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dulcewrites · 2 years ago

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Fool Me Once (pt 2)

Pairing: Aemond targaryen x reader (wc: 3.6k)

Summary: Despite learning about Aemond cheating on you, life has never been sweeter. Who knew being so bad could be so good.

Warnings: manipulation, mentions/allusions to pregnancy issues, mentions of self harm

A/N: first, I just have to say thank you for the response to part 1. I truly had no idea it would get the reception it would. Thank you to everyone who followed me as well. I hope I can continue to produce stuff y’all like. I’m hoping to write more hotd stuff, Aemond and non Aemond related. I plan on taking a small hiatus but will be back around thanksgiving weekend. I will be writing on/off during that time but just away for a trip/the holiday. If you have any hotd requests my inbox is always open. I would try to get them out either before my hiatus next week (11/16) or after it ends (11/26). I’m pretty open to writing any character, though I will warn you I’m way more fascinated by the greens so they just come easier to me. Anyway please reblog, like, and follow if you read anything you enjoy 🫶🏽🫶🏽. And some housekeeping: in this Aegon is not r*pist who enjoys watching children fight (the hotd are truly…. not right for the cartoonishly evil way they wrote Aegon). He’s just petty and neglected. Also the timing of this is different from the books bc Aemond meets Alys pre dance.

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A bastard Strong. The irony is not lost on you. Your straight-laced husband fucking someone who is the complete opposite you. Older, no kids, no title, and no duty to uphold. At this point, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Instead, it makes your blood boil in the most delicious way. Aemond’s betrayal made you realize how you’ve been going through the motions; endlessly sleepwalking, hoping one day Aemond would come around. It woke you up to how much he’s taken advantage of you. He sees your kindness, and aversion to standing out as a weakness. Something he can manipulate and twist like one of his daggers.

The both of you must have forgetten where you came from. A rich, well respected house. The only daughter of smart, albeit conniving, family that knows how to get what they want. Your family didn’t have dragons or absurd ideas of exceptionalism to help you gain power. You’ve learned that inflated egos and prideful indulges can cloud Targaryen judgment. A trait you hope skips your children.

Shame on you for thinking Aemond would be different. Shame on him for the carefully curated facade.

All you do after Larys Strong comes to you the first time is think. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had this many options in front of you. Your mother’s words about patience run through your head. Keeping your wits is key. Play your hand too quickly, and you lose all leverage. You have Daella and the babe in your belly to think about. You stood pat in the beginning; Lord Strong simply relaying messages to you. You make sure Alys gets the letter Aemond wrote, and the ones after that. Lord Larys makes sure you get the details of each letter exchanged.

When the days grew lonely, and your body aches because of the babe in your stomach, you think about the letters. The declarations of love and recounts of lust filled meetups simmer in your head, but it’s the mentions of you that makes the anger sizzle and crackle. It makes the guilt you feel wash away.

You question if the rumor is true. That his Alys is a witch. Does her magic allow her to see the way Helaena can? Fuzzy premonitions and dreams that only make sense after they happen; a gift and a curse. A part of you wishes it to be true. You hope while your stomach stirs with untold truths, hers stirs with regret. Maybe the pain that runs through you leaves an unfamiliar taste in her mouth. That she can’t quite put her finger on it, but she feels you.

You wonder if when Aemond prays, he asks the Father to protect him… to protect her. The same way when you pray, you ask the Warrior to help you find the courage to destroy him.

It started with a bruise. A bruise that you don’t even remember how you got. Maybe one of those things you just wake up with. But it’s there, on the inside part of your left arm. It’s starting to fade but an otherwise noticeable bruise that stands out when you wear something with shorter sleeves.

The idea doesn’t come to you till you see the curiosity in Alicent’s eyes when you absentmindedly rub the bruise while asking if she’s seen Aemond. It’s only you two in the walkway; an unusually quiet day at the Red Keep. Her eyes go from it to the far away look in your eyes. It makes her tilt her head in thought.

“No dear, I haven’t,” her eyes go back to the scratch. “Are you doing alright? I know for some, the second babe can be even harder than the first.”

You look down at your arm, and something just clicks.

“I’m fine,” you start, then you make your voice tremble a bit. “I will be fine. I think I’m just tired.”

You give her a strained smile, and she returns one that tells you she doesn’t believe you. You can feel her big brown eyes burning into your back when you walk past her towards your chambers. There could be two thoughts in her head: you did this yourself or someone else did it to you. Either way, her son’s sweet pregnant lady wife is not doing well, and her son is nowhere to be found. Queen Alicent is one of the smartest, if not the smartest, person you know. She sees the change in her son; the change in the dynamic between Aemond and you.

It hits you. It would be too easy to physically harm Aemond. Though the idea of taking the blade that hangs from his hips and putting it to his throat has crossed your mind more times than you’re proud of. It would be too easy to get Larys to kill Alys. You don’t want to give Aemond the satisfaction of having his whore’s blood on your hands.

Where’s the fun in killing when your rage could be channeled into something more… methodical.

Under all that false bravado is the little boy who got picked on for not having a dragon. To break the man means bringing out that little boy. A truly broken man can’t love anyone. Isolation, and self hatred. What a gorgeous combination for your dear husband.

If this is going to work you need to up the ante.

So, you write. If Aemond and Alys can document their love, you can document your pain. You sent your lady in waiting out to get a blank book from one of the maesters. The color dyed cow skin feels smooth under your hands. There needs to be a slow build. Each day you grow closer and closer to shattering. Whoever reads it needs to know Aemond brought you to this place. He is the villain in the story of the poor, innocent wife that did nothing but carry his children and try to love him.

It will read like a diary, but to you it is a creation. A mixture of truth and imagination. A manifestation of pent up feelings. Purging and revenge all rolled up into one. You make sure to mention how terrified you are for your safety, and for you children’s safety. How an angry or disenchanted Aemond is nothing to toy with, especially if he has a bastard witch on his side. How maybe life would be better for Aemond if you just weren’t around.

But this fading bruise isn’t enough. Neither is just having a diary that will be discovered in due time. A deep cut, a dark bruise, half hazardously placed hand prints.. now that could work.

There’s something cathartic about the pain you feel when the dagger slices through your skin. The blood is so red and warm. It smears so smoothly on the page. Blood on your dress, cloth pressed to the wound, and wandering the halls is how Ser Criston finds you. You notice the worried, confused look in his eyes when you stutter out an ‘I don’t know’ when he asks what happened.

As the maester tends to your wound, you notice how Alicent and Criston stand in the corner of Alicent’s quarters. They occasionally glance at you while they whisper to each other. You recognize the familiar crinkle she gets in her forehead when she’s upset. All her children do it too.

“Sweetling, we both think it might be a good idea to give you your own knight of the kingsguard,” she sits next you. “Just to help you and… keep an eye on you during this vulnerable time.”

You blink. Not one mention of her son. But it’s clear to see how Ser Criston is with his queen. Submissive, and utterly devoted. Having someone like that is an asset. So, you smile weakly and nod. The more people who see you in this way, the better.

Ser Quinton Throne was quiet in the beginning. As if he was scared to be in your space. A far cry from the rambunctious knight his brother, Rickard, is. Moving past the initial shyness, he is attentive and even indulges Daella’s fascination with him. Despite you telling her not to, she would always run up to him, tugging on his white cloak to get his attention. She likes having someone around just as much as you.

The distance between Aemond and you had started to carry over into his relationship with Daella. Kids are more intuitive than adults give them credit for. Your throat felt tight when you daughter finally asks where father goes. You lie; it comes easy to you, easier than you thought it would. It makes you think if this is how easy it is for Aemond to lie to you. Or for everyone to not gloss over the clear problems in your life.

You would lying if you said it wasn’t nice having a man around, even if it was his job. It was Aemond’s job to do right by you, and he couldn’t do that. A man carrying out his orders with a warm smile was welcomed. The comfort of having someone who sweared his allegiances to you, and only you, and intended on keeping them.

You look from your embroidery loop to see Daella and Ser Quinton sword fighting with wooden swords. It’s an uncharacteristically sunny day. Perfect to get much needed fresh air, and apparently going to battle.

“She’s gotten quite good.”

Like a storm rolling in to ruin a sunny day, your husband’s tone is ever cold and distant. You hate the uncomfortable energy that radiates when he sits next to you.

“Yes, she has,” you stare at the Lysene lilac flower starting to come to life on your loop. “He’s good with her as well.”

You know he won’t like you saying that. He hates Quinton being around, and he especially hates how Daella taken a liking to him. Aemond scoffs and mumbles something under his breath you can’t make out.

“It’s just lovely having real protector around,” you continue to push your luck. “Someone so attentive and… strong.“

You look at with his a sickening sweet smile. He opens his mouth to say something, a complaint or rude comment since those seem to be the only reasons he talks to you, but he is interrupted by Daella yelling out for him.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he mutters to you, getting up.

“Oh you’ll actually be here long enough for that?”

The words slip out your mouth and it makes him turn to glare at you. It reminds you of the gossip you heard about him when you first arrived at court. How cold the king’s second son can be. It should’ve been a warning to you.

Quinton takes it as his cue to leave them be; you know he can sense how much Aemond doesn’t appreciate his presence. You watch as Daella clings to her father. As selfish as it sounds, you patiently wait for the day she too realizes he can’t be depended on.

“My mother used to make me embroider,” your knight’s voice breaks you out of looking on. “Something about being dangerous with a needle is just as great as being dangerous with a sword.”

You take a good look at him. If Aemond is the moon - ethereal, mysterious, and always changing, then Quinton is the sun. Bright, forward facing, and shines brighter with time. His choppy black hair, beard, and warm standing in contrast to your husband’s Targaryen features.

“Sounds like a smart woman,” you smile as he sits next to you.

His eyes linger on your embroidery work before traveling to you right arm. The blade wound was just starting to scab and scar over. His first day on duty was marked by seeing your husband give a long lecture on safety and ‘using your brain’ after Aemond saw your wound. The blade cut wasn’t under pure circumstances, but the look of resentment on your face was real. He saw that. He’s never asked what really happened to your arm.

“How are you my lady,” he whispers. You told him he can address you by your name, but he still insist on the formal names especially around others. “Is the babe giving you trouble.”

Ser Quinton, Helaena, and Alicent are the only people that seem to care about your well being, on top of the babe’s. Aemond concern went making sure the babe was fine to just not asking all together. It’s better that way, you think. You don’t think you’d be able to take fake concern about your little ‘mistake’.

“My bladder is being pushed on, I’m finding clumps of my hair on my pillow, and Maester Oliver told me this baby will weigh more than Daella did,” you reply lightly. “But other than that I’m doing fine.”

This pregnancy had knocked you on your ass. You’re sure the stress and thoughts that consume you don’t help. You know how it feels to come into a fracture family; it makes you feel awful for the babe in your stomach. Your parents tried hard, frankly too hard, to pretend things were good between them. Trying to prove their union was more than a duty for their houses. Till this day, you don’t know what’s worse: knowing they didn’t share that love or the years you watched them fake everything. They had ambitions, and to carry them out there needed to be an appearance of an united front. You took your father’s lead, knowing he always tried to have your best interest. The relationship you have with your mother often ebbing and flowing, especially since your marriage.

When you ravened your mother about your pregnancy troubles, she tells you that this is your responsibility to your husband. Harsh and utterly true. You don’t know if your father ever had indiscretions like Aemond, but you know she’d never plot the way you do. Her calculating nature showing up in different ways. Instead of going after him, she chose to focus on elevating you.

Her and Queen Alicent remind you of each other. Devoted to a fault. A victim who had no other choice but to fall in line.You pray for the both of them. Pray that they find peace with the sacrifices they’ve made. Pray that you never get that far. A shell of yourself. Duty, responsibility, cleaning up others’ messes - what a dull way to live.

“Once he’s out, I’m sure it will all be worth it,” says Ser Quinton, voice not wavering.

He’s trying to be kind, mentioning the working theory in the castle that you’re having a boy. You try to smile at the thought. It’s hard to believe that. Plan or not, you still have to know the truth about the father of your children. There is hole left in your heart about that. Him disrespecting you is one thing, but his words pertaining to your unborn child is another. A sudden spurt of anger rushes over you thinking about everything. It makes you stand abruptly.

“I’m feeling tired,” you watch as Daella pretend to stab her father with her sword. Her giggles ringing out when he reaches to pick her up. The dichotomy of Aemond Targaryen will always fascinate you as much as it terrifies you. How he manages to smile in her face, and lie to yours is quite a sight to watch. “I’ll send Margret out to get Daella.”

Waiting for the perfect moment is not going to work. There no time like the present.

The stiff upper lip of this family is something you noticed the moment you stepped into their presence. It’s seeped into the way they gatekeep a dying Viserys. Alicent is cold and collected in the most beautiful way. A sharp glittering icicle. A pretty rose littered with thorns to keep you admiring from a distance. Even Helaena, who you consider a friend, keeps certain things close to the chest. It’s better to keep the full truth away from her.

But there’s Aegon.

Pitiful, and lonely Prince Aegon. A drunk with a bad attitude. But he’s also the most painfully self-aware person you know. There will be times that you and him exchange looks, as you are in on the joke. That everything is a farce. One day someone will just come up and say it’s all been a bad dream. You think it’s the reason why he frustrates Aemond so much. The teasing on top of him never taking the Targaryen name seriously. Aegon spends his days trying to drink and fuck his way out of thinking about his life. Stuck in a royal cuckold. The first born son of a king with nothing to show for it.

He’s messy, nosy, and so openly brash. He’s your missing chess piece. The perfect pawn.

You leave the diary around places in the castle you know he will be. It’s not until you conveniently leave it in the play room where all Daella, Jaehaera, and Jaehaerys all frequent that you know he’s taken the bait. His lilac eyes seem to follow you whenever you two are in the same room. It takes days for him to confront you; book in hand and wry look on his face.

“Is it true? Everything you wrote?”

You stroke your belly while looking at him, a small smile on your face.

“Does it matter that if it is,” you tilt your head, and his eyes glitter with something you’re not used to seeing.

He mirrors your head tilt with a full blown smile on his face this time. It’s like a bright light after weeks of darkness. A person who also sees through the bullshit that enraptures once you call yourself a Targaryen.

“I greatly underestimated you my good sister,” he whispers. You know he’s thinking about his own words. ‘Pretty but horribly dull’.

“That’s fine,” you motion to the seat next to you. “You can make it up to me.”

Queen Alicent stands facing the fire. Aegon, Helaena, and Ser Quinton off to the side. All of them standing across from where you sit. Aegon gives you a knowing look while Quinton’s eyes are filled with pity and anger. Pity for his princess, anger towards his prince. Helaena looks like she wants to say something.

“I… do not know what to say,” her voice is strained with pain. You know this hurts for her. The image of the perfect son being destroyed. The pedestal she put him on crumbling before him.

You’ve gotten better at crying after Aegon told you tears will be necessary to sell it. It’s an automatic response now. The perfectly timed emotion that breaks like flood gates when Alicent holds out the diary. You say you’re embarrassed. That you never meant for anyone to read it, especially not anyone in the family. Aegon gets to be the concerned good brother. He rubbed your back, while his mother called for Helaena. She needed to know who else knew about this.

“I can say what everyone is thinking,” Aegon pipes up. “He’s a fucking cunt.”

“Aegon.”

His mother turns to glare at him, but it doesn’t deter him.

“Walking around with that self righteousness just to fuck a Strong,” he scoffs. “Calling his child a mistake?”

The words makes Alicent sigh, and squeeze her eyes shut. Helaena continues to play with her fingers with a quizzical look in her eye. If Aegon of all people can judge, the actions must be bad.

“This all my fault,” you decide to take it up a notch. Your breath catches. “I must’ve done something to deserve this.”

“Oh my sweet girl,” Alicent walks over and sits next to you, pulling you into her chest. “None of this is your fault.

“I just don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you continue. That part is true; what the seven hells did you do to deserve this marriage? “This, and the baby, and missing my family. I’m just so unhappy here.”

Alicent strokes your hair. You can feel her heart thumping in her chest. You can tell she’s upset and scared. Scared for what your unhappiness means. You’re a risk now.

“Maybe… my father can come and visit. He hasn’t been here since Daella was born.”

After you got married, your parents left court to tend to your house. They felt their work was done. That the marriage was as far as their political ambitions can go. They visit from time to time to see their granddaughter but normally you’re the one who has to make the trip.

“Of course,” you can see the wheels turning in her head. “I’m sure the Hand would love to pick his brain on some things. Your father has always been so kind and helpful”

Queen Alicent is as predictable as she is smart. Your dad thought your marriage would help him get a seat in the small council. When no offer came, his ego was bruised. If your marriage couldn’t, maybe a desperate Alicent can. The idea of sending a raven about the news makes you have to bite back a smile. An ally in an castle full of strangers.

“I’ll speak to Aemond about this,” she nods to herself. “You don’t need to be worrying about this in your condition.”

The disappointment is clear in smooth voice. Before you can reply with a thank you, Helaena finally piped up.

“A baby’s green eyes spurs brighter skies.”

She mutters it before looks at you curious. You look down at your swollen belly, feeling confused. Neither Aemond or you have green eyes. You try to push the sinking feeling out of your stomach. Even Aegon, who normally ignores Helaena’s cryptic language, has perked up a little.

You take a look at Ser Quinton… his eyes as green as spring grass.

Ok this is my first one doing a tag list, so I’m sorry for those I’ve missed. It only let me do 50??? Idk it’s it’s different on desktop or I’m doing something wrong. Hopefully I can find a more conducive way for this. I also only tagged people who specifically asked: @afro-hispwriter @crispmarshmallow @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @its-sam-allgood @lol-im-done @grey-water-colors @sassysaxsolo @justsumstufff @lilithskywalker @dc-marvel-girl96 @bekky06 @claudie-080102 @cloudroomblog @shelbythequeen @crazylokonugget @solacestyles @instantpeachpeace @katyadenauer @nsainmoonchild @deeeeexx @iwanttohitmyself @rosa-berberifolia @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @princessmiaelicia @bregarc @castellomargot @thesadvampire @chaosmagiq @icarusignite @happinessinthebeing @flavorofsalt @wishfulwithwine @slut-for-eddie-munson @rosaryos @mistalli @inana-mm @winxschester @papery-maniac @nolongereviliwantlove @fultimefangirl @missusnora @skinmittensgoblin @duckworthbean @b00kdiary @chiyausu @alexandra-001 @tachibubu @juneisreading @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @verycollectivecreator

#aemond x oc #hotd imagine #my writing #sorry for the delay.. the tagging kicked my butt 😭#also if there’s typos I’m sorry 💀💀#also sorry for once again leaving it ambiguous… couldn’t help myself #aemond targaryen x reader #black!reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #Aemond targaryen

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last-starry-sky · 7 months ago

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too sweet pt 3 - innocent!reader x graves

(original idea inspired by this post by the lovely @shotmrmiller - part 1 here - part 2 here)

NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS - MDNI: (slut shaming, a lil bit of body horror-ish stuff, pov switches, lots of pet names (as per usual lol), dub-con if you squint (reader is a bit drunk so ymmv), fingering, look me in the eyes and tell me graves isn’t the type of guy to pack heat 24/7, i’m really leaning into how much of a virgin reader is so buckle in, no hard smut (again, sorry lmao))

You were standing around the kitchen island with your mother. It was your usual morning ritual, but this morning was different somehow. You just couldn’t place it. Things seemed . . . weird. Off. Just a little to the left of normal. Like how the sun felt a too bright, blasting in the front windows like a floodlight, far too bright for the early morning.

You squinted at the bleached out white walls and shiny tile floor as your mom was cradled your face in her hands. They were cold. Your cheeks were cold. You shuddered in her grasp, peeling her off you as you stepped back. Your foot hit the leg of a stool behind you. You plopped down, falling right into the cushioned seat.

“How was it sweetie? You have fun?” she said picking up her coffee cup with a smile so wide you wondered if it was hurting her.

Her voice is unbearably high-pitched and sweet; like cold syrup pouring in your ear. It took you a moment to realize you had heard those words before, that this was not a dream.

It's a memory.

Oh yeah, you realized, this was the morning after you went on your first date. You felt the stupid smile you had walked in with return to your face. Your first date with Phil.

The thought of him warmed your brain. His hand in yours as he led you to the front door. How he’d let you doze off in his car on the way home. How warm and protected you felt laying against him by the bonfire. The memory was comforting, creating a mix of pleasant feelings in your chest.

“Yeah mom,” you replied automatically, “had a lot of fun.” It was the exact answer you had given her that morning.

Her hands clenched around her steaming coffee cup, knuckles white.

“Tell. me. how. it. went.” She said punctuating every word, smile gone taught; practically carved into her cheeks.

Weird, a rouge blip of a thought came to your mind. Those were the right words . . . but her voice, the way she said them. It was far too terse. This was not how you remem-

“Really good,” you responded on queue, still dreamy and automatic. It was like you were on a track, all of the lines already set and all you had to do was say them as they came, no matter the parts of your conscious brain screamed at you that something was wrong. You have to stop. You have to stop now.

“That’s good!” she said flipping back into her overly-happy demeanor so fast it gave you whiplash. “He seems like such a nice man. Your dad just wouldn’t stop talking about him after you left!”

That was . . . normal. You still felt weird, squirming in your seat and looking at your hands just to look at anything but her. Maybe if you kept going everything would go back to norm-

“He is nice,” you said before you could stop yourself. “So nice. I’m glad you both like him, too. We want-”

She interrupted you.

"Oh, but I don’t, honey.”

“What?” you gasped off script, cracking away whatever part of the memory had it’s tenuous hold on you. This isn’t how this went. You remember this morning. You remember what she said. You know-

“You heard me. Whore,” she said, smile dripping off her face. Her words were like a black hole. Void of emotion and sucking you in with a terror like oblivion as the unreal brightness of the room turned dimmer and dimmer behind her.

Your mouth fell open. You tried to do something, anything: turn around, backpedal, run, but you couldn’t. Of course you couldn’t. You never can run away in a dream. You were forced to watch your mother’s face swirl off into the cheery kitchen around her as her voice turned acrid and shrill.

“Don’t play dumb with me you little slut.” Her eyes falling inward into black pits that shone back at you. Mirrors into your own guilty soul. “I know what you do when you’re alone in your room. I can hear you. And now, even that’s not enough? Look at you. I spent all that time, raising you right, taking you to church, putting the fear of God in you, and still you ended up like this. What would your father think if he saw you now? Letting a stranger touch his daughter, in public no less!”

“Mom!” you managed to gasp out, cheeks burning. How did she know? How did she find out?

“Don’t mother me!” her squaking, multitudinous voice called out, echoing around the little kitchen as a pit twisted deeper and deeper in your gut.

“You think you’re still my little girl? Look at where you’ve done. What you’re planning to do.” You felt like God himself was there shaming you. The cup shattered in her hand, spraying blue ceramic in slow motion. “I sure hope you enjoy your night with him because you’ve made your own bed now.”

The truck sways, bouncing up and down and then left to right, waking you suddenly from your soft, childlike sleep. You hear Phil mumble a quiet ‘sonofabitch’ above you as he corrected the truck with his left hand while squeezing your waist protectively with his right. You’re still right where you’re supposed to be: cuddled safely into his chest.

You crack open your eyes a slit. The cab is dark, interrupted only by the irregular pass of streetlights that flooded the cab suddenly with light only to plunge it back into inky, silent dark a second later.

You can feel his bicep flex, tensing to hold you close, behind your head. When he’s got the truck back safely in his lane, his muscles in his arm relax. He sighs into your hair and you feel his hand move back down to your thigh, the rough skin of his fingers slowly stroked at the exposed skin south of your skirt. You sigh softly, shivering at his touch, burying your face in his shirt as you stretch yourself in his lap.

His hand stops when you move, turning to look down at you. It lays there, warm and strong, on your thigh.

“I wake y’up, sweets?” he asked, his breath rustling your hair.

You squirmed in his lap as you shook your head, stretching your neck and wiping at your eyes. His hand tensed on your leg.

“What happened back there?” you asked sleepily. The alcohol had made your tongue heavy and clumsy in your mouth. You could still taste strawberries when you swallowed.

“Ah. Oh that? Just a . . . just a log in the road,” he said with a pause and a shrug.

He patted your thigh once before reaching up to take the wheel with both hands. He let out a soft groan as he canted his hips, shuffling your body on top of him as he readjusted himself in his seat. His eyes were focused straight down the road. It made you sad to lose his touch but you understood. Out the windshield you could see the road he was driving you down, if only what was illuminated by the headlights. Pine trees thickly lined both sides of the unfamiliar two lane road, interrupted only by the odd set of mailboxes that signaled a line of houses down hidden dirt roads. Everything was dark green and black. No stars. No moon. You didn’t know he lived so far out in the country, but then again, you had never been brave enough to ask.

“You okay?” you asked quietly, still not quite woken up. You wrapped your arm around his ribs, relaxing into him, stealing his warmth.

“Yeah,” he said moving his left hand, letting it drip down the steering wheel until it just barely hung off the bottom. “Musta been a raccoon or somethin’ in the road. Got distracted.”

He let go of the steering wheel, bringing his hand to grip your thigh where his other hand had been just a few minutes ago, right on the hem of your skirt. His thumb swiped back and forth, gently tracing from the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh to the top of your leg. The motion sent tingles racing to your core. You moved your leg a fraction of an inch to relieve the pressure but had to bite back a moan. Oh no, you thought tipping your head against his chest. You could feel how wet you still were.

“Saw it too late ‘n had to swerve,” he added as an afterthought. You wondered if he had taken his eyes off the road to watch you now; if he could see you with your eyes closed, lip caught in your teeth, blissed out and squirming against his leg.

He spread his fingers, pressing his warm palm flat to your leg, as he brushed up under your dress. You let your head loll back against his bicep behind you, unable to to keep your next moan from escaping.

“Now I got you distractin’ me,” he said with a hiss into your hair, sliding his hand up further. His fingers brushed at the edge of your panties. You squirmed under him as he danced ever so close to where you wanted him. Needed him.

“Phil,” you sighed.

You were just about to crack, to grab his hand with your own and make him touch you, when he stopped, resuming his absent stroking.

“Hold on jus’ a little bit longer, darlin’,” he said with a squeeze to your upper thigh. “Last turn’s comin’ up.”

He slowed down fractionally, taking a wide left turn that swayed the whole truck, the driver’s side wheels falling down into the slope of the ditch before pulling back onto the road. You bounced in his lap as the truck transitioned from the rough, but still somewhat maintained, concrete country road, to dirt and gravel. The trees lined the narrow road even closer than before, choking out the light from the increasingly rare streetlights.

He took his free hand out from your dress, nudged in between your legs and his pants and adjusted himself. He closed his eyes for but a moment and groaned as he palmed his cock. It made you blush, you weren’t exactly used to men acting like this around you, but it also made you wickedly excited. He was like this because of you. You had made this strong, older man, a soldier, race you home on a dark rainy road just so he could get his hands on you.

He put his hand chastely on your waist for a moment, flexing his fingers into your skin. It was as if he was weighing his choices. When you sighed into his touch he let out a held in groan. His choice was made. He skimmed his hand down your body to the press of your legs. When he got to the edge of your dress, he slid his hand under, bunching it against his sleeve as he sought out his prize.

It was the tip of his middle finger that first grazed your pussy. It made you jump, his touch punching out a gasp even through the cloth of your panties. He kept going, pushing his whole hand to palm at your warm, aching core. He ground the bottom of his palm against you, fingers stroked at your weeping hole, earning a pitiful whine into his chest. The brute, indirect pressure was making your legs shake.

You grabbed at his arm, looking up at him with pleading eyes. His eyes stayed stubbornly on the road. “Phil . . . please,” you begged. “Please-”

He cut you off by twisting his hand, curling his fingers under the waistband of your underwear to stroke at your silken folds in a single, fluid motion. You clenched, nails digging into his arm as you squeaked out a silent Ah as your eyes flew shut.

The truck slowed to a crawl, headlights swaying back and forth, illuminating the same frame of unfamiliar road and dark, foreboding trees, as he concentrated on slipping his fingers through your untouched pussy. His ability to drive completely shot. You were lost too in the overload of new sensations. Your wetness covered his fingers, dulling the rough texture of his skin. He used his strength to press almost too hard as he made a circuit through your labia, up to your clit, finally swirling down and around your hole. You’d never had someone else touch you there, and even your own “experiments”, alone and frustrated in your bed, hadn’t yielded very much pleasure. But this, the tingling, shooting pleasure coiling tight in your core that had you open-mouth panting. This could be something.

He took his remaining hand off the steering wheel to wrap both his arms around you, leaving his whole body flexed on to the brake like a vice. He pressed his face into your hair as he rolled his hips against you with a moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he said with a flick of his fingers across your clit that made you flinch. He was completely blissed out - his voice rough and heady. The combination made you shiver against him. “Fuck. We can’t-” he said tipping your jaw up, forcing you to face him again as a blush crept over your cheeks, “-can’t do this here.” He pressed an open mouthed kiss against your lips before pulling back, his nose sliding against yours. “Open your mouth for me now, babydoll,” he said taking his hand away from your pussy to peel your bottom lip open with his thumb, your own slick painting your jaw.

Somehow, someway, he did manage to pull his brain out of his cock and drive that last stretch of road to his house. As much as he had wanted to throw his plans to the wind and just fuck you in the truck he reminded himself that this was your first time. He needed to make it good for you.

No high school specials tonight. That wouldn’t make you stay.

He let himself indulge in one more sleepy, dazed kiss before he mechanically went through the motions to shut off the car. Slide the clutch into park, unbuckle, radio off, lights off, turn the key in the ignition. He had to move you off his lap to get out first before he could scoop you back up into his arms to bring you inside. When he leaned in to pull you out he saw his jacket crumpled into the corner of the passenger seat. You nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck, almost ready to fall asleep again. A corner of your bright purse stuck out. It was tangled inside his jacket, almost completely hidden. He hugged you tight to his chest as you shivered from the misting rain. Your phone was probably in there too.

Shame, he thought as he slammed the door shut with his free hand, you’ll probably be looking for that in the morning.

He didn’t set you down until he got to the front door, not that you protested. Your useless heels would have sunk into the mud of the lawn anyway. It was still cold night despite the weather clearing. He liked feeling of you shivering against his side in the dark as he unlocked his front door. It wasn’t longer than a moment before he had the deadbolt and door unlocked, shooing you inside ahead of him.

You ambled in, tipsy and disoriented, in the dark, heels clacking in an unsteady gait across the wood floor. He listened with amusement as you made your way around his unfamiliar home with only the sparse outside light to guide you. Sometimes he forgot how dark it could get out here in the country.

He stopped at the dinner table, taking his time, unloading his usual carry: wallet from his left pocket, phone from his right. Each made a light clink against his keys as he tossed them onto the table. He reached around his back and unclipped his holster from inside his slacks. His clip followed shortly. They both made a weighty thunk on the table. He rubbed at the sore spot the grip had worn into his back, suppressing a groan. It didn’t help that his holster had slid to the middle of his back, making him adjust the way he sat the whole drive home with you wriggling in his lap.

Once his watch was off his wrist and his shoes kicked behind him, he walked silently back to the door and locked the deadbolt. The sharp CLACK of the metal had always been comforting, but now, it was exciting. A sign that everything was ready. That you were safe now. Finally. he thought with a sly smile creeping across his face. Locked inside his home (could be yours too, in a heartbeat, if you asked). With no one around for miles to bother you. Right were you were always meant to be, darling.

The only safer place you could be is wrapped in his arms, and he planned to remedy that problem as soon as he found you.

It didn’t take much of a hunt to find you. You’d made a light thump as you found the end of the couch with your hip in the living room and had decided it was as good a place as any to lean against. He had to give you credit, you had hauled yourself up onto the arm of the sofa all by yourself. It was almost cute to watch you struggle to keep your balance as you reached down for your ankle straps, little frustrated noises falling from your lips.

He was quiet in his socks. He could tell you hadn’t heard him when you jumped as his hand touched your knee. He laughed at it as he slid up your thigh boldly.

“Phil . . .” you said grabbing his belt, looking up with pleading eyes.

“Need help, baby?” he teased, trailing his hand back down to hook under your knee. You let out a gasp, crumpling his shirt at his waist as your fingers clamped suddenly together. He held your hips with his other hand, hiking your leg up to his hip, allowing him to smoothly slot himself in between your legs.

This was going so fucking well.

It took a little bit of fiddling in the dark, but he managed to unclasp your left heel, letting it fall with a loud THUNK against the floor. It didn’t help that there was not another sound in the house beside your rasping breaths. You were such a cute little thing like this: holding on for dear life, whining into his chest, barely able to breathe already. He smoothed his hand up your leg until it met his other hand at your waist. He couldn’t help but give you a little squeeze. You yelped, head shooting up out of his chest to lay your pleading eyes on him.

He pressed his advantage immediately. He chuckled and leaned down to peck a gentle, toying kiss on your lips. His hand was already moving down to your remaining shoe as he pulled away, a small, disappointed oh falling from your lips. This time, he wouldn’t let you hide. He moved his hand from your waist to the small of your back, rough fingers catching on the smooth, clingy fabric of your dress. You were red cheeked and panting, a small ah all the noise you could make, when he pressed you forward, forcing you flush against his front. Only an inch of needy, heated space separated his cock from your barely-clothed pussy and, good fucking God, did he need it.

Need it. Need it. Fucking need-ed-it.

Your ankle in his hand, he deftly popped your hip open. He tilted forward that last, cloying centimeter to feel you. His eyes fell shut as he pressed to you with a groan. You were so warm. He could feel it through his pants. You let out a shamefully high-pitched whine in return. He felt his trapped cock jump in his pants. He was throbbing and, fuck, so were you. He couldn’t feel it yet, but he knew you were wet. How could you not be? All that excitement in the car had to have your pussy working overtime.

Your second heel fell to the floor.

“Phil . . .” you whined in the silence that followed, pawing at his sides and back. His dress shirt made soft swishing noises under your nails. It was almost like music.

He chanced looking down at you. Fuck did you look gorgeous. Your skin shimmered in the dark with sweat. The first thing that caught his eye was your breasts pushed against his ribs, that little silver cross hidden safely away, swallowed entirely by your chest. Your eyes were huge, with pupils blown wide and glassy with tears as you looked up at him. You were chewing on your bottom lip again, the irritation making it all the more red and kissable. The more blissed out and needy he made you, the more irresistible you became.

A perfect, vicious circle. A positive feedback loop.

He let go of your ankle to place his hand on your cheek. You were beyond flush, more like burning. When he felt you fold your leg around his hip of your own volition he couldn’t help but feel satisfied. He rutted forward into you. It was a rough pleasure that did almost nothing for both of you, but it was something. A tease in this slow, slow dance he had been leading you on, a preview of what was to come, maybe even a reward for holding on this long, for doing so so well.

“Doin’ okay, sweets?” he asked, petting your burning cheek with his thumb.

You nodded with a bat of your lashes. You straightened your back suddenly to make yourself taller when you saw him leaning down to kiss you. You were still so excited, enthusiastic.

Trusting.

He let all the chains come off. Long gone were the quick, chaste pecks at your front door. The ones that drew you into him. A delicate summer moth hypnotized by a porch light, never to escape. Even the “real” kisses he’d had with you outside the restaurant and in the truck were blown away. He held your jaw open with an iron grip while he forced his tongue in your mouth. He was sloppy, aggressive, taking what he wanted. He would only momentarily break away to nip at your open, panting lips, before diving back in. It amazed him how submissive you were. You weren’t fighting him in any way, just let him control everything while you let out an occasional moan or whine. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to figure out why that was.

You’d never been kissed like this before. How could you have an opinion on how you liked it when you’d never- Fuck, he forgot. How could he forget? You’d never done anything before. He’s got a little virgin in his hands, whining and squirming, practically begging for it.

Hmm, he thought. Could he really . . . could he make you beg for it?

He squeezed the side of your thigh as he rolled another thrust against you, groaning against your lips. You yelped at the pain of his fingers biting into your skin, but it dissolved into another high-pitched whine. Fuck, could listen to that all night. Your legs tightened around his waist, keeping him close.

“Phil,” you sighed as he rolled his hands up your thighs, dragging your dress up with it. “Phil please.”

Oh fuck, he thought. She’s really going to do it.

“Please what, darlin’?” he asked hoarsely, resting his forehead against yours, watching you squirm as he tried to pull your dress out from under you.

“Please . . .” you trailed off shyly, trying to make him stop by pawing at his hands. Not that you could.

“Gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he said voice drawn gruff and dry.

He balled the stretchy fabric of your dress in his fists and pulled. It resisted, pulling ever so slowly from where it was trapped under you. The sound itself was delicious tension. More music to his ears. It was a long, soft noise as the knit stretched to it's limit in the quiet of the room. You tried to turn your head away, to hide your pants and whines, but he prevented it by shoving his face into your neck. He kissed and nipped at your neck until, without fanfare, your skirt popped out from under you.

You slammed a hand to his chest before he could make another move. This time, he obeyed you.

“Phil!” you plead, red faced from embarrassment, “Can we . . . can we not- um can we go . . . ” You caught your breath for another couple moments, wiggling your knees on either side of his waist, before turning to him. “Can we do this in your bed . . . please?”

He hauled you up by your thighs, throwing you up onto his chest without another word. You scrambled to throw your arms around his neck as he backed away from the couch.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered into the side of your head.

#mw2 #graves/reader #graves x reader #cod fanfic #starry writes #call of duty #cod mw2 #here i am once again blue-balling my audience by delaying the smut for another chapter :)#sorry this took a fucking month i was outta my groove #also. just lookit me using dividers and shit like a real author #don't mind me just editing my headers reeeeall quick

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separatist-apologist · 3 months ago

Text

Lying In Between The Memories

You could call it paradise but it looks just like hell to me

Summary: Following the blood rite, Gwyneth Berdara can't shake the memories of a life long-gone.

The shadowsinger can't seem to move on after five centuries of loving the same woman.

Together, they'll have to carve a new path forward.

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter

[ongoing TW for Sexual Assault]

Lucien slander incoming

Gwyn was up before Azriel in a scene fairly reminiscent of just two days earlier. The shadow singer was on his stomach, face turned toward the closed blinds, body blanketed in shadows. She’d forgotten to pull a blanket over her naked body which was just as well given his massive wing covered her with far more warmth.

She had to be careful where she touched lest she rouse him. One wrong touch of his wing and he’d pounce, and Gwyn didn’t think he’d let her out of the bed for the rest of the day. Shivering with desire, she managed to get out from beneath him, watching as one strong arm reached outward blindly for him.

In his exhaustion, he didn’t realize the pillow she slid beneath his armpit wasn’t his mate. She’d be back—she wanted to surprise him with breakfast and track down some clean clothes so she didn’t have to slink around in one of Azriel’s strange, over-sized, button-up tunics.

Gwyn didn’t dare let herself feel an ounce of shame as she made her way back into the library. It had once been her sanctuary—her home.

And she smelled of a male. Clotho turned to look, brows raised before returning to what she was reading at the desk, but Gwyn caught the way her nostrils flared. Her stomach sank ever so slightly, though she kept moving. Had Merril replaced her, she wondered? Gwyn was too much of a coward to track her down and find out.

Instead, she quickly gathered some of her clothing before changing into a familiar, soft blue dress, and made her way back out with the kind of stealth she’d employed in Montessere. As to how stealthy she was, well.. that was debatable, given the Day Court scholar was waiting for her just outside the library, arms crossed over her chest.

Eris Vanserra’s mate.

That wasn’t an enviable position as far as Gwyn was concerned. She was better off hidden here than trapped with Eris, who had never once demonstrated himself to be anything other than a two-faced liar. Maybe his mate was, too.

“You stole something from me,” Gwyn said by way of greeting, holding her stare.

Arina shrugged. “And?”

I already don’t like her.

“I want it back.”

Arina shrugged a second time. “Maybe I lost it.”

How mad would the High Lord be if she strangled her, Gwyn wondered. Would he be angry over a little light beating? A casual amount of stab wounds if they didn’t kill her?

“You didn’t.”

Green eyes flashed with defiance. “Prove it.”

Gwyn couldn’t help the low, frustrated noise that escaped her. “What do you want, then?”

“The book.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Arina crossed her arms over her chest, hip jutted outward. Did she not understand she was a prisoner? This wasn’t the time to negotiate. Gwyn’s temper was going to get the better of her, and if she got caught fighting just outside the library, there would be hell to pay from everyone.

“You can help me, if you’d like,” Arina suggested.

“I could also call Eris Vanserra to come get you,” Gwyn retorted. He was her…what? Cousin? Uncle? She hadn’t asked a lot of questions, to be fair, and didn’t intend to. The blonde before her wrinkled her nose, confusion written all over her face.

She didn’t know.

Oh, how fun. Gwyn could ruin everything simply because it amused her—could torment Arina, could hold it over her head.

“Why would you call him?” Arina demanded, some amount of alarm in her gaze.

“You’ve angered a lot of courts.” Gwyn decided that for now, secrets were better kept just that. “Give me the cipher—”

“Even if I gave it to you, you wouldn’t know what you were reading,” Arina snapped, her patience at an end. “I am a scholar in the Day Court and you are, what? A soldier who got lucky? Another Night Court spy?”

That stung, though Gwyn understood why Arina thought so. “I know enough.” Arina snorted. “Your type always thinks so—as if wielding a blade makes you an expert in everything.”

“You can’t wield a blade?” Gwyn asked curiously. Arina didn’t look defensive, didn’t seem bothered at all.

“No.”

She was going to Autumn. Gods help her, Gwyn supposed, done with the conversation. “I’ll speak with the High Lord,” she said, hoping the mention of Rhys might change Arina’s mind. The scholar merely shrugged again, tossing strands of that golden hair over her shoulder as if to say, you do that.

Gwyn left her, bag slung over her shoulder and pride wounded. Bitch, she wanted to scream. She swallowed it, frustrated, and made her way back into the House of Wind. Angry, Gwyn yanked open the door just as the person on the other side approached. Azriel stood here, eyes as wild as his sleep mussed hair.

Ah right. Mate, her blood sang at the sight. “You were gone,” he said, voice still thick with sleep.

Gwyn lifted her bag, offering what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I needed clothes.”

“For what?”

Gwyn held his gaze, the air filled with the salty tang of his desire. Wasn’t he exhausted? She still felt sore between her legs and though she couldn’t prove it, Gwyn was fairly certain she was walking bow-legged.

“I thought it might be nice to walk through the house without giving Nesta and Cassian a show.”

“They’ve earned it,” Azriel mumbled, pulling the bag from her shoulder as though it offended him to see her carrying it. Gwyn couldn’t deny that she didn’t like the way the muscles in his stomach tightened, revealing abs just beneath his warm, scarred skin.

“You look unhappy.”

They fell into step, and Gwyn marveled at how easy it had become to talk to him. To be around him. So much had changed—she hadn’t had a chance to truly take it all in. The realization slammed into Gwyn hard, nearly knocking her backward. Azriel noticed—he noticed everything—eyes narrowed.

“I’m not unhappy,” Gwyn said slowly, her mind racing. “A lot has changed.” Fear flitted over his expression, squashed into careful neutrality.

“Ah.”

“I see the ghost of myself, unaware of what’s coming,” she continued, chewing her bottom lip. “I wonder what she would make of all this.”

Azriel only nodded his head, dropping Gwyn’s bag on the floor of his room. There was a question there—as if he wondered if that was too presumptuous. It wasn’t. Gwyn wanted him to push her back to the bed, but instead he tucked his wings tightly against his back as he pushed further into the room, sliding a shirt over his head.

“I need to speak with Rhys,” he told her, not meeting her gaze. What was wrong? “I’ll see you later?”

There was some other question lingering, one he didn’t vocalize as he moved out of the room again. Gwyn stopped him, hand on his chest, to lean up on tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. She didn’t know how to ask him to stay without it feeling too forward, so she only said, “I’d like that.” Relief shuttered across his expression.

“And you will.”

Azriel was gone then, glancing one last time over his shoulder as if he needed to be sure she was actually there. Gwyn, too, liked the sight of him from behind almost as much as she liked the view from the front. It took her a moment to shake the thought—to resist the urge to chase after him, tackle him to the ground, and have her wicked way.

Later, she reminded herself. With Azriel gone, Gwyn’s mind cleared enough to let her think. Arina. Eris’s stupid mate—what a match made in the hells, she thought grimly. She wasn’t sure who she disliked more, though she did understand, on some level, why they’d been paired together.

Nesta and Emerie were up on the roof with Cassian, dressed in their leathers as they continued to train. Gwyn hadn’t seen them since the previous day, and Azriel had taken over their reunion for penis related activities.

“I thought you’d be busy—hells, Nesta, what the fuck—”

“Stop talking,” Nesta breathed, pulling out of a stretch to see Gwyn. Emerie came, too, bouncy and full of smiles. From just behind her, Morrigan helped Cassian back to his feet, her brown eyes dipping down Emerie’s back.

What was that about?

“So…” Nesta began, rocking on her heels, “how was last night?”

“You were so loud,” Emerie added, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“How could you possibly know that over in Windhaven?” Gwyn demanded.

“Oh, Em wasn’t in Windhaven, she was—”

“Nesta!”

“Secrets?” Gwyn asked, trying to swallow the small twinge of hurt. She’d been going, but Nesta and Emerie had been here, together. They’d bonded over things and Gwyn would have been lying if she said she didn’t feel a little hurt. It wasn’t their fault.

“It’s not a secret,” Emerie said, shifting on her feet. “I just want to talk about it somewhere more…private.”

That led to the three of them turning right around with only a casual wave at an indignant Cassian. Gwyn peered over her shoulder to look at Mor again, who didn’t seem to notice at all. Her eyes were, once again, lingering on Emerie’s hips. Gwyn swallowed her questions as they made their way back down to the house. Once they were alone in a den, doors shut firmly behind them, Gwyn said, “Spill. From the beginning.”

Emerie’s cheeks immediately went scarlet while Nesta’s sharpened like a cat with a mouse beneath her paw. “Emerie and Mor are courting.”

“It’s not—you make it sounds so formal—”

“She came all the way up to the house with flowers and asked to show you the city,” Nesta argued, smile wide. “What do you call that?”

Emerie looked to Gwyn for help, but Gwyn wanted to know the answer. “Is she the one who fixed your wings?”

Nesta’s smile widened. “Not technically. She ah…she asked Rhys to talk to the High Lady and she did.”

“It’s become a whole thing in Illyria,” Nesta told Gwyn, lowering her voice as if the Illyrian’s might overhear. “No one realized the healing magic in Feyre’s blood could fix broken wings, so

Emerie was the test subject.

“Once it did, we opened it up to any female in Illyria,” Emerie added, cheeks still bright red. “Twice a week, the High Lord and Lady go up to Illyria with Cassian and myself. We were doing it by sign-ups, but realized the males were keeping them from coming. Now Cassian rounds them all up.”

Nesta’s smile slipped, her gaze icy. “It’s not going well. A few of the females had their wings re-clipped, and rebellion broke out further north and every time Cassian quells it, another pocket pops up.”

“That bad?”

“I offered to go in,” Nesta said, eyes glowing softly. “Feyre, too. But Rhys wants to try and preserve as much as we can—diplomacy is, frankly, annoying.”

“What kind of diplomacy would even work?” Gwyn mused, wondering how you convinced a culture that pre-dated the Night Court itself to change their practices.

“Killing the most vocal, outspoken leaders and installing people the High Lord can trust,” Emerie said softly, her face burning with satisfaction. “There have been whisperings of Dark Bringers coming in to enforce the new policies, too. I know it’s wrong, but…it’s kind of nice seeing some of the males who have hurt us face the wrath of Cassian’s sword.”

“Do you remember Balthazar?” Nesta added, as if Gwyn had ever forgotten him. He’d helped them during the Blood Rite—they all owed him a life debt. “He’s been helping change minds, especially among younger Illyrians. It’s the older ones that are the most vocal, the angriest. They think if females are made equals, they’ll turn around and punish them.”

“I wish,” Emerie mumbled.

“Feyre held a town hall to let them voice their concerns but it turned into a bloodbath,” Nesta continued.

“One male drew his sword and pointed it at Feyre and every dissenting voice in the room was gone like that,” Emerie said, snapping her fingers to demonstrate. “The High Lord was so angry.”

“Why are you laughing?” Gwyn asked.

“My brothers were among them. They should have known better than to threaten the High Lady,” Emerie said with satisfaction.

“So you found a partner and started a revolution in the span of a month?” Gwyn questioned, impressed.

Emerie beamed. “I guess I did.”

“Now tell us about you, so when I have to answer to Feyre later for going behind her back, I at least know what it was all for,” Nesta said, dropping onto the sofa, her smile returned. Emerie took the chair by the fireplace, leaving Gwyn to curl her feet beneath her on a little two-seater and explain, in depth, everything that had happened.

It was well past dinner by the time she finished talking—Nesta had asked the house for food at some point, though Gwyn couldn’t quite remember when. It was like old times, though—it felt like a lifetime had passed between the last time she’d really talked with her friends and leaving for Montessere. She wished they’d been there with her—that she’d been part of everything just as they, too, could have helped her navigate everything with Azriel.

“So she stole your cipher and is holding it hostage?” Nesta demanded, outraged. “In my house?”

Emerie was already on her feet, reaching for the door. “We’ll get it back—”

On the other end stood Azriel. The three of them went silent at the sight of him, eyes wide. His lip was split and bloodied, left eye swollen and purple. Blood had dried over his cheek, standing his otherwise beautiful skin.

“Tomorrow,” Emerie whispered, sliding out past Azriel. He moved to let Nesta past, too, his eyes practically burning.

“What happened?” Gwyn demanded angrily, walking toward him to lightly touch his face. Azriel hissed, turning away from her.

“It’ll heal.” “Who did this to you?” she pressed, her anger bubbling beneath her skin.

“Would it help if I said I deserved it?” Azriel asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

“No! Would you feel good if I looked like that and all I’d say is that I deserved it?” she snapped. Some of his amusement slipped.

“It’s over,” he told her.

“Was it Rhys?” she pressed, vowing that she’d tell the High Lord exactly what she thought of him if he’d hurt Azriel, regardless of being High Lord.

“No.”

“Az—”

“It was Lucien,” he told her, voice low. “I didn’t hit him back.”

“Who?” Gwyn demanded before she remembered, vaguely, Lucien had come by once or twice. “Why?”

“I pissed him off,” Azriel ground out. He wasn’t going to tell her, and in her mind, Gwyn just knew this had something to do with Eris. Everything going wrong had something to do with Eris. Lucien was a Vanserra, and Gwyn just assumed his loyalty was to his brother first.

“Fuck him,” she said softly, her voice laced with venom.

“Fuck Lucien?” Azriel questioned, arching a brow. “No, fuck me.”

“You’re hurt—”

“Not that hurt,” Azriel murmured, reaching for her face. “I think seeing you undressed might help me heal faster.”

Gwyn couldn’t help her laugh. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” she murmured, though she left him take her by the hand to lead her down the hall.

“Only one way to find out, Berdara.”

Indeed.

—

Azriel hadn’t expected to run into Lucien first thing in the morning. There the male was, though, striding up the steps toward the River House only a few paces in front of Azriel. Gods, he didn’t want to talk to another fucking Vanserra. Azriel intentionally slowed his pace, deciding if Lucien was there to see Rhys, he’d take Nyx off Feyre’s hands and waste his time teaching the baby swear words.

Maybe he’d take him up to the House of Wind and show him to Gwyn. And she’d take the baby in her arms and he could pretend—

“You know,” Lucien had stopped, unnoticed by Azriel who’d been lost in his daydream. “You’re a piece of shit. Do you know that?” Azriel blinked. “How have I offended you?”

But he knew. He knew the moment he saw Lucien’s clenched hands that Elain had ratted him out—had told him what occurred last Solstice and Lucien was out for blood. Azriel wanted to show his teeth and beat Lucien into the ground simply for being a Vanserra. Everything about Lucien offended Azriel. The fact that he was granted a mate he ignored for years on end, content to do nothing while he figured himself out, or that he bounced from court to court with no show of loyalty irked Azriel. He wouldn’t abandon Rhys, even if the decision’s his brother made were outlandish and horrible.

Deep down, though, Azriel knew he hated Lucien because they were the same—born to fathers that didn’t want them and to mothers who couldn’t help them. Azriel didn’t like Lucien, but he’d never thought himself better than the seventh son of Autumn. Lucien did, though. He had that air about him, as if his good breeding and status as a High Fae somehow made him better than everyone around him.

“You had no right to touch her,” Lucien snarled, stepping closer. They were matched for height, but not strength and Lucien had to know it. Don’t pick this fight, princling, Azriel warned silently, holding his ground. “No right to go anywhere near her.”

“Did she have the right to touch me?” Azriel heard himself saying. It was the wrong response—something powerful slammed into his chest, throwing Azriel down the drive before he could catch his breath. Lucien was on top of him a moment later, hitting him in the face.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

It was like when he and Rhys sparred—the force rattled the bones in his jaw, punctuated with magic Azriel couldn’t just barely argue with. That didn’t mean he couldn’t get a lick in…though some part of him wondered if maybe he deserved this. After all, if a male had touched his mate, knowing she belonged to him…Azriel might have done the same.

He would have done worse.

“Lucien!” Feyre’s voice cut through the early morning air. A second later, the two were separated as Feyre blew Lucien across the lawn, her face both radiant and irate all at once. Rhys hung back, arms crossed over his chest in the doorway, expression ripe with amusement.

What did you do? Rhys’ voice ribboned through Azriel’s mind.

That bullshit with Elain during Solstice.

While Feyre chewed Lucien out, hands on her hips, Rhys threw his head back and laughed. Didn’t I tell you.

“Yeah, yeah,” Azriel mumbled, ignoring the way his face ached as he pulled himself to his feet. Lucien looked as if he wanted a second round but Azriel was still a male and still had his pride.

“That’s the only time I won’t hit you back, lordling,” Azriel snapped, ignoring how Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “Next time there’ll be nothing left for that mate of yours to kiss—”

“I’ll kill you—”

“That’s enough!” Feyre snapped, ending the pissing match before Azriel could have his second round. “There will be no killing of any kind!”

Azriel ducked his head as he made his way into the house, hoping he looked appropriately mollified. He certainly felt it. Rhys followed behind Azriel, a smile still dancing across his features.

“I could listen to her yell at him all day,” Rhys admitted, closing the door behind Azriel. “Music to my ears.”

“What’s his fucking problem?”

“Mating bond is riding him hard,” Rhys replied, sinking into his chair. “I need to get them out of this fucking house before I go insane.”

“They accepted here?” Azriel asked, surprised.

“Feyre begged him to stay for just a week, unaware they were in the middle of the frenzy, and now its all I hear. Day and night, waking up Nyx, keeping me up when they drop their mental defenses…” Rhys’s expression was one of frustration. “I told Feyre to buy Elain a house just to get them out of my hair.”

“And you sent Cassian away,” Azriel mocked, dropping into the leather chair across from Rhys’s desk. “Perhaps you like Lucien better than us.”

“Cassian and Nesta would have burned this house to ash. You remember that mating ceremony, right?”

Azriel would never forget—the smell of Cassian’s arousal was forever lodged in the back of his throat. Azriel had spent a month up in Illyria while Cassian and Nesta made up for lost time, and even then sometimes he still heard them.

“I suppose you’ll be next?” Rhys questioned. Azriel hoped, certainly, though he hadn’t let himself think that far ahead. He shrugged, instead, deciding silence was the best course of action Rhys knew him well enough to guess what worried Azriel—that Gwyn was going to realize she could likely do better and then leave him.

He knew Rhys just as well as Rhys knew him. That had always been Rhys’s fear about Feyre, after all, even after she’d accepted the bond. Azriel wondered when it had changed for Rhys. When did he let himself believe she wanted him, and would remain, regardless of what she saw?

Azriel didn’t ask.

“I assume you didn’t come all this way to let Lucien hit you?” Rhys asked. This would be a joke for the next century, if not longer.

Azriel scowled. “My magic. Where does it come from?”

Rhys arched his brow. “You know I don’t have the answer for that.”

“I think I do.”

Azriel dropped his mental defenses, trusting Rhys wouldn’t go digging for anything other than what Azriel pulled to the surface. It was a supreme act of trust between them—Azriel had guarded his secrets closely like a dragon hoarding gold. And though there was nothing Rhys couldn’t see, it was more that Azriel didn’t want him to. Rhys was allowed his secrets.

Azriel should be allowed his, too.

Rhys did exactly as Azriel allowed, his presence dipping into Azriel’s mind to watch it all play out. Rhys withdrew a moment later and Azriel slammed the walls back up, ensuring every last stone was in place before truly looking at his brother.

“Well?”

Rhys steepled his fingers in front of his face, sighing deeply. “I’ve heard that voice in Elain Archeron’s head, too.”

Azriel’s blood ran cold. “And?”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. If your magic is derived from Koschei, it’s just that. Derived, but clearly not controlled.”

“We’re missing something,” Azriel murmured, though he didn’t know what. “I think I should return to Montessere.”

“We should,” Rhys amended softly, eyes cutting toward the closed door. “And soon. With Beron Vanserra gone, whatever deal he’d struck with their king should have died with him. Eris bought us a little time, though who knows how much. Did Gwyn ever manage to figure out what was going on?”

“No—a Day Court scholar stole her cipher and she’s been able to read the book she was translating without it.”

“She’s upstairs with the priestesses,” Rhys mused, rubbing his chin. “Both Helion and Eris are asking for her. I suppose I could negotiate for it…or you could simply steal it.”

Azriel’s shadows slithered around him, suddenly paying attention.

“Find it,” he murmured, watching as they vanished into smoke.

Rhys took a breath, waiting until they were truly alone. “Once you know where it is, get it back without making a fuss. I don’t want Eris claiming I harmed his mate any more than he already is.

When we know what the book says, we can decide our next steps. We need to move quietly, though.”

“What are you thinking?”

“You get me through the door, and I rip open Gunnar’s head,” Rhys said with a relish. It was treason to suggest—could start a war if they were caught. Azriel didn’t care—diplomacy was Rhys’s job, at any rate—but he raised his brows all the same.

“And then what?”

Rhys shrugged. “His son is dead, his court in shambles…I’m sure the vipers are circling. A stroll through the palace will tell me who is sympathetic and who might be willing to sign a treaty agreeing to look elsewhere for their expansionist ambition, should it come to that.”

“It’s risky,” Azriel said, unable to suppress his grin.

“Sounds like fun to me,” Rhys replied, settling back in his chair. “Let me think it through a bit—give me a week. In the meantime, help Cassian with Illyria.”

“What’s going on in Illyria?”

Rhys gave Azriel the rundown of their latest project, speed running through a plan that had originally been meant to happen over the course of several decades. Nesta was human, and Emerie young, and he supposed to them, it was simply all too slow. He didn’t blame them for pushing for stronger measures, for wanting stricter punishments. Feyre, too, seemed frustrated by the lack of progress being made in the region and the loss of yet another generation of females while the males pretended to implement the changes they outwardly ignored.

“Looking for resistance leaders?”

“And quickly,” Rhys agreed with a sly look on his face. “They’ve forgotten how it feels to go against us and I think a little reminder is in order.”

“Maybe it’s time,” Azriel murmured.

Rhys’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Say the word.”

“It would cause more problems than it would solve,” Azriel reminded Rhys, knowing damn well that Rhys didn’t care about problems when it came to his brothers. So what if the other nobles balked—let them see what happened if they refused the authority of the High Lord they were sworn to.

“Is there someone we could install in their place?” Rhys questioned.

“I could find out.”

“Do it.”

And that was that. Azriel spent the rest of his day with Feyre and Nyx, seated on the floor while the pair tried to convince the toddling baby to pick his favorite. Azriel cheated twice, pulling a piece of candy he’d swiped from Rhys’s desk to intice the child over while Feyre declared he was the absolute worst and she’d never forgive him.

Azriel knew she would. She spent the afternoon fussing over his face and begging him to let her fix it before he went back upstairs, but Azriel had made peace with his wounds. This was his penance, besides. He’d gotten what was coming to him, he supposed.

Even if he stood by what he’d said all those months ago. He was glad Elain wasn’t his mate…but still thought Lucien was an unworthy male he could easily take in a fight if it ever came down to it. Besides, Azriel reasoned it might give Gwyn a reason to fuss over him, which he thought sounded rather nice.

He’d forgotten how violent she could be. Even with his head in her lap, wings draped around them, Gwyn explained in detail all the things she’d like to do to Lucien while scratching his scalp. Was this how cats felt?

“We could psychologically torture him,” Gwyn said, still musing all the ways she could get him back.

“Oh? How would you do that?” he questioned.

“I’ll ask Nesta,” she decided, earning a chuckle.

“She’d know.”

“Arina still has my cipher,” Gwyn informed him after a moment. Azriel opened his eyes to look up at her, finding her pretty face twisted in a frown.

“I’ll find it,” he said, wondering if his shadows already had. They wouldn’t intrude while he was with her, and he couldn’t sense them nearby. It didn’t mean they weren’t—just that he couldn’t feel them.

“And deny Nesta the opportunity of scaring it out of her?” Gwyn asked before her expression shifted. “Did you know Mor and Emerie were courting?”

It should have been a punch to the gut. Azriel waited for that familiar wave of hot jealousy to fill his throat like it used to. Every time he’d heard whispers of Mor being intimate with other people—males, usually—Azriel hadn’t been able to swallow it. Rhys had often taken him out to let him burn out his anger in the form of physical violence.

There was a beat. And then another. “Oh?” he finally heard himself say in a placid tone. He meant it, too. It was pleasant, that feeling. He only wished her well.

“Surprised me, too,” Gwyn admitted after a moment. “But Emerie is the best.”

“She is,” Azriel agreed.

“And Mor is…nice?” she questioned.

“She is,” he promised, reaching for Gwyn’s free hand to press a kiss against the back of her skin. “You’ll like her.”

Gwyn hummed a non-committal sound as the pair lapsed into comfortable silence. Azriel had questions he didn’t dare ask her—not yet. Maybe not ever. He wanted to know if she was genuinely happy and if she had regrets. If she was accepting their bond out of obligation or because she wanted to. Cassian and Rhys knew their mates wanted them because humans didn’t have the concept—they had to decide on the merits of their feelings rather than the expectation of the bond.

Gwyn had grown up as one of them—she knew what it meant to have a mate. And she’d accepted the whole thing so easily, so quickly, that Azriel caught himself second guessing everything at times.

“Are you hungry?” Gwyn asked, reading Azriel’s mind. His heart raced at the thought—he knew what she was offering. Yes! The word nearly bubbled out of his throat, leashed only at the last minute.

“I am,” he replied, rising upward with what he hoped seemed sultry and not avoidant. He had her on her back in a moment, gazing up at him around a halo of reddish brown hair. “What are you offering.”

“I thought…” she breathed, but he was sliding her dress up over her thighs. That's it. Forget you offered, he thought silently. Pressing a kiss to her thigh, Azriel decided this was better, at least for now. Let her get used to it—they’d revisit accepting in a few years. Decades, maybe.

It was easy to pretend it didn’t hurt him.

Mostly.

#Gwynriel #sorry once again for the delay

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eardefenders · 8 months ago

Text

Sherlock & Co - Mailbag Episode 3 Transcript

00:00 John: Heyyy there, I’m,uh, I’m, uh, back in your ears! Heh. Uh, thanks for inviting me in. Um, I-I just wanted to add a chunk on before this Q and A just to give you an update on all things Gloria Scott. Uh, thanks so much for the kind words, first off. Uh I-I-I did warn about its angst. Um, and I appreciate i-it’s not always a fun ride when, when those kinds of things happen. Um. But hey! I’m glad you all enjoyed it. Um, glad the masterful sound design was appreciated.

00:32 John: Uhm, yeah I thought I’d, I’d check in now and give you a rundown of it all. Post match interview sort of stuff. Uh, Lionel did recover from the stroke. He is out of hospital, but he will be going back to Australia. Um. He’s-he's obviously cooperating with the government, um, down there. It’s not an easy situation, but he’s handling it with remarkable grace and dignity. Um. Victor is, as well. Can’t quite get the read on things with him at the moment. He’s obviously very, very torn. Uh, we solved the case for him, but, y’know, yeah. H-he’s in a much worse place then he was before. Um. *pause* Such is life. Uh, such is a very complicated life, I should say. He’s helping his dad, with the inquiries. Uh, m-my gut says there’ll be prison time. *sucks teeth* Um, y’know, c-cooperation and evidence and the, yeah, t-the mitigating circumstances might be helpful to Lionel and all, but, uh… *deep breath* ultimately lives were lost. He was complicit. Y’know this is the world we live in.

01:49 John: *sucks teeth* Victor has paused the job search, but uh I-I do believe he’ll be coming back to the UK once, y’know, whatever happens, happens. But, uh, yeah. Tough stuff. Um, glad you all enjoyed Mariana joining in on the adventure. Um, don’t know if she enjoyed it all that much. So far she’s watched corpses get pulled out of the canal and now she’s watched an elderly stroke victim get extradited for murder. So, uh, y’know. *chuckles lightly* Welcome to the world of true crime, Ametxazurra!

02:23 John:Um, Sherlock asked me to apologize, also, actually. Um, yes, to apologize that he wasn’t technically correct in his solving of the case. Um, uh, Hunter did reveal the actual truth. I, I told him people wouldn’t really mind. He got me to apologize anyway, so, uh, yeah. There you go. Um, so he’s been a right mopey bastard, as you can imagine. *clears throat* So, to cheer him up, I carted him off to…an indoor theme park! Heh, yeah, you heard that right. Theme park. But indoors. Well, theme park’s a bit strong to be honest. I-I-It’s like an arcade with an indoor roller coaster. But yeah! Y’know! Uhm, back to Camden, but for a much more enjoyable experience.

03:05 John: These questions were asked, um, before The Gloria Scott episode aired. T-two that I ask Sherlock right at the end are eerily prescient. Um, that’s the right word, I think? Uh, I hope. Welp, you’ll see what I mean. Enjoy!

03:19-3:49 *Intro Music*

03:47 *Arcade Sounds Fade In, we can hear Sherlock exerting himself*

03:50 John: Yoooo, wassup guys! Welcome to the John Watson channel where we talk all things John Watson all the time! Ehh, that’s my impression of a youtuber or real podcaster, hope you enjoyed it. Ah, right, Sherlock, tell the members where we are.

04:01 Sherlock: Indoor theme park! Augh! *through gritted teeth* You little alien bastard! Get back here!

04:09 John: Sherlock is doing some whack-a-mole, ah, or they’re aliens in this place, not moles. Could be alien moles. Who knows. Ah, it’s an indoor theme park in *in a very exaggerated North London accent (genuinely he sounds like an ass here)* North London. That’s North London, sorry. Bit excited. Had about a kilogram of sugar. Haha, I’m looking at all sorts here. Arcade machines, carousels, basketball hoop game thingy, air hockey, bumper cars -dodge’ems, call’em what you will-, and an indoor roller coaster! Hahahaa! It’s wild stuff. Okay, let’s get to some questions over a casual game of air hockey.

04:40 *Audio Cut, sounds of air hockey being played*

04:41 Sherlock: Have that! *puck hit sound* And that!

04:44 John: ‘Have that and that’? What are you, a musketeer? Hahahaaaa! *sound of a puck entering the goal* First point Watson! Heyheyheeeey, ahhhh. And now for the first question. Uh, Tonkster aka Resetoaster asks, “To John and Sherlock, if you go to Subway -the fast food I should clarify- what do you usually order?”

05:03 Sherlock: *with exertion* You’re *sound of the puck being hit* distracting me! Ah!

05:06 John: Ah, you wouldn’t be saying that if you were winning.

05:07 Sherlock: I’m not winning *puck hit sound* precisely because of it.

05:11 John: Alright, fine. I’ll answer. Uh, I like the turkey club. Is that-Ow! That hit my finger. *hisses in pain*- I think there’s a turkey one. Um, I like that one on plain-ish bread. I don’t think their fancy breads are all that good. Uh, and then I’ll have a southwest sauce- Wham! Haha! *sound of puck entering goal*

05:23 Sherlock: Oh, bugger.

05:26 John: Subway order?

05:26 Sherlock: Never been.

05:27 John: Great.

05:27 *audio cuts. Sounds of automatic rifle fire going off*

05:29 John: Reloading. Cover me!

05:29 Sherlock: Covering.

05:30 John: Incoming at your two o’clock.

05:31 Sherlock: On it!

05:32 *sounds of two loud gunshots*

05:33 John: Yesss, Sherlock. Right, through the lobby. Okay, let’s see how this goes. Bellaxbear01 asks “If you guys want another pet, what animal would it be? Another dog, another cat, or maybe a fish?”

05:47 Sherlock: I like fish. *sound of gunshots* Very much. Reloading.

05:50 John: *pleased* Oh, hahah! I like fish too!

05:52 Sherlock: Really?

05:53 John: Yeah! Tropical?

05:54 Sherlock: Tropical or temperate.

05:56 John: Well that’s good to know. Yeah, worth maybe one day looking into that? Oo! Getting shot at here. Uh, Amelie5 asks “Do you have a favorite case you’ve solved so far?

06:05 *sounds of a big gun being fired*

06:07 Sherlock: A good question at bloody last. Die you bastards! *big boom*

06:12 John: Oh wowhaowhaooow! *sounds of I guess dirt falling, maybe bodies???* *with a smile in his voice* Oh, you made him blow up! Ha! Ahh, I know the feeling. Poor sod.

06:18 Sherlock: I rather enjoyed the Red Headed League.

06:22 John: Yep, that was a good’un. -Oh, duck down! That’s a machine gun.- Did you like the Red Headed League because of the case or because it proved me wrong about it being boring?

06:27 Sherlock: Mmm, both.

06:28 John: Great, well-oh I’m dead. *sound of man yelling, presumably John’s character dying in the game* Balls.

06:31 *audio cut. Ambient arcade sounds with something fizzing at the forefront*

06:34 John: What is that?

06:35 Sherlock: *struggling to speak* opp ing andy.

06:37 John: Opping Andy?

06:38 Sherlock: *still struggling to speak, but clearly annoyed* Op-opping. Andy.

06:41 John: Ohhhh, popping candy. Right. Well, RangerPip asks any specific reason you started smoking a pipe?

06:49 Sherlock: *unintellible gargling and consonant sounds*

06:54 John: Right, well, if you understood that RangerPip, well done you, haheh. *pause* *in a considering tone* Hunnh. He may or may not be choking.

07:03 *audio cut, loud music and bumper car sounds*

07:04 John: Ah!

07:04 Sherlock: Ahahaha!

07:05 John: Hahahah, left! Left! Left!

07:08 Both: Ah! *sound of impact*

07:09 John: Oh my god, my ribs! Argh, right! Let’s get up some more speed and smash into these kids-uh, I mean! These, um, big burly blokes.

07:17 Sherlock: Here we go.

07:20 John: Yesss, Sherlock, we are at some speed now, baby! Hahahah, right! Question from Raylein, “Does Archie get human food? And if he does, who feeds it to him?”

07:30 John: Ah yeah I do feed him, I-

07:30 Sherlock: Yes.

07:33 John: Wait.

07:34 Sherlock: What?

07:35 John: You’re feeding him as well?

07:36 Sherlock: I am, yes!

07:38 John: Well, that explains a lot. Uh, yeah Raylein, I don’t really like animal products going to waste so I just, um, I chuck him all sorts. Ope, here we go. Come here you little shits.

07:44 Sherlock: Ahhhhhhhh!

07:45 John: *sound of impact* Ah hahah!

07:48 *audio cut, it’s much quieter now, but they’re still at the arcade*

07:49 John: *remorsefully* I just didn’t think they’d cry and tell their mums is all.

07:51 Sherlock: That’s what children do. *accusingly* You told me to smash into them.

07:55 John: I did not say that.

07:57 Sherlock: Can I get the SD card out of your microphone and check?

08:00 John: No.

08:01 Sherlock: See.

08:02 John: Andrew says, “Question for Sherlock: Do you have any piercings? And, if you don’t, do you want any? And, if you do, which ones do you want?”

08:10 Sherlock: *sucks in a deep breath* Ear piercing. I haven’t used it for some time.

08:14 John: Why not?

08:15 Sherlock: Was that asked in the Discord?

08:17 John: What?

08:18 Sherlock: That. Just then. The ‘Why not?’

08:21 John: …No.

08:22 Sherlock: *takes a breath* Well then. I needn’t answer it. This is a time for members.

08:26 John: Right. Great. Lovely. Ok, MushPit says “Your deductive skills, was it talent you were born with or a skill that you developed and perfected over time?”

08:34 Sherlock: I assume MushPit is asking me, not you?

08:37 John: Ah ha ha, very funny.

08:40 Sherlock: My senses have always been, um-

08:43 John: Overcalibrated?

08:44 Sherlock: Yes, quite. Sooo, I’ve always observed a lot. When I found it difficult to tune out of my surroundings, I decided to analyze them. Then it became rather addictive. Yes, it became a skill, but I feel it much stronger then a skill. It feels like a byproduct of my very existence. I cannot unlearn it. IIII cannot wind it down or soften it. It occupies me as much as I do it. I fear that I cannot stop it. Even if it kills me. Even if it drains everything from me and I can never truly find it to know myself, to know my surroundings without the necessity…uh, no, the-the requisite to my very self. To t-try to understand everything-

09:33 John: The rollercoaster’s ready.

09:34 Sherlock: Oh.

09:35 John: Uh, we- we can finish if you want? Uh, y’know we can go on it later?

09:40 *audio cut, we can hear the roller coaster going and John and Sherlock on it. John keeps saying ‘Woohoo! Wheee!’ and Sherlock is saying joyfully ‘Bloody fantastic! Absolutely bloody fantastic!’ Both of them also keep laughing in between their exclamations*

09:48 *audio cut. We’re outside. London traffic can be heard.*

09:53 John: Oh that was good! Wasn’t it?

09:54 Sherlock: *pleased* Superb.

09:56 John: Not a bad idea, is it? A theme park, indoors? I mean we were a little old for it, but hey, y’know, there’s no age limit on enjoyment! Well, I mean you can’t go jumping into a soft play or anything like that, but yeah. Yeah. Now we are walking near Chalk Farm. Not actually a farm of chalk, of course. It’s just a nice place between Bellsides Park and the Northern end of Camden town. How’s that q and a session for you, mate?

10:16 Sherlock: Is that question on the Discord?

10:17 John: Right, ok. This is not a thing. You can still have normal chats with me inbetween members questions.

10:25 Sherlock: Noted.

10:26 John: Well it’s a question for me now anyway. Um, has your mother finally listened to the podcast? And if yes, what does she think of it? Uh, yes, has she listened? She has! She didn’t like the sound of my bomb. That makes two of us, there. Eheh. Uh, and she sent me further messages about Mariana. And! She will occasionally point out when I’ve been rude to people on the show. *clicks tongue* She also asked me if the Austrian man’s face was okay, so she has at least, definitely finished one adventure. And, no. His face is not. Ok. Mum. Uhh, so- hunh, this is weird.

10:59 Sherlock: What’s that?

11:01 John: Two questions here, next to each other. Uh, I-I’m not making this up. First one, Ramt or-or Ramtonk, “t-the flowers on my orchids are gone, but the plants themselves are thriving. Uhh, they’re watered as they should be and get optimal sunlight. Will the flowers ever come back?”

11:19 Sherlock: *pleasantly surprised* Hhha!

11:20 John: Right? Yeah and the second one from Batonks the Graveyard Ghost says, “Question for John, do you have any funny memories from your childhood that you’d like to share with us?”

11:30 Sherlock: Yes, that is quite remarkable.

11:32 John: Well! I’ll let the adventure of The Gloria Scott answer those questions! So, ah, everybody, thanks so much for these. I hope you enjoyed the answers. Sorry it’s been so short, but I’ve just noticed that that’s our bus!! We’re gonna miss it! Go! Go! Go!

11:46 Sherlock: *frustrated sigh* For goodness sake!

11:47-12:17 *Outro Music Plays*

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #sherlock holmes #john watson #sherlock and john #transcript #transcripts #goalhanger podcasts #my transcript #sorry once again for the delay on this #i've got a lot of things I'm doing all at once lol

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arcanusarchieves-if · 8 months ago

Note

The classic jealous ask! What would be the ros reaction to the mc being flirted with in front of them? crushing stage!

I've admittedly been waiting for this one, it's always one of my favorites to read about on other ifs' blogs. I kinda hijacked the prompt a little and made so it's another (random) Circle member flirting with MC! I hope you don't mind.

"Hello {MC}, I hope you're not busy. I know that these meetings can be quite frantic so I was wondering if you would be up to having a quick lunch so we can discuss things. There is this lovely little cafe that I think you will really enjoy. It's not too far, it's just down by-" Astoria stops dead in her tracks, simply blinking at you and [Random Circle Member] for a few awkward moments. Dark brown eyes simply gaze into your own for a while - they seemed longing almost, as if searching desperately for something. Eventually, she ends up clearing her throat, giving a forced but somehow still kind smile, before continuing to speak as if nothing had happened, although her hands do tremble ever so slightly as she does so. "I see that you're currently occupied. I will...see you later I suppose. If you have any questions about the meeting feel free to reach out MC - and obviously you as well [Random Circle Member]. My door is always open." You open your mouth to respond but before any words are able to tumble out, Astoria turns around and walks away throwing a quick "I'll just being grading papers up in my office - if you need anything" over her shoulder as she leaves.

"I was hoping that you and I could go out sometime? I mean I really like you MC and-" A figure slides into the seat next to you, firmly wrapping a leather-clad arm around your shoulder, interrupting [Random Circle Member]'s admittedly awkward attempt at stumbling through a confession. Your eyes dart over to the cause of said interruption and are completely unsurprised to see Caspian's smirking face staring back at you. After all, few people would have the pure audacity to insert themselves into a random interaction like this - and even fewer would be willing to touch someone like you so openly while doing so. "So, what're you two are talking about? I mean I wouldn't want to interrupt anything important, but I was wanting to show {MC} some of the upgrades that I made on the bike - it's been so long since we've been able to catch up and all! We'll see you around though." Caspian has you standing up and pulled away before you even realized what has happened - if it wasn't for the smug smirk crossing his face every so often, you wouldn't even realize he did it on purpose.

"Of course, this is where I would find you. Hovering around and making horribly awkward attempts at courtships while the rest of us are slaving away at [Whatever Strategy the Circle is Doing]. Not particularly surprising but frustrating, nonetheless. It's nice to know where your priorities lie, {MC}." Solaine's sharp words slice right through the conversation that you were having. A deep purple gaze locks straight onto you, not even deigning to look towards your current conversation partner. They look deeply unimpressed, something angry and bitter lingering in their eyes, before they look away with a scoff. Pushing a strand of snowy hair behind their ear, they sneer before turning around and walking towards the exit, their movements precise as always. Seeming unable to stop themself, they throw a few words over their shoulder as they are leaving. "If your outing ends up being unsatisfying, as I imagine it will be, feel free to track me down so we can get some actual work done. Despite your...personality flaws...your skill set can be occasionally useful."

"Anyways, I was thinking that we could go down to [Random Restaurant]? The foods great and I can assure you that you'll have a great time." Shifting around uncomfortably, your eyes dart across the room, unable to decide if it would be safer to stare at [Random Circle Member]'s flirtatious expression that's right in front of you or Maeve's unimpressed amber eyes that are glaring into you from the other side of the table. You open your mouth to answer the question that [Random Circle Member]'s had posed but are almost immediately interrupted by a snarky voice. "{MC} doesn't like [Type of Food Served At Restaurant]." You could feel yourself internally flinch at the slightly baffled expression on [Random Circle Member]'s face. Any sympathy you have for them however immediately disappears at the pure stupidity of their next choice; they scoff at her. "Well, I didn't know that so-" Maeve stands up interrupting their words. She doesn't even give you a chance to respond as she stands up and stomps out of the room, muttering angrily as she passes by you. "You don't even know what food they like, and you asked them out on a date? That's - you know what? You're right, it doesn't even matter. Have fun at [Random Restaurant], MC. Hope you can manage to find something that you'll like."

"So, what do ya say, MC? Wanna grab a bite? I promise you'll have a good time. Just let me know by the end of the meeting, kay?" You can feel Jasper's eyes on you as [Random Circle Member] asks the question. You turn to meet his gaze for a moment and are a bit surprised to see something bitter and longing that is lingering in his amber eyes. Just as quickly as it came though, the look disappears, leaving Jasper's normally kind and patient expression behind. He gives you an encouraging, albeit forced, grin before he begins mouthing a few quick words to you. The moment he sees your face scrunch up in confusion, he reaches for a piece of paper and quickly jots something down before sliding it over to you. 'You should say yes. They seem to like you a lot :)' - J You feel your eyes soften at the encouragement but the moment you look up to mouth your thanks, you see that his attention is now occupied towards the current strategy talk. You wave it off as him being invested in his work but can't help but feel that something is off when you don't manage to catch his eye the rest of the meeting...

#I hope you enjoyed this #Once again I made it super long to make up for the huge delay #so apologies for that <3 #Scenario #Reaction #Jealousy #ro: all #Arcanus #arcanus archives #character: mc #ask #answered #anon ask #Sorry if the formatting is weird #I tried my best lol

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