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tasteracha · 10 months

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strawberry cake

word count: 1.3k

warnings: afab!reader, reader x jisung, consensual somnophilia, smut - MINORS DNI.

synopsis: jisung fucks you in your sleep idk there's no other plot here

i’m wet and you’re not home to help me

i’m going to bed

don’t wake me up when you get back

(i’m wearing the shorts)

11:09 pm

these are the texts jisung was met with when he finally got a chance to look at his phone. it was almost midnight, his muscles hurt beyond compare and his eyelids felt like lead when he tried to blink, but the simple message that you had sent him made his entire body sing in excitement.

it wasn’t often that you allowed him this - you liked to be awake to watch his features morph in ecstasy when he first sank into you, wanted to witness the way his eyes rolled back into his head when he came. today was a different case though; you genuinely were tired, and you knew that even if you tried to stay awake for him that you would fall asleep halfway through, and wouldn’t that be a kick to jisung’s self esteem?

so you created this system of sorts. a pair of sleep shorts that you bought that was in a color you never usually wore, just so there was no chance of confusion. a signal that jisung was allowed to do whatever he wanted to you, whether or not you were awake - when you first brought it up to him he was apprehensive, but neither one of you could ignore the way his cock jumped in his boxers at the idea.

just like it was now, as he was rushing through packing his bag so he could make it home to you. he makes it home in what must be a record breaking time, nearly sweating in excitement the entire way. if he got any judgemental looks from the way he bumped into people as he sped by, he didn’t notice, too focused on his goal to give them a sparing thought.

your body was a lump under the comforter when he finally approached you, blankets pulled around you like a cocoon so only your face was still visible. he almost felt bad at the thought of having to remove you from the warmth, but his neediness won over it.

he takes his clothes off hastily, shivering when the cold air hit his feverish skin, but he paid it no mind - there was one thing running through his thoughts right now and it was making his dick harden at an alarming rate.

he kneels on the side of the bed, peeling back the comforter just to make sure the shorts were still on - they were, of course they were. you wouldn’t tease him like that, but even when you were asleep your consent was important. he wouldn’t do anything to betray your trust.

you weren’t a light sleeper, which worked to his benefit. the cold air didn’t cause you to stir at all even though you were clad in a old bralette and skimpy shorts. he could see the outline of your nipples hardening through the fabric of your bralette, though, and he couldn’t resist from reaching towards them to rub at them with his thumbs. if awake, you would have shivered and whined, sensitivity ruling over your impulses, but now you don’t react at all. it was like you were a doll, and if your chest wasn’t rising and falling with your breaths he might believe that you were.

if his cock wasn’t hard before, it certainly was now.

he couldn’t resist from stopping to look at you, a rare thing that you don’t usually allow him to do when you were awake. his eyes roamed from the curve of your nose to the dark circles under your eyes to the plush bow of your lips, features completely relaxed. you’re beautiful. his hand moves up to your face, cupping it gently and moving it towards him so he could press a gentle kiss to your forehead. even though you didn’t feel it, he wanted you to know that he loves you.

god, he loves you so much.

you let out a soft snuff of breath when he grazes his hands over your hips and he freezes, watching your features carefully until he was sure that they remained soft with sleep. while he wouldn’t mind you being awake, that wasn’t part of the plan. you had said not to wake you up, and he was nothing if not obedient.

he pulls your shorts down to reveal your bare pussy, panties left off and a wet patch glistening on the crotch of your shorts. had you touched yourself before going to bed, thinking of him? did you come, moaning his name and wishing it was on his dick? or did you edge yourself, priming your body for him, making it ready?

either way, the evidence of your arousal was enough to make him snap as he crawls over you, a dangerously possessive look on his face as he finally takes his cock in his hand. he runs the tip of it through your folds, collecting your slick on him, and the feeling of it makes him let out a groan. he lowers his head to your neck as he pushes in, the slide easy from how lax your body was. He let out a shaky breath as he pushed fully into your tight heat as he moves his lips to your pulse point. the slow, rhythmic rush of blood follows through to his hips as he thrusts in small motions, holding himself back from taking you the way he so desperately wanted to.

he took your limp hands in his, intertwining your fingers together before pressing them to the mattress above your head. holding you down, even though you weren’t awake to move regardless. he backs up a bit as he picks up his rhythm, focusing on the tiny furrow of your brow and the way your mouth twisted up in pleasure.

you were clenching around him without restraint, like your body was unconsciously trying to keep him inside of you. he let go of one of your hands, wrapping his fingers around both of your wrists to keep them in place as his free hand wandered down your body to your clit. he rubbed at it experimentally, gasping when your hips jerked up to meet his automatically. he started a slow rhythm with his fingers as he continued fucking into you. your breaths was coming out in short huffs, lips parting again and again with every one, your body responding to the stimulation in a way your mind likely wasn’t. he wonders what you were dreaming about, if you were; he hopes that it’s about him.

without warning, your body shakes through a helpless orgasm but you remain asleep, eyes fluttering behind your lids. jisung barely has time to spare a thought of how that was even possible before he was hurtling towards his own, the rhythmic clenching of your cunt milking everything out of him until he was barely able to hold himself up over you. he collapses next to you, pressing kiss after kiss to whatever part of your body he could reach, whispering praises to you in between that fell on deaf ears.

when he could stand without his legs feeling like jelly he cleans you up, gently wiping at your dripping hole with a warm washcloth, fixated on the way you clenched on nothing when he passed over your swollen clit. he throws the rag to the side, climbing back over you so he could settle himself at your side and when he looked at you -

your eyes were open.

“how long have you been awake?” jisung asks, blinking at you.

“since you started panting into my neck,” you giggle, reaching for him so you could pull him into your side. “you seemed to like me being asleep though, so i pretended.”

“god, it was so hot,” he says, looking up at you with shiny eyes, embarrassingly fond of you. “what did i do to deserve you?”

“well,” you take his wrist, guiding his hand down towards your stomach. “i can think of a few things you can do now.”

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids imagines #han jisung smut #han jisung x reader #han jisung imagines #jisung smut #han jisung #stray kids fic

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dmitriene · 6 months

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simon needs someone.

someone who can stroke the ugly marks of war on his chiseled body and face, without twisting your nose with disgust, but stroke with tenderness in the pads of the fingers as you lead the path from one to the other, forming constellations, not even suspecting how the areas of the white and unevenly pink skin where you touch him burn, but with such a pleasant, tingling sensation that he allows it to absorb him completely.

someone who will comb his dirty blonde strands, unruly disheveled from thrashing around the pillow, before you scoop his head onto your chest to give him a restful sleep, stroking him as affectionately, letting him go completely limp, tense muscles immediately turn into putty as he snuggles up to you like a child, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, intertwining his broad legs with yours.

someone who will ground him when his thoughts are bound by a poisonous hatred of himself, when in his head and before his eyes, as if a broken record, all those events repeating over and over again, the one which he so desperately tried to forget, to protect himself, the little simon inside of him, from pain and fear, but sometimes it is stronger than him, albeit not stronger than your gentle, melodious voice that wraps him in a soft cocoon — “it's alright, si, you're doing so good, all of this is not your fault„

someone who will accept his heart raw and bleeding as it is, accept simon as he is, naked to the bone in front of you, with his part of nightmares and fears, with burning loyalty in his dark brown eyes that seek reciprocity in you, with the child that sit in the dark corner of his being, waiting, and he will wait until you agree, even if you won't feel the same eagerness.

because simon needs you.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

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buckevantommy · 1 month

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Buck wakes slowly, his sore muscles protesting as he stretches out in the early morning. He needs more sleep, but he can hear tommy moving around the room getting ready for his shift.

Buck hums. "G'mornin'." His eyes are still closed. He takes his time edging towards full consciousness but can't help the smile that stretches his mouth wide as Tommy echoes his words back to him, voice low and gentle.

The bed dips at his hip as Tommy settles beside him. Buck sighs contentedly when Tommy's hand cards through his sleep-mussed curls. "How was your shift?"

Buck makes a face, head tilting this way and that, then deciding to push into Tommy's touch like a sleepy cat. "Gerrard's a real piece of work, huh."

"Unfortunately."

Tommy's hand scritches at his scalp and a whine trips out of Buck's throat. He doesn't want Tommy to leave. He hates that their shifts haven't aligned properly in over two weeks, only managing to catch each other for a few hours of sleep together here and there.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Buck makes a noise of displeasure, his softened smile replaced with a pout, he knows. He folds his arms around Tommy's forearm, keeping him close. He can have his arm back later. And his hand. Buck's not finished with them just yet.

Tommy fits his other hand to Buck's cheek, thumb brushing under his eye. "Hey."

Buck finally blinks his eyes open to find Tommy looking at him, gaze soft and fond and mouth quirking to hold back a smile. Buck takes a breath and exhales in a huff, turning his face to press a lingering kiss to Tommy's palm. He wriggles in place under the duvet, wondering what the likelihood is of convincing Tommy to call in sick and spend the day in bed with him.

"Wish I could bring you to work with me."

That coaxes Buck's smile back. He presses another kiss to Tommy's palm. "Bring your boyfriend to work day should totally be a thing."

Tommy chuckles and it makes Buck want to record that sound and play it on a loop. Tommy fills his senses. He can smell the woodsy note of his aftershave and the ocean pine scent of his soap. The combined scent of their bodies mingled with Tommy's detergent in the sheets. He wants to bottle the redolence and take it to work to sniff whenever he's missing his boyfriend or just having a hard day. Because Tommy's presence soothes him.

"I miss you." His thumbs sweep over Tommy's wrist, his pulse steady beneath his touch.

Tommy sighs and leans down to press a kiss to Buck's birthmark. He melts, but still tilts his head up, pout returning a little, demanding a proper kiss. Tommy obliges. "We'll figure it out. I promise."

Buck wants to believe him. He knows Tommy will do everything he can on his end to get their rosters aligned. He also knows Gerrard has it in for both of them, meaning he'll continue doing everything he can to keep them apart - until Buck gives up and quits, probably. The guy really needs a hobby.

Brushing his nose alongside Tommy's, he nods. "Call me when you're on break? Or if it's not too busy?"

"Of course."

With one last kiss, Tommy pulls away and Buck lets his arm slide from his grip, fingers entangling for a moment before he lets Tommy go. He glances over from the doorway as Buck urges him to, "Be safe."

Tommy nods, his smile a private thing. A promise. "Get some rest."

Buck wants to say it. But they haven't said it. Not yet. Doesn't mean he doesn't feel it, or that he thinks Tommy doesn't. They're definitely on their way, even if Tommy's not there just yet. And Buck has a habit of rushing things and he doesn't want to ruin the good thing they have going. So, he doesn't say it. They have time.

As he listens to Tommy making his way through the house and out the front door, his eyes slip shut again. It's still early, and this time of year doesn't see much sun in Tommy's bedroom in the morning so sleep begins pulling him back under quickly. He lets Tommy's reassurance soothe him as he drifts off, cocooned in Tommy, hugging the covers closer and turning his nose into the pillow. They'll figure it out. Together.

#evantommy #bucktommy #fanfiction #.txt #soft boys missing each otherrrrrrr 😩🫶

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leclerc-hs · 2 months

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somebody else - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you find yourself at cross ties with an ex! OR charles just really wants you back. warnings: 18+, smut under the cut!, angst!!!!!!!!!, not proofread word count: ~2.2k author's note: sorry if this is lame?? i was feeling really angsty the other night but then never finished it so i finished it just now. maybe I can continue this or maybe I'll leave it as a one-shot only!!! idk but let me know your thoughts :) xoxo ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

THE DARKENED CLOUDS swirl ominously above you, intermittently lit by flashes of distant lightning that paints fleeting patterns across the sky. The air is cool and charged with the scent of saltwater as you pull your knees into your chest.

“Did you ever think we would end up here?” His voice mutters beside you, the waves crashing with a muted sorrow in the background, as if echoing the ache that burned in his chest.

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and dampness, a bittersweet reminder of your shared moments now slipping away. You turned your head to look at him, tugging the corners of your lips upwards into a weak smile.

The burn in your throat made it hard to speak.

“Jamais.” Never.

“I thought we had more time,” You spoke, your voice fragile.

You sit nestled on the plush couch, your favorite book lying forgotten in your lap as you emerge yourself into the soft melodies playing in the background. Charles stands by the vintage record player, carefully selecting another vinyl, his movements graceful and deliberate in the dim glow of the room.

The music fills the space. A jazz tune, perhaps, with its smooth saxophone and rhythmic piano. He turns to you eventually, with a smile that practically melts your heart, before extending a hand towards you as an invitation to dance.

“Aren’t you concerned for your toes?” You joke, slipping the book off your lap and onto the couch.

“Concerned?” His lips tug into a small smirk. “You can break all of my toes, and I’d still want to dance with you.”

It doesn’t take much more convincing. A shy grin forms as your hand slips perfectly into his, fingers intertwining effortlessly.

Outside, the city hums softly with the quiet buzz of evening life, but within the cocoon of warmth and music, time seems to stand still.

“You’re so beautiful,” He mutters as he presses gentle kisses onto your face, one arm wrapped around your waist tightly. “Toe breaking and all.”

Your head falls back as you release a laugh of pure joy. “Je t’aime.” I love you.

“Je t’aime, mon coeur.” My heart.

The mornings always held a special charm for him, especially those rare occasions when he found himself awake before you. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but when it did happen, he cherished it deeply. As he woke to the gentle light filtering through the curtains, he would often find himself captivated by the sight of you sleeping peacefully beside him, almost always cocooned into the side of his body.

There was always something so mesmerizing about watching you in those quiet moments of slumber. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair fell onto the pillow, and the soft expression on your face created a montage of serenity and beauty that he could never look away from.

He sometimes would just lay there, propped up on one elbow, just taking in every detail of you. The way your eyelashes fluttered silently, the slight curve of your lips, and the way you would sometimes reach out unconsciously, seeking his warmth even in sleep. It always filled him with need for you.

Today, for instance, was one of those mornings. Charles traced the pads of his fingertips softly along the collarbone that was peeking out of his t-shirt that you always stole from him. He didn’t mind though; it was practically yours.

You stirred awake gently, a smile pulling on your lips as you felt Charles hand trail down your torso and slipping under the t-shirt, his hands instantly trailing along the skin of your stomach.

His hands squeezed your sides gently, before pushing you flat onto your back, so he could slip in between your thighs, half his body pressed on top of you.

He peppered kisses to your neck, up to your cheeks, before meeting you at your lips where you awoke with a full-blown smile.

“Needy this morning, hm?” Your voice was soft, still full of sleep as you felt him gently rut against your core. There wasn’t much fabric between you both, just his boxers and a pair of cotton panties.

“For you?” You could feel his grin against the crevice of your neck and collarbone where he places open-mouthed kisses, sucking gently. “Always.”

It didn’t take much longer before his cock was slipped inside of you. His boxers strewn somewhere along the bedroom floor that you both shared, and your panties pushed only to the side.

“Feel this, mon amour?” He groans softly into your ear, his breath warm against your skin as you let your head fall back into the pillows completely. “It’s just for you.”

It starts out slow and lazy. Until you both just can’t take it anymore and he’s flipping you over, pulling you to your knees.

“Arch your back for me.” He says, the pace of his hips unrelenting as his fingers grip the sides of your hips. “That’s it, mon amour.”

You can’t help but moan, your knuckles turning white from the harsh grip you claim on the bedsheets. It’s sogood.

His hands find their way to your hair, fisting it tightly as he pulls you up so that your back is pressed to his chest.

“Please,” You beg, in need of a release.

“How bad do you want it?” He clicks his tongue, his fingers trailing along your neck, pressing gently into your soft skin. “C’mon, work for it.”

You begin feverishly rutting your hips, meeting him in the middle. It doesn’t take much longer before your both sent over the edge of your orgasms, collapsing on top of one another in the warm confines of the bed.

“I think we should stay here for the rest of the day.”

The tension in the air was palpable, thick with anger that seemed to swirl around the both of you like a storm. You both stood in the middle of the kitchen, a place that usually consists of shared laughter and comfort, now transformed into a battleground.

“How was I supposed to know that she would be there?” His voice was lethal, the veins in his neck protruding from the clench of his jaw.

You were in complete disarray as your fingers continuously ran through the roots of your hair. It’s as if he was listening but wasn’t really listening.

“It’s not about that!” You half-shout back, your voice dwindling towards the end. You were tired. So tired of this. “It’s the fact that you practically forgot I was even there!”

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Pick fights over nothing.”

“So now it’s my fault that you practically spent the entire night talking to your ex-girlfriend as if I wasn’t in the room?”

You felt your temper wearing thin. All you needed was an apology. A sign that he didn’t mean to spend half the night talking to his ex-girlfriend.

“I hate when you do this.”

“I’m so done letting you hurt me like this every time we see her around.” You felt your voice crack.

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?” His voice was void of any emotion, but the heavy rise and fall of his chest gave way to just how much this was hurting him to hear.

“Can you just stay a little longer?” His voice was raw and full of emotion as he stared at you from the archway of the kitchen. You stood only a few feet away with swollen eyes from crying, and a single suitcase by your side.

You could slowly see the unwavering emotions form across Charles’ face as he stood, staring at you. Sadness, hurt, and anger.

You began to shake your head no, but Charles absolutely refused for that to be your response. He took a small step towards you, which had you immediately holding your hand up, begging for him to stop.

“Please,” Your voice shook. “Don’t make this harder.”

“I love you.” He emphasizes. He runs his hands through his hair like he’s in distraught. Because he is. How did it get to this point?

When you couldn’t even say the words back, was Charles’ final undoing. He knew you still did. But he neededto hear you say it. He knew it was selfish. Considering, this was all his doing. His actions.

“You keep hurting me every time we come across her.” You void your sentence of any emotion. Trying your best to hold it together, at least exteriorly. “I can’t be with you when it seems like you want her.”

“I only want you!” He can feel the panic forming in his chest as he sees you make your way to grab the handle of your suitcase.

“It’s too late.”

It’s been seven months since then. Most would say that’s not much, but to Charles it felt like eternity. It would be a lie if you said it didn’t too. But still you moved on. Or at least tried to.

You and Charles regardless of the break-up we’re always still involved in some way. You both knew it was impossible to shut each other out completely. Especially when you both live in the same small city, have the same childhood friends, and live not even a mile away from each other.

So, when you arrive to one of your best friend’s birthday party, hand in hand with another man, you could imagine the burn of nerves that flood your stomach as you spot Charles across the room.

“Mon dieu!” Your friend erupts in a raised voice. “We finally get to meet Andrew!” She pushes the door open widely, allowing room for you and Andrew to step through the threshold.

A short silk dress adorns your body, the perfect shade of blue that embellishes your summer tan. You avoid looking in Charles’ direction as you gather your belongings onto a designated table, where everyone’s belongings also lie.

You’ve been seeing Andrew for a few weeks, it’s all still relatively new. But he was sweet and caring, and so thoughtful.

You feel your cheeks redden in embarrassment as your friend announces Andrew as ‘your new boyfriend’ because he isn’t your boyfriend. But, you can’t find it in your heart to correct her.

It takes a mere thirty seconds for you to drop your belongings down onto the table, before you turn around to meet the eyes of Charles from across the room.

It feels as if time has stood still as he sends you a small tug of his lips, unsure of how he should act. It’s not that you haven’t seen each other since the break-up, but he hasn’t ever seen you with another man.

You felt in a complete trance, unable to remove your eyes from Charles, until you feel a hand rest on the small of your back. Andrew.

You break eye contact almost instantly, turning your head to smile up at Andrew. He sends you a quick wink, before bringing his lips down to your ear. “Tu veux un verre?” Do you want a drink?

You nod, a soft smile pulled on your lips as you turn towards the direction of the kitchen, pulling Andrew’s hand in yours.

“Is it serious?” His smooth voice elicits a quiet shriek and jump as you hand wash the used wine glasses in the kitchen sink, an eruption of goosebumps forming across your skin.

“Excuse me?” You turn to him. Soapy water dripping from your fingertips before you wiped them with a hand towel nearby.

“Is it serious?” He repeats, his voice unwavering as he steps closer that you need to crane your neck to look at him.

“I know what you said.” You could feel the anger begin to swirl in you like a storm. “What makes you think you deserve to know?”

For a tiny instant, you swore you saw the smirk on his face waver. But, it was so fast that he pulled it back up again.

“I miss you.” He whispers softly, his hand reaches to touch a strand of fallen hair from your face before he tucks it behind your ear.

“You’re not being fair.”

His face falls to a solemn look, letting only you see the actual hurt that he’s been feeling every day since you walked out that apartment door.

“I want you back, mon amour.” He states. “I’ll risk being unfair if it gives me any chance to get you back.”

Your heart was beating rapidly. It’s everything you’ve wanted to hear. But you can’t do this. Not again. Not to Andrew.

“Charles, please don’t do this. Not here.”

“I know that you love me.” He states. “I know that you do, and you know that I love you. That I’m in love with you and always will be.” His words begin pouring out of him, like a waterfall.

“We’re broken.” You shrug your shoulders. “We always were.”

You didn’t give him a chance to speak again before you pushed past the confines of his body and back into the living room where all of your friends and Andrew celebrate.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #f1 imagine

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cthene · 1 year

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Is Fox Mulder the most comically-brutalized protagonist in television history? Not only is he shot and beaten up on a regular basis, but the list of extreme and exotic injuries he accrues over the course of the series has got to be some kind of TV cop record. The man is mind-wiped by the military in only the second episode. For any other TV cop, that would be a career-defining event, but it’s just a day in the life of Agent Spooky.

Bro was cocooned by carnivorous insects, thrown out of a nuclear submarine into the Alaskan tundra by an alien bounty hunter, beaten up by an invisible gorilla. He was experimented on in a Siberian gulag, drowned in the Bermuda Triangle, tortured by Neo-Nazis. I wonder what getting Freaky Friday-ed by a malfunctioning UFO cloaking device does to your gonads. How much radiation has he been exposed to? Someone test this man’s hair follicles. How many mysterious bodily fluids has he dipped his finger in and tasted at crime scenes? Dear God, someone test him for HIV. Imagine being the FBI doctor who administers his physicals.

Remember when the Shadow Government was putting LSD in Mulder’s water tank? Our boy got blown up in an underground train car and resurrected in a Navajo healing ceremony, and that’s not even the last train car he would get blown up in. One time, his lungs were filled with mutated tobacco beetles. Hoss let a quack doctor give him ketamine and drill a hole in his goddamn skull. In an unrelated incident, he had a chunk of his brain stolen. He was locked in a padded cell, trapped inside of a video game, and— of course —abducted by aliens. Fox Mulder was fully dead, and then came back to life after being exhumed, and nobody even seemed that surprised when he rolled up at the J. Edgar Hoover building like nothing had happened.

Am I missing anything? How is this man still alive? His body must be like a pillowcase full of broken lightbulbs. Every time he moves, you just hear crunching.

#the x files #x files #fox mulder #mulder #txf

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archivyrep · 2 years

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Ura and the digital archives of the past in "Pale Cocoon"

Ura looks over records of the past at his desk at the beginning of the OVA

This OVA peaked by interest when I read a review by THEM Anime Reviews about it, which noted that it focuses on a person named URA who is "mining digital archives of the distant past for information," finding in archival images a "long-gone world of green grass and animals and clouds and oceans" and his co-worker, Riko, often distracted, while he becomes "increasingly obsessed with trying to decipher a strange and disturbing record."

Reprinted from my Wading Through the Cultural Stacks WordPress blog. Originally published on Aug. 27, 2021.

So, the episode begins with Ura climbing stairs in a facility and him saying that "the archives we know of as history ended at some point." Wee then see him looking over records from the past, leafing through a book, which is a way to communicate his supervisor, noting that he is looking through a visual record of some type from 2000 C.E. He agrees to send the record onward, through the bureaucracy, while secretly making a copy of the record himself, among others he is collecting. Basically, he is forming his own collection of records! As soon has is about to look at the next record, an audiovisual record, there is an air raid siren. He then talks about "wreckage of archives" scattered across the world, which contain "fragments of the former world," saying he is evacuating archives because it is "the only way to understand the past." He later tells Riko he is "obsessed" with evacuation/processing of records because of the archives. He tells about about a record he found and says to himself that through archives people were able to understand the reality of the present, with people only able to live on a part of the world.

Later, Riko and Ura look at the record he saw the day before, which he partially restored. Riko says that books are a "medium for passing on archives" and they wonder whether the place shown in the video is an archival data storage facility or not. As she walks out, not interested at first, she recounts how all sorts of people use to work there, but now they are the only ones working there. He becomes dedicated to figuring out what this record is really saying, slowing deciphering it. His supervisor notes that Riko is planning on leaving and discusses with him about the value of archives, then says this:

That can't be good! Ura says they have already been confirmed as fact, in response, and his supervisor says he wishes sometimes that they were all lies. Ura and Rika discuss the past and where people live in this world shaped by environmental modifications. When Ura says that looking through the archives can help change the world, Rika tells him it is "better not to understand," since humans destroyed the world in the past, saying she doesn't want to lose any more hope in reality. She goes as far as to say that archives shouldn't have been "dug up" (processed and brought in) in the first place. Later, Ura is back looking at records about population growth affecting the earth's environment (not sure why they couldn't have just said "climate change"), saying that perhaps he wanted to immerse himself in archives to avoid reality. The last parts of the OVA are spent of Ura using clues from the audiovisual record, which I think is a music video, to find out something about the past, speeding on an elevator up into the sky. Rika is shown coming to his work cubicle and doesn't find him there, later seeing a video which tells her more about the past. The OVA ends with Uta looking at what appears to be the Earth, meaning they are on the Moon (I think?)

Anyway, there were some interesting archives themes in this, better than other anime like Little Witch Academia and Mystic Archives of Dantalian, both of which confused libraries and archives, to give two examples. It appears that Ura is doing some level of archival processing, which is "preparing archival materials for use," although he is clearly not engaging in arranging, description, or analysis. Even so, he may be described as an archaeologist, but he seems like an archivist to some extent, albeit a strange one, as does his colleague, Rika.

I wish this was a longer series where they could explore the archives more, but I would say I was relatively satisfied with this on the whole. I don't know if its the best representation of archives, and archivists, but it is definitely a different one from anything I've seen recently and definitely more positive than the archives in Phineas and Ferb, Fluidium, and Meau that I've written about recently.

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envy-of-the-apple · 7 months

Note

ive been really obsessed with your gojo/geto naga oneshots and asks lately it feels like literal brain rot at this point its so good. ive reread it 6 times lol

i was wondering though, what would Geto do if Gojo was just a little bit too heavy handed with you? to the point of a sprained or broken arm or leg. Would he get mad at Gojo or just mad in general that reader was hurt? Also how would they act in response to the injured reader who can't do basic tasks themselves, I personally think they would enjoy the fact she relied on them even more to even move now.

Reminder requests are still closed!!!! I just love this idea so so much holdon lemme-

Part one Part three

(Yandere, dark, implied forced relationships, noncon touching, biting, language barriers, drugging(?))

Top of the Food Chain pt2

Dark!Naga!SatoSugu x reader

Two days later, Satoru still wasn't allowed inside the cave.

You can hear him, hissing and clicking, right outside, hovering just behind the invisible line Suguru refused to let him pass. If you weren't already in so much pain, you would have found pity on the poor thing. He wasn't allowed in his own home, even though the incident wasn't entirely his fault.

Technically, Satoru saved you. It was yet again another escape attempt. Something you'd been doing a lot these days once you've figured out these beings' intentions with you. You'd gotten past the rock quarry this time, a new record. Your plan was filled with holes: there was no way to truly escape the island. You had no boat, no way to call for help. Still, you ran, forgetting that there were more dangerous things on this island other than two territorial serpent men.

It was a monster. There was no other way to describe it. Big, ugly, shiny spikes and sharp teeth, eyes dripping with bloodlust. You would have been eaten, killed, maimed, if Satoru hadn't caught up with you in time.

The only collateral was the loss of nearby plant life and your broken wrist.

That had been Satoru's fault. He'd pulled at you too hard at the hand. The remnants of adrenaline from the fight, his anger, anger made him too rough on your fragile body. He froze at the wet snap, and then you started screaming. That was how Suguru had found you. Despite how much Satoru clicked and hummed and tittered, from his mate's look, you doubted it helped his case.

Another lonely coo made you wince. Suguru only huffed, wrapping you tighter in his coils. They were already warm from your body heat. The numerous animal pelts helped your comfort too.

"Make him stop," you beg, "he's been going on for hours."

At that, Suguru lifts his head from the base of your neck. He tilts his head as he surveys you, and you can't help but think how awful you must look. Sickly-looking from the pain, clammy skin. He can't do much about your appearance, but the least he could do was shut Satoru up.

"What want?" Suguru asks, "water?"

At that, he picks up a sack filled with sea-smelling water. You wrinkle your nose, turning away, cocooning yourself within his coils. With the increased pain, your appetite has decreased, as well as your thirst. The stress of being trapped like this along with your broken wrist was starting to take its toll on your body.

Suguru makes a sound of disapproval, shuffling around behind you. You know he's still mad about the escape attempt, but he's concerned enough for your well-being to put his anger to the side for now. He'd helped wrap your wrist, using something stretchy and soft.

You raise your wrist up, inspecting the thin material wrapped around your wrist. You're not sure what it is, it's too silky to resemble cotton. It must be from the foliage around the island. Yet, another strange thing you'd never find the answer to.

There's another rumble coming from the Naga's chest. He wraps a hand around your chin, bringing your face closer. In his other, he holds the dripping sack.

"Suguru," it's too soft to be anything more than a whine, "it hurts too much to take anything right now. Stop."

"Hurt?" he asks.

To that, you gesture to your broken wrist. It may not have been broken, you were no doctor, so you couldn't say for certain. But considering you'd been in the same amount of pain for two days, it really didn't matter to you.

A click, before he's tossing a glare at the entrance of the cave. He'd already given Satoru a beating right before coming to coddle you. Despite being bigger than his mate, Satoru is docile enough to take them. Suguru had been acting more aggressive lately. You had a feeling it was your fault.

He'd been inspecting your wrist every so often, but you see a different look within his brown eyes now as he takes your injured hand. He carefully turns your palm over, pressing slightly into your wrist. When you yelp, he retracts.

"Hurt." Suguru confirms. You can only nod.

"Hurt. No drink? No eat?" You don't like the way he's talking. As if he's putting a puzzle piece together. Coming to a solution you won't like.

When you go to pull away, his grip only tightens.

"No hurt," he says it like a promise, as though you're a toddler and he's coaxing you into drinking a sour-tasting medicine. His lips part, revealing the fangs you've often seen him use on meat, on Satoru.

Never did you think he'd ever use them on you.

"Suguru," you're pleading, trying to move away when he bends down, his hair brushing your sweaty forehead. You can feel his breath on your neck.

"No hurt," he repeats, and then he bites down.

He lied, of course, he did. His teeth puncture your skin, tearing through like paper. You think you screamed, or maybe it was more akin to a pitiful whimper. In the background, you can hear someone hiss, Satoru maybe?

For a second, you feel everything, the pain, the puncture wound, Suguru lightly licking your neck.

And then, you feel weightless.

It's hard to describe, but your brain feels like it's turned to mush. Your body feels like you're on a soft cloud, just there, floating. In the back of your mind, you remember how dazed Satoru would get whenever Suguru bit him. At the time, you just thought he was lovestruck.

When Suguru pulls away, he's smiling. A trail of blood, your blood goes down his lip. You can barely keep your eyes on him, close to falling asleep.

"No hurt," he says. When he leans down to kiss you, you accept without a single fuss.

You don't remember much after that, but you remember accepting whatever Suguru put in your mouth. The panic in your body was non-existent as he held the water-sack above your lips, watching as your throat bobbed. You think he kissed you a few more times, but you're not too sure. You were a lot more averse to kissing before. It'd make sense he'd take advantage of it.

When you wake up again, you're in between two bodies. The pain in your wrist is still there, but not as horrible as before. You're still groggy, mind fuzzy. Whatever Suguru had given you was still in effect.

Satoru is the first to notice you're awake. Suguru and him must have made up during the time you were unconscious. He props himself up, peering down at you. With how dim the cave is, you can barely make out his features. He looks just as guilty as he had two days ago.

"Sorry," he mutters, "is sorry."

If you weren't still high, you might have laughed. When you continue to stare, he takes it in stride, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, then your lips. You wince in distaste, leaning back.

"Stop," you say but don't fight when he licks at your jaw. You can barely move your fingers.

Panic is still far away, a distant call than anything alarming. It should worry you, but you still can't feel anything.

Suguru is at your back. You can hear his scales move across the cavern floor. He gives a hum, content as he curls himself around you. He doesn't seem to mind Satoru's touches. Your theory that they must have made up is unfortunately starting to strengthen.

You could barely manage Suguru's coddlings. You don't think you'll survive Satoru's.

"Sorry," he mouths into your neck. You can feel the grip on your waist starting to tighten. He stops, rising up to stare at you.

Blue, almost glowing.

"But no more leave."

You're coherent enough to piece together what he means. You can't escape Satoru. You can't escape Suguru. You can't leave this island. Running away is useless.

The nagas understood it. It's time you did too.

"Yes," you finally say, "no more leave."

#yandere #yandere jjk #dark content #dark gojo satoru #dark jjk #non con touching #implied drugging #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru #dark geto suguru #naga au #naga gojo satoru #naga geto suguru #language barriers #polygamous relationship #yandere satosugu #dark satosugu #naga satosugu

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cordeliawhohung · 2 months

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 10]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

crooked fingers and christmas cheer

cw: minor gore, panic attack, anxiety

wc: 4.6k

You’re dreaming of your dad again.

Crooked fingers grip the steering wheel in front of him as he sits in the driver's seat, maneuvering through swirling streets with faceless pedestrians. You’re cuddled in the back of the car, blankets weighing you down to the seat like a prison. They’re tight. Serpentine binds. So much so you find it hard to breathe. Fat snowflakes flutter past your window as the engine revs, speeding through London with no regard for traffic lights or stop signs. If there were other cars on the road, he would have crashed long ago.

Quiet megrim suffocates you as your ringing ears make sense of the song playing on the radio. Static drowns the notes, fuzzies them until you can barely hear it. Your dad hums the tune in a different key. Sweet, and off beat. He’s always been tone deaf.

“Silent night, Holy night.”

The acrid scent of blood fills your nose the moment you find his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thick patches of it stain his face, crusting around fat lacerations on his eyebrows, lips, and nose. It dries; flakes off his skin just to be replaced by a fresh stream. Pulled stitches fray at the ends as they protrude from his skin like grotesque teeth, being devoured from the inside out by wounds he can’t outrun. Wounds that will never heal.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

You attempt to shift but the cocoon of blankets grows tighter around you, hugging your limbs close to you like a straightjacket. It’s so crowded that your ribs have trouble expanding, and a breathy cough leaks from your mouth. It burns, like smoke in your lungs or mint on your tongue.

“You should slow down,” you warn him.

“Silent night, Holy night.” The song repeats. You don’t think you’ve heard it make it past the first stanza. A bent record, forever scratching, doomed to repeat a song and never finish it.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assures you.

“Dad, please slow down.”

The engine sputters and quiets down as the brakes engage with a gentle tap. Wheels dwindle and slow until the car halts in the center of the road. Traffic dashes by with quiet whooshes. You don’t know where the cars came from. Maybe they had been following you the whole time. They’re all black — like a funeral procession. Exhaust mixes with iron. The concoction is enough to turn your stomach as it burns your sinuses.

“Silent night, Holy night.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to end up like him?” he asks. Disfigured, bent, and disgusting fingers still grip the steering wheel despite the motionlessness of the car. You try not to stare, but the horror of it has you transfixed. “Like Row’s dad?”

Your bottom lip juts out and trembles. “You already did.”

He laughs at you, and it’s warm like velvet. Comforting just like it was when you were a kid. It reminds you of when he would read you stories before bed, keeping his tone even yet engaging — just calming enough to get your eyes to grow heavy. Your skin itches to throw the blankets off of your body and wrap yourself in his mirth instead, but as usual, you are not strong enough.

“I’m right here, darling,” he chuckles. “I know the accident was hard on you, but it’s not your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

“Silent night, Holy night.”

Leather seats shift under your dad’s weight, and his eyes no longer look at you in the rearview mirror. You want to ask if he looks away in shame, but the question doesn’t quite reach your tongue.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “I don’t know. I just… wish you didn’t leave me like that.”

“But I didn’t leave,” he assures.

“You died and now I have nothing,” you retort.

There is no denying that you are aggrieved. Betrayed in some aching way that still haunts the marrow of your bones and the ridge of your spine. How many years have you felt this way? Are you even able to recall a time when you felt normal? Felt loved? Felt safe? Maybe you had, but you’re not sure if there was ever a moment of your life that you lived where your father’s shadow wasn’t following you.

You’re not sure if you ever will.

How long had he been haunting you? Did his ghosts only come out to play after his death?

“Silent night, Holy night. All is calm, all is-”

The radio dies just as the engine does and a wave of tinnitus rings so loud you’re certain it can’t be coming from inside your own head. Someone else must be hearing this agony; it can’t just be you. You blink and witness in abject horror as your dad twists in his seat, hands leaving the steering wheel, torso turning so that he can fully face you.

He looks just like he did all those years ago. Clothes perfectly pressed, dress shirt steamed, cuffs neatly creased. He always joked that the first time he would ever wear a suit would be at your wedding — instead, it was his own funeral. They did a good job making him look normal. At covering the abrasions and ruptured blood vessels. At setting his fingers and nose straight. Still, there’s something wrong with his skin. There’s no fresh blood, it’s all pooled in the side of his body. Heavy. Weighing it down.

The mortician did a good job, but no amount of wax can fix the chunk of bone and flesh missing from the side of his skull.

“But you do have something,” he says bluntly. “I just hope you can escape it before it gets you, too.”

Your only solace is the alarm on your phone.

It vibrates next to your head where it echoes throughout your box spring mattress like a hollow cavern. It kick starts your heart, which pounds so violently in your chest you’re certain your sternum will shatter. You need it to stop. Need it to shut up. Need to kill it. Sucking in a shuddering breath, your hands fumble with your phone as you tap on the screen, shutting off the alarm and plunging your apartment into silence.

Throwing yourself on your back, you stare at your water damaged and stained ceiling as you try not to deliquesce into the bed. You can already feel it happening. Muscles convulsing until they liquify, bone marrow seeping out from your pores, soft duvet soaking up the essence of everything that once made you human. You feel the pillow beneath your head and the cotton of your pajamas, trying to ground yourself to the earth that threatens to crush you everyday but the mind is always stronger. There is nothing you can do to free yourself from the heat of a car engine, or shattered glass in your lap, or the gunshot pop! of an airbag —

Once more, your phone buzzes. Something soft and non-intruding. A gentle nudge that pulls you back into your bed just as the heater kicks on. You breathe in the scent of your apartment. It’s stale. Stagnant air and old dish soap. You’d like to invest in a candle or wax warmer, like the ones your mom used to have. Maybe that way you could pretend that you were still with her, if only for a moment.

Everything feels lighter when you realize just where you are. That doloriferous anxiety wanes until it’s nothing more than a dormant beast in your chest. You sigh, body twisting to once again grab your phone. It’s just before eight in the morning, and a text from Simon has your heart fluttering so fiercely you swear you feel your stomach shrink and swell in one fell swoop.

Good morning sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour. Need me to pick up anything for the trip?

Not even the primal terror lurking in your chest can stop the small smile that pulls at your lips as you read his message. Always so proper. So kind and considerate. For a moment, you can forget all about crooked fingers and half formed skulls. You swallow back any tremulous sensation as you type your response back to him.

no thanks, should be good (: excited to see you

You regret the message as soon as you send it. Excited to see you. Groaning, you shut your phone off and hit your forehead against the screen like you can beat the embarrassment out of yourself. But there’s not enough time to dwell on it. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve got somewhere to be.

A quick shower is all it takes to get your mind functioning properly again. Lukewarm water washes away the nightmare sweats and leaves you with a clean slate. Fresh, untouched skin. Eardrums lulling into the quiet hum of the water hitting the cracked tile that lines the tub. There’s a draft that seeps through the gaps of the window, causing your skin to prickle and tighten as you dry yourself off. On windy days, you can hear its whistle. It prompts you to get ready with a sense of urgency, and it isn’t long before you’re swaddled tight in comfortable travel clothes and shoving last minute items into your bag.

Simon arrives just when he said he would, and you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but his jumper seems to hug tighter around his shoulders than usual. Muscle shifts, hands twitch, and you find your greeting tumbling out of your lips on a tongue that feels too fat. He stares at you with careful eyes, always assessing you like the good worker he is. Soaks up the buzz tingling through your nerves as you fiddle with your travel bag, heat drenching your skin so thickly he can almost feel it from where he stands.

Smirking, he reaches forward, fingers brushing against yours as he slips the bag out of your hand, and you have no choice but to relinquish it. He keeps the straps firmly in his hand as he steps back, gesturing to the stairs.

“After you, sweetheart.”

Breakfast and warm tea brewed in a to-go cup waits for you in Simon’s car. It’s the very first thing you notice when he opens the door for you, and the sight has you biting into your lip. You try to mutter something about how he shouldn’t have, but he only shushes you as he ushers you inside. Really, it makes a good distraction. Focusing on trying not to leave crumbs as you devour a bagel sandwich leaves you little time to worry about why he didn’t get anything for himself.

It’s good. Better than good. Perfectly toasted bagel, melty cheese, seasoned avocado — something too fancy for you to have ever ordered on your own. The tea is still warm by the time you hit the motorway, and a comfortable silence settles over you as the engine hums along the road. Towering grey buildings dwindle into quaint homes which then shapeshift between natural scenery and city views in the distance. You try to remember the last time you left London. Escaped the prison that’s held you by the throat for the last few years, even if it were only temporary. The only time you can recall is the trip your family took to Italy when you were a child.

Simon shifts in his seat next to you, and your eyes dart over to him. He’s only adjusting himself, getting his legs comfortable for the long ride ahead — he mentioned something about arriving around one — but your eyes can’t help but wander. You glance at the roll of his hips and the way his thighs fill out the fabric of his jeans. The tight line of his lips as his eyes scan the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, thick fingers wrapped around the edge —

You blink and they’re crooked. Bruised, bent, and wrong. Compound fractures — bone piercing flesh. Jagged knuckles, fingers like the ridge of a mountain; you feel your stomach twist as that nightmare continues to haunt you.

Before its tendrils have the chance to wrap around your spine, your hand dives into your pocket. Frayed string brushes against your skin, and you hook it like a fish on the end of your line before yanking it free. Cat’s Cradle is always your go to distraction. It keeps you moving. Mind focused on string formations as you twist them into designs just to move to the next formation; always flowing, never stagnant.

Even now, you can hear your father’s voice. Feel his hands as he guided yours all those years ago when he taught you how to play. Move your left hand. They’ll cross if you don’t.

You move your right hand, and it knots; candle sticks now a cross.

“Cat’s Cradle?” Simon asks.

As you unwind the string from your fingers, a nostalgic smile pulls at your lips. You don’t think you’ve ever had someone recognize it before. “Yeah. Play it sometimes to keep myself occupied.”

“Didn’t know you could play it by yourself,” he admits. “Always thought you needed someone else.”

“You can’t do as many moves as you can with someone else, but it’s still fun,” you chuckle sheepishly.

He hums, hand adjusting on the wheel, free arm resting on the center console next to you. “You should teach me.”

A breathy laugh escapes your lips — you think he’s joking. It’s a stupid game with string. Nothing that means anything. Yet when you look at him and find his eyes flickering to you, dark hue reading your expression, you realize he means it.

You swallow, then smile. “If you’d like.”

He shifts once more, leather seat creaking beneath his weight. You try to ignore the way your heart hurts at the sound. “I’d like doin’ anythin’ with you.”

The whole ride feels warm after that. Bubbling mirth lurks beneath your skin, lighting it on fire, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears. It’s that same feeling that afflicted you the previous week after Christmas shopping. This fervor. This want. It grows more intense the closer you are to reaching Manchester as the reality of your situation hits you. You’re going to be meeting his family.

But as a friend, or something else?

That question plagues you as Simon pulls up to a small home with effulgent lights lining the rooftop. They illuminate the extremely thin layer of snow that coats the city in crystalline sparkles, and for a moment you’re convinced you’re seeing stars. A thick evergreen wreath sits on the front door and the sight of it is so nostalgic it nearly hurts. A tremble ails your knees as you climb out of the car, useless joints turning into jelly as you watch Simon retrieve both of your bags. Your hands reach out, ready to receive yours, but he raises his eyebrow at you as he closes the door with his elbow.

“C’mon,” he urges. “Freezin’ out here.”

He leads you up the stairs and before he even knocks on the door you can already hear the commotion going on inside. A TV drones in the background as quiet chatter mixes with whatever programme is playing — giggles and cracked jokes and faint music. Voices cease as Simon knocks on the door, and you’re certain you hear a high pitched gasp, followed by what you think is someone asking for Uncle Simon.

You swallow your heart thudding in your throat as the door swings open and you’re met with a mess of bright blonde hair. Simon was right, Tommy isn’t bigger than him yet he still towers taller than most. He grins at his brother, crooked teeth and all as he slaps his hand on Simon’s shoulder.

“‘Bout time you showed up. Joey’s been beggin’ for you all morning,” he teases, though he can’t quite mask the way his eyes flicker to you standing meekly to the side. “C’mon in, we just started a game of Candyland.”

The moment you and Simon step through the threshold of the house, you’re enveloped by fresh cinnamon and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas buzzing on the TV. A fat evergreen tree sits in the corner of the living room next to a coffee table with board game pieces and snacks strewn about its top. You recognize Joseph and his mother Beth, who sit next to the table on the floor, rug cushioning their knees from the hardwood floor. The very moment his eyes land on Simon, little Joseph bolts to his feet.

Suddenly, it’s a reunion. Everyone stands on their feet to exchange hugs and kisses, Simon attempting to return them with his hands occupied with bags; the walls echo the laughter shared between everyone. And you? You stand there with a quiet smile, soaking in the familial love as you stay out of the way. Joseph clings to Simon’s leg, white teeth on display as he looks up at his uncle, and you swear you’ve never seen him smile or laugh so hard before.

“Simon,” a voice speaks up from the kitchen.

You turn to find a grey haired woman drying her hands off on a tea towel. She’s short; surprisingly so for the two boys she’s brought into this world. Rose dusts the apples of her cheeks as she slowly crosses into the entryway, arms spread wide to envelope her son as best as she can with her frail frame.

“Missed you mum,” Simon whispers as he returns the hug.

“It’s always good to see you,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. Her lips tighten as her fingers squeeze the side of his arm. “My sweet boy.”

It isn’t long before her eyes begin to wander, and they’re drawn to you, not even bothering to fight against the magnetic pull. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think she was eager to see you. She removes herself from her son as she approaches you, hands reaching for yours as she pulls you away from the front door and into her home.

“It’s so good to meet you, Chip,” she says, hand patting yours.

She already knows your name.

You swallow. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Riley,” you stutter back in response.

Everything falls into place after that like a perfect line of dominoes. Simon vanishes for only a short moment to put your bags away in some unseen room and returns just in time for Joseph to drag the two of you into the living room for a game of Candyland. There’s hardly any time for proper introductions as Joseph directs the game all the way down to what color pieces everyone uses — both you and Simon are assigned green — and despite your apprehension, it’s like you’ve been here the entire time. Instantly welcomed and assimilated into the Riley Family like you’ve never belonged anywhere else.

You learn so much in such a little amount of time. Questions are thrown about as everyone takes turns drawing cards and moving pieces along the board. You learn that Joseph’s favorite color is red because it reminds him of his mother’s hair, and how Beth works with preschool aged children as a teacher. Tommy works as a mechanic and is one of the reasons why Simon has a motorcycle. Both Simon and Tommy can banter well enough to go pro, especially with one another. The table erupts into laughter and playful cursing more often than not.

They ask questions about you, too. Gently poking, prodding, and peeling back the layers you try so hard to wrap yourself in. They don’t allow you to hide, and after a few hours of games, snacks, and movies, you start to think you might not want to anymore. Tucked into Simon’s side, lazy arm around your shoulder as he chuckles and laughs with his family, you start to realize this is the most at home you’ve felt for a long time.

You try to remember the last Christmas you attended that you enjoyed, but the memories that emerge taste sour on your tongue.

Halfway through How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Simon squeezes your shoulder. It’s soft — a gesture that warns you he’s going to move well before he does. He removes his arm from around you, body shifting forward on the couch yet making sure to replace the airplane themed blanket on your lap that Joseph gave you because you look cold.

“Gonna step out for a smoke,” he assures.

“Okay. Well, I’ll keep our seats warm,” you smile as he stands.

Manchester gets darker later than London does, so it’s a welcome surprise when Simon steps out into the backyard and faint rays of sun still ignite the sky above him. It is colder, though. So much so that his skin tenses and trembles through the fabric of his jumper as he lights the cigarette sitting between his teeth.

Truly, he is happy to be home, but those walls make his skin crawl. Old scars burn and itch every time he sees those old photos hung up on walls or the wood floors creak a certain way. No amount of pine tree pollen or holiday cinnamon aroma can fully cleanse the stale alcohol that permeates every pore in that house. Each time he visits, he tries to override those memories. Create something new from the lingering pain. He’s tried to convince his mom to let him buy her a nicer place, or at least fix that damn bathtub, but she refuses every time.

He swears one day he’ll tear out every tile in that bathroom.

A squeak sounds behind Simon as the sliding glass doors open, then quickly shut. He hurriedly exhales the smoke in his mouth before turning around, not surprised at all to find Tommy approaching him with his arms hugged tight to his chest.

“Tryna bum a smoke?” he asks as he shoves the cigarette back between his lips.

“What, and have Beth maul me in my sleep?” Tommy chuckles. “Been clean for nearly six years and I don’t plan to throw that away now.”

Dead grass crunches beneath Tommy’s feet as he approaches, but Simon’s chuckle drowns it out. “Good man.”

Tommy hums as he stops next to Simon, still a good distance away so as to not get the stale scent of nicotine on him. Blue eyes keep flickering to the door where you, Beth and Joseph continue to watch the movie, idle chatter filling the gaps of the film you’ve seen a million times over. He smirks, and it looks an awful lot like Simon’s. Two sides of the same coin.

“Didn’t realize you were bringin’ a girl,” he admits. “No wonder why mum seemed extra adamant about cleaning. How long have you two been together?”

At that question, Simon takes a particularly long drag. It expands in his lungs, fills the space until there’s nothing left, and when he exhales it leaves through his nose. “We’re not together.”

“Oh?” Tommy asks with a poorly restrained grin. “So you just brought this completely random girl home to see the family? Nothin’ more?”

“It’s complicated,” Simon deadpans.

“Ah. Complicated. Bullshit,” Tommy retorts.

The brothers fall silent as laughter bleeds through the doors behind them. Both men turn to find Joseph wrapped in Beth’s arms, swaying side to side as he points at the TV. You cover your laugh with the palm of your hand, but Simon catches on to the way your shoulders shake with the movement.

“When are you gonna settle down? Start a family of your own?” Tommy questions, eyes still on his wife and son. “Sure mum’ll appreciate you gettin’ married before she’s too old to know where she’s at.”

In an attempt to hide his laugh, Simon chooses to scoff instead. “I couldn’t do better than you ‘n Beth.”

“Couldn’t you?” Tommy challenges.

For a moment, Simon entertains it. The thought of a family. The thought of you. He’ll admit, he thinks of you often, but he can’t determine if it’s because he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, or because he’s still trying to solve the mystery of you. Of Andrei, of your reclusiveness, of everything. He can’t tell if his heart quickens because of you, or what might be chasing you.

What a silly idea. With his line of work and your anxiety, he’s certain you’d want nothing to do with him if you ever found out.

“I mean it,” Simon says, standing firm. “Buildin’ the life you did after everythin’ you went through, findin’ an amazing woman and havin’ a good son… I’m proud of you.”

Tommy scoffs at Simon’s adulation like he’s about to spew something sarcastic at the man, but instead his lips pull into a reverent smile. Nodding, he sighs, breath spewing out in a fit of frost that’s quickly smothered by the bitter air as it rises and vanishes. The sun sets quickly, so much so that it’s almost a distant memory by the time he’s able to find his words.

“As the older brother, I think I’m supposed to be praisin’ you but… yeah. I’m proud of myself, too,” Tommy admits. “To think about all the shit I had gotten caught up with. Fuck, surprised Beth ever saw anythin’ in me. Nearly got myself killed over drugs. Over that fuckin’ debt. Needed my little brother to come save my ass. Still, I’ve got them. Somehow… I have them. Wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Hot embers begin to burn too close to Simon’s fingers, and he discards the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and stomps out what remaining life it has left. He looks up at Tommy, but his eyes are focused on the smoldering remains of ash on the ground.

“Do you ever run into him at all?” Tommy asks.

“Who?”

“Marco.”

Ravenous acrimony eats away at Simon’s chest at the name alone. Memories resurface — an overconfident prick with beady green eyes. He rubs at his knuckles as if he can still feel the way they split all those years ago, and then he presses against them until they shift. Their crack echoes dully off the dead grass and glass door.

“If I did, he’d be fuckin’ dead,” he assures.

Tommy chuckles, clearly caught off guard by his brother’s bloodthirst. “Well, I wouldn’t ever ask you to go that far, but… the cunt would deserve it. Besides, with your line of… work, I reckon it’s not too difficult to make people vanish.” He coughs, clearing his throat of any lingering smoke before he continues. “Speakin’ of that… does she know?”

“Know what?”

“That you run with Price?” Tommy clarifies. Simon’s silence is the only answer he needs. “You haven’t told her?”

“It’s complicated,” Simon reiterates.

Some facetious response dances on the tip of his tongue, Simon can see it in the way his mouth twitches, but Tommy stays silent. He sighs, then nods before looking back through the door. Their mother is on her feet, slowly maneuvering around the living room in a slight waddle in order to open the door.

“Yeah. I know it is. Just… be careful,” he mumbles, just as the door slides open.

“Dinner’s ready. You two should come back inside. It’s freezin’ out here,'' she urges.

Both men glance at one another with a curt nod before trudging through the grass back to the house. The very moment they step back into the warm embrace of their childhood home, everything else seems left behind. Any worries. Any sour memories and old scars. All of it lingers in the backyard with the smoking remains of Simon’s cigarette; unimportant, and long forgotten.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #in limbo #f!reader

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luxurychristmaspudding · 2 months

Text

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x actor!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: for @schnarfer, my copilot, and @itsokbbygrl and @undercoverpena. thank you for your patience while i've yapped and not written about these two <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home.

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt.

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling.

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool.

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming.

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet.

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again.

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams.

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen.

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll.

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight.

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side.

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you.

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you.

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant.

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the songs you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it.

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to get the stamp of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, leading man.

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky.

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to gather his thoughts on the tracks. A big deal. Critically acclaimed films, Oscars and SAG Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint.

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool.

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. He’d suited the cowboy get up in the cuts of Red Sky. Not that you ever thought about that when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Or his hands. His thick fingers, or the bulge that strained against his low slung belt -

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water.

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, cradles you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips.

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac.

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are.

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them.

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response.

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you.

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Feel like I know nothin’ about it, just gon’ be sittin’ there -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. Pick something you remember about the lyrics. Say something about the drums or melodies. Get a selfie for Ellie. That’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in.

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink.

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him.

He can see how her eyes keep flicking this way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?”

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

“Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound like you know enough. It’s not your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions.

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another about orange blossoms, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, he also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he’s going to be so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them.

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers.

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off.

There’s someone he has to meet.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction

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