#Kennedy era

[morganamartin]

TWO PRETTY GOWNS FROM THE KENNEDY ERA - AMERICA WAS DEEP INTO THE CAMELOT DREAM

These dresses are very similarly designed, from right around a couple of years either side of 1960. Although they both reflect the New Look changeover which had begun 10 years before, the most notable thing about the style on the left is the shoulder tails. These had been popular on dresses in the 1930’s and earlier, I believe, but made another appearance right around this time. That element…

[birf]

[melanchol1cs]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

word count: 3.4k summary: a man reaps what he sows. masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. catholicism, religious connotations, no specific time frame but i’d like to say victorian era-ish, alot of allusions to the lord or god, reader’s dead husband idk, inner conflict, denial, guilt, leon asking for forgiveness like a hundred times, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex.

a/n: started this like two months ago, just had the motivation to finally finish. i don’t really know how i feel about my writing on this one… i feel like i’ve lost all my skills after not writing for a few weeks

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[jamesfrain]

Katherine of Aragon and Mary I in The Tudors requested by @stilltrails

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Dead Kennedys

[writingwisterias]

How would the different eras of leon comfort a reader who had a bad childhood/ still dealing with abusive parents? For material, theres lotta nightmares about parents, hallucinating, and anxiety symptoms

-🪻

Hi 🪻!

I would love to do this for you! I hope you enjoy and have a good day!! 💕 I rambled a lot with this one as well, just healing myself along the way

Warnings: Nightmares, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Fluff, PTSD, Mentions of abuse

Gn!Reader

RE2:

He has the most experience with nightmares, he would have them to after everything

I'm thinking of a Leon between RE2 -RE4R

So because he has his own he would have a way to calm down quickly without waking you up. That is until he notices you suffer from them to.

His nightmares make him a light sleeper so I think he would notice something wrong very quickly and immediately pull you into his arms to wake you up.

Depending if it's a night terror or just a nightmare he would wake you up slowly, kisses, soft talking etc

If it's a night terror he would want you to be awake as quickly as he can. So he's shaking you or whatever.

If he knows about what happened in your childhood say for example abuse from parents, he would keep his touch firm but caring if he's waking you up from a night terror.

He'd prefer if you would be open about what the dream was about and your history so he can help you in the best way he can without further causing issues.

Also wouldn't care if you need plushies to sleep, he'd rather have the whole bed covered in them if it would help you sleep. (Really like squishmellows or any Kenji plush)

RE4R:

I like to think this Leon is probably the quietest. Like he's a simple guy and would have music in the background of his apartment at low volumes etc

So you find a lot of comfort here, if you still lived at home with your parents he would let you use his apartment even if he was away on mission

He wouldn't even talk to you either if you didn't want it, he's happy to just have you in his space.

If he's not around and you use his place, he'll make sure to leave a hoodie/shirt for you to use and he doesn't care if you use his bed

He's also happy to do whatever you want to do, so if you do want to talk and chill then he's more than happy to do that.

His chilled out attitude is just great if your household is chaotic and loud, it's a mini escape.

Infinite Darkness:

With this era of Leon I think he would be really good at either preventing anxiety attacks or helping you out of them.

I mean look at how he comforts Patrick at the start of the show, it's such a small interaction but he stays for like an extra few seconds to ensure he's okay because he spots that he's not

He's like a quite observer

So if your anxiety is based on childhood issues like maybe expectations that your parents have placed on you whenever they mean to or not.

He would be very quick to spot any signs of you becoming uncomfortable

Let's face it he's probably already watching you anyway because he always does but he's the type of person to acknowledge the signs that you are doing to have a panic attack

Leon is also not the type of guy to make it a big deal either, like I said with Patrick is a small conversation that no one else really sees or pays attention to so hes not going to bring attention to you at all

It could be a small touch or hand hold. Maybe even creating an excuse to leave

If you are in private I think he would talk to you to distract you from it, or just sit there in silence if you wanted to walk through it alone.

Damnation:

I think he gives the best hugs and has a really protective nature

Again let's say it's something to do with passive aggressive parents I don't think he would hesitate to jump in and defend you

If he found out that it was perhaps more physical abuse than mental he's not letting you near them at all

He would understand if you didn't want to cut them off like he's not going to force you to do that

But he would be silently mad and very watchful when you do interact with them

He's also mindful of how he interacts around you.

Especially with his drinking habits if that's something that makes you feel uncomfortable

RE6:

Following along with the protective nature I think he would amplify this

Like he's not letting anyone near you during an anxiety/any type of episode

I also think he's a great listener so if you do need someone to talk to he's your man

He would offer advice if you need it, he has a lot on how he deals with things and will try his best to not let you follow in his footsteps.

Again with his home being a safe space I think he would actively make sure it is one for you instead of himself

Like say you go out shopping and spot a blanket or something you like he would buy it and keep it at his place

Your parents didn't let you have this toy dw he's got it

He has a lot of money that if you came from a poorer background and are conscious about your own money he will spend it for you

You cannot mention you want anything around him because he'll find it and get it

Vendetta:

Considering in the film Chris mentions that Leon is drinking early in the day I think he would drink that early to either forget a nightmare or get an early start to being able to sleep

So I would think him helping you through your own nightmares would draw him away from this behavior

Both of you working together to create an environment that helps you both sleep is how you would do it

By this I mean,maybe you need nightlights so you would find one that works for the both of you. Same with bedding or the general layout of the room

I think he would prefer to be the bigger spoon, since a lot of Leon's trauma comes from failure to protect people it would make him think he's doing a good job.

I would also say that he would prefer it if the bed was as far away from the door/window as possible and against a wall so you can be tucked away from danger behind him

But if you do have a nightmare and wake him up, he's not going to be mad. He'll talk to you about it if you need that and will help soothe you back to sleep

Not only because he knows you'll return the favor but because it actually helps him

Like maybe he runs his hands through your hair it's almost soothing for him doing the same motion over and over again

Death Island:

Much like infinite darkness I think he's going to be the quiet observing type so if you do space out or start of have anxiety he'll spot it

He's still wouldn't make a scene but would prefer to remove you from the situation entirely with or without an excuse

He doesn't care what your parents think they are assholes anyway for treating you like that

In the same scenario he has an idea of how he would be a parent so I don't think he would baby you but almost apply some of the methods to actually help you out in terms of feeling the right love

I also think he would just generally heal you in any toxic relationship you've had by just showing you the opposite whenever he's doing it on purpose or not

He would make sure he's not overstepping any lines in your healing journey and would want you to take the reigns but if you need to hand them over to him he's okay with that

He'll be your brick wall in whatever you need him

Can't sleep? He's staying up with you and even after you fall asleep don't worry

[feng-shui71]

tfw your ex hurt you so bad you go to your little bro/son about it

[kyo-hiki]

babies are asleep, shhhh

[snowballz26]

I hate bitches who have ZERO self respect for themselves like wdym he cheated and you still stayed, gtfo of my face ho

[yurozo]

uxoriousness/meritoriousness (2)

"la lune trop pâle / caresse l'opale / de tes yeux blasés"  — complainte de la butte. ╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝ knight!leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary:

tags: fluff, romance, fem!reader, no use of y/n, early modern century britain, knight!leon, more terrible flirting.

a/n: we're onto part two of the 18th century au!! this took me forever, regency era dialogue is so difficult. we're starting to amp up on the romance in this chapter, but there's angst coming soon >:3 please let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more!!

part 1 | part 2 | next parts coming soon!

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

Leon’s triumph, in consequence of your invitation, was complete. Weeks of exchanging letters between the households, intermixed with a vast deal of amorous conversation, your mutual affection had been shared freely in private. 

In writing, he was bold, resolute; You humble, bashful. Although unprepared were you to receive such encounters, the interest could not be rendered absent, instead laced with innocent and eager customs of sentiment. Despite the gallantry of his manner, his affections for you were pure, and the insecurity hidden beneath his words only strengthened your attachment. 

It took a great deal of favours to receive his letters without gaining the notice of your father, employing the servants loyal to your kindness to surreptitiously hide the papers in your desk before they were found. Fearing any consequence which could ensue from such a dangerous encounter, very little knowledge of anything of the man you shared sweet words of fondness of could be spoken aloud. 

The most recent letter was the most daring:

“If you have a Heart not too deeply engaged, I should think myself in the highest honour for inspiring it with some tenderness. I yearn to be a man of your regard, a man worthy of your time, and your title. If you think fit to be satisfied for what little I may have to offer you, resolve to meet me tomorrow, and with sufficient demonstration, I will endeavour myself worthy to prove my affection.  Till then I am yours,   Sir Kennedy”

You therefore took pen and paper, and answered his letter in terms tender enough for a man who penned such aching sentiment and yet knew so little of her. For the hesitant manner that he spoke to her last, his words were carefully composed with a grace you did not attribute him with, but the very idea of his lending designation from more eloquent sources did little to quell the burning fire of devotion. 

The words were as follows:

“From our last encounter, I imagine you to be a spirit of the highest resolve and character in which title affects little. Pray, I cannot deceive you in the objects of my hesitance, my Father will never allow such a courtship that offers little benefit to our Family, and while your affection is an Honour in which I can never sufficiently acknowledge, I shall endeavour to restrain myself in these Bounds that suppress me. Fear not, I will oblige by your summons, but our opportunity is slim.”

With no expectation of pleasure but overcome with the strongest of curiosities, Leon opened the letter, and to his still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope of your delicate handwriting and sealed in your wax crest. 

Your words, in spite of the clear consequences that these amorous follies may inflict, ignited a dear joy in Leon. Though you may have found means to end this affair, testimonies of curiosity kept you loyal to his summons, which he may yet be able to convince. He had scarce come to the conclusion, before he braved the summons, that perhaps given the comfort of designation that your family required, this mutual affection could be settled. 

It had been a few short hours since he had experienced a happiness to supreme as to efface all impressions of the past that it permitted him not to believe it possible that he could ever again taste of misery; he, who had been the talisman of death itself. How many had he been ordered to kill, had their blood staining his armour, and yet he is to believe that a lady like you should voluntarily incur for his turmoil. That is the thought which tortures him above all others; if you were to understand the true nature of his profession, there would be no sweetly spoken words that may comfort your confusion. 

Even if he could brave himself to ask you in marriage, his lifestyle may be enough cause to render him nothing. 

It was these disturbances that kept him pacing alongside the edge of the garden, and in the period of your absence, he passed various conjectures regarding his duplicity. Leon still inclined to belief honesty in all manners, but his anxiety was decidedly against this opinion. 

This idea was soon banished, and his spirits were very differently affected, when, to his utter amazement, he saw you walk up to him. Your chaperone followed closely behind, a mere few paces away. 

“Sir Kennedy,” you said, gaze fixed on the trodden patch of grass under his feet formed in his concerned treading,  “A new hobby in landscaping, I presume?”

“My lady,” said he, unable to suppress his smile, “You know what they say about idle hands.”

You quietly answered “undoubtedly;” and, after an awkward pause, took the arm that he had outstretched to you. In relishing the warmth of his figure beside you, your feelings were yet acutely more painful and more difficult in definition. 

“I am glad you came,” he admitted softly, and laid a gentle hand overtop yours.

“I am too,” you replied hesitantly, with your mind most busy and carrying the wonderful velocity of thought. It was difficult to ignore the discernable honesty in his words, underlined with an agitation that so closely mirrored your own. With all the glow of their attendant happiness, very little is known of Leon amongst the general populace, and his reputation is unusually absent in the circles of gossipmongers. Either he lived quite a sedentary life, or he kept many secrets close to his chest. 

You can nearly imagine the look your father would have given you at the news— a frown; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent; or simple disapprobation. 

From the courtyard, Leon led you round the meadows, refraining from scandalous touch and merely basking in your presence and the warmth of your hand.  It was a secret satisfaction, equally a duty to chivalry and a selfishness of pleasure. 

“I am aware that your family requires a certain level of station in your suitors,” he said, with the slightest degree of hesitance, yet compressed with all of his honesty in a slight squeeze of your hand. “I am doubly aware my experience is not significant in number, and I am not the Lord that your father would like me to be-”

“And yet?” was the abrupt answer, which denoted just the slightest of hope on your behalf. 

“And yet,” he tried, firmly fixing his head towards a field of lilacs, “I intend to court you regardless, with the eventual intention of marriage. If you would have me, that is.”

It was always made known that a single man in possession of fortune and estate must be in want of a wife, this has been known to you since the first encounter, and yet the sound of the words being spoken aloud solidified the feeling into something material. Seldom, very seldom, did you impute someone a more sensitive heart than you possessed, and had become acquainted with the often severe manner of courting accepted in your station, so Leon’s reserved demeanour was astounding. 

He looked at you, with the very vulnerability and eagerness that you had secretly felt. 

“I cannot promise marriage, for even if I desperately wanted to say yes, ultimately it is up to my father.” 

A slight twitch in his eyebrow signified his disappointment, but he remained silent, awaiting an opening to soothe or counsel you, to be sure. 

“I urge you to give attention to my caution,” you continued, “but if my father could be convinced-”

“Yet you will consider?” 

For a moment or two nothing was said, as you attempted to collect the enthusiasm that sprouted in your ribs, till you found your arm drawn tighter in his, and your hand pressed against his heart. Thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, Leon speaking low,

“My lady,” he soon resumed; “I may not be the man or the poet that could ease your conscious with the right words; the right phrases; the right everything. But if you would permit me the chance to try, I will prove I could be a good man.”

In this moment, he could not feel the ichor of blood on his palms, not a death-signalling clattering of bone in his chest, but the feeling of your hand; warm, pure, and right. 

And what totally different feelings did his sudden confession inspire in you, an exquisite flutter of happiness that offered such respite from all worries of station. 

“I never saw a more promising inclination,” you said, allowing the warmth of his chest to warm your hand, feeling a heart that beat ever so slightly faster, “I will speak to my father.”

“That is all I ask,” said he, “I will ensure he understands my feelings, and have you return them, if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”

The rest of the evening was spent chiefly in talking over your lives, the intimate details in which you shared so little with anyone before. These few hours had been given to each other in a precious certainty of being beloved, and it felt as no time at all had past before your chaperone subtly signaled for your departure. 

“You mentioned no profession, I have observed,” you said, a shadow of doubt creeping on your consciousness. His avoidance had been a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion in which you cleverly diverted the topic towards his personal life. 

Leon heaved a deep sigh, and spoke low; “I did not.”

“Why, sir,” you started, subduing the feelings that his clear avoidance had so deeply aroused, “must you insist on this secrecy? Shall this dishonesty be the crux of our affection?”

Leon, meanwhile, mute and grave, was watchful of all that passed; he observed each aristocratic passersby, for he could not imitate the noble fortitude that they carried so comfortably. He is an outsider to a society which would never accept him, regardless of title and regardless of his soulful nobility. “I think you misunderstand. You bear no blame for this.”

Still agitated by various considerations, you continued, “You still avoid the question I posed.”

“I cannot say. They will not permit me.” Said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed. 

“Of whom do you speak?”

Leon gave you a significant look, and added, “If I could, I would provide you with greater comfort. I mean no treachery, but any further particulars will lead to dangerous conjectures. I wish that not on you, so I cannot say what I am.”

His hand gently untucks yours from the crook of his elbow, holding it in front of him; a painting of Jupiter and Juno he saw once flashes through his memory, a history of devotion. 

“I can only ask you to trust me,” said he, “Place your trust that I will speak true to your father, that I will provide a good life, and in this. You and I shall not want in opportunities. With time, and with right circumstance, you will know. I swear it.”

After a pause, you added, as you let your thumb brush upon the warmth of his hand, “To you, sir, I commit my earnest trust.”

“As I trust in you,” he answered, raising your hand to press his lips upon your knuckles. “To allow me this confidence.”

To your tender approach to his melancholy suggestion, Leon had felt only an earnest wish to witness the certainty of you being protected, of you allowed every happiness he could give you, even if they were short in number. He is not a good man, but he could be; he wanted to be. He had to trust you in these secret desires. 

“If everybody had your forbearance and good nature,” you started, lightly colouring at his touch. How marvellous, he thought, how a man like him could make a woman like you grin so sweetly. “How simple the sanctity of marriage would be.”

“My lady, it is impossible for me to express— I hope that you will believe—” It is now his time to fluster, hands imperceptibly shaking in your hold. “Excuse me for being so entirely without words. I should bid you adieu, before I have half the mind to keep you for myself.”

You looked at him through your surprise, with a smile so meek, so affectionate, so timid, yet so confiding, as expressed all the mingled emotions of your heart and appealed more eloquently to his, than the most eloquent language could have done. 

“Goodbye, Sir Kennedy.” You said, finally allowing for your hand to sever from his. “I will write.”

“Goodbye, my Lady.” said he, with a smile equal parts heartbroken and elated. “I will wait.”

They parted mutually inflamed; his hands did not itch for the comfort of a bottle this time, but for the warmth in which you had graced him.

[galacta-phantasma]

Graphic design is my passion

[citrine-elephant]

you know he's still gonna try running.

for the undead krauser au, where leon tries to escape one too many times and gets a punishment that lasts for the rest of his life lol

[alicenpai]

2021 re2 and re4 doodles i unearthed, 2020-2021 were the years of art block for me - i drew a lot, but not too many of my drawings felt quite right. anyways... sherry finally got that puppy (big puppy...) and parrot she always wanted! im a big fan of taking a single obscure piece of dialogue/game mechanic/inventory item etc and then drawing it

[greendayauthority]

Mark Twain Prize Award Ceremony, John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, D.C., 23 October 2011

[jamesfrain]

henry's like: 'gurl, stop.'

Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Maria Doyle Kennedy as Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon in The Tudors — S01E03 'Wolsey, Wolsey, Wolsey'

[melancholicstation]

oh girls, someone needs to take one for the team and start a new bobby kennedy video archive account cause i'm feeling intense withdrawal symptoms from losing #that one account TWICE IN A ROW...