#the background screen in his quarters

[ansonmountdaily]

Anson Mount in STAR TREK: STRANGE NEW WORLDS 2x04 "Among the Lotus Eaters"

[moondirti]

ghoap x nanny! reader / 18+ / previous ft. surveillance. handjobs. voyeurism. mild s/m. dirty talk.

They check up on you when they can.

Price wasn't exaggerating when he doled out the mission details. It's a tough one. Grueling. The type that necessitates four flights a week and days of little to no sleep, the men fuelled on nothing but a snow-balling urgency to get it done. The target is a slippery fuck, with connections that transport him across the globe at the first sign of conflict. They come close to apprehending him only once, and nothing comes of it but the exacerbated threat of nuclear war as the bastard starts to squeak like a cornered mouse. Gaz has a near constant migraine. Soap stops being fun around the two week mark, exhaustion slowing his tongue. Ghost grows more unhinged with his kills, punching blades through the throats of anyone who dares get in their way.

But still, they check on you.

Isla occupies a quarter of their headspace at all times; half when they don't have to dedicate their focus to the operation. It's the longest they've ever spent away from their girl, the withdrawals hitting them like a bag of bricks. They do whatever's necessary, then, to tune into the nanny cams they have set up around the house, lest Johnny cries about the way her hands dimple when she uncurls a fist again. Or worse – before Simon forgets what tethers him to humanity.

They find the two of you are always doing something.

Which isn't a surprise. You had mentioned your background in early childhood education; they just thought that it'd been a device to impress them. But it's clear that you're eager to put your degree to use when they see you setting up yet another enrichment activity for their daughter and encouraging her to engage.

The first time, they had just arrived on base. It'd been five hours since they've seen you last and already, Johnny had pulled his phone to log onto the monitoring app he had installed.

Sure enough, you were in the same overalls they saw you in last, Isla changed into a fresh pair of pyjamas after her bath. You had her set on her play mat, but replaced the dangling toys for newer, more colourful ones. As she reached for them, you would sound out the shade in a high-pitched voice and grin excitedly when she'd babble back, as if aaaah! meant green.

He felt his heart tug something fierce, caught between endearment and unease at missing out, before getting dressed for debrief.

The third time, you let them know you could tell when the nanny cam is in active use. Not accusatorially, of course – it unfolded in a way too innocent to be anything but a whammy on their part.

They were in a humvee on exfil after being ambushed by the local army – soldiers with blood money lining their pockets, tasked with dispatching the bloodhounds that keep sniffing their patron's trail. Simon had watched a little boy get caught in the crossfire and decided it was imperative to check if Isla was okay, despite her being hundreds of miles away and off anyone's radar.

You're the first thing he saw, carrying the weight of a huge plastic storage container filled with water. In it, there were several rubber animals that inspired a fit of squeals somewhere off screen. You had laughed, a little out of breath, and he remembers the relief that flooded his chest at the dual sounds. Like the cold lick of waves across scorching sand.

As you'd passed by the camera, you stopped and crouched so your face would be in view.

"Isla likes splashing around in the water. I'm thinking of getting her a paddling pool." And you lifted the container as if you would ever need to justify the way you take of their daughter. "Hope you guys are well."

Johnny murmured from beside him. "Forgot aboot th' status light."

The seventh– ninth– maybe twelfth time (having lost count), it was just in time to catch you on your way out with Isla in tow.

They'd tuckered down in a shitty motel, awaiting the next word from Laswell, all four of them in one room. Gaz had been given the bed as consolation for the torn tendon in his knee, and Price had claimed the couch with nothing more than a growl about his back needing it. Thus, Ghost and Soap found themselves on the floor, the latter man tucked under his partner's arm, the other occupied with checking in on the porch feed. The time difference made it so that it was midday where you were.

You were dressed – and Simon recalls it as clearly as the day you met – in a green wrap skirt and tulip hat, their darling girl in a shade of pink that complimented its petals, sat on your hip as you struggled with her buggy. They forgot to give you the run down on unfolding it before they left, too overwhelmed with everything else to pay mind to the little things.

Johnny had jumped for the two-way talk function immediately, tapping on the little mic before clearing his throat.

"There's a latch under th' left arm. Flip it 'n' it shuid unfold automatically."

You jumped, pausing to face the porch cam with wide eyes. "Oh– Oh my god. Haha," Following his directions, you were able to get it open with little fuss. "that is so embarrassing. Pretend you never saw that."

Simon had his balaclava on, uncomfortable with going bare-faced in an unfamiliar room, but Johnny still felt the soft smile splitting his cheeks. Its warmth was unmistakable.

"Nonsense, lass. 'twas cute."

You bloomed at that, wiggling a little in place. Though the flustered moment hadn't lasted long, for Isla's mouth fell open at the recognition of her father's voice, chubby hand reaching out in its direction.

"Bldha! Pffffpp."

"That's right, baby! That's Da." You waddled closer to have her inspect the strange contraption hooked above their mailbox, turning your attention back to them. "We're going on a narration walk! Isla's gotten so good at recognising animals because of them. But it was so nice to hear from you. Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"Gah!"

Simon locked the phone when neither of them could muster a response, emotion rushing their throats like white-river rapids. Hot tears seep into his side, a pair of misty eyes buried in his ribs.

"I know. I know, Johnny. S'alright. We'll see 'er again soon."

Now, he's made good on his promise.

All three rogue missiles located and dismantled in record time, meaning their slimy target could no longer use them as a shield. He'd been in shackles within the next day, wrangled somewhere in Istanbul and shipped off to a maximum security prison in The Hague. The task force left no loose thread untugged, which took an extra day but will be worth it in the long run. Price promises to reward them with a round, on him.

They're on their way back to base when Johnny tunes in a final time.

He's sure that Isla is asleep by now, confirmed by the baby monitor that focuses on the sprawled form in her cot. It would be best to exit the app and doze off like the other men – lord knows he needs it – but he can't help the itch to look for you too. To click through every channel, his curiosity unquenched, until–

Ah. There.

On the couch, bare legs stretched out along its length. A throw blanket tangled between them, one bent at the knee to support the book you're currently fingering through. The sight alone is enough to make him salivate.

But then he notices the thin material of your top.

Practically translucent. No doubt made for bed. You aren't wearing a bra, either, and the darker shade of your nipples practically flaunts itself through the fabric. They're too soft to protrude and cast a shadow on your breasts, but he's still able to get a good impression of what you would look like nude. Some part of him wilts with guilt at the shameless voyeurism he's subjecting you to.

Another part sends blood to the weight between his legs.

"Bleedin' Christ."

"Hm?" Simon grunts, disturbed by the restless pace of Johnny's heart. His head lifts off his shoulder, blinking warily to clear the silky gossamer of sleep threading his eyelids, before focusing on the grainy footage on his partner's screen.

"Ghost." He whines, hips bucking in desperation when the larger man does nothing. They haven't had the chance to relieve themselves since that night at the motel, and even then it had been a messy frotting as they tried not to disturb their sleeping comrades.

"A'right. Off to the bathroom with you, then."

He doesn't turn off of the live feed even as they cram into the compact space. Though he should. He needs to. Not because you're aware of their surveillance – you're far too engrossed in your book to pay mind to the blinking red light on the nanny cam. But because only depraved men gets off to unsuspecting hens, especially the ones they hired in good faith to take care of their child while they're away.

It's a dirty, dirty thrill that roars through him as Simon wraps an arm around his waist, palming his hard-on through his trousers. And it's a dirty thrill he wants no part of.

"Practically leakin' in your pants, boy. First time you see a pair of tits?" In the small mirror before him, he watches his pants get pulled down past his ass, underwear stained a deeper swatch of blue where his tip spits prespend.

It might as well be the first time, way he's humping Simon's hand like an over-eager mutt. Though he can't manage to choke it out through the rough groans pressing his vocal chords. Instead, what escapes him is a pathetic mess of trembling letters. "S'not... fookin, not– not–"

"Shhh, it's okay. She's jus' so pretty, yeah? Can't help but chub up and beg me to rub your aching cock, wishing it was her darlin' hand wrapped 'round you instead. I know."

"Nn, nae, Sim- Si– I wouid never... Ah!"

It's dry. A little raw. He makes no effort to lube his calloused palm to help it glide easier along Johnny's length, but he knows his boy better than he knows himself sometimes. That he needs pain when he's doing something bad like this, or else he'll lose himself to the guilt. A little bit of penance for the Catholic.

"Don' lie to me. Y'can't. But tha's alright," He pulls the foreskin off the head of his uncut mass, kneading a bit into his frenulum to watch the way white oozes against red. "I think about it too."

"A-Aye?"

"Hm. Think 'bout ya swallowing my cock while I sit 'er on my face. Bet she tastes sweet, like nectar. Jus' look at the thing." Which he does. You're seated a bit differently than you had been before. Less liberal. Wound up tight, with your nose buried in your book and your toes curled beneath your feet. Surely captured by some tense plot line or the other. "Would make you clean her cunt after I pump 'er full. Or vice versa, if she's into tha'."

"Yer a-aff yer heid... Fuck, I cannae–"

"That's it, Johnny. Let go, boy." Simon's strokes keep at the top, tugging in short, rough movements over the phone. The blanket now covers you fully, but it's no matter. The image of your breasts are now seared into both their minds, an array of fantasies unfurling before them, each nastier than the last. "Jus' like that."

Thick ropes of cum streak over the screen and sink countertop. It's weeks worth of pent up frustration, a culmination of despair and desire as a stuttered moan claws up Johnny's throat. The hand leaves his cock only when he starts shooting blanks, clenching tight at the overstimulation.

Simon makes him lick the mess off his palm.

(And unbeknownst to them, they'd hit the mic on their way to the bathroom.

You'd heard the whole thing.)

[longing-for-the-past-times]

Roommate!Simon who wakes up in the middle of the night, his chaotic sleeping schedule getting the best of him. Struggling to make as little noise as possible, he exits his bedroom and heads to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea

Roommate!Simon who stops dead in his tracks when he realises that you must have left the TV on, the blue faint glow of the screen projecting shadows on the wooden floor. He strides towards the coffee table to grab the remote control, when you rise from the blanket you'd been wrapped in, scaring the sh*t out of him

Roommate!Simon who instinctively reaches for the Ka-Bar knife he always keeps in his boot, only to realize that there is no way he could conceal such a weapon in the fluffy slippers he's currently wearing. He rolls his eyes in defeat and throws you a questioning look, the frown on his face deepening even more upon seeing what you were looking at- a Disney Pixar movie.

Roommate!Simon who pretends to be annoyed and keeps grumbling to himself as he heads into the kitchen, but ends up preparing two cups of tea and empties a bag of popcorn into a big plastic bowl

Roommate!Simon who just lays the tea on the coffee table and places the popcorn on the couch, lunging for the blanket that is still wrapped around your figure. You roll your eyes at his fake cold demeanour and lift a corner of the blanket as a silent invitation for him to join you

Roommate!Simon who ends up taking three-quarters of the blanket and eats all of the popcorn while his eyes are glued to the screen. Fighting for the last quarter of the blanket, you can't help but openly stare at his maskless figure, greedily taking in every detail that you can perceive in the faint light emitted by the TV

Roommate!Simon who ends up throwing an arm across the couch, pulling your body closer to his and wrapping the blanket around both so that your head is pressed against his chest. The tea's gone cold on the small coffee table, but it doesn't stop Ghost's eyes from getting heavy, his tired mind relishing in the rhythmic sound of your heartbeat

Roommate!Simon who falls asleep on the couch, holding you fast in his embrace and gently resting his head atop yours as the Disney movie keeps playing in the background. He won't tell anyone, but he hasn't slept that well in a long time.

part one part two part four masterlist

[shotmrmiller]

The thought of toxic Dom!Simon not being exclusive with you is actually tilting me so I’m gonna write about it. 

–

As per usual, you’re draped over Johnny’s legs on the couch, listening to him talk his nonsense when he brings up Ghost. 

“...yeah and Ghost, lass, I’m tellin’ ye, he has got to be hurtin’ the lasses he takes to his quarters. He had this new medic in there screaming and…” but his voice fades, your heartbeat thundering in your ears drowning him out. 

He had another woman in his bed. Bastard. 

Your eyes sting as your blood boils. Jaw aching from how hard you’re clenching it. 

Stupid fucking asshole.

Of course, you hadn’t brought it up. Not like you could, with how he had stuffed your mouth with his cum— but that’s beside the point. Here you had thought it was a given. But no, that motherfucker wastes no time in fucking other bitches while he has you constantly checking your phone hoping he sends a text. 

Practically begging for his attention and he’s too busy getting his dick wet. 

And there’s no one to blame but yourself. You’re the one who chose to put your feelings into this. He, at no point in time, strung you along. Congratulations, you played yourself. But that doesn’t mean you’re gonna sit there and take it. If he gets to fuck other people, then so do you. 

Johhny’s yelp snaps you out of your own furious inner ramblings. 

“Hen, ouch! Mind the claws, eh?” 

You unclench your hand— you hadn’t realized you were digging your nails into his skin. 

“Ye a’right there? Yer face is bright red,” he remarks and you put your clammy hands onto your cheeks in an attempt to calm down. 

“Yeah, I’m alright, Johnny boy.” 

Releasing a tense breath, you turn to him with a toothy smile. 

“Hey, didn’t you have a single friend I could meet? I haven’t gotten laid in—” and Johnny cuts you off with a swipe of his hand.

“Och! Naw! I dinnae care to know ‘bout yer flings. Cease yer yappin’.” 

You arch one eyebrow at him and tartly say, “Oh, but I gotta sit here and listen to yours? How does that make sense?” 

“I’m the older brother, hen. Do as yer told,” and he yelps again when you pinch his thigh at that. He’s rubbing the spot and you try to not feel guilty at the fact that you might’ve pinched a little too hard— you’re still frothing at the mouth over that asshole.

“So?” you ask again, “Any cute friends?” and he rubs at the scar on his chin before nodding. 

“I do. Name’s Gaz. Er, Kyle. He’s been wantin’ to meet ye, actually. I talk about ye all the time and he’s gotten curious. Can give ye his number if ye want. And I dinnae wanna hear ‘bout anythin’ that happens, ye hear me?” 

He pulls out his phone and sends you Kyle’s contact. You text him immediately and he responds within minutes.

Johnny snaps his fingers to get your attention and you look up from your phone.

“Snap at me again and I’m biting your fingers off,” you snarl.

“Ye could try, hen. I’ll be back, gonna go get the food we ordered,” and you nod but then Johnny taps your head with his finger.

“And be nice to Gaz. He’s a good lad.” 

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Yes, da. I understand,” and he leaves.

The conversation between you and Kyle is light-hearted small talk until he sends a picture of himself wearing aviators— and you can see Ghost’s form in the background. Your rage comes back in full force.

You open snapchat and click on a filter that gives you cat ears and a collar with a bell— taking a photo of yourself holding up two fingers on Johnny’s couch, then press send.

Your phone vibrates and quickly look to see what Kyle said but it’s not him. It’s an unknown number.

You send pictures of yourself to all of Johnny’s friends?

His fucking nerve. The audacity. You grind your teeth and hold back the urge to throw your phone against the wall. 

Your nails clack angrily on your phone screen as you reply.

Worry about yourself and that little medic of yours.

A couple of minutes pass with no response until you get a phone call from the unknown number.

You answer the call with a sharp “What.” 

“That’s what this is about, pet? Ya mad at me so you throwin’ a tantrum?” he tauntingly chuckles. 

You might burst a vessel from the indignation of it all, so you do the only thing you can do. Hang up and block him.

Asshole.

You can’t wait to fuck Kyle and send Ghost the sex tape.

jokes on you, though cuz Ghost just gon show up at Johnny's flat sporting big dark hickeys on his neck lmao i hate him

@luminousbeings-crudematter

[theghostkingisdead]

when he's really tired, danny sometimes slips up and starts talking in ghost speak. the only ones who can understand him when he gets like this are tucker, sam, and jazz (because they're Liminal). of course, none of them realize this until danny slips up in public

Tucker hated English. The whole language was a confusing, contradictory mess. Honestly, the world would be a much better place if everyone just stopped talking and writing and only communicated using Timerio, preferably with several screens between them.

The blank word document stared back at him, mockingly. The sounds of his classmates typing away at their own projects – typing, normally his favorite sound in the world, how dare the project turn it against him! – filled the room. The clock in the corner of his screen told him they had twenty more minutes left in class; twenty more minutes until lunch, where he could at least enlist Sam’s help.

He wished she shared this period with him and Danny, but she was taking AP Lit this year. Tucker glanced over at his other best friend. His best friend, who was staring off into space, not even bothering to pretend to be focusing on the assignment.

Glancing up to make sure Mr. Lancer wasn’t looking, he risked asking, “Hey Danny, what are the odds of a ghost attack happening in the next thirty-five seconds or so?”

Danny barely moved, but Tucker watched him squint, like he was trying to read something far off and blurry.

“Pretty unlikely. Unless we’re still counting blob ghosts as threats.”

Somewhere in the background, the sound of typing stopped.

Tucker hummed, “yeah, that’s about what I figured.” That was ghosts for you, never there when you needed them, never gone when you didn’t. “What if you, ya know,” Tucker raised his eyebrows repeatedly, staring intently at his best friend.

“no.”

“Aw, come on!”

Danny rolled his eyes, leaning back into his chair. “Dude, if I attacked the school just to get out of the last quarter of English, I’d never hear the end of it from Sam and Jazz.”

Tucker opened his mouth, about to present the very reasonable argument that what Sam and Jazz didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, when he felt someone tap his shoulder. Turning around in his seat, he met the wide, terrified eyes of Star. She was glancing between Tucker and Danny, face pale.

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but uh…” Her voice trailed off, and in the pause Tucker was suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become.

Glancing around, he saw that everyone – including Lancer – was staring at him and Danny with varying levels of confusion and fear. Tucker considered himself to be pretty smart in most areas, maybe even a genius when it came to tech. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he’d missed something important.

Danny, the absolute dick, had slumped forward onto his desk. He was out cold. Dead to the world, and definitely not available for backup.

Kwan cleared his throat, and Tucker saw that his face was ashen.

“What are you two fucking talking about?”

[wraithdance]

Stray Dogs | GHOAP x Reader

Synopsis: You never had a problem with strays, but you should have been wary of the rabid dogs begging to be leashed.

Note: AFAB!Reader, No phys. description but reader has background story, no y/n use or gender terms for reader, Reader is LGBTQ (Bi/Pan) w/ Avoidant attachment issues. Content warning: Mature | domestic partner violence and harassment, avoidant attachment traits, mentions of sickness/vomiting, sexually explicit content, mentions of p in v sex, alcohol consumption/misuse & physical violence.

Chapter One: Soap Comes Over

Foxy won’t stop calling you.

The first attempt to reach you after the breakup started two weeks after dead silence. You’d been in the middle of a presentation at work when the phone rang. Thankfully you had the foresight to keep the ringer on silent, but you’d been checking your email when her contact lights up the screen. 

You freeze. 

“Do you need to get that?” Your boss Marc had interrupted the poor intern going over the quarter projections. His startling gray eyes bore into you as he looks down his nose. He raises a thick brow when you forget to answer, it’s mocking and layered. 

It pulls you out of your stupor long enough to put your cell on do not disturb. You flip the offending object face down on the table before giving Marc an apologetic half smile.

“No sir, sorry about that, it can wait.”

He looks at you for a beat longer than polite then signals the nervous intern to go on.

From the corner of your eye you can see your assistant Eric cutting eyes at you from beside you at the conference table. You meet his look head on with a deadpan expression of your own. It doesn’t deter him from mouthing ‘what the hell?’

You ignore him. 

It’s not like you had an answer yourself. You’d been dealing with the impending episode that came with a doomed relationship as best you could. So, you didn’t know why she was calling you when she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with you. Your mind was unfocused throughout the rest of the meeting. 

You accept the call that comes in when you’re walking to your office.

“Why wouldn’t you pick up the fucking phone?!” She screams into your ear as soon as the call connects. It makes you pause in your trek.

What the hell?

“Fox-" you clear your throat and cover the slip up. “Taylor, I’m at work. I can’t just pick up whenever, you called me during an important meet-”

She screams into the receiver loud enough you need to bring the speaker away from your ear. Margarita from accounting gives you a startled look as she passes, having heard.

Shit.

You flash your coworker a disarming smile and placing the phone at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“Hi Margs, are we still on for happy hour next week?” 

Margarita laughs, swatting you with the manila folder in her hand.

“Of course someone’s got to keep you from climbing onto the tabletops.” she winks.

That causes you to wince in embarrassment. The after effects of the impromptu tequila shot contest during the last happy hour had not been your finest moment. (You couldn’t turn down a double dog dare though, you weren’t a coward.)

“Okay, I’ll see you there Margs, I have to wrap up this call.” You return her retreating wave and press the phone back to your ear. 

You frown in confusion.

“Foxy?” A glance at the screen shows you that she’d hung up. Strange. You don’t have to wonder what happened for long before the texts start flooding in.

> you never fucking cared about me did you.

You know it’s meant to be a statement not a question. You’re typing a response when the next texts come in rapid succession. 

> How have you already moved on so soon??? you’re such a fucking bitch!! >I hate you >I HATE YOU

You’d barely made it to a restroom before vomiting. 

You meet your dead eyes in the executive bathroom mirror, rinsing cold water in your mouth and spitting into the ornate sink. Your mascara is smudged from the tears prickling the corner of your lashes. Worse is the full body shaking and gut churning panic that takes over your limbs.

Double shit.

You text Marc that you’d be working from home the rest of the day. He asks why and you cite a family emergency taking priority. You’re not sure if he believes you but you chance it nonetheless.

You answer Foxy’s calls the first days after. Reasoning with her on the validity of her claims of you never having cared for her is met with more screaming and hysterical crying on her end.

When you finally block her you’re riddled with guilt and anxiety so intense it zings through you. Foxy starts calling from an unknown number after that.

You spend the rest of the day in bed with your phone off. Your muscles hurt from staying in the fetal position, you’re sweating profusely under the comforter despite the freezing temperatures in your flat. It’s almost a blessing when you lose track of time and falter in and out of restless sleep.

Until Duckie calls your work phone when you don’t respond about her dinner thing to meet her new boyfriend. You’d done your best to skirt around the topic but your usually laissez-faire friend is irritated at your noncommittal answers. 

She snaps at you and you know it’s warranted. You’d already had a talk about pushing past your anxieties and being more forthcoming with her.

Still you panic and hang up on her.

This time you don’t make it to the bathroom when you’re suddenly sick. Your left leg is on fire where you’d landed on it in your hurry to get out of bed. You’re frantically scrubbing puke out of your good throw rug on the bathroom floor, waiting for Duckie to pick up your Video call.

Her ocean blue glasses fill up the screen before she sits back enough for you to see her scowling round face. You’re sobbing before she can say a word.

“She won’t stop fucking calling me!”

Duckie blinks in confusion, anger momentarily forgotten.

“What? Darling I can barely understand you, who won’t stop calling?”

“Foxy!” You cry out, “She’s called me 48 times since this morning, I haven’t slept through the night since last Thursday and there’s puke on my new rug!” 

Duckie comes over and helps you change your phone number. 

Your teeth chatter on the line with the overly cheery agent at your phone company. Duckie rubs soothing circles on your trembling back, a frown unnatural on her usually smiling face. It takes several hours of promises and consuming everything Duckie sets in front of you before she’s willing to leave you alone again.

“Darling, call me if anything else happens okay? I’m serious. I’m still pissed at you for not telling me she was harassing you like that. You really need to talk to me.”

You’d like to object to that.

The threads of self loathing already tighten around your body with the fact that you needed her support already. You don’t tell her that though. You kiss her cheeks and follow her to the door. Swearing you’d call her the second anything else happened and confirm the day you’d be free for dinner.

The second the door closes behind her the energy saps out of your body. You slink to the floor in your foyer in a boneless heap. 

Triple shit.

Foxy starts showing up to your house.

She hadn’t taken being ignored very well and had banged on your door, demanding you come out and speak to her.

You’d finally opened the door when your neighbor texted that they would be calling the police if you didn’t get her under control. Foxy launched at you the second you came into view.

Your cheek still sports from the slap she’d managed to half connect before you shifted your face. 

You’d managed to push her out of your home and lock the door to your apartment, dodging her clawed fingers as best you could. She kicked and screamed obscenities at the door while you’d called the police yourself. Unsurprisingly by the time the police showed up she’d gone. You write a report nonetheless.

After another week you’d been hopeful she’d gotten the hint and would leave you alone for good. Your sweet neighbor Mrs. Henderly had stopped you on the way to work whispering that a woman had been digging through your planter.

The planter where you kept your spare key.

Despite having the locks changed you’re still paranoid. It’s why you’re currently in a bar near your home, sipping on ginger ale and watching a fight break out.

After some thought you come to the conclusion that Johnny MacTavish is like a rooster. 

You watch him puff out his chest to strut around like the biggest cock in the yard in the overcrowded space. From where you’re sitting at the bar you can tell the restraint he has over his muscles, it’s in his carefully controlled motions and showy posturing. His choice of hair is just a laughable coincidence when you think about it.

If Duckie were here you’d know she’d agree with you.

She’d nervously giggle and make some terrible joke about wondering if he was overcompensating that you’d scoff at. Your gaze runs down the firm expanse of his broad shoulders in his blank t-shirt and his jean covered thighs. You take a sip of your drink and shudder. He was the size of a tank, it would be a cruel twist of fate for him to be a lousy fuck.

Still, watching him beat a man to a pulp with single minded focus makes you think of your grandfather's prized cock fighting rooster. The bird was the center of a terrible memory and you hadn’t thought about him or your late maternal grandfather in years. Until now, in the dingy bar nearly a decade later. 

Johnny circles his downed prey like a bloodthirsty game fowl, the drunken crowd jeers in excitement while a waitress screams for help stopping the brawl.

There’s a startling unhinged quality to Johnny’s eyes as he lays a succession of blows on the man who’d called you a cunt for denying his advances.

The drunk had been loud and getting more and more aggressive with you when you told him to leave you alone. You’d been at your breaking point preparing to smash your glass in his face when Johnny's right hook came out of nowhere to connect to the bastard's face.

Johnny's pupils are blown out and his smile bright as he takes fists and returns them with triple the fervor. Occasionally his glacial blue eyes bore into yours, making sure that you’re still watching. 

A knight, waging war in your honor. 

You’d never been a damsel before, it’s something you mull over as you watch the bartender and other patrons wrestle Johnny from atop the now unconscious man on the floor. 

You close your tab and follow where they manhandle him outside.

Johnny’s knuckles are raw and split. He doesn’t seem to notice or care as he takes out a cigarette and attempts to ignite it with a cheap lighter. When the blood from his knuckles causes his thumb to slip on the spark wheel he curses into the night. You step forward from your place just inside the bar door and he watches your approach with lidded interest.

Taking the lighter from his hands you wipe it on the side of your black jeans, before holding the lighter to his mouth.

He was definitely far from a knight, you think, observing him from under your lashes. He stares back openly without blinking as he puffs the cigarette to fire. His focus makes your heart beat thunderously in your chest.

“Do ye smoke?” He tilts the cigarette in an offer. You shake your head with a smile. 

“No, bad habit.”

He laughs, it’s humorless, layered with something more. “Ar’nt most things?” 

You make a noncommittal sound, not really caring to consider it. You’re content to watch him, watch you. It’s a game of chicken you’re used to playing with most men, testing their resolve. Johnny doesn’t flinch or look away and you like that.

The eye contact is broken by the sound of the bar door opening. The noise from inside spills out in the night as two men struggle to carry the limp form between them. The man Johnny pummeled into a pulp is barely conscious, stumbling on his unsteady feet. 

His head lolls to the side and you watch the eye that isn’t blackened widen when he takes in Johnny and you. 

‘Fockin’ bastard I’m gonna fockin’ kill ya!” He slurs out.

The man thrashes, kicking his feet and all in an attempt to escape the two hand carry. Johnny just laughs meanly puffing on the cigarette without a fuck to give. 

“I’m gonna fuck your slag too, see how she likes taking real cock you Irish fuck!”

The crazed look in Johnny's eyes is back as he flicks the still smoking cigarette into the bushes.

“Ya mam is the only one who wants a turn on yer howlin’ cock!” Johnny barks out darkly “c’mere I’ll black your other eye for ya, ye fuckin’ bawbag!”

You’re smiling when you place a hand on his chest stopping him from charging forward. 

No, he’s definitely not a knight at all.

But you won’t be satisfied until you’ve ridden his cock nonetheless.

He sees it in your expression when he looks at you. A muscle in his jaw jumps when his eyes dart between your parted mouth and the man who’d insulted you both, weighing out the desire to war or kiss it better. 

You know he chooses the latter when he cups a hand on the back of your neck, tilting your head back to force your face close to his. 

“What’s yer name hen?”

You tell him. He gives you his (you know it, you’ve been watching him at the bar since you'd come in.) He tells you to call him Soap if you want, you raise a brow at that but shrug. It wasn’t your business you’ll never see him again after tonight.

“Okay, my place or yours?”

You have to pass the bruised and drunken man to get to the path of your apartment. Despite his previous bravado he flinches when Johnny crowds him, silently daring him to say a word. 

“I’m nae Irish, I’m Scottish ya daft fucker. I see ya even pissin’ distance near here again and I’ll put ye down like a fuckin’ dog.” 

One of the other men puts a hand out to Johnny's chest to put some distance between the two. Johnny brushes it off with a sneer but takes the hand you offer him. He follows you silently through the darkened night and you laugh to yourself.

Definitely not a knight at all.

Johnny takes up space in your apartment like he pays bills in it. His big legs spread out on the couch, one hand tapping rhythmically on his bouncing thigh while the other holds your remote with your floral throw pillow tucked under his arm. He's clicking through channels with half attention.

Your mouth twitches when he lands on Planet Earth with a grunt. While he’s engrossed in the mating instincts of primates you top off your drinks with ice, juice for you and leftover wine for Johnny.

He pulls you into his lap when you go to hand him his cup, you allow it with a breathy laugh. Johnny takes a sip of the red wine before wrinkling his nose and taking a sniff of your cup instead.

“Are ye trying to get me drunk bonnie? Why’re ye nae drinking too?”

“I don't drink anymore.” you reply with a shrug that’s meant to be unceremonious.

You hadn’t had a drink since Duckie threatened you with an intervention after finding you blacked out one too many days in a row. Your breakup with your ex-girlfriend had opened up old wounds already, but the constant harassment stressed you out enough. 

Regrettably, you’d exhausted all of your therapy options, so drinking was the only thing you could think of to self medicate. Now, you didn’t have anything harder than a mocktail. Simple as that. 

“Here we can share mine.”

You take quick sips of your juice and hand the cup to Johnny, taking his mug in hand and placing it on the coffee table. He thanks you and gulps some down and passing the cup back to you. This goes on for a while until the cup is empty. Johnny palms your ass through your jeans when you set the empty glass aside. You roll your hips against his crotch slowly, bracing your hands on his knees to rock and swirl into his hardening cock with added pressure.

He groans and slides his big palms up to your waist gripping tight and thrusting up into your covered core. 

“Och, hen keep movin’ like that and I’ll give ye somethin’ to sit on.” You snort out a laugh. 

That’s the point. 

You look at the time displayed on the screensaver of the television. It was 3am on a Saturday. Which means you had about seven hours until your support group and the rest of the day to prepare for Duckie’s ‘meet the man’ dinner. So, technically you had less than 2 hours to milk Johnny of all the cum in his body and send him on his way so you could sleep.  

Tight turn around but you’ve worked with less.

With that in mind you climb out of Johnny’s lap standing in front of him, ignoring his protests. He doesn’t pout for long as he watches you lift your shirt and toss it aside. His blue eyes glaze over with want as you reach for the buttons of your jeans and slide them down your thighs along with your panties. He makes a guttural noise between a groan and a curse when you unhook your bra last, dropping it to the floor beside you.

The poor man is conflicted between looking between your legs at your soaked thighs and making eyes at your hardening nipples with the cute jewelry that decorates them. He finally settles on palming his cock under his pants and reaching out to palm your belly moving to cup your cunt. You stop him, tapping your foot against his shoe (which makes you scrunch your nose up, he should have taken them off at the door.)

“Pretty boy, eyes up here and take your clothes off.”

Leaning back on the couch, Johnny scoffs with petulant indignation, “Ye dinnae have to sweeten me up just to ask to see my prick hen.”

That gets you laughing outright, “Not trying to sweeten you up, you are very pretty, baby.”

You reach over to card your fingers through his short mohawk and down the sides, scratching his scalp as you go. “Besides, If you didn’t want me to see your ‘prick’ you wouldn’t be here now would you?” 

Johnny’s ears turn flame red as he leans back to accept more of your gentle stroking, his dark lashes flutter concealing the vibrant blue of his eyes from view. It’s cute. You’d been so sure he’d be the type to preen under compliments but his boyish embarrassment and openness is refreshing. 

“C’mere bonnie thing let me get a look at ye.”

You aren’t expecting it when he wraps his big hands around the curve of your ass, swinging your body down to the couch beneath him in seconds.

Your muscles lock up under the sudden shift and the feel of his heavy mass pressed against your body. His arms cage around your head and his face is close for you to smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and his cologne. It brings memories of another time and place you fight to keep buried. 

The effort makes your stomach churn violently.

Your hands press against the wall of Johnny’s chest frantically pushing him back, struggling to stay calm. Johnny sees the unconcealed panic on your face and the shallow breaths you take in. He immediately lifts off to lean back on his haunches on the couch cushions, giving you space. Still, you scoot as far back as you can to the other end of the couch to try and steady your racing heartbeat. The sudden whiplash of memories and fear makes you light headed.

“Lass are ye a’right?"

You blink trying to clear the sudden brain fog.

A wide eyes Johnny rubs soothing hands on the sides of your calves watching your face for any sign of discomfort. Your throat is tight and you miss the opportunity to answer him in a timely fashion. It causes him to reach a hand up to your face which you flinch from, his dark brows furrow. The sudden concern in his expression makes the palms of your hand sweat in discomfort.

Fuck.

“Are ye a’right?” Johnny asks again, this time not allowing you to back away from his touch. His calloused hands leave warmth in their wake as he rubs down your arm.

“Yes I’m sorry, I’m good.” You wave him off not looking at him directly. “I just prefer to be on top. I should have said something earlier.”

“Hen are ye sure? Ye look like ye were having a momen- creepin’ Jesus!” Johnny jerks when you dart forward to reach inside his pants and stroke his softening cock back to life.

You didn’t have time for him to ask daunting  questions that would freak you out to answer. You had approximately -you glance at the clock- an hour and sixteen minutes to ride this pony and put him out to pasture. 

You were on a mission so you bring out the big guns.

“I’m good Johnny, I just got a little overwhelmed, I promise. I still want you if you want me.” You pout, pumping his rigid cock with one hand and trailing a manicured finger down his bicep with the other (why the hell they were so large, only the universe knows). The angle is a bit awkward but it successfully overwhelms his senses by the way his breathing catches.

You’re able to shimmy on to your knees to press  chaste kisses along his jawline and throat, watching his eyes cloud over completely.

“You still want me Johnny?” You whisper in his ear.

Johnny answers your teasing by grasping the back of your neck and pressing your mouth open with a demanding kiss. His tongue tastes sweet with the remnants of the juice, he shudders when you suck on his tongue pulling back and forth like you were taking his cock. He groans deep and loud in your mouth when you squeeze the base of his cock in a tight grip.

“Fuck- aye I want ye hen, 

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

You try not to smile when he pushes you back to hurry and discard his clothing in record time. He was pretty everywhere it seemed. Down to the thick patch of dark hair on his belly that transitioned to his trimmed pubes. His tanned body is riddled with scars that add to the roguish appeal that caught your eyes in the bar.

You let out an appreciative sound when his cock finally comes into view. He was girthy and uncut, the veins along his shaft prominent in a way that made your mouth water. The head leaked pre-cum out of the pinked tip like a faucet. 

“Ye like what you see I ken?” Johnny smiles wolfishly, showing teeth.

“Yeah,” you snort, “that’s not even a question, I like it a lot.”

He stops you from reaching for him again with a hand to your wrist. His eyes are searching and you know he’s going to ask if you were lying about being okay, so you beat him to the punch.

“I’m okay, I swear I just panicked a little, it's no big deal. If you want to make it up to me you can give me a kiss right here.” You take his hand and guide it to your drenched cunt, spreading his fingers to glide through the slick from your entrance to your clit, as you roll your hips.

‘Fuck’ you both whisper in tandem. Johnny doesn’t waste another minute and pushes you back against the couch, diving to lap at your folds with a flat tongue.

Your head lays back on the arm of the couch and you sigh. Another look at the clock shows you have at least a full hour left. It’s not ideal, but you think you can work with it. With that in mind you stroke Johnny’s head in encouragement, whispering how good he made you feel and gasping at the sensations pulsating through you.

Finally, the muscles that had been taut for weeks relaxed. This was good. You’ll get the itch scratched after an orgasm or two and blissfully slumbering in no time.

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[troublesomesnitch]

Phonesex with Aemond

Modern!Aemond x Reader

Modern AU - Aemond calls you after the dinner fight, and you cheer him up in the best way you can.

Contents: some quick smut. New relationship, mentions of oral sex, p in v sex and brief anal exploration (f receiving).

Warnings: brief mention of terminal illness.

Words: 3300

Thank you @arcielee for test-reading, tidying and generally helping out with this little experimental fic!

It has been six days since Aemond kissed you goodbye and shoved his skis and his snow gear and his aluminium suitcase into the back of a taxi. Six days, and you haven't heard from him since, not a single message, and no indication that he's read yours either. Six days, and the farewell kiss was just a sterile peck on the side of your mouth, because the driver was watching, and Aemond was in a foul mood already.

You suppose the thought of two weeks with one's extended family can do that to a person. And especially when one's family is as messy as Aemond's.

They're in the tabloids sometimes, Aegon with a model on his arm, Rhaenyra spotted topless in Ibiza, Viserys leaving the hospital looking more dead than alive. Old money, and every bit the stereotype too, with their luncheons and country estates and public feuds over inheritance. And the incident, of course. But Aemond never talks about that.

The family trip is solely his father's idea. Or, his father's command, really. His final wish; that they should all spend one last Christmas together at the chalet, eating venison and going cross-country skiing and whatever else rich people do on their alpine retreats. It is all very Town & Country, so far removed from anything you know. They have a coat of arms, for fucks sake, and Aemond wears it engraved on the back of his watch; on the cufflinks that sit in a velvet box atop his dresser. For special occasions, and you'd be lying if you said the thought had never crossed your mind: Aemond in coat and tie and cufflinks, yourself decked out in white and his mother's antique veil. Champagne fountain and monogrammed napkins and an article in Vogue Weddings. Double spread.

But you're getting way ahead of yourself. You have only been seeing each other for about three months, and it is still very new and foreign. Terrifying as well, and your heart leaps to your throat when your phone starts ringing and Aemond's name lights up on the screen.

Six days, and it's a quarter to midnight now, so that almost makes it seven.

"Hey," he says softly. "Did I wake you?"

"No!“ you exclaim, a little too excitedly despite your efforts to sound casual. “I was just watching something. How's St. Moritz?"

"Fine," he says, but it doesn't sound at all convincing, and there's a faint sound in the background. Like a scraping noise, and you imagine that he's picking at his cuticles; at the little chips in his nails.

"Aemond," you call, somewhat alarmed by the silence. "Is everything okay?"

The scraping gets louder before it finally stops and Aemond says sort of.

There was a fight at supper, apparently. An actual fight, with punching and shoving and everything. Straight out of Real Housewives, only even more insane, and Aemond started it, because of course he did. And all because of a stupid joke his nephew made.

"Isn't he like, fourteen?" you ask, and Aemond sighs on the other end of the line.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Something like that".

Jesus.

You are tempted to ask him why he would do such a thing, but you kind of already know. Because of his father, because of his sister, because of the incident. Because Viserys would rather dote on his grandsons than his own children, and because Aemond has chronic pains, and the prosthetic gets itchy, and he dented his car when he couldn't see how close that concrete pillar actually was.

And probably also because he doesn't hold his liquor very well.

"Aemond, you're a grown man," you begin, and your voice is kind and gentle, but you can almost hear how he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, I understand why you'd be upse - angry, but like. He's a child."

"I know," he sighs, shuffling around with something. "I shouldn't have done it.”  

There's the click of a lighter and then a deep exhale as he blows out smoke, and it reminds you of when you first met. You used to watch Aemond all the time before you worked up the courage to talk to him. He would lean so leisurely against the wall, cigarette in hand and that haughty smirk on his lips; leather jacket, black jeans, hair artfully tousled and tied back. Tall and handsome and just so fucking cool.

"Thought you quit," you tease, and it sounds a little chiding, but it isn't meant like that.

"I did," Aemond says. "I got this one from my uncle - it would have been rude to decline.”

He is quiet then, but it's a sort of contemplative silence. Like somehow you can feel there is more.

"It pisses me off," he finally says. "This whole charade - it's exhausting.”

Yes, you think. It must be. All of his family trapped under the same roof, forced to confront so many painful memories, yet act as though none of it ever happened. Smile and laugh and play house, and all so Viserys Targaryen can pretend he was a better man. Go to his grave with the comfortable illusion that he did not create the rift that tore his family apart.

If Aemond was with you right now, you would wrap your arms around him and kiss his face and his lovely hands, but all you can do at this moment is give a weak yeah, I understand.

"It has been the most miserable week," he moans. "Although - Aegon did fall off a lift today. He's fine, it was just a T-bar. But that was fun."

You giggle. "Oh, poor Aegon.”

"It was his own fault," Aemond snorts. "He had Jägerbombs for lunch. Anyway - " he clears his throat, back to the brooding mood and somber voice. "I'm sorry I called you so late. And for not being in touch. And for... everything else.”

"It's fine," you shrug. "I don't mind. But, Aemond - " you pause, thinking of how best to word the next part, "I think you should at least consider apologising to -"

"No." he cuts in. "Absolutely not.”

There's an awkward silence then, and you worry you might have overstepped your boundaries. He is so difficult to read sometimes, so elusive. You never quite know what he needs from you, sympathy, or flattery, or reassurance, or nothing at all.

You can, however, think of a way to distract him from his brooding. And maybe sex isn't the healthiest way to cope with one's issues, but still. It is miles better than beating up family members.

You twirl a lock of hair around your finger, even though he can’t see it. "What are you doing right now? Are you alone?"

“Yes,“ he says, curious. “Why?”

"What are you wearing?"

"Same thing I always wear," he responds, but then his voice turns coy and teasing, and he asks "what are you wearing?"

You look down at your fuzzy socks, your faded shorts, the worn-out knickers underneath.

"Honestly? Not anything nice."

Aemond laughs, a real laugh this time, and then he tells you just make something up.

The first thing that comes to your mind is that dress you saw the other day. Aemond would like it. He is not into extravagant lingerie and things like that, always likes it best when you are just you. Dry patches on your lips, bruises on your legs and all. Natural. 

But he is still a man though. So, not too natural.

"I'm wearing - I'm wearing a little slip. Silk, and it's the prettiest colour. It is soft to the touch," - you run a finger up your thigh, imagining it - "and it is very short. My legs are out and everything. And my tits look so good in it.”

"They always do," Aemond says, and he sounds a little husky when he asks what is underneath?

"Those panties you liked last time. With the little bows on them?"

"Yeah," he breathes. "I remember.”

"Good. Just the panties, and nothing else. And the dress is so thin - it feels like nothing when you touch it."

You lay back on top of your bed, your hand working its way down the waistband of your sleeping shorts, phone pressed to your ear. 

"I want to touch you," Aemond sighs, voice all soft and gentle. "I want to feel your body against mine.”

You blush. He is quite the romantic sometimes. Jesus, Aemond is so out of your league. You can hardly believe he'd even look in your direction, let alone kiss you and hold you and let you sleep with your head on his chest.

"Aemond" you whisper, slowly stroking your between your legs. "I'm getting all wet. All wet for you".

His breath hitches, and there's a faint oh, followed by the rustling of fabric as he palms himself over his pants. Lowering his voice and breathing touch yourself.

"I already am" you purr. "I wish it was you, though. Wish you could feel how much I want you."

Aemond says fuck, he wishes that too. You're getting him so hard. So hard just thinking about your pretty cunt.

"I'd like to suck your cock" you sigh longingly, and he immediately responds with a sharp breath that makes warmth spread in your stomach.

"Wait -" he mutters. "Hang on".

You hear the metallic clink of his belt, the sound of his zipper, and you bite your lip thinking about what he's doing. Taking his stiff cock in hand, brushing slender fingers along the shaft, running a thumb over the tip to collect the little drops that have already leaked from it. He has the prettiest cock, long and thick and veiny. Uncut, and blushing red at the tip when you slide his foreskin back. 

How you wish you could feel it in your mouth.

"Tell me how you'd do it" Aemond pleads, and there's a slight strain in his voice that suits it so well. 

"I'll start out slow," you whisper, "with just my tongue and my hand. Get your cock big and hard before I take you in my mouth. And then I'll wrap my lips around the head, and I'll press my tongue against the little slit there. And - and I’ll lick the tip of your cock until you’re begging me for more.”

He sighs, and you can hear how his hand settles into a steady rhythm, up and down over his hard cock. Filthy. 

You close your eyes and continue.

"I'd take you so deep, all the way to the back of my throat. And I would tease you - I'd be real fucking mean. I want you leaking in my mouth, all needy and desperate for me. Like, so you can barely hold it back anymore. You'd be ready to explode.”

"Don't stop - " he pants, still keeping up the stroking, pausing just briefly to spit into his hand.

"I'll edge you before I let you come. So many times, you'll be desperate for release. I want your balls so tight and heavy - all tender from how much you need to come - ”

Aemond moans, and he's stroking himself faster, tugging and tugging and filling his bedroom with damp, lewd noises. You know how he likes it; firm grip when he moves up, slack going back down, slight twist at the tip.

"And then?"

"I'd let you come in my mouth."

"No," he breathes. "I want to come inside of you.”

You give a little giggle; he always wants that. Occasionally he’ll finish all over your breasts, or in your mouth, but mostly he likes it the old fashioned way. Your bodies molded together and his cock pulsing deep inside of you. Pressing his forehead to yours or moaning into the back of neck. 

You like that too - but there are other things you might like to try as well. 

"You should come on my panties," you say coyly. "Like, inside them. And then I'd wear them all day, and just walk around with your cum between my legs.”

Aemond groans again, loudly, hoarse and strained and so fucking hot.

"You'd like that?" you tease. "I would feel it there all day. All wet and warm in my little panties. Right against my cunt."

"Fuck," he moans. "Fuck - I'd like that so much."

The sounds of his tugging get louder and faster, and you picture him laid out on his bed, cock throbbing in his hand, hips thrusting up and up into his own grip. Lone eye closed and mouth falling open. 

He lets out a soft moan, and a whine - and then the stroking abruptly stops. Close call, that one. Aemond curses, and you can hear him taking deep breaths, calming his body, halting the mounting need to ejaculate. Too soon.

“Can't wait to have you,” he mutters, and you give a quiet hum in response. 

“Please tell me how.”

He takes a slow, steadying breath.

"I want to be on top of you" he whispers, low, so no one will hear.  "Don't care if you're on your back or what, as long as you're underneath me".

"I'd be on my stomach. You can fuck me from behind".

“Yes,” he sighs. “I want to put my cock so deep inside you. I want you to feel how hard you make me. And I'll pin you down - I'll hold you in place when I take you" - his voice goes all ragged as he starts to slowly stroke his cock again - "fuck you're so beautiful when you're under me."

You mewl, and Aemond’s breath hitches.

“Yeah, and I'll fuck you slow, but hard. I want you squirming on my cock…”  he trails off, and for a moment there is only the sound of heavy breathing, his and yours. 

You had paused your own ministrations before, too focused on finding the right words, but now you begin your gentle stroking again. Underneath your knickers, fingers massaging right over your clit, so good that you let out a little whimper. 

“I love feeling you inside of me” you breathe, “I love it when you lie on top of me - ”

“Yeah?” He gasps, and you bite your lip. 

“Yeah. And I love it when you touch my - ass. Oh It feels so good when you touch me like that…”

Just saying it makes you a little flustered. You would not consider yourself very prudish, but there are some things that make you feel bashful, and this is one of them, the things he does to your backside when you’re together. And Aemond knows, and maybe that makes it even more arousing for him, the filthiness of it, the taboo. 

“How” he moans, his tone urgent and so incredibly intimate. “How do you want me to touch you -”

You have to take a very deep breath before you continue - you feel so sheepish, talking about that, but you are a woman in love, so for Aemond you’ll do your best. 

“I want you to slide your hand down my back and in between my cheeks,” you whisper, blushing all over. “It makes me so wet… feels so good when you caress me there - when you brush your fingers right over my tight little hole while you’re fucking me - maybe next time I’ll let you slip one inside…“

Aemond gives a strangled groan at that, quickening his strokes and hissing oh fuck. He is so close now, you can hear it. 

“Say my name” he begs, breathing so fast and tugging frantically on his cock. All hard and swollen now, his hips thrusting up, his balls pulling tight; oh you can imagine it so easily. 

“Aemond” you whisper. “Aemond, my love” - he moans louder, strokes harder - Aemond, I want you to fuck me, I want to feel your big, hard cock - 

Aemond chokes out a sob, and you say his name one last time as he reaches his peak. 

He holds back when he comes, muffling the helpless groans and grunts that you always love so much. But you can hear his strained sighs, his ragged breaths, and the sound is only slightly distorted through the speaker. If you close your eyes it's like he's there with you, gasping right in your ear. 

Oh you can’t wait to see him again, to get to touch him, cuddle up to him at night and run your finger down the perfect angle of his nose.

"You didn't come," Aemond says, accusingly, and you hold back a chuckle because he doesn't like it when you laugh at him. But it is as amusing as it is sweet, this need of his to do everything to perfection. Like if every time he is intimate with you isn't the BEST sex of your life, then he has failed as a lover; as a man.

“I did it on purpose” you reassure. “I'm saving it for you. All for you. Only for you.”

Aemond gives a somewhat dissatisfied hum, but he is occupied with something else now, moving around and fiddling with things. Cleaning himself up, you suppose. If only you were there to do it for him, you'd lick his cum right off his skin.

There is a loud noise in the background all of a sudden, someone knocking on Aemond’s door, and he scrambles to make himself presentable and tells you to hang on. The sounds are muffled - you assume he is covering the microphone - but you can hear another man's voice, and Aemond saying yes, I'll be right down, and then just fuck off, will you when the intruder won't take a hint.

"Sorry about that," he says awkwardly. "Aegon wants to go out. I should go with him".

You giggle at the thought - it is difficult to imagine Aemond at one of those tacky aprés-ski bars, glow stick and vodka-cranberry in hand. “Sounds fun!”

"Yeah, well, my mother would want me to,” he says sullenly. "You know, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.”

"What's the age of consent in Switzerland?" you jest, but Aemond just gives an exasperated sigh and mutters too bloody low.

You pause, unsure of what to say next, and again there's that loaded silence until he clears his throat.

"I will tell them about you. My family - I'll tell them soon. I promise.”

You can feel heat rising in your cheeks. 

Aemond purposely keeps you far away from his family, and he’ll go to great lengths to avoid running into them when you’re together. In fact he prefers not to go out at all, and you have never questioned it or complained. He’s got you hook, line and sinker - could tell you right to your face that he was embarrassed to be seen with you, and you would still be at his beck and call. 

You shrug. “It's fine. Don't worry about it. You don't have to tell them. It's fine.”

“No it isn't,” he says gravely. “You're important to me. So I should treat you as such.”

He says something else after that too, but you aren't listening, still stuck on the words you just heard. You're important to me. You're important.

It makes your heart leap with joy, and you are only pulled back to reality when Aemond calls out your name, and then sweetheart?

He doesn't call you that very often. It is always so nice when he does.

“Sorry” you blush. “I zoned out. But - I've missed you. I miss you. It's nice to hear your voice again.”

There's no way to tell, but somehow you feel like Aemond is smiling.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yours too.”

You tell him to have fun with Aegon and whatever horrid establishment they end up at, and Aemond tells you goodnight and says he'll call you as soon as he's back home. He doesn't say he misses you too, but that's okay. You know he does.

Because you're important.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Miguel’s Reaction to You Taking Him to Watch The Barbie Movie

Warnings: Mainly Just Miguel Being Defensive, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miguel Secretly Being a Barbie Girl, No Pronouns Used for Reader Except ‘You’.

Miguel loves you. So, so much. And he would move Heaven and Earth to ensure even an ounce of your happiness.

However, he is 100% convinced that this excursion, this ‘girls’ day out’, will be anything more than a mind-numbing jaunt to the cinema.

At first.

He can’t deny that his heart sank and all enthusiasm he held for your date drained from his body the second you said the words ‘Barbie’ and ‘Movie’ in the same sentence.

But alas, he swallowed his dismay and took you out, plastering on a thin smile while he thought of a million and one things you could both be doing besides watching this masterclass in colour theory.

Sat beside you, packed in on either side by yourself and the many other attendees, waiting for the film to begin, Miguel can feel his patience trying to escape, trying to convince him to run, to get out while you still can!

Because of his heightened senses, he can hear every single word passing between the crowd. And with every mention of “Pink”, “Ryan Gosling,” and “Margot Robbie!” he can feel his mind numb.

The film starts. And for you, sending a watery smile your way, while your eyes sparkle with nostalgic wonder, he endures.

Five minutes in, Miguel is assaulted by pink. The very essence of the colour and all its vibrancy sends hot pink pain through his skull, his senses raw.

Quietly, he slips his sunglasses on.

This is going to be a long movie.

And, for the first quarter of the film, Miguel held that notion. Near and dear as if it were the antidote to the current situation.

Then, halfway in, the story started to intrigue him.

The colour scheme is…tolerable now. Even pleasing to the eye in some scenes.

And, dare he say, Miguel found the music to be catchy.

Two thirds in and he’s sat forward in his seat, hands clasped and his lips resting atop them. Not that you can see, but his eyes are blown wide, his mind arace with possible outcomes.

By the end of the film, Miguel’s holding your hand, forehead pressed to your shoulder, a single, silent tear illustrating his cheek.

“Miggy?” you say, leaning over to try and see his face. You recognised the singular jutting of his shoulders immediately. And, with a smile teetering on the edges of your lips, you try to console him.

“Mig–”

“S’nothing. M’fine,” His cut-off is blunt and non-negotiable. You drop the subject and escort him from the screening by his arm, the music bright as the credits roll. The dimness of the room gives way to light, gradually, slowly. The streak of Miguel’s tear glistens.

Miguel’s visceral reaction to Barbie’s movie doesn’t stop when you get home, by the way.

It actually gets worse.

If you’re lucky, you can catch Miguel reading articles on his phone, an unmistakably pink banner and the title of ‘Top 10 Things You Missed in The Barbie Movie!’ leaving little to the imagination.

Confronting him about it will lead you nowhere. Miguel will sooner shove his phone up his ass and pretend it never existed than admit that he is indeed curious as to what happened to that one background character who fell off a cliff in that one scene. Is she okay? Does anybody know where she is? Does her family know?

The fact that you find his curiosity (empathy) endearing, ‘Aww’ing at him and pinching his cheeks, makes him ever the more secretive.

Just about secretive enough to keep his volume to a minimum when he’s singing; tunes which you know are from the soundtrack.

“I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world~”

“Babe, what was th–”

“Nothing.” He’s blunt, but there is haste to his tone. Shame, even.

Occasionally, you’ll see him eyeing up Barbie-themed merch when you’re out shopping. But he never makes a move to purchase any. Not for himself, anyway.

He’ll buy you said merch – anything that catches your eye, your fancy. Even if it is a shirt ten sizes too big.

“Babe,” you say, pinching the shirt up at your shoulders, the fabric in enough excess to cause the neck to expose most of your chest. “I may be wrong here, but I’m fairly certain only you would be able to fit in this shirt.”

“Oh, well, guess I’ll just have to take it off your hands, then,” he says, his elation barely concealed behind his faux-disappointment. As if him doing so is a chore – that he’s doing you the favour by taking the garment whose shoulders could only fit his insane proportions.

Please just buy him the merch. Any shame he may feel upon initially receiving it will fade when he realises – when you reinforce – how his liking of Barbie is “Adorable, yes. But uplifting; it’s so relieving to see that you’ve found something you actually like that isn’t to do with the Spiderverse!”

“It’s actually called the–”

“Yeah, I don’t care, Babe.”

His favourite present you ever got him was a brightly-coloured exercise suit Barbie and Ken wore in the movie. He had to turn away, the fabric neon in his periphery, tears filling his eyes and balling in his throat when he saw that you’d bought a matching one.

“So we can fight crime in style!”

Miguel’s watery smile twitched, faltered. His Brow furrowed.

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” he said. “You don’t think my suit’s fashionable?”

The way your face drained was enough to spark laughter in Miguel’s chest. His only line of defence against the tears that pricked his throat, played him like an instrument, with you as the orchestra’s master.

While he can’t wear the suit out on superhero duty, he does keep the headband on beneath the suit.

A reminder of you when he’s throwing himself at every threat, every monster, every evil, the band a halo hugged to his skin; a slim substitute for your warm touch, your scent, but a reminder all the same.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[kookidough]

analysing vance hopper because he lives in my head 24/7 !

tw for like. literally everything the black phone covers!!!!!!

also there's some special effects gore rather far down in the post idk just i feel like i should warn you just in case

okay so before anyones like "but bee!!!! he only had 6 minutes of screen time in a 102 minute long movie!!!!! he was only on screen for 5.8% of the movie!!!!!" and to that i say i Know it was a real tragedy so a lot of this will be built on personal interpretation and subtext and stuff said behind the scenes and whatnot

so firstly i wanna rot about what his childhood/upbringing might've been like..... i havent quite decided on something definitive but i think we can take one look at his character and realise that is glaringly obvious he had a bad childhood, in one interview the actor that plays him (brady hepner) says "the background i had set up for vance is that the reason he was the way he was is his home life was fairly difficult, you know maybe his dad was either not there for him or he wasn't supportive, maybe he was fairly abusive, and so that creates a hair trigger sense of rage in vance" hair trigger meaning his patience is literally as thin as a strand of hair it does Not take a lot for him to snap

there more to it after that which i'll get into soon but yea thats the gist of it it's clear he had absent/neglectful/abusive parents and that would certainly contribute to why he's so angry all the time, maybe acting so explosive was the only way to get his parents' attention, either good or bad, so he just internalised that. obviously rage and anger issues like vance's lead to violence (not in all cases but in his case it does) and i think a neglectful and abusive upbringing would obviously expose him to more violence than a normal childhood would, therefore normalising it and desensitising him to it, whether he's seeing it play out in his own home and/or on television or something like that (because i doubt his parents would be the kind to monitor what content he's viewing)

i feel like he has little control over his life and that only adds to his anger, which in his case leads to a fight when his buttons are pushed too many times. i think he probably takes great pride in being the toughest in town and whatnot and winning fights and being perceived as strong and scary is good to him and helps him regain control/power, something he doesnt have at home. the rest of the quote from the interview i mentioned earlier states "this pinball machine could have been the only thing that he has in his heart that's like, good, like 'holy cow i did this, i set the score,' so when someone comes along and messes it up for him, it takes away the only thing that he has. i think that that's when he switches to a 'now you're gonna pay for that'"

similar to what i said about fighting, the pinball machine and his high score is something he has control over and its an important part of his reputation/image like. hes literally pinball vance ! and the whole thing about that high score being the "only thing he has in his heart that's good" implies that hes. well. pretty shit at everything else, which is pretty much canon if you remember that gwen said vance was held back twice in school. makes me think that while he's not the brightest in school he's certainly street smart

moving onto ermmmmm him getting kidnapped era because im sure youre wondering "well bee if he's so street smart then why did he get kidnapped" so may i raise two theories (this is. literally all i got and its not even concrete, me and my friend gray (@staggersz) tried to figure out how this could even happen and this is the most plausible thing we've got. so shoutout to him real quick he has had to deal with me being unnormal about vance for like a year and a half thanks king couldnt have done all this without my rotting buddy)

so either he got taken by surprise (most likely option) or vance's trust was gained first via getting given quarters at the pinball machine and small talk and shit like that but this is unlikely because i feel like it'd take a loooooong time for someone like vance to trust a some random stranger adult man when he clearly has issues with trusting and respecting people older than him and people with authority (e.g. cops, his parents, or school officials) so yea being taken by surprise would probably be the most realistic option, i always see people on tiktok being like "how did the grabber kidnap vance hes so strong!!!!" dude its a 15 year old boy against like. a 45 year old man who's already claimed two lives its really not gonna be a fair fight here

before i get into the next part i wanna quickly address a theory i absolutely Hate and it is so easily disproven and that is the theory that vance is the grabber's son or is related to him in some other way and i see it Far too often on tiktok and i HATE it. from what ive seen this all stems from his dream sequence where he kicks open the fence to albert's house and, presumably, goes inside after being dropped off by the police after the grab n go fight. idk if some people just straight up didnt realise this but clearly in real life he is going to his Own House??? in the dream it's only albert's house because this is how he chooses to show gwen the house she's trying to find her brother in, the house that he himself was killed in??? i hate the theory i hate it sm

the dream sequence itself is interesting though as the ghosts seem to only be able to conjure up what theyve seen in real life (like how bruce can picture the outside of the house and show that to gwen but the house number is all flipped and not right beause he doesnt know it) so vance being able to picture the house and the number and the gate and every detail would imply that hes seen it before, but im going to explain that away as either he got out once before like with finney's failed escape attempt, or the house is most likely on the route he walks to school or the grab n go or something and he hasnt actually been there prior to being kidnapped

mini rant over now onto being kidnapped i guess, so i used the missing posters to try and estimate a timeline of how long each ghost boy would've been in the basement for (although the missing posters are notoriously unreliable for details such as looks/height/age/etc, the dates seem to all line up). so we know the order is griffin, billy, vance, bruce, robin, finney, right?? if we use the poster date then billy was taken on may 4th, 1976, a month and two days after griffin was taken (april 2nd 1976). vance was taken on september 23rd 1977, almost a full year later (stay with me im going somewhere with this), and after that bruce was taken on july 18th 1978, again almost a full year later

its established in the movie that the grabber stalks his victims before he takes them (canon because we literally see the van watching finney and gwen as they walk home from school early on in the movie) but we dont know how long he does this for since griffin/billy and robin/finney were taken such short distances apart and then the others were taken such long distances apart, also it's possible he could stalk his next victim while the previous one is still alive, etc etc lots of confusing factors, but if i've done the maths right then the absolute maximum time vance could've spent down there is 9 months and 25 days, or 298 days, so erm . let that sink in !

howeverrrr in the movie gwen states that vance went missing "last spring" and september is definitely not in spring, meaning he could've been down there for a year or even longer. an explanation or excuse i could think of for the movie and the missing poster saying different things (other than the missing posters being known for some areas being wildly inaccurate) is that maybe he was taken in spring but wasnt labelled as officially missing until september, when he was properly linked to griffin and billy's similar disappearances and the mysterious grabber? i can imagine it'd be very easy for law enforcement, especially in the 70s, to dismiss someone like vance as a runaway until they get solid evidence that he was taken. idk though thats just my personal excuse / angsty headcanon for the difference in information

not sure what exactly killed him but we do hear from vance himself that "he took his time with me" so it was probably blood loss from a variety of injuries, if we look at him in his ghost scenes we can see his hair is absolutely covered in blood which indicates head injury, he clearly has a broken nose and bruising around his eyes as a result of it, he has these deep cuts on his abdomen area (apologies for the image quality but i believe they're like. sfx pieces you would wear under clothing)

and he also has just like. minor bruising (like the fingerprints on his arm) and other random blood splatters on his face and neck (assuming the blood down his neck comes from wherever he was bleeding on his head) so Yeah overall very unpleasant way to die obviously

okay now the part thats actually in the movie and it only took me 13 paragraphs to get here: vance as a ghost!! first thing i wanna point out is appearance wise i just want to say that when he's a ghost he's missing his choker and that fact Pains me. anyway personality-wise i feel like being violently murdered has, understandably, kicked his rage up to like. the highest level it could possibly go. he's insanely snarky and downright rude to finney on the phone, showing no empathy to the fact that finney is literally in the exact situation he was in

i feel like the whole "this is the nightmare end of your pathetic little life" and "if you knew what you had coming, you'd be fucking terrified" thing is definitely to scare finney on purpose and to get him to do something, vance might as well have just told him he's never going home cuz thats how it came across LMAOO, it is startling though because vance is clearly speaking from experience, that he was literally fucking terrified, and he is warning finney in his own weird way

the thing i think sets vance apart from the other ghosts is that while he does help finney, he does it for a different reason than they do. the other ghosts want finney to escape, to get out, to be free, to live, but personally i dont think vance cares about that. the only thing he wants is for albert shaw to be dead, for someone to seek vengeance, to do what vance couldn't. vance doesn't care if it's bruce or robin or finney or whatever boy could've come after that, he doesnt care as long as that man gets what he deserves after what he put vance through, and i see this through the scene at the end of vance's call where finney thanks him for his help and vance says, and i quote, "helping you? this isn't about you, fuck him! and apologies for being repetitive but to me it just literally proves that to vance, this isnt about finney or his escape, its just about revenge

we dont get to find out what happens to the ghosts once the credits have rolled, and i dont think we quite know enough about tbp's version of ghosts to guess what theyre up to, but i have a few theories :3 maybe theyre no longer bound to those two houses and they can now go anywhere they want in town? or maybe since their shared goal of stopping albert has been achieved, the ghosts can finally pass on to whatever is waiting for them next. i dont think vance would be content to pass on that quickly or easily as anger lingers, but i hope he'd be able to let go of it eventually, and hey we might find out in the sequel. i pray it mentions him cuz i will just die if it doesnt

sometimes, ok thats a lie, frequently i think about an au where he survived or escaped or whatever but ohhhh boy this post is already a train wreck so that au would deserve its own essay of a post :3 if u actually genuinely read this far then Wtf thanks for reading the ramblings of an absolute madman, only pure delusion could get like 20 paragraphs about a guy with 6 minutes screentime but hey thats how i roll, thanks again to my pal gray for letting me rot and thank u to my other pal ana for also enduring all this rot

hope u enjoyed my interpretation of vance hopper im going to crawl in a hole now and probably brainrot some more, thanks again for ur time :3

[shadesofecclescakes]

Are you a big fanfic reader? What have you read lately and what's been your favourite fic so far?

Oh mannnnnnnnn. Why don't you ask me to pick a favourite child while you're at it???

Just kidding. I don't have kids. But I assume having to pick a favourite would be hard if I did.

So, am I a big fanfic reader? YES. And what haven't I read lately? We are lucky enough to have so many talented writers in this fandom that it's possible to subscribe to numerous multi-chapter fics to the point where you're just constantly getting update emails. Which I do. It's great. It gives me something to do at work aside from, y'know, work.

*Me at work being smug about being paid to read porn* (Also I just wanted to look at this gif)

So what is currently on my endless update list? Coming up after the cut!

I am an absolute whore for human AU, so if you like that then you will probably like:

The Cure for a Broken Heart by @rofell

a medical student AU based in the Canadian medical system (I'm a Canadian so I was pretty excited about that). It manages to tackle the continued systemic discrimination of Indigenous people in our medical system (and in general), homophobia and the ensuing trauma from those things all while also being informative, funny, sweet, romantic and hot af. Like. It's so good.

Free by @maaikeatthefullmoon

This is another one with with a heavy topic that also does a great job of making sure to break it up with some excellent fluff, hurt/comfort and humorous moments. And it's handled with the sensitivity and thoughtfulness necessary to write something that takes place in a mental health ward and deals with some intense situations. Definitely make sure to read those author notes before diving in. They lay it out very thoroughly.

The Sincere Way by @tsyvia48

A martial arts AU. Crowley is a karate sensei and Aziraphale is his student. Slow burn that keeps you on the edge. The screams I have scrumt at my screen over this one. Plus you learn a lot about karate (but it never gets boring or over-explainey. Excellently balanced) which is pretty cool. Mostly light (there is some angst. This is the Good Omens fandom. I think we are all sad, wet chihuahuas at heart). Funny and sweet.

Terminus by @emotional-support-demon-crowley

Plus One by @caedmonfaith

Astronaut AU. Aziraphale is an astronaut who meets his mission controller, Crowley, over the comms system when he finds himself in need of assistance.

Super cool concept and really well-done in my opinion. Like, I don't do any space or physics-related work (ok I straight-up failed math 9) but I find it entirely believable. And it's well-written which is the entire point. Cute, funny slow burn with an intriguing mystery happening in the background.

Aziraphale has family money but a shitty family (except for Muriel! Never Muriel!) and his shitty brother Gabriel is getting married to shitty Michael, an Earl's daughter.

Aziraphale's family disproves of his entire life pretty much and he has been lying to them about having a boyfriend. Now they are expecting him to bring said boyfriend to the wedding. His famous footballer friend sets him up with their mechanic, Crowley.

It starts as a slow-burn but becomes a hilarious, smutty romp that just gets more and more insane. The chapter titles alone have made me cackle out loud.

Some older human AUs I'm a huge fan of include Old Vines by @sevdrag. Crowley owns a vineyard and Aziraphale is a wine critic. It is so amazingly written. It makes me think of the author Joanna Harris (Chocolat, The Five Quarters of the Orange) because it's SO beautifully, vividly descriptive that I end up craaaaaving wine. So have a bottle on hand if you're giving this a read.

Also the love story in this. My god. I devoured it. The story and the (many bottles of) wine.

There is also Loosely Ballroom by marginalia_device and mortifyingideal. It's a Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing with the Stars in North America) AU and it is so. Fucking. Good.

But it comes with a disclaimer. It's unfinished and looks likely to stay that way. But honestly? Still worth it. It's nearly finished (I think) so you have most of the story. And it's just SO good. It's been a while since I read it but it was one of the first human AUs I read and what got me hooked on them.

If you're still with me...nice! Just know that was me holding back and that isn't my entire list by a long shot. If you want more recs, feel free to message me and also share your own!

I just finished Slow Show the actor AU by @mia-ugly and yes please.

Some serious angst, pining and hot hot smut.

There is another long-form multi-chapter actor au I loooved but I can't remember the name for the life of me. Just that the show they were on was basically good omens and that they swapped roles with great success (inspired by the whole Michael thinking Neil wanted him to play Crowley when he wanted Aziraphale thing).

Thanks for the ask! That was really fun!

[embracing-the-ineffable]

The Ineffable Detective Agency presents more Ineffable Discontinuity and Suspicious Moments: Hawaiian Shirt / Pub Table Guy

Introducing... the extra/background character who makes Aziraphale do THIS, and then immediately has his table at the pub miracled away:

Jon Dan Duncan's imdb profile doesn't list Good Omens, not even as "uncredited" - which seems strange, because his profile does include the above photo of him. Since the actor isn't credited in GO, we don't have a character name or know anything more than what we can see onscreen. So, what DO we see?

First of all, when Aziraphale sees this person, he definitely has A Reaction. We were probably all too distracted by Azi stroking the thin dark duke to notice (as an aside, IS Crowley a Duke? Of what? Hell? Something else??), but after the 90th rewatch, it gets a bit easier to focus on these background details that are probably critically important to the story in ways we just don't understand yet. Look at this:

Did he mouth "stop" when he's supposed to be saying "sherry"? Maybe. These LOOKS, though:

We all know that Michael Sheen's expressions, no matter how tiny or fleeting, are very intentional. Who IS this mystery person??! Immediately after taking his table:

After whoever-he-is loses his pub table, he lingers nearby, and there's an interesting "ineffable discontinuity" - what he's holding in his right hand abruptly changes twice between camera cuts (sound on, if you want context for this small zoomed-in part of the screen, and try watching from your browser if the Tumblr app is cutting off the right edge of the image):

So far, our best explanation for the "ineffable discontinuities" - things that inexplicably and improbably change, like which hand is holding his drink or (coming up next) when he's behind Gabriel and then suddenly in front of him - is that we're seeing multiple timelines that are being knitted together in production to make them look seamless - but who knows? We'd love to hear your ideas! (Also, see the appearing Honolulu Roast sign in the coffeeshop, or Crowley's tattoo and sideburns, or the fandom's newest discovery (from @kimberleyjean and @bbbitchvibbbez) about Gabriel visiting his statue with "both" s1 and s2 Beelzebubs, plus the way the statue's cross is sometimes missing - just to name a few!)

Was the point in this scene with Hawaiian shirt/pub guy's right hand to draw our attention to this page of his newspaper?

"Unearthed mysteries of sealed library basement" - when Crowley told Shax that Aziraphale was "stock taking in the basement", was it true that there IS a basement in the bookshop? Basements apparently aren't that common in most of the UK, but London is famous for having "iceberg" buildings (where the basements are actually bigger than what's above-ground).

"Government approves funding for citywide charging stations" - We don't know, but it makes us think of all the electric cars used in s2 (it was an indoor set) and of Crowley throwing lightning in the street.

And the smaller headline on the right ... Hmmm. Can you read it? 😅 Maybe "Neighbor says New ------ park gate is ' too --- ' "

And it's not just the pub during episode 2! This mystery character is everywhere!

E1: He somehow starts out behind Gabriel, and then ends up in front of Gabriel with another extra on his arm:

E2: In addition to his appearance in the pub, he's also watching when Saraqael, Uriel, and Michael arrive:

E3: Our mystery character is there again when Crowley makes it rain, wearing his e1 shirt:

E4: We didn't spot him in this episode, but there are only a few minutes of present-day SoHo. Did anyone else see him?

E5: He has a doppelganger in a different Hawaiian print shirt! (Notice the different facial hair, among other things.)

Later in e5 he does actually make an appearance in the bookshop window for a quarter of a second (!!), wearing his e2 pub outfit, and maybe it's his presence that elicits this similar-to-the-pub reaction from Aziraphale?

E6: And back again to his black e1 and e3 shirt with the red flowers, while in line behind The Metatron, and then sitting at a table on the sidewalk, where he remains with the person in the turban who was in line behind him (and who also shows up quite a lot during s2) right up until Crowley drives away:

So, why have him wear such a noticable black shirt with red flowers on what are supposed to be three different days? Is he connected, with his Hawaiian print shirt, to the appearing Honolulu Roast sign? Why does he get a doppelganger in e5 - to distract us from his presence outside the bookshop before the ball? Why does Aziraphale react like this - TWICE - upon seeing this person?? (Much to Crowley's great confusion!)

And why does it seem that Aziraphale is keeping this person's presence/ identity/ importance a secret from Crowley?

As always, we'd love to hear your ideas!

Also, here's an earlier post from @theastrophysicistnextdoor about him, with gratitude for the inspiration to write all this up.

With appreciation for contributions from @noneorother, @thebluestgreen, and @embracing-the-ineffable at the @ineffable-detective-agency

Want to see more interesting posts, plus Good Omens clues and metas from all over the fandom? There's a huge collection here!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Treat You 3

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, violence, abuse, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (Tall!reader)

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

"You're useless!" Your dad slather's spit on your face as he holds himself over you, penning you in on your bed, "fucking idiot!"

You whimper as he growls and huffs his tobacco-tinged breath in your face. You wrinkle your nose and bat your lashes as tears prickle along the brims of your eyes. You shudder as he shoves himself off of you, snarling as he heaves his weight off the mattress. Another rude awakening, though for what you don't know.

"I'm sorry, da-" You begin as you sit up, only to have him spin and crack his knuckles across your cheek. You fall back and cradles your skull as it vibrates. "Ow, dad, what did I do?"

"Where the fuck are my smokes?!" He hisses.

"I dunno, I dunno," you sit up, holding out an arm to shield yourself, "you know I wouldn't touch them."

"I know you're a sneaky fucking bitch," he barks and goes to your dress, shaking it as he tears open the drawer. He scoops out the contents and throws them so the fabric scatters over the floor.

"I didn't touch them," you sniffle.

"Stop fucking lying!" He blusters as he stomps over to you, grabbing you by the front of your tee shirt, "look at you, lazy piece of shit, hiding in your room all day, doing what?!"

"Dad," you murmur.

"Bitch!" He shoves you back and you once more fall flat, biting your own tongue.

He surges around the room and there's a thunderous crash as he swipes your desk clear of its contents. You sit up and watch, helpless as he rips like a tornado through the space. He hollers and hurls until he's out of breath. He leaves you with a slam of the door. A promise in the shake of the frame. If he sees you again, it will only get worse.

You get up and switch your pajama bottoms for jeans. You retrieve the clunky laptop from the floor and tuck it into your bag. It's the only thing of value you have. It's how you make your living, typing away captions and sending the words in for pennies. You swipe up your book and the small change purse with not much in it.

You listen before you emerge from your room. You creep down and take your denim jacket and sneakers from the entryway, tiptoeing out and putting them on in the hallway. You stand straight and touch your throbbing cheek. You must look a mess. It doesn't matter, you just need to get out of there.

You get out to the street and find a bench just around the corner, sitting to think of where to go. You need to get the next project done. Tonight's the deadline to get a few extra dollars on the next deposit. You need wifi. Usually you can leech off the neighbours' but there's no way you're staying in the apartment with your father like that.

The library isn't an option. You can't even access the wifi without an account and you have fines since your father destroyed several borrowed books last month. Besides, it's too far out of the way and you have no bus fare. Maybe...

Is it worth it? You don't know if you have any change. You sift through your bag and open your change purse. A couple of quarters; seventy-five cents. Hmm, how much is a cookie? Just one of the small ones?

All you know is the cafe has wifi. You'll test your luck and see how long they put up with you. You head off, disappearing into the urban ebb and flow, happy to drown in it and forget the morning.

🍵

The cafe is busy enough for you to sneak in with the rush. You find a seat in the corner and set up there, hoping you can fade into the background as usual. You glance over at the menu, there's nothing you can afford there. You sigh as you slip the heavy laptop out of your crochet bag.

You open it and hit the power button. Nothing happens. You lean in and try again. You notice how the frame of the screen is split at the seam. Oh no. The thing's taken a beating over the years but it's usually fine. He's done it now. It's broken.

That's it. That's the only thing you got and it's just as garbage as everything else in your life. You hang your head, holding it in your hands as you stare at the table. You're numb, to hollow to feel anything. You should cry but you can't.

Your vision blurs as you sit there, frozen. What do you do? What can you do? You are totally screwed.

You don't know how long you stay like that. The world skews around you until suddenly it centers on a gentle tap on your shoulder. You pop your head up, nearly tipping the chair as you look up at the barista. It's the same one as last time. Peter, you think he said.

"Excuse me--" He begins but he gapes and stares at you.

"I'm sorry, I... I'll go," you gulp and shake your head, "I don't have money for a coffee."

You stand but he doesn't move. He's close as you reach for your laptop and he reaches to stop you from closing it.

"What happened?" He asks.

"Nothing," you lie.

"Something must've happened--"

"I must've hit it on the door when I came in," you mutter pushing until he moves his hand, snapping shut the broken screen.

"Not the computer," he says, "you?"

"What?" You frown and wince as the bruise twinges and you notice how you can see your cheek swelling from your left eye.

"Did someone hurt you?" He asks.

"Please, it doesn't matter," you turn to unhook your bag from the chair, "I'm just going to leave. I told you, I don't have any money--"

"Coffee's on the house. Or tea," he insists, "please, sit down."

"I can't."

"Why not?" He asks.

You cringe and stop. You turn to face him, looking down at his warm brown eyes, "why are you bugging me?"

"Am I?" His forehead ripples, "I wasn't meaning to."

You squeeze your lips together and a pang of guilt tweaks in your chest. You hang your head, "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to talk back."

"Look, seems like you've had a rough morning. If you stay, I promise I won't bug you. I'll just bring you some tea and let you be."

You look away as your nose flares, tingling dangerously, "why would you do that?"

"Nice things always come around," he shrugs, "and they don't cost anything."

You nod and hide your face, "thanks."

"No problem, oh uh, one thing," he turns a palm out, "I didn't get your name."

You put your bag on the table as you touch the back of the chair. You eke out your name before you sit. He repeats it brightly, "alright, I'll be right back."

You stare out the window, refusing to look anywhere else. You're too embarrassed to let him see the tears in your eyes.

[loveshotzz]

Hi! I’d love to see this prompt with Steve

36. “YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING!”

Maybe like a friend (people send nudes to their friends before they send it to a guy, right?) who’s name starts with S and reader accidentally send it to Steve instead. He’s always had a thing for her and after his reaction she forgets all about whatever douche canoe she was going to send it to before.

I wanted to write this as soon as I got in in my inbox! I need a little Steve in my life right now.

18 PLUS NO MINORS

Warnings: Modern!Steve, Thin rimmed glasses Steve 🫠, Sexting, Nudes, Dirty Talk, Masturbation.

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 2.6K

The vibration in Steve’s pocket was so loud in the quiet meeting room that his ringer could have been on. Stumbling over his words in front of the projector his fingers fumble to shut it off from the outside of his slacks. Succeeding he gives a quick apology before he continues going over the numbers from last quarter.

“S-so anyway as I was say-“ buzz-buzz-buzz

Cheeks turning crimson he holds a finger up before digging his phone out of his pocket, not expecting to see your name he opens the message quickly in case it was some kind of emergency. It wasn’t like you to reach out to him during the day, or really ever. No matter how much he wished that was different.

When he opens it a picture of your tits was the last thing he was expecting, let alone a second picture of your ass. Pants immediately starting to tighten his eyes widen behind his thin framed glasses before he fumbles his phone out of his hands, the small device hitting the carpet with a soft thud. Landing screen side up he scrambles to retrieve it before anybody else could see what he was looking at almost losing his glasses in the process. Hitting the power button he shuts it off before pocketing it again. Doing his best to think of anything to get his mind off of how much better you look then all of his fantasies combined.

“Everything okay Harrington?”

Clearing his throat he runs a shaky hand through his unruly hair before pulling at the collar of his shirt. The perfect temperature in the room suddenly becoming sweltering, he can feel the beads of sweat drip down his forehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah I’m good.” Shaking his head he refocuses on the PowerPoint and not the zipper of his slacks pressing into the half chub he was now sporting.

—

“I sent them to you like twenty minutes ago Stacy did you get them?” Looking at yourself in the full length mirror you try to decide if the dress you were wearing was too short for a first date.

“Well if you sent them, I never got them.” Your friend hummed on the other line, the sound of keyboard clicking in the background told you she wasn’t really paying attention.

Rolling your eyes you pull your phone from your ear to put her on speaker phone. Swiping up to your messages you read the name at the top of your screen five times before you really let the panic set in.

Steve.

Steve not Stacy.

“Oh my god, Jesus Christ.” Feeling like you might hyperventilate you drop your phone like it just seared off your skin.

“What? What’s going on? Did you hurt yourself again?” Stacy’s panicked voice breaks through the small speaker of your phone.

Ignoring her jab at your clumsiness you start to pace around your room. Hand on your hip and the other on your forehead you close your eyes trying to calm your breathing.

“No, much worse. I sent those pictures to STEVE Stacy, I sent them to fucking Harrington. A picture of my tits followed by a picture of my ass.” Stopping in the center of your room you let your hands drop to your sides staring up at the ceiling willing some way to either disappear or turn back time. You knew neither one would be possible.

Stacy is silent for a moment before her loud cackle echos through your room, speaker crackling, you huff loudly before dropping to the floor snatching your phone back.

“It’s not funny Stacy, Friday movie nights at Robin’s are going to be so awkward now.” Groaning loudly you flop yourself back on the soft carpet.

“Please, that boy’s been drooling over you for months. You probably just made his whole life.” Snickering you hear the sound of her door bell ring queuing her time to leave you wallowing in your embarrassment. “I gotta go, but it’s gonna be fine. I’m sure he’ll be too awkward to say anything anyway.”

Grumbling you pinch your eyes closed “I hope you’re right.”

Hanging up you let your phone drop to your chest thinking of all the different ways you could explain yourself to him. Part of your mortification was your own crush that had developed on him, not wanting to ruin the friend group you always just pushed it aside. The thought of going the honesty route crossed your mind, but the dinging notification on your phone brings all your anxiety roaring back to life.

Taking a deep breath you count to three before peaking at the screen. Steve’s name flashes and it makes your stomach drop, Stacy was clearly wrong.

Steve Harrington: Did you mean to send those to me?

Silently debating on whether you should expose yourself or not you decide to go the simpler route. Deny, deny, deny. Who cares if the pictures were sitting there in front of you clear as day. You make your own reality right?

You: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Pressing send more aggressively then you needed to, you place the screen face down on your chest. Eyes to the ceiling again you hope your denial is enough for him to drop it. Ding, ding, ding. Groaning loudly you lift your phone back up.

Steve Harrington: YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING!

Yeah, he wasn’t going to drop it.

You: Look, it was an accident. Can we just forget it ever happened? I’m embarrassed enough as it is.

Sitting up you toss your phone on the bed before peeling off your dress throwing it to the already growing pile on the floor. Walking back over to the mirror you look at yourself, in nothing but your underwear as you try to see yourself through Steve’s eyes. Despite Stacy’s accusation of his crush, you always just assumed he was a natural flirt never thinking it was anything special with you.

The dinging of your phone brings you back to your bed Steve’s actual reaction waiting at your fingertips. Snatching it quickly you don’t bother to read the preview.

Steve Harrington: I kinda figured.

It was short with nothing to read behind it, maybe he wanted to just clear the air and you two could go back to normal. Phone vibrating in your hand there’s another message that changes everything.

Steve Harrington: That’s too bad.

Mind reeling at his response you throw your phone down like it’s on fire for the second time in five minutes.

“That’s too bad? That’s too bad?” Mumbling out loud you start pacing again, you weren’t prepared for this. Steve Harrington was actually shooting his shot.

He was probably sitting at that big desk he was so proud to get with one of those tight fitting button ups he always wore to work, thin rimmed glasses half way down his nose, his hair a hand tousled mess on top of his head. The image is enough to have your thighs press together. God Steve was pretty.

Biting your nails you stare at your phone from across the room. Did you really want to open Pandora’s box?

In just a few quick strides your phone is back in your hand, thumbs hovering over the keyboard you take a deep breath before finally replying.

You: What if I was lying? What if they were for you?

Nerves shoot through your body like electric currents while you wait for his response. Back to pacing in nothing but your lace underwear the ding of his reply is quicker then you anticipated.

Steve Harrington: Then I would tell you just how fucking mouth watering you are.

Slick building quickly at his words, there was something about him cussing that turned you on even more. Always being such a gentleman you never saw this side of Steve before. Grinning stupidly to yourself reading his text over and over you finally flop yourself back down on the bed.

You: You’re one to talk Harrington.

Hoping that the compliment is coy enough your thumb hesitates over the send button before you finally just hit it. When he takes longer the five seconds to respond your mind starts wandering to all the worse case scenarios but before you can go too far into your rabbit hole his name is flashing across your screen again.

Steve Harrington: You gave me a boner in front of all of my bosses. I hope you’re happy with yourself.

Snickering at the thought of Steve trying to conceal himself by shuffling around awkwardly, you decide that yeah, you are happy with yourself.

You: One of my proudest moments actually.

You try your best to imagine what Steve’s face must look like right now, is he biting his lip with flushed cheeks? Is he hard right now? How many times has he looked at your pictures? Lost in your daydreams it takes you a second to realize you weren’t getting a text you were getting a call.

Steve Harrington was calling you.

Staring at his name on your phone you chew the inside of your cheek, texting was one thing but talking about it? Out loud? That was a whole other thing. Despite not being sure if you were mentally ready for this your thumb slides across the answer button. Bringing it up to your ear you’re too nervous to talk first.

“H-hey.” He sounds just like how you feel.

“Hi Steve.” Your voice is sweeter then intended when it comes out but judging by the sharp intake of breath on the other side he liked it.

“I like how my name sounds coming out of your mouth.” Smooth like silk, the tone he uses only adds to your arousal, the wet patch on your underwear growing bigger.

“I say your name all the time.” Trying to hide how breathless you sound you start to trail your finger tips over the curves of your stomach.

“Not like that baby.” Its almost a whine when it leaves his mouth, and you can hear just how bad he wants you. “I wanna hear you say it again.”

“Yeah?” Laying it on thick, your voice picks up a few octaves.

“I want my name to be the only thing you remember how to say.”

His words have you rubbing your thighs together, your underwear sticking between your folds at the sound of his heavy breathing adding to your arousal. Cupping your breast with your free hand you tweak your nipple, the sensation making you arch your back.

“How are you gonna do that Steve?” drawing out his name you can hear the muttered ‘fuck’ fall from under his breath.

“First, I want to suck on those perfect nipples of yours. Twist them between my teeth.” Hearing him be so vulgar mixed with the work your own fingers were putting in on your sensitive nub had your eyes roll in the back of your head.

“A-and then what?” Voice cracking your hand starts making its way towards where you need it most.

“Shit- fuck. Are you- are you touching yourself right now?” Disbelief laced in his tone the groan he lets out when you give him a feeble ‘mmhmm’ goes straight to your core.

“Baby, tell me how wet you are.” He asks you the question right as your fingers meet your entrance, slick coating the tips of them instantly. Tracing along your slit with two fingers they settle on the small bundle of nerves nestled at the top, rubbing slow languid circles on your clit you suck your bottom lip between your teeth to keep from moaning too loud.

“I’m so wet for you Steve, I was soaked through my underwear before you even called.”

Exhaling loudly on the other end he lets out a breathy “Yeah?”

Moving your fingers from your sensitive bud you bring them down to your entrance dipping one in to stretch yourself out before working in the second one. The sudden fullness making you gasp.

“Tell me what else you want to do to me.” You moan “If you were here, what would you be doing to me.”

“Are you fucking yourself with your fingers pretty girl?” The new nicknames fall from his lips so easily like he’s called you them all his life.

“Mmhm, I’m imagining their yours.” There’s a pathetic sound thats bubbles from your throat when you curl them up hitting that spongy spot that makes your legs shake.

“Good girl.” He hums, closing your eyes you imagine him sitting in his big office palming himself through his dress slacks under his desk. The squelching sound coming from the way your fingers move in and out of you becoming so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it on the other line.

“I bet you taste so fucking good, you wanna know what I’d be doing if I was there baby?” The desperation in his voice is enough for you to add a third finger, back arching at the new stretch.

“Shit, Steve.” Thumb hitting your clit as you push further into yourself you can’t seem to form any coherent sentences anymore.

“I’d bury my face in that pretty little pussy like it was my last meal.” Talking through clenched teeth you wonder how hard Steve has to be, mouth watering at the thought you’d heard all the rumors of his size.

“Mmm fuck.” Your hips push off the bed to meet the movements of your fingers, your thumb adding more pressure to the bundle of nerves. “What else would you do to me. Please Steve I’m so close.”

It sounds like a growl that leaves his chest on the other side of the phone, his heavy breathing rattling in your ear.

“After I make you cum on my tongue, I’d make you cum on my dick. God, you got me so hard baby. I don’t know if that little cunt of yours would be able to handle all of this.” Hearing Steve Harrington say the word cunt was enough for you to start feeling the beginnings of your orgasm, feet hitting the very edge of the cliff preparing for free fall.

“I want it Steve, I want all of it. Stretch me out, make me fucking yours.” Cock drunk off a dick that wasn’t even there, he already had you down bad.

Curling your fingers with each thrust and your thumb rubbing rough circles over your bundle of nerves mixed Steve’s soft praises on the other line was enough for you to finally fall over the edge.

“Steve, Steve, Steve.” Chanting his name while you clench tightly around your fingers, you drop the phone from your ear the muscles in your body completely giving out as the after shocks finally start to give out.

Laying there you try to catch your breath before you remember Steve’s sitting on the other side of the phone that was thrown across your bed in a lust filled haze moments ago. Picking it up you stare at if for a second nerves kicking in again now that all the sexual tension had dissipated.

“H-hi.” Your voice comes out shy when you finally work yourself up to talk to him again.

Chuckling lightly on the other side the sound is enough to ease your anxiety.

“Hey gorgeous. Does this mean you’ll let me take you out to dinner tonight?” Cheeks warming at his question, the corners of your lips turn up.

The date you’d been stressing out about earlier completely forgotten, you were ready to clear your schedule for the boy who just made you see stars without even touching you.

“Pick me up at 8 Harrington.”

Part Two

[chelseasdagger]

Behind the Red in My Eyes

Mikey Berzatto x Reader

Summary: Mikey comes home, yet again, exhausted after a long shift at The Beef. You offer him some encouraging words and his favorite touch to unwind.

Warnings: cursing

Author's Note: This is my first entry for @bernthirst-events's Beardthal Bash! I had this idea for a while, but I ended up writing way more plot than was needed oops! I still hope there was enough mention of the beard to count!

Word Count: 2.9k+

Mikey Berzatto took pride in his work. It may not be the most glamorous job, but he put countless hours into the family restaurant that he tries so hard to keep afloat. It’s one of your favorite things about him—how much heart he puts into everything he does.

The only downside is how often you’re stuck missing him while the apartment grows too quiet as the hours pass. You have the schedule of The Beef’s hours ingrained in your mind, tacking on the extra time it takes to close up at night. But all the counting does little to stop the frequent checking of the clock on your phone’s lockscreen.

You were thankful when he worked up the deal with Carmy to split some of the necessary management time at the sandwich shop—if you could call it management time. It would be more truthful to call it “babysitting”, taking into consideration the hotheadedness of the staff. And let's be honest, leaving the restaurant in the hands of Richie Jerimovich? Absolutely not.

But, as much as the Berzatto brothers meant well, this plan didn’t last. It worked for a while, Mikey taking the mornings and helping with opening the store so that around the time that the menu changed, Carmy could come in and work until close. They figured it would be the best way to not overwork themselves but still put a healthy amount of time into their family business.

And then one day it was too busy for Mike to come home. Since then, there hasn’t really been a fix to the original plan. You miss him a lot and definitely wish you could see him more, but you feel so much pride swelling in your chest each time you think of how hard he works for that little brick building. No amount of missing him could outweigh that feeling—or how your face feels as if it might split in two when you sneak into the restaurant and see how happy he is to be there.

Nine times out of ten, you walk in and see his smile brightening the whole room as his infectious laugh fills the air. His eyes would be squinted into thin lines as his head falls back and he clutches his chest for a breath. He always cared about the people and wanted everyone to feel welcome there no matter their background or history. You loved seeing him like this and kept these memories at the front of your mind whenever it got harder to be patient on the long nights alone.

Your phone is in your hand before you can even register it. A habit I need to break, you remind yourself, but your screen shows the time anyway. Quarter after midnight. You place the phone down on the coffee table with a sigh, exchanging it for the book that your friend swore you had to read.

Tucking your finger between the pages and your bookmark, you open up the book and scan the printed words until you can jog your memory of the last thing you read. Once you find your place, you tuck your legs to your chest and lazily tug the blanket down from the back of the couch to cover yourself. It doesn’t take long before your surroundings begin to fade and the words paint a picture in your mind.

You look up from your book at the sound of keys jingling inside the metal deadbolt on your apartment door. What time is it? A second later the door is opening and there stands Mikey. He sighs as he holds onto the doorframe before pressing the toes of one foot to the heel of the other, taking his shoes off before bending down to place them beside the entrance.

When he stands back up you finally get a good look at him in the lamplight. His shoulders are slouched, his whole body a portrait of exhaustion. He’s rubbing his knuckles sleepily at his eyes, setting the keys down on the small table beside him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you call to him as his footsteps gently sound out on the wooden floors. He finally glances over to the couch once he notices you and the smile that stretches over his face is tired, yet genuine.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers back to you. His voice is hoarse, mostly likely due to all the yelling in the chaotic kitchen he’s spent the whole day inside of. It’s almost as if his words are caught in his chest, sounding out deep and warm when he speaks. He makes his way to the couch, leaning over the back of it, and placing a quick peck of his lips on your forehead.

As soon as you feel it, he’s gone, making his way to the kitchen in the next room over. You can immediately tell something is off; Mikey gets quiet after a long day of being the loudest guy in the room, but he’s not usually reserved in his affection towards you.

The blanket you were wrapped up in slowly slides down your chest and onto your lap as you sit up against the arm of the couch. You question whether you should push it, but something in your gut wouldn’t leave it be.

“Mikey? You okay?” you call out towards the kitchen. The sound of him closing cupboards echoes through the space next. He makes his way to the fridge, opening it before leaning inside and scanning the leftovers from the meals you make while he’s out.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds monotonously, pulling away with a glass container in his hand. The slightly blue lighting shines across his face, illuminating his features in a cold hue. It looks almost intentional, as if to reflect his mood. “What is this?”

“Baked ziti from last night. I’m here for you, Bear, you know that right?” You don’t miss a beat, purposefully choosing not to fall for his distraction of mentioning the food. You watch as he pauses for a moment, setting the food down on the counter and closing the fridge before walking back towards you. You never want to push him or demand he open up to you, but you also want him to know he can lean on you if need be.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he sinks down onto the cushion beside you, one arm resting along the length of the couch, the other propping his head up in his palm. You can see all the evidence of his tiring day of work now that he’s closer to you: the dark grease stains along the bottom of his blue shirt, the marks under his eyes indicating he didn’t sleep enough, the new bandage wrapped around his thumb. All signs point to a draining, most likely not rewarding, day.

Gently reaching out for his wrist, you pull his larger hand into yours. “What happened here?” He moves with you, turning his palm face up as you let your index finger gently trace over his skin. The bandage is uneven, and you can see the faint maroon marking under the tan color.

“Was a uh,” he begins, sighing as he rubs at his eyes with the knuckles of his free hand. “Was an accident. Cousin called me while I was choppin’ onions and, well,” he gestures to his injured thumb. You feel your features change as he speaks, the words painting a clear picture in your head of him in the kitchen as he gets hurt.

“I’m so sorry, Mikey,” you whisper in the small space between the two of you. Your own fingers drag down the inside of his arm, trailing over scars from accidental fryer burns and playing rough outside with Carmy when he was younger. All the little markings on his skin have little stories behind them, and you cherish the boisterous laughter that comes from him when he tells the tales.

“S’alright, baby, happens all the time,” he attempts to reassure you. The tone surrounding his words falls flat and leaves you with the same weariness in your mind. Glancing up at his face, you see the tired lines under his eyes and the way he stares out at nothing while his mind wanders.

Curling your fingers around him tighter, you bring his hand up to your face and place a gentle kiss right under the bandage. It takes him another moment to react due to the other thoughts trailing around in his mind. When he finally glances over, his eyes are fixed on your lips pressing against him, the small peck sending a wave of warmth through him. You continue staring up at him from under your eyelashes; the sigh that leaves him makes his chest deflate when his gaze locks with yours.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, a sad smile on his face.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” you ask, wanting to try and improve his mood. He twists his back and adjusts himself against the couch.

“Nah, nah, baby, it’s okay. It’ll heal up,” he answers dismissively. It’s clear he didn’t pick up on the other meaning of your question, so you try wording it another way.

“No I didn’t mean the cut, Mikey.” His eyebrows pull together, confusion painted all over his features. “I can see how tired you are,” you continue, watching him sigh again and prepare to defend himself. “I just want to take some of the weight off your shoulders, is all. I’m not gonna say to cut your hours back, I know you can’t do that but…” you find your words trailing off when he reaches up to drag his palm down his face.

“You have to at least take care of yourself,” you whisper the final words as his hand drops to his lap. There’s a silence that lingers over the room and you’re worried you’ve overstepped in suggesting the restaurant being the source of a good portion of his stress.

“You’re right,” he speaks up, and you feel the tension leaving your body almost instantly. “You’re right, I just don’t… think about it?” his tone rises at the end, twisting the sentence into more of a question. His eyes find yours again and you give him a slight nod, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

“It just… It’s always been the restaurant first, y’know? Like if that goes under then I’ve got nothing left. And then all the things everybody says about me are true.” He finishes the last sentences with an exasperated breath. Your heart sinks at his words, especially after spending one too many family dinners at his mother’s house and hearing how they treat him and his impulsivity. You want to defend him, but choose not to interrupt his venting.

“And nobody in my family knows how to slow down. I mean, shit, look at Carm,” he chuckles dryly as he shakes his head. “Nearly fuckin’ killed himself out in New York. Mom doesn’t have her head screwed on straight, doesn’t know what’s going on half the fuckin’ time. It just—.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low in his hands.

There’s a quick sniffle before he’s raking his fingers through his hair roughly. He sits up and stares down at his fingers, anxiously picking at the skin around his nails. Every fiber in your being screams to reach out to him and comfort him, and this time you listen to your instincts.

“Mikey,” you start, gently placing your hand on his forearm and pulling him towards you. His body falls and you feel his weight instantly pressing into your shoulder. Slumped against you like this, his body heat instantly warms up your side and you melt in turn.

“I know you might not know how to take those breaks, but we can work through it together,” you attempt to calm him. “It might not be easy at first but we can just take it one day at a time, yeah?” You glance down at your shoulder to see him staring up at you with half closed eyes. He slowly blinks before finally registering that you asked him a question.

“I like that plan,” he says eventually. His lips part as a yawn takes over and you smile as his eyes scrunch up while his jaw drops open.

“Oh, poor baby…” you chuckle under your breath. His face rests back in his natural position, but his eyes remain shut. He looks so peaceful like this that it makes your heart warm. Admittedly, it’s been too long since you’ve seen him truly relaxed like this. The last few times must’ve been when you were waking up in the night and happened to catch him asleep.

Stolen glances in the middle of the night aren’t enough, you decide. Adjusting your body on the couch, you angle yourself so your back is against the arm of the couch and your legs extend down the length of the cushions. You pull his body between your legs, guiding his head down to rest on your chest.

“You know none of that shit they say is true… right?” you ask softly as you let your fingers trail down his neck and smoothe down his back. He may not look like it, but Mike is one of the biggest suckers for physical touch—specifically cuddling.

He only hums in response, but still you continue. “The restaurant wasn’t a bad idea, baby. I think it’s sweet you kept something in the family name.” You drag your nails down his broad back softly and feel him sigh deeply, the leftover tension finally leaving his body.

“‘M pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks that,” he mumbles out, not bothering to lift his head from you. 

“I swear to god the next time Uncle Lee, or whoever, opens their god damn mouth I’m gonna be the one to throw a fork.” The next thing you feel is Mikey’s laughter shaking you, his rumbly chuckle sounding out in the quiet room. You let yourself smile at the pleasant sound, pressing your fingers into the junction where his neck meets his shoulders. With each push of your fingertips, you try to get rid of those pesky knots of stress that his body is unconsciously clinging on to.

“Seriously though,” you start again, wrapping your arms around his head this time, “we’ll figure it all out. I just want you to rest for now.” You tilt your head down and press your lips to the top of his head. You shut your eyes and try to focus on this moment: the feeling of his body weighing on your torso, his hot breath gently fanning over your arm, his scent relaxing you with each inhale you take.

You let your fingers wander, scratching your nails around his scalp under his hair. There’s a raspy groan that leaves him next and the sound has butterflies​​ suddenly coming to life in your stomach. A giggle slips out from between your lips as you ask, “Feels that good?”

Something bumps the side of your palm as you continue to play with his hair and you reach for it blindly. You try your hardest not to let disappointment wash over you as you stare at the cigarette between your fingers.

“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore, Mikey bear,” you speak in a whisper. A little less than a week ago, Mike decided to stop smoking and using drugs. You knew he could do it but you also knew how big of a step he was taking, so you tried giving as much support as you could offer. He tilts his head up at your voice and looks at you with confusedly. He glances down at the tightly rolled paper in your grasp before shaking his head gently.

“That’s from this morning, baby. Cousin offered it when he clocked in and I didn’t want to say no and have him asking a bunch of fuckin’ questions,” he explains exasperatedly. “But no, I-I didn’t smoke today.” His words are bathed with sincerity even through the tired rasp of his tone.

Your face lights up instantly, pride swelling in your chest once you realize that he kept his promise to you—his promise to himself. You can’t even imagine how difficult it must be to cut everything out like that, but you know he’s going to feel better in the long run because of it.

“I’m so, so proud of you,” you whisper as your fingers brush down his sideburns and begin to smooth out over his beard. “You’re doing so much and I see it.” You worry your words fall flat, but you also know how sometimes all you want is for someone to say that they notice the work you’re doing.

“Thank you.” You believe for a second that you imagined the words due to the barely audible breath that surrounds them. He reaches up to hold your wrist before turning his head to kiss the back of your hand. Sweet moments like this make your heart melt for him and how gentle he can be. There’s not much else to say so the both of you sit in silence, comforted by the presence of the other.

Your nails drag along the short hair that decorates his jaw and you watch his eyes flutter close for the last time. As you wrap your other arm across his chest and pull him closer, you smile at the sound of his soft snores filling the air. The ends of his facial hair tickle your fingertips but you continue gently scratching, wanting to give him a comforting touch to fall into an even deeper sleep.

“Rest up, baby boy,” you whisper as you kiss his head one final time.

[starrierknight]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲

“Everyone has a thousand wishes before a tragedy, but just one afterward.” ― Fredrik Backman, Beartown

MASTERLIST | AO3

wc— 2.7k

pairing— gn!reader x gojo satoru

cws/tags— implied established relationship, soft angst -> fluff, dialogue heavy, bittersweet dramatic irony (sorry…)

Satoru shuffled through the entrance of his apartment, his broad shoulders slumping under the burden of accumulated exhaustion that stemmed from a relentless cascade of recent missions and back-to-back meetings. The air was cool and stagnant, a result of his prolonged absence, and the darkness possessed an extra density on this particular night, with shadows on the ground like a coat of sombre tar. The inevitability of time's unyielding march weighed on him—no respite for anyone, regardless of strength, regardless of fervent wishes for a momentary halt.

With a mechanical motion, Satoru toed off his shoes and pulled down his blindfold, the weariness etched on his face illuminated briefly by the feeble glow emanating from his phone's small screen. In the dimly lit hallway, a fleeting moment of recognition swept over him as he squinted at the clock reading a quarter past midnight. It was the 7th of December, and only then did he realise—or perhaps chose to forget—that today marked his own birthday.

A resigned sigh escaped him as he stowed his phone away, and he quietly padded through the hallway. The living room, to his surprise, was bathed in the warm glow of switched-on lamps. Did he leave them on again? It was a habit, an awful one that had persisted since his childhood. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Surveying the living room, he navigated past two inviting beanbags, a plush sofa, and an elegant armchair—each pristine and untouched. Their unblemished surfaces silently bore witness to the neglect they endured, patiently waiting for someone to sink into their embrace.

The air in the living room hung heavy with an eerie quietude, punctuated only by the soft murmur emanating from a television left on in the background—the neighbours, presumably. The muffled banter of comedians echoed in the hushed room, a re-run of a variety show that had been popular some time ago. Whispery peals of laughter broke the silence as the comedian did something particularly funny, like a playful ghost.

Satoru stole a glance at his reflection in the darkened screen of his own television. The wear and tear of recent months deepened contours of his countenance, with dark circles having taken up a permanent residence beneath his fatigued eyes. His fingers instinctively reached up to touch them, yet the weariness persisted—an unyielding toll.

A stark realisation settled in, an unwelcome guest—the remainder of his birthday would unfold in solitary confinement. No vibrant cake adorned with candles, no cheerful singing, no thoughtful gifts, and no laughter to punctuate the stillness. Just him. Little solace could be found in the accolades of his power, and disillusionment set in like an old friend. Strength, it seemed, could earn you many things, but company wasn't among them. A master of sorcery, a prisoner of his own solitude. C’est la vie.

“Happy birthday to you… Happy Birthday to you…”

A soft, warm light spilt from around the corner, catching Satoru's attention with its gentle glow unmistakably emanating from candlelight. A soft, nervous voice wove a melody through the air, and it took a moment for Satoru to register the familiar tune, sung with a touch of hesitation.

As the melody unfolded, the source of the enchanting light revealed itself—a single candle flickering on a cupcake clutched in your hands. The unexpected sight left Satoru momentarily frozen, the weariness that had draped his shoulders moments ago dissipating in the face of this surprising and thoughtful gesture. You moved slowly towards him, the melody continuing, though perhaps a bit off-key, until you stood a mere metre or so in front of him.

A curious expression danced across Satoru's face, an attempt to conceal the genuine surprise that coursed through him. A brief pause hung in the air before he blinked, shifting his gaze towards you. Speechless for a moment, he absorbed the surreal reality of the situation. He had given you a key to his place strictly for emergencies, and while this didn't fit the traditional definition, it certainly seemed to qualify.

Satoru's gaze locked onto the cupcake, its lone candle reflecting the fire that glimmered in your eyes. A subtle, amused smirk began to form on his face. "How long were you holding on to that for?"

Your sheepish smile grew, and you took a step closer, your pyjama-clad figure gracefully kneeling before him as he sat on the sofa. It was evident that you were barely half awake, and Satoru couldn't help but marvel at the fact that you likely roused yourself from sleep just for this impromptu celebration.

The cupcake hovered between you, and you extended it towards him, the candle flickering in the air. "Make a wish," you whispered.

Caught in the infectious glow of your smile, Satoru mirrored your expression as he reached for the cupcake. His fingers hesitated for a brief moment before gently taking hold of the sweet treat. His gaze shifted between the candle's soft glow and your eyes, contemplating the wish he was about to make.

In a familiar motion, Satoru extinguished the flame with care. He liked the way your nose wrinkled when you smelled the smoke. Uncharacteristically, he didn't immediately indulge in the cake, but instead, his gaze locked onto you.

"I wish for you.”

"You already have me, though. I'm right here," you replied, chuckling softly.

Satoru's attention returned to the cupcake, and he took a small, deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness that graced his tongue. He looked up after the first taste, a momentary pause hinting at a forthcoming response. Finally, he broke the silence with a smirk, his eyes filled with mischief—flickering back to life at the sight of you.

“I guess I'll settle for you as a birthday gift, then.”

Your teasing smile persisted as you rested your elbows on Satoru's knees, observing his amused grin as he indulged in cupcake. The close proximity didn't escape either of you, and Satoru found himself cracking a grin.

"Apologies for the disappointment.”

"No need to apologise. I think I hit the jackpot," Satoru replied with a quiet chuckle, savouring another bite of the cupcake. He paused, and then he added, "Although, I do have one gripe."

Curious, you prompted him with an, "Oh?"

Satoru's smile widened. "You forgot the most important part of a birthday." He paused to chew and swallow, then his free hand wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "You haven't given me my birthday kiss yet."

With a playful tilt of your head, you teased, "Really? I haven't heard of that tradition before."

Satoru's heartbeat quickened as you settled onto his lap. The remaining cupcake was abandoned on the coffee table, and his gaze remained fixed on you. Anticipation hung in the air, but instead of a kiss, a request was made.

"Come on. You know the drill." His tone was uncharacteristically earnest, and you recognized the sincerity beneath the teasing. 

However, you decided to play along, purposefully trailing off as you asked, "Are we talking one birthday kiss, or...?"

Cupping his cheeks in your palms, you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Satoru's breath caught in his throat, his eyelids half-shut, and his expression transformed into one of pure contentment. Realisation soon dawned upon him—his requested kiss hadn't been fulfilled—and he swatted you away.

"I meant a kiss on the lips, you dimwit," he asserted, retaining a hint of genuine longing.

Your initial impulse to deliver a biting remark was quelled by the generosity of the occasion, leaving you with a scoff and a genuine laugh. The realisation that it was his birthday earned him a begrudging admission: 

"I can't even say anything mean. Damn you," you muttered.

Satoru, basking in the triumph of his birthday immunity, allowed a smug curve to grace his lips. His hand ascended, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck. A subtle adjustment followed, pushing the label of your t-shirt back under the fabric, his gaze fixated on your lips.

"So… About that birthday kiss?" 

"Is that what the birthday boy wants?" you cooed, teasing him.

As your fingers threaded through Satoru's hair, the softness still surprised you. Strands of silk glided effortlessly through your fingertips, thick and luscious. A subtle warmth emanated from his scalp, a comforting contrast to the cool air enveloping you. His hair seemed to have a life of its own, smoothly intertwining with your fingers, inviting you to explore further, as if daring you to unravel a secret—like Satoru needed to be more enigmatic.

Satoru shivered when your fingertips brushed against the shorter hair of his undercut, prompting him to lean forward, closing the gap between you. His lips brushed against the smooth skin of your cheek, a gentle prelude to the desired kiss.

"Yes. That's exactly what he wants," he confessed, his warm breath caressing your skin, and he added with a note of urgency, "You can't tease me like this."

"Can't I?" you mumbled, brushing your lips against his jaw.

The unexpected movement prompted a jolt from Satoru. He tilted his head toward you, his gaze softening as your lips brushed against his jawline. A smirk played on his lips, and he responded by placing his hands on your waist. Leaning in, he subtly adjusted your position, allowing him to gently pull you closer. Cupping your face in his hands, Satoru's expression took on a bemused quality, and he raised a brow.

"I have feelings, you know?"

"Really? That's news to me," you retorted with a teasing lilt, eliciting a laugh from Satoru. He leaned in toward your ear, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep laughing," he whispered before placing a light kiss on your neck, followed by a soft, childish giggle. "It turns out I'm not completely heartless after all."

As he tilted his head back, eyes shimmering in the warm lamplight, a slight blush adorned his face. You rolled your eyes, conceding.

"Fine. Close your eyes, okay? I'm gonna count down, and we'll do it properly. First kiss of the year for you, y'know?"

He narrowed his eyes slightly, reluctantly closing them, his attention shifting to the distant sounds of the neighbour's television.

"Tell me when," he requested.

You obliged, gently running your fingers through his hair with a surreal lightness. "Three."

Satoru listened intently, eyes closed. He felt a slight discomfort but chose to ignore it, wanting to immerse himself fully in the unexpected warmth. As you continued counting, he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a significant moment. The anticipation lingered, and Satoru waited with bated breath.

"Two."

As you drew closer, he felt the warmth of your breath against your skin, and he murmured back, even softer, "One."

And then, it happened. 

Your lips met his, igniting a subtle gasp from him. A playful smile danced on your face, relishing in the delicate tension. Satoru, unable to resist, leaned in, reciprocating eagerly. His arms enveloped your back, pulling you into an embrace that sought to bridge every inch of distance. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped him, music to your very ears, the kind you could never tire from hearing.

Everything spoke—his lips, his tongue, his hands, his eyes. The rapid cadence of his heart and the hastening of his breath attested to the profound longing he harboured during his time away. His gaze, now softened, traced the contours of your face, absorbing the profound simplicity of the gesture. In this brief interlude, he held time in abeyance; kissing you always filled in the spaces between words, a language only the heart—your heart—was fluent in.

Breaking the silence, his voice carried an unusual softness as he uttered, "Thank you."

You tenderly stroked his cheek, and the gentle touch of your lips graced the tip of his nose. "Happy birthday, Satoru," your sweet murmur lingered in the air.

A blush painted Satoru's face a delicate shade of pink, his warm smile blooming in response to your affection. He reciprocated by reaching out to caress your cheek, his expression gradually transitioning from surprise to curiosity.

With a playful glint in his eyes, he quipped, "Since I've had my birthday kiss, I wanna ask a question."

"Ah, a birthday question?" 

He shrugged a shoulder. "Well, I wouldn't call it a birthday question, but it is a question I wanted to ask on my birthday." Pausing for effect, he leaned in towards your ear, his breath teasingly warm. "Can I kiss you one more time?"

Tilting your head, you whispered back, "That seems an awful lot like a birthday question.”

"I know, I know. This question doesn't fall within the scope of birthday questions, but just allow me to be an exception today." Satoru's wide grin and the playful flutter of his long, white eyelashes added a theatrical touch before he continued, "Please? It's my birthday."

You responded with a long-suffering, dramatic sigh, your hands finding their place on his cheeks. “It is your birthday.”

The unexpected touch of your hands on Satoru's cheeks momentarily left him dazed. He struggled to snap back into reality, staring at you in disbelief, searching for the right words. Ultimately, he could only nod his head in appreciation. Leaning in as if to initiate a kiss, he pulled away after a few tantalising moments, flashing a mischievous grin. 

"You're too easy."

Your snort of laughter followed. "Wow. That was kinda mean."

His grin widened as you laughed, and Satoru glanced away momentarily before turning back with another smirk. "Nah, you’re too easy. I’m just playing."

He chuckled quietly, the sound resonating with a mixture of satisfaction and playfulness. Suddenly, he leaned forward again, capturing your lips. Afterwards, he smoothly pulled you onto his lap, a familiar gesture.

“I’m allowed to be a bit selfish,” he remarked, a subtle plea for indulgence in his voice.

"You're not wrong," you acquiesced with a knowing smile.

As your fingers ran through his hair, his smile transformed into a dreamy expression. Yet, he swiftly shook off the enchantment, refocusing his gaze into your eyes, only to find himself a bit dazed once more.

“‘Course I'm not wrong. It’s my birthday,” Satoru mumbled, a hint of self-satisfaction evident in his tone.

"Right, of course. I forgot about birthday omniscience.”

He looked down at you for a moment before leaning in for another lingering kiss. Pulling away, he gently stroked your cheek, his touch both tender and possessive, before finally speaking again.

"My birthday. I deserve to be pampered."

"Because clearly, you're undeserving of being pampered every other day of the year," you drawled.

An eyebrow raised in surprise, his expression shifting from amused to somewhat curious as he gazed down at you. For a moment, he narrowed his eyes in thought before teasingly responding:

"Did you just compliment me?"

You gave him a wry smile. "I might've. Don't get used to it. It's a birthday compliment."

The grin instantly returned to Satoru's face, genuine warmth seeping through his entire response. He erupted into laughter, the kind that didn't just reside in his throat but resonated from the depths of his being. The corners of his well-loved eyes crinkled, and the sound wrapped around you. He shook his head, looking down at you adoringly.

"It's too late. I'm already getting used to it in my head."

“How sentimental.”

"It's my birthday. I’m allowed to be as sentimental as I want. It's the one day where I'm entitled to feel all mushy and sentimental. And you're stuck dealing with it."

He rested his face against your shoulder, nuzzling it slightly, and hugged you close to his chest. "Besides, you don't mind, right?"

"I guess not,” you said quietly, fondly. "Same time next year?"

Satoru leaned heavily against your shoulder, his nuzzles gentle and his breathing calm. The ease with which he rested against you spoke volumes, his breathing slowing with the rhythm of your hand running through his hair. Your question was largely in jest, but it didn’t matter. 

"Next year, and the year after that, and the year after that."

a/n: oof. I rushed to get this out on time lol. I’ve been busy working on smth substantial for getou and nearly forgot my 1# pookie’s bday!!!! *in Lemongrab’s voice:* UNACCEPTABLE!!!!!!!!!!! >:/

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

[pennyblossom-meta]

The curious case of Anna Green on AO3

Initially a drabble meant to be written in one or two days, this has grown into a full fledged side fic from L's POV.

Dedicated to @lunalit-river and @scar8o. Thank you for always being so supportive 💜

--

Chapters (1/3)

Summary: L frowns, biting down on his thumb as he scans the opening lines of Near’s email, “There are barely any records on the ‘Anna Green’ who enrolled this year at To-Ho university. For all intents and purposes, she might as well be a ghost.”

--

“Ryuzaki, here are the files you asked for.”

“Thank you, Watari.”

The lights are off at this time of night, save for the dim glow cast by the wide monitor resting on a table adjacent to the wall. A humming lingers. It’s faint, incessant, — comfortable, L muses as he wolfs down the last third of a chocolate cake slice — much like static filling the air. Familiar. Drowned by the intermittent snores of the two detectives staying overnight, not quite a crescendo in the strictest sense; even as it grows in energy while the hours tick by. He’s noticed the symphony — though the term cacophony might be more accurate — tends to devolve into a nasal staccato with every 3 or 4 longer exhales, sometimes echoing in obnoxious discordance that makes him more and more certain he’s being pestered by the undiagnosed sequels of mild sleep apnea.

Chewing loudly, he glances at the digital clock on the bottom right corner of the screen; it’s close to a quarter to 5 in the morning. So late it’s almost early.

From the corner of his eye, he sees that Watari stayed behind to tidy up the room. Tilting his head to the left to get a better angle, he examines the slow, deliberate movements with scepticism; they’re as fluid as they’re contrived, as if practised to stall for as long as possible. He draws conclusions from the little things happening in the background; how the delicate china barely clinks against the small coffee spoons when stacked; sugary amanattõ wrappers gathered into a neat pile, set aside; the soft, careful sweeping near the walls so as to avoid rousing the two men from their sleep.

There’s words to be had; his gut tells him there’s a very much non-trivial chance that this will be a precursor to something.

A rustling of papers invites him to glimpse at Watari’s reflection on polished surfaces. It’s closer to 63%, now. Very well.

He skims through the first 10 pages for an overview, his gaze tarrying for a few seconds too long on the picture of a young woman before he turns his attention to the screen. Behind him, the soft brushing of Watari’s coordinated sweeps pauses for a moment and he knows, it’s as evident as rain in April, he stands corrected that this is where the knots will begin to unravel. 

L frowns, biting down on his thumb as he scans the opening lines of Near’s email, “There are barely any records on the ‘Anna Green’ who enrolled this year at To-Ho university. For all intents and purposes, she might as well be a ghost."

Slurp 

He chugs half the tea sitting in his cup, focusing on the scalding hot sensation in the back of his throat as he reads on, picking out bits and pieces.

“...no record that Anna Green was ever present for the entrance exams, though, allegedly, she has scores for them. Below average at best, mediocre to the point that, under normal circumstances, no one with this poor of a performance would be considered for admission. What’s even more intriguing are the reasons why To-Ho agreed to bend the rules for the one student, allowing this woman to bypass university policy and, not only sit for highly competitive and specific exams abroad, but also take up classes from different courses…”

Strange, indeed. Definitely something to look further into. L taps his index finger on the mouse, nail lightly grazing over the ridges on the wheel. He looks up, deep in thought. All this information does beg the question: who exactly allowed this to go overlooked? The university board? A rogue member of staff?

Someone with enough influence to bend the rules?

“...doesn’t exist as a citizen of any country…no travel records in any airline or shipping company coming into or out of Japan…"

Unlawful entrance under a false identity, most definitely. Or as part of a smuggling network. 

"...the only data available is on the university enrollment process…impossible to find anything on the father; the mother’s records (kept maiden name, no mention of a husband or children) show a birthplace at a small town in Italy, 1955, right at the border with Switzerland, and nothing more of consequence...all records left blank from the age of 11 until her death in 1987…no significant medical records either, save for a short comment about the passing itself, as per the following transcription: ‘incidente, avvenuto il 18 gennaio nel Leicestershire, nel Regno Unito’, — filed by the grandfather, dead from prolonged illness by 1988 though ‘grief’ has been listed as a catalyst…”

A freak accident in Leicestershire, on January 18, 1987? What a coincidence that nothing more of substance could be retrieved from these records, save for vague and elusive information. He wonders if this secrecy is related to the father somehow, — he licks his lips to taste the faint remnants of black tea that linger on chapped skin and skims over the university records for the name, narrowed eyes resting again on the young woman's picture — this Atticus Cornelius Green. If that's even his real name.

He looks at the birthdates, realising that she would've been 6, going on 7, at the time of the supposed accident. Only one year younger than himself. It will be her 24th birthday soon, in little more than a month.

Scrolling down the email, he reads on.

"...tuition payments funnelled through Goodfellow's Bank, which appears to be a highly selective, privately owned financial institution based in Britain. Virtually unknown, with only 3 physical offices, total, in Europe and the United States, with no presence in Asia…registered under the apparently long-lived Gringotts Foundation, since the mid 1800’s. On the surface there's nothing questionable about Goodfellow's, though further scrutiny reveals said Foundation is also a major (and the only) shareholder, led by a series of individuals throughout the decades who do not exist beyond the trust…”

Sucking on his spoon thoughtfully, L tastes the dried grains of caffeine that cling to the bowl, agglomerating towards the tip. There’s a small chance that this is witness protection at work, but if so then it’s freakishly elaborate. Dead end after dead end and a myriad of red herrings meant to confuse anyone who investigates, while making it seem perfectly reasonable. Outstandingly legal. One would have to read between those creatively woven lines. 

But then there’s the shadow bank. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and acts like a duck, then it is a duck — or so the saying goes. Official police forces wouldn’t be able to resort to these underhanded tactics without a tangible need; and there would be an inquiry or requisition beforehand. Someone would have to budge. Things like these always leave a trail. Though the British Secret Services could potentiate such a scenario and there would be nothing to pursue, if they so wished. 

But to what end? For a trip abroad? It didn’t make sense. There’s abuse of the law and then there’s playing around it, dangling the threads like a puppet master.

“...there’s no system to hack and therefore no personal data to retrieve. Any bank transfers seem to be made in person, at the London office. Though To-Ho lists two different addresses for foreign students; Anna Green’s file shows one in the UK and the other in Japan. The former is registered as the sole property of one Awarnach Greengrass near Windsor, dating to the late 1600’s, and has never been updated since. Otherwise, the several acres for this plot of land are not even accounted for in modern records — or pay taxes.

The latter address points to a building just a 5 minute walk outside of To-Ho. Records for the building show that it’s registered as having only 7 floors. However, the primary plans kept at the Ministry of Land and Infrastructure display a total of 8 — approved and built. The addendum was placed without rebuttal this past month of March, 4 years after the structure had been built and all apartments sold without exception. The previous proprietor of the 8th floor died mid-February and left no family to inherit, though his name was stricken from the more recent record updates…”

This isn’t like the hunt for Morello, with knotted threads and underworld connections; not when he discovered the swindles, the under the table deals with art galleries and high class politicians, in a spectacle of dazzling lights and charming conversations. Definitely nothing like Merri Kenwood’s indiscretions as the thrill-seeking second daughter of a wealthy family.

No, whatever he’s stumbled upon is much more insidious and has tendrils across the decades. 

Narrowing his eyes, L quickly reads Near’s conclusion: “...the majority of these records are fabricated with the intent to appear official, when in reality they’re nothing but a smokescreen…”

He wonders if it’s a coincidence that he’s tripped over the proverbial basket of kittens, only to find a nest of snakes. And with the murders case ongoing, does this invalidate the theory that Misa Amane might be the Second Kira? No, they’ve gathered more than enough evidence for Amane in the past few weeks, but whether this is another loose thread…

“Watari?”

He feels rather than sees Watari approach.

“Any DNA match with the bloodied gauze?” he murmurs, confident on what the answer will be.

“None at all.”

“I see. Thank you.”

There’s only a very slim chance that this is related to the Kira case, but the coincidences are too many to believe that this is entirely unrelated. Or if it is, then there’s something else happening here. I’ve met Anna Green and I’m sure she doesn’t fit the profile for the First Kira — as for the Second, there’s nothing connecting her to Light Yagami or Misa Amane…am I overthinking this?

Wiggling his toes, L starts to draw his hand towards the box of chocolates on the table. He hears a light shuffle. “There’s also the matter of M,” Watari all but whispers, voice urgent and grim.

Ah, there is it.

He swallows a bonbon. “What about him?” 

Hesitant, Watari glances over his shoulder towards the detectives sprawled on the sofas. Once he’s adequately sure that they’re still fast asleep, he continues, “It seems that M hacked into N’s server and somehow managed to decrypt your correspondence, along with all available research data on the case…”

His lips twitch ever so slightly. Behind him, Watari can’t see his amusement. 

A scattered trail of crumbs — quite possibly with Near’s veiled consent. Sounds like a move to gleefully fuel Mello’s one-sided competition — or perhaps…

An allowance?

“Predictable, if unwise,” he licks the corner of his mouth, lapping at the bits of chocolate left behind. Hazelnut — and caramel. Slightly salty, but edible. 

“— travelled to London on his own to investigate the premises of this Goodfellow’s Bank, but only found a closed shop with no visible schedule. Nearby residents confirmed they had never seen it open.”

“That would be the primary office in Charing cross Road (1), yes?”

“Indeed.”

“Then it’s a red herring, as expected.” 

“Unfortunately that’s not all,” if possible, Watari lowers his voice even further, making L cock his head to the side as he strains to listen to this secret. “Days later, M stole a car and drove by himself straight to Windsor through the motorway, where he decided to prowl the farmlands until almost running out of gas. According to M’s report, he seems to have stumbled upon the property registered under the Green family — although his findings point to a derelict mansion in the middle of the forest, not a livable estate.”

Watari sifts through the stack of papers, picking the last set in the pile with the upper left corner folded into a neat triangle. N emailed, while M chose to fax , he whispers. L pinches the top of the file, his eyes moving quickly from left to right, up and down, until he’s made a mental map of the contents.

“ ‘...ruins surrounded by crumbling gates and overgrown English ivy that claimed the entire structure a long time ago…’ — I see, so it couldn’t be it at all. Yet another red herring,” he drawls, looking up at the ceiling. Shadows dance, long-limbed and distant, illusive. “Though this does give more credence to the witness protection theory, I’m still not sure…”

Is this indeed a case of false identity? Theft and blackmail? What’s going on?

He reads the last page and frowns. “M didn’t examine the property?” 

A rhetorical question, to which Watari merely shakes his head. ‘...lost interest in a useless cat and mouse chase, not worth looking for clues here. Forgot to bring a lantern.(2)’ L puts down the file, placing it on top of the stack, thinking it’s a strange conclusion for Mello to reach, especially when he's so desperate to prove himself above Near. It pays for the overconfident to be thorough. And he knows that well enough, despite his impetuousness.

Lodging a fingernail between his two front teeth, L ponders over Mello’s words once more. The attitude itself is out of the ordinary.

Watari busies himself cleaning the crumbs under his armchair, in silence. Then, he tidies the stack, now out of order. Waiting for a follow up, no doubt; but these things can’t be rushed. L pours through photos of the landscape, scrutinising every inch of the images; any resulting from this adventure are blurry and pigmented, as if altered post-processing. An unfortunate accident, explained when the camera malfunctions shortly after Mello is — as he states in brash words, the offence visible even through writing — suddenly picked up by a police car on the motorway. The agents sputtered, perplexed that a 14 year old boy drove a stolen car. Roger had to pay a hefty fine to keep Mello out of juvenile prison. He also gets out of a damning record for underage driving, thanks to the many contacts at Wammy’s.

Lame-ass, he calls it.

As expected, Mello seems unhappy with this particular turnout. His intelligence combined with bubbling insecurities and a natural inclination towards the extreme, Mello has the makings of a fairly competent criminal.

L narrows his eyes, “Say, do we have the results on the ‘coin collection’?”

A rustle of fabric. Watari promptly pours him more tea, the robust aroma wafting upwards, “The bu is an authentic coin from the Edo Period, nowadays often on display at museums or secured by ancient history collectors. One single piece would be up for sale starting at 1.5 thousand, subject to the seller’s reputation.”

“There were at least 12 on the floor that night, some perhaps more obscure than currency from Edo if my eyes didn’t deceive me,” he taps his lips with one pale finger, looking thoughtful. “What about the other one?”

“The second coin is made of solid gold, though the minting — remarkable as it is — doesn’t match any known branch. The coinage alone is entirely unknown, even if it bears Gringott's Foundation inscriptions."

Could they really be collectibles, after all?

He nods. “Thank you for your diligence, Watari. As always,” he adds after a heartbeat, quietly slurping the remnants of his black tea, “Please file these away as soon as you’re able.”

L eyes the now neatly arranged stack. For the last time, he allows himself to stare at the picture on the first page before turning his attention back to the screen.

“Of course.”

Silent as a shadow, Watari leaves.

I have a lot of thinking to do. But she doesn’t fit the profile…and I’m certain Amane is the Second Kira, at this point. No, this is something else entirely.

Alone again save for the sleeping detectives, L finds that his fingers clench over his knees of their own accord, muscles taunt and knuckles blanching bone white as he looks out the window at the waking sun. 

Another day, another mystery.

...

TBC