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kylorengarbagedump · 20 days ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 27

Read on AO3. Part 26 here. Summary: More than anything, you wish you could be happy to see your sister. But these circumstances don't permit that.

Words: 6000

Warnings: medical gore

Characters: Colonel Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

HI WE'RE BACK. Sorry for the delay - lots of travel, lots of recovery-related bullshit, lots of re-writing the entire third act of this fic occurred prior to posting this!

BUT we're so happy to give you this chapter today! Truly, we appreciate your patience and kind words. I hope to be back to a regular posting schedule (every 2 weeks-ish) soon, but the upcoming chapters promise more meat and potatoes, so... perhaps we shall be taking our time HAHA. Who knows?!

Much love to all of you, very excited to see you soon. <3

“Grace!” You shouldered past the men and seized your sister by the elbows. “What in Hell’s name are you doing here?”

You searched her eyes—wide, shining, tunneling somewhere both through and beyond you. As they focused, her face crumpled.

“Please,” she sobbed out your name, clutching your sleeves as if you might disintegrate between her hands, streaking you rust-red. “You must help him, I beg of you, you must, you must!”

“Are you hurt?” You searched her, following the blood for its source. “Tell me what happened.”

A wet gasp arose from the cot and Grace propelled into you, staggering you back.

“Patrick!” She twisted from your arms, flinging herself into a heap at his side. “Patrick, I’m here.”

The two men who had dragged him inside straightened, looking first to each other and then to you. Just as one opened his mouth to speak, Lottie emerged from the supply room.

“Good Lord!”

The tray in her hands clattered onto a table and she ran to Ferguson’s side opposite Grace. She had barely glimpsed him before she wailed, twisting to cast you a look of such grim desperation that her knuckles whitened on the edge of the cot.

Your eyes cut back to the men as one began to speak. “Where is Colonel Tav—”

Your name, screamed through your sister’s lips, was a lightning bolt to your limbs. You lurched past the two soldiers and flew to her.

Crimson spread through the sheets, welling from beneath both of her hands where they pressed against a wound at Ferguson’s shoulder.

Assessment was a rapid matter. One visible ball entry wound in the ribs, hastily packed, another presumably hidden beneath Grace’s palms. Vital organs intact given the fact that he was still breathing, though lung damage was likely given the sound of it. Limbs still generally attached. Blood wept from another crater in his thigh—it would need to be evaluated for amputation.

“Lottie.” She nodded tightly when you spoke, still not looking down at the bloody scene. “Probe, forceps, lint, and whiskey.” She bolted like a hare for the supply room, and you whipped around to address the men. “Are there more wounded?”

“Y-yes, miss—”

“Bring them in.”

You turned back to Ferguson, grimacing. Only the sound of boots clattering through the door answered as you began yanking wads of torn cloth from the wound in Ferguson’s middle. A series of barked commands resounded outside, and you felt Lottie’s presence return across the cot. Beside you, Grace sobbed, cupping Ferguson’s face as he fought to breathe.

“Grace,” you murmured, touching your sister between the shoulders. “Give him something to bite down on.”

She ripped her kerchief from her breast and twisted it into a cord. As she brushed the fabric against his face, Ferguson’s eyes flashed lucid, darting from the ceiling to Lottie to you—frantic, searching, until they landed on Grace and sank into her like an anchor.

“Bite this,” she implored him through tears, wedging the cloth between his teeth as he let out a wordless huff of pain. “Trust me.” And then, softer, fingers brushing the sweat from his temple: “Trust me, my love.”

The word struck your stomach like round shot, nausea filling the crater. Your vision tunneled on the pulsing pit of blood.

“Whiskey,” you muttered, offering your palms up to Lottie.

She splashed several dashes over your hands, following with her own as you worked it between your fingers. As she set the bottle down, you contemplated snatching it and taking a swig.

The clamor of soldiers dragging more men into the hospital snapped your senses alive and you shook your head, refocusing. It was impossible to discern how deeply the ball had struck based on sight alone—it could be just beneath the skin or wedged behind a rib.

“I’ve doused the instruments,” Lottie said, voice quavering as she passed you the probe.

“Well done.” You gripped the red-checked fabric of Ferguson’s shirt and ripped it open. “Now the wound.”

Hands shaking, she winced away but did as you asked. Ferguson groaned, the sound tattered through the kerchief.

“Look at me,” Grace pleaded with him, “just keep your eyes on me.”

Another wave of nausea pitched you, and though you wished to attribute it solely to the devotion that saturated your sister’s voice, your awareness flittered to the teapot full of medicine sitting abandoned across the room.

You swore under your breath, willing your body not to give out as you nodded to Lottie.

“Hold the edges,” you said, and though she let out a squeak of dread, she hooked her fingers into the bloody fringes of linen, keeping your workspace clear as you lined up the probe.

With the wound irrigated and the angle of entry clear, you eased the probe into Ferguson’s flesh. Inch by inch you adjusted, letting the path of the ball guide you. He roared in agony, gripping the edge of the cot, and Lottie’s knuckles paled as she averted her eyes.

“I’ve got it,” you said as the rod bumped against solid mass. “It’s just…”

The probe slipped and you swore, glancing at your hands to find them shaking. The corners of your vision blurred. Bracing on the cot, you slid the probe free and let it clatter to the side table, snatching the long forceps from where Lottie had placed them.

A long, measured breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You lined the forceps up with the wound, mind conjuring the angle and depth you’d found with the probe. Then your vision dimmed, numbing your fingers, and your grip slackened. The forceps fell, and you caught yourself on the edge of the bed.

Lottie’s head snapped up. “What’s the matter?”

Grace twisted around, your name leaving her lips in a terrified query.

You gritted your teeth, looking up to Lottie, but the outline of her swam in two. You licked your lips and found them salted with sweat.

“No,” she whispered as understanding crashed like rubble over her face. She twisted toward the teapot in the corner of the room. “You need medicine—”

You caught her wrist. “There isn’t time.”

“Time for what?” Panic quaked in Grace’s voice. “What medicine?”

“Keep pressure on this,” you said, returning her hands to the wound in Ferguson’s shoulder.

Grace gasped. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.” You swallowed, steeling yourself against a sickening squeeze in your chest.

There was no living part of you that would allow your own situation to compound your sister’s terror. And yet the forceps lay on the cot, your own hands unfit to wield them.

“Lottie.” You pinned her wide-eyed stare with your own. “The ball is just over two inches deep, forty degrees to the distal side.”

As you spoke, you pressed the forceps into her hand, swapping them for the lint she held at the ready. Her fingers did not resist, but her head shook.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“You must.”

Lottie’s eyes jumped from you, half-slumped upon the side of the cot, to Grace’s tearful panic, then to Ferguson, barely conscious and likely not for long. She knew this as well as you did—you saw it in her shaky inhale, the way her eyes squeezed shut against some internal battle you could not see. Then as the breath sank from her shoulders, she finally looked at the wound. Her fingers tightened on the forceps.

“Tell me how.”

Relief nearly swept you from your feet, and before you could stop it, your free hand shot out to squeeze Lottie’s. She squeezed you back with a tiny nod.

“Line up the forceps here.” With trembling fingers, you guided her hand into place. She felt steady. Resolute. Your heart filled with air. “You’ve seen Moore extract a ball before, yes?”

Lottie shook her head, only the slightest tremor around her mouth. “I could never watch.”

“That’s all right,” you said, “just insert the ends there. Just like that, you’ve got it, now go slowly.”

A crease scored Lottie’s brow as she took another deep breath.The forceps disappeared an inch into Ferguson’s flesh.

“Almost there,” you said, reaching out to tip her hand into just the right angle. “You’re going to run into something hard.”

“I feel it,” Lottie gasped, “I’ve got it, I can feel where it is.”

Her gaze pierced through Ferguson as one might track a coin beneath a magician’s cup. Even as he groaned, seized the edges of the cot, thrashed his head and his legs, her concentration did not waver.

“Grasp it firmly, now.” You watched her grip expand and squeeze on the forceps’ handles. “Have patience.”

She huffed in frustration, squeezed again, then let out a little squeak of triumph. “I’ve got hold of it!”

“Excellent, Lottie,” you breathed, “now pull slowly. As if—” You winced against another dizzying wave of darkness that nearly knocked the strength from your knees. “As if it’s a thread you don’t want to break.”

Lottie’s face was stony with focus. Inch by crimson-laced inch, the forceps emerged until the ends came free, a dark wet ball pinched between them. A held breath burst from her and the ball thunked to the floor.

“That’s it!” you cried, “Lottie, you’ve done it!”

Through the quaking of your hands, you managed to stuff lint into the wound until the seepage slowed. Across from you, Lottie swayed, as though drifting in and out of a dream.

“Done it,” she echoed you numbly, blinking at the scene. “I’ve done it.”

“Yes,” you said, jamming the last bit of lint that would fit into Ferguson’s punctured ribs. “Now you shall do it again.”

“I shall?”

Grim clarity leapt into Lottie’s eyes as she steadied on her feet, forceps still dangling from her fingers. With every grain of resolve you could summon, you fixed her with your stare.

“You shall.”

Swallowing, she tightened her grip once more.

“Trade places,” you grunted, jerking your head toward Grace.

The two of them orbited the bed in parallel. Pushing against the frame you tried to straighten, but your body spurned your will. You buckled.

Grace cried your name again and you swore, wrestling the disparate planes of your vision back into one. Dimly you became aware of small hands around your shoulders, coaxing your weight onto a stool. Then Lottie emerged from around you and pointed toward the anterior of the room.

“The tea,” she said as Grace whipped around to follow her gesture. “She needs to drink it.”

Grace disappeared and Lottie hovered over Ferguson’s shoulder wound, pulling in another deep breath.

“All right,” she murmured almost to herself, “I can… no, I will do it.”

“Here.” You felt for the probe and found it where you’d discarded it, passing it up to Lottie. “Clean it with whiskey. The forceps, too, and irrigate the wound.”

Lottie took the probe from you and reached across for the whiskey bottle, quietly repeating your instructions under her breath like a hymn as she worked. Beside you there was warmth, a familiar scent permeated with iron, and a cup was pressed into your hands.

“Drink,” came Grace’s plea, and you choked the liquid down in jagged gulps until the dregs soured your tongue. Gasping, you relinquished the cup back to your sister.

“The wound is clear,” Lottie said above you. “It’s… it looks deep.”

You grimaced, leaning forward on the stool to glimpse what you could of her work. Probe in hand, she hesitated as Grace reappeared beside Ferguson’s head.

“Do exactly as I did,” you said, and Lottie nodded, brow knitting again as she aligned the probe. “Don’t force it,” you added, forcing yourself instead to breathe evenly. “Allow the cavity to guide you to the ball.”

The wound was deep, you noted as the probe continued to disappear, pushing another agonized groan from Ferguson which Grace absorbed with her soothing. But Lottie did not waver, grounding herself instead with whispered repetitions of don’t force it and guide you to the ball, until she interrupted herself with an exhale of victory.

“Found it.”

Before you could utter a single instruction or word of encouragement, she had extracted the probe, exchanged it for the forceps, and was delving straight for the ball with a focus and confidence that stunned you.

Another brief, fumbling moment as she grappled with the buried marble of lead, and then it came free with a squelch and dropped to the floor. A shudder wracked Lottie but she shook it out through her fingers, banishing it to the corners of the room.

Sucking a lungful of air, you hauled yourself to your feet and began to pack the wound before your legs could give out again. Lottie and Grace cast you looks of alarm which you ignored, instead nodding toward Ferguson’s bleeding leg.

“Now that one,” you said, and after hesitating for only a moment, Lottie darted around the table to begin the ritual anew, softly chanting each step.

Across from you, Grace sniffled your name. She hadn’t stopped weeping. “You’re not well.”

“I’ll explain everything later,” you said, stabbing another clot of lint into the wound before raising your eyes to Grace. “As will you.”

Tearful, she nodded, and your attention jumped back to Lottie as she spoke.

“It’s missed the femur,” she announced, probe harpooned within the meat of Ferguson’s thigh. Again you were struck by her relative composure—the tremor in her voice had receded to a ripple. “The artery as well.”

“Fortunate,” you grumbled, dipping away from Grace’s stare to seek respite upon your stool and prepare more lint. “He may yet keep the leg.”

Another groan tore through Ferguson as Lottie fished the last ball from his thigh. As you swooped in to pack the wound, you tried your best to ignore your periphery where Grace had brought her forehead against Ferguson’s, his hand weakly cupping the back of her neck.

Clearing your throat, you shifted to palpate his ribs, causing him to flinch just enough to force them apart.

“One or two broken,” you said, pausing to listen to the hitch that pebbled his breaths. “The lung is bruised. You’ll have to remain with him to ensure that he keeps breathing.”

Grace gave a solemn nod, her hand tightening around his.

“Wait,” she said just before you turned away. “Is there… Can you do anything for his pain?”

You winced. “Lottie?”

“Hm?” She blinked, returning from somewhere far away, hands limp and bloody at her sides. “Yes?”

“Is there any opium left?”

She shook her head. You’d known the answer before you’d asked, and the wretchedness of your momentary hope squirmed through your belly like vermin. The hope that, at some point during your week of fevered sleep, a British supply convoy might have managed to penetrate the South Carolina backcountry unmolested. The hope that, by extension, your father and his soldiers had failed.

“Rum, then?”

You snapped the question too sharply and Lottie flinched, twisting her fingers together.

“Dr. Moore said we need to ration it…“

“Please,” said Grace.

Lottie looked between you and your sister, her eyes wide and innocent. A weight dragged your heart in two.

“I think we can spare a portion,” you said.

Lottie simply nodded and spun toward the supply room. As she fetched it, you turned to survey the hospital. Men lay scattered throughout the room. Some in cots, some on the floor. Some dying, some dead. Fellow soldiers, wives, even a few children sat sentinel at bedsides or slumped upon the blood-stained floor. A few cast desperate glances your way.

You managed to stand just as Lottie reappeared at your side, offering to steady you, but the tea was already doing its work. You nodded to her, and she to you. Wordlessly you each gathered your supplies and set upon what flesh you could mend. Only after the last suture was placed, the last bone set, and the last body dragged from the ward trailed by his wailing widow, did the haggard shape of Lottie collapse into your arms.

Her body steadied yours, and yours hers, two tired rafters leaned against the other in the wake of a terrible storm. You allowed yourself to sigh into her embrace, and as you pulled away, you caught Grace staring. Her gaze fixated on the weight you allowed to be supported in Lottie’s arms, on the shallowing furrow in your brow. Lips thinning, she glimpsed the ground before absorbing herself in Ferguson again, studying the way his breath softly rose and fell in his chest.

Lottie squeezed your arms before gazing between the two of you and nodding to herself, leaving you and trudging toward the kitchen. You returned your attention to your sister.

Grace’s face simmered with worry—a type of worry you’d only ever typically seen her direct toward you. Realizing it was now being proffered to a man who you had deemed a stranger made your throat tighten.

You approached her from the side, drawing your hand along the edge of the bed to signal your arrival. Grace shook herself from her stare, glimpsing you briefly before turning to look at Ferguson again.

“Good evening,” she murmured, her shoulders sinking. Her arms and chest were still dark with browned blood. She sighed, looking at you again. “I’m so sorry.”

You grabbed a stool and pulled it up to sit beside her. “What in God’s shining and golden heaven happened for you to end up here?”

Grace pulled her lips in over her teeth, eyelids fluttering. “I…” Her chin trembled for just a moment. “The house. It was… men appeared at the door. Patriots from across the county. Our neighbors.” A long, slow breath left her. “They…” Her voice became a squeak, and she swallowed it. “After the army came through, they were angry. Said no King’s friend had a home in Catawba. They called me so many horrible things…” Meeting your eyes, her own brimmed with tears. “And they chased me out. I couldn’t fight them, I had nowhere to go.”

“Dear God.” You enveloped her in your arms, tugging her against you. She trembled, silent. “Grace, I’m so sorry. I…” You hadn’t considered that your neighbors would fail to find joy in their beloved Michael’s apparent betrayal by his own daughters. “Did they hurt you?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head with a sniffle. “No.” She wiped the little beads at the corners of her eyes. “And the house is all right as far as I know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Damn the house,” you replied. “They could burn down the bloody house five thousand times over if it meant you’d be safe.” Your heart squeezed with guilt. “I’m… I should have been there. I would’ve protected you.”

This earned a laugh. “You taking up arms against a dozen men?” She glanced at you, a smile fighting its way onto her face. “I’m not certain there’s much you could have done.”

“More than Ferguson was able to do, clearly,” you mumbled.

Grace frowned. “It was Patrick who found me and took me in after all of this,” she replied sharply. “He was there. You weren’t.”

You stiffened, but held her closer. It was foolish for you to even be picking a fight about this to begin with. “I’m tired,” you said, hoping this would do for an apology. With a bit of levity in your voice, you offered, “You know I’m recovering from marsh fever, don’t you?”

“What? That’s what you meant earlier?” she gasped, and leaned back, inspecting you. “You… You’re all right?” Her eyes danced over you, as if this would reveal the missed indication of your illness.

“On the mend,” you replied. “Peruvian bark works miracles.”

She sighed. “You are so fortunate to have had some on hand,” she said. “The illness in the field is terrible. Patrick’s men have been devastated by it.”

Your heart skipped. A flash of cold silver eyes, hooves pounding against the dirt. Against time.

“Yes.” You looked at her, rubbing her back. “Very fortunate.”

As if on cue, the hospital ward opened, and through the door strode the exact person you did not want to see while seated next to Grace.

William Tavington surveyed the ward like a preening bird before his attention landed on you, an echo of how he’d regarded you this morning. His brow twitched, and he marched forward. Breath catching, you scrambled to your feet and formed a barricade between him and your sister.

“Colonel Tavington,” you said, folding your arms behind your back. “Good evening.”

William frowned, staring at you in pause before his gaze traveled over your shoulder to land on your sister and the man asleep next to her. His nostrils flared.

“I hardly understand what’s good about it,” he said, casting a look across the beds filled with wounded. Though he was silent, you could see the unspoken words in his countenance: This is a bloody disaster. “The major’s condition?”

“He’s resting,” Grace muttered.

You held your arm out to quiet her, raised your chin to the air. “He’s not well.”

William glimpsed Ferguson in the bed, tilting his head to the side as he considered his condition. Brow rising, he turned his focus to you, and his jaw shifted. You returned his stare, seeking the part of him that had allowed you to curl your fingers into his hair.

“Let him rest.” Grace placed a hand tenderly over Ferguson’s healing arm.

With the politest, smallest smile you’d ever seen him muster, William replied, “A resting man can report. A dead one cannot.”

You bit your tongue to prevent it from lashing. The irony in his voice was likely evident only to you. “Fifty-three men returned here tonight. Seventeen died. I’ll gather what remaining information I can from the men here and provide you with a written account later this evening.”

His gaze leapt between you and Grace before settling on you with reluctance. “Very well.”

You returned his tiny, polite, bereft-of-joy smile. “Best of luck to you, Colonel.”

William glimpsed each of you and snorted before striding off and out of the ward. The moment the door closed behind him, both you and Grace’s shoulders crumbled in heaps of exhaustion.

“Good Lord,” she said. “I can’t even comprehend how you speak to that man with such civility.”

Slumping back into the empty stool beside her, you shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been inured to his behavior through frequent exposure.”

“No amount of exposure could endear me to such a savage,” she said, turning her attention back to Ferguson. A soft sigh escaped her. She ghosted her fingers over his hand.

“What’s this discussion of savages?” came Lottie’s voice as she bustled in behind you. In her hands was a teapot, two empty cups, and one cup already full.

“Colonel Tavington just stopped by,” you replied, pointedly meeting her gaze. As she approached, you grabbed the full cup, no doubt brimming with another dose of Peruvian bark tea. She was so thoughtful it made your chest ache. “Grace is no admirer.”

“Well, he isn’t the embodiment of warmth, certainly.” Lottie placed the tray by Ferguson’s bedside before glancing at Grace, who nodded. Lottie began to pour her a cup. “But I’m sure he’s in possession of positive traits.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Grace took her cup gratefully. “He’s a barbarian. An insult to all those serving the crown.” After a long sip, she sighed, her shoulders rolling. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s Lottie, right?”

“You’ve got it!” Lottie beamed. “And it’s no trouble. Thought maybe we could use some after all this.” She finally took in Grace’s current appearance. “Goodness, have you not had a moment to wash up?”

Grace glanced at her. “I…” She looked at Ferguson. “Patrick…”

“No, no,” she said, taking the tea from Grace’s hands and putting it on the tray. “There’s a basin out back. Wash yourself before drinking.” She took Grace’s hand to bring her to her feet and urged her from Ferguson’s bedside. “Go on, now. Your sister and I shall watch over him. He could not be in better care.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Grace said, a small smile breaking onto her face. “I’ll only be a moment.”

As your sister shuffled out of the ward, Lottie’s eyes met yours, and your gaze widened before you directed it to the floor, taking a long sip of your tea. God, it was still awful.

“‘An insult to all those serving the crown’?” said Lottie, pouring herself a cup. “She must have become acquainted with the colonel’s gentler side.”

You snorted. “Neither of us had a particularly pleasant first encounter with him,” you replied. “Though Grace’s was arguably worse.”

Lottie hummed as she brought the tea to her lips. Sitting close to you, she glanced at Ferguson—still completely out—before lowering her voice. “Not an ideal scenario for a brother-in-law, is it?”

“Oh, enough with that,” you said, leering. “I don’t anticipate it being an issue.”

“No?” Lottie grinned. “And how’s that?”

You shrugged. “Grace will never have reason to find out.”

“I see.” She regarded you with some level of hesitation. “And if she somehow does?”

“Then you may plan my funeral.” Only a hint of jest lifted your voice.

You were not ignorant to the war of hypocrisy you’d been waging against Ferguson. Nor were you unsympathetic to Grace’s very real reasons to revile William. Part of you still reviled him for these exact same reasons. But at some point that part had been dwarfed by that portion of you which delighted in his humor, the portion that found warmth in his arms and sanity in his company.

“I may start planning now, if it’s all the same to you,” Lottie said with a laugh. “Gossip travels like pollen on the wind in this place. Not everyone has my flawless integrity.”

Giving her a tight smile, you raised your brows in agreement as you took a silent sip. Perhaps it would only be days before someone with looser lips caught you exiting the colonel's quarters in the morning. That would be the last sort of heartbreak Grace needed—especially if Ferguson didn’t recover.

You glanced at him, lip furling. It would have been so much easier and far more satisfying to you to let him die. But even beyond despising the insult that would be to your skill, the knowledge that it would steal from Grace the man she loved made his death an impossibility.

Love, you thought, snorting as you finished your tea. So powerful it had her begging to save the life of the man who would in any other circumstance see her own father killed. You were grateful that you and William seemed to agree on the uselessness of such an emotion in the boundaries of your current arrangement.

Upon Grace’s return, the evening slipped beneath a bloody veneer of normalcy as tea was shared and conversation exchanged in weary murmurs. As though one word out of place might invite the curtain of death to fall upon the hospital once more. It was through the combined urging of yourself and Lottie that you managed to pry Grace from Ferguson’s bedside for supper, and to your lack of surprise, Grace integrated easily with the rest of the women within the fort walls. It wasn’t minutes into the meal before she was grinning and adding humor to the conversation. Even Alice, the embodiment of a perpetual frown, was shielding her giggle at Grace’s interjections.

Your heart swelled. Seeing your sister smile despite the terror that had to be simmering beneath it was enough to soothe your own wrought nerves. You knew—because you knew her—that she would be trembling herself to sleep, that without the certainty of Ferguson’s good health, she had the potential to renounce sleep entirely.

Taking a bite of your meal, you sighed. You’d need to speak to William.

As supper was finished and the washing up completed, you grabbed a piece of parchment and a pen and scribbled what little information you could gather from the soldiers able to be roused. William had by this point surely gotten information from the few non-wounded, but you knew that he would want Ferguson’s report regardless, when he could obtain it. You hoped your efforts would placate him.

In the quiet, candlelit dark, you approached his study, the paper sticky between your fingers. Though you had nothing to fear from William with consideration to your career, you now had an understanding of what men must feel on the precipice of delivering him bad news.

It rather made one want to consider the precipice of a cliff, instead.

Holding your breath, you knocked on his door.

“Enter,” came his voice, already exhausted.

You turned the knob, stepping inside. Seated at his desk, a quill in hand, William’s eyes landed on you, his spine straightening. You ignored the heat this brought to your cheeks and closed the door behind you. William glimpsed his paper, electing to finish the sentence he was writing as he spoke.

“And here I was considering if I would fail to hear from you before the end of the evening.”

“And I was considering whether a man might prefer his arm sawed off, or to be pricked incessantly by the shards of his own bones,” you said, approaching him with what suddenly felt like a very silly paper full of nonsense. With a prim smile, you placed it on a stack of other parchment. “Your report, Colonel.”

William eyed the paper before placing a full stop on his work and sitting back in his chair. With the air of a disaffected aristocrat, he plucked it from the stack and scanned what little you’d managed to gather.

“Mhm,” he said, before returning it to the stack. “And the major?”

“Fortunate to be alive at all,” you replied. “I’m hopeful for his recovery, but he needs rest.”

He nodded, gaze lingering on the report. There was a heavy, bulging awkwardness in the silence. Your behavior at Ferguson’s beside—in Grace’s presence—seemed to weigh equally on both of you. William returned to writing. And at the same time, each of you spoke:

“I’m going to be staying in my room.”

“I shall expect your company this evening.”

You paused. His writing hand stilled.

“Oh,” you said. “I’m—what was that?”

“I was to expect you,” he replied. “In my quarters.”

You nodded, your hands folding into each other behind your back. “I see.”

His brow raised. “Am I incorrect in such an expectation?”

“I…” You gave him a tight smile. “I cannot.”

William could not look less enthused if you’d told him he was about to be castrated with a dull knife. “You appear more well now than you pretended last night.”

“No,” you said, attempting to ignore the quickening pace of your heart. “It’s…” You exhaled. “My sister has need of me. I must be there for her.”

“Does your sister demand this with a pistol placed against your temple?”

You frowned. “No, of course not.”

“Then I request you use the correct verb in your response,” he snipped, “for it is inaccurate to say that you cannot. You will not.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, pedant,” you said, affecting your voice with an air of his affluence. “I will not be joining you this evening.”

“Fine indeed,” William replied, and continued to write. “Though your adult sister hardly appears in need of a surrogate parent to tend her through the night.”

A bristle of irritation rolled up your spine. “You don’t know my sister,” you replied. “She’s tender, and sweet, and deeply worried about your major. I sense you are incapable of understanding these traits and emotions.”

“And yet,” he said, his jaw tightening, “I remain capable of recognizing the difference between want and need.” The tip of his quill sliced into the parchment. “Children want. Adults do not.”

“An adult never wants?”

“Adults obtain, dandelion,” he said, and his silver gaze speared you. “As I obtained you.” Tutting, he continued, “And your sister does not need you. Hence you are not bound to her desires.”

You exhaled a half-laugh. “I will always fulfill whatever my sister desires of me. She will always be my utmost priority.” You folded your arms over your chest. “And you presume to have obtained me, but the truth is that you want me in your quarters. I will not be there.”

William raised a brow. “And shall you forgo this for as long as your sister wants for your company?”

You shrugged. “Even if she does not.”

He ceased writing, now, sitting back in his chair. “As long as your sister is merely present you would decline me.”

“She hates you, William,” you said. “I cannot put it any more gently. She utterly detests you.” You laughed when he sat straighter, as if appalled by this response. “You slapped her. You murdered one of our neighbors in front of her.” The words tasted like dirt. “Do not think I do not still detest you for these reasons as well.”

William regarded you, eyes narrowing. With a snort, he returned to writing. “For all the coddling you do of her, your sister is far braver than you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sister surely knows the depth of your resentment for Major Ferguson,” he said, “yet she abandons propriety to throw herself across him like a coverlet.” He shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that integrity doesn’t run in the family, given the tree from which the fruit tumbles.”

You barked out another laugh. “Your tired remarks may have had an effect by now if you knew anything of my father, but you don’t, and you never shall,” you growled. “You are selfish and bitter that I refuse you in favor of the ones who love me.”

“You shrink yourself out of cowardice,” he said, placing the quill on the table. His shoulders tensed with irritation. “You are too afraid to want anything for yourself.”

“What importance is that to you?” you said, looming over the desk. “Are you so certain that my wants include you?”

“You were the one to speak of next time,” he replied with a smirk. “Not me.”

You snarled. “Presumptuous bastard,” you hissed. “Perhaps I no longer want a next time!”

“I see I was mistaken,” he said, a cruel lilt in his tone. “A coward and a liar.”

“As if your intentions are noble!” you said, your hands hitting his desk. “You sanction me for appeasing my sister’s wants, yet here you are hurling insults toward me because you can’t have yours.”

“And what of your wants?” He leaned forward, face inches from yours. “Are they inconsequential in comparison to whatever any family member may or may not demand?”

“Of course!” you spat, pushing off his desk. “Of course they are! And they always will be!”

Quite finished with this conversation, you marched toward the door.

“You say this even as your sister plans to marry and abandon your misplaced loyalty!”

You spun on your heel, teeth bared. “My loyalty to my family is never misplaced, but I suppose I cannot expect a man without one to understand.” You grabbed the handle. “And if you cannot understand this, then you will never have me again.”

With that, you flung open the door and slammed it behind you. The clatter of the wood reverberated, a death knell through the hall.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #OHHHHH my fucking god i love making them yell at each other hehehee

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kylorengarbagedump · 28 days ago

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After almost 2 years away from this universe, I am re-reading Little Bird for the 3rd time in my life—while listening to a song called Everytime by Ethel Cain—and my heart is in the fucking floor.

Despite doing my best to prepare myself before diving back into this story, I am yet again destroyed. And I'm only halfway through.

With all of the kindness I can express, I have to say that you have transformed the depths of my soul with your profoundly beautiful command of language. Everything reminds me of this man; of the way he would stare, kiss, think—and love. And it's all because you have brought that to life with Little Bird.

I don't think I can ever see reality the same, anymore.

To give you some context, the world sees me as a young woman in her early twenties with a new job, accomplishments, education, friends, a family—and on the inside, all of those things resonate with me. But now, I realize that I only thought I was starting to get things figured out. I only thought I was beginning to understand life. I only thought I was starting to have knowledge of myself and of other people. I only thought I was starting to discover what it truly means to be loved by someone. And yes, I know that Little Bird is not real, I know it is just a story, I know he is just a character—but all of what I once thought is eclipsed and shattered by the intensity, by the realness of what I am going through right now.

I can never go back to the way I was before.

I think I could stay here forever—wherever 'here' is, I can't even put into fucking words. I just know that I want to stay.

The song, the one by Ethel Cain, is a melody in my mind:

"...I make believe / That you are here / It's the only way / I see clear / What have I done? / You seem to move on easy / And every time I try to fly, I fall / Without my wings, I feel so small / I guess I need you, baby / And every time I see you in my dreams / I see your face, you're haunting me / I guess I need you, baby..."

My god, I don't even know if there are words for me to express my gratitude or how this has touched me. But this is certainly one of those asks that will stay with me because of how powerfully I feel your sentiment resonate through. Little Bird is a fic I transferred almost all of myself into when I was going through some of the very hardest and one of the most transformative periods of my life. I think, retrospectively, it makes sense why the melodrama within it is so heightened, but for me, that is what makes it special! Writing Kylo the way I wrote him not only reflects why I love his character so deeply, but also how a part of me deeply craved - and still craves - to be loved. And I'm so glad that can connect with you too. Thanks so much, again - I am so so glad you took the time to write and I really hope you continue to enjoy the story for as many times as you read! You are far too kind.

#nerd whinings #cuties #little bird #fanfiction problems

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kylorengarbagedump · 29 days ago

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imagine advocating for people to be arrested for thought crimes. this is NOT the flex you think it is, babe!

do you know the entirety of ptwt are making fun of you? there's 22k likes on a tweet that calls you out for ur incest fics and everyone (THE 1.7K quote reteets are agreeing) I would off myself.

but thankfully your government will start to charge women like you with felonies soon enough and I can't wait for that 🥰

being on twitter these days outs you pretty much immediately as a piece of shit

Soooo whyyyy should i care?

Not even going to respond to the comment about felonies lmao

#nerd whinings

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kylorengarbagedump · 1 month ago

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Adam Driver as Flip Zimmerman in BlacKkKlansman (2018)

My GIF masterlist

#his confidence with the gun turns me on so much i stg #fuck #adam driver #bebe

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kylorengarbagedump · 1 month ago

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STAR WARS: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker (2019)

#not going to lie this does get me #kylo ren #bebe

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kylorengarbagedump · 1 month ago

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Terribly Eligible (NSFW)

Read on AO3.

Summary: It was unlike anything you’d heard before or since.

A sound that was fully, unmistakably male. A sound that, in its maleness, bid you to know—to understand—what could possibly draw such a noise from any man’s lips.

You really shouldn’t have looked.

Words: 7500

Warnings: extreme innocence kink, face-fucking, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Thank you to my fellow William Tavington's Big Fat Ass Appreciators for your assistance in the development of this oneshot. I'd like to say this was a deeply thoughtful artistic work, as I would with anything I write - but genuinely I'm just extremely horny and can't not think about this man touching his cock.

Thank you to @bastillia for betaing and horny-crying with me.

And thank YOU for reading! I truly hope you enjoyed me taking yet another break from my regular porn to write MORE porn. Love y'all so much. <3

The day was spoiled from the moment it started.

When you rolled out of bed and adjusted your nightgown, you stumbled across the floor, nearly tripping into the chair that held your robe. Wrapping yourself in said robe became an affair that involved turning both sleeves right-side out, and there was absolutely no scent of breakfast being prepared, nor tea left at your door.

Just as you drew a breath to shout for your parents, you were pulled to your window by voices outside, spotting a group of mounted British soldiers at the steps of the house. Your heart leapt—perhaps there’d be an officer willing to sit on your porch and enjoy your company. You’d have pop on your newest bodice and petticoats, of course, but that would require no great effort.

These officers, however, appeared to be greeting your parents with guns drawn just as the sun was grazing the grass. Your father’s hands were raised at his sides. Your mother was shrinking underneath the horses’ shadows. Your stomach dropped. These soldiers, unfortunately, were not here to court you.

You paused. Even if not here to court you, there was no reason to assume bad intentions. Not when your entire family had pledged allegiance to the crown and always treated every British soldier they encountered with respect. You drew closer to the window, their hushed voices giving no indication of what was happening.

One officer leapt from his horse. As he did, your mother’s face whipped toward your window, her eyes bulged in terror. Your heart joined your stomach. She mouthed a single word to you in the silence of the soldier’s approach.

Go.

So you did what you’d always practiced, what you’d discussed with your parents since before the war reached your home. What were you, a young unmarried girl, meant to do when danger appeared at the door?

You ran.

Running was, at best, an undignified activity. The shudder of your breath repulsed you, the sweat beading at your nape made you cringe. Every stride made your legs chafe together, made your breasts bounce painfully. But the indignity did not last long.

Perhaps it was the shimmer of silk as your nightgown fluttered beneath your robe, or your slippers crunching the dirt, but within moments of you fleeing the back porch, one of the men spotted you.

It was seconds until the thundering of hooves overtook the heaving of your chest. And before you even reached the tree line, a leather glove snarled in your hair and ripped you back against a solid flank. Your scream rang hollow, your struggle like one of a rat in an owl’s talons.

“Spare the world your theatrics,” said your captor, curling his fist and jerking your head to meet his eyes. They were bluer than the sky, paler than first light. They were devoid of anything you might call mercy. “Return to join your mother and father. You may walk or you may be dragged behind my horse. It matters little to me.”

“Ugh!” You grabbed at his hand, scratching at the leather to no avail. He yanked your scalp in retribution. “Ow! Unhand me, you brute!”

“No.”

“You’ve no idea who my parents are! They’ll be—you’ll be sorry when they catch word of this! I’ll report you to your superiors! They’ll report you!” You squirmed, and he held you fast, studying you, glancing between your lips and the rage in your gaze. “I’ll make you regret ever laying a hand on me!”

A tiny smirk curled his lips. “Terrifying,” he replied. “Do you prefer to be dragged, then?”

You scoffed. “How dare you.” Despite this, you stilled, waiting for him to release you. He tugged your head again and you winced. “You—I’ll walk.”

“Capable of intelligent choices, then, I see.”

With that, he unlaced his fist from your hair. You seared him with a glare before rounding the house to meet your parents’ horrified faces.

The soldiers walked the three of you to their camp, your father bearing your mother’s grief and his own like boulders on his back. You, however, were far too bewildered to grieve, or to feel anything but the flitter of your heart against your breastbone with every step of your journey.

When you arrived at camp, your parents were ushered toward a man wielding chains. Breathless, your mother turned and shouted for you, but was swiftly spun until she stumbled, collapsing forward to follow your father, whose eyes remained trained on you. One of the younger soldiers turned to your captor, still perched on his mount.

“Colonel Tavington,” said the soldier, grabbing your arm and pulling you against him. “What of the girl?”

The man—Tavington—glimpsed you from atop his horse like a spider might glimpse a struggling fly. “Are you married, girl?”

Your cheeks burned. “I repeat myself, sir, how dare you.”

His gaze skimmed your figure. “I thought not.” He clucked his tongue. “No point in interrogation, then.” A pause, his attention flicking between you and the soldier gripping you. “Do whatever you wish with her.”

With that, Tavington turned his horse away. You huffed, preparing to shout at him, but the hold on your arm tightened.

“Don’t fight,” said the soldier. “I won’t allow harm to come to you.”

“Sir,” you said, meeting his eyes, “I know you’ve not all of the information, but my family—we are very wealthy, and honorable Loyalists. And I’m sure we could make it worth your—

“I’m sure that’s true,” he said calmly, moving you into the sea of white tents. “I’ll keep you near me. I’ll protect you.” A pause, and he held you closer. “My name is Charles.”

Your heart curled in on itself. You had no clue why this man kept speaking of harm and protection, but it was beginning to grate your patience, since all you had interest in doing was getting out of the blasted camp. In all of your interactions with soldiers, they had always presented as civilized and clean. Half of these men appeared to have been born of the swamp, with the stench to match. You double-checked every step before you made it, nose wrinkling.

“Listen!” you said, trying to pull yourself from him. “I demand you take me to my parents. I—”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Charles replied. “Your parents are meant to be moved to Charleston once the cavalry departs. That’s no place for someone like you.”

“No place?” you said. “This is no place for someone like me!”

“I understand—”

“You do no such thing!”

“Enough!” Charles growled, grip pinching you now. “Silence, or I’ll lose my patience with you.”

Nothing in your mouth would move the way you urged it to. You should have argued, should have insisted you be sent with your parents wherever they went—that the three of you were a unit, propriety be damned—but instead you were silent, an observer to your own body as this Charles brought you to a tent and sat you near what you assumed was his messy bedroll. The sight of it made your nostrils curl. Clearly not an officer, from the sight of things.

“I must leave you here,” he said, “and I won’t chain you. But running will get you caught by men far less charitable than myself.” The threat in his voice was so thinly veiled it was obscene.

“What do you mean charitable?” you asked, gazing around what very little existed of his paltry tent. “Are you not meant to return me to my home?”

“Simply wait until I return, all right?” When you didn’t reply, only stared, he sighed. “What’s your name?”

You frowned. Paused. Turned up your chin and gave it to him. “If you must call upon me.”

“All right then,” he said, repeating it like a prayer, “I’ll return this evening.” A final look in your eyes, and he left.

From the sound, it seemed an entire unit left the camp for hours. Noon passed, and the sun followed, descending into evening. You had initially decided to obey Charles’ advice, hoping that your good behavior would earn you some sort of special treatment, perhaps even a release to your home per his apparent charitability.

But as darkness approached and men returned—loud, rowdy, insistent men, shouting at each other beyond Charles’ tent—you found yourself sitting alone, abandoned next to a putrid bedroll splayed across the dirt.

Your back ached, your ankles throbbed, your backside had begun to numb from its place on the ground. The odor of the blankets had settled in your nose. And men drew closer to Charles’ tent, their shadows grazing your knees as they passed, apparently oblivious to your presence within.

More, more shadows marched by, more soldiers chanted uproariously with one another. Throughout all of it, Charles did not return.

You frowned, gazing with disgust down at your dirtied robe, your slippers caked in grass and mud. It was becoming apparent to you that wherever the men had gone, Charles would not be returning with them. It was technically an opportunity to escape.

But where would you even go? If your parents had been moved to Charleston, that was at least a few days ride from here—not that you knew exactly where here was—and you had no horse, no proper way to ride one, and you were certain that these army horses weren’t as finely bred and mannered as the ones you were used to riding, anyway. The thought of climbing astride one and getting the grime of these men and their sweaty mounts all over your nightgown made you gag.

There was always the option of sleeping in the woods. That seemed even more affronting than the horses.

You pouted, folding your arms across your chest. It wasn’t possible that all of these men were as boorish as Charles—or Tavington, for that matter. Never had a man touched you as if you weren’t made of porcelain, never had a man looked upon you in any way other than how you imagined God looked upon his creations. Certainly most of the men here would treat you as you deserved.

With a soft huff, you clambered to your hands and knees, grimacing at the way the dirt dusted your sweaty palms, and peeked from the tent. The celebrations centered around the fires strewn through the campsites. For now, you were alone. It couldn’t be that difficult to find a man uninterested in drinking—perhaps a gentleman who would take pity on you, see this was all a massive misunderstanding, and see you back to your home, if not to Charleston.

You wiped your hands on Charles’ blankets—as it seemed unlikely he’d ever need them again—and crept from his tent, casting about for others that seemed occupied but quiet. Most seemed empty. Frowning, you bent your knees, skulking along the perimeter of the camp to see if you could spot any hope.

All you’d need to do was introduce yourself with a gentle curtsy, explain who you were, and you were certain that one of these gentlemen would escort you without issue. That was a man’s duty, after all, to protect women in need, particularly delicate ones, particularly ones with delicate and refined senses. One such as yourself.

Toward the edge of the encampment, you spotted a tent that appeared more generous than the rest. This tent, you were sure, belonged to a man who had earned his rank, with a genteel manner and chivalrous disposition. Most encouraging of all: the linen pulsed with orange light, as if it were occupied. Gathering your wits, you held your breath and tiptoed toward it.

The festivities had become more raucous as the sky darkened, the sounds similar to the gatherings your parents hosted. If, of course, those gatherings had been permitted to descend into some sort of bestial rollicking, which would have never been the case.

Truly, you had expected better from the soldiers of His Majesty’s army. Conducting themselves like wolves rather than men, reveling in filth instead of vying for honor. That Tavington had asked you if you were married. Perhaps in this moment, you were relieved not to be betrothed to any one of these creatures.

The tent now feet away, you held your breath. There was no other occupied canvas within a dozen yards, at least, so any sound you made could be alarming. The last thing you wanted to do was frighten your would-be rescuer, so your steps slowed. Your heart raced. Your ears opened.

And within the glowing heart of the tent, you heard it.

It was unlike anything you’d heard before or since.

You’d heard men groan in the fields, heard gravel churn in their chests as they pushed ploughs through the dirt. You’d heard them choke through their teeth, palms sliced open on the blade of a too-sharp axe. You’d heard them gasp as they doused their skin in cold water while cooking in the sun, and heard the grumble of their muscles melting into the chairs on your porch.

This sound was all of them at once, and none of them at all. A sound that was fully, unmistakably male. A sound that, in its maleness, bid you to know—to understand—what could possibly draw such a noise from any man’s lips.

You really shouldn’t have looked.

A step, a squat, a shift of the linen was all it took. Within the boundaries of this tent was the man who’d captured you—William Tavington—in a state wholly unfamiliar to your eyes.

Tavington loomed over a table, cold eyes shut, brow pinched. Rust-reddened cheeks bloomed above his raw, parted mouth, his stock tie loosened, his jacket and waistcoat splayed open. His shoulders hunched forward, his back curved like a beast’s, his body shook with an unfamiliar tension. One hand clawed at the table, clean nails scraping the wood, while the other—the other—

Your tongue dried. Your sight blurred, then focused between snaps of your eyelids. Heat engulfed you from your knees to your scalp, frizzing your nape with sweat, siphoning your breath with shame. Flames of it licked your skin, peeled it in flakes as you stared, transfixed.

Tavington’s other hand was curled—gripped—around what you knew to be something far too intimate to name. The mere thought of it made you forget to breathe. It was anatomy you'd seen dozens, hundreds of times on animals. But on a man—it was horrifyingly, terrifically different.

As a young, marriageable woman, you should have been disgusted by this revelation, this display of nakedness in so strange a situation. As a young, marriageable woman, you should have noticed your embarrassment and kept your dignity intact by turning and finding another tent. And as a young, marriageable woman, you should have forgotten every inch of what you'd seen and saved your fascination for your future husband.

But then Tavington made that sound again, a moan from the depths of his chest. And you found yourself unable to look away.

His fist tightened around it, drew itself to the tip where his flesh was flushed and shiny, and his thumb traced underneath. A gasp escaped him, his teeth grit, and he resumed stroking it, his hips thrusting forward into his hand, like he was, perhaps…

The word wouldn't even collect itself in your mind, so humiliating was it to consider. Why, in God's name would a man want to do this to himself? When you watched horses or dogs or any other animal in the act, it had been impassive, if not painful. But Tavington seemed utterly…

Enraptured.

“That's it,” he growled, and every muscle beneath your belly tensed with a strange warmth. “Wrap your pretty lips around it—ah—that’s right.”

Your throat thickened. A mouth? How and why would that work? Before you could consider it, Tavington spat onto himself and groaned, slicking himself wet as he pumped into his fist.

The heat below your waist blossomed into a clamoring, like a hungry animal existed between your thighs—a hungry animal with which you were not familiar and had no understanding of how to feed. You tried to shift your position, press your thighs together to silence it, but this only made it more urgent, demanding more pressure, more friction.

“Suck,” Tavington murmured, and spat again onto the thing in his fist, the string of saliva clinging to his lower lip. He exhaled, his hand moving faster. “Yes—you enjoy serving a brute, don’t you?”

Your eyes widened. Your heart stuttered. He was thinking about you. While doing this almost certainly depraved, indecent, completely mesmerising act.

Tavington swirled his thumb around the tip again, a gentle grunt leaving his nose, and his hips pitched forward, driving faster into the hole of his fist. He gasped, head bowing, threads of hair falling from where they’d become unbound from his queue into his face. A smirk curved his half-open mouth.

“What if I keep you here?” he said, his voice strained. “Shall you report me then?”

Saliva pooled beneath your tongue. You swallowed it. The place between your thighs burned, as if it were alive, as if this animal had grown claws and teeth and was fighting to rend its way through your flesh. You pressed your hand there, trying to find a position that relieved any of the heat. You found only a foreign desire to grind against your palm.

“What if,” Tavington continued, tone a ragged reflection of your own hungry animal, “I fuck your sweet little face?”

Air caught in your throat. You choked. Tavington’s eyes snapped open, and he froze.

You didn’t dare move. Tavington surveyed the tent, hands busy tucking himself away before he snatched his pistol off the table. With the raised hackles of a hunting dog, he stepped forward once, twice, waiting to catch another sound.

This was a mistake. You should not have stayed. No, you should have left the moment you’d heard him make that terrible noise. With shaking hands, you rose to your feet, your knees pinching—and being so unfamiliar with pain, you whined.

Perhaps if you had been spying on a man who wasn’t a well-trained, highly efficient officer, events would’ve proceeded differently.

But you had been spying on such a man. And his eyes flicked to the gap in his tent and landed immediately on you.

A flash of fury, like flint striking powder, and before you could register his speed, his hand—wet and sticky and warm—gnarled in your hair and ripped you through the gap in the canvas and onto your knees.

“Explain yourself,” he snarled, pistol pressed to your temple. Silver eyes glinted steel in the candlelight. “Quickly.”

What words could you possibly call upon to summarize your state when you could hardly understand it to start?

“E-explain myself?” Your heart lodged in your throat as you attempted to stop your gaze from darting to the straining bulge at your sightline. You failed spectacularly. “Explain yourself, sir!” you stammered. “How is it possible an officer of the British army could be discovered in such a… a position!”

His brow fell. “Such a position,” he repeated, as if you’d just said the most witless succession of words imaginable.

“So uncouth.” Your teeth clacked in the silence. “I—why I never—to be…” You glanced at it again, and shut your eyes. “And so… truly, how crude, how, oh…” The animal between your thighs was wild with need. “Just, utterly obscene, and—and debauched—”

A snort from above you. The pistol eased off your temple half an inch. “Tell me,” Tavington said, hand uncoiling from your hair, “what position I was in.”

A knot swelled in your throat. The ground was cold at your knees, the chill seeping into your skin and rushing it with goosebumps. The only question you wanted to answer was twinging hotly at the crux of your legs. And you had little idea how to respond to him anyway. You kept your eyes closed.

“Look at me,” he muttered, the barrel of the gun tapping you under the chin.

You obeyed.

“You’ve no intimation,” Tavington said, examining your face. “Do you?”

“I—”

You turned your head, but the pistol guided you back. No, you had never seen any behavior like his, and why would you have, anyway, since you were a very good and proper girl and it was clearly wrong. You pinned your knees together, squirming. For reasons you didn’t understand, Tavington registered your struggle with a recognition of delight.

“How—how dare you,” you mumbled.

He tutted. “Oh, you poor creature,” he said, the gun still fixed on your throat. “You ache between your thighs, don’t you?”

Your face burned. Your gaze shot to his boots. How could he possibly know that?

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Considering how long you must have been staring.” He cocked his head. “Hm?”

Every time words came to your tongue, you remembered the ones he’d breathed as he stroked himself, remembered the exaltation in his brow as he thrust into his wet fist. Remembered that sound, the one that had broken like a starving bear from his chest.

As you met his eyes, pale and sharp, you felt an unmistakable throb where you ached, as if you longed to be filled with something, as if part of you was empty. It was a devastating, painful sensation, and only seemed to grow stronger with every beat of your heart—like a cave yawning open with the quake of the world.

It overwhelmed you, overflowed every river of thought in your mind. There would be nothing else until you could resolve this pressure, until you could bring yourself respite from its domination of your body. And if Tavington knew something of what caused this, or of how to stop it, you needed his aid.

Nodding, you replied, “I do.” And then, with a fear of tearing petals with your tongue, “Please. How do I make it stop?”

A silence fell between you. A realization crested over him, a well of delight in the pits of his pupils. Tavington crouched to eye-level with you, pistol still gripped as his hands rested on his thick thighs. The scent of sandalwood and iron flooded the air.

“You are pitiable, aren't you?” he asked. “Have you never once explored yourself? Taken your own pleasure?”

You blinked at him. Slowly, you shook your head.

Tavington exhaled. Shadow sliced across his cheeks. He smirked.

“I can assist you,” he said, standing. “I may even let you leave.” Gaze focused on you, he placed the pistol on the table behind him. “If you agree to assist me in turn.”

You glanced between his legs again. It was still erect, still straining against his breeches, and the realization inspired another throb, like a desperate clench twisting open your belly. You wanted nothing more than to reach there, shove your fists against it to stop it—but feared being wrung inside-out like a snake swallowing its tail.

“I’ll—I’ll help you,” you replied, that desperation climbing up your throat and behind your eyes. You wobbled to your feet. “Just tell me what—”

“Ah, ah.” Tavington stepped toward you, and you retreated. “Back on your knees.”

Your jaw dropped. “I beg your—”

“The thinner you run my patience, the thinner your chances of relief,” he replied. “On your knees.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you obliged him. The ground felt even firmer on your knees than it had just a moment ago. Colder, too, perhaps. You weren’t sure why else you’d be trembling.

Tavington’s gaze raked over you. “Remove your clothing.”

Your eyes widened, your arms clapping across your chest. “I will do no such thing! I—just because you wish to engage in—”

“What needs to be done can’t be done while wearing them.” His jaw shifted with irritation. “I trust you’ll recognize my expertise in the matter.”

There was no denying to you, now, that whatever you were about to engage in was nearly as inappropriate as what you’d intruded upon. You had little inkling of what that could possibly be, but you knew well enough that a woman was to never been seen nude by a man outside of matrimony.

You knew that intercourse happened, of course, but understood so little about the act that a husband and wife in their marriage bed may as well have looked like dragonflies—a single body glued together at the arse and trotting around the room until such a time was reached that they decided to be finished.

You had never imagined it would involve growling men, or burning heat, or a part of your own self widening from an animal into a monster made of teeth and need. But was soothing this monster worth your own dignity?

“I—” Your grip curled in the thin fabric of your nightgown. “I want to help you. But I can’t permit you take my virtue,” you replied. “Please.”

Tavington sighed. A pause, and an expression of reluctant acquiescence fell over his face. “You’ll keep your virtue, girl. But do go on.” He held out a hand. “I’ll take your garments from you.”

You met his eyes, your attention falling over the strong curve of his nose, the strength of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. Candlelight shimmered over his hair in red-gold waves. And below his waist, between the thick corded muscle of his thighs, was that bulge that you longed to see revealed again, if only because your monster demanded it.

As long as your virtue remained intact, your future husband needn’t know of any of this.

“Yes,” you replied, “all right.”

His thin lips curved into a cold grin. “Go on, then.”

Another aching roar from your monster as you shrugged off your robe, exposing your shoulders and arms, goosebumps blanketing them both. Tavington said nothing as you handed it to him—only continued to stare—and you averted your gaze, unsure you could continue looking at him as you gathered the hem of your nightgown into your hands. Blood rushed your face, your chest, and you tried to breathe, finding the air thinning.

Closing your eyes, you pulled it higher, and higher, until it revealed your thighs, the tuft of hair between them, your soft stomach, your heaving breasts. Every inch seemed like prying free your own skin, but not like a flaying—instead like an insect molting and drawing air into its fat, new flesh.

A pulse ricocheted in the depths of your belly, and with shaking hands, you freed yourself of your nightgown.

Tavington’s gaze pressed like a saber at the exposed skin, as if he were testing every curve for a later carving. Another pulse, and you squeezed your thighs together, earning nothing but frustration. Throat tight, you handed over your nightgown. He glanced at it before placing it on the table with your robe.

An exhale as he appraised you. “Yes,” he said softly. “That’s lovely.”

Your lips parted. “Oh,” you breathed.

His mouth tugged in a hint of a smirk. “Listen carefully.” His hands curled in and out of fists. “Place your hands on your thighs. Good, yes. Now, begin by trailing them up your sides.”

You dragged your palms up your skin. A knot stuck in your throat.

Your own hands had made contact with your body every day of your life. But somehow, in this instance, your skin felt as if a storm had started beneath the surface, lightning flinging through the clouds. Each brush of fingertips over your nudity sent a ripple of chills up your spine, and you shivered, a breath shaking free.

“Very good,” Tavington said, his voice deeper than you remembered it from just seconds ago. “Keep going. That’s right. To your breasts.” You obeyed. “What is that like?”

“It…” Even if you wanted to stop, you weren’t sure if you were capable of it any longer. The sensation of your own hands was wine to your parched and needy flesh. “It feels good…”

“Mhm.” His hand hovered in front of his breeches, as if he were considering something. “Take them in your hands. Tell me how you feel.”

Your chin quivered. You briefly met his eyes, and the fascination within them beckoned to your monster. You glided your hands over your breasts, cupping them in your palms, and a soft, quiet sound of delight fluttered from your mouth. Tavington exhaled, and squeezed himself through his trousers, and this excited you—you rolled yourself in your fingers, flicking across your nipples, bringing forth a squeal.

“That’s right.” His tone was a rewarding scratch under your jaw. “What have you to fear of your own body, hm?”

“Nothing,” you said, your breath lost somewhere in the dizzying impact of what you could only identify as pleasure washing over you. “It feels good. I feel good.”

“Yes,” he replied, his hips rocking against his own hand, his fingers stroking at the sides of his bulge. “Soft, aren’t you?”

You nodded, kneading your breasts to be sure. “Yes.”

His jaw tense, he tightened his grip around himself. “Good.”

The sight of it glittered from your toes to the place between your legs—the place now that felt swollen and hot and no matter what you did only seemed to throb worse, to command more and more of your attention. You whinged.

“You’re—you’re torturing me,” you said.

“Torturing you?” Tavington drew a soft breath, fingers loosening. “How so?”

“It’s getting worse,” you replied, nodding toward the heat in your belly. “It—it feels… more.”

He tilted his head, gazing at you like someone would gaze at a child with a broken toy. “Oh, you are suffering.” He huffed. “Where does it ache the most?” he asked. “Show me.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you led a hand from your breasts down your stomach to the throbbing hearth where your thighs met.

“Ah.” He smirked. “Your cunt.”

You looked away. The word pierced your ears like a stake to the dirt.

“Say it,” he said, “if you wish for me to help. Tell me what aches.”

You glanced at him, eyes wide. “Say—I can’t say that!”

“Don’t be stupid, girl. You certainly can. And if you truly ache, you will.”

A gust of fire swept over you, and you looked at his boots, taking a deep breath before you dared to speak the words. “My…” A thickness not unlike shame closed on your throat. “My cunt,” you squeaked. “My cunt aches.”

“There we are,” he replied, a salacious gratitude on his tongue. “Touch yourself there.”

You had only ever touched there to wash. But as your fingertips grazed across your folds, your nerves lit up like a valley of fireflies, sparkling with even the gentlest caress. You gasped, your jaw dropping, and you stroked yourself there, the sensitive skin exploding with an unfamiliar pleasure.

“Oh,” you managed to say, your fingers continuing to test the rawness it found. “Oh, my goodness…”

Tavington said nothing, only exhaled as he finally, finally freed himself from his breeches, and you gazed upon—upon it—again. His hand wrapped around it, and he groaned as he pumped the shaft with his fist. The sight of it made your… your cunt clench, a pulsation to your fingertips, and you teased and touched yourself hungrily, groping at the layers to find relief.

“Yes.” He watched you, his chest rising and falling, his throat working. The soft shuffle of his hand harmonized with the wet fumbling of your fingers. “You delight in watching me stroke my cock, don’t you?”

The word cock brought another whimper free. Your hand could only find wetness, your folds tender, puffy lips slipping between your fingers. Something felt out of reach, like an answer you could not find the question to. You wanted to please him. Wanted him to spare you from further torment.

“I do,” you replied honestly, “I like watching you.”

He hummed appreciatively, swirling his thumb around the tip. “All the words.”

“I like…” You whined. “I like watching you stroke your cock.”

Tavington’s head dropped back just an inch, and he grunted, thrusting deep into his hand. At this angle, you could see the patch of dark hair at the base, found yourself curious about what the rest of his body looked like. Found yourself curious about what he was doing at all. If his experience was as frustrating as yours, you could hardly understand why he would continue.

“What is it that you’re doing?” you asked.

He paused, slowing the jerk of his hand, studying you for a moment. “How does it feel when you caress your breasts? Your cunt?”

You swallowed. “Good.”

“That’s how this,” he said, teasing his fingers along the underside of the length, “feels for me.”

“But I’m… It’s stuck,” you said, your lower lip popping out in exasperation. “I can’t… I don’t understand.”

His focus tunneled on your pouting lip, and he squeezed himself with a gentle exhale. “Come closer,” he said, nodding toward the spot in front of him.

You waddled on your knees toward him as if there was an anchor between your thighs and stopped an inch from his cock.

“Do as you’re told,” he said, his free hand slipping to cradle the back of your head. “And I’ll show you.”

Gazing up at him, you replied, “I will.”

“Yes, you will.” His thumb passed over the side of your cheek. “You’re going to make me feel good. Understand?” Darkness had subsumed the blue ink of his gaze. “Open your mouth.”

Despite the tremble of your jaw, you lowered it.

“Good.” His grip guided you forward, until your parted mouth met the warm, silky tip of his cock. “Ah—there we are. Take it in. Mind your teeth.”

You recalled his earlier words—wrap your pretty lips around it—and your face glowed at the implication that he might find you pretty. How strange, you realized, to feel warm at this thought as you kneeled naked at his feet offering a kiss to his most intimate parts.

As he ordered, you took the end of him into your mouth, and he sucked a breath through his teeth, his hold tightening in your hair. You whimpered, your attention pulled between the flickers of bliss on his face and the salt of him on your tongue.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now, suck.”

You sealed your mouth around his cock, and as if it were a piece of rock candy, offered a gentle, firm suck. He hissed again, his nails scraping your scalp. This seemed like the correct response to you, so you continued, pressing your tongue against him, suckling in a slow rhythm. Tavington groaned, his hips twitching, driving into your mouth only an inch before pulling back out, and again, and again. Your heart skipped, your cheeks hollowed, and you placed your hands on his thighs to steady yourself as you reveled in it.

Though you had absolutely no idea what you were doing, knowing that you were making him feel good—as sounds escaping him implied—was enough to spur you on. There was something gratifying about it, some sort of compulsive thrill that fed into itself, and you wanted more, wanted to continue making him feel good, wanted to make yourself feel good while you did it. You sought out his eyes with a whimper.

“Very good,” he exhaled. “I want you to—I want you to put your finger at the top of where your cunt opens.” His other hand curled around the back of your head. “Yes, good. Now slowly slide it down—”

“Mmf!”

Your finger grazed a small, brief point of oblivion, and your eyes shot wide, drool leaking down your chin. Tavington’s cock pulsed between your lips, and your finger hovered over that spot, frantic to touch it again, terrified of how it would feel. It had been perfect—almost too perfect, almost more than anything you’d ever felt before in your life.

“That felt good, hm?” he purred, holding your head in place. “Don’t stop.”

Swallowing, you continued to lave at his cock, and ghosted your finger across that spot again. Another moan, and you did it again, again, finding it to be a stiff, swollen nub buried in your folds, eager to be toyed with, more eager to bring currents of delight all the way to your toes. If touching your breasts and nipples and skin had been like rain, this was a waterfall—a torrent of pleasure that you hoped, craved to drown within.

And as you circled your finger around it, it felt better, and better, and the cock in your mouth throbbed harder, and you were moaning onto it, smothering it with your saliva until it was wet and hot and every second another hint of salt graced your tongue.

“Yes,” Tavington murmured, “yes, yes, yes, that’s it.”

Lost in the whirlpool of sensation, his encouragement earned boldness. With a gasp, you pulled off of his cock, and, staring him straight in the lust-hazed eyes, spit onto his shaft before swallowing the tip again.

He choked, head falling back, a sound escaping him that was more guttural, more deviant than the first one you’d heard ever him make.

The monster between your legs was ravenous, now—faster, it demanded, more, more—and you were subject to its whims, your fingers swirling the precious nub, your head bobbing to take more, more of his cock in your mouth. You moaned, gasped onto him, unable to find your breath and at the same time unwilling to catch it. There was a burgeoning, devilish enormity between your thighs, and needed to feed it, needed to stuff it full until it—until it—

A deep, low sound, rumbled in your chest, your jaw hanging open, your muscles locking. The duty to chase this feeling had eclipsed the duty to Tavington’s cock and in response, he snarled, clasped each side of your head, and drove straight to the back of your throat.

You retched, squirming, your hands losing focus for just a moment, and his hips snapped, his cock treating your mouth like his fist—something to thrust into, something to bring him pleasure. Something to be abused.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he growled. “You enjoy having your little virgin face fucked.”

Another gag, tears building and spilling down your cheeks, your sight bleary. And yet, despite that, despite the air rattling through your nose, you could do nothing but relish the stretch of your lips around him, the throbbing of his cock on your tongue, the breath grit through his teeth.

In his stare, you met the empty gaze of a predator gloating in the death throes of his prey.

You nodded, humming in assent.

Eyes shutting, your resumed stroking your nub, the angle, the intensity, the heady scent of his musk—you were groaning louder, longer, fingers moving faster, and you were staring down a mountain, or perhaps up at one, uncertain if you were about to ascend it or collapse underneath its cliffside.

“Enough.” Breathless, Tavington tore you free. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” you sputtered, “good, it feels good, I can’t stop—” Your head rolled, mouth lolling open. “I can’t stop!”

With a grunt, he snatched your arm and hoisted you up, tearing you from possession. You wailed, flailing weakly in his grip.

“What are you doing,” you cried, “stop this! Please, don’t—”

“Quiet.”

Without another word, Tavington flung you forward, your stomach colliding with the edge of the table with a whump. He smashed your chest against the top, and before your spiraling mind could even connect the events of the past few seconds, he was kneeling behind you, strong hands parting your thighs.

“I beg yo—oh, God.”

Soft, wet warmth enveloped your cunt. Without looking, you knew it was his tongue, knew he was kissing between your legs like a man might kiss a woman’s mouth. But if your fingers had felt perfect, this was—

It was what you imagined the promise of death would feel to a soul bound for heaven, what you pictured the angels bestowing onto those they guarded. Yet something so exquisite in a context so lascivious could mean too this was instead was the temptation of the devil, a fruit to lure innocent souls to hell.

Whichever it was, frankly, you didn’t care. Tavington’s lips sealed around your nub, his tongue teasing it, and you sobbed, your entire body wracked as it was quartered in limbo.

“Please, please, please,” you whimpered, terrified he would stop. “I—I can’t—something’s happening, please!”

Tavington hummed against you like he was savoring his final meal, and perfection split into one thousand separate shards, each a reflection of the pressure within you, and you breathed, gripped the table, shut your eyes, quaking as euphoria echoed to infinity. You were dying, or you were being born, or your skin was bursting, or you were, you were—

You screamed, rupturing with bliss, your limbs jolting and your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. At the edge of your awareness, Tavington’s tongue fluttered on your nub, his grip stilling your hips as they jerked, his own low moans a resonance against you. It continued, you thought, for ages, waves after waves cascading over you, until his mouth finally released you, and you broke into reality with a sudden gasp.

You laid on the table, sweat pearling underneath you, and as the ringing died in your ears, you heard a panting, a grunting, a slap of skin on skin. Tavington was behind you, one hand pinning your back, the other stroking himself.

“From now on,” he hissed, “you’ll think of me, think of my hand, my mouth—you’ll forever be mine—”

Speechless, you could only watch his hips pitched, his teeth bared, and he gripped his cock, choking as warm, white fluid roped over your arse.

“Christ,” he groaned, milking his length until the fluid dribbled from the tip. His chest fell in an exhale, his hand slowing until he seemed to return to himself. Another breath, and he swallowed, looking at you and buttoning himself away. “You see?” he said, voice stretched thin. “Virtue still intact.”

The cooling spatter across your backside made you suppose differently. But it was clear to you now that losing your virtue involved his cock going inside of you, and that hadn’t happened. Though you were still completely nude and bent over this British officer’s table like a disobedient child.

You made to move, found your muscles limp, your knees shaking at the thought of losing the table’s support. Whatever had happened to you had apparently stripped you of half your strength. With a weak hand, you gathered up your clothing and forced yourself to stand.

“What…” You stared at the ground as you pulled your nightgown over your head, the silk sticking to your back. It made you shiver. “What was that?”

Tavington huffed, crossing to a corner of his tent where a desk laden with parchment was waiting. “The French call it la petite mort,” he drawled, sitting.

You frowned, pulling your robe over your shoulders. “What do the English call it?”

He paused, then looked back at you. “Coming.” His eyes narrowed. “I presume you enjoyed it.”

“Oh.” Folding your arms across your chest, you looked at your feet. “I did.”

“Good,” he said, and turned back to his desk, grabbing a quill and dipping it in an open inkwell. “Don’t permit your future husband to forgo allowing you to experience it.”

You had no idea what to say to that. The air in his tent had fled beneath the canvas. “Um… Colonel. Where do I—”

“Bordon!” Tavington called. He glimpsed you from over his shoulder. “Captain Bordon will see to your needs.”

“But I need to see my parents, and—”

A stout blonde officer flung open the tent. “Sir,” said Bordon, presumably. His eyes landed on you, and he frowned. “Oh.”

“Bordon, what became of the family we visited today?” Tavington asked between scratches of his quill. “Were they indeed sent to Charleston?”

“Ah, no,” Bordon replied. “We interrogated them, sir, but they were cleared. Staunch Loyalists. We sent them home.”

“Mhm.” Tavington tilted his head toward you. “Their daughter. She was creeping about camp. Return her, to them, won’t you?”

Bordon nodded. “Of course,” he replied, and held out his hand. “Come along, miss.”

Moving should have been simple. But your feet were stone, anchoring you from being stolen in another tornado of deviance. You only stared.

A muscle in Tavington’s jaw jumped, and he glared at you. “Go on, girl. We’ve not the entire evening to attend to you.”

Cheeks hot, you forced yourself toward Bordon, cleaning your mind of every lurid memory that you’d made in the perimeter of this tent. As you went to cross the threshold into the evening, Tavington cleared his throat.

“And Bordon?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Do see if any of the officers would be interested in courting her,” he said. “She’s terribly eligible.”

Your face burned. Bordon glanced at you, then back at his colonel.

“Yes, sir,” he said with a hint of resignation, and urged you forward.

The last you saw of Tavington were his eyes, shimmering like a shallow pond in the candlelight. They watched you until the tent flap fell and you walked into the darkness.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #terribly eligible #fanfiction problems #god i love innocence kink S O M U CH

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kylorengarbagedump · 1 month ago

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to celebrate may 4th i decided to indulge once again into your ao3 and jesus christ am i satiated. i wish i had a memory wipe so i could re-read everything for the first time. 🩷

OMG please, you're far too kind. So so happy you enjoyed your time there. <3 Happy belated May 4th! <3

#nerd whinings #cuties #fanfiction problems

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kylorengarbagedump · 2 months ago

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#hes literally so strong lol..................#kylo ren #bebe #do my pussy next babe!

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kylorengarbagedump · 2 months ago

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Hi there! We used to talk all the time on discord during the pandemic, idk if you remember but my username on discord used to be theminiwriter. We haven't spoken in years but I just want to check in and ask how are you? I hope you're doing okay? It's good to see that you're still writing.

Hi! Yes, I remember you! I'm doing well, thank you for asking :) I hope you're doing well too, darling. <3 <3 <3

#nerd whinings #cuties

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kylorengarbagedump · 2 months ago

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little bird is genuinely one of my favorite pieces of literature ever written and i have thought about it every day for the past five years and i just wanted you to know that

Oh my god - thank you so much? That's so genuinely sweet to hear. I'm so happy you've enjoyed it so much and that it touched you so deeply. It was very special and fun for me to write, and I hold it very dear to my heart. <3

#nerd whinings #cuties #little bird #fanfiction problems

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kylorengarbagedump · 2 months ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 26 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 25 here. Part 27 here.

Summary: Conflict of interest, schmonflict of schminterest.

Words: 7000

Warnings: snowballing

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Hi! Welcome back <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” he repeated tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Preoccupied.”

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

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

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

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

“If you believe a compromise equates victory.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else?” he snarled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve missed you, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Swallow,” he murmured.

You obeyed.

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

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

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

“Devil,” you breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is gluttony not the devil’s domain?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not a trait you had much experience cultivating.

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

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

“Appreciating the sights?”

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

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

“Pardon me,” you said, grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do—”

“Beg my pardon?” you teased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barely, just barely, he grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah—I beg—”

“My pardon?”

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

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

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You were,” he sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach crashed to the ground.

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

“Ensign,” said William.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The William Tavington you knew as The Butcher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In front of Colonel Tavington?”

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

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

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

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

“Ow…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widened. Your arms fell to your side.

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

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

“No,” he replied, “I’m shrewd.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“It’s so.”

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

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

“Goddard—”

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

“On what?”

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

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

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

“Clearly Tavington noticed,” you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You screeched, stepped toward him. He winced.

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

He wasn’t worth it.

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

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

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

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

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

You wiped your mouth, got yourself another cupful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am, in fact.”

“What do you think of it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taking after Mr. B, are you?”

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

You cleared your throat, your smile faltering.

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

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

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

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

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

This was not your heartbeat.

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

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

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

He didn't.

You cursed.

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

“Here!” you called. “In here!”

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

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

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

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

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

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #if you don't know what snowballing is today you get to learn #william tavington is Nasty (tm)

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