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zarla-s · 1 day ago

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[DELTARUNE CHAPTER 3+4 SPOILERS]

Thinking about why I like Tenna, he's fun, but he doesn't grab me like Spamton does, in spite of them both being OTT flashy weirdos who are sad and attention-starved. On the surface they act pretty similar, to the point where I thought of Tenna as Diet Spamton, but the more I think about it they actually have a lot of really big differences between them. They're almost opposites, actually. What I think it comes down to is their greater themes. Tenna, King, and Queen are all about abandonment/neglect. Spamton, in comparison, is all about failure.

Spamton is a persona non grata in Cyber City, no one ever talks about him and the Addisons refuse to if you try and confront them about it. He has a strange and quirky battle, but if you forget to follow up on him later, he's a footnote in the whole chapter. He's a tiny guy in a big world.

Tenna is the absolute ruler of TV Land and the entire reality of it bends to his whims. He's huge, bigger than life, everything revolves around him at all times. Everything has his face, everyone does what he wants under restrictive contracts even if they don't want to. Tenna IS TV World.

You meet Spamton at his lowest point. He's living in the garbage, no one will talk to him, he has no control or power over anything without manipulating them into giving it to him (usually unsuccessfully). A lot of his dialogue implies he's beaten by other people regularly. He's angry and frustrated and desperate, and he knows he needs a patsy to get out because he can't get out himself.

Tenna in comparison is living the high life. Almost everything is showy and glamorous (except the Z room, which is associated with Spamton). He IS the Big Shot Spamton used to be and wants to be again. He can, like Jevil, do anything.

Spamton wants to be BIG, partly for the attention and power but mostly because he wants to get OUT. He wants to LEAVE the Dark World and become real, not just an object in the shadows trapped by how Lightners perceive him. He wants to escape the fantasy world into reality, ascending into what he thinks is Heaven. He's the only boss that seems to want this, rather than validation from Lightners.

Tenna wants a past that's gone, where he felt like he glued a family together and everyone was happy watching him and being with him. He wants attention and validation and love from Lightners again, promises that he's still relevant and useful as an escape from reality. Tenna wants to stay in an eternal fantasy world and expand and enable it.

Spamton feels trapped by the voice on the phone and reaches out to Kris by saying he can't force them to do anything, that he can tell Kris is desperate for freedom just like he is. He asks Kris to do him favors to get him the body that he thinks will let him become real. He gives himself into their hands as the LoadedDisk because he can't do it himself (normally). Spamton treats and talks to Kris like a potential partner/customer to scam.

Tenna actually seems scared of Kris, saying that he did everything that they told him to. Kris was the one giving the orders, not Tenna. Tenna's desperate to bring Kris back to a time when their family was intact and they were happy and he was valuable and needed, and he tries to force Kris into more games to try and keep them there. Tenna treats Kris fearfully, like his boss or a sponsor he needs to please or he'll suffer the consequences.

Spamton started as a failure and needed outside support from the voice to become a success, which eventually exerted total control over his life, driving him right back into the dumpster. When he was about to share the secret of that "success" with Tenna, the voice scared him into running away, abandoning him.

Tenna was always successful. It seems like rather than a parabola of failure-success-failure, he's just in a steady decline. Tenna has complete control over his Dark World but it doesn't matter, he can't actually change reality in the Light World. Tenna is in the process of failing when we meet him - Spamton has already failed.

Spamton is obsessed with money. The absolute core of his being is scamming people and making money, it defines his existence. He will do literally anything for it.

Money doesn't even work in TV Land. Instead you get points that Tenna doles out (completely at his discretion) that are worthless outside of TV Land. Tenna gives away prizes and points as incentives to stay and pay attention to him. He wants attention more than anything else.

Spamton is a member of a group of Darkners, the Addisons, who all look very similar to each other with some small variations. He spent a lot of time with them as loverscoworkers. Another instance of being a little guy in a big group.

Tenna is one of a kind. There's no other being in TV Land anything like him. Nothing even comes close. He's completely unique.

Spamton doesn't want validation from Lightners. What he wants is the power to get out of the Dark World and become real. He has his own entirely self-focused goals that don't involve Lightners or the Dark World at all.

Tenna will do anything for validation from Lightners, they define his entire existence. Without them he feels purposeless. He's desperate to give Kris the world they want and for Kris to tell him he's doing a good job, essentially. In this, Tenna is very much like Queen and King. He begs you repeatedly to say you love him and to never leave him.

This is just funny to me but Spamton mentions Tenna rarely but Tenna talks about Spamton constantly lol. Spamton just lives rent-free in Tenna's head.

When you beat Spamton, Kris has a breakdown about it, presumably because they see a lot of similarities between their situations (unwilling puppets trapped by forces controlling them, usually coming from a phone) and how Spamton in the end couldn't escape his strings.

Kris on the other hand doesn't seem that upset about what happens to Tenna, even if he dies. Maybe Kris just didn't have a chance to, given the Knight jumps you almost immediately, but that kind of connection that Spamton and Kris have just isn't there with Kris and Tenna.

Spamton can understand the voice on the phone. Tenna, Blue Addison, and the Player cannot.

Tenna (and his death) are foretold in the prophecy. Spamton, so far, is not.

Television was a massive success and defined multiple generations, and, while diminished, still plays a massive part of the media landscape. Spam email has always been a nuisance no one likes and has a very low, if any, success rate, even though it's inescapable. Television platforms ads, Spamton IS an ad.

Spamton has connections to a variety of other Darkners, like Queen, Swatch, Jevil, and the Addisons. Tenna, being the complete center of his Dark World, really only has a connection to Spamton. (They do share a connection with Mike but that's a weird case.)

Tenna is very isolated in his world, with only his lackeys around him that he treats rather badly. Spamton in comparison is surrounded by other people constantly but all of them deliberately ignore him, isolating him in a different way.

Thematically, this matches their respective mediums. TV is a self-contained passive entertainment source that's primarily solitary, although it can be shared if others are nearby. The things you see on TV are tightly controlled and structured. The internet in comparison is a massive eternally expanding collaboration of people constantly interacting with each other - by its nature it's inescapably social and uncontrollable.

There are a lot of things they have in common too of course. They both do like slapping their faces on everything, including their own branded products, haha. They also both want to be successful, in their own ways. They seemed to really like each other at one point and had a good time together! And despite the vast discrepancy in power between them, they're both very alone in their worlds. They both have abandonment issues, although Tenna's manifests as desperation and clinginess while Spamton's manifests as anger and bitterness. They are both in denial about it though lol.

The key thing that broke them up was the person on the phone scaring Spamton into abandoning Tenna right before he was going to tell him the secret of his "success". It seems rather deliberate on the voice's part... I wonder why they did that? I wonder if Tenna knowing the "secret" would have changed the prophecy...

#deltarune #deltarune spoilers #walls of text #spamton #tenna #i'm enjoying people making tenna a useless bottom #he's very insecure and needy compared to spamton

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hatethysinner · 2 days ago

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more on remmick missing those big leaps, i feel like newer vampires have to adjust to being able to do that -- but Remmick never does and every so often some poor person just hears him thunk into the roof or something. like its all quiet and then just THUNK followed by '...sHIT-'

ꜱʜɪᴛ!

ᴡᴄ: 1.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: i could not stop thinking about this idea when you sent in the first ask and with this follow up the inspiration hit me like a truck. i really do need to write short drabbles more often. enjoy! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship, amateur knowledge of wound care, silly pathetic!remmick fluff

The crash woke you before the curse did.

THUD.

Then,

“Shit!”

The sound cracked through the stillness like a hammer to glass. You shot upright in bed, breath catching for a moment as your eyes struggled to adjust to the dark. The house held its breath right alongside you, everything gone perfectly still except for the quiet whispers of wind against the house and the dull hum of cicadas outside, sawing their endless song like nothing had happened at all.

But you knew better.

Of course you did.

You pressed a palm to your face, dragging it down slow, already sighing before your feet hit the floor. “Lord have mercy.”

This man.

It was always the same with him. Always.

“I’ll be out runnin’ a few errands,” he’d say, voice warm and sweet. Every time.

And every time you’d nod, pretending like you didn’t know exactly what that meant. You never asked. Didn’t need to. He made sure you didn’t have to.

He never brought it home.

Whatever mess he made out there in the dark stayed out there. Always returned just before dawn with nothing but a smudge of dirt at his collar and something soft in his hand for you. A little gift, a peace offering. Sometimes a trinket that caught the morning light just right, sometimes a necklace you swore was far too fine for anyone around here to afford, sometimes a bouquet of flowers he claimed he found by chance. Always accompanied by that same crooked smile that made you forgive him before he even asked.

But tonight?

Tonight, it seemed, grace failed him.

You pulled your robe around your shoulders, padding barefoot through the house, careful not to catch your toes on the edge of the carpet as you crossed to the front door. The boards creaked beneath you. Soft, old, familiar. The kind of house that remembered every step.

Another grunt floated in through the open window. Closer this time. Lower. A shuffle of limbs, a low, winded groan that had you squinting into the dark beyond the porch light.

Then came the creak of the porch swing.

You stopped beneath the doorway for a breath, listening, waiting, watching.

And finally, there he was, dragging himself around the corner into view. Like a man who didn’t quite know how to admit he needed help but couldn’t help crawling toward you anyway.

Remmick was flat on his back in the dirt.

The porch light glimmered faintly above, flickering once before settling again, casting him in thin, uneven stripes of amber. His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, collar pulled wide, fabric soaked through with sweat, or maybe water, you couldn’t quite tell from here. His hair was a wild mess, tangled and sticking to his temple like he’d been caught in a storm, though the air was clear.

One shoe had slid halfway down his foot, heel caught in the dirt. The other leg lay bent at an awkward angle, as if his body couldn’t quite agree where to land after the fall. He looked more thrown than dropped, like the world had spat him out.

And there he was, blinking up at you.

His gaze met yours like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Wide, sheepish, and entirely too aware of how foolish he looked. The flush in his face wasn't from embarrassment though. No, you knew that look, it was the adrenaline still burning off him in waves.

And yet, even sprawled out in the dirt like that, there was something about him. The faint pulse of red still flickering behind the familiar blue of his eyes, just enough to catch the light when he shifted. The hint of fang still peeking past the corner of his lip when his mouth parted, like it always did when he was too tired to fully pull himself together.

The gold chain at his throat. Your favorite one, the one that always seemed to gleam like it belonged to a man far cleaner than he ever was, glinted faintly. A soft flash beneath the ruined collar of his shirt. You caught yourself staring at it before you realized.

“…Hey, sugar,” he wheezed, voice thin but trying its best to sound casual.

You stared at him for a long, unimpressed beat. Your arms crossed without you meaning them to, feet planted firm on the cool wooden porch. The breeze tugged at your nightgown, making the thin cotton ripple gently at your calves. Fireflies drifted lazily at the edge of the treeline. Their glow blinked soft in the dark, careless, like this was just another quiet night.

“You good?” you asked, flat.

He gave a single, shallow nod. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Landed wrong.”

“You landed on the roof.”

He winced a little, shifting his weight as he tried to sit up straighter, one hand gripping at his ribs. “Little miscalculation.”

“You’ve been doin’ those jumps for how long now?”

“Don’t-” He held up one bloodied hand like a white flag, wincing as he flexed his wrist. His voice thinned into something sharp and frayed. “Don’t rub it in.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the scolding sit heavy behind your teeth, but kept it balanced. No use piling on while he still looked like the ground might swallow him if he moved too fast. Your eyes swept him again, quick and clinical. Shoulder likely dislocated, ribs bruised at best, knee scraped up, knuckles torn raw. His chest rose and fell too shallow for your liking. But he was breathing. Awake. Speaking.

And, miraculously, grinning.

You exhaled long. “Lord, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

His grin wobbled but stayed. “Not if I can help it.”

Another sigh pulled itself from your chest. You turned on your heel and stepped back inside, the screen door creaking as it swung open behind you. “Come on. Before you bleed out in my yard.”

Behind you, the porch groaned under his weight as he hauled himself upright, muttering curses beneath his breath while he staggered after you like a man determined to pretend everything was fine. The sound of his shoes scraping along the floorboards made you wince. Dirt and dead leaves trailed behind him across your clean kitchen floor, earning a disappointed huff.

You reached under the kitchen counter and pulled out the first aid kit. The one that now had a permanent home there ever since Remmick came barreling into your life. Needle. Thread. Antiseptic. Cloths. The glass jar of salve he swore didn’t sting as bad, even though it did.

Everything laid out like ritual. Like routine.

He eased himself onto the wooden stool near the window with a hiss, one hand braced against the edge of the table, the other still clutching at his side. You could see how tight his jaw was, how carefully he was trying to hide the pain behind that lopsided grin. Stubborn as could be.

“You are a fool,” you muttered under your breath as you uncapped the antiseptic.

“But I’m your fool.”

You shot him a sideways glance at that, unable to help the small twitch that pulled at the corner of your mouth. “That you are.”

The house was quiet as you worked. The kind of quiet only broken by the scrape of glass bottles against the table and his quiet, occasional sharp inhales when the alcohol hit an open wound. Outside, the cicadas droned steady, the night thick with heat and the pulsing rhythm of distant frogs.

You pressed the cloth to his shoulder, dabbing gently, and he hissed between his teeth again, his fingers flexing where they gripped the edge of your skirt under the table. Just to hold you. Just to remind himself you were there.

“Next time,” you said softly, threading the needle, “use the damn door.”

He let out a low, breathy laugh. “I was tryin’ to surprise ya.”

“You surprised me plenty.”

“Ain’t mean the roof part.”

“No,” you said, lips twitching again, “I figured that much.”

You stitched him up slow, careful. The needle moved steady through his skin, your hands familiar with the task in a way that made your chest ache sometimes if you thought too hard about it. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his thumb rubbed gentle circles into your knee as you worked, his eyes never once leaving your face.

It was always like this.

He’d leave, and you’d stay. He’d come back, and you’d fix him.

Again and again.

And somehow, some part of you loved him for it.

When the last stitch was tied and the bandage wrapped clean, you smoothed your hand along his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where a smear of dried blood still clung. His eyes softened under your touch, the red dimming almost completely beneath the blue. It made him look gentler. Almost tender.

He caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to your palm, voice barely above a whisper now. “Told ya I’d always make it home.”

And even after all this, after everything, your chest still clenched at that.

Because he did. Every time.

Even if sometimes, he fell out of the sky to do it.

#remmick x reader #remmick #sinners #remmick sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners movie #remmick x you #fluff #remmick fluff #sinners remmick #fanfic #fanfiction #remmick fanfic #jack o'connell #inboxxx #god i love this little fucking loser #I WANT TO EAT HIM

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 3 days ago

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"I fucking love you, okay?! I don't want to, but I do." Javier Peña

Angry Confessions ❤️‍😠

bio : this story is part of the Angry Confessions series (you can still be a part of it)

requested by : @lover-of-books-and-tea thank you!

warnings: angst, fuck buddies, jealousy, alcohol, one girl, fight, tears

He wasn't husband material, barely boyfriend material. But as a sex buddy - Javier Peña was perfect. However, things didn't go your way and fate decided to laugh at you.

The first time you felt this strange feeling was when he complimented the nails of the new girl who started working a few desks away. Nothing special, you gritted your teeth and simply decided to ignore it.

The second time he didn't show up at your place, even though he promised. You drank a bottle of wine by yourself, honestly hating yourself for how disappointed you were and how much you wanted Javier to show up.

It was just sex, nothing more. He didn't promise you anything and you never expected it. However, being in Colombia, working and being alone made people stick to each other, and you came across Peña. Did he take advantage of that? Maybe. But you were also an adult and you decided on such an arrangement.

Quick sex, when adrenaline was pumping through your veins and you had to stop thinking, or when the day was really hard. A sweet and lazy morning in bed, when he woke up next to you. Sometimes in the car, or in some closed office.

"You're just perfect, hermosa..." he whispered, pounding into you with all his might, and you tightened your fingers around his broad shoulders.

And there you were. In one of the bars, with a drink in your hand and your gaze fixed on the girl on the other side. Peña was standing right next to her, wrapping her long locks of hair around his finger and smiling like he did many times in your direction. God! You hated him so much.

He must have sensed you, because he looked your way. He kissed the girl's hand, then walked over to you with lazy steps.

“Well, hello hermosa.” he greeted, leaning against the bar next to you. “I didn’t expect you here.”

“I noticed you already had company. I didn’t want to intrude.” You replied, taking a sip of your drink.

“You could always intrude.” His dark eyes slowly raked over your body. Shivers ran down your spine at the sight, it was sickening. “Maybe I should keep you company, huh? Or maybe you’d prefer I get a bottle and we could…”

“No.”

Your response was a shot, and Peña stopped mid-sentence. The smile disappeared from his face. He glanced around the bar.

“You didn’t come with anyone, did you?” he asked, leaning slightly toward you.

“Would you care? I think you were busy with someone.”

Javier glanced at the girl who was still standing where he left her, but his gaze quickly returned to you. “You’re the brightest diamond here, hermosa.”

You rolled your eyes. The alcohol only made your frustration, which had been building up in you for a dozen or so days, grow to enormous proportions. At that moment, you hated everything about him, from his raven hair to the tips of his shoes. Javier Peña was the sin you committed most often and for your own good, you should have stopped.

You didn’t answer. You grabbed your bag and quickly headed for the exit. But you should have known that Peña didn’t give up that easily. He was like a wolf hunting a lamb, and just outside the door you felt, in addition to the fresh air, his hand tighten on your shoulder.

“What’s that supposed to mean, hermosa?” he whispered in your ear. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

You looked at him defiantly. “I don’t have anyone I could be jealous of.” you replied.

“I think otherwise.” he smiled slyly. “You’re always so mad when you see me with someone else, and then we have amazing sex. That’s where this is going, right? You need me. Does she need me too?”

You wanted to punch him in the face. But at the same time, you felt like his words were hitting exactly where they were supposed to. You were dependent on him, he knew that perfectly well.

“You know, baby, you’re my favorite. I love teasing you, because then you turn into such a furious kitten.” His hand ran down your back, a shiver running through it. “I can feel it. You smell of desire... I can smell her all the way here.”

But then he saw it, the change in your eyes that made his heart stop for a moment. Tears were glistening, and you were looking at him in a way that made Javier feel like a fool.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I let you into my bed, Peña.” you hissed quietly. “I was so stupid…”

“What are you talking about?” he wondered. “We both wanted this, right? I didn’t force you to do anything.”

“I was just... stupid and naive.” you mumbled. You pulled away and Javier let go of you, watching you closely.

He didn't understand much. You were one of the closest people to him in the office. Yes, you had slept together. No, you hadn't talked about a relationship or feelings, but he thought that wasn't really what you expected. You knew what he was like. The office gossip was loud enough to get through to you, and you weren't stupid. Besides... You were out of his league. He was already lucky to have gotten to this point with you.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked a little louder, since you were already a few steps away from him, clearly heading home.

You stopped and turned to him. "Excuse me?"

"You've been walking around like crazy for the past few days. And when I get close, you're ready to sting me." He put his hands on his hips, watching you carefully. “What got into you, hermosa? I thought we were-”

“Fuck, I love you, okay?! I don’t want to, but I do.” You blurted out, blushing. “And I hate myself for how I feel when I look at you and those… those girls… Because I know I’m one of them.”

Javier’s eyes widened in understanding. He quickly rubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling his heart speed up. “This is a really bad idea, hermosa…” he finally said, “You know that-”

“I know.” You cut him off, “That’s why I’m mad.”

Javier looked around and slowly walked over to you. You felt so bad you just wanted to disappear. But when he spoke, God, you wanted to die.

“I’m not the guy who’s going to give you what you deserve, hermosa.” he said, “I’m sorry, but… You deserve better.”

You quickly wiped away a tear that rolled down your cheek. Your ears were ringing. "I know that perfectly well, Peña." You snorted. "That's why I'm not even asking you for anything. Just... foranget I said all that."

He knew he wouldn't forget, but he nodded. A moment later, he was watching your silhouette as you disappeared into the crowd of people, and he was still standing like an idiot where you left him.

This wasn't supposed to happen like this. He had screwed up.

#pedro pascal #javier pena x reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña #angry confessions #narcos #angry confessions series

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rafesteddy · 22 hours ago

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𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓒𝓸𝓪𝓬𝓱’𝓼𝓓𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓻!𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓐𝓤…

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍… (+18 minor DNI)

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓭𝓪𝔂… (+18: language | smut mentioned)

Rafe tossed his hockey bag onto the bench, the thud echoing through the room. A smug smirk pulled at his mouth as he yanked his hoodie down. The rink felt colder than usual—sharp against his skin. Or maybe that was just in his head.

He hadn’t really slept. He couldn’t. Not after last night.

His body was still humming, blood buzzing, mouth tugging at the memory of how it ended. He’d replayed it a dozen times in the dark—your mouth, your laugh, the way they’d both left already wanting more.

Down the hall, the door banged open.

JJ walked in like he had nothing to prove—shoulders loose, mouth cocked, eyes lit up with that same shit-eating grin. Rafe shot him a look, sharp from beneath his lashes.

JJ cocked a brow. Yeah. I know. His grin was pure trouble, tongue pressed behind his teeth like he could barely keep himself from smirking.

They hadn’t talked about it—not really.

He flicked his eyes toward the glass again and there you were, blades carving through the surface, moving with grace and ease.

Rafe watched too long, arms folded across his chest, a slow pulse climbing up his neck. The smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it—his heart squeezing in this pathetic, hungry way he wasn’t used to.

“Yo. You coming?”

Maybank’s voice cut straight through him, hand clapping hard against his shoulder.

Rafe blinked, dragging his eyes away, mouth dry. “—Uh… Yeah.” He grabbed his water bottle, fingers restless, chest still knotted too tight to breathe easy.

The two of them pushed through the doors into the dark film room; the team, already scattered—half-watching the highlight reel, half still buzzing from the night before.

“—We hit the bar,” one of their teammates chatters, quickly pulling the two of them into the conversation “saw you guys ran out. The fuck was that about? What did you two get into?” His gaze slid to Rafe and JJ.

Rafe barely tipped his mouth into a grin, voice lazy. “Stayed in.”

JJ mirrored the look—legs kicked out, arms folded tight. “Yeah. Took it easy.”

A soft wave of “bullshit�� rippled through the dark room, but neither of them so much as blinked, playing dumb like the boys didn't see them scrap on the ice and nearly take each other out in the penalty box, then race out of the rink like their lives depended on it.

Little did any of them know it didn't end there… the car race, the sprint to the door, the hallway battle that ultimately got broken up by the girl who started it all, just for her to break them open some more.

Rafe glanced over at JJ, tension still searing between them. Neither one was letting it show—but they both knew it was there. And something told him—this was far from over.

Low voices still buzzed through the room—guys laughing, tossing chirps across the rows. Rafe sprawled back, arms crossed, mind split down the middle—half on the ice, half on her.

Then the door creaked.

Rafe glanced over, expecting the head as usual but the assistant coach was in his place, followed close, the athletic director trailing right behind him. That drew a few heads.

Rafe straightened slightly, a cold knot twisting in his gut. The AD didn’t show up here unless something was happening. “What the hell’s this about?” Rafe’s teammate nudged him.

“No clue.”

“Something’s up,” JJ continues; shoulders tensed, jaw tight. The room hushed fast. Eyes followed Daniels and the AD straight to the podium.

Rafe leaned forward, elbows on knees now, brow furrowed as he waited for the news.

“All right, boys,” Daniels said. “We’ve got an update this morning. A change in the program.”

The room held its breath.

Daniels paused—eyes sweeping the room. Then the door opened again. Another man strode in. Sharp and serious; a fitted black athleisure jacket and a new Boston College hat low on his brow—not even broken in. He walked like he was about to own the room.

“This is our new head coach, boys. He’ll be taking over effective immediately.”

The name that followed hit Rafe like a punch. Rafe’s whole body locked up. He sat up straighter, throat dry. His gaze shot to JJ, because that was your last name.

And like you’d timed it perfectly—movement flashed outside the glass wall. You walked past. Skate guards on, bag looped over your shoulder, hair blowing in the slight breeze. You glanced in—met his eyes—and winked.

Rafe’s stomach plummeted. His heart thundered so loud he swore the whole damn room could hear it.

You were the head coach’s daughter.

He dragged a hand over his mouth, trying to look casual—but one glance at JJ told him, they were fucked.

Then Rafe’s phone buzzed. He yanked it out of his pocket fast, thumb swiping.

Your Name: Think you can keep this a secret Rafe?

He swallowed hard. Fingers hovered.

Rafe: Shit

Rafe: yeah. If it means getting to see you again

Your Name: Good. Cause if my dad found out we were seeing each other this could be really bad for you

He exhaled. Bad was putting it lightly.

Rafe: Worth it. I can keep it a secret.

Rafe: Can I see you tonight?

Your Name: Only you. No one else.

Rafe’s mouth twitched—half wild pride, half raw possessiveness coiling through his chest.

Rafe: Yeah. I wasn’t planning on sharing you again.

Rafe: So. we’re doing this?

Your Name: yeah 💕

He dragged in a breath, pulse racing. No way in hell he was walking away now. His thumbs moved again.

Rafe: I’ll see you tonight pretty.

The screen dimmed, but his pulse didn’t. He leaned back, smile playing at his mouth. His gaze shifted—JJ was already looking his way, eyes sharp and steady. Yeah. This was gonna be a problem.

And he couldn’t fucking wait.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ ask box open for this au 💋

#coachsdaughter!reader ⋅ ༘𐙚🧸ྀི ˚˖𓍢ִ໋⋆#rafe #rafe smut #hockey!rafe #hockey rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron

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yanderes-galore · 3 days ago

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Pure vanilla with a darling who knew him as healer cookie.

Have fun with this one. Pick if it's headcanon, one shot or whatever.

There was two ways I could write this. You being a part of Gingerbrave's group or you being part of the Raisin Village. I decided to cover the second version after finishing the first one since the first one had more content.

Yandere! Pure Vanilla wirh Darling who knew him as Healer! Cookie

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Delusional behavior, Clingy behavior, Paranoia, Possessive behavior, Kidnapping, Isolation, Dubious/Forced relationship.

Ah, PV as Healer Cookie is such a sweet soul.

Iirc, Healer was the name PV took after being inflicted with amnesia.

Since the Dark Flour War he's become a nomad, soon settling in the Raisin Village to be their healer.

Being a healer is all he knows... All he remembers.

He doesn't mind... He enjoys seeing people happy when he heals them.

You most likely first met him while going to find the Vanilla Kingdom with Gingerbrave and the others.

You were injured due to a scuffle with some rogue Wafflebots and needed to he tended to.

Healer was quick to do so, taking you into a medical tent to work on healing you.

Your first meeting with each other is during an emergency... a life or death experience.

It... sticks with him more than it should.

Healer is very kind when he tends to you, often making sure you get food and water.

He tends to your companions too, although they seem more like children you're looking after since you're older....

Healer stays around you more though.

He feels oddly... drawn to you, especially in such a weak state.

He likes the idea of you needing him... of you trusting him.

Which... makes Healer a bit fond of you.

When he hears of your group's goal of exploring the reason behind the Wafflebot attacks, he nearly tries to dissuade you from pursuing it.

It's too dangerous with just you and your inexperienced crew!

At least let him come with you... He wants to help!

In reality... He wants to look after you.

This ends up with Black Raisin and Healer joining you all.

Black Raisin tried to say Healer was more needed in the village... Yet he declined.

He needed to come with you.

He needed to make sure you... and the others... are okay!

This was how the bond between you and Healer went.

As you traversed the lands leading to the old Vanilla Kingdom and fought monsters along the way... Healer provided support.

Whenever you got injured, Healer was always by your side to look over the nasty wounds.

Black Raisin may scold you for not being careful... But Healer always defends you, he's... protective.

You'd probably make the joke that he has a crush on you light-heartedly.

Which makes you notice the light pink tint on his face when you make the comment.

You reassure him you're just teasing, you just want to be playful.

But it still affects him more than you thought it would.

Imagine Healer, despite being an amnesiac, feeling drawn to you due to his old life.

As Pure Vanilla, he was surrounded by friends.

He was a caring hero and king in those days... surrounded by others he could trust.

I'd imagine your personality reminds him of one of his old friends, or maybe even a few of them....

You give the cookies you're traveling with a sense of direction... You help guide them from harm.

Healer doesn't like that sometimes that means putting yourself in danger...

But he still finds you just as endearing as his old companions.

Perhaps by the time you get to the Vanilla Kingdom, Healer starts to recover some memories.

He begins to realize just who he is... a great healer and leader who disappeared after the war....

He seems uneasy and tends to wander off to try and chase memories, but you always manage to catch up to him and ground him.

Maybe another thing that adds to his obsession is the fact you seem genuinely interested in who he was.

You're curious of Pure Vanilla, often asking Wizard Cookie about the history of this old kingdom.

You act like you look up to the ancient hero... Even going as far as to vow to protect your traveling companions.

It leaves Healer a bit flustered that you want to protect him...

Even more so when he realizes you looked up to and cherish him... He's that hero, after all.

Protecting you is in his instincts even when he doesn't have his memories.

No doubt partially because you remind him of the friends he once wanted to protect.

Essentially, I feel for most of your journey you're protecting Healer/PV.

You're caring for him and treating him like he's vulnerable, you're pampering him...

Some may view it as insulting to be treated as weak...

But Healer finds himself craving that care from you.

Things of course change when you encounter Dark Enchantress and Pure Vanilla is revealed.

By the end of the encounter you're left shocked.

The healer you were caring for... was the Pure Vanilla?

You don't have much time to fully process this before PV rushes over to you, a concerned look in his heterochromatic eyes.

He's looking you over for wounds, murmuring about how he hopes he protected his dear friends this time.

I have a feeling once his true identity is revealed, PV feels like he needs to 'repay' you or just 'protect' you.

He's a healer and protector at heart, a true hero meant to support.

But he takes it too far, of course.

He can never be normal about his feelings in these kinds of HCs.

You defended him in combat before... and you've shown that you're reckless when looking out for others.

Now that he's at his full strength due to obtaining his Soul Jam... It's about time he returns the favor.

Your journey would get more difficult as time goes on... Not only due to the stronger foes...

But also Pure Vanilla growing more... strange.

Since you encountered him at the Raisin Village and helped him get back to his old kingdom... He's been paranoid.

Even the sight of blood (jam?) just being on you sends PV into a spiral.

He knows he shouldn't be worried... That you're well looked after in your group... but...

Well... He can't help but think you'd be much safer with him.

He thinks back to your playful banter... how you said he might have feelings... how you protected him...

He wants to do the same... He felt safe around you... He wants you to feel safe around him too.

Then there's the alternative version of these HCs I thought of.

Instead of traveling with Gingerbrave, you're simply a citizen in Black Raisin Village.

For the longest time you've known Healer as a traveler who showed up here one day.

He'd treated everyone here at least once, all smiles as he eagerly sees to the wounds of your fellow villagers.

He's even treated you, you had gotten a few wounds from wild animals... or even crumbled a bit....

Healer made sure you didn't worry though, soothing you with medicine and wrapping your wounds.

He'd watch you day and night in the medical tent to heal, well... as much as he could with the bandages covering his face.

You appreciate him and everything he's done for you and your friends.

Such sentimentality ended up with you befriending the healer.

You two would often talk with one another, you even learned a few tips and tricks from Healer.

Perhaps your friendship even blooms into a mutual curiosity... leading to Healer falling for you.

You and Healer may even test your feelings one night.

While Healer finished tending to someone, you two had begun to talk.

You barely noticed his mostly innocent plotting... The healer blushing softly when you're around.

While you were distracted, probably by checking how much supplies he had, Healer pipes up.

"My friend... Look at me for a moment?"

By the time you turn, he kisses you softly.

It's soft, sweet... and tastes oddly like vanilla.

You remember such an encounter fondly since you had been curious about him too.

But before you could pursue something further, Healer left with some travelers to solve the Wafflebot problem.

You didn't mind, he had always wanted to make sure you were safe....

You didn't expect to see him again, that kiss and sweet night together no doubt a one time encounter.

Then... days later, someone came back.

The presence was... familiar yet foreign.

An ancient hero came back with the travelers, a smile on his face.

"My dear friends...! I’ve returned to offer you a new home...."

It's, of course... shocking to learn what your crush actually was.

Or... Who he was.

Pure Vanilla stands in his place, soon meeting you and looking rather excited.

"My dearest friend... I am sorry for leaving. Do not worry... I'll never leave you long ever again. Come... let me show you our new home~!"

Regardless of which story you meet... Pure Vanilla progressively gets obsessed over your safety and health.

Be it you leaving for missions... or himself doing it... It comes to a head eventually.

Imagine Pure Vanilla inviting you to his council room, claiming he has something to talk to you about.

It's not too out of the ordinary... Something PV just likes to speak with you over a drink or dinner.

You're a companion in his eyes.

He offers for you to sit in his council room once you arrive through the large doors, a nervous yet eager look on his face.

Then he asks you the question...

"How do you feel about me, my dearest? As in... Would you accept a proposal of mine?"

It confuses you, what was he asking?

'What kind of proposal?' You ask... making the hero clear his throat.

"I... wish to be your lover officially. I want you to marry me, my love... To be mine."

It's... a lot to ask. You have a feeling he knows that.

Yet even after you decline, the hero presses.

"No, my love... Please... consider it? I could give you everything... I'll protect you, I'll care for you, I'll love you... I just ask you to stay by me, in my kingdom, where I can watch you."

It soon becomes clear that his intentions are to... restrict you to his castle.

Even if you turn him down again, the hero seems a bit irritated.

"My love... I'm sorry... but I can't have you in danger anymore... You need me... I NEED you... I'm afraid I can't let you leave if you're not going to listen."

Pure Vanilla, while typically submissive compared to his fellow Ancients... is willing to be assertive when it comes to you.

He's seen you hurt... He's experienced special moments between you... Even if you say 'No' now...

He knows you're meant to be.

Imagine Pure Vanilla locking you in his castle, convinced you'll hurt yourself if you leave.

He's paranoid, in a constant anxious feedback loop when he doesn't have you close.

So he shares a room with you, one where he can make sure you're safe and comfortable.

His past where he failed to protect his friends certainly doesn't help... his past trauma corrupting the relationship he wants with you.

But... he ignores all that... and pretends you aren't glaring at him as you're locked away in a room.

This way... You'll be safe... and all his...

Ironically though, he'll lose you emotionally.

You'll hate him for what he's doing and has done.

Sure, he won't kill... but his own emotions are dangerous to you both.

PV will keep you with him one way or another since you mean so much to him...

He plans to be your loving husband... The one meant for you...

Yet he'll always be too focused on that, on the moments that are in the past, that he'll be blind to the betrayal you feel now due to his isolation.

#yandere cookie run #yandere cookie run x reader #yandere pure vanilla #yandere pure vanilla cookie #yandere pure vanilla x reader

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castielscaplan · 2 days ago

Text

Drunk On You (Sam Winchester)

Summary: After coming home drunk, you slip into the wrong bed.

Warnings: no cheating, some humor, drinking, drunken reader

WC: 854

Read on ao3!

The motel room door creaked open with a drawn-out whine, cutting through the late-night quiet like a buzzsaw. You winced, pressing a finger sloppily to your lips in a shhh gesture — though no one was around to see it — and stumbled inside.

The air was heavy with the stale mix of dusty curtains, cheap cleaning supplies, and the faint, lingering sharpness of gun oil. It should’ve been a warning. It should’ve snapped you to your senses. But you were riding the giddy, reckless high of one too many drinks — tequila shots, was it? — and a single-minded mission that buzzed louder than any motel ambience: Find Sam. Jump Sam. Love Sam.

You kicked the door shut behind you with a heel-clacking thud that shook the thin walls. Somewhere deep inside, your brain whispered, Be quiet... they're sleeping... But that was a very tiny voice, and it was quickly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the fuzz in your head.

The motel room was dark except for the blueish-gray flicker of a TV screen left on mute, casting the two beds into ghostly silhouettes. One bed was definitely occupied — a large shape curled beneath a ratty quilt, the outline broad through the shoulders, tall enough that his feet nearly hung off the end.

You grinned, biting your lip. There you are, baby.

Wobbling on unsteady feet, you abandoned your shoes with a graceless thunk and half-stumbled, half-floated toward the bed. The mattress dipped as you climbed on, not even bothering to pull back the covers. You slithered across the surface and pressed yourself up against the warm, solid figure underneath.

"Mmm, missed you," you whispered, your voice thick and syrupy with affection. The body tensed — just slightly — but you barely noticed. You nuzzled into what you thought was Sam’s neck, pressing a wet kiss somewhere near his jawline. Your hand, fueled by liquid courage and months of longing, trailed lazily up his chest — broad and strong beneath your fingers — until you reached his throat.

Rough stubble scraped against your palm. Weird... Sam shaved this morning, your brain mumbled sluggishly. You ignored it. You shifted your weight, straddling his hips, and leaned in, voice a sultry, drunken purr against his ear.

"Been thinkin' about you all night... missed your mouth..."

The body beneath you jerked again — this time harder — and a very wrong voice rasped out, low and panicked, "Y/N?"

You froze. The haze in your mind thinned for a second. That wasn’t Sam’s voice. You blinked hard against the darkness, heart hammering. Your fingers clumsily explored the jawline beneath you, feeling the unfamiliar cut of the cheekbone, the strange scruff, the...the...The lamp clicked on.

Bright, blinding yellow light flooded the room, and there he was — Dean Winchester. Dean, with a look of sheer disbelief and horror frozen on his face, his green eyes wide as dinner plates, and his hands hovering an inch away from your hips like he was afraid touching you would turn him to stone.

You screamed.

It wasn’t a loud scream — more like a strangled gasp of pure humiliation — and you threw yourself backward so violently you rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a solid thud.

Dean sat up fast, scrubbing both hands over his face. "Jesus Christ, Y/N! What the hell?!"

Your mouth opened and closed uselessly, panic turning your brain into static. "I—I thought you were Sam!" you wailed, half-hiding behind the bed.

Dean groaned, throwing his head back against the headboard. "Sweetheart, if Sam's the one with a beard and a leather fetish, we gotta have a talk."

Across the room, you heard more movement. Another bed — the other bed — shifted, and a low, sleepy voice called out: "What's going on?"

Your soul tried to leave your body. Because that — that was Sam. Real, genuine, sleepy-voiced Sam. You peeked over the mattress to see him sitting up, shirtless, his long hair rumpled, squinting at you and Dean with sleepy confusion.

"I got into the wrong bed," you whimpered miserably, feeling very small and very, very stupid.

Sam blinked slowly, as if it was taking his mind a minute to catch up. Dean, meanwhile, just pointed a thumb at himself and muttered dryly, "Yeah, lucky me."

There was a pause.

Then — like the final blow — Sam started to laugh. Not a mean laugh. It was warm and rough and helpless, full of the kind of affection that made your chest ache. He pushed the covers off and padded over to you in three strides, scooping you up off the floor before you could think to stop him.

You clung to him instinctively, mortified but comforted by his strong arms and his familiar scent — soap, leather, and something warm that was just Sam.

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmured, lips brushing your temple. "Wrong Winchester. Right girl."

Dean's voice floated after you as Sam carried you away:

"And next time, buy me dinner first, huh?"

You buried your burning face against Sam’s bare chest, groaning, as he chuckled and deposited you safely into his bed. Finally — finally — in the right place.

//use this as a reminder that reblogs allow me to know that you loved this piece so much you were willing to share with your friends//

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanart #sam winchester fluff

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unnaturalequilibrium · 3 days ago

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I enjoyed watching their scenes from the start. The actresses played well off each other and the writing was sarcastic and fun, but I didn’t actually ship it until this scene in the rain. And to be honest it’s not the scene itself that got to me, it’s how it was presented and when it was presented in the narrative.

The writers send a wounded Kleya off rudderless into the forest and by having the scene bleed into Partagaz suicide it sets a tone which slowly chills your stomach. You get this melancholic imagine burned into your retina as Kleya disconnects herself from the machines monitoring her wellbeing and then steps out into the rain. Especially melancholic as the scene plays out beneath the hypnotic lull of Nemik’s manifesto which starts off on “there will be times when the struggle seems impossible, I know this already, alone, unsure, dwarfed by the scale of the enemy-” That is what we leave Kleya on, that is the note on which she unhooks her lifelines and walks out into the dark void on. Only for it to be directly followed by Partagaz killing himself. It sets quite the dark tone in you mind. Instantly as we close out on the muffled blaster shot you worry not for the dead fascist, but for the roaming spy out in the cold. Worry real fucking bad that she too is about to walk the perimeter of self-harm town. What is there to stop her?

Fast forward to where we’ve got Vel at the same time. Vel is being an adorably sentimental little lesbian and is pushing for Cassian to reconnect with Bix. Sure the scenes is there to punch us in the gut as we as the audience already know that such a reconnection is not on the table and that Cassian will be dead soon. It does however also work as a good snapshot of what Vel’s mindset is like and the emotions she harbours. For her that human connection is something worth pushing and striving for. It’s made clear she is still pretty broken in her own grief, but to her human emotion and love are worth pursuing even in the face of all the darkness. Maybe she doesn’t see it for herself, but she pushes those around her towards it.

So we have a lost and emotionally unmoored Kleya with potentially suicidal tendencies and you have an equally lost Vel who is shown to still treasure, champion and maybe even yearn for love even though she herself have suffered grief because of past experiences. Those are the two ships that are sent off into the Yavin night with the sole purpose of crashing into each other. Two people in different stages of grief, but with an equally deep need for tenderness.

I don’t know which one we are supposed to assume saves who through the rainy encounter. But Vel gets a reason to care, a reason to comfort and a reason to be put together. Kleya on the other hand gets a safety-net, compassion to catch her in its webs as she’s free falling. A familiar person who anchors her to the moment, the cause and to herself. Suddenly the latter part of Nemik’s manifesto makes a comeback in your mind, “remember this, freedom is a pure idea, it occurs spontaneously and without instruction”. Which maybe isn’t just referring to freedom in its more traditional sense, but also as a synonym for human connection. Care, compassion and love are all spontaneous acts and cannot be killed no matter how many restrictions or legislations you try to apply to them. In that moment, in that scene, you feel it - the unstoppable flow of human connection occuring without instruction.

Whatever that connection between them is actually supposed to be canonically – well it’s up for interpretation, but personally it bumped the pieces into a position where I suddenly raised my eyebrow at what had come before. It was the metaphorical equivalent of being handed a blacklight in an Amsterdam hotelroom. I can now suddenly see what was always there, but which wasn't visible to my naked eye before. Am I pleased I now know what’s there? Maybe not entirely, because who needs more rare!pairs in their life?! Not me necessarily, but here we are and there’s no putting it back once you’ve seen it. Because you realise that for these two the show was actually just the prologue. Whatever their story is, it actually began there in the rain and the end - well it is yet to be written, but does appear to involve each other.

#andor #vel x kleya #vel sartha #kleya marki #and she got to hobble off into the monsoon rains with her girlfriend #it's basically like When Fates Collide only wetter #and without a horse

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chanelgrll · 3 days ago

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Domestic Ronin and Reader fic or relationship hcs?? I imagine after being in a relationship with him for a while he’s able to be a bit more vulnerable and soft w/them (by his standards at least). I need more Ronin fluff lowk (only if you feel up to writing this ofc) 🫶

A/N: oh I've been so ready for this hehehee, I'll have hcs at the top and a little one shot below

I'd guess he’s not used to having someone else in his space, especially after ther and angel. At first, he was more tense, subtly hiding it from you. But you started leaving little things, hair clips, clothing, plushies, the occasional note. Now he catches himself checking the bed out of habit when you’re not in it. Probably lays on your side when you're not home

He doesn’t say “I love you” often, but he always shows it. Cutting fruit for you while you’re half-asleep, keeping your side of the bed warm if you get up, fixing the door that creaks even though you never asked

He’s the type to stand behind you while you brush your teeth, arms loosely around your waist, just watching in the mirror, resting his chin on the top of your head.

If you fall asleep on the couch, he never wakes you. He covers you with a blanket, then sits nearby, cleaning a knife, doing nothing. He likes hearing you breathe (proof of life)

When it comes to Ronin being more vulnerable, you find him sitting on the floor sometimes, just still. You sit with him without asking why. Sometimes he’ll take your hand, sometimes he just leans against your thigh and breathes. There are nights he clings tighter in his sleep, face buried in your neck. You don’t ask what happened, just hold him

You pick something dumb to watch, and he complains, “This is brainrot.” but he stays. You end up laying with your legs across his lap, and halfway through, he starts absently rubbing the back of your hand like it’s second nature

When he comes home fresh after a kill drenched in blood, you don't freak out. You lather shampoo through his hair, wash his back. Blood circles the drain like old sins, and he appreciates how you don't try to fix him and just quietly help him clean up

He doesn't feel like he has to clean himself before touching you, something he always did in the past for others

If you can’t fall asleep, he’ll talk quietly about anything. Where he traveled last, talks about his most recent kill, speaks in that poetic way. Anything to keep you at peace

Whenever he wakes up before you he doesn't wake you up, but listens to you breathe, running his fingers through your hair and listen to your heartbeat

Speaking of which, when he's going through something or feeling down, feeling your pulse or listening to you heart beating is something really grounding for him

He’s surprisingly good with a knife in the kitchen (of course). Chops vegetables like he’s defusing a bomb. He makes really simple food like eggs, rice, pan-seared meat

He always knows where your things are. Even when you don’t. You ask where something is and he immediately tells you without looking up, it's almost like he has a sixth sense but he just pays really close attention to you

Another way for him to say he loves you is threatening to kill anyone who hurts you (what's a serial killer without the killing?)

Rain tapped the windows, gray light spilled across the room in soft drapes. The sheets smelled like sleep and warmth, twisted loosely around the limbs of two people who had nowhere else to be.

You stirred first, barely. Your cheek rested against Ronin’s chest, skin to skin, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The weight of his arm across your back was grounding, his hand curved over your spine like it had always belonged there. Outside, the storm whispered through the world. Inside, time didn’t exist.

You tilted your face just enough to look up at him. He was awake, barely. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes dark against his skin, mouth relaxed in that rare softness he only wore when the world didn’t require him to be made of knives.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak. Just hummed, low in his chest, and pulled you closer. His hand slid up your back to cradle the back of your head. As if he thought you might slip away if he didn’t.

“I think it’s still raining,” you murmured against his throat.

“Good,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

You smiled, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “Wasn’t planning to.”

He shifted, just enough to roll onto his side and take you with him. Now you were facing each other, tangled up in limbs and breath. His thigh slid between yours, anchoring you. His eyes, though sleepy, were clear and soft as rain. He studied your face like he always did when you were this close. Like you were something he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have.

“What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Just…” His hand came up to brush your hair behind your ear. “You look peaceful when it rains.”

“So do you.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something smaller, deeper. “Don’t say that shit,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away when you kissed the tip of his nose. You let the silence stretch. You didn’t need to fill it. Outside, the rain thickened. You could hear the wind shifting through the trees. A car passing in the distance. But inside, in this bed, in this room, there was only warmth and the slow rhythm of skin and trust.

Ronin’s thumb brushed across your cheek. “Y’feel safe with me?”

The question hit harder than it should have. Not because you didn’t, but because he didn’t always believe it. “I do,” you said gently. “I always do.”

He looked at you like that answer physically hurt. Then he kissed you, slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the taste of your mouth. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

You curled closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I know. I don’t want you to.”

He rubbed slow circles into your back. His lips brushed your temple. Your jaw. Your shoulder. “You cold?” he murmured.

“No.”

“Good. You feel warm. Like home.”

Something fluttered in your chest. You didn’t say anything. Just held him tighter. Eventually, the rain faded to a misty hush. The room grew even quieter, but neither of you got up. You drifted together. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. And when you fell asleep again, safe in his arms, you didn’t even hear the storm anymore.

Because Ronin was the peace you needed

And you were his.

#kc #kc ronin #kc x reader #killer chat #killer chat fanfic #killer chat ronin #killer chat x reader #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort x reader

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luciemggio · 3 days ago

Text

Notes of You

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x singer f’reader

Warnings none

Summary: Sebastian Stan and singer Y/N Y/L/N fall in love while filming a Dior ad. Their secret romance is exposed, but instead of hiding, they choose each other — quietly, and for real.

Sebastian Stan had shot campaigns before. Luxury watch brands. Elegant suits. Even a cologne ad in Milan once, where he had to smolder into the lens for 12 hours while holding a glass of whiskey he wasn’t allowed to drink.

But this was Dior.

And this time, his co-star was Y/N Y/L/N.

She wasn’t just a singer. She was the singer—five-time Grammy winner, face of modern soul-pop, the woman whose name was whispered the same way people said Paris or Velvet. Her newest album, Wild Honey, had gone platinum in two weeks. Her face graced the covers of Vogue, Rolling Stone, and a limited-edition vinyl you couldn’t even find on eBay.

He arrived on set in Paris on a cool October morning. The shoot was on a rooftop in Le Marais, framed by trailing ivy and high-contrast shadows. The sky was steel-blue, the kind that promised rain but never delivered. Stylists fluttered like birds around racks of tailored coats and silk scarves, and perfume hung thick in the air—something floral but dark, layered, like secrets on warm skin.

He didn’t see her at first. But he heard her.

A low hum, almost inaudible—some old jazz standard, half-forgotten and sung under her breath.

Then she walked into the light.

Black silk dress. Bare feet. Hair tousled like she’d just come out of someone’s bed—or dream. She looked over at him with almond-shaped eyes, full of something unreadable, and smiled.

“Sebastian, right?” she asked, walking over slowly. Her voice was like her songs—soft where you least expected, edged in heat.

He stood up straighter. “That’s me. You’re Y/N.”

“I am.” She held out her hand. Her fingers were warm. “You smell good already. Let’s make Dior proud.”

The premise of the commercial was simple: two strangers, passing through each other’s lives in the golden half-hour before sunset. A train station, a rooftop, a fleeting connection.

But the first scene felt like anything but simple.

He stood at one end of the terrace. She at the other.

The director shouted, “Action!”

Y/N turned. Her eyes locked on his like she’d been waiting for him all her life. She walked slowly, deliberately. The silk of her dress fluttered. When she reached him, their faces were only inches apart.

She leaned in—breath ghosting his skin—and whispered, “Do you remember me?”

Cut.

Sebastian blinked. His heart thudded behind his ribs like it was trying to get out.

That wasn’t acting. Or if it was, she was better than he ever imagined.

He turned to her. “You’ve done this before?”

“A few times,” she said lightly. “But I’ve never done this with you.”

They were tucked beneath a tall outdoor heater on the edge of the rooftop, the lights from Paris flickering beneath them like candlelight. The city stretched around them — wrought-iron balconies, stone chimneys, the hush of late afternoon. The scene felt stolen, like they weren’t supposed to be there.

She had a blanket around her shoulders, black nails curled around a chipped ceramic mug. Peppermint steam curled between them.

Sebastian sat across from her, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood lingering on his jacket. It was hers — the new Dior fragrance, Lumière Noire — and it clung to him like memory.

“You ever get tired of it?” he asked suddenly.

She glanced over. “What? Being filmed making out with pretty strangers?”

He laughed, but there was a faint color in his cheeks. “I meant… pretending. Pretending to be in love for a camera.”

She took a sip of her tea and looked at him over the rim. Her eyes were smoky, thoughtful.

“I don’t pretend well,” she said softly. “I feel what I feel. The camera just happens to catch it.”

That quiet honesty startled him more than if she’d flirted.

He shifted, suddenly aware of how close they were. “And what do you feel now?”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“Curious,” she said. “Warm. Slightly buzzed off tea and perfume. And you?”

He held her gaze. “Like this is the part they don’t film.”

A small smile broke over her face. “Then let’s not waste it.”

She tucked her bare foot onto the bench beside him. They sat in silence for a few moments — a comfortable kind, rare between two people who’d just met.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, sighed, and turned it facedown.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” she said. “Rehearsals. Met Gala’s coming up.”

“Right,” he nodded. “And I go back to L.A. on Monday.”

They sat with that distance between them, the knowing that something had started at the wrong time.

And yet—he leaned closer.

“Paris feels different with you here.”

She didn’t smile this time. She just looked at him and said, “That’s because you’ll remember this. Long after you forget everything else.”

The final scene was scheduled for golden hour — that elusive thirty-minute stretch where the light turns honeyed and everything looks softer. But the sky had other plans.

A storm gathered just before they rolled the last take. A cold wind swept across the rooftop, tugging at fabric and loosening tendrils of her hair. Clouds loomed heavy and grey above the city.

The crew scrambled, debating if they should pause.

“Keep rolling,” the creative director barked. “The rain makes it better. This is cinéma, not a shampoo ad.”

Within minutes, the skies opened up.

The first drops hit her shoulders like icy punctuation. She shivered in her thin silk dress, arms bare.

Sebastian shrugged off his coat without a word and wrapped it around her. His hands grazed her shoulders as he did — a touch that lingered, that made her draw in a sharp breath.

Their eyes locked.

“Still pretending?” he asked, almost teasing.

But she didn’t smile.

“No,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

The director was shouting something behind them — “closer! lean in!” — but it faded into static.

Rain soaked their hair, their clothes. Her lashes clung together. His fingers twitched at his sides, fighting the instinct to touch her cheek.

Then she moved forward — slow, like a secret. Her hand slid to the back of his neck. He dipped his head.

And when their lips met, it wasn’t for the camera.

The rain was cold, but her mouth was warm. The kiss was soft, then deeper, the kind that builds in silence and lives long after it ends.

A breathless pause followed. The city kept on below them, indifferent.

When they broke apart, Y/N leaned her forehead against his.

“This is going to be a problem,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Why?”

“Because I don’t fall. Not easily. And I think you just ruined that.”

Filming wrapped. The campaign would launch in spring — full-page spreads in glossy magazines, a haunting video set to piano chords and breathy monologues. They both left with polite hugs and the understanding that it had just been a job.

Except it hadn’t.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Her laugh, low and rich. The way her fingers traced circles on the coffee table when she was deep in thought. That kiss in the rain — God, the way it lingered.

He sprayed a little of Lumière Noire on his wrist one night, alone in his apartment in L.A., and it hit him like a punch: she wore this when she leaned into me. When she said my name in the dark.

Meanwhile, Y/N kept working. Red carpets, interviews, a Rolling Stone cover. But there were cracks now. When asked about love, she’d smile but glance away. When asked about Paris, her voice dipped, and once — just once — she quoted something strange in an interview.

“He smelled like endings,” she said, eyes soft. “And I still wasn’t ready to let go.”

Two weeks later, he sent her a voice message. No words — just a piano playing the melody they used in the commercial.

She responded at 1:14 AM.

Just a whisper: “I miss the part where you looked at me like that.”

And then one night, after her Met Gala performance, she stepped into her dressing room and found him sitting on the couch, soaked from the New York rain, holding a white rose in his lap.

He stood.

She blinked in disbelief.

“You came.”

“I had to,” he said. “I’ve smelled you on my clothes for a month. I can’t get you out of my skin.”

She walked to him, breath caught in her throat.

“I remember you,” he whispered, just like the line in the ad.

But now, it was the truth.

She dropped the rose and kissed him again.

And that kiss didn’t end with cut, or edits, or Paris rain.

It started something real.

Something that smelled like rain, silk, and the kind of love that lingers.

They didn’t say What are we?

There were no labels. No terms. No promises — not yet. But everything between them felt like a promise.

Sebastian didn’t ask her to be his. Y/N didn’t demand anything. What they had was something quieter. Slower. Like silk unwinding in the dark.

Three weeks passed after the kiss in New York. They didn’t meet again in person — but they were never really apart.

Every night, around midnight her time — 6 p.m. in L.A. — he’d call her. Sometimes she was in a hotel room, half-dressed, makeup smeared after a photoshoot. Sometimes he was driving down Sunset with the windows down, talking to her with one hand on the wheel and the scent of her perfume still clinging to the collar of his jacket.

They didn’t talk about their lives so much as they talked about each other.

“What’s your worst habit?” she asked him one night.

“Overthinking,” he said. “Yours?”

She smiled through the phone. “Lying to myself about how much I want to see you again.”

Sometimes she sent him little things — a short voice memo of her humming a melody she hadn’t written lyrics for yet. A Polaroid from her childhood, captioned Don’t laugh at the bangs. A napkin scribbled with poetry in lipstick. He kept it all in a drawer beside his bed.

She told him once, in a rare moment of unguarded honesty, “I don’t fall easily. But when I do, it’s never casual.”

He didn’t respond to that right away.

But two days later, she walked into her dressing room after a show in London and found a note on her mirror.

“Flew 5,437 miles just to be near the sound of your voice. I’m in the wings.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She stepped out onto the dim backstage corridor and there he was, leaning against the wall in a black baseball cap and a jacket zipped all the way up — sunglasses on despite the dark. Understated. Hidden. For her.

She didn’t say anything.

She just walked straight into his arms.

They didn’t leave the venue that night.

Instead, she pulled him into her green room, locked the door, and let the silence fill the space between them. He looked around the room — makeup trays, half-empty champagne flutes, a pair of glittering heels discarded near the couch.

“I thought I imagined you,” she said, pulling off her earrings.

“I thought I’d regret it if I didn’t come.”

She gave him a slow smile. “And do you?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I am regretting how long I stayed away.”

The air shifted.

The distance between them disappeared like breath on glass. He leaned down, kissed her like he had on that rooftop in Paris — but slower this time, more certain. She tasted like wine and raspberries, something sweet and a little dangerous.

“You really wore the scent,” she whispered, pressing her face into his neck.

“I never stopped.”

She traced his jawline with her fingers, a slow, reverent touch.

“This can’t be public,” she said.

“I know.”

“The press will eat us alive.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to stop,” she said, almost like a confession. “Even if it’s only ever behind closed doors.”

He nodded, brushing her hair back gently. “Then close the door.”

And she did.

Over the next two months, they lived in almosts.

Almost-seen glances at industry events. Almost-touched hands beneath gala tables. Almost-smiles in hotel lobbies when cameras weren’t around.

They shared hotel rooms on opposite sides of the world. Tokyo. Prague. Barcelona. One time, she surprised him on a Marvel set in Toronto. Showed up wrapped in a scarf and oversized sunglasses, snuck past the crew, and waited in his trailer until he opened the door and dropped his coffee in disbelief.

“Miss me?” she asked.

“Always,” he said.

They had a system.

He’d post photos of the skyline — she’d post the same city a day later.

She’d wear the perfume on red carpets — he’d watch interviews and catch the scent in his memory.

They were clever. Private. Intimate in a way most people never get to be. But even so, cracks started to show.

She began writing songs about him — not directly, but enough.

One track was called Private Eyes — a ballad about stolen glances, secret nights, the loneliness of being half-known.

Fans speculated. The internet whispered. Theories bloomed like wildfire: Was it about a mystery actor? Was it about Sebastian Stan?

They never answered.

But one night, while on a press tour, he posted a photo on Instagram. Just his wrist.

A spray of perfume on the skin.

The caption: Still yours.

Her phone lit up seconds later.

Her heart stopped.

She sent back one line:

“Then come prove it.”

They’d survived six months of hiding.

Six months of passing each other like ghosts in hallways, of whispered goodbyes in airport lounges, of hotel rooms where the only light came from the city beyond the curtains. He kept her scarf in his glovebox. She wrote entire songs with only his initials on the page.

They were careful. Strategic.

But not careful enough.

It happened in Rome.

They were both attending a high-profile film and fashion gala — her as a musical guest, him as a Dior ambassador. The event was sprawling: champagne in crystal flutes, violins echoing through a marble courtyard, and dozens of cameras stationed along the ivy-covered walls.

They arrived separately. Smiled for the press. Walked opposite sides of the red carpet.

And after the show, when they slipped away to the private garden behind the villa — just for a breath, just for a moment — the cameras followed.

They didn’t kiss. Not then.

But the way she leaned into him, forehead to his chest, hands gripping his coat like it was the only thing keeping her from vanishing — that was enough.

Someone caught it.

A single photo.

Posted within the hour.

By morning, the caption was everywhere:

“Sebastian Stan and Y/N Y/L/N: Dior’s secret campaign or secret couple?”

By noon, Y/N’s phone was melting in her hand.

Text after text. Her manager. Her stylist. Her publicist — two, actually — each with overlapping messages that all sounded the same:

“Did you know this would happen?”

“We cannot confirm anything until Dior releases a statement.”

“Don’t say a word. Not yet.”

Her heart hadn’t stopped pounding since 6:12 a.m., when she woke up to four missed calls and one photograph already halfway around the world.

It was a grainy image, probably taken from behind a hedge or a curtain—her body pressed against Sebastian’s chest, his hand in her hair, her eyes closed like she was breathing him in.

No kiss. No scandal.

But everything about it was undeniably intimate.

The kind of moment the world loves to tear apart.

Sebastian texted her just before noon.

“Meet me. No security. No press. I’ll drive.”

She didn’t hesitate.

She shoved on a hoodie and sunglasses, ducked past her team, and climbed into his car parked down the street with the engine running. He looked like hell—hair tousled, jaw clenched, like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Hi,” she whispered, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached over and took her hand.

They drove for an hour. Out of Rome. Into the hills. Away.

He stopped at an old stone villa with ivy spilling down the sides and a wrought iron gate that creaked like it had stories of its own. An Airbnb he’d rented under an alias. No paparazzi. No WiFi. Just trees, wind, and silence.

Inside, she dropped her sunglasses and finally looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?” His voice was quiet.

“For letting them see something that wasn’t theirs.”

He stepped toward her slowly. “We couldn’t stay hidden forever.”

“I know,” she said. “But now… it’s not ours anymore. It belongs to everyone.”

He took her face gently in his hands. “No. This—you and me—is still ours. No matter what they think, or tweet, or twist.”

She looked at him like she wanted to believe him. Like it hurt to.

“They’re going to say it’s fake. That it’s PR. That I’m using you.”

“Then let them,” he said, voice breaking slightly. “I know the truth. You know the truth. That’s all I need.”

A long silence.

Then she whispered, “You’re not going to run?”

He leaned his forehead to hers, just like he had that first night in New York.

“I’ve been running my whole life. I’m tired. I’d rather stand still with you.”

The press storm lasted weeks.

Some fans defended them, writing long threads about how love deserved privacy. Others called it fake. Dior released a tactful statement about “art imitating life.” Paparazzi camped outside hotels. Headlines changed daily.

But the two of them?

They stayed quiet.

They didn’t post photos. Didn’t do interviews. Didn’t explain.

They disappeared — together.

Rumors circled. Some said they broke up. Some said they got married in Capri. But no one really knew. They let the world talk and talk… until it got tired.

And when the noise died down, Y/N did what she always did.

She wrote a song.

It was the closing track of her next album.

No name. No lyrics printed in the liner notes. Just a piano and her voice — soft, full of ache and gold. She sang of gardens, and rooftops, and perfume that smelled like endings and beginnings.

And in the final line, barely whispered, came the truth:

“You weren’t a secret.

You were the safest part of me.”

At the launch party, she wore Dior.

He wasn’t in the crowd.

He was backstage.

Waiting.

And when she stepped off the stage, sweaty, radiant, heart pounding with the last notes of the song — he opened his arms and she fell into them like home.

No more hiding.

No more pretending.

They’d been smoke and roses, shadows and silk.

But now, they were real.

And they didn’t belong to the world.

Just to each other.

#sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan x you #marvel #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #sebastian stan fluff #Sebastian Stan love

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wainawtmai · 6 hours ago

Text

tags: 18+, suggestive, college setting, reader is mean and a little entitled, gojo is a freak (duh)

you and college rival!satoru cannot stand each other.

your majors are similar so you take a bunch of classes together. satoru thinks you’re insufferable because of how ‘holier than thou’ you are. You’re a perfectionist, as type A as can be. A part of him feels shitty when he hears you scoff in disgust when he flirts with a girl during class, like you were somehow better than him because you didn’t sleep around.

he relishes in your grumbles when you hear he scores just as well as you do on exams. Even making a show of letting everyone know that he didn’t even study and showed up thirty minutes late just to piss you off.

you hate how laid back he is, a textbook rich kid, and that stupid smirk that never leaves his face as he chatters and flirts his way through classes, still answering the professor’s surprise questions perfectly on the fly. It’s pathetic but sometimes you pray he gets it wrong, so the suave smart guy facade can shatter to pieces and every girl in class could stop acting like he was a god. You think he can tell, because sometimes he turns to you with that infuriating smirk and winks.

sometimes you see him in the library while you mull over flashcards, you think he does it on purpose when he sits near you, with a girl on his arm who he makes out with, as loudly as can be. It drives you insane listening to the damn near pornographic noises they make and no one ever seems to mind. Or more the library is practically empty during this time of day.

you want to get up and leave but leaving feels like defeat, feels like another 95.3 to his 97, despite the fact that he was practically dozing off the entire exam. Your cheeks might be heating from embarrassment and none of the words on your flashcards internalized, but you weren’t leaving, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

when you spare him a glance he’s already looking at you, lips latched onto the girl's neck, his eyes a mix of amusement and darkness, daring you to look away. And you can’t, you just stare, your breathing growing heavier as you can slightly hear the girl’s small pleased pants. A part of you feels disgusted, of course, you’re in the fucking library for god’s sake.

but another part, a part you want to ignore so badly, is squeezing your thighs together as you watch him peel those irresistible lips from the girl’s neck and see his pink tongue lick at the bruised skin there. You force yourself to look away, to look down at the flashcards in your shaky hands. You can hear satoru chuckle and you crumple the card in your hand, gathering your things and leaving with a grumble.

you’re not proud of it, but when you go back to your dorm you’re tossing and turning in your bed, struggling to fall asleep. You lay on your back and stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the ache between your legs, trying to ignore the fact that rubbing one out is the only way you’ll be able to fall asleep.

and so you do, rubbing fingers against your clit to a quick finish, trying to convince yourself you weren’t seeing satoru’s tempting blue eyes and pink lips in your mind as you allowed yourself a single moan, clutching your sheets.

𖤐

the next day you plan to avoid him, ignore his smug glances and irritating presence. But that quickly proves difficult. Because the professor announces a group project, and you two are in the same group.

“this’ll be fun.” gojo muses to the group, and they all respond with equally enthusiastic responses. Only you know that it was meant to be mocking as he smiled at you all nice-like. What a fucking snake. You didn’t think it was possible for you to hate anyone more.

a few days pass just like that, you’re sick of everything and need a release. So you don’t protest when your friends drag you to a house party on the weekend. You kind of needed this, needed to simultaneously reward yourself and let loose.

you’re two shots in you when you see him, dancing with a girl, a different one of course. You scoffed into your solo cup, shaking your head at his theatrics and attempts at getting into the poor girl’s pants. So fucking pathetic.

satoru could see you, of course he could. You couldn’t make your distaste for him more obvious if you were holding a speakerphone and booing. He hated how gorgeous you were, it wasn’t fair. Hated how he pretended he wasn’t attracted to you. He couldn’t be attracted to someone so snobby. You got on his nerves that’s all, so intent on his downfall, despite the fact that he didn’t think he’d ever done anything to you personally.

maybe he was drunk, he thought, smiling back down at the pretty girl latched around him. He’d had a few drinks after all. He didn’t think of you at all, it was just the alcohol talking. He didn’t get a little hard when you glared at him in disgust whenever your eyes met, didn’t fuck his fist to the thought of you sometimes, didn’t imagine that face when he was balls deep in other girls. Hell no.

he doesn’t even realize he’s walking towards you till he can see that pretty face in detail and watch your relaxed expression quickly harden as you meet his eyes. “What the hell do you want, satoru?”

“i dunno you looked a little lonely standing here.” he muses with a smirk. You don’t even grace him with a response, pushing past him and walking towards the hallway. He follows you eagerly, a little too excited at the idea of annoying you.

you make your way into a room and jump a little when you see satoru behind you, “don’t you have a girl to fuck?”

“yeah, and what are you gonna do, sit here and read?” he took a few steps towards you, “you’re at a party and still manage to act so superior.”

you roll your eyes, “oh please, who followed who? I’m sorry you can’t help but think the world revolves around you.”

he lets out a chuckle, “i could feel your glare across the room. You find me so disgusting, huh?” he relished the scoff that you let out, a sign he had the upper hand, “like you weren’t absolutely creaming your pants that day at the library.” he took another step, smiling down at you.

if looks could kill, he’d be dead and buried. Your eyes were practically aflame and he couldn’t be any fucking harder. “I’d never fuck or fantasize about a loose slut like you.”

he knew he should have been pissed, but he was so turned on that his cock hurt. “You probably went home and fucked yourself like one thinking about me—” his words were cut short by a sharp slap, a hard one as he felt the sting and redness blooming in his wake.

the two of you stare at each other, wide eyed in momentary silence, before you practically concuss one other with the quickness that your lips join together.

#jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you

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strawberryysprite · 2 days ago

Text

Lipstick on the ledger

Cw: Explicit sexual content, workplace sexual dynamics, power exchange/domination, non-consensual tension with clear verbal consent, use of commanding language, mild humiliation and degradation, oral sex, spanking, and implied voyeurism. “Use of mommy.”

Vi is your boss and there is a power imbalance.

Word count: 1,306

Ps. I don’t know how to write smut don’t flame me 😔

Loud steps echoed through the quiet hallway.

The clicking of your heels carried through the dark building, each tap bouncing off the walls like a warning. The moonlight filtering through the tall windows caught your nervous expression, casting it in silver.

As you knocked on the large wooden door at the end of the hall, you heard rustling from inside.

“Come in.”

You turned the knob and stepped into the office. Violet Kiramman stood behind her desk, flipping through files.

“I have your coffee—large, hot, black with a double shot,” you said, smiling as you handed her the cup.

“Thank you, love,” she sighed, taking it. Then she winced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, no��it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it. You’re probably just stressed,” you rambled, trying to ease her discomfort.

She smirked, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m just tired.” She sank into her chair with a slow exhale.

“Ma’am… can I ask you something?” you ventured, heart racing at the thought she might fire you for what you were about to say.

“Sure,” she said, sipping her coffee.

“Why… why is your last name still Kiramman? After the divorce, I assumed you’d change it.”

She laughed. Actually laughed—for the first time since she hired you four months ago. Leaning back, she spread her legs casually, resting her head on her hand.

“I started this company after we got married. Ten years of building it from the ground up—I felt like if I changed the name, it might make things harder.”

Her gaze lingered on your face. Her eyes were heavy, unreadable.

“That look on your face,” she said, smirking. “Ask me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever you’re thinking. Ask it.”

You swallowed, unsure if you were stepping too far out of line. “Why did you get a divorce?”

She paused. The smirk faltered, but the exhaustion stayed in her eyes.

“We… weren’t right for each other. We were too different.”

“Oh. Everyone says you cheated on her,” you blurted out, immediately regretting it.

Her eyes widened. She scoffed. “Damn.”

“No. I didn’t cheat on her. I’d never cheat,” she added firmly.

You nodded, offering a small smile. “Was that all you needed, Miss Kiramman?”

She tilted her head slightly, scanning your expression. “A donut. From the break room.”

You nodded and slipped out of her office, gently closing the door behind you. Your heels clicked a little faster now, echoing through the nearly empty floor. You passed the last employee leaving and made your way to the break room.

You grabbed a devil’s food donut and set it on a paper plate. Then, glancing back at the box, you picked up an ube donut and scarfed it down much faster than you should’ve.

As you fixed your lipstick in the reflective surface of the microwave, you took a deep breath and walked back down the familiar hallway.

You opened the door. “Here’s your donut, ma’am.”

She was leaning against the front of her desk now. “Thank you, love,” she said again—this time with no apology.

“That lipstick looks better every time I see it,” she added, her eyes lingering far too long on your mouth.

You kept yourself composed by digging your nails into your palm.

“Close the door.”

You obeyed.

“Sit,” she commanded in that husky voice.

You did, placing yourself directly in front of her. She picked up her donut and took a bite.

“Fuck,” she groaned softly, then wiped her mouth with her thumb. “You’re so good to me, aren’t you?”

You smiled. “It’s my job. And… you’re nice to me. You respect the people under you.”

That made her smile—really smile.

She stepped closer. “That lipstick looks so good on you,” she said, dragging a hand down her own face. “I shouldn’t say things like that. HR would kill me.”

“It’s fine. You’re probably just… tired.”

“Maybe,” she murmured, but her eyes were glued to the buttons of your blouse. “Or maybe I just don’t care right now.”

The silence wrapped around the room like velvet.

She circled your chair slowly, a predator studying prey.

“I can’t get that flustered look on your face out of my head.”

She stopped behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder, then sliding it just under your shirt. A shiver traveled down your spine.

“Stand,” she ordered.

You obeyed without hesitation.

She turned you to face her, and for every step she took toward you, you stepped back—until the backs of your thighs hit the desk.

“So obedient,” she whispered. “You’ll do anything I say.”

She smirked as her fingers moved to the top button of your blouse.

“This… we shouldn’t do this,” you breathed, trembling.

She nodded slowly. “I know. But you want it.” Her fingers moved to the next button. “Tell me to stop.”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought, sweetheart.”

She kissed your neck, her lips soft but unrelenting. Her fingers fumbled with your blouse, sliding it off your shoulders as she unzipped your skirt.

“Did you wear this for me?” she asked, eyes fixed on your lace bra and panties. “Being dirty for your boss?”

Her hands roamed—hips, waist, then slipping between your legs. Her fingers slid over your slit.

“You’re dripping. Like a slut.”

She yanked your panties down, spun you around, and pushed your chest down against the cold desk.

“We shouldn’t,” you gasped, the shame curling in your belly.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she said softly, hands leaving your thighs.

“…Don’t stop,” you whispered.

She spread you open with her thumbs. “Fuck. This is such a pretty pussy.”

You felt her breath, then her tongue—slow, teasing, barely even touching. Her tongue flicked lazily, savoring more than satisfying.

She licked from your entrance to your clit.

“Stop fucking moving,” she growled.

“Don’t move unless I tell you. Okay?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, ma’am.”

She buried her face back between your thighs. Her tongue circled, then pushed in, then sucked your clit until you were crying out, clinging to the desk.

“Please, ma’am, I need it,” you begged, hips twitching.

“Yeah? Wanna cum on mommy’s face, don’t you?” she taunted.

“Bent over my desk like a whore, soaking my face.”

You whimpered, nodding desperately.

She felt every twitch, every breath. She knew how close you were.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Please, I need you, I need it,” you moaned like a spoiled brat.

She slapped your ass hard, making you jolt.

Then she grabbed your hips, pulled you back, and growled, “Cum on my face. Now.”

Two fingers slid deep inside you. Her mouth locked onto your clit.

You shattered.

Thighs trembling, jaw slack, your moans echoed through the office as you came hard—pulsing around her fingers, dripping down her face, unable to stop shaking.

Vi stood and kissed up your back. “You did so good. So fucking good for me.”

You felt her fingers gather your slick, then slide into her mouth.

“That’s so gross,” you whined, laughing softly.

“Baby, I just had my tongue deep in your pussy,” she said with a grin, deliberately vulgar.

You looked around. “Where are my panties?”

She smirked. “They’re in my pocket. I’m gonna keep them.” She tossed you your skirt.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded and started putting yourself back together—slipping into your blouse, zipping up your skirt.

Then she leaned in, cupped your chin, and kissed you softly.

Her tongue moved slowly, savoring you like she had all the time in the world. One hand slid up to your neck, holding you close, pulling a soft moan from your lips.

When she finally pulled back, she was breathless.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispered. “You did such a good job for me.”

#Spotify #arcane #vi arcane #arcane smut #vi smut #vi x reader #arcane x reader #vi x you #no use of y/n #wlw smut #fanfic #arcane fanfic #vi fanfic #violet arcane

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honeyandruin · 12 hours ago

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i think with only in the dark you should write how the readers dad can see how bad her and joel are doing without each other. maybe he slowly makes up with joel but can see he’s not the same, like he’s back to a grumpy lifeless shell of himself without her, and with reader you could carry on with her low key depression and maybe she says she wants to move?? then the dad sees okay they need each other, these are all just suggestions, but i just need to see them happy and together again!! btw the smut is IMPECCABLE *chefs kiss* i rate keep all the same kind of smut

Ooooh, absolutely, yes! Thank you for loving them like I do 💚💚

Without further ado; Only in the Dark, Part Two

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: You moved in. He proposed. You said yes. Now you’re getting married. It’s simple. Small. Sacred. The only thing that matters is that he’s yours—and you’re his.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Established relationship. Intimate wedding. Emotional softness. Joel being the most husband. Love so intense it might make you cry.

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: This is the final scene for the one-shot “Only If You Ask.” Please read that first for all the filthy, filthy build-up. We’ve earned this softness. 🖤

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You don’t realize when it starts to change.

It doesn’t happen all at once—no big speech, no dramatic line drawn in the sand. Just smaller things, quiet shifts in the way people look at you. The way your dad doesn’t stiffen anymore when Joel pulls into the driveway. The way he passes him tools now without comment. The way the world just… settles around you both.

You and Joel don’t hide anymore.

Not from your dad. Not from the town. Not from each other.

He still has rough edges, still gets gruff when the coffee’s not strong enough or when the new guy at the shop misplaces the torque wrench for the third time in a week. But it’s different now.

He smiles more.

Not big, showy grins—nothing out of character—but those small, quiet smiles. The ones that crinkle the corners of his eyes when you lean into his shoulder. The ones he gives you from across the grocery store aisle when you’re holding up two kinds of cereal like it’s the hardest decision in the world.

He touches you more, too. In public. In front of people.

Not possessively. Just… like he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. A hand on your back when you pass him the keys. Fingers brushing your wrist when he hands you a mug. A kiss to your temple before he heads into the shop in the morning—careful, always soft, but never hidden.

And your dad?

Well.

He hasn’t said anything else. Not really. But you’ve seen him laugh with Joel. Watched them stand shoulder to shoulder fixing the front steps like it didn’t take months to get there. He doesn’t linger awkwardly anymore when Joel’s around. Doesn’t avoid the room. Just nods when Joel offers to help and says thanks when he actually does.

It’s not everything. Not perfect.

But it’s more than you thought you’d get.

And now—weeks later, with the heat of summer settling thick on your skin and your heart finally starting to feel like it belongs in your chest again—you have this.

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The truck’s parked off the old service trail, tucked between two overgrown pines that lean just enough to shade the clearing. The engine’s been off for over an hour. The doors still creak when you open them, the metal groaning in the heat, but you hardly notice anymore.

You’re in the bed of it now, limbs tangled in the soft fleece blanket Joel keeps behind the seat for mornings like this. There’s a small cooler tucked at your feet, beads of condensation slipping down the sides, and a half-finished beer resting against Joel’s thigh—gone warm under the sun.

You’re on your back, head pillowed against his bicep, the heat of his body seeping into yours even through the fabric of your shirt. His other hand rests on your stomach, thumb stroking lazily back and forth. Not for any reason. Just because you’re there.

The sky above is pale and cloudless, the breeze soft enough to stir your hair when it shifts, and somewhere nearby, cicadas are humming.

Everything feels still.

Your eyes are half-lidded, toes nudging the edge of the bed, when you murmur, “You think anyone else knows about this place?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Just shifts slightly, the press of his thigh against yours anchoring you to the moment. He scratches his jaw and says, “Doubt it. Last time I was here, I was still listenin’ to cassette tapes.”

You snort. “God, you’re old.”

He hums low. “You like me old.”

You roll your head toward him and catch the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Maybe,” you tease. “But only when you shut up.”

Joel turns his head fully. Meets your gaze.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks at you, that same unreadable expression softening with the way your eyes catch the sun. Then he shifts onto his side, carefully, and props himself up on one elbow. His hand moves from your stomach to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout bringin’ you out here for weeks,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Yeah?”

He nods, gaze flicking across your face like he’s memorizing it. “Didn’t want to bring you out until I was sure you wouldn’t disappear after.”

Your breath catches. He says it so simply, but it hits something deep.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Joel leans in. Kisses you—soft, unhurried, his lips warm from the sun and tasting faintly of beer. His hand cradles your jaw, the calluses gentle against your skin. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders with every second he stays there, mouth moving with yours like this—this—is the only thing tethering him to the ground.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against yours. His breath mingles with yours. And his voice drops to something low and certain.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

The words aren’t dramatic. Not a confession, not a performance. Just a truth spoken out loud because it deserves to be.

You slide your hand under his shirt. Let your palm settle over the beat of his heart.

“Me neither,” you say.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. With both hands in your hair, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t ask for anything more than this moment—sunlight, summer air, and the space between your bodies that finally doesn’t have to hold secrets anymore.

—

Later, when you drive back into town, his hand stays on your thigh the whole way.

And when your dad sees the two of you carrying groceries into the house—laughing about the broken eggs and Joel’s refusal to buy the off-brand cereal—he doesn’t say anything.

Just glances up from the porch, nods once, and holds the door open for both of you.

You kiss Joel in the kitchen after.

Not a secret kiss. Not a stolen one.

Just love. Plain and simple.

The way it always should’ve been.

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It wasn’t a big decision.

There was no packed suitcase, no teary moment of crossing a threshold. No key exchanged with trembling hands.

You just… started staying.

First it was a night. Then a weekend. Then you forgot your favorite sweatshirt, and he washed it and draped it over the back of the chair like it had always been there.

Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Half your wardrobe. Your favorite pan for eggs.

You moved in piece by piece, and neither of you ever said the words out loud—but now it’s been two weeks since you’ve slept anywhere else, and this house doesn’t feel like his anymore.

It feels like yours.

And Joel—well.

Joel’s still Joel. Still grouchy in the morning when there’s no clean mugs. Still muttering under his breath when he stubs his toe on the corner of the coffee table because “somebody moved it.” Still grumbling about the windows sticking when it rains.

But he doesn’t complain when your books end up on the nightstand. Or when you leave your laundry in the dryer for three days. Or when you talk through half a movie just because you like hearing yourself guess the plot.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Steady.

Like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

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It’s a slow evening.

There’s a breeze slipping through the window—barely strong enough to stir the edge of the curtain—and the record player hums somewhere in the corner, spinning something low and worn. Something old. Joel’s hand-picked, of course. You never remember the names, but you know the sound by heart now.

You’re curled up sideways on the couch, your knees folded and a paperback resting open across your thighs. Joel’s behind you—sprawled across the cushions with one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily around your waist.

You’ve been reading for twenty minutes.

You haven’t turned a page in five.

His fingertips trace gentle circles against your side, low and steady, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just following the curve of your hip through the worn fabric of your sleep shorts. His palm is warm. Familiar.

You shift slightly, leaning back into him, and feel his chest rise behind you. Solid. Grounding.

“Comfortable?” He murmurs.

You hum without looking up. “Mhm.”

His thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely.

Not suggestive. Not urgent.

Just… home.

The book starts to slip.

You let it fall onto your stomach, eyes heavy. Joel’s breath brushes the crown of your head when he leans forward to press a kiss there.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” He asks, voice low and amused.

“No,” you lie.

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, into your back.

“You always say that.”

You turn your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I’m trying to read.”

Joel raises a brow. “You’ve been on the same damn page for ten minutes.”

You sigh. Dramatic. Flop the book to the side. “Fine. You win.”

He grins.

You shift again—this time rolling to fully face him. He welcomes you without hesitation, pulling you in, your head resting on his chest and your hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle against the warmth of his stomach.

It’s quiet for a long time.

The music keeps playing. The sky outside slips from gold to gray. And the house feels full in a way you never thought a place could.

Joel’s hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Gentle. Careful.

“You sleepin’ here again tonight?” He asks, like it’s still a question.

You don’t even lift your head.

“I live here, Joel.”

A pause.

Then his chest rises beneath your cheek with a deep, even breath.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

And when he kisses the top of your head again, you feel it in every part of you.

—

You wake to warmth.

Not the kind that pulls you into the day—sunlight or sound or motion—but something closer. Heavier. More alive.

Joel.

Pressed along the length of your body, one arm locked around your waist, the other curled under the pillow beneath your head. His breath is slow against the nape of your neck. Deep. Steady. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with yours, the soft heat of his body wrapping around you like a blanket.

And below that—between you—you feel him.

Hard. Thick. Resting against the curve of your ass, barely contained by the thin cotton of his boxers. The edge of him fits perfectly between your legs like he was meant to be there, like you were built to feel him this way.

You don’t move at first.

Just lie there. Eyes still closed. Breathing him in.

He smells like sleep and cedar soap. Like worn flannel and skin warmed by thick blankets. There’s a soft scratch of his unshaven jaw against your shoulder, and his fingers twitch where they’ve gone slack across your stomach.

You shift—just a little.

Just enough to press your hips back into him.

Joel groans.

Low. Deep. Right in your ear.

His grip tightens reflexively. His cock twitches against you, already straining for more.

You smile, even as your breath catches.

“Joel,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He groans again, deeper this time, like the sound of your voice physically hurts him.

“Jesus,” he rasps, dragging his mouth across your bare shoulder. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You hum and press your ass more deliberately into him. His hips rock without meaning to, the friction making you both suck in a breath.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters into your skin. But he’s already moving—already sliding his hand beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm curve of your belly like he needs to relearn every inch.

“Always wake up like this?” You tease.

He chuckles, low and rough. “When I’ve got you in my bed?”

He palms your breast through the thin cotton, thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp—quiet, needy—and his voice drops to a rasp.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Always.”

You roll your hips back again, and he swears under his breath—fuck, half a growl—and slips his hand down to hook your thigh over his.

The stretch opens you just enough. Your shorts ride up, barely covering anything.

His fingers trail down the inside of your leg, slow and reverent. When they finally brush over your center—light and curious—you’re already soaked.

Joel stills.

“Christ,” he whispers, like he’s been punched. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”

You whimper when he presses in. One long stroke through your folds, dragging your slick across your clit, making your whole body jolt.

He kisses your neck. Breathes you in.

“I don’t even deserve this,” he says, like a confession.

“Yes, you do.”

His hand falters.

You reach back, blindly, and curl your fingers into his thigh. Anchor yourself to him.

“I want you,” you say. “Now. Please.”

He shifts behind you, and you feel him line up—thick and already pulsing against your entrance. He ruts forward once, just enough to drag the head of his cock through your slick, and you shudder.

Then he presses in.

Slow. So fucking slow.

You moan—quiet, long—and Joel swears, burying his face in your neck as he pushes deeper. His cock stretches you inch by inch, and it’s everything. Too much and not enough at the same time. He’s thick, hot, hard as stone and shaking from holding back.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “Tight as ever. Always take me so good, baby.”

You clutch at the sheets. Your whole body arches.

He bottoms out with a guttural sound—hips flush against your ass, arms locking around you from behind like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Feel every twitch, every pulse.

He doesn’t move.

Just stays buried deep inside you. Breathing hard. Grounding himself in the wet heat of your cunt.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed this.”

“You had me last night,” you breathe, smiling.

“Don’t care. Never enough.”

He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, every inch slick and perfect. Then he thrusts back in—deep and unhurried.

You cry out. He swallows it with a kiss to your shoulder.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Please.”

“I got you,” he soothes. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me feel you.”

He fucks you with those slow, deliberate strokes—deep and steady, like he wants to stay inside you forever. One hand slides beneath your shirt to cup your breast again, thumb teasing your nipple until your hips jerk.

The other finds your clit.

You moan when he touches it—light, swirling circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pressure builds fast, sharp and overwhelming, your body tightening around him like a vice.

He groans against your skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Love when you squeeze me like that, baby. So close already, aren’t you?”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked tight.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

You break.

It hits like a wave—long and slow and wrecking. Your body convulses, your cunt clenching around his cock, and Joel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, praising you with every breath—that’s it, baby, so good for me, takin’ me so well.

You’re still trembling when he comes.

Joel groans—fuck, fuck, gonna come,—and thrusts deep, burying himself inside you as he spills. His hips jerk, cock pulsing, hands clutching you like a lifeline.

And then everything stills.

He stays there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being inside you.

Then he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. And another. And another.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”

You reach for his hand where it rests on your stomach.

Tangle your fingers with his.

“I know.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck. Then he says it—quiet, like it slipped out of him without thinking.

“Marry me.”

It’s not a question. Not really. Not the first time.

You freeze.

He goes still, too—like he just realized he said it aloud.

Neither of you moves for a moment. Just the sound of breathing. The slow, sleepy thump of his heart against your spine.

You twist slowly in his arms. Face him. His eyes are open now—barely, sleep-heavy—but watching you. Searching.

You stare at him for a beat.

“Say it again.”

Joel blinks. Swallows. Then brushes your hair back from your face with a hand so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“Marry me.”

You stare at him. At his face. This man. This stubborn, protective, foul-mouthed, good-hearted man who somehow snuck into your life and built a home around it.

And you don’t think. You don’t need to.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

Joel exhales like it breaks him. Like he’s been holding his breath for months. His eyes flutter shut for a second and then he pulls you in, one hand at the back of your head, the other clutching your hip like he thinks you might vanish.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. “I don’t—fuck, I ain’t got a ring. I didn’t plan it. I just… it’s been sittin’ in my chest, and I couldn’t—”

“Joel.” You press your forehead to his. “I don’t need a ring. I just need you.”

His hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“I’m yours,” he says softly.

You smile. “You always have been.”

—

The kitchen smells like toast and melted butter.

It’s hours later—mid-morning now—and you’re barefoot in Joel’s old flannel, standing at the stove with one hand on the frying pan and the other curled around a coffee mug he left on the counter. The sun filters in through the window above the sink, casting gold across the floorboards. Dust motes swirl in the light like they’re dancing for you.

You hum to yourself. Something quiet. Unconscious.

The pan sizzles. You flip a slice of bacon.

And then you feel it.

Joel, behind you—his arms sliding around your waist, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

You smile.

“You didn’t have to get up,” you murmur, still focused on the pan.

“Didn’t wanna miss this.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he hasn’t quite come down from whatever that moment was. Like he still doesn’t believe you said yes.

You lean back into his chest.

He tightens his arms around you. Rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like you in my shirt,” he mutters.

“I like me in your shirt.”

He hums. Then, more quietly—

“Gonna put a ring on you soon.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?”

He nods.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just so everyone knows you’re mine.”

You turn the burner off. Set the pan aside. Then you spin in his arms and loop your arms around his neck, standing on your toes.

“They already know, Miller.”

“Good.”

He kisses you—lazy and soft, one hand on your lower back, the other holding your face like it’s the only thing worth touching in the whole damn world.

You’re still kissing when the toast burns.

Neither of you cares.

—

The trees have just started to turn.

Not fully—just the edges. Hints of red and gold creeping into the green like something secret and slow. The kind of change you don’t notice until you’re standing right in the middle of it, breath caught in your throat, wondering how it happened so fast.

The wind is soft this morning. Crisp. You can smell leaves and distant smoke, the faint sweetness of apples in a bowl by the porch, and the familiar scent of cedar clinging to the flannel draped over Joel’s shoulders.

You picked this place together.

Just outside town. A clearing behind the ridge, where the pine trees break open into a little pocket of wild grass and dappled sunlight. No pews. No aisle. Just a rug thrown down beneath your boots and a few chairs for the people who matter.

There’s no music. No flowers. No white dress.

You’re in a cream sweater and worn boots, a skirt that moves when the breeze catches it. Joel’s in a clean button-down beneath his favorite jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw freshly shaved for the first time in a week.

He looks good.

You think he always does.

But today, there’s something different in his face. Something raw.

Like he still can’t believe this is happening.

You reach for his hand. He takes it without hesitation.

His thumb runs over the inside of your wrist, soft and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of your pulse. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails. A little scratch on his knuckle.

Real life, right there in his hands.

Your dad is the one standing between you.

He didn’t want to at first. Said he wasn’t sure if he could. But when Joel asked—quiet, humble, hopeful—he’d looked at you and sighed, then nodded like the choice had already been made in his chest long ago.

Now, he clears his throat. Glances down at the folded paper in his hands. Then back up.

You don’t hear the first few words.

Not really.

Because Joel is looking at you like he can’t breathe. Like he’s trying to hold it all in—every memory, every ache, every night he laid awake next to you with your name on his lips and fear in his chest.

And then it’s your turn.

You don’t have a vow written down.

Just him.

Just everything you know about his heart.

You take a breath. Let it settle low in your ribs. And then you speak—quietly, clearly, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I don’t know what I thought love was before you. I don’t think I really knew at all. But now… it’s waking up next to you every morning and feeling like I finally made it home. It’s your laugh. Your hands. The way you show up, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

Joel’s eyes shine.

You swallow hard, but your voice doesn’t break.

“I promise to keep showing up, too. Even on the bad days. Even when it’s not easy. I’ll love you with everything I have—for every version of you, in every season we find.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re it for me.”

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Just looks at you like he’s never seen anything more real.

Then—low and rough and thick with everything he’s been holding inside—he says:

“I thought maybe this wasn’t in the cards for me. That someone like me doesn’t get to have somethin’ this good.”

You feel his fingers flex in yours.

“But then there was you. And I don’t—I don’t know how I lived so long without you. I ain’t proud of every part of me. But I’m proud of this. Of us.”

He lifts your hand. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m yours,” he whispers. “Always.”

Your dad clears his throat again—sniffling this time.

“Well,” he mutters, blinking fast, “I guess you two better kiss already.”

Joel laughs. It’s soft, choked, almost broken.

Then he leans in.

And kisses you.

It’s not perfect. Not movie-pretty. His nose brushes yours. Your lips tremble. But it’s real. It’s warm. It’s everything you built in the ruins—hands in the dark, promises spoken between breaths, a love that outlived every reason it shouldn’t have.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t let go.

Just touches his forehead to yours and whispers,

“We did it, darlin’.”

And you whisper back,

“Yeah. We did.”

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twilightofthesandwiches · 2 hours ago

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Whatever or not some of Spamton’s mannerisms and catchphrases are an intentional attempt to mimic Tenna, or if it’s the other way around... I think you could at least say Tenna is closer to what Spamton is constantly trying to be.

I mean, it’s not like Tenna is actually happy and content with his life and isn’t at least kinda deranged… but he is at least capable of being genuinely charismatic and dazzling people with his fun personality, charm and bombastic charisma. Literally anything Spamton does just oozes Bad Vibes, but Tenna, as long as he’s not actively in Meltdown Mode is capable of being entertaining and fun enough to get our heroes to play along and enjoy themselves.

And even when Tenna is actively spiraling, he’s not even a quarter of the creepiness of just Spamton’s baseline.

And Spamton clearly wants power and prestige and status, to be a [[BIG SHOT]]. But even at the heights of his [[Bigness]] he was still under the authority of Cyber World’s supreme authority, Queen.

But in TV World, it’s Tenna who is that supreme authority. The one who’s calling the shots. The one whose face is plastered everywhere.

Spamton’s takeover of Cyber World was officially about getting his [[Hyperlink Blocked]] unto the NEO Body… but he sure seemed to revel in his newfound position of power as well.

Even Tenna’s method of controlling the people of TV World plays into this. While his passion is in entertainment and showmanship, he basically got everyone in TV World under some extremely unfair contracts to make sure they all take part in his show and generally do as he says.

So he’s more effective at scamming people than Spamton is, even though that's basically Spamton's one 'purpose' in life according to the general metaphysical rules of how Darkners work.

But also on the other hand, from Tenna’s perspective, Spamton is the very symbol of the technological progress that has overtaken and overshadowed the Television. Sure, Tenna has all the prestige you could possibly imagine in TV World, but that’s a world whose own prestige is diminishing more and more with each passing day.

For Tenna, Spamton represented the shiny modernity that he just couldn’t grasp. He has an inherent understanding of all this newfangled technology that scares and confuses Tenna.

Spamton might be weird and disquieting, but as the incarnation of Spam Mail, he has reached and affected the lives of far more Lightners than Tenna could even dream of in the last ten years. And that’s even after Spamton downfall, last time Tenna saw him, he was a genuinely successful Internet adbot!

…I think it’s likely that their occasionally shared phrases are a result of a mutual attempt to mimic what the other had.

Although I guess what at least put Tenna at a better position than poor ol’ Spamton is that improving Tenna’s situation is a lot easier. All Tenna needs to be happy is to find someone new to watch him. He’s still a perfectly usable television who can bring happiness and be happy as long as he can broadcast.

Spamton’s whole existence as Spam Mail is an existential horror where he is both obsessed with success and unable to achieve it permanently because… he’s Spam. The very metaphysics that define the universe deemed him destined to fail eventually.

But also, Tenna is probably totally unaware of this, if not like... literally incapable of grasping the idea. Again, he knew Spamton for the brief period he was actually successful. And he lacks the understanding needed of either modern internet culture or the metaphysical mechanics of Dark and Light that drove Spamton mad.

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dodger432101 · 2 days ago

Note

Hi I love your work so much!! I was wondering if I could maybe request a one shot/HC if lux would possibly be down to be pegged by reader??? Thank you!

[Yyeeesss!!! THIS CONTAINS SMUT, MINORS DO NOT READ]

Lux is apprehensively curious when you mention.. penetrating him. Sure, he loved having you on top, in control, but this was a whole new level. Something he's never thought about. But… he's not entirely against the idea.

You will have to go through everything with him, he might need a day or 2 to think about it. Then, randomly, he'll come up to you and let you know he's willing to give it a try.

The first time you do anything around the subject of Lux being penetrated, you just finger him open, getting him used to the feeling of something inside of him. You're sitting next to him on your bed, smiling down at his stretched out form. His gold heart eyes are focused on you, half lidded gaze full of lust while your index and middle fingers push in and out of him. It's warm inside of him, there's this cartoonish stretchiness to his walls. It makes you wonder, how much could he take?. “Liking this so far, handsome?” He can only give a slurred ‘uh huh’ in response, his brain turning to mush from the new yet delightful sensation. Add your other hand stroking his cock and he won't be able to speak, his head flops onto the pillow as he moans with every stroke of your fingers inside of him. It won't take long for him to cum all over himself.

Knowing he's more than happy being on the receiving end of things, the next time he asks, you get out the big guns. Well no, it's quite an average sized dildo, attached to a harness that goes around your waist. Lux crawls to the edge of the bed as he watches you put it on, bottom lip between his teeth. When you saunter up to him he grabs your hips, eyes on yours as he licks a stripe up the length of the dildo. Even though you can't really feel anything from it, a flame of heat ignites in your stomach. You grab the back of his head and push him onto the plastic cock, smirking at the muffled sound of surprise he lets out as his mouth is filled. He lifts his head to raise an eyebrow at you. “Getting quite demanding of me now, angel. Have you forgotten that I'm a God?” The grin on his face isn't as intimidating as he might think it is, not when there's a dick hovering over his face.

“Oh I know. But I think I've earned that right, I am your angel after all.” His grin drops, but there's a shift of his hips, eyelids drooping. He can never deny that he likes having you in control. When you shove your strap into his mouth again he doesn't pull away, even going so far as to bob his head to coat it in his saliva. Once you think it's adquently lubricated you pull your hips back, revelling in the way his lips chase the tip. Lux quickly shuffles back on the bed, his own cock pulsing as he watches you crawl over to him. “Ready, hun?”

His arms wrap around your neck, legs propped up on your thighs as he smiles up at you. “I'm ready, sunshine.” You dip your head to kiss along his scruffy jawline while you push the strap on inside of him. His moans are all breath as he gets used to the size of it, it feels like you're pushing the air out of him. Once it's all in you pause, stroking your hands down his sides as your lips move to his neck, waiting for him to give the signal to go ahead. It doesn't even take a minute for him to start rolling his hips back into yours. “Angel, come on, just fuck me alread-yyy ohhh fuck!” You don't even wait for him to finish talking, smoothing your hands down to his waist and grabbing hold so you can begin thrusting inside of him. His head is right on the pillow, mouth hanging open as loud moans spill out each time you push your cock back in.

You lift your head from Lux’s neck to take a look at his face, a breathless laugh leaving you at the fucked out expression already there. His pupils are gold stars, eyes barely open, cheeks flushed a dark blue with sweat beading down his forehead. “Like having your angel fuck you stupid, my love?” Your voice gets his attention, his head tilting down just enough to look at you. Even then, his gaze isn't fully focused, each thrust wrecking his mind. He manages to nod, arms falling from your neck until only his hands cling to your shoulders, their grip weakening as you speed up. They flop down on either side of his head so you move your hands to hold them, having to shift the angle of your hips slightly as you pin him down.

The God of Light whimpers at the new way your cock brushes against his walls, interlocking your fingers as he stares up at you. “I love you, I love you, you feel incredible, angel, fuck keep going, please..” Oh you've really fucked him dumb. You lean down to kiss him, his whimpers muffled against your lips while his grip on your hands tighten. He's getting close just from the penetration.

Pulling back from the kiss, you pant against his mouth, breaths shared between you. “You gonna cum already, Lux? God I wish this cock was real. You always talk about pumping me full, what if I did the same to you, hm?” His back arches, chest pressed up against yours.

“I'd let you, fuck I'd let you fill me up, angel, I'd take everything you gave me! Please I'm gonna cum, sunshine, please can I? You feel so good, love, please..” You bite your lip at his begging. It was such an ego boost to have a God underneath you, moaning and whimpering and begging for you.

One of your hands lets go of his, ignoring his whining as it slips down to his cock. It's leaking pre-cum down to the base, throbbing when your hand wraps around it. Lux just about cries out as you pump your fist over him, still thrusting the strap on into him. “Go ahead, my gorgeous little God, cum for me.” His eyes squeeze shut as he throws his head back against the pillow, the lights in your room flickering in different intervals as he yelps out a high pitched moan, shooting ropes of thick cum onto his stomach, some getting onto his chest. Your hips slow to a stop with the dildo half inside him, using the hand around his cock to milk his orgasm.

When the lights in the room go back to normal and Lux lies flat on the bed, you let go of him, kissing along his jaw as he catches his breath. The hand still holding his gently squeezes, a smile rising to your face as you get one back. Carefully you pull out of him, chuckling at the way his hips buck once the strap slips free. You focus on him, running your free hand along his side while he comes back down. His eyes flutter open, the edges of his mouth twitching up. “I think I'd allow that again in the future.” You both chuckle, squeezing his hand again before you move to get some tissues and clean him up. He stretches his arms and legs as you do, a growly hum vibrating his chest when you scratch into the fuzzy hair covering it.

Lux sits up as you discard the used tissues, leaning back on his hands as he tiredly stares at you. The smirk on his face tells you what he's thinking. “No, hun, I'm fine. That was a lot for you, you can return the favour tomorrow. Or later.” That guilt trippy pout and lone violin come into play, so you go back over and flop down onto him. “Later, sweetheart. Fucking you was more than enough for me.”

The violin fades out as his arms wrap around you. “Very well. But mark my words, sunshine,” You feel his breath against your ear. “I will pay back every ounce of pleasure I've received from you.”

You're in for a treat later.

#lux imperator #mr ring a ding #doctor who #lux imperator x reader #lux imperator smut

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mirai-e-jump · 3 days ago

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TV Life, 6/13/2025 Issue ft. Fuyuno Mio & Shoji Kohei (translations below)

Publication: May 28, 2025

OneLog! Vol.6 (Fuyuno Mio)

Out of the recent broadcasts, episode 11 was the one that left the greatest impression on me. This is the one with the scene of Hoeru, who declares to Rikuo, "I'll show you my own style of tag," and doesn't run away during the tag battle, but waits for Onigokko No One, who's the tagger. When he was touched, he became the tagger, but him taking on this state in order to fight aggressively surprised me, as I thought, "This is the way you're fighting?!" Even when Hoeru was previously confronted by Treasure Hunt No One, he also declared, "I'll take it from the guy who has it…that's also a proper treasure hunt!," where after the battle, he took the treasure that the No One had acquired…a surprising idea like that led to his win in the end. I think that way of thinking is very much in line with Hoeru.

Also, going back alittle further, Hoeru's brother Kuon (Karuma) showing up in episode 8 was memorable. For me personally, I've been a fan of Karuma since I was in my first year of high school and have an incredible amount of respect for him, so my feelings overlapped with how Hoeru adored Kuon when he told him, "Nii-chan is always Number One," and I was able to empathize with him while performing.

And then, when we were filming the scene where Hoeru's being brainwashed by Kuon and Engages, the wind was so strong that I could barely stand, but as I listened to Kuon's words, my dark feelings steadily began to build up, and I was able to act naturally. I was also drawn in by Karuma's performance

Hoeru somehow managed to rid himself of Kuon's darkness, and is determined to walk down his own path, although there is a possibility of that determination being crushed once again…I think that how Hoeru faces himself when that happens will be a future highlight. And from here, developments will unfold in an even more intense manner. But first, I'd like you to watch episode 15 carefully. I have no doubt that there'll be some surprising developments waiting for you!

Q: If you could gain only one special ability like the Gozyugers, it would be…?

A: It'd be nice to have the "ability to read people's minds" that Sumino has. I'm not very good at picking up on what others are thinking when we're communicating, so I wish I could read their minds. While it also makes me kinda scared, my curiosity is stronger (laughs).

Number One Shot!!: For filming of episode 14, the location was incredibly cold, so we all gathered around a space heater to warm up during our free time. It was at this location that Kanda-san's cool and fired up Engage was born. When I think about it, I really respect him. _

GavvPare! Vol.19 (Shoji Kohei)

Just the other day, "Kamen Rider Gavv's Okashina Okashi na Tea Party" took place. For me personally, I'm glad that I was able to spend such a wonderful time with all the actors and staff, and everyone who came to see us, and I hope that everyone also enjoyed their precious time during Golden Week. The farewell party was a great opportunity for us to see so many children's faces up close. Each and every one of them wore Gavv toys, and their faces were full of excitement, which once again made me feel that I was working a very wonderful job.

Now then, as of late, Lakia's slowly becoming able to speak his mind. Personally, I don't think there's any specific time as to when this started happening. It can be assumed that their lives exist outside of the drama that's been depicted so far, and when time passes, it's only natural that their relationships slowly change during it. When it comes to the "delicate genre of emotion," I have no choice but to act without knowing what the next script will hold, so I do it with a feeling similar to, "I don't know what it is, but it's something…" I'd be happy to leave this up to everyone's interpretations on how they'd like to take it.

Also, I felt that the scene in episode 36, where Shouma talks about the meaning of his existence, was a very difficult one. It's because the power of his words were incredibly strong. I'm certain that he often checked with the Director and the situation on set to determine the best way to do it, but I think it's only because Chinen's been facing Shouma up to now that he was able to make that scene possible.

New visuals were also unveiled, revealing that a new form for Vram will appear. While you should also look forward to seeing what kind of power it'll bring, I hope that you'll make sure to watch where Lakia's revenge will lead him, and how he'll "part ways" with his younger brother, who's been residing in his heart for a long time. As we head towards the end of the show, the story will gain momentum and become more poppin and vivid, while also being full of bitter developments. I think you'll enjoy the story more deeply if you can take another look at the objective and whereabouts of each and every character involved.

Q: What XX thing can you talk about now?

A: I can't remember which one it was, but we were filming a rather serious scene, and I forgot to wear my earrings, so we had to reshoot about two different shots. Everyone, I'm so sorry.

Off Shot: Behind the scenes at the Golden Week event. Lots of people came to see it and we had a fun time with our guests. It was a moment that once again made me realize the scale of Gavv's production. It'd make me happy if the children who came to it went home happy.

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