#HES MY TRUE ONE AND ONLY THE LIGHT OF MY HEART

[unknownogre]

“What?!”

The hero looked to Nuvian with a very puzzled expression, the half-elf bard just smirked a bit and gave him a wink. Up until now he was the model of virtue, always helping the hero make the right choice so the people would love him. Telling the best stories so his path stayed true…so the works coming out of his mouth right now were jarring at best.

“Yes, let me toy with him for a while. I think I can get three or four weeks. Two months if I use this new healing spell I’ve been trying to learn on the side. Oh I think his screams will be wonderful…a symphony for the soul if you will.”

Nuvian smile as he moved the villain over to make sure his heart was still bleeding and offering some stabilization without waking him up. The hero was just dumbfounded at the moment.

“I…I was just going to kill him.”

Nuvian didn’t even look back as he made sure to search the Villain’s pockets and remove everything but enough clothes to leave his modesty intact. He moved like he was an expert at this, like it had been done a hundred times and this was simply business as usual. Even his tone was as light and warm as it ever has been.

“Oh, I know, but that was never the plan my dear friend. This was the plan. This has always been the plan.”

The rest of the party was recovering. They had all been just hurt enough to have to stay behind for the final battle leaving only the hero and his trusty bard to face the boss alone. None of them grievously injured…but just enough so they wouldn’t be at full so they weren’t strong enough to walk through the barrier.

“The Plan? You need to talk to me Nuvian. I want you to explain everything right now!”

The Hero panicked, had he just been manipulated this entire time? Were his motivation his own? Panic…worry…dread. He said he’d never be a puppet again. Not since escaping slavery.

“Oh it was simple. Keep you good, get you strong and get to the villain. Kill him, won’t help you feel better. You know it needs to be done though. If you did this, you’d lose part of yourself. Which is fine. You’ve only killed monsters up to this point, mindless hunks of meat that deal out constant aggression. They have no emotions, no anything. They are easy to kill. Sentient beings on the other hand, well that isn’t you cup of tea. Don’t worry, your quest was yours alone, I didn’t need to make you do anything. I was just along to get to this point.”

At this point the Hero didn’t even notice Nuvian hoist the Villain up on their horse and secure them to the saddle. The bard then turned to his friend and walked over to put a hand on his shoulder. The Hero’s eyes locked with his friend and oddly enough he found comfort in them. This was the man who had saved his life, who sang by the fire at night to quell the restless spirits that banded together to remove the Villain from power. He was there, it couldn’t have all been a lie could it?

“Listen, you aren’t the only one this bastard has hurt. On top of that he knows things, things no one but me knows he knows. So I want some answers. I get to have fun while I rip them from his flesh. I’m a nice person my dear Hero but I’m not a good one. Do you remember the corrupt mayor that we punished last year?”

The Hero nodded and then froze.

“What did you do to him? We left him in a jail cell and moved on. The city was supposed to do what they needed…but then you had business. I…I watched you get on a boat and leave. We met up a month later.”

Nuvian just smile and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. He then motioned for him to sit down in the batter throne they found the villain on while Nuvian sat in the stewards spot.

“Well, I did have business, but I just had the ship drop me down the river and I looped around back. I then hunted down every noble that supported the Mayor, I tortured them to make sure there were no hidden secrets, and then I tortured the mayor till his body gave out. I did some of my best work. A demon actually came up from hell to have me autograph a square of his flesh after his body gave out and his soul hit its final destination. It was really an honor. Shows I’m on the right path. Most polite pit fiend I’ve ever met. Didn’t use my real name of course, not that stupid. We had a laugh over it, all in all a great time.”

The Hero was still stunned but honestly he didn’t feel bad about it. He didn’t give the go ahead for this, but he knew if anyone deserved those fates it was that pedophile mayor and his lackies. Reason was starting to return, and the more Nuvian talked the more the Hero realized that it wasn’t that he didn’t know his friend, he just didn’t know ALL of his friend and that was okay because he was finding out now.

“Alright, if that is what you want to do I’m not going to argue or stop you. Come find me when you are done though okay, I want to take you out to the tavern for a drink.”

Nuvian just chuckled and brought his friend in for a hug. He knew the Hero wasn’t naive and thus why he was chosen as a traveling partner and one to help him get to his goal. Find, capture, break and then murder the Villain. The process took three years, but three years of well spent effort.

“Deal.”

The bard said as they parted ways and he turned to head out of the place before the rest of the party could try and press their morals upon them. Nuvian could only chuckle as he head the Villain groan in pain. Oh it was going to be SO much worse in just a day’s time…he couldn’t wait.

'You can't kill him!' 'Ugh I am so sick of this idea that killing this monster would make me just as bad as he is!' 'What? No I'm saying I can keep him alive for DAYS while I torture him' '…'

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Championship love

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max one-shot inspired by him winning the championship for the fourth time !!

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

You've been by Max's side for as long as you can remember. Teenagers with wild dreams and even wilder hearts, you both grew up together—through the awkward phases, the endless karting weekends, and the late-night phone calls where he shared his hopes of making it big in Formula 1. And he did. You’ve celebrated every step of his journey, but nothing compares to how you’ve marked each of his world championships together.

2011: The first time Max won the championship, it felt surreal. You were in Abu Dhabi, tears streaming down your face as he crossed the finish line and screamed over the radio. That night, back in the hotel room, it was just the two of you. Max was exhausted but glowing with pride, the trophy on the bedside table. He pulled you into his lap and kissed you like it was the first time, whispering, “This is just the beginning.”

2022: His second championship was no less thrilling. Max insisted on celebrating at home in Monaco, just the two of you again. He cooked you dinner—well, tried to. Half-burnt pasta and wine turned into laughter and slow dancing in the kitchen. He held you close, murmuring, “I couldn’t have done this without you.” You knew he meant it.

2023: The third title was chaotic—Sprint race in Qatar. But later that night, back at the motorhome, Max pulled you aside. His team was celebrating loudly in the background, but his focus was entirely on you. “Three-time world champion,” he said, smirking. “But being yours is still my favorite title.”

And now, here you are in Las Vegas. Max’s fourth championship.

The moment he crosses the line, you can barely hear the roar of the crowd over your own cheering. Your chest swells with pride as the fireworks explode over the track. It feels like a culmination of everything you’ve built together—his hard work, your unwavering support, and the love that’s only grown stronger with time.

Later that night, the team throws a party in one of the grand casinos. The celebration is lavish, the energy electric, but Max never lets go of your hand. Every so often, he leans down to kiss your temple or whispers something only for you to hear. He’s glowing, but there’s something else in his eyes—a secret, maybe, or anticipation.

Hours later, he whisks you away from the crowd, leading you to the rooftop of your hotel. The view is breathtaking—Las Vegas glittering like a sea of stars, a warm breeze wrapping around you both. You laugh, spinning to face him. “What are we doing up here?”

Max looks at you, his blue eyes soft and steady. He takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “I wanted to end this night with just us,” he says. “Like we always do.”

Your heart swells. “You’re getting sentimental, Verstappen.”

He chuckles but doesn’t look away. “I have a good reason.”

Before you can ask what he means, Max drops to one knee.

Time stops.

Your breath catches as he pulls a small velvet box from his pocket. “You’ve been with me through everything—every win, every loss, every moment in between. I can’t imagine doing this without you. I don’t want to do this without you.” He opens the box, revealing a stunning ring that glitters even brighter than the city lights. “Will you marry me?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod frantically, a smile breaking across your face. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Of course, yes.”

Max stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. The kiss you share feels like every dream you’ve ever had coming true.

“You just made this the best championship celebration ever,” you say against his lips.

He grins, pressing his forehead to yours. “I think this one’s my favorite too.”

Under the Vegas sky, with the world at your feet, you know this moment is just the beginning of a lifetime of celebrations—together.

[kiryoutann]

warning(s): MDNI, sexual contents, attempted baby-trapping.

Simon baby-trapping this, Simon baby-trapping that. How about you trying to baby-trap Simon instead?

Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'—an invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.

Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.

The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.

Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.

His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. “Off, love—fuck, ye gotta get off, now.”

You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.

“Love,” he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.

“No, please- I’m—I’m on the pill,” you gasped—

And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.

Even as a part of you knew this was wrong—that you were trying to trap him and you were being reckless—you kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.

Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she says—even the true ones—as nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.

But you have to—it's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.

“Nothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!” Your mother is screaming in your head.

(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)

You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong nose—and you return it with a wider one.

Would a child make you stay, Simon?

[part of chapter 10 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.".]

[ughdontbeboring]

Sweet boy

Feyd Rautha x WoC Reader (can be read by anyone)

Yours and Feyds son has a moment and you can’t help your reaction.

warnings none but fluff honestly lol

note: so this was NOT what I was supposed to be working on but I came across it in my notes and just couldn’t stop my fingers 😅 but this is inspired by one of my favorite Feyd arts of him as a child. I’m so upset I can’t find it or the artist. It’s like different drawings of him or his face as a child and he gives the meanest side eye lol so if yall know what im talking about please send it my way so i can tag the artist so others can see it.

If yall like it, love it or fucks with it please share and comment! I love talking to y’all about our mans.

I give no permission for my work to be used anywhere.

it’s fluff and short babe but it’s Feyd so you know 😭 @peggyao3 also again not what I’m supposed to be working on 🥲🥲🥲

x

x

⚔️

The day had been long and tedious but you would not trade it for anything when it dwindles down to become this kind of evening. One which you were lucky to say you had often when your husband wasn’t away for diplomatic purposes. Even then you usually all stayed together more often than not. 

The large tinted floor to ceiling windows on the right side of the dinning room allowing for a view of the planets setting white sun to shine its last bit of light on your blessed life. The tint allowed the room to stay bathed in all its natural colors. Your skins hue still vibrant against the elegant black dress that you had chosen for the day. 

You couldn’t wait to get back to your shared bedchambers and slip into nothing but your silk bed sheets and your husbands arms.

Your eyes drift back to the table you’re seated at with the two loves of your life. Years ago no one could have convinced you THIS would be your life and you’d be the HAPPIEST you’d ever been or could be. None of the of wise women of your home planet could have foretold this. Not even your own visions nor dreams could have conjured enough to convince you this was the life you wouldn’t only lead but love with every once of your being. 

But when you take in your husbands jewel blue eyes that are already watching and only soft for you, you smile happily before your eyes slowly land on the beautiful boy sitting before you and to Feyd’s right from the head of the table.  

And just as your heart swells with more love than either you and Feyd ever thought possible, a loud laugh erupts from deep within your chest. 

You slap a jeweled hand over your mouth to try and contain your laughing from the startled identical faces before you. 

You’re in a fit of giggles as you feel both your husband and son’s look of confusion and it only makes you laugh harder.

You miss your husband’s face of pure awe at the sight before him even if he is confused he can’t help but be in awe of the women he somehow convinced to love him as deeply as you do, full of joy.

You wipe at the tears that have started to spill as you catch Feyd soft questioning eyes.

“I-I’m sorry but he looked just like you with his little evil side eye” you reveal in between laughs. 

Feyd looks on proudly at your son who’s looking between the both of you with his face scrunched up not fully understanding or liking the attention and laughs at his expense. 

Your son had just gave the most evil side eye to the servant who put the extra vegetables on his plate at your request. And all you could see was Feyd. They looked almost identical already and in that moment it was your husband who was a 5 year old boy not wanting to eat the food before him. 

And for all the reasons in the world it made your heart happy. 

“Looking just like your father” you say again as you control your laughing. You can feel the pride rolling of off both of them. “A grumpy baby”. 

“What?!” Your husband yells in disbelief, the fork and meat hanging mid air the same time your son yells his own defense.

“Mother I AM NOT A BABY!” His little voice rages before you with no true anger. 

“Don’t raise your voice at your mother” Feyd scolds quickly.

Your all smiles though. This was all you ever needed. 

“Yes you are, you are my baby always” You tell him as you take in his little face, the beautiful child you both created. The best of both of you. 

He huffs and crosses his little arms across his chest. The angry face he’s trying to pull off is completely identical to his father’s. You could draw it in your sleep the amount of times you’ve seen it over the years.

“Come here” you call to him softly as you push your chair back slightly. 

“No” he says trying to stand his ground that he is not a baby.

“Do not tell your mother no” Feyd scolds again watching the two of you go back and forth with eyes full of love.  if your husband continues on this path and your sure he will, none of your children will ever tell you no or misbehave with you. Feyd has spoiled you almost rotten, your son has received the same attention from his father. The amount of times he’s done wrong and Feyd has come to his defense, you too but you always stress the he can’t be quick to anger.

He had nothing of yours physically expect for you spiced blue eyes, which you weren’t sure how long they last so blue without a constant exposure to spiced air. You were born to parents who were born to parents and so on and so on for as long as you could say who had been born to and live with spice exposure. It was literally apart of your blood. So it made you happy that was the one thing that couldn’t escape your son who spent most of his time on Giedi Prime. So it made you sad to think about the fact that he could loose it one day but you tried to make frequent enough trips to your home planet to help him keep his Fremen feature and traits. 

Feyd allowed him to be born on Arrakis much to a lot of displeasure from some of Giedi Prime. You just couldn’t see giving birth here and raising a child here almost full time, you needed your people, your culture to be apart of his life. Plus you both knew it was the only way for your son to be accepted, he needed to embrace both half’s of who he was if he was going to make a great change one day. Greater change than even you and Feyds union.

It was worth noting all of the people who were displeased with your birthing choice weren’t around anymore to speak on it. 

His personality? It was 60/40 usually, him always leaning towards his father’s ways of behavior especially right now. Right now he was 100% his father’s child. 

“Come here my sweet boy” you call again. 

“Mother I am not a sweet boy! I’m brave and scary” He says as he makes his way around the back of Feyd towards you, very slowly. The posture straight in his small body. 

You pull him in quickly once he is in arms reach. Your hands hold his little precious face gently as you plant kisses all over. You can feel his posture slowly start to loosen.

“Yes you are, you may not be sweet to others that is yet to be seen but you will always be sweet to your mother no?” You ask softly as you stare into his deep eyes that mirror yours. 

You hear a small but confident “Yes, always Mother” as all the fight leaves him and he snuggles into your body embracing you back fully. His little arms reaching around your neck and squeezing tightly. Your eyes tear a little and you know it’s just your hormones. You have a couple weeks before your due it’s still been an emotional roller coaster everyday. 

You’re so wrapped up in your little boy in your arms you don’t notice your husband. Feyd is over the moon seeing his child get the love he never received. Seeing his wife who he adores more than anything loving their child, his child, a child that looks and acts just like him regardless of what he may have done wrong that day. Her love for him was unconditional. 

He loves to see her showering him with love and care even on his bad days when he’s throwing a tantrum. 

This was everything Feyd never knew he wanted and needed. 

He’d burn everything down to protect this, their little growing family. 

⚔️

[dearmyloveleys]

;-; i just wanted to say ty for all your posts in the fof tag. now i'm thinking about ying lei and his yeye ying zhao... and now there is no one left to guard the mountain, but ying lei died in the same way as ying zhao, saving people he cares about

Don’t mention it! I blorb too much about things I really like it embarrasses me at times. I’m just glad you like my takes!! Anyway:

😭😭😭😭 this drama exists to hurt us,, I think more than dying for people he cares about (because nearly everyone who died did that), Ying Lei's characterisation and death provides a unique but tragic pov within the main cast

Ying Lei my poor Ying Lei. We don’t really talk too much about him don’t we. So let’s just talk all about him. CHARACTER ANALYSIS TIME YAY

Ying Lei is unadulterated sunshine and has a good heart. Morally, he is on the same page as the rest of the team. Yet, it absolutely breaks my heart that his fate is to be an outsider within the thematic concern of choice in FoF and resultingly, in the narrative.

His place in the overarching thematic concerns of FoF is unclear when we first meet him - he is simply a wandering half mountain god half demon with a bright disposition. But as with many characters in FoF, their appearances aren't just for naught. Ying Lei's representative theme - the freedom of choice and the ability to choose one's identity - finally shows itself in one of the most beautifully written (am biased) episodes of the series, Episode 17, which is all about choice.

In this episode, Ying Lei vents his displeasure of the Wilderness towards grandpa Ying Zhao

"I hate this place. I hate the Wilderness. It's so bleak and desolate. (…) If I have to stay here forever, I'd rather die. (…) I like the mortal world. I like everything that is vibrant and lively."

To which grandpa Ying Zhao gives him his blessing to head to the Mortal Realm,

"…as your grandfather, I respect your decision. You can be a Mountain God or an ordinary person."

His next sentence cements the plight of many demons (and humans) we encounter in the story,

"For many demons in the Wilderness, their lifelong dream is just three simple words… Have a choice."

These three words all the more juxtaposes Ying Lei's freedom to choose his identity, against every other character who faces this fate of not having a choice.

The Lie Demon, unable to say her true feelings until her moment of death, and Fei, who shares similar sentiments as Ying Lei about the mortal world,

"I'm a beast of calamity, I don't deserve to live in the mortal world. But I really like the bright lights, the liveliness and happiness, and the prosperity here." (Ep 13)

And Zhao Yuanzhou, where even in the same Episode 17, echoes Ying Lei's words,

"If this world gave me life to be manipulated by malicious energy, then I'd rather die."

Same words, but a different way out. Or there isn't one at all.

Ying Lei is the only one whose fate hasn't been carved out in stone for him. Even after Ying Zhao's death, he is still able to leave Kunlun Mountain and rejoin the team because he has the support of other Mountain Gods watching over the temple. He is by no means a pampered and spoiled person but he swims in a wealth of freedom. His bubbly, charming and affectionate personality is a physical manifestation of his unburdened self, unbeholden to any ending, except for the one that he wants.

And yet, he chooses a life with the group of people who never have had the option to choose what and who they want to be. Wen Xiao, the Baize Goddess; Zhao Yuanzhao, the vessel of malicious energy; Bai Jiu, determined to bring his mother back; Pei Sijing, the forced breadwinner of her family's martial heritage. To show his determination to be with this group, he never again dons the mature get-up (full sleeved robes and long hair) - his representation of maturing and accepting his responsibility as a Mountain God - after returning back to the Mortal Realm. Rather, he dons the get-up he first roamed the Mortal Realm with (or similar), metaphorically putting aside all that celestial burden in exchange for the friends that he desires. Just who in the group can as easily shed their very roots and history? His precious freedom to choose ironically makes him the outsider in a group whose only wishes are to be able to choose.

He gets along with the team, but no matter how many times he ties the knot of fate around them, these people were never his fate to begin with. Fate found the rest of them and demanded they be bound. Ying Lei wrestles that rope of fate, trying to get in, albeit with rejection. The narrative demonstrates this:

The team was initially formed without him, and he joined later them of his own accord - his own choice - while the others literally were forced to sign a death contract to be together. In the later episodes, his affection for Bai Jiu is often overshadowed by Bai Jiu's respect for Zhuo Yichen. He also continually tries to get both Bai Jiu and Zhuo Yichen's approval - head pats, anyone? Zhao Yuanzhou doesn't trust him to look after the dragon scale. In their conversation with Bing Yi, their team count is five, instead of six. His closest companions within the team are each other's confidants.

Even at his very end, the narrative still denies him a fate with them. He dies for Bai Jiu who is the only person he loves wholly, and fades away before Bai Jiu wakes from his coma. Neither gets to say goodbye. Bai Jiu who genuinely mourns his death, dies for Yichen. In a story where the cyclical nature of fate runs deep, there is no thread of fate that leads back to him. There is no resolution or reciprocation for Ying Lei's soul and sacrifice. Every thread is cut and never retied, no matter how he tries. Siheng has Sijing left to remember him. Yichen keeps Baijiu close to his heart. Wen Xiao and Yichen wait for Zhao Yuanzhou to return. But no one truly reminisces Ying Lei. The only people to do that are dead.

Ying Lei's tragedy lies in his freedom to choose. In a world where most fate is predetermined and choice is a scarcity, his death is all the more painful as every act is a conscious choice toward an unknown end. He carries a burden after all - the burden of writing his own story. And he braved each step with that brilliant smile of his.

我爱这个世界更多 又如何 So what if I love this world even more? 越平凡越长久 The more ordinary it is, the longer it lasts 月亮跟着我点头 The moon nods along with me 简简单单入梦的人最温柔 Those who step into dreams simply are the gentlest 分不清眼泪和酒 真让人挠头 This inability to distinguish between tears and wine, really makes one scratch their head 月亮和小狗默默跟我走 The moon and a puppy walk with me in silence 岁月从不停留 Time never stops once 少年也不回头 This youth also never turns back 他把故乡和爱留在身后 He leaves behind both his hometown and love

- 英雄不磊落 (Heroes Are Not Upright) | Ying Lei's Theme

[aurossaga]

You Turn my Shield on Me

Venti x gn!reader

Genre: i don't know i just write. no more questions

Word count: ~ 1.2k

Warnings: Mentions of a battle, weaponry

Summary:

He always asked if you'd protect him on your excursions. Turns out, he never needed to be protected after all.

The setting sun is doing little to warm you as you push yourself up from the cold, muddy ground. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, chasing that rush of adrenaline as the sound of battle stills. Your weapon, dropped a distance away from you in the fray, glimmers mockingly at you as the light catches it. You had stumbled and fallen, but… that hardly matters right now. No, there are much more pressing matters at hand.

You look up at the man standing in front of you. His back still turned your way, an arm reaching out ready to draw another arrow at a moment’s notice. His moves are careful and practiced, practically perfectly honed. You’ve only ever seen aristocrats fight with such elegance and precision before…

Which is why this makes no sense.

“You’ll promise to protect me, right?”

It’s what he always says when you two go out exploring together. Or, rather when you go exploring and he tags along out of boredom. And you had always assured him that you’d never let harm befall him, always promised that you’d be his shield. After all, he was a novice at archery, he claimed. A bow was a difficult weapon to defend oneself with in the heat of battle without exceptional mastery of it.

Arrows still surging with Anemo energy litter the now desolate grounds turned battlefields. Each and every one of them had hit its target. Clean, lethal blows. As you finally catch your breath, remembering to breathe properly amidst your confusion, you see him turn to cautiously check on you.

“Are you alright…?”

…

There are so many things you want to say. So many things you want to ask. Your jaw drops open a few times over, you sputter and stutter and mumble out half-baked words and jumbled sentences until you give up, closing your mouth, and give him a slow, cautious nod. You are unharmed. And it was no thanks to yourself.

Venti watches you for another long moment. His eyes, much more focused than usual, scan you for injuries regardless of your insisting that you are fine. He knows you well. Quickly, that look is replaced by the familiar one you are so accustomed to. One you now doubt the sincerity of, just  a little bit. His shoulders relax and he exhales in relief for a moment before his posture straightens back up, his bow lowering to his side.

“Well, that’s a relief… We sure were lucky these monsters were on the easier side!”

Those words sting a lot more than you expected, though you can’t quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s not quite true. Perhaps It’s because you know those enemies hit hard. Fast. Ruthlessly.

And they certainly don’t stall for long enough for an inexperienced archer to pluck them off one by one like that.

And yet…

“You were incredible back there.” The words slip out before you can think to stop them. You’re not quite sure if it’s words of praise or an accusation. His mastery of the bow, the precision in his strikes… You couldn’t wrap your head around it. He said he wasn’t capable of that. That he needed your protection.

He blinks, and for a moment, his eyes shy away from yours, his lips pressed together a bit firmer than usual. Maybe this is what guilt looks like on him. But then he smirks, the easygoing, almost careless expression you’ve grown so accustomed to returning as if it had never left in the first place.

“Really, now? Praise from my most dearest muse, is it? I must fetch my pen at once, lest I mistake it for a dream!”

You’re not sure what comes over you. His words were nothing out of the ordinary from him, he’d tease and poke fun all the time. But… For him to act so casually, so normal after a display like that…

It irritates you.

“You said you were a novice,” you practically snap. “That it was just a hobby.”

“And you don’t believe me?” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something guarded in his eyes. He steps closer, offering a hand to help you up. You hesitate for just a moment, but you take his hand, only now realizing that those delicate hands that pen the most beautiful prose you’ve ever read are firmer, sturdier than you could recall. Or perhaps you were only noticing now that you knew to look for it. He pulls you up to your feet with ease.

“I… No! Why should I?” you demand, brushing dirt from your roughed up clothes. “I’ve never seen you fight like that before..! Or, at all, for that matter! What was all that?” You gesture to the field littered with arrows and fallen enemies, your eyes never leaving his.

He tilts his head innocently to the side, his smirk fading slightly.

“Does it… matter that much?”

“Yes, it matters!!!” you exclaim, the words spilling out before you have the time or restraint to stop them. “It matters because I trusted you to rely on me! And now I find out you didn’t need me at all?”

There it is. The heart of your frustrations, the reason your chest aches as much as your bruised body. You’ve always been the protector, the shield, someone you wanted him to rely on. To feel safe with. And he’d let you believe he needed you, too. But now that picture in your mind breaks into a thousand pieces, and you both know very well you won’t be able to put it back together, no matter how much you try. You were too smart to believe his words, his deflections.

You hang your head, your gaze falling down to the muddy grounds beneath you. Though you can’t see his face, you can practically hear his emotions in the tone of his voice. It’s… raw. A bit more intimate than you think he intended.

“I never said I didn’t need you,” he whispers, his voice low and even as he takes a step closer. “I just don’t want to stand in the way of your talent…”

He seems almost unsatisfied with his own choice of words. Slowly, his hand reaches out, searching for yours, taking hold of and wrapping around your fingers so delicately as if he’s asking permission.

“...My warrior, you would have had this in the box, regardless if I stepped in or not. I just… didn’t want to see you hurt. You don’t need my protection, but… you have it.”

It’s not quite an answer, and it certainly doesn’t answer as many questions as you would have liked. But, there’s an honesty in his tender voice that makes your heart hammer again. Your lips part, intending by all means to press him further, to demand answers about his skills, his lies…but the words die on your lips as your shoulders sag to match the dejected feeling of reluctant acceptance. You knew better than anyone how avoidant Venti could be when faced with such a direct accusation. You knew better than to press further to achieve nothing.

“...Okay. Let’s go home.”

His grip on your hand tightens, bringing your attention back to the moment. And as you walk home, he doesn’t let go of you even once. His grip is gentle, apologetic, begging for understanding and time to explain what happened today. And, albeit reluctantly, you grant him that grace as your fingers interlace with his.

[anjautembear]

Helloo. So this is my first post and I had this idea in my head after I listend to a song. English isn't my first language so sorry if there are spelling errors or sentences that don't make a lot of sence😅. I hope to the readers that read this like this as much as I do and sorry again if it doesn't make sence >_<. OKAY on to the story!!

Warning: Angst baby

Inspired by the song: All i want by kodaline

All i want is nothing more

To hear you knocking at my door

He watches the door, hoping that she would walk threw it, greating him with that loving smile she always had, that still haunts him. He still hopes after weeks, but deep down he knows.

'Cause if I could see your face once more

I could die as a happy man I'm sure

He misses her, her face is starting to blur in his memory of her, but he wishes to go back. He wishes that he took her face in detail, if he only knew, that she would no longer be here, he would have printed her loving gaze in his mind.

When you said your last goodbye

The day of her death, is the day he wishes that never happend, the day that cancer took her from him, a sickness he so hates, a day that will haunt him forever.

The sound of a heartmonitor beeping in the background, the doctors and nurces shoes squeking on the floor outside, people talking, the sound of the wind blowing outside, the autum air blowing threw the curtains. Her favourite season.

But all those noises are blurred, for his soulfocus, was her, his beloved, his wife. He remembers holding her hand so tight for he feared she would pass to soon, slip from his fingers. His hold is tight but not too tight, for he didn't want to brake her. She was already thin and fragile. He still hates that feeling of her thin hand holding his and not the once healthy hand. Cancer was a true nightmare.

Her last words, the words that haunt him still, her fairwell greating, was a request. She requested that he should move on, marry another, find a new person that would treat him well. That she still and would love him. She hates that she is dying but does not want her beloved to suffer when she's gone. Her last and final words,

"You were a wonderful experience, I loved every minute with you. You were the reason for my every smile...I think...I'm ready to go home..with a smile and the memorys of us. Please look after youself...please."

I died a little bit inside

As his tears fall after she said those words, her final breath was taken, and she was gone. Like the autum leaves she so loved, her soul being carried away, back home. Her final smile with one tear falling, will always haunt him. His tears mimicking hers, but a waterfall. His heart stoped beating that day, like hers, for his heart shatter after she ripped the bandage clean.

I lay in tears in bed all night

As he lays in his ice cold bed, that no longer has her sent and warmf. He stares at the picture of their wedding day next to his bed. He still hasn't taken it off. His lifeless eyes staring at her bright smile, her wedding dress blowing in the spring wind. Memorys of her laughter, a sickening reminder, of his regrets of not marrying her sooner.

Alone without you by my side

He can no longer sleep, he can't, he tried multible times. But he can't sleep without her warm body next to his. So he holds her pillow, that no longer has her sent, the perfume bottle she once used ,empty after he used it to remind him of her.

But if you loved me

Why'd you leave me?

He doesn't know who to blame, himself, for not meating her sooner, cancer, a sickness that took her, or her, who left him a broken mess. A broken man who can't fix himself without her.

Take my body

Take my body..

All I want is

All I need is..

He felt like he should have been the one who left, he should be the one burried 6 feet under ground, he should be the one cold in the coffen, instead of his beloved, who didn't deserve it.

She was a bright light in a room full of dull lamps, he only saw her in a room full of people. But now she's a light no longer there, he is lost in the dark room. She is now no longer in the room full of people, he is surching, but she's already in the train of no return.

He needs her...but he no longer has her to save him

To find somebody

I'll find somebody

He tells himself he'll find another light, another person in the crowd, but deep down he knows that will never happen. She was the only 'somebody' he loved. But he'll try for her, he promised.

Ooh oh

Ooh oh

Ooh oh

Ooh oh

Memorys flash his mind. The day they met, bumping into eachother, on a cold autum day. He remembers how pretty she looked, how her hair framed her face, her flushed cheeks in the cold air. Her smile. Her smile he so loved.

Memorys flash in his mind. The day he preposed, the ring that gleamed in the setting sun. Her tears of joy rolling down her soft warm cheeks he so loved to kiss in the morning. Her eyes gleaming, resembling the ring, the ring he will no longer use.

Memorys flash in his mind. The day of their wedding. Tears of joy and laughter in the air of close friends, but the only laugh he heard, was hers, his wife, his other soul.

Memorys flash now...regret coming back. The day of her funeral. The rain pooring down, her coffen laying there, her favourite flower ontop. Haunting him. Mocking him, mocking him that he will no longer be able to give those same flowers to her on valentimes-day.

Cause you brought out the best of me

A part of me i'd never seen

He never thought that he could be loved, he always saw himself as the worst version of himself. But that all changed when she showed up in his life unexpectedly. She showed him parts of himself he has never seen before. She changed him into a better person. He never new he had these sides to him but she showed him like a hidden chapter between sticky pages glued together that he hid.

You took my soul and wiped it clean.

He was never a relegious person but she came to his life like a saint and changed his soul for the better. She saved him when he was stuck in a dark void of emptyness and anger. He worshiped her love like a person in church.

Our love was made for movie screens

If their love life was a movie. He was sure that everyone would have loved her as much as he did. They would have seen how deep their love was, how inlove he was. But he geasses that not every movie has a happy ending. There love story had a plot twist not even he could see coming.

Ooh, if you loved me

Why'd you leave me

Take my body

Take my body

All I want is..

All I need is..

To find somebody

I'll find somebody

Like you, ooh

He promised himself, he promised you, that he would move on. Find somebody that would love him like you did, but he can't. He would have to brake that promise. He can't move on, you were his somebody...

Thank you for reading this, I hope this wasn't a bad story😅. Bye bye!!

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

redemption : casual l Marcus Moreno

❤️‍ broken hearts seek redemption ❤️‍

Summary:  you misread his signals

Warnings:  one guy who has to find his courage; one mother who can't stand to look at him anymore; one girl who wanted to protect herself; fluff, Marcus has to get his act together

A/N: sorry for any mistakes. i'm really sorry. I was looking for some free time between other activities

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

first part is here >>casual<<

a few ways to break a heart [masterlist]

broken hearts seek redemption [masterlist]

"Enough! This is pathetic!"

Marcus looked up from his plate of cold scrambled eggs and his eyes moved at his mother, Anita. The woman was staring at him with her hands on her hips, she looked almost the same as when he was a kid and did something wrong.

He cleared his throat. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"You! There's something wrong with you!" she replied in a raised voice. "I've been talking to you for fifteen minutes and you're unconscious."

"Sorry, Mom. I'm tired after yesterday's banquet." he mumbled, taking a sip of his now cold coffee.

"Oh, yes!" Anita shook her head. "I think you're more tired from staring at that poor girl all night."

Marcus' eyes widened and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"I don't know what you're talking about." he stammered out confused.

"You looked at that girl like she was an abandoned puppy! Please, mijo! I've known you long enough to know you've fallen head over heels for her!"

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, this banquet was torture for Marcus. For the past few weeks, every time he met you, in the hallway or in the cafeteria, it gave him heart palpitations. The worst thing was that he only talked to you about work, nothing else was out of the question.

And at this banquet you looked so beautiful that he couldn't help himself. He wanted to approach, say something, make some gestures... His mother must have noticed it.

"It's because of her that you've been like this lately, huh?" Anita asked, pushing out a chair and sitting down next to him "I can see that something's bothering you."

He nodded.

"Then why don't you go out with her? Ask her. Staring like that won't do you any good."

Marcus sighed "See, we've been on a date before..." his mother's face lit up in excitement "It was really nice. But... She told me a while ago that she wanted us to go back to just being work colleagues."

"W-What?"

"She said I wasn't ready to move on, and she couldn't just be my friend and..."

Anita's mouth fell open, and her son jumped as she slammed her hand on the table.

"You dork!" This time she slapped him on the shoulder "She's got a crush on you! Women don't say things like that without a reason!"

Now Marcus looked at her in surprise. "But she ignored my messages... She told me that, and now she doesn't even talk to me like she used to. Maybe she was right..."

Anita leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes, mumbling something to herself. Then she made a quick sign of the cross with her hand and looked at her son, trying to stay calm.

"I saw how you looked at her, and she glanced your way too..." Marcus raised his head immediately "If you weren't ready you wouldn't be sitting here in such a pathetic state now. Please, mijo. Do something about it!" she grabbed his forearm and squeezed tightly "If this girl makes you happy, give it a chance. You've been devoting yourself to Missy and your work for so long, take care of yourself and your own happiness too."

"But what if she doesn't want me? What if you're wrong?" he asked, although deep down he was begging for what his mother was saying to be true.

"She'll tell you that. But you have to talk to her. You're fighting all these enemies, and you're afraid to talk to the girl you like? Please..."

The light in your window has been on for a while now. Marcus could see it clearly from where he was standing. His mother's words comforted him. He bought a bouquet of peonies, exchanged his ironed shirt for something more comfortable, and stood in front of your house for almost an hour.

Marcus Moreno could fight a hundred villains, but when he was about to stand in front of you he felt completely defenseless. 

A few deep breaths, he barely lifted his foot from the pavement and was about to take the first step when the phone in his pocket rang. He instinctively glanced at the screen, it was you.

"Hello?" he tried to sound natural, as if his heart hadn't sped up at all.

"Marcus?" he heard a slight worry in your voice, "Is that you standing in front of my house?"

He raised his gaze to your window and saw the outline of a familiar figure. Heat crept up to his neck.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's me."

"Uhm. And why are you doing this?"

Marcus sighed deeply and was still staring at your window, although he couldn't see your face, he asked. "Can I come upstairs?"

The silence on the other side seemed unimaginably long, but when he heard a quiet "Yes." he felt as if he regained his breath.

It was a strange feeling, seeing Marcus in your doorway. He was clutching a bouquet of peonies in his hands, and his brown eyes were staring at you almost pleadingly. 

You didn't even have time to change, still in your comfortable clothes, without make-up, you greeted him at the door.

"Hi." he said quietly.

"Hi, Marcus." you replied, leaning against the door frame. "What brings you here?"

He wanted to say "you." He wanted to say everything that was swirling in his head and chest, but he didn't know where to start. Finally, after a long fight with himself, he stammered quietly.

"Can we talk?"

He deserved it. You didn't want to hurt him, you didn't want to stick a pin in his heart when he looked at you like that, because you felt that he didn't show up without a reason.

Some time had passed since that memorable conversation, and if you felt anger at first, it had already passed. You were tired and... you really missed Marcus. 

Even without taking into account what had happened between you, he was a good friend. You remembered how many times he helped you with the vending machine, how he stood up for you when Miracle Guy teased you, or when he helped you change the tire in your car when it was raining. 

On the other hand, you loved it when he talked about Missy, you helped him with paperwork and you remembered the way he liked his coffee.

Maybe dating didn't work out, but your friendship with Marcus was important to you. But were you able to bury your feelings deep inside?

You opened the door wider and gestured for him to come in.

"This is for you." He said, handing you the bouquet and smiling uncertainly.

"Thank you." You immediately smelled the pleasant scent of flowers and smiled involuntarily. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, I don't want to bother you." He scratched the back of his neck. "I just wanted..."

You turned around and went into the kitchen to pull out a vase. "I'm still listening to you, Marcus." You said, glancing at him over your shoulder as you poured the water.

"I feel bad about what's going on between us." he began, and a strange shiver ran down your spine. "I mean... I miss you, a lot. I keep thinking about what you told me. If I did something wrong, if I hurt you with something, tell me, please. I want to fix it. I can fix it!"

"Marcus..." you sighed, placing the bouquet on the counter and turning to him. “I miss you too." his eyes sparkled with hope. "I'm not sure though..." you rubbed your temple with your hand.

If this conversation was going to be honest and true, you had to tell him everything. You couldn't move on feeling like you had unresolved issues behind you.

"I heard you talking to Miracle Guy." you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the flowers, because it was easier for you that way. "It was Friday, before all of this... I brought food, I knew you'd be at work longer. You were both talking, and I accidentally overheard it."

Marcus already knew what you were getting at. Miracle Guy implied that you and Marcus were dating, and he just wanted to cut the conversation short. He felt bad about it all, like he had disowned you.

"I don't know why I said that." Marcus replied. "We were so new to all this and I was afraid that maybe I was promising myself too much. Miracle Guy would have spread the word all over the place. I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable. Besides, if you didn't want to see me anymore, no one would have found out about us, right?"

You looked at him in surprise.

"Do you think I could be... ashamed of you? Marcus!" you choked out. "I thought I misinterpreted your signals and..."

"I'm sorry!" Marcus interrupted you abruptly and approached you, taking your hands in his. "I haven't done this in a long time. You're the first woman I've dated in years. I panicked. Because I really like you and... not only that. You're smart and funny, I feel really important around you. You really see me. Not the leader of the Heroics, not a single father, but me. I was afraid that if someone found out about us, this bubble would burst."

Something was tightening in your throat, and your eyes were burning strangely. You didn't expect this.

“Maybe I really misjudged this whole thing,” you replied quietly.

"I'm not surprised you drew such conclusions. I would have thought the same." he sighed. "Maybe if I had more courage..."

"Maybe if I had asked you right away..." you added. "I felt hurt, Marcus. I pushed you away because it seemed the safest. I didn't want to hurt myself any further..."

He nodded. His warm hands let go of yours and he took a few steps back.

"If I could, I would take it all back." he mumbled. "I really liked spending time with you."

"I liked it too."

A small smile crept onto Marcus' lips, as if a fond memory filled his head. But then he remembered his mother and everything they had talked about that morning.

"Give me one more chance." he blurted out and you lifted your head, surprised by his tone. "One chance. Now I'll do it right, like you deserve. I'm ready to move on, but I want to do it with you, please."

"Do you want to..."

“Go on a date with me,” he interrupted you again. “We’ll go to dinner, to a movie, to an amusement park, whatever. But I want to do it with you. Because I care, I really care about you.”

You bit your lip. A strange excitement emanated from Marcus and he slowly infected you with it. Maybe he was right? Maybe it was worth trying again? You weren't risking anything.

You finally nodded. "Okay." Marcus beamed and you smiled back. "I think it's worth a try."

"Maybe..."

The unexpected doorbell made you both jump. You quickly left the kitchen and opened the door for the young pizza delivery guy. After a few seconds, you were alone again.

"I was going to spend tonight with pizza and a movie." You said, smiling shyly at Marcus. "If you didn't have any other plans, maybe you'd like to join?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, really serious." You put the box on the coffee table. "I have wine too, if you want. But if you have to go back..."

He shook his head. "No, Mom stayed with Missy so I could come over." you chuckled. "If you want me to stay..."

"Of course I do." 

Marcus felt like his heart would explode with joy. It wasn't what he expected, but he was grateful that he took the step and showed up at your place. The chance to spend the evening with you, pizza and a movie, was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.

"But you're still going on a date with me." he said as you settled down next to him with a glass of wine in your hand. "That doesn't count."

"Of course. But what if someone sees us again?"

"Then we'll give them something to gossip about."

You smiled. This guy was worth another chance.

☆☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[mrschristensen]

The Waves of Ecstasy with Sam Monroe

NNN Masterlist

WARNINGS: eventual smut/sexual content/porn w plot (READ AT YOUR OWN RISK), female s/o, soft dom (he's whiny/desperate so maybe more like a switch) Sam but he gets just a lil mean/sub s/o, smoking (s/o isn't doing any), piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), passionate/slow sex, pet names/name calling (baby, princess, sweetheart, sweet girl), lmk if I missed any!

synopsis: Sam and his girlfriend (aka the light of his life) take their time getting it down, fully soaking in one another as an extent of their true, unrestrained love for each other.

WC: 811 words

It was euphoric, even if it wasn't in the most... ideal way. But it was for Sam and his girlfriend. Some sensual alternative music softly played in the background, both of them in each other's arms as he sat against the wall, smoking a cigarette. She didn't really smoke (not that she necessarily liked him doing it either since it's bad for you, but she tried not to be on his ass about it), so she was content with simply nuzzling her face into his neck.

"I fuckin' love you, y'know that?" Sam states out of the blue, his voice a little raspy as he exhales the smoke from his lungs.

Her heart swells and she smiles, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "I love you too, Sammy. More than you know."

He smirked to himself a bit, taking another drag. He let her get away with using the absolute worst nicknames for him, but she was the only one. The only exception. If anyone else were to do it, they... wouldn't be in too great of a shape.

He leaned down and his lips met hers in a soft, slow kiss. He's in no rush, though his passion and love for her is aching inside of him, burning for her, wanting more of her and fast. However, he didn't want that; he wanted to take his time with her, to worship her and show her just how much he loved her.

They both panted, gasped and moaned as he fluidly thrust into her at an agonizingly slow pace, noises of pleasure escaping their lips involuntarily. He reaches his hand up to meet hers, intertwining their fingers and squeezing her hand a bit before basically pinning it there with his weight.

"Sam," she breathed, and he rested his forehead against hers, grunting softly as he continued to move in and out of her wet cunt.

"I know, baby, I know," he breathlessly whispers, cupping her cheek with his free hand and kissing her once more.

He then started to speed up a little and causing her to moan a bit louder, but just a little, not much. It only made them more desperate for each other, and by the cocky look on Sam's face when he could read that she was feeling the same way, it was that way on purpose.

"Stop teasing me," she whines, moving her face towards his as if she was longing for him. It made him chuckle and wear that prideful smirk once more, pulling his head back just to lean back in and trail kisses along her neck and collarbone.

"You know you like it," he responds, speeding up just a smidge more, "and I wanna take my time with you, princess. Because honestly, I don't think you got not one clue how much I actually love you."

Her heart warms at his words, just wanting to crash her lips onto his, but his hand travels down her body—the other still tightly holding hers—and making its way to her clit, rubbing slow yet tight circles on the little bud. The added simulation made her gasp, and, to her surprise, made her get closer to an impending orgasm.

"There y'go," he pants, noticing the slight tremble of her legs start, "c'mon sweetheart, cum f'me."

He felt his own climax approaching by just watching her. When they first started dating since they were the first for one another to actually be a partner (thus meaning they were each other's firsts when it came to sex as well), he could bust by just the sight of her, and he still could. However, he was able to hold it in without much effort now, but at this very moment, it was so damn hard to. Watching her tits bounce ever so slightly with each torturous thrust, it made him see stars...

Her cry of pleasure and his name snapped him out of his trance, along with the rhythmic pulsations of her pussy throbbing around his length. He couldn't help but whimper quietly at the sensation, not even seconds later came his orgasm as well. He kept himself inside of her after all of his hot seed shot into her and painted her insides white, resting his forehead against hers once more.

"Good girl," he praised in a whisper, "you okay, sweet girl?"

She nodded slightly, the effects of her intense orgasm still coursing through her, her body occasionally twitching a little bit. She was boneless and spent, even though that was probably the slowest sex they've ever had with each other.

She goes to gently get him off and out of her, as if to get up, but he almost immediately stops her. "Don't even think I'm done with you," he breathes, "'cause that was barely even how much I fuckin' love you."

[heartstringsduet]

(ignore me accidentally unfollowing you while trying to send an ask)

for your prompts:

"Why are you following me?"

Hi Jen <3 Don't worry, I accidentally unfollow peeps too sometimes haha. We all do I think. Thanks for your prompt. I tried not to overthink it and it might be half-baked (not Ben&Jerry's ;)) but I hope you still like it. "Why are you following me"

His father might have been the one to tell him to trust his gut, but it was Tía Lucy who taught Carlos about the sixth sense. Her sixth sense told him when he had pulled out some of her herbs to chew on them when he was a toddler, his father’s seemed to be when Carlos got reprimanded at school and even later at work, his mother’s seemed to be knowing when he needed a hug even when he tried everything to appear like he didn’t.

Carlos’ sixth sense tingles as he rounds the corner of the candy aisle — and stops.

As expected, someone crashes right into his back. So he had been right about being followed. Sixth sense, gut, intuition. Whatever it was, it didn’t disappoint.

“Sorry!”

He’d only seen the stalker from the corner of his eyes, so to turn around and be faced with someone that walked right out of his dreams congeals Carlos momentarily.

What he didn’t expect to blurt out when he reinhabits his frozen body is, "Why are you following me?" 

It is true. This is the third aisle he’s felt the eyes on his back, the third aisle the stranger had stayed the exact same distance, the third aisle Carlos had had enough and tested his theory.

It’s one thing to think it, another to ask it straight out but Carlos stays cool. Even when he sees the slight flush of the man’s cheeks and the way he licks his lips and leaves a sheen. He stays totally cool. Unaffected and not lost in the slope of high cheekbones. 

“Uhm…I’m not?” the stalker says.

“I’m a cop, I know when I’m being followed.”

The stalker’s eyes widen — light green irises in full glory — before he quickly schools his face. “No you’re not.”

Carlos tilts his chin up. “Wanna see my badge?”

He gets a raised eyebrow and a smirk as a response that makes his stomach do a full loop. It hadn’t been an innuendo but the reaction makes his face feel hot.

The stalker’s tongue pokes into the corner of his mouth as he seems to think on what to say. “Okay.” He blows out a breath. “Okay. I followed you because you got the last Mexican Hot Chocolate ice cream and, frankly, I need it more. So if you don’t mind, could I buy it from you?”

Carlos frowns into his basket where he picked up both a tub of Cookies & Cream and apparently the reason someone followed him through the store for the past ten minutes.

A part of him doesn’t really care about the flavors, knowing the nephew he was planning to buy it for isn’t picky, but a bigger part prompts him to ask, “Who says I don’t need it the most?”

It seems to stump the other guy just like it stumped Carlos before. “Believe me, there is no way you do.”

“Unless I see concrete evidence for that need, I’m afraid I can’t give my tub up.”

It’s impressive how lowering his eyebrows makes the guy’s eyes look like a stormy sea, glistening as he blinks and suddenly Carlos gets washed into sadness with him. It’s there and it’s gone as the guy pushes past him.

“Nevermind.”

Carlos watches the rigid back retreating, the hands turn into fists and release. Before the man can forever stay a stranger, Carlos calls, “Wait!”

The guy turns.

Carlos jogs the few steps toward him, compelled to bridge the distance quicker. “It’s already pretty melty. Do you want to share it in the parking lot? I promise not to ask about your awful day again.”

He holds the guy’s stare again, like he will all night on the curb of the H-E-B, half a tub of ice cream long melted against he bamboo forks. A few years down the road, Carlos will think of that moment and realize his sixth sense hadn’t been about being followed. It had been a sign of his soulmate being close, giving his heart no chance to miss him.

[harpieisthecarpie]

Harp's way too long "interpreting Jayvik as a queer rework of Judas & Jesus" ramble (BASS BOOSTED)

Okay so I have a ramble about jayvik's jesus/judas parallels that was inspired by the acoustic vers of JUDAS by The Reverent Marigold (amazing trans nb artist pls listen) and a mutual I'll tag in a reblog bc this is LONG

But this particular song is one I hold close to my heart (and project onto my favorite stories) bc it's a fundamentally compassionate reading of a biblical figure who is viewed as anathema by believers for a fate he never even had the chance to change.

To skip my kinda long Judas preface ramble go to the next orange text

Jesus forsees Judas's betrayal, he lets it happen. Yet Judas has become a reviled figure for being the catalyst of Jesus's transcendence from prophet to Christian deity.

Jesus had to be betrayed, he had to "die for our sins", and he had to fall so he could ascend. He could not be the redeemer without his betrayer.

Yet Judas, who is argued to either be destined or hellishly influenced for his betrayal, in my eyes didn't have to betray Jesus with a kiss. An emotional gesture, whether romantic or familial or platonic or whatever.

There was a gesture of devotion even in that act of persecution, and Judas died in despair of his own actions.

Okay this is the jayvik ur here for

Okay okay this is the part about jayvik, because when everyone was mad over Jayce killing Viktor during the 2nd batch of s2 eps, all I could think about how Viktor had been stuck in a limbo. Half ascendant and half trapped by his mortal form.

Like Christ was Jesus of Nazareth before being the Son of God, s2 Viktor is stuck in the middle of The Scientist and The Herald. Not quite mortal, not fully deity.

Something's gotta give, someone has to hammer the last nail in his coffin (or the crucifix in this instance), someone has to be the Betrayer for Viktor to be the Redeemer. And would we really want it to be anyone other than Jayce?

Would Viktor want it to be anyone other than Jayce? Someone other than his partner, the first man he saved on his path to ascendance. The man killing him with compassion because the Viktor of before had never wanted this.

And it's fascinating to me that within the parallel to Christianity, the differences in Arcane's story give Jayce and Viktor a far more lovely, compassionate ending than Judas and Jesus ever had. At least in the mainstream canon.

It's why I compared jayvik to Rev Mari's JUDAS instead of the basic story. JUDAS's queer themes and Rev Mari's lyricism reframe Judas in a kinder light and humanize Jesus in ways that make me so happy.

Lyric examples:

Because queerness, especially in gender, is so deeply about compassion, and living true to ourselves, and killing what is keeping us from growing into our own identities.

And the fact that Viktor and Jayce, with all their allegorical connections to the Savior and Betrayer, got such a beautiful, transcendent, and queer ending is. Meaningful

Wayyy more analysis under the cut! YAY

go to the next pink if you only want my main conclusion :]

Because Judas's story ended in him taking his own life, and Jayce was given a near rebirth when Viktor saved him from taking his own.

Judas's betrayal was predestined as a tool for Jesus's ascension to Christ the Son, while Jayce's betrayal was that he actively went against Viktor's decision and Viktor's autonomy. When Jayce killed the in-between Viktor he was repenting for that betrayal, and in doing so he was saving himself. In the Christian sense of the word, where Salvation is of the soul.

Only, in the Christian sense of the word, Jayce's salvation would have to come from the Savior. He would be praying for guidance, even if from that in-between Viktor.

But he doesn't put the onus on Viktor to forgive him, he doesn't compromise his devotion to his partner Viktor at the behest of this new Viktor that came from Jayce's betrayal.

When Judas sent Jesus off to die, that was his greatest sin. Jayce's was forcing Viktor to live in spite of Viktor's wishes.

The popular belief is that Judas was condemned to eternal damnation, punishment for a betrayal that Christ needed to ascend. And I think that is the saddest, most hopeless thing in the world.

If Christ couldn't– or wouldn't– save his friend and follower who fell so deep into guilt when his led to Jesus of Nazareth's death that he killed himself, how could anyone trust in their own salvation? If Judas was condemned to rot in Hell when his "loving" deity was done using him, why the fuck would anyone want that Salvation?

pink text indicating the conclusion

So Jayce and Viktor, in this fucking fundamentally queer story, saving each other and knowing each other and finding each other in every fucking reality like their souls could never exist apart is beautiful to me.

Neither of them were the passive objects of the other's Salvation. We know this because Jayce's original betrayal and the Herald's reality shifting "fixes" didn't save the other, nor did those actions condemn themselves.

Neither were helpless, or groveling for "forgiveness", or forced to fundamentally alter who they were at the core in order to be worthy of goodness.

They weren't exactly Jesus of Nazareth and Judas Iscariot, because Jayce and Viktor were written with a fundamentally queer compassion many refuse to apply to their faith.

Neither Jayce nor Viktor were purely Salvation or Forgiveness.

They were better. Jayce and Viktor saved each other, and themselves, when instead of forgiveness they offered acceptence and compassion.

I read it as:

There is nothing to forgive, because there is nothing wrong with you. I'm sorry I tried to change you, there is nothing wrong with you. I will prove in every reality that there is nothing wrong with you.

I found you again, and I'll find you again, because you held my soul so gently your hands left shining, iridescent marks that guide me to you in every reality.

There is no Jayce without Viktor, and no Viktor without Jayce, because they made it so. They chose to be soulmates, in whatever way you want to read it. And that means so much to me.

tl;dr arcane showed us the kinda religion we'd get if they let jesus be trans and have a boyfriend

[rogerswifesblog]

Christmas miracle

my Masterlist

Summary: You are visiting one of Starks charity events. The unexpected happens.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!reader

Warnings; none?

A/N: it’s a bit soon for Christmas fluff but whatever here you go!

Don’t forget to share:) comments and reblogs are very appreciated!

Sparkling lights drape over every surface, with wreaths and garlands adorning the walls and doorways, their greenery offset by crimson ribbons and gold accents. A towering Christmas tree stands in the center of the room, its branches shimmering with ornaments and soft, twinkling lights.

A soft smile crept on your lips as you looked around the room. Stark really did know how to make a place look special. It was…magical.

While you were looking around, there was someone looking at you.

Even though Steve was engaged in a conversation with Bucky, he had forgotten the topic a long time ago, since his attention was somewhere else. To him, you looked incredible; a breathtaking dress that perfectly captures your elegance. The gown being a rich emerald green, the fabric catching the light with a soft, luxurious sheen, with a hint of vintage charm, while the flowing skirt cascades to the floor in soft, graceful waves.

“Okay then ignore me. Fine”, Bucky sighed dramatically, making Steve chuckle as he looked at his friend back. “Sorry I-“ “You’re distracted, I can tell. Go talk to her. Who knows, maybe it’ll be a little Christmas miracle and she’ll wanna go out with you-maybe she’ll even give you a kiss”, Bucky teased his best friend, making the blond blush as he elbowed him to the side.

But he did decide to talk to you.

While he had talked to Bucky for a few more seconds, in which you had turned your back to them. He noticed the thin satin ribbon, tied into a bow at the back, as he approached you.

„Good evening, Ma’am”, he greeted you, making you turn to him, a soft smile on your lips, a champagne glass in your hand. Paired with the dress, a set of simple diamond stud earrings and a matching bracelet lend an understated elegance, while a soft, sheer shawl rests lightly over your shoulders, perfect for the evening’s chill. You were breathtaking.

“Good evening, Sir”, you chuckled at the official terms, yet immediately realising he really meant it. It was Steve Rogers, dressed in a replica of his Second World War uniform. He looked good. Especially since, when you saw him on the tv or other events, he often wore his captain America suit.

Your smile became even bigger, Steve Rogers was exactly the man you wanted to talk to; the charity was, from what you had heard, his idea. The “Veterans list to Santa” charity was a charity where everyone could choose a Christma lost written by a veteran and make a gift for them-and if not, just donate money. Which in your opinion was amazing. “Great idea Mr Rogers. This whole thing”, you smiled. You liked this idea especially because your father was a veteran, too, but he had more luck; he had a family that took care of him after he came home, blinded from an explosion, the impact affecting his eyesight.

But you knew there were many veterans that didn’t have the same help. Some of them even ended up on the streets, after they had fought for the county…the country didn’t give much back to them.

The man blushed a little as he shrugged. “Thank you, I…I just think they deserve it. And Christmas is a time of giving, right?”, he smiled bashfully, watching you taking a list from the dozens of the placed letters on the decorated tables.

Steve watched as you read it, some tears glistening in the corner of your eyes, the words touching your heart.

So you weren’t not only stunning, but also caring.

“Well, that is true Mr-“ “call me Steve, please”, he said, holding out his hand, which you gladly took-not expecting him to pull it up to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss on the back of your hand behind. After introducing yourself, you two chatted for a moment.

Laughing you looked up at Steve as he told you how he had once fallen into the big Christmas tree Stark always put up, being too sleepy one morning and just forgetting it was there- “I don’t believe you” “trust me, Stark still has the footage”, he grinned, enjoying making you laugh, even then making a fool out of himself.

“Punk!”, Buckys voice was loud enough to make you both look at him, as he motioned over your heads.

And-

There was a mistletoe in a reddish light that hadn’t been there before. He looked back at Bucky and just as expected Wanda appeared next to him, both of them grinning. “Steve, you know what it means”, he blushed deeply at wandas words, before looking back at you.

“Don’t worry, we don’t-“ before he could finish your sentence you had placed your hand on his cheek and pulled him into a deep but soft kiss. He gasped against your lips, before-still a bit shocked-placing his hands at your waist.

Steve could definitely hear Bucky whistle in the background, making people stop talking and probably follow his gaze to the both of you as you slowly parted. You waited for him to say something, but he only looked at you dumbfounded.

“Well now it’s time you ask me on a date, Steve.”

Hi! Thank you for reading!!

Reblogs and feedback are highly appreciated. Support your content creators:)

Taglist: @rogersbarber @inlovewithchrisevans

Flood my inbox with HC, Drabble/OS ideas or questions! Just whatever you want to leave there! Anons welcome 😋

[wild-typo-turtle]

Threads - Part 14

Explicit (slow burn, 18+ only) - Rings of Power - Gil-galad x OFC (Elf)

Includes S2E8 of Rings of Power - spoilers ahoy!

Gil-galad had only taken a handful of steps when his gaze passed over yet another collapsed building. From the looks of things, it had once been an open, airy shop that had faced directly into the plaza. The roof had caved in, creating dusty shadows, and even his keen eyes might have missed the slumped figure had he not heard the tiny whimper from the darkness.

Eregion has been destroyed; Sauron is gone. And yet, the sun still shines, as the ruined city holds the last thing that High King Gil-galad had ever expected to find.

Themes: #Idiots in love, #love at first sight, #soulmates, #smut with feelings, #fix-it, #everybody lives

Content Warnings: Explicit content (parts 9, 11, and 13), canon-typical violence; loss of parents; grief/mourning. This part contains very brief, light M smut.

Tag List: @morganas-pendragons, @stellar-solar-flare, @the141bandicoot; @inyx-writes44, @melmel-fandom, @hufflepufferine, @shadows-and-flowers, @xcrybaby555x, @bespectacledhuman

Face claim: Keri Russell as Linnea

Part 1 (includes A/N and credits), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (contains smut), Part 10, Part 11 (contains very brief, light smut), Part 12, Part 13 (contains smut)

A/N: Thank you to everyone who responded to my update earlier this week with such kind encouragement! I appreciate all the lovely notes and it helped me feel much better. And now here we are! This chapter opens the second arc of the plot - it's a bit short, but we are setting up for lots of action. Enjoy! -WTT

Part 14

It had been rare in his life that Ereinion had known peace. True, his time as High King had been peaceful for the most part, and he had grown his kingdom significantly over the hundreds of years he had ruled. Yet for himself, there had been little enough of that peace; there had always been problems to solve, matters that demanded his attention. 

Not that that had changed. If anything, the demands on his time had grown more numerous over the last five years, with the ever-present threat of the enemy and the need to prepare. The drums of war were loud now, the enemy’s uruk frequently testing their defenses.     

But now, there was someone to share those demands with. 

Peace, and healing, and rest. Linnea's eyes had promised such when they had first met, and she had kept that promise in every way that a queen and a wife could. As queen, she had taken on a share of his work; she had overseen the logistics of supplying and equipping the growing army, allowing him to focus on strategy and alliances. 

Linnea the Good, Círdan had said the singers would name her, and indeed they had done so. She was beloved throughout Lindon, spending hours in the city with the smiths and the weavers and the growers. And in the evening, when they did not have a council meeting to attend, he would often find her in her weaving room surrounded by members of the court or visiting artisans. Everyone wanted to be around her; everyone enjoyed her company.

And as wife, she had brought him the peace of her love, the healing of his lonely heart. The years had passed in the blink of an eye and now there was no imagining how his life might have been without her. Fortunately, he needed to do no such thing. 

The sun was barely peeking over the edge of the horizon, and the room was still dim, filled with the greyish light of pre-dawn. But he needed no light to see, not with Linnea in his arms, straddling his thighs with her back against his chest, and her soft, sweet sighs teasing his ear. One of his hands cupped her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers; the other gently stroked between her legs above where they were joined. She was close to her peak, and her body fluttered around him, a sensation that he knew well after those thousand nights and more that he had promised her.

And peace was perhaps a strange word in this moment. But it was the right word, holding his wife, moving slowly within her. The peace of feeling her pleasure as she surrendered to the touch of his hand, to the thrusts of his body. The peace of her release bringing on his own, that feeling of leaving himself and flowing out. 

Not everything. Not yet. Soon, they had said, and that vision of her carrying their child ever lingered in his mind. But those drumbeats of war continued to pound, and both of them clung to the hope that they would know when the time was right. 

But that release still made Ereinion groan with satisfaction, made him hold Linnea tighter to him as he panted for air. As it ebbed, he slowly eased them both down on the bed, curling himself around her gently, keeping her close for a few minutes more. The sun was rising, and he cherished the sight of her soft skin, the flawless creamy expanse glowing in the brightening light.                       

His arm lay around her waist, and he felt her take his hand and twine their fingers together. 

“Perhaps we should take a day of rest,” she murmured. “We have trained every day for many months. Perhaps we should remain abed today, and begin again on the morrow.”

Ereinion chuckled, pressing a kiss to the back of Linnea’s shoulder. “Abed for the entire day? However might we pass so many hours?”

She echoed his soft laugh, holding his hand tighter. Such was not a luxury they had, and yet he felt the light stirring of temptation as he had before over the years. And there had been times when responsibility had been able to be set aside; there had been afternoon picnics, daytime excursions together down to the city, nights when they had retired early for a few precious hours of privacy. 

And mornings like this one. Mornings when they rose later than accustomed, replete with the joy of loving union.

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, humming quietly in contentment. “The Pilino Tarí would be bereft without their leader,” he said softly. “And should the High King fail to present himself for practice, others might take such for permission to do the same.”

Linnea mumbled noncommittally, and he chuckled again, freeing his hand to smooth it gently over her hip. “Have I not pleased you?” he murmured, kissing the nape of her neck. “Is that why you wish to remain here, melethel? You are unsatisfied?”

As he’d known they would, his words made her laugh. She rolled over in his embrace, and he smiled as she kissed his lips in an emphatic denial of his teasing. 

“You know well that it is quite the opposite, meleth nín,” she whispered. “I am so very satisfied that I cannot possibly move from this bed.” 

He loved her. He loved her so much that he oft felt that he could not contain it; there was simply too much to hold inside. Thankfully, he did not have to - he could pour her full of it and she would take everything he had to give, and return just as much.

He kissed her again quickly. Far too quickly, but the minutes were slipping by and they needed to rise. His servants and hers would come soon, and they would have to make haste with their breakfast before it was time to ride out. It was not the first time that that had been the case - but now, as then, he felt absolutely no regret over the need to hurry.

She was worth it. She was worth all of it.

To the outsider’s eye, Lindon sometimes appeared to be nothing more than a great forest, its buildings half-hidden by the trees. Yet the city itself stretched for miles, and its outskirts included several large fields where its armed forces could train en masse.

Five years had been enough time to establish those training camps, and it was one such that they were bound for that morning, as had been the routine for months. Training, often followed by council sessions in the afternoon, or an excursion to Lindon if Linnea needed to meet with the crafters who were supplying the growing army. She could not complain about a lack of tasks, and yet, she knew that Gil-galad was far more occupied even than she.

She glanced to her right where he rode beside her, sitting tall and proud in the saddle. Over the years they had been wed, she had learned that this was where he was most at home; Gil-galad was a soldier, a warrior, at his heart, and his armor sat upon him like a second skin. The reins were held easily in his hand, able to be tightened in an instant if needed, but his mount knew him well. A small shift of his weight, a light tap of the heel, was all that was normally required to guide the horse.    

Linnea did not fool herself that she was his equal. Yet the years of practice had grown her skill, especially given that her own horse had been with her nearly the entire time. Súrë was as light of foot as the wind she was named for, a soft grey mare that had been only a year old when Linnea had first come to Lindon. Now in her prime, she and Linnea had learned together, and in doing so had become the best of friends.  

The camp was already bustling as it came into view; it made her smile, remembering the reason why they were tardy. It was a continual balance, the demands of ruling with the needs of a marriage - and the two of them had not always been perfect at achieving it. But they had learned, and they had done so together every step of the way.

Training, however, was a separate endeavor.

She met Gil-galad’s eyes briefly, exchanging a soft smile with him before she turned Súrë. Her guards fell in behind her; his would continue on, following him to where the soldiers were drilling in order to receive reports from the officers. After that, he would join the drills, considering it important for his troops to see him practicing alongside them. She agreed entirely, and had made his philosophy her own over the years.   

The Pilino Tarí had not waited for her; she would not have expected them to. They were at the far end of the field, and as she cantered up, she watched with pride as they worked: the Queen’s Arrows, formed four years ago and comprised of two hundred of Lindon’s best archers. Afoot, they were still a force to be reckoned with, but their power lay in their horseback training; they could shoot mounted, at speed, decimating the enemy as they galloped forth. Their saddles and tack were specially crafted, carrying additional quivers of arrows on either side in front of the rider’s leg. 

They had yet to be tested in battle. Linnea was unsure if she was thankful for that or not - there was only so much they could learn from training. But she had seen the worry in Gil-galad’s eyes when they had first spoken of her forming the company; he had given his consent and his support, and he plainly saw the wisdom in it. As King, his decision was clear; as husband, his heart still fretted. 

But she could do no less for her realm. Not after gripping her bow for the first time; not after feeling it sing in her hands when she had shyly taken it to the practice ranges, alone, not even bringing Gil-galad with her. She had sworn her guards to secrecy about her visits; it felt like a private thing, exploring her skill, seeing if her instincts had been right.

It made her smile again for a moment, remembering the pride on Gil-galad’s face when she had finally shown him.

You have a gift for it, beloved.

She brought Súrë to a halt off to the side of the practice area, waiting patiently for a convenient moment to join them. Her leftenants were on the field with the troops; while she might be the commander in name, she had been under no illusion of being qualified to direct the force in a real battle. In time, perhaps, but for the present she had chosen a pair of seasoned veterans to advise her. 

Tallagor, her First Leftenant, was first to see her. Second Leftenant Malfin was beside him; he called to her briefly and then turned his horse, riding around behind the archers that were waiting to make their runs across the practice field. It was a wide open span with targets positioned at irregular intervals, as well as boulders and fallen trees and other obstacles. The field was rearranged regularly, forcing the riders to continually adapt and adjust as they would in a real battle.    

Tallagor reined up next to her, nodding at her as he did so. “High Queen.”

“On dhea,” she nodded back. “How goes it this morning?”

“Very well. We have already nearly completed one rotation.” He cleared his throat, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Would you care to take the field before we move the targets for another round?”

She liked Tallagor; she liked him enough to give him a wry smile. He was teasing her in his dry way about her tardiness, and she was not above acknowledging it. Súrë snorted, as if she could read her rider’s thoughts, and stamped a foot in impatience.

Linnea chuckled at that, reaching out and stroking the side of Súrë’s neck to settle the horse. “Indeed,” she smiled. “I must train just as the rest of you do. I will join the ranks now.”

The practice field was divided in half, allowing for two riders to proceed simultaneously. At times they would ride in groups, learning how to work together and to avoid members of their own company, but today they were proceeding individually across the field.

The remaining troops, although few enough, would have deferred to her instantly. But Linnea waited like the rest of them, taking her place at the end of one of the two lines. Her guards had taken up positions a short distance away, allowing her as much freedom as they could, and as she joined the line Malfin rode up beside her. 

“High Queen,” she murmured. “It is a fine day for training, is it not?”

“It is.” Linnea smiled, keeping the reins loose in her hand and allowing Sure to naturally advance as the line moved. “And I see the company is in good form. My thanks to you both for making a start before I arrived.”

Malfin nodded. “Of course, High Queen. Tallagor and I were speaking this morning; we thought that next week, we might train in the forests as opposed to camp.”     

They had done so before, and Linnea nodded her approval. Changing the practice course was helpful, but a real location with all its variables was an excellent training exercise. 

“I think full armor as well, then,” she agreed. “Let us make a proper day of it.”

Normally for training, the Pilino Tarí wore light leather cuirasses over long gambesons and leggings; Linnea was in such herself. But for battle they would outfit as full cavalry, as would their horses. If they were going to train in the forests, it was a good time to practice with the extra weight as well.     

“High Queen.”

There was little more to say, not with how regularly they saw each other to train. She had up-to-date supply requests and equipment reviews, and there was no need to ask the same questions every day. Instead, Linnea contented herself with watching the troops ahead of her as they proceeded across the field. Malfin stayed quiet by her side; Linnea had always found her restful company, and there were few better with the bow. The Pilino Tarí were in good hands.

It was almost peaceful, despite the nature of the activity. The fury and urgency and heart-pounding danger of a battle could not be replicated on a practice field. Here, the sun was bright; the scents of leather and horse filled her nostrils. She could feel Súrë’s warmth through her leggings. She could hear murmurs of quiet conversation, even laughter.  

The last rider in front of her began the course. With a nod, Malfin moved off, allowing Linnea space to prepare for her run.

Linnea took a deep breath, gathering herself. Her bow was held in her left hand, not too tight and not too loose. Her right hand was free to draw and nock her first arrow; that was always part of training, practicing the art of loading the bow while on the move. In battle, the first arrow could be prepared, but afterward, one’s life could depend on how quickly a new arrow could be found and shot.

She touched Súrë’s flanks, and the horse leapt forward.

Three years of practice, for an Elf, was a drop in the sea. And Linnea had spent those years working hard to surrender the comfort of the reins and learn to communicate with her horse through her legs alone. But Súrë had learned well; she nimbly skirted the first of the obstacles - a pile of tall boulders - as Linnea drew an arrow from one of the side quivers and notched it to the bow string. The first target was a long strip of bark on a pole, a short distance from the boulders, and she easily hit it as Súrë passed by. 

One down. Many to go.

The targets were not only scattered irregularly, they were also at varying heights. Here, one practically hidden by the long grass, representing a crouching enemy. Here, one high above, an enemy hiding in the branches of a tree. Nothing allowing for routine, everything requiring the rider to adapt and improvise. Tallagor was old, older than Gil-galad even; he was a veteran of many battles, and had offered many good thoughts on how best to train.

Súrë leapt a jumbled heap of logs as Linnea shot for one of the low targets. Her arrow flew wide and she grimaced, but there was no time for that - there were two more targets in quick succession. She hit those and then continued, urging Súrë faster for a better challenge, and the horse was eager for it; she lunged into a gallop, rocketing through the rest of the course at close to her top speed.

At the end of the field, they turned back, running the obstacles once more. And this time, Linnea did not miss one target.

She allowed herself to feel a glow of pride as Súrë slowed to a walk back at the lines of troops that had already finished. It was foolish to expect that she would never miss in battle, but it was a pleasant start to the training day.        

Tallagor and Malfin were waiting for her there, and she offered them a smile as she rode up. “I believe we are ready to reset the course. May I - ” 

“High Queen.”

Slowly, Linnea turned in the saddle.

She had been distracted. She had not heard the Elf running up, but as he came to a halt, she knew him. He was red-haired, named Vorohil, and she remembered his twin brother Vorohir from her first months in Lindon when they had visited the Havens. 

He stopped, looking up at her, and her blood ran cold. There was a hint of trepidation on his face, and her first thought was that there had been some sort of accident during the drills, that Gil-galad had been hurt - but no. She would have felt it if so. Whatever it was, it was not that.  

“The High King asks for you,” Vorohil said. “A messenger has arrived from the Greenwood.”

The trepidation made more sense now, although it did nothing to dispel the chill inside her. Vorohil was fearful, although he had given her no specifics. Perhaps he did not know what news the messenger had brought, but he also did not know that it was good news. 

“Where is the King?”

“This way, my lady.”

Linnea was ahorse, and Vorohil was on foot, but she kept Súrë to a brisk trot and followed him across the entire length of the camp. To her left she could see the troops continuing to drill, oblivious to whatever news awaited her. 

It was hard, in a way, to believe that the news could be dire. Not in the bright, late morning sun; not with how the day had begun. 

She saw Gil-galad even before Vorohil stopped. He was standing outside the infantry commander's field tent, and beside him was the messenger from the Greenwood. She knew that, for she recognized Arondir, even though it had been many years since they had seen one another. But he was an Elf, he had changed little; even the sadness in his eyes for his lost love was still just as present.

He bowed to her as she slid off Súrë and came up to them, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were locked on Gil-galad. He was holding a scroll, but he did not offer it to her - and when he spoke, she understood why.

The message was plain enough. There was no need to read it.

“The Greenwood is under siege,” he said. “The enemy has come forth. And Oropher calls for our aid.”

TBC....

[insidekatmind]

Best friends- Pope Heyward

Wearning: +18, smut, cheating,english is not my first language

The soft lights of the sunset paint the horizon in shades of orange and pink as you sit on your porch, a book open in your hands. The air is crisp, with a light breeze carrying the salty scent of the ocean. You're engrossed in your reading when you hear the familiar sound of hurried footsteps on the path leading to your house. You look up and see Pope, his expression troubled and his fists clenched at his sides.

“Can I come in?” he asks without preamble, his voice rougher than usual.

You set the book down next to you, concerned. “Of course, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He climbs the porch steps, his movements quick and jittery. When he stops in front of you, you notice the flush on his cheeks and the slight tremor in his hands.

“It’s Cleo,” he says finally, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to contain something too heavy to hold. “We had a fight. A bad one.”

You stand up, gesturing toward the door. “Come inside, let’s talk about it.”

He nods and follows you in, collapsing onto the couch in your living room. You bring him a glass of water, which he accepts with a small nod of thanks. He takes a sip in silence, then runs a hand through his hair—a gesture you know well. It’s his way of trying to calm himself down.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” you ask, sitting next to him, close enough to let him know you’re there for him but not so close as to invade his space.

He sighs, a deep and tired sound. “It started as something stupid, at least at first. We were talking about plans for the weekend, and I said I wanted to spend it with you guys, with the Pogues. She started saying we spend too much time together and that I should dedicate more time to just the two of us.”

You nod, trying to see both sides. “And what did you say?”

“That there’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with my friends. But then she got upset and said I never put her first.” He pauses, shaking his head. “It’s not true, but… I don’t know, maybe I messed up somewhere.”

You look at him with gentle understanding, seeing the weight he carries on his shoulders. “Pope, you know how much Cleo cares about you. But maybe she needs to feel more secure in your affection. Maybe your words made her think you don’t care enough.”

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes filled with frustration and pain. “But that’s not true. I do care, so much. I just… sometimes I don’t know how to show it.”

You place a hand on his arm, your touch light but reassuring. “You don’t have to have all the answers right away. Sometimes it’s just about listening to the other person and trying to understand them.”

He leans back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “Why does everything have to be so complicated? I thought being with someone was supposed to be easier.”

You shake your head with a wistful smile. “Relationships are never easy, Pope. But if they’re worth it, you work to make them work.”

For a moment, silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of the waves in the distance. Then he leans slightly toward you, his gaze now softer but also more intense. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know? You’re always here for me, even when I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

Your heart beats a little faster at his words, but you try to stay calm. “That’s what friends are for, Pope.”

He offers a faint smile, a tired but genuine one. “You’re more than a friend to me, you know that?”

Your breath catches for a moment. “What do you mean?”

He moves closer, his face now only inches from yours. “I mean… I don’t know when it started, but lately, I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I’m with Cleo, part of me just wants to be here, with you.”

His words leave you speechless. You search his eyes, trying to discern whether he’s confused or sincere. But there’s no doubt in his gaze, only honesty.

“Pope…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I don’t want you to think I’m using you to get over Cleo. It’s not that. But tonight, when we fought, all I wanted was to come here. To be with you.”

Before you can respond, he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It’s a kiss that starts tentative, almost unsure, but as you respond, it deepens into something more intense, more passionate. His hands rest on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a moment, the world around you fades away.

When you finally pull apart, both of you breathless, he looks at you with a kind of reverence tinged with uncertainty. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

You did not let him finish because you have re-cut your lips with his. You sucked his lip whining moaning.

Pope lies you on the couch while he takes off your clothes and then takes off his.

Pope looks at you for a moment to confirm that you want to do it, and you nod.

You moaned at how big and long Pope’s dick was. He smiled and kissed you softly, then came in with a quick blow, making both of them groan.

"You’re tighter than I imagined," Pope muttered as he began to move.

You groaned and then caught your lips with him

As the impulses of Pope increased fucking you with force venting all his anger and all his passion that had at that moment.

You could only groan with force while your pussy held Pope’s cock tightly making him moan while he fucked you harder while he chewed your neck leaving spots and bruises but you didn’t care, you were enjoying and getting even more excited at the same time.

You scratched his back feeling how it was destroying your pussy and left big scratches behind his back but neither of them cared, too taken by the moment and how you were fucking so well.

"you’re fucking me so well" You whimpered and he growled as he felt your pussy tighten even more around his cock two more shots and made you come then follow you by wheel cumming inside.

"the best sex of my life" he murmured as he joined your lips with hers again.

Pope still had his dick inside you and you felt it was getting hard again and you moaned as you were watching and stroked his hair.

"Round two?" He whispered and you smiled nodding

[vesperane]

a little party

✎ It's 1927 and the lights are glittering. You're a budding jazz chanteuse, everyone's sweetheart, and Leon, who's got you in his sights, is out to score what's in his mind.

cw: blood, death, oral (female receiving), uhmm idek what to add cuz my mind is not minding after this (this shii hit hard and it's like 9k) , intricate time-skipping from scene to scene, mayhaps?, not proofread ouchie, MDNI

The rain poured down from the sky like a mighty torrent of rage. That night, the cold that prickled through Leon’s soaked Hart Schaffner jacket, far from dispiriting him, only kept him going. Years of privation, every step he had taken to secure his very existence, had taught him the vernacular of the streets, but on that night, the streets were poised to betray him. 

This story of treachery wasn’t as bitter as life, Leon couldn’t refute that.  

He had witnessed a sequence of crime that perhaps a boy who had come to a city like New York from his rural village, a boy who couldn’t even calculate his steps precisely, should never have seen in those scenes in his ever-lasting life. It was true that these blue pairs of peepers had seen many people perish, but these were the deaths that came in their due time like his mother’s death before she turned sixty, the Grim Reaper’s visit on his grandfather on a night like that night when the rains were drizzling over the sky. 

Only his father’s martial death could have rivaled the images he had seen that night. That may be it, he thought. After all, he had never had the chance to see his father choke on his own tainted and alcohol-laden blood in his frail, final moments. 

Back to that night, the man Leon saw in the car had a very different kind of dread. His eyes were huge sockets and a bloody streak was running down his throat on his skin, visible through the placket of his dress shirt.  

That was the kind of sight that makes one’s heart sing. Otherwise, it must have been an appalling sight that made men and women wince and cower. Leon should have felt the former for himself.  

How could he have known the little trick that fate would be about to play?  

On that September night, on a corner, he saw a wounded man trapped inside a maroon Cadillac. On the man’s face, there was a sliver of hope mixed with absolute despair, just the kind of “too proud to ask for help, but in need of salvation”.  

A faint spark flared inside Leon. 

He could recall his departed father’s words, that such men like in those costly cars were indeed evils for no good deed.  

His past had to be repudiated. 

His father was perhaps cursing him that night—no the old man was absolutely putting the whammy on young Leon. What a hell of a father. It was always the hardest thing for a boy like Leon to placate that lousy man. Even after his death it was all the more impossible to appease him. A ruffian of a man, Leon thought.  

He thought too much on that rainy, Friday night.  

Out of pure, undiluted impulse, he acted without a plan at all to save the man; he only thought of taking one more step in that ill-lit road. When he set his eyes on that street, he walked with a foolish spunk, heedless of the gun barrel of the mobster shrouded in shadows. He neither thought about the future nor retreated. “If you bail someone out, someday you will be bailed out too,” he thought with childlike simplicity.  

He was cold and unsure. Somehow or other, he had slid out of the dusk and appeared behind the black-clad mafioso who was pointing his revolver at the driver’s window and was about to blast the man inside with the hollow point of a bullet. 

The plot was grim. A gruesome story. For hours Leon washed his hands with scalding soapy water to rinse off the scum of the filthy man’s blood or that’s how he remembers the aftermath of the chain of events.  

He had grabbed the man by the cord and bashed his head against the drywall, searing sounds that he could still recall in the innermost recesses of his ear, the gold inlaid revolver in his hand clattering to the pavement, airy-fairy. The wrangling of the man, his Fedora hat plunged into the muddy rainwater pit on the tiled road. Leon would always remember the first murder, the one that lodged deep in the very core of his psyche. 

Beyond recall, Leon thrashed the man’s skull from wall to wall until he was sure he was in a stupor, and when the man finally slumped—coup de grace. Leon wailed out the air he had been consciously holding all those long, long minutes. Mouth hanging open, dulled eyes and the pile of corpse littering the floor at his feet. The lack of sleep from hours of working in the packing department of the Berwick shoe factory, some man’s brains imploding in the wall... Everything had drained the daylight out of Leon on that cursed night.  

When he met the gaze of the terror-struck man in the car, he met something much newer.  

He met himself.  

Or rather, his new “self”. 

An absolute criminal.  

He wasn’t shaking, nor did he feel like he might be sick. What was most pathetic was that he appeared to resemble his dead father in the wretched auspices reflected in the window of that maroon Cadillac. 

After that night, life kept rolling along. Days, weeks and months. Ironically, Leon was no longer just another schmo slugging it out in the textile mills. Nobody batted an eye at the kid’s line of work with all that greenbacks stuffed in his pockets. The word on the street? He’s just a flash in the pan, a real fly-by-night type. But here’s the thing, an American, with blonde hair and baby blues, is always the cat’s meow, especially if he’s sporting a sharp suit with a label on it. Anything that don’t fit the mold? Forget it. No exceptions to the rule. And isn’t that the ultimate American dream? Gents with pockets full of dough, running the show. 

How your story comes along with this creepy-crawly backstory, with so many powerful men signing off on it, is pure happenstance. A story straight from the pen of God, really, to put it in a nutshell.  

It all starts on a Saturday night, the March of 1927. 

Tin Pan Alley is kicking up its heels tonight, the joint hopping with the wildest kind of racket. The place is packed with middle-class folks from all corners of the city—newly minted millionaires who’ve made their pile and are now living it up. These cats have been rolling in dough so long they’ve got the smarts to throw it around like it’s sugar-coated. The air’s thick. Lap of luxury, and the whole scene is a real shindig, full of high-living gents and dames who’ve learned to spend big, laugh loud, and flash those fat pockets like it’s nobody’s business. 

“Get a wiggle on, gals! C’mon now.” 

From backstage, the sound of booming voices cuts through the air, unmistakably Ada Wong herself—barking orders and giving the girls an earful as she whips them into shape for the show. She’s a stunner with grit, the kind of woman you can’t help but notice. No one else is ever going take her seat; this joint is hers, and everyone knows it. Ada doesn’t just run the joint—she owns it. She’s got her pretty fingers on the pulse of the city’s most daring and avant-garde talent, working with the best, the boldest, and the brightest minds the world has to offer. If she’s not at the top of the heap, she’s surely standing on it. 

What’s a woman like that to do with a gal like you? Well, there’s a rather simple answer to that. 

Pretty young things always find their way to the top. And that’s before we even get to ones with voices that could melt hearts, like yours.  

Ada’s the Queen of the downtown club scene, and you’re her darling young, white-hot vessel of treasure trove. Pretty girls always get their moment, but pretty girls with a lilting voice garner more than their share of attention. All in all, Wong knows what she’s doing and you’re her ace in the hole. 

Yet there’re some rules. Ada’s rules. Simple ones, really. “Slip into your Jeanne Lanvin, dazzle ‘em with that red lipstick, and keep your chin up—don’t fidget, don’t even think about mussing up that perfect coif.” 

And on the stage, do keep that smile for the crowd until you get the microphone—because after all, the crowd is here to see your legs, not to hear your troubles. They pay in bills, you deliver the thrills.  

Hot minutes before the show, you stare at your reflection in the mirror like you’ve never seen your face before. The same old script in the mind, the same fake smile stretched on your lips—too tight over a thousand unspoken thoughts. The eyes in the glass, observing you with a kind of critical hunger, just waiting for a slip. They can’t perceive the enmity in your head—the one that never takes a break, no matter how many gin rickeys you slug down. The booze? It doesn’t wash away the ache. The pills? Only another temporary fix to soothe the ache that burns brighter when the spotlight fades. 

Why are you miserable, when the dough’s rolling in and the world’s at your feet? Why turn your back on the luxury that others would kill for? But hell, you don’t need an answer. 

You’re an oddity, a riddle wrapped in velvet and lace, sipped from a silver cup. The men and women, they all like you. The faces in the crowd—each of them gazing up at you with athirst eyes—are only loyal to you when the lights are on and the music’s blaring. Afterward, though, you’re just another pretty girl in a smoky room, holding your breath until they let you vanish again.  

Post-performance, Chris Redfield is the name which shields you from scrutiny (he quite literally interposes his humongous body between you and the admirers), he’ll pluck you out of the melee, hustle you into a quiet space and shelter you from anything. 

Then you’ll sit in the corner, maybe sip a seltzer, and go over your numbers, rehearsing the songs they want to hear and shimmy your tush that they’re going to throw dollars at. All in those godforsaken high heels! It’s a devil’s game, this life of glitter and stage lights. But the lights burn so bright, you almost forget the shadows hounding you from behind. 

All this sufferance, your illusions, the never-ending fervent hopes of that girl who had to run in those heels were perfectly channelized and you were born. For years you have breathed in and out for a single purpose, in an intricate cycle called life, a circle of a powdery pink existence that is anything but powdery pink. 

 It’s all diamonds. Dirty, big diamonds.  

“Miss, are you all set?” Chris’ voice slips into the air, stripped of any graspable pathos like a bad rumor. Those mother-of-pearl drop earrings—they’re starting to feel like anchors around your neck. 

“Sure thing, Chris,” you enunciate animatedly before getting up from your vanity chair. “Let’s take a stroll, huh? Like we own the place.”  

He does laugh, though rather stilly. He’s a straight shooter, the kind who lives by the book. 

After a lackluster walk, you arrive upstage. The joint is packed to the rafters, the air thick with the perfume of incense, lavender, and a dash of orange, like a high-society boudoir on a Saturday night. Piers, who performed a little verse before you, is preparing to leave the stage to thunderous ovations. Naturally, he can’t scram from the joint until he’s put in the grunt work he’s got to handle. 

“Ladies and gents, hold onto your hats—here’s the name you’ve all been dying to hear!” Piers’ voice crackles through the microphone, sending a whitecap through the crowd like a match setting fire to velvet. He does wonders with the microphone, alright. 

One, two, three—out with it. You exhale that pent-up storm and just like that, the stage belongs to you. 

Time’s up. You take that breath, the one you’ve been holding like a secret you can’t quite tell, and you step into the spotlight. 

You’re in. And the stage is yours—a damn showstopper of a stage, mind you. 

Your heels hit the floor with that familiar rhythm, each step measured, a saint’s grace—if a saint knew how to twirl in silk and steal the show. The crowd’s already on their feet, clapping, whooping, hollering. The smile on your face is blindingly luminescent, even more dazzling than diamonds. God, you’re fake, but hands up, darling. You’re the queen of this palace.  

The air’s electric as you wave, your people calling your name like it’s the sweetest song they’ve ever heard. Your chest swells, a perfect mix of pride and thrill, the crowd hanging on your every move like moths to the flame. 

But then—just as the frenzy peaks—a set of eyes catches yours from somewhere in the haze. 

Something in that gaze. Something different. A new note in the symphony, sharp and clear. 

With all due respect, you know the dandies—the regulars who’ve been greasing their palms to get front-row seats for years. Those high-browed, underdressed gargoyles—each one plastered in a grotesque mask of makeup that’d make a saint blanch. And then there are the ones who are really in love with your voice, the ones who drop their dimes and bills just to hear you sing, all the way down to the final breath of your last note. Their eyes glisten like they’re listening not just to you, but to the very last song on earth. 

But then there’s him—the stranger in the crowd. He doesn’t quite fit into either of those camps. He stands apart like a shadow, as though he’s absorbed something from the city itself—electric, muted, with a trace of gunmetal dust in his eyes, something that caught the reflected light of a thousand lost souls. 

He’s not looking at the fellow beside him, not paying the slightest attention to the clamor or the chatter. No, his gaze is all for you. Wait a minute—what’s this? Is that Ada, standing just there by his side, or has your vision gone all soft in the haze of the lights? 

It’s Ada, alright. And she’s got you in her sights, sending you a thousand little daggers with those eyes of hers, as if daring you to keep singing, daring you to hit every note just so. 

Now, it’s not your style to stand around like some dopey schoolgirl, ogling every flapper and every fancy boy who drifts through the scene. No, you’re only a little giddy to see fresh faces, fresh crowds, and—well, a fresh crop of admirers, too. No harm, no foul. End of story, no need to dig any deeper. (Of course, that’s all just a tall tale.) 

But what about Leon? How’s he taking in this blurred picture of yours, with all its strange little twists and turns? 

“What a hot mess up there on that stage.” He mutters tacitly, his very first thoughts about you. 

He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, finding the whole thing a delightful mess. And he knows—oh, he knows—that he’s right in the crosshairs of Ada’s death stare. Poor guy. He’s probably already picturing her giving him a good talking-to, the sort that’d have a lesser man crawling for cover. 

For now, though, your voice knells over the microphone, a golden oldie, ritzy and true, and the crowd falls into a hush like a room full of smitten children. The spell is cast again, and they’re all yours. 

Ada, meanwhile, gives you a nod—half maternal, half triumphant—as if you’re her very own creation, fretting and fuming along in a delicate harmony with the night. And Leon, well, let’s just say he’s still trying to keep his own amusement under wraps, but the grin’s playing all over his face. 

No doubt about it, you’re the star of the night—who else could it possibly be? The eponymous name everyone’s been whispering in esteem, the one Leon has heard mentioned more than once, all wrapped up in the honeyed sort of praise.  

Up on stage, Leon has you in his illusory blues, as everyone else contemplates you until your encore is at an end. There are certain things that should only be spectated, their splendor should be kept locked away in the heart and in a secret corner of the brain after peeping through the veils of the eyes. That’s you, for him. You’re that kind of beauty—too grand for the world to touch, too perfect to be anything but an ephemeral glimpse. 

“Oh, that chick’s the real deal, alright,” Leon breathes in overawe. Turning now to Ada, when your performance comes to a sublime end, he has you up front in the applause, as does your crowd. He’s a part of your crowd now.  

To which Ada retorts with a cognizant luster, “What did I tell you?” she says, the glow of cinch lighting up her face like the glow of a cigarette’s ember in the dark. “The best ones are always under my namesake.” 

Leon can’t argue with that—not when he’s seen you, not when you’ve got him bewitched, already half-dreaming that you might be some celestial being sent here just to voodoo the cosmos with your tongue. A star fallen from Arcadia, caught in a moment of earthly grace. In such a way that he should render himself a more open target for you. The thought flickers through his mind like a dangerous little inferno: maybe he should make you his. Keep you close, lock you up like the most precious thing he owns, the way he’s always hoarded only the finest nonpareils. Time’s done a number on him, sure—he’s spent enough hours in the smoke-permeated parlors of the city’s high society to become exactly the sort of libertine playboy who rounds up beautiful things. In this modern age, after all, it’s the ones who possess the rarest jewels who leave their names etched into history. 

And legacy—that’s all Leon really wants. To leave a mark. To be remembered. 

Ada gets the wind of that desire in Leon’s eyes the second he lays his zealous eyes on you. She tugs him by the arm, and pushes him to a corner that’s secluded from the public eye, so that his ear can reach her red-tinctured lips. “Don’t,” she warns, “don’t cross that line in your mind.” 

“Don’t get all worked up, Ada.” Leon’s voice slips out smooth and phlegmatic, like a man who’s seen it all and is hardly moved by it anymore. There’s something visceral about it, something that pulls him into the dark corners of the backstage when a woman like her—striking and full of fire—yanks him close. He has always adored women, sure, but there’s something about the ones who know how to take charge, the ones who’ve got the power to bend him to their will, that makes him stay just a little bit longer. 

Tonight, though, Ada isn’t the one who has his attention. You are. He plays the part of the good boy to Ada, soft words and whist smiles, but underneath, there’s a quiet conspiracy to take what she holds dear, her prized girl, namely you.  

This tendency is nothing new for Leon—it’s a trick he’s picked up over time, a survival mechanism he learned in the kind of world where charm and guile are the only things that keeps him afloat. 

Ada doesn’t miss it. Her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows, the kind of expression that makes a man’s skin crawl. There’s no mistaking the mistrust there, like ice forming in the atmosphere between them. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, her voice abiding, almost too calm. “One wrong move, and Wesker’s on your tail.” 

Her words hang heavy in the air, a warning clothed in concern. Beneath her sangfroid, Leon feels a flicker of something deeper, something that he’s too foolish to fully understand—Ada Wong is afraid. In this world, in this neon-lit, soulless place, she fears losing someone she can rely on. Someone she trusts. 

Leon gets it, or at least, he feels the weight of it—but it’s nothing he’ll lose sleep over. He’s too simple, too self-absorbed, too headstrong. A fool, really. 

And that foolishness, that same reckless drive, leads him straight to your door. And standing in the way is Chris, his massive frame blocking the entrance like a standpat mountain. 

Leon’s voice takes on a resigned note. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out.” He knows he’ll have to talk his way through. He always does—always puts his life and tears on the line. 

“Come on, pal,” he says with a remiss grin, like he’s telling an old joke. “What’s one little party going to hurt? 

His words sound tired, worn from repetition, but his eyes are sharp, looking for any crack, any weakness in Chris’ solid stance. Leon knows this game well, but Chris? He’s not someone you talk past easily. 

“No entry, I said,” Chris’ voice is edgier and booming. Leon didn’t expect a harsh backlash from such a dim-witted man, even though he’s been grilling him for nearly half an hour. The pedestal, however, is clear, Leon wants to be heard and he wants to draw your attention. He knows you’re in your room and he doesn’t compromise since he always wants more. Even if he tickles a chance that he might end up getting beaten up, the risk, you are, worth it. 

Leon shrugs, ever the picture of nonchalance, though his voice is silky with calculated charm. “It’s just an autograph, my good man. A trifle, really. You wouldn’t deny an admirer of the arts a simple token, would you? It’s hardly the end of the world…” Leon flaunts his mendacious excuses.  

For then, Chris inhales a long, drawn-out gulp of bile. Why is he going through this excruciating ordeal? This loquacious blonde has been clamoring to see you for minutes. Leon’s been at it for minutes now, talking a mile a minute—promising everything, offering bribes, flattering him to no end. And yet, there’s no movement. 

“When I say no, it means no. Get movin’ or I won’t be liable for what happens, young fella,” Chris’ last words are too caustic and are perhaps adequate proof enough to conclude the last point. Only a cheeky mite like Leon doesn’t understand how to leave high and dry. 

“A grave indignity, old sport. I only—” His words are broken off by the crack of the door parting open. The countenance he beholds is the one Leon covets. At the sound of the click of your heels, Chris turns in a dazed sort of way to acknowledge your presence. 

“Ma’am, this fellow—”  

You interrupt him with a wave of your hand in the breeze. You don’t necessarily need to hear the whole story; you’ve already overheard the whole thing when you were changing your dress.  

“Chris, me and my... admirer will take it from here,” you assure your friend, and you do recognize your newest fan’s face, “you should go home now.”  

That’s how you seal a deal.  

The jazzy, twinkling blue mirrors in Leon’s sockets—reflecting fragments of light like stars caught in a lover’s gaze—seem to applaud you silently. “Look at this dame,” they whisper, “What a thing she’s done, dispatching that thug.” 

Chris’ stupefied gaze flies between you and Leon. Yet the look you give him signals that all is well enough, the quiet reassurance of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. Chris bears silent and moves a meter away, and then over a dividing wall. 

“You saved me, my dear.” Leon dashes in without wasting a second of his precious time. However much he can wow you, that’s as good as it gets. 

“Oh, don’t even mention it,” you reply, your voice airy but welded. “And please, do excuse Chris. Mr...?” You quirk your eyebrows and proffer his name, hand raised for a handshake. Leon’s only too happy to comply. 

“Leon. Leon Scott Kennedy.”  

You can’t quite place it, but there’s something vaguely familiar about the name, like a snippet of conversation overheard in a café or a name dropped casually pending a gossip fest. It lingers on the edge of your memory, refusing to settle in the space where it belongs. 

Leon can see the ululation echoing in your eyes, plain and simple, “What is it, doll?” He asks, beryls alight with oceanic larks. “Do you know me? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve heard of me. Everyone knows my name around here, you see.”  

How he can’t stop raving about himself leaves a tangy aftertaste on your tongue for the first impressions. Naturally on your face too. 

You smile, just a little too gaily. “I believe so,” you counter. “But I was more curious about what’s brought a man of such... renown to this particular corner of the world. After all, I’ve never heard of you before tonight, Mr. Kennedy.”  

Your words are relentless, and besides, there’s no harm in reminding this conceited man of his place in your presence.  

“Is that so?” Leon cross-examines. Now it’s time to watch his face shrivel up—figuratively speaking since his face is too pretty to take a nosedive. 

“That so, gentleman.” You sort of ascribe to his intonation, the same acerbic tonality and maybe a pinch of belittlement. It’s more genuine. Now why would you do it like that? Now that you’ve piqued his interest all the more, his already inherent infatuation with you attains a deeper level. Now you’ve got him hooked even tighter. The one that’s not an easy prey is always more desirable, and simple-minded people like Leon, men of a breed under the names of kind gents, take this as a rule of thumb.   

“Honey... That’s called cheating, see? Be straight with me. My name’s the talk of the town.” Leon’s counting on you to accept this absurd truth, his truth. The smile of implied expectation on his lips is a foreshadowing of its force majeure. He’s delivering the punchline of a joke no one’s laughing at yet. 

“Sir... I’m at a loss for words, truly. You’ve come all the way here to face Chris just for my autograph?” You do what you know and your cockiness builds layer by layer. Watching the ferment on his face, the frowny set of his eyebrows, gives you a special sense of self-assurance. 

“Autograph. Ha!” Leon lets out a crow of laughter, like he’s just remembered something from way back. It’s big, brash, and loud. Passing dancer girls bustle around backstage, giggling at his fit of exuberance. It’s that you are making a toy out of him and somehow, he can’t extricate himself from the predicament. 

“I forgot, of course,” he says, shifting into a more controlled drawl; he’s trying to smooth out the bumpy ride. He pulls a pen and a small notebook from his coat pocket with an exaggerated flourish. “But you can’t exactly blame me, doll. Your beauty’s done something to my head—messed with my mind, ya know?” 

Oh, he’s smooth, like the tingles left by the fingers tangent to your palm. 

“It seems to be your problem,” you riposte. Pen in hand, you carve your signature on the blank expanse of crisp white paper and Leon follows the touch of the ink on the sheet of paper, heedless of your jeering remarks. 

“My problems never quite seem to end,” he expounds, not in a protesting way, but with a light touch of amusement tapping on his lips. You only respond with a whispery whicker of a laughter. You do laugh like God, Leon notices, if God is even real. 

That’s when Leon understands why people can be drawn to a simple voice as much as they can. You owe your fame to this elfin-singing voice, the batting of those cartoon eyes. As for your beauty, it must be a double blessing from God.  

Leon delights in deciphering you like a crossword puzzle, worships your littlest moves, the way the flutter of your lashes floats and the way you tuck his pen back into the pocket on his chest, your fingers brushing the fine wool. 

“There you go. I’ve solved the great mystery of where your pen belongs.” You intone with a quip, setting up a bittersweet closure for the end of your conversation. No sooner do you withdraw your hand that Leon neatly guides your wrist and then places your knuckles in the vicinity of his lips, dusting them with brief, aestival kisses. 

“Oh, so chivalry isn’t pushing up daisies after all,” you admire, a playful lilt that could make even the most cynical gangster crack a smile. When your cadenza echoes in his ears, he takes a step or two back and assents with a single nod. A small vignette of a valedictory farewell. 

“It never croaked, doll,” Leon’s exuding poise again. “And as long as I’m around, it never will.”  

Seeing the beatific smile on your face like the marquee outside the Cotton Club, in his defense, is worth being so gooey— makes him feel just the right kind of foolish. 

“I wish you the grandest of nights,” he wishes you a generous adieu, tipping his hat in a farewell that’s both classy and just a speck visionary. Then, with a hindmost glance, he’s gone, leaving behind the faintest fume of his cologne—woodsy, something big-ticket, and just dangerous enough to match the man himself. 

This parting, though it may feel final, is no more than the ebb and flow of time.  

The morning’s bouquet arrives with violets, their soft, violet faces peeking from beneath a flourish of ribbon, accompanied by a silver card, its edges smooth and gleaming, bearing a name that was spoken only yesterday, inked in a hand that could never be mistaken for anything but deliberate, graceful.  

Leon.  

Each new day brings its own small ceremonial gestures—an exchange of flowers, bellflowers to accompany the violets, perhaps a box of bonbons in the afternoon—each offering bestowed as if to signify the passing of something eternal. You, by virtue of your place, greet them with the appropriate pleasantries. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it stirs something within you. The feeling lingers. It is like the first breath of spring, though all around you is the stillness of winter. 

The exchange of blooms soon shifts from the morning to the evening, as the days drag on. And one night, when you return home well after the sun has set, weary from a day’s toil, you barely step inside before stumbling over a scattering of furniture, bags, and the daily clutter that seems to overtake your living room. The place is chaos, but your eyes catch the glint of something—an envelope, dark as the night, slipping from beneath the glow of the lamp. 

In the midst of such chaos, the gray luna card peeks out in the darkness like a square, mini-moon. Leon Scott Kennedy, you see that signature. 

“Is he playing some cruel jest?” You grumble ringingly. Indignation and dismay pump a tumult of emotion into your bloodstream.  

How on earth did this man find my home?  

It’s one thing to trace the address, to acquire it from some list or chance encounter, but to walk right in—to gain such intimate knowledge—who is this Leon Scott Kennedy? 

You don’t know the answer yet, but you will have to.  

In the days that follow, the gifts come still, but their novelty has long worn thin. The flowers, yes, they remain—fragile reminders of something, but the jewelry and the fine clothes? A cheap masquerade, a vulgar form of generosity. They carry no weight, no warmth. You collect them all and send them on their way, delivered into the hands of some worthy cause, as if the giving itself were the only part worth remembering. 

The night presses on, and once again, you sit in the stillness of the dressing room, the buzz of anticipation humming just outside the door. The minutes slip by like forgotten memories, yet the weight of them, that heavy burden, never quite leaves you. Your chin rests in your palm as you study your reflection in the vanity mirror. Makeup perfected, hair arranged with methodical precision—everything is in its place, or so it seems. 

Everything is okay, except for one problem. A burden of distress that has been piling up inside you which you can’t tell anyone about, and it’s directly stabbing you in the heart. 

Should you even be on that stage tonight? The question lingers in your mind like a ghost, but you can’t answer it. Your thoughts are in a terrible disarray, as though your mind has split itself apart at the seams. Paranoia gnaws at the edges of your sanity, clawing at the fragile thread that holds it all together. How could you possibly perform in this state, to feed the insatiable hunger of the crowd outside? 

But, of course, Ada would have no qualms about writing you out of here in the blink of an eye, and while the money tempts you, the thought of unemployment claws at your gut like a feral thing. Still, this job—the stage, the spotlight, the rhythm of it all—this is what you are in love with. It’s never easy, losing what you love while you’re still so deeply entwined in it, but sometimes that is the price you pay. 

And so it’s settled. You will go. You will step out there, and you will do what you’ve always done. The show must go on, after all. 

It’s only then that matters assume a different ontogeny. Two torpid taps at the door, clouds of heavy thoughts bite the dust. It’s absurd to ask who it could be. Has to be Chris. Take a deep breath and repeat the rituals you know, the ones that are now ingrained in your repertoire. 

Then, there’s a second round of knocks. A fourth, more insistent, more immediate, as though time is cat on a hot tin roof. It’s not Chris. It can’t be. 

“Salutations, my dear.”  

To see the face that flashes you a foul grin when you open the door here again is the very last alternative scene you’d hoped for. On the spur of the moment, you even attempt to slam the door in his face, but he’s reflexively putting his foot on the threshold, rather faster than you anticipated. 

“Tch! Not so fast, honey,” comes that jaunty cadence again, infected with that same devil-may-care rhythm. 

The man at the door is none other than Leon himself—an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. He stands there, his presence somehow both imposing and unwarranted. 

“I can’t believe you,” you break into hysterical platitudes. The very notion of him—of this—is enough to rive the delicate shell of control you had carefully built around yourself. 

Leon can’t fathom the reason for the knitted brow and is forced to compromise the arrogant mien on his face. The sang in the cerulean blues adequately sums it up. 

“What exactly can’t you believe, ma’am?” 

The dazed stress in his question reveals that he doesn’t even realize the folly of his mistake. What kind of a joke is this? What audacity and idiocy?  

“I don’t buy it, sir.”  

The froth in your breath at odds with the urbane gentleness of your words. Ignoring this, Leon pushes the door open in a single dash and you’re propelled through the door. He closes it in a blink of an eye.  

“Is your charade going to end or...” 

Before Leon can ask his rhetorical question, his eyes flick to the ultraviolet petals in the vases on your vanity table. So you kept everything, his floral tribute for you. Oh, it’s heartwarming, but... he still can’t cross the backhanded pinprick in your stance. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave my room or I’ll have to fetch Chris here.” 

“You don’t say?” Leon is the same, overzealous. He’s irksome to the extreme. 

“Last time, I thought everything was splendid, darling,” he drags out, “I distinctly recall you favoring me with those dreamy little looks. Correct me if I’m mistaken.” 

Such gall. He has absolutely no idea how much of a headache and the hell he’s been giving you. It’s better to remind him, but how you do it is up to your discretion. 

“Listen here, mister, had I taken your insolence to the authorities, you’d likely not be setting foot anywhere near here. You’d be—” a deliberate pause for emphasis, “breathing stale air behind iron bars.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me, been mixing grain and grapes but what the devil are you talking about?” 

His smile falters then, only slightly. There’s no awning of shock, no mortification, no shame etched across his face. Instead, his expression remains a humdrum enigma, a challenge lurks behind his steady gaze. What sort of man faces such accusations without so much as a flicker of discomposure? 

You can’t take it anymore. 

“How dare you intrude upon my home?” The words cut sharp, like the honed edge of a razor. 

“I’ve never been in your house, doll.” He’s ready to mount a defense in mere seconds. In fact, he hadn’t been in your house, not directly. Indirect is more like it. 

“Leon... please,” you hold up your hand and project callousness as if you’re repulsing his words, sweeping away the ugly bugs, “your card was even in the room with your very name written on it.”  

This is the first time he ever heard his name from your cherry lips, ruby and ripe. A different gamut of sensations, it’s limerence. 

But back to the elephant in the room.  

Soon enough, Leon’s epiphany is added to the flow of events, and if he can take his eyes away from you, he will have a couple of revelations. Taking his eyes away from you, on the other hand, is a hell of an ordeal—a Sisyphean task.  

It really does scorch him on a physical plane. 

“Don’t get yourself in a twist, sweetheart,” Leon is honing his flirting chops. Smoothing your ruffled feathers is a sport he’s personally cultivated.  

The stunned confusion written in a chiffon calligraphy on your face only fuels his merriment, albeit the sheer umbrage gemmating on your face.  

“I must remind you, Mr. Kennedy, that you are brazenly invading my privacy.” The words spill out like pearls on a string, polished but sharp-edged. It never hurts to try again, even if it means shoving your own ineradicable truths and forcing your own phrases into that numbskull.  

“Sure, sure, sweetheart. Privacy. Trespassing. Let’s call the whole thing off.” His grin unfurls, shameless. 

Leon takes a tentative grip on your wrist and guides you toward the chair by the window. As you sink into the chair, borderline slumping over, a thought strikes you like the crack of a conductor’s baton: tonight’s gig.  

The stage, the lights, the hushed murmurs of the audience—it all comes flooding back with startling clarity. 

“I can’t deal with this,” you mutter, rising to your feet as a fresh wave of trepidation tightens your chest. “I’ve got a show—” 

“Oh, the big show,” Leon infringes your words with a chuckle, waving his hand theatrically. “Let me guess. You’ll have the whole world eating out of your hand tonight, and I’m just the poor sap standing in your spotlight.”  

His hand finds your shoulder, potent and unyielding. He eases you back into the chair with a maddeningly adroit air.  

How rude.  

“All right, what’s the racket now?” you demand. Your eyes tote the lake of fire. 

“Don’t look at me like that, sugar,” Leon’s voice grates on your brain in just the veritable way, it’s tip-top dulcet.  

“I had a most discreet little chinwag with Ada Wong,” he prattles on. He pays no mind to the labored breaths that break the rhythm of his words, then, with an audacity that leaves you momentarily aghast, drops to his knees before you. 

“Oh, and darling Ada didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow as long as I promised to square her away for the greenbacks slipping through the fingers of your adorable fans.” 

He stylishly fuses the bevy of words with his… fancy lines as he speaks. His gliding hands on your legs awaken a surprisingly ruddy pallor. He seizes your ankle and sews it up, positioning your heel on top of his knee, cradling your right leg. The subsequent is tremendous.  

He slants the marrow of his blues on you, his chin tipped up, calculating how you’ll react. Ambivalent eyes are only on you.  

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop, but if you want me to keep going, I won’t stop till you’re sick of me. It’s all for you, doll.” His voice lacks the sanctimonious hue you have come to memorize. It leaves a more mellow rumble in your ears.  

Leon, taking into account the fact that he has received no verbal confirmation yet no verbal rebuff, folds the hem of your dress until the silk fabric curves around your hips, the satiny is a girdle around your waist, traversing the garter.  

“Give me a fair chance and I’ll make you forget all the pratfalls I’ve done.” His wintry breath strokes across your skin, soaking into your blood, his lips on your legs, Camellia pink, lush.  

Up and up. 

High enough to boggle your mind, but not high enough to bore you. Up your calves, past your knees and up your thighs beyond your calves. It’s not enough and the peerless panorama you can behold before you soak out your veiled eyelids, beset by strands of blonde hair tangled in the white lace of your French knickers. The abject cold of March versus the waves of citrus fire pouring from the fireplace sizzle your skin like in the saying; March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. 

Leon is inexorable with you and the portent of antsy impatience on your face as he lingers between your legs and welds his tongue between your pulpy slit.  

For Leon, it’s all he can do not to get drunk on the tang of the nectar he’s been craving for weeks.  He clamps his hands around your thighs and worships you, your lovely cunt, perhaps with the devout hunger of a believer after fasting all day long.  

Let your hips propel themselves against his nose, riding on the tip of his tongue. That garrulous mouth is at last put to some use, occupied, but his nose? The work his nose does is better experienced than spoken.  

An ephemeral passion infuses you with the lyrics of his tongue, your French manicured nails are nothing more than paws on his scalp and your fingers are nothing more than joints yanking at his tresses.  

What about your legs?  

They are a complete sphinx; you can’t even feel them.  

The words of adulation choke at the base of your throat and your mind blanks out when you feel his pillowy lips pressing against your raw ribbon of sore nerves. A myriad flux of gasps tumble down your rosy red lips, your body trembles as bolts of ecstasy rush through your synapses, white hot to the touch with bliss. 

Lovely sounds emanating from the crevices of your lips grow louder and Leon switches his weight to the outsole of his shoes, only ever paying attention to your glistening pussy. To quiet you down, he plants a brief, benign nip on your clit.  

Deep within you, that flash of rural thunderbolt strikes you anew, but you get the picture. Now your subdued moans beguile his ears, he licks and kisses and sucks on your plump clit; he’s near suffocation, but he carries on the rave, finger-fucking where his lips are each retreat to catch his breath. 

Right when you’re nearing the decadence, as ecstatic as he is, he flings his head back and refuses to let you sip that cocktail of hedonistic fumes.  

“Leon!” You yelp his name unabashedly in that frantic microsecond. Those twisted tufts of pleasure in your belly are torn to shreds and yes, in the end, you are incapable of cumming. All this because of your douchebag new lover with his tinsel eyes who is all eyes and no eyes.  

“Sorry, love.” His voice is raspy, his eyes cryptic as he entreats for absolution. Emits all the sounds that got stuck in his throat after lovemaking.  

Tongue still laced with that sherbet of jawbreaker liqueur; the only thing he’s lost is the blissed-out zeal of ecstasy on your beautiful face. His plans are separate anyway, that creampie episode should be in his bed and you’ll be stretched out on his cock which is now straining in a Brooks Brothers suit. He’ll leave you hanging, for more of him. 

Regardless, he can at least catch a glimpse of macules of mascara on your eyelashes and two mini teardrops splashing down on your lash cords. The saliva trickling out of your mouth and drooling over the brim of your lips tears at his very ruth, but the eyes are special. They will always tell the absolute truth.  

“I only want to be yours.” The rhapsodic promises spring out of his lips like a bolt from the blue. 

That’s the whole secret, and so he graves his head between your thighs like a lovesick animal, incapable of subduing himself. You foolishly dwell in this rollercoaster of amore. 

It would certainly not be a lie to conclude that things came to a healthier denouement after that night. The scant nights when you are absent from your apartment complex come on the heels of the days you stayed at his place and baked biscuits together in his kitchen. Those afternoons clogged with whispering of sins in the darkness.  

The city, blues, jazz lovers and the circle of all those people for whom Leon has who knows what kind of background, your name is the only topic of conversation, next to Leon’s. Your resplendent name, always written alone in big prints, is now next to a man.  

You are no longer alone, by all means. But then sometimes... some nights when Leon doesn’t drop by the house until the morning, your suspicions curdle into a black furor. Not a word of what the hell he was doing was ever exchanged between you, that’s what is slowly killing you. 

This uncertainty lingers for weeks and then for months. He somehow coaxes you into selling your apartment. It’s a seemingly ghastly toll—being bound to him, but his clarion rhymes always alleviate you. Strange. 

“My little angel, I just want you near me. Why do we need your apartment when I have my space and we have more than enough. Besides, a little party hurt no one, not you and me when we’re together.”  

Your protections are short-lived, because the kisses he lanced to your lips were usually loud enough to lull you into silence.  

He, Leon Kennedy, is hardly to be got to grips with. A charmer who never misses a trick. The best of everything belongs only to him and to you because you are his. You love dancing, but he doesn’t, he has to be a grumpy cat. Every time you stick a match to light your stogie, he winds up next to you and he’s the one who lit your kindle. He hates the smell, hates it wholeheartedly, says that his hair reeks and so on, but he sleeps with his head in your lap, watching the smoke flitting through the air from your lips. In fond veneration, as a little infant would behold his mother's face for the foremost time since the hour of his birth.  

The addressee of every petty dispute, the hardest, was to love a man who never lagged behind, who always wanted more.  

“You want more,” a dejected sulk crosses your lips, “Why?”  

Leon takes two sips from his glass full of Lafite, and he peers over the rim of the glass, half-listening. 

“What does that mean now?”  

“The night we met... something... struck me.”  

“Oh.” He sets his pint down on the table and is all at ease. 

“I’m only talking about the time you confronted a bloke like Chris without hesitation just to flaunt yourself in front of me, darling.” 

“Oh, that one. I’ll give Chris props, he was a hell of a boss. You should consider bumping up his paycheck.” 

You shake your head in resentful disbelief and refuse to say anything more beyond his passing remarks. Any time you point out something about his behavioral pattern, he gets testy and does his best to bury the hatchet. And then comes a killer migraine.  

“I certainly will. Ah, perhaps your patron should be a good patron like me and not withhold some money.”  

It’s these words that are rattling around in your unconscious. A voice in your head taps on your skull that it would not be a bad idea to hold back, but your lips will not meet.  

“Simply inhuman, to be working from nine at night to six in the morning. He should make you a multimillionaire by now.”  

Leon blinks his eyes closed and unfocused, his intense metallic gaze boring into you from beneath his lashes. 

“You know I prefer not to talk about it.” There is a devotional twang in his timbre. 

“Leon. I am merely—”  

Your lecture, however, is bisected in half by the storming in of a blond man dressed in a black leather trench coat following behind one of the girls working in housekeeping. Lackluster and sketchy.  

Leon staggers from his seat to his feet as the ignoble visitor takes his first step inside. 

You’re as still in your seat, legs crossed.  

“Please forgive me, young lady.” Your guest's voice is veiled with pejorative politeness. He draws closer, as if Leon is not in the room, and whispers short, detached and insensate kisses on your knuckles.  

“But your lover Leon himself was slacking off. For some weeks now,” he adds, then turns a short pivot to make sure his last words have reached the ears they are meant to reach.  

“I told you, pal, Ada and I have submitted our notice of dismissal, Mr. Wesker.” Leon’s teeth clench together. Oh, you know that look, better than anyone or anything.  

The humble ignominy of failing to uphold you in front of a man like Albert Wesker is hideous for Leon.  

“I’d be a fool to lose my best recruits, Mr. Kennedy.” 

This man must be the boss, apparently. What chutzpah.  

“I’m not coming. I told you, Italy ain’t my business.”  

“Italy?” Now you’re diving into the spiel. Confused, what’s coming out of these two men’s mouths is beyond their ears.  

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, this tangled headache, the revelation of everything he had swept under the carpet weren’t part of his plans for tonight.  

“Your girlfriend is very prying, Leon, but curiosity kills the cat.” This Albert bastard is blatantly blackmailing you and Leon with verbal cattle prods.  

“I must ask you to leave my house. Please, kind sir.”  

You’d be a fool to put up with this nonsense any longer. You stand up and tactfully point to the door to the man who might be the very incarnation of effrontery. His eyes darting to Leon, you, and the door, flux and reflux.  

“Surely thing. I’m not here to offend the little lady. See, I’ll find my own way out.” Wesker bids you his wee farewell and, one last time, delivers those paralyzing spells of paranoia to Leon, “You know the deal, boy. You know better than anyone what happens when you slip up.”  

Leon is more familiar with such words. Grim-rimmed eyes are no longer cavalier blues.  

“You still got an hour.”  

After the admonition, the man leaves the room, leaving only misdoubt in his wake. At least for you. Your lover... He's in a very different state of mind.  

“Don’t tell anyone about this. Not a word. No one.”  

“I... What?” 

Your brain, which is still recovering from the shell shock, can’t even wrap up what you’re repeating.

“You, you, humor me, will you. Get your head together, sweetheart.”  

It’s absurd that Leon still adores you like some baby when he's slamming the lid of the safe full of dollars, euros and gold ingots. Only you don’t raise a peep, you simply gawk and watch the chaos around you.  

He’s been pacing the room for half an hour, tucking a flak jacket under his shirt and a leather gun holster into a Louis Vuitton utility belt around his waist. What the hell is this? Off marching off to war? 

When he’s done, he stalks you with quick strides and you find yourself stepping backwards for no reason. Leon doesn’t have time for these flip-flops. He’s got one overriding objective in mind. To save you by any means necessary, but he’ll never tell you from what. Yet you ask him over and over again, ranting and raving.  

A tantrum and delirium.  

“You can’t leave me. No.” Your voice is harsh enough, but the stinging tears in your eyes are perfidious.  

Inasmuch as he can’t bear to look at them, he can’t heed their force. 

“I’ll be back. I guarantee it, love. This is just a little party, had never hurt a soul.” 

He smothers your forehead in bittersweet caresses and spares your quivering lips along the pucker of your flesh. It’s all for naught. Nothing can be solved with these evanescent kisses.  

“Why are you running away from me? Why are you afraid of that man?” Your questions are clipped but unyielding. A single answer is more than enough, and you demand it, fight for it. 

That’s how pathetic Leon is. Can’t he face it?  

To be so weak that, for all that you’ve been through... It’s all teardrops on the fire between the two of you. 

You can’t quite read his eyes anymore, they’re not what they used to be and he’s not the man he used to be.  

“Please, Leon.”  

It’s the most humbling feeling of near-death to close his deaf ears to your invocation. He can’t name it, name the thing inside him, but acridness suffuses his whole body.  

He’s back to that rainy Friday night. Flashes and strikes with lightning bolts, like a short vignette of that night when the pump of the nightmare was looping through his brain.  

“Leon!”  

For once, he doesn’t look back. He knows very well that if he does, he will never be able to leave the house, not even one foot outside.  

You are left torpefied on the stairs now, as he simply slides the door shut and drifts away into the evening of a drizzly Tuesday night.  

A second or two elapses and you run to the door with a renewed willpower. No, he’s not leaving. You run, breaking the heel of your stilettos barring you’re gravely late for everything. Every single thing. 

It’s Leon’s Auburn, and you watch as he revs up the accelerator down the path through your garden, past the streetlights and into a void of alveolate twilight. 

The saga fades away as though it had never been indited for you with a special brush of pen. All that remains is the heavy diamond necklace on your neck, a souvenir from him, the chasm, he vamooses.  

You promptly called the police, no matter repeated strident warnings from Leon. Instead of promising you that they would find him, they inquired about Leon’s possibly alleged behavior and conduct, which you highly resented. How could they frame an absolute angel like him? “He’s not a bad man. He was threatened and scared. I know him better than any of you, constables.” You defended him, short-winded, because he needed to be remembered as the good man he always was. 

The Bluecoat were not as accommodating as you anticipated. 

So you did the only thing you could do. You waited for him. Every night, awake and alone in your empty and stone-cold bed, but the aria of this room was the nights when you kissed and fellated him a night or two before and then rode till you could not anymore.

But he never came. 

Two nights after Leon’s departure, on a Thursday morning to be precise, your eyes were as swollen and bloodshot as ever. Your slumber was ruptured by the rush of a newspaper headline brought to your room by one of the girls who worked at home. Breaking news, or as the Big Apple would say, hot topic.  

The name that crowded the headlines was none other than the name of the man you had in mind.

Broiling, hollow tears welled up in your eyes as you read the one headline stating that he had died in a car accident due to the soggy roads. The next words and the rest of the scoop didn’t matter to you at all, you knew it was all a lie. A big fat lie.  

A million interview requisitions came in, but who would waste time with that? 

Leon Kennedy did not die in a car accident. No one would believe you if you told them that. The truth is, your lover was already playing a dice game with stakes of death. 

He never needed to tell you, you already knew. Revolvers and gunpowder, the smell that assailed your nose right after his perfume on your skin, your clothes.  

It was an idiotic fairy tale in which you played a blinder. You were his nymph and he was your guardian angel. You were jumping off the stage and hopping to evade the eyes that swept over your body like hungry maggots, and he was the first man to bail you out of that jam, to buy you diamonds and pearls, and to love you above the rest of the hordes of those pantywaists. You loved your cigarettes; he hated the aroma and the haze of smoke. 

You loved dancing, baking biscuits at home with him and he loved hustling from party to party. Every single night when his landline rang, he left for his frivolous job that netted him a hefty sum of money—he was very fond of putting his life on the line. An even crazier adrenaline fiend than his love for you.  

You always detested yourself for it took you those torturous days after the breakup to finally decipher Leon. Always the latecomer to really know and love someone like him. His story couldn’t be passed on to anyone, anyone but you.

The story of a boy who came from an obscure hamlet and prowled the City That Never Sleeps, to see things he hadn’t yet seen. A boy who always wanted to hang in the lights, yearned the freedom, just like you once were. And then you. Without him, robbed of the best party of your life. 

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Delicate (Jake's Version)

6 - Jake's Heart

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x OFC Samantha Kazansky

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: SMUT!!! oral (f receiving) protected!sex, emphasis on consent

A/N: Jake's dreams come true! They really do!

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NEW! Taglist: @mrsevans90

If you'd like to be added to the tag list (on this one or any of my fics!) just shoot me a message! Please enjoy this one! I had fun writing it, especially the banter between them!

His heart was beating out of his chest as he stepped into the dim overhead light by the front steps of Sam's house. He was vibrating with anticipation. He waited, as he didn't want to ring the doorbell and he was going to shoot her a message but she must've known he was already here. She probably heard his truck. She swung the door open and she was dressed in a pair of flowy rose pink yoga pants and a black crop top with a band name that he wasn't familiar with across her breasts. Her perfect breasts.

“I thought we were going out to dinner?” He asked and she grabbed for his hand and pulled him inside.

“Mom ordered a fuck load of Chinese from my favorite place so I thought we could eat here and maybe watch a movie.” She said as she led him to the kitchen island where all the food was out. It was a little after seven pm and the house was quiet aside from his keys rattling and his boots on the hardwood floor.

“Anyone home?” He asked as she sat. She patted the spot next to her and he sat, as she placed a box in front of him. He opened it, finding orange chicken. He licked his lips. “Ooh I love orange chicken. Gimme some rice too.”

She smirked and placed a container of rice in front of him. “Yeah my brother and sister go to their rooms and do homework and eat in there. We moved dad downstairs into the old guest room. We have some other stuff to move but Mav came and helped with the bed this morning.”

“Ah, that's why he was late. We had Warlock instructing today. Crazy to think we head off in about two weeks. None of us have flown a complete mission yet....” He said softly, eyes glanced over at her, studying her expression, trying to gauge her state of mind. 

“How long will you be gone for?” She asked, a flat tone covering the usual cadence of her voice. 

“If everything goes to plan, probably about a week.” He said, taking a few more bites of rice, then chicken. He noticed Sam sigh and take another deep breath in. He wondered If hearing he would only be gone for a week was comforting to her. 

“Well, just come home safe, okay? I mean that for everyone...but especially you.” Sam said and she bumped her shoulder into Jake’s gently and smiled. He swallowed, and wiped his mouth before leaning over into her space. Her brows knitted in the middle as she closed the distance between their lips. It was a soft kiss, and his lips were warm on hers, and she could taste the spices from the chicken when they both relaxed and let their tongues tangle with each other's. Jake placed his fork down, and reached up to cup her cheeks with his hands. Her hands met his chest, intrigued by the silky fabric of the black athletic tank he wore. Her fingers danced over the taut muscles of his chest and deepened the kiss. One of his hands slipped down to her neck, then between her breasts, coming to find out she was not wearing a bra. He steadied her, mouth still covering hers, as he took a handful, the most perfect handful, of one of her beautiful breasts. He massaged it for a moment before lazily dropping his hand to her waist, where her exposed skin was warm and smooth. He was the one to break the kiss, glancing down out of embarrassment. He felt like a teenager who didn’t know what to do next.

“Um...sorry...I just...” Jake stammered and Sam slid off her seat and stepped between his legs. She pulled him down for another kiss and his hands traveled around her waist, pulling her in close. When she paused and looked up into those pretty sage green eyes of his, she smiled, her lids lowering seductively. 

“Are you nervous, Jake?” She asked and he smirked.

“What gave you...uh...that...impression?” He asked, his voice unsteady. She chuckled and pulled away from him, letting her fingers run down his biceps and then down to his hands, tugging at him to follow her. He raised a brow. “Are we about to fuck?” 

“Do you want to do that, Jake? Because that's kinda why I wanted to stay home tonight. It wasn't just for the Chinese food.” She said as she led him toward the couch. 

‘We're gonna do it on your couch? With people home?” He asked as he hesitated slightly. She nodded and picked up the remote and turned the volume up a little on the TV and used that same remote to turn the lights off in the living room and the kitchen.

“I hope you have a condom.” She said, pushing him onto the couch and climbing atop his lap. Her hands met his chest and he stretched up to coax her into another round of hot, open mouthed kissing. Jake's brain was almost satisfied with that. One of his favorite things in bed was kissing. Anywhere, anything, for as long as possible. He preferred to explore the feminine form with his lips over everything else. While his brain was satiated, his cock was not. 

“I keep a fresh one in my wallet.” He laughed and she scoffed at him. “I'm just kidding. I do have one in my pocket though. Y'know...Hoping but not expecting.” 

There was a pause between them, as they stared into each other's eyes. That moment, there was an unspoken agreement forged, and a glint of lust passed between them.

“Jake...I do really like you...” Sam admitted, as she shifted above him. He let his hands rest on her thighs, and this made Sam relax into him a bit more. Jake's heart was working double time as he gazed up at the prettiest set of chocolate brown eyes he'd ever seen. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed before this, he certainly had, but in this particular moment, he realized he was disgustingly in love with Sam. But he wasn't going to say that...

“I...really like you too...Sam.” He said softly as his hands traveled up to her exposed stomach again. “And while I'm a bit of a whore...I feel like we should maybe have our first time somewhere...quieter? More private?” He asked, leaning up to graze his lips over her jawline. She laughed, a lighthearted one, and she slid away from him, off his lap and offered her hand. He took it and she pulled him up.

“Is that what you want? You don’t want to parade me around and show me off?” She asked and she twirled around playfully. Jake smirked as he followed her up the stairs to her room. He noticed there were several rooms and they walked past two where the doors were shut. Jake laughed and then flinched, realizing how loud he’d been.

“Nah, You’re my dirty little secret, honeybun.” He whispered his hands connecting with her hips. She kept tempting him closer and closer to her room, which was at the end of the hall. “And no, I don't want your family walkin’ in on us fucking.”

“Is that right, your dirty little secret , huh?” She said, half-lidded eyes and a lascivious smirk to match. Jake pressed in closer as they crossed the threshold to her room. It was plain, but he wasn’t surprised that everything was shades of pink. Not a room that he would be caught dead in, but for her, he would be. Her bed had curtains that were drawn much like some sort of Renaissance bed chamber. 

She turned him, walking him backwards until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. She took a moment and went to close her door. He spread his hands wide on the sheets on either side of him, leaning back slightly as he admired the way her hips swayed as she walked back to him. She stood in front of him, placing her hands on either side of his neck as she glanced down through hooded chocolate brown. He spread his legs and drew her in with nothing but his pretty green eyes.

“That better, shy boy?” She asked and he smiled up at her. 

“What made you think I want anyone to see what I'm gonna do with you? Do I really give off that?” He murmured, tugging her onto his lap and connecting his lips to hers. 

“Public displays of affection seem like your thing for sure.” Sam giggled. Jake's lips traveled from hers to an earlobe, which he gently sucked into his mouth. His hands rubbed up and down her thighs.

“Well, then next time we're in public, I'll affection the shit out of you . How's that sound?” Jake asked, demanding her lips meet again and their tongues explored each other's. 

“Jake...” Sam sighed into his mouth as he ran his fingers up under her shirt. He broke their kiss just for a few moments so he could focus on how silky smooth her skin was underneath his hands and how they fit along her curves. His eyes fluttered shut and she watched his expression melt into pure bliss as those same hands that piloted a fighter jet at supersonic speeds, gently brushed over the soft skin of her thighs and the round swells of her ass. It was as though he hadn’t touched a woman in years. It was like he was feeling all of this for the first time. But really what it came down to was Jake’s feelings for her that were making him act this way. He didn’t want to force her into this. He wouldn’t dare beg her for sex. But something had clicked between the two of them enough now that Sam was offering. Jake had to take what he could get, because he wasn’t guaranteed the next time, no matter how he felt.

“Don't you worry, pretty girl, I'll take real good care of you.” He said, leaning in to press his lips to hers. Sam felt a surge of electricity between them, that charge going right to the butterflies in her stomach and turning them frantic. Jake on the other hand felt like a coiled spring, ready to explode, the pent up testosterone coming to the surface. He pulled a hand from under her shirt and snaked it around the back of her neck, holding her firm to his lips. His tongue begged to tangle with hers, and his kisses became messy, like he was drunk, but he was just buzzed on the feeling of her in his lap. 

Sam’s thighs tightened, pushing her center away from the bulge in his pants. He whimpered at the loss of her warmth against him and with pleading green eyes, he gazed up at her. 

“You gonna tell me you’ll be the best sex of my life, pretty boy ?” She asked, her tone devilish as she wound her arms around the back of his neck. His gaze grew more feral, as he captured her lips with his again.

“Don’t have to tell you.” He murmured as his hands went for her hips again. His lips connected with her neck “Just gonna show you.”

His cock had already been hard from the moment he walked through the door that night, but now it was unbearable. His jeans were entirely too tight and he was so fucking close to where he wanted to be, yet so far away. Why the fuck he wore jeans tonight of all nights, he didn't know. Sam did him the honor and the favor of unzipping them. That at least provided some relief, but it allowed more of her arousal to be felt since the only barriers were his boxers and her sweatpants. She didn't have anything underneath. He'd already felt for the waistband of some sort of panties and there wasn't one.

Jake laid on his back, pulling her down over the top of him, but he didn't stop there. He rolled to the left, so that he was now above her, and he hiked her legs up so that they rested against the toned, tight muscles of his thighs, which she could feel flexing underneath his jeans. His jeans which he backed off the bed to shove down his legs, and he couldn't have waited any longer to get off. He climbed back over her and thrust his hips toward her, so that she could feel how hard he was through his boxers. She bit her lip and groaned as she reached, nails out, for his chest. She dragged them down and then grabbed for the hem of his shirt and pushed it up, and he took over the rest of the way, wrestling it off as quick as he could. There was a jingling now that his shirt was off and Sam picked her head up to watch what he was doing. 

“Hang on a sec.” He said, jumping off the bed once more. He reached for his jeans pocket that had been on the floor and pulled out a condom wrapped in purple, which he put between his teeth. Before putting his weight fully on the bed again, he reached for the waistband of her sweatpants and slowly pulled them down, green eyes locked on hers. 

“Fuck, what a sight.” She thought...or did she say that out loud? Her cheeks heated as Jake smirked, the condom still between his teeth, and a brow raised in intrigue as he slid her pants all the way off. No, she said it out loud.

“What a sight indeed.” Jake murmured through his teeth, tone lust filled as his eyes traveled down to her pretty pink pussy . As he stared in awe, as if he'd never seen a woman's vagina before, Sam realized what the jingling was. His tags. His fucking dog tags. Hanging from his neck, between his pecs, over a dusting of hair. She hadn't even realized all the times she'd seen him without a shirt on, which were a handful now, that he had hair on his chest. They were in limbo for a few moments while they just admired each other's bodies, Sam staring at his chest, and Jake mesmerized by the beautifully groomed area between her legs.

“I don't know why I was expectin’ anything less down here. You're so perfect.” He growled, taking the condom wrapper from his mouth and placing it on her stomach, and leaning down to place a soft kiss to her clit, which startled Sam. He pulled her to the edge of the bed, hooking her legs over his shoulders, and buried his tongue in her folds. Sam gasped and put her hands over her mouth, brows furrowing as he took long drags against her with his tongue, pressing it inside every once in a while, he made a noise of satisfaction as his eyes closed and she watched as his forearms flexed around her thighs, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. She let one of her hands slide down over her breasts, and then down further, to run through his honey blond locks. She pulled at the hair on the top that she could get her fingers tangled in and it only made him lap at her faster. He sucked at her clit and opened his eyes, a lustful darkness flooding his gaze as he stared at her while he continued his work. Sam hadn't even realized it, but her orgasm was right there, and she was cresting it before she could warn him. 

“ Fuck, Jake.” was all that spilled from her lips as a gasp, while her walls pulsated. Jake pulled away, watching as they squeezed at nothing, almost as if they were inviting him to fill up the space. He gave her a few moments, kissing around her belly button, her hips, and her inner thighs and laughing when she did because she was super sensitive after such a surprise orgasm and everything he did tickled. His lips were warm and wet and he wiped his mouth on his forearm before pushing his boxers down, his length springing free finally. Sam propped herself up on her elbows as he climbed over her, and her eyes widened. 

“Jake, what the fuck.” She said, her eyes focused on his length, which hung neatly between his legs, and he smirked. He was no stranger to it because that was every girl's reaction. His pants always hid his eight inches of veiny cock with a perfectly shaped tip very well. He kept himself well shaven and clean. He was proud of his cock.

“What?” He asked, and Sam grinned.

“Full payload there, huh?” she giggled and he nodded.

“Locked and loaded, babygirl.” He said darkly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. “Ey, hold on, I gotta put the condom on before you do that.”

She let her legs fall to the side with a grin up at him. He sat back on his heels and ripped the wrapper with his teeth, pinching the tip with two fingers and carefully rolling the condom onto his length. His tags jingled as he threw the wrapper and leaned back down. He dipped his mouth to play with her nipples for a moment, Sam's hands tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. She let a small moan escape her lips as he came all the way up and connected his lips with hers. He broke the kiss for a moment.

“Okay if I continue?” He asked and she was surprised.

“What if I said no?” She asked and his smile became soft.

“Then I'd stop. You have my word on that.” He said and Sam swallowed hard and took a shaky breath. She wasn't nervous. She wanted this, but at every turn, Jake continued to surprise her. 

“Keep going, please, Jake.” She said, pulling his mouth back over hers. She felt him smile against her lips as he swung his hips back and hit his target perfectly. She was soaked so his length slid in easily, but she hadn't anticipated the stretch that came along with it. It was a good stretch and Jake felt her pulse around his cock as he inches inside her. She couldn’t help the moan that came out of her mouth as he filled her all the way. He waited with a feral grin across his lips. His tags clinked and the sound just excited Sam even more. 

“So...how do you want it, pretty girl?” He purred and she nearly headbutted him with how hard she smashed her lips into his.

“Jake Seresin if you don’t shut your mouth and fuck me...” She growled, and he took that as his cue. He began slowly, but ramped up his speed quickly. Jake actually didn’t want to fuck her. He wanted their first time to be slow and sensual, but that wasn’t what Sam wanted. And this whole thing was all about what Sam wanted right now. In the future, for sure, he’d show her what a good lover he was, but right now, she needed him to give her whatever she asked for. She needed the release of tension. She needed to shut her brain off and just feel something.

Their lips connected again, as she pulled his hips in closer. Sam’s bed creaked slightly with the increase in Jake’s speed as he rutted into her. His tags were now resting between her breasts as their chests were nearly touching, but she could still hear them chinking against each other. Sam’s arms were wrapped around the back of his neck and he’d shifted to hold her head steady, his hands threaded through her hair. Jake felt his balls draw up tight and he tried to hang on for a few more moments.

“Gonna come, Sam.” He groaned and her legs around his waist were the only indicator that she heard him. She had closed her eyes, just letting him fuck her. Letting him be close to her. Letting him in. She squeezed his hips tighter as he came, as he stilled and filled up the condom. He groaned her name into her neck and she pulled at his hair, which he never realized he liked. He stayed there for a few minutes, as his brain felt like an old tv, with the fuzzy screen. No thoughts, just Sam. Her scent, fruit and flowers. The feeling of her warmth around his length, and the sweat on their bodies that glued them together. 

Jake pulled out and removed the condom. She pointed to a trash can in the corner of her room and he chucked it and the wrapper in there. He picked his boxers up off the floor and put them on and then crawled back up on the bed. Sam reached for him, and he settled above her, placing his lips on hers. 

“Thank you...” She said, Jake’s brows furrowing.

“For?” He asked, rolling to the side of her. She turned and hiked a leg across his hips, and placed a hand on his chest. She played with his tags, which made him grin. The light jangling was the only sound beside their exchanged voices.

“Helping me not think for a little bit.” She whispered and he nodded, kissing her forehead and pulling her close. He yanked some of the covers up over them just in case someone walked in on them. Sam played with his dog tags and chest hair until she fell asleep, and Jake massaged her neck while she did so. Once he was sure she was out, he closed his eyes, feeling comfortable knowing she fell asleep easily tonight.