@1stdaughter.
“ doll, i’m sayin’ this with all the love in my big, busted heart, okay ? you look cute as button in that schoolgirl geddup, but that skirt’s got’cha moving like you’re sneakin' snacks past a bloodhound nun. ”

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@1stdaughter.
“ doll, i’m sayin’ this with all the love in my big, busted heart, okay ? you look cute as button in that schoolgirl geddup, but that skirt’s got’cha moving like you’re sneakin' snacks past a bloodhound nun. ”

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[ TRACE ]: sender, believing the receiver to be asleep, gently traces the message “i love you” on the receiver’s bare skin with their finger. (PACK IT UPPPP)
@1stdaughter.
he’d refused still to give up his side of the bed — close to the door, always, just in case — which means that he’s been relegated to to his stomach to alleviate the pain brought on by laying otherwise. where he’d rather have her fully enveloped, he’s instead only given the option to throw an arm over her, wrap himself around her as fully as he can given the situation. it’s true enough that in this position he could be mistaken for asleep; still and at as relative a peace as he’s ever had, breathing even and eyes closed where he’s got his face pressed into his free arm. he hardly budges when he feels her roll over. uncanny knack for knowing when he’s being watched, but leon will let her have it: on her best days, she’s subtle as a bull in a china shop. on her worst? he folds under the weight of his own want.
tonight, he’s learning as he rests and she doesn’t or can't, is a shame: were it not for the repercussions of week previous, he would be the one. instead, it’s her fingers that are a trailing thing against the marred skin of his back, and they only seem to break from their easy movements when they catch the edge of a bandage now and again. and to leon, it feels aimless, almost. he believes that maybe she’s following paths left by things with elongated tongues and claws to match. not as familiar with what goes on back there, but knows it can’t be any nicer than blade-born scar on his cheek or the sunburst left behind by a bullet long ago. he lets himself keep what she gives.
in her warmth, he almost gets there. to blissful sleep which he finds more frequent with her in his bed. he wonders if that would've been easier, if somehow it would've lessened the tragedy of what he already knows. somewhere against his lower back where he does know there’s nothing, he picks out a pattern repeated and there isn't one of the countless delusions he can land on to make it anything else. tomorrow, he swears as she makes another pass, he'll tell her again: find somebody else. choose yourself. but he hasn't been able to get those words off his lips in so long no matter how strongly he believes them. tonight, though, he lets her have him,
and tonight, leon once again allows himself to be selfish and indulge in her. in spite of the shooting pain and protest of his body, he's not sluggish in the way he pushes himself upwards, any thought he was ever asleep gone with how he kisses her: no better than those ravenous, destructive things when his fingers press into the bare skin of her hips to urge her onto her back, when his knee finds it's way to nudging her legs apart. just tonight, when he breathes her name against her cheek in quiet reverence, he hopes that he's caught being honest, too — that she knows he loves her and that he wishes life were kind as she is beautiful.
do you want to come in ? i was gonna take a shower ...
@1stdaughter.
among the rows of roses, his eyes find her easily — they tend to these days. and though it’s always veiled as an invite, leon gets the feeling it’s something else entirely. his presence is requested for peace of mind, he thinks — ‘you saved my daughter’, ‘you put an end to wilson's schemes’. maybe president graham just wants to feel safe so soon after terrors which breached his doorstep. maybe leon wants ashley to. no other reason for him to have shoved himself into a suit ( which, has been noted thanks to one claire redfield, doesn’t ‘suit’ him ) and for him to watch over politics which don’t matter to him. it would be a total waste if he didn’t have her to watch. so then, he’s grateful for ashley being far more intriguing than old men who drone on about financial repercussions and wives who nod and smile politely.
he tries not to be obvious, finds the man sat at the table behind her awfully interesting a time or two when he thinks that she’s caught him ( but she has to look at him too for that to be the case ). the man — he’s bald, pudgy, his shoulders forced straight though leon can tell they prefer to slump — par for the course. ashley, where he has to look past her to him . . . she puts him to shame and more. a vision, done up to make an impression. working on him. working on others, he notes dully. the man next to her keeps leaning over into her space and only then does his gaze remain long enough for him to raise a brow in response.
it’s all a show, a routine of schmoozing ; they eat their meals with fake conversations on the side, nobody says anything of true value, and leon doesn’t mourn when they all begin to depart after what feels like an eternity of them playing background characters to her. he does do his job — it’s in these transitional times when something is most likely to occur. he has to look away from the way she excuses herself, he presumes, and from the way she begins crossing the lawn only to keep getting caught. for the best so that he can better keep an eye on others, though he does pity her — in the end, she must be made of stronger stuff than him, sat in the middle of it all rather than on the side.
eventually there's only stragglers. president graham, a few men in suits who sat closest to him all dinner ( trusted, leon susses out, so he doesn't pay them too much mind now ), some help to begin cleaning up. no real reason for him to be lingering, except now free from the clutches of networking, ashley has made her way and is leaning close. he gets the hint, leans her way too if only just enough that she doesn't have to speak loud enough for more than just them to hear. thank god he does. there's no mistaking the working of his jaw or the way his hands, which've been folded in front of him all night tense in their grip when she asks : ( DO YOU WANT TO COME IN? ) yes. ( I WAS GOING TO TAKE A SHOWER ) fuck. that's not fair — up close, he can see she knows it isn't; the curl of her lips, that gleam which catches her eyes in the fading evening light.
ashley graham is tempting. she's beautiful, adorned with flowers and surrounded by them. while he gauges her in earnest, taking his time perhaps a bit greedily, he can easily forget that the whole event had the potential of ranking high on his never to repeat jobs. he'd do it a thousand times over so long as she was there. now, less tempting than her, is when he straightens up in an attempt not to look like he's touring her like people do the gardens, his eyes catch her father's. leon offers a curt nod, and finally his hands unclasp so he can throw one up quickly in further acknowledgement. he likes being alive most days, so when his eyes land back on her, it's to give her a smile which says : I WANT TO. shoved close to so many pretenders for so long, of course he'd pick up on their game; wants carefully veiled beneath practiced visages. when he speaks to her verbally, it's light, ❛ have a nice night, miss graham. ❜ ( — HE'LL TEXT HER LATER. )
ah-- you're going to leave a mark. /sorry (no im not)
@1stdaughter / 🧍♂️.
he would be a liar if he said that he didn't know how they ended up in this position — a kiss to the inside of her leg where it rested next to his head in response to her hands tangled in his hair. to eventually face her on his knees was only natural ; almost laughable ( something in him supplies 'pitiful' ) the way that when blue landed on her he felt that oppressive loneliness lighten as though they've not been together all evening. now, rather than counting it among his weaknesses, he chooses to count the way she fills him as a strength. time and again, he chooses to lay focus on her rather than on himself — easier, sweeter.
he chooses her when a hand moves up her thigh and fingers dip beneath the leg of her shorts, he chooses her when he rises enough to place one knee onto the couch between her legs — so close but not quite — and he definitely chooses her between every kiss after he's settled into said position, every one bleeding want. he doesn't stop at pressing his lips to her temple — like a friend saying goodbye might would. he trails down the side of her face in lingering, heavy things. she'll go home in the morning, he'll leave tomorrow night — he settles, finally, on a spot beneath her jaw, close enough to her ear for a rare, genuinely contented exhale to be caught. he'd stay forever. they don't have that.
always pushing forward — his hand previously so occupied rubbing circles deftly moves beneath to tug her closer, and when his knee connects properly with heat, that's greed, urgency. her hand slips to his shoulder, grips there, and she whines. it only encourages him to entrench in her further. through it he registers that she's right; where his teeth have caught and played at perfumed skin, it'll likely bruise. there's an amused huff of air against her before mustering up the will to relent for just a moment. all it takes for him to think of a drawer full of solutions. and so, ever the problem solver, he offers up in a low tone, breath passing her ear since he couldn't bear to be any further, ❛ i like the green one. ❜ and he's back at her neck, words rumbling against, ❛ that's a spring color, right? ❜
would you cut it out? i’m trying to help you.
@1stdaughter / 🙂↕️
the bathroom's mirror becomes his stability, his arm thrown up against it so that his head can rest on his forearm there. if he holds his breath against the pain it does nothing but add to the growing headache which builds and swells and makes his heartbeat loud in his ears. if he exhales too harshly, the expansion of his lungs make him all too aware of bruised things they're housed beneath. leon can't say how long he's been there by the time that he catches the ever-familiar creak of his bedframe. he's almost lulled into some sense of security — he'd just missed her footsteps beneath his own pulse. it's that quiet concern in her tone when his name falls off her lips. it has him opening his eyes to smudges where his arm has slid, where fingers have drawn paths.
his reflection is marred by it all, he doesn't linger long there. instead he finds her over his shoulder, clear and reaching. her fingers against his arm, the way she comes around to put small of her back against the counter. like she can press herself between it and him — like he can lean on her. he wills himself to straighten out. it's hard to smile, however slight, when dropping his arm from the mirror is a gargantuan effort that makes him want to grit his teeth and steel his jaw. he manages something close. he even finds her tongue, and this question is at it's core genuine, ❛ trouble sleeping? ❜ when all he gets is a frown, something that sounds to swimming ears like an 'i guess', he decides quickly on pushing forward.
he doesn't shrug her off entirely, but he's faster than her when he reaches to the side for bandages he'd been fighting with before becoming disoriented. he's faster than her when he turns on the water to clean white stained red. his head hurts. his arm is an angry, throbbing thing. his heart seems impossibly faster with her close, and when he looks at her, he knows she's not buying it. ashley graham is a lot of things. stupid isn't one of them. she would've heard the clattering of the pill bottles knocked over in his attempts to open them, the frustrated curse that slipped from him. the sounds of rifling through cabinets though he tried to move quietly to avoid this.
among her many boons, he counts this: she's a quick learner. when he goes for the rag discarded near to his shirt, there's a hand gripped 'round his wrist, CYCLE OF WHITE STAINED RED CONTINUED, and it crosses his mind that were he well, it may very well have been the light pop of her hand atop his. almost feels like she did anyway: would you cut it out? ❛ ashley — ❜ on the tip of his tongue is rebuttal, the insistence that despite all evidence saying otherwise, he's okay. he can do it himself. he wants to urge her to lay back down, that he'll be there in just a minute. he doesn't make it that far. i'm trying to help. he's seen the look paired with it before: the determination, the want to do good, to pull her weight. maybe she can't see that this isn't hers. he thinks it's more likely that she just doesn't care whether it is or not.
leon surrenders. where his arm had been hovering still caught in her grip, he lets it drop. his other hand comes up, splayed as though to say 'okay, okay'. he watches her out of the corner of his eye a long while — catches the way the space between her brows tightens when she assesses the spattering of purples and browns spreading across skin that'd stayed hidden beneath it through the day. buried is the urge to press his lips there, though still he knows he doesn't like the way it looks on her, can't leave it be any longer so after a steadying breath, he offers a smile. it comes easier this time. he even manages to find his tongue again, previously stilled in his reverent observation of her in his space, ❛ starting to think i'm being used for your resume; master of unlocking, construction worker — doctor. what's next, miss graham? ❜

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a kiss on the ‘v’. (pack it up PACK IT UP)
fingers thread through blonde, gentle enough for the time — they maintain their slight pressure as she travels down. over a sunburst scar, across a length of marring left behind by claws, and anticipation sits tense in the pit of his stomach beneath where she lays against. knows what she's doing and leon's exhale comes out intrigued. won't do a damn thing, but as insurance for later to say they both tried, ❝ gonna be late, ash. ❞ it isn't lacking amusement, it is lacking intent it should hold — how many times? how many excuses? he decides as the giggle, the 'yeah?' which is more a challenge than anything beneath the flat sheet has the weight of her breasts rise and fall against the fine hair of his abdomen he doesn't give a shit about anything outside of this room.
struck suddenly with the idea he misses her, somehow, even with every nerve on end with her, and isn't that something? leon wants to see her. his hand which isn't occupied turning, doting thumb settling behind an ear firm with want, is used to pull the bedding away. mussed a little for the efforts the night before, still damn easy on the eyes, and it's like being seen spurs her onwards. gets her moving again — the rise of leon's body towards soft lips looking for more friction. but ashley's hardly as determined to beat the rise of the sun today as she is to put him in his grave, methodically leading him there with each kiss, each pass of her over skin.
it gets to a point. she slides down, down, until his length is trapped between her and him, straining against her to rise freely. from the top of his hips, tapering down towards his groin, breath a ghost over the tip, each a rising beat in his chest, a jump of encouragement denied. has to be known though by the groan that drags out of him, the fingers in her hair tightening on instinct. her. him. the goddamned grave. they're going to be late.
@1stdaughter , spots to kiss.
@1stdaughter said: ' why are you such a pessimist ? '
a snort escapes him, leaning his frame back against the chair as he runs bony fingers through his dark tufts. because it's like asking why the sky is gray, isn't it ? david taps fingers against the edge of the table. nails bitten way too short. ' nah. just a realist, ash. ' quick smile flashes before letting his hand drift back toward his caramel frappe, twigs curling around the icy plastic. and his gaze slips away for just a second ─ draping over her perfectly put-together hair, expensive clothes, the entire being of her. someone who's the complete polar opposite of himself. and then he comes back.
' what can i say ? the world sucks. people suck. i fuckin' suck. i mean, ' he scoffs, ' you don't really get disappointed if you keep expecting the worst, right ? ' a self-mocking smile, crooked and overplayed, pulls at his lips. fingers tightening around cup as he leans forward, mouth closing around the straw, burying that smile and takes a sip ; remaining in that same position as he speaks again. ' also, someone has to balance out all your optimism. or you'd just float away. '
「 ⌖ 」 unprompted starter for @1stdaughter
THE VEHICLE IS MOVING AT A STEADY PACE, ANTONIO'S GLANCE SHIFTING FROM THE ROAD TO THE CENTER CONSOLE WHERE THE SCREEN IS SET ON THE NAVIGATION. they're headed to a party, another gathering with the same painted faces, where he can have the same conversations and give everyone an update on business. at least ashley's with him. somehow, she makes it easier to pretend that he wants to be there, attending some high society function with her, looking the part of the picture - perfect couple. it's the little things, really. “ ezra is really into art, ” he tells her of tonight's host. “ do you have a favorite artist? they're probably gonna ask me who it is. ” and what a terrible husband he'd be if he doesn't know.