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kylorengarbagedump · 7 months ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: With your father off to serve the Continental Army, you've taken up the mantle of protector for your family - so when redcoats arrive on your property looking for him, you stand your ground. Sure, this ends in your arrest as a prisoner of war, but you don't plan on making it easy for them.

Until, of course, your interrogation is co-opted by Colonel William Tavington - the cruel, brutal Butcher of the Continentals.

Unfortunately for you, he's also the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Words: 5500

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS PERFECT LOVE, @bastillia.

If you made it through, thank you for reading this first chapter to a mini-story about a villain from a film that's 24 years old. No better way to celebrate Fourth of July than fantasizing about fucking a British soldier!

Bastillia and myself are currently in a Jason Isaacs phase and we desperately need him and in particular William Tavington. So! Here you go. <3

Love y'all so so much!

Grace found you in your father’s rocking chair, dressed in his clothes. Taking a seat on the porch bench next to you, she let her head fall back, her gaze following the ceiling. When you didn’t speak, she sucked in air through her nose and sighed.

“Are you going to sit out here all night again?”

You shrugged, and she nudged you.

“You and one gun won’t stand much of a chance against a bunch of redcoats.”

You frowned, glancing from the pistol in your lap to the dirt path cutting across the grassy field in front of you. Evening’s claws crept across the village, sank into the horizon. Since the fall of Charleston to the British, darkness carried an hourglass with it, the bottom growing heavier every night. Jaw stiff, your eyes followed a firefly as it drifted and winked out like an ember over the grass.

“You would rather I let them burn our home?”

Grace sighed again. “They won’t burn our home.”

You turned on her. “Won’t they? Mrs. Miller has a cousin outside of Charleston. Told me they fired her barn.”

“That’s one person.”

“Mr. Allen said his brother told him about a whole town down the way from Camden they found burned to the ground.”

Grace snorted. “Ah, yes, Mr. Allen, our esteemed purveyor of truths.”

“Grace. If…” You gripped the barrel of the pistol, your mouth drawing tight. She didn’t know, and it had to remain that way. There was no ‘if’ to your father’s return in her mind. He’d left the truth behind his departure only with you. “I won’t let father come home to a pile of ash.”

A family of crickets swelled in song. Grace shifted closer to you. “You would rather I let him come home to your grave?”

You looked at her. Seeing her expression, a small part of you softened. She wasn’t wrong to worry. Your eyes ached, your head heavy from the lack of sleep. But even when you decided to lie down, your mind refused to release you to rest. Your shift as sentinel would end when your father returned home. With a sigh, you slumped back. The chair eked back and forth on the planks, the drumbeat of your station.

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said. “Nathaniel’s been paying you quite a bit of attention, hasn’t he?”

Grace stiffened, battling a grin. “Yes, he has.” She folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks reddening. “Why?”

A laugh rumbled in your throat. You knew it. “What do you think about him?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth. “Well, he’s very sweet. Very kind. He always has been, you know the Joneses, they’re such good people.” Her shoulders melted into the bench. “He’s been walking with me after church. Just through the town. We look at the flowers.” She sighed, finally letting herself smile, her gaze drifting until her eyes hesitantly found yours. “What do you think about him?”

“Me?” you replied, as if you didn’t know the question was coming. “I don’t know him that well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What have you noticed about him?”

You hummed in thought. Nathaniel Jones.

“Well…” His jawline was seldom free of razor wounds. “Probably a little clumsy.” The grooves in his fingers were always tread with dirt, the collar of his shirt tanned by sweat. His hands had stained almost every page of his Bible. “Not sure if he ever washes without needing a reminder.” He always showed up to church with at least one piece of tack fastened wrong on his horse. His mouth would mimic reading aloud during service, but his eyes would be trained on the floor. “And I don’t think he’s very bright.”

“Really.” Grace studied you. “Mrs. Jones taught all of those boys, though.”

“Doesn’t mean they all have the same capacity to learn,” you mumbled. But before Grace could protest, you shrugged. “Kind is good, though.” You offered a small grin. “Kind is very good.”

With a laugh of relief from Grace, the two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in cricket song. The rocking chair squeaked back, forth, back, forth. It squeaked in tempo with your heart, rumbling, louder, a vibration skittering through your toes. Deeper, deeper it grew, staccato in its cadence, a pounding that rocked your porch.

It wasn’t until Grace turned to look at you, her eyes shimmering in starlight, that you realized it wasn’t your heart at all. Torches floated over your lawn and up the dirt path, bobbing in rhythm with horse hooves. A dozen of them, each illuminating a soldier in a crimson jacket.

Your throat thickened. Your stomach tightened. You squeezed the handle of your father’s pistol. Beside you, Grace whispered your name.

“Quiet,” you said. “Just get behind me.”

You leapt to your feet, crossing over the top step of your porch to lean against one of the wooden columns, gun held slack but unconcealed at your side. The officer in front—a white-wigged man with a sword on his hip—held his fist in the air. Behind him, the squad stalled to a stop, dust swirling in the halos of light.

Swallowing, you stuck your chin toward the sky, hoping that your father’s farm boots made you a little bit taller, that the breadth of his shirt made your shoulders even a little bit wider. The officer in front dismounted his horse and waved his hand, and a soldier behind him joined him on the ground. Together, they marched toward your home.

“Officers,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

At the foot of the stairs, the inferior officer looked between you and Grace. His brow furrowed, he leaned toward the ear of his superior. “No record of a son according to our intel, sir.”

You frowned, but didn’t correct him. Being mistaken for a man had its benefits in this situation.

The superior officer scrutinized you, hairline to hips, his lips screwing in thought. Whatever he was considering, he didn’t say it—instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from one of the pouches on his hip.

“Good evening,” he began, his nose wrinkling as he glanced at you and Grace. “You may call me Sergeant Dalton, this is Corporal Bancroft. Is this the home of Michael…” His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the last name. But you didn’t care to wait.

“Yes,” you said. “This is his home. We’re his children.” You stared between them. “Is that all? My sister needs to be getting to bed soon.”

Dalton returned the parchment, his hands meeting behind his back. “You’re aware your father is an officer in the Continental Army?”

Your heart—it was definitely your heart, this time—thumped in your temple. This was the part you didn’t want Grace knowing about. The soldiers waited, studying your face. You needed to say something. Words died on your tongue.

“What?” Grace stepped forward, peering around you. “No, he’s not. He’s been away—”

“Grace, be quiet,” you hissed.

But she’d already caught the interest of Dalton. “Would you like to continue, young miss?” He advanced a step toward you both, and your finger slipped into the pistol’s trigger well. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to submit to questioning regarding your father’s whereabouts?” He glimpsed your hold on the gun. “Come along, quietly, and you may very well be pardoned by His Majesty’s army.”

You shook your head. “Just take me. She doesn’t know anything.”

Grace whispered your name, grabbed your hand, and proceeded to undermine you. “No,” she said. “Take me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Dammit, Grace—”

“That’s enough.” Dalton looked at you, then at Grace, then at Bancroft. “Arrest them both.”

---

In the tent, the air was thick with breath and sweat. Candles swayed in the center, their lambent glow hovering on the walls, deepening every shadow. Voices filtered in from outside, so low that they clogged together through the canvas. Sharper was the ache where your bindings had begun to bite your wrists to rawness. Louder the pulse in your own eardrums, and the sniffled prayers coming from the young man bound beside you.

Twisting your wrists sent a knife of clarity to your brain. You bit back a hiss—you needed to think.

By your estimation, they’d brought you between two and five miles beyond the outskirts of town. But between the darkness and the burlap sack which had been so benevolently foisted upon your head for the entire wagon ride here, it was impossible to say for sure.

More alarmingly, you’d lost track of Grace somewhere in the weave of shoves and barked commands. When the tents had been erected, you’d been thrown in with the men—Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, and Nathaniel Jones, as fate would have it. Whether this was somehow a genuine mistake even after your thorough handling by the soldiers, or some drawn-out taunt to your choice of attire, you also had no idea.

Each unknown seemed to hook itself upon a tender sinew in your mind, and stretch it taut. You tried shaking your head, but that only set off a ringing in your ears.

Beside you, Nathaniel sobbed out another prayer. Your teeth ground together.

Craven would have to be added among the placards you’d already tacked to his character, you decided.

Outside, hooves thundered again. As they slowed, one pulled ahead of the others and into the heart of the camp. Your ears pricked. There was an unevenness to its gait, the rattle of a bit shank as the horse threw its head before slowing to a halt several yards away. Voices rose and hushed, soldiers shuffling. A distant chorus of acknowledgement to a new arrival.

“Colonel, sir,” said one that sounded like Dalton. “The Dragoons weren’t—I wasn’t aware you’d be arriving.”

“Another detail among many which seem to slip your awareness, Dalton,” said the voice belonging to this colonel, whoever he was. “The rebels, then. What have we learned?”

Dalton was silent for a moment. “Well… Nothing yet, s—”

“Nothing.”

“We haven’t begun the interrogations, sir.”

Boots struck the ground. As his horse was led away, the colonel dusted his coat twice. And, with the manner of someone chiding a forgetful child, said: “Well, no time like the present, is there, Sergeant?”

There was movement, grass rustling, canvas flapping. You stuck out your neck as if this would help you hear—all it managed to do was strain your collarbones. Beside you, Nathaniel was still sniveling, sorry for himself and his whole family, as if now was the time to be crying. Closing your eyes, you caught the frayed wisps of voices, drowned by the sound of his sobs.

“Nathaniel,” you murmured. When he didn’t respond, you kicked his boot. "Nathaniel.”

He snorted up snot. “What? Who are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me. Grace’s sister.”

“Grace’s—” He inventoried your outfit. “Dear God. I didn’t recognize you. Is that why you’re in here with…” His eyes gained focus through his tears. “If you’re in here, where’s Grace? Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” You tilted your head toward the origin of the other voices. “Be quiet.”

Nathaniel choked and nodded, his nose still leaking, his face ruddy. You caught a sigh in your chest and sat straight, listening for intakes of breath, stammers, the scrape of metal, the chime of glass, anything that would give you insight.

The colonel’s voice first, dipping in and out of your perception. “All of you have… Captain Michael…”

You swallowed. This was about your father. But he should be with the Continentals up near Virginia by now.

“... his crimes against the King’s army… may be spared and released.”

Spared and released? Civilians weren’t targets, torture wasn’t permitted, you had nothing to fear from soldiers who would be your future brethren—this was according to the Loyalists in your village, anyway. Recent reports sparked doubt in their confidence. This colonel concealing threats stoked it further.

God, you hoped Grace wasn’t in that tent.

Silence. The candles wavered under the sodden air. One, two, three steps in the grass. You closed your eyes.

“Very well.” The click of a pistol.

Your breath stalled.

“Wait! Don’t—don’t…”

Grace. Grace was in that tent. Your consciousness slipped with a skip of your heart, but you sucked in air, fighting the ring in your ears. If you were going to help her, you needed to be alert.

“Is—is that Grace?” said Nathaniel.

You kicked his boot again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. Michael is my father.” Grace’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he’s—you have the wrong idea about him, sir. Or the wrong man entirely. He’s not a soldier in the Continental Army, he’s been away visiting our grandmother in Pennsylvania.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, Grace, no…”

“How very interesting,” came the colonel’s even reply.

A gunshot split the night.

All three men beside you flinched at once, and your bones flashed to ice. When the tin-whistle screech died in your ears, someone outside was screaming. Another was pleading.

“No! No, no…” It was Grace’s voice. Relief hit like opium. She was sobbing, incoherent between retches and sputterings of "you killed her,” and “oh, God, no, please no…”

You swallowed bile. Nathaniel resumed his prayers with fervor, now rocking back and forth. Elijah joined him.

“Colonel Tavington, I must protest,” came Dalton’s voice through the chorus of grief, before dropping lower. “... cannot abide… protocol… my jurisdiction—”

“Fortunately for you,” the colonel—Tavington—said, “these prisoners are no longer under your jurisdiction. They are under mine. But do feel free to stand by, Dalton, if you’ve the stomach for it. Perhaps you and your men could benefit from a demonstration, hm?”

“Sir,” was the only acknowledgment Dalton offered.

“Tavington,” said Adam, looking at Nathaniel and Elijah. “William Tavington? The Butcher?”

Elijah met his gaze and nodded without stopping prayer.

Your father had never mentioned any Butcher, but tonight was giving you plenty of context. Bracing against needles of panic, you closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow. Wails wracked Grace, and your chest squeezed. She had never seen death. Perhaps naively, you had hoped to keep it that way.

A gasp rippled through the women, and then Tavington spoke again.

“Now, now, darling girl. Shall we try this once more? Perhaps without lying.” The scrape of a ramrod resounded, then another click.

“I’m not lying” The tone of her utter despair tightened your throat. “I—I promise, that’s the truth. You can ask my sister. She—”

“Which of you is her sister?”

“I…” Silence. “She’s not in this tent. I don’t know where she is. But you arrested both of us, sir, she’s around here somewhere!” Another whimper crawled its way out of her. “There’s no need for anyone to die, please.”

You chewed your lip. You’d had enough. “Colonel!” you called out. “Leave her alone. I’m in here.”

“Stupid girl,” growled Elijah, “you’ll doom us.”

Ignoring him, you sat up straighter and willed your nerves to harden. Grace cried out your name, but was cut off with a yelp as leather cracked against skin. Fury roared within you.

Through the hot surge of blood, you heard footsteps marching toward the opening to your tent. Whoever this Butcher was, you’d halfway convinced yourself you’d spit in his face. But you needed to play it smarter than that, needed to keep Grace safe. With what little information you gathered, you at least knew he was a man, and from what you knew about men, they were easily swayed with a bit of physical encouragement.

With the shards of a plan coalescing, you shifted up onto your knees and thrashed your shoulders. Pain leapt from your wrists up your arms, but the movement had the intended effect—the front laces of your shirt slackened, the collar slipping open until it threatened to drape off of one shoulder. Pulse thundering, you settled back onto your heels. Exposed. Ready to bare your throat to the enemy.

Boots came to a halt outside. Then the entrance peeled open, and the Butcher stalked through.

You could make out little more than his silhouette. Tall and broad, head bowed to accommodate the tent’s low threshold. Then he straightened, took a step forward, and another, until candlelight thawed the shadows from his face. And as it did, the searing core of your anger surged and flashed to mist.

He was disarmingly handsome. High cheekbones framed a face carved from cruel marble. His eyes, alive like blue signal fires, penetrated the dimness from beneath the bastion of his brow. Peering down a curved nose, he struck a hawklike poise, with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His long, dark hair was combed back into a bond at the base of his skull. Immaculate, apart from a single errant strand that drifted down to brush his jaw. Even beneath an ink wash of darkness, you devoured his shape.

And, against every rational instinct left thrashing for air—found him exquisite.

A prickling sensation rose under your skin, spread hot across your bare collarbones and up your neck. You bolted your eyes to the floor, shifted on your knees. His presence stole even more air from the tent than you’d thought was possible. With a pang of frustration, you blinked hard once. If you were to have any chance of surviving this encounter, if Grace were to have any chance, you needed to pull yourself together. Now.

One slow, controlled breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You dared to glance up again.

The colonel’s head swung down the line of men, surveying his prisoners as a wolf might a flock. And then his eyes landed upon you.

“The sister,” he said, advancing. “Playing soldier with the men.” He clucked his tongue. “Quaint.” Your teeth ground in your skull, but words were not as forthcoming as you’d hoped when you’d shouted his summons into the night. The Butcher moved closer. “Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?”

“My father,” you began, “trusts me to take care of the family while he’s away.”

Tavington’s eyebrow cocked. “You’ve done a wonderful job, then, haven’t you?”

The venom his beauty had diluted was gathering on your tongue again. With effort, you swallowed it. Stick to the plan. Eyebrows pinching together, you made a show of slouching in capitulation to his jabs. You then conjured a pained whine and wiggled in your restraints, hoping your shirt would expose more of your clavicle, that he’d be able to see the sway of your breasts when you moved.

The colonel frowned, but did not drop his gaze. “Something the matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You pulled breath through your voice, fluttered your lashes. The focus required not to crumble under the frigidity of his gaze could have earned you regional acclaim. “These restraints are just so tight.” You wrested your shoulders back and forth as if to demonstrate, gasping from the very real pain that screamed in your wrists. “Perhaps you could loosen them just a little…”

Next to you, you felt Nathaniel watching, caught from the corner of your sight his mouth agape in horror. The realization irritated you. What had he done for Grace other than whimper like a beaten dog for God’s help? Yet another strike against him.

He wasn’t important. Bargaining for Grace’s safety was.

Meanwhile, Tavington had tracked your movement, his expression indecipherable. Your palms sweat in fear you’d managed to find the one man impervious to the temptation of sex.

“Poor dear.” He crossed behind you, and you stifled a sigh of relief.

Strong hands slid down your forearms and found the bindings on your wrists. The leather warmed your skin, his breath skimmed your nape. Goosebumps raced over you along with an undeniable desire to shiver, but you held your breath, fighting it off. Instead, you tipped your head to the side, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder to his view, along with the intriguing pocket of darkness that had formed down the front of your shirt, between your breasts.

Tavington paused. Your breath stalled. With an unforgiving grip on the ropes, he undid the knot—and then yanked it tighter. The fiber gouged your flesh, air fleeing your chest.

He stood and wedged the sole of his boot along your spine, shoving you forward. You smacked the dirt with a cough.

Your cheeks burned. So you had managed to find this previously-assumed-mythical man. Fine. If your body wasn’t going to work, you would find an alternative strategy.

“Perhaps that may help you focus less on squirming and more on the task at hand.” Tavington’s boots crossed your vision, shiny enough that you could almost glimpse your own pathetic reflection. With a grunt, you twisted to glare up at him. He was watching you like a child might watch ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny afternoon. “I’m going to show you a map. You’re going to show me where we can find your father. And if your sister gives me the same answer, you both may leave with your lives.”

Hoping the ground would yield a new perspective, you studied him. The horse he arrived on—it’d had a lame gait. Then there was his hair—a single thread of it kissing his jawline. His hands were concealed, his jacket and boots impeccable. But his stock-tie—the knot had been pulled slack, one tail creeping from beneath his collar.

There was so little to gamble with. But you had to try your luck anyway.

You snorted, using your shoulder as leverage to hoist yourself back onto your heels. “That will prove fruitless for you. She doesn’t know where he is.” You leveled him with your stare. His own bore into you, almost hollowed you. “My father only entrusted me with that knowledge.”

Tavington stepped forward. “A mistake on his part, perhaps, given the situation you find yourself in now.”

“No,” you said. “I think he had the right idea.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curled his mouth. “Then you’ll have no problem telling me exactly where he can be found.” He exhaled, the next words drawn out as if your lives were an inconvenient tedium. “Or you and everyone in this tent will suffer until you do.”

Nathaniel quailed. You jut out your chin.

“Do your worst.”

Tavington’s lip twitched. He snatched his pistol from its holster.

“You won’t kill me!” you spat. “You need me. Or you will fail.” Your voice was tight.

Tavington regarded you coolly from over the pistol’s frizzen. That moment’s silence was admission enough—a mote of triumph surged within you.

“Terribly sure of yourself.” As stony as his expression remained, you caught a certain bile now laced through his tone. “Pity,” he tutted, moving forward to rest the barrel between your brows. “To think such a pale imitation of bravery could save you.”

“It’s your risk to take,” you spat out, heart drumming your chest.

Something flashed across his expression. Seizing your chance, you held his gaze and pressed your forehead into the gun barrel.

“No cavalryman of honor rides his horse to lameness.” Fear bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it. “Look at you, Colonel. Your hair, your stock-tie—utterly disheveled. One might think you rushed here. One might even think you need something. Desperately. But you won’t get it if you kill me.” You flicked your eyes toward the other tent. “And if you hurt Grace, you’ll have to, because I promise that if you lay another finger on her, you will leave here with nothing.”

The tent was silent. Tavington dropped to a crouch before you and pressed the pistol under your chin. The barrel moved, guiding your head side to side as he examined your face. You swallowed, heat creeping onto your neck with the intensity of his attention. He was reading you, calculating his next move. You followed the single strand of his hair. You wondered how it felt against his skin.

”Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your nose, “upon which observation I struck you as a man of honor.”

Tavington stood, unsheathed his sword, and in one swift movement, sliced Elijah across the throat. A sheet of blood draped down his chest. Your eyes widened. Adam and Nathaniel screamed. The sword gored Adam’s neck, silencing him, and with its blade still lodged there, Tavington raised his pistol, cocked the hammer, and blew a bullet right through Nathaniel’s head.

The blast flayed your senses to a single tone pealing through your skull. When the world reformed, something warm and slick had smattered your face. You smelled iron.

You heard Grace shout your name, ripped through with terror, and as you heaved a breath to reply, Tavington wrenched the sword from Adam’s flesh and trained it against your windpipe. Adam’s body joined the rest, the dirt rusting with their blood.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Best if sister dearest thinks you’re dead. Kinder that way, don’t you think? At least, of course, until we find out if you have anything of value to offer.”

Dalton charged into the tent and cursed. He gestured toward the bodies still soaking the ground. “Colonel, please,” he said. “I must insist. I won’t know how to explain all of this to the General.”

Tavington turned toward him, his excitement waning. “How unfortunate for you.”

“I—I know, sir. But please. Let us just take the rest of these women to Charleston. We can handle this there.”

Crickets hummed in unison again. Tavington looked back at you. The terrible thrill flickered alive again.

“Take them, then,” he said, regarding you like a cougar would regard a lamb. “But leave this one with me.”

The sergeant nodded. “Uh, yes. Yes, Colonel.”

He disappeared again. Orders echoed to round up the women and get them on carts to Charleston. From the other tent, you caught Grace’s horrified, desperate tears. Everything inside you was bursting to call out to her, to soothe her despair. But Tavington’s blade prodded your throat. One noise could send it through.

You waited like that with him until the carts creaked off into the night. The bodies around you settled into death, their final breaths a gurgled epode to the dirt. It was impossible to stop the tears of anger that stung the corners of your eyes. Worse still, there was no way to hide them. No move you could make that wouldn’t add you to the litter of cooling corpses. All you could do with your last scrap of dignity was hold the Butcher’s stare.

A smirk flashed over his face. Your throat thickened.

“Now, there’s an obedient little soldier, hm?”

You held your breath, cheeks hot with humiliation or agitation or something altogether unfamiliar. God, what a bastard. If only you’d had your gun on you; you would’ve been happy to demonstrate just how much of a soldier you could be.

Tavington watched you, checking your compliance as if you were his dog in training. The closer he moved, the greater the heat in your chest, the thinner the air waned. His attention in any other scenario would've felt flattering—he followed every line, every curve of your body, eyes scouring your skin like chipped timber—only he sought the evidence of your deceit, anxious for an excuse to pile you on top of his casualties.

In any other scenario, the something altogether unfamiliar would've been simpler to define. In any other scenario, you might have wanted him closer.

Tavington raised a brow. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it—or the weight of your information while alive was greater than his desire for your death.

He lowered the blade. You exhaled.

“Your father is a fugitive. Tell me where I can find him,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “And your sister may fare well in her trial for treason.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, in your temples. You had no idea where your father might have headed, and you didn’t have any intention of handing that information to this monster, regardless. But you first needed to survive him. The rest would come later.

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding. “If you show me on a map where he escaped from, I can show you the path he likely followed.”

Tavington considered you for a moment, then offered a mirthless grin. “I advise you not to move.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding outside. Breath trembled through you, your eyes jumping around the tent. They’d stripped it of anything potentially useful—no knives, swords, guns, not even a damn rasp or a pair of nippers for the horses.

“Colonel Tavington, sir,” came a voice from outside.

“Do I appear at liberty, Bancroft?”

“Well, no—”

“Then it can wait.”

“But sir, it’s—”

“As you were.”

“It’s correspondence from General Cornwallis, sir.”

Silence. Your head cocked. He was unmoored. And behind you, candles crackled dutifully.

If you had any stitch of time to take at all, it would be now.

Your limbs moved autonomously. You rolled onto your side, working your bound hands beneath your thighs, tucking your legs to your chest. Wincing at the strain in your wrists, you forced them all the way around your legs. Now in an awkward quadrupedal position, you turned and focused on the candles. With a dizzying level of concentration, you managed to suppress the cries of pain as you dragged yourself forward.

Your wrists throbbed. Numbness pricked your fingertips. Your lungs screamed for air. None of it mattered. Balancing on your heels once more, you wedged your shirt collar between your teeth. Then you reached up and held your wrists over the flame.

Pain wasn't immediate. First there was only heat. Heat, and the acrid taste of your own heartbeat in your mouth. The fibers between your wrists frayed, dissolving like sugar upon the little tongue of flame. And then, it began to bite.

If you’d wanted to shout before, it had been nothing compared to this. Everything inside you lurched with the singular need to snatch your wrists from the flame, cradle them to your chest. Your teeth tore into linen. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Blisters bubbled to life on your flesh, agony lodging in your throat. Vision blanching, you could feel every muscle shake violently as they went to war with your will.

Just as surrender mapped a cannonfire course down your arms, the fiber snapped and your wrists sprang apart. You collapsed to your knees and elbows, wrangling the sobs that clawed your chest, blinking against the cotton fog that threatened to blanket your senses.

Move. You need to move.

You spared one glance back toward the tent entrance before prying a candle from its pricket and shambling for the lip of the tent. As you flattened yourself to slide under, you caught the vacant stare of Nathaniel Jones. Behind him, the shapes of the other two men could have been cloth-covered stone. A lump wedged in your throat, which you swallowed with force.

Was it regret? Maybe. Pity? Assuredly. Either way, all you could do now was slip beneath the edge of your canvas prison and light them a pyre. You left the candle on its side, the flame licking at a piece of rope rigging. And you ran.

Silhouetted against the summer night sky, you could just make out a treeline. That would be your haven, if only you could make it. Your feet attacked the uneven ground, somehow keeping you upright. You looked back just in time to see the tent erupt in flame, to hear the bellowing of redcoats and screeching of their horses.

The fire’s ghost haunted your skin. Pain hammered up your shoulders, and as you made your way into the forest, you bit your tongue to silence a burgeoning whimper. Familiarity with the terrain was your advantage, but you needed silence to make full use of it.

You leapt to avoid leaving footprints and snapping branches and dropped against a tree. The tent’s blaze pulsed in your periphery. Drawing a slow, long breath, a familiar rhythm rumbled close, closer. Rumbled, then pounded and clanked in an awkward, head-tossing gallop.

Tavington’s horse.

You froze, sunk to the ground, spying the torch that danced with the horse’s gait and watched as it met the treeline, spilled light on the leaves. It tracked through the forest, a flame aching to swallow a moth. The light’s edge nearly skimmed your toes.

Tavington growled—a deep, furious grind in his chest—and tore off down the perimeter.

When you were certain he’d gone, you stood and kept moving, pressing your wrists together to will the pain away. You’d find somewhere to hide. You’d wait them out tonight.

Tomorrow, you’d find Grace.

#william tavington #colonel tavington #colonel william tavington #the patriot #yeah so we wrote something and it's about a guy from a movie about the revolutionary war that came out in the year 2000 #however #this guy is EXTREMELY FUCKING HOT #so... we're correct #fanfiction problems #playing soldier

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kylorengarbagedump · 2 months ago

Text

Playing Soldier: Chapter 15 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 14 here. Part 16 here.

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

Words: 6700

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

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘William.’

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

‘... the “bear’s den.”’

‘William, please.’

Papa—alive, alive, alive.

‘... heading northwest.’

‘Please, I want you to take me.’

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

‘William—”

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

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

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

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

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

‘I see what you want.’

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

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

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

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

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

“So that’s what I’m doing.”

“I can see that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What were you doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did he have friends?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you interpret that to be an invitation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You poor thing,” he said.

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

He turned, cocked an eyebrow in dry incredulity.

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

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

You swallowed, stupefied under his full attention.

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

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

“Look at me,” he murmured.

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

Tavington’s gaze ensnared you.

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

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

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

Time stood still in the flicker of the candle flame.

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

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

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

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

“Take what you want.”

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t sure what you were waiting for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “No, I'm—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Tavington snarled, “yes—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have friends?” you asked.

A pause. “I beg your pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then perhaps I don’t,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowned. “Wash my hands of it?”

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

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

You laughed. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed. “Yes?”

“I apologize for what I said earlier.”

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

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

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

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

William Tavington: the man nobody loved.

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

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

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