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Maj. Alastair Wimbourne x Reader.
The cylinder of his Webley rotates shut with a click.
Ambushes are conducted in the utter dark, out there. Not under the dim, shadowed half-light of a copper and porcelain kerosene table lamp, in the immediate dignity regimental office, in front of an officer's desk, with the windows open to let in the night fluttering inside through the thin veil of moving curtains, inside a garrison headquarters. No, in fact, this was what Major Alastair Wimbourne would've deemed a necessary interception. You were being intercepted ― one of those peculiar, mercurial creatures that you were, neither a bride, neither a widow, not the help, certainly not anyone's whore; a fifth classification entirely, perhaps, most perplexing. Unmarried and unaligned; as of yet anyhow. This laughable thought permeates his mind as he waits seated at the desk lined with ribbons of pitch black and pale flickering orange, elbows on its partially illuminated wooden edge, toting the readied revolver, knowing he was strategically concealed enough to potentially startle yet visible enough as to where he couldn't be accused of doing his stripes and colors the dishonor of hiding. Of course he hears you coming down the dusky garden foyer. He knows your blasted footsteps by now, their sound. You have to pass through here, as it were; funny how certain offices were architecturally positioned like that. Like a labyrinthian trench cutting through an open field one has to walk through and risk getting gunned down and speared through to reach the other side.
Life was much like that too.
Your dark form in the doorway threshold halts and visibly shivers, startled.
Eyes doubtlessly trying to make out the human figure at the table.
Legs intending to retreat and then deciding to move on ahead.
Deeming him a mere shadow of furniture, were you?
The cylinder in his fingers rotates again with a cold metallic click.
About bloody time you showed up.
-"Oh...apologies. I didn't realize someone was here."-
You mutter out quietly into the half-lit office, framed by lamplight that hooded more than it illuminated, uncertain who you were speaking to or who you were spewing your polite, bird-chirping apologia to, but still understanding instinctively it was good form to do so regardless; he allows his face and shoulders to remain shrouded by a layer of dimness concealing the wall behind him before he reached over to the lamp with his other free hand, shifting it ever so slightly with a ceramic rattle and a metal scrape to cast a flicker of light to the side of his face, moving the whole trembling ensemble of shadows in the room along with it by about an inch. The firearm cylinder had six cartridges. He could fill you with enough bullets to line you from your womb all the way to your head like a sewing machine handled by a tailor back at Cecil's Court. He could; but he'd give you a choice tonight. Really, more of an ultimatum. -"Major Windbourne! It is you. Good evening."- You manage through a rustle of fabrics, finally, mid-stride, recognizing him, nervousness coloring your tone in spite of the apparent courtesy of it as you intended to simply pass him with a commonplace greeting and retire to your quarters for the night, inside your bungalow, half startled to death yet trying not to make it so blood obvious that he scared you. -"Why ever the blazes would it be good?"- He retorts, sharply, words clipped, like someone barking an order, gun now loaded, his chair facing you, revolver resting on his knee where you stood right on the precipice of another door leading down yet another hallway --- out of here. What nobody told you is that one doesn't get to move through these regimental walls without being somebody's something. And you were nobody's anything as of this very moment. If what happened to Captain Scarlett were to happen to him one day, he wanted a widow too. And unlike most, you would've been loyal and exemplary, because he would've made you so. Not a pig. Not a squealer.
He stands up from the chair holding the gun, like someone jumping to attention.
You're frozen on the spot, like a confused beastie at a fox hunt.
A most tender prey, uncertain if you should stay or leave.
Yes. You'd do most excellently.
-"Why would it be good?"-
He repeats himself firmly, condescendingly, akin to someone dishing out verbal discipline or talking down a misbehaving junior officer, close enough to see the distant ember of the flickering kerosene lamp behind his shoulders reflected in your eyes hooded with lashes standing upright in anxiety and framing an unblinking stare along with the silhouette of his own shape mirrored in your steady, doe-like irises as he blocked your exit, distracting you long enough to hover the barrel of the revolver close enough until it could comfortably press into your ribs behind layers of attire and your stay and push, deep enough to make you yelp a little in surprise, not having noticed on time just what he was holding --- one tended to overlook such details when in a state of dread; so you were a squealer. At least a little. Well, that would change. He rather liked you. So what? People have without a doubt wooed and courted each other in stranger ways, even in this infernal, mosquito-riddled heat.
You try and fail getting out a noise, his open palm pressing over your mouth, effectively shutting you up as well as an officer and a gentleman could on a short notice, fingers closing around your lower face and jawline like a fleshy vice, grabbing you thus and holding you from cheek to cheek, forcibly puckering your lips up as he caught your mouth between his thumb and index finger, allowing his revolver to travel lower, down the smooth fabric of your dress, just along the place where geographically and anatomically speaking, your unmentionables and your sex ought to have been beneath all those airy, summer layers --- you do whimper against his mouth once he pressed the gun barrel just so and just there. A man's sabre and firearm were the closest things on hand he had to substitute for his manhood in polite society without being vulgar. You should have been thankful he wasn't doing all of this with an unsheathed sword instead.
He's done so before on others.
-"Scoot down. Like someone touching their toes, madam."-
He orders crisply, finger on the trigger, slowly lifting his hand away from your mouth and releasing you from your makeshift gag, understanding a lady's disposition and nature well enough to know she wouldn't scream to draw attention the minute his palm was gone, certainly not if it meant summoning a crowd of soldiers to the office where she was cooped up with a Major in the dark; not a stain that would be washed off of someone unmarried any time soon ---- as such, you shakily, slowly doing as you're told, spine and back carefully bending downwards, eyes flickering up at him colored with fear in the shadows was a predictable situation. You curve down bit by bit, posterior pressed up against the komode behind you until the revolver is nearly at the same height as your forehead and uncertain what to do next, you stop, whimpering, your shaky breaths peppered with what he deduces as sobs; that, or huffs of an unbidden desire.
-"Now grab the hem of your skirts. Lift them up. Just over the knees. Do not tarry!"-
He commands further, as fast as a machine gun shoots rounds into an advancing enemy battalion, a steady barrel up against the parting of your scalp. Alastair looks down to his polished boots and where the lace of your dress' hem spilled and pooled unto the bare tiles, and you bashfully hesitate when it came to revealing your unmentionables to a man you've only ever just occasionally greeted in passing like you would have anyone else or met briefly in the mess hall before now. Good. A modicum of modesty brought on by stout morals and good breeding.
They don't all have modesty.
That's why they were pigs and you were not. At least not the same manner of piggie.
You weren't courting scandal; scandal was courting you.
He impatiently interjects into the delay and indecision swiftly as he watches you lift the heavy, now crumpled edge of your dress to reveal your stockings and the frill of your drawers, allowing him a moment to admire the spoils of war and giving him a clear opening to swiftly push his Webley right amidst the sea of white material and underskirts, between your legs and cotton clothed sex; you mewl and moan at the contact, your neck slightly exposed, head thrown back with a guilty tension in your scrunching chin as the commode you leaned harder against for support scrapes along the floor, pushed by your weight. Enjoying this, were you? In your own way, you must have. The fairer sex liked him and he liked the fairer sex.
You stutter in indignity, holding your own dress up to your knees, frame rigid, chin out and dripping with the moisture of tears, the redness of a certain sense of humiliation stark even in this light of partial darkness, holding back a gasp through firmly pressed lips as he began to slide the barrel of the gun back and forth, back and forth, up against the fabric of your lacy pantaloons, pleasuring the invisible slit that must've been there; technically no direct dishonor in that; no cleft was touching no crevice. -"You bastard."- Is all you retort pitifully, seething like a little guttersnipe, barely audibly --- he wagered, with an insult directed more so at yourself than him, perhaps for taking a relish in this and finding yourself angered by your own weakness. He lets out an intentionally haughty, disdainful 'hah!' -"Why? And why on earth not, lassie?"- He booms, as much as a man could while still being conspiratorial, working his grip managing the cold, metal handle of his Webley like a swaying caress, envying the wetness the pistol could no doubt feel reluctantly pooling along the surface of your unmentionables if pistols could feel such things the way men could. Your mouth parts and your lashes flutter wildly, eyes unable to maintain eye contact even though he was right there, a hair's inch away from you and you had nowhere to run. Was he touching you himself, with his own hands? No. Was it unbecoming? Technically, no. Could you say, Major Wimbourne has done so and so unto you with his own body even if you did ever say anything to anyone? No. No crime there. His reputation was impeccable in military service and it would stay so. -"You gallivant in the wee hours, breaking regimental curfew, unchaperoned, back talking an armed Major --- why, it should be a small wonder you have not ran into worse mischief and chastisement. I am duty officer! This shall to be reported!"- He chastises and threatens with a deliberate sense of being paternalistic and a despot, pushing the revolvers' muzzle and front sight further into your undergarments, hoping to achieve a friction or at least cultivate the imagination of a prelude of what could have been if you were his, the image coming unbidden; You receiving the honorary Victoria's Cross for him every year much like Mrs. Scarlett did for Captain Scarlett. His widow in black much like his bride in white. This gun could be his flesh next time. Next time, if everything was made official. Done by the books. He feels his own arousal stirring in his loins at the notion. Every woman on these premises ought to have irrevocably belonged to a man, living or dead, hero or disgraced, so why not you to him?
You'd look ravishing, he though, in a black veil.
Mourning over his casket, forever faithful.
He needed someone to mourn him. One day.
He slides the revolver particularly hard against your flesh and you writhe.
Seeking more, your hips bucking visibly --- responsive and eager little minx.
You whine, needy and distraught, pained tears lining the edges of your eyes.
His eyes fall upon the cleavage of your heaving bosom and then your stare.
A quick flick, up and down, assessing; then, he allows himself to withdraw the gun.
Just at the height of pleasure, when the chafing of metal against fabric was delivering most satisfaction, doing so with deliberate cruelty, with practiced quickness, removing his hand and the weapon it held and tucking it back, behind himself, into its leather holster, briefly catching a whiff of your arousal in the air around him, warm and salty; you stand there, flushed, disheveled, neck beaded with sweat brought on by the humidity of the night air and your own sudden exertions, breathing hard and leaned up against the wooden komode like someone who just narrowly avoided by hit by a speeding locomotive running through the desert. -"Now, now, lassie."- He coos with loftiness, tugging his own regimental reds down his torso and adjusting his uniform, throwing you a grimace consisting of a half cocked up curve of his mouth, treating it all like you were being unreasonable for reacting the way you were reacting and he the reasonable one for correcting you even though his firearm was halfway up your drawers just now; but then again, what was a little playtime between intendeds. Yes. Intendeds. He'll toast for it tomorrow, at the ball, with ample witnesses. You'll be too caught unawares, compromised and embarrassed to deny it or make a tremendous spectacle out of yourself. By Jove, you might even like it, in fact. Being the future Mrs. Alistair Wimbourne, claimed and engaged. Now, that is an ambush. -"By God, make yourself decent and retire to your chamber."- Not a suggestion, he orders, much like he has been ordering since you ran into him in this office; he wasn't about to allow you to besmirch him by lingering around in darkened foyers for longer than a minute after he lets you leave for your quarters; in an injured, offended huff, clearly vexed, disgusted and perplexed by him and his conduct thus far, you turn to leave in a hurry and a flurry of now loosened skirts, like a petulant, capricious little fox --- the moment it took him to reach for his gloves tucked into his belt and put them on, adjusting the white calfskin on his hands is just as much as it took him to grab you by the elbow immediately afterwards, yanking you backwards to him. Were you given a dismissal from his presence? -"Leave the door unbolted, madam."- He adds allowing the venom to drip into every syllable passing the threshold of his mouth, peacocking his words, delivering the moniker of 'madam' with intended arrogance, no differently from the various shades of pride and denigration coloring his tongue every time he referred to you as 'lassie'. You looked like you were on the verge of spitting in his face in quiet, cold, subdued rage at his audacity. That, or preening to pay homage to his lips. Perhaps, a pinch of both. He lets you go, but not before pressing a hasty kiss to your trapped hand, bowing his torso forward into the contact, like a true gentleman of the drawing room, clicking his boots together.
-"I shall be joining you shortly."-
He announces with an official tone, infinitely pleased with himself, throwing his chin out and clasping his hands behind his ram rod postured back tidily in the manner of an officer about to conduct a routine inspection at the barracks, staring you down like something he's just caught in a hunter's net, deciding whether to quarter it for supper or not and feast on the small game's roasted flesh, the sound of crickets and cicadas in the garden cut short only by your enraged, rushing footsteps echoing down the corridor like an embarrassed cannonade in the heavy, velvet darkness. Oh, little piggie in a house of straw and sticks. You'd let him in. Of course you would.
Major Wimbourne chuckles to himself, straightening his collar and following suit.
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