Total War
Title: Total War
Fandom: The Patriot
Pairing: Martin/Tavington
Rating: Mature for adult sexual content, violence, death
Length: 1,450 words
Summary: Col. William Tavington died in his camp, before sunrise on January the Eighteenth, in the Year of our Lord 1781.
Notes: Originally posted at fic_on_demand, for slaygirl, who requested Martin/Tavington hatefuck. Quite a lot of the detail is based on excessive research regarding Lt. Colonel Banastre Tarleton.
Total War
"You."
"Yes, I. Would you have expected another?" Colonel Tavington swept his helmet off his head with choreographed ease, a calculated bow, and a devastating smile. "I said you would have a lesson in the rules of war, and here I am to teach it." He tugged demonstratively on the black velvet of his cuffs, redistributing across his back the green cloth of a coat that was cut not to let it bunch between his shoulders when he rode.
"I need no lesson, least of all from yourself." Martin's spit was dirty, flung as it was from a face spattered and sodden with the bloody stench of fighting.
Tavington glanced down at his dress boots, newly shined, now marred with the spittle of a farmer's galling disregard. Swiftly, the offended boot rose and planted itself beneath Martin's ill-clad kneecap, rendering a saucy crackle before it stomped back down into the grass. Tavington smiled to see the man fall, face twisted in silent paroxysms, teeth bared, eyes rolling and pinching in alternatum, but when Martin's fingers relaxed over his tattered and mud-ridden breeches Tavington drew his sabre and floated it up beneath the man's chin. "You will stand."
Oh! How horrendous was the look he got in return, rage flashing out from those deep-embedded eyes, and a snarl taking over the grimace that pulled his muddy lips back from his teeth. So, not a man... but no mythic immortal Ghost, either. A beast, only that, who scratched and bit because its pups had been kicked. But even an animal could be taught. Tavington snorted and felt a warm wet bubble out from his nose. A weathered and harried face swam down, tsked, and wiped it away. Tavington returned his attention to the task sullenly facing him, propped up on its rifle, standing by grace and will.
Tavington strode forward, enjoying the digs his spurs made in the ground for as long as he could feel them on his boots, and circled around Martin with cold assessment. Behind the pain-hunched, steel-spined figure he stopped, and pulled the hatchet out of its leather holdings. His wrist spun and the hatchet flew, only to disappear in the grasses where it landed. His blood thrummed quietly, and he walked his fingers around to pull the knife out of Martin's belt, and to fling it as well far into the distance. Then he stretched his arms out farther, pressed his clean, polished brass buttons all in a row against the back of a ragged, soggy farmer's coat, and wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the musket. Smooth, round, warm from repeated fire and frantic speed-reloading; Tavington could taste the metallic tang, so near to that of blood, even in the way it inexorably coated his tongue. The haggard face returned, touching now a soft -- in all truth naught but rough -- cloth to his lips, smearing away the warm trickle before it could stain the linens. Tavington put aside the distraction, focused on the man.
He put his lips to Martin's ear, tasted the brackish sweat as it ran down from his hairline, and whispered. "I will break you, Ghost, like I break my horses. I will run you ragged. You will wish you were a horse, that you might throw me off and run to the stables, and press your muzzle against some pitying groom who would tend you and coddle you." The body tensed beneath him; muscles primed, shifted, spine stiffened, pulse quickened. Tavington drew his eyebrow up in a languid arch, and the corner of his mouth with it. "Or, no... You want this for yourself as much as I do. ...More? You need it. Don't you? You need a fight, Ghost, a fight that you can bite and claw your way through, and yet still not lose. Hmm?"
Martin growled defiantly, spat again, but the tremor that shot down him gave the fact of his position away. Tavington slipped his fingers from their grip, one which had grown white-knuckled without his knowing, and dropped them to the colonial's trousers, where they worked blindly and efficiently while his whispered tone continued sweet and harsh. "I will break you, Ghost. Have you heard how I break my horses? With whip, and spurs, and exhaustion. I ride them to the blood and bones, until there is nothing left but obeisance. And then..." He slid his hands beneath the dirt- and death-stiff cloth, through a nest of shirttails, to an altogether different stiffness, feeling a quiet, heated glow wash over him when Martin gasped roughly, twisted his head around, and sank his teeth into the shoulder of Tavington's coat, so it was the back of his neck to which the Colonel was speaking. He grazed his teeth beneath the queue, pressed his tongue over the pulse at the base of the man's skull, and then finished, in a shattering of breath, "...and then they are mine."
Martin wrenched about and with pure brute force bore Tavington into the ground, pressing out a cough that was only somewhat startled. Tavington felt teeth at his throat, biting hard, and making blood run. And the swimming face was there, pressing cloth to it, holding him down. The face exploded into mist when it became the roughness of Martin's hands holding Tavington down, instead. "Never yours," he hissed, even as his hips were twitching in ambivalent praise of the hands on his prick.
"No, of course not mine, you squalling beast." Tavington's tone was of approval, a teacher's laud to a clever student. It slipped easily into cool contempt, never losing its smooth, drawling sensation. "I doubt I'd want to keep you, after all. No, not mine to have. Mine, rather, to break." He twisted, pushed, and had Martin pinned by one arm across the man's chest, while the other took up particularly mercilessly lower down. Martin clawed his short nails into the dirt that was more of a sponge for blood and arched his back to an audible crackle. Tavington bit down upon the chest that was presented to him, teeth closing, he noted, about a lower rib that ought not have been so easily found. Martin collapsed in and down and his hips spasmed anxiously, jerking once or twice in a hundred directions at once before heat spurted out over Tavington's hand and he pulled it away with a look of triumphant disdain. First he cuffed Martin across the face, then he wiped his hand on the grass and lifted his eyebrow in a dare to the fallen man.
Martin reached up and yanked Tavington down, rolling him roughly, all knees and elbows and pressing thighs and biting mouth, and Tavington spared a thought for his coat only to realize it was nowhere in sight, and the tearing sound was Martin's teeth and nails on his shirt. He rejoined; bit a muscled, meaty arm, jerked hard on a hank of hair, licked and chewed at the jaw and throat it bared, wound his leg between Martin's, pressed up hard against returning heat, ground against an angry hipbone, growled at the dig of fingers in the small of his back. Other fingers poked, prodded, and scratched, and eventually loosed the buckskin breeches from Tavington's waist, and they paused just a moment over the sumptuous texture before the two of them were tumbling again, in a furious, grimy wresting match, where gasps of pain could not be told from pleasured moans, where the heel of a hand beat and thumped and warded off a strike and then pushed, slowly and sleekly, and made a body rock, and groan, and let time stretch, just before bringing it all in again into a tangle, teeth on ears and nails on buttocks, knees smashing into each other, elbows hooking around necks and spinning, pulling...
And suddenly there was a burn, and sparks of fire, and curses and breathless silence, and Tavington scored Martin's arms all down with his fingernails and pressed in, and Martin wound with inhuman skill and bit at the join of Tavington's throat and collarbone, and the two writhed and throbbed and wounded with a desperate drive to destroy something, so long as it was not the very moment. Martin scrabbled, clung, twisted, and several joints popped as he came, howled, pure white fury coursing out of him, and his hand around Tavington's middle dug, and Tavington felt fire taking him from his neck, his gut, his groin, and blood was running, and he was spitting out into Benjamin Martin, and
blackness came, and left, with all else.
Col. William Tavington died in his camp, before sunrise on January the Eighteenth, in the Year of our Lord 1781.
Fandom: The Patriot
Pairing: Martin/Tavington
Rating: Mature for adult sexual content, violence, death
Length: 1,450 words
Summary: Col. William Tavington died in his camp, before sunrise on January the Eighteenth, in the Year of our Lord 1781.
Notes: Originally posted at fic_on_demand, for slaygirl, who requested Martin/Tavington hatefuck. Quite a lot of the detail is based on excessive research regarding Lt. Colonel Banastre Tarleton.
Total War
"You."
"Yes, I. Would you have expected another?" Colonel Tavington swept his helmet off his head with choreographed ease, a calculated bow, and a devastating smile. "I said you would have a lesson in the rules of war, and here I am to teach it." He tugged demonstratively on the black velvet of his cuffs, redistributing across his back the green cloth of a coat that was cut not to let it bunch between his shoulders when he rode.
"I need no lesson, least of all from yourself." Martin's spit was dirty, flung as it was from a face spattered and sodden with the bloody stench of fighting.
Tavington glanced down at his dress boots, newly shined, now marred with the spittle of a farmer's galling disregard. Swiftly, the offended boot rose and planted itself beneath Martin's ill-clad kneecap, rendering a saucy crackle before it stomped back down into the grass. Tavington smiled to see the man fall, face twisted in silent paroxysms, teeth bared, eyes rolling and pinching in alternatum, but when Martin's fingers relaxed over his tattered and mud-ridden breeches Tavington drew his sabre and floated it up beneath the man's chin. "You will stand."
Oh! How horrendous was the look he got in return, rage flashing out from those deep-embedded eyes, and a snarl taking over the grimace that pulled his muddy lips back from his teeth. So, not a man... but no mythic immortal Ghost, either. A beast, only that, who scratched and bit because its pups had been kicked. But even an animal could be taught. Tavington snorted and felt a warm wet bubble out from his nose. A weathered and harried face swam down, tsked, and wiped it away. Tavington returned his attention to the task sullenly facing him, propped up on its rifle, standing by grace and will.
Tavington strode forward, enjoying the digs his spurs made in the ground for as long as he could feel them on his boots, and circled around Martin with cold assessment. Behind the pain-hunched, steel-spined figure he stopped, and pulled the hatchet out of its leather holdings. His wrist spun and the hatchet flew, only to disappear in the grasses where it landed. His blood thrummed quietly, and he walked his fingers around to pull the knife out of Martin's belt, and to fling it as well far into the distance. Then he stretched his arms out farther, pressed his clean, polished brass buttons all in a row against the back of a ragged, soggy farmer's coat, and wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the musket. Smooth, round, warm from repeated fire and frantic speed-reloading; Tavington could taste the metallic tang, so near to that of blood, even in the way it inexorably coated his tongue. The haggard face returned, touching now a soft -- in all truth naught but rough -- cloth to his lips, smearing away the warm trickle before it could stain the linens. Tavington put aside the distraction, focused on the man.
He put his lips to Martin's ear, tasted the brackish sweat as it ran down from his hairline, and whispered. "I will break you, Ghost, like I break my horses. I will run you ragged. You will wish you were a horse, that you might throw me off and run to the stables, and press your muzzle against some pitying groom who would tend you and coddle you." The body tensed beneath him; muscles primed, shifted, spine stiffened, pulse quickened. Tavington drew his eyebrow up in a languid arch, and the corner of his mouth with it. "Or, no... You want this for yourself as much as I do. ...More? You need it. Don't you? You need a fight, Ghost, a fight that you can bite and claw your way through, and yet still not lose. Hmm?"
Martin growled defiantly, spat again, but the tremor that shot down him gave the fact of his position away. Tavington slipped his fingers from their grip, one which had grown white-knuckled without his knowing, and dropped them to the colonial's trousers, where they worked blindly and efficiently while his whispered tone continued sweet and harsh. "I will break you, Ghost. Have you heard how I break my horses? With whip, and spurs, and exhaustion. I ride them to the blood and bones, until there is nothing left but obeisance. And then..." He slid his hands beneath the dirt- and death-stiff cloth, through a nest of shirttails, to an altogether different stiffness, feeling a quiet, heated glow wash over him when Martin gasped roughly, twisted his head around, and sank his teeth into the shoulder of Tavington's coat, so it was the back of his neck to which the Colonel was speaking. He grazed his teeth beneath the queue, pressed his tongue over the pulse at the base of the man's skull, and then finished, in a shattering of breath, "...and then they are mine."
Martin wrenched about and with pure brute force bore Tavington into the ground, pressing out a cough that was only somewhat startled. Tavington felt teeth at his throat, biting hard, and making blood run. And the swimming face was there, pressing cloth to it, holding him down. The face exploded into mist when it became the roughness of Martin's hands holding Tavington down, instead. "Never yours," he hissed, even as his hips were twitching in ambivalent praise of the hands on his prick.
"No, of course not mine, you squalling beast." Tavington's tone was of approval, a teacher's laud to a clever student. It slipped easily into cool contempt, never losing its smooth, drawling sensation. "I doubt I'd want to keep you, after all. No, not mine to have. Mine, rather, to break." He twisted, pushed, and had Martin pinned by one arm across the man's chest, while the other took up particularly mercilessly lower down. Martin clawed his short nails into the dirt that was more of a sponge for blood and arched his back to an audible crackle. Tavington bit down upon the chest that was presented to him, teeth closing, he noted, about a lower rib that ought not have been so easily found. Martin collapsed in and down and his hips spasmed anxiously, jerking once or twice in a hundred directions at once before heat spurted out over Tavington's hand and he pulled it away with a look of triumphant disdain. First he cuffed Martin across the face, then he wiped his hand on the grass and lifted his eyebrow in a dare to the fallen man.
Martin reached up and yanked Tavington down, rolling him roughly, all knees and elbows and pressing thighs and biting mouth, and Tavington spared a thought for his coat only to realize it was nowhere in sight, and the tearing sound was Martin's teeth and nails on his shirt. He rejoined; bit a muscled, meaty arm, jerked hard on a hank of hair, licked and chewed at the jaw and throat it bared, wound his leg between Martin's, pressed up hard against returning heat, ground against an angry hipbone, growled at the dig of fingers in the small of his back. Other fingers poked, prodded, and scratched, and eventually loosed the buckskin breeches from Tavington's waist, and they paused just a moment over the sumptuous texture before the two of them were tumbling again, in a furious, grimy wresting match, where gasps of pain could not be told from pleasured moans, where the heel of a hand beat and thumped and warded off a strike and then pushed, slowly and sleekly, and made a body rock, and groan, and let time stretch, just before bringing it all in again into a tangle, teeth on ears and nails on buttocks, knees smashing into each other, elbows hooking around necks and spinning, pulling...
And suddenly there was a burn, and sparks of fire, and curses and breathless silence, and Tavington scored Martin's arms all down with his fingernails and pressed in, and Martin wound with inhuman skill and bit at the join of Tavington's throat and collarbone, and the two writhed and throbbed and wounded with a desperate drive to destroy something, so long as it was not the very moment. Martin scrabbled, clung, twisted, and several joints popped as he came, howled, pure white fury coursing out of him, and his hand around Tavington's middle dug, and Tavington felt fire taking him from his neck, his gut, his groin, and blood was running, and he was spitting out into Benjamin Martin, and
blackness came, and left, with all else.
Col. William Tavington died in his camp, before sunrise on January the Eighteenth, in the Year of our Lord 1781.