kylorengarbagedump

[kylorengarbagedump]

I’ve been on a kick w the Veronica’s lately and this song reads like little bird 2 me

OH ABSOLUTELY

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 19

Read on AO3. Part 18 here.

Summary: You and Goddard come to an agreement. Your journey brings you back to The Worst Man You've Ever Met.

Words: 6000

Warnings: n/a

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

OMG HAVE WE FINALLY MADE IT BACK TO TAVINGTON :) WHAT DO YOU GUYS THINK WILL HAPPEN I JUST DONT KNOW :)

Thank you so much for the engagement with the plot <3 It warms our little authory hearts that folks feel excited enough to stick around for all the parts without penis. Thank you so so much for your generosity and kindness and all of it. We love you and Happiest New Year <3

Benedict Goddard stood frozen to the spot. If not for the murmur of the river and the tiny bob of his throat, you might have believed time itself had stilled. Neither of you looked away from the other.

“I was just—”

“Miss, are you—”

Both of you began and stopped at the same time. You beheld each other for a breath.

“I got stuck here and I—”

“Why are you all the way—”

Goddard winced. Your cheeks strained under the mortified artifice of your smile. Inexplicably, like a lizard trying to shuck its own pinned tail, you yanked again to free yourself. But this only succeeded in toppling you over the stump once more and cramping the arm that hid your pistol. You swore under your breath.

“May I, um…” Goddard cleared his throat, taking one step forward. “Would you like some help?”

“No!” you squeaked.

Goddard paused, casting you a look that hovered somewhere between pain and gastric distress.

“I’m fine, really, I’ll just—ugh.” The stump was unyielding as ever to your efforts. Shuffling your feet underneath you, you threw your weight against your snagged sleeve. “Just—need to—get this—out—”

“Miss, please, before you injure yourself—” Goddard closed the distance with a wary glance at the firearm now flopping and poorly concealed in your grasp.

“Goddard, I said I don’t need—”

Unslinging his musket, “—this will only take a moment—” he aimed the stock at the stump and whacked it hard, snapping the gnarl of wood that entrapped you and sending you spilling onto your backside with a yelp, your flintlock tumbling to the grass.

After allowing yourself a few steadying breaths, you glanced up at Goddard, who was still looking at you as if you were a piece of expensive plateware he’d just dropped.

“I was just, um…” for some inane reason, you still felt the need to explain yourself. “Looking for mushrooms.”

“For… mushrooms,” Goddard repeated.

Suddenly irritated, you sat up a little straighter. “Yes. Is it such a strange thing?”

Goddard shrugged helplessly. His gaze flicked over you, to the pistol laying at your side. Then a lopsided half-grin softened his face a fraction, revealing the boyish ease of the Goddard you were more accustomed to.

“Good thing you brought that,” he said, nodding to the gun. “I hear they’re quick little buggers.”

His attempt at levity stunned you for a moment. You almost barked out a laugh. Almost.

Scowling, you snatched the pistol and shoved it into your pocket before making to stand. “What are you doing here, Goddard?”

He proffered a hand, which you refused. “I could ask you the sa—”

“Were you following me?” you snapped, the idea slamming you the moment your feet bore your weight. “Did Tavington send you?”

“Tavington?” Genuine perplexment twisted his expression. “No, why would Colonel Tavington want to—”

Your face burned. “He wouldn’t!” you said. “Obviously, he wouldn’t even care about what I was doing, so why would you even ask if he would want—”

“Miss, you asked me—”

“Anyway!” You threw your hands into the air, hoping to dispel the last seconds of conversation from his memory. “Forget it.” Sighing, you brushed off the dirt and debris that clung to your petticoats. Could you potentially go one day without doing something humiliating in front of a British officer? “Fine day for a fox chase, indeed,” you mumbled under your breath.

Goddard stiffened. “What was that?”

“What?” You cleared your throat. “Nothing.”

“No,” he said, approaching you. “No, you… You said something.” His eyes searched yours, and you averted your gaze, suddenly all too aware of the fact that he was a British officer and you’d been found in the midst of attempting subterfuge. “Something like…” He stepped forward, trying to force himself in front of where you were looking. “Fine day for a fox chase?”

Your eyes widened. You stood still. Met his stare from the corner of yours. You realized that if he hadn’t actually followed you, the only other way a redcoat could have come out to this spot is if he had been specifically instructed to do so. Perhaps to deposit something for later retrieval.

“You…” Brow furrowing, you stepped toward him, poking a finger into his chest. “You’re the contact on the inside?”

“Shh!” Goddard’s head whipped around, finding nothing and no one around you. “Not so loud!” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “How do you know that? Did you—” He gasped. “You’re a spy.”

“Now you be quiet!” you hissed.

“After pretending to be a Tory who denounced her rebel father?” he replied hoarsely. “This entire time!”

Your hand shot out and pinched his lips together. “Yes,” you said, wagging him back and forth like a doll. “And I’ve managed to throw most suspicion off me, so please be mindful of your volume and conduct!”

Grumbling, he shoved you away. “Fine, fine!” He rubbed his mouth, pouting. “Tavington suspects you, though?”

You cleared your throat. “I’m working on that.” A slow breath left you. You examined him—this boy, not even two decades old and having wound himself up in some complex spy arrangement. You were surprised Lottie hadn’t killed him for even considering it. “Does Lottie—”

“No!” He swallowed. “No. She’d kill me if I even considered it.”

As you’d suspected. “She doesn’t know anything about this?”

Goddard averted his gaze. “She doesn’t know much about most of what I do,” he replied. “I tend to not keep her abreast of it all.” He chewed at his cheeks. “I can’t imagine she’d appreciate stories of what others in the legion get up to in the field.” He grimaced. “They’re rather ruthless, and she’s rather squeamish.”

“Well, you aren’t wrong there.”

You hummed in thought, studying him. If you had been given an option to choose someone to entrust your life to, it would not have been Benedict Goddard. As far as you had known, both he and Lottie were as adherent to the crown as any good Tory would be. Now, you found yourself in a position to enter an allyship with him. And if you were to do that, you needed to understand him just a bit better.

His face was red. His shoulders sloped toward the ground. There was something he hadn’t told you yet.

“Why are you doing this, Goddard?” you asked. His face tightened. “I thought that you… Your parents…” You faltered, realizing you knew next to nothing at all about the Goddards senior aside from your own assumptions.

Goddard rubbed the back of his head, then his eyes as he exhaled. “The…” He looked at you. “I suppose you’ll get it,” he said to himself, “not as if you’re a worshipper of redcoats.”

You ignored the polite skip your heart made in reminder of events the week prior.

“Our parents…” Goddard focused on the ground. “When the British tried to take Charleston in seventy-six…” His mouth trembled. “It didn’t go well. Lottie thinks they were killed by a Patriot mob. And I did too, actually. Since that’s what they’d told us.” He nudged the grass with his toe. “But I learned later, once I’d been commissioned…” Drawing in a breath, his shoulders rolled back, and he looked, for possibly the first time, like a young man instead of a boy. “They’d been arrested during the retreat. Put on a ship. They were good Tories. Loyal citizens. But it didn’t matter.” Goddard finally met your eyes. “My father died in confinement before his trial. I’ve no idea what became of my mother.”

Your heart wilted for him. For Lottie, too. “They’re both dead,” you finished for him.

He nodded, sniffled. “That’s all I can assume. And I didn’t… I didn’t have the courage. Until the explosion at Middleton Place.” Nodding to himself, he shrugged. “Made me feel as if I could make it so their deaths weren’t in vain.”

“They won’t be,” you replied quickly, assuredly, because that was what you believed. “All right. We can work together on this. You give me your intelligence. I’ll get it to the Continentals. But we can’t be seen together, and you absolutely cannot mention ever seeing me or my family. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but…” He hesitated. “It’s already well known that you’ve been living with myself and my sister. Wouldn’t pretending we’re strangers only raise greater suspicion?”

“Shite,” you murmured, casting around as if the right answer might be etched in the grass somewhere. “All right, then we carry on as we have.” You looked back up at him. “Keep things reserved, but friendly. Never seem familiar with me, and I shan’t with you.”

“Right.” Goddard nodded, wrung his hands. “I do have just one question, though.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. If he blew this for both of you—

“I understand everything,” he said hurriedly, “I really do. It’s just. I was wondering… if maybe you could put in a good word for me?”

“What?”

“With the Continentals! That’s where you said you’re going, right? With this?” He fished a folded parchment from beneath his coat.

“Goddard—”

“Please?” His brows pinched, making him look rather like a puppy that had just been scolded. “The man I spoke to in Charleston was apt to jump out of his skin. Didn’t even want to talk to me, seemed like. Probably thought I’d double-cross him or something.”

“I’m not even supposed to know who you are! Nor you I.”

“I know, I know.” Goddard ran a hand through his mess of curls. “But I think they’re testing me with this. Making sure I’m trustworthy and all. So maybe you could tell them I am?”

“They trusted you enough to tell you the code phrase, didn’t they? Surely they anticipated you might find their camp.”

Goddard brightened. “It could get me into their camp?”

“No—never mind!” You groaned, dragging your palms down over your eyes. It would be a miracle if you both went a month before swinging from a gallows. “Do not seek them out, Goddard,” you said firmly. He wilted. “Do not. Not unless your cover is blown. Us even knowing each other’s identity puts us in greater peril than you can fathom, I need you to understand that.”

“I do, I do,” said Goddard, chastened. “Then we never saw each other here. We won’t breathe a word.”

You sighed. If only it were that simple. “We may do much more than ‘breathe’ should the redcoats ever be of a mind to torture us for what we know.”

Goddard paled. “Then what do we do?”

“How should I know?” You threw your hands in the air. This was a mess. A huge mess that you never should have agreed to entangle yourself in.

“I could put this…” Goddard leaned toward the stump, reaching toward as if to hide the letter.

“Oh, just give me the stupid letter!” You snatched it from him. “Christ.”

Goddard offered you a lopsided grin. You huffed, peering behind him. “Where are you supposed to be right now, anyway?”

He glanced at his boots. “With Major Ferguson,” he muttered. “I conscripted myself to assist his unit as soon as I was aware he’d be passing through Catawba.”

“Right,” you said. “And I imagine you need to return to that encampment relatively shortly.”

“Indeed I do, miss.”

“All right.” You sighed. With this intelligence on your person and with Ferguson still close by, you’d need to make it out of this area as quickly as possible. That meant saying goodbye to Grace far earlier than you’d wanted. You’d hoped to at least have another night. “How’d you get here then, a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

He pointed out behind him, into the forest. “Tied up beyond the bridge.”

You nodded. “I’ll be taking it. You’ll be all right to walk back to camp.”

“Wh—miss, please!” Goddard balked. “What shall I say happened to my horse, then?”

Shrugging, you began to make your way to the edge of the woods. “Say it ran off,” you replied. “Or died.”

“Died—”

“I really must go, Goddard,” you said. “Good luck. Give me five minutes before you leave.”

As you left him in the distance, you heard him sigh. “Yes, miss, I shall…”

You trudged through the trees, eventually spying the shape of the broken bridge, and the horse tied to its posts on the opposite side. After picking your way across the planks, you paused, a sudden sense of familiarity washing over you as you took in the stout little animal before you. Bay, one white sock, a snip of white on his nose.

“It’s you,” you breathed through a smile, walking up to offer your hand. “Remember me?”

The horse flicked his ears toward you and snuffled your hand, puffed warm breath over it. Just as he’d done on that fateful May morning when you’d spirited him away from his lush pasture to become your accomplice in a flight for your life. That might well have been an eon ago. You felt a pang in your chest for both of you.

“Things have changed for us, haven’t they, boy?” The horse snorted softly and reached down for a mouthful of grass. “I ought to call you something proper, I suppose.”

You checked the girth, adjusted one stirrup before circling around to do the same to the other. The late summer breeze soothed your skin, ruffled his mane, reminded you of gentler and simpler times. Like something from a dream.

“What do you think of ‘Puck?’” you mused. The horse reached around to nose at your petticoats. You stroked him between the eyes, and he gave a contented sigh. You smiled. “All right. Puck it is, then.”

—

Grace must have heard the approach of hooves—she had stepped onto the porch before you could make it to the steps, her mouth agape.

“What on—” She looked between you and the horse, her hands on her hips. “Where did you manage to procure a horse?” Another glance at the tack. “A British horse?”

You offered her a tight smile, neck tensing with the force. “Well…” You slowed your mount and hopped off. “It’s part of everything we agreed not to discuss,” you said, guiding Puck to a handrail and tying him up. “But have no worry, I was not pressed to shoot anyone for it.”

“Well, now it seems as if you were pressed,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. A realization sunk onto her shoulders like fog. “What need do you have for a horse?”

“That’s the other bit,” you said, ascending the steps and crossing to her, placing your hands on her shoulders. “I need to be on my way.”

Her face fell, and she averted her gaze. “So I feared.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I wanted to stay at least a couple more days.”

Nodding, Grace pressed her cheek onto one of your hands. “I know.” A slow, reluctant sigh escaped her. “I just…” Her mouth screwed in thought. “I did not anticipate being alone again so soon.”

You swallowed, pulling her into a hug. She buried her face in your neck and wrapped her arms around you, breathing you in before relaxing into the embrace. You kissed her hair, holding her close, hoping to imbue her with your love, that it might sustain her in your absence.

As you pulled apart, Grace bounced on the balls of her feet. “Let me send you off with a few things, at least.”

Before you could even begin to protest, she darted into the house. You sighed and moved to unfasten the saddle bags—mercifully empty aside from a spare ramrod and a few loose musket balls. Might as well collect a few things yourself before leaving.

Inside, the sounds of tinkling glass rang out as Grace rummaged through the kitchen. “My bag is here by the stairs,” you called, setting one down before ascending up to your room with the other one.

Humming tunelessly to yourself, you gathered an extra pair of stays (and several ribbons for lacing them), a few petticoats, and your hair comb. Stuffing each into the bag, you allowed yourself to soak in the familiarity of home and tried not to allow preemptive grief to smother you. This wasn’t the last time you’d be here. As long as you held onto that belief, you would make it ring true.

From the bed, a little mrrow drew your attention. Mr. Mouser padded along the edge, tail high, before turning in a circle to beg for pats. Softening, you stepped forward and stroked your fingers along his back, earning a loud rumbling purr. You scooped him up and buried your face in his fur, breathing in the comfort of his smell.

As you released him again, a shape on the bed caught your eye. The Odes still lay open where you’d used it to decipher Papa’s letter. You picked it up, leafed through the pages, smoothed your thumbs over the cover. It was quite a clever way to encipher a letter, you thought to yourself. You wondered where Papa had gotten the idea, or if he had come up with it on his own. Either way, you’d need the book if he wished to continue communicating in code.

After a moment’s hesitation, you slipped the book into your bag with everything else. Then you fastened it, swept a final look around your room, and headed back downstairs.

Grace was kneeling beside your other saddle bag, arranging an assortment of canisters and cloth-wrapped bundles so they fit neatly inside. When she stood at your approach, she wore a wry smile.

“What have you put in there?” you asked.

“Oh, just some tea blends, plus a few dried herbs and provisions for your travels,” she said innocently.

You smiled, shook your head. You supposed you’d find out eventually. “I’ll write you,” you said, taking her hand in yours.

“Please regale me with tales of John,” she giggled, lifting your arm to spin beneath it as if in a dance. “Promise.”

Who’s John? you almost said before stopping yourself. “I promise.” You released her, tapping your forefinger to her nose. “And you promise to stay out of trouble.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Please,” she replied, “I believe that’s a promise you must needs make to yourself.”

“If I made it,” you said, grinning, “I’d surely break it within the day.”

“Within the hour, more like.”

You both laughed, and wrapped each other in a hug again. Another sigh left between you before you drew apart.

“I’ll be going,” you said. “Burn Papa’s letters, all right?”

She stuck out her lip in a playful pout. “Oh, even that of sweet Mr. Pearce?” she said. “You seemed so fond of it.” She tried to stop herself from smiling. “Though perhaps he’s no John.”

You groaned, planting a finger in the center of her chest and pushing her away. “Go on, then,” you replied, unable to hide your own smile. “I’m heading to Fort Carolina. I’ll write to you when I arrive.”

With that, you descended the stairs, secured your saddle bags and hoisted yourself into the saddle. Eyes on your sister, you tugged on the reins and headed toward the main road, waving, sneaking glances at her until the woods swallowed her from view.

The ride toward the camp wasn’t long, but it was long enough to have your mind skipping over every recent event before you truly arrived. Goddard—you’d allied yourself with a child—Grace—you’d left your sister alone again—Papa and Pearce—whoever Pearce was, he’d ingratiated himself to your father so effectively that Papa seemed pleased with his intent on becoming an in-law—and William.

He’d spent the past week at the forefront of your thoughts, and irritatingly, he hadn’t been unwelcome. In fact, you realized that upon your admission to your sister, there was something you nearly enjoyed about your time together that hadn’t been entirely physical. That you yearned to experience again.

It was revolting.

You shuddered, shaking your head as if you could fling the sticky syrup of fondness from your skin like a dog shaking its fur free of water. You could not, would not be a woman who pined, a woman who sat in bubbling glee upon reading a letter penned in his hand. That sort of behavior was suitable for girls like Grace, to be certain, and they could relish that. But you? No, you could never expose the underbelly of your tenderness to anyone, and especially not a man, and especially not William Tavington.

And so you wouldn’t.

Once you’d come within a few miles of the encampment, you cut off the main road and rode through the field until a collection of white canvas rose from the horizon. The sun was beginning to cross into the west; you’d need to make this quick if you planned on making it to Fort Carolina before midnight.

As you approached the shabby huddle of tents, two militiamen rushed you, one with his hand in the air, the other with his musket aimed toward you. You couldn’t blame them—you were on a horse with British tack, after all—and you drew Puck to a stop before holding up your hands.

“Hold there!” said one of the men. “Stay your approach!”

“I’m staying,” you mumbled, and then, louder, “Understood.”

“Dismount,” said the man with the musket, drawing the path he wanted you to take with the barrel. “Feet on the ground and hands up.”

Sighing, you unhooked one of your feet from the stirrups, and went to sling your leg over the saddle, only for strange hands to grasp your waist. You yelped, swinging back atop the horse and glaring at the soldier who’d tried to assist you.

“Don’t touch me!” you growled.

The man’s eyes widened. “I was—”

“Off the horse, madam,” said the soldier with the gun.

You sneered. “Inform your compatriot to have his hands to himself, and I shall dismount with haste.”

“You’re in no place to make demands,” he replied, approaching you like one would approach a pile of vomit. “Perhaps you’re unaware, but the monarchy has no authority here. We’ll pay no heed to a princess.”

“Princess?” You laughed, looked him over. He was young, his hands pillowy and uncalloused. “I would hardly expect deferential treatment from a boy who has clearly spent his entire life delegating labor to his slaves. All while crying ‘liberty’ from around his mother’s teat, no doubt.”

His lip furled. “Listen here, you Tory bitch—”

He snatched your leg, and you snarled, slamming your toe into his chest.

“Get your hands—”

“Enough!”

Both of your heads turned—in front of you, approaching like wildfire, was Captain Pearce. The stupid idiot moron of a militiaman released you and snapped to attention. You restrained a groan, feeling like a spider now indebted to a fly.

“Private, what do you think you’re doing?” Pearce said, his eyes flicking between him and you. “Is this how you treat all women without supervision?”

The man snarled at Pearce. “I’m not your private, Captain.”

“You are under my command in Colonel Martin’s absence,” Pearce snapped, “and you will explain your behavior at once.”

The man seethed, but his eyes shifted away from Pearce’s. “We were told not to allow anyone entry without the passphrase—”

“They didn’t even ask me for a passphrase, Captain,” you interjected.

Pearce’s brows raised. “You didn’t ask?” He looked between the two men. “Your first solution was assault?”

“No, no—”

“My apologies, sir,” the bystander offered.

“This woman is to be permitted entry,” he said, waving you forward. “She’s familiar to me.”

“But the passphrase—”

Pearce shook his head, giving you a quick glance. “Forget the passphrase, the means of obtaining it are far too obscure—”

You frowned. “Fine day for a fox chase,” you said primly, brow raised. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh.” Pearce’s jaw dropped, then clicked shut. Both of the men looked to him and he flicked his hand as way of direction. “Dismissed, both of you,” he said, and they each scurried off. Once they’d made it several yards away, he cleared his throat. “My apologies, miss. My intent was not to assume anything negative—”

“Do you think I arrived here by accident?” You stared down your nose at him. “Or did you imagine that after reading your letter that my newly found affections led me to you like a fish wound toward the rod?”

Pearce’s face reddened. “No.” Sighing, he rubbed his brow and shook his head again. “No, no, you’re perfectly right. My apologies.” He focused on the grass a moment before laughing. “I suppose I can’t manage a conversation with you without stepping on my own feet, can I?”

You cocked your head. “No,” you replied. “I suppose not.”

“Am I to take it then that you did not appreciate—”

“Where’s my father?”

“Ah.” He glanced behind him, then looked back to you. “Your father left with the colonel of the militia this morning. Out scouting. I’m sure he did not expect you to arrive so quickly.” He gave you a hopeful grin. “But I will, of course, inform him that you received the message safely.” A pause, and he took a breath. “What were your thoughts regarding the rest of—”

“So then I can’t hand off the intelligence.” Your heart tumbled.

Pearce’s eyes widened. “Oh, miss, no, I am perfectly capable of receiving it,” he said, holding out his hand. “As you can see, your father and I work very closely together and—”

“Fine,” you said, proffering the correspondence from Goddard. “Take it.” You waited for him to collect it from your grasp, and then leaned forward. “And regardless of what my father tells you, do not write me again.” You returned to sitting straight. “Or at least refrain from including patronizing references to my appearance.”

Pearce looked at the parchment, his free hand curling in and out of fists. With a long sigh, he pocketed it and nodded, his face brighter than blood itself. “As you wish, miss,” he said, and then met your eyes. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Jump headfirst into a quarry. “Give my father my best. And tell him not to write to my sister, as she doesn’t wish to be dragged into war.”

“Very well, then,” he said, bowing his head. “May I tell him where you’re headed to now?”

“Fort Carolina.”

He frowned. “That’s about a day’s ride, is it not?” he asked. “It’s already past noon. You don’t wish to perhaps stay here and ride out in the morning?” His gaze betrayed his attempt to conceal his concern. “The roads can become dangerous for a woman traveling alone, worse still at night.”

“With respect, Captain, given my treatment upon arrival, I’ve no reason to believe your men are safer company than bandits or wolves.” You pulled your pistol from your pocket, brandishing it toward the sky.

Pearce looked as if he’d just watched a frog perform a ballet routine. “Ah.” He swallowed. “Well, then, miss. I bid you farewell.” He reached out for your hand, and when you didn’t offer it, stuck his back in his pocket, his lips pursed. “Safe journey to you.”

“Farewell,” you replied, replacing the pistol where you’d stored it. Wheeling Puck around, you headed back toward the road.

The events of the day rattled through your mind like the pebbles underneath your mount’s hooves. You hoped you had been right to trust Pearce with the correspondence, but you supposed you hadn’t had any other options. You hoped you had been right to trust Goddard with your identity, but he was trusting you with his, too. And you hoped you had been right to decide to do any of this to begin with—hoped you’d made the right decision instead of tossing out Papa and Pearce’s letters altogether.

It irritated you, really, the fact Papa hadn’t been there. He had no reason to anticipate your arrival to be so soon—surely he hoped Grace would write you and bring you to Catawba—but his habit of assuming your capable hands would catch every one of his burgeoning aspirations had your arms waning weary, your palms sore. There was no world in which you would not want to be your father’s most trusted confidante, but harboring that title meant you were now carrying greater, heavier loads than you felt prepared to bear.

You imagined telling your child self, her face muddied and hair a pincushion of twigs, that one day she’d conduct subterfuge for America’s independence. Imagined unlacing the burden from your back and strapping it to hers. Of course, that wouldn’t be fair. But was it fair for your father to do the same to you?

Or perhaps it was to your credit that he considered you so capable. Papa was the most capable man you’d met, after all—he’d taught himself to read and write as a boy and then demanded the knowledge of every skill he came across thereafter. It was to no surprise then he might expect the same attitude from his children. And shouldn't you have been thankful for that? Thankful for all he'd imparted on to you?

That seemed to ring more true than the bottom of abandoning it all. The alternative was something William had said—liberty to define your life free from their influence. But how could you ever resent an influence like Papa’s?

All of that without even mentioning the fact you'd met the man who was betraying the British, and you unfortunately knew him. Without your full and total dedication to this cause, you risked both of your lives, and in turn, potentially Lottie’s, too. Grace, you were sure, would be safe in Ferguson’s high regard. But Lottie only had you and her brother.

No, you would commit to this. Whatever Goddard and your father needed, you would provide. You would not be demurred by fear of your own incompetence.

One tiny, insignificant, needlingly small thorn of hesitation burrowed into your decision. Only quickly, but with enough discomfort that you paid it mind—

How would William feel if he found out?

Of course, that was ridiculous. William did not care about you and you did not care about him. Ruminating on the depth of his apathy would earn you little but frustration. You plucked it from your flesh and flicked it into the ether.

Day dissolved into night. The road awoke with crickets, their rhythm interrupted by the tenor yawning of frogs. Moonlight, fresh in its infancy, glowed in pearl lakes off of the fields, bleached the trees to periwinkle cotton, laid the tapestry for the Milky Way above you. You dissipated into it, awash in awe and admiration—you weren't sure when you finally noticed that the road met its destination.

Not more than a mile away, posted on top of a hill, was what you were sure was Fort Carolina. Curtain walls shot high into the air, torches flickered atop every bastion, and within its perimeter stood a building. A building, you noticed, with windows and candles, which meant a building with people inside. And those people included, potentially, William Tavington.

Your throat thickened. Your heart skipped. How annoying. Were you—you winced outwardly at the thought—anticipating his presence? It had only been a bit over a week, for little baby Jesus’ sake.

Then again, a week had been plenty of time to consider everything he'd done to you, and everything he had yet to do. Everything you wanted him to do.

Like an obedient whore, your cunt ached in want.

Damn that bastard.

Your approach drew the attention of soldiers stationed at the entry. In acknowledgement of your tack, they hailed you, but did not appear to have the intention of allowing you inside, stepping forward to blockade your progress. After ordering you to stop, both of their gazes flicked between your face and your pony, clearly in need of an explanation. For the second time that day, you found yourself needing to prove your bona fides to men for whom you had little respect and even littler patience.

“What brings you to Fort Carolina, miss?” said the man to your right. “And on whose horse? Your husband’s?”

“I serve in the field hospital.” You had no interest in actually answering any of their questions. “Please let me through. I’m arriving from Catawba and it’s been a long ride.”

“Do you have a pass?” said the other man. “Or some kind of written authorization?”

You frowned. No, you hadn’t been given anything of the sort, and you supposed it was too much to ask for William to spend one second considering your needs for returning.

“Is Colonel Tavington here?” you asked, leaning back in the saddle. “He’ll permit me.”

The men looked at each other, worry creasing their brows.

“Ah, well,” the one to your right began, “it’s late, miss, and I’m certain he does not wish to be disturbed at this hour—”

“Oh, I promise you, he’ll be very disturbed if he learns that you turned me away.” You weren’t sure how true that was, but you’d gamble on it for now. “Though I suppose those would be your consequences to reap, not mine.”

They glanced at one another again.

“Please wait here, miss,” Left Man said, before slipping inside the fort walls.

You and Right Man stood there, tension lingering in the night air. In the silence, he snuck a glance or two at you, face taut with unspoken questions about who you were and how you could possibly feel so comfortable invoking Colonel Tavington’s name so late in the evening. Perhaps this violated William’s previous dictate of discretion, but after riding all day, you couldn’t find a care.

The doors creaked open, and Left Man poked out his head, ushering you forward. “Colonel Tavington requests that you come along, miss.”

Right Man blinked. “Oh.” He stepped toward you, reaching up to assist you in dismounting. “Well, um, I’ll take your horse to the stables.”

You frowned, flung your leg from the stirrup and hopped from the saddle in one swift movement, teeth clacking as you hit the ground. “And my belongings to my accommodations.” You looked toward Left Man, chin in the air. “If you please.”

With a nod, he led you through the entrance. The moment your foot touched the tilled dirt path toward the main building, your heart fled from your blood. You felt its beat in your lips, your fingertips, in the pit of your stomach. Colonel Tavington requests you come along, he’d said. You imagined the conversation, imagined what he’d said to William to inspire such a request.

Colonel, a choleric bog woman is insinuating familiarity with you. Colonel, a creature from the swamp requests entry to the fort—it appears to be female. Colonel, there’s a woman on her knees begging for your cock, shall we permit her access?

That last one was probably what William had chosen to hear.

Left Man guided you through the house, through the dancing light that decorated the halls, your pulse bouncing with your footsteps. It was nearly humiliating to be this thrilled about the possibility of seeing a man—but you’d long admitted that William was no ordinary man. Not to you.

Your escort stopped in front of a door, rapped it with his fist. “Sir,” he said. “You requested—”

“Enter.” That was his voice, as clipped and arrogant as ever. You swallowed.

The door opened, and you stepped inside. There, at his desk, embossed gold in the candlelight, was William Tavington. His eyes, paler than the moon, met yours, and the corner of his lip twitched.

You cocked your head, unable to stop the grin that swept your face. “Good evening, Colonel.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

is poe really dead? :(

I mean, I guess not, if he can survive a point-blank .44 caliber bullet to the skull.

[kylorengarbagedump]

That would be so insane if Goddard wound up being the person sent to swap information with Reader for the continentals (I just now realized you updated the fic over a week ago 😭 hope your holidays went well!)

That would be insane... wouldn't it :)

[kylorengarbagedump]

This came on over the car radio, and it's perfect for how I'm feeling after FYA's chapter 23

https://youtu.be/p2Rch6WvPJE?feature=shared

LMFAO?

I've been kind of off tumblr so I missed this but oh my god HAHAHAHA. I just saw your comment on the final chapter. Thank you so much, bb - you're too kind. So happy that something I wrote 8 yrs ago can still make ppl smile to this day! :) <3

[kylorengarbagedump]

merry late christmas, kass ❤️

Thank you so much my darling - one to you as well 🩷

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 18

Read on AO3. Part 17 here. Part 19 here.

Summary: You continue to be really really good at spying.

Words: 4000

Warnings: none!

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Merry Christmas (and Happy Holidays to any/all who celebrate)!

Sorry for the delay - we've been traveling and this sort of plot is very important for us to try and keep logical and clean as we write it! So, there was time spent thinking very hard and also reading and researching, hehe.

Tavington will return soon, I promise - for now, hopefully, we don't land ourselves in a heap of trouble.

“Shall you open yours first, or shall I open mine?”

You stared across the table at Grace, each of you holding your letters in your hand, the remnants of breakfast discarded to the side of the dining table. She held hers like one might hold correspondence from the King, a certain reverence for what it was, a certain anxiety for what it might contain. You urged her forward with a wave of your hand.

To be honest, even if she hadn’t looked like a woman on the verge of a nervous collapse, you would’ve volunteered her to open hers. The fact your letter even existed inspired such an uncomfortable amount of rage you were terrified to address it. Holding anger toward Papa had never been something you permitted, let alone practiced, and its recent recurrence in your life made you feel like a cat awash in a white-capped river.

Grace hummed quietly, peeling the parchment open. You studied her face as she read, watched her lips tremble, her cheeks grow warm. Her eyes flicked back and forth, the silence broken by a giggle, then an outright laugh as she clapped her hand over her mouth. There was an urge, of course, to fly over the table and scour the letter for yourself, but you resisted, deciding to literally sit on your hands.

She deserved privacy. She deserved to grow up.

With a sigh, she folded it and placed it on the table like a piece of fine porcelain. The both of you stared at it. Grace folded her hands in her lap and wiggled with glee.

“Well?” you said with a slight grin. “Are you thoroughly wooed?”

She huffed playfully. “I don’t require wooing,” she replied. “But I do believe him to be quite intent on attempting.”

“Very well, then.” You eased off your hands, taking your letter and flipping it in your fingers, examining it. Grace’s eyes met yours, and she nodded toward you. “Yes?”

“Papa’s letter, of course,” she replied. “Go on, then.”

You flipped it again. You’d been so eager to read it last night. The breadth of time to consider its contents nurtured hesitation. “All right.” You slid a nail under the wax seal, and Grace gasped.

“Wait!” she said. “Papa said—um, he said to…” She paused, recounting the words in her head. “He said to read the letter inside the letter.”

“The letter inside the letter.” Your heart skipped along your stomach. This would involve some sort of subterfuge. And he’d just dropped it in Grace’s lap. “All right.”

With a sigh, you pried open the letter, and a second piece of parchment sealed with wax tumbled out to the table. Frowning, you picked that up next and peeled it apart, reading the first lines. It began with your name, and then—

I pray this correspondence meets not with that degree of cynicism which I am undoubtedly due. Our first meeting was admittedly a catastrophe of social blunder born of my own foolish apprehension. Your father had described you as intelligent and strong-willed and I was unprepared to make your acquaintance and present myself with propriety as he failed to mention your arresting beauty. Allow me to attempt an introduction once more. My name is Christopher Pearce, and

You rolled your eyes and flicked the letter away. It skidded across the table, where Grace pinned it under her palm before it could sail to the floor.

“Goodness,” she muttered. “That bad?”

With only an mm of acknowledgement, you turned your focus to the larger leaf of paper, spreading it out to begin to read.

“May I?” said Grace across from you.

Not really hearing her, you shrugged assent.

My cub,

Much joy it brings old hands to clutch a pen and write you these lines which I bid find you in good and spirited Health. Of news there is nothing worth the ink to write it but that I am as ever upon my greatest and happiest Adventure. No holes in my shoes nor want of wages can dissuade me of that Truth or sow in me a seed of wretched Doubt. But for the subject of sowing and reaping there is much to discuss and I pray you give these next lines your utmost Attention.

Across the table, Grace giggled. “Oh, sister,” she said. “Is this the gentleman I’m to assume left his brand beneath your collar?”

“What?” Your head shot up. Grace clutched Pearce’s letter in her hands, her smile utterly knavish as she skimmed the words. Heat flashed to your face. “He’s—no!”

“Ah,” she said, smirking. “Multiple suitors, then.”

“He’s not—I do not have suitors.”

Grace’s lips flattened into a skeptical line, her eyebrows waggling from over the page. Scoffing, you turned back to Papa’s letter.

… pray you give these next lines your utmost Attention.

On the matter of Turnips, Cabbage, and Carrots, take t’e foll’wing inst’uction with care – sow the f’mily of them so they may take Root before first Frost, and re’eive them most h’arty, robust and tender for Harvest. Plant the Cabbage in profusi’n so the goats and chickens may remain as Rotund as glad’ens th’m and as not to stymie that neces’ary Supply of milk and eggs.

I Conclude with the hope that you study these Measures in accordance with your eminent intellect as they will nourish our family through Winter. As I am ever a Student in life I now will practice my Numbers. These, as you know them Well, I hope you will check through for insurance of their Accuracy.

110.30.5,54.2.7,250.16.3,157.27.4…

You frowned, skimming over the continuous and nonsensical string of numbers that concluded at the end of the page. Then you re-read the letter several times over. With a huff of frustration, you plastered it out on the table and leaned over it, as if the light might glint off the ink at a new angle and uncover the true message beneath its apparent mundanity.

It had to be written in some sort of cipher. Given the fact that neither you nor Grace needed any reminder of when to plant the fall crop after so many years, that much was clear. It was surely a clever bit of concealment, but you puzzled over the logic. And then there was the strange grammar. The spelling errors. The insistence on “practicing” numbers which Papa knew perfectly well both how to write and manipulate. A simple farmer he may have been born, but your father would never suffer being mistaken for having the education of one. It was as good a place as any to start looking for clues.

The capitalized letters first, perhaps. But that only led to nonsense, no matter how many different ways you arranged them. The misspelled words, then. Each of them, you noted, was missing a letter. Humming, you spelled them out in your mind—

H-O-R-A-C-E-O-D—

Snatching the letter up, you bolted upstairs, darting to your bed and rummaging underneath it to find The Odes by Horace. The poems were ones your father had often recited to you as a girl and ones you’d never quite taken yearning to yourself as they were full of romantic whimsy and idealistic prattle for which you didn’t have time. But it was just the sort of book in which Papa would hide a message.

Letter in hand, you flopped open your copy of The Odes, studying the first several lines, then the letter, then the book again, then the letter.

These, as you know them Well, I hope you will check through for insurance of their Accuracy.

The numbers had to relate to the book. There were sets of three, separated by commas. Page, perhaps. You flipped to page 110. As your eyes skimmed the words, you realized the next countable quantity was lines. Line 30. The next sensible thing was the word. Word 5.

Daughter.

You grinned.

Breathless, you decoded the rest of the message—a halting set of instructions that, to your interpretation, informed you to find a stump where the river met the old town road. That you’d discover a dead drop accessed by a British spy, and that you’d deliver what you found to the rebel camp to the east, to whom you would identify yourself by use of a code phrase.

The code phrase, of course, was conspicuously absent. Sighing, your head fell back on your shoulders. Had he gone through all this work just to leave you without an exceptionally important detail? You ground your palms into your eyes. You’d read the letter within the letter just to—

You paused. The letter within the letter wasn’t just the numbered message. It was the stupid worthless waste of parchment that you’d discarded. The one written by Pearce.

If you ever did manage to find Papa again, you were going to kill him for this.

Grumbling, you folded up the parchment, stomped down the stairs and swept back to the dining room, dropping the paper on the table. An urgent breath rolled through you as you saw Grace, still rapt in Pearce’s words.

“What was your complaint with this one?” she said, looking up. “He seems quite sweet.”

“Give it.” You held out your hand. “Please.”

Relenting, she pushed it toward you, lips pinned shut in patience.

Your eyes raced over the useless paragraphs of platitudes, looking for something, anything that might signify a phrase—and then—

When next we meet, I do hope we may greet each other with warmth, that I may be able to recount to you with Sincerity such rousing tales as—A fine day for a fox chase.

Of course, the fineness of any day is found wanting in comparison to your

You sneered in disgust. Grace, whose fingers had been creeping across the table this entire time, slipped Papa’s letter from underneath your hand. Humming, she started to look it over.

“Ah—”

You reached over and plucked it from her fingers, then splayed both letters across the surface like they were a losing hand of cards. Chewing your lip, you glanced at her frowning face.

“We need to have a discussion.”

Grace tilted her head, sat up a bit straighter. “Oh?”

“I don’t wish to exclude you from anything that Papa and I discuss,” you said. “You were right, last night. You’re a grown woman and free to choose your own path. And you’ve mentioned wanting to be informed.”

Raising an eyebrow, she nodded. “Yes…”

“So I want you to be able to make an informed decision.”

“You are not inspiring confidence, sister.”

Nodding, you exhaled again. “Papa’s sent me instructions on how to collect and transfer intelligence to him.”

“To spy?” she replied, frowning.

“Yes,” you said, with a grimace. “And by giving you this letter, I believe he may even implicitly anticipate your involvement, as well.”

“Oh.” Her expression faltered. She stared at Ferguson’s letter. “I see.”

You swallowed. “Grace,” you said, “I know you have tender feelings toward this man. But Papa is a soldier in the Continental army. You’ve known this now for some time. And if you want to continue communicating with the major, then you should do so with the knowledge that any involvement you have with him has the possibility of endangering Papa’s life.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I’m foolish enough to do something that would actually bring harm to our family?”

“No!” you replied. “Of course I don’t—”

“Then how can you sit—”

“—think that, but it’s the truth! Even possessing this letter is dangerous,” you said, holding it up. “Having one redcoat in our home could encourage others, and you could be caught with something incriminating before you have the opportunity to dispose of it.” Returning Papa’s letter to the table, you added, “Not to mention how the major might feel about your holding that secret from him.”

Not that you cared how he felt.

Grace drew in a long breath through her nose, her attention falling to the parchment in front of her again. Folding her arms over her chest, she sighed. “Very well. I can’t deny when you’re right.”

You resisted the urge to reply with a satisfied I know. It wasn’t the time to gloat. You’d save that for when you finished the discussion. “So you need to decide what is most important to you.” With a shrug, you said, “I won’t judge you for whatever that decision is.”

Silence fell over the dining room. In actuality, you abhorred both options for her future. In your ideal reality, Grace would not be courting a redcoat, nor would she be placing herself in danger by associating herself with potentially deadly errands for your father. No, in your ideal reality, she’d be cozied at home, reading a book, Mr. Mouser curled at her feet until the war was over, and only then would she finally attract the attention of a man far less irritating than Patrick Ferguson.

But you were not omnipotent. The only one who deserved authority over her life was Grace herself.

Her fingers worried the edges of Ferguson’s letter. “I…” She sighed again. “I do want to know that Papa is safe,” she said, and her voice fell to a whisper. “I…” A tiny smile grew on her face. “I really fancy Patrick.” There was almost a sliver of embarrassment to her admission. “I hesitate to say that… well, I can potentially, perhaps, envision a future with him.”

Your throat thickened, but you nodded encouragingly. “You do.”

“Yes,” Grace replied. “That is…” She met your gaze. “I believe he feels the same way.” Now that she’d said it, her smile grew wider. “I don’t wish to place that future in jeopardy anymore than I wish to place you or our father in jeopardy,” she said. “So… exclude me.” A pause. “Please.”

A knock like a fist to wood thudded your chest. Grace was imagining her life with Patrick Ferguson. The ache it caused made you swallow the congealing wad of unease. Your fingers fiddled together, and you forced a smile. She was no longer the toddler giggling with mischief as she muddied her dress, no longer the little monster running at you with blackberry-stained fingers, no longer the girl who would bury herself in your arms, seeking safety as she cried. You could not pretend to be the barrier between her and the world. And she could not be your ward forever.

But at least for now, you could keep the war from her front door.

“I will,” you said. And then, because you meant it, “I am happy for you, you know.”

“I know you are.” She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her eyes fell from yours, lingered on your neck. Her smile twisted into something more devious. “Now. Will you tell me about these,” she said, pointing at the bruises, “or not?”

“Ah,” you said, fighting your own smile. “And here I thought I might have evaded that bloodhound nose of yours one day longer.”

Grace grinned, leaning forward across the table and sniffling toward you like a dog. You batted her face away with a laugh, making her snort as she fell back into a giggling pile in her chair. The chime of your combined laughter rang through the house. You both settled, and a strange pang lodged in your chest.

“It’s really not the gentleman from the letter?” she asked, nodding toward it.

Your lip furled in revulsion. “Good sweet Lord resting in blessed heaven, no.”

“Fine.” She sat back in her chair, grinning. “Then I demand details.”

Warmth bloomed in your face. “All right, all right. Then details you shall have.”

You curled your fingers in your petticoat. Your palms suddenly felt clammy. You didn’t want to lie, but you could not reveal the entire truth to her without entering a conversation you could not even wade into in your mind. With an exhale, you began.

“It was at the party Ferguson spoke of. He wasn’t a redcoat,” you said quickly, because technically William had green in his jacket, didn’t he? “I was feeling overwhelmed, and I missed the carriage home, and…” You hummed, hesitating on what to reveal, but found the words wanting to spill now that you had the walls of your home and ears of your sister. “He offered me a place to sleep, and one thing led to another, and, ah…” You suppressed a smile, remembering the heat of his body smothering yours, the pinch of his teeth at your throat. “I slept there.”

Grace gasped, holding her hand to her mouth. “You…” Her jaw hung open. “You mean you… you—”

You nodded. “I… did.”

“Oh. Oh my…” She clapped both hands over her face before erupting into laughter. “Well?” she squealed. “What was it like? Was it… good?”

“That…” Your eyes widened, you pulled your lips over your teeth in thought, your memory flipping through recollections of his cock plunging into your cunt, the power of your climax ripping through you, the viscous webbing of his seed on your fingers. “That is summarizing it succinctly, I’d say.” You swallowed, shaking your head. “But it was foolish.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Oh, let God judge your foolishness,” she said. “I, for one, can’t decide if I’m thrilled or baffled.” She studied your face, a small grin on her lips. “Who was this man who so charmed you that you permitted his mouth brush your throat without ripping out his own?”

You sat, gazing at her for a moment. Who, indeed, was William Tavington? And why did you allow his mouth near your throat? Why did you even find yourself craving it?

“Well.” Your focus drifted to the wall in thought. “He’s very handsome,” you said, because it was true. When Grace only offered a raised eyebrow in return, you nodded relentingly. Plenty of handsome men had offered you their attentions, and you’d rejected them all. “He…” A smirk fought its way onto your face. “He doesn’t underestimate me. Ever.” Your cheeks grew warmer as you realized the bizarre fondness you felt for that fact. “And he’s… He makes me laugh. I think. Sometimes.”

Grace folded her arms over her chest, studying elevated to scrutinizing. “I notice, dear sister,” she said, “that you speak of him in the present tense.”

“Oh.” You averted your eyes. You hadn’t even realized you’d done so. “Well… I suppose I may see him again. I will be returning to duty, after all.”

“How? If he isn’t a soldier…”

“He may come by camp,” you replied quickly. “Those who work in the field hospital aren’t necessarily beholden to the Crown.” You grinned, pleased with yourself. “As you well know.”

She hummed suspiciously. “Of course,” she said. “Name, please.”

“I’m sorry?”

“His name?” she urged. “I anticipate future news regarding this gentleman, so I should expect to know him by a name.”

“Anticipate future news?” you replied. “Oh, please. He’s hardly—”

“He is, in fact, the only man I’ve ever seen you offer a minute of your mercy,” Grace said. “Name.”

You sighed. Well, she wasn’t going to get his real name, that was for certain. “John,” you said. “But that’s all I’ll reveal, lest you seek him out and insert your curious, meddling nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She laughed, an impish twinkle in her eye. “Am I that obvious, then?”

You snorted. “As obvious as blood in the snow.”

“Now, there would be a splendid trail to follow.” She snuffled her way across the table again, until you planted a palm on her face, turning her nose upward, and both of you collapsed anew into shrieks of laughter.

The rest of the morning was spent in comfortable conversation, each of you taking up chores, Grace ensuring you were current on the latest chatter from town. This was another part of being home you missed—even if you weren’t typically privy to idle conversation, you derived a devious thrill from knowing the private annals of your neighbors.

By the time you reached the afternoon, your mind had rolled over the message from your father enough times that you’d decided it was as good a time as any to head to the location he’d instructed to retrieve the intelligence. Whomever they’d managed to get to deliver the information, you hadn’t the faintest idea, but you supposed that wasn’t for you to know. Safer for all involved that way. Bidding Grace a brief farewell and tucking the spare pistol your father had kept under his bed into your petticoats, you trudged into the woods toward the drop point.

It was admittedly not the worst idea, having a known (or, rather, perceived) Tory civilian dip on and off the supply route highway for subterfuge. And Catawba, as a small settlement with a small population, had actually been a logical choice to stop. Though his thoughtlessness toward Grace’s safety had whittled your patience, you could at least admit Papa had committed some care to this plan.

The woods grew thicker around you, the wail of cicadas swallowing your ears. Once you had obtained whatever was waiting, all you would need to do would be to head to the location in the letter to provide him the information and then make your way to Fort Carolina. Simple, secure, swift. Yet as the Catawba river grew closer, your chest tightened with anticipation. You’d already demonstrated a lack of aptitude for sedition. An error here could easily mean Grace’s life along with yours.

You wandered along the length of the bank, focusing on your breath. A tiny whine zipped past your face. Then another. A flicker of shadow hovered through the mottled relief of sunshine dancing over your skin. You waved a hand in the air. Felt a tickle on your forearm.

A mosquito.

You slapped it, leaving a smear of blood near your wrist that you wiped away. Autumn could not arrive swiftly enough.

Yards beyond your feet, the river met the road, flowing under an old bridge long since fallen into disuse. You’d need to cross to the forest on the west side of the bank to find the drop. Heart thumping, you slipped out of the woods and skittered over the sturdiest boards left on the bridge, weaving through the edge of trees to spot a rotting, lonely stump.

You supposed it couldn’t be anywhere or anything else.

Swallowing, you sidled up to it, dropped to your knees and dug your hands into one of the crumbling splits. Nothing. Frowning, you rooted into the base of the stump, dirt and decay grating your nails, the heat of the day beading at your neck. But there was no paper, no package, no anything to be found.

There was no way this wasn’t the location. Your pulse skipped. Your palms sweat. Had your correspondent been compromised? Did the British already know? Were they on their way with nooses in hand, ready to wring your neck and drag your body all the way to Fort Carolina?

(Briefly, stupidly, irrationally: Would William even care?)

You breathed, slumping over the stump. No—your father wouldn’t have had any reason to expect you to arrive so early. It was completely reasonable that the information was still on its way. Perhaps you needed to return tomorrow. Or the next day.

Exhaling again, you gave the split one more swipe in hopes it would magically produce intelligence. Behind you, a careful, rhythmic knock of wood. Like footsteps. On the bridge.

You choked back a gasp, scrambled to stand. A claw of wood snagged your sleeve and yanked you back to your knees. Wincing, you flailed, hoping to splinter the stump or tear the fabric, whichever happened first, but you were stuck, stuck again. The footsteps left the bridge and crossed into grass. You held your breath, refused to be a rabbit with pinned paws. Swiveling, you whipped your flintlock from your skirts and aimed at the gaps in the trees.

You watched with a drumroll pulse. Shadows shifted. The understory crunched. You exhaled, and the man grew close, focused into perspective. As he did, your eyes found his own. Dark brown, stark against the halo of his curly, copper hair. Just like his sister’s.

Those eyes landed on your gun, and he stopped, heels grinding the dirt. “M—... Miss?”

“Ensign Goddard,” you replied, offering a sheepish grin. “What…” You dropped your arm, hid the pistol behind your back. “How are you liking Catawba?”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Этот подарок для тебя❤️ Счастливых праздников!🎄

Happy Holidays! 🎁🎄🎉

[kylorengarbagedump]

hello!!

it s not necessarily a question,but i just wanted to tell you that i read fix your attitude BACK IN THE DAY when the story wasn’t even finished(i specifically remember i had waited for chapter 25 like it was my last wish in life hahahaha) and that was like what-2016?? That s almost 9 years ago,and it s insane because i just came back and read it all over again,and usually when i read something i loved 9 YEARS ago i expect it to seem hideous now (been there,done that,i know how that feels) BUT GIRL,I PRAISED YOU BACK IN THE DAY(i don’t know if you remember,i wrote to you and it was the first and last time for me that i wrote to an author on tumblr because YOU WERE JUST THAT GOOD) AND I M PRAISING YOU NOW-you are incredible!

The story,the plot,the spice,the everything…it’s just the way it should be

I can’t thank you enough for this masterpiece

I don’t know if you ever thought about writing a sequel or writing Kylo like you did in fya again…but if you did,girl i’ll go crazy about it

Thank you again and keep up the good work!!

Hey honey! Thank you so much - you are so sweet and I couldn't be happier you have enjoyed my work!! Can't believe some people are still here almost 9 years later - feels bizarre to imagine something I made is having impact in that regard :)

That being said, if you go on my AO3, I have plenty of work that includes Kylo. I did begin a sequel to FYA (Defy Your Authority) but between online harassment and my own anxieties about the story, I don't know if I will continue it.

There's another long-form fic I did write called Little Bird, though that's not to everyone's taste, and it's also an AU, so potentially not as appealing to fans of FYA. :)

Thank you so so much again. You're so kind <3

[kylorengarbagedump]

Grace: “[…] I've found a man who is brilliant, warm, brave, considerate, respectful and—God strike me down—clean!”

Reader, who hates his guts: Who, HIM?!??

Latest chapter was dopeeeeee! And I am not immune to being an irrational hater sometimes so I kept myself laughing tonight mentally referring to Patrick as Turd Ferguson lmao.

Always excited to see AO3 emails from you two! Thanks again for all your hard work ♥️.

LMFAOOOOO WEFJWEOIJOWFIE STOPPPPPP THATS LITERALLY THE READER 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

(also tysm ily <3)

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 17

Read on AO3. Part 16 here. Part 18 here.

Summary: You finally head home to see your sister. Wretchedly, you aren't alone in the desire to see her.

Words: 6800

Warnings: None

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Enter Plot, our beloved <3

While smut is old hat for both of us, I think we both have been really trying to push ourselves with character, dialogue, and plot with this fic. Is it a lot? Is it just enough? Am I asking too many questions?

Thank you so much, all of you, always <3 It's our goal to get a chapter out at least every two weeks - with the complexities that are building in addition to the holidays and all the traveling we seem to do for some god-forsaken reason, we hope that's okay!!

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

Beyond the shade of the wagon canvas, the sun reached its zenith. Between the thudding of rocks in your bones, the constant sway from the uncertain trundle of the wheels, and how you'd had to fight for a spot to sleep in the mass of camp followers, the warmth of sun rays was the only reprieve in discomfort you could find. Five days of waking to your body’s complaints, however, had yet to dampen your excitement. Red clay now soaked the dirt roads, cast them in copper. The air smelled like home.

You'd spent most of your journey curled to yourself, attempting to hide your now-fading bruises after Lottie had been generous enough to lend you a neckerchief with a modest silhouette. It had given others the impression of frigidity, but you cared little. You had no interest in speaking with any of the other camp followers and even less interest in speaking with any of the soldiers. In particular, Patrick Ferguson.

Ferguson had explained the day you set out that he would be dropping you off on his way north, and to your recollection, also attempted to explain that he would be calling upon your sister when you arrived. But the moment he had begun to clarify his intentions his words had jumbled to nonsense in your ears. He seemed to believe that the more earnest he appeared, the less he’d repulse you.

On the contrary—-it only made him more insufferable.

The wagon smacked a dip in the road and you yelped, wincing at the impact to your nethers. Though you were in far less pain than you'd been on Sunday evening, there was still a shrinking ball of tenderness clenched between your thighs. If this was what it was like to lose your innocence, you shuddered to imagine the pain of childbirth. Perhaps it was similar to intercourse: painted in fair light in the aftermath of its culmination.

Then again, you were coming to realize that pain was a part of sex you liked.

Heat flushed your cheeks. Much to your great vexation, William had haunted your thoughts since he'd departed the room you had shared in Middleton Place. It wouldn’t concern you if you'd been preoccupied with your physical attraction to him, as you'd been for the past few months. No, instead, these ruminations covered such questions as, what was he doing; what did he feel regarding your time together; was he thinking of you just as you were of him?

It disgusted you. And yet you wondered all the same.

You wanted, in fact, to create a portrait of William Tavington’s emotional landscape—or at least identify which colors to start with. As it stood, he seemed possessed only by a singular drive: ambition. Ambition which would see you and those you loved buried beneath the dirt.

Outside, you heard the shouting of men ripple back through the unit, and your wagon ambled to a stop. You peeked from the front flap of the wagon, and your heart soared. You recognized every branch of every tree.

“Oh, thank the beautiful forgiving and gracious Lord,” you whispered.

Without any other hesitation, you leapt from the back of the wagon and hit the ground so firmly your teeth clacked. The line of soldiers in front of you stared, as though you’d just emerged from an ox’s twat and not a perfectly normal artillery wagon. Irritated, you leered back—what you had to do was far more important than their attention—and made to turn, only to catch a familiar profile passing the corner of your eye. One you hadn’t seen since the beginning of this journey.

“Goddard?” You turned, brow raised, watching him march a column of men past you in the direction of town. “Benedict Goddard, is that you?”

Goddard’s face tightened, his eyes averting your gaze. When he didn’t stop, you trotted up to fall into step with him and he winced. “I’m, ah, not at leisure to speak presently,” he said, straightening. “But it’s good to see you, miss, do enjoy your afternoon.”

“But what brings you…” You glanced around. “Has your unit separated from Colonel Tavington’s legion?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “A temporary reassignment.” He cleared his throat, looking forward. “My duties bring me under Major Ferguson's command. And that's all I'm at liberty to reveal to you.”

You balked, jaw dropping. A few soldiers in the rear of the column with him glanced at you, as if you were committing a grave sin by daring to even address him. Any other day would see you mocking his behavior and admonishing him for pretending as if you hadn't stayed in his home for weeks. But in this moment, you were a short sprint from your home, from your sister. You didn't have time to mind.

“Good day to you then, Ensign.” With that, you plucked up your skirts and ran towards the farm.

The heat of summer brought no strain to your breath, the weight of your petticoats no hindrance to your legs. You gripped them high in your fists, flying at full speed down the dirt road that led to your home. As you broke from the trees, greeted by your flourished fields and little house, you nearly erupted into a sob—until, of course, you spotted a bay horse hitched at the steps to your porch.

And then Patrick Ferguson at your front door, bowing in half, only to be embraced by your sister.

“Major!” Grace cried, gazing up at him with saucer-sized eyes. “I—my goodness, I'm not prepared at all to receive you.” She released him, adjusting her hair. “I can't believe you're…”

Her eyes drifted, falling onto you. She dropped her arms and burst forward, almost knocking Ferguson to the side as she trampled the steps, shouted your name, and careened toward you.

“Grace!” was all you had the time to say before she was on you.

Like magnets, you collided together, each binding the other in her arms. Laughter and warmth exploded between you, and you whirled in a circle, carried by her momentum. You buried your face in her shoulder, squeezed her tight, forgetting, for a blissful moment, that you'd ever been separated.

“Oh, my darling sister, I have so terribly missed you,” she murmured.

You grinned, rumpling her hair. “Not even half so terribly as I’ve missed you.”

“Oh, don’t be an arse,” Grace laughed, and aimed a noncommittal kick at your ankle.

In evading it, you nearly toppled both of you into a giggling heap in the grass. You stabilized, then held her for another breath before unwrapping her from your arms. Still smiling, tears rimming her eyes, she examined you, brow furrowing as she studied your messy hair, the exhaustion in your gaze.

“What are you…” She looked back between you and Ferguson. “Has he delivered you to me?” she said, a wry smile breaking her face.

You ignored how that made you want to sneer at him. “In a sense,” you said, “though I'm not to stay for long, I'm afraid.”

She frowned. “No? What… why ever not?” Her shoulders fell. “Are you still meant to serve in the field hospital?”

“Yes,” you replied, “but let's discuss it later. I'm here at least for the next few days.”

“Really!” Her face brightened, and she launched into another hug, humming as she held you. You sighed in relief, rubbing her back. “Well,” she said, pulling away, “come inside then.” She grabbed your hand, leading you to the door. “Major Ferguson, please tell me you can join us for tea?”

You grimaced. “Oh, I don't—”

“Certainly,” he said. “I'm sure the men would appreciate the rest before we resume our march.” He stepped toward her, taking her free hand and pressing his lips to it. “And I'm sure I requested you call me Patrick, Miss—”

“Wonderful!” Smiling, she looked between you both, clearly overjoyed to have each of you in arms’ reach. She opened the door, allowed you inside before she looked toward Ferguson. “And please, I'm sure I requested you call me Grace.”

You grumbled at their apparent affinity, then did your best to disregard him as you walked inside. The scent of oak fogged your head, your gaze flicking over every slat of wood composing the walls, ears pricked to receive every creak in rhythm as you made your way toward the kitchen. Motes of dust swirled in the sunlight as you passed. The furniture looked swept clean of even a speck.

Your father had built your house with his bare hands, and as such, it wasn't large—beyond the front door, the stairs split the home in two, one side with the kitchen and dining space, the other a modest room to receive company. The second floor had only two bedrooms, each on one side. And despite its size, for a brief moment, you understood how lonely it could feel to be the only one within it. To be the single resident of a home that no longer housed the family it was built for, to sleep in a room where all you could gaze at was a second, empty bed to remind of their absence.

Swallowing the lead ball lodged in your throat, you entered the kitchen. Almost everything was as you remembered, though the organization had blossomed under Grace’s stewardship. With a near-painful pang of familiarity, you went through the motions of filling the kettle from the water barrel and nestling it into the bed of live embers in the cooking hearth.

“Please, have a seat,” you heard Grace say. “Have they begun issuing your rifle, yet? I’ve so been looking forward to good news.”

“Ah, not yet, I’m afraid. The expense and time of it all has inhibited its production.”

She scoffed. “Expense and time? Are those not investments an army should make? Perhaps especially so for a brilliant innovation?”

“I don’t disagree, but I cannot force—”

“If forcing a thing will break it, then you must bend it, of course,” she said, that devilish lilt in her tone. “Seems to me you should write out a letter—did you not tell me even the most fractious of your generals can be enticed by persuasion? You’re far too clever to not convince them.”

“Perhaps,” Patrick replied, a smile in his voice, “though I recall you to be far more effective with persuasion than I am.”

“Oh, really?” Grace said. “What inspires such a comment?”

“I’ll indict myself no further.”

A giggle. “I'll assist you after tea, then. Where I think we’ll start is…”

You silently retched, distracting yourself from their conversation by sweeping over to examine the tea shelf. Though for as long as you had known it, Papa had always kept it stocked with coffee beans instead. To your surprise, though, his coffee stores were nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by neatly arranged canisters of Bohea and green teas. Lining the rest of the shelf from end to end were jars of dried fruits and herbs.

Just before your eyes could cross themselves at the array of choices, Grace swished to meet you in the kitchen. “Oh,” she said, nodding to the hearth. “Thank you for starting that.” She peeked her head into the dining area. “How do you like your tea?”

“Hot,” he said, and you could practically hear the wink he shot her. “I'm not fussed about the particulars.”

“My speciality, then,” she replied with a grin, and sidled up to you in the kitchen, whispering, “I've never made tea for a man before!” She smothered a giggle beneath her palm. “Pass the green.”

“Not even when he visited you those first few days you were home?” You handed her the canister of green tea leaves. “When did you start keeping tea, anyway?”

“After I got back,” she replied primly as she measured out a portion. “I know Papa feels so strongly about his coffee, but I've always preferred tea.” Then, lowering her voice, “And goodness, no! He would never step foot inside a lady’s home when she's alone. The major is quite the gentleman.”

Eyeing her with half-playful suspicion, you sidled past her to fetch the hot kettle. “Sure he is.”

“I mean it!” she said, moving back to the shelf to pluck a few jars down and balance them in her arms.

You wondered what it would be like if William even approached the definition of gentleman. A small, aggravating part of you opined that you'd find that exceedingly boring.

You crossed back to where Grace had placed the teapot on the counter and poured a small measure of hot water in, swirling it to warm the pot. “You seem quite fond of him.”

Grace straightened, nearly flinging a jar. “Shh!” She tossed a look over her shoulder, then bustled to your side, knocking you with her hip. “You shan't expose me so blatantly!”

You laughed, bumping her back. “As if you aren't plainer than a red rose in a field of dandelions.”

“Perhaps I am,” she replied, glimpsing you with a coy smile, then deposited the tea leaves, plus a handful of dried peach slivers and a sprinkle of rosemary into the pot. “But I think a gentleman would favor the rose, don’t you?”

Rolling your eyes, you poured the rest of the hot water over the tea mixture while Grace loaded a platter with sugar, honey, and cream. The fragrance that bloomed from the pot made your mouth water, but before you could take a deeper whiff, Grace clapped the lid on beneath your nose and swept from the kitchen with the whole spread in hand.

“At your leisure, Patrick.”

“Thank you, Grace.”

You heard her set the platter and cups out on the table. With a final fond shake of your head, you followed.

But the sight when you stepped past the dining room threshold pinned your feet to the floor. Ferguson had decided to take your chair at the dining table. And he sat there, taking a sip of his tea as if he belonged. The back of your neck burned.

“That is outstanding,” he said to Grace, whose attempt at a humble bow of her head in response was overtaken by a beaming smile.

Ferguson’s ever-present, ever-infuriatingly congenial grin faltered as he gazed at you. “Everything well?”

“Oh, yes,” you replied through a jaw locked tighter than a safe. “I'll sit just here.”

In two steps, you cleared the room, pulled out your father's chair, and plopped down in the seat. You fought the instinct to spear him with your stare as you snatched your teacup from the table and slurped from it with such force you inhaled hot tea straight into your lungs.

“D-dammit—” You groaned, coughing up spittle that you then had to swallow with the elegance of a bullfrog. “Excu—” Another hacking fit. “Excuse me—”

Grace grasped your arm. “Are you all right?”

“Goodness,” Ferguson said, leaning forward. “Is there—between the oyster at the party and this, I'm growing concerned.” He looked at Grace as you continued to clear your throat. “Does she have an issue swallowing?”

Blood lit up your cheeks. “No!” You wiped your eyes of the tears brimming there. How dare he suggest you had some sort of incapacity. A memory of William’s cock spending its load down your throat, and you choked again. “I’m very much all right, thank you. No issue swallowing.” Wiggling your shoulders to sit upright, you took your cup again and sipped as daintily as you could, keeping your attention on Grace. “Excellent tea.”

She squeezed your arm before taking a sip herself. “Thank you,” she said. “But what's all this I hear about an oyster? At a party?”

“Your sister and myself had quite the fortuitous encounter at a ball at Middleton Place last week,” Ferguson said as he drank from his cup. “She—”

“I tried to eat an oyster and made a right fool of myself,” you said quickly, since this was your story to tell and not Ferguson's. “Nearly spit up all over the Lord General.”

Grace laughed. “Please tell me you managed to present yourself with a smidgeon of decorum!” Her gaze glittered as if she too were remembering the time you failed to wash your poultice-soaked hands before curtseying to the reverend as a child. You'd stained your skirts green. “She's always been a bit unorthodox,” she said to Ferguson.

He looked at you with something akin to admiration, which irritated you, since you found nothing admirable about him and didn't want to return the favor. “I've observed as much. It must run in the family,” he said, and then glanced at Grace. “It's a quality I think is often undervalued in women.”

Grace pinched her lip between her teeth, hiding a smile you knew wanted to take up her face.

“Yes,” you said, shrugging, “well, our father is an unorthodox man. He raised unorthodox daughters.” You took another slow, calculated sip, gazing at Ferguson over the cup. “Though he still may find the presence of a British officer in his home objectionable.”

Grace kicked you under the table, her face screwing into an expression that seemed as horrified as it was mortified. “Oh, Patrick, she doesn't—”

“Please do not fret,” said Ferguson, his tone soothingly earnest. “I had planned on mentioning it to you. But it was something that became apparent at the party.” He nodded toward you. “Then your sister confirmed it.”

“Oh.” She looked at you, fingers turning pale where she clutched her teacup. “I—I had every intention of telling you, but our father's allegiance hasn't been received kindly by other officers, and—”

“Grace.” He reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. You imagined taking a butter knife and jamming it between his knuckles. “Your father's business is no concern of mine.” He was staring straight at her. She was transfixed. “I seek only your good opinion.”

Grace’s eyes fluttered, and she looked away, hiding her happiness. “You must know you appear far too charming to seem sincere.”

He shrugged. “If that is what damns me, so be it,” he replied with a playful smirk. “I will not regret my attempts to charm you.”

You wanted to groan. Another gooey word and you were certain you'd make good on your stomach’s earlier threat. “All that is well and fine,” you said, “but do you have charm to prevent our father's death should he be captured?” You stared at him. “Does your charm mitigate the losses suffered by our Patriot neighbors as the British Army lays waste to their lands?”

Grace looked at you, hissed your name. You ignored her.

“I've had conversations with more than one British officer, Major,” you said. “And I fear not all of them are as magnanimous as you.”

Ferguson nodded solemnly. “I do not deny your accuracy.” His gaze drifted from Grace to you. “Nor would I deny the difficult position you each occupy as Tories with a rebel father.”

You nodded in return, as if this was completely accurate.

“However,” he said, “it has always been my position that colonials, be they Tory or Patriot, are our brethren. That promoting the benefits of maintaining affiliation with the crown is far more effective than punishing those who seek independence from it.” He frowned. “Though I know you both have unfortunately been acquainted with a certain officer who would disagree in the extreme.”

Grace shrank slightly in her seat, glimpsing you. “Well, unfortunate is putting it lightly.”

A distant twinge in your core. It was unfortunate, wasn't it?

“I am not Colonel Tavington,” Ferguson said. “I have no intention of bringing you harm because of your father's choices, nor would I ask that you disavow him.” His focus returned to Grace, his fingers curled around her wrist. “Allow me to prove it to you.”

Perhaps more unfortunately, Grace did not immediately throw him out of the home as you'd been hoping she would. Her shoulders dropped, and she smiled at him, withdrawing her hand to drink from her teacup, lips tight on the edge.

You knew this look. She was about to erupt with joy.

“Well, if you must insist,” Grace said after swallowing. “Though I shan't make it easy on you.” She placed her cup down, eyebrow raised. “After all, I remember someone offering to write me, and yet I've not received a single letter…”

“Ah.” Ferguson’s gaze found yours. You gave him a blithe smile in return, narrowing your eyes in a dare: assign you blame, or flounder for an excuse.

“Indeed,” he said, flashing Grace a sheepish grin. “Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. He’d chosen to flounder, it seemed. An irritatingly good choice. “I did, ah, encounter a prohibitive factor in that regard—“

“I forbade it,” you announced.

Grace stiffened, strangling her teacup. Slowly, like an aiming cannon, her head swiveled toward you.

“Sister,” she said, and you could hear her rage swarming, a shaken hive beneath the honey of her voice. “Why ever would you do such a thing?”

“I do not find it appropriate,” you answered simply, sipping your tea to avoid her stare.

Grace looked to Ferguson as if for help, but he simply sat back in his—your—chair, yielding the conversation to you with a dip of his head.

You sincerely wished he would stop behaving so damn respectably.

Grace gaped at you, her expression alone demanding an explanation. You thumped your teacup down with a huff.

“It is not appropriate,” you elaborated, “for a man to write a young lady at home whose father is absent and who is unattended by any family at all.” Your shoulders straightened and you swirled your tea, the leaves spinning a tiny vortex. “One might think he means to take advantage.”

With that, you pinned Ferguson with your stare. He met it, earnest and unwavering.

“Never should I wish to give such an impression,” he said, and to your utter annoyance, you believed him. He looked at Grace. “And thus I must stay my pen.”

“You give no such impression and you must do no such thing!” The edge of pain in her plea sawed at your heart.

Ferguson’s brow wrinkled in apology. “I intend to respect your sister’s wishes.”

“And what of my wishes that you not be governed by the labyrinthine principles of my sister’s logic?”

You glared at her. She glared back. Ferguson glanced between you, then knocked the dregs of his tea back and slowly pushed his (your) chair from the table.

“I needn’t intrude on family discussions,” he said. “I should attend to my unit.”

“I’ll walk you out,” you and Grace said in unison.

She glowered at you again. You stood, shooting her a quelling stare. She slumped back in her chair, looking away.

You gave Ferguson a tight grin. “Major?”

He rose and turned to Grace. “Miss—“ He stopped himself, readjusting with a small smile. “Grace,” he said, and bowed, clasping his fist over his heart. “A moment in your company sustains me longer than any fire or feast.”

“Patrick.” Grace shot to her feet, her fingers perched on the table as if she might fling herself across it and into his arms. “Please do not be a stranger.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He gave her a final, gentle smile.

Swallowing the urge to vomit, you opened your arm in an invitation toward the front door. Ferguson ducked out of the dining room, and you followed, attempting to burn a hole through his tall, stupid, handsome, respectful back until you both arrived on the front porch, and you eased the door shut behind you.

The wind rustled the grass, rattled in the leaves. All that was left was to tell Ferguson to leave, to not consider returning. If you opened your mouth, the words would come, but your mind refused to allow them even that far. Grace's hurt tugged at your own soul, soothed even your most basic instinct to bare your teeth. You gazed at him, jaw shifting, and looked away.

“Well,” you said, “I know your men need you. So…”

Ferguson sighed. “I'm aware that you lack trust in me,” he said. “And given what your family has been through, I cannot begrudge you that.”

You glimpsed him, folding your arms over your chest.

“My affections for your sister are sincere. But I would sooner drive a stake through my own chest than seek to drive a wedge in your relationship.”

You chewed your lip.

Ferguson fished a piece of folded parchment from his pocket and held it out to you. On its face was Grace's name in a sharp, pretty script. “I leave you this. You can choose to deliver it. Or not.” His eyes softened. “All of it is in your hands.”

As you studied the letter, your arms fell to your side, frustration hardening in your chest. Guarding Grace's heart and safety was what you thought was most important to you—until that directly gutted her happiness.

Drawing in a deep breath, you snatched the letter from his hand and shoved it into one of your skirt pockets. “Safe travels, Major,” you replied stiffly. “Perhaps I'll see you at Fort Carolina sometime in the future.”

“Miss,” he replied with a bow. He stepped off the porch, untied his horse, and began his journey back to the marching line.

You watched him go, releasing a long exhale. It didn't bring relief.

With that, you spun and entered the house, greeted by the sound of crashing plateware as it was all dumped into the barrel for later washing.

Shutting the door behind you, you sighed, crossing into the dining room. “Grace, I realize I've upset you—”

“Oh, upset doesn't begin to cover it, big sister,” she said, whirling on her heel. “Try outraged. Or humiliated, perhaps.”

“Humiliated?” You stopped a laugh. “Pray, how have I humiliated you?”

“You treated me like a child!” Grace spat. “Like some—some foolish little girl with stars in her eyes!”

“You do have stars in your eyes,” you said, shrugging a shoulder. “All I observed was you blushing and giggling at everything that man said.���

“And so what if I did?” She folded her arms over her chest, scowling at you. “So what if he charms me, so what if he makes me laugh? Am I not entitled to a free heart?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is hardly about the freedom of your heart,” you said, gesturing to the door. “This is about your heart's safety. Your safety—”

“Oh, piss on my safety!” she shrieked, advancing on you. “You would've said the same thing of Nathaniel Jones, and he posed all the danger of a rabbit kit.”

“Well,” you said, meeting her toe for toe, “we'll never know, will we? He was killed by redcoats. Just like the one you invited into our home.”

“He was killed by a redcoat,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “a horrible, monster of a man whose character could never approach Patrick’s.”

“You simply cannot know they're that different—”

Grace laughed in a way that sounded familiar. Like an echo of your own indignation. “That man—Tavington—” She sputtered out his name like a curse. “Slapped me. Killed Mary in front of me. Hunted Papa.” The memories made your jaw twitch, made you consider retreating for just an instant. “Patrick has shown me nothing but kindness, understanding, and concern from the moment I met him.”

The reminders of her distaste sullied your own tongue. Had you really slept with a man who’d treated your sister this way? Then again, perhaps what he’d done to you throughout the following days had been worse. Could it even be quantified? Was there a point in recounting his wrongs and comparing them to his very few, very far between rights?

And just as he held the capacity for right, didn't that mean by default that Ferguson held capacity for very, very wrong?

You waved her insistence away. “Grace, he could be—for all you know, this could be an act, he could be—”

“What,” she cried, “do you have against him, exactly? What evidence of wrongdoing do you possess that causes you to be so utterly pigheaded?”

You paused, flabbergasted when the answer did not immediately present itself. Grace took this as an opening.

“Robert was too dull, David too cold, Justin too cowardly, Jonathan too controlling, Peter too lecherous, Nathaniel too dirty—well, I've found a man who is brilliant, warm, brave, considerate, respectful and—God strike me down—clean!” She threw her hands up into the air. “There is nothing about him for you to possibly dislike!”

“You didn’t see him at the ball, Grace, he was surrounded by women, he's entertaining Lord knows how many, ah—” His own acknowledgement of this tripped you, and you grumbled, stumbling over your words. Grace lunged.

“Oh, and he’s traveling a hundred miles to see each of them, is he?”

“Well, n—”

“Are they more deserving of his attentions than I, then? Is that what you mean?”

“No, Grace, of course that’s not what I—”

“What, then? What is it about him that you so disapprove of? Perhaps I’ll next have you find fault in a fine length of silk, seeing as those too are often set upon by ardent women.”

“He—he’s…” You let out a huff, casting about for your next words and finding them sticking like serrated bayonets from your memory. “He's a chimerical, self-serving, aspiring martyr!” You folded your arms. “Every British officer says so.”

Her jaw dropped, and she released a laugh of disbelief. “You're mad,” she said, and shook her head. “But you know what?” She jabbed a finger into your chest. “Even if that were true, it's my decision to make!”

“You just—” You grabbed her hand, pleading. “You’re so young, you don’t realize the consequences of these decisions, and—”

She screamed, ripping her hand away. “Yes, I do!” Growling, she stomped into the kitchen, then turned on you, a tidal storm of rage. “I'm a woman, now! I'm not an infant that requires your coddling, nor am I some ignorant girl that requires your wisdom.” She narrowed her eyes, upper lip snarling. “You cannot deny everyone else a chance at happiness simply because you've decided to make yourself as repulsive as possible to every man alive!”

You stepped back. For a brief moment, you considered tearing your neckerchief free and baring every yellowing shadow still present on your skin. But you didn't. Because despite the imprecision of her arrow, it struck true nonetheless. You feared her independence—not because of a man's opinion of you, but your opinion of yourself.

Who would you be if Grace decided she no longer needed—or even wanted—your love?

Grace stared at you, heaving breath, fury guttering in her gaze. When you didn't sling back a barb as you'd always done before, realization replaced it. She covered her mouth as if she'd just damned you to hell.

“Oh… oh, oh my goodness, I…” Grace stiffened, shrunk away from you. “I'm so sorry, I know that was too far—”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, Grace. You're right.” Shrugging, you held up your hands in surrender. “I'm being a selfish ass.” You approached, stopped just a foot in front of her. “I'm the one who's sorry.”

Grace paused, eyes shimmering, then flung herself into your arms. “You really are being a selfish ass,” she mumbled into your neck.

You laughed and held her tight. “I know.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of peach and rosemary that still lingered in the air, breathed out your own shame. If only you could melt into this moment and mark yourself as humbled for eternity. But with Grace as your sister, you knew that healthy doses of contrition remained a certainty in your future. And there was no way you'd make it to that future without her.

“I… I have something. For you,” you said.

She eased back from your embrace. “You do?” she asked, with the innocence of the child that you had to admit she no longer was.

“Yes,” you said, and slipped the letter from your pocket. “Major Ferguson entreated me to deliver this to you if I saw fit.” You held it out for her. “And I do. See fit, that is.”

Grace’s expression was the sunrise. Eyes flicking between you and the parchment, she tentatively reached for it. “Really?” she asked. “You're sure?”

You nodded. “I am.”

Squealing, she seized it from your hand, gazing at it like you'd handed her a slip of gold. Excitement lit her face, her fingers crinkled the edges of paper. She sighed, looking back at you.

“Thank you.”

“Please, don't give me gratitude after my behavior,” you said. “This is part of my apology.”

She grinned. “Very well then, I won't.” Giggling, she glanced at the letter a final time before placing it on the dining table. Her eyes widened. “That reminds me,” she said, and darted around you, running upstairs. You blinked, hearing her rummage in your shared bedroom before leaping down the steps, half-breathless. “I have a letter for you, too.”

You stared. “You do?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “It's… it's from Papa.”

Jolting forward, you held out your hand like that would force the letter to appear. All of your worst fears collapsed upon you. “Papa was here? In this house? You saw him?”

“Yes,” Grace winced, “but only briefly, days ago, and only to implore me that you get this letter.” She eased her hand from behind her back, revealing a page of parchment. You clawed at it only for her to yank it from your reach. “Hold on!”

“Grace, I—”

“Listen!” she said, and you straightened. “Let's agree to read them both tomorrow. I'll read my letter. You'll read yours. We'll do whatever needs to be done about them then.” She placed the parchment next to Ferguson's letter. “Today, let's just be… us.” Smiling, she grabbed your hand.

You glimpsed the letter on the table. No name on the paper. Just a wax seal smudged over the wrinkled edges. It could wait until tomorrow. All of it could wait.

“All right,” you said, entwining your fingers in hers. “Just us.”

The rest of the day melted into the evening as if the past three months had been a dream, the each of you tumbling comfortably into your routines. Grace guided you on the improvements she’d made to the organization in the barn, while you provided input on managing the important cultivars she’d need come autumn and winter. Hopefully, I’ll be back home before then, you told her, but the both of you knew that there was no guarantee on the war’s end and left the rest unsaid.

By the time the sun wound its way into the hills, you’d harvested a load of yams and corn, watered the rest, spread seed out for the chickens, and chopped what felt like half a cord of wood (just in case you really didn’t return before winter). Come supper, Grace baked cornbread while you prepared the black-eyed peas and yams, adding salt-pork to round it out. You sat together in contentment and ate, the plump tabby shape of Mr. Mouser slipping between each of your legs in a bid to earn some pork himself.

If you allowed it, the meal could’ve been bitter on your tongue, a poisonous reminder of everything that had been stolen from you in the days since the war. A blessing, you supposed, that your lives had evaded inclusion on the list, but that measure granted, it seemed you’d traded nearly all of your comforts for complications. A warm bed for a cold tent, a safe home for the battlefield, a loving family for the attentions of a barbarian uniformed in the facade of civilization.

Perhaps, you mused, there was some irony to you wishing to deny Grace an affiliation with a man like Ferguson when you so willingly entertained one with a man like William.

But that was for tomorrow.

The washing up done, the nighttime settled, both of you found your way upstairs to clean in the basin before bed. There was no avoiding it at this point—Grace would see your bruises, and she had not been spared your gossip regarding the whisperings of older women at church. Her education on these matters was equivalent to yours.

As you undressed, you remained casual, hoping perhaps if you pretended they weren’t there, she might mistake them for shadows in the candlelight. Your experience wasn’t necessarily something you wanted to hide from your sister, but you certainly wanted to avoid discussion about with whom you’d shared it and your desire to repeat it as soon as possible.

Feeling too exposed in your shift, you padded to your bed, then paused at the sight of the rumpled sheets and the bedside table which held a book and a half-burned candle. You looked at Grace’s bed—inert and cold in comparison.

“Have you been sleeping in my bed, Gracie?” You peered around at her.

She glanced back at you, releasing her hair from its wrapping. “What? It smelled like you.”

“And that’s a good thing?” you scoffed.

“Well, eventually it smelled more like me. A lot more like me.” She wrinkled her nose. “I had to wash the sheets. But by that point I was used to sleeping there.”

She shrugged, turning back to the mirror to tend her hair. Warmth spread through your chest, and you smiled, sinking down onto your mattress and burrowing into the covers. Then a dip in the bed made you look down.

“Make room,” said Grace, clambering over you to the other side.

“Ow! Watch your knee.” You jostled beneath her and she lost her balance, sprawling half on top of you and half onto the other side of the bed, making you both laugh.

As each of you arranged yourselves under your blankets, she slotted herself against you, sighing contentedly. And then you heard her breath catch.

“What—” She gasped your name. “What in the Lord’s good—” She pressed a bruise with her finger, and you squirmed. “What are these!”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Nothing interesting,” you said. “But…” You hummed in thought. “Let us just say that perhaps I’m not as repulsive to men as previously assumed.”

Grace snorted. “Oh, surely you don’t expect me to believe that after all of our hand wringing today over letter-writing.” She poked your side. “Out with it. Now.”

Heat flushing your neck, you shook your head. “It’s truly nothing! It was an unexpected and not particularly intelligent decision. I would… not recommend it.” None of these were necessarily lies.

“Recommend it?” She poked you again. “I expect you to recollect it!” Her mouth twisted in a mocking frown. “I see a woman may be made a fool, if she had not the spirit to resist!” she recited. “Didn’t you say that once?”

You rolled your eyes. “Grace—”

“Ah, no, sorry. That’s Katherina from The Taming of the Shrew.” She grinned. “So, nearly there.”

“You’re right!” you said, covering your face with your hand. “You’re right, you’re right. I know.”

But how could you begin to explain the man with whom you’d spent a night was the same man who inhabited her nightmares? This was not a conversation you could imagine yourself having with her even after the war, not something you believed she’d understand. After all, you didn’t understand it yourself.

At least Patrick Ferguson, for all his irritating qualities, had maintained the pretense of humanity. William had long proved himself a beast to the only person whose opinion you cared for.

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“I’m tired.”

“You didn’t work that hard today—”

“Grace,” you said, sighing. “Listen. If you’re truly interested, we can discuss tomorrow. For now, I’d like to sleep. The ride here was exhausting.”

“But you—”

You clamped your hand over her mouth. “Tomorrow.”

She gave you a playful pout, and you released her. “Fine. If you so choose.” With a grin, she nestled her head against you. “But I shall be cross if you refuse me any insight. I demand a detailed reverie!”

That, you hoped, would never come. “If you so choose.”

You blew out the candle beside you, holding your sister in your arms. At some point before you fell asleep, Mr. Mouser found his way onto the bed, curling like a pillbug between the two of you. The moon was waxing, the air was cooling, and the crickets sang the three of you to sleep.

[kylorengarbagedump]

LITERALLY SO CLOSE TO BEING FINISHED WITH THIS CHAPTER

[kylorengarbagedump]

hello, kass!!

just a quick question cause im curious:

when you wrote little bird, was it the series or the book that made you interested enough in that universe that you wanted to write about it?

or maybe both?

just cause i finished the handmaids tale book not long ago and just finished the first season and honestly…… i thought id like it more based on how much i LOVED little bird

HAHAHAHA it was the book. The series hadn't come out when I started writing it and I've (still) never seen the series.

I would definitely say that the source material is far LESS about the horniness of the entire world and far more about the actual dystopia of it. I loved the book, it's one of my favorites! But I wouldn't say that the two works are in any way comparable in tone, LMAO.

[kylorengarbagedump]

oh my god. just now found yer tumblr but have been reading yer stuff on ao3 since your early kylo ren writing. LOVE the tavington fic. feels legitimately like a Real Fucking Romance Novel, except what you'd normally expect to be boring bits between romance scenes are SUPER FASCINATING. i love what you're doing. i've never seen the patriot, even; i'm watching it rn, and it is, uh. i wish tavington were in it more. but that fucken deep-v shirt with hair down is driving me nuts. love yer work. xx.

Omfg??? This is such a huge compliment, thank you so much. I feel like @bastillia and I have worked really hard to try and make everything in the fic feel intentional and relevant, so hearing this is so validating and such incredible praise!! Thank you so much.

It's also so interesting to me when I hear people haven't seen the movie, choose to read the fic, and THEN go watch the movie HAHAHAHA. I love that? It was more shocking to me when people did it with my Kylo Ren stuff - at least with this, the American Revolutionary War provides enough context it seems.

And God - I know. He's such a fucking WHORE in that movie what the fuck fucking slutty ass men with their long hair and no underwear and deep-V shirts... BYE!!!!!

[kylorengarbagedump]

I saw years ago you rebloged this:

How about Kylo f——- you, virgin!reader, while the Knights of Ren watch? He won't allow them to touch you though because you belong to him.

Would you write it still?

I believe I wrote a response to a prompt very similar to this with a fellow mod of the now-defunct thirst-order-confessions blog. Our response is saved on AO3 here!

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 16 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 15 here. Part 17 here.

Summary: I learned that it is (was?) also called 'morning glory' in the UK. How delightful.

Words: 5700

Warnings: no <3

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia <3

*throws this chapter up before disappearing into Thanksgiving*

HELLO!! Thought we'd give thanks to y'all by getting (read: me forcing Bastillia to stay up late and edit with me) a chapter up before the holiday. So so happy the last couple chapters were well-received, we were both so delighted to hear you enjoy what we're trying to do here <3

We shall sadly take a break from smut for the next couple chapters, but there's much more to come (cum. lol.)!!

We love y'all so much, happy holidays to those who celebrate, and see you soon <3

It was a dream. Or divine intervention. Or perhaps it was your mind, finally untangling the yarn of your thoughts in its half-conscious liberty. Whichever it was, it struck you like an epiphany, throwing your eyes open.

You were the cub. Papa was the bear. Catawba was the bear’s den.

You jolted upright in a triumphant shout. Next to you, William Tavington flew awake, snatching his flintlock from the bedside table and pointing it directly between your eyes.

“What the—” You scowled, backhanding his wrist to shove the gun aside. “Good morning to you as well.”

The man across from you blinked into thought, his hair draped in messy ribbons over his face. His gaze focused, finding you in the bed beside him, and scanned your naked, bewildered figure before his arm relaxed and the pistol fell onto the sheets.

“Christ alive, woman,” he grumbled, rubbing his temple. “I’d pity your other bedfellows had they ever existed.”

You rolled your eyes. “I can’t say I envy any of yours if they received a greeting as welcoming as mine.”

He snorted. Glimpsed you as if about to say something. But instead tossed his hair from his face and sank onto his pillow before replacing the gun where it had been resting.

As of the haze of sleep cleared from your sight, you found yourself unable to look away from him. The morning sun opened like a magnolia flower, petals of light streaming color through the window and highlighting the stubble sprouting on his cheeks, the mahogany branching through his hair, the grey budding in his irises.

You wanted to be closer to him—to press your lips to the underside of his jaw and feel the scrape of beard, to push your hands through his hair and wrap it like thread around your fingers. You wanted to seal yourself against him, soak in the heat of his skin, wanted to whisper his name and hear his breath catch in his chest.

And as you stared, rolling that strange and saccharine fantasy across your palate, you realized that his name now labeled the space he occupied in your mind. No longer could you gaze at him and think Colonel, or Tavington without his name attached, too. The man who laid next to you was William. And you wanted to invoke it like a prayer.

Shifting toward him, you paused. You’d definitely just had a revelation about where your father was headed. Was rolling around in bed with a British colonel the most responsible action for you to take? If anything, you needed to be leaping into your clothes and—

William rolled onto his back, stretching his shoulders. You immediately shelved your scheming.

A tent sprang from the sheets between his legs. And despite the discomfort between your own, your eyes widened, vision tunneling on that silhouette like a fox poised to pounce.

Your throat worked.

“You’re…” You didn’t care how inexperienced it made you appear. You couldn’t not stare at it. “Eager.”

He raised a brow. From the corner of your vision, you saw him seek your gaze only to realize you were far too fixated on his erection. Pausing, he considered you, eased back against his pillow.

“Well,” he murmured, “if you’re so curious…” He pulled the covers back.

Your throat thickened with lust. In the light of day, his cock was even more impressive than the one in your memory. Thick, even girth, a slight curve all the way to its pink head, long enough for you to sob when he bottomed out inside you. Tiny veins pulsed underneath the skin—you wanted to trace them with your fingers, your tongue. Wanted to feel it throb like it had in your palm. Like it had when he’d emptied himself between your thighs.

At some point, your jaw had dropped open. Drool was seeping from the corner of your mouth. William said your name, which you intended to respond to, except you kept thinking about how his seed had tasted and how you wanted more.

Then two of his fingers trailed from the base up the underside of his shaft, making it twitch. You choked, drew in a trembling breath, and finally managed to look him in the eyes.

“Uh,” was the only sound you could make. You wiped your chin free of saliva.

His lip curled in amusement. “Do you want a turn?”

You didn’t know what to say. His fingers slid back down in a slow tease, and he seethed, his stomach tightening with pleasure. Desire shook you, and you squirmed, putting pressure on your clit with your thighs. As he dragged a finger around the root, earning another needy throb from his cock, you shook your head.

Right now, you were fully content to watch and learn.

Encircling the base with his thumb and forefinger, he dragged back up, pushing skin to the tip, then coasted over that sensitive little place where the head met the shaft. He inhaled, his jaw stiffening, then looked at you, studied all the flesh you’d left exposed to the sun. Eyes focused on your breasts, he gripped his cock and led it through a long, firm stroke.

You swallowed again. Your cunt clenched, your clit ached—you shifted your hips, squeezed your thighs, trying in vain to relieve the tension between them. But as he stroked himself again, and again, each movement releasing a quiet breath of relief, your efforts became futile. You needed to touch yourself, too.

William’s attention remained on your breasts until you revealed all of yourself from the sheets, settling onto your pillow and easing your legs apart. The pain from your core was humbling—even as it tightened around nothing, it made you wince—but your clit clamored despite it. Watching as he guided his cock leisurely through his fist, you snuck your hand over your stomach and to the crux of your thighs.

He exhaled, smirking. “You’re eager.”

Your first finger skimmed over the throbbing hill between your folds, and you huffed, shocks of delight darting to your toes. “I…” Speaking like this—naked and unabashed and gazing at one another—felt dirty. Filthy. Made your face burn.

You loved it.

“Perhaps I am,” you admitted, and drew a languid circle around your clit. “Oh…”

His throat bobbed, and his jaw shifted. “I would think better of your innocence had I not been the one to make you bleed.”

“I said I was a virgin,” you replied coyly. “Not innocent.”

“Mhm.” William’s smirk grew wider, and he pinched a drop of fluid from the head of his cock, slicking it around the head and pumping it along his shaft. His eyes fluttered, his breath faltered. “Perhaps we’ll have to explore that more thoroughly.”

Excitement lit your spine, and you gasped, nodding. The thought of it—finding yourself in his bed over and over, of being the object of his desire and the subject of experimentation, of becoming familiar with William—broke a smile across your face. You swirled around your clit, mouth parting with an ecstatic moan.

“Yes,” he said. “You’d like that.” He rolled his wrist, teased himself by sliding his fingers up the underside before thrusting into his fist again. “You’d like to be my very own whore.”

“Hell,” you gasped, the thrill of it ratcheting the tension between your thighs. “I would.” Your finger moved faster, you imagined him finding you in the hospital tent and bending you over one of the tables; imagined the groans grazing your ear while you climbed astride him in his bed; imagined staring into the stars as he fucked you in the field. “A-anywhere you wanted.”

William huffed, his thighs tensing, his cheeks and chest flush. His lust-laced gaze hung on your cunt, his breath picking up. “For anything I wanted,” he muttered. He gripped his cock tighter, his hips bucking now, seeking more and more of his fist. “Hm?”

Anything he wanted could be anything, and if you were of sober mind, you may have hesitated at that. But watching the most beautiful man you’d ever seen stroke his cock to the thought of you; watching the blue in his eyes grow a hunger and depth like the sea as he stared at your cunt, your breasts; watching his cock twitch and pulse with the intensifying need to come… well, the less terrifying that seemed.

In fact, anything sounded like a contract. One to which, in your current state, you’d happily sign your life.

If this was how he would tame you—oh, how desperately did you want to be tamed.

“Perhaps,” you said through your shallow breath, a grin sneaking onto your face. “If you believe you can compel me."

His lip curled in a sneer. “You will come to heel when called,” he said, and his free hand reached to snag your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you close. “After all,” he breathed into your ear, “we both know you cannot resist coming for me.”

Before you could whimper in assent, he captured your mouth with his own.

William—how strange and awful and exhilarating to call him that each time—consumed you, kissed you as if your lips alone could bring him deliverance. You whined, returning his ardor, desire surging you in gooseflesh. Your fingers moved faster, flicked and played at your stiff clit, and you moaned into him, your orgasm burgeoning at your thighs.

You didn’t want to break. Not yet.

Gasping, you released yourself and grasped his cock at the base. William stifled a groan, stuffing it down into his chest and ceding control. You squealed, elated, mimicking his movements until you felt his fingers tighten in your hair and his teeth clamp onto your lower lip.

“Christ,” he muttered, and groped between your legs until he found your heat. “Determined, aren’t you?”

With a nod, you caught his mouth again and slipped your tongue into it, humming in bliss when he caressed your swollen, tender clit. You were so wound, so taut with need already that the friction of his rougher, thicker fingers made you spasm to your shoulders. More fluid leaked from the head of his cock, and you glazed his shaft with it, relishing the way he pulsed in your fist.

A finger moved toward your entrance, making you cry out, a stab of pain locking your joints. If this concerned him, though, you couldn’t tell—he stuffed that single finger inside of your core and growled as you constricted around him.

“That’s it.” His thumb rolled over your clit, sketching fast rings around it. “Do you feel how tightly you grip me when you’re near to breaking?” he said, his breath husky with pleasure, his voice low. “I’d apologize for the pain…” His finger stroked a spot inside of you that made you twist with ecstasy and agony at once. “... but you do so enjoy it.”

Your head fell back as you convulsed with desperate breath. Like a sudden, furious tide, your climax loomed upon you. Your muscles froze. And with a brush of your tender clit, the encouragement of his finger, it crashed into you.

He kissed you as you came, swallowing your wails as his hand followed your jerking body. It came in angry, exhausted swells, as if your nerves were flayed open, and you melted into its dissipation, nipping at his lips before control returned to your limbs.

It was perhaps a miracle of his own that he hadn’t yet covered your hand in his seed. Thank the sweet Lord who you hoped was not looking down upon you at just this moment, though. There was still so much you were curious about. And you were, after all, nothing if not one who learned best by being hands-on.

Or, as appealed to you in particular this morning, mouth-on.

William’s tongue darted across your lower lip one final time before he drew away, easing from the quivering depths of your cunt. He brought his hand up between you, letting the morning light play across the slick sheen of your pleasure coating his finger. In a rush of pure instinct and before you could think too hard about it, you leaned forward and enveloped it with your lips.

He made a soft noise deep in his throat, and when you tentatively suckled at the pad of his finger, his hips flexed into your slackened grip. The taste of your own undoing zipped like lightning across your raw senses, grounded by the earth and salt of his skin. It exhilarated you. You needed more of him.

Flicking your gaze to his from beneath your lashes, you drew his finger in further and dragged your tongue to the tip, this time mirroring the act with a slow stroke of your hand up his shaft. Just as he had done, you lingered at the little valley below the head, teased it with the barest touch.

William seethed, crooked his finger behind your teeth and tugged your jaw open. His eyes stormed with something primal, dancing between your open mouth and the needy cock twitching at your palm.

“One might think you long for your lips to be wrapped around something else,” he growled.

Face hot, you nodded. Even without him prying your mouth apart, you’d hesitate to say it.

He tutted. “Judiciousness doesn’t suit you in this instance.” He released you, and you coughed. “Speak, girl. Tell me exactly what you want.”

You glanced at the shiny head in your hand, his desire dripping from the tip. You’d read enough, overheard enough married women giggling behind their palms to know exactly what you wanted to do, you just hadn’t imagined yourself actually ever wanting a man enough to do it. To your embarrassment, your mouth watered as you envisioned yourself settling between his legs and—yes, dear sweet innocent and hopefully oblivious Christ, yes. That was what you wanted.

“I…” You swallowed, and met his stare. “I want…” You could envision it, and yet the words felt trapped beneath the anvil of your tongue, your cheeks stoked to furnace-heat.

William frowned. “A shame,” he said with affected disappointment. “And your mouth was functioning so adeptly just moments ago.”

“I want,” you spat, fueled by his imperiousness, “... to…” Fire blazed in your face, but you wouldn’t let it stop you now. With a huff, you forced your lips to form the words. “I want to use my mouth.” You circled your thumb slowly over the swollen head of him. “Here.”

His hips bucked. A muscle fluttered in his jaw. His gaze flashed, the fever behind them melting the last links on his restraint.

“Now,” he said, “was that so difficult?”

You rolled your eyes, forgetting yourself. “You're impossible.”

A smirk—like he'd been waiting for you to show just a shred of snark—split his face. “Actually,” he purred, his hand slinking behind your head to nest itself in your hair, “I find myself rather amenable to your request.”

His nails scraped your scalp, and he forced your face toward his cock.

All you could do was loosen your jaw, eyes wide as you took him in your mouth for the first time. Whimpering, your tongue pressed to his shaft, your lips sealing around it, saliva pouring from your cheeks. He was hot, like he’d been kissed by the sun, his taste a mixture of his skin and the brine of his seed. It made you groan, made your vision fuzz with lust.

William held you there, his breath trapped in his chest. But there was no way you were rushing this. You shifted, dragged your fingers over his thighs, making sure you had his attention before sucking softly on the head.

Instantly, his body tensed, a grunt escaping, the grip on your hair tightening. The reaction made you cunt revive itself from stupor—you did it again, and again, holding his stare, humming against him, as if his cock was a delicacy you were delighted to devour.

As he hissed, groaned in bliss, his chest rolling with quickening breath, you thought perhaps there could be an argument made in favor of that thought.

You slid your tongue up and down the tender dip at the head of his cock, suckling at him like he needed savoring. He twitched against your tongue, and you moaned, spurred on, taking him another inch into your mouth.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “More.”

Swallowing against him, you took the barest advance, now aware he wanted to use your mouth just like he used your cunt. But you coughed, halted by reflex, and you eased back, returning to sucking at the head.

His jaw stiff, William gripped your head, pushed you further onto his cock until the tip hit the back of your throat. You choked, gagging spit down his shaft as you lurched away, but he held you there, excitement alive in his gaze as he watched you writhe, watched tears build in your eyes.

“More.”

Lip furling, he snapped his hips into your mouth, and you heaved, helpless against him, groaning pathetically until he finally released you. You wrenched free, spit stringing from your lips as you retched, coughing away the urge to eject the contents of your stomach.

“I thought you wanted to use your mouth.”

Eyes watering, you cleaned your face with the back of your hand. “I did,” you managed to say.

He was unmoved. “Then I suggest you continue.”

You coughed again, glaring at him as he coldly returned your gaze. Taking a breath, you lowered yourself to his cock again, slicking him with your lips. Watching him, you started to bob your head, ignoring each time you wanted to gag, until finally, the instinct subsided. Instead, you whimpered in gratification, saliva soaking his shaft as you stared at him.

You couldn’t imagine what you looked like: naked, your lips wrapped around his cock, your head bouncing like a buoy as you sought to drain him dry. But you didn’t begrudge that, didn’t recoil as you thought you might have every other time you’d heard of women doing this. Instead, you ached for his approval, your heart raced at the thought that he could actually come off in your mouth.

Even suggesting it to yourself made you whine, made your eyelids flutter. You held him in your focus, the heat between your legs burning bright as his breath became rapid, as his jaw began to slacken. You shifted, your hands suddenly so limp, so empty; you curled one around the root of his cock, pumping it in time with your mouth, pulse skipping when he gasped in bliss.

William ran his fingers through your hair again, his head almost falling back. From the pink in his cheeks, his panting in uneven rhythm, you knew he was getting close—he grew harder, more swollen in your mouth, and you squeezed him tighter, swallowing him over and over.

“Yes,” he groaned, “that’s right.” His eyes were slivers of sky, barely able to focus. “So much—so much prettier like this.”

You whimpered, something like joy flooding you, and he grunted, his head falling back, his fist twisting in your hair. His muscles hardened beneath you, his cock throbbed. You held your mouth on him, moaning onto him as he came.

His seed spilled from his cock in warm spurts, filling your mouth and smothering your tongue. It was just how you remembered: the unmistakable essence of him. You swallowed it all, kept your tongue to his shaft and felt it pulse with each release, entranced by the way his brows pinched together, the way his teeth grit out his bliss. His hips rolled with his climax, and you worked his cock gently until he stuttered to a stop, collapsing into heavy, labored breath.

As you eased off of him, you realized you were trembling, your thighs were warm, your belly tight. You swallowed again, falling onto your side, watching as William meandered his way back to reality, his gaze falling on you from under hooded lids. He looked to the ceiling, exhaling through his nose before glancing at you again and wiping the ring of sweat that had begun to bead on his forehead.

“Passable performance,” he said, taking another breath before pushing himself upright and moving to leave the mattress.

“Such eminent praise,” you mumbled, yet unable to stop yourself from grinning.

As you watched him rise from the bed, you rolled onto your back, not content to miss a moment of his body in the daylight. The sun rose over his skin and shimmered where you'd scratched him, where you'd sunk your teeth into him. Between that and the pleasant aches where he'd choked you, bitten you, rended you, you were satisfied that even if you never did this again, the both of you would remember it for some time to come.

Would you do this again? He had said as much, but that was in the throes of passion. You weren't sure how reliable those words were.

"So..." You sat up straighter, eyes following him as he pulled on his stockings. "Did you..."

How did one ask the question? When shall you take me next, William? Shall we meet each morning so you may feed me your seed? Ah, excuse me, but I must needs inquire when I can expect to come off around your cock again.

No, none of those felt right.

"Did I..." William looked at you, brow raised. "Did you have a question, or were you inquiring if I, at one time, sewed?"

"What?" You blinked, shook your head. "No, I—why would I ever care if you sewed?"

He shrugged, eyeing you with a smirk as he stepped into his trousers. "Absurdity has never precluded your inquiries in the past."

You frowned. "Don't be an arse." Shifting on the bed, your attention drifted to the window. "I was pondering if you... If we..." To run outside nude and fall face-first into a pond would feel less humiliating than this. William seemed to know it, too, since he was waiting far too smugly for you to speak. You glared at him and glanced at the ceiling. "Were you sincere?" you asked. "When you implied we should do this again."

"Ah," he replied dryly, a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, "that makes far more sense than an interest in my experience with textiles." Before you could roll your eyes, he started to throw on his shirt. "I see no reason to complicate the situation."

"Ah," you said. That answered exactly zero percent of what you'd asked. "Which means..."

He glanced at you. "Of course.”

You were only a bit surprised when your shoulders unbunched at his response. Of course. You were two adults who enjoyed some level of sexual association. Of course you would do this again.

And, of course, the next question on your mind: when?

If you’d been smart, you would’ve stuck with Lottie and gotten on the carriage to the Goddard home in Charleston (you hoped she wasn’t too worried about you). But now, you weren’t even sure what the rest of the day was going to look like for you, let alone what William’s plans were. Would he return to the field? Would the expectation be that you and Lottie would return with him?

Was it proper to wonder about any of this, or to even ask?

There was still some part of him, you knew, that didn’t trust you, and rightfully so. Because beyond even your worry for the next minute, the next hour, you worried for Grace.

If the bear’s den was indeed Catawba—which you were sure it was—that meant that Papa and the rest of his soldiers were headed in that direction, and that could mean any number of things. The most reassuring thought was that it meant nothing. But given your last conversation with him, how casually he tossed out Grace’s name as a proxy for your correspondence, you were far more convinced it meant something you would very much not like.

Perhaps your father would be disappointed that you hadn’t managed to get any useful information from the British in the meantime, and you certainly wouldn’t if you headed home, but that had long lost its importance to you. His insistence you collect intelligence was his delusion, not yours, and you were clearly incapable of doing it anyway, since your most daring attempt to do anything surreptitious ended with you bleeding and coming on a British officer’s cock.

Your relief for Papa’s well-being was still palpable. But the insinuation that he might bring violence even within a mile of your home made your palms sweat. Plus, there was now the issue of Patrick Ferguson, who appeared genuinely enamored with Grace, and whose proximity to her had the capacity to place her in even greater danger.

More than putting your mouth on William Tavington’s body again, or having a part of his body inside yours, you needed to get to Catawba.

You continued to lie on the bed, watching as William crossed to the bedside table and grabbed the black ribbon he’d unwound from his queue the previous night. Sitting on the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair before separating it into strands.

He felt your eyes on him, obviously, as he turned, brow raised.

"Something the matter?” he asked, voice laden with sarcasm.

“No,” you replied, averting your gaze. But that didn’t feel satisfactory. You realized you wanted to say more. And it wasn’t even for duplicity’s sake. “How well do you know Major Ferguson?”

His brow lowered in irritation. “Only the Lord could grant me insight as to why you’d inquire about that name.” He placed the end of the ribbon at the base of his scalp and started to plait it into his hair.

“I’m just curious about his character.”

“What do you mean, curious?” His gaze flicked over your frame.

You sighed. If Ferguson was already asking to write her, then there was no secret to his affection. “He’s…” The thought alone made you shudder with disgust. “He wants to write my sister,” you said. “He seems quite taken with her.”

William snorted, continuing to wind the ribbon through his braid. “If her familial association hadn't brought me to pity her before, I certainly do now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Or perhaps I pity him,” he mused, “if she is as mendacious as her sister.”

You frowned. “You know nothing about her,” you said, your voice low, “so I suggest you stop speaking as if you do.” When he didn't reply, you added, “Besides, he deserves no pity. He’s awful.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say awful,” William replied, with the clear indication that he was indeed saying Ferguson was awful. After tying off the end of the plait, he started to wrap the ribbon around the tips. “Perhaps she maintains a predilection for chimerical, self-serving, aspiring martyrs.” He paused, as if his next words held deep meaning. “May remind her of her father.”

A growl rumbled in your chest. “I don't know if you think you're being amusing,” you said, “but I am not amused.”

“Amusing?” he said, glimpsing you with disdain. He tucked the ends of the ribbon into the queue. “No. Merely stating my observations.”

“There's nothing for you to observe.” You gathered the sheets to cover yourself. “So don't sit there and pretend as if you have insight on my family that you could never claim to have.”

“Far better than your willful ignorance, I'd say.”

About one thousand swords leapt to your tongue, and you imagined yourself wielding all of them at once. One in particular unsheathed itself, ready to plunge—you being undeserving of your parents' love doesn't deem all families devoid of it—

Glaring at him, you opened your mouth. Met his eyes. Remembered what he'd said last night. How he'd said it.

Why apologize for speaking truth?

William spoke his own truth at this moment. He had never, and likely would never know love as you had known it. And for that, your fury collapsed into something with far fewer teeth. You shook your head, chuckling to yourself.

“Something entertaining?”

“No,” you said dismissively. “It’s… I pity you, I suppose.”

His jaw tightened, his shoulders locked. “I don’t deign to presume what a choleric bog woman finds pitiable about me.”

“There is nothing more important to me in this world than my family,” you replied. “Without them, my life would be rather empty.” You glanced at him. “I imagine your life must feel quite the same way.”

“Your imagination deceives you,” he said. “You fail to consider that, perhaps, you'd be at liberty to define your life free from their influence.”

You raised a brow. “As if all influence is uniformly negative.”

“No,” he said, a thin, sardonic smile on his lips, “and clearly the influence you’ve received has molded a most modest, affable, and submissive young lady.”

“And your lack thereof has provided all the favors for your manners and mercy,” you snapped, sitting forward.

William’s mouth quirked, as if you’d proven his point. You glared at him, your hands curling in and out of fists. You were, for some reason, irritated that you'd lashed at him. A part of you had been sincerely perplexed by his perspective, but you’d somehow managed to steer him into bickering with you again. It seemed that every vine of curiosity you extended also had to be tempered with rows of thorns.

Regardless, there was no point in trying to salvage the conversation now as long as he was going to use it as a way to goad you into an argument. You were beginning to suspect he gleaned some demented little thrill from it.

Then again, you may not have been innocent of such an accusation, either.

Grumbling, you relaxed against the headboard. Released your rage in a long exhale.

“I’m going to Catawba.”

For all of the spite in his tone, his brows furrowed in a flash of disappointment. He looked utterly sour. “You what?”

“Not for long.” You shrugged, crossing your arms. Even if you hadn’t already been looking forward to having sex with him again, having knowledge of British movements still gave you the greatest opportunity to keep your family safe. “My sister is there. I haven't seen her in months. I'm worried for her.” Pursing your lips, you sought his gaze. “I want to see her.”

William stood, plucked his waistcoat from the floor. “Allow me to think on it,” he said. “Given your recent—and poor—attempts at subterfuge and a history of collaboration with the Continental army…” He leveled you with his stare. “No.”

“What?” You sat forward, leering. “Surely you don’t believe you can mete out your own form of punishment,” you replied. “I don’t need your permission. My parole has been cleared since before I started serving in the field hospital.”

“Precisely my point,” he said, finishing the buttons on his waistcoat. “You serve the British Army, my cavalry, and, therefore, myself. We depart tomorrow for Fort Carolina. I expect you to be part of the marching order.”

You felt your hackles raise. “Well, firstly, I’m not a soldier,” you said through gritted teeth. “Secondly, I’m asking for a few days. Send me with an escort if you think it’s necessary.” He glanced at you, brow raised. “I just want to see my sister.”

William grabbed his jacket and slipped his arms into it, silent as he adjusted his boots and then glanced at himself in one of the mirrors on the wall, running his hand over the wisps of hair that hadn’t been integrated into the queue. With a sigh, he turned toward a leather satchel that had been placed next to the bedside table and started to rummage through it.

“Major Ferguson is slated to head in that direction from Charleston, I believe,” he said, as if it was the most incredible burden for him to admit it. “You may join his caravan, if you so wish.”

“Ferguson?” You frowned, and he met your gaze with the barest but still infuriating sparkle of glee. It made you want to tackle him to the ground and bite his throat. “You are punishing me. This is punishment.”

He stood, a tin of pomade in his hand. “No,” he said, smirking. “This is serendipity.”

You huffed, knocking your head against the headboard to demonstrate your displeasure. You supposed you couldn’t disagree with that. “Yes,” you admitted. “Fine.”

“You know…” He slicked the pomade over his hair before pocketing it. “You’re far more appealing when you decide to agree with me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I truly, genuinely, positively loathe you.”

“Mm, a mutual agreement then.” William stepped forward and pressed his mouth to yours, biting your lip before pulling away. “I’ll inform the major.”

Just the tease of his attention was enough to revive the warmth in your belly. You screwed your expression into a frown, cocked your head. “What, shall I go like this?” You gestured toward the sheet half-covering your body. “Depart with unlaced stays and a ball gown?”

“Carriages have been arranged for officers and their company,” he said, almost as if he was irritated by the question. “They’re set to leave for Charleston before noon.” He grabbed his satchel and holstered his flintlock. “Ferguson will gather you there tomorrow.”

You studied him for a moment, then nodded. “And where are you going?”

“Meddlesome creature, aren’t you?”

Heat rushed your neck. “No,” you insisted, “I want to know if I need to be leaving this room or if you’re coming back here.”

William stared at you a moment, lingering on your mussed hair, your purpled flesh. “You’ll want to depart soon,” he said, and turned toward the door. “Though it’s not a quality you possess, I expect you to try to be discreet.”

“Oh, yes,” you replied. “So simple when you’ve had the same effect on my torso as a volley of roundshot.”

Sneering, he opened the door and disappeared behind it. The sound of boots marched down the stairs, becoming distant as he met the first floor.

You gazed at the room, taking inventory of your stockings, your shoes, your petticoats and bodice. Your broken stays.

A small, not-insignificant part of you felt almost—to your utter horror—disappointed that he was gone. You glanced between your legs and silently cursed what lived there. Perhaps a break was for the best.

[kylorengarbagedump]

absolutely love wanting to fuck characters who thoughtlessly murder innocent people for selfish reasons. it actually makes me better than everyone else