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kylorengarbagedump · 8 days ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 15 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 14 here.

Summary: "I came out to be attacked and I'm honestly having such a good time right now" - Miss Reader

Words: 6700

Warnings: Choking. Rough sex. Do we need to put these as warnings? Seriously I ask because I feel like with our work it's just assumed but then I realized I forgot to put them last time and

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Oops we snuck a little bit of angst in there at the end. :)

Hi! Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter - honestly so relieved to be writing more porn since we missed it so bad. Also wanted to say that we genuinely appreciate the kindness, generosity, and love we receive each chapter. Like... this is such a small little fandom and to have people enjoy the story we create in it with such engagement is really really rewarding.

Love y'all so very much! See you so soon <3

You sat against the wall. Your makeshift scarf, your shoes and stockings laid at your feet. You stared at the bed.

It was difficult to imagine that you’d spent any time in camp wishing for this very sight—the sturdy frame and headboard, the downy mattress, the soft cloud of pillows and warm quilt bathed in candlelight. Once, you might have flung yourself upon it, snuggled into it like a duckling to a shepherd dog’s fur. Now, as you huddled against the wall, it seemed more and more that any movement might somehow set that terrible, four-legged beast upon you with blazing eyes and gnashing maw.

An ache had set through your hunched shoulders, your seat bones where they rooted into the floor, your knees where they curled to your chest. You barely felt any of it. Since entering the room and sinking into this spot, you hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. But within the stone mausoleum of your body, alive and thrashing itself bloody against its walls, was your mind.

A blink, and the party slammed your skull in a tangle of colors.

‘... may want to ask your permission, first.’

Another blink met lips, teeth, breath, the sheared seam of pleasure and pain.

‘William.’

Your eyes squeezed shut. Blood—soaking through linen, staining your hands. A rattled wheeze.

‘... the “bear’s den.”’

‘William, please.’

Papa—alive, alive, alive.

‘... heading northwest.’

‘Please, I want you to take me.’

‘Break for me. I want to feel you break around my cock.’

‘William—”

Across the room, the doorknob twisted. You shot to your feet.

William Tavington entered slowly, met your eyes before easing the door shut behind him. For the second time that evening, you considered the window.

He said nothing, his brow rising in expectation. You would not give him that. Instead, you dropped straight to the floor, flopped onto your side, and flipped toward the wall. As you studied the baseboards, your rodent heart beat in double-time with his footsteps.

The vibration of his boots started from the door, crossed to the bed. Behind you, a rustle of fabric. Your chest tightened. He was undressing.

Another flicker of memory: his strength under your hands, the tension against your fingers.

‘I see what you want.’

Biting back a groan, you shut your eyes. You weren’t going to look at him. You weren’t going to even speak with him. At least, that had been what you’d told him—and to some non-negligible degree, yourself. The fact that his presence inspired such a gnawing, clamoring want made you feel like you’d swallowed a baby bird, a thing with nothing but a wide yellow mouth and an empty stomach.

In any other circumstance, you would snap its neck. But this hungry, wiry hatchling of yours seemed so fragile that the thought of crushing its delicate bones made you wince.

You did not know what to do with it, what you wanted to do with it. But as you cradled it close, stared into its mouth, so desperate and vulnerable—you found yourself longing to feed it.

“I told you I would sleep on the floor,” you said to the wall.

You heard Tavington’s boots hit the wood. “You did.”

“So that’s what I’m doing.”

“I can see that.”

His clipped tone made you bristle. You spun around to face him and were struck with the sight of him seated on the bed, absent his jacket and waistcoat, unwinding the ribbon from his hair. He gazed at you, scanned your figure before he pulled the strands of his braid free, releasing them into loose waves.

You’d never seen him with his hair down before. Heat gripped your thighs. You pressed them together.

“I don’t know what right you have to be frustrated with me,” you said. “I’m doing exactly as you asked.”

“Yes.” He glimpsed you again as he shucked his stockings. “And you are woefully mistaken if you believe your affinity for discomfort is any concern of mine.” Standing, he pulled down his breeches, his hair cascading over his shoulders, and your heart tripped over its own allegro tempo.

It was clear he had no pretense about your attention. He doffed them as if he were alone in the room, revealing to you two trunks of muscle that disappeared underneath his shirt. The swell of his calves, the pretty curve of his hamstrings, the rigid outline of his quadriceps—all of it stoked your blood like fire, all of it made you want to sink your claws and teeth into his skin.

The realization made you swallow. Perhaps you were an animal.

“I…” You drew in a breath. “I’m not uncomfortable,” you said, wiggling against the hardwood. “I like the floor, actually.”

Tavington looked at you as if you’d professed a desire to eat spiders. Without another word, he grabbed his shirt by its bloodied hem and lifted it from his torso. All moisture in your mouth evaporated.

You’d never considered yourself someone who worshiped at the altar of beauty. Its disciples were vain, its tenets vapid. But seeing William Tavington nude—his shoulders and back rippling like a tiger’s, his hair a waterfall of shimmering chestnut, his ass arching into a high, firm hill of flesh—you realized how foolish you’d been.

For this man, you would become its vassal, you’d prostrate yourself along its shallow chantry and pledge yourself in eternal service.

Tavington cast a glance at you, as if he knew you were staring, and pulled back the sheets to climb into bed. Your eyes glued to him, memorized the pattern of the hair on his chest trailing to his groin, the cut in his hips that framed his stomach. You wondered how it would feel to touch him, to graze your hand along that strange skin, to introduce your mouth to every part of his body.

A yank of the covers concealed him, breaking your trance.

You frowned. “You aren’t going to snuff the candle?”

The bed shifted with a shrug of his shoulder. “You’re perfectly capable.”

“Why me? We’re both going to sleep,” you grumbled, but he said nothing in response. “Well.” You flipped back toward the wall. “Good night.”

You shut your eyes again. You could ignore the candlelight. Just like you could ignore your want.

Outside, crickets greeted the stars. The night was heavy with late August heat, its weight swathing you like a fresh hide, crushing you beneath the layers of your gown. You pressed your cheek into the cool wood of the floor. Savoring that small mercy, you willed every blazing mote of want to pass from your skin and into those inert planks, to learn from their example.

But the floor pushed back. Into your pelvis, your shoulder. You shifted your weight onto your backside. Then the tie of your skirts bit your spine, so you flipped again, finding your way onto your stomach. There, your petticoats swamped your legs, your stays pinched your belly.

Candlelight splashed shadow over the mound in the bed where Tavington laid. You rolled over to your side again, nestling your head into the crook of your elbow, causing the sleeves of your bodice to squeeze your arms.

“I thought you liked the floor,” he murmured.

“I do,” you snapped, and thumped your arm-pillow against the wood in emphasis. “Mind your business.”

A soft noise came from Tavington. It could have been a sigh. Perhaps a scoff. Either way, it irritated you.

You closed your eyes again, settled against the planks. This time, you would not move. Not even as a seam dug into your armpit. Not even as your own hip bones became pickets, gouging through your tissues and into the floor. After all, with your flesh the ruined patchwork that it already was, what were a few more bruises?

Your fingers brushed the side of your neck and met the tender evidence of his teeth. Pleasure ghosted your nerves. You jolted, your position shifting. Scowling at yourself, you focused on immobilizing your shoulders. But that only gave your hips the opportunity to tilt of their own accord to find relief, and you sat upright with a huff.

You scowled at Tavington’s back. Waited for whatever remark he was sure to make. But his shoulders merely rose and fell in a gentle tide.

A scorching heat crept up your neck. And as it reached your face, you smothered it in your palms.

What were you doing?

Certainly not fooling anyone with your self-flagellating charade. Between this stunt and your ridiculous insistence to walk home, you’d more than earned the accusation of petulance. The woman bound in a dress and curled up on the ground was one you didn’t recognize. You were tired of her presence. Tired of her punishment.

The facts were plain. That you had been with a man, and you’d liked it. That there was no reconciling your differences with him, but that hadn’t stopped you. That you could do nothing but take action, now, and there was no point in making yourself miserable.

Grumbling, you clambered onto your feet and shuffled to the empty side of the bed. You paused. Swallowed. Reached out toward it as if afraid it may bite. When it did not, you slowly rolled on top of the blankets, head on the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Beside you, Tavington faced the wall, exhaling as you wriggled to the edge of the mattress.

His presence felt heavier than that of a man’s. It filled the room like smoke, ate the air and made you choke. Your head felt light. Your skin burned.

This man had been inside you. Hollowed you. Shattered you. And now you laid in bed next to him as if you didn’t even know his name.

You wondered if it felt as foreign for him as it felt for you. Wondered how many dozens of women slept in his bed and were made nameless in the morning light.

Had he spent this evening only wanting you? Or were you a convenience, a pleasant exploit that he’d mock in tales to his friends?

Did he have friends?

“What were you laughing about?” you heard yourself ask.

Tavington was silent for a moment. He didn’t move. “Have your hopes set on a future asylum visit?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not now.” You looked at your nails, then the ceiling. “Earlier.”

“I can’t imagine I found anything prior to this moment entertaining enough to laugh.”

“With those two women,” you said, a bit more insistent than you wanted to be. “You know what I’m referring to.”

“Ah.” Something akin to a smirk entered his tone. “What was it you said—mind your business?”

You frowned. “I think it is my business,” you said, rolling over to face his back. “You looked at me right after you laughed.”

“Did you interpret that to be an invitation?”

“No.” You suppressed an urge to poke a finger into his shoulder blade. “I interpreted it as you—you laughing at me.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “What if I was?” he asked. “Why does my opinion concern you?”

“I…” It was a fair question. Why did it matter to you at all? One thousand emotions waited like frog eggs beneath the surface of your mind, their jelly bodies stuck together, their identities undisclosed. None of them had a name. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Armageddon is upon us. She’s admitted ignorance.”

You growled in frustration. “I just…” To speak, to birth a feeling would be to christen it and accept it into your custody. But there were too many. You would surely suffocate underneath them. “It just does.”

Tavington sighed through his nose and rolled over. A lock of his hair fell over his face. He pushed it aside. “You cannot be so foolish.”

“What?”

He stared at you. The intensity of his focus seared you, set your burning skin aflame, made you question why you still had on this damn gown and this pair of stays and this shift and all of it.

“I suppose next you’ll tell me you don’t even know why you’re here.”

“Because you forced me to be,” you replied, huffing.

Tavington did nothing but hold your gaze, daring you to continue to skate along the edges of honesty. You would rather escape your body and float into the air than continue examining your little clutch of emotional liabilities.

But despite your wishes, you remained corporeal. Your emotions remained real.

“No.” It was a half-truth. You had a hunch of why you were in this room. A hunch that only extended to Tavington himself, and a hunch you could still not bring yourself to accept regardless. “I don’t know, all right?”

“Then I’ll ask you a question. You informed me that you would neither speak to me nor lie in this bed,” he said, as if he were reading to a simpleton. “Now you have, and you do.” He paused, still staring. “Why?”

You couldn’t keep looking at him. Your eyes fell to the space between you, more vast than the oceans between where you’d each been born. Why indeed—the question alone inspired a flinch of resentment. You had given him a part of you that you hadn’t ever anticipated giving anyone. And yes, you’d liked that you’d done it, but you hated how exposed it had left you. You didn’t want anyone to gloat over your vulnerability, least of all him. And at the same time, you couldn’t wait to do it again.

“I… It’s that…” The sentence fumbled on your tongue. “We’ve been together,” you said, swirling your finger on the sheets. “Perhaps it’s one of a hundred for you, but I don’t have the privilege of experience.”

Tavington watched you, followed the pattern you drew as you spoke. His eyes wandered along the edge of your figure, leapt back to your face. He snorted.

“You poor thing,” he said.

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

He rolled onto his back, looked to the ceiling. “You’re terrified of what you want.”

“Terrified?” you said. “I’m not terrified of anything.”

“Look at you.” He glanced sideways. “Stumbling over your words.”

“I—no, I’m…” You shifted forward, trying to force your feelings free. They clung together like a congealed mass. “I don’t know what I want.”

He turned, cocked an eyebrow in dry incredulity.

“Why are we focusing on me?” You narrowed your eyes. “What do you want?”

Tavington rolled fully onto his side, propped himself up on his forearm. “No,” he said, chiding. “I think it’s quite clear what I want.” His eyes flicked to your marred throat. “To everyone.”

You swallowed, stupefied under his full attention.

“What I have already had,” he continued, voice falling into his chest, “and would have again.”

His desire raised the hair along your nape, called to you like the lightning tether between earth and sky. Your gaze flitted over his skin, the powerful curve of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. That hungry want inside you wailed out your answer, gulped blindly toward the shadow where his body disappeared beneath the covers. Shuddering, you closed your eyes.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You began to shake your head. Winced at your own cowardice. Peeled your eyes open.

Tavington’s gaze ensnared you.

“Do not evade this,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

“I…” Your tongue felt encased in bark. “I…” You tried to swallow, but it lodged in your throat.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington dipped his chin, coaxed your eyes to remain on his. “I want to hear you say it.”

Time stood still in the flicker of the candle flame.

“You.” A whisper, a bolt from the heavens that flayed the truth in naked, burning shards. “I want you.”

You let out a shaking sigh. With the admission spilled to the air, you could feel yourself unbind from your casing, come squirming, needing, wanting to life. Yet still, the gap in the bed felt impermeable. You wanted him to reach across it. To rip you up by your roots and lay claim to you. But he did not move.

Tavington’s lip quirked. “Go on, then.”

Your eyes devoured him. “What?” you breathed.

“Take what you want.”

A shiver. Your hand moved, though you didn’t remember asking it to, until it found its way within an inch of his body and hung there, parted a hair's-breadth from the expanse of his breast. Hot oil pooled in your belly, dripped between your thighs. You were so, so close. Tavington watched you, gaze trained on your hand. His breath had stilled. His throat bobbed.

In the frayed threads of his restraint you recognized a craving so unsated it threatened to consume him, a craving that only you could possibly satisfy. For this, you realized, your desire did not make you weak, or vulnerable, or fragile. Because as badly as you wanted him, he wanted you, too. And that made you feel invincible.

Your fingers grazed his chest, and he tensed, a sharp breath escaping his nose. You met his eyes, swallowed, dragging across his nipple, your thumb investigating the crease under his pectoral. Tavington stared at you, into you, his lips parting as your hand drifted further, your fingers grew bolder. Underneath your touch, he was firm, his skin warm. You wanted to know all of him.

Drawing a quiet breath, you swept to his stomach, skimmed the hair there. Muscle twitched in response. You started to tremble, your neck started to sweat, and you pressed your palm into him. He was solid, like stone, pushing back just by existing. Your thumb traveled to the side, ghosted over his hip bone, and you squeezed him there, exhaling at how impervious it felt. Tavington wet his lips. His eyes wandered across your body.

Lower, lower still you moved, crawling toward the coarse patch of hair below his waist. Your heart pounded so madly you were surprised he didn't feel it against his skin. Then you brushed the edge of hair and felt the heat of his arousal. The anticipation of it made your thighs compress, made your core pulse. You stopped. You stared at your arm, stalled mid-reach beneath the sheets. Your gaze met his.

You weren’t sure what you were waiting for.

Tavington smirked, curled his hand around yours, and wrapped it around his cock.

You gasped. He shuddered. He was hard, harder than you'd even thought possible; less like flesh and more like forged iron—unyielding, pulsing with heat. Tavington tightened your grip around himself, and he hissed in pleasure, his hips bucking into your touch. Your breath escaped in a quiver; you were paralyzed, your eyes locked onto his as he guided you up, then down, allowing you feel every inch, every tiny thumping vein, every beat of his need for you.

To your surprise, the ache between your legs swelled in response. Despite the pain of your virginity’s death, your cunt was stumbling back to bed, eager and willing for a reprise. And with the way his cock felt in your hand—the silken skin sheathing the savage, pulsating desire—you would oblige it.

Another stroke, another, your breath coming faster, his eyes hazy with growing pleasure. You squeezed his shaft and felt him throb, and he groaned, jaw stiffening as he thrust into your fist.

“Knew you’d learn quickly,” he huffed.

You wanted to say something clever, but the only sounds you found were, “Uh huh.”

He released your hand, instead moving to cup the back of your head, weaving his fingers into your hair and pulling your lips to his. You whimpered, flush with heat, and his tongue slipped into your parted mouth.

Your eyes fluttered shut. You melted into the kiss, your wrist rolling, twisting as you stroked his cock. His hips moved in rhythm with you, the head pushing through your fist as if he were fucking into it. Panting, you let him lick into your mouth, let him nip your lower lip, let him tug you closer, closer, until you were just inches apart, and your body suddenly felt all too restricted by the layers of clothing swaddling it. If you weren’t so captivated, you would’ve thought to remove them.

Then you skimmed your thumb up the underside of his cock, over the head, and he groaned into you, driving into your hand until you connected with his stomach, and you promptly forgot everything that you’d ever thought about before that moment.

Tavington’s nails scraped your scalp, his mouth moving hungrily over yours. Humming with satisfaction, you stroked him again, twisted your wrist, swept over his head, this time catching a bead of fluid on the pad of your thumb.

A memory: his own thumb on your leg, the collection of your blood and his essence, his smirk as he led it between his teeth. Your heart hammered between your thighs. You broke the kiss with a breath.

His lips red and flush, he watched you, entranced as you released his cock, brought your hand to your mouth. Keeping your eyes on his, you pressed your thumb to your lips and dragged your tongue up the pad, gathering his seed into your mouth. It was warm. Salty. You shivered as you swallowed it.

The man across from you beheld you as if you’d embodied lust itself. And then, before you could display even an ounce of pride, he lunged, body caging yours to the bed. His hands ripped at your bodice, his breath uneven.

“My, my,” he muttered, “I was right.” Tavington jerked your limbs like a doll’s as he tore your clothes free. “You are a glutton.”

You were transfixed, cunt tingling with something between fear and excitement. “Yes,” you said, allowing him to lift your hips to pull your petticoats from your waist. “I am.”

Having stripped you to your shift, his hands slid up your thighs, peeling it up your body and over your shoulders until you flopped, naked and exhilarated, to the mattress. Tavington loomed above you, his hair cast like a mane around his shoulders, his gaze glittering like cracked sapphire. For a moment, he looked as if he were about to speak, but then thought better of it and lowered himself on top of you.

“Oh—” you went to say, before his mouth smothered yours.

The sensation of his chest, his stomach, his thighs; of the smooth, addicting warmth of his skin; of his hands holding you still and his cock wedged between you both—it engulfed you, and you threw yourself into it, your hands roaming his back, grabbing at every part of him they found.

Tavington’s tongue slid over yours, earning a moan, resurrecting gooseflesh. You undulated underneath him, wanting to mold your body to his. His muscles hardened, he laid his weight onto you, his cock slipping between your thighs, its mere presence making your clit twitch with longing.

With a growl, he broke the kiss and found your bruises, teeth retracing their composition. You whined, scratching down his back, and he tensed, biting harder, moaning into your throat. His hands grasped at you, learned you, sought every place where you began and ended, until one caressed the heat between your legs. A single finger slid between your folds, coating itself slick.

“William,” you whispered, before you could even think his name. At this, he nipped at your bruises, teased your sore entrance before easing that finger into your core. “Ah!”

“Hm?” He pushed in deeper, exhaling as he felt you clench around him.

“It—that…” You squirmed at the pain, uncertain if you wanted more or less. “Nothing,” you replied. “It just hurts.”

Tavington’s finger curled cruelly inside of you, his breath leaving in a quiet laugh. “No sweeter words to my ears.”

Burying his face in your neck, he pulled his finger free and raised his hips. You were unable to speak, barely able to breathe before he’d prodded your cunt with his cock and started to spear you open. You choked, your arms winding around him, clinging to him like a bird to a cliff face, the pain almost as agonizing as the first time. The sharpness of it shook you, each inch making you quake, the stretch forcing you to stifle a wail.

“Shh.” His voice surrounded you, became the only grounding force outside of what you'd captured in your enduring embrace. “I doubt you'd want Pettis to become curious about what he's missing.”

You sank your nails into his back. “Pettis would—ah—die for that particular curiosity.”

“Treat him—” Tavington tensed, groaned into your ear. “Hell—treat him like a cat, then, would you?”

“If he's anything like a cat,” you said through gritted teeth as Tavington slowly withdrew from you, “then his curiosity would end all nine of his pathetic lives and still leave him unsatisfied.”

“So ferocious,” he muttered, pausing. “And yet here you are, screaming at the end of my cock.”

You snorted. “No, I'm—”

Smirking, he slammed in to the hilt. You screamed.

The strokes started deep, each new thrust prying free the scabs of your time apart, and you closed your eyes, suspended in sensation like water. Your hands scoured his back, felt the effort of his desire, and his mouth found your throat, kissing, nibbling what it could find. Sweat built between you, his hair tumbled into your face, and you wanted to feel him, all of him, wanted to know his body like it was your own.

You bit your lip, reached below his waist, groping until you latched onto his ass. It flexed in your hands, tightened and rolled with every pump of his hips. The reality thrilled you, flooded you with need. You squeezed him, and he huffed, shifting his legs so he snapped harder, faster into you, earning a stuttered cry as you rocked with the force. Pain, pleasure—the delineation fogged. As long as he remained inside of you, they occupied the same space inside of you, too.

His hips pistoned, he panted into your neck. You could not remember what you said, if you said anything at all. You remembered coiling your legs around him, hiding your wails in his shoulder, until the pressure became too great. He nailed something deep in your core, and you strangled the urge to scream by sinking your teeth into his flesh.

Tavington reared back, slammed a palm into your throat, and as your head snapped down to the pillows, you glimpsed a bead of crimson welling from the little red crescent above his collarbone.

“If you wish to behave like an animal,” he grated, gaze empty of mercy, “then you’ll be fucked like one.”

He ripped free from you, snatched your waist, and flipped you onto your stomach as if you were made of cotton. You sobbed, head spinning faster than your heart, pillows buffeting your face. Like a ravenous wolf, he kneeled behind you and jerked your hips into the air. A pleased hum escaped him as he smoothed his hands over your ass, down your back as it arced to the bed. Then, with a grunt of relief, he split you apart again.

The next moments blurred into a fever of passion. Tavington behind you; his hands seizing your thighs; the rolling cant of his breath in desperate resolve; his hips smacking yours; the lewd slap of skin; the quake of your connecting flesh; your body bound to his, bound to bear the furious punishment of his cock.

He fucked you like he needed to, like a parched man plunging into water, like he wanted to silence a terrible, screeching piece of himself that could not stop wanting you. He groaned, growled, gasped from his chest, his cock pounding into you with no concern for your pain, its only duty to use you for every ounce of pleasure that it could fuck out of your cunt.

You had become lost to the room, liquefied under his influence. Every breath ricocheted within you, every sound escaped as a wanton babble. You scrambled for the sheets, the pillows, reached toward the headboard, seeking something, anything to ground you in the storm of bliss. Nothing worked. You spiraled, untethered.

“Oh, God,” you whimpered, more pathetic than you’d ever sounded in your life, “Oh, God—”

Tavington laughed. “He can’t help you here, dandelion.”

You whined. Your clit pulsed, swollen beyond need. In the tempest, you reached toward your cunt, found the throbbing center, and swirled your fingers over it. Ecstasy shot through you, tightened your walls around him, all of it drawing free a fractured moan.

“Yes,” Tavington snarled, “yes—”

He pitched forward, crushing you into the bed, one arm locking around your neck, the other stuffing itself under your body and between your legs. His fingers mimicked your movement, his hips crashed into yours, the position causing him to strike a spot that whited your vision. Pleasure bloomed instantly, swarmed you like a hive.

You made to cry out, to squirm, but found the sound throttled by his hold, found yourself immobilized underneath him—nothing but a hole to receive his cock, nothing but a toy he was going to make come.

“I was—” Tavington spoke between heaving, bliss-wracked breath. His arm tightened at your neck, his fingers fluttered over your needy clit. “I was mistaken.”

You wanted to respond. But your impending climax silenced any thought, any noise outside of hallowed, wordless sobs of adoration.

“I’m not your cunt’s master.” He held you tighter, fucked you deeper. “I’m its owner.”

Nothing in the world made more sense to you than this. You hooked onto his arm, tugged at it, inhaling air and exhaling nonsense. “Yes, William, yes, yes—”

“Hell,” he hissed, spitting your name. “Come off, then. On my cock.”

Your addled mind required no further instruction. His fingers found the fracture point, and you flew over the edge, contracting around him with a cry. Your cunt milked him, your nails gouged him, and you convulsed, drowning in rapture. Tavington crushed your throat, breath ragged, dragged into his own peak by your pulsing cunt. Just as you descended, he jerked free from your core, thrusting between your soft, warm thighs. Once, twice, and with a choke of bliss, he broke.

His teeth tore at your shoulder, and between your legs, you felt his cock throb as he spilled himself, again and again, into the sheets. Haunted by the ripples of fading orgasm, his hips stuttered, and in your own aftershocks, you trembled with him. Finally, you both collapsed, his weight a sweltering comfort on your tender skin.

Drool covered your chin, sweat stained you from forehead to ankle, but you had absolutely no other care in the world. In fact, you figured, you might be content to lie here forever, attached to William Tavington’s cock and perpetually free of thought.

You hummed happily, and Tavington released you, letting your head plop onto the pillows. Above you, he grunted, sat back on his heels, but you remained still. Moving was not an option for you. You were fairly certain you’d lost all of your bones somewhere in the room.

As you settled into the bed, the evidence of his climax smeared your legs. You went to wipe it free and paused, gathering it on your fingers. Curious, you brought them to your face, grinning as you observed the strings of his seed web between them. Something about it, in your half-lucid state, delighted you. You felt you’d earned it.

That earning had come at a price, too: you shifted, and seethed in discomfort. You wondered if Tavington had somehow managed to shove a mace up your cunt in the interim.

He’d left the bed at some point, and you eased around to see him at the basin, wiping himself clean with a rag. Shadow threw the musculature of his body into relief, the edges of his figure glowing with sweat. Tendrils of hair pasted to his forehead, and he cleared them off before turning to return to the bed. He stopped at the candle.

“Now you go to blow it out,” you mumbled. You caught his eyes, felt your heart skip. Realized in the moment that he snuffed it that he’d known you’d come to lie in the bed all along.

Bastard.

What did one do, in the quiet of post-coitus? You imagined that those in love might hold each other, nestle together under the blankets. But the thought of wrapping yourself around him like you were squirrels in winter made you want to throw your skin to the floor. You squirmed to the edge of the bed, staring toward the wall as he slid in next to you, sight adjusting to the night.

The sky glittered beyond the window, silver light dusting the room. Silence grew heavier with each passing moment, but you found yourself unable to speak, less able to move. To crawl underneath the covers and entrap yourself in the boundaries of his body heat would be to permit William Tavington to a level of familiarity that no one could be privy to but family itself.

How bizarre to feel this way when you’d just had him inside of you. But acts of sex, you realized, held far fewer stakes to you than acts of sincerity.

Yet the chill of your evaporating sweat, the cooling of his seed underneath you made the air feel like ice. You’d already decided that you would not be subjected to discomfort to spite only your own pride. Just as sex did not equal sincerity, sharing a bed did not equal intimacy. So you capitulated, and pulled the sheets over your body.

To your surprise, the warmth didn’t feel imprisoning at all. It actually felt rather nice.

You wondered what you would say to who you’d been in May, before you’d met Colonel William Tavington. You wondered if that woman would even understand why you’d done what you’d done. If you’d done it for any reason other than desire, she would. But in this moment, you couldn’t discern the end that justified this means.

Because, truth be told, you did desire William Tavington. And in perhaps even bolder truth, you didn’t fully, totally, completely hate this man who’d left you a ruined mess.

Though, to be fair, you hadn’t been the single victim this evening. You remembered teeth, blood daubed like ink across his skin, its message taking shape: ruined as you may be, he wasn’t the only one who could leave his mark. Of every truth you’d had to face, this one was the most palatable—he’d been yours, too.

And in, perhaps, the boldest, most naked truth of all, you found yourself curious about him.

“Do you have friends?” you asked.

A pause. “I beg your pardon?”

You frowned. “What, is the concept that foreign to you?”

“I simply find myself wondering why you even ask.”

“I regret my folly of curiosity already,” you replied, shifting further away from him.

Tavington exhaled. The mattress shifted. “One,” he said. “Perhaps.”

You snorted. “Perhaps does not imply the confidence with which I'd expect to call someone a friend.”

“Then perhaps I don’t,” he said.

“No?” Flipping over, you found him turned on his back, gazing into the empty air. “You have no one you talk to? Confide in?”

He looked at you, brow raised. “I have no need to.”

“Not even when Cornwallis is excoriating you for one thing or the other?”

At this, you spotted a true, conspiratorial smirk on his lips. “Yes,” he said, looking back to the ceiling, “you've come to learn there's a certain burden to the weight of his opinion.” His eyes narrowed in amusement. “What would you have said to him if I hadn't stopped you?”

“Well…” A grin fought its way onto your face. “I may have been about to imply his wife deliberately found a permanent way to escape the weight of his opinion.”

His smirk grew, cracked into a genuine chuckle. “He can't have wounded you so terribly.”

“That—” You held your tongue for a moment, then realized you didn’t care. “He's a blithering, myopic half-wit with the insight of a bloody olive. He has no right to lead an army.” Sneering, you added, “Probably couldn’t land a shot if the target was hung around his neck.”

Tavington stared, his expression inscrutable. If you didn't know better, you would've confused it for fascination. “Hm.” His eyes were sterling in the starlight. “You may be accurate on at least one of those accounts.”

For some reason, you felt flush. “I know that.” You averted your gaze. “Anyway. I would find taking orders from him repugnant.” With a shrug, you added, “I’m surprised you don't wash your hands of the war and have done with it.”

He frowned. “Wash my hands of it?”

“Yes,” you said, pursing your lips. “Go back home to England or whatever you call the hole the demons spawned you from.”

“Interesting you choose to speak so confidently about the short-sightedness of the general.”

You laughed. “What do you mean?”

“This war is my home,” he replied, as if it were plainer than the rising sun.

You blinked, face screwing in confusion. No friends, no home? This was hyperbole.

“You have no one you wish to see?” you asked. “No dreams of what you’ll do in days of peace?”

Tavington snorted. “I dream of nothing,” he said, “I wish for nothing.” He spoke with such finality that it stilled your tongue. He glanced at the window, back to you, before resting his head on the pillow again. “Without our victory, I have no hope or need for any of it.”

You studied his face. It was not one of a man tormented by sadness or beguiled by the romanticism of war. And this in itself utterly baffled you.

Without your family, without the ones who loved you and you loved in return, the outcome of the war was meaningless to you. Your country’s liberty held no value if Grace or Papa could not be present to witness it. Your own life hardly held value—who were you if not Grace’s protector? Who were you if not your father’s daughter?

The thought of the world without them opened a void in your chest. You had at least two people who cared if you lived or died. And you’d unwittingly mocked the man you shared a bed with about having no one. And then, to make matters worse, he’d rewarded you for it.

Apparently, even the most vicious of creatures could feel shame.

“I'm…” You held your breath, hoping the words could escape on an exhale. “William?”

He sighed. “Yes?”

“I apologize for what I said earlier.”

Tavington glanced at you, unimpressed. “The list of words you've spoken to me that would warrant an apology approaches the length of a treatise,” he replied. “You'll have to specify.”

Chewing your lip, you turned over the specificity in your mouth like marble. It felt heavy and cold on your tongue. But you needed to spit it out. “When I said, uh… That no one would care. If you lived or died.” You cleared your throat. “That was cruel.”

His brow furrowed. “That?” Scoffing, he turned to his side, his back facing you. “Why apologize for speaking truth?”

You stared. He’d said it without an ounce of self-pity or a flicker of concern. Not an edge of dispute was present in his tone. To him, it seemed, this was the simplest fact of his life—simpler, even, than his own name, and just as intrinsic to his existence.

William Tavington: the man nobody loved.

The phantom of your shame sank to your stomach. You swallowed, turning over, gazing out of the window again.

Stars mingled among a smattering of feathery clouds. Aches from your evening dulled to a hum. The beat of your heart, the cadence of your breath, the distant warmth of his body feet away from yours—you weren’t sure which of these finally lulled you to sleep.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #jason isaacs' big fat ass appreciators inc.

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kylorengarbagedump · 19 days ago

Note

now that you're kinda back with your writing, do you have any new kylo content planned? any fics or oneshots ..?:)

I'll never say never, but I genuinely don't know if I have anything to offer for Kylo Ren at this point, and I don't know if I will again! He's always my husband eternal, but I feel like I've said all I personally have to say for him at the moment :)🩷

#nerd whinings #cuties #fanfiction problems #sorry folks but the only stuff you're gonna find from me for a bit is horny redcoat bullshit!

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kylorengarbagedump · 19 days ago

Note

Would you ever consider writing for Qimir from the acolyte?

Haha, no, unfortunately Qimir did nothing for me.

#nerd whinings #cuties

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kylorengarbagedump · 22 days ago

Text

Playing Soldier: Chapter 14

Read on AO3. Part 13 here. Part 15 here.

Summary: It's not like I like you, baka.

Words: 5200

Warnings: creeps abound in the british army

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Hello! Welcome back to another episode of Dear God Put That Redcoat's Cock Inside Me. Hope you all very much enjoyed - we were soooo jazzed about the response to last chapter! We were super excited to publish it (though quite anxious) so hearing everyone liked it was so satisfying.

Sorry if you don't like medical scenes, but also, not sorry, because we just like writing it <3

I WONDER WHAT THE TWO WORST PEOPLE YOU KNOW WILL GET UP TO NEXT CHAPTER. We're travelling again this weekend so expect at least a couple weeks hehe. Love y'all so so much!! <3

Up the stairs and through the halls, a single word echoed:

“Tavington!”

You and Tavington looked at one another. It was Cornwallis. And he’d clearly spent enough time searching for his colonel.

Wincing, you sat up onto your elbows. Tavington had already begun dressing—tucking himself away, collecting his waistcoat and fastening the buttons. You watched him, surprised to realize you longed for a future opportunity to relieve him of every layer.

Would there be a future opportunity? Was that how arrangements like this worked?

If there was any similar concern in his mind, it didn’t show. He’d already gathered his jacket from the floor, checking it for wrinkles and dust before throwing it over his shoulders. Apart from the sweat on his brow that still shined in the flames, he seemed to be in possession of every faculty. Meanwhile, your stays were ruined, spend and blood smothered your thighs, and—you rubbed at your neck—you were bruised?

You swiveled, looking for a mirror and finding your reflection as you turned left. Your hair had been pulled out of place, your breasts hung out of your shift. Wine-dark stains spilled over your neck, bled across your shoulders. His teeth had scythed circles into your flesh.

No, you were more than bruised. You were ravaged.

“You ass,” you said, stretching your neck to examine all of the damage. “How am I expected to return to the party looking like this?”

Beyond the door, heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. “Tavington!” called Cornwallis again. “Where is that man?”

Your heart shot into your throat. Tavington glimpsed you, adjusted his trousers before glancing in the mirror himself.

“An awful problem indeed,” he replied, sounding as if you’d asked him to watch the grass grow. “However, unless you’d like to greet the general in your current state, I’m afraid I cannot assist.”

Your jaw stiffened. He was right, of course. It was, logically, best for him to attend to the general and for you to clean up the office—and yourself—in the distraction. But that didn’t mean you would be happy about it.

“Yes,” you said, “fine.” Frowning, you folded your arms over your chest, and pushed your legs together, covering what little you could of your vulnerability. There was a strange, anxious ache in your chest. You wanted to strangle it immediately. “Get out of here, then.”

Boots turned, marched down your hall. “If he’s not in here…”

“Have a care for the details, would you?” Tavington murmured, before walking out the door and shutting it behind him. “My Lord,” you heard him say. “You called?”

“Colonel Tavington,” Cornwallis said, tone strained, “why were you in my office?”

“Ensuring the safety of our intelligence, my Lord,” Tavington replied.

A pause. “Oh.” Cornwallis sounded pleased. “Well, excellent. But come this way, I need your assistance…” The both of them began walking down the hall, the thump of footsteps drowning their voices as they turned and descended down the stairs.

You frowned, gazing down at yourself. You felt like a dandelion clock blown clean of fluff. Or perhaps a carved-out squash, emptied of your insides and aching from every scraped edge.

The room wasn’t going to tidy itself. You moved to hop off the desk and flinched, your cunt twinging in pain. With a wince, you eased yourself to the floor, waddling to gather your clothes and doing what you could to redress—your bodice would have to hold your stays in for the rest of the evening.

Collecting and re-stacking the reports was simple enough. The challenge was cleaning the syrup of bodily fluids that had pooled onto the desk’s surface. There was no basin to be found in the office and you certainly weren’t going to go looking for one. You settled on using one of your petticoats, since at the very least, it wouldn’t be strange for blood to be somewhere on the clothing of someone who worked in the field hospital.

That finished, there came the issue of your bruises. You bit your lip in irritation. Of course that bastard had to stake his claim so publicly—his pride never would’ve permitted otherwise. You lifted your throat, brushing your fingers across the purple meadow he’d planted around your collar.

An unfamiliar, impish part of you thought it looked quite pretty.

But there was no possible way you would descend those stairs as an unmarried woman at a party full of single officers and display your fresh ornamentation.

Grimacing, you surveyed the room. Your eyes landed on the feet of the pink velvet curtains, bunched in a pile on the floor. Then you spotted the letter opener. It would have to do.

When you finally left the room and shut the door behind you, you considered your makeshift scarf almost believable. As long as you kept the shorn edges tucked.

Tiptoeing your way through the halls and down the stairs, you met the growing din of conversation. Guests had started filing back into the home, donning their coats and securing their belongings. From the volume of the voices, there’d been far too much Madeira served at the ball. No one even noticed as you descended into the foyer.

Before you could disappear, however, a familiar voice shrieked your name. You spun, watching as Lottie shoved through the crowd, her shouted pardon mes peeling a path straight to you. The tension in your back loosened, and you sidled against the wall to allow her room. You wondered if your virginity’s absence looked as obvious as it felt. You fussed with your scarf just in case.

“Where have you been?” she hissed, her hands on her hips. “I take two minutes to speak with Benny and you disappear!” Her eyes landed on your new accessory, and she frowned. “What is that?” She leaned closer. “Are you wearing a curtain?”

You blanched, lifted your chin to the air. “No!” you replied. “It’s not a curtain. Don’t be ridiculous.”

She laughed. “That absolutely is a curtain, you goose.” Grinning, she reached for it. “Let me see it.”

“Don’t touch it!” you spat, clutching it protectively. When her face screwed in confusion, you continued, “It’s. Um… it’s…”

“It’s what?” she said. “A family window dressing?” Something on your neck caught her focus. She paused.

You swallowed, heat flaring in your cheeks, fingers fumbling to cover whatever she was examining. “Don’t—”

“Oh. My. Word.” Lottie’s face erupted with delight, and she yanked down a fold of your curtain-scarf, revealing one of the purple crescents. “You were—”

“Quiet!” you replied, scrambling to disguise it and checking that no one else had seen. “Must you be so bloody—”

She squealed like a child, clapping her hands. “So that’s what you were up to!” Grinning, she nudged you. “Who’s the lucky officer?”

You sneered. “I wasn’t…” The memory of Tavington’s hands on your breasts, the rhythm of his breath as he fucked you almost made you wilt. “It was no one.”

“Aww.” She frowned. “That disappointing, was it?” she said, holding up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

More heat, this time flashing at your nape, and more memories—how his cock stretched you, filled you, the agony it branded inside of you, the bliss as you came off around it, squeezing and pulsing on its unforgiving length. Your mouth dried.

“No, it wasn’t…” You grumbled, rolling your eyes. “It’s not important,” you said, averting your gaze. “Why does it matter to you, anyhow?”

Lottie pouted, tilting her head. “Don’t be cross. There’s not a lick of judgement from me, I assure you.” She studied you for a moment, considering. “I just can’t recall you ever looking twice at a man,” she said. “I was excited for you.”

Your throat thickened. You were being far too harsh on her. But the reality that you’d given yourself to a man—that you’d begged for it, even—seared your tongue like coal. Even more stifling was its unexpected consequence of greed. You’d expected your longing to evaporate with your virginity. But now, to acknowledge you’d had William Tavington inside of you was to inherently accept you wanted more. That ache, that longing for something, anything from another person made you want to turn everything below your waist to tundra.

“Well, don’t be,” you mumbled. “Because it won’t be happening again.” You glanced at the crowd. “Has there been any news about what happened?”

She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “But the carriages back to Charleston are about to depart.” Offering a small smile, she reached out and squeezed your arm. “So you arrived at the right time.”

Nodding, you crossed your arms. “Yes,” you said, glancing down at your gown. “I look forward to returning this to your wardrobe.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Lottie said. “It’s so handsome on you.”

You shrugged, the sparkle of her compliment winking in the back of your mind. Your appearance had never been something you’d put much thought into. But now you wondered if Tavington thought so, too.

The recollection of his eyes flicking to your throat, the sweep of his gaze along your body made you think that perhaps he had.

Nausea rippled over you. You were sick of this already.

“Well,” you replied, “handsome or not, I believe it’s time for it to return to its rightful owner.”

A hush blanketed the foyer, and those still inside turned to the front door. Straining to look over the heads of guests, you could hear it yourself: cries for help ringing in from the outdoors.

“Is there a surgeon?” came a man’s voice. “A doctor? This man is injured!”

A ripple of murmurs and shaking heads. You frowned, looking toward Lottie, who appeared to be seeking any direction but the one that could potentially include a glimpse of gore.

It seemed as if, once again, it fell to you to assume responsibility. And after everything Cornwallis had said—well, this could be an opportunity, too. You stepped forward, and Lottie grabbed your arm.

“Wait!” she said. “The carriages are departing any moment now, you’ll be stuck here.”

“It’ll be all right,” you replied, “this won’t take me any time at all.”

She pursed her lips. “If you’re sure…”

You patted her arm to reassure her, then pushed through the crowd. “Here!” you called. “I’m a nurse! Let me through!”

Eyes fell on and followed you as you moved toward the front door. Soldiers who recognized you from the field helped make way until you arrived and met with two men beyond the entryway who were propping up a third between them. He was stripped of everything but his shirt, a massive red gash sliced into his side. Blood had eaten half of the linen.

“We found him by the riverbank,” said one of the redcoats. “Miss, if you could—”

“Get him inside,” you said, ushering them forward. He’d need to be prostrated. “Bring him to the drawing room.”

Nodding, the redcoats guided him forward, the guests skittering from the scene as the realities of war were dragged into Middleton Place. You followed, watching as the soldiers eased the wounded man on top of the long table in front of the drawing room’s hearth. A pained groan escaped his chest, the blood on his shirt stamping the cloth beneath him. Teeth worried your lip. You needed supplies.

Approaching the table, you shoved aside the twin settees that winged it, opening a workspace for yourself. You snapped your fingers at the soldier who was tugging the injured man’s feet into place. “I need a bottle of Madeira and lint.”

As he positioned the man’s legs, he glanced at you, face tight. “I’m afraid I don’t know where I would get lint, miss.”

You pushed your sleeves higher on your arms. “I didn’t ask a question, I made a request.” When no one moved, you glared at them both. “Find something to help stop the blood then, would you?”

The one by the feet flinched. “You get the Madeira and everything,” he said to his companion, “I’ll find an officer to help.”

Both of them in agreement, they scurried off.

Swallowing, you leaned forward, scrutinizing the wound. The man’s breath leaked wetly from his chest. Blood glistened in the firelight, beading through the lattice of his shirt. Threads clung to the severed skin like roots. You rested your fingers on his ribs above the wound, applied slight pressure, and he coughed in agony.

“Can you speak?” you asked him.

He nodded. “Yes,” he wheezed.

The lung was nicked. Not too badly, thankfully, since you were certain you didn’t have the capacity to care for anything worse than a minor puncture. You stepped back, snatched a thin quilt from one of the settees to preserve his modesty while you stripped away the shirt. The wound was a strange size and depth—as if a playing card might have punched through the bottom two ribs.

“What did this to you?” you asked, leaning over to look at his face. He was young, too. Just another boy.

“Hatchet,” he croaked. He glanced down, then back at you. “It was—”

“Now now,” came a voice from behind you, its familiarity pricking the hairs on your scalp. “I’m a captain, you know, I am perfectly able to take his report.”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the redcoats from before.

You turned, meeting the bloodshot eyes of Captain Pettis. Stiffening, you patted absently at your neck to ensure your marks were covered. At your side, the second redcoat returned, shoving a bottle of Madeira and a bunch of pilfered doilies into your arms. Your jaw tightened, and you forced yourself to smile in gratitude.

“As you were, gentlemen,” Pettis said.

“Er, miss…” said the Madeira-bearing redcoat, lingering. “A Miss Goddard was asking for—”

“Yes, yes, away with you now,” said Pettis, waving them off. “Dismissed.”

“Captain,” you said, dumping all of the items onto the table. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Oh. Yes, ah, indeed.” Pettis glimpsed your scarf, his brow pinching before he looked at you again. “What are you doing here, my dear?”

“Hopefully preventing any further injury to this gentleman.”

“You are—”

“A field nurse, yes.” You spread out the doilies, eyed the bottle. First things first. “Would you keep him distracted while I treat the wound, Captain?”

Pettis cleared his throat. “Are you sure you don’t wish to finish, first?”

“Quite sure,” you replied, popping the cork on the Madeira. “Go on.”

“Ah, all right.” He rolled his shoulders, shuffling forward like a preening bird. “Good evening, Private. Ah—where were you attacked?”

You poured the wine into the bloody orifice. The private screamed, flailing, gripping the table.

“Oh,” said Pettis, stepping back. His skin had paled. “Oh, my, well, you see…”

“That’s normal,” you said. “Where were you attacked, sir?”

Curiosity glimmered in your mind. Could Papa have been involved with this attack somehow? With the ship explosion?

The private’s expression wrinkled with pain. “Across the… river. On patrol.”

You kept as stoic a face as possible. “Thank you.” You glanced at Pettis. “Please, continue.”

A tinge of green had invaded Pettis’ cheeks, mottled grey as it met the flush of alcohol. “And, so…” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and balled it in his fist. “Yes. Did you, er, see your attacker?”

“Yes, sir,” the man managed to say through a rattled wheeze. “Five men. T-ten, maybe.”

Pettis was far less efficient of an interrogator that you would’ve preferred. Would that Tavington was next to you—perhaps you might’ve heard any sort of useful information by this point.

The thought almost made you physically flinch. No, you didn’t need Tavington, or want Tavington in any way, shape, or form. Not anymore, anyway, and especially not in a way that would see you dispossessed without his presence.

You were capable of handling everything by yourself.

“Hold still,” you said, and nudged the soldier’s ribcage. He hollered as something underneath his flesh wiggled in response. “It’s broken.”

Now dabbing his forehead and neck, Pettis exhaled, looking between you and the wound. “I think I may be seated and wait until you’re—”

“Captain.” You held a doily in your hand, looking between it and the still-bleeding ribs. “I must insist.”

Pettis nodded, upper-lip twinkling. “O-of course. Well…” Pausing, he glanced briefly at the ceiling. “Well… is, ah…” He coughed. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Private?” he managed, before adding, “Like why you are unclothed?”

“They struck… from the shadows,” he mumbled. “Took our uniforms. Had to… feign death. They fired the ship and fled.” Wincing, he squeaked out, “Heard something about heading northwest. To the ‘bear’s den.’”

“‘Bear’s den?’” A slight laugh escaped Pettis, the absurdity apparently alleviating his nausea. “Utter nonsense. Certainly they—”

Teeth grit, you aligned the rib in place. The private screeched in pain. Pettis, beside you, crumpled to the floor in a heap.

You recoiled, eyes widening. He was on his back, skin as transparent and sweaty as a roasting onion. Shallow breath swelled his chest.

“Dammit.” You looked between the captain and the private, both of them equally pathetic in their exceptionally unequal circumstances. “If I miss the carriage home for this…”

The private would need to come first. You snagged a handful of doilies and twisted them into a tent. To hopefully depress any air from the thoracic cavity, you leaned on his torso, ignoring his wail as you packed his wound with the doilies.

“You’ll thank me when you’re able to breathe tomorrow.” If Lottie were here, she probably would’ve had something kinder to say. But this man only had you. You sighed and dropped to your haunches, hovering over Pettis. You shook him gently. “Captain. Sir. Captain Pettis.”

A snore caught in his nose, and he exhaled, the color returning to his face. Grumbling, you reached up, grabbed the neck of the Madeira and tossed a splash over his eyes.

“What the—” He gasped into consciousness, and gaze shooting around the room. “On God’s—did you—”

“Everything’s all right, sir,” you said. “It’s over. I’m finished.”

Heaving for air, he drew a long breath, staring at you. His attention trailed to the table where the private was resting. “And, ah, everything is… all right?”

You nodded. “As I said,” you said, and stood. “He’ll need time to recover, but I’ve done all I can do for him right now.”

Pettis hummed and glanced down at himself. Realizing all at once that he was on the floor and covered in wine, he scrambled upright, trying like a fawn to get his feet beneath him. When that failed, he toppled to his hands and knees. “Of course. Well. Obviously, I’m pleased to guide you.” He cleared his throat, clambering onto one of the settees you had moved earlier. “I’m going to rest my feet for just a moment, however…”

“Please do.” You stopped a snort in your throat, using the rest of the doilies to wipe the blood from your hands. You needed to head to the carriages. “In that case—”

“One moment, my dear,” he said, wiggling into the cushions. “Your brief assistance would be a great boon to me.”

You paused, holding your tongue before turning to him. “I appreciate the confidence, sir, but I’m afraid—”

“Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Just help me get settled here, would you? I hardly think I’ll make it to my room in this state.”

“I do understand your difficulty, Captain, and I have great sympathy for it,” you said, forcing a smile. “But I’m not a servant. I’m a nurse.”

For the first time, you saw Pettis’ expression darken. “A nurse in the field, yes?” he said. “Would that not make me your superior?” He shifted, nestling himself deeper into the arm of the sofa. “Must I make a formal request, my darling?”

Your palms sweat. The tension in your back had returned. “No, sir,” you replied. “What can I do for you?”

Pettis grinned like a sated cat. “Would you bring me a pillow—no, two pillows?”

“Of course, sir.”

Grumbling, you bustled to an armchair in the corner of the room and grabbed two of its lavishly embroidered pillows. Captain Pettis sat, waiting, watching as you proffered them with the most inviting smile you could possibly muster while still harboring a desire to smother him.

“Excellent,” he said. “One under my feet, if you would, and one behind my head.”

You blinked. “I—” Pausing, you grit your teeth. You could handle everything. You could handle everything. “Of course.” You huffed, stuffing one pillow under the feet which had never seen the dirt of battle and the other behind the head that had never conceived of anything of consequence in war. “Better, Captain?”

He smiled. “Much.”

“Wonderful.” You turned to leave.

“One more thing!” he called.

You whirled on him like a lion, teeth bared. “Yes?”

He pointed to the quilt draped across the private’s hips. “I’d like one of those.”

Without a word, you stalked to the opposite sofa, snatched another blanket off of its back, and thrust it into his face. “This?”

Pettis looked at you as if you were a child complaining about a broken toy. “Good girl,” he said, taking it and laying it over his lap. “You may go.”

You considered the consequences of bashing him over the head with the bottle of Madeira and then slitting his throat with one of the glass shards. Oh, goodness, you imagined yourself saying, I can’t believe he tripped and fell directly on the broken glass with his neck.

No. He wasn’t worth it.

“Thank you, Captain.”

You gave him a bow before looking at the entry of the drawing room. The redcoat who'd grabbed all the supplies stood sentry.

“Excuse me,” you said. “Do you think any of the carriages back to Charleston would have room for the private?”

Madeira Redcoat frowned. “Ah… the carriages have departed, miss. But we could quarter him here with the officers.”

Your eyes widened. “You said what about the carriages?”

“They—”

You flew out of the drawing room, heels clicking on the way to the foyer. As you entered, your heart stalled. It was vacant. The only occupant now was the other redcoat from earlier. He remained by the entry, likely on the lookout for any additional returning patrols. You cursed under your breath.

“The carriages,” you said, trotting up to him. “Where are they?”

“Sorry, miss,” Foyer Redcoat replied. “They’ve shipped out.”

“Dammit,” you said, aloud this time. “There's none left?”

“No,” he said, “all of them are gone.” His face twisted in confusion. “Is everything all right?”

You groaned. “No, everything is not all right!” you snapped. “I don't have anywhere to sleep tonight!”

Foyer Redcoat looked as if you'd asked him to grant you the ability to fly. “Uh, I'm so sorry, miss, but…” He shrugged, trying to offer a pleasant smile. “Well, perhaps we could quarter you with the private? You could sleep in the drawing room?”

“You're of no help whatsoever,” you said, and stomped off into the courtyard, despite having no idea where you even intended to go.

Nighttime had swaddled Middleton Place in silence. Whatever the British officers needed to do, they'd apparently already finished at the terrace. It was wiped free of pomp, party, and people alike. Only the sky and the Ashley remained, fires still floating in its current.

You tightened your scarf around your neck. In the drawing room indeed. If you woke up and found Pettis hovering over you, then you weren't sure you could be held responsible for what you'd do.

Well, you could. But you wouldn't want to be. So the drawing room was out.

Outdoors was equally unappealing. You imagined stirring in your sleep, your scarf slipping free, and being found by an officer unchaperoned, unhoused, and thoroughly unchaste.

There was—you supposed—the possibility of Tavington’s room. But you banished that thought from your mind nearly as quickly as it formed.

Firstly, you’d rather be found dead than ever ask for anything from that man after he’d made you plead for his cock. Secondly, there was no telling that even if you did ask, he’d want you in his proximity, anyway. Thirdly, even if he did want you, you certainly didn’t want him, and you never would again, since even having a thread of attachment to him made you want to gouge out your eyes, eat them, and die.

You’d walk home. It was only a little over 15 miles.

Straightening, you turned around, hiked up your petticoats, and tramped through the foyer. Yes, this would take but a matter of hours. Not long at all. So what if the moon was new, the night black as tar? The road was plenty oft-traveled.

You marched up to the front entrance, thoughts fixed on that very road beyond. Just as you reached for one gilded handle, the door swung open.

You gasped, stepping back. “Oh,” you said, “Wil—Tav…”

Tavington stared at you, brows raised.

Clearing your throat, you bowed your head. “Colonel.”

“Where are you going?” His eyes dipped to your neck. “Is that—”

“You bloody well know what it is,” you growled, ruffling it like a feathered kerchief. You rolled your shoulders back. “And for your information, I’m heading home.”

“Home.”

“Yes, home,” you replied. “It’s where one lives, or where they stay with a family or loved ones, not that you’d know anything about either of those things.”

Tavington’s chest fell in a slow exhale. “I doubt very much you’re heading home,” he said. “The carriages have already left.”

“Well, obviously.” You snorted, smoothing down your skirts. “I’m… walking.”

He looked at you as if you’d just introduced yourself as the King of England. “Ah,” he replied. “Of course you are.”

“Yes.” You puffed your chest into the air. “So if you’ll excuse me—”

“That’s a fifteen mile walk.”

“I’m aware.”

“On a road crawling with bandits and militia.”

“Well,” you said, “what can they take from me, now? This dress isn't mine, and, well, neither is my virginity anymore, so, I'm really quite safe.” Your face burned. Why had you said that? “Anyway, I must be going soon if I wish to be on time for mid-morning tea, so…”

You made to step past him. He seized your arm and jerked you back. A muscle fluttered in his jaw.

“Don’t be daft,” he said. “There are plenty of rooms—”

“Are there, Colonel?” you said shrilly. “Which ones?”

If he were seriously about to suggest that you occupy his, you might as well allow him to feel the absurdity of the notion as it rolled off his tongue. And if he himself could not foresee the scandal it would bring down upon you both, perhaps you had severely misjudged his intellect.

Tavington’s jaw shifted, his grip tightened, and within one tiny intake of breath, a bewildering, mercurial part of you hoped he might drag you away to privacy and damn the consequences.

“The drawing room has ample capacity—”

“Excuse me?” came a new voice from behind you. Tavington released you. “Ah, you’re the field nurse, yes?”

Both of you turned to see Madeira Redcoat, head bowed in deference. “Excuse me, Colonel,” he said, before looking at you. “Captain Pettis requests you urgently, miss. He says it’s an emergency and to not, ah, ‘dilly-dally.’”

Your hands curled into fists. “An emer…” If you weren’t certain that he’d throw an even bigger tantrum when you didn’t arrive, you would’ve told him to shove his urgent request straight up his drunken arse. Drawing a breath, you smiled. “Right away.”

Madeira Redcoat spun, heading back into the home. With a sigh, you moved to follow him.

“What business do you have with Pettis?” Tavington asked.

“I tucked him into bed like an infant,” you replied. “I suspect he’s grown tired of sucking on his thumb and now craves a corn cob.”

You heard his footsteps begin to trail behind you.

When you arrived back at the drawing room, the private was pleasantly unconscious, his hand curled around the neck of the Madeira, and you found Pettis where you left him, strewn across the couch like a fainted maiden. His eyes were lidded low, his cheeks beamed anew with intoxication. Meanwhile, Tavington hovered a few strides behind in the hall—you could feel his gaze consuming the room.

“Captain,” you said, approaching him. “You requested my presence?”

Pettis startled, his eyes taking a moment to focus before he realized who you were. “Oh, my darling nurse,” he cooed, head rolling along the arm of the couch. “I remembered something. We were interrupted earlier, were we not?”

The hairs at your nape tingled again. “I don’t recall.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” he said, waving you closer. You obliged, taking a single step. “Come now, my girl.”

Sighing, you crept toward him. “Yes?”

“This would be between just you and me,” he said, voice lowering to a whisper. “But I shall sleep best after a kiss goodnight.”

You froze. Was this another request that came under the lingering threat of his authority? Would it be worth the denial to find out? And if you were punished, how severe could you expect that punishment to be?

These were questions that would never need answering.

“What a very strange request to make of a field nurse, Captain,” Tavington said, appearing at your shoulder.

“C-colonel!” Pettis blubbered, jostling in the nest of pillows. “I… Well, I’m not sure what you heard, but I—”

“Try to ensure I don’t hear it again.” Tavington placed a hand on the small of your back, turning you around. “Goodnight, Captain.”

With that, he led you from the room, your mouth parted, your neck hot. You wished you could stop landing in situations that his interference could resolve. You would’ve been perfectly capable of handling Pettis on your own, as usual. As you arrived in the foyer, you stepped away from him, frowning.

“What were you saying about the drawing room again?” you said, voice high in mockery.

Tavington rolled his eyes and leaned close to you. “Up the stairs. Down the hall. First door on the left.”

The heat at your neck crackled. “I—” His gaze unsteadied you. “I don’t know why you’re giving me instructions.”

“You’d prefer to share the pig’s den, would you?” he asked, cocking his head back toward the drawing room. “Or sacrifice your body to the wolves?”

“You’re one to speak of beasts,” you grumbled. “After the mauling you gave me.”

“Is that so?” Tavington’s winnowing patience was evident in his tone. “Were the sounds you made ones of torment, then?”

You folded your arms over your chest, examining the way your feet peeked from the hem of your petticoats. The only torment you had experienced was the immediate desire to receive him a second, third, fourth time. It felt like you’d spilled your entrails on the ground, dragged them around in front of him in all their ghastly, naked want. And to admit it would be granting him permission to feast.

What if the spillage never stopped? What if you’d need to tear out more and more organs to glut his hunger until you’d been hollowed to a veil of flesh?

“Just let me walk to Charleston,” you said, glaring at him. “I can handle myself.”

Beyond the walls of the home, voices drew closer. Tavington studied your shrinking presence. He sighed.

“I’ve no interest in that which is not willingly offered,” he replied. “But do not feign a lack of interest in safety when it’s offered, either. You are no such fool.”

You chewed on your lip. Wiggled your toes inside your shoes. He wasn’t wrong. A small, reluctant piece of you could admit that your idea to walk home in the dead of night wasn’t worthy of accolade. And you knew at the very least that his door would bar Pettis from your space.

“Fine,” you said, turning your shoulder toward him. “But I’m sleeping on the floor. And don’t expect me to utter a word to you.”

He nodded, brows raising as if he’d been waiting to hear your list of exceptions from the start. “Very well.”

You nodded too, feeling quite like you’d just settled on a gentleman’s agreement. “Very well,” you echoed, starting toward the stairs. “Goodnight, Colonel.”

Tavington watched you ascend. He said nothing, and walked away.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #jason isaacs #the patriot #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #oh we're on the porn train now folks #CHOO CHOO

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kylorengarbagedump · 29 days ago

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i’ve just finished my annual ready of fya and dya because of the other anon who mentioned it the other day and i just wanted to let you know how deeply your writing has changed me hehe

you are so incredibly talented and i remember being absolutely blown away with every new chapter, and i still am with every re-read!! <3333

You are so kind - it's so funny actually for me to receive feedback like this on FYA because it feels so old to me now! Hard to believe I wrote it so long ago. Even DYA maintains a bit of distance in my mind. So so happy to know that people have and continue to enjoy my work, however. It's a writer's greatest gift <3

#nerd whinings #cuties #fix your attitude #fanfiction problems

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kylorengarbagedump · 29 days ago

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Can I just say, I love the way you wrote your protag for the playing soldier fic. Like, she has flaws. She’s classic chaotic neutral. And the medical aspects of her character are wonderful. Her knowledge and experience with medical care fits both her skill level and the time period. She isn’t the Mary Sue who somehow knows about 21st century medicine, and she works with what she has to learn what she can.

Admittedly, a part of me is shouting in the back of my mind “Well we don’t actually SEE Tavington die, we see him drop with his eyes out of focus but not die. Maybe she will heal him in time!” But I’m keeping the pipe dream in check long enough to see where this ends lol

Omg... Thank you so much. @bastillia and I agree she is our favorite reader we've ever written - she's mean and petty and lacks empathy but she's also deeply protective and competent and clever. We've really enjoyed trying to puzzle together these aspects and also have really enjoyed playing them off of our man 🥰🩷

As for his fate - think I answered this on my Tavington/Jason Isaacs/whatever blog ( @fakehusbandgarbagedump ) but it's not a spoiler for us to say this is a Tavington Lives AU. :) I don't buy he would've lost the fight at the end and the real-life man who inspired his character went back to England and lived for a good long time afterwards!

So do not despair hehe. We hope you continue to enjoy!!

#nerd whinings #cuties #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #and a few other british soldiers may live as well 🤧

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kylorengarbagedump · 30 days ago

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Omg omg omg

I'm kind of scared

Will I survive this

*puts on Barry White and clicks on the link to chapter 13*

LMAOOOOO we truly hope you enjoy! <3

#nerd whinings #cuties #playing soldier #fanfiction problems

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kylorengarbagedump · 30 days ago

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Has the playing soldier fic reached its conclusion with chapter thirteen? I really enjoyed the updates, thank you both for the story

Not at all!! We have much more to go <3 It's just finally they get to fuck LMAO

#nerd whinings #cuties #playing soldier #fanfiction problems

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kylorengarbagedump · 30 days ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 13 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 12 here. Part 14 here.

Summary: Oh, insupportable delight! Oh, superhumane rapture! What pain could stand before a pleasure so transporting?

Words: 5700

Warnings: tiniest amount of bloodplay

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

So, uh, it only took us 13 chapters and 80k words later, but we hope you enjoyed!

Not something at all we anticipated we'd end up waiting for when we first started writing this story, but we have had such a great time writing and our first-ever 'slow-burn'ish type fic has been really fun to explore. We are so grateful for y'all for coming along with us as well - much more to come.

Love you so much! <3

You bolted for the window.

The latch slid through your fingers. Your shaking hands slipped twice on the wood. Grunting, you flung it open, only for it to slam shut from the top. In the glass, you met Tavington’s eyes.

He was impassive. “I wouldn’t.”

Desperation rattled your breath. If you could get out of this room—run somewhere—perhaps Goddard or Cornwallis or even the horrible Ferguson would believe your story first.

You spun for the door, feinted left, then dipped right. Anticipating you, Tavington seized your arm, yanked you toward him, then spun you to slam your back to the wall.

The room whirled around you. Your chest heaved, your eyes darted to every corner of the room, seeking salvation, finding none. You were left to only focus on the man in front of you, the man whose hands had pinned your arms still, the man whose face seemed wrought between frenzy and victory.

“I believe,” he murmured, “I asked you a question.”

You swallowed. “Why are you following me, you brute?”

He hummed. “Fascinating response from a woman caught meddling in the documents of a royal officer.”

“I wasn’t—that’s not—”

“I’m quite sure of what I just witnessed.”

Grimacing, you flailed, trying to wrest yourself free. He stepped closer, flattening your body with his own, his leg slotting between yours to rob you of leverage. You grunted, ignoring the reluctant warmth glowing around his thigh.

“Get off of me!”

“I don’t think I will.” His breath skimmed your ear. “You knew about the ship, didn’t you?” he asked. “You knew it would give you opportunity.”

“What?” You shook your head. “N-no, I—the ship—”

Another breath stabbed through you. You could still see the desk. Paper smothered it, the reports you’d already examined tossed away and covering the surface, the floor, the chair like leaves from an autumn tree. In the firelight, trapped to the wall, none of the words were discernible. Not that it mattered, now. He’d caught you.

Your chin trembled. You couldn’t have appeared more guilty if he’d walked in on you with a knife plunged into another man’s chest. There was no explaining this. He’d see you hanged, see your sister slain and the farm burned. And if your father wasn’t already dead, he’d see to it that it soon followed.

Heat bit the backs of your eyes, threatened tears. You would not, could not cry in front of William Tavington, but God, if only you could let them fall, dissolve into them as they slipped through the floorboards. You were awful at this, he’d been right, you’d been sloppy and obvious and altogether incapable of subterfuge. And because of it, you’d damned yourself and your entire family to die, all while having never asked for any of this in the first place.

“Why do you try to delude me?” he asked. “Why do you lie as if I won’t know?”

“Go on, then,” you said, choking back your anguish. “Think whatever you want.”

Tavington’s head cocked. He studied your face. “Do you deny you are a spy?”

“Does it matter?” You stared into him. “Am I to believe that a denial would stay the hand of the judge, jury, or executioner who all bear the name Colonel Tavington?”

His lip furled. “You infuriating, impossible creature,” he growled, pressing into you. Another rapid breath in your chest—this one woven with excitement. “For every death sentence you are spared, you can’t help but seek another in its stead.”

“Spared?” you scoffed.

“Had I known this to be your plan, I might have allowed your own temerity to doom you tonight and had done with it.” Firelight danced across the thin blue rings of his irises. “Cornwallis would have seen your illusion dispelled in an instant.”

“That wasn’t—ugh!” You tried to yank your arms from his grasp, but his fingers only tightened. “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

“Another lie,” he murmured. “Or do you truly believe I don’t know that look in your eyes?”

Your insides flipped. You stilled, suddenly too conscious of your chest brushing his as it rose and fell. Of his thumbs resting against the pulse in your wrists.

“You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t I?” he breathed, gaze trailing from your eyes, your lips, your neck, your breasts before rising back up. “I know your rage. How easily your tongue is seduced to violence. I know that you think yourself a player in the game of war, but you’ve no regard or care for its stakes. And…” He leaned closer, triumph glinting in his eyes. “I know precisely why that is.”

You stuck out your chin, holding his stare, inviting—or perhaps daring—him to continue.

“You want to lose.”

Fury lit up your spine, and you thrashed against him. He crushed you against the wall, a flicker of delight surfacing in the black wells of his pupils.

“Then let me lose,” you said. “Why impede the temerity of which you accuse me? Why not let me doom myself? If you despise me so deeply, if you consider me to be a spy, a traitor—”

“I consider you,” he said through his teeth, “to be the most vexing, capricious woman I have ever encountered.” His tongue rolled in his mouth, eyes locked onto yours. “I know you to be misguided. A vicious animal—”

“For you to tame?” You wrenched uselessly against him. “Is that what this is about?”

A dark grin flashed across his face. “Is it not obvious?”

“Play your damnable games elsewhere,” you said. “I’m finished. I’m not your creature to domesticate.”

“And yet...” He tutted, maddeningly calm. “Imagine where you’d be tonight without my intervention.”

Vitriol crawled like slime from your stomach, still fat, still wriggling from when he’d forced you to bury it alive in front of Cornwallis. It burned, clawed its way to your throat, catching there and swelling in your humiliation.

How did this despicable excuse for a human, this monster, even divine its existence? In fact, how dare he—how dare he know this part of you, incise through you and unmask it in all of its shameful sticky fury.

Every muscle shook underneath him. The vile taste of rage coated your palate, beseeching an exorcism.

“Admit it,” he said. “I’m right.”

You screamed. “Fine! You’re right. I never cared about winning,” you spat. “Or losing!” The inanity forced a breath from your chest. “I never cared about any of it! Not your games, not even who wins this damned bloody war!” A laugh escaped, like venom on your tongue. “I have only ever cared about protecting my family—and if I die doing so, then may God let the end of my rope reunite me with them.” You leaned close to him. “And even if I never see heaven,” you whispered, “I’ll rest peacefully knowing you shall never darken its gates to torment them again.” A thin smile creased your lips. “And that no one has or will ever love you enough to care if you live or die.”

The fire crackled. Wisps of troubled voices echoed from the gardens. Shuddering air escaped you as you held Tavington’s gaze. Within it, you could see something churning, like the cogs of a clock reversing rotation until their teeth clicked into place.

His jaw shifted. He glanced over his shoulder, studying the heap of disheveled reports, their information wasted, ungathered, unimportant. A soft exhale left his nose, and he focused on the wall, his brow tensing before he turned back to look at you.

Tavington’s grip eased. He stepped back.

A flutter in your vision. You sucked in air, fresh from the space he’d given you, your eyes flicking between him, the desk; him, the desk; him—

Turning, he left you against the wall to move toward the desk. He frowned, turned over a few piles before finding what he wanted: a neatly pressed stack of parchment at least several pages thick. As if to verify, he flipped through them before crossing back to you, extending it in his hand.

“You were looking for this,” he said.

Something stuck in your throat. You looked between him and the report, feeling like a dog offered food by a stranger. Holding your breath, you snatched it away and your eyes consumed it as if you were that very dog.

The documentation was thorough, his penmanship fine—these were details you didn’t want to notice, but did anyway—and as you skimmed it, checking page by page, you didn’t once consider gleaning any other information that could’ve been of use. Your heartbeat resonated in your temples, your fingertips. With each beat, the papers shook in your grip.

You turned a page and the list leapt out to you. You scanned it, scrutinizing every line you found, looking for Michael, and Captain, and the first few letters of your last name. But nothing.

You found nothing.

Papa was alive.

Relief hit you like lightning. You exhaled, the report dropping to the floor, your face dropping to your hands. A swell of air rolled through you, and you relaxed, slumping against the wall.

It hadn’t been for nothing. You hadn’t ruined everything. Papa was, at the very least, still alive.

Thank God.

You cleared your throat and steadied yourself, your eyes lifting to Tavington, gazing at him as if he’d just raised Jesus himself from the grave. You expected him to gloat—to mock you—but found him watching you, staring into you, his own face clear of everything but curiosity.

The world shrunk, its boundaries reduced to the perimeter of the office, its context of war and strife and danger lost. Opposite you was no one but a man self-stripped of his obligations, a man who had alleviated your fears, a man who had met you, human, and wished now to know you.

You felt small, insignificant as the recipient of his mercy. It was as if you’d ripped your chest open and allowed him to cradle your heart in his hands, like you’d seen a ribbon of affection in his gaze as he hovered his teeth over its bloody rhythm.

He looked at the report now discarded at your feet, then advanced toward you, his voice like a distant peal of thunder.

“Why,” he asked, taking another step, “have you been avoiding me?”

Again, your mouth parted. Again, you were unable to speak.

“I know that you think of that night as often as I do.” When you didn’t reply, he stepped forward again. “Do you deny it?”

Fire roared, rippling from the hearth to your blood. You didn’t want to deny him. And even if you’d wanted to, gazing at him now—the flames spinning threads of flax through his hair, his eyes paler than morning sky, his lips so supple that you could only yearn at their memory—you couldn’t.

Shaking your head, you replied, “I… I do not deny it.”

He cocked his head, waiting. You hadn’t answered his previous question.

“But…” You glanced at his mouth. Swallowed. “What you want and what I want—they’re at odds,” you said. “I want my father alive. I want my family safe.” You gestured toward him as if it was self-evident. “You… do not.”

Tavington drew closer, looming over you now, and rested one palm next to your head. “Our desires are not…” His stare swept over your body. “... fully at odds.”

Your mind pleaded with you to grab his jacket, to tear the buttons from its seams and expose his chest to your hungry hands; your cunt throbbed, alive and aching for his attention.

“I don’t…” Whatever words you were trying to form kept falling apart in your mouth. “Know what you… mean.”

He smirked, his free hand stroking up your arm, finger tracing over your lace-covered clavicle. “I know you, little soldier, remember?” he whispered. “I know what this trembling means.” His thumb ghosted your pulse, stroking the rapid thrum under your skin. “I know what your racing heart looks like in your throat.” He cupped your cheek, tilting your face toward his own. “I know what hunger lies behind your eyes.”

“I…” With the noblest of intentions, you laid a hand on his chest, prepared to push him away. “But we can’t—there’s no reconciling these—”

Tavington leaned forward and captured your lips with his. You whimpered, softening in his hold, as if it was your purpose to yield to his touch. He held you still, cradling your head, and your hand slid down his chest, catching on each button of his waistcoat as it traveled to his hip. With a breath, he pulled away, his gaze trained on yours.

“Tell me,” he said, “truthfully, that you don’t want this.”

A beat resonated from your core to your fingertips, a cry to sate whatever beast within you he’d created and enslaved. The truth, you knew, was obvious to you both: You wanted it so badly you suffocated beneath it.

The only thing left was to succumb.

You hooked his hips, tugged him against your body, and sealed your lips to his.

Tavington growled, gripping the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair, his body flattening you to the wall. His mouth sought yours like a blaze sought tinder, his tongue pushing past your teeth and teasing over your own. Shivering, you tightened your hold on his hips, hoping to ground yourself as air fled the room. He groaned, adjusting his angle, deepening the kiss, and you met him in kind, breathing him in, reveling in the heady scent of apple and wood and smoke-steeped leather.

His hands moved to grab your wrists, tacking them to the wall as he broke from your mouth to nestle his face into the crook of your neck. Grunting, his hips bucked into you, searching for friction beyond the layers of gown and finding relief against your thigh. A gasp escaped you, and he ground against you again, again, panting into your throat, his teeth scraping the delicate flesh.

You felt him, even through your petticoats, growing hard, growing needy, a promise to satisfy a longing you could not even define. Drawing a breath, you exhaled exhilaration, nuzzled your head against his—and his nails and teeth sunk into you simultaneously.

“Ah!” You squirmed, but his grip intensified, and a thrill shot up your spine. “You animal.”

He huffed, dragging his tongue over the tender spot. “‘You are like what is said that the frying-pan said to the kettle’.”

You stifled a laugh, rolled your eyes. “Is now the time to quote Don Quixote?”

Tavington glimpsed you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Never a better time than in present company.”

Desire surged through you, and you fought against his hold, wanting to meet his mouth with your own. His eyes glittered, and he bit your throat again. You cried out, breathless at how pleasure and pain inextricably knotted in your flesh. Writhing against him, you delighted in how this only urged him to bruise your wrists, to drag his teeth down to the clothed parts of your chest.

When this prevented him from advancing, he released you, moving to instead undo the buttons on the front of your gown. Your stomach petrified. Even though Tavington had already seen your body, now he craved it, like a hunter relishing the meat of his first kill. And you—despite the terror his blade inspired, wanted to be tasted.

His nimble fingers fully revealed your stays, and you braced yourself with a breath. This was just a man’s body, touching your body. You were not a coward.

You shrugged off your bodice, exposing your shoulders, arms, and collarbones fully to his eyes. He leaned back to absorb it, then twisted to search for something on the desk. Before you could discern what it was, he found and grabbed it, his arm barring your chest and pinning you along the wall. You squealed as he brought the letter opener to the bottom of your stays’ laces and sliced through them like flower stems.

You gasped. “Bastard! This is my only pair of stays!”

A single brow rose. “And the only silk ribbon in the Carolinas, as well,” he said, and shucked it to the floor.

“Well—” He tugged down your shift, exposing your breasts. “Oh—”

Tavington snorted. “Oh.” Then he jammed his thigh between your legs, his mouth latching to your throat, his hands groping at your chest.

“Oh, God—”

The moment your center connected with the hard muscle of his leg, you moaned, the sensation of pressure so staggering that you were afraid you would be unable to stop. Tavington exhaled with satisfaction, shocks of bliss peaking over you as he kneaded your breasts in his hands, his thumbs circling your nipples.

Your cunt felt swollen, hot, and you rocked on his thigh, frantic to oblige its budding need. A sound rumbled in his throat, and his teeth attacked your shoulder in a sharp stripe of pain. You yelped, and he did it again, his breath picking up, his mouth raising wet, furious marks on your flesh.

“Yes,” you said, because it was the only word that you could think to say. “I—ah!”

He gave you no room to speak, gripping your breasts so firmly that you twitched, grinding his erection against you. You wanted, needed more of him—your hands found his jacket, slipped under the lapels, scratched at his arms in a wordless request. Relinquishing you, he allowed the coat to slide from his shoulders, and you made quick work of his waistcoat, unbuttoning it as deftly as he’d done to you.

“I see what you want,” he murmured into your skin.

The waistcoat joined his jacket on the floor—but you had no time to admire him before he was back on you, squeezing your breasts, kissing his way to one before taking your nipple into his mouth. You threw your head back, overwhelmed with desire, with the insistent throb that now pounded between your legs.

There was a part of him you were both desperate and anxious to know: the part of him that might slake the lust that your fingers had been so unable to satisfy. It was just a man’s body, you told yourself, a man’s body you had longed for since the moment you’d seen him.

As he swirled his tongue around your hardened bud, you clung to him, breath hiccuped with whimpers of bliss, and reached below his waist, gliding your fingers over the bulge in his trousers.

Tavington convulsed, slamming you to the wall, teeth tearing at your breast, a rabid noise strangled in his chest. “Enough of this, then, hm?”

He grabbed you by the shoulders, his jaw tight as he pushed you toward the desk and smashed you chest-first against its surface, sending papers flying. You groaned, making to move before he gathered your wrists and bound them behind your back. Air kissed your legs as he hiked your skirts up, baring your stockinged calves, your thighs, your ass to the room. Panic rang bells in your brain.

“There we are.” Fingers brushed the backs of your thighs, coasting toward your center. You wondered what it looked like through his eyes. The mere thought made you clench. “You’re dripping.”

Heat burst in your belly. You could only manage to nod. He skated his fingers over the fat, puffy lips of your cunt, and you writhed, flinching at every sensation on that tender flesh which had never known a touch that wasn’t yours.

Tavington hummed appreciatively. “It’s about time I made use of that.”

Behind you, you heard rustling of clothes, something dropping, and you clenched again, knowing he was releasing his cock, furious you couldn’t see it for yourself. You tried to stabilize your breathing, thoughts spiraling in a storm of emotion. He was going to fuck you. William Tavington was going to fuck you. You were about to lose your virginity.

A hand curled around your thigh. Something hot, thick prodded your folds, slicked itself on your wetness.

He was about to take your virginity.

“Wait,” you said, “I—”

Tavington shushed you. “Hush, now,” he mumbled. “I’m introducing your cunt to its new master.”

You whinged. A flash of memory—the first time you tried to tell him.

His cock found your entrance. Pressed against it.

Swallowing, you closed your eyes.

“William.”

He stopped. You felt the head of his cock pulse, felt his grip dig deep. A slow, long breath left him.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I…” You laid your forehead against the desk. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

More silence. Every inch of your skin burned.

“You what?”

You tried to turn to face him, meeting his eyes from the periphery of your vision. “I’m a virgin.”

Tavington seized your hips, flipped you onto your back. Breathless, you devoured the sight of him; his skin bronzed in firelight, the patch of his chest heaving in need, his eyes like those of a starved wolf. His cock was free, proud and hard—longer and thicker than you had imagined. Your mouth watered, your thighs squeezed together.

He was going to put that inside of you.

Your heart skipped. You met his gaze. He was inspecting you for hints of deception, and as you stared into him, his throat bobbed.

“I believe this is the first time I've seen true fear in your eyes.” He smirked, so irritatingly assured. “You are a virgin.”

Blood warmed your face, and you looked away. “Well,” you muttered, “I hope that's all right with you, Colonel.”

He growled, spread your legs and settled between them. “William,” he corrected. “And you should hope instead that your tolerance for suffering is as impressive as you seem to believe.” Busy hands tossed your skirts up again. “Because I'm going to make this hurt.”

Your breath hitched. Like a cat watching a dangling string, you couldn’t resist.

“You can try.”

Tavington offered a pitiless grin and hoisted your backside onto the desk, scattering papers over the floor. Trembling at the fact you’d provoked him, you could only watch as he grabbed your calves and propped them onto his shoulders, his hands cupping your ass and giving a longing squeeze. You groaned, and he swallowed again, positioning his cock at your entrance.

Gazing at you, he said, “Plead with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You may effectively play at some things,” he replied, “but not war, and certainly not stupidity.” His voice lowered. “Plead with me to take you.”

Your cunt clenched around emptiness. His cock was warm and slick and hard. Hard for you, throbbing for you. God, you wanted it—and he knew it.

You grumbled. “You are, without a doubt, the worst man I've ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“And what of the best one?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate your ankles at his ears.

“Shut up.” You exhaled. “Please,” you said quietly, “take me.”

“To whom is this request addressed?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, William.” You met his gaze, the truth easily slipping free. “Please, I want you to take me.”

Tavington’s jaw set. “You’re almost pleasant when you're obedient.”

The next thing you felt was pressure. Crushing, terrible pressure, widening into pain, like a fire iron was expanding inside of you, searing your insides, tearing deep into your stomach. You grimaced, gripped the table, fighting to find breath as tremors wracked your limbs. Above you, Tavington’s mouth was parted, his gaze fixated on his invasion of your cunt, the evidence of his pleasure escaping in soft, choked noises of disbelief as he drove deeper, and deeper, until his hips hit yours.

Fully buried inside of you, he exhaled, staring between your legs. Your mind was a whirlwind of sensation. You knew virgins to bleed. Had it deterred him?

He glanced at you. In his eyes, you could see nothing but utter rapture—the blue of heaven after apocalypse. You shivered, tightened painfully around him. No, it hadn’t deterred him.

William Tavington had only ever been delighted to see blood.

He exhaled. “Does it hurt?”

Your teeth clacked together, your body shook, drowning in its own feeling. Words wouldn’t come to you. But even if they would, you would refuse to give him—

Snarling, he slid out and slammed back inside. Agony ripped through you, forced a scream from your chest, and you spasmed, grappling for something more solid than the earth to steady you.

“Does it hurt?” he growled.

“Yes!” you sobbed. “Yes, yes—”

A quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. “Good.”

Tavington withdrew from you, grappling your hips, jaw slackening as he stared between your legs. He thrust in, you winced, and a deep, incredulous groan escaped him, as if he’d just released a millstone from his neck. Breath stuttered in his chest, his eyelids drooped, and he thrust again, again, his voice wracked with bliss.

Every stroke pushed pain inside of you, filled your belly with it. Your mouth lolled open, the only sounds leaving you strained through what little grip on reality you had left; the sensation sawed to your bones, engulfed you like gunfire. Seeking stability, you found his wrists, squeezed them to anchor yourself, shutting your eyes to endure the savaging of his cock.

“No,” he said. “Look at me.”

You whinged, forced your eyes to open. His gaze transfixed you.

“Very good. Meet my eyes,” he said, rocking into you, relishing each stab of discomfort flitting across your face. “Watch me defile your virgin cunt.”

Gooseflesh swarmed you, and you nodded, your attention flicking between his face and the sight of him disappearing inside of you. The truth of it electrified you—you were no longer a virgin—and as you surrendered to that truth, each new plunge of his cock felt less, less painful, as pain unraveled into pleasure. Tight squeals in your throat rumbled lower, reaching your chest, until you were moaning, panting as he fucked you.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Tavington looked drunk with lust. “Have I found myself a glutton?”

“I…” You didn’t know how to respond to that. Maybe you were. “D-don’t congratulate yourself… just yet.”

He smirked, rammed into you so hard that you wailed. “You’re an even worse liar when I’m inside of you, girl.”

“Do all men talk this much?” you replied, digging your nails into his wrists. “Or only you?”

Tavington’s lip furled. He flung your grip from his arms and leaned closer, folding you in half. The angle drove his cock even deeper than you’d thought possible; it speared through your belly, split you open to your ribcage. One hand fisted your hair, the other clamped around your throat, and he huffed in satisfaction, cock pumping into you.

“Come again?” he mumbled into your ear. “Didn’t… quite hear you.”

His hips punched forward, impaling you deep. You quailed, but the sound perished somewhere under the pressure of his grip. A strange hum infused your senses—buzzing in your lips, grazing along your scalp, trailing bliss in its wake. It inebriated you, like his touch was made of Madeira.

And you needed more.

Blindly, you felt your way up your body, found the rise of his fingers where they pinned your throat, clutched at them. Tavington uttered a disgruntled huff into your ear, his pace faltering. His grip slackened fractionally.

“No,” you whispered, trapping his fingers and crushing them harder into your flesh. “More.”

He leaned away from you, just enough to take you in. His eyes, wild and black with desire, searched yours. You nodded, brows pinching together.

“William,” you croaked, “please.”

The wildness in his eyes morphed into something utterly possessed. He unlaced his hand from your hair, bracing it on the desk beside your head. His hold on your throat twitched, tightened. He leaned closer.

“Isn’t that better?” he asked. “Isn’t it a relief to lose?”

His fingers cinched around your neck. Tighter, tighter, until that hum resumed, then rose to a knell.

Tavington renewed the onslaught of his hips. Your own heartbeat pounded through your skull. Around you, the edges of the room softened, crumbled into grey mist. Your eyes rolled back. Existence narrowed. Left at its beating center, raw and alive, was you. And within you—heat, pain, ecstasy, and him.

Just when everything dwindled to a tiny, bright speck, just when it seemed the mist would engulf you whole, the pressure vanished. Air struck your lungs, consciousness and pleasure surging outward in a riptide.

You cried out with it, keening as his cock stroked a spot inside you that blazed alive with sensation. It was too much. Not enough. You couldn’t tell. Logical thought seemed a distant memory in this state of indecipherable need. Each sensation was new, each unearthing an excruciating, exquisite frontier within.

Tavington straightened, rhythm unrelenting. Gulping air and blinking the remnants of mist from your sight, you beheld him, a towering devil framed in firelight. You watched him take your hand, entranced as he guided it between your legs to where your body split around his.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, voice ragged as he positioned your fingers at your clit. His face twisted in a smirk. “Like you do when you think of me.”

An indignant flame, half-buried in delirium, leapt to your tongue.

“I don—”

He snapped his hips, cutting you off in a gasp.

“Now, now,” he huffed. “I believe I requested your honesty.”

A languid thrust pushed a moan from your lips, and you nodded, eyelids fluttering. Tavington grunted his contentment, coaxing your fingers in slow circles over your clit. Surrendering, you took over the motion, touching yourself as instructed, as you had done so many nights before.

For the first time, a familiar pleasure crested, meeting the unfamiliar intrusion of his cock with a spark that made fireworks burst behind your eyes. Your fingertips brushed him where he entered you, dipped curiously down to feel the soft, wet wound of your flesh yield to the wrought steel of his.

“Tell me,” he purred, bracing over you again like a smug, hunched beast. “Is it everything you’ve imagined?”

He fucked you in long strokes, matching the tempo of your fingers on that sensitive nub to cataclysmic effect. Your only answer came out in a choked, desperate sob.

“Is this how you’ve longed to be ruined?” His hand slid to reunite with your neck, fingers cradling your nape while his thumb dragged up the bruised column of your throat.

“William,” you whimpered, trembling with the sweet ache that burgeoned inside you, deeper than you’d ever felt it, swelling toward a precipice. “I think I… I’m going to…”

“Yes.” His grip locked into place around your neck. “You are.”

His hand throttled any further noise. All you could do was writhe and swirl tighter, faster circles on your clit, drawn nearer and nearer to some indefinable edge as you shook with the force of his thrusts. Closer, closer it came, and your eyes squeezed shut, your limbs went rigid, your sanity suspended on threads, fibers fraying—

“That’s it,” came his voice, growling into your ear. “Break for me. I want to feel you break around my cock.”

Like a saber, his words severed you from rationality. You didn’t break. You shattered.

Euphoria ruptured your blood, a deluge through every vessel, the stretch of his cock stuffing you fuller, saturating you with it, until it reached the brim of your skin and poured over, washing you with bliss. You wheezed against his hand, quaking as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Yes,” he hissed, “yes—”

Tavington released you. Coughing down a breath, you peeled your eyes open, watching as he wrenched out of your cunt and into his fist, panting, stroking himself. Sweat gleamed off his chest and forehead. Your jaw dropped. You could look nowhere else but at him, and his eyes fixed on you.

His hips pitched, and he released a guttural, primal moan, hand stilling and mouth parting. Jets of warm, white seed pulsed from his cock, splashed over your thighs and belly. It slipped down your skin, mingling with the sweat smeared underneath you. As the tail-end of his climax receded, Tavington exhaled, finally spent, and leaned on the desk to catch his breath. Craning forward, you took him in.

Sweat soaked you both, and between your legs, blood stained your thighs, your shift, the wood. It had even seeped into the hem of his blouse. He glanced down at it, sighing with an arrogant satisfaction. He swiped across your inner thigh, collecting your blood, his seed on his thumb. Staring at you, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked it clean. You shivered. Swallowed.

Tavington was exhausted, yes, but it was the exhaustion of a duel winner: relaxed, at peace, and fully secure in his conquest.

Your head dropped back onto the desk, and you stared into the ceiling. Aftershocks of your peak continued to distract you from toddling your way back to whatever normalcy was. What did the world look like for you, now that your virginity had been slaughtered by an uncompromising hound? The cavern between your legs felt sore, empty. Sticky.

Sighing, you rolled your head along a stack of papers, looking toward Tavington. “What are we to do about the desk?”

He cleared his throat, finally managing to straighten and meet your stare. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Don’t be difficult,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Someone has to clean it up.”

“Do they, now?”

“I’m not convinced of the wisdom in worsening His Lordship’s evening further.”

He snorted. “Am I to believe you’ve come to care about his opinions?”

“No,” you replied, frowning, “but they seem to be of great importance to you.”

Tavington gazed at you, a smirk crossing his lips. Keeping your focus, he reached toward an ink well, reeled back his forefingers, and knocked it over. Ink spilled like water across red-ribboned parchment.

“‘Alack, the day,’” he said apathetically, “‘what blood is this, which stains?’”

Oh, yes, this is just like Romeo and Juliet, you thought, as the ink bled into paper, dripped onto the floor.

Your hand plastered over your face. You couldn’t help yourself. You laughed.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #cw: bloodplay #and cw: virginity loss but i feel like that's assumed and implied entirely

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