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fayes-fics · 6 months

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It Had To Be You: Chapter 9 - Nobody Else Gave Me A Thrill

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: You two finally figure it all out on New Year's Eve...

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: none, really… just some swearing and love confessions.

Word Count: 3.8k

Authors Note: A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. Here we are; this is the final chapter! Both reader and Benedict finally see the truth. There will be a short, hopefully humourous epilogue to this story as well, which I will post tomorrow. Thanks to @colettebronte for betaing. I hope you have all enjoyed this fic <3

For the next few weeks, the dreary weather, the clocks changing, and the chilly nights drawing in match your sullen mood. Your argument with Benedict at the wedding made you so sad but resolute to try and put it behind you.

It's the last weekend in November when you are buying a Christmas tree that you feel the worst. Making a mess of dragging the tree back to your place alone, leaving a trail of needles behind you, you stop halfway and slump onto a doorstep. Recalling with perfect clarity how you and Benedict had bought one together from the same man the previous year, laughing carefree as you easily carried it between you. Then you drank mulled wine as you haphazardly threw on lights and ornaments, dancing to cheesy Christmas songs. It's what you miss the most—his companionship, the ease of time spent with one of your favourite people.

Just as you are wrestling the tree through your front door, exhausted, sweaty and prickled by a thousand tiny shitty needles that seem to have it out for you, your phone pings with a message.

BB: I'm sorry for how things ended at the wedding. I've been thinking about it for weeks now. Please call me. I want to talk.

Pride (and your current disastrous had-a-fight-with-a-tree-and-lost appearance) stops you from doing what you genuinely want to—picking up your phone and Facetiming him to sort it all out.

Not ready yet.

Two weeks later, it's mid-December, and you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor with a big glass of wine, wrapping presents for friends, when your phone pings again. For a while now, almost every day, he has been sending links to Insta posts with adorable and hilarious content. Each of which you have enjoyed but couldn't bring yourself to reply to. This time, it’s a message.

BB: If you are available at the moment, please call me.

You stare at the little pop-up notification and take a gulp, a weird weight in your chest at the idea you might cave this time. Perhaps. Once you are done wrapping this gift. A few minutes later, your phone pings again.

BB: Okay, I assume no call means:

BB: (A) you can't take a call right now

BB: (B) you can, but you don't want to talk to me or

BB: (C) you desperately do want to talk to me but are trapped under something heavy

BB: If it's A or C, please call me back later, doesn't matter what time

BB: Also, if it’s C, please call 999 if you are in danger, then call me after. I don't have any heavy-lifting equipment…

You can't help but giggle at his gentle, silly humour, attempting to diffuse the tension. A large part of you wants to call; you even have the phone in your hand, but at the last minute, you rest it against your forehead with a sigh, something stopping you. Your stupid rebound fling being the biggest one, Benedict’s cutting remark about how quickly you let someone else into your bed, making your stomach roil.

Still not ready yet.

—

“Obviously, she doesn't want to speak to me,” Benedict laments, his words muffled into a scatter cushion on Kate and Anthony’s sofa.

It's the morning after they've returned from honeymoon, three days before Christmas. While they are thankful Benedict popped over with some basics to make breakfast, they could do without his melancholy—they’re much more about a ‘let’s have newlywed sex on the kitchen table’ vibe.

“What do I have to do? Get hit over the head? Be in some calamitous accident?” Benedict whines, twisting his head in aggravation as if trying to burrow himself head-first into the furniture.

‘What do we do?’ Anthony mouths to Kate, who throws her hands up defeatedly.

‘How should I know?’ she mouths back, frowning. ‘He's your brother.’

‘Your friend's fault,’ Anthony shoots back.

Kate crosses her arms and gets a look like a sour lemon, and he instantly regrets that line.

Benedict lifts his head to look up at them, and she has to stifle a giggle behind her hand at the deep red imprint of the cushion zipper on his forehead.

“If she wants to talk to me. She will call me back, right? I'm done with making an idiot of myself….” Benedict claims boldly.

You are sitting on the sofa at your childhood home early evening on Christmas Day, almost disgustingly full of Baileys (your mum's tipple of choice on this day) and Christmas pud, watching The Wrong Trousers - a family tradition - when your phone pings with a message.

It's from Benedict and your stomach vaults. You honestly thought after more than a week of silence, he had given up trying. And part of you was so sad. There is no text this time, just a video attachment. You excuse yourself to the downstairs cloakroom, taking a seat on the closed lid of the toilet, intrigued as to what it is.

The video starts with him looking directly into the camera, his handsome face filling the frame and making your stomach swoop again. Fuck, you have missed seeing it.

“Merry Christmas y/n. I hope you are having a nice time. I miss you, and I hate how we left things,” he opens honestly, “and when Bridgertons don't know what to do, we always act stupidly. It's our ‘thing’. So here, You can blame this on my genetics...”

The video cuts to black briefly and then fades into him, a huge 6ft lump, crowded behind a plastic toy piano on the floor, probably one of Daphne’s kids' toys. You instantly giggle at the ridiculous visual as he apes a maestro, closes his eyes as if about to play Chopin, and flexes his hands. Then, the tinny, electric sound of some familiar notes being played hesitantly begins. He isn't exactly a natural pianist.

“Hey, I didn't just meet you, And this is crazy,

You know my number, So call me maybe,

It's hard to feel right without you, lady

You know my number, so call me, maybe…”

You are instantly laughing. He's such an adorable, charming idiot. Sitting behind a miniature plastic piano and playing, half in earnest, half in jest. At least his voice can hold a semi-decent tune. It brings an affectionate mist to your eyes even as it continues…

“Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad

I missed you so bad; I missed you so, so bad

Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad

And you should know that, I miss you now… so, so bad….”

For the last few words, he slows down the song and looks directly down the lens pointedly.

Something in his pleading look is the straw that breaks the camel's back proverbially, and with a slight tremor in your hand, you scroll to his name and hit the FaceTime button before you can think twice about it. The sound of the tone, as it rings, feels so loud, and each crisp ‘bringggg’ makes your nerves jangle. Just as you are about to hang up, the call connects.

“I'm sorry it took me so long to answer. I had to find a private spot.” he sounds a little winded.

“Where are you?” you frown, an unfamiliar background behind him.

“My childhood bedroom. Aubrey Hall.”

“Oh my god! Show me!” You enthuse, your initial equivocation derailed by nosiness, which you decide to frame instead in your mind as mere curiosity. You never got to see it the wedding weekend for, well, reasons you don't want to dwell on right now.

He quickly flips the camera around, giving you an audio-guided tour of the room he grew up in. Dark blue walls with framed posters for his beloved Blur alongside Travis, Radiohead and Shaun of the Dead. Silly stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars on the high ceiling that are likely too high for anyone to bother getting out a ladder and peeling off. Shelves with little wooden car models he made with his dad before he died, mixed in with certificates of achievement from school, shiny brass archery trophies, and his early sketches in those cheap snap-in frames. And lastly, a collection of jagged small rocks and colourful pebbles. It makes you feel so very affectionate for little teenage Benedict.

“You are bloody adorable!” you blurt out, almost forgetting all the awkwardness from the past few weeks.

The camera flips around, and his lopsided grin fills the screen. “Thank you. I try to make a habit of it…”

You smile back and then sigh. “I’ve missed this,” you confess quietly, wistfully.

“I’ve missed this too. You. Us. Can we please be friends again? Please? I know we both have a lot of things to talk about. With that night and all… but… can we reset? I need you, Bluey. I am miserable without my best friend,” he pouts, his raw honesty making your chest ache.

It’s exactly how you feel, too. Except with a massive pang of regret that he seems to want to forget your magical night together. Sex is never like that, at least not for you—electric and addictive. Doing a reset to save your friendship feels like the most logical step. Still, it doesn’t stop the “what if” fantasies running in your head with increasing frequency, especially on a day like today—nostalgia, sentiment and overindulgence swirling in your being.

“I would like us to be friends again,” you exhale, a lie by slight omission, drumming your fingertips on your cheek nervously to stop you from saying more.

“Wonderful! Then it is so! I can’t wait to see you again! Are you going to the New Year's party? The one Simon & Daph are hosting at the Sky Terrace? Cos if you are, I was wondering, if you don’t have a date if we could go together? We always said we would be each other's plus one if neither of us is with anyone…”

That he wants to completely reset to that world makes your heart crack. You want to scream at him, ‘No! I want to be your real date! Pick me, for real, this time!’

“I… can’t do that,” you waver, and it comes off sounding tired.

“You have a date?” It’s soft, hesitant, trepidatious.

“No…” you admit, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go together like that. I… I can’t be your consolation prize anymore, Benedict,” you blurt out, the hurt taking over your tongue.

The look of stunned surprise on his face makes it worse. As if he had never even seen it from that perspective.

“That’s not what I….” he begins but is interrupted by a loud door bang as it slams into the wall and a yelling voice.

“Stop fucking hiding and get your bloody arse back downstairs. You can’t miss family dinner on Christmas Day!” Colin scolds loudly offscreen.

“I’ve got to go…,” he sighs reluctantly as an arm manhandles him up and off the bed. “Merry Christmas,” he adds, belatedly realising you both forgot to say it earlier on the call.

“Whoever it is, hang up. No one is more important than family on Christmas,” Colin gripes. “That’s it, I’m taking your phone…”.

The screen is filled with random shapes and loud noises as they seem to wrestle like children. And then the call suddenly disconnects.

You sigh and tip sideways against the cold tile of your parents' cloakroom wall.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

Benedict takes stock of his surroundings. December 31st, 11:00pm, lying on his stomach on his sectional chaise, staring up at the big flatscreen on his wall.

This isn't so bad… he tries to convince himself. I've got Jools Holland’s Hootenanny - the only decent New Year's programme, some Glenfiddich and Mini Cheddars - the best snack there is…

He sighs and realises how pathetic he sounds, even in his own mind, alone in an empty flat.

The man whirls you around, and you are almost thrown straight into Kate and Anthony.

“I should never have let you drag me to this,” you grouse so only they can hear.

They both shoot you an apologetic look until you are whipped away again. This man’s dancing style is more akin to a waltzer amusement ride than anything sensual or fun. Your shoulder is already aching. It's a far cry from the surprising salsa Benedict pulled out of the bag last New Year’s Eve. And the idle thought of him has you spiralling…

“Mind if we stop?” you puff as the band finishes the song with a flourish. He’s some slick European investment banking type, and really, you couldn't give two shits about offending him, merely your ingrained politeness kicking in.

He nods and goes off to grab drinks as you stand, hands on hips, trying to gather your breath as you watch all the people moving like a mass of limbs on the crowded dancefloor as the following number begins.

Why the fuck am I here?

This is much better… Benedict rationalises to himself as he wanders down the rainy, empty East London streets not far from his Hoxton pad. Who needs to be at a big, crowded party pretending to have a good time?

He pauses outside a trendy shop on Old St, selling overpriced crap that he's not even sure what it is.

See? I can do some window shopping. He tells himself silently—clutching at anything to distract himself from the creeping sense of dread in his gut. A slow twisting knife as he thinks about you dancing the night away, ringing in the New Year with some fancy, handsome man who definitely doesn't deserve you.

What does it matter to me? We are just friends. Best friends… the only friend I ever want to see every day… the only one who truly matters….

He has thought about how to repair the damage between you so much over the last few weeks that he's exhausted himself. Really, he just wants you back. All of you, ideally, but being realistic, any part of yourself you will let back into his life. The suggestion of a reset he made on Christmas Day being his cowardly way out.

—

You are fake laughing at the banker’s story as you lean around the pillar you are backing yourself against in an attempt to secure more personal space. Glad of the heated lamps and the glass overhang to shelter from the drizzle.

“I'm going home,” you growl.

“You’ll never find an Uber,” Kate points out deadpan as you turn back around and keep faking amusement.

Just as his thoughts spiral, Benedict hears a chuckle on the other side of the road. There, a couple are laughing together, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing, looking like no one else in the world matters… and it’s like a lightning rod hits him square in the chest.

Suddenly, all he can see are images of you, fluttering like motioned-filled playing cards from above, swirling into his eyeline, then floating onto the glistening pavement around him. Vignettes of his life and where you intersect at so many pivotal moments. The day he left uni - the car ride where you bickered like an old married couple, the day he moved to Paris - your dilated pupils and hitched breath on the Eurostar when he whispered in your ear, the unerring sympathy when you heard about his divorce, the way you held his hand when you wandered after dinner somewhere (he doesn't even recall where… only that it was with you), watching movies together on FaceTime, your incredulity when he confessed to his uneventful recurring sex dream, your surprise and, yes, arousal as he led you in the salsa dance, the way you tucked so neatly into his arms haunting him. And finally, how it felt to be buried inside your gorgeous body as you clung to him, calling his name like a siren song, intimacy like he has never known, the profundity of the connection petrifying the very life out of him.

But as he stares down at his tatty old Converse, the same ones he wore the day you met, in fact, all he sees in the puddle beneath him is the simple truth he has been in denial about, possibly for a decade or more. Rippling refractions of your face - your knowing smile, bright eyes, your wonderful, happy expression…

And before his brain acknowledges it, his feet are moving….

Walking fast…

Then it’s a jog…

Then it’s a run….

.. his feet carrying him to the one place he knows with every fibre of his being he wants to be.

—

You wander as if in a daze, seemingly surrounded by nothing but couples, kissing, dancing, whispering, and it's the final straw. You spy Kate and Anthony sipping champagne together and slope over.

“I'm going,” you sigh.

“But it's almost midnight,” Anthony protests.

“Being surrounded by people kissing is just…” you shrug, melancholy creeping in like a clingy fog around your heart.

“I’ll kiss you,” Kate placates, and Anthony perks up to no end at that suggestion, nodding enthusiastically as you both roll your eyes, bemused. “Stay? Please?” she pleads, pouting and grabbing your hands.

“Thanks, Kate. But no. I have to go. Have a wonderful night,” you bid them, kissing her gently on the cheek. “Happy New Year,” you whisper as she returns the greeting.

Benedict's lungs are burning as he races down Old St towards Shoreditch, not far from where you celebrated last year. He ignores the ache in his muscles and keeps going, checking his watch to see 11:56pm and racing harder.

I need to be there at midnight!

As you walk to pick up your coat, a sight makes your heart leap into your mouth and stops you dead in your tracks.

There, rounding the top stair, casual in old faded jeans, those ancient Converse and a chunky knit jumper… is Benedict. Hair fluffy and dishevelled from the rain, out of breath and scanning the crowd desperately. As if he is seeking someone.

Then his eyes finally land on you, and your world tilts.

Oh god, is he here… for… me?!?

Then he is striding purposefully towards you, and it seems like the crowds part. His eyes blisteringly intense, like they were on that fateful night. You try to school your face, aiming for casual indignance; you probably fail spectacularly— your heart thumping wildly.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking…” he begins as he pulls up before you. “And the thing is… I love you..”

Everything grinds to a halt, and your head feels dizzy.

This must be a prank, surely?

“What?” you stutter, disbelief rocking your core.

“I love you,” he says with a simple shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ben.. I… what do you expect me to say?” you blurt out, floored.

“How about you love me too,” he smiles a tiny fraction, and you hate it.

You hate how RIGHT he is. Your body is a total jumble of live wires, but your mind is suddenly calm. It's like the clouds of your thoughts part, and it all seems crystal clear. And yet, something in your stubborn heart won't let you admit it. Terrified what it could mean to voice it.

“Look, Ben, I know it's New Year, and I know you may be lonely tonight. But please don't do this,” you implore haltingly, tears prickling hot in the corners of your eyes, “...not like this,” you whisper, defeated.

“Okay, how about like this….” he throws his hands up. “I love that you won't admit you love me. I love that you are looking at me like you want to kill me right now. I love that my body is screaming at me cos I ran here as fast as I could.” he gestures down at his slightly shaky legs.

“Ten seconds to New Year's!!” a loud voice blares out over the speakers.

“TEN!!” the crowd chants.

“I love that we are idiots who would never admit to how in love we are.”

“NINE!”

“I love that you are my blue lobster, rare and beautiful as a diamond but a delicious soft treat under that hard as nails shell….”

“EIGHT!”

He tilts your chin to look up at him, a thumb swiping a tear you didn't even know had escaped.

“SEVEN!”

“Don't leave me out here in the wind, y/n…,” he murmurs softly.

“SIX!”

“I… I love that you never give up,” you whisper so quietly even you can barely hear it.

The smile that lights up Benedict’s face makes your whole being feel like the stars live inside your chest.

“FIVE!”

“I love that you take homemade salads on a road trip,” he smirks playfully, referring to the first day you spent together all those years ago.

“FOUR!”

“I love that you kept your amazing dance prowess under wraps,” you laugh over a stilted snuffle, everything in you fizzling.

“THREE!”

“I love that I can still smell you on my clothes after we spend the day together,” he sighs, moving in closer, your eyes hypnotised by the movement of his cupid’s bow.

“TWO!”

“I love that you came here tonight,” you admit, your hands circling his forearms as you sway slightly in unison.

“ONE!”

“I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night,” he confesses, his lips ghosting over yours now, smiling crookedly even as he speaks.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!” the crowd chants.

All around you, party poppers go off, colourful ribbons of streamers, and the sound of glasses clinking fills the air. But it’s background noise, your whole focus on each other.

Finally, your lips meet, the fireworks under your ribs matching those in the skies above, the same as it was that first time weeks ago. You melt into each other's embrace, your kiss a seal of a pact and the promise of something new and infinite.

“For the record,” he rumbles, his minty breath hot on your lips, the strains of Auld Lang Syne ringing around the rooftop. “I'm not saying this because I’m lonely and not because it’s the New Year. I came here tonight because when you finally realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start…”

“...as soon as possible,” you exhale, completing his sentence with him as he nods, grinning from ear to ear.

The drunken chorus around you gets louder; he chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve never understood this stupid song.”

“I think it’s about remembering not to forget. Or not forgetting to remember. Or something,” you peal a laugh, knowing you are talking gibberish and not giving a damn. “Anyway, it’s about old friends,” you add pointedly, moving in for another spine-tingling, heart-melting kiss.

As you part, he cradles your jaw in his hands. “It was only ever you, y/n,” he sighs, hazy eyes burning into yours, his whisper fervent but contented into your skin. “It had to be you.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #it had to be you fic

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ihavemanyhusbands · 7 months

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The Wine of Your Blood

Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Also on AO3

As usual, thank you to G <3

Summary: After Father Paul's transformation, he is tormented by a hunger only you can quell.

WC: 5.1k words

Warnings: 18+ ONLY!, vampirism, blood drinking, religious imagery and symbolism (I'm not a religious expert tho I grew up catholic, sorry if I used wrong terms), canon divergence, hierophilia, corruption, graphic depictions of sex and some violence, unprotected sex (do not try at home), cunnilingus, ummm let me know if I missed anything pls!!

------------

The silhouette was there again, shrouded in a thick fog that rolled in from the tempestuous sea. It was tall and statuesque, like the guard of some mythical place – monstrous and terrible. Golden light blazed behind it, flickering like an ardent flame. Or like a beacon, slicing through the night’s darkness and calling you home.

You could not see its eyes, and yet you could feel the prickle of an assessing gaze. The siren-like lure was undeniable, and for a moment you could understand why sailors jumped into the sea with total abandon.

But you were not afraid. You’d seen this apparition for various nights now, like an omen, even if you didn’t really believe in that sort of thing.

The real questions were: What was it presaging?

And why, especially, did it feel so inevitable?

————-

You awoke, as you often did in the late fall, to a gentle rain. As the day progressed, you knew it would grow in intensity, but for now, there was peace and quiet.

You stared at the drops trailing down your window like glistening tears of melancholy. The milky white early morning sky was the same as it ever was, casting a thin, watery light on everything.

When you finally pulled yourself out of bed, you peeked into your grandmother’s room to find her still out, snoring softly. Her breaths no longer sounded like wet, raspy gurgles, which made you sag with abundant relief.

Sarah had diagnosed her with a mild case of pneumonia the previous week, but even so you knew things could turn for the worse on a whim. Your grandmother was nearing ninety, and while she had always been a sturdy woman, her body could only take so much now.

For a minute, you were seriously starting to consider getting in touch with the new priest, Father Paul, once again to talk last rites. For your grandmother’s sake, you wished Monsignor Pruitt could have performed them, but he was still recovering in the mainland.

But that all would be a problem for another day, given that she was doing much better.

Still, she had adamantly refused to miss mass, and while she wasn’t strong enough to leave the house, Father Paul had been gracious enough to swing by for a house visit on Sunday.

He seemed like a fine man, soft-spoken, amiable, and welcoming. Not to mention, he had quite a charming way about him, especially when he laughed. Perhaps you shouldn’t be taking notice of that, but you couldn’t help it, despite how conflicted you felt in his presence.

There was something vaguely familiar in his dark eyes you couldn’t place — something that seemed far older, perhaps wiser, but definitely weathered. At times, prolonged eye contact with him seemed daunting, but you attributed it to your general wariness of strangers.

He hadn’t been at Crockett for very long, but you appreciated the effort he seemed to be making with everyone on the island, but especially with your grandmother. There had to be some way you could repay his kindness… perhaps in the form of a homemade treat.

You padded over to the kitchen to make some coffee, rummaging through the cupboards to see if you had all the ingredients to make some banana bread.

You spent the rest of the morning cooking, your grandmother’s small house warm and permeated with the sweet, enticing smell of baking bread. You got ready after that, making sure your grandmother ate some breakfast and took her medicine before you headed out.

Gravel crunched under your rain boots as you trudged over to the Monsignor’s house, where Father Paul was currently residing. You nodded in greeting at passerby, stopping only to spare a few words with Leeza Scarborough, who was on her front porch reading.

When you arrived at the house, the curtains were drawn and there seemed to be no lights on inside. You frowned in slight confusion, given that it was past noon. Perhaps he was out and about, but with so few residents on the island, you surely would have seen him.

You stepped up onto his porch, hesitating for a moment before knocking on the door.

“Father Paul?” You called tentatively.

No answer. You tried knocking again, waiting for another few minutes.

When you were about to give up, you kneeled to set down the tupperware, and the door suddenly opened to reveal Beverly. Her eyes widened slightly upon seeing you there and you quickly straightened.

“Oh, Beverly,” you said as a form of greeting. “Sorry, just wanted to drop something off for Father Paul. As a thank you.”

She cleared her throat, hands clasping in front of her. “I’m afraid Father Paul has fallen ill and is currently indisposed for visitors…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you said sympathetically, further confused by the slight worry you felt at the news. “I can just give this to you, then. I’ll talk to him when he’s better.”

“How nice of you to do this,” Beverly smiled tightly, eyebrows raising just a little. “I’m sure he’ll really appreciate it, though I’m not sure if his stomach will be able to take it right now… Oh, I just hope it doesn’t go bad.”

You gave her a wry, uncomfortable smile in return. “It’s the thought that counts, right? Erm… I’m just glad he’s got someone to take care of him.”

“He’s in good hands, I assure you,” she nodded. “Mine, and the Lord’s, of course.”

You nodded in return, starting to back away slowly. “Right. Well, can you tell him my grandmother sends her regards?”

“Of course, I will let him know. Good day now.”

And with that, she shut the front door. You shook your head and let out a sigh, glancing only once back at the house as you walked away.

—————

For once, the night was clear. The stars and the waxing moon were visible, keeping you company as you stepped off your porch. The air was fresh and crisp, smelling faintly of petrichor.

You stretched a little as you looked up at the sky, thanking whoever was up there for letting the rain cease for the time being. It seemed like forever since you’d last been able to go out for a nighttime jog, no one around to talk to or look presentable for. It was the perfect time to clear your mind, now that a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

You started down the gravel road, the wind whistling in your ears. Your legs kept a steady rhythm, the old houses of all your neighbors whizzing past your field of vision. You passed by the school and the convenience store, winding away from the main town area towards the harbor.

The moon’s reflection made the black waves glitter, endless, ominous, and hauntingly beautiful. You stopped for a moment near the pier, looking beyond the water at all the distant lights of the mainland. So close, and yet so far.

Sure, you yearned for all the mainland had to offer – an entire world that wasn’t just bite-sized, predictable, safe. But you could not yield to those selfish fantasies, not while someone who gave you so much throughout your life now required your help. You closed your eyes and breathed in the salty breeze.

Perhaps someday…

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The familiar voice made you almost jump out of your skin. You whirled around to find Father Paul a few feet behind you, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. Maybe you’d been so distracted that you hadn’t heard him approach, but it still felt eerie.

“Oh, I’ve startled you, I’m so sorry,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

You placed a hand on your chest as if to placate your racing heart. “It’s okay, Father. I just wasn’t really expecting to see anyone, is all.”

“Especially not the priest, right?” he raised an eyebrow, which made you huff in amusement.

“Guess I just thought you didn’t come out at night.”

He smiled lopsidedly, looking down and clearing his throat slightly. “You know, I think I’m becoming more partial to nighttime. I guess you could say I’m an insomniac.”

“All that weight on your conscience?” You said as he approached, standing next to you.

“Something like that,” he sighed, now looking off into the distance. “Thank you for the bread. It was delicious.”

You shrugged it off modestly. “Grandma’s recipe. I’m just glad she’s right as rain again. Maybe… Your prayers helped. It’s what she insists on, anyway.”

He shook his head, a loose dark curl brushing his forehead. “That’s much too kind of her.”

You assessed his profile for a moment. “How are you feeling, Father? You were out for a few days, too.”

“I definitely needed some fresh air. Now, I’m much better,” he said with a smile, meeting your gaze. “I could not stay cooped in that house any longer. I’m really looking forward to our next mass.”

You said nothing, unsure of how to respond. Despite the fact that you’d grown up religious, you weren’t really practicing anymore. Sometimes you’d accompany your grandmother to sermons, but you often tried to find excuses to skip them.

So far, you had only been to one of Father Paul’s, and you had to admit there was something rapturous about his speeches. They were not only engaging, but the passion behind them was sort of infectious. You even caught yourself leaning forward in your seat, which you quickly corrected.

It only added to the confusion of how you felt about this man, but such a mystery was undeniably alluring.

“Will you be joining us?” He asked. “No pressure if not, but it’d be nice to see you there.”

“Ah, is that what this is? You’re trying to convert me or something?”

“You’re very clever,” he observed, his grin broadening. “But no, that's not all it is. Part of it, sure, but I don’t want you to miss out on something really special.”

You couldn’t help the slight blush that spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat suddenly spiking once again. His easy, confident smile faltered for a moment, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The bestial hunger that had been tormenting him for days, rendering him weak and sickly, flared inside of him.

“T-think on it, but like I said, no pressure on my part,” he added quickly, gasping a little as if he lacked air.

You nodded, failing to notice how he slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. His muscles were taut with self-restraint, rooting him to the spot. Luckily, you moved first, taking a step back.

“Alright, thank you for the invite. Um…I should probably finish my jog and head back home,” you said, gesturing behind you. “Don’t get in too late, Father. You don’t want to catch another cold.”

————

Despite the fact that he was a passionate speaker, you had never seen Father Paul so worked up.

He started by speaking about eternity and how hard it was to visualize it. The fire inside him was stoked as he spoke of God’s gifts, his miracles and his mysteries. How they were something tangible, something within reach of every grasping hand… even if one couldn’t understand them.

Then the fire turned into a feverish glint in his eyes, his skin paling considerably. He stumbled over his words, pausing to keep nausea at bay. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little dizzy spell, but I’m fine now.”

Still, he braced his hand on the pulpit. You noticed Beverly was also leaning forward in her seat, ready to spring to action if need be. That was all the confirmation you needed that something was wrong.

But for a moment, as he continued talking, things seemed to settle. You relaxed in your seat, folding your hands on your lap.

“No abstracts. No colorful exaggerations. No. ‘Rebirth’, ‘Second chances’, ‘E-eternal li…’”

His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as his words faded into a shuddery exhale. He collapsed onto the floor, thudding heavily down the steps as the panicked voices of the congregation rose in volume.

Beverly reached him first, of course, but you knelt at his side only moments after. You hadn’t even registered you were running until you got there, cradling his head in your hands.

And even if he was unconscious, you could’ve sworn he leaned closer to your touch.

—---------

It was an audacious plan, you knew that well enough. Still, that clarity didn’t stop you from attempting to go through with it.

As soon as Sarah Gunning arrived to attend to Father Paul, Beverly had kicked everyone out, holding firm even as you insisted you wanted to stay. Her stubborn will was infuriating, but perhaps also commendable, in a way. You had to bite back a few bitter words as you left, but that didn’t mean you intended to stay away.

You waited for her to leave Father Paul’s house, which didn’t happen until after the sun had set. Even when you couldn’t hear her receding footsteps any longer, you waited a few more minutes before approaching the front door.

You raised your fist to knock, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a haggard-looking Father Paul. There were dark crescents hanging from his eyes and his skin was so pale it was almost translucent.

For his sake, you held back from gasping, but he could still see worry written across your features.

“It’s like you knew I was coming,” you said with a small smile.

“Keen senses,” he said softly. “Would you like to come in?”

You hesitated, despite the fact that a ‘yes’ was on the tip of your tongue. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Gave us a real scare earlier.”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment as if staving off an ache deep within him. In the dim light, you noticed the corners of his lips were a dark red. For a moment you wondered if he’d been drinking the sacramental wine.

“It may not seem like it but… better,” he said, mustering a small smile. “I fear I-I may owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, Father Paul, you don’t…”

“Please, I insist. I can make us some tea, if you’d like,” his voice dropped into the faintest whisper. “Just, stay. Please.”

The desperation in his voice gave you pause. You searched his face for the answer to a question you didn’t dare ask, and perhaps you deluded yourself into believing you found it.

You nodded, crossing the threshold and taking off your shoes. You heard him shuffle about in the kitchen, and you wrung your hands nervously as you glanced around the small, austere rectory.

This was wholly improper, you knew, but you felt a magnetic sort of pull towards him that was getting harder to resist. It was easy to deny it at first, brushing it off as curiosity and excitement over having a newcomer on the island.

Most were wary, but you… you wondered if he could be your link to the rest of the world. Your appetite for that dream was only whetted, closer to your fingertips than ever.

“Water’s boiling,” he said as he came into the living room. “Sit, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Obediently, you did as told. There was a palpable tension in the atmosphere that made your skin prickle. He sat across from you, gripping the armrests of the chair as he adjusted himself, unable to find a comfortable position.

“I have to insist that you owe me no explanation, Father. I just worry about your… condition,” you said.

“It’s no ordinary ailment. I think you’ve sensed that already, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unsure of where he was going with this, but willing to listen.

He continued. “You have witnessed miracles here on the island. Things that you can’t explain and yet are so clear to your eyes. Were you listening to my homily earlier?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, even if you’d only been half-listening.

But he was speaking the truth, if Leeza Scarborough was any indication. She had risen from her wheelchair just a few days prior, no longer in need of it. Since then, you’d seen other changes around Crockett, some of them more subtle than others.

You clasped your hands on your lap to keep from moving them. “You mean to say you’ve brought about these miracles?”

He smiled patiently, indulgently. In this light, his eyes seemed darker than you’d ever seen, like two chasms you could get lost in.

“No, not me. God. I am merely a vessel for His glory, and all of the gifts He wishes to impart on us,” he said, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on his knees. “On you in particular.”

“Me?” You blinked, genuinely surprised. “What sort of gift?”

“The gift of life anew. Rebirth. A holy transfiguration, if you will.”

His gaze was fixed on the way your throat worked as you swallowed hard, on edge despite your curiosity being piqued.

“You see, I was visited by an angel. Larger than life, with a greater wingspan than even an albatross. It was utterly magnificent… as well as horrifying. I was afraid at first, of course, for we all fear things that are unknown to us. I was on the brink of death regardless, but see me now, restored, in my prime!”

You frowned, a myriad of questions on the tip of your tongue, but then Father Paul doubled over, clutching his stomach. His dark brows were furrowed from the influx of pain and you instinctively rose to help, but he lifted a hand to stop you.

“But to be reborn, the old self must be destroyed, and thus… and thus it is not an easy road to walk,” he rasped.

You knelt beside him, concerned and abundantly confused all at once. “What do you need? How can I help you ease this pain?”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, pleading, desperate. Like a wounded animal, almost. You wondered if he, too, might bare his teeth in warning.

“There is this hunger inside of me that I cannot seem to dispel. I-I fear it threatens to consume me,” he swallowed hard, straightening into a sitting position once more. “God asks terrible things of us sometimes, but I cannot help but think this is a test of my strength. My will.”

“I want to help,” you said softly, so softly, daintily placing a hand on his knee.

But his ears were keen, as he’d said, and he heard you perfectly fine. Still, his eyes – glazed over in pain and hunger and desire – searched yours for any sign of doubt. Instead, he found resolve, as well as a very clear distress at seeing him suffer so much.

Oh, pious, gentle little lamb. What a good heart you had. The idea that your blood might taste just as sweet made his head spin, his beastly hunger lashing out inside of him.

His hands cradled your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone ever so slightly. You found yourself leaning into his touch, too entranced by him to think objectively about the morality of the whole thing. The charge in the atmosphere changed into something more taut, all too close to snapping.

“You do not know what you are offering,” he said, holding fast to his self-restraint even as his mouth watered.

“Maybe you could show me, then.”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips at your eagerness, one of his hands leaving your face to pat his thigh. “Come, would you like to sit here? Perhaps I shall whisper it in your ear.”

You started to lift yourself, but then hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I’ll ever be of anything, my dear,” he assured, his smile momentarily taking on a certain edge, like that of a wolf’s.

You situated yourself on his legs gingerly, closer to his knees, but he brazenly grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer. You gasped, a tingle forming between your shoulder blades and slowly crawling down your spine.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he relished the feeling, his arms circling your waist to keep you from squirming. “I hope you didn’t catch a fever from me.”

“I-I didn’t realize this was the sort of hunger you were referring to, Father,” you said tremulously, more heat sparking in your lower abdomen.

He traced his nose against the bare skin of your arm. “Not quite, but it’s making your heart race, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the blush that crept to your cheeks, silently willing your heart to slow as it hammered insistently against your ribcage. Tenderly, he brushed your hair off your shoulder, exposing your neck. Instinctively, you tilted your head back, showing more of it.

He hummed in approval, licking his lips. “Here, just a little taste first.”

He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his face. He kissed the tip of your index finger before taking some of it into his mouth. His inky black eyes held your gaze as you suddenly felt a painful prick on your digit that made you gasp once more.

He groaned softly, holding your wrist as he lapped at the thin rivulet of blood. The mere sight paralyzed you for a moment, but it’d be a lie to say it didn’t make your cunt throb.

And to make matters worse, the small rush of shame that followed this realization only seemed to turn you on more. Without thinking, you raked your free hand in his hair, tugging his head towards you.

“Do it,” you rasped, your tone dangerously close to begging. “Please.”

“God bless you,” he said deliriously, clasping you tighter against his chest. “Oh, God bless you. I-I want to make it good for you, too.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in and letting out another weak sound at your dizzying warmth. You shuddered and he scented a small note of fear as you tightened your grip on his hair. He shushed softly, soothingly, his lips ghosting over a quivering vein.

When his teeth first pierced the sensitive flesh, you let out a pained mewl as all of your muscles seized. Then — as fast as it had come — the pain vanished and you went slack against him. Stars danced in your vision as you felt the vibration of his groan against your throat.

Every single one of your nerve endings was alight with pleasure, which only seemed to grow in intensity.

Without you really noticing, your hips rocked back and forth, clothed cunt dragging against his leg in short, desperate movements that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. He gripped one of your hips tightly, guiding your movements with urgency.

In the kitchen, the kettle started whistling loudly just as an orgasm hit you like a freight train, rattling your very bones. You felt yourself melting in a way you never had before, toeing the line between life and death. You’d have gladly gone to heaven in that moment – or hell, for that matter – if fate so decided. He held you steady throughout, running a soothing hand up and down your spine.

Just when exhaustion began to creep in from the blood loss, he painstakingly pulled away, his mouth stained crimson. He looked drunken and dazed, like he was caught in between dreams. But he also seemed less frail, and definitely more alert, pupils fully dilated.

“Thank you,” he breathed, gazing at you adoringly. Reverently, even.

Diligently, he lapped at the weeping puncture wounds. His lips left a smear behind as he kissed your collarbone, hands ripping at your blouse to expose more flesh. Panting, you tried to undo the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers, but he stopped you.

“Lovely, eager thing. We’ll get there. Let me take care of you first,” he murmured against your sternum.

He tore any garment that stood in his way fervently, until you were practically naked in his lap. Your back arched, taut as a bow, as he continued leaving sanguine kisses in his wake. He hauled you into his arms with preternatural strength as he stood up. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you into his bedroom, laying you down on the bed gently.

There, standing over you, he seemed every bit the statuesque figure that plagued your dreams. His eyes glinted in the half-dark, reflecting the moonlight spilling in through the window. He sank to his knees as if preparing for prayer, his grin hungry as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed.

“Come here, little lamb. My most precious sacrifice. My hunger for you has not nearly been sated,” he said, licking his lips. “I am yet to make a feast of you.”

A kiss on your navel that had you shaking all over again. If you had come so hard without so much as a caress, you couldn’t imagine the delirium of his mouth where you ached for it most. Perhaps then, you would truly cross the line for good.

He discarded the last garment covering you, revealing your glistening, slippery cunt for his appraisal. He made an agonized sound, ducking his head immediately to kiss your inner thigh. The tip of his tongue traced your skin just a little bit, getting a taste of your divine essence.

He knew then and there that he was utterly lost; That he would no longer know a greater devotion than this. What a perfect altar for him to worship you, the cradle of your thighs. It took all of his willpower not to sink his teeth into your femoral artery and drain you further, until all of your blood mingled with his.

Another day, perhaps, when you’d recovered some.

Instead, he finally licked a long, languid stripe through your soaked folds. With a low moan, his mouth latched onto your overly sensitive bundle of nerves, making your entire body jerk. He gripped your thighs harder as you squirmed, your fingers burying in his dark curls and holding on for dear life.

You hadn’t expected him to be so good at it, but then again, it was a night of surprises. Not that you could ever complain, anyway. Your wanton moans only encouraged him further, his lips and tongue and even the slightest graze of his teeth making you buck and arch on the mattress.

Once more, you felt a tidal wave begin to form, making your breath come out in sharp little exhales. But you didn’t want to let go again quite yet, at least not like this, with so much distance between your bodies.

You resorted to pleading, attempting to pull his head back. “F-Father wait, please, I want—”

“Don’t hold back from me,” he urged hoarsely, between licks. “Come on, give me one more. I’ll reward you doubly, I promise.”

You began to protest once more, but with an expert swirl of his tongue, the wave finally crested. Violently crashing against the rocks of your sanity. Your eyes searched for heaven again at the back of your head, mouth falling slack in rapture. He made sure you rode it all the way through, softly murmuring praises.

You lay there spent, chest heaving with great, deep breaths. He chuckled, both amused and inexplicably fond at the sight of you so undone. He pulled back to make quick work of his clothes, smears of dry blood further darkening his black shirt.

“I fear you might be turning me into a glutton,” he said, removing his collar and setting it down on the nightstand.

Your eyes trailed his fingers as he unbuttoned his shirt, and you gave him a weak, teasing smile. “You are not the only insatiable creature here, Father.”

“I see that now,” he grinned, his canines all too sharp. “What a great gift He has bestowed upon me, bringing you here.”

His jeans were next to go, merely kicked to one side, and his body slid over yours in a warm embrace. Then finally, mercifully, his lips found yours in a slow, searing kiss. It was the last piece missing from the puzzle that connected you; The last nail on the coffin of your fate.

You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as you cupped the back of his head. Ankles crossed behind his back, pressing down, silently urging him closer. He guided himself into you, moving slowly so you could get used to the stretch. There was a growl low in his throat as he bottomed out, and his kiss became fiercer. Possessive, even.

The only sound in the dimly lit room was that of flesh slapping together lewdly as he quickened his pace, your sharp breaths and wistful sighs. The way he whispered your name like a prayer as he nearly dissolved with passion. It was then that you broke the kiss, tilting your head to the side as his lips chased yours in a dreamlike, desperate state. You shifted, baring your throat for him to ravage once more.

“Just like this,” you murmured, eyelashes fluttering over your cheekbones as you readied yourself. “I’m yours.”

“Only a little more,” he promised, kissing the base of your neck before tracing his way up with his nose.

A gasp, and then you were submerged in that languid, morphine state. Ecstasy hit him like lightning, and he was no longer able to hold back. He trembled against you as he came, crushing you tighter to him, buried to the hilt. You felt heat flooding you as he sealed the puncture wounds again, lips finding yours right after.

He rolled off of you only to tuck you both in, drawing you close and kissing the top of your head. His onyx eyes scanned your beatific features, wonder and amazement written all over his own.

“The night suits you, my dear,” he said, wiping strands of your hair away from your sweat-dotted face. “Perhaps it would be less lonesome with you around...”

He seemed truly vulnerable in that moment, smaller, entirely human. Eyebrows pinched together in consternation, lips pursed with some guilt at his actions. You snuggled even closer, leeching off his body heat. If anything, seeing this side of him, complex and familiar in a way you instinctively understood, reassured you.

“Will you take my hand and guide me through it?” You asked, voice low and wistful.

He nodded, lacing his fingers through yours. “Through the valley of the shadow of death and beyond. There is still so much for you to see, and the gift of time is at our disposal. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”

Yes, yes it was. Comforting enough to finally drift into dreams of the stars beyond the horizon.

#midnight mass fanfiction #father paul fanfiction #father paul x reader #monsignor pruitt fanfiction #monsignor pruitt x reader #minors dni

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mrs-illyrian-baby · 5 months

Text

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 9

Fallen | Loki x Reader

Your captors attempt to break you and Loki keeps up his searching. With the help of the Avengers, can he finally rescue you?

Warnings: 18+, reader is imprisoned - lack of food, talk of being hungry/hunger strike, psychological torture, angsty, very angry Loki.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

“Change your clothes back you insolent little welp”

You refused to change, hugging the forest green cloak tighter, staring into the fire. The more he tried to control you the more the leaden ball of hatred grew inside. Every day your clothes were laid out for you, restrictive and traditional, cloying and controlling. And every day you changed the colours to match the man you missed. The insipid colours chosen for you gave way to the blue grey of his eyes. Brown became rich jet black. And the silver of your sigil became lustrous gold.

“I’ve told you before about your behaviour. How can I make you a bride when you remain so headstrong? If you refuse to control your magic it will be removed from you.”

You had been caught again, playing with the mortals. Sneaking away from your guards. Drinking at parties, making flowers dance for pretty ladies, listening to the poetry of the gentlemen as it fell from their lips, their fingertips. Making love appear between them, making love to them.

To his credit, he was no liar. Come the morning your magic couldn’t even fizzle. Your clothes remained the same huge petticoats, the colours and sigils a perfect match for your families.

And Loki had vanished from your memories.

Somehow the memory of that day was clear, but then the next thing you could remember was the flat in London. Your Grandad, who you had genuinely loved and believed in. The warm memory of watching TV together and reading books. Grandad had always been kind, unlike the shadow of the men in your memories, he liked your jokes and you enjoyed the way he could do card tricks, often at the most surprising of times. And now he was gone too and the worst pain of all was that he was never truly real. The only family you could remember and he’d been another trick.

Tears tracked down your face silently, cutting through the dust that settled there from your filthy surroundings. Perhaps he wasn’t truly your grandfather, but he’d spent so many years at your side. Hadn’t he comforted you when you were sad, didn’t he laugh along with your jokes, he took care of you when you were sick and, though neither of you left the flat for long, he’d imagined a better life with you as well.

Perhaps he’d been told to do those things, perhaps it was a glamour or a trick of some sort, but his hand in yours, squeezing it tight as he said his final goodbyes, that was real. The indents of wrinkles on his papery skin, the feel of his pulse slowing under his wrist, it was all real. And that’s what you held in the dark on the night, when the days rolled past and Loki didn’t come, you had been loved before. You had loved Loki on Asgard and your grandfather had loved you in that little flat.

Love would come for you again.

When the sun rose you rose too, forcing yourself to leave your melancholy tucked between the thin blanket and the mattress of your bed. Instead, you paced the small room looking for a foothold to see out of the window that sat high in the wall. This morning your attempt was aided by a stool, left by a guard the night before. It wobbled terribly on the flagged floor, but it gave you enough height that you could reach across the rough rock, beneath your fingers you felt a small snag in the wall and dug your nails in, creating a hand hold.

Pushing yourself higher using the very edge of the bed frame your feet left the stool and you heaved yourself forwards and reached for the sill of the window, pulling yourself into the alcove it created.

Crisp air blew in your face, salty from the sea that stretched before you and fresh from the grass that curled behind.

Outside the waves crashed against a towering rock face and you wondered if you were very far from your first prison. Hopefully moving you between locations was enough to draw the attention of your Prince, but just in case you ripped a length of fabric from your dress and tied it to the bars of the window, pushing the rest of it out to dangle and blow in the whipping wind. Judging by the long grass that grew around the base of the tower, there were very few people visiting the area, perhaps something as off as a fluttering in a normally empty window would be enough to grant you some means of escape.

Slowly you climbed down, catching your feet on the hem of your dress.

Your new outfit felt completely ridiculous. Gone were your sensible jeans and warm sweater, replaced with a balloon of chiffon petticoats and floral silks. Deep in your memory you knew that this was how you’d been dressed after you were removed from Asgard, the heavy skirts keeping you slow so you couldn’t run, the restrictive sleeves reducing your ability to wield magic as Frigga had taught you.

At least in the flat you’d been allowed to choose your own clothes, at the compound Natasha and Wanda had ordered you leggings and sweatpants. Even the silken dresses and stylish, magazine inspired clothes you’d conjured with Loki had been more practical and comfortable. It seemed an impossible task to escape when you were dressed like a toy doll.

“You can’t escape,” a voice spoke from a dark corner of the room. His magic, pale yellow, swirled around him and yanked you back from the window and onto the thin mattress with a thump. The voice vanished back into the darkness, replaced with the shimmering vision of another, surrounded by a yellow yellow.

Loki.

The image stalked across the room, his face full of malice and a sinister smile curling at the corner of his lips. It was a vision of him you’d seen before, on the television news during the invasion of New York, but then he’d been under the influence of Thanos, controlled and tortured, desperate for escape. He’d told you all about it while you were still at the compound, a hushed conversation bourne of a late night spent on his balcony drinking mead and staring into the inky darkness. You’d taken his hand then and held it, allowing your warmth to sink into his chilly skin, and he’d rubbed his thumb over your knuckles.

This Loki was a different man, the God you knew would never dream of approaching you like this, with hatred and venom. He’d looked at you many ways, with intrigue and interest, as if you were amusing and entertaining, with lust and passion, before he lavished you with his pleasure, and, dare you think it, he’d looked at you with something akin to love.

No, your Loki would never look at you like this.

“Disgusting, fallen Goddess. Who could ever care for you?” He spat as you cowed back, the metal bed frame digging into your back, cold and unyielding. “Fit for nothing. We rejoiced when you left Asgard, you brought shame on my family. How will your own ever find a match for you when you display such depraved and wanton behaviour?”

The false Loki sneered again, eyeing you as if you were nothing.

You wanted to reach for him and brush the anger from his brow with your lips, to sate whatever force was controlling him and bring him back as the bright eyed and mischievous God you knew. But this was not your Loki, your Loki never judged you for your escapades. He only teased, tangling your fingers together to help you clarify your memories, sharing in the joy of them and encouraging you in your whims.

“Nothing to say for yourself, snivelling child?” You rubbed your face with your palms and made to stand, rising on the broken mattress instead of the stone floor, hoping that the height would give you some sense of control.

“You aren’t real, you can’t hurt me.” The words came out as a sob and you hurled the single pillow at him, expecting it to bounce through the vision as you’d seen happen with Loki and Thor while they fought and trained. But it hit his chest and fell to the floor with a sad thump. The Loki’s eyes followed it and then snapped back to you, and his grin made your skin crawl, your blood curdle.

“Loki?!”

He approached.

Your back met the wall as you tried to escape from the solid vision, cornering you.

“You truly are an idiot. These powers of yours have corrupted your mind, your senses. You can’t be trusted with them.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this. Leave me alone!”

But the vision continued, berating you for your misdemeanours, recalling every stupid deed, every unkind word spoken, but this Loki knew so little. Like your own memories, the stories cut in and out from Asgard to London to the compound, there was so much missing in between. For a while you could use this knowledge to fight back, to ignore the most cutting remarks and stand your ground when your anger boiled hot enough.

But after a day, or two, your voice became hoarse, your mind reeling and pained, and your body weakened by lack of sustenance. And all the while, behind the cruel Loki, your guard sat, a wicked grin tightening his features.

After a week the lonely, stinging tears continued into the night, soaking your pillow as Loki’s voice haunted you, though the spectre of him had long since retired to whatever place it was these guards seem to spring from. Alone you clutched your pillow and thought of Loki, of the echo of home you’d built together in his rooms in the compound, the way his scent rose to meet you as he held you, cocooning you in the comforting richness of his presence. The way his arms held you back, solid and strong, his palms splayed on your back.

You clutched to those dreams as tightly, praying for him in the darkness.

During the day you sipped on stale water and nibbled on the dry bread left beside you, a far cry from the food that Loki had made for you. The bread made you heave and the stale water, though it kept you alive, only made the vision of Loki clearer to your eyes. So you stopped trying, allowing the dancing lights of your thirst to blur the image before you and the pounding of your headache to obfuscate his words.

In your dreams hands swarmed towards you, unforgiving and rough, the cruel whispers following you into the unconscious depths of your mind. And though you tried to tell yourself it was all a dream, your body ached when you woke, bruises littering your weakened body.

Every morning, when the twisted vision of Loki appeared, you returned to the Loki that you kept locked inside of your heart, falling back into your memories of him. Your Loki whispered praises to combat the poison poured into your ear, your Loki held you close when you were cold and scared. Your Loki - you drifted out of consciousness again, hungry and thirsty and tired.

Staring at the odd angles of the false Loki’s face. The pale imitation before you could never hold his face correctly, the subtle change to the rise and fall of his eyebrow, the twitch of a lip, you could read it all on your Loki. And nothing on this one.

Occasionally your energy peaked and, when the fight returned to you, you tried to irritate this fake and his handler as much as possible. You sang pop songs, told terrible jokes. Anything to keep the flame of your spirit flickering and alive. Deep inside you felt Loki’s magic calling back to yours, and it was on these days that you were the strongest, tethered to his sedir and allowing your own to reverberate down whatever bond had formed between you.

Your magic, bottled inside, continued to fizz, building on the already blinding headache that seemed to be permanent now.

And then it changed.

You kept picking away at the edges of the wards, kept pushing your magic forwards, trying to connect, trying to open the door. A little at a time you managed to let your magic creep through the gaps and you imagined it blowing into the wind like smoke, dispersed and invisible but still there, travelling into the distance, calling for help.

It started with a single flower, blooming rapidly as you watched it grow between the cracks of the wide rocks, it’s soft petals nudging the tip of your finger. You moved your hand away, and it followed, the spindly stem curling into the support of the mortar and then releasing it’s bud in a flourish of purple petals.

With a gasp you cupped your hand over it, turning your back to your eternal tormentor, and kissed the tiny flower, squeezing your eyes closed to stop from crying out with joy. There was something there, some magic, some feeling, that was still strong.

When your food tray was dumped on the floor you quickly took your glass, dipping a single finger into the water and collecting a droplet on the end of your nail. The water surrounded the flower as it fell, drenching the minute leaves, and then it bristled, as if shivering from the cold, and dipped its head back towards you.

You went to bed that night with a smile, but between dusk and midnight, the nightmares returned. Loki was always in official Asgardian leather, metal, gold. Sometimes he had a staff that he beat against the ground to wake you up and then keep you awake. So you clung to your reality of casual butter soft cotton shirts, dark jeans, the slippers he kept in his apartment and swore you to secrecy over, the brush of his fingers in yours, the way he held you, the way he touched your shoulder when he handed you a coffee over breakfast.

So when he came, you kept the vision of him in Midgardian clothes at the front of your mind, reminiscing on your time together at the compound and ignoring everything else.

Hands over your face you dredged up another memory. Showing him a tulip you’d grown in a pot overnight.

He had been impressed, you could tell just by the twitch of his mouth. It wasn’t a change in shape or a brief illusion, it was creation, organic creation. He was speechless as you slid the plant pot across the table to him.

“A gift, my Prince,” you had smiled.

Thor laughed, declaring it to be girl magic and you had looked at him, incredulous.

“I am a girl. What do you do, oaf magic?”

Loki had turned away to hide his laugh but had congratulated you as soon as Thor stomped off, huffy and indignant.

The more you focused on a clear vision of him the more Loki could feel the vibrations of your magic.

Somehow they’d picked up your trail, leading out of Norway, to Sweden and then into Denmark. Or, more accurately, Stark had been able to track your kidnappers.

The first set had, as Val worried, been the elderly men that lived in Tønsberg. Eventually they’d been able to trace some tourists who heard them planning the kidnap in the pub on the afternoon that you’d arrived, and a CCTV camera had caught them carrying your limp body down a side street before vanishing from the videos.

They’d been gone for a few days before there was another hit, the pair returning, beaten, bruised and worse for wear. And empty handed.

Valkyrie had them arrested as soon as they crossed the village square, but between their incoherent ramblings the only information the Asgardian’s had been able to glean was that they had been on a journey to the coast.

“It’s not enough,” Loki had raged, the cape of his formal leathers billowing out behind him as he turned to pace back down the length of the Long Hall.

Valkyrie sat in her throne, her head propped on one hand and shrugged, “we’re doing what we can, Loki, but they’re old, ancient, wittering on about Odin and some prophecy or other, what do you want me to do with them?”

“Let me look into their minds.” Loki kept to a stop, his hands on his hips, every bit the god and Prince he was brought up to be. Valkyrie’s council had left the room as soon as he’d strode in and now, alone, the hall was full of tension and unused, bubbling, power.

“There’s nothing in there, they barely remember each other, we look at the coastline.”

Loki glared and where anyone else might have withered under than look, Valkyrie sat taller in her chair. “I mean it, Loki, there’s nothing more to be had from those men. We look to the coast, that’s my final word.”

“Fine.”

Loki strode out, his long legs eating up the length of the hall in a few strides, and then he slammed the door behind him.

Refusing to speak to the Avengers directly, Thor passed information between the village and the compound. Stark had managed to track a trail of unusual energy into Sweden as well, but he failed to share the details with Loki.

Every day Loki felt a deeper pain in his chest, a gnawing feeling that he had seldom felt before. When he described it, Thor confirmed his worries. Hunger, you were hungry, and he was feeling it too. Having spent his whole life in the luxury of the palace, it was a sensation he was accustomed to and it pained him further to think of you that way.

In the night he woke to dreadful dreams, nightmares of his own doing, your screams ringing in his ears soothed only by a whisper of your voice, clinging to him and chanting his name like a prayer. His chest hurt then, too, and tears slid down his cheeks, wetting his hair as he hid his sobs in his pillow.

Capitulating to Stark’s demands was an equally bitter pill that left him feeling hollowed out and cold despite the warm breezes that brushed along the coast. He would work one, single, solitary, mission and only after they had found you and returned you safe and well.

By the time Stark denied to share his information with Loki the God was enraged, pacing like a tiger and snapping at anyone who looked at him wrong. The entire village scattered from him as he approached, Valkyrie’s council scurrying away when he slammed open the rooms of the Long Hall the day the Avengers arrived in Tønsberg.

“Tell me where she is, Stark.” Loki barked, his fighting leathers manifesting as he walked until he was clad from head to toe in leather and metalwork.

“And then you leave? We go together.” Tony didn’t even bother to look up at Loki as he spoke, continuing to press endless effusive buttons on the little device he liked to carry with him.

“I could leave as soon as we find her, what does it matter to you?”

“True. Best not to give you too many chances though.” Tony smirked.

“Stark, desist teasing Loki.” Thor cut in, gripping his brother’s shoulder, “this situation has upset us all, we should focus on the task at hand.” Silhouette by one of the floor length windows that lined the Long Hall Thor looked as if he belonged, strong and surprisingly measured while Loki simmered.

“I’m not teasing, I’m being practical. We all go together.” Tony sighed, placing his device on the table between them. “You can either come quietly and behave, or we take her anyway and don’t tell you.” He shrugged.

“You know that I would do anything, anything, to get her back to me safely.” Loki implored, “have I not agreed to work with you and your team? What more do you require of me?”

Tony stared at the God, both towering in his physicality, yet somehow diminished. He had seen Loki commit atrocious crimes, had seen the reasons why and fought them himself, and had grudgingly accepted a quiet truce. But he had never seen Loki so earnest or cowed, despite the green leather and daggers, he was accepting defeat in the only way he knew how.

“Nothing, Loki, nothing. Let’s get your girl back.” Tony fiddled with the device again, above them there was a roar of engines and through the windows Loki watched as the boats in the harbour wagged dangerously from side to side in the cross waves.

Thor pushed the doors open and allowed Loki to walk through first, revealing the Quinjet hovering above the low lying buildings. “Ready?” Stark asked, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Loki brushed past Tony, shouldering him out of the way, “don’t be absurd, of course I’m ready. And don’t call her ‘girl’.” He turned, his cape swirling behind him, picked up the wind, his hair was briefly wild, and the a golden helmet with two towering horns appeared, brushing each earnt curl backwards until Loki’s face was picked out and protected by the precious metal, “she’s a Goddess.”

<< Chapter 8

Chapter 10 >>

#Loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki/reader #Loki x Reader #Loki fanfic #Loki series #loki marvel #Loki x you #Loki/You #loki fanfiction #Loki smut #The Old Gods and the New #Loki fluff #loki x female reader #loki angst

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lunareclipses-moments · 5 months

Text

Everlast embrace

Warning: English is not my first language please inform me if there were any mistakes

Words : around 440

Malleus x femreader

In the quite serenity of the moonlit night , where the only sound you can hear is the chirping sound of the crickets paired with the soft glow of firefly lights illuminating the forest , behind the ramshackle dorm stood two figures.

A helpless magicless human girl who was dragged her against her will by random talking mirror, leaving her to bear the responsibility of a useless man who was never fit to be a principal

(AKA: dire Crowley) . and one of the most feared mages in twisted wonderland, malleus draconia.

A rustle in the bushes drew the fae from his deap thoughts , as the human girl steped in from of him with a smile that could rival thousand sun combined

"Hornton, I found away to go back to my world" grinning from ear to ear. " Can you believe it , oh i am over the moon " she exclaimed to him , her eyes filled with nothing but happiness. Unlike malleus whose those simple words shattered his heart and soul to tiny pieces , yet he can't let her know this , because he can't bear to see her upset or sad face so her buried his feeling aside for her sake

" Really , that's wonderful my dear child of man , when are you leaving?" His voice betrayed him as it cracked in his last sentence but the girl was to happy to notice

" Tomorrow morning" her cheerful voice that he used to fill him with happiness and warm , only filled him with dreed and sadness this time.

Noticing his sudden silent she turned to him

" Horton "

"Mal mal "

"Malleus "

She continued to call him hopping for some sort of reaction, but the next few minutes shook her to the core

"I'm fine," he assured her, but the melancholy in his gaze spoke volumes, echoing the silent ache of a heart in profound sadness.

" But I think I should leave for now , it's getting late and you should get some rest before your big day tomorrow " as his final words reached her ears the only thing she saw a faint glow of fireflies.

"But ,I haven't finished talking yet " in all reality the girl came to him hoping that ,he would stop her to tell her that her doesn't want her to leave to make her stay , he was the only reason she would stay in this , new strange world , but since he didn't want her maybe returning home is for the best . After all he was a prince , a strong one never less , and she was only ordinary girl . She would return to her ordinary life and he will rule of his kingdom one day .

That night , none of them had a brink of sleep, each one of them thinking about the other, and what would have happened if the simply talked about their true felling to each other, would they be comfortably cuddling while sharing embarrassing storiesthat happened to them.or would that simply scar the friendship that both of them worked hard to keep.

But that will only be though keeping them awake, till the first beams of light sneak their ways inside of every student room .

Putting her regrets and sorrow aside, the ramshackle perfect finally decided to get ready for her last day in twisted wonderland, after all she still wants in say goodbye to all the friends she made along her journey.

After a very tearful last goodbye with the ghosts of ramshackle and a promise to take care of grim until he graduates and to keep him out of troubles , the girl made her way to the mirror chambers where she met every student waiting for her there . Some crying, the others silent everyone was present there even idia , can you believe it . Except one person as usual

"Where is malleus" despite her stoic tone , everyone can clearly see the sadness and logging in her eyes . Yet no one wanted to answer that question. The room was silent to the point you can hear a pin drop . But deciding to ignore the elephant in the room,she spoke in sad tone with eyes glossed with tears

" I will miss you all , i will never forget you guys you were the best thing that happened tome , please take care of yourself and don't over work yourself, you guys are perfect just the way you are, until we meet again please don't forget me "

With a lot of tears and sobbing and a lot of group huggs the girls finally stepped into the mirror that brought her to twisted wonderland the first time,and the one that will return her to here world one last time .

Honestly I was brainstorming ideas and this came

So I hope those who read until here enjoyed my writing

Also if you want to request, requests are open please check my pinned post for more information

Thank you, hope you have a wonderful day/night

#malleus draconia #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus draconia x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #fem reader #agnst #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland x yuu

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mayonnaise-is-a-drink · 1 year

Text

White Day Special: Love Languages!! <3

Lucifer

Love Language: Acts of Service

Frankly, this poor demon is overworked, wrung dry by both demands of the kingdom and his younger brothers (more of the latter, honestly).

And he appreciates any actions (successful or otherwise) to alleviate his stress.

An action that could be as simple as a cuppa of Black Coffee of Melancholy in the morning, brewed by your very own hands.

You knock on the door to his study, and it swings opens to reveal a very haggard looking demon –too haggard in fact, when the morning bell has yet to sound.

He perks up at the sight of you, before his curious gaze settles on the tray in your hands.

You hand him the cup of freshly brew coffee that he accepts gratefully, and you set down the flask of thermos on his table, to get him through the day, you insist.

“Thank you, Y/N. I will savour every drop of your love.”

Mammon

Love Language(s): Words of Affirmation and Quality Time

You may expect the Avatar of Greed’s love language to be receiving gifts, but this demon would very much prefer to hog your time and attention.

You aren’t sure when exactly it has become the norm, but you are very much used to the sight of the second-born lounging on your bed.

You certainly aren’t against it.

He talks about a lot of things; sometimes it was about school, sometimes it was (complaints) about Lucifer, sometimes about his modelling work, his latest schemes, and sometimes... when he receives some not-so-nice remarks from the others.

And when he doesn’t, you hold him gently until he feels like himself again.

He talks and you listen quietly –offering kind words at times or to reprove his actions at other times– and the hours go by.

“Y/N, y’know, thank you. Thank you for being here for me.”

After all, what better gift in the Three Realms but you?

Leviathan

Love Language(s): Quality Time and Receiving Gifts

His introversion didn’t allow him to make friends easily.

He wasn’t lonely! At all!

His brothers don’t understand his hobbies. But that’s okie! He doesn’t understand their normie hobbies too.

He was used to it –that is, until you fell into Devildom.

Maybe it was your genuine interest in getting to know him –keeping up with his oshis and latest hyperfixations or even surprising him with trinkets you brought with him in mind– that broke him out of his shell, one step at a time.

It seems that ever since you arrived, he has been smiling more often than before.

ALL ACCORDING TO KEIKAKU (TL: Keikaku means plan).

After all, he has you now. And you will make him happy.

"Y/N! I got you this limited-edition Matcha.Ver Azuki-tan that you were looking at Akuzon last week. Consider it a return gift for the Sucre Frenzy tickets, kthxbye!”

One step at a time.

Satan

Love Language(s): Receiving Gifts and Acts of Service

You are not sure when it started, but it has become a habit for you to stop at any bookstore you come across.

Perhaps you are in love with books, or in love with someone who loves these books. Maybe both.

And today, you walked out of the bookstore with four new books in haul.

You hope he will like them.

You find him in the library, sorting the uncategorised pile of books into their new shelves, and you join him in his endeavour.

A comfortable silence falls between you two, and he breaks it softly, almost embarrassed, “Say, Y/N, in our future home together, I’d like a library like this too, maybe bigger.”

Your joyful smile says all that he hopes to hear.

Asmodeus

Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Being the Avatar of Lust and the most beautiful gift to the world (source: Y/N), he certainly is used to hearing flattery and compliments on his appearance.

So, what was so different about the praises coming out of your mouth?

Was it because of your cute and clumsy attempts to woo him?

Or was it because of the furious red blush adorning your face when he returns your courting?

Maybe he just loves everything about you.

He definitely wouldn’t mind if you translate your love from passionate words into fervent actions.

“Y/N, darling, I need help picking out tonight’s lipstick. Do you think this shade of red-rose or cherry-candy matte would look better on your skin?”

...Screw the dinner plans, you two aren’t taking a single step out of his room tonight.

Beelzebub

Love Language: Receiving Gifts

It’s no exaggeration to say that he is the biggest eater you know, and you are more than happy to indulge him.

You may not be the best cook or a very experienced one, but you know how to follow recipes!

That has to count for something, right?

And practice makes perfect –is what you would have like to say.

But he eats and praises all the food you have made, no matter how burned or under/over seasoned it may be.

In his eyes, you (and your cooking) are already perfect.

“S’good. As long as it’s from you, Y/N, it’s tasty.”

You love this demon but damn it, you want to improve your cooking for him too!!

Belphegor

Love Language(s): Physical Touch and Quality Time

He loves naptime.

He loves you and your warmth.

What better than both combined?

You wake up, startled, with no sense of time.

Your throat feels parched, your mind numbed. Your muscles ache as you move your body. What time was it? How long were you asleep? What-

He stirs beside you, blinking owlishly.

“Y/N? Why are you awake? It’s still... night-time. Ah, don’t panic, you will only hurt yourself again.”

Your mind goes blank, teetering between consciousness.

“Let’s go back to sleep together.”

The room was cold, but him and the bedding was warm and comfortable. So very comfortable.

“Now.”

You won’t leave him now, would you?

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familyvideostevie · 2 years

Text

hold my hand through it

you're feeling overwhelmed, so you and steve go on a drive | 1.5k, fem!reader, fluff, life is hard and i am sad and if you feel that way too i hope this helps < 3

Sometimes life is just a little too much. You woke up this morning feeling it -- the weight of the day before it had even happened, your mood sour from the moment you opened your eyes. It just happens sometimes, you know that, and there isn't much you can do. But it made you irritable and you argued with your coworker today and cried in the bathroom about it after because you felt bad for taking out your emotions on her and ever since then you've just been looking forward to coming home and sulking.

But when you finally get there and see Steve's car in the drive, your stomach twists. You want to see him, you always do, but you're worried you'll just be grumpy to him, too, and while you know he'll understand, you can't help but think that maybe this is the time your melancholy drives him away. But you sigh and head inside. You can hear Steve in the kitchen, radio on, singing softly. It cracks your frostiness a little, the corner of your mouth curling as you toss your things by the door and take off your shoes.

"Baby, that you?" he calls and you hear the radio turn off. You don't reply but make your way into the kitchen, ducking around the fridge to find him making...something. "Kiss for the cook?" His gaze travels over you before you give him a quick kiss, and his brows are furrowed when you pull away, like he's caught on to your mood. But he doesn't say anything, knowing that you'll tell him when you're ready.

"What's happening here?" you ask, hopping onto the kitchen island as he turns back to the stove.

"I'm making some fucking...pasta...thing I found in one of my mom's cookbooks because we had all the stuff, but honestly I don't know how it's going to go." He keeps talking, waving his hands around as he dumps things into the pot, explaining how he has no idea what "blanch" means and that the pasta was expired, which he didn't even know could happen, and you sort of zone out listening to him talk. The irritation you were worried about isn't present, and you don't find his voice annoying, but you feel heavy, like you want to cry but can't muster the energy.

"Hey, you alive over there?" Steve says. You come back to yourself to find him standing in front of you, hands running up and down your thighs.

"Yeah," you mumble. "Sorry. Did you ask me a question?" Steve studies your face for a second, dark eyes scanning your features like he's searching for something.

"I asked if you wanted to watch a movie, but don't worry about it." He moves his hands from your knees to lace his fingers with yours. "You okay, pretty girl?"

You drop your head forward to thunk on his chest. Not that long ago you would maybe had avoided the truth, made something up, and retreated to your bedroom alone. But you are in the habit of being honest with Steve because he has always made you feel safe. You know that he can't read your mind -- and you can't read his -- and being open with each other has served you well. It lets you love each other better.

"Ugh," you groan. "Not really." His thumbs stroke the backs of your hands as he waits for you to continue, humming a little at your admission. You feel the sound on your forehead. "Just stressed and overwhelmed and it turned into just being sad. Been feeling blah all day."

"Okay. Any reason? Anything I can do to help?" One hand comes to your chin to gently pull your face up so he can look at you. You shake your head.

"Nah. Just happening." That's the worst part, you think. That you have no explanation for feeling this down, no problem to tackle to make it better. It makes you feel selfish, makes you feel broken, though you know that's not true.

"That's fine, baby, you know that. Don't need a reason to feel things. You can just feel them," Steve chides, like he can hear your spiral of negative thoughts. He gently lets you go and turns back to the stove, switching off the burner.

"You can say no," he says, "but what about a drive? We can just roam around, listen to the radio or talk or sit in silence. This is a lost cause, anyway." He wrinkles his nose at the cooling pot before turning to you, shrugging.

"That...sounds great, Stevie." He beams and you smile weakly back.

"Yeah? Let's go then, c'mon." He holds out a hand as you hop off the counter, barely letting you slip into your shoes before he corrals you out the door and to his car.

As soon as he starts driving you put your feet on the dash -- only you're allowed to do that -- and roll your window all the way down. You leave the radio off and stare out at the familiar streets, at the sky as it starts to turn pink and orange, letting the fresh air flow into your lungs. Every breath seems to relax you, and while you still feel that pit in your stomach, it shrinks and you start to feel a little like yourself again.

Steve's driving you all around, taking random turns but trying to keep on side roads with less traffic. You know that he's waiting for you to break the silence, if you want to, to reach for him though his hands itch to hold yours. After a while, you pull your legs down and grab one of his hands off the steering wheel, bringing it to your thigh and holding it there. He gives you a squeeze, mouth quirking up but his eyes on the road. You take the opportunity to just look at him.

He starts to flush the longer you stare, studying his profile. Hair a little longer than his usual curling under his ears, some fringe hanging over his forehead. His thick brows and long lashes, the swoop of his nose and the plush of his lips you love kissing. His angular jawline, the moles on his neck you've traced with your fingers and your tongue. You know every inch of Steve, and he every inch of you.

"What're you lookin at?" he grumbles. "Do I have dirt on my face or something?"

"Just lookin,'" you say. "You're pretty." The flush on his neck gets darker but he smiles at the genuine joy in your voice.

"No fair!" he cries. "I gotta look at the road while you're sitting there so pretty it should be illegal."

"Life isn't fair, Stevie." You mean it as a joke, but it comes out a little more serious than you intended.

"No," Steve says, squeezing your thigh again. "That's true. But it's not all bad, right?" He glances over at you for a few seconds, his expression soft. You know Steve doesn't mind your moods. He is patient with you through them, but you know he gets a little worried and always wants to help you get to the other side.

"No, it's not." You smile a little at him as you say it. "Thank you, Steve."

"What for, baby?" You gesture with your free hand at him, the car, the world going by outside the windows.

"All of it. For getting out me of my head." For being you, you think.

"It's a pretty head, don't get me wrong." Steve sighs, and brings the car to a stop. You look around, only just registering that you're in a nearby neighborhood at a stop sign. He shifts in his seat and turns to you, bringing the hand on your leg up to cup your cheek. The golden hour light makes him look so beautiful your breath hitches.

"I just want you to know that I love you and I'm here for you, yeah? For every mood, every bad day, all of it." Steve keeps his voice soft, but you know he means every word, needs you to hear it. You swallow the lump in your throat, this one caused by your sweet boy.

"I know," you breathe out. "I love you, Stevie. So much." His eyes crinkle at the corners as he moves his face closer to yours. "So much," you say again right before he brings his lips to yours. Steve kisses you slowly, sweetly, as tenderly as he's ever done. You reach out to grab his bicep, wanting him as close as you can get with the gear shift between you.

And then a car honks. Steve, for his part, doesn't startle as much as look annoyed.

"Jesus! Alright, alright, can't you see I'm doing something important?" he says, maybe a little loudly for the stillness of the evening. He gives you one last peck before sticking his arm out the window and waving the car behind you around him. He gives the middle-aged driver, probably a dad, a mock salute that makes you dissolve into giggles.

"So," he begins, putting the car back into drive. "We need to find dinner somewhere."

"Pizza?" you suggest. Steve grabs your hand and gives your palm a kiss before setting it on his thigh his time, his warm fingers lacing with yours.

"You're a genius, babe," he grins. "Just what I was thinking."

want to be added to my tag list for full-length (non-ask) fics? send me a message and specify for steve, eddie, or both! reblog, send feedback, requests open, masterlist here!

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington #stranger things x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #steeb #this one is a bit special bc well i am sad too #where is steve to take me on a drive

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toothfa-1-ry · 1 year

Text

["camera is rolling in 3-2-1 action"]

["who was your greatest love and why did you fall inlove with them?"] -Mark Lee

GENRE: Interview format, angst, fluff(?)

PAIRING: Mark x FemReader

WARNINGS: Swear words

A/N: very very inspired by those "who was your greatest love and why" kind of reels and I might make this a series but then again I might not :>

(✧)

["okay- the camera is rolling. You can start now."

"Who was your greatest love and why did you fall inlove with them?"]

Mark's eyes widen as he awkwardly begins to laugh: "Oh wow- that is a deep question"

[he continues laughing awkwardly, looking around his surroundings]

Mark scratches his neck: "um- yea my greatest love huh"

[he pauses for a while and lets out a soft sigh]

Mark says with absolute certainty before nervously laughing: "My greatest love was definitely my college girlfriend."

Mark mutters, embarrassed: "god- she might see this"

["what was her name?"]

Mark pauses for another while and lets out a small laugh thinking about her: "her name was y/n. She..she was really pretty. With the prettiest smile"

Mark gives a small nod: that's how I remember her.

["how did you guys meet?"]

Mark unscrews the water bottle as he says: we met through one of my friend in college. She was basically a friend of a friend.

Mark slowly keeps the water bottle down as he says softly: I mean that's how she met me. I had already seen her once, before in campus. I guess you could say that she had this sort of attraction to her.

["were you attracted to her? At first sight"]

Mark's laughs again: yea. I was very attracted to her. That's why my roomate introduced us, because I couldn't stop talking about her at 3 am apparently.

["what was she like?"]

"she..she was like- sorry" Mark mumbled a apology as we stopped and waited for a few minutes "She was like rest to me."

[Awkward silence]

"Oh god wow that sounded way better in my head I swear" Mark laughs again "let me explain what I meant...She was my place of comfort.

"She was the only person who I could really not try to be anything or anyone else. I didnt need to try to be special or anything, I could just be me. So yea..she was sort of my place of rest"

Mark's smile slowly fades away as he looks at his hands: "I was a music major and she well she was a history major"

he continues: "god- I remember her being really smart with these glasses which she would never wear" he shakes his head letting out a chuckle.

Mark contemplates saying something for a while:"I used to uh- overwork myself ? Back then in college before I met her I used to go even 3 days without sleeping. Was practically a zombie but after meeting her. I felt human again."

Mark looks around nervously unsure of whether to say or not: she reminded me to live...and to love. To live my life to the fullest and love to the fullest.

["when did you realise that you loved her?"]

Mark lets out a soft sigh: "uh so- well..I- this is gonna make me sound like a jerk"

Mark grimaces slightly before letting out a small laugh: I uh- actually forgot our date this one time."

[the staff gasp]

Mark quickly says: "I know..pretty shitty of me but I can explain! No I swear-"

"I was up late all night doing my assignments and I couldn't sleep not even one bit. Like- the entire night just consisted of coffee and then morning rolled up but by that time i had fast asleep. Completely gone, in snooze land, wasted but in a sleep sense and not a drunk sen-"

["let me guess. You missed the date"]

Mark grimaces: "yea..I sorta did. And i felt awful. I still do"

"anyways next thing I know I'm wide awake remembering our date, I look at the time and I'm already an hour late"

Mark laughs: "I was getting ready to meet her and there she was- she was right infront of me holding a bowl of soup in my apartment just as I was getting ready to go out and meet her"

Mark's smile turns melancholy, his eyes turn nostalgic : "there she was infront of me, not angry at me for missing our date. God- she was there worried for me"

"she was all dressed up but there she was in my apartment scolding me for not taking care of myself, scolding me for not eating well."

[staff asked "what about the date?"]

Mark begins to laugh: "that's what I asked her to. She began scolding me even more saying that my health is more important than a silky date for her. She said that any moment with me feels like date and that she didn't care of I missed the date if it means taking care of my health."

Mark suddenly grows quiet: "but I knew it did matter. Even though we spend time together it wasn't exactly a date. Not a proper one anyways. But she didn't care about that."

"yea. I guess you could say I realised I loved her that day. I realised loved her so much, and that she loves me too. So much"

["something about her that you can't forget/miss"]

"honestly.." Mark paused he looked unsure of what to say or rather if he should say it.

"everything, I miss everything."

["everything?"]

"everything." Mark repeated firmly. "From the way she talked to the way she looked at me. I really miss her scolding me to go to sleep or to eat my meals. That's why I always remind my friends to eat and sleep well yknow. That way you know someone cares."

"she cared for me" Mark smiled sadly and sighed

["what happened?"]

Mark doesn't look up, he stays quiet for a while: "I happened"

["you happened?"]

Mark remains quiet

....

...

"I always- I was always lacking. I was always insecure. I was insecure about me, us. I was afraid"

Mark lets out a soft sight as he shakes his head: "she was amazing. Absolutely perfect, and perfect people deserve other perfect people. Perfect people like her dont deserve half cracked wreck downed people like me"

Mark looks uncomfortable as he mumbles softly: "she deserved more than me. And i- deep down. Even when I asked her out, even when I ask her to be my girlfriend. Deep down I knew that she deserved more than me."

"she was like the sun. And I was like one of the 8 planet's-

Mark lets out a scoff: God who am I kidding? I wasn't even a planet... I was just a piece of rock floating near around her. I was like Pluto, miles away from her, revolving around her. I needed her warmth, I wanted her warmth. But my existence was nothing compared to hers.

["you broke up with her?"]

Mark pauses, looking down to his shoes, he fidgets uncomfortably: "yea. I did. I ended the things between us. I ended us. Because why should I stop her from meeting someone who actually deserves her ynow? Who actually is..who actually is worthy of her. Someone who isn't me"

"did I love her? Of course I did, did I ever love anyone else like I did to her? No. Never. I could never love somebody the way I loved y/n. She was my greatest love for a reason and she'll always be my greatest love"

"always"

["if you guys could get back together, if you had another chance with her, would you take it?"]

Mark is left with his thoughts, he remains quite. The entire studio remains eerily quite

"no"

["no?"]

Mark doesn't say anything again for a few minutes before showing a sad smile : "no. I won't get back together with her. If anything I'd go back into the past and make sure she never crosses roads with me."

"I caused her so much pain. I caused myself so much pain. I dont want us to feel that pain all over again. We were both young, a little too foolish, far too naive. We didn't know what was going on, and it was beautiful.. but all things beautiful also have some pain in them"

["even though you miss her? You still won't give the both of you a chance again?"]

Mark looks straight at the camera's, his eyes sad but his voice firm: "you see, she didn't deserve my love. She deserved the stars and the moon and I couldn't give her that. She deserved the sky infinite and the entire earth"

"she deserved everything. But she didn't deserve to be stuck with someone like me"

"I didn't deserve someone like her."

"so no. Even if I had the chance to get back with her I wouldn't, for the same reasons why I left her. I was lacking"

Mark looks away from the camera, he touches his hands looking at his fingers.

He finally looks up again: "and I still am. I'm still lacking for for, I'm still lacking to be worthy of her"

["okay and cut-" Well done everyone!"]

Mark claps his hands, shaking the tears that were forming at the back of his eyes.

"that was great everyone!" He laughs, complimenting the staff. Maybe by laughing and smiling he could forget everything. He could pretend that he's okay.

["hey Mark?"]

Mark looks up at one the staff as he wears his jacket: "yea?"

["thanks for sharing that story with us man"]

Mark just smiles as he picks up his water bottle, walking out of the studio.

He waves goodbye to the producer who was busy watching the footage: See you later Rennie

"see you later Mark!" The producer waves him goodbye

Mark's says goodbye to all the staff again as he left, unaware that two of the younger staff were talking about him.

["hey did you realise that he's the only one who calls our producer by her first name?"]

["Leave it Chenle..producer and him are probably friends. Just stick to reading the script properly"]

["I'm just saying Jisung....anyways. Whose the next person we're gonna shoot?"

["some guy named Huang Renjun"]

"okay! Huang Renjun? Yes? Your coming up next. Please sit here comfortably and one of our staffs will briefly explain what we're doing today" the producer ushers Renjun towards the seat in the middle as she shoots him a smile

"hey kid- brief the guy about what were doing today okay?" The producer says to one of the youngest staff members who was to say the least, very shocked but very ready

"you feeling nervous? Yea? A little? Haha don't worry"

"okay so basically we're asking a few people a question. All you have to do is answer them honestly and well yea that it's"

The young male nods as he sits down in the chair in the middle of the room full of camera's and staff. He looks around the dark grey room and flashes a smile to the camera, signalling that he was ready.

"camera is rolling in 3-2-1 action" "who was your greatest love and why did you fall in love with them?"

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iamawolfstarsimp · 4 months

Text

Sup bitches im back

currently snowing where I am so thought I'd make a cute lil cozy fluffy fix for ya'll (plus, who doesn't like those)

Hope you all are well, I recently got sick and finally am rid of whatever sort of illness it was. but I'm just gonna get into the swing of things again now that I'm better so what better way to do that than write a fic for ya'll

but anyway, enjoy!

Sirius didn't know what this feeling was. A sort of misplacement.

It happened every few weeks or months, where Sirius would wake up and not feel right in his bones. As if his soul was uncomfortable in his body.

It wasn't like the regular winter or autumnal melancholy, but a deeper feeling than that. It weighed him down for however long it stuck around, dragging within him like some sort of ball and chain.

You could usually tell when it happened, the symptoms were pretty obvious. He was less energetic and wasn't in on any pranks or mischief making, he ate less and dressed more proper instead of his usual mushed up look, and either avoid the others like the plague or follow them around like a helpless puppy.

He rarely ever talked to anyone about it (as far as Remus knew) except for James. He would wordlessly crawl into James' bed when he felt the need to and they would talk (so he presumed, they always put up a silencing spell. He used to wish he could know what they talked about behind those curtains, to be included in their mystery conversatios. It hurt sometimes how Sirius would hide away all of the things he found ugly about himself and only show them to people he truly trusted. Of course, those memories were years ago, before they had even started dating so now he got to see plenty of Sirius' parts. Both the good and bad.)

On days or nights he felt that sense of longing or depression, he would crawl into Remus' bed and they'd talk or not talk. Whatever Sirius needed at the time.

This time was one where he wanted to talk. It was morning before classes and the others had already left. Remus was never a morning person so he stayed and slept in, snoozing his alarm every few minutes.

Sirius walked over and opened his curtains timidly. Remus turned and looked before smiling.

"Can I come in?" Sirius murmured. Remus nodded and rolled over to open the blankets for Sirius to crawl into which he did gladly.

"You wanna talk or jus' 'ere for a cuddle?" Remus slurred, blinking awake.

"Both?" Sirkha shrugged. Remus wrapped his arms around Sirius' shoulders, ducking his face into his shoulder to hug him. They stayed like that before Remus pulled back.

"M'kay, what's up?" Remus asked, resting his head on his pillow but remaining eye contact.

"I don't really know, I just-" Sirius sighed, looking away. "How do you feel upset about something that you don't feel upset about?"

"Like, I feel sad about my body right now but my head knows I'm hot and I have no reason to dislike myself but I do." Sirius explained, looking up at him.

Remus paused, letting the air settle. "Feelings and emotions can be confusing. Sometimes you can't control or rationalize them. They can be wildly incorrect but you still feel them not matter how you much you try to rid of them." Sirius looked away again. "And that's okay." Remus turned his face so that he'd look him in the eye. "Sometimes the best thing you can do is just feel, even if that's all you can do."

"No one's gonna judge you for being human and not loving yourself all the time." Remus smiled.

Sirius gave a small smile back. "What's bothering you this time?" Remus asked.

"Just my scars," Sirius replied, tracing up and down Remus' arm as he spoke. "Memories of how I get them, the pain I experienced as I got them, the house." Sirius shuddered slightly, shaking his head. "God, the house."

"I understand." Sirius knew he did but felt glad to be reassured. "My scars get to me too."

"Yeah, but, your scars are badass!" Sirius said immediately. Remus eyerolled but he was smiling. "Yours are like battle scars, they make you even hotter. Mine are just evidence of where I came from."

"If anything your scars are "battle scars", with all the fighting you and your mother had." That got a chuckle out of Sirius. "Mine are self-induced and you know that." Remus aimed a poke for Sirius' middle. Sirius swatted away his hand.

"Don't be mean."

"Don't be such a grouch." Remus snarked back, poking him again.

"Don't tickle me." Sirius grabbed his hands, or tried to.

"Oh, sorry, was I tickling you?" Sirius grinned and rolled over, hiding his face.

"You know you were, you meanie!" He said into the pillow.

"Can't help it, you're too fun to mess with." Remus leaned in and spoke in Sirius' ear, hands moving to wiggle against his sides.

"Rehemus!" Sirius shouted, arms slamming down to protect his sides.

Remus only grinned and continued. Sirius flipped over to properly defend himself but only succeeded in revealing more spots for Remus to "torture".

"No, wait, don't!" He laughed as Remus pinched along the bottom of his stomach. He threw his head back and cackled, hands weakly hitting Remus in the arms and shoulders.

"Hm? Don't what Padfoot? Honestly you're making no sense right now." Remus tutted, kissing the corner of Sirius' outstretched mouth.

"Tickle me! Don't tihihickle me!" Sirius giggled, yelling when Remus slipped his hands underneath his loose sleep shirt.

"Tickle you? Well if you insist." Remus shook his head and drilled his fingers into the bottom of Sirius' ribs, kissing different places his mouth could find. Sirius was lost in his own mirth, back arching, squeaking all the while squirming like mad.

Remus backed off and just trailed his fingertips across Sirius' sides lightly. He tugged up his shirt to inspect the scar that ran across Sirius' side, three prosice lines cut evenly on his left side, his mother's doing. He traced the lines a few times till Sirius caught his breath.

"You're an awful boyfriend." Sirius scowled, but there was amusement in his eyes. Remus only laughed and kissed him again.

"Better?" Remus raised his eyebrows.

"No, but I'll accept your measly apology for now because we have class in twenty minutes." They both hopped up from the bed.

"But I expect a hundred more later!" Sirius shouted from the bathroom. Remus shook his head in the moment but fulfilled Sirius' request and some.

Hope you liked!

#sirius black #remus lupin #tickle fic #marauders #harry potter #tickle #wolfstar tickle #this turned out way longer than i anticipated #and a little sad #but a happy ending

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bookscandlesnbts · 6 months

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I watched Like Crazy

*I’m talking about the movie here so this post contains spoilers of the movie. Do not read this post if you haven’t seen the movie but are planning on it*

Of course, my interest in this movie stemmed from Jimin said that he really likes this movie and that it helped inspire his main track off FACE that goes by the same title. So, I watched it. I’m not much of a movie person and romantic movies are very much an I have to be in the mood to watch it sort of thing. Like Crazy a melancholy movie about an initially passionate heterosexual relationship that becomes complicated over time.

I went into this wanting it to evoke some emotions that Jimin might have felt. I was never moved to tears, but it was a good, sad movie.

The beginning I couldn’t help but notice the parallels in Jikook’s relationship. The main couple Anna and Jacob were very playful in their flirting, and it was really cute. They were inseparable. They did activities together like riding go carts and there was a long scene of them playing on Santa Monica beach which was the same beach that Jikook went to at night during PTD LA era.

Anna the female lead is a foreign exchange student and has to go back to England once they graduate college. The couple plan to make it work, and the morning that she is supposed to leave she decides to stay thinking that it would be a big deal. There is a long montage scene of them staying cuddled up in bed together for days on end, which felt very Jikook coded.

Eventually she has to go back, and they promise to reunite. He gives her a silver bracelet that says “Patience” and she hands him a scrapbook type diary of their moments together.

Once she is home though, they both realize it’s difficult for them to stay in contact. They keep playing phone tag and are busy with work. Eventually, they move onto different relationships but keep trying to make it work but the spark isn’t there.

The movie has an extremely ambiguous ending that felt abrupt.

I am not going to speculate something super in depth about how this movie could tie into Jikook’s relationship. I don’t think they broke up and found different partners like the characters in the movie did, but the theme of the movie being about being forced to be separated from the one you love is for sure is something that relates to them. With MS ahead, they will be separated. When Jimin was busy with FACE promotions and even recording the album itself, they were probably separated more than usual too. And that could have been a hard period for them.

Don’t take this post as any type of insecurity projected onto their relationship. We saw 2 min of JK in Jimin’s live. They are fine 🤣 I was mostly curious to watch this movie and see if I could feel the same emotions that Jimin might have felt. It’s a good movie. I didn’t relate to it much personally, so I don’t have super strong feelings about it. But the movie seemed to have had a lasting impression on Jimin, one of our two hopeless romantics.

#jikook #kookmin #like crazy

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threadbaresweater · 7 months

Text

Birthday Cake and First Impressions

Jumin Han x MC. This is based loosely on his route. Fluff, humor, a sassy female MC based on the one I created for the game. First kisses, mention of food (cake, specifically). A repost from an old blog. Happy Birthday, Jumin! I miss you. Divider by @/cafekitsune

Jumin had never known a love quite like hers before.

He realized that perhaps he'd never loved before he met her. Certainly, he hadn't realized his capacity for such emotion until she stood there in the doorway to his penthouse, smiling and beautiful and maybe just a little bit uncertain about her purpose.

"Jaehee thought you might need someone to keep you company," she said with a shrug, pushing her bangs away from her eyes. "Well...here I am!" The little giggle that punctuated her greeting made Jumin feel as if he might float away; he gripped the door handle and exhaled sharply before reaching out to take her suitcase. In reality, it was just another tactic to ground himself as he caught the scent of her shampoo.

"Here you are," he echoed, remembering himself. She relinquished her suitcase to him, and he brought her inside with a dismissive nod to his guards.

They spent the morning and afternoon talking about all manner of things. About their backgrounds. About wine and song and hobbies and family and the RFA party. About what made her laugh and what made Jumin smile. He’d never felt so in tune with someone, so at ease with idle conversation and the company of a woman.

As the day grew into night and they settled upon his long, white couch in front of a modern gas fireplace that looked remarkably like the real thing, Jumin suddenly grew quiet. The chime of his companion’s phone brought him out of a melancholy calm, and he turned to her with a raised brow and a quirk of his lip. She had her stocking feet in his lap– mismatched socks, jeans that hit just above her ankle, and toes that wiggled at the funny look on his face.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, typing out a quick text message, then sliding her phone back into the rear pocket of her jeans. He’d discovered that she had an uncanny way of getting straight to the root of whatever was bothering him. Not only in his home, but in the chatroom even, she asked pointed questions. She knew exactly what to say and how to phrase it without being overbearing, instead encouraging him to speak his truth and let her– and the others– inside his heart that had been guarded for so, so long.

“How can you tell there’s something on my mind?” he asked in return, idly patting her foot. It amazed him, the level of comfort they had achieved in a few short hours. How she innocently brought down all his walls and made him feel as if he could do and say just about anything.

“I see it in your eyes,” she said, dramatic and silly, in a much deeper voice than was natural to her. When Jumin frowned, she leaned back against the couch and blew her bangs upward, out of her face. “For real though. What’s going on in that head? You’ve been quiet for a few minutes now. Be honest, Jumin.” She leaned onto his shoulder and wrapped both hands around his bicep. “Do my feet smell?”

He gasped, and she burst into giddy laughter. Jumin wasn’t sure how to react at first; he watched her, fascinated with her loss of control and her melodic voice that carried throughout his living room. As he watched her toss her head back and open her pretty mouth, he was overcome with the very same glee that seemed to flow so freely from her body.

His laughter began as an awkward sort of grunt; it startled both of them, and he caught her eyes, twinkling with unbridled amusement. “For your information,” he began, lifting her foot to his nose and inhaling deeply, “your feet do not smell.”

She was so taken aback by how out of character his gesture was that she fell into stunned silence, watching while he lowered her foot back into his lap. “As to what’s on my mind, I’ll tell you. But only if you promise not to make a ruckus about it.”

She sat up straight and shimmied her shoulders, lifting her chin to appear proper and poised. When she spoke, she mimicked his speech, even lowering her voice an octave. Jumin wondered when the wine had gone to her head. “I promise not to make a ruckus about it, Mr Han. Sir.”

“Today is my birthday.”

She nearly leapt into his lap when he confessed, but he raised an index finger to his lips to remind her. “You promised,” he said. It was almost a plea. She settled back into her spot, crossing her legs beneath her; she grabbed her wine from the glass top table in front of them and studied the burgundy liquid as she swirled it around.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asked. Her voice was quiet now; even the air between them felt quiet and calm. She heard only the hum of the aquarium behind them and the steady cadence of Jumin’s breath from where he sat so closely beside her.

“Because I don’t usually like to make a fuss about the day,” he said. “When I was younger, Jihyun and I would always do something special together.”

She blinked and tilted her head. “Jihyun?”

Jumin nodded and sipped his own wine. “My apologies. You know him as V.”

“Oh! Yes, I do.” She propped her cheek on her fist, elbow resting on the back of the couch. “What did you do with V– I mean, Jihyun– on your birthday?”

He sighed, wistful and melancholic. “I remember one year, my parents held a party for me. It was more for the adults than for me, of course. A chance for my father to make new connections in the neighborhood and talk business with potential partners. I think Jihyun might have been the only other child at the party besides me.” He paused for a moment and shifted his gaze toward the fireplace, then lowered his voice as if he were talking to himself. “At least he was the only child that mattered to me.”

His companion listened attentively, allowing him the time to relive the memory of this birthday while trying her best to come up with a way to celebrate with him tonight. It would be a shame to let his birthday go by without so much as a wish upon a candle’s flame or a slice of cake. “What do you remember?”

A broad smile blossomed on his face when he recalled the events of that day. Though he didn’t look at her while he recounted the story, she knew he was there in his mind by the way he told it. “There was wine. A lot of wine. Expensive, strong wine that Jihyun and I mistook for juice. We took a few sips and collectively decided that it needed more sugar. So…” He trailed off, laughing into his fist. “So we made our way into the kitchen and added a few tablespoons to each of our cups until it tasted better. Quite frankly, I’m amazed I remember this birthday.”

“How old were you?” She smiled at him, at the fondness with which he crafted his words.

“Believe it or not, it was my twelfth birthday.”

“Twelve! Did you get drunk, then?”

“Wasted.”

To hear him use slang was charming and hilarious. She wiggled in her seat and grinned broadly at him. “You’re different in person than you are in the chatrooms,” she observed.

They grew quiet again, and she felt heat rise to her face when he regarded her. His eyes– grey and striking and fathomless– seemed to see all of her, even the parts she wanted to hide away from the world. When he looked at her like he was looking at her now, she felt simultaneously fragile and powerful. “In what way?” he asked, though she knew that he was aware of it.

“You’re more relaxed here. You seem…what’s the word I’m looking for…” When she trailed off and seemed to lose herself in thought, Jumin gathered all the strength he had to keep himself from leaning over to kiss her right then and there. The faraway look in her eyes, the blush that blossomed on her cheeks, the way she tucked her bottom lip under her front teeth– it was enough to make his heart lurch into overtime and his thoughts turn to vapor. “Uptight! That’s it!” she exclaimed. He sat up straight, not realizing that he had, in fact, been leaning closer toward her in the seconds that spanned between them. “I mean, don’t take that the wrong way. There’s nothing wrong with being closed off, especially around someone you don’t know all that well.”

Jumin loosened his tie, suddenly feeling a bit suffocated. He cleared his throat and draped an arm over the back of the couch, settling further into the cushion. “I feel like I’ve come to know you much more today. I’m sure that’s why you perceive me as relaxed. I am also in the comfort of my own home, which helps.”

She nodded absently and touched his forearm. “What’s your favorite kind of cake?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, though the twinkle in them helped him understand that she wasn’t truly exasperated with him, just being playful. “Cake, Jumin. Surely you’d like to have cake for your birthday. What’s your favorite flavor?”

He checked his watch. “It’s too late at night to eat cake. I’ll call first thing in the morning to have one made in time for lunch tomorrow.”

She wasn’t going to let him avoid the question. “Strawberry, you say? That’s my favorite flavor, too!” Off the couch and into his kitchen she bounced while he stumbled behind, unsure of whether he should join her or call Assistant Kang for advice. “I’m sure a wealthy man like you has plenty of ingredients in his kitchen just begging to be stirred up and baked into a pretty ceramic cake pan, yeah?"

Speechless. Jumin Han was speechless as he watched this girl open the cabinets of his kitchen and take stock of what he had available. Of course he had plenty of goods. Fresh eggs, stone ground flour, cane sugar, pure flavoring and spices…anything she could wish for. She squealed over his expensive utensils and dishes that looked like they hadn’t been used at all.

Just as she was about to break open a bag of flour, she noticed his eyes upon her– wide, uncertain, shimmering with trepidation– and offered him another one of her brilliant smiles. She pushed up her sleeves and beckoned him forward. “Come on. Help me!”

Jumin scoffed, but began undoing the buttons on his sleeves anyway. “I didn’t know I would have to make my own cake,” he mused, giving her a timid, lopsided grin.

“Well, the only thing I really need help with is the taste testing,” she replied. “I just want to make sure it’s sweet enough for you.”

She worked in silence while Jumin watched, fascinated. He loved making pancakes, but a birthday cake was something he’d never tried his hand at; come to think of it, it was something he’d never seen made in person. His mother wasn’t exactly the domestic type, and most of the desserts he’d consumed over the years had been made and served before they ever reached his sight. To watch it come together now was a treat in itself.

Once she had mixed well enough, she held out a spoon to him and bounced a bit on her toes. “Try it.”

“There is raw egg and flour in the batter. That’s not safe to eat,” he said.

“Tch. Amateur.” She raised the spoon to her own lips and licked it clean, closing her eyes to savor the flavor. A quiet, satisfied moan from her mouth made him hot under the collar for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend. “Delicious,” she whispered. “You sure you don’t wanna try?”

Before she could tease him further, he leaned forward and kissed her. Short, sweet, and with just enough tongue so he could taste the batter. He surprised not only his companion, but himself as well with how bold he was.

When they parted, she kept her eyes closed, lips parted slightly.

"Oh."

“Perhaps it’s a little too sweet,” Jumin said, barely above a whisper. “I might need to taste again, just to be sure.”

She nodded, and a smile curled upon her face. She opened her eyes just in time to see him lean forward and kiss her again– a bit more firm, a bit more confident. He cupped her cheek with one hand and drew her body close with the other. The spoon she held in her hand clattered to the counter as she slid her fingers along his forearm.

Jumin leaned back, tongue darting out to lick along his bottom lip. “Entirely too much sugar. Though I suppose it has to do more with the vessel than the recipe.”

“Should we put it in the oven and see what happens?” Though she hadn’t intended it to come out as an innuendo, she blushed in spite of herself. Jumin, however, seemed to have missed the connotation. For that, she was grateful.

“That’s the next logical step, correct?”

Into the prepared pan– then into the oven– the cake served as a welcome diversion for what might have blossomed into a situation that neither of them were quite ready for.

“Assistant Kang was right,” Jumin mused as they wandered out to the living room once again, resuming their position on the couch.

“In what way?” the girl asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“You’re a good distraction. Not only from the fact that Elizabeth has gone missing, but from the unpleasant thought of yet another birthday.” He sighed, weary and sentimental, and reached for her hand. When he hesitated, she studied him for a moment, then took hold of his wrist and laced their fingers together. Jumin opened his mouth as if to speak, but found the words difficult to form.

“Jumin,” she said tenderly, giving his hand a squeeze. “Hey. Look at me.”

He obliged and met her eyes, feeling something foreign and warm in the center of his chest. When he tried to take a deep breath, he felt as if he were drowning. His heart skipped a beat, and when he tried to look away from her, she touched his cheek and smiled intimately.

“Happy Birthday,” she said. “I know…you don’t have your cat. And I know that everyone forgot about today. Maybe you wanted them to. I don’t know. But, um…I’m glad I’m here with you. Thank you for being so kind, and for trusting me. I know it can’t be easy for you.”

Jumin’s response was to simply nod, as if he’d received her words and processed them. Though he appeared outwardly calm and rational, inside a storm was raging. He would tell her later over the phone– after she had retired to her room and Jumin to his own– that she made it hard for him to exercise control.

She frosted the cake and decorated it with fresh berries. They found a large, tapered candle and pushed it down into the middle of her cake; she giggled and told him to make an extra big wish.

“But what if my wish has already come true?” he asked.

“Don’t overthink it!” she said, watching wax begin to drip down the candle and onto the cake. “Wish for something else then.”

“I have everything I desire.”

She rolled her eyes. “Jumin, there has to be something you want that isn’t already within your reach.”

That gave him pause. He stood still, seeming to consider something that just occurred to him. He blew out the candle, then found himself pulled into another kiss. She pressed her palms against either side of his face and giggled just before their lips met again.

“How did you know?” he said.

With a wink and a shrug, she sliced two pieces of cake for them. “I had a hunch.”

Jumin would recall it as his most memorable birthday celebration to date.

She would recall it as the night she fell in love.

#jumin han #jumin x mc #mystic messenger

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thepayloadisgay · 9 months

Note

i'm a different anon, but since you want to talk about genji, here's a prompt: what do you think are genji's opinions/relationships on characters other than hanzo? your choice of which characters

Always here to talk about Genji tysm.

Gency, Genyatta, Ramji below the cut.

(sorry they just kinda devolved into small relationship dynamic drabbles sobs. hope u enjoy anyway)

Genji and Mercy

(note: I've written extensively about Gency in the past. I think my opinion on their relationship has changed a bit lately. Or maybe this is just another vein to their dynamic I wanna explore :3)

She was the first thing he saw when he woke up. Eyes ragged. Everything ringing with a halo. Blurred. Missing edges.

He didn't want to see her again for days, but he had to. The manual to his blueprint; fixer to his malfunctions; fucking hand to hold when he couldn't get up off the floor.

A shadow he wanted to cut off. A new normal that was nothing but there.

She was patient, if stern. Kind, if insistent. Beautiful, if weathered, weary.

Genji started to look more one day. A day he couldn't remember it just became. He asked her a question that wasn't about his body, what happened, what's going to happen. It was about her. She'd stopped what she was doing and struggled to answer.

The next time he noticed, she stood closer. Her laugh making him swallow. She wore glasses when she forgot her contacts. They made her eyes smaller. Hoops in her ears. Matching necklace, bracelet. Stupid jokes that made no sense. Interests that bored him. Stories that made him listen. A voice that lulled him. She smelled of coffee. Sometimes when it was late, cigarettes. Her hair, rose.

Genji hated roses. But he wanted her.

"Let's test your sensors," she'd said, holding his hand palm up, pen poised.

Before she'd pressed, pen clattered to floor, discarded. Genji touched palm to the base of her throat, fingers spreading over clavicle, knowing beneath it was more than just bone.

"Genji-" A whisper. Reprimand.

He'd looked up, curious, his thumb the shape of her throat. Her eyes, closed.

She ran colder than he'd expected. An effect of her nanbots as she played god within, without. Whatever it was, he felt a shiver for the first time since waking up something else. And he wanted to feel more.

More.

"I can feel a pen."

Angela ran a finger along his hairline, along the stairway of scars.

"I want to feel you." Closer, that the words had stuck to Angela's lips, never let go. "-you-"

"Just tonight." She'd said. She'd lied.

And lied again.

----------

Genji and Zenyatta

"I haven't seen you all morning."

Genji draws the whetstone along his blade, again. A mirror. Sharp enough to slice a breath. Too long since it had cut anything. But he still saw blood smeared at its edges, caught at the tip, smudged in what was left of his prints.

Sometimes.

For a while it had been clean. A reflection of his mind, growing soul.

"Couldn't sleep."

Zenyatta lowers from his hover, taking a seat on knees beside Genji, palms to knees.

"Your eyes do look, heavy."

"I know you're kindly saying I look like shit."

Zenyatta turns his head. "Hmm."

Scratch of the whetstone.

Hum of Zenyatta's orbs. Two, hover Genji, and he barely notices. just a normal comfort now that gravitate towards his melancholy. Scorching away the weight so it's easier to walk, stand, or simply, breathe.

"Some of us have learned a mimic of your sleep, here," begins Zenyatta, the sound of Genji's whetstone rhythm, rhyme, "a sort of deep meditation. Even a dream."

Geni glances to the side, only his eyes visible this morning, his faceplate security. Comfort.

"What do you dream of, master?"

Genji knows there's a smile. "Oh, that would be telling."

Genji keeps drawing his whetstone, but the motion's slow. His shoulders sag. Eyes, dull. A slow sigh and he uncrosses legs, stretching them across the ground, wiggling sore ankles, unmoved for hours.

"Sleep, Genji."

"What?"

The orbs around Genji circle once. Settle above, humming something Genji feels is warmth, want.

And soon, he's closer beside Zenyatta, head lolled against shoulder. The metal, edges, softened by the shawl draped, as if expectant. As if this has already happened before.

"Maybe we'll both dream, again. And compare...notes."

"Maybe." Is the last thing Genji says, a weight against Zenyatta, a hand on his master's thigh.

----------

Genji and Ramattra

"Why do you care so much about what they think?"

Ramattra. Cross legged, at ease as an emperor throned, dancing one of Genji's shurikens between his fingers.

Genji secures his faceplate, headplate, running a finger along a nick in one the ears, ignoring Ramattra.

"I mean," flicks the shuriken again. Genji almost snaps it out of his hand, "you are hideous. But humans -never mind their opinions- matter nothing."

"Why are you talking to one, then?"

"Are you one?" Flick.

Arm half in hoodie, he stops. Stares at one of the cracked mirrors he'd bought from the villages below after much encouragement from Zenyatta. There's no eyes that look back. Face, obscured. Hair, beneath. There are limbs, four. But humans aren't the only bipeds around here. He breathes, though. Eats. Drinks. Dreams (they do too, they say). Fucks (you're not alone in that, boy).

He could be human in that mirror.

He could not.

Genji pulls the rest of his hoodie on, cats with swords and lasers. There's holes in the wrists he's made for his thumbs. It's stretched from when someone else tried it on.

"You want me thrown off Shambali because I'm human," he snaps his head to Ramattra, "yet you question if I really am one."

"You say your heart beats," another flick of the shuriken, but this time towards Genji who catches it between two fingers, "but it wouldn't without all that metal, wires and wonder that makes me."

The shuriken sinks into the wood beside Ramattra's head, but not before it nicks a line of his face, a scratch through the purple.

Just, enough.

"I bleed, you don't."

Ramattra laughs. It's music. "And where exactly do you still bleed?"

It's a question that needs no answer. It's a taunt that wants one.

He doesn't know when Genji got here, foot to Ramattra's knee, and he leans forward, picking the shuriken from beside his head with a ting.

"You want to find out?"

Ramattra wonders how hard he can stretch that throat before it snaps; those thighs before they pop; how much he really does need left, to breathe, to bleed, be-

#genji shimada #gency #genyatta #ramji #angela ziegler #zenyatta #ramattra #ask des #des writes #it's genji shimada hours

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daweyt · 5 months

Note

what are your likes and dislikes ?

Things I Adore:

eating dark bitter chocolate and pair it with black bitter coffee; wearing big rings with fingerless gloves; (learning) languages — ancient greek, Latin, Farsi, Italian, Sicilian, Spanish, Arabic, Russian, Ladino, Hebrew —; knitwear; jet black hair; weird shapes; the scent of patchouli paired with chocolate; horror silent films; things that are obscure, austere, ugly and odd; poisonous flowers; notes of absinthe, ink, or milk in perfumes; black blue lipstick that clashes with my skin tone; playing chess while listening to my favourite audiobooks; Russian literature; Arabic poetry; the melancholy and coldness of early winter mornings; candies — black licorice, nougat, anise candies and caramels —; the writings of Edgar Allan Poe; the intensity with which I feel my emotions; dark brown/black eyes and big noses; my simple desire for privacy; german expressionism; making my own clothes; wearing ties when there's no need for it; dark washed out green walls; having an altar for myself as a form of self-care like some sort of sanctuary; stained glass windows; eloquence and quick wit; taking a bath as a form of emotional and spiritual reset; intimacy; religious references in art; gothic architecture; the taboo; expanding my creativity; close-ups in films — for i love to focus on details whether it be a facial expression, the texture of someone's skin, a pair of hands desperately grasping —; the sound of the oud; salted popcorn; grieving the last book i read; ... and frankly, plenty of other things!

Things I Dislike / Don't Particularly Care For:

the pink-purple colour of heliotrope; talking about myself; anhedonia; the scent of lily of the valley; sparkling drinks; white/beige minimalist homes; large brand logos on clothes; action films; pessimism disguised as realism; feeling disconnected from myself; cruelty disguised as a joke; impatience; strawberries; catering to an 'aesthetic'; la choucroute (this is a french dish but I don't know how to translate that in english); young adult fiction; insects that crawl like worms and maggots; being told what to do or how to live my life; ... and a few others probably, I admit I don't know myself very well on that part.

#Ask

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eupheme · 2 years

Text

Penny For Your Thoughts | Part 9.5 - Resilient

masterlist

Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 6.9k words

Tags: lots of fluff and smut, mentions of food, making out, authority kink if you squint, thigh riding, oral, soft piv, brief ref to somno

Summary: He comes home.

A/N: thank you to everyone who’s made it to the penultimate chapter! I really hope you like this. 💖 and thank you to @thaddeuscranes for telling me about Alfred’s canonical green (blue) thumb, which I couldn’t resist referencing. 🥀

After everything that has transpired, leaving the hospital feels almost unceremonious. There’s a final check-up, a list of follow-up appointments a mile long. A few extra minutes spent quietly thanking and wishing some of the staff well, people who you’ve gotten used to seeing every day.

And then, as your arm tucks into one of his, his other hand curling around the head of his new, gold-tipped cane - you’re stepping through the door. Walking out into the street, to where Bruce is waiting with his car.

It’s been weeks. Close to a month that he’s spent inside, other than the afternoon of the announcement. The days are turning even more gray, getting shorter. A bite in the air that makes his chest ache as he sucks in air.

The ride back to the Tower is quiet. Quick - it seems like no time at all before they’re parking beneath, taking the elevator ride up. The heavy doors opening, pulling in the golden glow from the foyer.

Walking forward with tentative steps, feeling like he’s been gone for months. Years. Parts of the room were still untouched in his absence. Others are ones that he’s thought about often.

You’re following him as he moves into the space, the trailing tap of your steps as he takes it in, not shying away from the wide, open room at the base of the dual staircases.

Holding your breath for a second as his head dips, sliding across the wooden floor, to where the heavy table sits. Sighing, as he focuses on it instead - his heavy palm going flat against the wood as he checks for marks.

A strange sort of melancholy at the thought of losing his old companion - the sturdy place where he’s worked and studied at for years.

Mind already working, noticing that the table isn’t in its usual place. Making a note to fix it, among a long list of other things.

Unafraid, so different that you had been, to continue through the room - down to the nook where the small office had been set up. Where it had happened.

A desk and chair sit upright, shoved to the side when you and Bruce had been cleaning up. A number of the decorations - old, heavy books, a set of worn speakers - had been damaged by the explosion, in the cleanup after. Taken down to the garbage together during the late nights and early morning over the past few weeks.

The tall built-ins had taken the brunt of the explosion - the carved arches at the top now splintered, the drawers blackened and charred. A few missing from where you had emptied them, setting them off to the side.

Residue from the fire extinguishers still clings to the corners of the room, settling in the grooves - powdery and white.

Alfred’s voice breaking through the silence, fingertips running over the high back of the chair. A quiet smack of lips, eyes lingering on the bookcase, “It’s not as bad as I had anticipated. We’re fortunate that the damage was not worse.”

Bruce is nodding, having come to that conclusion himself, “Fortunate that the seawall was not damaged here, as well. From what I’ve seen, the terminal would have been underwater.”

The mention of the flood makes your stomach flip, your gaze averting. You’ve had time to think about your own situation, and while it was far from ideal - it’s no longer an achingly painful subject. But you’re certainly not ready to jump in, to talk almost candidly about it.

Alfred’s eyes flick apologetically towards you, fingers curling tighter around the wood. You give a roll of your eyes, a small smile in response. A bit tactless, yes - but he wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve had similar thoughts.” His eyes move back to Bruce - fingers stroking the edge of his beard, tugging on the too-long hairs. “Well, to be more precise, I’ve been thinking about the Manor.”

Bruce’s look turns wary, uncertain.

Remembering what it had looked like when he had been there with Gordon.

What had transpired there.

And then, soon after.

“Why? Reminiscing about your rose garden, Alfred?”

A month ago, there would have been a sharp bite to those words, but now it’s almost a tease. Trying to work out the train of thought, so he was no longer in the dark.

Alfred makes a noise of begrudging amusement, “My thoughts were more along the lines of what lies beneath the garden.”

There’s a silence, as Bruce catches up. As he thinks about it, what he means as Alfred continues.

“It might be wise to have something available outside of the city.”

Bruce’s arms cross as he considers, “As?”

“Insurance. Backup.”

There’s a slow nod at that. Their eyes meeting, a silent conversation passing between them. You know little about the old Manor, other than that it was gifted to the city and renovated as an orphanage.

That it all but burned down, years ago.

But you’ve grown used to their cryptic conversations from your time spent in the Terminal, you mind sliding elsewhere as their murmuring continues.

Instead, thinking about the fact that out of everything, it seems that at one point, he'd had a rose garden. That tiny bit of tender, unexpected knowledge is tucked away in your heart, to keep safe for later.

“It might be worth making some inquiries. I could start them, if you wish.” Alfred is offering, but Bruce shakes his head.

“No, Alfred, that’s okay. I will.”

Alfred accepts the gesture for what it is, a small acknowledgement and kindness - taking something off his plate, though he didn’t have to.

The slow exploration continues after that, and somewhere between the kitchen and the long hallway to the right wing, you lose Bruce.

Leaving just the two of you alone to meander the space.

His hand finds the cracked-open door of the guestroom across the hall from his - one you’d left open in your rush to get to the hospital early this morning.

Nudging it open, the light from the hallway spilling over the cream walls, the still-made poster bed with your clothes littered across the top. The stack of boxes along the back wall, several pulled off to the side and opened.

Hesitating, eyes sweeping over the room before he asks, “Did you choose this room?”

You nod. Bruce had shrugged when you asked where to put the boxes that he had unloaded from your apartment. Not out of apathy for your situation, but more in a “take your pick” kind of way - many of the rooms had been all but untouched for years.

Whatever one you chose made no difference to him.

Which left you to trace your steps back to his room - choosing the closest available as your temporary dwellings.

“Have you been sleeping in here?”

Unconsciously, your eyes fall onto the bed - you’re sure it’s comfortable, but you haven’t even tried it. Your head ducks as you draw out the answer, suddenly feeling a little shy.

“No, I haven’t.” You confess, “I’ve been sleeping in your bed.”

His gaze feels like a weight, and you find yourself meeting it - his voice low and rough as he answers.

“Good.”

Your tongue pinches between your teeth as you bite back a smile, the door shutting quietly before he opens the one across from it. The door that leads to his.

A long-held sigh escaping from his lungs as he steps inside. Feet taking him to the bed, until he’s sitting on the edge, sliding the stiff dress shoes from his feet.

You’re slow to follow, watching as he tugs back the duvet, the sheets, sliding beneath fully clothed. Turning off the lights before you follow, climbing in next to him.

Turning on your side to face him, the low groan as his head hits the pillow.

“I’ve missed this.”

And maybe he means this room, his own sheets and pillows - after weeks of being confined to a hospital bed. Being amongst his own bedding must feel like relief.

But secretly, you hope he means this - the comfort as you settle into his side, head tucked against his shoulder.

“Do you want to rest for a bit? Dinner isn’t for another hour or so.” The words come out like a whisper, though you’re the only two in the room.

That had been your idea. Dinner. A quiet, intimate celebration - just you, Alfred, Bruce, and Dory - though he had protested the fuss. Ears and cheeks blushed a soft pink at the thought of the attention, but after some gentle encouragement, he had acquiesced.

“Just for a minute.” His breath is deep, as your fingers stretch across the breadth of his chest, until they curl near his ribs, “If you’ll stay with me.”

“Of course.” Your head tilts up so you can see him, his eyes already shut. Smiling to yourself, fingers squeezing a little tighter as your own close as well.

Curled against him, you’re asleep in minutes.

———

You wake to a dim room, the rhythmic chime of the alarm you set on your phone, just in case. The spot next to you is empty, but there’s a warm light shining from the narrow crack under the bathroom door.

It opens soon after you drag yourself out of the cozy nest, swinging your feet over the edge, the woven rug soft under your toes. Stretching, rolling your neck as the door opens, the interior of the bathroom hazy with steam as he steps out.

The gentle curve of a smile, as he comes to sit on the bed next to you. He looks like he did, like in your memories before. Too impatient to wait for an appointment with his usual barber, the edges of his beard neatly clipped and tidied. The sides of his head shorn to velvet, the rest combed back and styled.

You can’t help but smile, a hand raising to cradle his jaw as you lean in, tilting it as you examine, “There you are.”

“Here I am,” The soft rumble of his laugh, the comfort from his routine easing his nerves. “Feeling human again, at last.”

You huff your own laugh, nudging him with your leg, “You always look good to me.”

“Flatterer.”

His eyes are on you, the slight part of his lips. Heavy-lidded as his tongue peeks out to wet the lower one - as you’re already moving to press your lips against the clean-shaven curve of his cheek.

Drawing back to gauge his reaction from under your eyelashes, before moving to his mouth. The softest groan in his throat as you feel the warmth of his lips, the sweet familiarity, before he shifts even closer to deepen it.

His torso twists, as you move as well - the position limiting movement, but it doesn’t stop the tongue that strokes against yours, the teeth that gently scrape against your lip after.

Your hand still cradles his jaw, dropping to smooth across his shoulder, coming back up to cup the back of his head, fingers brushing the edges of still-damp curls.

It’s easy to see where this could go.

His hands finding yours, guiding them down to the knot in his navy silk dressing gown. Letting you pluck at it until it unravels, until it parts for you.

A shift as he lays you back, as his weight comes down to cover you as he fits between your thighs. Or - you sliding from the bed to kneel on the floor, taking every inch of him into your mouth.

He’d give you anything you wanted.

You were certain of that.

But the jingle of the snoozed alarm chimes again, pulling you from your daydream. Your eyes open as you draw back, but he follows after you. The flat of his palm curving around your hip, before fingers dig into fabric, skin.

“We can’t-” You pant, as his lips drop to brush against your neck - before pressing an open mouth kiss against your throat that makes you shiver, “We-”

“Mm. We can.” He hums against your skin, “I’ve waited ages to kiss you like this.”

You’ve waited too, the need and desire that coils in your chest, thudding between your thighs rages a silent war with your brain - knowing that Dory will be here soon - that your alarm was already set close to her arrival.

But you’re swallowing, debating - your words sounding less confident as he drifts lower, skin prickling deliciously as your breath hitches. As his mouth moves to the hollow of your throat, then your sternum.

Trying again, “W-We have to get ready.”

With a thoughtful hum he pulls back, a resigned acknowledgment - he knows you’re right. In all honesty, he would take no pleasure in being late, especially to the celebration in his honor.

“Of course, dove.” He agrees with a smile - but his hand still cups your cheek, thumb smoothing across skin. Heat still lingering in his steely gaze as he collects himself, intent on returning to this moment later.

“We mustn’t keep anyone waiting.”

———

It's nice to have the kitchen feeling almost crowded, despite its size. Your fingers absent-mindedly pull the strings of the apron - a pretty, almost silly thing you had bought for fun, blush-colored with ruffled edges - around to your back, twisting them into a neat bow.

Adjusting the front, before you're enveloped in the chatter as Dory pulls things from the pantry, the refrigerator. As Bruce, sleeves shoved up and eyes downcast - though still listening - pulls the griddle out from its old resting place.

The meal you had settled on was perhaps unusual - but that seemed appropriate, given how your life had been playing out lately. Breakfast - something you hadn't had in a long time - could be anytime, when time had less meaning.

Initially, you had thought about something else. About the dinner you had almost made, those weeks ago. But standing in the aisles of the grocery store, your hand had wavered, stomach churning. Sending you scuttling back to old, comfort food. Remembering earlier, happier conversations, from the same room you were in now.

There's fresh eggs, thick slices of bacon. Homemade bread and jams - a pancake mix that Alfred mixes up, insisting on making those himself. Uninterested and still unwilling to sit back, to let others do the work while he sits, idly by.

It's not perfect. There's a rogue egg that drops and cracks against the tile as you're trying to flip the ones in the pan. Elbows knocking together at the kitchen island as you all try to fit yourselves and the food onto the narrow countertop.

But it feels like home.

There's Dory, filling everyone in on the world outside. Asking about every detail about 'Mr. Pennyworth's' stay at the hospital, his recovery, how she had been glued to the screen for 'Mr. Wayne's' speech, until they're both sighing - Alfred's voice coaxing with a, "Just Bruce and Alfred, please, Dory. It's just dinner."

She remembers for a few minutes, and then forgets. It becomes a small joke, the little peal of laughter when she catches herself with the old habits. The stern look he gives her each time makes you laugh too, until you're joining in.

Earning a much different kind of look when you sneak your own with a bat of your eyelashes, "Pass the syrup please, Mr. Pennyworth."

One that sends a small fluttering in your chest. The hand casually curving against your thigh flexing, thumb sweeping just beneath the hem of your dress. A small, secret moment - letting you know he hadn’t forgotten earlier.

The night is one you'll cherish.

Conversation lasting long after the plates are empty, Bruce pushing up first to clear them. For a moment, it seems he plans to slip out - but instead he slides back into his chair. Lingering until Dory lets out a little yawn, just now noticing the time.

"So happy you're back at the Tower, Alfred." Her hand squeezes his arm, the reminder finally sticking.

"I am as well." He's smiling, "You're welcome back when you are comfortable."

None of you had missed the way her eyes had bounced around, doing some cataloging of her own. Years and years of her own preferences slowly engrained - the change had thrown her off as well.

You were sure she'd be back in a matter of days.

Saying goodbye feels different this time, when you’re on the other side. Alfred's hand resting on the small of your back as you wave - feeling the same sort of comfortable way when a friend leaves from your own apartment.

Not an ownership, not really, but more of the feeling in your bones that makes you feel tethered to the place, if only for a while. Like you belonged.

The deep sigh when you're left with just the two of you alone, Bruce walking Dory to the front door. Knowing he'll be heading out for the night, that he won't be back.

You’re closing the dishwasher, the last of the silverware tucked inside, when there’s the press of his chest against your back. Fingers that creep under the edge of the soft cotton apron. Teasing at the curve of your hip, sliding over the fabric of your dress.

The sweep of his hand makes you shiver, the beat of your heart kicking up a notch. The scratch of his beard against your cheek as he moves closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Your own curving up in a smile as your head tilts, “What did you think?”

You thought the night had gone well. It was so nice to see everyone together. Alfred had been improving, especially now that he was home, amongst his own things and clothes.

“I think,” His voice is low, thoughtful. But then his hand moves again, up this time. Until his thumb brushes the underside of your breast. Then cupping it, making no mistake of his intentions, “That I want you to wear just this for me sometime, and nothing else.”

His other hand tugging at the ruffled hem of the apron for emphasis, your breath catching in your throat as you lean into his touch.

You still ached for him. The dinner has quelled the throbbing bite of need, but it was still there - flickering back to life as his lips brush against your neck.

Hips pressing against your ass as he pins you against the counter, only letting up when you wiggle, shifting around to face him.

“Is that right?” You smile, fingers lacing around his neck, “You really shouldn’t tease, you’re giving me ideas.”

His look turns darker, thumb and forefinger under your chin as he tips your face up, “Mm. I’m not, darling. It’s all I could think about.”

His smile matches yours, a hum of contented amusement as he leans in, where you meet him halfway. Lips slotting against yours, soft and pressing and warm. Hands that begin to wander, your own laugh bubbling in your throat when he’s leaning into you, almost bending you backwards into the cabinets.

The sound slipping into a moan when the kiss becomes more insistent - a brush of tongue, the grind of his hip. Your legs spread just a little bit wider so he can push closer, until you can feel him - unable to hook your thigh around him like you’d wish, but for now, it will do.

Part of you has no problem with where this is leading.

Of stripping down, getting bent over the counter, the kitchen island - with or without the apron. It isn’t as if the thought itself was new, you’ve certainly entertained similar ideas in private before.

But, there’s a hesitance - of not wanting to push too hard. He just got home. Of course you want him. Just not sure if the kitchen felt right, even if you were alone.

So your fingers find his, entwining, as you pull back. Eyes heavy-lidded, your question of “bed?” earning a nod, a bright glint in his own gaze. Following close behind as you lead him through the back hallway - well acquainted with the path by now.

The door barely closing before his lips are on yours again, your back bumping against the wood as he presses you up against it, caging you in.

Fingers tugging at the neat bow of the apron, the ties twisting down to brush against your legs. The kiss breaking so you can lift the strap over your head. Dropping it, leaving it to pool on the ground.

If he kisses you again you won’t be able to think, so you voice your concern, hands flattening against his chest.

“Is this alright? It’s okay if you’re not ready.” Your face tips up to his, meeting his heavy gaze.

You hadn’t been with him like this since the day of the accident. It hadn’t worked out at the hospital - the one or two times that kisses started to drift into something more, there had been an interruption.

He had been cleared to go home, to resume all of his normal activities. Had been there longer than anticipated, and therefore the worry was even more unwarranted - but, you couldn’t help it.

Alfred’s answering laugh is low, rough, “You’ve taken care of me long enough, dove. I’m not going to break.”

He shifts against you as proof, moving back in. A thick thigh spreading your legs this time, an intentional press against your center as your lips meet again - as you start to forget your concern.

Gently rocking against you as you moan into his mouth - fingers gripping the fabric at your waist, tugging it upward. Until you can grind down against the soft fabric of his trousers, your fingers twisting in his sweater for leverage.

You’re almost breathless - needy. Keyed up as your hips rock again, the sweet friction between your thighs as his tongue brushes against yours. Nails digging into the fabric as your hands clench, the dormant pleasure building swiftly now that you have him again.

Hands on your waist as they guide you into a rhythm, the flex of his thigh as he meets each grind of your hips.

His mouth pressing against your neck as his head ducks, a low gasp when teeth follow. The briefest pinch of pain blossoming through the thudding pleasure before his lips brush against your ear, his voice no more than a rough, accented rasp.

“Can you come like this, darling?”

Fuck. You want to - you think maybe you could. Your nod is short, gripping on a little tighter, eyes sliding shut as you concentrate. But the pleasure is starting to plateau, a low whine ripping from your throat.

“I need more.” You admit, before adding, “Please.”

The fingers on your waist dip down, beneath the rucked up hem. His thigh easing from you as he tugs at the waistband of your tights, the panties underneath.

“Take these off.” There’s an edge to his voice that does something to you, your hips wiggling as you help him work them down your thighs.

You’re pausing as you realize something, glancing up at him as you step out of them. As he’s moving back into place, your eyes dropping down to his thigh.

“But, your pants-” You’re squeaking, as his hands curve around your hips again. Nudging you into place, as you tug at your own dress to make room.

He hums, kissing away your expression, “Christ, I know. I want you to make a mess on them sweetheart. Show me how wet you are.”

And you are - slick and needy and moaning as the fabric presses against your bare cunt. The crisp crease running down the middle bumping over and over against your clit, a shock of pleasure shooting down your spine.

It’s not long before you find yourself where you were before - the sensations heightened, his teeth nipping at your lip as he presses himself closer. Releasing it to growl encouragements in your ear as a hand roams - sliding beneath your dress to cup a breast over your bra. Thumb pressing against a tight nipple as you shudder.

Each pass of your hips darkening the spot on his slate gray trousers, leaving a sticky smear of arousal behind. The blood pounding in your ears as the tight knot in your stomach coils - until your face is burying in the crook of his neck, your body seeming to move on its own.

Moaning against his skin, his name a hoarse gasp in your throat as your breath catches. Rutting yourself against his thigh, until the pressure becomes blinding - your head tilting back to thud against the wall.

The pleasure ripples and then washes over you as you come hard, the relief instant as you feel yourself clenching down around nothing.

Your gasps sounding high, muted to your own ears as your vision goes hazy, eyes closing as it feels like your heart is beating in your clit.

“Use my thigh, sweetheart.” He encourages, holding you tightly against him - feeling the tremble of your thighs, the tight pinch of your fingers as you cling to him, “That’s a good girl.”

Alfred’s leg moving once more, pressing steady, letting you ride out the last of the waves until your back is slumping against the heavy wooden door.

Your smile shy, a little huff of a laugh as your heels touch down on the floor, your feet going flat as you find your balance again.

His hand curving along your jaw, your cheek, before his lips brush against yours, “I missed all your pretty sounds, dove.”

Gently easing away from you, just as you reach for the hem of his sweater. He lets you tug it off him, over broad shoulders, letting it drop next to your clothes.

Turning with you as you give the bottom of his tie a little tug, leading him to the edge of the bed. The fabric dropping from your fingers as you sit down, knees spreading so he can fit between your thighs.

Your eyes slowly dragging up his form as his fingers loosen the tie, until it hangs limply on either side of his chest.

The path of your gaze snagging on the wet mark against his pants - your neck, cheeks feeling warm. Fingers reaching out to touch the spot, embarrassed, but he’s catching your wrist.

“None of that, now.”

Dropping your wrist so his fingers can work at the buckle of his pants, the gold winking against the light as it loosens. As he works the zipper down, pushing his trousers and boxers down his thighs at the same time.

Letting his cock spring free, swollen and heavy.

Your head tips forward, ignoring his length for now as your lips press against the window of skin where his shirt parts, his fingers still sliding the neat row of buttons from their matching holes.

The muscles of his stomach jumping under your touch - his own breath caught in his throat as he watches the slow descent of your mouth.

Dragging, a hum in your throat as you move over skin, the coarse, peppered-gray hair on his chest. Down over the curve of his stomach, following the trail until you can press a kiss against the base of his shaft.

His fingers reaching - grasping at the fabric of your dress. Anchoring himself to you as your eyes lift, as you place another. Kitten licks against his shaft as you work your way down to the tip. Alfred’s jaw going tight before he shifts back, easing you off him with an effort. Unsure if he’ll last if you take him into your mouth.

Wide eyes blink up at him, lips kiss-swollen as his hands find your hips, pushing you back into the mattress. An arm curling around as he tries to ease you further towards the headboard, until you’re smiling, pushing yourself back with bent elbows and scrambling hands.

Tugging off your dress when your head hits the pillows, back arching to catch the clasp of your bra beneath. Leaving both dangling off the edge of the bed as the mattress dips, as he follows at your feet.

A careful, warm press of lips on your ankle, calf, knee - kissing up your bare legs until broad shoulders are nudging your legs further apart. The edge of his neatly trimmed beard scraping your thigh, making your hips buck.

Heavy-lidded eyes flipping up to yours as he hovers just above where you ache for him. Shifting so his hands can tracing along your skin, thumbs pressing into slick, still-tender skin - spreading you open for him.

Making sure you watch as his tongue peeks out to flatten against your pussy, a slow stroke downward until he can dip inside. Pressing his mouth against you, his tongue parting your folds, tasting the tang of your release.

His eyes only closing then, a moan muffled in his throat as you whimper, your fingers coming down to smooth across the freshly-trimmed, velvet-short hair.

Pulling back to breath, voice rough as he groans, “I love eating this pretty little cunt.”

And his words make you clench more than the pointed flick of his tongue, sliding across your clit. Because he can say those words now, one he’s always held back. How much he loves fucking you. How he loves making you feel good.

How he loves, he loves, he loves.

With your next broken moan, one of his hands leaves your skin, dragging down between his own thighs. Fist wrapping around the base of his swollen cock, squeezing - holding himself back.

That, more than anything, makes your toes curl, knees fall open just a little bit wider. Encouraging him as his fingers tease at your opening, before he pushes in two. The stretch of them steals your breath, though you’re slick and hot and eager for him.

Starting slow with his thrusts, little movements with his wrists - building up until the fingers are curling, relentlessly stroking against the spot that has you seeing stars.

You’re nearly there again, the pleasure hot across your skin and singing in your blood. Thighs threatening to clamp around his head as your heels dig into the mattress instead, hip flexing with his thrusts.

“I love how wet you are for me. I love how you scream my name when you come.” He groans the words out between wet licks against your clit, though you’re so far gone it’s hard for you to hear them, “Can you do that for me, darling?”

His name rattles in your throat, a weak sound as you gasp. And then again, again, again as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bud.

Until you’re stringing tight, back almost bowing off the bed as you come. The name louder, strung out across syllables as you shatter, the hot pulse of your cunt squeezing his fingers, as he feels what he’s done to you.

When he pulls himself up to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Bracing himself over you, his cock skating over the slick mess between your thighs, until you’re reaching down with him to guide him in.

Even with his fingers there’s the pressure as he enters the tight channel of your pussy, as you clench along with the fingers that grasp onto his shoulders.

His thrust is shallow, pulling back before he’s even gone to the hilt - until your leg hooks around his hip, pressing down until he’s sinking into you.

The rough curse when you’re hip-to-hip, when he’s as deep into you as he can be. When he has you stuffed full of him, you mouth open and panting as you kiss along his neck and jaw.

A slow roll of his hips as he looks down at you, spread out beneath him. Another, before he confesses, “I’ve been dreaming of having you just like this.”

Your smile is slow against his skin, still a mile high and glowing with the aftershocks as he continues, “Almost woke you up earlier, but you looked so pretty sleeping.”

A soft moan leaves your throat then - thinking about being pulled from a dream to the feeling of his mouth, hands, wandering across bare skin.

Whining the word “please” as you clench around him, his eyebrows lifting as he considers.

“Who’s teasing, now?” The words are amused, but his thrust stutters, a throb of his cock where he’s shoved deep and snugly inside you.

The pace slowly picking up, until he’s meeting your mouth - sharing almost clumsy kisses with each rutting thrust, the wet sound of his skin meeting yours.

If it was anyone else, you’d say they were desperate. Eager. But the way he moves - the way he knows you, the weight and curve of your body in his hands - it’s deeper than that. It’s passion, intimate and built up over the time you’ve been together.

The knowledge of what you like, every little detail and sound you make carefully cataloged. Hands that flatten to slide from your thigh to your knee - a rough sound in his throat as his fingers catch the joint, tugging until you’re opening further for him. Pushing him deeper, your head tilting back as you moan.

Sometimes, you try to stay quiet.

Sometimes, you have to.

In his office, in the passenger seat of his car as he leans across. Not wanting to draw attention as his fingers fill you. Opening you up to take him.

But not here, not tonight. You give him everything. Soft, breathless praises, words tumbling forth - “fuck, fuck, baby, youfeelsogood” - all strung together. Hands sliding up his forearms, grasping at his biceps as your back arches. Feeling the flex of muscle with each thrust, eyes opening again to gaze upward.

His elbows dig into the mattress as he braces himself - hands coming together to cup the back of your neck. Thumbs aligning as they trace along your throat, the tips pressing against your jaw, tilting your head up.

It’s different this time, just a little bit. Part of it is the knowledge of how close things had been - soaking up every touch, being here, together, in this moment.

But you think a bigger part is just the knowing. Or finally being on the same page - no longer being afraid that your feelings were too much. Were not shared, were not on the same level.

Because you can see it in his careful gaze, that they are identical. It makes you not want to look away, even if you could.

The cup of his hands keeps your head in place so he can lean down to kiss you, the brushing drag of his lips against yours as he swallows the little noises you make. The needy huff of breath that slides from your lungs with each thrust of his hips, until your arms are wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Lips that slide to the space next to his thumbs, just below the curve of his jaw. Pressing, kissing against the spot where your pulse flutters for him, a rough groan in his own throat when your thighs wrap around his waist next.

Heels pressing into the small of his back, the curve of his ass, until his thrusts turn shallow - each one short and sloppy. The saw of his hips until each breath comes shorter, a tremble in the taut string of his shoulders.

He groans your name through parted lips - wishing for the endurance to feel you clench around him one more time. Unable to hold back the wanting after so long, too lost in the way you wrap around him.

Your own pleasure still curls warm in your belly, and it makes you want for him to feel the same. You want him to fall apart for you, want to feel the hot throb of his release against your walls when he comes.

So you beg him, a needy edge to your own voice.

“Make me yours.”

Not that you aren’t.

Not that you haven’t always been.

But your plea has his arms tightening around you, his low, rough gasp ripped from his throat. The sea blue eyes going wide as they as meet yours - as he’s ruined by your words.

You get to watch him this time. The final thrust that stutters as Alfred’s head tilts back. The little furrow between his brows as his jaw clenches, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

Pulling a rough, drawn-out “fuck” as your thighs tighten, as you clench around him. Feeling the flex of his hips as he empties into you - pushing himself deep with each pulse.

Before his face tips down, the curl of hair drifting across his forehead, where it had broken free of its careful styling. Half-lidded eyes opening to gaze down at you, a flash of teeth as he smiles without thought.

Together, finally - at last.

Later, you shift - until it’s your body covering his, propped up against his chest. Fingernails idly scratching over skin, through the smattering of salt-and-pepper curls on his chest.

A soft, contented sigh pulls from his lips, his own hand brushing across your bare shoulders, down your back. It’s comforting - the familiarity of his form, the soothing touch of his warm, solid touch.

Even though you’ve both gone through so much - apart and together - in this small, stolen moment, you’re happy.

And so your head dips, the words breathed out before you press your lips to his.

“Welcome home.”

———

When the streets become a little more clear, Bruce takes them out. The path taking them towards Old Gotham, where the flood had quickly swept through the streets as it made its way to pool downtown.

It feels funny, Alfred thinks. Sitting on this side of the car - he can’t remember a time before recently that he hasn’t driven.

He’s almost not sure what to do with himself.

Things look different from over here, though he can still feel his eyes drifting to check the traffic, his leg flexing on instinct when a car cuts them off.

Earning an amused sound and matching smirk from Bruce, who could do this in his sleep.

It’s quiet, other than the turned down music. Something he half-recognizes from the playlist that’s always running in the Terminal.

Not his thing.

But there’s the rhythmic tap of a thumb on the wheel, and when he glances back there’s a subtle movement of her lips as she stares out the window. Before noticing him, her attention pulling back as she smiles his way.

A hand slipping up to brush against his arm.

Not his thing - but he thinks, that’s okay.

They end up in an older part of town - all brick and stone buildings. The only tall panes of glass coming from the neat line of storefronts. Bruce pulls into a spot, glancing down at his phone, then up at the worn wooden sign.

Alice’s Antiques - the painted letters are gilded, fading at the edges.

Alfred frowns, his steps still a little slow. Each day is getting better, but the chill in the air makes his leg ache, still irritated from the accident. Bruce gets the door, the rush of warm air welcoming them in.

Inside, there’s little groupings of rooms. Dark, stained wood pieces, plush chairs, heavy tables with intricate carving - all in sets that nearly match.

She takes the lead now, weaving them into a side room, to a setup near the back. A tall display cabinet with stained glass flower windows is set behind a long, Victorian sofa, the back curving up at the edges before dipping down in the middle.

When he steps closer, he can see the roses carved into the wooden frame, the vines that creep down to the pointed feet.

A matching loveseat rests off to the side, in front of a short, marble-top table.

“We, well, she - found this set online.” Bruce asks him, with a gesture her way, “What do you think?”

“We might have to reupholster it. But the style is similar.” She adds, as if this clues him in.

Alfred isn’t often confused - long ago he’s learned to keep up, to process, to anticipate. But for a second he’s not sure, doesn’t understand what they’re asking him.

Finally, Bruce enlightens him, “For the Tower.”

Oh. His eyes snap up quickly as he frowns, “I thought you’d want to restore what you had.”

He had already been thinking about it, his memory good enough to recall the layout, the details of the furniture. He thinks he could find something comparable, he just hasn’t had the chance yet.

“I thought about it.” Bruce admits, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “But then, I thought we could pick out something new. Together.”

He’s staggered for a moment, his eyes dropping to the furniture again. Seeing it for what it was now - a gentle offering, a fracture of a new start.

Imagining it for a moment - the roomy sofa resting in front of the heavy stone fireplace. Replacing the pair of solid wooden chairs, each built for one.

It’s a pretty thought. Something that until recently, he never pictured for himself. He’s been finding that a lot lately - his world slowly filling with new possibilities.

Bruce’s voice breaks his concentration, a worried edge to his words, “But if you don’t like it-”

“No.” He replies simply. Clearing his throat, because it suddenly feels tight.

“It’s perfect.”

Thank you so much for reading! The last part will be out next Thurs (the 22nd) 💕

(taglist - @rescuethewretched, @slavicwitchling, @zinzinina, @bacarasbabe, @kakashibabe02, @princessxkenobi, @maskhoper, @thelastemzy, @celestianstars, @squidlywiddly87, @queensgirl718)

#new chapter is up! 💖✨#alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x f!reader #alfred pennyworth x you #alfred pennyworth smut

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