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urfavlarry · 1 day ago

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—You’re the kind of person they write rock songs about

—modern!au Viktor x fem!reader warning. swearing, not proof read, might be OOC

part two || part three || part four

A/N. sorry if this is short I promise the next chapter will be longer D:

‘You eye each other as you pass

She looks back and you look back

Not just once, not just twice’

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Vik

Piltover Uni || Physics & Engineering

2027 🎓

tagged: truly.y/n, powpow, ekk0stime and 4 others

liked by ekk0stime, ishaaq, j.talis and 32 others

posted 2 weeks ago

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You found yourself scrolling through Viktor’s account, your finger idly swiping through his highlights and posts. Each photo and story offered a glimpse into his world—museum trips, late-night coffee breaks, and snapshots of the people he cared about, though he never really appeared in any of them. He also had a highlight containing pictures of him but most were faceless and only ever showed off his outfit of the day. The newest post however caught your eye: a picture of you and your band from the night you all first officially hung out and the Last Drop. It was more of an unexpected and last minute get together but it sure was worth spending that time with them. The memory tugged at you, bringing a flicker of joy as you remembered the warmth and laughter of that evening.

But the smile on your face quickly faded as reality set in. There was a reason you were staring at his account, hovering over his name like some indecisive idiot. Right, texting him. You sighed, locking your phone and staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to muster up the courage to type something that wouldn’t make you sound ridiculous. Why was this so hard? It wasn’t like you hadn’t talked to him before.

This was about to be the fifth time that week you’d tried to coax information out of him, and it was starting to make you feel like a desperate ex who couldn’t take a hint. But the utter curiosity had completely taken over, refusing to let you rest until you got some answers.

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. Fuck it. If Viktor wanted to keep things cryptic, fine—but you weren’t about to sit here driving yourself insane over it. Picking up your phone again, you opened your messages, quickly typing out a message before you had the chance to overthink it and chicken out.

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[truly.y/n] Vikkk >:((

[truly.y/n] where do we even meet up? band is asking soo many questions and I need answers

[truly.y/n] can you PLEASE tell me where we’re going? what place could possibly need all of our equipment? did you do something?

[vik.tor222] 6pm outside the school dormitories, i’ll pay for the taxi

[truly.y/n] unless you know a taxi driver with a van then we’ll be going by Ekko’s van. we need to move Isha’s drums, the speakers and all that shit

[vik.tor222] okay then the meeting spot is the same, want me to drive?

[truly.y/n] idc, if you wanna :P

[vik.tor222] alright then, see you in 2 days :)

[truly.y/n] whatever mr. mysterious, cya

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Two days passed in the blink of an eye, your bandmates just as clueless as you however Ekko was the most excited out of everyone who just stood there, waiting for you and Powder to load up the van. “Why can’t he just tell us?” Isha signed, eyeing Viktor who was patiently waiting near the drivers side of the van, occasionally tapping his cane and looking towards the slightly frightened looking band which only amused him.

“Whatever it is, we’re ready,” he said, tuning his bass with a big grin. “Mystery gigs are kind of cool, y’know?” “Cool until we walk into a disaster,” Isha signed, twirling her drumsticks in the air before stepping into the van so you could all be on your way

“Alright, let’s get going.” Ekko exclaimed enthusiastically, while you and Powder cheered— yours being more sarcastic than excited but you played along with their enthusiasm.

The drive wasn’t long, but the anticipation made every minute feel like hours. Powder kept trying to guess where you were going however you gave up a long time ago. “Okay, hear me out,” she said, leaning forward from the back seat. “It’s gotta be a secret underground gig. Like, a place that only the coolest people know about. Right?” “Or,” Ekko added, “maybe it’s some rich dude’s private party. Like, we’re about to play for some billionaires who want to vibe out to live music.” “God, I hope not,” Isha signed from her corner, pulling off one headphone.

Viktor chuckled softly, his focus still on the road. “You’re all very creative. Perhaps I should’ve hired you as consultants.”

“Don’t dodge the question!” Powder groaned, throwing a crumpled receipt at him from months ago. He ignored her antics, his smirk unwavering as the van slowly came to a stop. You blinked in disbelief, staring out the windshield at the familiar neon sign glowing softly in the early evening light. “No way,” you murmured, your heart skipping a beat.

Ekko leaned forward, squinting. “Wait... isn’t this that café? The vintage one you’ve been obsessed with?” “The one one you have been dying to play at?” Powder added, her voice rising with excitement. “The very one,” Viktor confirmed, stepping out of the van and gesturing for everyone to follow. His cane tapped rhythmically against the pavement as he led the way to the entrance.

You hesitated, your stomach twisting in equal parts of excitement and panic. “Viktor, what are we doing here?” He paused at the door, turning to look at you with a calm, knowing smile. “You said it was your dream to play here. I’d like to think the most ‘impossible’ dreams are the ones most possible, aren’t they rockstar?” Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Powder gave you a nudge from behind, practically bouncing with excitement. “Come on! Let’s go!” The group piled into the café, and the cozy, familiar ambiance hit you immediately—it was exactly as you’d imagined it when you first stepped in weeks ago.

A staff member came up to you as soon as you entered, his sharp jaw and carefully ironed dress shirt was enough to make you feel small. His intimidating aura shifted however once he began to speak; “Right on time! Do whatever you need to do and we’ll be ready when you are.” He said with a smile before giving you a quick nod and turned to leave.

Powder let out an excited squeal, grabbing your arm and shaking it. “Vik I can’t believe you booked us here!” “I merely opened the door,” Viktor said, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s up to you to walk through it.”

Ekko was already setting his gear down, grinning from ear to ear. “Yo, this is insane. We’re actually playing here.” Isha looked quite stunned as well, looking around with wide eyes as she shakily set up her drums. You’ve played at cafe’s before and had a few successful shows but this.. this was different. It was a famous place, one with people who’d gladly give you job offers like playing at their bar, or more of a moving job where’d they’d reach out to people and find you gigs with the snap of their fingers. This was a real opportunity.

Viktor was staring at you and the band from a booth, having a view better than anyone else as he had a proud smile on his face. He felt your excitement, the absolute joy that radiated from your body which was amusing to the normal eye however he knew what it truly meant to you. He’s properly known you for a little over two weeks but it felt like he’s known you forever. Viktor found himself silently rooting for you in a way that surprised him. He glanced at the growing crowd, noting their curiosity, some patrons leaned forward in anticipation, while others sipped their drinks casually, oblivious to the significance of what was about to unfold.

Your setlist was a mix of two original songs and covers from legends like Queen’s Seven Seas of Rhye, Deftones’ Sextape, Iron Maiden, Mötley Crüe and Metallica.

From the first chords of Seven Seas of Rhye, the café buzzed with energy. “Hell yeah!” Ekko exclaimed, sending you all a proud smirk as he strummed the chords of every single song perfectly. “Everyone feeling alright?” Powder yelled into the mic, an uproar of cheers sending bolts of energy into you. “That’s what I wanna fucking hear! Let’s keep this energy going!” When you hit the haunting melody of Sextape, the crowd seemed transfixed, and you felt Viktor’s eyes on you, his expression focused and unreadable.

You kept locking eyes with him throughout the show, a flutter of butterflies stirring in your stomach each time you caught the way his gaze softened with what almost looked like adoration. Every time you tried to force yourself to look elsewhere, embarrassed by how often your eyes found his, you failed. It was as if some invisible magnet pulled your gaze towards his, neither of you able to look away.

By the end of the set, as the final note hung in the air, your eyes found his one last time. He gave a small nod, a faint but genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. And for reasons you couldn’t fully explain, that single gesture felt like the loudest applause of the night.

taglist: @skullmvncher @startingtoloveyou @astarionapologist

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE OR COPY ANY OF MY WRITING TO OTHER PLATFORMS

I DON’T CONSENT FOR MY WRITING TO BE USED TO TRAIN AI 🚫

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trippinsorrows · 1 day ago

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wicked games + one

authors note: here we go again. i have no excuse atp. none whatsoever. this is more a prologue than anything, because the following parts will show just we ended up here...

words: 4k

**gif belongs to @dejameflorecer

warnings: angst

Her laughter haunts him.

Once an anodyne for any and all of his bad days, now the source of his bad days.

That same laughter echoes through the hotel room, radiates from the phone in his hand as he watches one of the many videos she took.

“I want to remember these moments,” she once told him as explanation for why she seemingly couldn’t go one date or outing without snapping a photo or recording a video of them together.

The video in question that serves as his punishment is one she took when they were at his place. One of the times where he didn’t take her somewhere special or have elaborate plans. He just wanted to be around her and vice versa.

Roman sees himself sitting back on the sofa, remote in hand, probably trying to decide between the options of movies she gave him.

She then shifts the focus back onto her, and he’s immediately moved by how she’s wearing only one of his shirts, signifying she’d spent the night.

Roman’s chest tightens.

He hasn't had a good night’s rest in months, the absence of her, in all the ways, chasing and overwhelming his every waking moment.

“Ro!” She giggles, moving around again, now on her knees on the sofa as she holds onto him from the side. “Can you at least smile for me? You look like I’m torturing you.”

Present Roman watches past Roman cast an irritated glance to the camera followed by a significantly relaxed one to her. “You know I’m not a camera person like that, Sol.”

She rolls her eyes. So big and pretty. Innocent. “Whatever.” Her dismissal is followed by her kissing his cheek and smiling wryly. “I know how to get your attention.”

A misunderstanding on her part, because she always had his attention.

Still does.

More movement followed by music playing in the background.

G-A-N-G baby, let me B-A-N-G, baby

Let me fuck some'

G-A-N-G baby, let me B-A-N-G, baby

Let me fuck some'

He’d heard the song before, played at the gym and club a couple of times, but the song is not the focus. She is. Always. He watches her her climb onto his lap, that sneaky look on her face replaced with a new angle.

The angle of her holding the phone so it’s focused on her ass as she twerks on top of him, cheeks and hips moving perfectly in sync to the beat of the song.

If that ass fat, better shake that shit (Baow, baow)

Put a hand up if you take dick (Tryna fuck some')

Keep shit P, I'll never be a trick

But the way she fuck, make me spend that shit (Let me fuck some')

A viewing at a different time would probably evoke a different, more physical, carnal reaction from him, but present Roman is too focused on the sound of her laughter when past Roman slaps her ass and tugs her against him.

She bites on her bottom lip, focusing the video back on them as he whispers something in her ear that makes her eyes go wide.

She gasps, smiling and blushing as she turns to him, “Roman!”

The video stops, and the emptiness returns.

Roman locks his phone, gripping it. His eyes shut, the memories crashing into him like waves of suffocation and devastation.

He’s not sure why he continues to do this to himself. To torture himself with constant reminders of what will always be his biggest regret in this life.

The same reason he’s unsure why he’s even doing this.

He needs to leave her alone. He promised he would leave her alone.

But, that was before.

Before he was informed. Before it was told to him. Not a sure thing. Just a rumor. But a rumor, nonetheless, that resulted in him hopping on the jet and flying to Mexico. A rumor he needs to know is either just that—a rumor—or a secret that’s bound to change everything.

For better or worse remains to be seen.

It takes another ten minutes for him to exit the vehicle, ten minutes of going back and forth if he should just get back in his car and drive straight to the airport. It’s tempting, but not enough.

He needs to know.

And that’s what he keeps reminding himself of as he makes his way through the mall strip, partially confused due to the fact that it’s all in Spanish. He keeps in mind, however, the name of the shop and the pictures she showed him. Pictures that included promises of him to come see it in person, for her to give him a personal tour of all of her home, one day.

Promises and dreams that lie in the wastelands of what could but will never be.

Bypassing a couple, the woman wearing a bright green bikini top and shorts brings him back to a memory.

She runs over to him, giggling, holding onto her chest, the thin straps of her lime green bikini top failing to properly secure those beautiful breast of hers.

Sitting and straddling his lap, she takes the phone from him. "Let me see."

He watches her eyes survey the photos he snapped, his hand moving to her hips, holding her. "They alright?"

Her eyes flicker up to him. She nods with a small smile, kissing his cheek. "They're perfect."

Roman says nothing but thinks the same.

She is perfect.

Placing the phone down on the towel that he sits on, she moves her arms around his neck. "Guess what I've been thinking about?"

He makes a sound, hands massaging the meat of her hips. "No idea. Tell me."

She bites on her bottom lip, answering in a giddy tone. "Us."

Funny. He thinks the of the same thing. More often than not.

Roman lifts his hand to her chin, gaze softening. "What about us?"

Her eyes alight with elation. "When we're married and have a house full of kids running around."

Her answer surprises him. To some extent. Not entirely. She's brought up marriage before. Voiced her desire for them to one day be wed, but it's always marred by the dark secrets he continues to sit on.

Continues to withhold from her.

Solana nods, moving her hands up and down his broad shoulders. "I want to get married back home in Mexico, but I want us to live here in the states." She explains, sighing in awe. "I want us to have a house in the country though."

He chuckles quietly. "The country, huh?"

Her smile is warm and loving as she leans forward, holding him, burying herself against his safety. "I want to be away from everyone. Just you. Me. Our kids." Solana sighs as he moves his hands up her back and kisses the top of her head. "Us.....that's all we need."

Detaching from distant times, Roman does his best to push away those uncomfortable feelings and heartbreaking memories to stay focused on the task at hand, his dedication eventually bringing him to his destination.

Dulce's.

He stands outside the building, recognizing the outside, the beautiful flower arrangements that line the window. It's all so her.

And for a second, he considers turning around once more. Fears this place of purity and sanctuary will be polluted by him, polluted by the stench of betrayal that follows him wherever he goes.

But, the desire, the almost need to have his question answered is overpowering. Is enough to take him to that next stop.

And Roman walks into the store.

“Buenos días!”

Months.

It’s been months since he’s heard her voice in real time, having to make do with archival footage. But hearing it now, after so long, the happiness in it, it’s….difficult, to say the least. Roman swallows, studying the back of her head as she stands behind the counter, clearly working on a bouquet, the seconds stretching to minutes in terms of how long it takes her to turn around. But, when she does, he’s wishing she didn’t “Cómo puedo ayudarle—”

Solana is silent the minute her eyes land on him, the terror and shock in her pretty brown hues filling him with all the shame.

She’s far from pleased at the sight of him.

Her mouth parts slightly, and he swears he can see her chest gradually moving up and down, indication of panic. “Roman?” It’s been months since he’s heard his name on her mouth in real time, and it nearly kills him how horrified she sounds saying it. “Wh—what—how—”

Roman didn’t think of what exactly he was going to say when he was standing in front of her, didn’t think he needed to. Now, he realizes that wasn’t the smartest decision. Her very strong reaction to seeing him shouldn't surprise him, shouldn’t bother him. After all, what he did to her…the way he hurt her….he’s surprised the door isn’t slammed in his face.

“I—” Struggling with verbalization has never been a thing for him until this moment. “I needed to see you. We—we need to talk.”

For better or worse, his words seem to trigger her out of her state of shock. Her brows furrow slightly, her hands tightly gripping the counter. “How did you find me?”

“Solana—”

“How—” Her voice is harder, a new emotion rising: anger. “did you find me?”

He straightens, jaw fixed. “I’ve always known where you were.”

And, it shouldn't come as a surprise. It only made sense after everything he did to her, the pain he caused her, that she would return to her safe space. Be around her family.

That she would go home.

Her expression seems to indicate she recognizes this as well. Recognizes that it was maybe unwise to think Roman, of all people, would not know where she disappeared to. “Well, you’ve wasted your time, because I have nothing to say to you.”

It’s then that she tries to turn away from him, but he takes a step closer, hating how she leans back against the counter. It’s almost physically painful to see and feel her disgust towards him. “You don’t want to talk to me, I get that.”

Solana’s eyes widen, her voice harsh and unforgiving. “I don’t even want to see you, let alone speak to you.” She shakes her head, reaching and pointing to the door behind him. “Now, I won’t tell you again, get out.”

Roman does his best to shove away the emotions that only seem to come up when he’s with and around her. “Solana, please just—”

“Don’t you get it!” She snaps, gesturing again to the door. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Roman! I don’t want to think about you, I don’t want to remember you.” Emotion imbues her voice and face. “I’d give anything to be able to wipe you and the past year from my memory.”

A slap. Verbal. Painful.

He straightens, reminding himself of his objective. Reminding himself that everything she’s throwing at him is deserved, no matter how much it kills him to know just how she feels about him.

About them.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need—”

“You don’t get to need anything from me!”

Another fair statement. Understandable. But, it doesn’t negate the fact that he needs to talk to her about this. He needs to know.

And, it’s only then that Roman allows himself to take her in. Her face and breast both look fuller, a certain glow to her she’s always had but seems….brighter. He’s also just now noticing the way she keeps adjusting her dress.

Specifically around the stomach area.

He….he doesn’t know what or if anything to make of that.

Solana, however, seems to notice his gaze that’s focused on her stomach area and clears her throat, moving past the counter to walk away. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to please lea—”

Roman knows being forceful isn’t the best move in this situation. However, he’s not even sure if there is a right thing to do, but what he does, whether right or wrong, manages to answer his question in the most unexpected way.

His arm reaching across, serving as a barrier that prevents her from walking away. An effective barrier, but also a source of reveal. Because when Solana jumps back slightly, that movement causes the material of her dress to flatten against her stomach, revealing an unmistakable swell.

A bump.

A baby bump.

There was already a million and one things going through his mind from the moment Jimmy mentioned to him that he overheard Bayley tell Naomi that Solana was pregnant. And normally, he wouldn’t think anything of it. Would try to come to peace with the fact that not only had Solana truly moved on, but she was starting a family with someone else. A quick turnaround time, but not anything he could judge. Not fairly, anyway.

But, this nagging, insistent voice in the back of the head wouldn’t leave him. Wouldn’t trickle away. Because he knows Solana.

Knows how major her letting him take her virginity was for her. Sacred. Special.

He couldn’t envision a world where she could just fall in bed with someone else so soon and end up pregnant, at that. And, it’s all of that that led him to his suspicion that if Solana was in fact pregnant, it wasn’t by another man.

It was by him.

An almost inconceivable thing he sat on for almost a week before feeling an almost requirement to fly down to Mexico and see for himself.

And seeing, he certainly is.

“It’s true.” His voice is barely above a whisper, shock and a million other emotions swirling around his entire being. He doesn’t even really register the way her face turns red, undecipherable emotions coming over her. “You’re pregnant….”

Somehow, they both seem to snap back to a more logical state, Solana covering her body. “That’s none of your business.”

His eyes snap to hers, and for the first time since stepping foot into her shop, he’s hit with something else other than an insurmountable amount of regret.

He’s hit with anger.

“None of my business?” His voice is leveled and even. “You’re carrying my child, Solana. How the hell is that none of my business?”

“No, it’s my child,” she counters, voice just as firm as his as she reiterates, “my baby, who I will raise by myself. You don’t get to be in their life.”

Just like that, anger morphs into burning rage at her words. It’s one thing to keep him completely in the dark about the existence of his own child but to still think that she can keep him in the dark once the light is on is beyond him.

Roman knows he hurt her. Did her wrong. Broke her heart, and he’ll always live with the regret of that. But, their unborn child has nothing to do with what transpired between them, and it’s unfair to try to keep him away.

And he responds as such, from that place of hurt. “The hell I don’t. You’re crazy as hell if you think I’m gon’ let you keep me out of my child’s life.”

A poor choice of words, the wrong thing to say, clearly.

“Roman….” Her name leaving his mouth is a thing of disbelief, like she’s incapable of comprehending just what she’s hearing. “In what world do you think you have any right to be involved in my child’s life?”

It’s the singular possessive word of ‘my’ that continues to grate his already paltry nerves. “Our child!”

“No!” She yells, jumping an octave and a level of vulnerability. “I won’t let you be in their life, Roman! I don’t care if I have to—if I have to move to do it. I’ll—I’ll go into hiding.”

Roman can’t deny the fear that creeps into him at her threat. Solana leaving and going home to Mexico is one thing, nothing really, because he knew where she was. But Solana disappearing and going off the radar, with their child, is something entirely different.

He won’t have that.

He can’t have that.

“I’ll find you,” a quiet, truthful vow. A promise. “I’ll always find you.”

She lifts her chin, reiterating, “then I’ll keep moving, keep running for as long as I have to to keep this baby away from you.” Her voice breaks, her jaw trembling, as she admits in a quiet voice, “I won’t let her hurt her the way you hurt me.”

His shoulder drop, anger melting away, incapable of remaining in the face of such hurt.

“Solana….”

He tries to step toward her only for her to jerk back, arms almost protectively wrapped around her stomach.

“Do you have any idea how empty I’ve felt?” A rhetorical question, he’s sure, but one that cuts him. Cuts him deep. “How I—how I cry myself to sleep most nights. How stupid I feel at believing you ever cared about me, ever loved me. How–how I try to not think about how this baby got here, the lies she was created from?"

“Solana, my love for you has never and will never be a lie.” And that has and will always be the God’s honest truth. “Baby, I love you.”

“Fuck you, Roman!” She yells, tears leaking down her face. “You don’t do what you did to me to people you claim to love! You don’t even know what love is! You’re not capable of it!”

He swallows. “Solana—”

“You are a heartless monster. You feel nothing for people. You use them for what you need, and then you throw them to the wayside like they’re trash. You broke me!” She looks away, covering her mouth to conceal the sob she’s doing her best to hold in. “You—you don’t deserve to be a father.”

Roman refuses to show her deep her words hit him, the pain she clearly still feels from how they ended, from what he did. He knows he deserves it, that he broke her heart, that he fucked with her head. But still, he never thought she’d be the type to hold their issues with each other against him when it came to a child.

Their child.

He swallows, doing his best to not allow the verbal daggers to consume him, because although deserved, it’s still a devastating, excruciatingly painful experience. One he wasn’t fully prepared for.

Roman looks down, taking a breath, wanting, needing to be careful with what he says next. “Solana, I—”

“Hermana?”

A new voice introduced into the conversation. Male. Unfamiliar. Unwanted.

A scowl appears on Roman’s face as trepidation overtakes Solana.

“Wes….”

Roman’s scowl falters ever so slightly. Wes…..

He’s heard that name before.

It takes a second or two for it to hit him. Wesley.

Solana’s brother.

Fuck.

She angles her body more toward him. “Wh—what are you—”

“Roman Reigns?” He’s clearly not listening to her, his suspecting, almost challenging gaze focused on Roman. “What the hell?”

Solana shakes her head, nervously twiddling with the material of her dress. “Wes, plea—”

“What the hell do you want with my sister?” Wesley’s angry question is directed toward an irritated Roman. He doesn’t have time for this shit. Wes takes a step closer. “Leave her the fuck alone.”

“Wesley, please,” Solana implores, her eyes pleading. “It’s not—”

“How do you even know her?” The questions are fair and ongoing but simultaneously increasing Roman’s irritation and Solana’s apprehension. “Why are you even here?”

“This doesn’t fucking concern you,” Roman snaps. To his credit, if it was anyone else, he’d have them unconscious. Or dead. But, this is Solana’s sibling, so he’s doing his best to remain calm. As calm as Roman Reigns is capable of being.

“Anything concerning my little sister concerns me, motherfucker.” Roman has to smile, has to look away, jaw clenched and flexing. This son of a bitch truly doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with.

Solana must detect as such, pleading with her brother once again, “Wesley, please, just—just give us a minute.”

Roman returns his gaze to the two of them, watching as Wes temporarily redirects his focus from the Head of the Table to the woman standing between them.

“Solana, what’s going on?” A calmer delivery combined with a suspicious gaze. “How do you know him?”

Roman couldn’t give two shits about Solana’s brother right about now. Doesn’t care that even while carrying his child, she’s still keeping the truth about them, about their prior relationship, a secret. It was always something she preferred.

“I just want to enjoy us. Without all the opinions.”

A shared sentiment during nicer, happier, simpler times.

“I—” She’s clearly at a loss of words, unsure of how to handle said situation. “I—” But, a cardinal, betraying mistake is made the minute she, most likely unintentionally, tightens her grip around her belly. A protective, telling thing, because Roman is also very much aware of the second recognition dawns.

“No…..” Wes eyes widen from the disbelief that accompanies said recognition. “He’s the father, isn’t he?”

Solana sniffles, voice quiet, “I can explain, Wes—”

However, Wesley's attention is completely on the object of all his anger and rage.

Roman

“You son of a bitch!”

A verbal lashing accompanied by Wes charging for Roman who easily moves out the way. An active effort considering his first instinct is to lay this bastard out, because in what universe does he think he stands a chance one on one with Roman Reigns?

“Wesley, no!” Solana’s attempts to settle her brother are all in vain as he once again tries to swing at the Tribal Chief. “Stop!”

“She’s 24, you sick fuck!” And it’s up until this point Roman was doing a well enough job controlling himself, maintaining his composure, all things considered. But, it’s Wesley’s next accusation that all but snaps his self-control. “You fucking predator! You raped her!”

In that very moment, whatever hold Roman had on his temper is nonexistent. He’s blinded and consumed by anger, by rage, because Roman is a lot of things. But that has and never will be one of them.

Both hands formed into fists, Roman doesn’t try to dodge or even avoid Wesley as the shorter man once again attempts to come at him. He’s ready this time.

But so is Solana.

“No!” And just like that, she puts herself in between them, a hand on his chest and her brother’s. She says something in Spanish, rushed, pressured, aimed toward Wesley. And then she’s looking at Roman, eyes begging, switching back to English, “please leave.”

For a second, Roman considers it. Doesn’t want to cause her anymore stress—or pain—than he already has. But that fucking brother of hers twist the knife even more.

“You should be in jail, you rapist!”

“Stop calling him that, Wes!” Solana snaps, urgency and anger filling her voice. “He didn’t rape me! It was consensual!”

“You’re fucking 24, Solana! He’s almost 40! Nothing is consensual about that!” It’s not even the words and accusations as much as the fact that Wes is practically screaming at her that has Roman’s rage growing.

“Watch how you fucking speak to her,” Roman growls, mindful of Solana’s hand still on his chest.

“Fuck you!” Wesley spats, hate in his eyes. “I should kill you for what you’ve done to her!"

“Wesley, please!”

“Shut up, Solana!” He screams, the volume and force of which make her jump, her eyes filled with shock. “Are you too stupid to even see—”

“What the fuck did you just call her?”

“I swear to God, if you say one more fucking thing to me—”

“What the fuck you gon’ do, huh?” Roman snaps, completely unhinged, seeing and feeling nothing but red. “You ain’t gon’ do shit!”

It all happens fast, so fast, too fast. Because one minute Solana is doing her best to separate two men she loves in two very different ways, and the next, an unconscious, unintentional act occurs. Unfocused, distracted gaze on the other person followed by a set of arms that push and shove her away.

Solana’s balance is lost from the force of the push, her body stumbling backwards, a set of eyes—horrified, shocked, repentant—filled with abject horror and her name being called with matching said emotion, the last thing she sees before a brief, intense, painful thud against her head against the corner of the counter and the consumption of the dark abyss.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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twopoppies · 2 days ago

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Hi! I’m newer to the fandom so I apologize if this is a dumb question- in the past, have there typically been signs when either L or H are about to have a stunt? I just haven’t been here long enough to have lived through one of their stunts and was curious what to prepare for

Thanks! ❤️

Hi love. With Taylor Russell, I don't recall any. We got a blurry long distance photo and then anons in our inboxes saying it was her (because no one knew who tf she was or could recognize her from that photo). Then the back of her head kept showing up in grainy photos with him. It was pretty clear at that point what was happening.

With Olivia, we only saw the signs after the fact, and there weren't many. I recall she wore the same t-shirt he was later seen wearing (or it could have been two t-shirts, but I'm sure it was meant to look like the same one), and there were pap photos of him standing outside her trailer talking to her. I don't remember anything else. But, at the time, we had no reason to think she was going to leave her children and partner of 9 years to pretend to be a groupie.

Camille was much more obvious. He did a radio interview with Nick Grimshaw (the famous heart monitor one) where, among other things, Nick showed Harry a photo of her, and H said he didn't know her. Antennas were up after that because it was just so obvious. Then pictures "taken by fans" of them both being at public events began to show up, etc.

All the randos from years past I honestly can't recall whether there were signs or not.

I honestly don't recall the lead-up to Danielle. With the return of Eleanor I remember she started being more active on her social media and posted some photo wearing a sweatshirt of Louis' (or one like it). And I think we got articles about "are they rekindling their relationship?" as well.

With Briana it was much more obvious. What I was told was that they went out together (with Oli and cousin Ashley), and the DJ at some club announced he was there so people would pay attention, and then he and Briana stood on a table and hugged or kissed or did something like that. Someone sent a photo to a few bloggers who decided not to post them. LOL! So they went out a second time, and I guess sent the photo to different people who DID post them. Then there was the famous "this one's for The Sun" pap walk. But this was all during the "party boy" Louis phase, so we didn't necessarily think anything different would come of it.

Anyone remember additional/different info about this topic?

#bearding #closeting #hamille #douis #hussell #holivia #stunts #elounope #babygate #this one's for the sun #this one is for the sun #paparazzi

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purplesimmer455 · 3 days ago

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So, I didn't know this til I saw @nitrozem 's post, but apparently there's a static TV option that let's your sim see a the Ring-like scary video with Edith in it and spooks them. I goofed by only taking a photo of the static but it was definitely creepy and cool. I had Nancy watch, and she got a bit spooked but less then I would have. I think mostly she just misses her friend Edith and hopes she's okay all by herself in that well in Ravenwood.

Also, Sophia gifts Riley a Super dream cube gaming system, which they used to play mysims racing on as kids. Riley’s eyes light up, and they help their sister set it up at the TV as the kids and Stephanie chat on the couch. Once it's finished, Riley, Sophia, Nancy, and Haruo play party frenzy together while Stephanie goes to her room to rest. "You're going down, sis." Riley says to Sophia, who raises a brow. "Oh sure, Ri. It's not as if I'm the party frenzy champion," She says, grinning at her older sibling.

After that, Riley checks in with Stephanie. "Everything okay, baby?" They ask, and Stephanie nods. "Yeah, I'm fine. I love your family, but sometimes when there's too many people and too much noise and things going on, I just need to take a breather in a calm and quiet place*." She admits and Riley nods, pulling her close and kissing her cheek. "That's understandable, would you want to stay here? I'll tell my parents and Soph that you're resting." They suggest. "That's okay, I'll head out with you." Stephanie says, and Riley takes her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

Stephanie joins everyone outside, and her father-in-law Minato calls her over to ask a question about his phone setting. Meanwhile, Nancy makes hot chocolate with marshmallows for everyone, and Haruo snuggles up to auntie Sophia. "You're such a snugglebug. Just like your parent was as a kid." She says. "Really? Ren was a snugglebug?" Haruo says. "Yup, it was kinda cute although we'd have to split it with me snuggling mom and Ri snuggling dad so we wouldn't fight." She says and Haruo grins. "I guess that makes sense. They're always snuggling me, Nan, or mama now." He says.

#ts4 #ts4oc #Stephanie Takamura #Riley Takamura #Sophia Takamura #Nancy Takamura #Haruo Takamura #*same for me 👀😅😄

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kookinglikeachef · 8 hours ago

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ATEEZ AS FRAT GUYS

Ot8 x F. Reader Content warning: Sexual language

kookinglikeachef: Was originally writing this for “The Sex Lives of College Guys” ff but I don’t think I’ll be doing it anymore because of internal doubts🥲

Hongjoong:

Obviously the fraternity president

He runs shit in and out of the frat house

Takes gender and theory studies courses

And bagged a lot of partnerships with local businesses for fundraising

He had to convince the dean many times not to expel certain members

*Cough* SanGi *cough*

He can be a bit of a snob and a little uptight

Sets strict drinking limits and instruct that the house is intact the next morning

20 minutes in and he’s convincing everyone to climb the chimney

Can usually handle his alcohol but when he gets piss drunk

He’s Debby Ryan-ing at every girl that talks to him

Seonghwa:

Alpha nerd

He only cares about his LEGOs and turning his assignments in on time

Locks himself in his room when there’s a party

Because he just got his new Star Wars set

Eventually joins halfway through

Only to judge everyones never have I ever scandals

But they won’t ever get one out of him

“Never have I ever been to a sex party”

Please he HOSTED and ORGANIZED

Laughing in his head cause not a single soul will ever know about it

Not even his members

And if you’re wondering how no one will find out?!

Well he’s got a fallback plan that proves he was at his fraternity in his room

During said day and said times

BUILDING HIS DAMN LEGOS

He’s also the one that take care of his brothers after a huge party

Probably the only reason the entire house hasn’t gone to shit tbh

Yunho:

The one with the girlfriend

They’ve been together since the second year of high school

And got into the same college

Still going four years strong

He’s majoring in computer engineering

So his servers are not the only thing that can sustain a long uptime *wink, wink*

His hobbies are taking photos of his girlfriend

Or trying any and every kink in the book with her

MULTIPLE PREGNANCY SCARES

Beer pong king

If anyone tries to hit on him he will not let them finish a sentence without making it clear he’s taken

Doesn’t mean that he dislikes getting attention from people that aren’t his girlfriend, though

Sometimes he’d flirt back

Says it’s not cheating if nothing physical happens

Definitely disregards his girlfriend’s feelings about it

He can be a jerk sometimes

Yeosang:

1stly

He don’t wanna be here

He don’t even know how he got into a frat in the first place

Yet he unexpectedly fit in well

Truthfully, he’s the one that’s attracting all the ladies to the frat house

Like roaches

The sorority girls LOVE him

And I mean they want him so bad

As a sister AND to get eaten out by him

Even though he only ever hooked up with one girl

She spread the news like jelly on bread and he’s suddenly that Pod the Rod type (game of thrones lmao)

Pretends to not understand why girls are in love with him

When his members ask him about it,

“I don’t know her” he’ll shrug

It’s always the quiet ones

San:

He’s definitely a legacy

Comes from generations of mischief

I solemnly swear that he’s up to no good

Also comes from money but doesn’t like to brag about it

He’s getting a Bachelor of Arts degree

And is a strip poker enthusiast

Never has a shirt on

He fucks every other week but not-so-secretly just wants to fuck his best friend

Bro bonding time is his favorite time

He loves to talk feelings and makes sure his members are okay

And actually enjoys the charity events

Even volunteers as the mascot

And daydreams about what it would be like to fuck his best friend in it

He and Wooyoung are infamous for their coma-inducing

“Frat punch”

The recipe is only known to them

But anyone who attends their parties are deeply warned about it

He forces people to listen to his drunk rants about how much he’s in love with his best friend of 12 years

Then blacks out under the table hugging a bottle with her picture taped to it

It’s not creepy

He’s just down bad

Still shows up early to morning lectures in blacked out sunglasses

And gets scolded by his best friend

Then he remembers when he told someone that he’s in love with his best friend

Thinks it may have been her

Mingi:

Mingki is the shy one

Or at least that’s what he wants people to believe

No guy on campus likes bringing their girl around him because

HE. WILL. TAKE. THEIR. BITCH.

And he doesn’t even mean to

But he’s ultimately sweet and will never turn down sex

He sleeps around a lot as well as sleeping through classes

Missed and failed his exams

So his grades aren’t as hot as him

Gets told a lot that if he really applied himself

He’d be a great business major

But he doesn’t really gaf

Everyone thinks he’s failing

But he passes with flying colors

Did I mention that he fucked the dean’s wife because she promised to convince her husband not to expel him?

Wooyoung:

Everyone on campus knows about this mother fucker right here

Friends with literally everybody

He majors in history

And is THE life of the party

If he’s not there it’ll be lame af

Good thing he never misses one, though

And still manages to keep up clean grades

He gets invited to other fraternity parties

Thinks he’s going to die at every party

Genuinely believes that the hash slinging slasher is out to get him

That’s just a result of the “Frat Punch”

He does not do relationships

Only has friends with benefits and brags about his favorite ones

Texts “hey big head” whenever he’s horny

And would tag them in fwb memes

He’ll still invite them to hangout with his members

Even after being balls deep in them like five minutes ago

Jongho:

Will deny being in a frat unless you show up outside his door to prove it

Only joined because he heard the rooms are bigger

He does EVERYTHING

From theater to sports to board games with elderly residents

So you know he’s pulling the theater kids and athletes and a classmates auntie

He majors in one of two subjects

Computer Science or Architecture

You see what he does to those apples and watermelons?!

Those hands are God-given

Ask the swim team

At parties, he’s in charge of the playlists

And he sneaks some Wicked in there when everyone’s too drunk to notice

He’s banned from ordering kegs because he kept ordering wine instead

Beats everyone’s ass at pool

Wooyoung likes to hustle people into placing bets on him but he’d just give the money to any charity the sorority might have

#ateez #ateez ot8 #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez headcanons #ateez fanfic #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yunho #ateez yeosang #ateez san #ateez mingi #ateez wooyoung #ateez jongho #kookinglikeachef

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stacygetsit · 15 hours ago

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So you really think that Luke isn't with Antonia? Or that Nicola isn't with Jake? I'm just so Confused. You don't have any doubts?

Hey Anon,

Let's say for arguments sake that Luke is with the girl and Nic is with JD. I have a question for you. Why wouldn't these suppose couples spend New Year's Eve together? We know it's a fact that didn't. The girl was in Maldives with no signs of Luke there. And JD spent his with Dylan and co. New Year's Eve is definitely a couple holiday. How many of your friends spent the new year with their significant other? Most of them right with the exception of maybe those couples that one had to work. There something about bringing in the new year with someone you love. Why if they are so committed and so in love did they spend it apart? Yes the girl has to work to make money but did she had to pick a job on New Year's Eve? No she didn't. Could Luke have went with her? Yes he could have IF they were dating. There were so many videos and photos taken during her trip that if Luke was there we would have glimpse him in the background. And JD choose to spend his New year with someone other then Nicola. Another observation I made we have gotten no signs of Luke or Nic. Yes Luke not posting is normal but Nicola What two story post since Christmas? I would rather assume the reason for that is they are wrapped up in each other and are to occupied to post.

#not facts #my thoughts

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winksasleeplesseye · 10 hours ago

Text

SUMMARY: Leon returns from a mission, same as always. But something is different as he closed his eyes to sleep.

PAIRING: Leon Kennedy x F!Reader

WARNINGS: Mostly angst for now. Also no editing we die like men around these parts

It all started with a dream. And no, not in the way you’d think. Leon, having completed his latest mission as the government's best lap dog—asset, had returned home to what he could deem some sense of normalcy. Well, as much as he could have from his days as a cop to now. A monotonous routine he’d settled into that provided some semblance of that…normalcy.

Wake up, eat, shower, go to the office, paperwork for mission reports, go home, sleep, repeat. Of course, the added benefit of missions—despite their punishing nature, helped break it up enough that Leon never could pinpoint the lack of what he was missing. What he’d been missing for a long time. You. When he thought of how his life panned out in the wake of the Raccoon City incident, Spain, and other incidents too many to count on one hand, he drifted back to you. Both of you had met that fateful night, both of you with similar stories to one another. Both of you sharing in a bond that failed to measure up to anything else Leon had ever known in his 21 years of living at that time. He hated to overthink it, it was just one evening after all and he had an awful tendency to fall too hard, too fast but he remembered your shared glances, your easy words, all of it during and after the incident—he couldn’t have imagined that. Was this always how things were meant to be? Leon could say with confidence, he did more existing than living. And most days, he was fine with that. As fine as one could be, given the circumstances. But that evening when he closed his eyes, expecting his usual nightmares that often woke him up in a cold sweat….he found something different. Sunlight streamed through the blinds of his apartment, filtered only the added curtains over them. The warmth of the sun hit right into eyes and for some reason, he couldn’t recall the last time it had ever been so nice outside. At least by DC weather standards lately. He fought to push himself from out of the covers but similar to the warmth of the sun, another warmth was emanating next to him in bed. A person. Shit. Did he bring someone home? Why couldn’t he remember that? He cautiously chanced a look closer to the body, hidden under the covers as they cling to them. Stirring briefly, the person that turned over was…you. Your eyes were closed, chest slowly rising and falling. You. You were asleep in his bed. He couldn’t recollect the last time he’d seen you since…. “If you’re going to stare, a photo would do you wonders, Mr. Kennedy,” you spoke up, voice a tad groggy but your eyes were still closed. Your smile was undeniable though. At first, Leon didn’t know what to say. You spoke as if this were an everyday, normal occurrence. Waking up together. Being together. Something nagged at the back of Leon’s mind. Was he going crazy? Was this even real? Okay, focus. He just needed to do what he usually did to start his day. You weren’t actually there, his brain was just trying to make sense of the chaos of his waking life no matter how much he believed it was normal. Without a word, Leon practically threw the covers off and pressed his feet into the cold, hardwood floor. His feet padded against it, still felt fairly real. Pressure of his feet to the floor didn’t make it seem like he’d float away. Once in the bathroom, he ran his hands under the faucet. Cold water sent the same sensation it always did to his nerves and he ran the water over his face.

Still bitingly cold. Still real. He lifted his eyes to the mirror, seeing himself like he always had. Same tired eyes, same hair, same Leon. But still the constant of you also rising from the bed from his peripheral vision. Leon tries to convince himself that maybe he got something in his eyes as he rubbed them furiously. Then arms wrap around his waist from behind, your cheek glued to his back. Your hands began tracing over his skin, soft but firm. His mind had to be playing a trick on him, he can feel the pressure, the heat of you against him. No one’s mind could conjure up sensations like that. Not even Leon’s. “Hmm, a response would’ve been appreciated, mister,” you said as you cling to Leon. You sound like you’re playfully pouting, he turned his eyes over his shoulder to see you were, in fact. You were there. Holding him like you didn’t want to let go. For a moment, Leon slips into this, plays along. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he turned around, cupped your face, fingers grazing your jaw as he stared into what was assuredly your eyes that he remembered. The same soft, sweet eyes. Underneath the bright, rather harsh bathroom light, he could see their same clarity. Leon’s mind often had a funny way of muddling the details of you but as you stood here in his arms, you became more real. Every single detail he could feel as he ran his hands down your skin, the softness, the heat, the scent as he pressed his lips to your neck briefly. You pulled back, eyes filled with a quiet affection but he didn’t miss the small bit of confusion, “You’re being…strange,” you murmured, but there was no judgment in your voice, only that soft smile of understanding that he loved so much. You ran a hand over his forehead, “You sure that last mission didn’t give a head injury? Or a fever?” He grabbed your hands, placing them around his neck. “No, I promise, everything’s all good.” He smiled faintly, a sense of contentment spreading across his face. “No head injury or fever, feel like a million bucks,” he spoke. He leaned down, pressing his lips gently against yours, tasting the sweetness of your lips had him convinced this had to be real. He wasn’t sure how but he wouldn’t question it. Your laughter against his lips, echoed softly. But your voice was slowly muffling, fading into the haze of his subconscious as if whatever this is was beginning to slip away. He could feel it: the cool edge of awareness, the creeping pull of waking. But he pushed through, kissing you once more, the sensation seemed to fade a little more, like it was slipping through his fingers, like you were.

For a moment, the world stood still. The sound of his heartbeat, the feel of your warmth against him, the light touch of your hand on his cheek—it was all so real. Too real to be anything but true. He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, eyes closed, trying to hold on. “I don’t want to wake up,” he muttered, almost in disbelief, like the words themselves could prevent the inevitable. Before you could respond, Leon shot up from his bed. The familiar jolt that startled him into awake as always. Less fear behind it this time. Still, his heart hammered in his chest as he sat up, stiff as a board. All he could see was the dull, gray reality of his apartment, the harsh light of the morning seeping in through the blinds. The bed was empty. The room was silent. His hand shot out instinctively to the side, reaching for something that wasn’t there. His fingers brushed against the cold, empty sheets. No you. No warmth. The air in the room felt almost offensively sharp, pricking at his skin rather than a comforting cool. A stark contrast between his dream and the dullness of the world he inhabited was too much to stand right now. The echoes of the dream clung to him like a shadow. Everything felt so…real. Leon ran a hand over his face, frustration and a longing mixing in his chest, the ache of loss—one for which he had never addressed with you, intensified. The soft weight of you in his arms, the way they had kissed, a promise of a life Leon had never imagined. Until now.

Leon tried. He did. The fleeting glimpse of what his dream offered was nothing more than that, a dream. But still, Leon couldn’t help but to let his mind wander in his waking hours the next day. A new change to his routine. He worked more efficiently, only for the slight hope he could continue his dream. With you by his side. He couldn’t deny that his heart ached. Ached at how life had turned out and what could’ve been and it was as if his mind decided to bring the reminders to the forefront after all this time. The small moment of domesticity, a moment so genuinely normal and ordinary felt so surreal. Leon never actually envisioned it for himself. Not after everything. Just didn’t seem like it could be in the cards for him. He was relegated to one role and one role only and he never had the determination to prove himself wrong. That he could do both. Have a partner and be an agent. Have someone to come home to. He certainly couldn’t and wouldn’t have expected to have that with you either. The government kept you both separated for a reason, one he’d never understand. Again, he tried to reason with himself and chalk it up to just his brain doing what it does. Why did everything feel so real then? Explain that, Kennedy. He could still taste the sweetness of her lips, feel their pressure against his. God, he had to just be going crazy. That had to be it. Why of all times does this happen now? At the end of the work day, he decided to fight sleep. Upon entering his apartment, he instead lounged on the couch and switched on late night television. The television glowed dimly in the apartment, its flickering images casting muted light across the room. The sound of a late-night talk show droned on, the host’s laughter echoing faintly in the background. Leon sat slouched on the couch, his dinner forgotten on the coffee table. There was enough nonsense on the screen that Leon assumed he had given himself enough stimulation to not fall asleep or really even think. The room, the city, the world seemed quiet, but that actually did nothing to quiet his mind. He found himself gazing aimlessly around the room. Not much decor on the walls, the furniture functioned—so, so hollow. His eyes settled on the far wall, the noise of the TV becoming faint to his ears, and that’s when he assumed he was going crazy as images came to his mind. With you. They crept up like a thief in the night, but part of him seemed to subconsciously want them to. In the dim light of his apartment, he could almost see you. You, leaning against that wall, your arms crossed with a teasing smirk on your face. “You think you’re so smooth, Kennedy,” you said, stepping closer. Your voice was playful, but your eyes held a heat that made his breath hitch. He saw himself—dream Leon he assumed—taking a step forward, closing the gap between them. “And you don’t?” he shot back, his voice low, his lips tugging into a half-smile. Before he could say anything else, you grabbed his collar and pushed him against the wall with surprising strength. Their lips met, and the heat between them was instant, overwhelming. Leon blinked, and the vision dissolved. The wall was just a wall again, bare and unremarkable. Leon’s eyes drifted to the cushion next to him, an almost transparent version of you manifesting sitting next to him, fingers lightly brushing his. He could feel it—the warmth of your touch, the way your thumb idly stroked his knuckles as they sat side by side. Another scene played in his mind. You had turned toward him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know what I love about you?” You had asked, tilting your head. “What’s that?” Another Leon had replied, his voice soft, but his heart thundered all the same in his chest. You had smiled, leaning in close. “That you’re still so easy to fluster.” You kissed him then, slow and deliberate, your lips brushing his as if savoring the moment.

The talk show host’s voice pulled him back to reality, and Leon rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a heavy sigh. The television’s glow felt oppressive now, highlighting the emptiness of the room. He stared at the blank wall across from him, his heart aching with every memory that wasn’t real but felt like it should have been. The visions were so vivid, so vibrant, as though his mind had painted a life he could never truly have. The silence in the apartment grew deafening, and for a moment, Leon almost reached out—toward a version of you, the dream of you. But his hand fell back to his lap, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head against the couch. “Damn it,” he whispered into the quiet, his voice raw. “I’m losing it.”

And yet, despite his assessment, he began to welcome it. If he was able to have momentary reprieve, happiness in his dreams? He’d take it. Over the next few days, his mind would again drift. The more dreams, the more they bled into reality and sometimes he couldn’t tell what came from his memories or what came from the dreams. He’d sit in his office, the faint scent of ink and coffee heavy in the air, hearing things he’d think you’d say in the moments that the monotony dragged. Which only made him realize just how mind-numbing it all was. Tedious, this kind of work dulled the edges of his mind. But today, it felt sharper—every word, every line of text seemed to echo with something missing. He signed his name at the bottom of a form and paused, his pen hovering over the paper. Your voice drifted through his thoughts, clear as if you were sitting across from him. “You’ve got the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. Are you sure you’re not a doctor?” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, unbidden and fleeting. His eyes flicked to the empty chair on the other side of the desk, and for a moment, he could almost see you there. Your hair pulled back, a teasing smile on your lips as you slid a takeout box across the desk. “Thought you could use something that wasn’t brewed in the office swamp,” you’d say, pulling chopsticks from your bag and settling in like you belonged there. Leon blinked, and the vision dissolved, leaving only the empty chair and the stack of paperwork. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself back to the task at hand.

At the end of the day, he held a flickering sense of hope that he’d be able to see you again in his dream tonight. It was where you were as real as the air he breathed. Your head laid against his chest, soft steady breaths coming from you. A quiet comfort that anchored him in the hazy realm between sleep and awake. Your scent—familiar and impossibly soothing—permeated the air, wrapping around him like a memory made flesh. He’d continue to convince himself that his mind could never replicate something like that. The sensation as your fingers brushed over his, squeezing his hand in yours, made his chest ache as he looked at you. All of this felt so right. The scene shifted before his eyes and he now watched you move around their shared kitchen, wearing one of his shirts as the fabric brushed your thighs as you flipped pancakes with ease. Your hair was slightly mussed from sleep, humming a tune under your breath that seemed vaguely familiar. The heat from kitchen coupled with the faint clicking of the spatula and your humming—it was so real. “Breakfast will be done soon,” you said without looking up, your voice light and teasing. “Unless you want to keep staring at me like a lovesick puppy. In that case, I can take my time.” Leon smiled, his heart swelling at the ease in your tone. He stepped closer, his socked feet soundless on the floor. “Maybe I like staring.” “You’re very smooth in the morning, aren’t you?” You smirked in his direction. “I am. Hard not to be when you look like this,” He grinned, leaning against the counter, closer to you. You chuckled. “You are trouble, Agent Kennedy.” How could he convince himself this wasn’t real? The scent of the sweet batter of pancakes. The ticking clock all gave credence to this not being a dream. It was all clearer and sharper than any dream he’d had before. Leon stared, his gaze intense. He wanted to stay in this moment, his heart swelling with a fullness he hadn’t experienced in a while. In this dream, this moment, everything was perfect. He didn’t want to wake up.

#leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #resident evil 4 remake #resident evil 4 #resident evil #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon x reader #leon kennedy angst #no edits we die like men

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pricegouge · 11 hours ago

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I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

#incest cw #papochka #🗡️ anon

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silver-cyn · 18 hours ago

Text

Hualian Kiss-Mas @here4hualian Read it on A03 here.

Day 14: Kissing in secret

“Mutants. It’s imperative that we remember they’re not like us.” Hua Cheng presses Xie Lian against the wall, their forms so close together not a breath of air can pass between them. They kiss with all the heat of lovers too long separated, and with the desperation of those who know they’ll soon be parted again.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian says between kisses and caresses. He’s drunk on Hua Cheng and doesn’t want to stop, but there’s something important he has to say.

Xie Lian pulls back, staring into Hua Cheng’s lone remaining eye that clearly gives him away for the mutant he is. Red, red so beautifully red, glowing like a flame in the night, enchanting and utterly irresistible.

“I understand it’s difficult. They can look like us, talk like us, even act like us. But it’s a lie. They’re not like us at all. They aren’t…human.” “Gege…” Hua Cheng urges gently and Xie Lian blushes at his own distraction. Then he cups Hua Cheng's face tenderly between both hands and kisses him tenderly on the lips. “I’m leaving with you and the others tonight,” Xie Lian says calmly. Hua Cheng’s eye widens, his lips part just slightly and his face is an open display of everything he’s feeling. He swallows hard before swooping in for a fierce kiss that buckles Xie Lian’s knees and leaves Xie Lian clinging to him. “Gege, are you sure? Your entire future is –” “ – nothing without you in it.” Xie Lian says breathlessly, hugging Hua Cheng close. “All mutants are dangerous creatures that must be eliminated.”

“And I...I can’t be there any longer. The government is already doing horrible things: snatching people up and holding them prisoner just because they’re born with abilities that mark them differently. And it’s only going to get worse if we don’t stop them. San Lang, you’ve heard about the weapons they’re building, haven’t you? They call them — ”

“Sentinels,” Hua Cheng says quietly. Xie Lian nods, his arms unconsciously tightening around Hua Cheng. They can both easily picture the powerful giants of steel, metal and ruthless intent to come, but neither imagined that time would arrive��

…this very night.

“SURRENDER MUTANTS!!” Hua Cheng instinctively pushes Xie Lian behind him as the ceiling is cleanly ripped off. Two giant metallic robots zero in on them with red soulless eyes and palms extended. “San Lang!” Xie Lian only has time to grab Hua Cheng’s arm before his vision turns red.

“We must remain vigilant. We must not be deceived or confused by the ties that bind us once we learn their true nature. For if we allow ourselves to be deceived, we will surely befall the same fate…”

A hand slaps Xie Lian’s picture on the whiteboard and all eyes are drawn to the bold red lettering stamped across his face: “DECEASED.”

“...as our dear comrade Xie Lian.”

Jun Wu stares out at the small council of his country’s most powerful leaders and generals. Many had opposed Xie Lian’s ideas on mutant and human relations, but all had been touched by his genuine kindness and care. A collective flinch visibly ripples through the group at the sight of his photo.

“He’s dead? How?” Feng Xin asks, body utterly still in his seat.

Ling Wen’s face is unusually pale, but her hands are steady as she tacks another photo onto the whiteboard and recites the information from memory. “His mutant alias is Crimson Rain. Real name: unknown. Ability: able to convert potential energy to kinetic energy with explosive results. His current status: alive and on the run.” “Xianle was unique in that he saw mutants as no different from us. He was the only one on this council who saw them as humans, and look what they did to him.” Jun Wu makes sure to catch everyone’s gaze as he points first at Xie Lian's and then at Crimson Rain's photo. “Crimson Rain manipulated and used him to fulfil his own plans and by the time Xianle realized what was happening, it was too late. After getting what he wanted, Crimson Rain murdered him outright and fled the area.”

“Crimson Rain? Isn’t he – ”

“ – the one who’s been attacking government holding facilities and freeing those other mutant criminals?” “He’s killed many of our people.” “Doesn’t he have his own team of mutants?” Jun Wu holds up a hand and the room quiets immediately. “Xianle’s loss will be felt for a long time. We won’t do him the disservice of wallowing in our grief. Instead, we’ll find and eliminate Crimson Rain, and every mutant like him.” “How can we? Their abilities are as varied as they are powerful. Weather manipulation, super strength, mind-readers and shapeshifters. How can we defeat enemies like that?” Ming Yi asks, crossing his arms.

“I think it's time we officially bring in the Sentinels,” Mu Qing says. He briefly holds up a manila folder before passing it to Shi Wudu, his fellow councilmember. “I know Xie Lian was against them, but we can’t be soft-hearted about this. If they can do this to him, think what they can do to us.” Mu Qing’s quiet words bring everyone’s worst fears to mind. He turns back to Jun Wu.

“It’s your program. Tell us everything about it, and exactly what we need to do to implement it as soon as possible.”

And on the inside, Jun Wu smiles.

_________________

Ming Yi slides into the car and Yin Yu closes the door behind him. The soundproof car and tinted windows immediately do their wonders by easing his stress headache. “Sir,” Yin Yu states quietly from the front. It’s not a question, but Ming Yi hears it all the same as he leans back against the seat. “Crimson Rain really does have the devil’s luck,” Ming Yi says. He runs a hand through his hair, fluidly shifting forms from the government’s top trusted security personnel to He Xuan a.k.a. Blackwater, Crimson Rain’s second in command. “Hope he can spare some for the rest of us with what the council’s planning to do. Otherwise, we’ll all end up dead like that Xie Lian guy.” Without warning, He Xuan lunges forward, hand swinging out in a deadly, blade tipped arc. He grunts, body crashing into what feels like a brick wall, before he’s guided gently, but firmly, back onto his seat.

“Easy there,” a familiar voice says. “What the fuck?! Xie Lian?” He fumbles on the light and immediately feels his headache return. Sitting across from him is Hua Cheng and very much alive former councilmember, Xie Lian, not quite sitting after having intercepted He Xuan's attack. He opens his palm to reveal He Xuan’s crushed weapon, blade and hilt melded together like some new modern work of art. “Sorry about that Ming Yi…ah, I mean He Xuan,” Xie Lian says, smiling sheepishly. He tries to hand it back to He Xuan, who doesn’t take it, just continues to stare, speechless, at Xie Lian. Xie Lian exchanges a look with Hua Cheng, who laughs, takes the crumpled blade and flicks it at He Xuan. It flies across the space between them, glowing red with deadly energy that explodes inches in front of He Xuan’s face who just barely manages to block it in time. “Asshole,” He Xuan mutters but it does the trick. “So let me guess? You –” He nods at Xie Lian. “ – have been working with this guy.” He jerks his head at Hua Cheng. “The top military brass send their sentinels out to test run their new weapons and waste our fearless leader. Your powers manifest, saving him and the newly freed mutants that night. Did I miss anything?” “Just one thing,” Xie Lian says, scratching his nose. “What did I – oh.” He Xuan stops. Everything clicks into place the moment Xie Lian sits back down.

On Hua Cheng’s lap.

He Xuan swears. “Are you fucking kidding me?! You two? Now? With everything that’s going on?!” He Xuan angles his head to look past the two lovebirds. “Yin Yu, did you know about this?” Yin Yu says nothing, but the partition rolling up quietly says it all. “Unbelievable?! Do you have any idea how stupid, how dangerous…” He Xuan trails off when both men look at him: Hua Cheng, arms curled protectively around Xie Lian. Xie Lian, holding onto Hua Cheng with a white-knuckled grip, eyes always straying back to him for reassurance that he was still present. Still alive. “Fuck.” Unconsciously, He Xuan’s fingers rub the pearl ring on his left hand. He remembers being in love. He remembers, too, the pain of having it snatched away by a government with too much fear and too much power.

He viciously shoves it all back down.

It’s not his problem and it won’t be his pain to bear. “Alright. Okay. It is what it is,” He Xuan says, and takes one last deep breath. “So tell me star-crossed lovers. You got a plan? Or are we supposed to survive on your love and hope alone?” “Probably a little of all three,” Xie Lian says with a watery laugh. The partition slowly rolls back down. He Xuan catches Yin Yu’s gaze in the rearview mirror, then glances at Hua Cheng and Xie Lian, huddled close together, looking at once too strong and too weak with their obvious love for one another. He Xuan vehemently curses himself as he adds two more people (god, even Hua Cheng) to his very small list of “people to give a fuck about.”

#xie lian #hua cheng #tgcf #my fanfic #hualian kiss-mas #modern au #xmen universe #but don't need to follow that series to get the gist of the fic #pretty sure i lifted that “surrender mutants” quote directly from an xmen episode #the voice was so distinct #lol #better late than never with my fic

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glossypolaroidkisses · 18 hours ago

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hi my love!! im excited to see what ur blog will contain hehe omg im so ecstatic that u commented that ur interested in the whole right brained reader thing hehe i js want to know ur thoughts on the relationship dynamic of having a more humanitarian reader who likes english, arts everything that's quite opposite to what luigi is like!!

hihi!! omg I’m SO excited too!! i already feel so welcomed!! ok this is so fun, buckle in!! bear with me!!

since luigi seems to be so analytical and anal with his thought processes (like you mentioned), i can see him pre-relationship being a bit skeptical while getting to know you; just because that’s not how his brain works. at the start he’d ask you so many questions. you’d have so many conversations that would give him better insight into your mind, to make sure you’re not just in la la land all the time. it’s giving, waiting for 3rd or 4th date to talk politics?… no. 1st date we’re talking about thoughts on religion, the afterlife, etc.

also, that’s not an insult to right brained/artistic ppl, I’m one of them (if you couldn’t tell lol)! i’ve been perceived as dumb(er than others) because I’m so driven by creativity, english and the arts (NOT scientific or mathematical at all). It's only once someone gets to know me better, that they learn how intelligent I am. right brain thinkers are more likely to be dismissed or overlooked, imo!

someone like luigi may not have been too surrounded by many right brain thinkers let alone dated them, and he would be so curious about what goes on in your mind.

obviously, you do develop a relationship and the dynamic would be adorable. you balance each other out! there may be some minor situations and misunderstandings where his strict, logical, rational self isn’t sure where you’re coming from; but he always listens to you explain your POV, and does come around to understand it. he’s very open minded, esp when it comes to you!

he loves your brain. i mean, he’s so fascinated by it. you find art, beauty, creativity and meaning in things that he could’ve never perceived in such a way. both of your brains work in different ways that are both so important.

whether you come to him about a situation all pouty, or do the opposite, acting stubborn and silent about it until he picks up on your mood shift, coming over to help you.. he’ll have a solution. he’d drop anything to brainstorm a way to help you solve your problems. for luigi, because of his logical problem solving, the solution is usually simple for him to come up with. but then you’re standing there with stars in your eyes like ‘wow luigi😍❤️ i would’ve never come up with that🤩 thank you so much😩’ and he’s just there, giddy, bc you make him feel so smart and useful. he’s so happy when he can help you in any way.

there will probably be a lot of funny moments trying to make decisions together. you might want to decide based on gut feeling, or your emotions, but he’ll be so analytical; thinking of every detail. for example, buying furniture together. you might be like “omg! this couch is such a cute colour, matches the vibe of our apartment and it feels so soft!” and luigi would be like “uhm… yeah! cute! but… (pulls out tape measure) it isn’t the correct dimensions, the fabric isn’t stain resistant, the cushion covers aren’t removable, and it isn’t well reviewed online….😅🥸”

if he’s not with you, he’ll take photos of things he sees while out-and-about, maybe exploring, and send them to you. or!!! when he comes home, he’ll be all excited to show you stuff he took pictures of, wondering what your perspective on it would be, how you would interpret it. he’ll go through the pictures with you and just listen to you gush over something artsy or interpretive, like if he saw graffiti he thought you’d find cool, a quote from a book or painting at a museum. idk!

if he goes book shopping for his own yk NON fiction books, he’ll always come back with a book or two for you. he’ll get home, probably make some sort of joke like “i just chose the book that had the most colourful cover”, when in reality he spent time at the bookstore looking through the books, reading so many back covers to choose one that he knows you’ll genuinely enjoy. or, he’ll just buy a book he remembers you mentioning you wanted in passing. even if he wouldn’t enjoy reading it, he enjoys knowing it brings you joy. and if you talk to him about a book you’re reading/read, he’ll listen as if it’s his favourite genre.

me personally, idk if it’s the eldest daughter in me, but i LOVE being taken care of + i think he’d enjoy feeling helpful. like if i was drawing on an app on my ipad and it crashed or something, i’d go running to him for help.. with anything technology related (even if i had an idea of how i could fix it myself) like heyyy my lil compsci problem solver.. help pls😇

overall, i think this dynamic is so sweet as long as you can both embrace each others differences and find that harmony. he would add more structure to your life while appreciating your perspective, and you’d add more spontaneity, empathy & creativity to his!

also idk if i touched enough on this, but this dynamic is literally a humanitarian power couple. like fighting for what’s right, with his brain and your heart!! best of both worlds for a well rounded perspective!! mwhahaha

thank you so much for submitting that! oh my god that was so much fun I’m not insane i promise (maybe a lil hehehe) it is literally 7 am i am going to sleep now. i just started responding to that ask and couldn’t stop. aaa love it!!

i hope you liked it!! don’t be afraid to give feedback, anyone! i loooovee requests like these!! keep em coming!! mwah

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