#but more rumple than belle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rustedhearts · 4 months

Text

i hate you, baby (troubled!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: steve makes you pay for destroying his truck in an interesting way.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the sinner ✶ the library

tags: stalking (ish?); degradation; spitting; smut; toxic relationship/situation; they're so ultraviolence.

rural midwest. summer, 2008.

The morning sun blares through a pair of thin curtains left in the bedroom. You figured he needed them more than you. A soft orange hue melts over the bare, bronzed limbs of a slumbering Steve. They didn't do much to keep the heat out. Maybe that's why you left them. A gentle karma.

Mumbling his morning disagreement, Steve stirs under the sheets until they rumple into a ball near his feet. He stretches his arms, lips cracking into a noisy yawn, and finds his hand reaching for you. The side of your bed left cold and empty for three months now.

He had it coming. You stayed too long.

Steve’s eyes snap open when his fingers fall to a wrinkle in the sheets instead of your soft flesh. He jolts upright, the heel of his palm rubbing sleep away from his gaze. He had to get it together. He couldn’t stop waking up this way.

He had a cigarette for breakfast, smoked over a pile of unopened mail in the sink. Clutter covered every inch of the house. He hadn’t realized how frequently you cleaned. He hadn’t realized how much of the home was a credit to you. He never thought of how quiet it would be without you.

It hit him like a ton of bricks the moment you finally left. After years of threatening, ages of trudging back after a few sporadic days apart—you left. For good this time.

Steve cracks open a Budweiser and slings a mostly-clean shirt over his head, halfway through the can and reaching for his second by the time he flings the back door open and staggers toward his truck. Booted feet scuffing up gravel, he was far too concerned with locating the lighter in one of his jean pockets to inspect the details of his four wheeler.

Until he lifts his head to open the door.

"What the fuck?"

The left side mirror is hanging by a wire, tires drooped like deflated balloons. When he stomps to the other side, there’s a gnarly gash from the edge of a key slashed through the passenger door.

Steve's hands tremble into fists, and he chucks his unlit cigarette toward the grass with a tight jaw.

He knew just who was responsible for this—and you were fucking dead.

✶ ✶

"My fuckin' truck, are you fuckin' insane?"

A coffee pot clatters against the counter, the tassels of an apron swinging with the sharp spin of a body hurrying away from the door as Steve strides through it. The door smacks against the window from his violent push, and all heads turn to watch him make his way between the rows of metal tables.

"I thought maybe it'd get you to finally leave me alone," you grumble, taking a customer's empty plate and placing it on the dirty tray. "Clearly not."

Steve slides between customers, elbows pressing onto the counter. "Get a fuckin' restraining order if it's so bad, sweetheart."

"Already on it."

Steve scoffs, head shaking as he watches you feign nonchalance over a plate of sunny-side up and ham. You place it front of a middle-aged man, who leans back when Steve crowds over his chair to point an inked finger at you.

"You really know how to piss me off—"

"Jesus, Steve, would you get out of here—"

"Hey!"

Your head whips toward your manager, who came stomping behind the counter with her arms crossed. "Take it outside."

Tossing a glare Steve's way, you fiddle with the knotted bow of your apron strings at the small of your back and bundle up the fabric. It's thrown on the back counter on your march toward the front door. You don't bother to make sure Steve's following, hurrying under the dinging bell and into the stifling air.

The bell dings a few moments later with his hurried exit, and then his boots are clomping on the sidewalk.

"You're gonna pay for this," he spits at the back of your head, tracing your path toward the alleyway.

You roll your eyes, whipping wisps of hair out of your eyes when the wind picks up. The redbrick diner wall clings to the cotton of your t-shirt when you press up against it, foot kicked up to brace the sole of your sneaker. Steve's arms are folded when he appears in front of you, but you do your best to look anywhere but at him.

"You need to stop coming to my work, Steve. You need to stop calling me, and texting me, and showing up whenever you want—"

"I wouldn't be here right now if you weren't such a crazy bitch."

You scoff, flicking a strand of hair away again. The shade of the alleyway is a gentle break from the beating sun, but the heat still lingers. You hate being hot and sweaty, and you hate being around Steve.

Once you left, it took no time at all to realize how wonderful life was without him. How freeing it felt to make decisions for yourself. How at ease you were without the threat of another fight, or another crime, or more parole officers showing up.

But when he wouldn't stop knocking on your mother's screen door, or showing up at the grocery store, or tailing you on your way to work—you also realized how difficult it'd be to free yourself of him entirely. He didn't seem willing to let you leave quietly.

So lately, you despised the very sight of his stupid, handsome face.

"Yeah right," you snicker, mimicking his stance. "You can't seem to leave me alone, Steve. Don't you have other things to do? Like, I don't know, robbing some other piece of shit? Ruining someone else's life?"

Steve's jaw tightens, inked fingers cracking into fists. He lunges forward, pressing his palm against your throat. The pressure is familiar, but the sudden shift still pulls a gasp. You perk to the tops of your toes, pushed by his hold.

"You're still such a fuckin' cunt."

"Fuck you."

It's Steve's turn to gasp when a glob of spit smacks his cheek. It sizzles on his skin, dripping down his jaw and chin. He pauses, fingers still on either side of your neck. You swallow against his palm, hands clammy at your sides. There was no warmth quite like the kind that filled your body when you were frightened of Steve.

He fixes his head back into place, and you see it coming before it lands: his lips puckering, cheeks hollowing, his tongue touching the edge of his teeth before the sharp smack! The spit hits you just where it hit Steve, beading in a hot puddle across your cheek.

Your eyes pinch shut, breath hitched in your throat.

“Don’t like it, huh?” he grits out.

But when your eyes open again, they’re deliriously unfocused. Glossed with a cloudy daze, and steadied on his rosy lips. Steve’s thumb twitches under your jaw, chest heaving under a thin tank top. His arms were swollen with tensed muscles. You could see tufts of dark, coarse hair peeking over the collar of his shirt. He had his cross on, like he always did. Something about the way it shined in a streak of sun made you forget all about your spite and hateful ways.

Steve steps forward, taking you in over the slope of his nose. His chest touches yours, his sticky arms brush your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper, but it’s so soft and breathy that it sounds like a love confession.

Steve swallows, head shaking. “I know.”

You tip your chin up and drop your shoulders, and it’s all Steve needs to smash your mouths together. A short squeak pips from your throat, and his teeth scrape your bottom lip hungrily. The fingers around your neck curl a little tighter, a little needier; you bring your hands to fist at the cotton thinned with sweat and suctioned to his sides.

His pelvis tips up, the sharp buckle of his belt and the hard outline of his cock pressed against your thigh. It sends a shockwave sparking down your spine—burrowing deep in your gut, lapping with desire. You claw at the hair near the nape of his neck, and his head tips with the desperate pull.

Steve detaches from your mouth with a grunt, pushing your head back by your neck. "Where's your car?"

You inhale shudderingly, resting your head back against the wall. "Back lot."

You stumble there together: his fingers plucking at the button of your jean shorts as you go along, your own freeing the buckle of his belt. He fishes your keys out of your back pocket and pulls the back door open, shoving you into the stifling heat caged inside.

Splattered flat against the seat, you whine into his mouth attacking yours through all his rough push-and-pull. He wiggles the jean shorts down your thighs, pulls the dampness of your panties aside to rub his thumb into the heat.

You scratch at the fabric of his tank top and push it to his chest, scraping through the slickness painting his torso. Popping the button of his jeans, guiding them over his hips and sinking your nails into the flesh of his ass. He grunts into your mouth again, hand balled at the top of your scalp to yank you away.

The look you give each other is frenzied and crazed. Your cheek is still wet with his spit, lips swollen with his attacks. Sweat gathers and collects along your throat, and he wants to lean down and lick it up.

"Fucking kiss me," you demand tightly, nails digging deeper into his skin.

Fingers still knotted in your hair, he gives your head a shake that stings—but his lips reattach themselves, anyway. Tongue swiping and swirling, teeth nipping and scraping, free hand cradling your hip to hold you down.

"God, you crazy fuckin' bitch...mm...fuckin' hate you."

You curl into him when his hot breath finds your neck, settling a suction on your pulse point that rattles your thighs. You let up on the claws, sliding your hands under the heat of his shirt.

"Oh," you moan, writhing on the vinyl of the seat. "I fuckin' hate you...ah....piece of shit."

He groans into your neck: guttural and animalistic, hips rocking involuntarily between your thighs. He fumbles to free his cock, swiping a sticky palm over the pulsing length of it before he feeds it through your legs. One deep push is all it takes, and the pair of you mewl together when it burrows fully.

His forehead clings to yours, nose brushing your cheek where he watches you falter and struggle to speak. You want to spew more insults, bite his head off a little more while you can. But you're rendered uselessly idiotic when he starts to grind his hips.

"Look at you," he breathes, and the air fanning your face smells like cigarettes. You feel nineteen and full of love again. "Hate me so much, but you're...fuck...lettin' me fuck you like old times."

"St-still hate...oh! Fuck, Steve—"

"Huh?" Steve rocks harder, skin slapping with force and perspiration gathering. The car creaks noisily under the weight of it. "What's that? You what? Tell me, sweetheart."

The lilt of mockery to his voice brings a new wave of pleasure to your veins, and your head slides back against the seat with a shrieking whine. You aren't quite sure that you do hate him anymore. Not when he's fucking you this hard, this good, this deep. Not when he's spitting words of anger full of so much love down at your beating face.

Steve snatches your jaw, pulling your head back into place. You can't quite see through the blurred haze, but you're sure his eyes are sharp with rage.

"Say it. Tell me you hate me."

His voice is steady but his leg are quaking where they're standing in the doorway, and his fingers are all but steady pressed into your cheeks. A vein along the side of his throat swells with exertion. He's just as effected by this. He's been driven just as mad.

Steve growls, picking up speed. "Say it!"

A strangled cry cracks through your throat, hands bracing his humming biceps. "I h-hate you, Steve. God, I hate you."

It sounds just like I love you, and maybe that's why Steve collapses into your chest and shudders. Maybe that's why you cling to him, wrap your legs around his hips and clutch onto all of him. Let him drain himself dry into you, pump all he has between your legs right there in the diner parking lot.

Maybe that's why neither of you say anything as you fumble for scraps of missing clothes. Silent even when Steve sits on the edge of the backseat, hanging halfway through the open doorway, and lights a cigarette. Wordless as he takes a long drag and glances at you sideways, still pink and swollen and catching his breath.

You pluck your keys from the car floor and slip them in your pocket. Use the rearview to fix the makeup smeared under your eyes and the frazzled knots at the back of your hair. Try to ignore the way Steve's eyes graze the sliver of flesh at your lower back when you lean forward.

Steve flicks his cigarette butt toward the asphalt. "Were you lying? About the restraining order?"

You settle back into the seat, sighing. "No."

He nods, thumb rubbing the cross on his knuckle. "Got it."

He pushes to his feet, and you pop the other door open to step out. The free air soothes the burning ache in your limbs.

Steve pulls another cigarette from his pocket and sticks it in his lip, crossing the hood of the car toward the street. He barely looks your way when he walks by.

"I'll bill you for the truck."

#rolly!#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington x female reader smut #steve harrington x y/n fluff #steve harrington angst #dark!steve harrington #steve harrington au

278 notes · View notes

dmitriene · 5 months

Text

THOUGHTS ABOUT LEON WITH FEMENINE GF.

cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort, smut, retired leon, domesticity, cunnilingus, lack of dialogues pairing: bf leon kennedy x gf fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

leon had always been a man of action, a typical hero in a world shrouded in viscous darkness, full of horrors, but now, in the quiet embrace of a relatively suburban home, he had found a life in which there would be no zombies or bioweapons, it was a step into a life that revolved around only gentle domestic rhythms, where his retirement did not mean inactivity, but rather a different kind of activity, one that is completely dedicated to you.

the soft hum of the coffee machine echoed through the spacious, bright kitchen, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sunlight, while leon stood in the aisle, dressed in a slightly rumpled plain tshirt and sweatpants, his usually even mop of hair now disheveled, sticking out from side to side like branches in a nest, but it wasn’t the aroma of coffee or the cozy kitchen that he was more than familiar with that attracted his attention, — it was you.

you, being his girlfriend, moved gracefully and quite airily around the kitchen, moving through the space as easily as if it were a dance floor, your laughter rang like bells, caressing his ears, and this sound became the sweetest melody in leon’s life after he went out on retirement, when you smoothly turn in his direction with a mischievous smile, a freshly baked tray of cupcakes in your hands, the corners of your lips curved into the sweetest greeting.

— «good morning, lee!» you greet, walking up to him with the scraping of slippers on the parquet floor and standing up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek, he is instantly enveloped by a tickling, light aroma of vanilla and warmth, an aroma that has become synonymous with the comfort of your presence next to him.

— «good morning, sweetie» leon responds with a baritone languid from sleep, and his gaze softens as he looks at you, there was a certain lightness in his baby blues, a satisfaction that usually speaks of a life well lived, the wrinkles on his slightly pinkish, after a kiss, face, that have accumulated over the years years of persistent and diligent service as an agent seemed to disappear as soon as he looked at you.

sitting in a cozy breakfast nook, usually decorated with a vase of flowers, which leon tries to replace as soon as the old ones wither, with cute knitted placemats under cute, flower painted plates and mugs that add tenderness, you enjoyed the silence of the morning with muffins and coffee.

leon was more than once surprised by the contrast — his past, slowly disappearing between his fingers like sand, full of chaos and dangers, and now this calm home life with you, in which he found solace in everyday life, in the mundane things about which you chatted and your voice was a ringing babble resounded from the kitchen and through the windows, in a softness that enveloped him immediately as soon as he was near, gentle interior design, soft, not too colorful colors, the things he shared with you and thanks to you.

from time to time you walked around the city, be it just a walk or for groceries, leon loved to spend maximum of his free time with you — he always, like a chivalrous gentleman, opened the car door for you, a small but painfully important gesture that made you smile softly and bubble a pleasant warmth in his chest, and on the streets, which were full of the hustle and bustle of everyday life, following the click of small heels on your new, cute shoes, his attention was focused exclusively on you, while you, in turn, looked at the shops located on both sides with burning eyes.

while you are walking together, a warm hand slides to your lower back, fingers draw graceful patterns on the fabric of your airy dress, neutral color, carefully emphasizing your body shape with its cut and cute elements, be it ruffles or bows, creating a delicate, fragile external visual that makes leon’s eyes squint when he looks at you, his love opens up just like a flower, a connection that transcends the need for loud gestures, and is noticeable precisely in the subtleties — shared glances, laughter, even.

while you explore the endless number of shops on the horizon, buying the necessary things for the home, kitchen towels, some charming boxes for sorting food and things, squinting and comparing one thing with another, trying to understand which is better before you take two, leon's keen, still squinting gaze scans the surroundings — a reminder of his days as an agent, he could not get rid of the instincts honed in the line of duty, but now those protective, obsessive glances were riveted on you while his thick, broad hand found yours, fingers gently intertwined with yours, silently promising to be there, when you contentedly, almost purring, leaned on his hand, walking in step.

you was spending most of your days together in quiet communication, be it watching a movie, cooking together, or just your babbling about some stories from the past to which he joined, pressing your tender body into his, hard, slightly limp over the years, intertwining his fingers with the strands your hair, running along the edges of some sophisticated hairpins, one of those that you often choose together, allowing leon to enjoy the simple joys of everyday life.

one lazy sunday afternoon, the two of you found yourself in the backyard of the house, basking in the smoldering rays of the sun, a light breeze playing with the strands of your hair as you lay in a hammock chair with a book in your hand, cheerfully flipping through the pages every time your eyes reached the end of a chapter, with a slight movement of your fingers, scrolling further, while leon, pleased with the way you were reading, sat next to you with a satisfied smile on his face.

— «i still can't quite believe i can spend my days peacefully like this» leon thought out loud and completely without reason, looking intently at you with tenderness seeping in his eyes.

you looked up from the book, a playful sparkle appeared in your eyes, and much more undisguised affection, answering him loudly velvetly, caressing his ears as if scratching under the chin, riveting his attention to you with his half tilted head — «well, you're a hero who deserves happily ever after, aren't you?» a playful remark as you tap your nails on the cover of the book, folding it into your lap.

he just grins, the sound turning into a harmonious melody following the rustle of the wind as the sun slowly sinks below the horizon, turning the sky pastel pinks and oranges as he joins you, not on the hammock, but between your legs, letting his knees press into the grass when he strokes your legs from toes to knees, velvety, plush skin without the barrier of shoes during a moment of relaxation, lifting up to round thighs and leading along the edges of another charming dress, while he says almost purring, a deep baritone bubbling from the very chest as he presses against your naked flesh — «i think so, especially when you're around me, darling»

you giggle, bury your fingers in his soft strands, running them over and squeezing until the slightly grown stubble lightly scratches and tickles the skin of your legs, he covers it with kisses, warm and short, forcing you to put the book completely down from your lap while he moves a little higher, forcing the hem of your dress to hide him more and more, and you sigh slightly raggedly, embarrassedly when he kisses the inside of your thigh, and you mutter, biting your glossy lips — «what are you intending to do, leon?»

he tilts his head as if innocently, smiling like a cheshire cat and wetting his lips with his tongue, rubbing and warming your thighs with the pads of his thumbs, while he himself crawled a little higher, before his warm breath slightly covers the cotton of your panties, and his face rests against your clothed pussy, bumping his nose and pressing his tongue flatly on your centre, one movement is enough to set your nerves on fire, and the fabric gets slightly wet from the slick that dribbles out, as he purrs contentedly, another sound rumbling deep within his chest — «to take my happily ever after, sweetheart, so sit pretty still f'me, mhm?»

next thing, leon's fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them apart as he begins to caress your drenched heat through the fabric of your panties.

his tongue presses flatly against your swollen clit, tracing maddening circles that send tremors running throughout your entire body, and the cotton between you and his skillful mouth does little to soften the sensations, but only increases friction on the clit swollen from arousal and heat.

with every flick of his tongue you grip his thick, slightly coarse hair tighter, a silent plea for more and leon literally growls into your cotton covered cunt in response to the grip in his hair, the vibrations causing a shiver of pleasure to run down your spine, allowing you voluntarily arch your wetness into his mouth, fluttering your eyelashes and watching his head slowly move with every lick and stroke.

he's relentless, his tongue working with a fervor matched only by the burning desire in his baby blue eyes, the taste of your slick arousal filling his mouth, fueling his desire to please you and causing him to push you closer to the edge.

as the fabric of your panties becomes wet from the mixture of his saliva and your slick, and your moans become louder, turning into an incoherent babble of — «yesyesyes, don't stop, lee, just like that — here! yes! yessmngh!» leon feels you pulsate more actively and your hole clenching around nothing, the grip on your hips intensifies, his fingers dig into your flesh before sliding up, teasing the edges of your soft underwear.

long, neat fingers push your wet panties to the side, exposing your shiny, swollen folds to his hungry gaze, and he wastes no time, his tongue immediately diving into your wet cunt with a hunger bordering on savage.

his sweeping movements from your clenching hole to your trembling clit cause waves of pleasure to run through your body, the laps of his mouth on your sensitive mound causes a mixture of moans and sobs from your trembling lips, your embarrassment that someone can hear this is drowned out by the all consuming ecstasy, deafening ears.

— «that's it, so pretty, so sweet» leon's purr vibrates against your smooth skin, a deep hum of satisfaction as he savors the taste of your arousal, he feasts on you with an insatiable appetite, his tongue mercilessly attacking your throbbing core.

your body reacts instinctively, a stream of sweet juices gushing from inside you, giving away just how high your arousal is, the sound of your wetness mixing with lewd slurping sounds as leon continues to devour you sloppily, his actions relentless and focused solely on bringing you to the top of pleasure and more, beyond.

with every movement, sucking and lapping he brings you closer to the edge, your moans become stronger, louder, less controlled even as you bite your swollen, bitten lips, the sensations overwhelm your senses, blurring the line between pleasure and the pain of sensitivity as your body shudders, teetering on the brink of stunning liberation, very close.

delving deeper, his tongue plunging into your clenching hole with unrelenting eagernessc and ease, he skillfully flicks and teases your folds, alternately sucking on your twitching clit and penetrating you with his skilled tongue.

his plump lips and chin are slick with a mixture of your arousal and his saliva, evidence of his hunger and sloppiness, he watches you carefully as you throw your head back, your body shudders and arches in pleasure, and baby blue eyes closely watch every goosebump on your skin with dilated pupils.

as soon as you reach the brim, tight coil of ecstasy finally snaps and your vision suddenly goes dark as your eyes roll back, your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, your moans turn into guttural screams, free when you release them, your cum fills leon's mouth and he hungrily drinks every drop, savoring the taste of your release on his tongue, slurping greedily and purely animalictically.

his movements don't falter as he continues to caress your sensitive, stimulated clit, prolonging your pleasure as aftershocks ripple through your body, the intensity of the moment rough, reeking of lust, yet unbearably tender, as are the movements of his fingers, drawing soothing circles on your thighs.

you are lost in a haze of ecstasy, your body shaking from the force of your release, but he remains steadfast, his focus unwavering as he makes sure every drop of pleasure is extracted from your trembling body completely as you slowly come to your senses, and there is a tension growing between his legs, but he will deal with it later, now he watched how charmingly your absolutely sopping folds trembled and pretty tight hole, relaxed after his tongue, clenched around nothing, rising his gaze further, to your heaving chest, still feeling the weight of your fingers in his hair.

he kisses your legs with a slow movement of his lips, descending from your thigh to your knee, drawing along the way transparent stripes from your slick on his lips, but in his opinion you look even more beautiful this way, completely dazed and drunk on pleasure, limp on soft pillows, listening to his rough, peaceful purring — «so pretty, my beautiful darling» which vibrate through the skin, preventing the butterflies in your stomach from calming down.

#.𐙚july's writings #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy comfort #leon smut #leon scott kennedy fluff #leon scott kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy comfort #leon scott kennedy x you #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fic #domestic leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy fanfic

317 notes · View notes

xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 year

Note

PLEASE MORE DICK AND READER AND DOTING BRUCE CONTENT I ADORE THEM SO MUCH

Alfred looked up from where he was sitting in his favorite armchair, enjoying a quiet cup of tea. And for just a second, he forgot what year it was.

Dick was fast asleep against Bruce's shoulder. Bruce held him in one arm and had his other hand in yours. The two of you are quietly giggling at some little joke he wasn't- and didn't want to be privy to. And as Bruce leaned down to steal a kiss, Dick opened his eyes.

He murmured something sleepily. Reaching for you as you reached up to ruffle his hair. And when you took him, cuddling him in his rumpled- now filthy- white suit to be put to bed, Bruce stopped for a minute. Watching you go. Clearly melting into a puddle.

"Was there no convenient mud puddle?" Alfred asked, raising an eyebrow as Bruce loosened his tie and dropped into a chair.

"He didn't manage to stay reasonably tidy," Bruce snorted. "There were other children. And sugar."

Alfred chuckled to himself and leaned up to pour Bruce a cup of tea. "Other than that, how was the wedding?"

"Fine," Bruce said, half shrugging. "Not as horrible as some." You were going from an outsider to an oddity- someone to be spoken to out of curiosity. Just visible enough that your backstory was interesting instead of scandalous... Largely, Bruce thought, because of Dick. Anyone who saw the two of you together would have a hard time assuming you were in it for the money anymore. And Dick was not shy about telling people off when they were rude to you. Or about you.

"I'm sure Miss Y/N was quite the belle of the ball," Alfred observed. "I'm sure the bride was put out."

"She was more preoccupied with being angry there were children allowed," Bruce said. He could understand that. But at least no one bounced a basketball into the cake. Or screamed through the ceremony. "And irritated that the champagne wasn't as expensive as she would have liked."

That detail made Alfred snort. "Oh dear-"

"Most of the gossip mill gives them 6 months... But they gave us 3 so. Who knows."

"Indeed," Alfred said nodding. Privately, he'd given this less than a year. Though he was pleased to be wrong. It was nearly 2. With a child in the mix.

The sound of bare feet in the hall cut off what he would have said about you. Not that it was disparaging. He just didn't want to see you be uncomfortable being spoken about when you walked back into the room. And he started to prepare another cup of tea.

"Bruce-" you yelp when your husband reaches over and pulls you onto the arm of his chair and shake your head, scritching the back of his neck. "Honestly."

"Dick all tucked in?" he asked, accepting a cup of tea for you and handing it to you so you didn't fall over reaching for it.

"He was asleep again before I even got him into his bed," you snort. "I don't think the stains will ever come out... I don't know how he managed to find ever dust patch in the building but he did."

"I'm well acquainted with getting stains out of children's suits," Alfred assured you. "Master Bruce went through a phase where he was absolutely fascinated with frogs. And the duck pond."

"Aww," you tease, crinkling your nose.

"Alfred," Bruce said, cheeks heating.

"Poor little duckling," you tease, kissing his cheek- only making him blush darker.

And Alfred chuckled, winking at you as he resumed his seat. And when you hid your smile behind his cup he wondered why he never thought to tell you those little things before. It was satisfying watching Bruce squirm. Just a little.

#bruce wayne #Bruce wayne x reader #doting husband!bruce #ask answered #minors dni #reader insert

302 notes · View notes

peaches2217 · 3 months

Text

Everything's Okay

TW: PTSD, Dissociation, Brief Description of Vomiting

AO3 link! And a massive thank you to @squagel for your feedback and help!

~~~

“Peach?! Peach!”

The fire Peach dozed by may well have extinguished itself for how quickly her blood ran cold. Blissfully sleepy just moments ago, every nerve and neuron now blared alarm bells that forced her to move before she could even form a coherent thought.

She clambered her way out of the drawing room chaise as quickly as the extra weight she carried would permit, but even so, the ten steps to the bedroom door felt impossibly vast. It would feel no different even if she could sprint with the speed of a Yoshi racing through summer fields.

She was no stranger to hearing that voice call her name. She’d never heard it cried like that.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open, forcing her to clutch her belly protectively as she dodged its outward swing — and there stood Mario on the opposite side.

They stared at one another in shocked silence, and Peach took the opportunity to assess him before making her next move. Outwardly he appeared unharmed. He was still in his daytime attire, though the right strap of his overalls was undone and the adjacent bib corner hung limp from his chest. His hair was mussed, his eyes wild, boring into her with some mix of raw terror and disbelief; glancing over his head, she saw his cap resting on their bed near the far wall, its blankets still made up but visibly rumpled, the sheer canopy still drawn as it had been that morning.

A nightmare. He’d simply had another nightmare. Though she loathed to see him so frightened, Peach breathed a private sigh of relief. She had been so certain he was in legitimate danger from his tone of voice alone.

Honestly, she hadn’t even known he was in their quarters already. He must have snuck in sometime after dinner while she shared evening tea with Toadsworth and laid down to rest, crashing before he could even finish getting out of his clothes and snoozing soundly until his rude awakening.

“Peach…?” This utterance of her name was much quieter, almost quivering, and the weight that had lifted from her chest seeing him unharmed slowly resettled. Even newly awake, she could tell that this nightmare had been more intense than usual.

Indeed, he dealt with dark dreams somewhat regularly, dreams of attacks or disasters which jolted him awake and left him restless unless Peach was awake and available to distract him with lighthearted whispers across the pillow. Yet such dreams paled in comparison to the worst of his nightmares, in which he oftentimes lost her. Never any less painful in their familiarity, he woke from those dreams crying her name, and no amount of chatting could put him at ease; he would remain shaken and a little distant even as Peach fed him reassurances, resting his ear against her chest and listening to her heartbeat until he drifted off again.

The subject of tonight’s nightmare, therefore, was all too easy to discern. He must have panicked harder than usual upon waking to an empty bed.

“I’m right here,” she soothed, dropping her hands from her abdomen to hold him lightly by the shoulders. When he didn’t relax beneath her touch, she stroked his cheek, startlingly pale beneath her fingertips. Perhaps he was still half-asleep as well; maybe he still had trouble in discerning reality from another dream.

That happened sometimes on nights like this, so Peach didn’t panic. She guided him with gentle movements back into their room, leaving the door open so the heat from the fireplace could warm the dark bedroom. When she reached their bed, she situated herself on the mattress’ edge, urging Mario to sit beside her.

He didn’t sit. He remained standing before her, his expression dazed and his breath unsteady, but his eyes at least began to clear. At least she thought they were clearing. The moonlight that filtered in through the curtains was just adequate enough to see and not much more.

Adorning her gentlest smile, Peach took his hands. The rough skin that was normally a touch too dry was now clammy. “It’s alright, love,” she said. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is okay.”

Mario blinked a few times, glancing down at their hands. He made no attempt to hold hers in return.

“Everything’s…” he muttered vaguely. After a moment, he nodded. “Y… yeah. Everything’s… okay.”

Before she could utter another reassurance or encourage him again to join her, he withdrew his hands, the bulb in his throat bouncing as he swallowed thickly. “J-just a minute.”

“Of course,” Peach said in her same soft tone. With that, he nodded once more before lumbering away, towards the bathroom door; he flipped the lightswitch on as he entered but didn’t bother closing the door behind him. A jab low in her stomach drew Peach’s attention away from the empty door frame, and she smoothed her palm over that area of movement.

Your father, she sighed to her baby, letting her disorganized thoughts finish the sentence. Between the everyday pressures of being a hero and a consort, the apprehension over the rapidly approaching birth of their daughter, and the thousand royal tasks he insisted upon shouldering for her because “We can’t take any chances, Peachy, stress is bad for the baby! So you let Mario do all the stressing for you, okie-dokie?”, Peach had begun to wonder how he hadn’t fallen into a coma from sheer strain. A high-intensity nightmare was the last thing he needed.

But it would be okay, she assured herself. Mario was hardly invincible, but he could still handle more than most. He would feel better once he splashed some cold water onto his face, took a moment to breathe, and when he was ready to return she would give him a safe haven within her arms. By morning his nightmare would be a hazy memory and he��d live to fight another day.

Exhaling sadly and slowly, she relaxed her posture and fetched her husband’s cap where it lay just behind her, tracing the familiar coarse stitching with her index finger. The seams along the brim showed signs of fraying. Perhaps she could convince him to go bareheaded tomorrow, and she could busy herself repairing the beloved article. Give his spirits a much-needed lift. Already she could imagine him beaming and kissing her cheeks over and over as though she had performed some monumental act of charity, and the thought brought a grin to her face once more.

Clank!

Peach looked up. The noise came from within the bathroom, the unconcerning sound of a bottle being knocked over or perhaps a bar of soap being dropped. It wouldn’t have worried her in the slightest, if not for what followed: silence. Perfect, pure silence, no running of water, no padding of footsteps, nothing except for Mario’s breath, still far too labored for her liking.

“…Mario?” she called softly.

Mario’s response: a quiet, strained groan.

The dread blossoming within Peach’s chest burst violently into bloom at the commotion that followed, a sudden cacophony of distressed noises and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and now it was her turn to cry her beloved’s name.

“Mario?!” Abandoning the cap on the covers once more, she leapt to her feet with unprecedented vigor and rushed to where he was, hastened by a strangled cry and the sharp clank of porcelain on porcelain and—

And the unmistakable, nauseating sound of retching.

The sight that met Peach past the doorway froze her to the spot in horror. Mario, on his knees and clinging tightly to the latrine, coughed so violently into the bowl that his whole body shook, his few breaths between coming in pained gasps, and just as soon as he’d filled his lungs he was gagging again. His tongue lolled from his mouth and thick drool dripped from his bottom lip; tears streamed from his eyes, screwed tightly shut; and only when he lurched forward once more was Peach able to come to her senses.

“Mario—” She hurried to him as he vomited again, standing uselessly over his hunched form and running her options through her brain. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and coated every inch of visible skin in a thin sheen. Okay. First order of business: cool him off and help him calm down. Then they’d go from there.

He went into another coughing fit as she yanked the top drawer of the cabinet open, though it was far weaker now, phlegmy and punctuated with meek gasping. “Breathe, sweetie,” she said, praying he couldn’t hear the panic that bled into her tone despite her best efforts. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.”

Running the first rag she could find beneath a stream of cold water, Peach tried to focus on the rush of the faucet, and that was almost enough to drown out the agonizing sounds that still spilled from his throat.

“Breathe,” she repeated as she wrung the drenched rag, returning to him to drape it over his exposed nape. This got a reaction from him at least; he shivered at the cloth’s ice touch, and his death grip on the porcelain loosened, and his shoulders sagged as he did his best to follow her order, and that was all good, she decided. As good as a situation like this could get, anyway.

Next order of business: water.

With the promise of her swift return, Peach beelined to the kitchen to fetch a glass and some sort of sickly syrup made to combat nausea. Nurse Toadessa wouldn’t be in bed for a few more hours. That would give Peach plenty of time to get Mario somewhat comfortable and then have him checked over. And it would probably be wise to receive a checkup herself, just in case…

But there had been no reports of any sort of stomach bug outbreak, and Mario was far too hardy to be among the first to catch an illness. Thinking back through the day, she couldn’t recall detecting any signs that he was feeling poorly, or at least anything other than overworked; she could, however, remember thinking poorly of the mutton served at dinner and politely refusing it, offering her portion to Mario under the (not entirely untrue) guise of wanting to save room for extra cake. He had practically licked both plates clean. (And then he’d belched loudly by complete accident, over which they shared a fit of laughter, albeit with much embarrassed fluster on Mario’s end.)

A sudden pang of guilt struck Peach, not helped by the sharp kick below her ribs she received at the same time. She’d only meant to spare the feelings of the castle’s hardworking cooks. Perhaps, she thought now, it would have been best to speak up.

But that might also explain his extreme reaction to his nightmare. The few times Peach had experienced food poisoning, her own dreams were uncomfortably vivid. Still, content that she knew the source of his illness, she held her head higher as she returned to the bathroom, medicine in one hand and glass of fresh water in the other.

Mario lay curled on the tiles, his head cushioned on his extended left arm, and now his breath was shallow but fairly steady. The toilet lid had been closed and the cloth Peach had provided him with was clutched loosely in his outstretched hand. Though her heart hurt for him, she couldn’t help but be taken by a sad but fond affection.

She had become well-acquainted with the bathroom floor during her episodes of morning sickness, and whenever she felt in good enough humor, she would promise to repay Mario’s attentive care if ever a similar sickness befell him. On those days he would challenge that promise, sprawling out on the tile beside her and listing off the endless stream of luxuries he expected to be showered with the next time he so much as ran a slight fever; only when she was giggling too hard to forget about her own misery would he kiss her forehead and assure her that it would be enough just to know that she was there.

Now was her chance to carry out that promise, at least.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure a bit of torture now,” she warned, equal parts teasing and sympathetic, setting the water on the vanity so she could pour said torture into the plastic cup that fit over the bottle’s lid. “But I assure you, it’s for your own good.”

The room remained silent as she measured out the syrup. Odd. Mario never passed up an opportunity to complain whenever he was forced to take medicine. She had at least expected a disapproving groan. For a moment she thought he might have fallen asleep, but looking again once the cup was prepared, his eyes appeared to be open.

“Mario…?”

He didn’t so much as twitch. If not for the quick rise and fall of his sides, he could have easily passed for a corpse.

Peach felt her hands begin to shake even before she could register her own emotions, and she set both the bottle and cup of syrup on the vanity lest they slip from her grasp. She knew this. There were occasions, very rare occasions, in which Mario remained awake yet became unresponsive. But it only happened when…

In a few swift movements, she joined him on the floor, shuffling towards him on her knees and reaching over her swollen stomach to jostle him — and eventually, with some difficulty, roll him onto his back.

He must have wiped his face with the cloth, because it was damp but fairly clean save a few residual tears that trickled down his cheeks, almost normal in appearance. But his eyes… they looked straight up and right through her. Aware, sort of, but glazed and dull, like ocean marble gone cloudy with age, like he could see her but didn’t actually know she was there.

Food poisoning and cloying syrups were suddenly the farthest thoughts from her mind.

“Hey.” She stroked his cheek with an uncertain hand; she felt a minute twitch of muscles in response to her touch, but Mario himself did not react. “C-come back to me, alright? We’re safe, love, everything’s okay! Everything’s…” Her words faltered, her throat closing off and her eyes stinging, staring into his blank gaze and searching for some sign, any sign, that he was with her.

Nothing. He blinked, maybe from her voice and maybe just automatically, but his stare remained as lifeless a stare as someone otherwise alive and well could possess.

The terror with which he’d screamed her name, terror reflected in his face even after seeing her… the daze he’d fallen into then, impenetrable no matter how sweetly she spoke to or touched him…

That was it then. This wasn’t the result of undercooked food or anything of the sort. Whatever images had been conjured up and presented to him in his sleep, they had triggered some sort of trauma response, and the only way his brain could protect itself from the onslaught of anguish, so sudden and unendurable that it had driven him to physical sickness, was to shut itself down.

Peach’s vision went unfocused, and she sat back on her heels. This hadn’t happened in years. What could she do?

Anyone who thought rationally on the matter for more than a few seconds could easily infer that Mario suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like it. One doesn’t become a war hero without going through a handful of near-death experiences and witnessing more destruction and suffering in a single day than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.

Even so, the semi-frequent nightmares were usually the worst that trauma manifested, and the very worst of those never triggered this. No, these out-of-body (or maybe locked-in-body, he was never sure how to describe it to her) experiences only happened in the wake of considerable events: being crushed or burned until he stood inches from the gates of the Overthere, witnessing the near-death of the universe up close, things of that nature.

But Mario, through a combination of sheer stubbornness and an insatiable love for life, refused to let even that much take him down. In due time, he always came to peace with these events, or at least learned to leave them in the past where they belonged, at which point nightmares would once more be the worst of his concerns.

Sniffling and swiping her knuckles across her eyes, Peach took in his still-unmoving form, those blank blue eyes still trained on the ceiling. What in the Eight Realms had he dreamed of? A reaction this strong suggested it had been far worse than just losing her.

Or maybe there was more at play than a one-off dream. At present, Mario spent every day giving every last ounce of energy he had to spare (which, mind, is a lot), and for the past few weeks he’d barely even made it into bed before crashing. But he still seemed so happy, and though Peach had her suspicions that he was beginning to struggle, she had never stopped to wonder if he was already crumbling.

Of course. Of course he would hide the extent of his struggles from her more fervently now than ever, content in the knowledge that, for once, she would be too distracted with personal and shared concerns to see the usual signs. Of course he’d happily waste away to spare her concern, until his mental state was so eroded that one bad dream was enough to break him.

The tears she had cleared from her eyes were back just as quickly, accompanied by guilt so immense she could see it like storm clouds in her peripheral vision, but she swiped at her face once more and fought against it with whatever might she possessed. This was no one’s fault, or it was both of their faults; regardless of who was or wasn’t to blame, the only fix was to move forward. Wallowing in regret would help no one.

She considered redoubling her efforts, maybe using her magic to fill his brain with comforting images to coax him back. But what if the fear and hopelessness she felt was too strong to withhold from him? What if she only made it worse? Those thoughts compelled her to scoot across the floor on her backend — awkward, perhaps, but less taxing and risky than trying to hoist herself to her feet — and from the cabinet against the opposite corner she retrieved a rolled towel, the softest in their possession.

Maybe letting this episode run its course was the best option. Dark a thought as it was, Peach wondered, settling the towel beneath her husband’s head, if this forced shutdown of his mind might be exactly the reprieve it needed.

Mario blinked again. Still no focus in his eyes. Peach combed her fingers through his curls, still damp with sweat, and did her best to smile at him, just in case he could register it. Just in case her presence really was enough, just as he’d once said it would be.

A powerful kick to her side made her inhale sharply, and she turned her attention from Mario briefly to soothe their baby. She wasn’t in any mood to be soothed, so it seemed; she kicked again, somehow even harder, and this was followed by a flurry of tossing and turning tantamount to a full-fledged tantrum. Peach held her belly steady in both hands and winced at the barrage of sensation.

“Maybe we could tone it down a bit tonight?” she murmured, more to fill the silence than out of any real hope that she would be heard. Already her little girl threatened to match her father’s boundless energy, and Peach had long since resigned to taking the brunt of it (though Mario sometimes fell victim too — the memory of his expression the first time his unborn daughter had kicked him in the face, eyes wide with the most authentic shock she’d seen from him in ages, elicited a fleeting giggle from Peach). But tonight…

Come to think of it, it was well past storytime by now, wasn’t it? Of course she would throw a fit over the unexpected change in routine. Peach sat back and huffed in sorrowful amusement.

Every night without fail — at least until tonight — Mario made a point to devote time to bonding with their daughter. Most nights it was a casual affair, humming little lullabies or telling stories in either of his tongues while he and Peach lay in bed together. But the closer her due date drew, the more elaborate those bonding sessions had grown. Last night, he’d laid Peach down on the couch with a mug of spiced cocoa, surrounded her with pillows and blankets, then knelt on the floor and read a colorful picture book to her stomach, complete with over-the-top faces and hand gestures and unique voices for all of the characters and frequent interjections of “How exciting!” and “Ooh, what do you think happens next, albicoccetta?”

Their baby had kicked and moved about as if bouncing in excitement, just as she did each time she heard her father’s voice before bed, and Mario had chastised Peach for interrupting the sacred ritual of storytime with her delighted laughter, his voice thick with playfulness and his tired face alight with glee.

In the present, the warm fondness of recent memories was chilled by a dark, dawning realization.

He had dreamed of losing a lot more than just her.

“Peach…”

Peach’s head snapped down with such speed that it made the room spin.

Mario was making a feeble effort to raise up on his elbows, though he groaned quietly and his face screwed in discomfort from the effort. The tightness in Peach’s throat returned with a vengeance.

“Relax,” she somehow managed to squeak, one hand finding his hair and the other resting on his chest, where the unhooked denim bib exposed his shirt. “Lie back down, love. Gather your bearings.”

He followed her guidance without protest, which was as comforting as it was disquieting.

The attempt at getting up drained whatever energy he had left, and once more his breath came in labored pants, his eyes shut tightly, sweat beading at his forehead. Peach glanced at the vanity, next to which sat a small refuse bin, and her hands reluctantly left Mario so she could retrieve it. Best be prepared in case he needed to vomit again.

He caught her hand before she could move away.

“Peach,” he whispered again, and even that whisper sounded as if it took a great deal of effort to summon. She had always been entranced by his hands, large and impossibly strong yet warm and careful. But now the hand holding hers trembled, cool to the touch, and Peach knew she could easily break free from his frail grasp if she felt so inclined.

She was not inclined in the slightest. She wanted nothing more than to hold on even tighter and tell her love that everything would be okay — and she wanted just as badly for him to do the same for her.

When he opened his eyes, they finally focused on her, and they looked much the same as they had in the drawing room: terrified, pitiful, pleading.

“Non andare,” he mouthed. If any sound passed his lips within those two words, Peach couldn’t hear it.

She clasped her free hand atop his and willed herself to give him her most comforting smile, even as her bottom lip quivered, even as she lost the battle against her own tears. “I’m right here,” she promised him. “Mario, we’re not going anywhere. We’re safe.”

Mario nodded with small, rapid movements and shakily pulled their conjoined hands to his chest, covering them with his remaining hand and mouthing something like Okay, okay, okay. His pulse hammered away beneath Peach’s touch, yet he released a deep sigh and closed his eyes once more.

And still nothing felt right, not at all, but he was back with her at last, so that gave Peach the strength to feed him the little white lie that it was all okay.

~~~

Peach woke to a Mario-sized indent in the mattress beside her and the sweet smell of melted chocolate and caramel. Still enveloped in the fog of sleep, everything felt disarmingly normal. Dreamy, even.

Ten seconds into her struggle to sit up, she caught sight of Mario exiting their quarters’ small kitchen, his hair and nightclothes dusted in flour and a platter of something that looked like pancakes and a fork balanced in his hands; the cheerful smile he flashed when their eyes met initially gladdened Peach, but uneasiness settled over her just as quickly, and much more strongly at that.

“Morning,” he greeted as he reached her, setting the platter on her bedside table before slipping an arm behind her back. “Here, here, don’t exert yourself. I gotcha.”

Once she was upright, he quickly fluffed her pillow and set it against the headboard, helping her scoot back so she could sit more comfortably. Then he handed her the platter with a quip of “Buon appetito!”, and after brushing the residual flour from his body, he set straight to work smoothing the bedcover over her legs.

Peach paid no mind to the platter in her hands at first. She simply watched as her husband busied himself, humming a familiar tune, and the casual atmosphere only served to heighten her discomfort.

This wasn’t the same Mario she had fallen asleep with. That Mario had eventually been able to pry himself from the bathroom floor and join her in bed, but his eyes remained distant and his movements heavy and stilted. They’d laid together for maybe an hour before Peach drifted off, his ear firmly planted over her heart and his palm following each and every little (and not-so-little) movement from within her belly, her fingers combing his hair and her voice carrying increasingly drowsy whispers of affirmation.

Maybe she should have been relieved, she thought, seeing him move so easily and act so cheerfully after such a troubled night. Anyone else might assume the experience had lifted some great weight from his shoulders and restored his drive. Yet he’d spent far too long fussing over the bedcover, and the longer she watched, the longer she realized he was pointedly avoiding her gaze. Almost like he was hiding from her, hiding in plain sight…

Peach was thus not nearly as excited over the breakfast offering as she wanted to be. A real shame, given said offering was chocolate pancakes with chocolate chips drizzled in chocolate and caramel sauce. Any other morning, she would have happily obeyed her cravings and scarfed the stack down, showering her personal pastry chef in compliments the whole while. Indeed, this was the cleanest, most attractive plate he had ever presented to her… and that told her everything she needed to know.

Mario was no pâtissier — more of a pastassier, really — so the uncharacteristically perfect presentation confirmed that he had been awake and at work since well before sunrise. She sighed heavily.

“What’s wrong?” She could hear the dismay in his voice, hidden beneath a thick layer of partially-feigned concern. “Not, uh, not feeling up to chocolate today? Well don’t you worry! Mario’s here to make you anything you—”

“We can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen, Mario,” Peach said, lifting her head from the plate — and finally catching his eyes.

She caught him unguarded just long enough to see it all in his face: guilt. Embarrassment. Regret. Crushing, crippling exhaustion, the sort that any average person simply wouldn’t be able to function under. And just as soon as she saw it, his guard went right back up, a few milliseconds too late.

“...Peach—”

“Please,” she cut in, because she couldn’t bear to watch him sweep it all under the rug, not after seeing him in such a despondent state. “Darling, I know you. These episodes don’t just happen out of nowhere. Won’t you please just… talk to me? I’m worried about you.”

Mario perked up a bit at those last four words, and immediately she realized, with no small level of annoyance, that she’d given him a perfect springboard for diverting the topic.

“Ah, amore,” he crooned with painful sincerity, drawing closer to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got enough on your plate, yeah? Let’s leave all the worrying to Toadsworth! You just worry about yourself…” he released her shoulder to tap her cheek affectionately. “...and our albicoccetta…” He brought his hand down to repeat the gesture to her bump, but stopped when he saw the pancake platter Peach still held atop it.

“And getting you something to drink.” He clapped his hands and smiled brightly, almost brightly enough to outshine the dark circles beneath his eyes and disguise the frown lines barely hidden by his hair. “Mamma mia, how could I forget? What do you want? Tea? Juice? More of that spiced cocoa from the other night? Ooh! Or maybe—”

“I want you to rest, ” Peach interjected, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended, judging by the way his face dropped and he briefly flinched away. But she couldn’t entertain this a moment longer. “I fear you’ve taken on more than you can handle right now. The pressure is breaking you. And I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, but now that I know, I won’t let it go on any longer.”

Mario stuttered uselessly, his mouth opening and closing around nonsense sounds and unfinished words. Peach took the opportunity to recenter herself while he searched for his words; clearly he didn’t disagree with her assessment. Perhaps she could still talk some sense into him.

“Here,” she continued more gently, setting her still-untouched breakfast back on the bedside table and shimmying from beneath the blanket. “Trade me places.”

That kicked him into gear. “You can’t,” he said quickly. “You-you really shouldn’t, Peachy. The baby—”

“Some mental stimulation will be refreshing, and the change of pace will be healthy!” Mario’s meticulous blanket-smoothing work now ruined, Peach carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I promise I won’t overdo it. And, of course, I’ll stay until you can get back to sleep, and I’ll check in with you throughout the day. But trust that Toadsworth and I are more than capable—”

“No!”

Now it was Peach’s turn to flinch, her heart stuttering in her chest and her words dying on her tongue. Mario had never raised his voice at her. Not like that.

She saw her shock reflected in his face. No, it was far more than shock on his face; it was a rush of those same emotions she saw earlier, guilt and shame and humiliation, all interwoven with understated but blatant horror.

“J-just…” He reached out hesitantly, not daring to make direct contact, like he feared his touch might bruise her. Suddenly Peach wanted nothing more than to feel the full strength of his arms around her. “Here.” His left hand ghosted over her side and his right gestured to her legs, urging her to pull them back up. “Lay back down, okay? Lay down.”

Peach numbly complied, pulling her legs back onto the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to lay down fully. She watched as Mario tentatively pulled the cover back over her legs and forced the wheels in her head to spin, give her the answers for how to make everything right.

Mario eventually found the nerve to glance back up at her. “I’ll just… get you some water, yeah?” He smiled, and maybe it was supposed to look calming or reassuring, but it just made Peach want to cry. He looked so miserable.

The words came to her as he made his way to the kitchen, though they weren’t the words she was expecting.

“Come here.”

He stopped in his tracks, twisting his torso to look back at her. “L-lemme just get—”

“Come here, Mario,” Peach repeated, firm but not cold, patting the empty space on the bed beside her. He eyed that spot reluctantly, but he relented quickly enough; in half a minute’s time he settled in beside her, body angled towards hers, close but not quite touching.

A small noise of surprise slipped his throat as she pulled him into her arms, forcing him to lean forward or else collapse against her.

Trying to talk sense into Mario was as effective as trying to eat a brick. He didn’t need a lecture. He needed safety. He needed to know he could be vulnerable, even when his every last sense told him otherwise.

“Talk to me,” Peach whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. He remained rigid in her arms, but she could hear his breath quicken, and she laid heavily against the headboard to encourage him to relax as well.

At long last, after several tense seconds, he melted into her. He carefully slotted himself against her side, burying his face into her sternum, encircling his arms around her so that not a single centimeter of space remained between their bodies, and for the first time since the previous evening, everything truly felt okay.

For a while, Mario didn’t say anything. He held onto her and breathed in her scent in silence, though his breath was uneven, and Peach suspected that at any point she’d feel hot tears seep into her nightgown’s fabric. For better or worse, this never came to pass, but eventually he did break the silence.

“I have to protect you,” he said.

“I know.” Peach rubbed small circles over his spine, and he responded not by relaxing further, but by tightening his grasp on her.

“No, Peach, I…” He gathered handfuls of her nightgown tightly enough to constrict the garment around her chest — tightly enough that his arms began to shake from the strain of his muscles. “I have to— I have to keep you safe,” he continued, unable to even raise his voice above a whisper. “Both of you. I-I have to. I have to, don’t you get it?”

Peach continued with her ministrations in silence as she processed his words. He wasn’t talking about any literal obligation, his duty as her guard and her king, her husband and the father of her child. The need he spoke of was pathological.

Mario had always taken the safety of those he loved upon himself. That innate need to protect had predictably escalated tenfold in the past months, and normally Peach found it terribly endearing, the pains he took to ensure that she faced nothing worse than achy muscles and mood swings for the duration of her pregnancy. But he feared for far more than her comfort or even her health, didn’t he?

Already Peach had deduced that his psychological state was in far worse shape than he’d let on. Now he trembled in her arms, silent once more, and the question of what had triggered his breaking point was answered in full.

He hadn’t just dreamed about losing his wife and daughter. He’d dreamed that he had tried to protect them and failed. He’d dreamed that they were dead, and it was all his fault. And Peach would stake every last coin in the royal treasury that he had seen it happen, in graphic, all-too-realistic detail.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, and she felt useless to say anything beyond that. She could try to match his fears with facts — that the one entity with any plans for her downfall had pointedly steered clear of the kingdom’s borders for years now, with spies confirming no plans existed for retaliation or ambush, that she also had the protection of the full Royal Guard, stronger and more courageous than any Guard before them with Mario as their commander-in-chief, that anywho who could get through the Guard or even Mario would still have to get past Toadsworth, and no one got past Toadsworth — but she knew it would make little difference, if any.

Facts rarely quelled fear, especially a fear with its barbs sunk deep into an overworked, horrifically stressed, sleep deprived mind.

“Oh sweetie,” she repeated softly, sinking lower against the headboard so she could cradle Mario’s head against her chest. He went with her easily, sighing shakily beneath her touch, his death grip on her gown easing up.

A feeble kick nudged against Peach’s side, and then she felt a puff of air against her clavicle, Mario’s lips curling into a small smile against her. Seeing the opportunity for a diversion of her own, Peach suddenly felt a bit lighter.

“She doesn’t like hearing you so sad,” she said, her right hand fishing for Mario’s left and bringing it to the point of movement. “She wants her papa to be happy.”

Another puff of air. “Pretty sure she’s trying to beat me up, actually.” He laced their fingers together over that spot, and where Peach expected him to grip her hand for dear life, he gently squeezed it instead. “We didn’t have storytime last night.”

Peach hummed in consideration. He was being lighthearted about it, but she knew he genuinely felt bad, and that would be one more weight he’d have to carry through the day. Knowing now just how greatly he toiled to keep himself together, she couldn’t help but fear even that small burden might be too much. If only she could take that weight from him, every last bit of it…

Maybe she couldn’t take it from him, but she could at least convince him to let go of it all for a while.

“I’m sure she can find it in her little heart to forgive you,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You tell Toadsworth you’re taking the day off. Ask him to move as many of today’s tasks as he can to tomorrow and to take care of the rest himself.”

Mario pulled back at this, just far enough to look her in the face. Was that relief she saw, hidden half-heartedly beneath weary concern? “But—”

“You did say we should leave the worrying to him,” Peach teased, returning his earlier squeeze of their conjoined hands. Toadsworth knew as well as Peach how willingly Mario would run himself into the ground before ever considering a day off. He would know the request was at Peach’s behest, and he’d be all too happy to comply, as much for Mario’s sake as for hers.

And if he wasn’t happy, well, he could take that up with Peach. The old Toad may well have been her father. She was hardly intimidated.

Mario drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly through his lips, and that was most certainly relief she saw in his features. “Alright. I, uh… I’ll get presentable.”

A similar relief flooded Peach’s chest, relief mixed with pride, and she rewarded her husband with a kiss to the nose. Accepting a break when there was work to be done was one of the few challenges he couldn’t face easily. “Hurry back,” she said. “I think we both deserve to sleep in.”

The tired contentment Mario wore lightened into something more upbeat, a familiar wide grin spreading beneath his mustache. “Ah! And you know what sleep means, yeah?” He pulled away fully now, letting go of her hand so he could rest his palm against her belly. “Papà ti darà due storie, oggi! Che te ne pare?”

Peach giggled as he leaned over to kiss her bump. A chance to relax and a chance to make amends for a missed bonding session. Today would be a therapeutic day for Mario indeed.

“...and I’ll grab something from the kitchens for you to eat,” he added as he climbed off the bed, and only then did Peach remember the immaculate-looking pancakes she’d abandoned on the nightstand, now cold and likely going stale.

“Don’t even think about it.” She brought the platter to herself once more, because now that she wasn’t bogged down with worry, her cravings were already rearing their head once more. “You put too much work into these for them to go to waste.” And they were still really good, she discovered and divulged after her first forkful, even at room temperature.

By the time Mario was dressed and gave Peach her parting kiss (after taking her plate into the kitchen, because she had demolished the pancakes with a speed and passion one might consider embarrassing), he looked so much more like the Mario he had tried and failed to emulate an hour ago: the Mario who was truly happy, truly unbothered by even the worst of his problems, because the joy and love he felt for his life and those within it outweighed all else. Her Mario.

Yet once he left and the room fell back into silence, that creeping uneasiness settled over Peach again.

In the end, this was little more than a distraction. Maybe Mario would feel refreshed after today, and maybe he would be more willing, however slightly, to lean on his wife for support. But he would still carry everything that got them to this point in the first place: all of his traumas, all of his duties, all of his fears, his insatiable need to remain a beacon of stability even when he himself was on the verge of collapse.

Maybe he would hold their baby in his arms in a month’s time and remember the images he’d seen in his nightmare. The thought struck Peach with such force that it caused her physical pain, like a dagger plunging into her heart. She took in a sharp breath and forced it from her mind at once.

But even if today was merely a distraction… it was still a distraction. A chance to regroup. A much-needed reminder that, in the end, it would all be okay, somehow. The best they could do was take it day by day. Tomorrow could throw out any challenge it wanted; just for today, they could put their worries on hold. Everything would be okay, even if only for a short time.

And maybe, for now, that was good enough.

#so! this was SUPPOSED to be a ficlet...#super mario bros #smb #mario #princess peach #mareach #mario x peach #peaches' fancy fics #tw pregnancy #tw emeto #tw vomiting #not sure which one's best to use... forgive me #tw ptsd #tw dissociation

102 notes · View notes

arminsfavoritepookie · 7 months

Text

Something about professor Nanami.. 🙏🏾

You step into his office, well past the hour when the final bell rings, carrying your latest essay for review. He's had a long, wearisome day, and it's evident in his rumpled demeanor: his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, spectacles teetering on the edge of his nose, hair slightly tousled as if he's been ruffling through it more than usual. You sink into the comfort of a plush chair, your heartbeat racing as he leans in from behind to examine your work on the computer screen. The quiet stretches for a heartbeat, until he breaks it with his evaluation.

“Decent work”, his voice murmurs in a low baritone, so close that the soft patter of his breath grazes your ear. Yet, he's too engrossed in the contents of your work, brows drawn together in deep concentration, sporadic groans marking his immersion. The taut silence grips the room again when his arm reaches out, your gaze following the network of veins crisscrossing over to the mouse to scroll further. His unexpected proximity triggers your breath to hitch, introducing a dose of quiet, intense tension that cloaks the room.

“Just decent?” The query escapes your lips, your breath hitching slightly as you grapple with the meagerness of his praise. You look at him again - this intellectual behemoth, your professor. His hand, lithe and sure, pushes his glasses up. You'd never registered just how hot he is until now.

“Don't misunderstand me”, he retorts, his voice unyielding. “Your work is solid but I know you can do better.” You barely notice the insistence in his tone as your gaze fixates on the plush curve of his lips - so disarmingly soft amidst his rigid countenance.

Your eyes eventually find their way back to his, yet he is slightly closer this time, his stare is almost unnerving in its intensity. “You need to focus”, he murmurs, his jaw clenching ever so slightly as he wrestles with frustration, or perhaps another emotion you couldn't quite put your finger on. Stop getting so distracted. Holding yourself back.”

With an urgency previously absent, his hand is again thrust into his mane of blonde hair. His appeal almost desperate, “Instead of settling for fleeting praise, imagine how it'd feel to reap a harvest of resounding commendations.”

The tranquil silence descends upon the room once more. The tangible tension so vibrant, you could almost touch it.

His retreat is swift, too swift; he undoes the noose of his tie around his throat in a haste that's verging on desperate. “Is that all you've prepared for me?” His voice - it has this unfamiliar rasp to it. He's sounding not like his usual eloquent self but rather more edgy, unsteady.

“I- um have I upset you, sir?”

His eyes close in a slow blink, a distressed sigh seeping through his clenched teeth. The way the strident reality of his stress unfolds before you sends an unexpected tremble up your spine, coiling a heat deep in your abdomen. You snap your thighs shut, discomforted and thrillingly confused by your own reaction.

“Upset? No” he manages, catching his breath and attempting to refocus. “Not upset. Quite the opposite”

Oh.

All of a sudden, you find yourself hastily gathering your belongings - your laptop and bag. In truth, you're a bit confused by his comment, and honestly, you're not sure you even want to understand it. You're about to rise from your chair when his voice cuts through your hurried thoughts, “I thought I asked is that all you have?”

You attempt to reply, “Well, no, but—“

His interjection is sharp, cutting your sentence short as he re-enters your personal bubble. His scent engulfs you - fresh and posh. “Then why are you in such a hurry to leave?”

Oh.

“Let's discuss what needs improving and any gaps in your comprehension. Don’t run away until you got what you came here for”

Ohh.

#nanami x black!reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami headcanons #jjk x reader #jjk headcanons #jjk imagines #jjk x black reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #/nanamititjuice

111 notes · View notes

depressedstressedlemonzest · 5 months

Text

Not only is she cutting off the kiss, but using the damn dagger to make him not kill gaston, low blow belle, low blow.

🤣😂

I just realized I totally didn't get her tossing Gastons ass into the river of souls.

"It was foolish and petulant."

Bitch I'll show you petulant.

Ugh so this is how she got engaged.

The best marraiges are based on transactional war.

Gross.

See a loophole.

Creepy ass hades.

I can't really trust him right now.

YOU CAN'T TRUST ZELENA!!! DID YOU FORGET THAT SHE WAS ABUSING RUMPLE??

WTF BELLE??!!

Still hating this interaction.

WOO!! RED KANSAS!!!!!

Belle wtf are you doing?

13 notes · View notes

rumbelleshowdown · 1 month

Text

Author: Danger Mouse

Group: D

Prompts: Rumple sees Gideon’s birth. The beast is gone. Whispers.

The Midwife’s Tale

Everybody knew that contacting the Dark One commanded a high price. That was why, when Agatha heard of her niece's plight, she offered to be the one to call the deal-maker for help. After all, what could he possibly ask of an old woman like her? Her firstborn was long since grown and nothing she owned could possibly be of value to such a powerful sorcerer.

His demand for a favour of his choosing, at an unspecified future time, came as a surprise. One day, he said, he would come for her and she would go with him immediately without question. And only when her services were no longer required would she be permitted to return to her family.

It was an unexpected request, and more than a little ominous. Her niece cried when Agatha agreed to the condition, but she knew it was worth it. Now she just had to live the rest of her life in fearful anticipation of the moment when the Dark One would swoop down and steal her away from everyone she knew and loved, to keep her with him for as long as he wanted.

That moment came surprisingly quickly. Only a few months later, during the family's evening meal, the demon appeared at her door and announced that she was to go with him. Agatha prepared herself for a tearful farewell, but the beast gave her no time. A cloud of mist obscured her vision and when it cleared again her family and the dinner table were gone, replaced by the stone walls of what she could only assume was the Dark Castle.

“In here,” the Dark One’s tone was clipped as he opened a nearby door and walked through, apparently confident that she would follow.

Cautiously, Agatha stepped into the room, taking in the bright tapestries and large windows that felt incongruous in a castle named after darkness. A sound drew her attention away from the decorations and towards the large bed where a young woman lay in the centre.

A heavily pregnant young woman.

Agatha drew in a breath as the reason for her presence became clear. She wondered at not having made the connection before, knowing as she did the Dark One’s penchant for stealing babies, but somehow she’d never thought of him as the type to use a midwife. She'd always assumed that he collected children after the fact. She never expected that he would be involved in the actual births.

But involved he definitely was this time. He'd moved to the top of the bed and was leaning in close to the young woman, their heads practically touching as he whispered to her. Agatha wasn’t close enough to hear his words but assumed he was reminding her of whatever deal she had made to be in this position and warning against any attempts to cheat him of his merchandise.

Suddenly the Dark One turned to face her and she almost flinched at the intensity in his amber eyes as he stalked forward, pointing to the bed behind him as he spoke.

“This is your payment to me. You are to help this woman deliver her baby and ensure they are both safe and well. Once that has been done you will be free to go.”

Agatha swallowed. “I'll... I'll do my best, sir, you have my word on that, but childbirth has its dangers. I cannot guarantee they will both come through safely.”

“They will. Or you’ll be spending the rest of your life as a toad. All twenty seconds of it.”

“Rumplestiltskin...” The voice from the bed surprised Agatha, her accent indicating that this woman came from afar. “Please don’t.”

Agatha glanced between the two again and weighed up her next words. “I don't mean to be impertinent, sir, but your power is known throughout the land. Surely you could ensure a safe delivery without my help.”

Rumplestiltskin turned back to the bed and raised an eyebrow. The young woman matched his expression and Agatha watched as a silent conversation seemed to take place between them. She had the strangest feeling that she'd stumbled into an ongoing argument.

He sighed and turned back to her. “Belle wishes to have a natural delivery. You will do everything you can to ensure that happens. If something does go wrong then I will step in. And that…” he spun back around to address the woman he’d called Belle, “is non-negotiable. If there is even a hint that you or the baby are in danger then I will be using any and every form of magic at my disposal. I will not allow anything to happen to either of you. Is that clear?”

His tone sounded rather threatening to Agatha's ears, but it made the young woman's face soften and she smiled fondly. “Fine. But only if we're in danger. Otherwise please let the midwife do her job.”

“As you wish.” Rumplestiltskin spread his hands before dropping into a nearby armchair.

Agatha glanced at him nervously. “Um, sir? Perhaps you should wait in the hall. The birthing chamber is no place for a man.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not a man then,” the demon tittered, causing Belle to roll her eyes.

“Don’t mind him. He’s… ah…” she trailed off as her face contorted into a grimace.

Agatha's thoughts that this must be an extremely important baby for the Dark One to be so involved were pushed away as her training kicked in and she hurried to the woman's side, vaguely noticing Rumplestiltskin mirroring her across the bed. “Have you been having regular pains?”

Belle nodded. “For a while now.”

“How long has it been since the last one?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Thirteen minutes and forty seconds,” Rumplestiltskin interjected. “And sixteen minutes before that.”

“Well, it sounds like things are progressing nicely but you’ve still got a while to go yet.” Agatha smiled reassuringly.

“That's what I told him.” Belle nodded her head in Rumplestiltskin's direction. “But he was adamant about bringing you here. I hope we didn't disrupt your day too much.”

“Of course not,” Agatha glanced at Rumplestiltskin, knowing that was the right answer, “but there's not much I can do at the moment beyond advising you to rest up before the hard work begins.”

“What do you mean?” Rumplestiltskin snapped. “She's in pain right now.”

“She’s in discomfort right now,” Agatha corrected. “I'm afraid this is just the beginning. It's going to get worse over the next few hours.”

“Worse?” Rumplestiltskin looked like he was in pain himself as he turned to the figure in the bed, grabbing her hand, “Belle are you sure about this? Just say the word and I can...”

“I'm ok, Rumple.” Belle reached out her free hand to caress his scaled face. “Women have been giving birth for thousands of years.”

“I know, but…” his voice dropped to a whisper, one Agatha was close enough to hear this time, “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

Revelation hit Agatha like a wave, washing away all her previous assumptions, as she finally understood what she was seeing. Behind his unnatural eyes and the green-gold scales of his skin, the look on the Dark One's face was all too familiar. It was a look she had seen countless times before on the faces of concerned husbands throughout the years.

This woman wasn’t a desperate soul forced to hand over her baby to a monster. She was his wife.

Agatha cleared her throat and waited until they faced her. “Perhaps, sir, you could prepare some tea. The lady will need her strength and this could end up being a long night.”

It was, indeed, one of the longest nights of Rumplestiltskin's life. Seeing his wife in pain and having her refuse any and all help he could offer was a unique torture. But all that was forgotten the second he laid eyes on the perfect form the midwife laid in Belle's arms.

“Congratulations, my lady,” she smiled at them both, “a healthy baby boy.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Belle beamed at the woman before turning all her attention to their son.

“Yes, thank you.” Rumplestiltskin barely glanced in her direction. “There’s tea for you in the kitchen. Help yourself, and once you’re finished you’ll be transported back to your home. Consider your debt paid in full.”

He waved his hand and the woman vanished, leaving the three of them alone.

“That was rather nice of you,” Belle glanced at him suspiciously. “What exactly is in that tea?”

“Just a small memory potion,” he replied, gazing at the baby in her arms, “I’ll not have my enemies finding out about you two.”

“So she’ll remember nothing?”

“She’ll remember coming here, a young woman screaming in pain for hours because of something I did to her, and my delight with the result.”

Belle shook her head. “You're terrible.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. “I have a reputation to maintain. Can't have people thinking the beast is gone.”

#rumbelle showdown #round one fic #author: Danger Mouse

31 notes · View notes

fayes-fics · 1 year

Text

Meet Ugly

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Two walks of shame, one lost wallet and one bruised nose.… it’s the start of something

Warnings: none really… hangovers, flirting and references to a one night stand.

Word Count: 1.6k

Authors Note: This is a very belated anon request fill from October (request: I read this idea and thought of you. You would be brilliant with the Walk of Shame one). Sorry it’s taken me months to write this Nonny, I only just had an idea for how it could play out. It's probably not how you envisioned, its mostly humour/fluff, but I hope you still enjoy. I went with Anthony for this one. <3

When you wake up on your friend's sofa, head fuzzy, a mouth of cotton wool, shoes dangling precariously off your feet over the end of the sectional, you decide maybe it's time to try dry January. Never mind that it’s March; it's never too late to turn over a new leaf, you justify to yourself, staring at movement on the ceiling that you hope is a spider, not your mind playing tricks.

You know your friends, such a lovely couple, are sleeping in their bedroom; it was very kind of them to let you crash at their flat. Not that drunk-you probably gave them much choice in the matter. You can be very persuasive after a few drinks, or more accurately, belligerent in a friendly, loving way.

Sitting up gingerly, you find your phone wedged under your left hip, amazingly still with enough battery to be useable. Rather than disturb them, you decide to order an Uber home and leave a note of thanks/apology on the fridge. You quietly pad to their kitchen, pour a quick glass of water and check your reflection in a mirror over the dining nook. Remarkably, your makeup is somewhat intact, and with a few finger-pulls, even your hair is mostly presentable. It will undoubtedly do for the ride home.

Slipping out of their front door a few moments later, you don’t expect to run face-first into a solid wall of human—yet you do.

“Owww,” you exclaim reflexively, even as you detect a hint of delicious cologne.

“Watch where you are going!” a deep, very well-spoken voice grouses as if you somehow have caused them injury rather than vice versa. Then his tone seems to change as he whips around and regards you. “Oh…” is his only retort.

You reel back, rubbing your nose from the impact, and squint up at the offending party, and you are quite lost for words yourself. Beautiful brown eyes on a very handsome stubbled face. He looks a little worse for wear, much as you, but no less attractive for it. Fitted shirt and tailored trousers that look rumpled but still achingly expensive.

“Apologies,” he mumbles, “I am a beast without a coffee in my system.”

“Likewise,” you nod with a sympathetic but brief smile, still rubbing your nose as it aches.

He is blocking your way to the lift, so you raise your eyebrow expectantly, hoping he will get the hint.

“Partying too hard?” he asks with a smirk. “Because I was,” he adds self-depreciatingly.

“Perhaps.” is all you are willing to concede at the moment.

“Sorry I was in your way; I uh just left the flat of this woman,” gesturing at the door directly opposite your friend's place, “and I've just realised I've left my wallet in there. But umm, I’m not sure I want to ring the bell and ask for it to be honest,” he winces, knowing what he says sounds bad.

“Not the best of one-night stands?” you quip.

He smiles. “Not really, no. It might be easier to report it stolen than face up to my own questionable decision,” he chuckles.

“Fair,” you shrug. “So, does that mean you have no way to get home?” You make small talk as you both seem to drift towards the lift. It appears he’s made up his mind to cut his losses with the wallet.

“Well, I still have my phone in my pocket. Oh, and, I um…” he winces as if embarrassed, “I have a driver.”

“Alright, Mr money bags,” you jest.

“Yeah, I know how it sounds,” he smiles, holding his hands up in defeat, “in my defence, it’s for the good of the country that I’m not driving myself this morning.”

“You could just take the Tube or Uber like the rest of us normal people,” you point out, waving the phone you hold.

“Got a long wait?”

You flick open the app and sigh. “Well, when I last looked, it was five minutes away. Now it appears the driver just cancelled the pickup. Bloody hell,” you roll your eyes.

“Well, that’s shitty,” he concedes as he punches the down button. “I think I spied a Costa just on the corner. How about I buy you an apology-about-your-nose coffee while you wait for another?” He posits.

“Okay,” you agree. “Wait, is my nose all red or something?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious

“A bit”, he chuckles, “but you still look lovely.”

Just then, the lift sweeps open, and you can see your reflection in the back wall. It looks bright red—not broken, but probably a touch bruised.

“Oh, just fucking great,” you sigh as you step in with him and fumble in your little evening crossbody bag for your compact. Some powder may help.

“So, are you regretting a one-night stand? Or do you not hate whiskey as much as I do right now?” he inquires sardonically as the lift jerks gently to life.

“I uhh might be regretting the tequila shots,” you offer, “but luckily, no one-night stand, not this time. This is the walk of semi-shame, just from a friend's place.”

“Ahhh,” he nods in understanding, “so, unlike me, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Well, I might have invited myself to stay at theirs, not given them much choice, y’know? So maybe some shame,” you respond, and he chortles bemused.

“Bossy drunk?” he huffs, amused, as the lift opens on the ground floor.

“Opinionated,” you correct with a smirk, and he laughs aloud, chivalrously signalling for you to step out before him.

“Sounds like exactly what I would say,” he opines airily, taking a few paces to catch up and walk alongside, matching your stride. “You walk fast for a hungover person,” he observes.

“It’s amazing how quickly I move towards coffee,” you state and again can't help but feel something warm unfurl in your tummy at his noise of amusement. You don't think you've exchanged this much fun banter with anyone in months, especially with someone this good-looking.

You nod a silent thanks when he moves ahead to open the building door for you, and you walk the few doors to the coffee shop in companionable silence, the crisp morning air waking rather refreshing.

“Mmmmmm…” you inhale happily as the scent of coffee envelops you as you enter.

“…Coffee,” you sigh in unison and share a light-hearted giggle.

After you place your orders and he kindly pays using his phone, you grab a couple of armchairs by the window, the only customers at just after 8 am on a Sunday.

“I'm Anthony,” he offers, touching his chest as he leans back in his chair.

“Y/n,” you reply “thank you for the coffee, Anthony,” you hold up your paper cup in greeting.

“You are very welcome, y/n” he leans forward to press his cup to yours, and the look he shoots makes you feel hot before you’ve even taken a sip of your coffee.

“Please excuse me. I’m just going to order another Uber,” you explain, looking down at your phone, needing a less flustering distraction.

“My driver can take you to wherever you need to go,” he politely offers as you squint at your screen.

“Oh, that’s very kind,” you stumble, slightly taken aback, “but I could never impose like that.”

“It’s no imposition,” he insists casually, “and if you are concerned for your safety, I actively encourage you to share location with a friend, family member.. boyfriend?” The last word uttered with an inquisitive tone.

“No boyfriend,” you clarify, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Husband?”

“Haha, definitely not,” you deadpan.

“Girlfriend?” He hedges with a very playful expression. You almost want to roll your eyes at that predictable male behaviour but can’t help wanting to flirt back.

“Not my style,” you wink, and his responding grin does funny things to your insides.

“Well then, if no one would object to you pulling up at home in my car, I think you should do it,” he argues.

“Okay,” you capitulate, “on one condition.”

“Name it,” his gaze holding yours.

“You allow me to buy you brunch sometime as a thank you,” you offer before you can censor the idle thought.

“You have a bloody deal,” he answers instantly, eyes dancing in a way that catches your breath.

You have no idea what possesses you to make such an offer to a stranger. But there is something about him feels safe; trustworthy, despite his attractiveness, like he carries responsibility on his shoulders so effortlessly.

“So there are two things I’ll need to know,” his voice taking on a low velvety tone, “where you live and if you’re free in about two hours.”

“What for?” You frown.

“Brunch,” he shrugs with a winning smile.

You laugh; you didn’t mean today, but then, it’s not like you have any actual plans. You can feel Anthony watching you, a hopeful look on his gorgeous face. After a few moments of consideration, you pipe up with your suggestion.

“How about… we go for brunch now, then you drop me home?”

“I like the way you think,” he nods, breaking out into the most breathtaking smile, “let me just make a quick reservation. I know just the place,” he adds, getting up from his seat as his call connects.

“Shouldn't I pick where, if I’m paying?” you ask drolly.

“This place knows me—it’ll be my treat after all. Tell you what, you can pay next time,” he winks, and butterflies erupt in your ribcage at the prospect.

You settle back into the chair with a tiny smile tugging at your lips as you sip your drink and watch him wander away, making arrangements, your eyes lingering on his rather shapely rear.

Well, this could be the start of something very interesting...

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton

302 notes · View notes

ouatsqincorrect · 7 months

Note

fic/headcanon prompt: the fam's realisation moments that emma and regina were in love

ok i tried for so long to write this into a fic for you, anon but haven’t been able to work it into the right words so i’m gonna do it as a headcanon now (i hope that’s okay with you). maybe someday i’ll find a way to make it work

anyway, these are my thoughts

rumple is the first one to figure it out. emma comes to him, angry about the dreamcatcher that told her regina killed archie and suddenly, it just clicks. and for a man who could see so much of the future, this really sort of takes him by surprise

but it makes some perfect sense in a way and now, he understands why regina was able to save emma from that portal and why no matter how many people try to sway her, emma can’t seem to find it in her to believe that regina is just a bad person

because he’s known regina her entire life (i know they met after daniel died, but—) and no one has ever fought for her like emma does

it’s when they stop the trigger though that he realizes it isn’t one sided. he knows magic better than anyone, and the fact that emma and regina found a way to stop that little diamond tells him all he needs to know about how they really feel

snow is the next one to figure it out. they’re standing at the town line, pan’s curse is about to hit, and it’s hard to look at the way emma’s crying and regina’s giving up her happiness and not see that they’ve fallen hard

her suspicions are only confirmed when she watches how regina struggles the following year, not only because of the pain of losing henry, but from the pain of losing emma too

and that’s how david gets it. he catches regina in a bad place one night at the castle and the way she’s upset for more than just henry is enough to clue him in

he doesn’t know for sure that emma’s in love with regina too until she brings marian back and david spends the next few days trying to get emma to calm down because the fact that she took away regina’s chance at happiness (and the fact that regina won’t talk to her) is killing her

when he didn’t have his memories, henry was convinced emma and regina had been in a relationship once before he was born. and when he gets his memories back, it’s hard to unsee that because now a lot of their behavior towards each other makes sense

and this is the kid who took exactly five seconds to believe that he was living in a town full of fairytale characters. it’s easy to believe that his moms would fall in love, and like the rest of the family, he can’t help but agree that it kind of makes perfect sense

belle realizes in camelot when she finds out emma gave regina the dagger. she’s had experience in this. the dark one giving someone the dagger is like them giving them their heart so she knows emma has feelings for regina

and the way regina clutches the dagger like her life depends on it tells her regina feels the same way about emma

zelena is, surprisingly, the last one to figure it out. it’s the day after emma told regina hook proposed and regina is so upset and zelena is pissed because it’s been years now and how had she not seen something so obvious?

for about 20 seconds, she tries to convince regina to crash the wedding, but regina shuts that idea down pretty quickly

#regina mills #emma swan #swan queen #headcanons

72 notes · View notes

ohblimeygeorge · 1 month

Text

I saw an anon ask to @russilton about pregnant George learning to crochet and this just instantly came to me and I had to get it down.

I’ve never written gewis before so this was fun!

✨✨✨

George is nothing if not an over thinker. Lewis knows that much.

So it’s not a total surprise to find an empty spot next to him in bed at 2:36am.

George does this sometimes, when his mind is working overtime and he has so many thoughts going through his brain that he finds himself getting restless and feeling smothered by the rumpled bedsheets and another warm body snoring next to him, so takes himself off to make a cuppa in the kitchen where he can take a moment to breathe and focus his mind into the night sky past the kitchen window and on the life still bustling about below. He’ll spend half an hour or so there before feeling calmer and able to slip back in beside Lewis, no longer feeling overwhelmed and instead snuggling back under Lewis’ arm to cuddle in close. Lewis panicked the first few times it happened, demanding to know what was wrong and wanting to help but now he realises that sometimes George just needs that space and he’ll come back when he’s ready.

So he dozes off again, fully expecting the next time he wakes to find his missing boyfriend back where belongs.

It’s 4:24am and George is still missing.

This starts setting alarms bells ringing in Lewis’ head because this is unusual. It’s been almost 2 hours and he’s still not come back. Lewis knows George has been doing his disappearing act a little more lately, knows the kind of thoughts he’s having and knows now more than ever George has been feeling especially claustrophobic when he gets like this.. but Lewis can’t help but worry. Even if George waves him off to go back to bed, he needs to find him.

So he shoves his slippers on and stumbles into the kitchen, expecting to find him there sipping on his camomile tea, sleep creases on his face, hair wild. But he’s not.

He checks the living room - not there. Bathroom? George has been known to spend quite a bit of time in there as of late so it’s not unreasonable Lewis thinks. Not in there either.

Then he realises there’s only one room really left to check.

Walking back down the hall, he notices the door slightly ajar so knows he’s right. Pushing it open more, he’s immediately hit with the soft glow of the lamp on the dresser and the comfy armchair in the corner is filled with George’s lanky limbs and rounded belly. And he’s - knitting?

“George?”

Jumping at the voice, George looks up and freezes mid stitch, cheeks blushing red at being caught. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Lewis replies dumbly, moving into the room and leaning up against the changing table. “You’ve been gone ages.”

“Oh, sorry..” George apologises, just now spotting what the time is by the clock on the dresser, “lost track of time.”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Ok… why are you knitting at four in the morning?”

With an exasperated sigh, George lays his craft on his belly, “it’s not knitting, Lew, I’ve told you, it’s crochet.” He explains, as if Lewis is the dumbest guy ever to not know the difference no matter how many times George has told him now, “and I just thought I should carry on making some cute things for her.”

After not being allowed to race anymore, George had to find something else to occupy his time. Lewis genuinely thought he’d just stay at the pit wall or hang around the garage, not being able to stay away but no. He went into full on nesting mode and decided he wanted to learn a new hobby that would benefit the baby so crochet it was. He was actually pretty good - although Lewis knew George was great at anything he put his mind to - and had already made a few hats and a blanket for her and made Lewis a scarf which he wore at the very next race, showing off George’s accomplishments.

“Right…” Lewis is still confused at the explanation but thinks there’s a little something more to it. “And you thought this time of morning was the ideal time to start?”

“Mhm.”

Lewis watches him for a moment, his concentration fixed as he methodically follows the YouTube tutorial which he’s only just now noticed George has up on his phone perched on the arm. It’s suppose to be a cardigan apparently, looks like it’ll turn out super cute with the colour matching the already made blanket and Lewis would be lying if he said he couldn’t imagine how adorable their daughter would look in it. But so far George had only made the back and half an arm so there was still some way to go. He’s impressed with how good it looks already. He watches him a little while longer, noting the characteristic crease between his brows and knows he’s trying his hardest to quiet his brain. Bending down to be level with him and earning a quiet snort from George as his knees creak with the effort, Lewis places his hand on George’s knee, gaining his full attention once more. “Babe, talk to me.”

He doesn’t expect it, but George suddenly tears up and it’s like once he’s started, he can’t stop. Startled, Lewis pauses his video for him and gently takes the half made cardigan and crochet hooks out of George’s hands and places it down on the floor carefully before pulling him in for a hug. He lets George cry it out before he feels ready to talk, running a soothing hand up and down his back, letting his nails lightly scratch at the same time the way he knows George likes. It’s a little awkward of an angle especially with the bump but Lewis doesn’t care. “Talk to me.” He repeats softly.

Letting out a choked breath as he stems his tears, George sits back and places his hands around his bump protectively, rubbing his thumbs on the skin where he can feel her wiggling about. “I just.. I just want things to go right.”

“What do you mean?” Lewis asks

“Well, like, what if something goes wrong with the birth? What if I do something wrong and it hurts her? I haven’t even packed a bag yet and there’s only a few weeks left to go and there’s so much to do in here still! And what if when she is here we don’t know what to do with her? Like how will we know what her cries mean? Or what time to put her to bed and wake her up? How will we know when to start helping her to roll over or crawl or walk? Or what if she doesn’t like us? Doesn’t like me?” He finished his ramble with a big stuttering inhale, blue eyes wide and watery.

Lewis knew George was a pretty emotional person anyway but pregnancy hormones had amplified that. So he knew not to react unkindly despite how silly some of the things he was worried over sounded. “George, babe, listen to me okay? You have nothing to be worried about. The bag thing, we’ll sort tomorrow yeah? Get it sorted, no problem. The room can wait because she’ll be sleeping in with us for at least the next 6 months anyway.” He soothed, “You won’t do anything to hurt her because I know you would do anything to make sure she’s safe. And no parent knows what they’re doing first time round yeah? It’s all learning and trial and error and learning what works for us as a family. And things like walking, we really don’t need to worry about that just yet.” He chuckled, “and of course she’ll like you. She’ll adore you. Just like I do.”

George just gave a pathetic little sniffle as he listened to what his boyfriend had to say. “I’m sorry for being so stupid.” He mumbled, looking down at his hands still rubbing patterns on his skin.

Lewis looked personally offended at that and placed his hands on George’s cheeks getting him to focus fully on him. “Don’t ever apologise for being worried ok? And you are not stupid. This whole becoming a parent thing is really scary for me too, so I’m right there with you but all we need to focus on is not things going right but just doing this together and loving her. That’s all we can do and the rest will follow, yeah?”

George nodded as best he could with his face being held in the protective grip of Lewis.

Feeling satisfied that he understood, Lewis let go and bent down to pick up the forgotten item on the floor. “Now, why don’t you carry on with this for a bit longer? Then we can come back to bed and get some sleep.” Lewis suggested, handing back the little pink half-cardigan.

“We?” George asked, confused, “Lew, it’s okay, you can go back to bed. It’ll be boring just watching me.”

“Nah, I want to.” Lewis answered, sitting back on the floor to lean his back against the dresser and getting comfy. “Besides, I can watch you and maybe pick up a few tips and then we can make a whole wardrobe for her!”

George just let out a snort as he saw Lewis’ cheeky smirk, settling himself to get cosy in the chair again before pressing play on his phone to resume the video.

After half an hour of comfortable, peaceful silence, both men were asleep, letting out soft snores in their soon-to-be daughter’s room.

#gewis #my brain decided to work and I just went with it #everybody say thank you brain #just a lil drabbly thing #lemme know what you think!!#f1 fics #gr63 #lh44

35 notes · View notes