#i hope ur happy w urself vi -- i dO NOT think this is what u had in minD BUT HERE WE THE FUCK ARE LOL

[revasserium]

I'm sending a Leon request with a prompt that has tickled the back of my mind ever since I read it on list of gesture prompts. I know you can find a way to make this magic:

possessive hand-holding

ikemen reqs r open u__u thank u @violettduchess i hope u like this... mess LOL

these hands, like gods

leon; 1,059 words; so very nearly nsfw... but not rly... oh yeah, and i simp shakespeare in case yall didnt know...

it always comes back to shakespeare, the damnable bard, a poet to end all poets — a storyteller, a truth-seeker, a dream-spinner; leon used to have to try to stay awake with a book propped in his lap. and now, he wishes his dreams could be half as breathless as all his momentary realities.

“so… they both die at the end?”

you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips; he catches it in his own hand, skimming a kiss by your wrist.

“shh… spoilers!”

leon blinks, still chasing shivers up the length of your arm, kissing you till you’re breathless and his lips are at the base of your throat.

“i thought it was a classic — doesn’t everyone know how it ends already?”

you crinkle your nose, and he kisses that too.

“you didn’t, and it says so in the opening paragraph!” and though there’s nothing accusatory in your tone, he still cocks his head and smirks.

“i do now — and what can i say? i’m hooked,” he says, his voice a bone-deep rumble as it works up through his chest into yours, “you should take responsibility.”

“f-for what? making you more cultured?”

leon scoffs then, propping himself up on an elbow as he lays next to you, the pair of you for once blessedly alone in your chambers, the now-finished play about star-crossed lovers lying face down on the sheets next to you. languidly, almost lazily, he draws his hand up over your arm, tracing an absent finger along the ridge of your collarbones.

“hmmm… i don’t know if cultured is the right word for it,” he muses, and for a moment, you’re caught in the sweep of his dark lashes, in the knife-sharp intensity caught behind his eyes, like shards of shattered glass, making fractals of the afternoon light. “more like… creative.”

and his fingers find yours, lacing one through another, curling, pressing, the movement slow and sure and somehow sensual in a way that you never realized that hands could be. but of course — of course they could be. and you love his hands, don’t you? you love the wide and warmth of them, the length of his fingers, the tan of his skin, the quickness and the certainty with which he wields sword and shield both.

you press your palm to his and smile.

“then…�� you let your eyes flutter closed as his other hand trails up the back of your neck, fingers twisting in your hair, tugging ever so gently; you swallow, you gasp, you let yourself be pressed into the soft of the silken sheets, “get creative.”

leon hums, and there’s dare buried somewhere deep his throat, curling up like a purr or a growl or something smack in the middle and just as delicious.

“yeah… what was that line you liked so much again?” he asks, grazing his lips along your cheeks, pulling your hand above your head to pin it there.

“a-and palm to palm,” you recite, your breaths coming quick in your chest now, a burning, twisting heat curling up into the soft of your face, making the tips of your ears go hot, “is h-holy palmer’s kiss — ah —”

you bite your lips as leon grazes his teeth along your neck.

“mhm… then let lips do what hands do… right?” he leans back if only to catch your lips in his, the world falling away in the gravity of him and you, the push and pull, the rise and fall of bodies and breaths, and it is chasing and catching and kissing and breathing, and it is letting go too — but never your hands. always, they stay closed, twisted, entwined. even as one kiss breaks into another, and another, the friction of palm on palm never ceases.

they pray… lest faith turns to despair…

“but no despair for you, i think,” leon had said when you’d first read him the passage aloud, admitting that it’s one of your favorites, and you’d blushed like you do, because of course — of course. what else had there been to do?

“and no death for you, either,” you’d chided, because that was always a more pressing concern.

leon had shrugged, grinning as he looks back at the text, tracing his fingers beneath the well-inked lines.

“well… there’s one kind of death i wouldn’t mind…”

you’d frowned, watched him carefully. but his grin had been cat-like, almost leonine.

“a kind of death?”

“yes — ‘la petit mort’ — you know what it means?” and by now, his smile had gone cheshire-wide and it takes you a moment before you’d squawked and tried to bury your face in the nearest soft thing. which had, incidentally, been your hands.

“leon!”

and he’d laughed, breaking over the sound, leaning back, his shoulders shaking, his eyes cast up and closed, the sound of it sweet and warm as honey.

but now, like this, with your hand held in his, pinned over your head, his lips pressed to the pulse of your heart, your throat bared, your mind unwinding and askew as he trails his free hand along the bend of your waist, you can’t help thinking that he’s right.

if there is a kind of death to pray for… it would be this.

no despair for either of us, you think rather defiantly, only pleasure.

you make yourself that promise as you tug leon up for another soul-searing kiss.

and no death but this one kind, you think as he grins against your lips, striking fire inside you as kindling to a flame, setting you ablaze.

“look at me,” he says, his voice gentle, and you do. you look at him, and in him you find everything — everything you had ever searched for, every truth, every poem, every fairy-tale ending. every story that your body had ever wanted to tell.

“kiss me,” you say. and he does.

and as his hand slowly makes it’s way back up the side of your body to tug at the layers still keeping you apart, you let yourself be lost. you curl your fingers around his, feel the heat of his palm against yours.

you close your eyes — and pray.