#Move in/Move out cleaning Oxford | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thekinslayed · 1 year ago

Text

The First Taste

summary | Aemond teaches Michael a few tricks on impressing the girl he likes. (boyfriend!aemond x reader, michael gavey x reader, mentions of bimbo!gf x michael)

warning | 18+, minors dni

tags | oral sex (f), fingering, voyeur (?), reader and aemond are super freakyyy, making out, unprotected p in v, aemond's kind of a little shit in this, daddy kink, alt summary: the pussy eating champ teaches a willing apprentice 💦

wordcount | 4.4k

note | i've had this idea for a while and i could not wait to write this despite all the work i need to do!! if i get anything wrong about how oxford works i apologize i am ✨american✨

i loved writing this and i hope u guys enjoy. likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

“God, Aemond!” You moaned loudly. Your boyfriend’s hips thrusted into yours from behind roughly, his grip on your throat holding you in place. His dorm room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against each other, the bed frame creaking, and the mix of your whines and Aemond’s grunts. His arm held you by your waist, your body at an angle that made his cock hit deeper into your walls. You reached down and played with your clit, rubbing circles that hurled you closer to your peak, walls clenching tight around Aemond’s cock.

“Fuck, baby. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.” He rasped from behind you. His fingers replaced yours on your clit, rubbing even faster in tandem with the rhythm of his hips. “I’m so close, daddy, please.” You whined. His hips continued to fuck you fast and hard, the pleasure making your toes clench and sweat beads on your hairline.

“Yeah? Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby?” He asked though all you could manage was a chorus of ‘yes’ that fell from your lips as a response. Your back pressed against his bare chest as you reached back to grip the hair on the back of his neck, making him groan in your ear at how tight you pulled. It was hearing every string of curses and grunts of your name that fell from his lips that pushed you over the edge, letting out a whine, your eyes rolling back as you spilled on his cock. Aemond continued to fuck you through your peak, spilling into your walls not long after.

You fell forward onto the soft mattress, letting out a small hiss as he pulled out of you. Warm hands spread your cheeks, an appreciative hum at the sight of both of your juicy flowing out of your slit. Two of his fingers scooped up what spilled out of you and pushed them back into your oversensitive core, making you whine and blindly reach back to smack him. He chuckled as he dodged your feeble attempt at hitting him, planting a kiss on your lower back before pulling away to grab a towel to clean you up. You remained lying on your stomach, eyes closed, basking in utter bliss as your boyfriend wiped you clean.

“What time is it?” You mumbled, though made no move to check the clock. A groan left your lips when Aemond told you the time. You had to leave soon for your tutorial, but getting up became a much harder challenge when you felt a warmth engulf you from the back, soft kisses peppered on the back of your shoulder as Aemond cuddled you. “Just a couple more minutes.” He whispered into your skin.

“Mm, no, I promised Michael I’d be early this time.” You said, moving to get up. Aemond sighed as he turned to lay on his back. “Of course, can’t have Michael waiting now can we?” He grumbled. You tutted his name in scolding, walking away from the bed to his dresser where he kept a drawer of spare clothes for you. His good eye watched you as you started getting dressed, a low chuckle falling from his lips at the slight limp as you walked around in his room.

“What?” You sassed, narrowing your eyes at his snickering form. He only shook his head, an amused glint in his eye, dimples showing as he smiled.

You stood in front of the mirror, fixing your hair when Aemond, now clad in his boxers, approached from behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close to him. His head dipped to snuggle into the skin of your neck, silver locks falling around him like a curtain. You giggled as his hair tickled you, making him let out a breathy chuckle as he kissed your neck once more. One blue eye met yours in the mirror, a pleased sigh falling from your lips as you leaned your head against his. Your heart swelled with affection for him, your eyes shone as you stared back at him with a smile.

The tender moment between the pair of you gets interrupted by the ping! that comes from your BlackBerry. Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye, knowing fully well who that could be from.

You and Michael Gavey had your tutorials together. He was a year below you, but you often found yourself seeking him for help with some of your classwork. He was a pure genius, something he most certainly does not hide. However, you’ve noticed he doesn’t seem to get along well with a lot of his peers. Truthfully, you were still yet to see him with a friend, other than Oliver Quick, though you know that didn’t last long as you’ve now started seeing him around with Felix Catton, the pair now stuck at the hip. On the occasional nights when you and Aemond joined Felix and his little bunch, timid Oliver seemed to take on a new persona, acting so different than when he only had Michael as his friend. Though Michael’s personality can be quite off-putting to most, you’ve found that he can be quite sweet, to you at least. You felt the need to look out for him. When Aemond was in class, you often sat with Michael at the library or brought him to the pub when your tutorials finished a bit later.

This bothered Aemond, of course. Your boyfriend was possessive as ever, and though he knew you were treating Michael this way out of your pure, genuine kindness for a friend, he wasn’t so sure if the math nerd saw it the same way. He’d seen the way Michael looked at you, like you were the first woman he had ever seen. It was quite pathetic, the way he would catch him often following your tail like a lost puppy as you exited the building together. You had tried to get Aemond to warm up to Michael on the occasions your friend joined you and your boyfriend at the pub. They had strong personalities and were ridiculously smart in their own interests, often acting so similar that it almost irked you.

Aemond had started to tolerate Michael’s presence only after you asked him sweetly so many times. He could never deny his girl, and if it made you happy he would listen to Michael complain about the idiots in his classes all the time. Still, he couldn’t ignore the jealousy that sparked in his chest every time you had to leave him to spend time with Gavey.

As another notification dinged from your phone, Aemond pulled away from you to let you finish getting ready, grumbling under his breath. He walked over to sit by the window ledge, lighting a cigarette after he opened the window.

“You know Michael has been busy seeing a girl lately?” You mentioned, still focused on your face in the mirror as you dabbed some blush on your cheek. Aemond scoffed as he heard you, unbelieving of Michael’s ability to charm a woman. “Yeah? Does the girl know they’re seeing each other?” He snorted, catching the glare you threw his way.

“Of course she does, babe, don’t be ridiculous.” You said, running a hairbrush as a feeble attempt to fix the tangles in your hair. “Think he said her name’s Stacy or whatever.”

Aemond’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead at the mention of her name. He couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that fell from his lips, shaking his head in disbelief. You turned to him confused, starting to grow annoyed with the way he was acting. “What’s so funny?”

It took a couple of seconds before he could answer, his shoulder shaking as he chuckled. “Stacey? Stacey Owens? With the..” He explained, pointing to his chest, referring to the blonde’s tits. Realization dawned on your face as you remembered who he was referring to.

Stacey Owens used to be one of Felix’s flings, hanging around their group for a little while before things between them fizzled out. She was always clad in either the tiniest tops paired with skirts the size of a belt, or hot pink velour Juicy tracksuits. Blonde, gorgeous, and blessed with the most perfect voluptuous pair of tits you’ve ever seen. You even asked her which bra she wore once, just because they always looked pushed up to her chin. Stacey was sweet, but she was a little… slow. It always took the poor girl a couple of moments to catch when a joke was being played on her, but even then it was visible in her eyes that she didn’t fully get it.

“Huh. Didn’t know that was Michael’s type.” You said, clearly stunned. What an interesting pair those two must make. You couldn’t even imagine what those two talk about, let alone have anything in common.

“You think he’s blackmailing her or what?” Your boyfriend quipped, still heavily amused by the news.

“Aemond!”

You laid on your single bed in your dorm room, head half hanging on the edge of the bed while Michael sat on the floor, leaning on your bed beside you. You had invited him over to your room after your tutorials just to hang out, though his idea of hanging out included asking you math trivia. “Do you know how many moves it takes to solve a Rubik’s cube?” He asked, fiddling with what he called a Mirror Block, which looked pretty much like a standard cube except its proportions weren’t uniform.

“20.” Aemond piped up, answering before you could. He arrived just shortly after his lecture finished, settling on your computer chair, and read his book quietly while you and Michael chatted. You frowned as you thought about the times you’ve attempted to solve a cube, it most definitely did not take you 20 moves to accomplish. “No way, really?” You turned to Michael, who simply hummed an ‘mhm’.

“Here’s a question for you, mate…” Aemond said, tossing his book on your desk to turn his attention to Gavey’s unassuming form. “Stacey Owens, huh?”

“I– Uh, we’re– I’m just tutoring her.” Poor Michael stuttered, his cheeks reddening almost immediately at the mention of the bombshell’s name. You turned around to lay on your stomach, slapping Michael’s shoulder, exclaiming, “What, Michael! You said you were taking her out tonight!”

“No, it’s just… she just wanted to celebrate for doing well on her exam. We’re just going to the pub, it’s nothing special, really.” He explained, rubbing at his ears anxiously as his eyes fell to his lap. Your eyes met your boyfriend’s, who took on a mischievous glint in his eye. He was planning something, you were almost sure of it. “I can think of a way you two can celebrate,” Aemond said to Michael, though his eye stayed on you. Your eyebrows raised at him, starting to get what he was insinuating. The silver-haired man merely smirked at you, before training his eye on Gavey.

“Oh yeah?” Michael asked, genuinely curious. He really liked Stacey, though his lack of experience in the romance category and his overall awkward personality made him insecure and unsure of what to do about his feelings for her. “Easy, just take her back to yours.” Aemond suggested, shrugging nonchalantly. You watched as your friend only blinked at him in response. “To do what?” He queried, still clueless. Michael supposed he could show her how to play the latest video game he has been obsessed with, though he wasn’t sure Stacey would enjoy that.

“Oh, come on, Gavey. Don’t act as if you’ve never brought back a girl to your room for some fun before.” Aemond teased, though he seemed to be proven correct when Michael didn’t answer, fiddling with his cube again. He never said it out loud, but he assumed just as much.

“Stop it.” You scolded him, your boyfriend merely shrugging, throwing his hands up in mock surrender as you glared at him, making you sigh. You turned to Michael, who was still flushed up to the tip of his ears. “Ignore him, Michael.”

You felt bad for him, truly, and wanted to help him impress Stacey as much as you could. Michael sat in thought for a moment, gathering the urge to open up to the two people he considered his friends… well, he’s not sure about Aemond, but you are definitely the closest friend he has in Oxford.

“Well, I-I want to, I mean just look at her! Fuck’s sake, who wouldn’t?” He rambled, hands waving around as he spoke. There had been one too many occasions where Michael had to excuse himself when his dick would get hard at the slightest touch from Stacey, or from you, but he would never admit that, especially not in front of Aemond. He desperately wants to and is frustrated to no end because of his lack of experience. It’s not like this is something he can read in a textbook after all. “I just… I don’t know how.” Michael finally admitted, sighing. He looked at the both of you, anticipating you to break out in laughter in his face. None of it came, though Aemond was the one to speak up.

“We could teach you.” He suggested, catching both you and Michael in surprise. The latter stammered, clearly flustered at the proposal. He turned to you, expecting you to be outraged at your boyfriend for his indecent suggestion, but there were no signs of objection on your face. “Only if you want to, Michael.” You smiled.

“How?” Michael asked.

You turned to Aemond since this was clearly his idea. As your eyes met, Michael felt the change in the air between the two of you. He’d felt it before when he would be with the pair of you and the atmosphere would suddenly change into something charged. It would always feel like he was intruding on something, but this time he felt the energy being directed towards him. Aemond looked at you with a lustful glint in his eye and gives you a subtle nod. You turned back to your friend on the floor and said, “Aemond’ll tell you what to do, and then you try it on me.”

Michael took another look at the both of you, making sure this wasn’t some sick game you were playing on him. When he was met with encouraging looks from the couple, he took a deep breath and then nodded. “Okay.” He agreed, making a mischievous smile break out on Aemond’s face. You sat up, feet dangling over where your head had been, excitement prickling underneath your skin at being the boys’ little test subject.

“Right, well first things first, you gotta know how to kiss a girl, yeah?” Aemond started, gesturing for Michael to try. “Go on.” He urged. Michael kneeled in front of you, a clammy hand cupping your jaw. “Is this okay?” He whispered to you, earning a nod and an encouraging smile from you. You both leaned forward and he pecked your lips, pulling away immediately to test your reaction.

“Come on, mate. You gotta do more than that.” Aemond interjected. Deciding to take the lead for a bit, you leaned forward to kiss Michael deeper, just to get him to loosen up and get familiar with the sensation. As your mouths parted, Aemond urged him to use his tongue. He followed the instruction, experimentally dipping his tongue into your mouth, grunting in surprise as your tongue met his. Michael’s hands clenched into fists beside your thighs, his cock already straining painfully hard in his cargo pants from kissing alone.

“You can touch her, mate. She won’t bite, not unless you ask.” Aemond encouraged him. As you continued to make out, Michael placed his hands on your shoulders at first, before sliding down to your waist. You both pulled away, catching your breath. His thin frames had gone slightly askew, and you huffed a soft laugh as your fingers reach up to fix it for him. “Why don’t you try kissing my neck?” You suggested this time. He took no second to do so, peppering kisses down your neck. Michael gave an experimental suck on your skin, attempting to give you a hickey, which made you gasp.

“No marks.” Aemond warned which Michael immediately obeyed, switching back to giving your neck kisses and soft licks, tugging very lightly on the skin that wouldn’t leave any mark. Your hand caressed the back of his head, and your eyes flickered to your boyfriend, who stared at you with an intense look that made your face warm. Next, Aemond instructed Michael to take off your bottoms. You helped him tug them off, your panties going along with your shorts. You leaned back on your hands, spreading your legs to give Michael a view, who visibly gulped at the sight. His cock twitched at the sight, his eyes unable to tear away at your folds that started to drip. Of course, he’d seen a pussy before… but not in real life. No amount of porn could have prepared him for actually being face to face as one as delectable and pink as yours.

“She’s got a pretty pussy, doesn’t she? Gets really nice and wet.” Aemond boasted. The lustful gazes coming from both men made your nipples hard, your arousal starting to drip from your slit in anticipation. “Now, before you start pleasuring a woman, you’ve got to tease her a bit. They like that.” He told Michael, instructing him to start with light touches. Gavey started to kiss and lightly suck on the inside of your thighs, just like he did with your neck, squeezing the meat of your flesh in his hands. Your breath started to grow heavy, and as his index finger lightly runs down your slit, he earned another gasp from you. Emboldened by your reaction, Michael repeated the action but presses a little more. His finger rubbed on your folds, marveling at how your essence coats his fingertip. A soft whimper fell from your lips, and your hips started to squirm in search of more.

“Why don’t you show him your clit, baby?” Aemond prompted you. Two fingers spread your folds, revealing more of your pussy while your free hand takes Michael’s and places it on your pearl. He is instructed to rub it, not too hard, and was in awe at the instant effects it has on you. He could see your hardened nipples through the fabric of your tank top, the sight making his cock jump. A moan falling from your lips encouraged him, his thumb rubbing your nub a little faster. “Does this feel good?” He asked you, to which you respond with an enthusiastic nod.

The next thing Aemond instructed Michael to do was to use his tongue. “Start slow, then you can go deeper.” He advised, to which Michael follows by giving your slit a few licks. You tasted utterly divine, even better than his beloved crunchies. Michael couldn’t believe the position he found himself in. If someone told him 6 months ago, he would be nose deep into the pussy of the girl who gave him a sweet smile on their first tutorial, all the while her boyfriend watched– encouraged him, the math geek would’ve rolled his eyes and thought a prank was being played on him. He was starting to get lost in your taste, following his urges as he started eating your pussy out in earnest as Aemond guides him.

As he became much more confident in his actions, Michael combined the things Aemond has taught him so far as his thumb rubbed circles on your clit while his mouth continued to pleasure you. The room is filled with the sound of your moans, the wet sounds coming from between your thighs, and Aemond’s voice as he guided Michael. A hand gripped his hair while your hips started to gyrate on his face, moving on its own accord. Your eyes met Aemond’s, who now had his legs spread wider, the imprint of his hard cock straining against his sweats as he watched you. His gaze stayed on your face, watching as your brows furrowed and your jaw fell slack, moans openly falling from your lips.

If there’s anything Aemond loved to do, it was to watch you take your pleasure. He loved watching you throw back your head, tits bouncing in his face every time you rode his cock. He's even made you play with yourself while he jerked off at the sight of you spilling around your own fingers. His favorite memory, however, one that instantly stirs his cock when he remembers, was when you made a little show of fucking yourself on a dildo suctioned to the floor, squirting all over the surface as you finished. As possessive as your boyfriend can be, you knew he was enjoying this almost as much as Michael is.

To help finish you off, Michael is urged to use his fingers. Two fingers entered you, thrusting in and out at a steady pace. He curves them, just like he’s seen in the pornos (for research, of course). “Curve your finge— There you go.” Aemond commended him, apparently needing no instruction for that one. You threw your head back in delight when Michael found that rough patch within you. “Fuck, right there!” You moaned out, eyes rolling back as his fingertips massaged that spot. The coil in your belly grew tighter, threatening to break, while your walls clenched around Michael’s fingers tight, much to his amazement.

“Aem– Oh!” You barely caught yourself, biting your lips hard as Michael hurled you towards your precipice. He didn’t seem to mind your little slip, barely even noticing as he stares in awe at how your pussy swallowed his fingers whole, your juices making it squelch. The last thing Aemond told him to do was to suck on your clit, to which he happily obliged. Your thighs shook around his head, your fingers gripped his dirty blonde tresses tightly as you ground your hips on his face. The sensation of his nose against you added to the overwhelming sensation that threatened to wash you over. You turned to Aemond, eyes pleading to let you cum. When he nodded, you let yourself go, letting out a long whine as you spilled on Michael’s fingers. You plopped back on your bed as you finished, mind hazy, not even noticing the way Michael moaned as he tasted your release on his fingers.

Aemond approached you with a damp towel he somehow procured, wiping you clean, before handing it to Michael to clean off his hand. Your boyfriend rubbed your calf, squeezing it softly. “What do you think, baby? D’you think Michael’s ready?” He asked you, making you lift your head to look at the two men who stared down at you. “I think Stacey’s a very lucky girl.” You said, still breathless from your orgasm.

After cleaning up, Michael received a text from Stacey as the hour of their date approached. With a wave and wish of good luck from you, your friend took his leave with Aemond walking him to the door.

“You were okay with this, right?” Michael asked the silver-haired man, who nodded.

“Yeah, mate, don’t worry about it, alright? I’m happy to help.” Aemond reassured him. Michael let out a sigh, before muttering a ‘thank you’. He stepped out of the door, tucking his hands in his pockets.

“Listen, Michael,” Aemond said, making him turn back around to face him. The Targaryen looked back to check on you, before turning back to Michael, speaking lowly, “This was just a one-time thing, alright? She really looks out for you, and I know how much she cares for you. We both want this to work out with you and Stacey.”

Michael nodded, completely understanding. He can’t even begin how thankful he is for the two of you, no doubt making a big fool of himself if you hadn't taught him this stuff. “Thanks, mate, really.” He thanked him. Aemond nodded, before patting the younger man on the shoulder. “Don’t be too nervous. Just be yourself, yeah? She’ll be obsessed with you after tonight if you remember what I taught you.” He advised him. Michael scratched the back of his head with a chuckle and nodded.

When Michael left for his date, Aemond walked back to you after closing the door behind him. You were still lying on your bed, knees bent, now sans your top. Your hands fondled your breasts as you watched him approach you, teasing your nipples as desire coursed through you from the hungry look in his eye. As much as you enjoyed the way Michael brought you to your release, your core still pulsed in need for Aemond.

“You had your fun tonight, didn’t you baby?” He asked, hands coming to your knees to spread them wide. His eye fell on your pussy that was still glistening with the combination of your arousal and Michael’s spit. You nodded your head at him, biting your lip.

“Mhm. Told you he'd agree to it. I know you liked it too, Daddy.” You teased, foot coming up to rub at his cock that still strained at his sweats, no doubt aching with release. Aemond smirked down at you, and slipped off his shirt, before pulling down his pants, cock slapping against his abs as it's released.

He fucked you well through the night, manhandling you into positions that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and leaving you in utter bliss when you both finally tapped out from exhaustion.

Walking out of your tutorial, you and Michael spotted Aemond leaning outside the stone wall of the building. You greet your boyfriend with a kiss, and he turns to Michael with a nod. The three of you chatted for a bit, but a voice from behind you interrupted your conversation, making all three of you turn towards the source.

“Mikey!” Stacey called out, before practically jumping into a surprised Michael’s arms. She cupped his face into her hands, before smashing their lips together. You were taken aback as they practically started eating each other’s faces in front of you, while Aemond sported an amused smirk on his face, even looking quite impressed at Michael’s growth in confidence.

When they finally pulled away, Michael introduced Stacey to you and Aemond as his friends, to which she enthusiastically greeted both of you, even pulling you into a tight hug, much to your surprise. As the blonde squeezed you tight, Aemond clapped Michael on the back in approval.

“Seems like you’re quite the fast learner, Gavey.”

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen #aemond fic recs #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey smut #michael gavey #saltburn #house of the dragon #hotd #ewan mitchell

1K notes · View notes

angrythingstarlight · 2 years ago

Note

thinking about mob!bucky from the only exception and how his girl says no shoes in the house

i wanna know how he found out about this rule. did she spend the day cleaning, freshly washed floors, and he comes in with dirty shoes and she chews him out and says that this is not allowed in their home and in the middle of it he just starts smiling and she’s like WHAT? WHY ARE YOU SMILING? IM MAD

and he’s like “you said our home and i just love when you say that cause now this house is actually a home with you here and also i love you and i’m sorry i’ll clean it” and he cleans the floor and then goes out and buys a nice doormat and a shoe rack to organise everything cause i love organising and

thanks for listening ok bye

It actually happened when they were still dating. They would alternate spending the night at her apartment and his mansion. She always had this rule about not wearing shoes in her house but Bucky didn't realize that at first.

It bothered her but she wasn't sure how to approach the topic. It wasn't even a big thing but the longer it went on, the harder it became to bring up. Bucky happens to be astute and finely tuned into her emotions.

One night after a museum date, they walked into her apartment. She was leaning on the wall, taking off her shoes and her gaze flicked down to his brogue Oxfords. Bucky was musing over dinner options when he saw her expression.

"What's wrong?" Bucky asks, shrugging off his black coat, he places it on the rack by the front door.

Smiling, she shakes her head. "Why would something be wrong? I think we should try that new Thai place we passed on the way over."

Her attempt to deflect doesn't work. Not with him. Any other man would have dismissed her obvious discomfort and moved on. Not Bucky. He gives her a wry look, his brow arching.

"What's wrong Malyshka?" His tone is firm yet surprisingly tender, making it clear to her that he's going to get an answer.

"I—" She hesitates and for some reason Bucky despises that. It gets under his skin, makes him feel restless. He reaches out to her, running his hands down her arms, his fingers close around her wrists and he brings them to his chest.

"Tell me what's wrong. If it's something I did, let me know so I won't do it again. If it's something, someone else did," Bucky smirks, peering down at her. "Let me know so they won't do it again."

"It's not really a big deal," she starts, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. "But maybe you could take your shoes off in the house?"

"I could," he responds after a minute. He doesn't move, simply staring at her with an unreadable expression.

"Well..." She laughs nervously. "Will you?"

This is more than the shoes to him, Bucky needs to establish the boundaries of this relationship now so going forward there is no confusion what role she has in his life. What power she holds over him.

"Every single day I'm surrounded by people who will do anything I want. Most of them are too afraid to question me, challenge me." Bucky bends slightly so he's gazing directly into her eyes. "You are not them. You can tell me what to do. So tell me what to do Malyshka. Tell me what you want from me so I can give it to you."

Even when he's offering control, he's dominant. It's sexy.

Emboldened by his deference, she swallows thickly, matching his stern gaze. "I don't want you wearing shoes in the house," she states with an unwavering tone.

"Done," he says with a pleased grin. Bucky leans in, holding her hands above her head as he backs her into the wall. "Anything else?"

Pride unfurls deeps in his chest when she tugs one of her hands free, wraps it around his tie and pulls him down. "I have a few things you can do for me. On your knees Barnes."

"That's my girl."

#mafia!bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x you #mafia!bucky x black!reader

2K notes · View notes

annabelle--cane · 5 months ago

Text

(ao3)

The best part is, it’s not even a lie.

The words drop from her mouth like rotten dates as she kneels on the ground outside that hideous portal, and she doesn’t even have to lie.

“He was protecting me, that Archivist thing tried to, to drink up my memories, and he tackled it, I think, and both of them must have fallen--and I passed out.”

Alice doesn’t break down. It’s written over every inch of her face that she wants to, and Celia can feel it in her body’s tension when she’s pulled in close, but she just about holds it together. Not stoic and steely, but on the move. Not giving into despair. She keeps up a good natter as they start their return-trip.

“This wormhole or whatever, it’s come up in loads of cases going back years, right? And Gwen says that Lena’s been, well, a lot more hands-on then she looks, so she must know something about it, must be able to help. You can, just, go back home and rest, try to sleep off some of the panic with your kid, and I’ll go track down Lena. We can get started on fixing this.”

Celia nods, waiting on the train platform. If Sam comes back then the universe would be back out of balance, she’d have to start all over again. Pick someone new to spend months with and slowly gain their trust to the point where they ignore all her secrets and convince themself it was their idea to go to the Hilltop.

No, she stops her mind mid-thought. No, it was Sam’s idea. She was always careful to wait until he said the word, let him take the lead, she never pushed. Even earlier today, he brought up going to Oxford, he ignored the danger, he insisted on it being just the two of them, he almost made her physically restrain him before she finally backed down. And she told him that it was dangerous. Said not to thank her.

It’s not a lie. She didn’t do it. She didn’t kill him.

Her memory isn’t clear, as soon as her story started projecting out of her it had been like she was back in her Hell again. Like she was losing everything that meant anything to her again. Her name, her mind, her memories, everything about who she was, right back to year dot again. Her greatest fear--no, her greatest Fear made manifest once again, returning to that neverending torment of being eternally unmade over and over every time she managed to pull together any scrap of self. She can’t remember who she was before, but she knows damn well who she is today, and she actually likes being Celia. In that moment, she knew that she would do anything to avoid being sent back to that place. She could not let it happen.

Then, as she’d been rescued from her Hell the first time, she was saved once again. She heard more than saw Sam leap at the creature. And then she woke up and Alice was there. Perfect. She didn’t even have to make the call. Everything she wanted, all with her hands still clean.

They tremble as she takes her seat in the carriage.

She darts a glance at her companion, and Alice’s eyes are glued to the window like she’s scanning for someone, just making sure there’s no one rushing after them.

Celia likes Alice. Sam had liked Alice, too, even if the relationship had been vexed. And Sam had liked Celia enough to save her and doom himself in the process despite knowing her motives. He might not even mind.

He certainly can’t mind from where he is.

Loathing herself with every word, and letting that hatred play openly over her face, Celia says, “This all feels like my fault.”

Alice snaps around towards her with vicious purpose. “Don’t say that.”

She doesn’t even have to lie. Every tear of anguish that rolls down her cheeks is completely heartfelt. “I’m the one who mentioned this place to begin with, and he sacrificed himself to protect me, if I hadn’t--”

“No,” intercuts Alice, taking both of Celia’s hands in hers. “No, I’m not having any of that from you. You’ve just lost someone--” she swallows thickly-- “We’ve both just lost someone. Not necessarily for good, mind you, but. Yeah. And Sam, he…” Her mask almost falters, her role almost giving way to her true center, but she stands her ground. “He made his own choices, alright? I know from plenty of personal experience, you can never make that man do something he doesn’t want, no matter how much you try to shield him. It’s not your fault.”

Celia’s entire insides burn up as she lets the deceptive reassurance melt into her deceptive heart. Everything about her is a facile fiction built from the ground up over the last few years, so she tries desperately to plaster this in to who she is. She tries to make the not-lie real. She listens to this woman who cares about her tell her that it’s not really her fault, and like the worm she is she curls up into herself in sobs, letting Alice pull her in for comfort. Alice strokes down her hair and it feels like hot iron on her scalp.

It’s not a lie. She didn’t do it. She didn’t kill him.

Plenty of people have managed to survive the instant starvation.

#i wuv u celia. guilty characters <3 #tmagp #marina marvels at life

177 notes · View notes

freakingholland · 6 months ago

Text

"No surprises" - Remus Lupin x teacher!reader

A/N: Hi cuties! Thank you for all the love on my 2 previous Remus works <3 I wanted to write a quick lil fluffy somethin somethin so please enjoy *kneels down and hands in this one-shot*

ALSO IMPORTANT I've been forgetting to let you all know that I can ADD YOU TO MY TAG LIST - just let me know in the asks/rbs/messages!

Based on @novelbear's prompt list: quiet acts of love that make me cry

"i brought you flowers." "for what?" "there has to be a reason?"

Warnings: sarcastic banter, kissing scene (nothing suggestive/nsfw)

Summary: Professor Lupin and his partner spend a cozy afternoon in their shared cabin - filled with warm soups, beautiful flowers, and unmeasurable sentiment. (fluff/domestic fluff/teeth rotting fluff/romance)

Word count: 920+

If you enjoyed my work: Ko-fi.com/freakingholland

questions/requests/ideas here! - rules here

my AO3 archive is here

masterlist

You were finishing up doing the dishes. Even though it’s not the perfect entertainment for a Saturday afternoon off it felt weirdly enjoyable with the muggle-store bought fairy lights glistening across your kitchen, making the frost-kissed windows shine more than ever before. The warm atmosphere made you cherish the evening despite the mundane chores that just had to be done sooner or later.

You heard the familiar sound of boots being stomped clean in the hall, and you instantly knew it was your husband, groaning as he tried to rid his oxfords of the clinging, fresh snow.

“Close your eyes dear.” He shouted from the hall, his serious tone earning a chuckle.

“Yes! Yes, my eyes are closed.” You slowly brought up your hands to actually bury your face for good measure, as soon as you heard his now soft approaching steps.

“First of all…” you could hear a hint of mischief in his voice but couldn’t necessarily tell what he was about do.

You figured it out when his ice cold fingers slipped under your sweater and made direct contact with your warm skin on the small of your back.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU REM HOLY-“ you yelped turning away from him. He burst into laughter.

“Lovie I’m so sorry. I really am. That’s not what I originally wanted to show you.” You couldn’t even pretend to be mad at him when he looked at you with his glazed gaze, full of love and care.

“Uh-huh, sure it wasn’t!” you shot back, glaring at him with pseudo-annoyance.

He stepped closer to you and placed his hands on your torso once again, this time not placing them underneath your clothes. He pushed you to face him with one hand.

“Look. I brought you flowers.”

“Oh! They are so—for what?”

“For what?” he repeated, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean ‘for what’?”

“there has to be a reason? No?” he continued. “No!”

“Yeah? No? Yeah, I guess no.” he chuckled at your own uncertainty.

“The reason,” he said with a playful huff, “is that I love you. Oh! So very dearly.”

“Aaaaand you have been the biggest support for me. And I love you dearly.” He leaned in a planted a kiss on the tip of your nose.

He pulled back slightly, his grin widening. “Also, I’m not sure if I mentioned this yet, but I love you. Dearly.”

He tilted his head, watching your reaction with attentive eyes.

“You might’ve mentioned it. Maybe once or twice.”

“Well, I figured it was worth repeating,” he said with a shrug, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer. The warmth of his embrace and the smell of his perfume lingering on his coat made you feel like you were exactly where you belonged.

You took your hand off his ribs and leaned in to smell the hydrangeas still in his hand.

“Take that off, you will get sick love. Hang it on the chair and move it by the fireplace.” You motioned to his soaked overcoat.

“What’s this? Smells incredible.” He said stooping over the steaming pot of soup.

“Pumpkin soup.”

“You made a soup out of your own husband? What are you a witch?!”

You looked at him absolutely baffled, not really believing that something so cheesy left his mouth.

“Get out of my kitchen joker…”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before stepping away.

He smirked, unbuttoning his damp overcoat as he moved toward the dining table. After hanging it over the back of a chair, he dragged the chair closer to the fireplace like you told him to do.

Satisfied, he turned back to you, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “So, what can I do to help?”

“You can stay out of my way until it’s ready,” you teased, placing a lid on the pot.

The bubbling sounds from within the pot filled the kitchen, mixing with the faint crackle of the fire from the living room and the occasional gust of wind against the windows.

You then took your beautiful bouquet carefully trimmed the stems before placing the flowers in your favourite vase.

He stayed where he was, his gaze never leaving you as you moved around the kitchen, wiping droplets of water from the counter and fussing with the vase until it was placed just right. He watched with awe in his eyes, clearly fond of his decision to buy you the little gift. The sight of his gorgeous partner roaming around their cozy shared kitchen sent frisson across his large figure.

“You’re staring,” you stated, feeling his piercing gaze.

“Can you blame me?” he replied without hesitation, his voice soft but steady.

You turned to him, leaning against the counter with your arms folded, your teasing smile aimed his way. “You’ve gone sappy on me, haven’t you?”

He stepped forward, closing the space between you, his large still slightly cold hands naturally finding your hips.

“Guilty as charged,” he said softly, his thumb drawing circles through your sweater.

Your smile softened, and you reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Good. I like you this way.”

Your thumb brushed against his lips. He lifted you up and sat you on top of the counters.

You placed your palm cupping his rosy cheek, bringing him closer. You could feel your heart racing and his soft breaths against your skin.

His lips met yours and quickly quirked into a beaming smile.

Thank you for reading! stay whelmed xx

183 notes · View notes

slaytheusurper · 6 months ago

Text

⭑ Frantic Friction (pt.2 Delicious Depravity) ⭑

Ewanverse masterlist

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A/N: HELLPP THE MICHAEL GAVEY BRAINWORMS GOT MEEE!!!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Request: No

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Pairing: Michael Gavey x (Not present) Reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Warnings: NSFW, Michael watching porn, male masturbation, bed humping/grinding, whiny/needy/horny/shaky Michael ;)

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Summary: Michael had a stressful day, who could blame him for indulging in some porn?

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Word count: 1.1k

Michael moved through the hallways of Oxford, almost racing past students with determination. He had been so stressed and irritated recently, any group project was hell for him but being paired with Oliver?

His face was red with embarrassment as he thought back to that night. That night when Oliver left him for them. He was glad when he finally reached his dorm building and fished his keypass out of his pocket to open the door.

Michael made his way up the stairs until he reached the right floor, calmness already started to flow through him at being in his familiar place. When he reached his single dorm door, he unlocked it with his key and shut the door behind him.

A sigh left his lips, he had cleaned his room before he left and he already felt more relaxed at the sight of his bed. Dropping his backpack carelessly on the floor, not before fishing out his laptop, he moved to his single bed.

He kicked off his shoes and placed the laptop in his lap once he was sat. His mind was already being plagued with thoughts about her. The only thing that had somewhat kept him sane but also completely insane these past few weeks was you.

Michael thought he hated you, at least he did at first. But then he had a couple of encounters with you and you were so sweet and kind. When Oliver dumped and embarrassed him at the pub you stood up for him. He was pretty sure that that was when his obsession started.

You were sadly part of Felix’ group, even though you also had your own two best friends you spent time with more often, he coincidentally noticed. No he wasn’t stalking you, but he just noticed things quickly. He was quite the observer after all.

His cheeks were already dusted pink when he opened his laptop, he held the ‘on’ button and the screen lit up his face. He typed in his password; crunchie03081984, and opened his search browser.

He almost forgot to switch to incognito before typing in the shameful word, pornhub. His eyes scanned the home page for about a minute until he typed in a bit of a too accurate description of her. He added solo masturbation, as he just wanted to imagine you, alone in your room, pleasuring yourself to the thought of him too.

He scrolled through the hundreds of video thumbnails on his screen but paused when he came across something that piqued his interest. A girl that looked a lot like you, humping a pillow. His mouth watered, cheeks flared and cock stiffened at the thought.

He clicked on the video and made sure his volume was at the lowest, the girl was in only a bra and no panties, lace stockings and a pillow between her thighs. Michael's breathing became heavier when she started to grind her clit on the rougher fabric of the pillow.

Quiet moans left the girl and she gripped the pillow tighter the faster and harder she humped it. Michael’s entire body felt like it was on fire and his cock was now impossibly hard. The more he watched, the more his cock ached for relief.

The girl came closer and closer to her orgasm and as she moaned, Michael panted along with her. After three more minutes the girl trembled as she came with a loud moan, riding out her high before Michael closed his laptop in frustration.

He almost got stuck in his shirt with how fast he pulled it off, unbuckling and unzipping his pants as well. He then removed his underwear and his red, precum leaking cock laid pulsing on his thigh. He got up to throw his clothes next to the bed on the floor and to fetch a towel.

He so badly wanted to try what the girl you did to her your pillow. He still grimaced at the thought of doing that to his only pillow and was in no mood to do laundry this late. He instead settled for his mattress combined with a towel on top, his mouth watered at the thought of the amazing friction it would give.

When he had gotten the towel from his closet, he walked back over to his bed and pulled back his sheets to expose his mattress. He then laid the light blue towel out and climbed on his bed. Michael almost awkwardly tried to find a good position, he rested on his elbows, slightly supporting himself on his knees and lower legs.

His cock rested on the spread out towel, the ever so slight friction already making him whimper. Michael rolled his hips experimentally down against the towel, the feeling of his foreskin being grinded over his tip was intense and spurred him on to hump his cock against the towel harder.

His precum was already turning a patch on the blue towel dark and Michael only started to hump the fabric faster. His breathing became heavier and he let out frantic groans, the feeling of his sensitive tip rubbing against the towel made his head dizzy.

His moans started to fill the room as well as the creaking of his bed as he now laid more flat on his bed, allowing for more pressure on his cock. The way it laid between the towel covered mattress and his belly allowed for his foreskin to perfectly rub over his tip.

Michael humped faster and harder, a sheen of sweat over his body as his ass cheeks clenched from the pressuring movement. His cock grinding over the towel as heavy puffs and huffs left his lips. He felt his legs slightly cramping but couldn't stop due to the pleasure.

“F-fuck, s-so good-” He whined, his hips moving hard and frantic against the bed. He was so fucking desperate for release, imagining he was humping into you instead. Shooting his load deep inside your walls as you begged for his cum, strangled moans left him at the thought.

He was so incredibly close, his breaths now short and high, moans louder and louder, not giving a fuck if anyone heard. He was completely in his own world. His own moans spurred him on and he now fucked himself so hard against the towel his tip was sensitive and red.

Humping harder and faster, he cried out as his balls tightened and ropes of cum pooled underneath him on the towel. “Aaah- fuuuccckkk!” Michael cried, he could feel the stickiness underneath him as he kept grinding against the towel, only stilling when he became too sensitive, almost painful.

He let his entire body collapse as he was still high in the clouds from his intense orgasm, his cock softening underneath him. And so he laid there, covered in his own mess, legs shaking and covered in sweat. He had to do this more often.

Divder by: @saradika

#saltburn smut #michael gavey smut #michael gavey x fem reader smut #michael gavey x reader smut #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x fem reader #michael gavey fanfic #michael gavey one shot

141 notes · View notes

loverofwomenswrongs · 1 year ago

Note

hi could u maybe write something about Florence bringing Y/n to a family gathering for the first time. They've been together for half a year and y/n being nervous. But then she befriends Florence's family especially Raffie, her mom and grandma. I am craving cute family fluff. And also the family members each secretly telling Flo that she choose a good one ? Thank youuu

I'm sorry for taking quite long, but inspiration had flown away for a while... I hope you like this

******

MEETING THE FAMILY

******

Paring: Florence Pugh x fem!reader

Words: 1.7K

******

“I don’t think this was a good idea”

Florence stopped sweeping to look at her girlfriend. Y/n was cleaning the breakfast’s plates, they just used to eat some delicious pancakes the actress made for the occasion.

“My love, we’ve been together for months now, why would you say that?” The blonde girl approached her, hugging her from behind, while Y/n leaned her body back to rest against Florence’s front. “Because, what if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m not good enough for you?”

“Well, then I’ll tell them to fuck off, because I’m the one who’s dating you” Finally a smile appeared on the taller girl’s face. She turned to face the actress, quickly pecking her lips. “Are you sure?”

“I love you so so much, worry head” … “Now, let’s go!” Florence pulled away to go search for their bags, not forgetting to, slightly, hit her girlfriend’s butt, making her laugh. Both women got everything they needed and headed to the car, Billie, their dog also going with them. Oxford was their destination.

******

Once they parked the car in front of Florence's childhood house, Florence made sure Y/n was ready. “Are you prepared, my darling?” Y/n nodded, releasing a shaken sigh. They headed to the door, and before knocking, the actress kissed her softly, holding her hand and leaving a kiss in her knuckles too.

As fast as they knocked, the door burst open, Billie running inside, and Y/n was pulled in a tight hug. “I’m so happy to finally meet you, Florence has been talking to you non-stop”

“Okay, Raffie, I would like to keep my girlfriend alive” The youngest of the house let go of Y/n, to jump at her sister’s arms. Y/n smiled warmly at the scene, happy that the brunette seemed to already like her. “Come, mum is already preparing the table for lunch, and dad is cooking! You are going to love his food, it’s even better than Florence’s”

While Y/n laughed at Raffie’s comment, Florence gave her an offended scoff, as they entered the house, heading to the kitchen. Y/n kinda froze when she saw the full family getting everything prepared, only moving when a small warm hand was placed on her lower back. She looked at her side, seeing the loving stare her girlfriend had. Y/n knew that as long Florence’s family was a little like her, there shouldn’t be any problem.

She first was welcomed by the other two siblings. Arabella hugged her shortly and told her she was so glad they met, much like what Raffie said to her, but a lot calmer. On the other hand, there was Toby, who made sure to embarrass her sister as much as he could. “Flo, you didn’t tell me she was so out of your league” or “I have so many embarrassing stories about her, whenever she told us about you, she would smile like an idiot and practically drool”.

“Leave them alone will you… The table still needs to be finished up” Y/n laugh, and Florence hugged tightly her mum, stepping aside, so her girlfriend could be properly introduced. “Mum, this is Y/n, my beautiful girlfriend”

Trying hard not to blush at Florence’s comment, she went to shake her mother-in-law's hand, only to, once again, be pulled into a warm embrace. This family loves to hug. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pugh”

“Oh, none of that, call me Debs… Come, my husband’s still cooking” Deborah took Y/n hands, and Florence followed them smiling at how her both families got along. After talking a bit with her siblings, being teased by Toby and Raffie, she noticed that her girlfriend still hadn’t come out of the kitchen.

“Can I have my girlfriend back, or do you plan to keep her here for the rest of her life?” The picture in front of her almost made her tear up. Y/n and her mum were laughing at some of her dad’s jokes, sipping at her glass of wine. Florence knew it, but there were moments like these, where she became fully conscious about how desperately in love she was. It was soon, but she knew she wanted to marry that girl.

“Flo! Your dad was telling me some stories when you were a baby” Groaning, she made her way to her girlfriend, stealing some of Y/n wine. “Hey, that’s mine” Florence laughed and kissed her quickly, “Yeah, well, what is yours is mine, you know”

“Don’t mess with her honey, you need to keep her, I like her” Y/n tried to not blush at Clinton’s words. “Food is ready, let’s eat!”. Holding Y/n back, Florence waited for her parents to leave the kitchen to kiss her girlfriend properly.

“I think they like me?” Y/n said, while still receiving kisses. “They do like you, and I didn’t even doubt it for a second… I love you, my darling”

“I love you too” Before they could kiss one more time, Toby called for them from the living room, “Girl, stop hooking up, and come! We are hungry” Florence laughed as she took her girlfriend’s hand.

******

Lunch at the Pugh’s was quite funny to say the least. Conversation never stopped, hitting a hundred topics in five minutes. The food, obviously, was amazing and Y/n wasn’t surprised, knowing how Florence cooked. All the fears Y/n had that morning disappeared, feeling immensely welcomed and part of the family, even if she had just known them for a few hours.

She didn’t realize she had spaced out until she felt Florence’s hand on her thigh. “Are you okay, my love?”

“Yes, I’m just taking it all in, I’m so happy” She pecked the actress’ lips, both girls not realizing the small smiles from everyone at the table.

After a while, Florence asked, “Where is granny Pat?”. Y/n then thought that the blonde girl had told her that her grandma would be there. “Oh I’m sure she won’t be much longer” Deborah told them as she stood up to go search for the dessert.

Only five minutes later the doorbell rang, and Florence quickly went to open it, excited to see her granny again after a while. Granny Pat, though, didn’t put much attention to her granddaughter standing in front of her, almost passing by. She simply patted her shoulder, as she went straight to the living room. “Where is my new granddaughter?”

Y/n quickly got up, and went to hug Florence’s grandma, “Hi, Mrs. Pugh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Florence has told me so much about you”. Y/n found the woman adorable, being so tiny, but full of life and joy. Granny Pat irradiated happiness.

“Oh, I hope all good things… But I must ask you to call me granny Pat, you are part of the family now” The whole family laughed, and went back to sitting when they had also greeted the oldest woman.

Florence started to tidy up the plates, Y/n following her, receiving a glance from her girlfriend daring her to stand up, so she abandoned her intentions. Instead, she was followed by her sibling, after being slightly scolded by her mother.

“So, quite the girl you got, huh” Toby said as soon as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Yeah, I do”, The actress smiled fondly, a warm feeling setting in her chest every time she thought of the girl. Her sisters approached her to give her a hug, also giving their opinions.

Arabella was the mature one, “You look so in love, and I’m so happy you got someone who also loves you as much as you do”. On the other hand, Raffie, was more teasing, “She is nice, funny and gorgeous, you better keep an eye on her, because everyone will try to steal her from you”

Florence thanked her older sister, and then slapped her younger one. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on losing her ever”

******

After doing small talk at the table a bit more time, the family decided to go for a walk, Billie needing to do her need was also used as an excuse. Raffie quickly laced her arm with Y/n’s and both girls started to talk happily, laughing at their jokes. They quickly were quite ahead of the family, followed by the men of the house, and lastly the four women left.

“You found a good one” Florence glanced at her mom’s comment, a smile, once again, was drawn in her face.

“I found the best one”, she agreed, not hesitating for even one second. She knew pretty well, she’d never find another one like her girlfriend, knowing she wanted to stay with her for the rest of her life.

“You better take care of her, or I’ll come after you” Granny Pat also made herself part of the conversation.

Florence feigned offence, a hand on her chest to make it more dramatic, “Whose granny are you?”. The four women laughed, Arabella accelerating her pace to go talk with her dad and brother, shaking her head while smiling at the other’s small bickering.

Granny Pat, however, insisted, “I don’t care, she is part of this family now too”. Florence kissed her gran’s temple, as she looked ahead seeing her girlfriend looking back at her, signalling her to come next to her.

The actress excused herself, and jogged to meet her girlfriend at her side. Raffie looked at them and started running, calling Billie to play with her. “What were you talking about back there?” Y/n asked, taking Florence’s hand.

“You”

“Good things?” Y/n was confident she had made a good impression, but she couldn’t avoid worrying a bit. In spite of that, as she saw Florence’s loving eyes, she immediately relaxed.

“All great… They love you, but not as much as I do”

“I love you more, Flo” The girls softly kissed, it wasn’t long, the whole family was able to see them, although only the youngest had something to say about it.

“Get a room!” Y/n laughed as Florence flipped her sister off.

#florence pugh #florence pugh fanfiction #florence pugh imagine #florence #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh one shot #florence pugh x fem reader #florence pugh x you

157 notes · View notes

mrs-dot-kennedy · 23 days ago

Text

I cannot thank @madameisaacpereire enough for giving me the chance to write something about her character. Muah. I love you girly💞💋

You can read this as a stand alone one shot but I promise you will regret reading her series if you haven’t done so yet.

Anyway, enjoy it!

The Slow Undoing - Henry Winter x Reader (Angel) | Post-Bunny’s Funeral AU |

You go because he asks you to.

Connecticut is sodden with grief, the kind that seeps into your coat and settles in your bones. The morning of the funeral, the sun barely rises. The sky is a wide, low bruise. You half expect it to rain during the service, just for symmetry’s sake, but it doesn’t. The clouds only hang there, motionless and aching.

Henry is white as porcelain, thinner than you remember, though he’s always looked a little ill -like he was carved too sharply from marble, all hard edges and hollow eyes. Now, he looks carved from bone. Like death has skimmed his shoulder, looked him in the eye, and spared him only out of irony.

He lets you sit beside him in the car on the way to the church. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His hand is flat and lifeless on his thigh, and you wonder if you could reach for it -just lace your fingers through his and give him a piece of something human -but you don’t. You are afraid of startling him, like a deer in a trap, beautiful and panicked.

At the cemetery, he helps carry the coffin. Not because he wants to. Because it is expected.

The handle looks heavy under his hand, and you wonder if he’s going to fall. You think of his headaches, the sharp stabs of pain that leave him blinking at nothing. You think of the pills -more than there should be- and how he moves now with the slow, choreographed precision of someone balancing on the edge of a rooftop.

They lower Bunny into the earth with a creak of pulleys and a groan of grief, and Henry steps forward, not quite steady.

You see his hand move. He reaches down and scoops a small handful of the raw, red dirt. Holds it in his palm. Then, ceremoniously, he lets it fall.

And then -this is what gets you- he wipes his hand on his shirt.

A clean white Oxford. Bright and starched and perfect. The soil smears like blood.

You hear Camilla gasp behind you, or maybe you imagine it. Charles doesn’t look. Richard doesn’t breathe. Francis' hand finds your arm and squeezes it tightly. No one says anything, because what could you say?

Henry just stands there, with that mark over his heart, and stares down into the hole where Bunny is now sleeping.

It is an unholy sort of mourning.

You don’t speak on the way back to the house.

Henry stays behind at the Corcorans’, speaking in low tones to Bunny’s mother, who is glazed with shock and powder. She clutches his hand like he’s the only solid object in a crumbling universe. You see him nod. He’s saying all the right things. Of course he is. He’s Henry.

But the moment she turns away, you see it crack in him -just for a second. The slackening of his jaw. The faint tremor in his hand.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

He sits at the edge of the bed in the guest room and stares out the window at nothing. You’re in the doorway, unsure if you should even be here, unsure if you’ve made a mistake by coming. The house is quiet. You can hear every creak of wood beneath his socked feet, every inhale like it’s being pulled through a broken instrument.

He doesn’t turn when he says, “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

It’s the first thing he’s said in hours.

You step forward anyway.

“You let me come,” you say.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “But I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m still not.”

You walk toward him slowly, like you would approach a wounded animal. You reach out and place your hand on his shoulder, just lightly.

He flinches -but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not here to punish you,” you whisper.

“I know.” His voice is a hoarse rasp. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He isolates himself after that. Withdraws into long silences and half-written letters that he burns in the fireplace. He sleeps in short bursts. Wanders the halls at night like a wraith.

He loses weight, enough that his clothes hang differently on his body. You find pills tucked inside books, on windowsills, beside the faucet. Sometimes you pick them up, one by one, and wonder if he’s counting how many he’s taken, or if he just doesn’t care anymore.

There are days he doesn’t speak to you at all. Others when he speaks too much, in circles and spirals and Latin phrases that sound like confessions but don’t quite land.

You don’t press. You make tea. You sit near him and read when he can’t bear silence. You bring food even though he doesn’t eat. You talk about things that don’t matter, just so the air feels less hollow.

And he lets you.

That’s the miracle: he lets you.

The first time he breaks is in the morning.

The windows are fogged, the house warm with late sun and the scent of brewing coffee. You find him sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing last night’s clothes, hands folded neatly, staring down at nothing.

“Henry?”

He doesn’t look up.

You step forward, slower this time. You’ve learned to move slowly around his grief.

“Do you want something to eat?”

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders shake.

And that’s when you see it.

He’s crying.

Not loudly. Not even noticeably, at first. But the tears are sliding silently down his cheeks and into his collar, and when you reach for him, this time he doesn’t flinch.

You kneel beside him, and he turns -folds into you like he was built for it, presses his face against your chest, his arms trembling as they come up to hold you. He cries like a child: hiccupping, helpless.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps into your shirt. “I’m sorry, I can’t- I can’t pretend-”

You stroke his hair. It’s damp with sweat and smells like soap and dust and Henry.

“I don’t need you to pretend,” you whisper.

He clings tighter. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am.”

He sobs again, a raw sound, and then -very quietly- says, “If you knew what I’d done… If you knew-” His voice breaks.

You don’t ask. You hold.

You hold and hold and hold until his shaking stops.

He falls asleep in your lap.

You stay there until your legs are numb, watching the dust drift lazily in the morning light. The kitchen is still. Outside, birds chatter as though the world hasn’t come apart at the seams.

Henry’s lashes flutter against your skin. He’s beautiful in the way broken glass is beautiful: all sharp light and danger. His breath evens out, mouth slightly open, a crease between his brows that doesn’t smooth even in sleep. Like he’s bracing for something, even in dreams.

You’re afraid to move, not because he’ll wake -but because he might not. There is a fragility to him now that scares you more than any rage or silence ever could.

You wonder if this is what remorse really looks like. Not blood. Not confession. But this soft, terrible unraveling in your arms.

When he wakes, he doesn’t speak. He moves slowly, like he’s resurfacing from a nightmare he hasn’t quite shaken off. His eyes open -not abruptly, but with a heavy sort of deliberation- and he stays there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling with his mouth slightly parted, breath uneven.

You’re already awake, sitting in the chair by the window, the soft creak of old floorboards under your feet the only sound in the room. You’ve been watching the frost form on the outside of the glass, thin white veins crawling slowly across the pane like some delicate disease.

Henry sits up stiffly, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. The motion is unguarded, childish even, and for a moment he looks terribly young -less like the Henry Winter who keeps entire rooms in check with the weight of a glance, and more like some lost, intelligent boy caught between centuries, stranded here in the 1980’s in a body that doesn’t quite fit him anymore.

Then he turns his head, sees you.

There’s no performance in his face this time. No version of Henry Winter carefully edited for public consumption. Just him. Pale and exhausted. Eyes ringed in gray. A man who hasn’t slept well in weeks and has forgotten how to fake it.

“I didn’t mean to-” he begins, voice raw from sleep and disuse. Then he stops himself, jaw tightening, as if the sentence was heavier than he expected. The words are frayed, faintly hoarse from disuse or sleep or something worse. But they disintegrate halfway out of his mouth. He swallows. Tries again. Fails.

You shake your head before he can go further. “You don’t have to explain.”

But you already know he will.

Because Henry always explains. He’s a scholar before he’s a person. He explains like it’s a moral imperative. Only -never explains what matters. Never the thing that’s bleeding through the cracks in his voice. What he offers isn’t absolution. It’s delay. Distraction. The art of speaking so elegantly around the wound you forget where it is, or that it ever existed.

“I thought I could keep it all separate,” he says finally. “Put it in compartments. Do what needed to be done.”

You don’t know what he means by needed. You assume it’s some pragmatic thing: keeping himself composed for the Corcorans, being useful, making arrangements with the cold efficiency of someone who grew up believing that grief should be elegant and silent.

But there’s something about the way he says it that tugs at the base of your spine.

His voice is calm. Studied. Like he’s giving a seminar, not cracking open. The syllables are precise, delicate as cut glass. But you hear the tightness underneath.

His hands are folded in his lap, pale and still. At first.

Then you see it: a slight twitch in the fingers of his left hand. Barely noticeable. But once you see it, you can’t unsee it. A small, betraying shake. Like something has started to come undone at the joints.

“It doesn’t stay there,” he says softly. “It leaks.”

He doesn’t mean to be poetic. He just is.

You wonder if he even knows how frightening it is -how clinical, how quiet. The way he talks about his own mind like a leaky pipe. Like he’s outside of it. Diagnosing the problem. Trying not to scream.

His right hand is clenched so tightly now that the knuckles are the color of bone. He doesn’t seem aware of it.

You shift forward a little on the worn chair. The room is still, filled with a kind of gentle morning light, as if it hasn’t caught on yet that something is very wrong. His voice changes. Drops lower, like it’s not meant to be heard by anyone but himself.

“I’m so tired,” he says, and it sounds more like I give up than I need sleep.

And there’s something in the way he says it -not dramatic, not performative- that makes your throat close.

He’s not asking for comfort.

He’s not even asking to be heard.

He’s telling you a fact. Like a theorem. An axiom. Something cold and fixed and entirely without interpretation.

“And I keep thinking,” he continues, “if I let go, even for a second, I won’t come back from it.”

He says it as though it’s already happened.

You can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound cheap or false. It’s okay, I’m here, you’ll be fine -no. He would hate that. He would hear it as condescension. He’d retreat. And you can’t bear that -not now.

So instead, you reach across the table.

Your hand finds his, slow and steady, fingers lightly brushing the back of his palm before folding over it. For a moment, you brace yourself for a recoil. A stiffness. A withdrawal into formality, into intellect, into silence.

But he doesn’t flinch.

He lets you hold his hand.

And more than that -he lets you feel him shaking.

That’s what undoes you.

Because Henry Winter is not someone who shows weakness. Not even to those he loves. Especially not then. To be held, to be seen in this -this- is not something he does. It’s something he fears. Fears the way some people fear drowning or fire or being looked at too long in the dark.

His hand softens under yours.

You can feel the pulse beating faintly under his skin, too fast.

For a long time, you sit like that. Just breathing, just watching the light crawl up the wall, just existing together in the stillness.

And then -very quietly- he says, “It should’ve been me.”

The words hit you like a door slamming shut in another room. You don’t know what he means. Not really.

But something shifts.

You say his name, gently. Not like a question. More like a reaching hand.

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on some faraway place, some unspeakable thing that you’re not allowed to see.

“I thought I could make sense of it,” he murmurs, “by making it small. One task at a time. I thought -if I could just follow the thread through the labyrinth, eventually it would lead me out.”

He closes his eyes. The muscles in his jaw twitch.

“But I think I might’ve built the labyrinth myself.”

It doesn’t make sense. Not entirely.

You think maybe it’s grief. Or the headaches. Or the pills, which he’s been taking more of lately than he admits. The look in his eyes isn’t altogether present. It’s like he’s there and not-there at the same time. Like some part of him is slipping sideways through the world, slowly and silently.

There’s no pretense in his face now. No academic detachment. No curated stillness. Only something fragile. Something terribly human.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” he says.

And it’s not said with pity. Not meant as dismissal.

It’s said like someone handing you back your coat at the door. As if to say: You can still leave. You haven’t seen the worst yet.

But you squeeze his hand, gently.

“I want to,” you say.

And you mean it. You do. Even if you don’t fully understand what he’s mourning -what he’s guilty for, what dark thing has crawled inside his chest and made a home there- you can feel the weight of it.

You don’t need to name it to carry some of it with him.

You squeeze his hand.

He blinks. Looks at you.

And for a moment -just one- he looks afraid.

“I’m sorry,” he says. The words are strange in his mouth. Soft. Almost illegible.

You want to ask: What for?

But you don’t.

Because you’re afraid of the answer.

Instead, you say, “Come back to bed.”

He hesitates. Then nods, once.

You rise first, and he follows, slower than usual. He sheds his coat with a weariness that looks ancient, then lies back down with the strange grace of a statue toppling into a river.

You climb in beside him. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t reach for you.

But after a long while, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers find yours again beneath the blanket.

And hold on.

You fall into a rhythm of quiet days.

You cook simple things. Toast, broth, apples cut into neat slices. He eats when you coax him to. Not much. Just enough to keep from vanishing.

Julian calls once. You answer. Henry hears your voice in the hall and shuts the door.

He won’t speak to Julian. Not yet.

The truth is -you don’t know what he’s told Julian. You don’t know what version of the story lives behind that closed study door. You suspect it’s cleaner than the real one, and still it sickens him. You imagine Julian asking questions, and Henry crafting answers with surgical precision, each one a stitch pulled tight across a wound that never healed.

One night, you find him in the bathroom, staring into the mirror like he doesn’t recognize himself. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. The bruises under his eyes have deepened to violet. You reach for him, and he lets you come close.

“I look like a ghost,” he says, and his voice is flat. Distant.

“No,” you say, fingers brushing his cheek. “You look like someone who’s still here.”

His eyes flick to yours. Something fractures in them. Not in a dangerous way -just in that soft, yielding way that means: I hear you. I wish I didn’t.

Some nights you wake up and find him already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, hands in his hair. When you reach for him, he leans back against your chest, silent and small.

You wrap your arms around him. You whisper things -nonsense, mostly. Nursery rhymes your moms used to sing to you when you were toddlers. Lines you remember of the books you used to read when you were children. Before he moved on to more complicated stories. You say them because you know the sound of them soothes him. Because they come from the time before.

“I don’t want to go back,” he murmurs once. “Not to classes. Not to pretending.”

“I know.”

He tilts his head back against your shoulder, eyes closed. “But I will.”

“You don’t have to,” you say.

But you both know he will.

Henry Winter always returns to the scene of the crime.

And still, every so often, you catch the tiniest glint of the man you first met. Not the distinguished pupil. Not the mastermind. But the boy beneath the armor. The one who translated Catullus by hand, who brought you rare editions of your favourite books wrapped in paper, who once kissed the back of your hand as though you were something holy.

One evening, you find him reading on the porch, a blanket around his shoulders like a prince from a fevered dream. The sun is setting. It casts everything in gold.

You sit beside him, and after a long while, he closes the book and says, “I used to think if I loved someone… they’d see through me.”

You say nothing.

“And I didn’t want them to. God, I didn’t want them to.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your forgiveness.

“But you don’t see through me. Do you?”

“I don’t think I need to.”

A long silence.

Then -so softly you almost miss it- he says, “Thank you.”

And you realize: it’s not just gratitude.

It’s reverence.

When Julian’s classes begin again, he dresses like he’s putting on armor.

You sit on the edge of the bed, barefoot, clutching a cup of coffee that’s gone cold in your hands. It’s early -dawn-pale- and the whole neighborhood is still humming with sleep, except for Henry, who has been awake since before the birds.

You watch him move through the ritual, precise and slow. Buttoning his shirt with clinical care, pale cuffs like bleached silk at his wrists. His collar is pressed, his tie symmetrical. He selects a jacket -navy, expensive, anonymous- and slides into it with the ease of someone trained for performance. Then he kneels, almost ceremonially, to polish his shoes.

The Henry Winter costume, pressed and perfect. Monastic, almost. He could be a figure from a Caravaggio painting -half in shadow, half illuminated by a dying star.

You watch him. He knows you’re there, of course. He always knows.

But he doesn’t turn around.

You wonder if he notices the shake in his fingers. You wonder if he’ll stop.

He doesn’t.

It’s Henry Winter, preparing for the theater of normalcy. The lie is so clean it gleams.

You shift in your seat, sip the coffee though it’s bitter and lukewarm, and say nothing. The silence hangs like steam in the air between you.

When he stands and turns to face the mirror, he straightens the cuffs with a faint tug. His reflection is flawless: tall, impassive, inhumanly composed. But the room is close, and you’re too familiar with the fault lines now. You can see it -the tightness at the corner of his mouth. The way his eyes never quite focus. His expression, so perfectly curated, doesn’t fool you anymore.

He still doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“I’m not ready.”

It’s barely above a whisper. Almost a confession.

You don’t answer right away. You set the mug down on the side table, come to stand behind him. You don’t touch him, but your presence is enough to make the air between you tremble.

He’s so pale it’s startling, all the color leached from him like a photograph left too long in the sun. His collarbone juts against the fabric of his shirt. The hollows beneath his cheekbones are darker now, sunken like secrets.

And still -he’s beautiful.

Broken, yes. But beautifully so.

“I am not ready,” Henry says.

“I know,” you say gently.

He touches the edge of his sleeve again. Perfects it. As if that will make this easier.

“I thought I’d be,” he says, his voice flatter now. “I thought time would make it… tolerable.”

You glance at his hands, clenched at his sides. He’s pressing his thumb into his palm so hard it’s gone white.

“I keep hearing his voice,” he says, and something cracks in the way he says it -not a sob, not quite. “I keep thinking someone’s going to look at me and know.”

“No one will.”

“You might.”

You exhale slowly, like if you breathe the wrong way he’ll shatter.

“I don’t need to know everything to stay.”

At that, he goes still. Finally -finally- he looks at you in the mirror. His eyes meet yours like they’re bracing for judgment.

Instead, you step forward, into the reflection, and reach for the lapel of his jacket. It’s warm from his body. You smooth it with one hand, like you’re smoothing a crease in the air between you.

He swallows.

And then he says, “Will you still be here when I get back?”

It’s not quite a question. It’s a plea in disguise, hidden beneath layers of composure. It’s not romantic. Not rhetorical. Not even manipulative.

It’s naked.

It’s terrified.

And you feel it like a blow. A strange sort of ache that starts in your throat and spreads outward -shame, maybe, or tenderness, or both. You’ve known for some time that he thinks this will end- that you’ll wake up one day and see him clearly, and that will be it. That he’ll come home to an empty house and understand, finally, what he deserves.

You feel the words before you speak them.

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes for just a moment. A long one.

“Then I can go,” he says.

But he doesn’t move.

His hand drops to the dresser, resting lightly on the edge as if he’s grounding himself.

You walk to him slowly, reach up, and gently adjust the lapel of his jacket. Your fingers linger for a moment, smoothing a crease that doesn’t exist. His breath catches -not visibly, but you feel it, the faint tension in his body, like a wire being plucked.

You let your hand fall to his.

He doesn't say thank you. He doesn’t have to.

You step back, just slightly, give him room to breathe, and he turns toward the door like a soldier returning to the front.

He hesitates in the threshold.

You don’t move. You just look at him.

Henry Winter, all dressed up like he hasn’t been unraveling in your arms for weeks. Henry Winter, walking back into the classroom like he hasn’t buried a boy and tried to bury the guilt alongside him.

But still -he looks back at you.

It’s the first time in weeks he’s let his eyes linger like that. No armor. No script.

“Don’t disappear,” he says.

“I won’t.”

And when the door shuts behind him, you sit back down on the bed and hold the coffee in your hands like an anchor. You stare at the place where he was standing, and the echo of him still there.

You don’t know if you’ve lost him or saved him.

But you know you’re not leaving.

Not now. Not ever.

That night, you find him in bed before you. He’s turned toward the window, back rigid.

You slip in behind him and wrap your arms around his waist. His hands cover yours immediately. No hesitation.

You bury your face between his shoulder blades and breathe in the scent of him -earth, and linen, and something colder beneath it, like metal left out in the snow.

“Thank you,” he murmurs again. This time, you feel it in your bones.

You don’t ask what for. You already know.

It’s not one thing. It’s all of it. The care. The silence. The small domestic miracles of toast and clean clothes and a hand held in the dark.

You know he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. That one day you’ll look him in the eye and see the thing he’s hiding. That you’ll run.

And maybe you will. Maybe one day, when the truth is no longer a shadow but a name, you’ll stand and walk and never look back.

But for now -here, in the half-dark- you stay.

You hold him like a prayer.

And he lets you.

#henry winter x reader #henry winter fanfic #the secret history #tsh fanfic #tsh donna tartt #henry winter #mercy ♡#I hope you all like this

32 notes · View notes

pillow-ghost-nan · 6 months ago

Text

VERY LONG wolfstar fic rec list PART 1

I spend way too much time reading fanfictions and wolfstar is the love of my life so yeah. Also most of these are E and M rated cause I just love my smut

PART 2

PART 3

Please let me know if any link needs fixing or if there are any mistakes. Enjoy!

Multi-chapter:

Led by Light of a Star Sweetly Gleaming by wolfpants

Rating: E, 53k words Remus Lupin is a student and temporary sales assistant at Oxford's finest department store when a mysterious, handsome young man by the name of Sirius Black enters his life and introduces him to a world of sprawling country estates, parties, and London's underground bar scene. A 1960s Wolfstar AU with lots of music, smoking, fine interiors, and, of course, romance.

Of Cinema and Sticky Notes by bluepeony

Rating: E, 12k words Remus Lupin is the office bore. Sirius Black is the office sweetheart. They fancy each other, on a purely aesthetic level.

The Road to Sweetwater by EuripidesTrousers

Rating: E, 57k words “Well. They don't call me Mad Sirius Black for nothing”, Black drawls lazily, “Speaking of drinks - you got any whiskey in your pack there or just old biscuits? Caught me talking politics and now my throat's awful dry.” Remus lifts his brow incredulously, disbelief creeping into his voice, “You must think I got a real short memory thinking you're owed a drink after that show back there. You clean forget you're at my mercy, and then go trying to steal my horse-” “Not in the habit of letting a man put me in the dirt without buying me a drink”, Black drawls, his grin turning sly, “Or maybe you got something else that'll make defeat a mite easier to swallow.” Sirius Black is wanted by the law in the state of Wyoming and Remus Lupin, who's still deciding which side of the law a bounty hunter sits on, captures him for the price on his head. It should be simple. But there's something in the air that Fall that sets Remus' compass spinning, and nothing seems simple anymore.

Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings by Soupy_George

Rating: E, 126k words Heirs to the peerage didn’t write rock songs or play bass, they wrote poetry and learnt the cello from the age of five. Heirs to the peerage also got married and continued the family line. They certainly didn't get struck by a bolt of homosexual lightning in the middle of a grotty pub in Sheffield…. * “No doubt,” the barman said easily, handing the card back across the bar, “Just thinking it were nice tha’ posh twats have stupid names too.” He pointed to his chest, “Remus, thanks t’me daft mam.” A story about music and family, the price of fame and finding love somewhere completely unexpected.

Statten Park and Sunshine on Leith (Freedom & Whisky series) by eyra

Rating: E, 32k words He's absolutely maddening. It happens every summer: this dance, this flirting that Remus has never quite managed to get to the bottom of. Either it's a complete wind-up and Sirius is even more of an entitled bully than Remus has always thought, or it's going to end with Remus letting Sirius bend him over the storage crates behind the catering tent one year. It's one or the other. The boys spend a glorious long weekend together at Sirius's family estate in the height of summer.

The Long Way Home by HollyIvyDruzy

Rating: M, 177k words "SEEKING TWO ROOMMATES FOR HOUSE SHARE – SINGLE ROOMS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY. FOUR BEDROOM HOUSE LOCATED ON EAST SIDE OF TOWN BY CATHEDRAL – CURRENT RESIDENTS FIRST YEARS. NO WEIRDOS PLEASE." Remus never expected to go to Westerbury University, but then he also never expected to meet force of nature Lily Evans while house-hunting, James Potter while replying to a horrendous handwritten advert, or Sirius Black once he had already decided to move in. Soon it becomes clear that even the best laid plans can be thrown out of the window when starting university living with a group of strangers. A university AU with a dash of humour, a sprinkling of angst and some pining for good measure.

Honeydew by lunchbucket

Rating: E, 40k words Healer Sirius Black feels like his life is going through the motions. He is still recovering from the tragic death of his best friends four years prior while doing his best to parent their five-year-old son. However, when a new patient's encounter with a mysterious creature leads him to contact a person from his past, his life gets shaken up into one giant beautiful mess that he isn't sure he knows how to handle. Or, That magic feeling when you find someone who can see you when you can't even see yourself.

Odi et Amo by afieryfox

Rating: E, ongoing Classics student Remus has everything figured out; his courses, his career path, his life — until a mysterious transfer student turns his whole world upside down. Remus despises Sirius Black from day one, quickly set out to beat his new academic rival in any way possible. Angry glares over text translations follow angrier words thrown at the other late at night. All too soon, hate morphs into obsession. And everyone knows what obsession leads to.

Petty (With A Prior) by lunchbucket

Rating: E, 65 words Showing up for his ‘civic duty’ is one thing, getting out of jury duty without losing his shit is another. Tack on an attorney who finds the whole fiasco hilarious, and Remus might as well be in hell. The Courthouse AU of my dreams.

Dunes and Waters by MarigoldWritesThings

Rating: E, 37k Remus is sensitive to changing tides, a part of the moon always with him, and Black is like the sea. He can smell it on him, the way his magic builds up and crackles about the fingertips. *** A werewolf, a convict, and a riddle.

Like an Accident by lurikko

Rating: E, 12k words November 1993: detective Sirius Black has a new case, and a new partner.

Black Diamonds and Moonlit Snow by iamafullyrealizedcreation

Rating: M, 66k words “A marketing manager from Wales, moved all the way to Maine, to work for a ski mountain, and you don’t even ski. Remus Lupin, you just keep becoming more and more mysterious. What other secrets do you have?” There were two paths in front of Remus, one where he flirted back with the beautiful, handsome, dangerous man in front of him, and one where he remembered that Sirius was his co-worker, and more importantly, made his living doing the one thing Remus hated most in the world. “You’ll find that beyond all that, I’m rather quite boring.” Remus said, as he settled on a decision. Sirius sat back in his chair and gave him a doubtful look, and the start of a smirk. “We’ll see.” Remus Lupin starts work at Mount Calset with the goal to bring people to the ski mountain, and has to learn to deal with "face of the mountain" famous ski racer, Sirius Black OR A story about overcoming your fears, and the type of love that makes you feel brave.

Go East by xinasvoice

Rating: E, 84k words Remus has been running for a long time. Eventually, he runs into a strange castle built by a wizard and his young apprentice. The longer he stays, the more secrets he uncovers...and the less he wants to leave. This is a novel-length adventure story that loosely follows the plot of Howl's Moving Castle. It does not require knowledge of the HMC book or movie to enjoy it.

The Horcrux Hunt by lostmy_keys

Rating: M, 143k words He is a Slytherin, a Black, and an ex-Death Eater. Of course he makes it out of the cave. Regulus sets out to destroy the Dark Lord's Horcrux with no one but a house-elf to help, until he realises his task is bigger than he alone can handle. Reluctantly he turns to the only man Voldemort fears for assistance - Dumbledore - who loans out his pet wolf for the job, much to Regulus's dismay. Together they embark on a hunt for Horcruxes - a long and arduous journey that both makes friendships and destroys them. And a few people get hurt along the way. Slowburn Wolfstar, Regulus character development, a very flirty (but platonic) Regulus and Remus friendship, and a canonically manipulative Dumbledore.

Where the Mist Falls by YumeNouveau

Rating: E, 30k words Remus loves being a deputy in the snowy mountain town of Greyback Peak. But when a crazy cult leader escapes in his woods and the FBI is called in, he's not about to just hand everything over to the stuffy know-it-all feds. That is, until he's confronted with silvery eyes, perfect cheekbones and a tailored suit that make his heart beat so loud it might start an avalanche.

Wish You Were Here by afieryfox

Rating M, 70k words Moony and Padfoot are both well-known online streamers that meet in an Among Us lobby organized by Lily. They instantly connect with their quick banter and similar interests, even with a whole ocean between them. Remus is alright with crushing on Sirius from afar. Until fans start shipping them and give them the name Wolfstar. Utterly ridiculous, of course. But why does Remus’ heart make a leap every time he thinks about it? And why, after countless hours on Discord calls, does he get the feeling that Sirius might feel the same?

Currents by lunchbucket

Rating: E, 109k words Remus Lupin and Sirius Black arrive in Sydney to compete in the Summer Olympics, both intent on making these games a better experience than the last. The two swimmers have a tumultuous history and intense rivalry, but can America’s golden boy and Great Britain’s notorious bad boy put their past behind them and find some common ground?

Where There Is Smoke by moongnome

Rating: not rated (oficially but it's actually E), 109k words "If he closed his eyes, he could have been there again, back in the cold river, water rising up to his shoulders, with a beautiful boy who wouldn’t leave him alone." It is 1865. Stuck in his house with his overbearing parents, Remus Lupin cannot shake the feeling that he's missing something. Returning from abroad after the death of his mother, Sirius Black is now the owner of a massive estate and he has the attitude to match. He has everything, including people who are determined to take everything from him. It takes seconds for Remus to know he will never hate anyone as much as he does Sirius Black.

The Homecoming of Sirius Black by lunarlivs, MissAmericanBi

Rating: E, 44k Sirius Black is burned the fuck out. From his high-pressure job, his unfulfilling love life, the concept of existence in general... you get the idea. With what used to be his life now just a smoldering pile of vaguely millennial-shaped wreckage drifting somewhere over the Manhattan skyline, Sirius leaves New York and moves home to Slytherin, Georgia—a wealthy suburb outside Atlanta—in an attempt to figure out what he is really doing in this prison of a meatsuit people call a body. Enter: a smoking hot bartender with big hands, amber eyes, and a stubbornly hardened exterior Sirius is determined to crack.* But with the passing of each month, Sirius starts to see that leaving a place doesn't mean forgetting the loss, returning to family doesn't mean coming home, and while love isn't found at the bottom of a pint glass—he may be the one pouring it.

How Remus Got His Groove Back by RealityShowJunky

Rating: M 43k words After two years of noncommittal sex: Remus tells Sirius that he loves him. Sirius firmly rejects him. Remus tries to move on. Sirius is not happy. OR Remus Lupin becomes king of the cockroaches, Fabian Prewett writes a book, Gilderoy Lockhart is a catfish, and Sirius Black realizes he's a fucking idiot.

Maybe this time is different (I really think you like me) by fiddleleafedfig

Rating: E, 73k words “Because you’re not just writing about Picasso, Sirius. Remus Lupin is a writer and an introvert, he has published a few novels that have been very well received. We want the story of it all, the family estate, his writing process, the decision to display these sketches now.” “And what on god's green earth makes me the best man for that job?” “Because you’re charming, we think he’ll like you.” * Or; The story of how Sirius Black gets a writing assignment, banters his way into the art-elite of London, and ends up falling head over heels in love.

Till We Have Arrived Home Again by prouvairing

Rating: E, 44k words Summer, 1999. Harry comes home with news. Quite a lot of news. Harry takes a deep breath. “I'm quitting the Aurors,” he starts with, which is followed by a moment of stunned silence. “What?” Sirius says. “All right," Remus says. “Do you know what else you want to do? Did you think about it?” Harry blushes, the way James used to—a rosy glow lighting up his brown skin—and says, “I wanted to—that is, I thought I might be a teacher.” Remus, quite suddenly, seems to have something in his eye. "Oh." “What?” Sirius says. “And uh—there's more. I was thinking I might like to. That is. I want to become an Animagus.”

Lines by Krethes

Rating: E, 24k words "As if feeling Sirius’s eyes on him -- and maybe he does, Remus just Knows Things sometimes -- he looks over his shoulder with eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy. “We’re far too old to be having morning sex and you know it, Padfoot,” he warns, his voice still gravely and deep from slumber." OR: DILF Wolfstar getting the happy ending they deserve. Chapters are chronological, but it's largely PWP and we're just here to have some fun.

No Expectations by thisbluepeony

Rating: M, 98k words Remus Lupin is a little-known music journalist working on a little-known music magazine. Blue Stag are his next Big Project - well, his first anyway.

Ever Thus by WrappedUp

Rating: E, 135k words “Right, well I’d say it’s about time to put an end to this nonsense, wouldn’t you?” James nodded sagely. “You’ve obviously still got some things to chat through with him, but he will talk to you about it, Remus. He thinks the world of you, you know that. But the important thing is that you do talk because nothing’s going to get sorted if you just sit cry-wanking in your room.” The world is excruciating and enthralling in equal measure. The gang try their hardest to navigate it as real, legitimate adults.

Language Lessons by MsAlexWP

Rating: E, 150k words September 1982 The war is over. Voldemort was defeated on October 31, 1981. Regulus Black discovered Voldemort’s horcruxes and informed the Order of the Phoenix, which destroyed them. When Voldemort arrived on Halloween to kill baby Harry, the Order was standing by, ready to kill him first. Almost a year later, the Marauders and their friends are rebuilding their lives. Everything is going well for Sirius Black. Everything but love. OR Sirius Black is great at sex but shit at relationships. Remus Lupin is an amazing boyfriend, but not so great at sex. Could these best friends learn from each other? Platonically, of course.

Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars by WrappedUp

Rating: M, 41k words “He’s coming home, James. What the hell am I meant to do with that? It’s been eight fucking years and we’re meant to... what? Just meet him at the pub? Buy him a drink like-” He shakes his head. “What will I do with my face?” James takes a sip of lemonade, taking his role as designated driver very seriously as always. He has a smudge of dirt on his nose from ‘wrestling a conifer the size of a bear’, but Sirius doesn’t think to mention it because he’s somewhat preoccupied with his own problems, which, for the avoidance of doubt, are many and insurmountable. “Your face?” “Yes, exactly! It’ll give me away the second he sees me. He’ll know right away that eight bloody years has done nothing at all to dampen it down. Dripping with hurt. As if I don’t still feel-”

One-shots:

Babysitting by A_factorygirl_69

Rating: E, 5,5k words Sirius and Teddy's excellent adventure, or why Remus is a master manipulator.

No Reckoning Made by A_factorygirl_69

Rating: E, 22k words Trying to remain friends but also wanting more while in the middle of a war is far more difficult than Remus ever imagined. Sirius certainly isn't making it easier on him either.

Secrets in the Black of night by TracingPatterns

Rating: E, 6k words It all starts when Remus is paired with Sirius fucking Black in Potions, but Remus didn’t think this was where they would end up.

Buy the Stars by wilteddaisy (taotu)

Rating: E, 23k words Sirius Black, respectable pureblood patriarch and heir to the Black family fortune, has a wife and three children at Hogwarts. Defence Against the Dark Arts professor Remus Lupin wrestles with the aging wolf inside of him. When Black offers him a hand, Remus reluctantly takes it.

Nosebleed by WrappedUp

Rating: T, 8k words “I can’t have a threesome, Lily. I do puzzles for fun. I drink Ovaltine. I have a mug that says ‘I heart spreadsheets’. And it wasn’t even a present; I went out and bought it for myself because I really do. I heart spreadsheets.”

That Old Black Magic by fallovermelikestars

Rating: M, 37k words AU in which Remus, being as he is a werewolf and all, is homeschooled til he is 16. Hogwarts is something of an experience, not least because there's this boy called Sirius Black.

illicit affairs by dykesiriusblack

Rating: E, 8k words They shouldn't. But they do.

The Power Of The Dog by Suchsmallhands

Rating: E, 71k words Sirius thought he left the Black family behind but he is forced to face them once again when charged with the death of his mother. Who do you think will be his defender?

you jump, I jump by grumposaur

Rating: M, 17k words When Remus witnesses a disturbing event walking home one night, it sends him down a twisted path of many discoveries: secret societies, macabre rituals, cloaked figures, and a dark-haired boy who proves to be the most dangerous of all.

Satellites by jennandblitz

Rating: E, 23k words Sirius Black is the guitarist for Starsign, a band on a meteoric rise to fame. One evening in Edinburgh and he finds himself face to face with Remus Lupin, gig photographer an in almost-criminally oversized punk shirt. Perhaps things aren't meant to be at first, but the universe has its ways…

After us, the flood by aryastark_valarmorghulis, bloodsuitsandtears

Rating: E, 10k words “I was hoping you might be waiting for me.” His tone is light and friendly, but Remus isn’t fooled. “I stopped for a smoke.” He wonders, though. Was he unwittingly waiting for Sirius? In the last eight years, there had been countless smoke breaks, quick trips to grab another wine bottle and rendezvous to decide James’ birthday gift that dissolved into a sloppy snog or a quickie. It didn't happen every time Sirius was back in the country, but it was close enough.

bookends by drowsyanddazed

Rating: E, 12k It’s 1995 and the only flat in London that Remus Lupin can afford is one that’s falling apart and riddled with curses. When the curse-breaker comes in to survey the place, it’s Sirius Black who shows up at his door. On Remus’ doorstep, in 1995, they go through introductions. But they knew each other in 1982, back at university, they knew each other quite well, so why are they pretending they don’t have history? He’s not quite sure what’s going on between them, what they’re doing, what this tightrope they’re walking is. He’s not sure it’s a good idea.

Love, Trust and Other Wartime Casualties by BellaBabe

Rating: M, 8k words “Full moon?” Sirius asks, realizing he doesn’t actually know. Remus looks at him oddly. “You know you were always the most attentive. James was too carefree, too unburdened and Peter too forgetful… but you, you always knew.” It’s a well placed blow and it leaves Sirius breathless. “Things change I guess.” Remus says softly. “I’m here now.” Sirius can taste the lie on his tongue. Remus hums noncommittally and pours them more tea.

Lie With Me by mblematic

Rating: M, 12k words Sirius meets Remus unexpectedly, in somebody else's body. Nobody trusts anybody.

Elucidation Practice by montparnasse

Rating: M, 21k Christmas, 1978. Remus, wrestling with the mighty problems of gift-giving on a budget, contemplates life, love, London in winter, and falling off the edge of the world with Sirius Black.

Don't Make Me Beg For You (Because I'll Beg For You) by CuriousMay

Rating: E, 14k words Sirius' head jerks round, eyes wide with shock. Remus is still speaking but all Sirius can hear now is white noise. He stares at Remus, who is carefully constructing his chicken sandwich as he talks, seemingly unaware of the conversational grenade he's just launched into the room. "What?" "You know, Rita Schaffer? She was that 4th year who had that incident with Bleatchley's Beauty Bleach in '75 just after our exams and Madam Pomfrey had to regrow all her hair-" Remus starts as he puts down the tomato but Sirius cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "No, not that, you idiot. The other bit. You said - you said you're in love with me?"

Horoscopes and how they caused the Plague of Frogs by Woldy

Rating: E, 6k words This is the story of the most improbable job Remus ever had, the Chocolate Frog Plague of 1980 and, incidentally, how he first kissed Sirius.

A Series of Sketches Done in Black Ink by mustntgetmy

Rating: E, 57k words Non-magic AU. Sirius had always imagined the aftermath of falling in love would mean lightness, and an escape from all the horrors of his childhood. But the past never leaves, and even love can't stop bad memories from resurfacing. An almost year in the life of Sirius and Remus's first year as a couple replete with art and tangled sheets, and containing the following: filled sketchbook pages from people lost and people found, terrible biscuits from an excellent therapist, mismatched music records, expensive hot chocolate, a lost brother, photographs (some invasive and some invoking terrible memories), a reckoning with the past, a promise of the future, and yet another ridiculously over the top Halloween party.

Within White Space by mustntgetmy

Rating: T, 9k words Non-magic AU. Remus spends his all his lunch breaks the same way: he sits at the university cafe, orders the cheapest thing on the menu, and stares at Sirius. Getting a good long, look at Sirius (and fantasizing about said look) is all Remus expects from Sirius. But Sirius has never been one for fulfilling expectations.

Black Glass by estas_absentis

Rating: E, 4k words Remus already holds Sirius’ heart in his hands, carries it with him through the world, could crush it if he chose. Why not his mind, his self, too?

82 notes · View notes

mad-scientist-enthusiast · 8 months ago

Text

Real Rashid thought Daniel Molloy's book would be his big break. Once a well-respected agent of the Talamasca with a window office in the London HQ, Rashid felt that he had been demoted in a way by having to play butler in Dubai for the past 5 years. He really thought he could crack this Armand guy by appealing to his upbringing in the Islamic faith, however he severely underestimated just how long it had been since the subject was last human. Armand was alien to him; a creature he couldn't begin to understand. But still, Rashid tried his best to do so, eventually working his way up the penthouse staff until he became the personal assistant of the undead couple. He expected a breakthrough— maybe a promotion in the Talamasca, or a raise in his pay from the vampires—but none came. Instead he suffered through ushering purchased victims to their inhuman executioner, setting the table for a meal of freshly sedated rabbit, and sanitizing the bedroom after some particularly messy BDSM activities. Rashid quickly learned that all the blood he had to clean was actually his employers' ejaculate, which caused him to take a massive hit of psychic damage each time he rinsed it off of one of their silicone sex toys. All this is to say, Rashid really thought Daniel would be his ticket out. The man was an expert at pissing these vampires off; he knew just where to strike his blows, what questions to ask, what faults to uncover. Rashid knew this would end with a bang, however this was not the kind of bang he anticipated. Rashid had no problem with gay people; he hung out with a few queers in his time at Oxford. But there's a difference between being gay, and impersonating your staff member for a BDSM roleplay thing with your husband to psychosexually manipulate an old man. He thought the explosive divorce would be the end of these antics, but that was foolish of Rashid. As he walked to the bedroom door, iPad in hand, hoping to catch the vampire Armand in a moment of solace so that the two of them could finalize his divorce settlement with Louis de Pointe du Lac, he heard the faint sound of movement inside. That should have been enough to put him off, but in his defense, he really didn't expect to open the door and see his employer spreading a pair of 69 year old asscheeks and promptly sticking his tongue inside. Daniel Molloy, his one saving grace, was handcuffed to the bars behind the bed and decidedly very naked. His whole body was flushed and blood dripped from his neck and other places where Armand had undoubtedly bit him. It was then that Daniel Molloy looked over at him, and Rashid felt his blood run cold. All his hopes and dreams of getting out of this job flew out the window. He could see it already; Armand taking him with when he moves out of the penthouse, and he'd be playing butler for another 5 years—this time in America where Armand has moved in with Daniel Molloy. Rashid had witnessed more than his fair share of vampire genitals in his time with Armand and Louis, and he did NOT want to see any more wrinkled old man dick!! And so it was then that Real Rashid finally decided to quit his job. The Talamasca did not have good enough healthcare benefits to make up for the psychological damage he would have from staying under Armand's employment.

#devil's minion #real rashid #rashid iwtv #bally gill #armandaniel #devils minion #iwtv crack #iwtv fic #ficlet #the vampire armand #interview with the vampire #real rashid iwtv #amc iwtv

83 notes · View notes

meetinginsamarra · 7 months ago

Text

Fanfics I Really Liked in September 2024

So. Since I keep a list of what I´ve read anyway (there´s always a list), I will rec all the fics I´ve wholly enjoyed on a monthly basis. Old and new, canon or AU, big or small authors, long or short but nearly always Johnlock (-ish).

Clean Start by standbygo @blogstandbygo

UniLock - John meets an odd man at the laundrette who deduces people from what's in the dryer.

Delightful different first meeting.

These Hours That Define Us by predictably_unpredictable

Sherlock has just been discharged from hospital, not knowing what to expect or what he'll be coming home to. He's convinced himself that he should never see John again for John's well being, believing himself to be a hindrance to him. But when John shows up unexpectedly to 221B in the middle of the day hoping for a place to stay, things take a different turn, forcing them both to confront their past and their future.

Awesome S3 fix-it!

The night visitor by Snoozydog

John Watson, former army surgeon, employed by the secretive and indefinable government official Mycroft Holmes, accidentally saves the life of his employer's younger brother and ends up being hired as his private physician. John is immediately fascinated by his new patient but not only is Sherlock engaged to be married to someone else, but he is also a man surrounded by many dark secrets. Under the looming threat of Mycroft’s watchful eyes, as well as Sherlock’s imminent wedding there is also something else that lurks in the shadows, something that threats the budding relationship that has started to develop between the doctor and his enigmatic patient.

^^ Says it all, go read!

The winding road of secrets and lies by Snoozydog

John Watson takes on a mission to infiltrate the household of Mycroft Holmes by order of his new employer, Sebastian Moran, to access information their boss is wishing to get his hands on. To be able to get to Mycroft John will have to befriend his younger brother Sherlock and try to establish a bond with him. But what starts out as a seemingly simple job proves to be much more complicated for John as the Holmes household harbours many dark and unexpected secrets, especially about the very complicated relationship between the two brothers. Under pressure from his boss to follow through with his assignment, Mycroft suspiciously watching his every move and, to complicate matters even more, John beginning to develop feelings for Sherlock, he is beginning to regret ever taking this job. Can he complete his initial plan to steal information from Mycroft and what will happen when Sherlock finds out the truth?

^^ Says it all, go read!

The Printer Is Jammed by startrekto221b (snowandfire)

John is a disgruntled customer who just wants his money back for a shoddy printer Harry ordered for him off of a catalogue. Sherlock is a bored customer service rep working the summer he has off from Oxford. They are both about to get more than they bargained for.

Fandom classic AU different first meeting. Grumpy John and snarky Sherlock and hilarious shenanigans aróund the printer. Lots of fun.

The Printer Is Still Jammed by startrekto221b (snowandfire)

Life after happily ever after still has its pitfalls. Glimpses into the lives of Sherlock and John after they said ‘I do’.

Part 2 of the printer fun.

#my fanfic recs #fic rec list #fanfics I really liked in September 2024 #sherlock

36 notes · View notes

agattthaa · 4 months ago

Text

Locked out

Paring: Dmitry/Yan

Word count: 1.036

Rating: T

Warning: Angst, no happy ending, no hopeful ending. Past non established relationship.

Summary: And that cold, locked door was not the only thing keeping Yan away from his deepest desires and most frightening fears.

Tagging: @rc-catalog

The heavy door stood perfectly still in front of him, just like any door was supposed to. He was pretty sure that it would be stone cold to the touch, but that would be shocking.

Everything was cold in Oxford. It's always had been and it always would be. It was one of those constancies that made the world, well, the world.

But that door was not cold to him. At least it hadn't been in the past.

It wasn't supposed to be.

No.

He never even had the time to wonder about it before. Whenever he reached for it, he'd simply barged in, the room so familiar and filled with so many of his things that he basically didn't even use his room anymore. Because that room, Dmitry’s room, Dmitry’s space, had become his home.

Anywhere by Dmitry's side was.

Or at least, it used to be.

Now, instead of barging in, he simply stared at the dark and cold metal door. So similar to all the other ones on the base, still, almost foreigner in Yan's eyes.

The missing paint around its corners only seemed capable of making Yan feel even more contemplative, it only seemed capable of making him wonder even more.

And that was dangerous.

It made Yan wonder if Dmitry got rid of his stuff. If he threw everything Yan ever owned inside a black plastic bag and threw it away on the nearest trash bin that he could find as soon as he got back home in a clear attempt of erasing every single trace of Yan from his room and from his mind, so that Yan wouldn't linger on his thoughts. That he was successful at cleaning Yan completely, from his room, from his mind, from his heart and from his soul. That Yan was no longer the truth carved into Dmitry's bones.

It made Yan wonder if Dmitry stored everything he owned inside a box and hid it from his sight and inside a dark corner of his closet, away from his eyes but still present, still there. If he returned to the box and the memories of them once every while. If he still ate dark chocolate cake on Yan's birthday and visited that same bar they always went to together. If he looked at any picture of them younger and happier and regretted that choice. If he ever regretted to pull that trigger at all.

It made Yan wonder if Dmitry just left everything as it was. If he never moved Yan's things from where the hunter had left them, not even by a millimeter. If every time he got into his bedroom he remembered Yan, how he took possession of everything Dmitry was and owned. How Yan had left a mark on him that no time could ever erase. A mark Dmitry never regretted. A mark the general never wanted to remove. A mark that became a part of his very own being.

A mark that proved that not even once Dmitry regretted Yan.

It made Yan wonder if Dmitry ever took other people to that very room. If someone else had used one of the towels he left there or the rest of the cologne he used to use. If someone had slept on the same bed he used to sleep on and woke up completely with its owner as Yan used to. If someone mapped that skin with their fingertips for hours and hours with no end. If someone had tagged their fingers on Dmitry's hair while they tried to claim his lips. If someone else had tried to leave marks all over Dmitry on a silent warning to anyone who tried to see too much that Dmitry already belonged to someone.

As only Yan was ever supposed to.

As if Dmitry could ever belong to someone else but Yan.

As if Yan wouldn't hunt anyone who dared to think otherwise.

So, it was dangerous.

To contemplate.

To wonder.

Because every second he spent wondering, more his patience became thinner. More he wanted to shove that door out of his way and barge right back in the place he was never supposed to not be in. The more he wanted to just call out Dmitry's name until he opened that damned door and welcomed back Yan to his arms, to his home, to their home.

And not matter how many times his hand instantly reached for that door, it was never successfully opened.

Because his fear was what truly stopped him.

Nothing else but his own fear.

That no matter how much he thought of calling out Dmitry's name, that the man wouldn't respond. That nothing but silence was the response to his call. That that door would forever stay closed in front of him, depriving the man of what was supposed to be his.

Both the room and its owner.

That, perhaps, Dmitry didn't even want him to be there. That even if Yan got over himself and called out, Dmitry wouldn't answer. That it would be his deliberate choice.

That he would've thrown Yan's things away, not because he had to get rid of it for his peace of mind or because the memories hurt him, but just because he had no use for them. That Dmitry had kissed other mouths and touched other bodies in that room not to try to get over them, but because they never truly mattered enough for him to feel the need to get over anything and that he was just after some casual sex. Both with the other persons and Yan.

That all mattered between them had never truly mattered for Dmitry and Yan was the only one diving in too deep.

That, perhaps, there was nothing for him to get over. That the lack of a label for their relationship was exactly what it implied. That there was no relationship.

That it was nothing.

And pulling his hand back and as far away from that door as possible, Yan turned around and walked right back to his own room.

Unaware that there was a man behind that cold door that cared the same fears and conclusions he just had reached for much longer.

#rc dmitry #rc yan #dmitryan #rc hsr #heavens secret: requiem #romance club #fanfic #fuck you aleksandra

21 notes · View notes

eardefenders · 1 year ago

Text

Sherlock & Co - Mailbag Episode 4 Transcript

00:00-00:29 *Intro Music*

00:28 John: Hello there, Mister Flatmate.

00:31 Sherlock (Resigned): What is it and why have you got your laptop?

00:34 John: It’s that time! My fine fellow-

00:34 Sherlock: For goodness sake. *sounds of him moving on furniture*

00:36 John: Oi, where you going?

00:38 Sherlock: I’m getting my cushion.

00:39 John: Your cushion?

00:40 Sherlock: Yes. Here. This one.

00:42 John: That- that’s Mariana’s.

00:45 Sherlock: Ah, it’s mine.

00:46 John: I know it’s her’s. I bought it for her for Christmas.

00:50 Sherlock: Are you sure?

00:51 John: Yes, because you don’t support Real Sociedad and she does.

00:56 Sherlock: *pause* I could.

00:57 John: Yeah, you could, but you don’t. Ok- *gibbers* It doesn’t matter. Just sit on the bloody cushion. Fine. Qs! And indeed As! Here we go. Uh, ahem, mm, just a disclaimer here, to the patrons. Um. I’m old. Uh, I’m thirty-four. If-if I see a question in the Discord, I-I just ask it. Uh, if it’s in the wrong order or i-if I’ve missed some out. It’s-it’s probably just me not seeing it. So, y’know. Right-o! Uh-Ooo! Off to a flyer here! Milque asks, “Favorite tube line?”

01:29 Sherlock: Victoria.

01:30 Yeah, Victoria. Yeah, yeah. Generally, most Londoners will give that answer. Umm, y’know clean trains, not too many stops, and some big stations on there. Y’know King’s Cross, Euston, Oxford Circus, um Victoria, obviously. Um, some other lines worth mention: Bakerloo brings a certain vibe. B-bit of a sort of kooky, deranged, but pleasant elderly uncle that doesn’t wash kind of vibe. Uh, central line is possibly the most hated, ah, especially during the summer. Um, Piccadilly gets a lot of people headed to Heathrow, so it comes with a lot of baggage. Hah! Literally clambering over suitcases on that one. The Elizabeth line is amazing, but seems to be closed or delayed most of the time. Um, so thanks for listening to TubeCast!

02:20 John: Heh, right. Next question! SaraHawke722 asks, “How do you both know Stamford?” Stamo! The Stamster! I think therefore I Stam. Heh, uh, I-I added those bits. They didn’t say that. Uh, right. Sherlock you go first.

02:36 Sherlock: I met him at St. Bart’s.

02:39 John: That’s uh Saint Bartholemew’s Hospital in London

02:42 Sherlock: I know.

02:43 John: Yes, I know, I’m just telling the listener.

02:45 Sherlock: *pause* Right… I met him at St. Bart’s. There was a study on skin grafting that he was undertaking. I initially made a number of enquiries about the study, he then hired me to work with him on it. Then after that he wanted me on other projects that I didn’t find that interesting, but *with emphasis* he did let me use the lab.

03:03 John: Great, uh ok, um, I met Stamo in Freshes week at University. Um, the University of London. W-which is kind of affiliated with UCL and King’s College London.

03:15 Sherlock: By kind of affiliated, you mean it’s for their underachieving undergrads.

03:19 John: Uh, sorry mate, what University did you go to, exactly? *silence* Yeah, right, thought so. Uh, by the way, um, few of our American listeners have mentioned that you and Victor went to college together. College in the UK is sixteen to eighteen, generally speaking. Um, but, sorry Sherlock, posh lads will sometimes call boarding school a ‘college’. Uhh, I d-I don’t know why. They also call their private boarding schools ‘public schools’. So, yeah, I know. Weird lot. Uh, anyway, yeah, met Stamo at University of London in Freshes week, we both liked football. He’s a Villa fan, Aston Villa that is. We, we kinda were, uh, both out of our depth a little bit with medical degree life, so y’know maybe stuck together. Which. Which was stupid really as you should probably attach yourself to some smartarse, but hey! Y’know! Live and learn! Uh, he started to do well at Uni. Um, he went on to y’know big-big private practice and cosmetic surgery for the most part. And I got shot at for a living, so. Yeah. Listen in school, kids. Listen in school. Uh, WeirdScience asks “Do you believe in ghosts?”

04:32 Sherlock: No. Do you?

04:33 John: Uh, no. No, no. Joff asks “Sorry to be intrusive doctor, but did you suffer any hearing loss during your army days?” Pardon? *wheezing laugh* Ha, uhh no. No, seriously, I did. Um, I burst an ear drum, twice, um, actually, in Afghanistan. I-in my right ear. Uh, thought it was fine, but then after Ukraine when I was getting a full body M.O.T. as it were, there were signs of hearing loss. Um, yeah, but I’ve been lucky I think. I hope it doesn’t get worse as I’ve built my career in audio now. So. Yeah-yeah, but uh a little. A little bit. Um, JellyBaby says, “Dogs or Cats, podboys?”

05:18 Sherlock: I prefer vermin.

05:19 John: Hm. I uh prefer dogs, through and through. Yeah. Um, y’know I like a cat, but they don’t get me. Dogs get me. Ain’t that right, Arch? Heh. Uh, don’t know where he is actually. He’s probably downstairs with Mariana. Catonk asks, “What’s your favorite musical?” We-well it won’t be ‘Cats’! Hahaha! Ahh, Sherlock, your favorite musical?

05:43 Sherlock: What’s the one with the man?

05:46 John: The. The one with the man. Um. Right. You’ve just described the entirety of art and media there.

05:54 Sherlock: He has a piano and he lives in a cave.

05:57 John: Piano in a cave?

05:59 Sherlock: There’s a girl he loves. He-he-he’s got half a face.

06:01 John: Ohh! Phantom of the Opera.

06:04 Sherlock: Yes! I thought that one was okay.

06:07: Great. Yeah, no, it’s a good’un, it’s a good’un. Good answer, I like Phantom. I like Les Mis. I know that’s a boring answer, but some incredible songs in that. Uhhh, yeah. Question via email here from Sartori, “Did you feel bad for Violet Caruthers, because I did.” Um, well yeah, I did. Um. She, uh- I-I-I don’t know how to put it, really-

06:34 Sherlock (interjecting): Had given up control of her life.

06:36 John: Yeah, it was- I don’t know- confidence shot to shit? Th-th-the truest sort of victim I think I’ve ever seen, really. She just, uh, she couldn’t grasp the wheel on her own life. Like Sherlock says. Was that why you were reluctant on that case, Sherlock?

06:55 Sherlock: Very much so. Men had muscled in and filled the gaps she had created from her own insecurity. I didn’t wish to be yet another imposing presence.

07:05 John: But we were.

07:07 Sherlock: We were. And what good did it do?

07:10 John: Saved a bloke’s life?

07:11 Sherlock: Mm, we didn’t pull the trigger but we may as well have. And we set the process in motion.

07:18 John: Welllll… right. Yeah. Okay, didn’t think this q and a session would get so deep. Um. But, yeah, t-that, uh… Welcome to True Crime! *awkward huff laugh* Yeah, we don’t always run off or cycle off into the sunset. Um. Yeah. Uh, okay. Mush-Pit asks, “How many languages do you know?”

07:47 Sherlock: Many.

07:48 John: Great.Uh, why?

07:50 Sherlock: When I was young, I often fooled myself into thinking perhaps it was my grasp of language that was the reason that I didn’t quite fit in. So, I decided to try a number of other languages to see if they worked as a better and more effective means of communication. I wondered whether the nuance and subtle signals of the English language were what was holding me back from social environments. So, I attempted other languages.

08:14 John: Right, and how did that go?

08:15 Sherlock: It’s the same. It would appear it’s nothing to do with language.

08:20 John: Yeah, I’m inclined to agree with you there. I’m rubbish with languages. Ha, it never sticks for some reason. Um, hole in my brain I think. Mariana is also a dab hand at the old languages. She cracked open a bit of Russian the other day. I nearly ducked for cover! * laughs at his own joke* Uh, *clears through* RangerPip asks, “Have you seen any of the fan content Sherlock?”

08:42 Sherlock: Yes, because you keep showing me. And sticking things on the fridge.

08:46 John: Uh, yeah because they’re cool. They’re really good mate! Just-just you wait until I show you the presentation.

08:52 Sherlock: The what?

08:53 John: Nothing. Right question via email from Unbelted, “Does the fingerprint in your logo make an ‘S’ and is that deliberate?” Yes, um is the answer to that. My idea, thanks. Uh, Jones asks, “What’s our spice tolerance?” So, um, right. Okay, yeah. I can go really spicy for Indian. Uh, I can hit the searing temperatures of the Madras and the Vindaloo no problem. Lot of Brits can actually. But I tell you what, Indonesian and Thai spicing I feel. Geez, whew, that is-is a whole different realm of spice. Um…phew. S-sherlock?

09:32 Sherlock: I like the sensation.

09:35 John. Yep, uh. Anything else to add?

09:39 Sherlock: It depends on my emotional connection to the food.

09:42 John: Of course, of course. Well, a-a-as mentioned in Gloria Scott, Sherlock will only eat certain foods if he’s in the right mood. The mood for food, heh. Uh, right-o. Few general questions asking how pancake day went. Uh, yep. No dramas. Went well. Went ‘flipping’ great. Eh? Hehe. Uh, yeah, uh oo! Questions and comments. A lot from North American Podpals, uh, about me describing a woman as ‘tasty’. Um. So, ‘tasty’ is a Carol Watson word. Uh. T-t-the sort she would use for young, handsome men that she flirts with when she can. Um, don’t know what the American equivalent would be? Um? Yeah, you know, what’s a lame word used to describe someone as good looking? Y’know what would an elderly woman use basically…get in touch! Right, another question here. Uh, by the way, when I started this whole question and answer thing, Goalhanger and I thought this would be a great way to field questions about cases. Um. Y’know about the people we meet, about the nature of the crimes we’ve dealt with, uh to fill in possible knowledge gaps, and impart little gems of information that expose the murky nature of crime. Um. Which takes us to this question from Saphhster, “John, what are your thoughts on ranch dressing?” *long pause* I mean, yeah. I like it. I like it, it’s good stuff. Um, Sherlock is nodding. Uh, it’s audio mate. Great. Thanks for your contribution. Uh, Tonky asks, “Does Sherlock have any tattoos?” Apart from my face on his bum. Heh, that’s a joke. That’s a joke, don’t write in. Sherlock, tattoos?

11:26 Sherlock: A spiral on my hip.

11:28 John: What?! Alright, well let’s see! Get it out. *sound of clothes being moved/removed* Oh, well that’s rubbish.

11:34 Sherlock: I know.

11:35 John: Why’d you get that done?

11:36 Sherlock: I-it’s scarring from falling out of bed. I had it filled in because it looked like a spiral.

11:42 John: Okay. Sarah Hawke again with a question, “What is your advice about dealing with a noisy flatmate? Would love both your takes on this lol. I’m at Uni and have a noisy and slightly annoying flatmate. Somehow I’ve agreed to live with them next year as well.” Um, okay Sara Hawke, w-

12:03 Sherlock (cutting John off): Try to tune them out as best you can. Bring in other elements to distract you from their noisiness.

12:09 John (cutting Sherlock off): Sorry, what are you doing?

12:10 Sherlock: Answering wonky-blonk’s question.

12:12 John: It’s not ‘Wonky-Blonk’, it’s Sarah Hawke. Who’s Wonky-Blonk?

12:15 Sherlock: They’re all called that.

12:17 John: Look, I live with a noisy flatmate, alright, it’s clearly directed at me.

12:20 Sherlock: They said both of us.

12:21 John: Yeah, but they added a ‘lol’, okay. That means they recognize the irony of you being asked.

12:26 Sherlock: Why?

12:27 John: Because you initiate a fucking marching band at three am every night. Ssssake. Uh, yeah, Sarah Hawke, I would say get some earbuds. Play music. Uh, white noise is good. Um, oh, I l-looked into this. You can get quite cool soundproofing panels on Amazon. Um, they don’t look awful and they do kind of work. Sometimes. Uh, yeah, right, anyway. That’s it. Thanks for the ‘Qs’, hope you liked the ‘As’ and we will see you soon. He’s wav-He’s waving. It’s. It’s audio m- For god’s sake-

13:00-13:30 *Outro Music Plays*

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #sherlock holmes #john watson #sherlock and john #transcript #transcripts #goalhanger podcasts #my transcript

56 notes · View notes