Libby. 26. She/Her. Fanfic, memes, and cool art based on my favorite tadfools and some of their companions. Everyone welcome, so long as you're kind and respectful💗 Ask box OPEN for requests, suggestions, questions, and also if you just want to chat :)
Welcome friends! I wanted to make it easier to sort through my stories so here we are! As always, my ask box is open for ideas, questions, or if you just want to chat :) I will keep this bad boy updated as I slowly (but surely) add more fics
The best piece of writing advice I can give is that you should strive to be sincere rather than original.
You can't force originality. Originality will arise as a natural consequence of sincerity. Make the story completely and apologetically yours, and originality will come by virtue of it being your story.
✶ leon kennedy isn’t the jealous type. that is until a unique mission shows you otherwise. (f!reader x any post-re2!leon)
a/n: felt inspired to do an anon request in between exam chaos: mission partner things, protective/jealous leon + some quickie smut.
content: NSFW (18+): minor moment of unwelcome touching by oc target (not graphic), explicit descriptions of sex. implied history of sexual tension. this mission could be viewed as AU lol.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You swipe condensation from the mirror of the hotel bathroom—still relentlessly foggy from your shower half an hour ago—to finish applying your final coat of mascara. With a squeak, your hand slips from its grip at the edge of the sink and you nearly drop the wand, catching it clumsily in a frantic swipe. You pause at the black liquid now streaking your fingers, eyes closed, and inhale deeply.
Everything will be fine.
Your eyelids flutter open and you step back, taking in your reflection. Bare skin, a draped, loose cocktail dress that cuts so deeply there’s no imagination necessary. A stranger staring back at you, looking wholly uncomfortable.
Air rushes through your lips with such force that they vibrate.
Leon’s voice greets you before you see him, back to you, speaking low into his phone, when you finally emerge. “Are you sure she has to do this? I can—,” he pauses, cut off.
Silence, then: “Yeah. I get it. Discreet. But this was the best you had?”
You’re close enough now to hear the voice on the other end. “—too much at stake if there’s even the smallest suspicion. Intel was clear that this is the way forward, morality aside.”
Whatever his retort, he bites it back, instead turning when he hears you rummaging through what will be your bag for the night.
You notice him only when the tinny, distant voice pipes up again. “Leon? You there?”
He’s blinking at you, slowly, deliberately, eyes on your bare legs, your hips, the plunging fabric adorning your chest.
“Yeah,” he trails. Then, clearer, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Yeah, I’m here.” He averts his gaze. “We’ll get comms set up.”
Bag set, you face him fully as he hangs up. “Thanks for looking out, but I agreed to this.”
He nods, busying himself with looking anywhere but at you. “I know. Just doesn’t feel right sending you in alone.”
You snort and reach for your heels. “It’s not like I’m bait, just undercover. Two different things.” You drift to the bed closest to the door and begin fastening the straps up your ankles. “I can handle myself.”
Hands up, he sucks his cheek, turning his attention to the equipment spread across the room’s small desk.
---
Goosebumps dot your flesh where it meets the cold leather of the SUV, knees locked together, eyes straight ahead to take in the neon facade of the club looming ever closer.
Leon reaches for the console to switch on your heated seat, and you meet him with a small smile. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” He glances sidelong at you, then forward. “Got everything down?”
“I do.” You’d run through the plan a hundred times in your mind already. Target: Maxwell Hirsch, bioweapons trader and avid collector of women—what a mix. Hence your presence here, barely dressed, heading into a club he’d been known to frequent. Recon confirmed tonight is no different.
“Just his facility badge. You don’t have to do anything crazy, yeah?”
You frown at him, then turn to look out the passenger window. “This ‘I’m worried’ thing you have going on is getting offensive.”
He huffs, barely a laugh. “We read the same file. He’s nasty.”
“Most of them are,” you murmur, focused absently on the blurred buildings sliding by.
---
He pulls a block away from the club’s entrance. A clear line of sight from your end but obstructed from the other. You breathe deeply, collecting yourself, and grab the door handle.
“Wait.”
His fingers brush the smooth skin of your neck, reaching to adjust the knot of the halter that had somehow loosened in the rush. He lingers at the goosebumps in the wake of his touch for a breath, two, pausing where your pulse is visibly pounding in your throat.
He meets your gaze, then, and try as you do, you can’t ignore the subtle heat beneath the intensity.
“If things go south, I’ll be right behind you.”
You nod, pressing the skin-colored, barely-there internal earpiece you wear in confirmation and assurance. “I’ll see you soon.”
He mock salutes as you exit, closing the door behind you.
---
Appreciative looks follow your practiced steps up to the door as you bypass the line. Even the bouncer doesn’t attempt to hide it, giving you a once over as you flash your ID, an indulgent smirk tugging at his lips. You return it, arching a brow, and he waves you into the booming, pulsing abyss.
Leon’s voice crackles in your earpiece. ”Well, that was easy.”
“Is this an emergency? If not, quiet,” you whisper under your breath, lips barely moving. You hear him chuckle into the static of the line going silent again.
When you finally locate Hirsch, he’s at the bar, alone, nursing a glass of dark, rich liquid. A sharp intake of breath—a confidence booster—and you’re moving, training kicking in, morphing into the persona created for this to succeed.
You maneuver next to him, flagging the bartender down to order. You let your eyes travel slowly, lazily, around the bar, mildly uninterested, and you can feel him already drinking you in, sipping his bourbon.
The bartender returns to ask about payment; he interrupts. “She’s on my tab.”
Your eyes flit to him, curious. “Thank you.”
The bar stool next to him squeaks where he tugs it. “You shouldn’t be paying for anything tonight.”
It's Leon's voice that rings in your head with the thought.
Easy.
You oblige. “Drinking alone?”
“Protecting my peace,” he hedges, lifting his glass to his lips.
You laugh lightly. “In a club?”
He sips, eyes alight, then amends, “Different ideas of peace." His gaze travels outward over the twisting crowd, distant. “There’s something about sitting in a crowded room, surrounded by chaos, just observing it all.” A deep breath and his eyes fall back to you.
“You’re alone tonight?”
At the same time, static crackles in your ear. “Is he serious?"
The fight to maintain your expression has you running your teeth over the corner of your bottom lip.
You could scream.
Instead, a smirk, fake lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks on a slow blink. “We have a similar idea of peace.”
Hirsch makes a noise low in his throat, intrigue plain on his face.
The conversation continues, drinks and subtle touches exchanged, a brush of his leg against yours, a stroke of your hand on his thigh.
When he turns to order another, your eyes dart to his pocket. The clear rectangular outline is obvious, exposed just enough to see the familiar blue and green markings along the upper edge. So naive, so completely stupid, that you have to reign in your laugh. Brains and money eluded one another, apparently.
You edge your hand to his knee, fingers trailing upward. “Do you dance?”
---
Your hips move with the heavy thud of the bass, back to him where he’s pressed against you, his hands trailing down your bare sides, over your stomach. Swallowing the revulsion building in your chest, you turn to him, hands coming to his hips. He’s fully enamored now, sweat gleaming on his brow, and you lean close, nearly brushing his lips as your fingers slip against plastic, gently edging it out under the guise of a stroke. You turn quickly, your back to him once again, and, left with nowhere safe to place the stolen badge, subtly slip it into the elastic of your underwear through the plunging fabric of your dress.
There’s a lull in the overwhelming thrum of the speakers as the music transitions, and you twist again, bringing your lips to his ear. “Bathroom,” you murmur, carrying his hand with you until you step out of reach.
Marking that you weren’t followed down the dark hall, you speak into your earpiece. “I have it.”
Leon’s response is immediate, almost relieved. “Good. Get outta there. Can't listen to that bastard much longer."
You dip into the bathroom, ensuring it’s empty before replying. “I’ll meet you out front.”
---
Your ears ring in the sudden quiet as you're led out nearly thirty minutes later, Hirsch's arm tight and possessive around your waist. When he pauses, you indicate the gleaming SUV sitting idle under the streetlights nearby.
He makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. “Nice car for a rideshare.”
An amused laugh. “I splurge.”
“Of course you do.”
His fingers slide down your back in an overly familiar gesture as you reach the rear passenger door, and you half turn to him, tamping down the urge to step out of his touch. “Well, this was fun.”
He smirks, pressing into you such that you’re backed into the car door, his hand squeezing your backside low enough to tuck between your legs. The suddenness forces you to exhale slowly, fighting to maintain your controlled calm. “I’ll see you soon?”
The subtle click of a door opening—clearly not yours—sounds behind you.
“We’ll see.” The tang of alcohol on his breath stings your nose as he gets close but no further—an attempt at a tease. Then he’s pressing away, backtracking and returning to the club without a look back. You watch him, playing your part until the moment he disappears, then you wrench open the door and slip into the backseat.
A second slam echoes your own, and when you look up, Leon is watching you in the rearview, blue eyes sharp, hand still on his door handle.
Brow creased, frustration peaking, you look away. “I had it.”
His clipped laugh is low, dangerous. “Looked like it.”
---
The cool kiss of conditioned air greets you when you enter the room, tossing your shoes to the side and half limping to the full-length mirror in the hall. Your dress clings to you, hair tousled, noticeable marks imprinted into your skin from the straps of your heels.
Well, you certainly looked your part.
Resigned, you reach into your bag and turn to hold the badge, transferred during the journey back, up to Leon between your middle and pointer finger. “The fruits of our labor.”
The joking smile playing on your lips fades when you take him in, his eyes dark but soft where they touch you. He takes the badge, surveying it for only a moment before tossing it onto the foyer table beside you.
Heat, quick and heavy, settles in your core as his calloused hands come to rest on the bare skin of your waist. “You did good.” His voice is nearly a whisper. Gruff.
You inhale audibly, eyes searching his face as he trails gentle fingers up your back. “Can’t say I like how he touched you, though.”
Silence stretches, a yawning pause.
And whether it’s the drinks, the lingering adrenaline, or both, quiet challenge laces your hoarse reply.
“Are you going to do something about it?”
Before you can regret it, a second thought barely formed, the corner of his lip twitches and he’s sinking to his knees, hands lowering to your hips. He gazes up at you now, decisive in a way that’s familiar but foreign in context.
You inhale again, just barely, mouth slightly parted, and he’s moving, edging the hem of your dress upward with slow, practiced hands. A finger hooks into the elastic of your underwear as he drags them down, lower, off. Your back comes to rest against the mirror, and he tucks his arm underneath your thigh, hoisting your leg up and over his shoulder.
His breath, steady and warm, tickles you, and he looks up in a final, silent question.
The barest dip of your chin is all the confirmation he needs before his mouth, his tongue, begin their gentle exploration.
Your hand comes to rest at the base of his neck, the other in his hair, and his name escapes your lips on a breathy exhale at the shock of his touch. He sighs against you in turn, a groan, pressure increasing against the throbbing between your legs as he skillfully adapts to your urgent, sighed requests.
The deft work of his tongue, your arousal, his eyes on you as you writhe in his hands—it’s all too much, and when release finally crashes into you, it’s quiet, physical. Fingers tugging his hair, a violent roll of your hips while he holds you through it, unrelenting.
The moment he feels you relax, he’s rising and you meet him, crushing your mouth to his. A simple pull of the knotted halter straps behind your neck is enough for your dress to fall, pooling around your ankles.
Then he’s lifting you and you’re straddling him as he carries you to the bed, mouths hot, tongues searching. He lays you back, taking a moment to pause and admire you with a gentle reverence that makes you squirm.
You push up on one arm and pull him down with the other in a smooth exchange of position. A light shove to his chest and he’s leaning back onto the bed, humor wrought in his eyes. You go for his zipper, stripping him down his thighs, over his calves, then fully.
The length of him on display elicits an appreciative click of your tongue as you lean in—bracing yourself on his thigh with one hand while the other meets his base—to take his tip between your lips. His hips twitch, pulling your gaze to him with resolute intent, then you’re plunging down, cheeks flexed where you take him fully as the edge of your tongue follows the motion.
You learn very quickly that despite his steady, dry demeanor, Leon isn’t quiet. And his ragged groans, his soft swearing are enough for your heart to thunder in your chest, your ache building once again.
When his noises change, become more guttural, you take your chance.
You rise, climbing him and tugging his shirt up along with you. He discards it in a single swift motion, leaning up to claim your mouth with his. He’s slick where he meets the heat of your sex, and you try but fail to stifle your moan at the sensation, hips rocking and ready for him. With a grunt, he takes you by the waist and moves you with him further up the bed to rest against the headboard.
Hands on his shoulders, you sink steadily onto him, rising and falling once, acclimating. Then you’re riding him, increasingly frantic, lost in the pleasure of him inside of you. His eyes are hungry, eager like you’ve never seen him before, taking in your sweat-slicked skin, your breasts, lips parted.
He clutches your hips with a soft “fuck,” fingers imprinting, and forces you slower, his arms flexing with the effort. You whine in protest and he croons, voice a deep hum. “I know—that’s it. Let’s slow it down a bit.” He sucks two of his fingers and reaches for your clit, stroking soft circles, his other hand maintaining its heel on your pace.
You gasp, head tipped back, unable to help your nails cutting into his shoulders as the sensation of him, your mounting release, overwhelms you.
There’s no warning when he smoothly lifts you up and off, flipping you to your stomach, his chest toward your back. You arch, raising your hips to meet him, and rough hands seize your waist for the leverage to slide into you, pushing into a relentless rhythm that leaves you moaning, desperate.
He stutters only for a moment to lean forward and cup the underside of your chin, pulling your face to his. “Gonna fuck him right off of you,” he pants between thrusts, words near slurring as he claims your mouth. You whimper into his parted lips, his name a song you can’t contain, and he keeps you here, pace quickening, breath sawing from his chest.
You feel him tense and he releases you, forehead coming to the crook of your neck. A bated breath, then he’s pulling out with a grunt, waves of sudden warmth on your back, his satisfaction uttered on a sluggish exhale.
You clutch the sheets on either side of your head, your own orgasm shattering through you as his hands come to rest atop yours, fingers interlocking, breath sending chills down your spine where he trails hot, urgent kisses.
It’s here you remain as you both shake from exertion, slowly coming back into yourselves.
Seconds or minutes pass before you feel the mattress move beneath you as his weight leaves it, and you look up in time to watch his return, towel in hand. He brushes it gently along your back, gentler still between your legs, then discards it—a problem for later—and you bounce from the force of him plopping back down chest-first beside you, an arm thrown over the small of your back.
You’re the first to recover, slowly propping up on your elbows, eyes warm as you brush his tousled hair out of his face. His lips tug at the corners, lazy and content, and he closes his eyes, fingers stroking your opposite side where his hand meets your ribs.
“You looked gorgeous tonight, by the way.”
The words are a muffled garble where the side of his face pushes into the sheets, and you laugh, flicking him on the forehead.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
I notice alot of my followers on here skipping these posts just to mess with my lgbt ones, suspiciously the white popular ones.
Heres a not so friendly reminder, as an lgbt metis person, i dont give a single fuck what your blog is themed or if this is too painful for you to look at. Reblog this post. Reblog this post with the sources of the 751 children who were found.
Your compliance and silence as well as the compliance and silence of your ancestors is what allowed these schools to open and kill first nations children. The children of MY people.
Dont follow me if you cant reblog this post or the one with sources to your political blog or your most popular blog. Add trigger warnings if you must but if your political blog is only focused on the harms you personally face like being lgbt then you need to see some bigger pictures and stop being afraid of angering your racist mutural or actually saying some shit about racism. If you can reblog some antifa graphics or add blm to your bio to be a surface level ally, you can reblog some sources on the genocide first nations people faced and still face today.
I’d like to add this photo I took last night in Victoria of the statue of Captain Cook. Though I myself am not indigenous, I 100% agree that these murderers, kidnappers and rapists shouldn’t have huge statues and plaques that decorate them and say how “great” they were.
Here’s another photo of the legislative assembly from yesterday. Later on there were more items, candles and signs at the memorial, as well as a big poster with 1505 painted on it but I didn’t get a picture
People need to see this. Not just quickly glance at the photos and keep on scrolling. They need to see this.
I had seen the first picture of the church, but not the second.
I went to a “Cancel Canada Day” event and burst into tears - not because I was surprised to learn of the unmarked graves (survivors told us they were there. Our government pushed it aside, and we let them), but because seeing all the people gathered in mourning drove it home: They. Were. Children.
This is my country’s legacy - and it’s not history. The last schools closed during my lifetime. My Father went to school with students who lived at the local residential school, after it was changed to a boarding house (read: holding centre) for indigenous youth who went to local schools.
They were all children, injured, abused, and killed in my country’s attempt to erase them. I want the world to see this and hold the state accountable to *active* reconciliation> I mean we could at least truly adopt UNDRIP in action instead of words for god’s sake.
here you can read an article about a survivor of the church and some of the things he experienced to help put into perspective how awful and just how recent it was
Computers are so scary what if I accidentally hit F12 in a steam game and it takes a screenshot. What if I press shift + F12 while in word and accidentally save my document 😖
If you had to learn what the F keys on your computer do through me reblogging this post, then I'm glad you did. Computer literacy is not a skill that gets taught anymore, and it is absolutely one that needs to be taught in order to be learned. Don't ever feel bad for not knowing something, but ☝️ don't ever stop learning learning about your environment, the tools you use, and especially the people around you
hey white people . if u dont know how to pronounce an ethnic persons name *google it* or if its someone ur talking directly to *ask them*. dont fucking do that "erm i dont know how to pronounce but __" or "im gonna butcher this haha" or "im not even gonna bother trying" . ur not funny. do u know what poc think when they hear u saying that ? u sound like a loser asshole and we dont want to spend time with u . im so fucking tired of watching youtube videos about media from my country and hearing those phrases. im tired of people saying that to my face . i respect someone who clearly looked it up and is tryong but says my name wrong over someone who just goes with whatever bad first guess they had without trying. u have too many resources at ur disposal to keep doing this. for the love of god just Fucking Try. if ur confused Just Try.
I highly recommend Forvo.com, the website where native speakers of a language contribute their time and voices to read words and names in their own language. It is a fantastic way to expand your world, open up your ears, and it's way more likely to nab a hit than just googling.
Tags: explicit | teasing | lap-sitting | desk sex
3k words | ao3 link
Summary: The new masters of Ramazith's Tower have inherited a mighty obligation, their days filled with organising the chaos left behind by its previous owner. Hesperia finds Rolan hard at work after weeks of late and lonely nights, and decides to remind him of what he's been neglecting.
Hesperia’s only company was Selûne; a waxing crescent smile casting its eerie glow across a city still alive beneath her feet. From the top of Ramazith’s Tower she surveyed the taverns packed with raucous patrons and the pockets of light speckling Bloomridge Park. They were but blurs of activity, specks of dust, not people at all. Even Cornelius was out hunting, their bond straining with the distance.
She sighed, and retreated into the light of the tower. Bare feet padding across polished stone she’d worked hard to scrub clean over the past months. Past the walls where once there had hung artwork she could no longer bear to look at. It was an ongoing process to make this cavernous building feel like a home.
Without thinking at all, Hesperia was drawn to the man who made it such.
Rolan was where he often was these days—sequestered in their shared study. Just to look upon him filled Hesperia with warmth. Even though his back was hunched, hair a little dishevelled and frown deep, he was a beautiful sight. He was so utterly immersed that he made no indication he was aware of her presence as she approached, not until her hands came to lay on his tense shoulders.
He almost jumped out of his skin.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Hesperia said with a smile.
Rolan swivelled his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers, but otherwise barely reacted. This wasn’t like him, she thought. Yes, he could become intensely focused upon his studies, but he had never before felt this distant.
As if sensing her disappointment, he said, “I'm sorry my love, I'm just so busy.”
Hesperia huffed. “I'm busy, too.”
“I know. I know.” A hint of frustration and more than a little sadness.
“You're working yourself too hard.”
It was a testament to how hard Rolan was pushing himself that Hesperia herself could utter those words. She’d never met anyone who worked quite as hard as herself before she’d met Rolan, except perhaps her father.
“But look at these ledgers! Lorroakan left the place in such a state…there's suppliers he never paid, and contractors that are hounding us for money we simply don't have.”
Hesperia pressed a kiss to the top of Rolan's head. Even his scent, his warmth, his presence calmed her. “The vaults aren't much better,” she admitted.
Long days and nights had taken their toll on them both, and with a sickening lurch she realised that it had been days since they had even slept in the same bed or ate a meal together. She was under no illusion that these early days of finding their footing as masters of the tower would be simple, nor their relationship resemble anything approaching domestic bliss so easily, but the time apart was taking its toll. Wrapping her arms around Rolan's neck, she held him tightly, trying to muster the courage to be vulnerable.
“I miss you,” she whispered.
Rolan finally stopped shuffling papers, turning to finally look at her. “I do, too. Truly. I just don't feel as if I can rest until all of this is dealt with. Piles of bloody paperwork, haunting me.”
Hesperia had expected nothing less from Rolan. She loved his passion, his drive, but he did have a tendency to prioritise everything but his own wellbeing.
“I'll help you, then,” Hesperia said, giving him a swat on the shoulder.
After a moment's bafflement, Rolan pushed his chair back from the desk enough for Hesperia to slip onto his lap. Even the slight contact was enough to warm her cheeks.
“Well I hardly think this is going to help,” Rolan grumbled, nevertheless pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
A woman of her word, Hesperia gathered a stack of correspondence from the desk. Rolan was right—it was a mess. Far from invoices, apparently Lorroakan had taken scribbled promises as contractual obligations.
They sat like that for a while, reading and scribbling; Hesperia dictating what she could discern from the papers for Rolan to note in his immaculate new filing system. Dull work, only made bearable by the warmth of her love at her back, the delicately traced circle Rolan's thumb pressed against her waist.
Eventually, the comfort became a distraction.
“Two hundred gold owed to Cazador Szarr,” Hesperia muttered as her awareness of Rolan's tail pulled her gaze away.
Rolan huffed in amusement. “Well, he won't be needing that anymore.”
“Mmm, but the estate…I assume he had no heirs, but…from a legal standpoint…”
Her voice drifted off as Rolan's tail wrapped around her leg. The man himself didn't seem to be aware of the intimate gesture, or he was incredibly good at feigning innocence. Hesperia cleared her throat and turned back to the unread papers—Szarr’s debt could wait until they were more focused. The next was an itemised list of supplies that Hesperia could discern no practical use for, and that piqued curiosity managed to force another solid ten minutes of work from her, until Rolan shifted in his chair. Hesperia slid backwards, right into the crevice between his thighs (another subject that caused no end of distraction).
His grip tightened on her waist, tail contracting about her leg, so tantalisingly close to the soft flesh at their apex. A barely audible exhale caressed her right ear, and she noticed that Rolan had stopped writing, and so she repeated the last dictated item.
“Hm? Oh,” Rolan said, followed by the scratch of his pen.
Hesperia smiled to herself, dutifully carrying on their work, all the while focused on the hard planes of Rolan's body and the effect she had on him. Luckily, she had always been a gifted multitasker, and disciplined to a fault; and so too was Rolan. Even as he grew hard beneath her, pressed into her behind, they did not waver from their task.
What a fun little game they'd concocted, she thought. A smile curved her lips, and she imagined the same on Rolan's handsome face, a silent agreement that this was now a competition of wills. Judging by the state of his cock, it appeared that Hesperia had a head start.
“Mamzell Amira…oh, really?” Hesperia sighed in disgust. “Is this really an invoice for a brothel?”
Rolan chuckled, noting the exorbitant sum. On and on they went, Rolan's arousal never wavering but never escalating. All the while Hesperia's own lewd thoughts were becoming harder to ignore. How she'd much rather be bent over this very desk instead of sat toiling at it, Rolan's fist in her hair whilst he pounded into her tight, wet—
No, it wouldn't do to linger on that particular scenario. Hesperia breathed deeply, fingers idly toying with the ridges on Rolan's tail. Judging by his soft groan as she squeezed close her hand, he was enjoying it. The pleasurable sound slithered into her ear, tracing a path of heated desire right to her core. A pulse between her legs, a gentle ache as her body begged to be filled.
Hesperia gave a slight wiggle of her hips, partly for her own satisfaction and partly to tease more of those delicious noises from Rolan. She tilted forward, elbows resting upon the desk, and sighed as his cock pressed firmly where she needed it most.
“You'll be the death of me,” he muttered. “ If you will insist on this distraction, you might as well sit properly.”
Hesperia turned to find him grinning, all teeth, a delightful gleam in his eyes.
A hand trailed up her leg, the crook of his finger beckoning the delicate fabric of her dress to follow until it pooled around her hips.
“How would you prefer me to sit?” she asked innocently.
Rolan huffed, gently teasing the hem of her underwear. “Preferably with my cock buried inside you. Take these off for me.”
Hesperia didn't hide her eagerness as she shimmied them down her legs. She’d prefer his full attention on her in their bed, but perhaps this would do.
Rolan soon followed suit, trousers shoved roughly to his knees. He sat exposed; lithely muscled thighs with a dusting of freckles, his cock finally untethered to lay heavy against his hip. Hesperia only had a moment to contemplate all the things she wished to do to him before Rolan's tail wrapped around her waist, and she was manhandled backwards. Only a cursory exploration to find her slick and willing, and suddenly his cock was inching inside her.
With a whimper, Hesperia sank into his lap. That painful ache ebbed, sheer relief flooding her body. Gods, he felt good. She shouldn't have been surprised, she knew his body intimately now; knew all the various ways he could pleasure her.
“Now stay still, we still have half a dozen of these to get through.” Rolan's stern voice cut through the haze. He was serious, after all.
“Fine,” she replied, her voice strained. She picked up the next paper and noticed her hand was shaking.
It annoyed her how calm and collected Rolan appeared. His script was as elegant as it always was, and though he kept a tight grip on Hesperia, he did not attempt anything more. She felt every ridge of him, hard and eager, temptation as she'd never known.
Her control wavered with every passing minute, blood pooling between her thighs until her body's urges were impossible to ignore. A tentative finger found her swollen nub, a shock erupting through her core at the slightest touch.
“Hesperia,” Rolan warned.
He should have known that tone would only spur her on. If she was doomed to failure, she would make sure he followed.
“I knew you would divert me,” Rolan muttered, catching Hesperia's wrist in a firm grip.
He pinned her hand to the table, kissing apologetic kisses to her quivering shoulder.
“Rolan…”
“Only a few more minutes.”
“I can't,” Hesperia breathed.
What a fool she'd been to think she could resist him this way. Her hand pinned, the game lost, Hesperia decided all that was left was to take what she needed. What began as a gentle rocking to take the edge off only devolved into shamelessly riding his cock. Clouded by lust, their work lay forgotten, the desk's only purpose now to aid in her feral claiming of the man beneath her.
He didn't try to stop her, however. The hand around her waist no longer held her firm, instead helping to push and pull, guiding him deeper inside with increasing urgency.
“I can…stop…if you'd like,” Hesperia panted, timed with a roll of her hips.
She doubted the sincerity of those words the moment they left her lips. It really had been too long since they had defiled the furniture in this room. Hesperia vibrated with pent-up desire and tension from weeks of late nights spent working rather than indulging in life's pleasures.
The answer to her suggestion was to be pushed upward with a creak and clatter of wood as Rolan's chair fell to the floor, and Hesperia was flung over the desk. She came face to face with their carefully organised accounts, hands scrabbling for purchase.
“Be careful with that,” Rolan chided, followed by a sharp slap to her behind that shunted her forward.
A thrill pulsed through her body, hips pushing back hard. She wanted—no, needed—him harder, deeper, to scream his name into their empty tower until every corner and crevice of it was scrubbed of its previous owner's influence. More than that, she craved his complete attention, and finally she thought she had it.
Hot breaths at her neck, teeth at her pulse. She arched her back and whispered—Rolan, Rolan—and her love answered with her name in the shape of a prayer, offered with unrepentant desire. A steady rhythm began that barely satiated the raging beast, but Rolan was ever so thorough in all things, her pleasure included.
The hard lines of his cock caressed her slick and sensitive core whilst his hands roamed, sweeping her hair away to trail a path of breathless kisses down her neck, teasing a peaked nipple between thumb and forefinger. Finally, he settled on gripping the base of her tail.
“Getting a better view?” she teased.
Rolan only growled in response. Yes, then. In her periphery, she saw him intently watching where their bodies conjoined, face contorted with uninhibited lust. Fangs bared, eyes alight. Her nerves were on fire, consumed with a want only he could satisfy. Rolan stoked the flame, higher and hotter until he too was engulfed.
Hesperia felt his loss of control in the shaking of his legs, the urgency of his thrusts. He took her with wanton abandon, just as she'd craved. Face pressed into their precious work, claws dug deep into the worn wood desktop.
“Hesperia, gods—look what you—you've done to me.”
She smiled at that, at his complete loss of composure. As if she, too, wasn't a complete mess quivering beneath him.
“I've missed you,” she said again, this time choked with emotion.
“As have I. So very much.”
Rolan found her lips through some contortion of their bodies, kissing her again and again before growing disgruntled. When he pulled his cock free, Hesperia made a small whine at the loss of him, but Rolan had no intention of leaving her wanting, guiding her to face him with all the gentleness he could muster. Deftly picking apart buttons until her dress was but a scrap of fabric to discard. His eyes blew wide at the sight of her laid bare, legs parted, chest heaving. As if perusing the morning edition of the Gazette, his eyes skimmed where his hands roamed, committing every curve to memory.
“You’re so beautiful. Gods. What have I done to deserve you?” he muttered, before planting a firm kiss upon her lips.
It was a romantic notion, that he thought himself undeserving of her, even if it was the furthest thing from the truth. Hesperia's reply was lost in his lips; instead she let out a long moan amongst a twist of tongues, made louder the moment Rolan swiftly reentered her. Legs braced tightly around his waist, heels digging into his back, she would not let him free again. Hesperia drove him deeper, until their sweat-slicked skin was flush, if only for the briefness of a chaste kiss before Rolan began his steady rhythm again.
She traced the ridges of his back, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard; he cupped her face with his hand like handling a precious jewel. And their tails moved as if they possessed their own needs, finding each other in the tangle of limbs. So much friction, an endless bombardment of touch. She was close to breaking, and hoped that Rolan would hold her together when she did.
“I'm going to—”
“I know,” Rolan said breathlessly, reaching a hand between them.
Fingers slid between her lips, hot and slick. The gentle strokes against her swollen clit sent an overwhelming pulse of pleasure through her core, tension winding tighter and tighter. Rolan read her like one of their myriad books, assessing every twitch of her body for the moment when he could shatter her with a command.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said.
Not an easy task, when every brutal thrust of his cock made Hesperia's eyes roll into the back of her head. But she did—kept gazing into those beautiful golden suns with all the ferocity of their celestial counterparts. She knew she was primed, then, as her chest swelled with such affection she almost sobbed. Rolan tightened his grip on her hips, the slap of skin the only sound to fill the anticipatory silence.
Until—
“Now, let go.”
His tone twisted her stomach, and Hesperia burned; a conflagration of body and soul. She lost herself in that heady climax, clinging tight to Rolan. Riding out her orgasm with the ceaseless bucking of hips, all without averting her gaze. He came a few moments later with a guttural moan and the sharp sting of nails against the soft flesh of her thighs.
Hesperia reached down to where they joined, felt the throb of his cock as he filled her, the thick excess coating her fingers. She was dizzy, her skin burning. The feral tangle of animalistic instinct only quietened as Rolan slumped against her, leaving her full and sated.
For a while they simply breathed the stale, heated air. Affection bloomed in the scant gap between their bodies. Rolan kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. She returned them twice over until finally they devolved into laughter, as giddy as their first time. It was a relief, truly, to know she hadn’t lost him.
Rolan looked down at the clothes haphazardly tossed to the floor, the mess upon the desk; papers scattered and crumpled, not to mention the bodily fluids.
Surprisingly, he simply shrugged. “Oh well.”
“Such a positive outlook. A little distraction was all you needed.”
Rolan grinned, throwing a pair of lace undergarments at her. Hesperia dressed with a smile upon her face, but even in the afterglow, a faint anxiety still needled at her. But if part of her expected Rolan sat down to his work again, it was proven wrong the moment he scooped her up in his arms and marched towards their bedroom.
Depositing her on the bed, he crawled up the length of her body, pressing reverent kisses here and there until he drew level with her face.
“Thank you for reminding me there are things much more important to attend to in this tower than old books and unsettled debts.”
Perhaps it wouldn’t be the first time she would remind him as such, and he would try hard to curb Hesperia’s own obsessive nature when it threatened to consume her. What would matter was that they heeded the call when it came—of that, she no longer had any doubt.
"That’s what makes Zohran Mamdani’s election in New York so unsettling to the old order. New York City is not just another municipality; it’s a sovereign-scale entity. Its population surpasses 38 states. Its metropolitan GDP trails only Texas and California.
It is, by any metric, a small country masquerading as a city.
It governs more lives and more wealth than most nations. If democratic socialism — housing reform, public banking, equitable taxation — functions here, it obliterates the myth that such governance can’t work at scale. The fear isn’t ideological. It’s empirical. Because if Mamdani can keep the lights on, reduce homelessness, and maintain economic growth without catering to Wall Street, then the capitalist gospel collapses under its own dead weight.
What terrifies the establishment isn’t failure. It’s feasibility.
If it works in New York, there’s no reason it can’t work in Nebraska. If it works in Queens, it can work in Kansas City. And once proof exists, belief becomes irrelevant. The ship of democracy, fully refitted, will keep sailing — and no one can claim it isn’t American."
- Jackie Summers
Hope you're keeping well friend :) @garlicbreadbatstarion - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
