterflies.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. Just . . . curious, I guess.”

Shane watches him silently as he rejoins the table. The chair squeaks again. Tim lights another cigarette when he knows he shouldn’t but Shane’s smile has him trembling.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

Tim swallows. “Can’t help myself do what?”

“Be curious,” Shane says softly, something unreadable and expansive in his gaze. For a second, he looks a decade older and a millennia wiser. He lifts his voice, louder, deeper when he continues. “Guess that’s part of being a cop.”

“You know, technically, I’m a detective, right? Not on patrol, only handling specialized cases.”

Shane sucks the last bit of his cigarette, his eyes bright with mischief. “A-Cab, Rockford. I don’t make exceptions.”

Tim wants to kiss that smirk right off him. He squeezes his own knee briefly before leaning into Shane’s space, the corner of the table separating them, to tap out his ash. He relishes in the way Shane’s eyes skitter up his forearm to his shoulder. He’s not the first to be intimidated by Tim’s size, but he is the first that Tim would gladly overwhelm with it.

“Seems like you did the other night,” he replies, his voice throaty and scratched. It’s not entirely intentional – Tim’s mouth has gone shockingly dry.

This time, Shane’s entire face flushes pink and Tim grins. Old dog still got some tricks, don’t he?

“I’m just fucking with you, kid.” He chuckles. “Relax. Your secret is safe with me.”

He hears how that last part sounds and bites his tongue in regret. Of all the things Tim wants Shane to know, assuming he thought their time together was a mistake is definitely not one of them. He does not want Shane to think he is something that Tim wants to keep a secret.

But by Shane’s unabashed intake of Tim’s forearms, chest, and curls on his hairline, he probably didn’t need to worry too much.

It’s been years since he was so shamelessly checked out and it makes his heart pound. He wouldn’t dare return the ogling but, fuck he wants to. Last time, it had been all about Shane and making Shane feel good, which he would do without question again and again and again. But he is desperate for an exploration of Shane’s body as much as he knows it needs to be an exploration for the both of them.

Or it would be, if he could get a goddamn grip. Last time - probably only fucking time, you sleeze.

“I k-know–,” Shane’s voice cracks and the blush flares again, only briefly this time. He clears his throat and sits up a bit in the chair. “I know that. I know. It’s just . . .” Shane sucks on his cigarette nervously, his cheeks hollowing, like he’s warming up to something. Something sour rolls down the back of Tim’s throat, his stomach clenched, but years of training keeps his face as smooth as stone. Those dark brown eyes, as gentle and fluid as mercury, stare up at him and Tim knows he’s such a fucking goner.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Tim nods. Rolling his bottom lip into his mouth, Shane leans forward, drumming out another line of ash into the glass tray. He straightens against the back of the chair as he tugs one knee to his chest, expression wary, and wraps a skinny arm around his shin.

At the last second, Shane drops his gaze and instead decides to interrogate a dirty spot on the table.

“When I first met you,” he began slowly, “you wore a wedding ring. But now . . .”

His eyes flicker to Tim’s left hand, third finger, absent of any jewelry, sitting on his thigh.

Tim thinks of the first time he saw that irate seventeen year old punk in the station. He had a ripe black eye and an annoyingly smug smirk on when the officer on duty chucked him roughly into a holding cell.

“That’s perceptive of you.” He flexed his hand into a fist, once, then twice, then met Shane’s stare ahead on. Tim has to hastily swallow a deep lungful of smoke to smother the sudden uptick of his heartbeat. “You’re right,” he says, stiff, on a throaty inhale. “I was married until about five years ago.”

A large knot visibly slips down Shane’s throat, his cigarette tilting dangerously between his fingers, ash hovering over the carpet.

“Hm, and to a . . .”

The way his eyes go wide, Tim wants to bury a kiss into that agitated pulse on Shane’s throat, but instead, he just nods slowly, avoiding sudden movement that might startle the wild animal ready to bolt across from him.

“Yeah, Shane, to a woman.”

Shane continues to tear into his own lip. He retreats before Tim’s eyes – crosses his arms on top of his knees and leans his head back. He stares into the rain outside, the beer at his elbow long forgotten. This isn’t the answer he was hoping for.

“Oh,” he says.

Tim leans forward onto his elbows, entering into his space again, but this time more hesitantly. Shane’s bare foot is inches from Tim’s fingers.

“Shane.”

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

With a steady hand, Shane flicks the end of his cigarette with his black thumbnail, ash falling, and with a very level gaze, he returns Tim’s watchful eye. His face is so blank he barely has any features.

“What?”

“I’ve fallen in love with women and men.”

The impenetrable ice in his eyes melts and Shane frowns. “You can do that?”

Again, Tim nods, this time a faint smile on his face. How easily he forget how fucking clueless this kid is and how fucking cute his obliviousness makes him.

“But I’ve only slept with women before, am I–,”

“It’s not about who you’ve slept with, to a certain degree. It’s who you are attracted to.”

“So there’s more than just being gay?”

He wants so badly to reach across the edge of the table and take Shane’s hand. Soothe him. Feel those rough calluses against his skin again. He can feel the heat of his own cigarette coming painfully close to the backs of his fingers so he tamps out the cigarette in the glass bowl, Shane’s eyes watching him the whole time.

“There’s a lot of things, sweetheart,” Tim says softly, the nickname slipping out as it had before, in his own apartment with Shane in his lap. He hopes that sweetheart sounded casual, a nickname more than a reflection of the hot knot tightening in his groin. “But at the end of the day, it comes down to what feels right to you. How you see yourself. You might have to spend some time figuring it out, asking yourself some hard questions, but you’ll get there.”

Shane nods, again swallowing the words that are so clearly caught in his throat. He switches the cigarette to his other hand and stares out the window at the rain. Tim’s mouth dries up at the sight of his long, exposed throat.

“Is that why it didn’t work out between you and your . . . wife?” Shane asks quietly.

Tim runs his gaze over the piercings in Shane’s earlobe, the delicate bones within the cartilage, then to his set jaw and, finally, over his plush, pouty lips.

“No.” He can hear how hoarse he sounds, how wrecked, but having Shane in front of him again, all those feelings, all those basic urges he denied for the past few weeks come roaring to the front again. He of all people should have known suppression and repression never, ever work. “We were just different people. It had nothing to do with the fact that I also fuck men.”

He watches Shane tremble, the skin on his bare arms suddenly electrified. Slowly, with a shaking breath, Shane twists out his own cigarette, pushing it down roughly with two fingers.

The thing that has been circling Tim’s mind – like a rabid dog tearing out chunks of his ability to think straight – slides out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“What have your other partners told you?”

Call it twenty years on the force.

Call it a finely tuned bullshit detector.

Call it whatever you want, but in that moment before Shane opens his mouth, Tim knows he just considered lying to him and Tim’s heart plunges into his gut. He loathes the idea that Shane might lie to him, lie to him about being queer or an aspect of himself he still has questions about. Having someone older and more experienced than him in life alone at Shane’s age would have made all the difference to him as a young man and more than anything, more than his stupid cock, that’s all he really wants. He wants to be there for Shane because no one, not even his own family, has ever told him he means a damn.

And you mean so much to me already.

Then Shane lets out a shaky breath, the crease in his brown carved deep, but one glance at Tim and it melts away. Without warning, he stands up right and for a split, wonderful second Tim thinks he’s going to crawl into his lap again.

But Tim realizes he’s waiting for something.

With a voice that comes from a very small place, Shane mutters, “there hasn’t been anyone since you.”

He blinks up at Shane for one second, and then two, and his words register, click in, and everything else fades away. Tim’s on his feet with his finger snagged through one of Shane’s belt loops before common sense or patience can catch up with him.

“Is that right?” Tim purrs as he takes the curve of Shane’s neck in his massive palm, the other going to waist, and Shane instantly gasps at the touch. But that initial elation hardens and he glares at him. Tim is distinctly reminded of an annoyed puppy.

“Don’t sound so fucking pleased,” Shane snarls through bared teeth. His black nails dig into Tim’s forearm, a warning and a plea. “It’s not like I think about you all the time or anything.”

His eyelids droop when Tim squeezes the back of his neck and Shane lets out a low moan. Tim drops his head against the other man’s forehead. The boy smells like cloves and cinnamon and definitely pot and it’s going to haunt Tim’s memories forever. He closes his eyes and resists the urge to nuzzle that bare cheek.

“You’re all I think about. Every minute, every day,” Tim hums, “I can’t stop thinking about you and all those little sounds you made when I fucked your ass.”

Another sound, a better one, squeaks out of him – one of protest and desperation and carnal need – and Tim’s control snaps in his hands.

The hand on Shane slides to the back of his head and Tim all but shoves those pouty lips into his mouth.

It’s just as fucking fantastic as he remembered.

Frantic. Needy. Tim kisses him like it’s his job to lick clean the cigarette smoke embedded on Shane’s tongue, on the inside of his mouth, the split cracks in his dry lips. His fingers tangle into that starkly black hair, the strands faintly damp, and his other hand slips to his low back. At that, the boy pulls back enough to let a whine escape from his open mouth before Tim yanks him against his chest. He feels Shane grow hard against his thigh and all the blood rushes out of his brain.

Briefly dizzy, Tim stumbles forward, his hands catching the table behind Shane’s hips, pinning the younger man between him. He nips at Shane’s neck, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

“Fuck me, baby. You’re going to give this old man a heart attack.”

Shane guides him into his mouth, his fingers clawing gently at the scruff of his beard, a slower, softer repeat of how Tim had initiated. Warm air puffs across Tim’s beard when Shane retreats, eyes searching for something he needs to find on Tim’s face.

“Actually,” he breathes softly, “I really do think about you all the time too.”

Tim has never been more grateful for the rough grip on his cheeks because that’s all that’s keeping him from sinking to the ground on wobbly knees. Shane takes another kiss before his hand slips into Tim’s meaty paw and tugs him into the living room. He guides him back to the couch and, with a not-too-gentle push, shoves Tim down against the cushions. The detective goes without resistance.

The pale light from the rain beyond the window and the fluorescent glow behind him etches Shane in a soft halo. Brightness in Shane’s eyes tells him that the man is running on instinct alone – and that’s perfectly fucking fine. Whatever – anything – Shane wants, Tim will gladly offer it up.

But when his hands drop to Tim’s belt buckle, the rush of heat up his body leaves him almost catatonic.

“Mhmm, f-fuck, sweetheart, wait a second – d-don’t wanna rush things if you’re not –,”

The sound of his zipper tearing open is like a gunshot and there’s no denying the raw hunger that smears the edges of Shane’s eyes to a dangerous black.

“You have to walk me through it.” He sounds awe-struck.

He sinks to his knees and Tim considers he might actually die on this fucking couch. The heat radiating from those black-tipped hands that run up his thighs has Tim moaning in the back of his throat. He wants to curl that beautiful hair around Shane’s elegant ear – what would he say if Tim told him he has an elegant ear – but he’s using all of his energy to not immediately come when Shane tugs his pants down his hips, just enough to palm him through his boxers.

As if the sensation of a half-hard cock surprises him, Shane’s lips split apart, eyes locked onto the wet spot beneath his hand. Tim swipes his bottom lip with his tongue, knuckles white as he grips the cushions, watching with aborted breath Shane stroke him gently. He grits his teeth.

“Tell me you want this.” Tell me I’m not forcing you into anything too fast because I’m fucking obsessed with you.

“I want this.” Shane shuffles closer, his hand dipping down to cup his balls, the scent of his cloves hitting Tim again, and Shane quietly gasps as the cock beneath his hand hardens more and more. “I wanna s-suck your cock.”

Tim grunts, his legs opening wider, sliding low into the cushions and now Shane hovers over him. Here is where with other partners in recent years, Tim would lock up. There’s gray in the curls at the base of his cock and his tummy hangs out a bit more, no matter how much he runs. But Shane doesn’t seem to register any of that. His mouth is still open in raw fascination, as if showing off how fucking deep he’s going to take the cock inches from his face. The sight splits heat between his groin and his heart. Tim is not going to fucking rush this. He’ll let Shane touch whatever he wants for as long as he wants even if it makes him come like an overeager teenager.

Suppressing that peak of heat at Shane’s touch, Tim digs his fingers into Shane’s mop of hair like he’d been wanting to since the kid first offered that drink. At his immediate touch, Shane’s eyes roll back in his head and Tim takes that as an opportunity to scratch at his scalp, with a slight tug at the end.

“Oh, fuck, please lemme me suck your cock.”

Shane’s breathing hitches when Tim loosens the grip on his hair, runs his thumb down his temple, scuffs his cheek, and then drags that puffy bottom lip down. He looks absolutely ruined, eyes misty and shoulders slumped forward, and Tim has barely touched him.

“Take me out, baby,” Tim murmurs, “and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Wide eyes never losing their nervous light, Shane dips his hand below the elastic waistband (why didn’t he put on better underwear?) and cups him, slowly dragging his shorts lower as he pulls Tim’s cock into the light.

Tim has to remember to breathe. Fuck, it’s so hot in this fucking room. With trembling fingers, he tugs the knot of his tie away from his throat and unbuttons his shirt down to his ribs, as Shane runs an experimental grip up and down the length of his cock. Tim hisses as heat flares brightly and a little too fast.

Shane’s eyes flick up to his face. “Sorry, too dry?”

Without waiting for a response, Shane cups his hand beneath his mouth and spits, a giant, slick glob. It might be the hottest thing Tim has ever witnessed with his two eyes. Shane’s hand returns and Tim’s eyes flutter shut as he groans.

“S-s-shit, baby, that’s really good.”

Tim wants to open his eyes, to see Shane’s face, to get a glimpse of what is going on in that beautiful head, but he can’t drag himself out of the lusty haze long enough.

And then, after several slow, long pumps that have him harder than he can ever remember being, Tim feels Shane’s palm twist just as his thumb swirls the head and swipes the leaking tip. Pleasure roars up his spine and his hips jerk off the couch. His eyes snap open and find Shane not proud, but surprised. His mouth opens again in glee.

“I fucking love that too,” he murmurs, his hand moving a bit faster now. “Love it when they play with the tip.”

“Mhmm, hmm.”

As Shane finds a slightly hurried rhythm with his strokes, Tim is greedily storing away images and sensations in lockbox after lockbox in his memory. Has Shane’s hands always looked so thick?

“You can try whatever you want.” Tim murmurs, his gaze jumping between the hand around his cock, Shane’s mouth, and that hand with the black nails against his thigh. “If you like something, I’ll probably like it too.”

Shane wets his lip, his eyes darting to Tim’s face as if looking for permission. Tim nods, his heart pounding in a completely different way than from exertion, and has to breathe into his stomach as Shane parts his lips and lowers his mouth to his cock. Inch by inch, he takes him deeper and deeper, his hand falling away to Tim’s other thigh, as he sinks closer to those gray-streaked curls.

Tim is genuinely caught on the knife-edge of pleasure and pain. Exquisite pleasure saps his entire body of energy, every grunt and sigh bursts of tiny releases, but with every inch into Shane’s warm, wet mouth, his tongue a rough glide on the underside of his cock, it becomes harder and harder to not buck his hips and god, does he fucking want to. He wants to grab Shane by the back of the head, hold him steady, and fuck that mouth like it’s the last fuck of his life. But he won’t, he can’t – Shane isn’t ready for that and quite honestly, neither is he, despite how the arousal of that mental image floods him with hot satisfaction. He’s going to tear apart this couch with his bare hands, though.

Shane gets about halfway and then chokes and Tim is yanked out of the dream in a panic.

“B-baby, are you okay?”

Shane splutters and nods, the back of his hand coming to his lips, as if trying to hide his smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he croaks. “My gag reflex is shit though.”

Tim sighs with relief and a strangled orgasm. He’s so hard it hurts but he doesn’t give a fuck. “You’re doing fine, sweetheart. Better than fine, actually.”

Tim meets his eyes as they go dark and hungry with a flash of that spitfire that Tim only ever saw on the other side of a metal interview table before.

“Guess you’ll have to train up my reflex, then.”

“Yeah?” This kid has no idea what he’s playing with. Shane kneels between his spread legs, hands gently rubbing the meat of his thighs, those dark eyes swirling almost maliciously. Tim pinches Shane’s chin between his thumb and curled forefinger, thrusting that belligerent mouth up. “You gonna listen to an authority figure for once in your goddamn life?”

“I’ll try my best,” he pouts, his neck arched back.

“Blow on it.” Tim commands. “Start from the bottom and go to the top.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tim’s cock visibly throbs and Shane hasn’t even opened his mouth. But then he does, leaning forward when Tim releases his chin. He blows a quick burst of air around Tim’s curls, before opening his mouth wide and breathing heavily, wetly, warmly around the base of the cock in front of him. Then, as he was told, he lifts up and to the very top of that leaking head.

“Take the tip – just the tip – and suck on it, gently at first.”

Shane does as he is instructed, his eyes never leaving Tim’s face or losing that maniacal glint, and he sucks, making a similar face (Tim assumes) as when he’s slurping up ice cream. Shane sucks harder and a loud, lewd moan rips out of Tim’s throat.

“Now take it all in, as much as you can. Then swallow.”

Shane dips his head, mouth gliding down his veiny shaft, spit slipping out of the corner of his mouth, going down and down and down until he breathes sharply through his nose. Tim, clutching at sanity as it sprinkles through his fingers, watches the sharp planes of Shane’s shoulders and back churn and roll as he lifts his head up and down. He wants to loop his fingers through those black curls so badly.

“I’m gonna touch you now, okay?” Shane grunts his approval, the blush of air against his groin sending a bolt of pleasure up Tim’s spine, and he soothes his own tattered nerves by digging into Shane’s hair, scratching a bit like he had before. But then he loosens and just lets his hand rest contentedly on the back of his head.

The drumming beat of rain and Shane’s wet mouth is a narcotic. The sight and sounds and smells of it all makes his brain melt, deep desires usually chained down by his restraint snapping and popping free like fireworks.

What’s he going to feel like when Shane can take all of him?

How long and how often does he have to do this to train him up?

Could he come home after working a twelve hour shift to Shane crawling onto his knees and sucking him off, just like this? Like this, in perfect domestic bliss –

Out of nowhere, Shane swallows and Tim has to claw into his own thigh to keep from coming right then and there.

“Oh, fucking Christ –,” he yelps. As if encouraged, Shane tries to go a little deeper, swallow a little harder, but he gags again. When he lifts his head, his eyes are wet and Tim wonders if it's possible to black out from being so aroused.

“Sorry,” Shane mutters, wiping his mouth again. “Your cock is so fucking big. It felt big in my ass but this –,”

Tim’s eyes slip closed. “Shut the fuck up. You can’t – can’t say those things.”

He breathes heavily, the pounding in his heart only slightly stronger than the blood pounding in his cock. But Shane is suspiciously quiet.

Tim opens his eyes and finds a curious expression on Shane’s face as he stares at Tim’s cock. No, not his cock, a bit below –

Shane turns and tugs the low, tattered table behind him closer. He puts Tim’s foot against the edge, and then does the same with the other. The haze in Tim’s brain won’t let him piece it together until Shane dips his head, tongue already out.

“Whoa, whoa, baby–,” he grasps Shane’s shoulder and he stops. “I can’t ask you to do that. I don’t want to push you too far tonight.”

Shane rolls his eyes, flatly annoyed. “I’ve eaten ass before, Tim. I’m not a blushing fucking virgin.”

Tim can actually feel the second that sweat breaks out across his hairline. “A-are you sure?”

“Yeah, I actually know what I’m doing there. I mean, an asshole is an asshole, right?”

He isn’t sure if he likes how fast Shane has grown in confidence, or if it’s the sexist thing he’s ever seen. Maybe he’s the one not entirely ready.

“Y-yeah. Alright. Fire away, then.”

And with that first kitten lick, Tim finally comprehends just how fucked he is. He knew he was, but it’s not until Shane masterfully rims the edge of that ringed muscle does he know, with clear certainty, this kid is going to ruin him.

Shane’s hand curls around Tim’s shaft, his tongue prodding his asshole, and Tim makes a loud, open-mouthed moan that hits the quiet air of the apartment and shatters.

Within seconds, he’s hurling towards a release so violent, his thighs shake. Shane pumps him slowly, his mouth making everything wet and drippy, his eyes eagerly catching every twitch and moan Tim makes.

When Tim feels his balls draw up, dangling over the precipice, he snatches Shane by the hair and yanks him back. Again, Shane makes a sound like an irritated cat.

“C’mon,” he huffs, his face red as if he had mitigated his breathing. “Lemme do this.”

Tim swallows everything – his tongue, his orgasm, the desire to lick the brat right out of Shane’s pouty mouth – and shoves it all down as far as it will go. He’s left sweaty and panting, holding Shane by the flat of his hair at arm’s length. He swallows again and sits up, that airless high settling. Shane scowls petulantly

“You still want me to fuck that ass, right?”

His glare cracks in half. Those swollen lips part and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then you fucking listen to me when I tell you to stop sucking cock. Got it?”

Shane nods more insistently, tongue swiping fast against his bottom lip. “Y-yeah.”

Tim lets go and resists the urge to correct him to how he addressed him before, but fucking Christ, one thing at time.

“Which one is yours?” Tim nods towards the two closed doors across from him. Wordlessly, Shane points to the one farthest from the living room. “Show me.”

Tim barely grunts as he stands up, his knees dangerously unsteady, his back twinging from the low position on the couch and the fact that there’s more padding on a highway road than inside of those cushions.

Again, just as he thinks he might tip over, Shane takes his hand, intertwining their fingers, and leads him through the door.

The sun had set on an already dark day, so in the burgeoning twilight, Shane’s room is a collection of shadows and blue outlines. Beyond the vinyl window slats, the rain pours harder than ever, muffling the sounds of cars on the street and the blunders of other people in the building. With the door closed, the air is warm, but not uncomfortably so, more like a soothing hand against his sweaty neck. The pleasant scent of incense is unmistakable, a far cry from any other smell in the apartment.

The effect of it all, standing in Shane’s room, alone, is . . . isolating.

“It’s not much,” Shane murmurs, as if he worried Tim would find something about his space distasteful. “But I did clean up.” His eyes grow wide as soon as the words leave his mouth. “Not that I thought, or even expected that this – that you’d –”

Tim brings their locked hands to Shane’s cheek and gently, sweetly kisses him on the mouth. For a man so confident in his ability to drive his partner insane with his tongue up their ass, the boy quivers beneath a soft touch. Tim pulls back and finds blurry, unfocused eyes.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Tim hums and strokes an errant curl back from Shane’s cheek.

“This.” Shane says immediately. “This feels so fucking good.”

“Where do you sleep?” Tim asks, quietly, letting the words slow to a rumble, his free hand gently cupping the boy’s neck. The bed is unmissable, but he wants to give Shane as much control as he needs. Beneath his hands, Shane’s breathing stutters for a moment, before biting down on his bottom lip and leading Tim to the haphazardly made-up bed. He sits, big eyes staring up at him, at their bound hands, before releasing his grip and lying back on the bed. He scoots up, nestling that all black hair against his gray pillow.

“Here.” His voice is strangled, choked, his fingers twisting together as he picks at his nails. “Right h-here.”

“Is that why you look so good right here, baby?” Tim slides the tail end of his tie out of the knot and off his neck. Shane licks his lips, transfixed, as Tim continues to unbutton his wrinkled shirt. The bit of clothing falls to the floor and Tim nearly matches Shane in a white sleeveless shirt. Black and white, punk and cop. There’s poetry in there somewhere.

Tim continues to undress; shoes first, then socks, and finally his slacks. Shane gets a little jumpy as he crawls up the bed.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.” Tim raises an eyebrow at the jeans confining his hard cock. “No, sorry, n-no – I’ll take them off.”

Tim gives him enough space to unbutton his pants, then sloppily jerk them off. He flings them over by Tim’s and Tim grins. He settles back down with Shane nearly underneath him and gently strokes his cheek. Everywhere he touches on the boy, it’s warm. Women aren’t like that, usually, and in turn, it satisfies something deep inside of him. Tim thinks of the tender warmth of the heated skin of a deer after it’s run a long distance.

“You still want it, baby?” This he asks honestly and without the grungy purr to his voice.

Again, without hesitation, Shane nods, but then stops. His chest swells like the words he wants to say are caught on the back of his throat, his nails gently biting into Tim’s chest, so Tim presses thoughtfully into the arch of Shane’s jaw, encouraging him. His doe eyes darting across Tim’s face, tension coiling up in his thighs, Shane says,

“I want it from the back this time.”

Oh, fuck.

With half of a groan and half of a laugh, Tim dips forward and loosely bites Shane on his ear. “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Shane giggles as Tim’s nips slowly turn to open-mouthed kisses. He sucks sharply on the thrumming pulse of his neck, and Shane groans, his whole body writhing to be closer to Tim’s mouth, his skinny arms going around Tim’s broad shoulders.

“Do you mind?” Shane asks, breaking apart for a moment, his lips brushing Tim’s mustache. “I know you did it last time and if you wanna, um, I mean I can try but –”

Tim grins through the smile pressed onto a corner of that sweet mouth as he sits up on his knees. He smooths a hand up through the faint trail of hair just above Shane’s waistband, then up his ribs, stopping to thumb a hard, pink nipple, before kissing both of his cheeks.

“No, I don’t mind. I will never, ever mind when you ask so nicely.”

“But one day – you w-want me too, right?”

Ribbons of meaning hang over that question, their soft tassels hard to grab before slipping through Tim’s grasp. His brow furrows, his hand resting on Shane’s hip. The boy stares up at him like he hangs the moon in the sky.

Those ribbons drag forward new questions of their own, questions he can’t ask himself, much less out loud. They all clatter and fall into one big heap in his mouth and he can’t untangle them right now, not while he has Shane looking like that, but one slips through before he can stop it.

“You wanna do this again, with me?” The question lingers in the air like smoke, as gentle and insistent as the rain outside.

Shane’s fingers curl around Tim’s wrists. He smiles. “Yeah, of course. I . . . like you.” Blush trickles up his neck and into his ears, but he keeps his grip. “If you wanna keep me around, I mean.”

His voice goes small, from somewhere he never lets anyone see. Just as Shane’s eyes jerk off him, shame hot in his gaze, his body going rigid, Tim leans down and kisses him, the softest kiss they’d ever shared. The scent of cloves comes again as Shane offers his tongue and Tim takes it.

They kiss in the cover of the rain, in the shelter of the space that is entirely theirs, for one eternity and a half. When Tim opens his eyes, he is someone new, someone changed. Someone he doesn’t recognize and that’s a wonderful thing.

“I’ll take you like you want,” he says softly. Beneath his chest, skin to skin, he can feel Shane’s heart pounding. He hopes Shane can feel his. “But I wanna see your face for a bit. Is that okay?”

Shane nods and kisses him as he tries to pull away. Tim smirks and rubs Shane’s hip bone with his thumb.

“Remember what I said about preparing? Have you been doing that?”

Shane bites his lip as if caught doing something particularly filthy. “Yeah, I’m up to three fingers now.”

Fucking hell. Be cool about this.

“Good, baby. Do you have lube?”

Shane rolls his eyes, that blush now blotchy on his throat. “Duuuh. I don’t know why you think I’m some bl–”

“– ushing fucking virgin. I heard you the first time.” Shane narrows his eyes playfully and Tim cannot wait to spank that smirk right off him. “Then go get it.”

Shane wiggles out from between Tim’s legs and crawls over to the bedside table. He digs around a bit before pulling out a box of condoms and a blue bottle. He tosses them at Tim like he’s throwing laundry detergent, before hovering for a moment. Lips between his teeth, he stiffly slips his underwear off and down the floor. His bracelets clink as he moves and Tim can tell it sounds like an air raid siren to him. Naked, he crawls back to bed and settles beneath Tim flat on his back.

“For someone who is so bothered by authority,” Tim begins and just as Shane frowns, wrenching his mouth open to argue, Tim sits back between his thighs and folds his knees up, spreading him wide. Whatever retort Shane had dies on his throat and the only thing left is a soft whine. “You are such a good boy. I didn’t even have to ask you to get naked for me.”

Shane’s cock, exposed for the first time all night, twitches on his stomach. He squirms as Tim picks up the bottle and clicks up the lid with his thumb, his other hand resting briefly on the arch of Shane’s foot.

“I’m gonna start with one again, but move faster into two this time, okay? Then we’ll see if you’re lying to me or not.” Resistance flashes in Shane’s eyes at Tim’s smirk, but the boy stays silent.

But that defiant look melts away to aching bliss when Tim drizzles the lube between his cheeks, and then Tim’s own fingers. His other hand curls around Shane’s knee and squeezes, grounding them both.

“Probably should have gotten a towel,” Tim mutters and the sound Shane was going to use to reply fractures and crumbles, oozing into a throaty moan when his asshole spreads apart around a single finger.

Maybe it’s his age, or maybe he’s never had his asshole played with in a way he likes, but Shane is so fucking sensitive. He’s twitching and gasping after a few strokes, black nails curling into the bedsheets. His eyes are squeezed shut, not from pain or discomfort, but from trying desperately not to come. Tim recognizes that look; he wore it himself fifteen minutes ago.

Shane’s cock is trickling all over his stomach by the time Tim adds a second finger. And true to his word, it goes in without much resistance, much to Tim’s delight. This means there can be a bit more fun than just aimlessly prodding. Shane lets out a high moan when Tim’s fingers change angles.

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Shane pants, sweat peaking at his hairline. He moans again before Tim can answer, his back arching off the bed.

“Searching.”

“For fucking what? I–,” Shane’s eyes snap open, horror and heat etched in the dark rims. “You can’t touch that, it’s not fair. You’ll make me come.”

Tim kisses his knee as he adds a third finger, grinning when Shane’s head thumps back against the pillow. “I think that’s the whole point of this, sweetheart.”

Shane whines his answer; Tim speeds up his thrusting, giving up for now.

“You’re doing so well, darling, so well. You did so good to prepare for my cock.”

Shane fists the bedsheets, his thigh muscles tightening. Tim thinks he can’t actually comprehend his words, until he wrenches his jaw apart. “Just your cock. I did it for your cock, Rockford, no one else’s. Don’t - don’t want anyone’s cock but yours in me.”

This is just cock-drunk babble, tongue loose with whatever nonsense fills his mouth, his brain no longer in control.

Right?

Either way, Tim slips his fingers out with practiced precision, easing on the condom, then squirting his cock and Shane’s exposed hole with lube in one go. If Shane has noticed anything, his blissed out expression doesn’t change . . . until he feels the tip of Tim’s thick head expand his asshole.

His stare locked onto Shane’s blissed out face, Tim pushes forward, using Shane’s knees as leverage.

The boy honest to god chokes. His cock spits up his chest.

“Ohmy god . . .”

Tim goes slow enough he knows it won’t hurt, his fingers opened him enough that the lube only adds to the pleasure, but he’s not entirely worried about that right now. He wants him stupid and babbling again.

“This cock, sweetheart? This is the cock you’ve been making room for?”

Shane whines, lips white between his teeth, nodding vigorously. Tim rubs his hip soothingly and Shane’s face breaks open with a loud gasp. His eyes snap down to where he swallows Tim inch after inch.

“You’re so much bigger than my fingers. Holy fucking shit. I forgot how big you are.”

“But you like that, right?” There’s a collective sigh of relief as Tim finally is flushed against him. Huffing like a wounded animal, Tim pushes the mop of hair back from Shane’s sweaty forehead. “You like how I fuck you, don’t you?”

Shane nods again, as Tim grips his waist and he wraps his fingers around Shane’s forearms, his bracelets tinkling softly, as he settles in for what he can’t even possibly imagine.

“You’re damn fucking right I like how you fuck me.” Shane rasps out. “Wouldn’t let you do it if it didn’t rock my fucking world.”

“I’m gonna go a bit faster than I did last time. You say stop if it gets to be too much.”

“I know what a safeword is, Rockford, I’m not –,”

Tim rolls his hips forward, knocking a surprised breath from Shane. He stabilizes a bit better with his knees and then picks up a rhythm, slow but deep.

“If you say blushing fucking virgin one more time, I’m putting you over my knee and spanking you.”

But words fail him.

They fail Tim too, eventually, when rings of heat stack, one upon the other, up his spine. Every time Shane’s asshole clenches around him, those rings drop lower, closer to his groin.

It feels too fucking good.

The rhythmic chime of Shane’s metal bracelets clinking together can barely be heard over the rain outside, and the peaks and valleys of the heavy moans piling up in the room.

Shane’s flattened hand against his head board, he grinds his hips down, forcing even more resistance than just his tight hole.

“Fuck,” he whines high and loud, Tim tightening his grip on his waist as he all but bounces Shane on his cock. “Oh god, I can’t – I can’t –,”

Tim’s skin is so hot he wonders if he’s giving off steam. He’s sweating from his forehead, his neck, the backs of his knees, a slick wetness spreading across his groin every time he slams that cute little ass back against him. Not another single word of derision has passed Shane’s lips in what feels like forever, his mouth switching rapidly between grinding his teeth and dropping open when Tim brushes up against something nuclear.

If Tim is steaming, Shane is melting. Every muscle in his body is weak, knees around Tim’s hips to give him better access. Cum rolls in white streaks off his stomach and onto the rapidly shifting sheets.

Tim knows if he just breaths on the that pink cock, it’s all fucking over – so he slows, and pulls back out of him.

A Shane with a functioning brain would have demanded an explanation but the gooey mess of a boy in the bed only lifts his gaze.

“Turn around,” Tim pants.

“What?”

“You wanted me too . . .” Tim spins his finger, squeezing the base of his cock with his other hand. “Turn over.”

“Oh, right.” Despite that almost sleepy murmur, Tim can hear the disappointment. At the head of the bed, a shaking hand swipes away one pillow then the other and Shane buries his face in the mattress.

His ass is already pink as Tim spreads his thighs, his knee nudging his right leg to bend, and lines up. But Shane is murmuring something into the sheets.

“… stop.”

Tim freezes, one hand around his cock the other flat against the bed by Shane’s hips.

“You want me to stop?”

Shane lifts his head enough to look back and whine. “Don’t — don’t stop.” Crackling with unspent energy, Shane rubs his face against the sheets like a cat. “Please.”

Tim grins as he lines himself up again, his free hand coming to Shane’s thigh when the cockhead spreads his cheeks.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’m not gonna –,”

Tim stops moving. It’s long enough and unusually fraught enough for Shane to lift his head in confusion, Tim’s cock barely in.

“What happened?”

Tim is staring, struck dumb and mindless at the sight of Shane’s lower back.

“You’ve got two dimples here,” he murmurs, the growl in his voice thick and rough.

“Yeah? So?”

Without warning, Tim yanks Shane onto his hands and knees by his waist. The sudden movement is rough for his loose muscles and he yelps.

“Fuck – what’s got you all fucking twisted up now?”

Tim is no longer entirely himself. His shoulders seem broader, nose sharper, mouth firmer. His eyes have been eclipsed by black as one by one, he puts his hands on Shane’s hips, and then twists his thumbs to fit into the divots of his dimples as he, achingly slow, pushes back into Shane’s abused hole.

“You’ve got fucking handles built in, baby.” Tim murmurs and heat radiates from where they are connected, Shane’s skin flushed with red and goosebumps. The sensation jams the signal to Shane’s brain.

Behind him, Tim kisses his back almost lovingly.

“I’m definitely gonna wreck your shit now.”

On the first tug, the one that snugs Tim’s groin right up against his ass, Tim knows he only has seconds left in him.

These strokes are brutal, fast, and short. Whatever sounds tears itself from Shane’s throat is the prettiest thing Tim has ever heard. His mouth goes wet as he watches Shane’s shoulders and back go loose again and on another day, he’s going to clench his fist around that mop of hair and pull until Shane begs him to stop.

Another day. But not today.

Tim focuses on the things he can control to elongate that enormous orgasm that rattles his teeth. His thumbs in the perfect little divots of Shane’s back; he pushes down, increasing the pressure higher up, and actually hears the cum squirt out onto the bed, followed by a groan that shakes Shane from head to toe. He focuses on his breathing, the short huffs out his nose, mouth closed shut but tiny mhm mhm mhm’s escape anyway. He tries to focus on the glint around his pelvis but that makes things worse.

He focuses on – fuck, what can he focus on? – Shane hasn’t made a noise in –

“Shane, baby, are you okay?”

He gasps out as though electrified. “I’m trying so hard not to come, I don’t want it to fucking stop, but you hit my g-spot three thrusts ago and I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Tim can’t help but chuckle. He rubs a warm palm up Shane’s spine, then gives his neck a reassuring squeeze, before leaning forward and draping himself over Shane’s trembling frame, never slowing those fast, rough thrusts. He noses his ear as his hand slips around the cock leaking profusely onto the sheets.

“You can come, but it has to be loud and messy.”

Just half a stroke down and Shane comes with a cry that paints the inside of Tim’s brain permanently. And he keeps coming, gasping, wet and whining. Over his shoulder, Tim feels a dribble against his knee and that, combined with all of Shane’s delicious fucking sounds, knocks free Tim’s own release, the swell and burst far away from his control. Shane’s elbows are trembling by the time he slumps to the side, trying and mostly failing to avoid his own cumstain. Tim drops behind him in a haze.

He’s already sore, every muscle tightened then released over and over and over again. He can’t inhale properly and he’s got a stitch in his side. There’s a pulsing all over his body and he isn’t sure if that’s from coming so hard he nearly shot off the condom, or his heart pounding like it’s about to explode. His skin is wet and sticky and he’s hungry but exhausted and he would hate all of this if he was alone, but . . .

Weary down to his bones, the breath settling in his chest and the fog lifting slightly, Tim puts a hand on the narrow waist in front of him. Fingers join his, wrapping together, as the frenetic energy of the room slows to a crawl, each moment plodding along in front of the next like fat water droplets.

“. . . good, that was good,” Tim slurs to no one in particular, his eyelids flickering open and shut. “You’re . . . s’good.” He knows they should talk, but he’s past speech, or rather anything coherent, his consciousness slipping beneath the churning dark waves of sleep.

The smooth back in front of him, shiny with drying sweat, shakes in a dizzy, silent chuckle.

“Go to sleep, old man.”

Tim knows he should be offended, or he thinks he should, if he could comprehend language right now, so instead he settles into the warmth and the darkness. Soon the only sound he can hear is the rain pattering against the window and Shane softly snoring before reality winks out.

#shane dio morrissey #dio morrissey #shane morrissey #dio morrissey fanfiction #dio morrissey fic #dio morrissey au #tim rockford #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford au #tim rockford smut #tim rockford fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #oaksfics #any of yall see the word count? no you fucking didn't

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tcfactory · 5 months

Text

Been thinking about MoShang and the question of how they would handle SQH ascending, because depending on how the world works (which we don't really know based on canon tbh) the heavens might be a completely separate plane of existence you can't easily come back from if at all. Also what about BingQiu? Bingge or Bingmei, he would raze everything to the ground, kill everyone and salt the earth if he got separated from his Shizun.

I know the easy answer is MBJ's teleportation powers or SQH pulls some author nonsense, but hear me out:

Heavenly demons are called that because they were originally kicked out of heaven. Probably primordial deities of sorts. So technically it should be possible for them to ascend again.

So clearly the best way to make MBJ eligible for ascension is to turn him into a heavenly demon. Do they borrow the heavenly aspect from LBH who can ascend either as a heavenly demon or just a regular cultivator? Do they go through a bunch of wacky hijinks ft. TLJ? (“It’s a bit like mold, divinity. You only need to give a little and if the target cultivates the right way it will spread and he will become a proper heavenly demon over time. I’ll help him get started!”) Who knows, I haven't thought that far, this idea starts and ends with 'what if heavenly demon MBJ ascending with his husband?' actually.

Also if they decide that LBH should ascend through his heavenly demon ancestry, then he would need to actually better himself and sort out all his insane neuroses which sure would be An Event. Shen Yuan trying to very belatedly instill Good Morals (any kind of morals, really) in his husband would be a trashfire. MBJ can cultivate towards detachment or something, he has the temperament for it, but LBH can't and it would bug him so much that MBJ is beating him in something. All the while TLJ is giving Advice (Wrong Answers Only) from the sidelines because he put off trying to ascend until ZZL gets reincarnated, but that doesn't mean he can't be involved in the proceedings and have fun.

And once they are all gods there can be some extra shenanigans, because I always thought that it must be one hell of a time to sort the twelve peak lords/new gods out and this batch comes with two extra. Transmigrator and Airplane reveal? Sure, why not. Shen Jiu waiting for them there because he lived Shen Yuan's life (got all the therapy he needed, bettered himself and worked off his karma) and then the universe short circuited and he got pulled back here ages ago and he's kinda pissed that his martial siblings took this long? Hell yes (QiJiu are my blorbos, Do Not Separate).

Just a whole pile of "We ascended to heaven and it was only a medium-sized disaster, actually".

#svsss #tc writes

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blubushie · 7 months

Note

Are there some things you dislike about fans' interpretation of the other mercs?

Yeah uh. This is long so it's under the cut. Whole TF2 fandom boutta be like 2Fort on my arse.

I hate how people make Medic "evil". He's fun and goofy and likes doing experiments and he'll betray the people paying him for the sake of his long-time coworkers who he's mates with. He's not evil, he's not manipulative, outsmarting the LITERAL DEVIL doesn't make you a bad person. There is literally nothing in canon to point to Medic being evil except MAYBE stealing a bloke's spine (coulda been dark humour for all we know) and turning a criminal into a sentient pumpkin, which is something that Engie HELPED HIM DO but no one goes around calling him evil. Medic is chaotic good or chaotic neutral, he is not evil.

The amount of people who are downright racist about Demo, or the amount of people who reduce his addiction to the butt of a joke. There's a lot of shit that I notice. They act like Demo isn't fiercely loyal—look at his relationship to his mum). They act like he's lazy because he's an alcoholic—HE HAS 3 JOBS AND WANTS MORE, HE WASN'T LAZY IN THE COMICS HE WAS DEPRESSED BECAUSE HE LOST ALL HIS MATES. On the other end of the coin, you have people insisting that Demo's alcoholism isn't as bad as it actually is, as if substance abuse is a fucking moral failing and they can't have their blorbo be a bad person by just letting him be the alcoholic he's shown to be in canon.

As an intersex man: do not get me fucking started on the amount of intersex+NB headcanons I've seen of Pyro. People need to realise that like the rest of the human population, most intersex people are cis, that gender is not equivalent to sex, and that EVERY intersex character being non-binary promotes a harmful stereotype. Actually I'll be honest—I side-eye EVERY intersex Pyro headcanon what's made by a perisex person. Most the time they give off massive virtue signal vibes and I really don't like how the second you can't clearly determine someone's gender people immediately go "ah, intersex" like we're all visually androgynous. I also don't like how the person MOST OTHERED ON THE TEAM is always given the intersex headcanon. It doesn't make me feel represented, it makes me feel like everyone already seems me as an other and that's all I'll ever be.

People who act like the pronoun police and insist Pyro's pronouns are they/them. Canonically Pyro is always and consistently referred to as he/him except when he's being dehumanised by his own team and called it. It's cool if you headcanon Pyro as using they/them, just remember it ISN'T CANON and you shouldn't be getting on people's arse about non-canon pronouns. What are you a cop?

On a similar vein, the amount of people who infantilise Pyro. Pyro was literally the CEO OF A COMPANY who was responsible for RECORD PROFITS OF THAT COMPANY. Pyro is an adult. People assume that because Pyro hallucinates or enjoys "childish" things that it means Pyro's a child. Please be fucking normal about mental illness, my god.

People who make Scout transfem for the sole purpose of shipping Scout with Pauling, worse even if they outright make it so that Scout transitioned SPECIFICALLY to hook up with Pauling. You realise that you're enforcing TERF "all transfems are predatory and transition just to get chicks/transfem lesbians are just straight men" rhetoric right? Please tell me you're aware. People who make Scout transfem for reasons beside this (ie you just like transfem Scout) and still hook her up with Pauling for fun, I love you and this post is not about you. <3

People who ignore Medic's likely bisexuality in favour of writing him as a strictly gay male. Bi erasure is fucking real lads. If you have the view that Demo was talking out his arse and didn't actually shag Medic's wife cuz he's not even married, cool ok. I'm talking about the people who insist Medic's wife was his beard.

People who act like the ship police with Pauling's sexuality when her being a lesbian was something mentioned in one tweet on Twitter by Jay, not approved by Valve, and never referenced in the source material (outside of MAYBE how she stared at Zhanna while she was fighting robots, but that facial expression could also be interpreted as impressed or "so horrified she can't look away". Especially when she outright agreed to go on a second date with Scout in Expiration Date. If you headcanon her as a lesbian, cool! Just don't enforce it on other people and give them flak for shipping her with non-women characters. This applies to people aggressively enforcing Medic's sexuality as well. What are you a cop?

How the character people trans the most is the white skinny twink, white skinny otter, or white wolf. Why not Demo? Trans people of colour exist too. I can count the trans Demo headcanons I've seen on one hand. Why not Heavy? Why not Heavy? You know fat trans people exist too right?

My family is southern and half the time people don't know what the fuck goes on down south. Tell me you've never been to a cookout without telling me you've never been to a cookout. They either write him as too northern/coasty and only enforce the "stereotype" southern aspects of him, or they write him as racist/homophobic/transphobic/etc because he's southern. Luckily the latter gets a LOT of pushback on Tumblr so I haven't seen it much, but it's more prevalent on Twitter and fanfic sites.

People conveniently ignoring how Heavy's father was killed and his family was imprisoned by the USSR so they can call him a communist. Lol what. I get that you hate capitalism but you realise there's more options than just capitalism vs communism vs socialism right? That you can hate/dislike communism without also being a capitalist? Heavy would not support communism after what the USSR did to his family in the name of communism because his father was a counter-revolutionary. Also people ignoring WHY Heavy's father was killed, and how his father having different politics got his whole family, including innocent children chucked to a GULAG IN SIBERIA where they were starved and constantly abused by the guards, and how even after their escape the government continued to hunt them with the intent of killing them. He would not be a communist. He probably sees a hammer and sickle in his fucken nightmares.

Spy being evil and an arsehole. You know his schtick is the suave gentleman right? He's cool but he also has to be cringefail. And arsehole is a far cry from a gentleman.

People making Soldier a bigot. Har har I know it's funny to joke about the bloke obsessed with America being a bigot, but do you honestly think he cares enough? He's xenophobic at worst. Everyone is assumed to be American and his best mate is a black Scottish cyclops. Half the time I'm convinced you people want Soldier to be a bigot so you can write bigoted shit and not cop shit cuz it's coming out of his mouth.

Carrying on from prev, the amount of people I've seen use the time setting as an excuse to be bigoted towards the characters. This is ESPECIALLY prevalent where it seems like every story-focussed fic of Demo has a scene where someone is being racist to him and he Heroically Sticks Up For Himself or someone else sticks up for him to show How Much They Don't Care About Being Seen With A Black Man (usually it's Soldier, sometimes it's Sniper). You realise everyone knows racism is bad, right? That that's really not necessary? It wouldn't be an issue if it wasn't in EVERY FIC but it's like the author always needs to proudly claim themselves Not Racist while writing REALLY RACIST SHIT directed at the ONE CONFIRMABLE MAN OF COLOUR on the team just so they can yell "RACISM BAD but here's me jumping at the opportunity to call a man of colour a racial slur".

Well, reckon that about covers her...

#blu whos #abad #tf2

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toxicanonymity · 1 year

Text

Brothel - Dicks

The brothel, aka real housecreeps, is a meta reality show about the Joels and other blorbos. Normally everything is smooth sailing, but we mostly air the drama.

Collect calls SPOILERS

brothel master list

Oh no, a producer leaked a copy of the dick HCs and raider Joel just sent me a dick pic with a ruler for scale, claiming I shorted him. I stared at it for a good 60 seconds, then left him on read. Now someone's knocking at my bedroom door. I ignore it and respond to the pic instead. "Sorry 😬"

Raider, muffled outside my door: Think ya might need a better look. (I don't answer) Can I at least talk to ya?

I put on my robe, begrudgingly let him in, and try not to look at the bulge in his tactical jeggings.

Raider: Production told me to take it up with you.

Me: Tell me you didn't send pictures to production. (Raider is silent.) That's sexual harassment. God damnit, in the middle of your PR tour?

Raider hangs his head and seems sorry until he unzips his tactical jeggings and that's the only reason he was looking down. I'm tempted to make him jack off just because, but I shake my head no.

Raider: Be a good girl for me and it'll be over quick.

Me: are you regressing back to March over this? Don't talk to me like a reader, and don't come in here taking your dick out.

Raider nods solemnly, and I sheepishly add under my breath, "unless I tell you to." The toilet flushes and I nervously look toward the bathroom.

Trouble walks out, fully dressed, buttoning his shirt.

Trouble, to Raider: Didn't I tell you to leave this shit alone, man?

Raider: Pool house, huh? You live in the pool house?

Raider sticks his head into the bathroom and sees there's a big, lavish bedroom connected on the other side and the bed is made. Trouble mouths to me, 'want him to leave?' and I shrug like Idk what to do.

Raider: Can you give us a minute, man?

Trouble: I think you should leave, Raid. I get you're upset but don't bust up in here at 6 in the morning.

Me: Neither of you are leaving.

I put Trouble in the cuck chair, Raider sits on the bed, and I sit down at the vanity to finish talking to him. His pants are still open but I'm not looking.

Me (attempting to be comforting) Hey, anything more than 7" is a waste anyway.

Trouble (7") nods.

Raider: this ain't about sweet pea.

Trouble: that's your issue, man.

Me, to Raider: You're the biggest one either way, why're you pitching a fit over less than a centimeter?

Raider and Trouble look at each other. Trouble shakes his head at Raider like, don't say it.

Raider: We know about him.

Oh, shit. Trouble sighs. I play stupid.

Me: you know about who?

Raider: Jojo.

Me: He doesnt have an HC.

Raider: He has a bulge.

Me: I haven't even seen his dick.

Raider: You've seen his dick print.

Me: How do you--

Raider: All I'm askin' for is accuracy, that's it. Ill do ya a dick print if ya want.

Me: Lemme talk to my dick consultant (@jazziepascal ).

Raider: What'd I do? I used to be your emotional support Joel. Your mental health Joel.

I realize maybe he could've helped me through this month if I spent more time with him.

Me: You still are, c'mere.

I open my arms for a hug. We embrace, but his dick is still hard so it's awkward. After the hug, Trouble is making a face like he wouldnt mind being cucked, but I clear my throat , adjust my robe, and dismiss both of them.

-----------------

Later that day, the men gather in the kitchen. They're huddled around the table and you can't see Night Walks, but they're all talking to him. You can see balled up pieces of paper on the floor and and on the counter there's an open ream of printer paper and an open tub of vasoline.

Thighs Out: I think you've gotta really slap it down.

(loud smack)

Thighs Out: There ya go. Your turn, slasher.

#joelkémon brothel #joelkémon sitcom ☠️#meta #metafic #toxicanonymity ☠️

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eyesofeos · 7 days

Text

POV: you see your heretical 8 year old son in the street

Art of my Tav Athanasius as a child (with the simplest fucking background I could throw together, I hate backgrounds). He is my blorbo and I love rotating him in my head.

In drawing this piece I was thinking about if elf children are like kittens and have extra big ears that they have to grow into. Also his freckles extend to his ears and this brings me a lot of joy.

The backstory behind this piece, if anyone is interested:

His parents were Lathander worshippers and friends and patrons of Rosymorn monastery. His mother had actually switched to Lathander's faith when marrying his father, and originally worshipped the traditional god of the elves, even though elvish had barely been passed down in the family after several generations of living in Baldur’s gate.

They had promised to send their second son to join the monastery when he was old enough to make the journey with some traders. When this son was born they even named him after one of the great figures in the church of Lathander, the Monk known as Athanasius i confessoris, or Athanasius the confessor, known to the elves as Athanasius an aidmheil.

But Athansius felt uneasy about being shipped off to the monastery, as he did not feel a strong faith towards Lathander, and did not want to give up his freedom. But whenever he and his parents had passed the temple of Tymora in the upper city he felt a strange pull towards the image of the smiling lady.

So a few days before his planned departure he ran away from home in the middle of the night and turned up on the temple of Tymora’s doorstep. The high priest found him asleep there the next morning and when he pleaded to be allowed to join the temple as an initiate he told him that there is no reward without risk, and asked if he was willing to be tested.

The test of whether a child is favoured by Tymora, is that they are brought into a room in the inner sanctum of the temple and seated before a blind priestess, who quickly makes a neat, diagonal cut across the child’s face with a fine, delicate knife. If she misses the eyes and marks the center, it is a sign that the child is favoured by Tymora and will be able to rise high in the ranks of the temple. If the left eye is damaged, they can still join, but will be more limited in station. If the right eye is cut, they are refused entry, and sent instead to the temple of Ilmater to be taken in there, so that the crying one can protect them from Beshaba’s influence.

Athanasius passed the test and joined the temple as an initiate. Being marked in this way also helped to deter thieves or kidnappers when the children were out at market or playing in the streets, because favourable luck was so crucial to successful crime that most criminals would avoid harming a child of Tymora and angering her.

It was perhaps this ritual that angered his parents to the point of disowning him entirely, since the monastery would never accept a child marked by another temple, and the style of cut was distinctive.

The first time they glimpsed him in public (after looking for him for weeks) his father ran up to him with relief and grasped him by the shoulders, only to look into his face and realize what he had done. Initially, he was furious and started shouting, but then he appeared to calm down and was simply like, come Elena, I was mistaken; this child is not our son. And that was the last time his parents ever spoke to him; after that whenever they encountered one another in the street both parent and child would turn their faces away and pass one another in silence.

I have published the first in a series of fics featuring his time with the party on Ao3, called “A Servant of Tymora” ^^

#named tav #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate fanart #bg3 tav #my art #digital art #sketch #baldurs gate tav #baldurs gate art #my tav #original character #tav backstory #I highkey made up some sick Tymora lore because the game gave me nothing to go off of #and I think the concept of Tymora worship is sick #eos art

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girlinthetardis04 · 2 months

Text

I have been hit with the Blorbo Disease, so have this mediocre snippet 🤭

For context this takes place halfway through the AU, when they reunited with the Ithacan peeps, and they're catching up.

~~~~~~~~~~~⛵~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Agamemnon is dead?!" Eurylochos couldn't help but blurt out his distress at the news.

Penelope nodded from her seat next to Odysseus, whose arms were coiled so tightly around her shoulders any onlooker might worry they'd fuse together. "Believe me, I wish I could say it was a surprise. But you don't know how Clytemnestra has been since... You know. Before the war. I don't think there hasn't been a day in these ten years where she hasn't thought about it."

The rest of the conversation faded away into an indistinct buzzing for Cassandra, who hastily excused herself from the dinner table.

She rushed over to the parapet of the ship, desperate for some fresh air; yet, no matter how many deep breaths she took, it felt as if there was nothing but a vacuum in her lungs.

This wasn't meant to happen. She wasn't meant to be here. She wasn't meant to be alive. She had seen it, countless times. Agamemnon, torn to pieces. Clytemnestra, manic and covered on blood. Herself, laying on the floor, cold, lifeless, bloodstained-

A gentle hand firmly placed itself on her shoulder.

"You can relax, my friend"

Ah, of course. Polites. In the early days of sailing, he had been her only solace (aside from her dear sister in law) amongst the greek soldiers. Cassandra sometimes wondered if Helios himself hadn't fashioned a ray of his sun into a person to make Polites. There truly was no other explanation for how a man that had just been through a decade of bloody war could be so open and welcoming to everything and everyone the world threw at him.

"You seem troubled, Cassandra" he leaned on the parapet next to her "or, more than usual, I suppose"

Cassandra sighed. There wasn't a chance she'd be believed, but perhaps it would do her some good to let it out.

"I wasn't meant to be here, Polites. I wasn't meant to be on this ship."

Taking a deep breath, she turned around so she was no longer faxing the open waters.

"I was to be Agamemnon's prize. I was to be taken back to his palace, and..."

Her throat nearly dried up at the mere thought.

"And I was meant to die there. Killed by Clytemnestra. I saw it, Polites. Countless times"

Polites couldn't help but furrow his brows. Whether in confusion or concern, Cassandra wasn't sure. "I had years to come to terms with it. Years to accept my fate. But now..." She brought a hand to her cheek, drying her tears. When had she begun crying?

"For the first time in my life, I... I don't know what will happen next. I wasn't meant to live this far. I-"

Her hands were shaking, something she only noticed once Polites had taken them into his.

"How... How do you do it, Polites? Never once have I seen you troubled, or defeated, no matter what the Gods throw at us. How?"

Polites merely shrugged, with that smile that never seemed to leave his face. "I just... try to greet the world with open arms."

Cassandra shook her head.

"I do not understand"

"Well...I just spent the last ten years of my life fighting. I looked around and realized how tired I was of the war and bloodshed. I thought to myself 'is this how we're supposed to live?'"

He frowned, reminiscing about the conflict. The battles, the blood, the clashing of swords...it was too much for anyone.

"Why should we take, when we could give? We're not at war anymore. We can stop and lower our guard."

He gestured to the empty deck of the ship, and the waters surrounding him and Cassandra.

"Here, we have a chance for some some adjustment, I'm telling you."

He gently pulled Cassandra along as he wandered across the deck to sit down on an old empty crate, patting the empty space next to him for Cassandra to sit as well.

"This life is amazing, when you greet it with open arms."

Polites gave her a kind smile, softly cupping her face in his hands. Cassandra unconsciously leaned into his touch, too captivated by his words to notice.

"I see it in your face, there's so much fear inside your heart; so why not replace it, and light up the world, here's how to start: greet the world with open arms"

Cassandra leaned onto his shoulder, too drained by all the emotions of that evening to keep herself upright.

"...greet the world with open arms..."

She carefully rolled the worlds off her tongue, as if trying to grasp some hidden meaning.

Her eyelids grew heavy, and in a few moments she slumped over Polites's shoulder.

He chuckled, covering the former princess of Troy with his cloak to shield her from the cold night air. He leaned his head on hers.

"You can relax, my friend."

#this is the first time i write anything EVER #blease be gentle #i just banged this out in like thirty minutes #no first draft no nothing #just straight vibes #that said #AGSSGSZHJSA #would you believe i made myself cry writing this #you honor i care them #polites #cassandra #they need a ship name guys help #epic the musical #travels of penelope of ithaca au #my post #is this a songfic 🤔#technically i guess

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jerzwriter · 5 months

Text

Mostly Pleasant Surprises 2 of 4 Discovery

This is the final installment of "how they finally got together." I promise. 😊

Book: Open Heart (Book 2 Timeline) Pairing: Tobias Carrick & Casey MacTavish (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 2,000

Series Summary: It's been months since the chemical attack, and "kind of" exes-turned-friends Tobias & Casey have been stubbornly denying their growing feelings for each other. But when a series of events threatens to come between them, will they find their way back together?

Part 2 Summary: A startling discovery fills Casey with doubt, just as Tobias comes to an important conclusion.

A/N: OK, again, there are like 2 people alive who may care about this, but I'm filled with so much joy as I'm finally writing this pivotal part of their tale. Let me tell you, there is something so freeing about writing solely for me and my blorbos. It's hard to describe! :)

I expect this to be told in four parts, though it may be three. I guess we'll find out with the next installment. :)

Series Masterlist || Tobias x Casey Masterlist Full Masterlist

Catch up here

Her.

The too-pretty-to-be-human creature Casey nearly collided with earlier that day. The one that made an old pair of scrubs look good and, holy hell, the way she looked when all dressed up. She was exquisite. Breathtaking. So much so that it took Casey a moment to notice the man sitting at her side...closely at her side... and that's when her heart began to race.

It... it can't be...

Her phone felt like a leaden weight in her trembling hand, but it flew like a feather when she pelted it across the couch as if its very touch scorched her.

Is he... are they...

She was furious... furious at the situation, at him, but mostly with herself. She cursed herself for beginning to tremble, as if she had a right to, and tried to steady herself as a million questions raced through her mind.

How did I not see this? How could I have been this stupid? Oh my God! Has he been seeing her this whole time? Did she know he's been spending so much time with me? Is that why she gave me that look today?

She jumped to her feet, mindlessly pacing the length of the living room.

Of course, she knew! I'm that pathetic woman from the chemical attack. So fucked up she could barely leave the house. Tobias felt guilty... he told me he felt guilty! No wonder he 'had' to help me. UGH. And I let myself fall for him—I let myself believe he was falling for me. Casey, you idiot!

She tried to convince herself that none of this mattered. She couldn't be heartbroken over something that never happened. We can't grieve for something we never had... can we? But when hot tears sprung to her eyes, and one had the audacity to roll down her cheek, Casey grabbed her phone and retreated to her room. Right now, crying herself to sleep felt like the only logical thing to do.

Did you really think he wasn't seeing anyone since the attack? Seriously? He's Tobias Carrick, for fucks sake! But did I imagine it all? How close I thought we had become? We talk all the time... so why... why wouldn't he just tell me if he were seeing someone?

But as she flung herself onto her bed, the answer became vividly clear.

Because you're not dating. He's not your boyfriend, he's just your friend... and he doesn’t have to tell you a damn thing.

It hurt. It hurt like hell. She tried repeating those words over and over, hoping they might usher in an acceptance that would ease the tightness in her chest. But as she tripped over the conclusions she came to in her mind, it was apparent that pain would be her companion for some time. Her eyes closed tight in the darkness, and she hoped sleep would provide some respite, but then her door burst open.

“This doesn’t necessarily mean anything….” Sienna blurted, her own phone screen turning her face blue as she spoke. “I don't think this picture was taken tonight... it looks old to me."

Casey listened in dejected silence as her friend's voice grew more frantic with each word.

“He hasn’t commented on it... but I don’t think he’s been online. I looked at her account, though, and he hasn't interacted with her in ages. Like... not at all. But you... he interacts with you all the time... I think this is just a...”

“Si,” Casey interrupted. “When I left his Kenmore today, she went into his office after I left.”

“So? She works at Kenmore, too. That doesn’t mean….”

“It doesn't matter what it means," Casey gulped. "It's like I've been saying all along... we're just... we're just friends. And I'm an absolute idiot for letting myself think we could be anything more."

"Oh, Casey!" Sienna frowned. "That's not true! I know how much he cares for you, and before you jump to any conclusions, please, just talk to him."

“To say what? What can I say without sounding pathetic? No, I've been a fool too many times before. I'm not doing it again."

“Case... but...”

“No!” Casey snapped. “No. I’m not asking him. I’m not going to make myself look as ridiculous as I feel right now. I just... I just want to go to sleep.”

“All right,” Sienna replied sadly. “Can I at least get you ice cream? Or perhaps give you a hug?”

“A hug,” Casey sniffled. “A hug would be really nice.”

And a hug is what she received. Sienna slid onto Casey's bed, holding her friend close and refusing to leave until she was fast asleep.

~~~~~

It hadn't exactly been the birthday he would have ordered, but he had seen Casey, so Tobias was content enough. Still, it was time for the long day to end. He shut his laptop and placed it in his briefcase, but as he went to turn off his desk light, he caught a glimpse of the time. It was only nine o’clock... not too late. Maybe they could get a quick drink at Donahue’s? It wasn’t out of the question, and then he could end his birthday the only way he really wanted to... with her. Taking a chance, he dialed her number, but let out a sigh when his call went right to voicemail. She must have gone to bed early, so he let the idea go and hung up without leaving a message.

When his phone buzzed in his pocket just a moment later, a big smile spread on his face, but it wasn't Casey. It was Sasha, one of his closest friends, telling him to check Instagram at once. Given that she wasn't known for hyperbole, Tobias took heed, quickly scrolling through his feed until he saw it.

“Son of a bitch….” he spat as he rushed to the nurses' station.

“Where's Kenner?” he blurted upon approach.

“Audrey?” The night nurse asked.

“Do we have another Kenner?”

“I think she’s in the break room. I saw her going....”

The sentence remained suspended in the air as Tobias rushed off to confront Audrey. When he stepped into the lounge, she was sitting alone, picking at her half-eaten salad with little enthusiasm. But that changed the moment she saw him, her face lighting up in an instant.

“What the hell is this?” He asked, holding his phone inches from her face.

“It’s me wishing you a happy birthday," she replied with as much confidence as she could muster, though the slight quiver in her voice belied the act.

“That's not all this is, Audrey. Why are you going out of your way to make it look like we’re together? You didn't do things like this when we were together. It makes no sense."

"I never posted pictures of us?" she challenged. "You know that's not true."

"And you know what I mean..." he countered, growing less amused by the second.

Knowing she could make it fairly believable, she considered spinning a tale. Some ridiculous reason why she thought it would be a good idea, but when her eyes met his, she couldn't bring herself to lie.

“T, I… I don’t know why I did it. But if we're being honest, there was a time you wouldn’t have minded. So why is it such a big deal now?"

“Audrey,” his voice was full of sincerity as he pulled a chair up to the table. “I know our... thing... was on and off for years. But we've been off for a while. Have I given you any indication that I wanted to start up again?”

“No,” she chuckled sadly. “But maybe that was my way of letting you know that... perhaps I did.”

“Well... I’m flattered, but I don't want to reopen that door. So this post is a step too far, and I'd really like you to take it down."

“Fine,” she snapped, pulling her phone out of her pocket, but she stopped just before hitting delete. "But why does it matter so much? It's not like you're with anyone, so what’s the harm of...” She let out a sigh and placed her phone on the table. “It’s the blonde... Casey. Isn't it?"

“What?”

“Don’t deny it. You like to play down what we meant to each other, but I did come to know you pretty well over the past six years, and... I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Seen me like what?” He defended nervously.

“Tobias, you've been... different. The gossip mill hasn't linked you to anyone in ages; you're hardly ever at the Puddingstone anymore...."

“Well, I just turned thirty-seven. Maybe the gossip mill finally grew bored with me, and I'm trying to grow up a little?"

“Pfft,” she chortled. “As if! I know you two dated, and then she dumped you before the attack at Edenbrook."

"Did you get that from the rumor mill?" he asked.

"Yep, and a pretty reliable source! They also told me you've been spending a lot of time with her since the attack. Are you... together?"

"Together?" He sputtered far too quickly. “No, we're not together. We're friends, that's all."

"I saw the look in your eyes when she came to visit today. That's not a look you give friends. Everyone's been saying you've been different lately... I can't help but think she's the reason why."

"Audrey, Casey means a lot to me, but we're not together, OK?"

"But you want to be. I can tell by looking at you. I've always known you to go after what you want, even when you know it’s a dumb idea. So... what makes this different?"

“What makes this different?” he droned, his head turning out the window to gaze over the city lights. "What makes this different... I guess I’m a little frightened because this might be real, and I've never done real before. I almost don't know what to do with it."

Audrey smiled, surprised that this hurt a little less than she anticipated. Lifting her phone from the table, she deleted the post.

“There. It's down. I did my part, now why don't you do yours? Go talk to her, Tobias. I don't know if she saw it, but if she did, just tell her I’m some asshole, and she has nothing to worry about because... obviously, she doesn’t."

Audrey reached over and gently squeezed his hand with a smile. "Now, if you’ll excuse me... I have a shift to get back to.”

Tobias listened to Audrey's footsteps as they left the room and drifted down the hall. When they were gone, there was nothing but silence—silence and his thoughts—and he was blown away by how loud the latter could be.

He wasn’t stupid... he loved Casey. He’d known that for some time, but he always had a reason to keep the truth from her. After the attack, he promised her... and everyone who knew her... that they'd just be friends. He had no ulterior motives, and he cared too much to overstep. But that was months ago now. Time, thoughts, hell, even kisses had been shared between them, and so much had changed. Still, for a hundred different reasons and in a hundred different ways, he was terrified to come clean.

But today was a special day. After all, it isn't every day a man turns thirty-seven, and as he sat alone in the desolate break room, it became abundantly clear. The only reason he hadn’t made plans to celebrate his birthday this year was that there was no way for him to celebrate the way he wanted to—with Casey by his side - and not as his friend.

He glanced at his phone. He knew she had an early shift tomorrow and needed to rest, so waking her up was not an option. But remaining silent about his feelings was no longer an option. He didn't know what would happen when he told her, but he knew one thing for sure: He loved her, and that was something he could no longer keep to himself. He took out his phone to send her a quick text...

He took a deep breath before rising to his feet, knowing this was a birthday he'd never forget. He had just taken the first step toward the future he desperately craved, and to his great surprise, he only felt relief. A tiny smile crossed his lips. The next time he saw Casey, he'd be telling her how he felt, and now, that moment couldn't come quickly enough.

#open heart #open heart choices #choices open heart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x mc #tobias x casey #choices fanfic #playchoices #choices the stories you play #playchoices fanfic

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kylorengarbagedump · 1 month

Text

Playing Soldier: Chapter 7

Read on AO3. Part 6 here. Part 8 here.

Summary: The longest stay you've ever had from home is about to become much longer.

Words: 5000

Warnings: Medical trauma

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Cowritten with @bastillia <3

Off we go into the field! We are loving your comments, your thoughts, your excitement and engagement in the story - truly, we are so lucky. I hope you continue to enjoy what we have planned for the future!!

Please credit all of Grace's letter to Bastillia and her genius. Also, please thank Bastillia for her newly formed fixation on the American Revolutionary War - it's because of this we can't help but bring in actual historical figures like they're our blorbos as well, HAHAHA. It's been a lot of fun learning about history and integrating it into the fic (even if The Patriot was not always hyper-concerned about this LOL)

Love you so much! <3

The letter was crisp, addressed in handwriting that swirled across the page like fairy dust. Grace’s penmanship, for certain—something you’d always envied when comparing it to yours, which bore more resemblance to cresting waves in a storm than anything meant for man’s eyes. It had been dated for a little over a week prior.

“Thank you,” you said to Goddard. “You said this was given to you by whom?”

“Major Ferguson,” he said, stepping further into the kitchen. Then, upon glimpsing your expression and perhaps realizing you couldn’t have possibly known who in God’s sweet Holiness that was, he continued bashfully, “The Major, er, commands another unit that was deployed into the backcountry. Lord Cornwallis ordered most of us to return here to Charleston about a day ago.”

You nodded, turning the paper over in your hands. “I see.” What you wanted to ask but didn’t: Does that include Colonel Tavington, then?

It’d been about two weeks since you’d last seen him in his office. You supposed he’d made good on his intention and set out from Charleston that evening. But he’d been in the field since then, and the status of your parole hung in the balance. Ghoulishly, a part of you had hoped he’d been killed in action. Perhaps even more ghoulishly, another, hungrier part of you had wished for him to return.

You’d tried to sate that part with nightly hand-feedings proffered between your legs—but still its appetite rose anew and greedy every morning.

“Who is it from?” said Lottie. “Your sister?” She peered over your shoulder, her red curls bouncing into her face.

Goddard gave a playful frown, running his hand through hair that matched his sister’s in color and texture. “I suppose I’m not offered a greeting?”

Lottie laughed, moving around you and throwing herself into his arms. “Welcome home, Benny.”

You grinned. “Yes,” you said. “It’s from Grace.” You peeled open the wax seal and started to read.

June 10 1780

My Dearest Sister,

Though I write this on only the sixth day since I bade you farewell, I feel it has been a lifetime. You will be glad to know that I was yesterday evening delivered home in most agreeable fashion by the company of a Major Ferguson, who attended to my utmost comfort and happiness the whole journey from Charlestown ; a great improvement, I say, upon the accommodations granted to me thence.

It has been made plain to me that the disruptions we endured, Sister, were the most unfortunate results of misunderstanding. A pity that though I beseech God to upend time, He does not heed me. Impossible notions vex and bedevil my sleep night upon night—would that I might stay Death’s hand before he took Mary and Nathaniel and Elijah and Adam. I can hardly bear to think of them, yet it is with shame and difficulty that I place my thoughts anywhere else.

In my most fitful hours on the road—

“I hate to interrupt,” said Goddard, very irritatingly interrupting. “But I fear the hospital may soon be teeming. We skirmished with militia on the road, and our field medic couldn’t attend every man.”

“Oh!” Lottie looked at you, her brown eyes wide with concern. “We should certainly go and help, then.”

You frowned. You were already feeling a little concerned about Grace’s inclination to Loyalist sympathy in the letter. “Can I not have ten more minutes?”

Goddard shook his head. “The colonel already wishes to depart this evening and needs every possible man made fit.”

So Tavington was back in Charleston. For now.

“Out again?” Lottie said. “But you all only just returned.”

“Yes.” Wincing, Goddard stepped past you both to grab a cloth hanging from the stove. As he wiped his face, he sighed. “Lord Cornwallis is holding a council of war. Colonel Tavington is in attendance with the other commanders, but he hopes to gather more cavalry and depart again by nightfall.” He looked apologetic. “You know how he is.”

You pursed your lips, folding the letter and stowing it in one of your skirt pockets. You know how he is, he’d said, as if everyone in the room all had the same experiences with Colonel Tavington, and everyone in the room all held the same opinion about his demeanor, body, face, hair, hands, and eyes.

And mouth.

“A council of war?” you asked, pushing thoughts of all of William Tavington’s body parts to a corner of your mind that you’d revisit in the evening. “What ever for? I thought the Continental army had left South Carolina.”

“Most of them,” said Goddard, plucking a peach from a bowl on the counter. “But they aren’t the problem. Evidently there’s been a disaster involving a group of Loyalists that the General sent north.” He bit into the fruit and sighed, savoring it.

“What sort of disaster?” Lottie asked, her eyes great dark pools of worry.

Goddard shrugged. “Men died,” he said around a mouthful of peach flesh before swallowing. “Lots of them. Don’t know the specifics. I expect we will be receiving new enlistment quotas, though, especially with these militia pestering us now.”

Lottie frowned. “Perhaps we should—”

“Have you had many encounters with militia?” you asked, your pulse picking up. “They seem to have amassed rather quickly.”

“Putting it lightly,” said Goddard, sighing. “Even with Charleston back under the Crown, it seems the rest of the colony remains determined to resist. We even found a small holdout of Continentals up the Santee.”

“Continentals?” you pressed, struggling to maintain a neutral facade. “I query why they would not have rejoined their forces in North Carolina by now.”

“Seems they received a dispatch following the Waxhaws battle, and stayed.” Goddard shrugged and took another bite of peach. “Tenacious, those men, I’ll admit as much.”

“I’m sure it’s all very interesting,” Lottie said, waving you toward her. “But if the hospital—”

“Did your forces engage them? How many were there?” You spoke just a little too quickly, but you were finding it harder to restrain yourself. “What was in the dispatch they received?”

Goddard raised a brow and glanced at Lottie. You consciously corrected your posture so that he might not think you liable to lunge at any moment. He relaxed.

“I, er, I can’t be certain what it said,” he replied. “I never saw the message.”

You exhaled in frustration. “I imagine you were unable to capture the messenger himself, then.”

“Actually, we were able,” Goddard said. Your heart leapt into your mouth. “Colonel Tavington became nigh on feverish in his pursuit.”

Your next question hung like a noose from your tongue, your body rigid as a gallows. “Who…” You swallowed. “Who was the messenger?”

Goddard furrowed his brow and shook his head, like he couldn’t fathom why you were so interested. “Some boy.” He waved his bitten peach through the air. “A… ‘Martin?’”

You nearly sagged in relief, instead bracing a hand against the kitchen table and affixing a passive expression to your face. “Oh.”

“The colonel made a…” Goddard winced, “compelling example of his family.” He paused, grimacing again. “And of their property.”

“I don’t want to hear of such dreadful things,” Lottie interjected. “Anyhow, we really must be off.” She grabbed your wrist. “Let us not stay the King’s men their care.”

“Yes, of course,” you said, forcing a nod. Though your worry was assuaged, your curiosity was very much not. You had, however, pushed both too far. “Let’s be off, then.”

The morning air was already ripening with heat, sticking to your tongue as you breathed it in. You were glad to be rid of your sling, sweltering thing that it was, before the summer’s wrath descended in full. In the smallest of ways, it was freeing. Even if your shoulder did still twinge with pain from time to time, it grew stronger each day. One less restraint upon your body. And one less reason for anyone to insist you couldn’t be of use.

You had welcomed the introduction of hospital labor into your routine. It hadn't been necessary, but staying in the Goddards’ home on your own only chafed your invisible shackles. Without a distraction, you imagined yourself as an anxious dog pacing in a barren cage. Working in the hospital also gave you the opportunity to collect information while wearing one of the most innocuous disguises available.

And besides all of that—you were good at it.

“I hate that the colonel keeps Benedict away so frequently as of late,” Lottie said as you followed her on the cobblestone. “I worry about him.”

You nodded. “I'm sure he worries about you, too.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said, sighing through her lips in a blubbering sound. “He knows I languish in his absence. It’s so difficult. The loneliness, I mean.”

“The loneliness?” You frowned. “You don’t keep busy?”

She laughed. “Of course I do! But it’s no replacement for companionship. Especially of family. You know as much.” With a playful smile, she added, “Benedict tells me it’s all the more reason for me to be married.”

“Is he pushing you to marry?”

“Not in so many words,” she said. “He does seem invested in introducing me to his fellow officers as often as possible.”

You couldn’t imagine doing the same to Grace. She had been your primary companion in life since your mother had passed—in some ways, more your responsibility than your father’s. After all, for those first few years, you were the only one able to tend to the animals or the crops, you were the only one able to make the meals, or sweep the floors. You would climb into bed with her, hours after she’d fallen asleep, after your father had emptied his glass of gin and you’d gotten him to his room.

Thankfully, your father eventually put down the gin. You didn’t think it was possible to put down responsibility. You didn’t even know if you wanted to.

“I see,” you replied. “Are they kind, at least?”

Lottie snorted. “No,” she said. “Most of the Green Dragoons are utter villains.” She folded her arms protectively over her chest. “I’m much more inclined toward Major Ferguson’s corps. He only oversees men of honor.”

There was that name again, said with the same dreamy insistence that Grace had tried and failed to conceal in her writing.

“Major Ferguson,” you said, as if recalling a long-forgotten acquaintance. “I keep hearing that name today. Do you know much about him?”

“Oh, I dream of it.” She giggled with all of the secrecy of a girl with a crush on a church boy. “I think—besides my brother, of course—he might be my favorite officer of all His Majesty’s soldiers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“I promise you,” she said, “you have never met a man with greater wit, charm, or passion.” She laughed and gave a teasing smirk. “I think he could convince General Washington himself to throw down his arms and pledge allegiance to the King if given half a chance.”

“I will take your impressions under advisement,” you replied, grinning. You suddenly had an idea who was likely responsible for Grace’s shifting sentiments.

When you arrived at the City Hospital, Lottie dipped off to check on the sick she’d tended to the day prior. You, personally, didn’t see the purpose in conversing with those you had no duties to and decided to sit and read through more of Grace’s letter.

In my most fitful hours on the road, when grief seemed to me a dark and terrible ocean without shore, I was sought by the gracious Major Ferguson, who told most diverting stories and drew from me laughter of a mystifying source. I query whether he may be adept with some beguiling magick to have so oft performed a vanishment of my tears. He is a clever and skillful man as well as kind.

You, I am sure, would think more highly of him than you did Nathaniel, though I fear I am now far ahead of myself, Sister, and must stay my pen lest my flights of fancy make off with me, as you know they are apt to do. I am besieged now by shame to even write it, and know that were you here, Sister, you would soothe me by turning my mind to practicalities. As such, and to ease the pain of your absence I feel again coming upon me, I shall address them. I know the welfare of our home indispensable to your peace of mind, so let me assure you of it.

Despite your growing suspicions surrounding Ferguson, a smile crept over your face as you read Grace’s report on the farm. She listed every crop that had needed tending on her return, the condition of each chicken and goat by name, and included an effusive exaltation of your neighbors who had kindly fed them in your absence.

I do not wish to be alone. Major Ferguson is to depart with his men two days hence—

The delicate clearing of a throat resounded from somewhere to your side.

You snapped from the letter, looking up to see a bashfully pleading Lottie leaning around a doorframe. This version of Lottie was becoming all too familiar given the short time you’d worked alongside her. You let out a sigh.

“Now?” you protested, raising the letter to emphasize that you were occupied.

“Please, oh please,” she stepped into full view to clasp her hands in adjuration. “There’s so much blood, it’s horrid, and the bone is broken, and—”

“All right, Lottie.” You couldn’t help yourself. You smiled. “I’ll help.”

Down the hall and into the ward, a dolorous assault slammed your senses. Injured men groaned out in chorus, and the scent of blood hung in the air like coppery vapor. Lottie ducked her head and led you over to the hospital physician—Dr. Moore—who was hovering over a badly wounded man. From what you could tell, he was a young infantry soldier, his coat removed and head wrapped in bandages. Blood smothered his face, dirt smattered his legs, and his right arm was stripped of clothing.

At least, you believed it was his arm. In its current state you couldn’t imagine it being of much use for any purpose other than occupying a dog’s mouth.

“Go on,” Lottie murmured, urging you forward. “I—I’ll be ill.”

Moore caught you both approaching and adjusted the spectacles over his nose. “Charlotte,” he said, testing with his fingers what some might call flesh, but you’d probably call meat. “Where were you? I need your assistance setting the bone.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I, um, I…”

He frowned. “He doesn’t have all day, Miss Goddard.”

She elbowed your ribs, and you hopped forward with a wince. “Actually,” you said, “I’ll assist in her stead, doctor.”

“Hm?” He looked up, squinted at you. “Poultice girl?”

You nodded, even though you'd introduced yourself multiple times. “My name is—”

“Fine, yes. Come now. Hold this for me. Just there above the wrist.”

As you stepped to assist, Lottie quickly backed away, turning pale beneath her freckles as she watched you support the bloodied, blue-mottled limb. “Oh, yes, thank you so much,” she said, turning away, “I’ll be right, ah, right down that way, so, not too far!”

“Hold on, Charlotte,” said Moore. “We still might need you.”

She whinged. You weren’t fully sure how she served in medicine when she halfway lived in fear of it.

Standing by Moore, you propped up the soldier’s wrist and elbow. He stiffened and groaned through his teeth, seeking out reassurance in your eyes. Why yours, you didn’t know—you had no words of wisdom to offer him and didn’t particularly care to think of any, especially when he was impeding the work with his wooden limbs. Lottie swept to his side and patted his other shoulder, keeping her focus on his face.

“It’s all right, sir, we’re going to take care of this quickly, I promise.”

He winced, nodding, and loosened in your grip. You glimpsed her for a moment, her gaze like a deep, warm embrace. This part came as naturally to her as yours did you.

It ached, how much she reminded you of Grace in that moment. The last line you’d read of Grace’s letter—I do not wish to be alone—pricked your heart like a needle. You did not wish for her to be alone, either. You did not wish to be here, in Charleston, spending time gathering scraps of information when you knew she waited as the tender, vulnerable center of your home.

Moore started to work, and you stood still, bracing the soldier’s arm as he wiped away the blood. Even if granted leave, however, you were uncertain if you wanted to return home. The threat of the British grew greater in South Carolina, and under the supposition that both Grace and you were Loyalists, you could maintain a semblance of safety. Especially with your father’s condition still unknown and Tavington still itching for the opportunity to wring all of your necks.

Behind you, the clicking of heels. “And this is our most esteemed physician, Dr. Henry Moore.” It was the matron of the hospital. “Dr. Moore?”

“A bit busy right now,” Dr. Moore said. The soldier groaned as Moore palpated the skin on his forearm, coaxing the severed halves of bone together beneath.

“Can you take a moment?” she asked, before walking toward the other end of the ward. She tossed over her shoulder, “Colonel Tavington wishes to speak with you.”

Your eyes widened. You turned, met Tavington’s gaze and flinched, jerking the soldier’s arm. He howled in pain, and you grumbled, grabbing a wad of unused bandages and stuffing them in his mouth. He whimpered into them. Dr. Moore sighed, manually readjusted your grip, and got back to work on his sabotaged bone setting.

Tavington, meanwhile, regarded you as you imagined he might regard a body climbing to its feet after he’d gutted it. His right hand flexed absently at his side. All you could do was stare at him completely normally and not at all like a bolt of excitement had zipped through you at the sight of him.

He cocked a brow, his focus flicking over you before he turned to Moore. “Dr. Moore—”

“Busy.”

“—the British legion requires your services immediately.”

“I’m sure you believe your needs to be of great importance, Colonel, but—”

“The field medic I’ve currently retained is indisposed.”

“—as you can see, Charleston keeps me preoccupied as is.”

“You should be prepared to depart as early as this evening.”

Moore paused with a sigh, and turned to face Tavington. “Colonel, I make no assumptions regarding the frequency with which you hear this word, but no.”

Tavington’s eyes fluttered as if the doctor had clapped in front of his nose. “Perhaps you believed me to be making a request, doctor,” he replied. “I was not.”

You pinched your lips between your teeth. Moore had stopped his work on the soldier’s arm entirely. Silent, you caught Lottie’s attention from the corner of your sight, and found her face flush with anxious warmth.

“Colonel,” Moore said, with even more exasperation than the previous time, “I am the only physician in Charleston—perhaps all of South Carolina—at present. I cannot abdicate my duties here to ride with cavalry all night.” He stared at Tavington, who did not move or even shift his expression, like Moore was a fussing baby. “But I can—all right. Listen.” Moore looked at Lottie, then back to Tavington. “Miss Goddard here will be able to serve your needs adequately, and she has the added benefit of having no additional responsibilities aside.”

Lottie tensed, her gaze darting between Moore and Tavington. “M-me, doctor?” With a nervous smile, she said, “Of course, it would be my honor, but… would it be possible for my friend here to join me?”

“Your friend?” said you, the doctor, and Tavington at the same time.

“Please,” Lottie whispered, looking at you. She turned to Dr. Moore. “She’ll be a great help to me.”

Moore sighed and grabbed two splints, lining them up along the man’s forearm. You didn’t blame Lottie for wanting you there. But this would mean you wouldn’t return home. It would mean more time Grace would spend alone. You pinched the splints together, and the soldier whined, muffled by the bandages. As he twisted his head, blood trickled down his cheek, right in Lottie’s line of sight. She choked, turning to try and cough away her clear growing nausea.

“If you insist, Charlotte,” Dr. Moore mumbled as he started the bandaging process.

Tavington, who was watching with winnowing patience, looked at you. “Unfortunately,” he said, “your friend’s freedom does not extend beyond the borders of Charleston.”

You frowned. “But my intelligence was valid.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it did not produce the promised results.”

“A dispatch rider was found and detained, was he not?”

Tavington’s brows raised fractionally. “What was not found was a certain Captain Michael—“

“I am not my father’s keeper,” you growled, shifting more to face him. The soldier whined again and you shot a leer at him. “Shall I next beseech the pagan gods to divine his location, Colonel?”

Lottie glanced at you wide-eyed, alarmed at the tone you were using with a colonel of the British army. “She’s overworked from all of the injured we need to treat,” she offered. “She doesn’t mean that, Colonel Tavington.”

“She does,” he said, still focused on you. He stepped forward, voice lowering. “Divine? No. Reveal—given the insight you possess—yes.”

You snorted. Moore grabbed another roll of bandages and started using it to constrict the soldier’s arm. “If you are still unable to locate my father after everything I’ve told you, I hardly—”

The man groaned in agony, and you realized you’d started tightening your grip as you spoke. You relaxed, and he groaned louder.

Tavington sighed. “Do shut up, Private.”

Your face scrunched, almost amused. The man settled, and you took a breath. “I hardly believe that’s an issue with which I need concern myself.”

“I would say your investment in your father’s life concerns you a great deal,” he replied.

“Alas, but I cannot serve as your prophet, though you flatter me with the notion.” You shrugged. “All of those men under your command, and no success. Perhaps there’s a deficiency somewhere you need to address.”

Lottie hissed your name under her breath. “Please don’t make this harder on me.” Then, turning to Tavington, big brown eyes pleading, said, “I beg of you, Colonel. She’s simply tired. I’ll vouch for her myself!”

“Do you want to take them or not, Colonel?” Moore was tying off the second round of bindings. “If not, I’ll ask you to kindly and politely depart the ward so I can continue getting work done. You may have noticed this, but we’ve a couple dozen of your men here who need my assistance.”

Tavington’s tongue rolled in his mouth, and his eyes met yours. There you found the curiosity you’d spied while in his office, familiar glimmers of interest as he studied you. You swallowed, holding his gaze, wondering what exactly was going through his mind, wondering if he could see your speeding pulse. His head tilted, his chest fell in an exhale.

“And you… You wish to come.”

That really was the question. Your participation in this war had already dumped guilt onto your back as you unceremoniously condemned strangers to suffer and die. The thought of going along with Lottie brought a new deluge of emotions, some of which you worried would war fiercer than the soldiers in the field.

A terrible guilt for abandoning Grace. An even more terrible sadness that you wouldn’t know when you next would see her. And perhaps the most terrible excitement at the thought of waking daily and sleeping nightly within the domain of the most despicable bastard you’d ever met.

Despite it all, you knew that if you kept up the Loyalist facade, Grace would remain safe at home. Your father was the one in danger. And if you were out in the country with his primary—and deadliest—pursuer, you had the highest chance of protecting them both.

All you had to do was stay alive.

“I do, Colonel,” you replied.

“Both of you,” he said, with some amount of dread.

That wasn’t a question, but Lottie nodded anyway. “She’ll be an asset to you, Colonel. A great asset. I promise!”

“I somehow doubt that very much,” he mumbled. “Very well.” He turned to Dr. Moore, who still couldn’t be bothered to look at him while he wiped off the remaining blood from the soldier’s hands and face. “Send them along to the barracks at once. They’ll need to be briefed and supplied before we depart.”

Moore nodded. “Right away, Colonel,” he muttered.

Tavington’s eyes found yours a final time. Whether there was want or warning within them, you couldn’t discern. He turned on his heel and left the ward.

Your shoulders sagged, weight dropping to the ground that you hadn’t known you’d been carrying. Lottie provided you an expression you would’ve described as contrite if there wasn’t so much relief hidden behind it.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered. She rubbed the soldier’s back as he stood and swayed, his arm properly stiff at his side. “Off you go, sir. Get yourself a bed.” Turning back to you, she frowned. “I’m not sure if I can put my appreciation into words, really. I know how badly you wished to return home.”

“Thank you, Dr. Moore,” you said as he stood and moved to the next man. As expected, he did not reply. You shook your head and shrugged to Lottie. “It’s better for me to be doing what I can to serve His Majesty.” You hoped that didn’t sound as contrived as it felt leaving your mouth.

She pursed her lips, waiting for when Moore was out of earshot to whisper, “You have a funny way of showing it, the way you speak to Colonel Tavington!” The horror of your conduct had pinkened her cheeks. “Were you trying to get yourself hanged?”

You frowned. “Of course not.”

“Well, be more careful, then!” She huffed, crossing her arms. “I won’t always be around to rescue you.” She shook her head and brushed her hands down her dress like that would shoo the gore from her person. “Or perhaps he just favors you.”

Your next breath lodged in your throat, and you coughed. “I’m sorry—” You coughed again, straightening. “He what?”

She laughed, nudging you gently. “Oh, you are funny. Imagine, Colonel Tavington favoring anyone,” she said through giggles. “If you’d seen your face…”

“Right,” you said, bizarrely disappointed.

With a sigh, Lottie adjusted her sleeves. “I’ll tell Mrs. Smith that we need to be departing. Oh!” She gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth in delight. “This means that I’ll be in the field with Ben!” With a smile, she skittered over to the matron as she attended an ailing woman.

You tried to grin, but strained your cheeks, deciding to settle into the seat where the soldier had been instead. If you were to be departing with Tavington’s legion tonight, you needed to finish Grace’s letter. You pulled it from your pocket.

I do not wish to be alone. Major Ferguson is to depart with his men two days hence and I must admit that I dread his absence. Already once he has made a most welcome visit to certify my welfare. I told him I was indeed well, but that I should like very much to know the condition of my dear Sister. Though I with most indocile nature demanded his intelligence on the matter, he remained to me gentle and courteous. He wishes it was in his power to oblige me but it is not. He suggested however that should I wish to write you, that he may deliver you my Letter when next he is called to Charlestown. A gallant and charitable offer indeed!

Despite Papa’s endless grievances of the British army I believe he construes them all unkindly. Perhaps every one he encountered was akin to that murderous devil we so unfortunately met. In that case I should understand his misgivings.

A sense of irritation grew in your chest. You decided you didn’t particularly care if this man Ferguson was in fact Jesus Christ himself rose from the dead. The fact he was busy using your sister’s naivety to his advantage made you want to crucify him despite it.

Murderous devil, perhaps, but at least Tavington…

You paused. You couldn’t think of anything he’d done that wasn’t, in fact, worse.

But enough of wars and men. Never have you and I been apart so long, nor our home so reminiscent of a cavern. How clamorous the sound of my pen in this silence, dear Sister. Pray write me when this letter finds you. Until then I shall look each day to the South road and hope to see you return. Do not fret that I am well. Mrs. Jones has called upon me to come for supper and company, she insists, whenever I feel the pangs of solitude too keenly. For this I am grateful.

Ever, ever I remain

Faithfully and Lovingly Your Sister, Grace

P.S. I am sorry for the words herein whose inking is damaged. Mr. Mouser trod upon this Letter and entreats me now with uproarious meows to attend him.

You smiled as you finished the letter. But your heart wilted. You weren’t sure when you would be coming up the south road, or when you’d be able to unburden Grace of solitude. You knew only that you were making the choices you felt were right to keep her safe. Just as you’d always done.

Dr. Moore had left some parchment out on the table with the medical supplies. You grabbed a few pages of it along with his pen. The letter wouldn’t be long, but you could at least let her know that she did not need to worry. That you wouldn’t be returning home, but you would promise to find her, to see her soon.

You dipped the nib in the ink. You started writing.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #oh it's so fun living in 1780 where you had to set bones with. splints.

19 notes · View notes