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kylorengarbagedump · 22 days ago

Text

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

33 notes · View notes

si1verghosts · 11 months ago

Note

Hi!

3. A kiss on the forehead😌

helloooo dear anon!! i am sorry this took so long i could not for the life of me figure out to write but then ! i wrote this on the 4th and i realized it could work... maybe... sorta. this may not be what you were expecting/wanting but there's forehead kisses in there.... somewhere 🫡 also, if u are not american i apologize for giving you a july 4th fic 😭 but the holiday is relatively inconsequential here like theres no patriotism it's just a backdrop if u know what i mean.... anyway, i hope u enjoy <33

you taste like the 4th of july

di leon s. kennedy x fem reader (no use of y/n)

wc: 3.5k

18+ | cw: mentions of drinking | tw: thoughts about death and dying

tags: established relationship; fluff (i guess??); slight changes to canon to suit author's headcanons

read on ao3

a/n: for the past few months i've been working on this very insane multi-chap post di leon fic 😵‍💫 this was written with that in mind But does not have a place in that story... probably.... idk!!! either way, i think it can be read as a standalone just fine

additionally, there is a scene in here where leon picks the reader up. i would just like to say like... he gets thrown into concrete walls on a biweekly basis and gets up and walks it off without issue so i think he can lift anyone no matter their size or shape!!

not beta read or proofread - sorry if any of it is gibberish i've had a wicked migraine the past few days... will maybe attempt to proofread once i can see correctly again 🚬🧍‍♀️regardless, all mistakes are my own

i do not own leon or any other resi character mentioned, etc etc, please don't sue me <3

please do not use my work to train any sort of AI chatbot and/or writing generator.

-----

"It was a good day, wasn't it?" Leon asks, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stand over the patio table, cleaning up the abandoned plates and platters.

You hum. It was; a beautiful, cloudless July 4th, spent with Leon's friends in the backyard of your home. The only ones missing were Ashley and Ingrid; the former having a standing family commitment and the latter planning to spend her holiday on the beach, away from the country and your fiancé.

Typically, Chris hosted the Independence Day cookout, but Leon offered up your new home as this year's venue, citing your in-ground pool and the plenty of extra space you have for guests to stay. In reality, he just wanted the chance to out-grill Chris - he'd been preparing since Memorial Day; testing different spice and sauce combinations as well as stocking your freezer full of large cuts of meat.

He'd started before you were even awake, chopping and seasoning in the kitchen, slowly loading up the smoker. You'd joined him on the patio a few hours later, watching from your pool floaty as he poked and prodded at various things.

You don't even eat meat, didn't know the whole thing was so involved, but you did enjoy the view; worn blue jeans hugging his frame as he crouched to check a thermometer.

You had taken a short break from the water, tying up lights and setting a few little decorations around before your guests arrived. Rebecca was the first, tucking her jugs of pre-made cocktail and platter of deviled eggs into your fridge before joining you on the patio.

Chris wasn't far behind, unloading two coolers filled with beer and containers of homemade potato and pasta salads. He'd handed one off to you, grinning, "Claire made one just for you this year."

You'd thanked him, making another attempt to get him to share his family's recipes with you. It was futile, you probably couldn't even waterboard it out of either of them.

Claire had arrived on her motorcycle shortly after, pulling a bundle of fireworks out of her saddlebags. "Sorry I'm late," she said - even though she wasn't - dumping the pile on the ground, thankfully far away from the grill. "Had to stop for these."

Leon had crouched down to inspect them, listening intently as Claire told him about all the different varieties she'd purchased while you relaxed back into the pool.

Sherry arrived next, Jake trailing behind her. She'd left both him and her bags of chips at the table, giving Leon and Claire quick hugs before immediately joining you in the water.

She'd slipped in right beside your floaty, grabbing your hand to get a look at your engagement ring - she'd yet to see it, having been so busy with work. Her eyes widened at the ring as she pushed her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head, "Leon picked this out? Our Leon? Leon Kennedy? Are you sure?"

You'd giggled at her astonishment, "Ashley helped him out; took him to one of her favorite jewelers."

"I should've guessed," She nods. "For my 20th Birthday, he bought me this crazy cute pink tennis bracelet and I was like, 'no way you picked this out alone.' He fessed up that he got a little help from a friend named Ashley.

"At the time, I thought it was just some girlfriend - or hoped, I guess. Back then, I spent a lot of time hoping that Claire and Leon weren't just… working; I liked to think they were taking time for themselves, that they were happy," she had trailed off then, looking off to the tree line behind your house for a minute. Blinking the mist from her eyes, she shrugged, continuing on, "Anyways, I'm thankful to Ash for that bracelet, it was there with me though… a lot. And I'm thankful to you for making him happy, like I always wanted him to be."

With that, you slid off the float to give her a hug, holding her tight as you whispered your thanks. You had worked to bite back your tears - if she didn't cry, neither would you.

Luckily, Jill had walked in a few seconds later, providing a distraction in the form of the most ridiculously large watermelon. "Hey, Kennedy," she shouted, pulling Leon out of his conversation with Claire as she gestured to the melon tucked under her arm. "Can't burn this, can I?"

Leon had thrown his head back with a laugh - in previous years, Jill had always brought boxed brownies with extra crispy edges and Leon invariably had to make a comment about them. "I don't know," he had shrugged, "When it comes to you, Valentine, I'll never say never."

Jill had reared the watermelon back, acting as if she was going to throw it at him. Leon had thrown his arms up, shielding his face, causing everyone to crumble into laughter at the scene.

"It was nice," you agree, reaching to pick up the barong machete he had given Jill when she asked for a knife to cut the melon. "We do have kitchen knives, you know," you scold mockingly, gently waving the blade around.

"I know," he says, releasing you to reach around and pluck the machete out of your hand. "It's good to exercise these every once in a while, though."

You roll your eyes at him, "It's a machete, Leon, not a horse."

He waves you off, slipping through the patio door to wash the blade in the kitchen sink. You take the opportunity to speed clean, knowing it'll be a much harder task once he returns and wraps his arms back around you.

Thankfully everyone had taken care of their own plates and cups - they'd tried to stay and do more but you had ushered them out of the backyard, wanting Chris, Sherry and Jake to depart before the traffic picked up with the crowds leaving the city following the fireworks shows. Jill, Claire and Rebecca had taken up on your offer to stay, at least, piling into your guest rooms. You were glad to have them, secretly plotting to drag them to brunch once you all woke.

You finish piling the platters as Leon makes his way back outside. Before he can get his hands on you and derail your progress, you point to the stack, "Take those inside."

He frowns, "Can't it just wait until tomorrow?"

"We'll get ants; come on, five minutes and it'll be done."

He sighs, but doesn't protest further, carrying the heavy plates inside as you follow him with the utensils. You stack everything by the sink before turning to him, "Is there any of Becca's cocktail left?"

He cocks his brow, tilting his head, "You really want to try that again?"

It's a valid question - you had given it a go earlier and despite everyone's warnings to take it easy, you had thrown back a large mouthful right off the bat. You ended up wincing in pain, "Fuck, that burns. What'd you put in there, Becca?"

She'd shrugged, "Oh, you know, a splash of this, a splash of that. And," she teased, drawing out the vowel, "A bit of my own creation."

"Your own creation…" You had muttered, trailing off before it hit you, "Test tube alcohol?"

She had giggled, grinning, "Takes some getting used to."

You had tried another, much tinier sip. You were able to enjoy the sweetness of the juice for a moment before the burn kicked in again, causing you to curse once more, louder.

Leon had shifted his attention from Chris to you at your exclamation. Seeing the jug of Rebecca's cocktail in front of you on the table, he quickly pieced together what was happening, calling over to Rebecca from his place by the grill, "You trying to kill my fiancé, Becks?"

"Absolutely not; that'd be a stupid thing for me to do," she'd shot back. "She's the only one who can keep you in line, and we kind of like you like that."

"Well," you start, rolling the word around your mouth, "No. But yes - there's gotta be some sort of trick to it, right? Everyone else drank it just fine."

"The trick is," he starts, voice low, reaching out to grab ahold of your hips, "To not drink it. Let me make you some tea instead."

"Fine," you pout, relaxing into his grip, not bothering to argue - tea won't make you hate yourself in the morning.

He moves his hands from your hips, sliding his fingertips along your spine. "Go wait outside," he says, releasing you with a featherlight kiss to your forehead, "I'll bring it out."

With a brush of your lips against his cheek in thanks, you slip away from him, heading back out to the backyard and pulling off your shorts, settling onto the ledge of the shallow end of the pool. The air has cooled with the setting of the sun, becoming a comforting warmth instead of an overbearing heat. You dip your legs into the water, thankful you insisted on having a pool when you and Leon were house hunting.

Someone is still setting off fireworks; they're a few miles away, though - you can hear them more than you can see them. Resting back on your palms, you close your eyes, imagining what bursts of color may be accompanying each sound.

Leon joins you a few minutes later - just after the fireworks had died down - sporting his swim shorts and carrying your tea. He bends, setting the mug next to you with a kiss to your temple, nosing at your hair. "Earl Grey," he reports before drawling, "How terribly unpatriotic of you."

"You going to arrest me for treason, Agent Kennedy?" You laugh, reaching up to squeeze his thigh below the hem of his shorts. "You're the one who made it; they'd nail you as an accomplice."

He falls into a crouch, leg muscles bunching under the pads of your fingertips as he shifts closer to touch his lips on your cheek. "They can hang us together, then," he remarks, voice a bit too serious for it to be just a joke. "Side by side, off the same branch."

You sit back just enough to get your eyes focused on him, reaching your other hand out to thumb at his bottom lip. "Dulce et decorum est pro cor mori," you whisper, tacking on a hum in question.

He cocks his head at the unfamiliar words, nipping at your nail playfully, "English please, baby."

You consider him for a moment, the translation of the true phrase running through your mind; how sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country. The old lie, it's come to be known as - fittingly.

It's a similar sentiment to one that's grown to become your fear; that he'll die for the sake of the country, under orders from the government, believing it was his duty.

But you think your spin on it may be true; would be willing to find out.

You don't want to weigh him down with the thought, though, choosing to reel him in for a kiss instead. "I love you," is the answer you settle on, laying the words down right on his tongue.

He seems content with your translation - the method of delivery likely having something to do with it - humming into your mouth. He kisses you back lazily for a long, languid moment before he pulls away, "As much as I'm enjoying this, I've been wanting to get in there all day," he says, nodding his head towards the water.

"Go," you chuckle, giving him a gentle push away from you with the hand still resting along his face.

He lays another quick peck against your lips before standing, padding around the edge to the steps. He pauses for a moment to pull his shirt over his head, skin honeyed under the soft glow of the lights you'd hung around the patio.

A second later, he slips under the surface without hesitation; kicking off the steps, moving quickly to the deep end. He almost shimmers as he glides along the floor of the pool, the rippling of the gentle waves he'd created making him seem like some sort of mirage as he passes by you.

He comes up for air once he hits the far wall, tossing his hair back, smoothing the water from his eyes. He doesn't rest long, though, beginning to swim short laps across the width of the deep end.

You observe him, sipping your tea slowly, appreciating the way his back and arms work with each stroke. He continues long enough for you to nearly drain your cup, stopping short when another trio of fireworks set off in the distance.

Setting your mug down, you eye him, preparing to slip into the pool to soothe him if you have to, but he relaxes once he connects the sound to the flashes in the sky. The tension that had flooded the line of his shoulders drains into the water as he shifts to wade backward, moving closer to where you sit.

You finish off your drink as he starfishes out across the surface of the water, floating just a few feet in front of you. You wonder if you could use him as a floaty, pinning up a note in your brain to try it out sometime.

"I'm glad you insisted on a pool, sweetheart," he sighs, breaking your companionable silence.

You hum, pleased, kicking your legs out gently and causing the water to lap against his skin. More fireworks sound out; he doesn't tense this time, but he does get his feet back under himself, moving to where you sit along the ledge.

Sliding his hands up your legs, he pillows his head in your lap, wet hair fanning out across your thighs. You shift your weight back onto your right hand, laying the other along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as you brush your thumb along his cheekbone and the scar that runs beneath it.

He picks at the tie of your bathing suit absentmindedly, tugging at the strings when you slide your hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp. "Sherry said something to me earlier."

He makes a noise urging you to elaborate, not bothering to open his eyes.

"She told me that when she was younger, she hoped that you and Claire were living your lives; that you were doing more than just working, you know? She said she wanted you guys to be happy," you explain, working to keep your voice even.

He cracks his eyes open, picking his head up to watch you as you continue. "She thanked me," you swallow thickly, "for making you happy, like she always wanted you to be."

He smiles at your words, and it's a beautiful thing. You still get all twisted up inside with how gorgeous he is; neurons overclocking themselves with the thrill of being the subject of his attention.

"I owe you a thank you, too, baby," he starts, pausing to nose at your wrist.

"You don't owe me anything, Leon," you tug at his damp strands still between your fingers, highlights catching the yellow glow from the lights around the patio.

"I do," he says, the words sending a jolt through you. You never intended on getting married, yet here you are now, eager to hear the phrase on the altar.

He kisses the thin skin of your wrist, lips lingering as if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat; knows that the pace has picked up under his affection. "All this," he pulls back, taking a hand off you to gesture to the pool; the backyard; the house; to you. "It's something I never thought I'd get.

"Sherry's right - you're behind basically every bit of happiness I have now, sweetheart; I owe it all to you." He reaches up, untangling your grip from his hair, thumbing gently at the ring he put there, "Thank you."

You can't respond verbally, will burst into tears if you do. In lieu of speech, you lean forward, pressing your lips against his insistently.

He seems to get the message; understands that the pleasure is all yours, that you'd give him anything and everything you can - knowing he'd do the same for you.

He gets his arms back around you, continuing your kiss as he lifts you from the edge of the pool and into the water with him. You wrap your legs around his waist, safe and secure in his hold.

His teeth catch along your bottom lip and the neighbors down the street set off fireworks, the bright bursts of color painting your backyard in reds and blues and greens and oranges. The sparks reflect off the surface of the water as he slides his nose against yours and not for the first time, you think this may all be a dream. Maybe you died four years ago and this whole thing has been some sort of afterlife; you aren't sure you'd done anything worth this treatment, though.

Maybe it's more supernatural in origin; an intricate hallucination weaved by a Djinn that's got you chained up in some dark, damp basement as it feeds off your blood. Or maybe you just went crazy and the pool is actually a padded room, Leon's mouth against yours a product of your mind working to distract itself from your reality.

Whatever the case may be, it certainly feels real when he shifts his hold on you, hoists you up higher to get at your neck, laying kisses up and down the column of your throat, nipping at your jaw.

But before he can venture much further, the neighbor's fireworks show grows into an extravaganza, the relentless popping and bursting becoming a nuisance, shattering the illusion of your teeny-boppy movie moment.

"Jeez," Leon mutters, breath hot against the saliva cooling on your skin, causing you to shudder. "Did they buy out a whole tent?"

"Did you check that Claire actually went to bed?" You ask, shaking yourself free of his hold. "She could've joined them; brought everything I wouldn't let her set off here."

He hums, letting you down into the water, considering your words - even though you said it as a joke, it certainly is a possibility. You seem to come to this realization at the same time, eyes narrowing at each other as the spray of fireworks continues overhead. "We should…" He starts, nodding towards the stairs.

"Yeah," you agree, already beginning to move.

You pause to grab your towels, wrapping your own around yourself, throwing the other over Leon's shoulders when you catch up to him at the patio door. Stepping inside, you hear someone knocking around your kitchen.

Luckily, it's Claire. She steps back from the cabinet she'd been rifling through to face you and Leon with a frown. "Isn't this shit ridiculous?" She remarks, pointing to the ceiling in reference to the fireworks.

"You're one to talk, Claire," Leon shoots back. "Didn't you just set off about five hundred dollars worth of them in my backyard a few hours ago?"

"Yes, a few hours ago," she reiterates. "Nothing should be set off after the show at the Capitol is finished - after that, you're done; you missed your shot; better luck next year."

"Exactly," you nod in agreement at her reasoning, "They should put you in charge."

She grins at your words, moving to continue on, but Leon cuts in before she can start; "What is it that you were clawing through my cabinets for?"

She sighs, displeased with his interruption, setting her hands on her hips. "Where do you keep the ibuprofen?"

Leon shoos her out of the way, padding across the kitchen to get the medicine himself. Claire relents without argument, attention immediately shifting back to you as she leans over the counter. "So," she wiggles her eyebrows, "It seems like that pool was a good investment, huh?"

You bite at your lip, ears burning with embarrassment that she'd seen you and Leon necking in the water like teenagers - even though you shouldn't be flustered; it is your house, after all.

Leon sets the bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water down in front of Claire, annoyance evident with the way he uses a bit more force than really necessary, causing the items to clack against the marble.

"What?" Claire questions, glaring at him. "It was cute."

Leon huffs in response, unable to hide the flush that crawls up his neck at her words. You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you, enjoying the way they bicker like siblings.

Claire leaves Leon to stew, tossing you a grin as she collects the bottle and glass, bidding you goodnight once more before she leaves the kitchen.

You move around the counter to Leon, steps careful in an effort not to slip on the water that has dripped off him and onto the tile. The neighbors must've ran out of fireworks while you were distracted by Claire as it's silent when you wrap your arms around him, tucking your face into his neck. "Still a good day?" You ask, voice muffled against his skin.

He slings an arm around you, fingers fanning out along the small of your back, "Still a good day."

#if anyone would like to see the ring i literally had a mockup created #because im crazy #its not exactly what i was thinking so i may have another one done.... we will see #also if my latin is incorrect just ignore it pls #its been over 4 years since my last latin class #my hs latin teacher would be mortified to know i had to google declensions #and still probably fucked it up #sorry mr. d.....#(inbox)#(writing)#leon kennedy #leon s. kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s. kennedy x you #what is The leon x reader tag #i've yet to figure it out

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