#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. ”

@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,

@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.

@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.

@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.

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.

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.