readershewrites

[readershewrites]

This story makes me put the back of my hand against my head and swoon conveniently onto a velvet chaise. I love Alfred so much and you always deliver with your stories.

— i’ll be seeing you | part iii

[masterlist] | [playlist] | [part ii]

invisible man!alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 6k

tags: invisible man!au, age gap, holiday fluff, light angst, alfred is fully invisible/silent to reader, shared spaces, mutual pining, magical elements, holidays and christmas, kissing, FEELINGS, the Smut Chapter, masturbation, being walked in on, oral sex, brief free-use thoughts, unprotected PiV, invisible sex, mirror sex

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'll crack yourself open, tell him everything. For now, you're content with the memory of his mouth on yours, the quiet confession he loosed over text. Even if he couldn't be more wrong.

Your fingers run across your lower lip, where you can still taste him.

The slight swelling of your flesh from the stolen moment in the hallway, a pounding that lingers in your chest even as you make it back to your room - the bags clutched in a fist as you wander, distractedly.

He hadn't returned when you called after him, a breathless gasp of his name. If it had been anyone else, you might have been offended. But this was Alfred, and you couldn't blame him. These weeks have been a slow circle of careful touches, a slow exchange of words.

Rarely impulsive. It makes your heart stutter, to think about it.

How he had moved, the hungry slant of his lips, the slip of his tongue.

It surely meant something.

If he hadn't stopped, you would have wanted more. Craved it. Content to stay in that hallway even, with how desperate his mouth made you. Socked feet soaked from the slush of your boots, frostbitten cheeks that now burn with the memory.

You hope he'll come to you. 

Not tonight, you’re sure. Tomorrow, when the simmering warmth in your belly fades. In the morning, perhaps. The day will begin like all the others, and you’ll do your best to wait until he’s ready. 

Already resisting the urge to seek him out, holding yourself back as you arrange your parcels. Writing a careful message, putting as much of your heart as you could into the gift. Simple, perhaps, but you had taken his request to heart.

It's left where he'll see it tomorrow. You're early - the day before Christmas Eve. But if he doubts your intentions, you hope that he'll find some comfort in the way you've been thinking about him.

There's only a little over a week left in your stay, but lately, it's felt less like a deadline. You care too much now, to let this be the end. Not knowing yet how you'll tell him - how you wish for more visits, how your heart refuses to let this be The End - but there, at least, you have time to drum up the courage.

You've always tried to look on the bright side, but you are a realist, after all. Even if his curse does not break, you don't think you'll mind. 

Being with him feels like enough, in these moments together in the Tower. His touch has a weight, even if you can't see it. The messages shared have just as much meaning as a spoken voice.

It hasn't prevented you from knowing him.

And maybe.. maybe more than that.

Much more.

Your teeth grit, biting back your moan. The sound still sliding from your throat, as you push the blankets down further. 

Fingers teasing past nipples peaked with the chill of the room and your thudding arousal. Making you shiver as they drift down, dipping between your thighs.

The kiss is still firmly rooted in your mind. 

Just how he felt against you, the soft press of his mouth that turned passionate. An ache in your shoulder from where you had knocked against the coat rack, before he caged you against the wall. Stealing your breath.

It’s a welcome reminder. 

You had holed yourself up, after the present had been placed. Snagging a photo for yourself as a reminder for later, for when you are gone. Liking the pretty splash of gold and red against the dark wood tones of the kitchen. 

Surprise coming from the buzz of your phone some time later. His message - how dense he was for a man so clever. As if you hadn’t wished for him to do that very thing a hundred times over since you’ve discovered him. 

Your own reply keyed quickly. A breathed out confession, sent with the photo you had taken.

Phone clutched to your chest, with another small smile at the thought of him seeing it. 

You hoped tomorrow would come soon. 

It had been impossible to not let your hands wander, when you replayed the moment for the umpteenth time. Skin bare after a shower, slipping beneath the covers to help speed up time.

You’ve wanted him for a long while. But now that you’ve had a piece - the memory of his body, his face beneath your fingers. The taste of his mouth, the soft groan you felt as your hands cupped the back of his neck - just desire was no longer enough.

There had been an ache, since. Insatiable, leaving you in a daze. You can feel it now, your need - as your fingers circle your clit, hips canting into the teasing pressure. 

Slipping over slick skin, how even the thought of him has you wet and squirming. It’s not the first time he’s crossed your thoughts at night, but it’s the first time you’ve had something so vivid to imagine.

That old picture hazy behind your closed eyes, as you try to imagine his voice. Low, you think. Rough and accented and you’re certain he’d call you the prettiest names.

Darling. Gorgeous. My love.

His own slips free, sounding hushed in your empty room. 

“Alfred.”

It’s a plea. Warmth pooling deep in your belly, a spark in your veins. Your breathing loud enough between your panting, parted lips that you almost miss the slow creak of a door opening.

Your door. 

The watery light of the sconce outside creeps across the wooden floor. Your breath caught in your throat as you tear your hand away, reaching for the blanket to cover yourself.

Not knowing where to look, what to say until the mattress dips, an indent appearing in the thick duvet. The slightest brush at your wrist where the fabric is clutched to your chest.

Your heart racing, torn and twisted and so afraid you just ruined everything. That you’ve jumped too far ahead, that this would be too much for him. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s weak, almost a whimper, “I didn’t think you’d hear, I-”

But you should have known. 

He always comes when you call. 

You had thought it was magic, another part of his curse. But maybe… it wasn’t. Maybe it’s been him all along. 

Alfred’s thumb strokes your skin, before his other hand cups your cheek. So soft and tender that the fear starts to fade, a little shivering hitch of your chest as wished more than anything that you could see him.

And you try to find your words, once more.

“Is… is this okay?” It’s barely a whisper, a heat burning brightly as your face grows warm.

But his answer comes within seconds. Two quick presses at your wrist, almost pinching. 

Yes.

And then his mouth is on yours. Index finger and thumb anchoring your chin in place as his lips brush, and then press. 

You forget your grip on the blanket then, palms sliding over his chest, a hand splaying over the back of his neck. 

Taking him with you into your nest of pillows, as his tongue traces the seam of your lips. As they open for him, the bed shifting as he settles closer - his hand leaving your wrist, brushing against your shoulder as it plants against the mattress for balance.

Your breath is caught in your throat, as he licks into your mouth. Even more hurried than beneath the mistletoe, soft moans in your throat as you try to pull him closer. 

“There’s so much I want to tell you,” You sigh, between kisses. Between the mouthful of air you wish you didn’t need, “Tomorrow though, okay? Just this, you, tonight-”

His answer comes instantly. Yes.

Meeting you, closing that last bit of gap. 

The flutter of his pulse beats against your palm, where the meat of your thumb presses against your neck. Racing like yours is, so eager and so alive, that you’re pulling his hand down to your own heart.

Letting him cup your bare flesh, soft and supple. You think he must know what you mean, as his hand flattens. As you feel his moan in his throat, silent but there - buzzing against your lips. 

Warm against yours, the wet soft press. How he opens for you as your hands slide to fist in his shirt. That black vest long shed as the hours turned late, buttons popped at his throat.

With your eyes closed like they are now, he’s never been more real to you. In this dark room he melds with the shadows, nose brushing yours as you sigh his name.

Solid and steady and warm, under your touch. 

Coming with the greedy pull of your hands, fitting his body closer to yours. Fingers tracing over your bare skin, the softest pinch to the peak of your breast as his lips part from yours.

Pressing instead to your chin, your throat. Your own hands greedy, pulling and tugging. He comes willingly, settling against you as he shifts between legs that spread so readily, biting into his ribs.

You’ve touched him before. Weeks of light brushes - of getting his attention, of asking questions.

None of it compares to now - the very real weight of him. Pinning you as your hips lift, pressing into his stomach just as something warm and wet swirls against your breast.

Leaving behind glossy skin, your skin molding to his invisible touch as you gasp. You can feel the scrape of his beard against your skin as he moves to the other side. A gentle press of teeth that has you crying out, a leg hooking over his waist. 

Fingers grasping at broad shoulders, slipping over velvet-short hair to twist in tamed curls. Anchoring yourself to him as you moan - wet before, now soaked through.

“Please touch me.” You’re begging, arching into the soft suction of his mouth. An ache in your belly - the knowing of something within your grasp, but being unable to reach it.

He lifts off you, then. Your hands slide over his chest, seemingly suspended in the air. A wrist caught with one of his own, your hand guided down to your center.

A pressure against your fingertips, lined carefully up against your clit.

Your breath is ragged, trying desperately to picture him. Feeling wonderfully exposed, as his fingers dent your skin. As yours slowly start to circle, wet and slick, as broken sigh slips from you.

It’s like your senses are heightened to his touch. Your thigh flexing when he lets go, a trailing touch against your skin again. Pleasure sparking at the swirl of your fingers, a little gasp when something ghosts over your slit.

Softly stroking, dragging. Over swollen, soaked flesh - his other hand sliding down to tap twice against your hip. 

Teasing you - fingers just pressing against your opening, retreating - before those taps come again.

Your mind is hazy. As soft as the city lights that slip through the cracks in the curtains, bathing your skin. Taking you longer than usual to process that he’s asking you something - your answer coming in a rush. 

“Yes.” You whine, “I need more. Please-”

The hand on your hip squeezes, as he fits his middle finger into you. Nudging the thick digit in slowly, stopping at each knuckle before drawing back, only to sink deeper next time.

It’s so different with him inside you. Already a fullness with just the slick pump, mimicking the circle of your fingers.

A noise ripping from your throat as he strokes deep and then curls. The pad of his finger brushing against a spot that has you clenching down around him. 

“Oh my god,” Your fingers bite into his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, “Feels so good-”

The hand on your thigh soothes, as he works his ring finger in as well. A stretch now, with how thick they are. Your toes curling when both flex inside you, hips bucking into his touch.

Your fingers seem to move on their own - quick familiar flicks with one, the other hand wrapping in the cool sheets. Enough to make your fingers ache, as his own work deeper. 

Loud, in the quiet room. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed at how wet he’s made you, the slick plunge of his fingers. Working you open, petting and stroking and you’re left trying to catch your breath, with the way he has you panting. 

Something - his hand, you think - nudges at your fingers, then. Your release so close that you’re slow to move, a little cry that breaks on a moan as something warm flattens against your cunt.

A soft, wet drag. Your hand leaves the sheets to brace on the shoulder that nudge your thighs wider, opening you up to him. 

As he eats you, pointed licks against your clit. Your hand curling around the spot where shoulder meets neck, feeling the low buzz of his moan. 

Fingers curling in time with his tongue. With his lips, as he places a kiss between your thighs. 

Ones that fall fully open, with the soft suck of his mouth. A heavy pressure in your belly, a tightening in your abdomen as you fight back the urge to grind yourself against his tongue. 

Perhaps a month ago - before you knew about the curse, about him - you would have been content with this. The emptiness between your thighs, the searing pleasure.

Imaging, with the way your brain tends to spin tales, other illicit encounters. Playing on the way he moves so soundlessly. Sneaking up behind you to bend you willingly over the counter. Submitting to an invisible force, that could take you whenever he desires. 

But, for a while now - your mind has changed. A brief fantasy, compared to your current desires. 

More than ever you wish to see him. Each little expression, how you could see the burn that you can only wish matches your own.

Neat hair now tousled from your fingers, how his mouth would shine with you. 

The way you could look into his eyes, so that you could tell him how much you want him. 

Need him.

Not just here, but always.

You choke on his name. Butterflies in your stomach, that winding tightness feeling like it’s fraying - about to snap.

“God, just like that.” Your head tilts back against the pillows, stars glittering across the ceiling overhead, “Fuck, please don’t stop Alfred. I’m gonna-”

The rest is bitten off. The soft, echoing “oh” held - as your eyes open. As you look down, just as that pleasure starts to crest.

There’s a shimmer. Like gold caught in the sunlight, the twinkle of stars in the sky far outside the city limits. A deepening of shadows at the crux of your thighs, hinting at a form between them. 

Twin grey-blue reflections caught in the light -  sliding shut, just as you snap. The sight disappearing as your vision goes hazy. An ache of release as all that tightness within you ebbs, thudding with the flutter of your heart. 

Bliss shudders through you, freeing your gasping cries. Fingers coaxing as you pulse around them, prolonging your pleasure with the soft press and swipe of his tongue. 

It’s been ages since anyone but yourself has brought you to orgasm. You’ve forgotten what it’s like, to place yourself in the hands of another.

Even ones you can’t see.

Or, could you?

No. Surely nothing had changed, in the time between the hallway and now. You’ve spent weeks looking at him, and never once have you seen him like this.

You must be dreaming.

The thought settles over you, as you stare unseeing at the ceiling, still dazed. As a broad hand strokes your thigh, the stretch of the two fingers still buried in you. 

Yes, that must be it. Trapped in a dream, while your mind tries to fill in the blanks, melding how you know him with the picture in your head. The soft suggestion of his face - the curve of his nose and his beard as a hand passes over his mouth. 

Disappointment lances through you. But… if it’s not real, you’ll make the most of it. Allow you to experience this moment that may never come again. 

Even in a dream, you want to give him everything. 

“Come here.” Your voice is low, soft - as you roll to your side, after he eases from you. Patting the mattress where you just lay, letting your fingers trail and trace as he moves.

Waiting until his head indents the pillow before you swing your hips over his. His hands biting into your thighs as you straddle him, the wool of his pants soft against your bare skin.

It’s almost familiar, the way your hands slide up his chest. A much more pointed movement than your earlier explorations. Carefully finding the collar of his shirt. Dipping down to where his shirt splits, fingers tracing over skin and a coarse smattering of hair.

Tugging the buttons free, one by one. 

Slowly opening him up, over a chest - muscle and flesh covering the racing of his heart. Down past his belly, just at your head dips.

Something like a sigh, hanging in the air, as your mouth follows. Pressing down against heated skin, as his own fingers pinch harder. 

And there’s that shimmer again, as you scoot back. Illuminating the semblance of a face - panting, parted lips and a pinched brow. Settling yourself between strong thighs - fingers splaying across his abdomen while the other finds his hand. 

“Can I touch you?” 

It’s the second time you’ve asked. The first time through a hazy mind, not even sure what you were wanting. You have intent this time, as your fingers slip to wrap around his belt buckle, feeling the upward shift of his hips beneath you.

Yes.

The two squeezes come quickly from his entwined fingers, but with it comes something else. Another sigh of words, as if caught on a breeze in the still room. 

Muted - as if said behind glass, a closed door.

“Yes, darling.”

It’s the dream, you think. Your mind unable to fully translate, caught between what you knew before and what you know now.

And still, it makes your heart ache. How pretty it sounds, those words. It has you tugging on the leather strap of his belt. Loosening, unbuttoning, hands eager to touch warm skin.

Alfred’s hips lift. The hand in yours grasping tighter when you try to slip yours away, and so you keep it there. Managing to tug the layers down with just one, sliding it over skin afterwards. Letting them drop down to the floor below. 

You find him, wrapping your hand around. Hard and velvet soft beneath your palm, finger and thumb not quite meeting with the slow stroke of your hand. 

He sighs - the sound rough, low. Thighs tense where they close around you, biting into where you kneel.

Lips brushing his stomach, the curve of his hip. Muscles tensing beneath your mouth, cock twitching in your careful grip.

You can’t help but smile. Pleased at how undone he’s become under your touch already. That desperate wish that this wasn’t so one-sided ebbing with the way the kiss in the doorway became so heated. 

Emboldening you, even if this isn’t truly real. 

“You’re beautiful,” You tell him, with another press of your lips. Looking up where you know he lies, watching. “I don’t need to see you to know that.”

Perhaps another work would have been better. Handsome, maybe. Or striking, but it doesn’t quite capture the puzzle you’ve fit together. The rough, muffled groan - how you’re sure you’ve rumpled that crisp white shirt, with how he lounges in your bed. 

There’s an opalescent shine left behind when your tongue peeks out to lick a stripe up his cock. His hips do jerk then, fingers squeezing tightly. 

Not a word, though. Not a “No” with his single grasp of his fingers. Just the still holding back of desire. Something you hope he will let go of, before you’re ripped awake.

And so, you taste him. Take him into your mouth, letting spit pool on your tongue as your lips open wider. 

Bobbing your head, your hand following. Smearing spit across his skin, each jerk of your fist getting slicker. 

Letting your fingers drift down until you can cup him, heavy in your hand. It’s then, with the soft suck of your mouth, that his fingers leave you.

Coming to stroke along your cheeks, where they hollow. A steady exhale of breath that quickens with the way your eyes roll shut, your tongue tracing along veins, trying to take him as deep as you can.

You were wet before, from the thought of him. From the orgasm he pulled from you - but the feel of him in your mouth sends another heady ache to rest between your thighs, slick as you press them together. 

It’s when you’re almost gagging on his length that there’s a pressure, a sharp curse that is hissed through teeth as he grasps at you.

Easing you off, as you blink up at him. Waiting for him to guide you, eyes catching where the weight shifts on your bed. The shimmer of hands as they touch at your waist, guiding you to face the side of the bed. 

Angling you towards the windows that run parallel. Your eyes meeting your own, in the ornate mirror that stands between them. 

Not quite a straight-on angle, but it’s enough. A peek at your own heavy-lidded expression. His hips pressing to yours as he fits himself behind you, hand sliding across the curves of your hips. 

Pulling you back, as he kneels. Inching your thighs wider, matching his. The hard curve of his cock nudging against the swell of your ass, as he shows you how beautiful he thinks you are. 

With a hand that rises, across your belly, between your breasts. Up to your throat, where his hand spans - thumb and forefinger cradling the hinge of your jaw.

Keeping you facing forward, as his lips press against the back of your neck. His other hand drifting down, to dip between your thighs again. 

“Oh, look at you.” It’s a rough sigh against your skin, as his fingers reach soaked flesh, “I’ve dreamed of this.”

A dream within a dream, you think dizzily - as he touches where you drip, where it clings to your thigh - before the fingertips catch and drag it over your center.

Down to where he’s already been, where you’re warm and wet and ready. The tease of two thick fingers before they’re coming back to circle your clit again.

You wonder if he had been watching, before. The way your own had pressed and circled, messy and eager. Learning what you like. Eyes finding your own again in that mirror. 

Seeing only yourself, though you’ve slumped against him. You wonder what he sees now - never thinking to ask. 

If he sees himself as solid as he feels against you, just invisible to the world. Or if he only sees the iridescent shape, the shine of his fingers in the dim, broken light.

Despite your wishes to see him, it is a sight. The pleasure that begins to build, though you seem untouched. Just the shallow grind of your hips into the air, in spite of the way he cradles you to him.

And the more you watch, it feels almost as if… as if that shadow becomes a little more solid. Bridging that liminal space between transparent and translucent. 

It has your hand moving. Slipping between the curve at the small of your back. Catching where he’s hard against you, a wet smear left against your skin. All it takes is a shift of your hips to fit him beneath you, as you relax back against him.

Feeling where he juts out between your soft thighs, achingly stiff. An unconscious grind of his hips, that sends his cock gliding against your seam. Slicking up his shaft with you, as his fingers still press. That throb of pleasure slowly building with his touch.

“Christ, sweetheart-” Another soft, choked out sound. Again, no more than a whisper. Slipped out of lips unused to speaking out loud, but cannot help it.

“I need you.” Your voice is much louder, “It’s not enough, I need you inside me-”

Ready to lift, to press him into you if he’ll let you. It would be easy, with the way his hips already move, the shallow thrust that sends him skimming against swollen flesh.

He catches you as you rise - broad hands at your hips. This peek in the mirror only a brief interlude to where he really wants you, pressed into the mattress beneath him. 

Much more familiar, hurried, with the way you fit together now. His fingers entwining again to answer with those squeezes, though he murmurs it as well.

“Yes,” He groans, with the rock of his hips. “Yes, my darling. I need you too, I wish I could tell you-”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to answer, that you can, when his hand slides from to wrap around his cock. Angling himself down to press against your opening.

He holds himself there, until you’re wiggling against him. A downward shift until the head is nudging inside you, until you’re already clenching in anticipation. 

“Alfred,” You all but whine, “Fuck me, please, I want you to-”

Part of you is certain he’s confirming you want this, and you want to tell him he could do anything. That you’ll beg, if he wants. That you’ve been his, that you’ve needed him for ages. 

Those sentiments choking you with the steady thrust of his hips, the rough sound in his throat. Your own moan high as your arms wrap around him, as he presses himself deep inside you. 

Shallow rolls of his hips, easing himself out and then back in - your fingers biting into his shoulders as he seats himself fully, hips pressed flush with yours.

He fills you so perfectly. That dull, pleasurable ache of being stretched open, your legs opening wider so he can go just that much deeper. 

Your eyes close as he begins to move, finding his jaw with your mouth. Kissing blindly across his cheek as you moan, until his own low grunts and gasps meet yours.

Murmuring another low curse against your mouth, as his hip saw. The rolling stroke bumping something inside you that makes your muscles tense, that warm heat to spread. 

“S’good. Feels so good-” It’s a messy mumble, as you chase the pleasure that swells inside you.

Trying to cling to him as he slowly pulls back. Hands that ghost over the soft bounce of your breasts, past your hips. Tugging your thighs up over his, his fingers pressing into your skin as he finds that spot again.

Your eyes open, seeing the shadows cast as he curves over you. The downward tilt of his head, and again - you wonder.

If he can see the way he splits you open. The shine of your arousal on his cock with each snap of his hips, the way he has you clenching around him.

It has you reaching. Tracing over stomach and hips, the way he leans into your touch. His grip loosening so his hand can press over yours, molding to his form.

It’s been ages since he’s been known this way. Perhaps never quite like this. Opening himself up for examination. Pinned under your own gaze, dissected by your touch, after all those years alone.

You’re struck by him. The way he touches you so gently. How you’ve talked for so long translated so carefully here. Little squeezes and soothing strokes of his hand.

So much said silently.

It sends something flipping in your chest. An urge to never be parted, to stay just like this - with him, in this room, forever. Something you think just might be….

Might be-

Well, that sentiment is another thing to wrap up carefully, all neat folded corners and tied with a golden bow. Perhaps to be delivered tomorrow, something you can tell him yourself and not this dream-Alfred that’s been spun from your deepest desires. 

A hope that you can say what been slowly blooming, swelling in your heart. That just maybe - he will write down the same sentiments for you.

Because surely, you’re not alone. Even if his feelings are half as real as this - with those soft words and even softer touches - it would be enough.

You’ll hold that back for now, but there’s others that manage to slip free from you, under his gaze.

“I want to stay,” You breathe, as his hips slow. As his fingers grip even tighter, “I want you. Just as you are.”

He folds, with your words. Strong back curving as his hips drop to press flush with yours - your own thighs wrapping around his waist. 

Lips brushing your cheek to let you know he’s there, before they ghost against your mouth. So much said in the soft groan, the way his hand cradles your face. 

“Oh darling,” You hear him say, in the moments your lips part, “My perfect girl. Anything you want, it’s yours. I’m yours-”

His confession makes you ache - it’s there in the roll of his hips, the way his other hand slips between you. Sliding over sweat-dewed skin to pet at you again, stroke between your thighs.

Sending you higher, twisting and curling. Until you’re panting against his mouth, until you’re swallowing his own sounds that slowly grow shorter, rougher. Louder. 

His thrusts losing his careful, steady rhythm, fingers pressing just a little harder. Circling faster as your muscles start to tense, as your hips roll and grind as you meet him.

You can’t believe you’re so close again, your vision going soft and hazy. 

And he’s there with you, a warning in the gentle taps against your arm. His voice rough in your ear, though he thinks you cannot hear him.

“Please gorgeous, I need you to come. Want to feel you on my cock, first-”

There’s the scrape of his beard against your cheek, the press of his mouth against your throat. Another wet press of his fingers and you’re there - clinging to him as your cunt clenches down around him.

Your moan high as you orgasm pulses through you, starting from where you grip his cock, slipping up your spine and tingling down your limbs. 

He’s gone still, keeping you full with him. Keeping that weight inside as he helps you ride out the pleasure with his fingers, his touch almost sloppy with the way he staves off his own orgasm.

A soft cry from your throat when he pulls himself from you a moment later, lifting his hips just enough to twist his wrist. To wrap his fist around his cock, slick with your release. It’s only a few jerks before he’s spilling across your skin - the curve of your mound, against your belly.

Dripping down to sticky thighs, and when he’s worked himself empty, you can see the white streaks against your skin. As pretty and shining as he is in the silver streams of moonlight, and from this angle you feel like you can see the hand you’ve come to know so well. How it unfurls to stroke against your thigh. 

As gentle as ever, contented in the lazy path his fingers take. 

Leaving you cozy, when he tucks you against him. A cool cloth from the bathroom smoothed against your thighs, as he wipes himself carefully from your skin.

A soft plead mumbled against his neck, as your arms wrap around.

“Stay.”

You can hear the rumble of a soft hum of amusement, as if there was anywhere else he would wish to be.

Cheek pressing to your head, as you both get comfortable. It feels like a perfect fit, the way your body curves against his, the way his arm fits around you. Fingers finding yours to squeeze. 

Yes. 

But he says it too, in a voice so low you only just catch it. 

“Of course, love. Always.”

There’s a golden glow, in the room. You think perhaps it’s dawn, come early. Warm and glittering as you curl in your bed, fingers tracing over bare skin. 

Drifting in and out. Blissful in this soft embrace, as your mind slips from you, hazy in this soft afterglow. Leaving you to clutch at the thought that if it is a dream… 

Then it’s a very good one.

And you desperately hope you’ll remember it. 

The dull, repeated buzz pulls you from a deep sleep. You don't know the last time you've felt this content - curled on your side, loose-limbed and warm.

Fingers fumble beneath the pillow. Finding your phone beneath, as you peer at the message with bleary eyes.

Change of plans. Boarding flight now, be home tonight.

You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like.

The message makes you smile, wonder if Bruce as told Alfred yet. Thinking about how relieved and happy he will be, as you open a next text to send to him.

Did Bruce text you? It looks like your Christmas wish came true! 💕

You send it before you can overthink the heart you tacked on at the end.

Frowning then, as a matching buzz rattles against the wooden floor below.

A sleepy shift as you glance down, to see the bright edge of a screen. A sliver exposed from where it sits deep in a dark pocket, from a pair of trousers half-hidden under your bed.

Your frown deepens.

Eyes rising - seeing where the door stands open and silent. Still, as the sun weaves its way to spill in golden stripes against your floor.

It's then, that you feel the tension at your waist.

The press of something solid, as you had leaned, now pulling you back into the warmth of the bed. Too tired to notice how you were crowded closer to the edge, than your usual spot in the middle.

To notice that you're not alone.

Something warm and sturdy and strong behind you. The bristle of something coarse against your shoulder, as your blankets shift. 

A low sound, a hum, as it moves - sliding from your hip, splaying under your chest with another backward tug. Holding you close. 

An arm comes into view. A hand. 

A proper, solid one. 

Dimples of skin at strong knuckles, calloused fingertips dragging across your curves.

Those last dregs of sleepiness are snatched from you.

He makes a low sound as you push yourself upward, and turn. Not caring how the blanket pools around your waist now, the chilly air hitting bare skin.

Definitely not alone. 

And you’re not afraid - not when your eyes drop down. Because you know this face, this steely gaze that is softened with sleep.

Hair that has long gone silver, tousled from the brush and grip your fingers.

Breathless at the two realizations that crash over you at the same time. Fighting each other in your mind, as his eyes crack open.

That the curse has been broken.

That it hadn’t been a dream.

His name is a broken sound, a pricking in the corners your eyes as your hands cradle his face. That contented look turning sharp - alert from your expression, as he pushes himself up on his elbows.

Reaching for you, that familiar space between your wrist and forearm. The words still sliding from him as they often did when you spoke - liking to imagine that you could hear them.

“What is it, darling?”

And it’s not the soft whisper from the night before. It’s a rough, sleepy sound. Beautifully low and rasping, and it only makes your heart lurch even more.

“I can-” You have to take a breath, to stop the tremble, “It’s broken, Alfred. You’re-”

And he seems to understand - an arm curling around your waist. Holding you against him as you yelp, as he pushes himself fully upward. 

Putting you both in view of the mirror where he had held you, the night before. Where you both now gaze into the reflection, watching the way you curl around each other.

Beautifully ruffled and bare-skinned from your shared evening and contented sleep.

Watching his expression change - confusion, and wonder, and then - relief. Fingers stroking the grey of his beard, before his eyes are tearing away. 

And to look at him fully, to have that gaze returned - it has your heart twisting tight, stomach tying into knots. 

Your voice is soft, still trembling, “What broke it?”

His touch transfers to you, his hand coming to cup your cheek. Watching the way you lean into it, the concerned pull of your brow.

“You did, love.”

And how you wish it was true. That you had helped him, somehow. Like you had wanted to, so badly, for all these weeks now.

But instead, your head shakes, “But I don’t understand. What did you want?”

His smile is soft. Those stormy eyes clearing with a lifted weight, as he pulls you closer. Knuckles stroking across your cheek, affection woven into every facet of his touch.

It’s a look that you hope you’ll see every day, for the rest of your life. 

“I wanted to be seen.”

"to be loved is to be seen."

and they lived happily ever after - the end! ✨ this has been so fun to write and such a comfort during this holiday time. thank you so much for reading this! it means so much 💖 and hope you all have a very happy holidays! 🎄

#alfred pennyworth x reader #fic rec

[readershewrites]

— i’ll be seeing you | part ii

[masterlist] | [playlist] | [part i]

invisible man!alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 6k

tags: invisible man!au, age gap, holiday fluff, light angst, alfred is fully invisible/silent to reader, shared spaces, mutual pining, magical elements, mentions of the holidays and christmas, blink-and-you'll-miss-it pennywayne, use of alcohol, references to masturbation, kissing

Your time in the Tower with Alfred passes. And even with some secrets revealed, you're still left wondering. Curious - filled with an eagerness to help, to make yourself useful. Finding yourself reaching out. Touching. Believing.

"Bruce is infuriating," You huff, your arms crossing as you lean against the open doorway. "You know that?"

It had been impossible to sleep, as you turned those texts around in your mind. 

Trying to read between the lines, knowing how words could twist. Considerable time spent delving deep into the bowels of the internet. Pulling up as much as you could about sorcerers and curses.

Most dismissed as myth.

But then again, most people did not live in Gotham.

The back of your hand scrubs across your eyes, the morning light feeling too bright with his bedroom curtains pulled back, "I asked him last night like you said, but I couldn't get a straight answer. Has he always been this way?"

There's no reply. Silence lingered like it usually did, your lips dipping into a frown. Until there's a touch at your back and you're pressing against the doorframe - letting a pile of linens pass from behind.

Watching as they are set onto the open self in the closet, before the pen is lifting off his bedside table. A quick note, torn free from the pad before it's passed your way.

You have no idea.

There's humor in his words - you can't help but smile, as you read them.

"I want to help you."

You're still looking down. Twisting the paper between your fingertips, before finally looking up, "What have you tried?"

It takes a while for an answer. The usual quick scratch of his pen now slow - hesitant. Tearing a sheet off before beginning again. You have to resist the urge to peek over his shoulder, fingers curling into fists to keep yourself in place.

Finally, his reply.

We have tried everything.

The Waynes had a lot of connections. And I am still the same. I did not tell you so you could take this upon yourself. I told you so that you could understand. There's much that I am unable to speak about. I had hoped Bruce could.

But I should have anticipated this.

An ache radiates from your chest, as you quickly reread. A swell of emotions threatening to burst, as you glance up - into nothing.

"What if I want to?" There's a burn in your throat, in your eyes. It's embarrassing how quickly you've become invested, you wished you could make him understand, "It's not fair, Alfred-"

Hands touch your arms. Fingertips sliding from shoulder to bicep, the movement soothing. A deep breath loosening the feelings that choke you - a hand lingering as you hold the pad for him, as another note is written.

Life rarely is.

You've done more than enough already.

"I haven't done anything," You protest, your voice pitching up, "Please let me-"

There's a weight against the pad you hold. A line scored beneath the last sentence, for emphasis. Your eyes linger on it, until the words unfocus. Trying to understand what you've been told.

That maybe… you were being foolish. 

What could you possibly offer, when near-limitless resources and money had already been at their disposal?

The tension leaves your shoulders, as you wilt.

He leaves you with one more. His hand curled around your shoulder, softly squeezing.

Thank you for worrying about me.

The paper stays crumpled in your hand, as you slip back to your own room. Needing the space, trying to respect the gentle dismissal. 

To remind yourself that this must run deep for him. It's been hours that you've thought about this, but for him - it's been years. You should not push.

And so - for now - you won't.

But you won't forget.

Days later, you wake to frost on your windows. 

Spider-webbing from the cold, arching iron -  muting the dark shadows of the cityscape outside. It creeps inside, across the hardwood floors that bite at your toes, before you're wrapping up.

Feet tucked inside the shearling slippers left outside your door. A thoughtful and practical kindness, fitting for the bits of him you've been able to piece together. 

A thick sweater is layered on, then soft sweatpants. Today, you're sure to be kept inside, and you've long since given up on standing on ceremony.

It's later than your usual. Inspiration striking just as your eyes closed. The night spent writing down what you could, lasting until the inky black turned a watery gray. The sun has been up for hours, though there is no warmth to it. Not in Gotham.

The kitchen is quiet when you arrive. A slight pang of guilt when you see the coffee mug sitting out next to the empty french press.

It feels so strange - how quickly a routine has formed. It still felt unreal, something that you still did not quite believe. Never thinking you'd find yourself looking for someone you couldn't see.

Even now, your eyes scan across the kitchen - as if his form would appear. Hands busy as you fix an afternoon breakfast, though your mind wanders.

The rejection had lingered. Throughout the evening after you had talked. Another sleepless night gathering information. 

Even finding articles about those who had been cursed, though they had all seemed senseless in their intent. Cured, once Faust had been locked away, the magic fracturing until they were released.

There was something different, here. Something Bruce knew that you didn't - still unable to coax it from him. Days were starting to pass too quickly, but there was still time. 

You still had hope, even if it seemed like they didn't. 

Relief comes when there's that phantom brush at your shoulder. A "good morning", in not so many words. A kettle moving to the stovetop, the fire clicking on. 

Alfred gets your coffee ready for you, as he always did. Knowing how much you enjoy it - the warmth, the boost - drinking nearly as much as the cups of earl grey he brews.

You had protested, at first. But it had been a mimicry of your first meeting. That hand at your elbow, guiding you back to your seat. A firmness in the way he tucked your chair back against the table, back in front of your screen.

You had relented.

The pen lifts as you both wait, ink scratching against paper. Your shoulder bumps into something solid, as you lean over to read.

You're up late today.

A yawn cracks your face, at the reminder. It's closer to evening than morning, now.

"I had an idea for the ending, just as I was going to sleep. I knew if I didn't write it down, I'd forget."

A moment, as the kettle is lifted.

"Sometimes I think I work better at night. When everything is just... quiet. Does that make sense?"

That seems to be common around here.

The thought makes you smile.

"Yeah?" You ask, "Is Bruce a night owl?"

The pen scratches, after a pause.

Something like that.

The coffee warms you, fighting the swirl of flakes outside, the moan of the wind. Radiating outwards as you lean against the counter,

"What are you up to today?" You try to ask it idly, a fork spearing another bite of your meal. Always interested in how he spends his time in this old house. Alone without Bruce, except for his memories.

I thought I would bring some of the decorations out. I've been putting it off, but it is December.

"Decorating? For the holidays?" The prospect is exciting - you're already picturing silver stars hanging from the arched doorways. The pure height of a tree that would fit in their open foyer - with its tall, pointed ceiling, "Do you both celebrate?"

For a second, he does not answer. The pen shifting on the counter, his answer with slow, neat letters.

I do.

The singularity of his answer has a pit forming in his stomach. Is it an old tradition? Kept from the days before - an attempt at familiatry, received by a boy that rejects it? Or was it only for him?

Bruce’s trip is open-ended, you both know that. That his offer to you had extended through the beginning of the new year, but the date of his return had not been set.

You find yourself thinking that Alfred still wishes. Hopes that he’ll make it. Wanting to have the Tower ready, just in case. 

The words come again without thought, "Can I help you?"

You've written enough for now. An ache in your elbows from the way you hunched over your desk all night, trying to get it all down.

A pause - and you half-expect him to refuse again. But there's a touch to your shoulder, two gentle squeezes.

Yes.

It takes more than a single afternoon.

The decoration lasts days - time spent bringing out boxes from one of the deep closets on the second floor. Sorting out garlands to drape across the fireplaces. Wreaths and candles and boxes of ornaments in glittering shades of black and silver, crimson and gold.

Remnants from another time, each with their own story.

You wonder how long they've had them. If Alfred always puts them in the same place, year after year.

Some, you voice aloud. Handing over your phone so he can key a reply.

These are new. Or - We bought these over from the Manor, when Bruce was young.

A yearning left in your chest to hear the stories with his voice - craving every last detail and memory, instead of the short summary. To scratch and peel back that first layer, making a home beneath it.

Perhaps, you will - with time.

You follow behind him when time allows. Tracking the floating boxes down the corridors that have now become familiar. Steadying step ladders as a hand brushes your shoulder for balance, sending your pulse racing each time. Moving back to give a nod of approval when it's hung just right.

The long hallways turn cozy. So much of the blank space filled with care, under Alfred's watchful eye. Some of that military precision and sternness comes out as he made sure every detail was exactly right. Each item in order, as they should be.

There's a sense of accomplishment in seeing the boxes slowly empty. Ella Fitzgerald and Dean Martin serenading away the hours, their crooning voices following the decorating through the Tower.

And in-between these moments, you slip in other kinds of questions. Self-serving ones disguised in these 'getting-to-know-you's. Though you still want know -  no less eager for the answers.

"I'm mailing out some gifts this week." You mention, while untangling a string of lights. It was easier to sound casual, when your fingers are working the knots free, "Do you have anything on your Christmas list?"

It's part-genuine, part-segue. Fully intending to have something wrapped and ready for him come Christmas morning, though there’s more than one layer to your question. Ears perking up, as your phone lifts from the table where you sit.

I believe I have everything I could hope for. What about you?

Your eyes scan the message once, twice. A warmth in your cheeks as you find yourself wishing there was a deeper meaning to his answer, before you realize just how little he's really given you.

"Really?" Your head tilts, with a small smile, "Not even, like - a Montblanc or a Rolex, or something?"

He's already answering, amusement lacing his expedited reply.

Is that what you think I want?

And god, you wish you could hear his voice. An ache in your chest, a wish to learn every little inflection. Leaving you wondering how these words would sound, rolling off his tongue. 

“No.” You eventually manage, with a little shake of your head, "I don’t think so. You’re too practical.”

He would never ask for anything so luxurious. Even if he deserves nice things. 

The phone stays still, and your fingers twist. Eventually asking what you really want to know. 

"What about in general? If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?"

You're sure the answer sounds stilted, out of place. Too obvious, in your intent. But you can't help it, this chance - a hope that he will give you something to work with. 

There's a long pause at that. Your heartbeat feels too loud, and you're hoping he'll take your bait. Bruce's words replay in your head, as you resist the urge to cross your fingers for luck. Alfred doesn’t know what he told you, he won’t know what you’re really asking. 

From what we've gathered, his curse will be lifted when he gets what he wants.

You need to find out what that is. 

Foolishly, a small part of you wishes that just maybe... he’d want you. It would be an easy thing to give, because you’re certain you're his already. 

The words appear slowly. Written and then erased before you could see. Written again.

I suppose if I could have anything, it would be a piece of home.

But what I would really like is for Bruce to come home safely.

It tempers you, to read this. How much he must worry and care, even though Bruce was just on a business trip. 

You suppose that perhaps, you never grow out of it. 

"He will." You tell him - reaching out, until you can press your palm against the back of his hand. Halting where he strings thread through the edges of the snowflakes you cut - preparing to hang them in the windows.

The answers are not as helpful as you had wanted. But you still tuck them away. Perhaps with enough pieces, you'll be able to see something they missed.

And in spite of these roadblocks, a part of you still feels lighter than you did when you first arrived all those weeks ago. A knowledge that this break would be helpful - but that you'd be away from friends and family.

But as the evening comes, as you're tucked on one of the long couches with twinkling lights softening the bright glow of your screen, you think you feel... happy. Content.

Not nearly as lonely as you thought you would be, and with that comes a cold twist of shame in your stomach. Thinking about how easy you have it, compared to him. You're willingly confined to the Tower.

Alfred is shackled. His only connection across the sea, left to wander silently if you had not noticed him.

And now... you're only one mere person, but you hope he never feels unnoticed again.

"Can I touch you?"

His eyes round with your words. The innocent, curious edge, though his thoughts swim into something much more indecent.

A second passing, before more words come in a rush.

"I just... I've wondered. “You breathe, your voice soft. “I believe what happened, I've just been curious-"

His hand reaches to soothe your nerves. Your request surely emboldened by the winding down of the evening. The final touches put on the decorations that now flow throughout the Manor.

Ending with the large tree tucked away in one of the alcoves. Sitting together beside it as the last glittering ornaments are added along the bottom. 

His back will be aching tomorrow, with all the bending. Surely needing to rely more on his cane than usual -  but for now he's content, where he rests on the stone floor.

Your matching cups of whiskey, honey, and lemon already drained, and then refilled. Warming your bellies, making his own mind soft and hazy at the edges. 

He thinks you might not have asked, otherwise. Maybe he would not have been so quick to answer - fingers curling in a now familiar way around your forearm, with two soft squeezes.

Yes.

You can do whatever you like, though you do not know it. 

If he only has until the end of the month before you leave and forget all about him, then he will bend for you. All those strict and proper thoughts turning malleable with your touch. 

Relief blooms across your features. Your smile comes easily, pleased at the indulgence. A little mark appearing between your eyebrows after, as they sweep over him - wondering where to begin - seeing nothing.

He can help you. Guiding your hand to his wrist, giving you a place to start. There's the flit of your fingers as you find his other, dragging his hand down to your knee where your legs criss-cross, twisting until you face him.

"Tell me if I'm doing it wrong, okay?" Your fingers press over his, mimicking a squeeze.

His own answer comes easily.

Yes.

As if you could.

As if his own heart hasn't lurched - taken off without him.

You start at his fingers, pinching them between yours. So much smaller, colder than his, as you traces over the lines of his palm - pressing into the meat of his thumb.

A little smile, as you move to his wrist. His sleeves still rolled up from trimming the tree, in spite of the chill that always seems to permeate the Tower. The loose circle of your hand growing wider the further you move up, over his forearm.

In all these years, he has truly felt cursed. A manifestation of all those worries, when Bruce had been suddenly left alone. Becoming truly as helpless as he had felt, back then. No more than an errant thought.

It had been worth it. The sorcerer’s spell, one that was aimed at Bruce. Something unlike the others, thrown into the streets of Gotham. Devilry in its making. 

Manifesting fears and insecurities, biting bone-deep. Plucking and sifting through things so buried, that they were thought to be hidden.

He knew what Bruce would relive. What he wanted, more than anything. Something Alfred wished for as well, in his heart of hearts. 

But he also knew it could never happen. The dead cannot return, and in spite of the chasm of regret and pain, he had made some kind of peace with it. 

Bruce had not. 

Back then, they did not know for certain what the spell did. There just were inklings and clues, in the days before the attack. 

It was enough. A determination to push himself to the front, to take the brunt of that blast for a second time. Like he would, a thousand times over. Shielding Bruce from the agony of his memories. 

Only to be forgotten. To be rendered invisible and silent - a constant reminder of his own loss, those years after when Bruce had seemed to just see through him.

A sacrifice worth making. And for years, he had born it. 

But in these last few weeks, in this moment - he does not completely and utterly despise what he had become. Because he would not have been able to look at you like this, eyes so fixed on your face. 

Catching every unguarded expression. The soft shadow of your eyelashes as your head dips, as if you’re trying to make out his form.

You don’t have what Bruce has. He has no way to offer those contacts he developed - Alfred’s form lit up in shades of warped and molten infrared. 

But it’s almost as if you’ve managed to make do without. 

He tries to resist the stirring - the soft sigh that threatens to break free, as your fingers press into muscle, even if you can’t hear it. Your path tracing over his biceps as he tries to go still, unmoving in your exploration.

Your other hand rises. Twin touches to his shoulders, tracing the edges of his dark vest, finding the tie at his throat. Knotted that morning from instinct and muscle memory - he has not seen his own reflection in years. 

You smile, lower lip caught between your teeth - fingers wrapping around the silk.

“You still dress like your photo.”

A hitch in his breath then, to think that you remember what he had looked like. How you say it so plainly and assuredly, as if you’re certain.

Your look turns thoughtful, as you squint at him again, “If I were invisible, I don’t think I’d wear clothes at all.”

Christ.

A visual flickers through his mind before he can help it - fingers clamping down vice-like around your knee. 

You squeak, already forgetting what you said - concern swirling across your features, “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”

He manages to answer, a much more gentle "No" squeezed into your skin - though you still look worried. Already mourning the loss of your touch, as your hand hover, fingers curling. 

Alfred wishes he had words. Anything to assure you that you did nothing wrong, but all he can do it catch your wrists. Guide them back to his shoulders, in silent encouragement.

And here, you go slower. Over the crisp fabric of his shirt collar. The slightest shiver when your hands touch his skin, feather-light against his throat.

The smallest quirk of your lips, as you watch the way your hands hover in mid-air. You could stop here but you don’t - a soft sigh as your touch moves higher, pairing with a soft murmur.

“Just making sure you’re real.”

A thumb flattens over the bristle of his chin, fingertips against his cheek. Over the strong curve of his nose - as if you’re trying to piece him together. 

The thought has an ache forming in his chest. A tightening - a low fluttering in his stomach. 

Unable the help the slightest lean into your palm. His eyes closing at your touch, the flex of your fingers as they move to cradle his cheek. 

It would take nothing to shift his head, to press his lips to your wrist.

But he’s always had a strong handle on his restraint. 

Even if you are, have been, testing it’s limits. 

There is very little that would make him refuse you, save for requests from Bruce. The ones he’s set in place for himself, ones that you've been so carefully nudging at.

Those he would hold above all else.

He had made a promise to himself that he would never ask, even if he could. Even if his own heart had run away with him.

Bruce had found a loophole some time ago, something he thought would work. But Alfred wouldn’t stoop to manipulation. Not then, and certainly - not now. 

Even with your careful prodding. It had not been hard to sense what you had been really wanting from him. The intent behind your questions, the fire in your eyes - how focused and serious your expression had turned, for those brief moments. 

With them, there had been the smallest spark.

A flicker of something like hope.

But he would not ask it of you.

If it was meant to be, then it would happen. But it would be on your own accord, not his.

Your lips part, as you lean closer. The slide of your other hand, curling around his neck, the tips brushing where his hair is shorn short. It’s as close to an embrace than he’s had in years, his own breath quickening. A low stirring, at the way your head tilts, the careful focus of your eyes.

As if you could almost -

The grandfather clock chimes, two long notes. Sounding more like a dirge in these empty halls, breaking the tight string of tension.

He mourns the warmth of your hands, as they drop. As you blink, eyes confirming the time. Stifling a yawn, arms bracing on your back in a stretch. A movement that his eyes follow, still caught in that shared moment for a second longer.

"I should go to bed. I need to work a little longer." The smile you give him is shy, sobering up at thought. Pushing yourself to your feet before he can move, scooping up the now-cold mugs.

"Thank you, Alfred."

It's not until you’re gone - when he’s in bed and resisting the urge to slip his hand beneath the sheets, to fist the hard curve of his cock - that he’s realizing… 

He's not quite sure what you’re thanking him for. 

The television washes the dark room in a pale light, as you idly flip through movies. Tired after a long day - unable to bring yourself to open the email from your editor yet. Surely a mile-long list of changes awaiting you.

Instead, you settle on something cozy, something familiar. The thin blanket stretches out across your lap as your legs curl up, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch.

No more than ten minutes pass before he finds you. His presence announced with the creak of a nearby closet. A much warmer, thicker blanket bundled in his arms.

Your smile soft and thankful, eyes tearing from the screen as if you could see him as he tucks it around you. A warmth and a shyness creeping in, trying to sound casual, "Do you want to watch something?"

A moment, before the cushions on the couch dips. A presence settling next to you, your teeth cutting into your lip as you bite back your smile. Not-so-secretly pleased, that he did. That he wasn't too busy to join you.

Unfolding the edge of the blanket, offering it out to him. Your fingers brushing over the woolen knit of his arm - a sweater, from the feel of it.

Something different, than last time. You've taken to imagining him the same as that little photo. The crisp white shirt and inky black vest, not a single stitch out of place. 

"Are you cold?" You're always were, in the Tower. It's something you like - drifting off to sleep under the layers of blankets. Slipping on your biggest and coziest cardigan, while sipping a warm drink as you work. 

Before he can answer, you're slipping from the couch. His own touch snags at the long hem of your own sweater, a soft kind of protest. One that is ignored, as you head to where the embers in the fireplace glow - the logs you threw on at lunch no more than ash.

"You work too hard," You comment, stacking in more. Enough to last the length of the movie and then a little longer, "You just stay there, alright?"

It's not as neat as he does it. The fire licking at your fingers as you light the match - almost dropping it. Tucking it in with the kindling, hands cupped around your mouth as you blow the embers back to life.

Making sure you're satisfied, that the warmth has started to curl into the tower, before you head back. The movie a quarter-way in now, the second time the main characters are meeting. Time skipping forward - an awkward reunion and one-sided reminisce on a shared flight.

"Do you want me to pick something else?" You ask as you sit down - no longer planning to tuck into the corner, accidently overestimating the amount of space.

A soft collision of your shoulder into a broad chest. Your thigh pressed snugly against his - your cheeks burning as you shift to the side. 

An apology slides from your teeth - a deprecating comment about how clumsy you are, as he tugs the blanket from beneath you. The brush of an arm against yours as it's moved to cover your knees.

A hand finding that space before, when you sat in front of him - mapping his features. Curling around the curve of your knee, over the blanket. Another soft squeeze, one that oh-so-subtly pulls you just a little bit closer. Bridging that small gap you had created.

No.

Something had changed then, you think. More than just an exploration, when he had let you know him with your touch. A mutual testing of the water, with the way hands had begun to linger, for conversation. 

It takes you another twenty minutes to be brave. The movie passing with your unseeing eyes. Glancing his way on instinct during the double-date that goes wrong - forgetting for a moment that you won’t catch his expression. Meeting only open air, instead.

Finally, slowly, letting your arm tuck under his. Finding the curve of his elbow, fitting yourself against his shoulder. He lets you - loose-limbed in your grasp. Settling his hand over your wrist, fingertips brushing against the patch of skin above the cuff of your sweater.

"It's one of my favorites," You comment - a stream of your thoughts, something that has now become routine. Filling the silence with your words, because he cannot, "Do you like it?"

The two squeezes come quickly. His hand warm, large, against your wrist. Another inch or so higher and a small twist, and his palm would be pressing to yours.

But, it doesn't move.

And neither do you, when the movie ends. When the next begins automatically - another romantic comedy.

Content, to take this moment. Forcing your mind not to run wild - to soak in the tangible feeling of Alfred next to you. The warmth of the room tugging at you.

Eyelids slowly drooping as the night creeps in. Your head coming to rest against his shoulder, cozy and safe where you sit - wrapped in blankets and tucked between him and the plush arm of the couch. 

It's chilly again, when you wake. No longer evening, the hours tipping towards dawn. The space next to you now empty - your head cushioned with a plush throw pillow. Blankets carefully and thoughtfully layered to cover you.

But it's still warm, when your hand runs over it. Still retaining his heat, from where he watched over you. 

From where he had stayed.

Alfred is relieved when he hears the chime of the elevator. He doesn’t trust Gotham drivers even when the sun is shining - much less when all the rain turns into sleet and snow.

You’d been gone all afternoon. Something about picking packages up for Bruce and an errand, pairing it with a little smile that he barely caught -  before you were whisking out the door.

There’s plenty to do, but he can’t help but worry. He’d gotten used to the music you play, your questions, your presence - the Tower seeming so empty without them. That dull ache in his chest turning into something closer to longing, in the days between their night under the tree. His assuredness that he was perhaps, reading into things, lessening with the memory of you pressed so close against him as the movie played.

Perhaps it’s lucky they’re so far up - or he’d have to resist the urge to check the streets below, to see if you were returning. 

Snowflakes cling to your hair, your coat, as the doors finally open. A box branded with Wayne Enterprises tucked under your arm, patterned bags trapped between fingers.

His heart twists when you call out for him, and he has to pause - to wait a few moments, as to not look too eager - before he’s taking Bruce’s package from you. Setting it on the bench near the doorway as you toe off your boots.

You hold the bags close, a smiling protest when he tries to take those, next.

“No, I’ve got these,” You coax, “It’s a surprise-”

Instead, he reaches for your coat. Fingers curling around the collar, as you carefully twist to free yourself.

Your head tilting back with the roll of your shoulders. The fabric slipping down, as you go still in his arms. Eyes fixed somewhere above, in the lush garland that strings across the entryway. 

His own travel upwards, and he sees it - that rich green and red sprig, just as you murmur the word.

"Mistletoe."

Your eyes drop back down. In the past weeks, it's like he's become properly orientated in your mind. Your gaze meets his more often now than they miss. 

He doesn't remember putting it up. The plant woven into another piece of greenery, something they must have missed. Or arranged without thought, in the excitement and haste to move into the next task. 

It's not the mistletoe from the Manor. That was lost years ago, in the move to the Tower. A recollection of how Bruce would run to the door, scooped up in his father's arms. A squealing shriek with the bristle of a mustache, pressed against a chubby cheek. 

How Alfred might find a stolen moment himself there, later. Afterwards, in the dark. 

And when he looks now, at your expression. The pretty part of your lips, your breath held in your chest - he thinks he's quite ready to make some new memories, here. 

Because he knows the look. One he's seen before, the way your hands grip onto him just a little more tightly. It matches his own, a near-perfect reflection. 

Halting your soft, rushed murmur of "We don't have to, it's just-", the words dying on your tongue as his hand moves up, palm curving around the back of your neck.

Just another small indulgence. A quick brush of his lips, and that will be enough.

You melt, with his touch. Going soft and pliant, the smallest tug that coaxes him closer, just as your eyes slide shut. Waiting. 

He admires for only the briefest moment, before he moves. The careful duck of his head, unable the help the quick inhale - toasted vanilla and the sharp bite of winter - before his mouth touches softly to yours.

You make the prettiest sound - a strangled gasp that catches in your throat, as your lips part. An encouragement he needs no coaxing to take, as he draws you unconsciously closer.  

His own groan a rough echo as you let him deepen the kiss, sighing into his mouth as your palms slide up his chest to cling to his shoulders. 

You’re sweet against his tongue. Where it dips against your lower lip, and then against yours, as you meet him. Another moan and it’s enough to make him forget - to loosen his grasp on that tight tether around his own neck.

A step forward has your back pressing up against the wall. A rattle as the coat rack catches against your shoulder, wobbling.

Neither of you notice. Your hands slipping against the soft velvet of his hair, anchoring yourself to him. 

His left hand touching down against your side, sliding up to waist and ribs. Crushing himself against you as if it will save him from drowning. 

It’s when his hips cant forward - a jerking, needy grind of his stiffening cock against the soft curve of your hip. One that you match against the thigh that’s pressed snug between yours - that he catches himself. 

He's lost control. 

Eyes cracking open, growing wider as he pulls away. 

Leaving you panting and sagging against the wall - coat slipped from your shoulders and pooling at your elbows. Delicately mussed, lips swollen from the eager press of his mouth. 

You don't know what you're asking for. 

If they've been wrong, if there's no fix for this life he leads, then it's no way for you to live. He's been horribly selfish, to let things go on the way he has. Reason overridden by his heart and hope. 

He had not realized how deep his feelings had gone, until it had taken everything to pull himself away. Leaving him with the soft echo of his name as he leaves - slipping back into shadow.

But you don't pursue. Perhaps you're afraid as well - the lid that will be impossible to close, once fully opened. 

He paces in his room, later. Replaying the moment, as his hands work. A message keyed on his phone, only to be erased. 

Keyed again. And again.  

He could not say if you were still awake. Your schedule behind the closed door of your room was something unbeknownst to him. If only he had the words - real, physical, tangible words, maybe, he would explain. 

I did not mean to take advantage of the moment. Forgive me.

It's one of the only texts he's sent you. Something unspoken and agreed about their time spent together. Content with the intimacy of the touches and notes, of sharing your phone. 

The screen has only just dimmed before it's lighting up again. The vibration in his palm with her reply. 

Not just words. There's a photo attached - an image of the kitchen. His spot, from the angle. One of the bags you were carrying arranged carefully. A tag with his name dangles from the handle, in careful script. 

Just a single, short sentence below. 

I wanted you to. 

He stares at it for a long time. Scrolling back up to the photo. His feet taking him there, though the silent halls, without thought. 

It's pretty. A red and gold striped bag, white tissue paper spilling from the top. Something written on the tag as he examines it, flipping it around.

It's not home, but I hope it's close. Merry Christmas, Alfred.

It's signed "Yours", with your name in script beneath. He can't help but think about you writing this alone, after he left you. How unchanged, you were.

And carefully, after a long moment, his hand dips inside. Pulling out two wrapped rectangles. The paper peeled away to reveal wooden frames, the carved pattern along the edges reminiscent of the details in his study. 

His photos tucked inside. Ones had held so dear, until the edges had faded away. Carefully preserved, his eyes lingering on their faces as his thumb traces along the stained wood. 

The rest drawn out. Unwrapped, though he recognized the patterns, the logos, from a long time ago.

A tin of his favorite tea. A wrapped package of biscuits.  

He'd only mentioned it once. In those early days, paired with a lament that he could not get them here. That he had searched, but given up some time ago. No more than an offhand remark - a single line scratched amongst a dozen others exchanged that day. Something he never thought would have been remembered.

And after everything, he can’t help but smile. Tucking the items back inside, before he's pushing himself from the table. 

He has somewhere to be.

ahh thanks for reading! 💖

#endlessly gorgeous writing. so clear and thoughtful and sentimental #alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x you #fic rec

[readershewrites]

— i’ll be seeing you | part i

[masterlist] | [playlist]

invisible man!alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 6k

tags: invisible man!au, age gap, holiday fluff, light angst, alfred is fully invisible/silent to reader, shared spaces, mutual pining, magical elements, bruce being bruce, mentions of food/eating, unintentional gaslighting and domestic (non-sexual) voyeuristic observation, the beginning of feelings

a/n: hi! here is part i! this was a one-shot that got a little long, so I am splitting into three parts. The rest are mosty written, I hope to have them up soon (and really hope you enjoy this little holiday au!) 💕❄️

The Tower must be haunted.

It’s the only explanation you can think of. 

You’ve been staying here for a little over a week now. A offer from Bruce that tips heavily in your favor - the use of the Tower for six weeks, while he is abroad. 

Glorified house-sitting, needing someone to keep an eye on things while he was gone. Pick up the occasional package from Wayne Enterprises. Use up the perishables in the fully-stocked fridge, before they are wasted.

For you, it’s honestly a no-brainer. The perfect escape, the solace you thought was so needed to work on finishing up and editing your novel. 

You jumped at the chance to help your friend, and privately, you’d always been curious to see just what lied in the penthouse. A chance to peek at the bookshelves and cabinets filled with curios. See how the hallways might twist and turn, to run your fingers over all the intricate wooden carvings.

But that has been before.

Before things started moving. Mail you had been so sure was left on the heavy wooden table in the open foyer, now on the desk. Those tall, arched doors that seemed to creak open on their own, just barely caught in the corner of your eye as you were passing. 

Footsteps, in the night. 

And then - turning even more peculiar, and more personal.

Your scattered research notes carefully stacked on the table next to you, when you woke from a lazy, afternoon nap. Some items in the kitchen never seeming to go empty, no matter how many times you’ve used them. 

It had been a mystery.  Unsettling, in the variety. 

What you knew of ghosts involved spirits, unable to move on. Beings who lashed out, sought to frighten its inhabitants away. Or possess them.

At night, when you’re alone in the guestroom, you think you ought to be nervous. Afraid that you presence might have caused it displeasure, that it somehow, would take that anger out on you. 

But, this is Gotham, after all. And with the hell the city has been through, you’ve lived through worse. The prospect of a haunting doesn’t seem as frightening compared to them. The creak of old floors is nothing compared to riddling clues and murdered politicians, thousands of people displaced from their homes as the city had gone near-underwater. 

No, it’s something more like curiosity that flickers through you. After all, these movements were almost… helpful.

Intentional, at least.

And with that thought - something Bruce had said nudged at you, from the morning he handed over the keys. 

But surely it had been a joke. 

An internal amusement, at your expense.

“I’ll be six hours ahead, but text if you need me. You don’t have to worry about the Tower or cleaning, Alfred will take care of everything.”

“Alfred?” You had asked him, frowning. The name tickling something in the memory of your friendship, but you thought Bruce had lived alone. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Bruce had coaxed, before changing the subject, “You won’t even see him.”

There had been no Alfred. 

You were certain of that - by now you’d know if you were sharing the space with someone.

The Tower was expansive, but it was impossible that if they did exist, that they would always be in the exact opposite room as you. That your paths surely would have crossed by now.

You thought that perhaps, it was some form of Artificial Intelligence. Parts of the house hooked to some sort of electronic device he could monitor - call in any fixes or deliveries from home.

Alfred was probably an acronym for something clever.

Artificial Life For Reliable, Effective Delegation

It would make sense, with Bruce’s knack for gadgets. His fortune. The hours he kept - not a lot of room left to keep up with a dwelling as large as this. Far too busy and focused to worry about the daily minutia of bill-paying and grocery shopping. 

Yes, surely - that was it.

And it had contented you, for a little while. 

Until now. Because it didn’t explain this.

The last thing Bruce had told you to do was not to snoop. Tacked on at the end while he buttoned up his dark peacoat, baggage in hand  - almost as if he had almost forgotten.

“Enjoy yourself.”

“But stay out of the west wing, alright?”

It had been on the tip of your tongue to ask just what you should be avoiding. Your interest piqued - all manner of thoughts of what he might be hiding springing into your consciousness - though you tried to forget it. 

Bruce had been far too generous already, in offering you his home. You would never intentionally disobey his wishes.

And you hadn’t meant to. Really. 

You had just gotten turned around in the mix of different rooms. The large split staircase had lead you upstairs, along a corridor of bedrooms - a narrow spiral back down popping you out near the kitchen. Around a corner, and you’d found yourself beneath an arched passageway that you haven’t been down before.

Intricate oil paintings lined the walls, ones you had ached to see. To examine the brushstrokes yourself, the splashes of gold and crimson against the dark walls. The shut doors flanked by suits of shining silver armor, and… was that a chain on the door, at the end? 

If you were just there, if you didn’t open anything…. then it wouldn’t be snooping if you just peeked around. Right?

You had only taken a half-dozen steps down the hallway, before you suddenly collided with something solid. A soft noise ripping from you as you had stumbled, knocked off-kilter. 

There had been a pinching at your elbow, a pointed pressure that steered you around. A feeling at the small of your back guiding you forward, as you suddenly found yourself facing the passageway you had just walked under.

It happened so quickly that you hadn’t been sure what happened. Startled enough that you abandoned your exploring, making for familiar territory instead.

But that night, the memory had kept you up. Replaying it over and over. Enough that you had texted Bruce, a quick message that had already made you feel foolish the second you had sent it.

Is your house haunted?

His answer coming some time later, your eyes heavy and red-rimmed with exhaustion. 

Isn’t everyone’s?

Leaving you to wonder if Bruce hadn’t really been joking, after all.

It doesn’t happen again for a solid week. Long enough that you had started to doubt that it ever did. That perhaps, you had just imagined it. 

Giving you time to turn the moment over again and again, in your mind. Picking at the loose thread thing together the pieces. Your writings sidetracked by searches for ghosts, of hauntings - you suppose it would not be unusual, in a place like Gotham. To have spirits attached to a city that feels so cursed at times.

But, you keep going back to that pressure. The feeling of a hand at your arm, though there had only been the walls and floors ahead of you. 

It had been physical. Corporeal.

You notice more, in that time after.

More moments that you had spared a quick glance and thought of, but figured it had been in your head. The occasional dirty dish left in the sink is cleaned and tucked away the next morning. The blankets on the couch neatly folded, instead of strewn across the cushions.

At first, you had thought you had just forgotten. That perhaps your mind had just wandered, that you had been unintentionally tidying up as you mentally worked through your next task.

It wouldn’t be unusual - since you arrived, your sleep schedule had twisted. Mornings becoming afternoons. Night becoming day, with no one’s responsibilities to manage but your own.

Running on auto-pilot and simply not realizing.  

If it is a ghost, it is a tidy one.

It's that thought that begins to cement your earlier suspicions. That their identity just might be the one that Bruce was hinting at, when he said you didn't have to worry about the Tower.

Some small comfort in knowing that he would never leave you in any danger. That you might have been on edge - with the creaking of doors at night - but that harm would not come to you.

That hypnosis’s tested as time passed - there were no threats, smeared with jagged letters in the fogged-up mirror after your shower. No swinging chandeliers, loosening on their own to crash down against your head.

That whatever it was, it kept its distance. 

An intrigue slowly forms, that only grows with time. A urge to find out more - determined to see something, to make contact, again.

Even if you can't help being annoyed, as well.

Trust Bruce to let you think your mind was playing tricks on you, instead of telling the truth.

And with your now-careful surveillance - you finally catch when they slip up.

Your chin has been propped on your hand for some time now as you think - staring out of the tall, arched windows in one of the alcoves of the foyer. Head tilted to the side, so you can watch the small cars below - the tiny movements of people as they scurry into stores, to escape the cold wind that whips through the city streets.

There's a movement, then. Not outside, not below.

A flickering out of the corner of your eye you almost miss, near the coffee table you sit in front of. No more than a glint of silver in the light.

The faintest sound of pouring, which would have been drowned out by the ambient music trickling from your laptop, if you had not become so suddenly focused on the source.

It’s pouring you more coffee.

You're careful to keep still - your head fixed in place as you glance surreptitiously towards the movement. The silver coffeepot you've been lugging around tilted just enough to let a stream into your near-empty cup.

There can't be many ghosts that would choose to help, instead of scare or harm. That wiggle of curiosity surges into something more - a need to understand.

So, you try. Carefully, and unmoving.

"Are you Alfred?"

The coffee sloshes against the rim of your mug, dripping down the side. Startled by your words, so certain he had slipped past you, in your reverie. The carafe still hovers aloft, as you slowly turn your head.

Thinking that he might bolt. Hoping that he wouldn't.

Your eyes meet open air, swooping over the space - although you don't know where to look.

"Bruce mentioned you.” You try, settling on the area that you guess might be eye-level, on a man. "He said you'd be around, that I-… well, he must have thought he was being funny."

Teeth bite into the edge of your tongue - your head shaking at the half-truth he had given you. An omission, but still leaving room to argue later that he hadn’t been lying.

Your attention focuses back, again.

"But you're real, right? That was you, in the hallway?"

The coffee pot lowers to the table, then. A clunk against the heavy wood, just as you twist fully around. Your hand darting out to keep him there, curling around something solid. A wrist?

There's a tension as if he's about to move but then, at your touch, - he goes still. He's warm and solid beneath your palm, excitement sparking in your belly. Your other hand rising, index finger extended as you gesture for him to wait. 

"Please don't go. Just let me-" Your hand slips from him as you bend, looking for the bag propped against the wooden legs of the velvet settee. A second of rooting around before you find what you're looking for - a capped pen, and your spiral-bound notebook.

A page is torn from the end, and then ripped in half. You scribble down two words before flipping them around - setting them on the top of the table.

Yes and No rest there, scrawled in thick purple ink. A simplistic system by all means, and you're not even sure if he's still there or if he slipped away while you searched.

"You're Alfred, right?" You ask again, quietly - hopefully.

A fluttering in your heart at the idea of communicating. Unable to help the way you lean towards the words, as if willing them to move.

And after a long moment… they do.

The slightest flutter, a nudge to the word marked Yes.

A grin splits your face, hands clasped together, "It was you in the hallway? You this whole time?"

His answer comes more quickly now, another nudge. A sort of relief washes over you with that confirmation. No ghost lurking in these halls - just an unexpected and unusual sort-of roommate.

You had thought the solitude would suit you, but as the days pass, the interaction now feels welcome. Too many silent hours in such a big penthouse, left to your own devices for hours on end. 

"And is that your collection of tea in the kitchen, or do they belong to Bruce?" The tease comes without thought, though you belatedly realize that it's not a binary question. A heavy pause hangs in the air, before there's the slightest tug at your fingers.

You let the pen go, as he pulls it from you. One of the torn pieces flips over, the writing that appears much smaller and neater than yours.

Mine.

He plays along, to your amusement. Enough so that you're not quite ready to let him go.

"Will you have a cup with me, then?"

The paper flips back over, before it's nudged back your way.

Yes.

He hadn't been sure what to make of you.

A prickle of irritation when Bruce had informed him - yes, informed - of the arrangement. Visitors had never bothered him in the past, he was always grateful for any opportunity that meant Bruce felt comfortable bringing someone into his home. That he was spending time in the company of another, and not stuck lingering on what could never be changed. 

But that was before.

With Bruce gone, what was he to do? Pretend he doesn't exist, skirting around a stranger in the Tower? Unable to rest, too worried that you would disturb the sanctuary he's spent so long protecting?

"You know you can't go out." Bruce's eyes had been downcast, peering beneath the hood of his car. Alfred's own finger's streaked with grease, with his constant and silent aide.

Down beneath the guts of the Tower, in the Terminus. Another place to keep secret in his absence. A few years ago he would have considered caving it in while Bruce was away, but they've both come a long way since the days of the Riddler. Managing to meet somewhere in the middle, even as difficult as the journey was. 

"She's doing us a favor."

He could go out, if Bruce needed. Yes, a floating parcel could be problematic - a car driven with no owner - but he could get around that. It would be far from the more difficult things he's had to do over the course of his lifetime.

But before he knew it - you was there, and Bruce was gone. 

Alfred had never intended to interact with you. He had been all but a ghost for some time now, silent and invisible. It would have been too easy to keep to the shadows. 

To avoid you completely. 

But that wasn’t quite how things had turned out. 

You were fascinating, in your novelty. Beautiful, though he tries not to dwell on that particular observation. Keeping a schedule much like Bruce’s - all odd hours and self-directed patterns - though you couldn’t be more opposite.

Alfred would never dare step into your room, or encroach upon a private moment. He did not seek you out. But if he was already up, and you wandered into the kitchen to make pasta in the middle of the night, then sometimes… he stayed. 

Watching you move about the space. Resisting the long-engrained urge to nudge you out of the way, to cook for you himself. 

Forcing himself to linger instead, listening to you hum along to music only you could hear. Opening all the cabinets each time, until you found what you were looking for. A coffee mug, the deepest bowl you could find. 

He’d rearrange them later. Bring them to the shelf closest to you, so you didn’t have to search so hard. 

That he could do, at least. 

And when you had grown curious - wandering about the Tower, down the very hallway Bruce had told you to avoid - he had been unable to avoid you any longer. 

It had been all too easy to catch you off guard. Ignoring the spark that jolted through him when his hand had wrapped around your elbow, swiftly guiding you back the way you came. Away from the entrance to Wayne Terminus.

The expression of shock on your face still makes him smile, though he took no pleasure in frightening you.

He still manages to do so, though. Your hand flattening across your chest, a muffled shriek when his fingers stretch out to carefully tap your arm, announcing his presence. 

You were open like that - smiles and frowns and everything in between, worn so plainly and unfettered across your face. Another source of intrigue. 

So different than what he was used to. Interpreting the minute frowns and sighs and ticks of Bruce’s jaw, as if he was in the circus again - solving a codex.

He thought he was starting to be able to read you. Annoyance and boredom and that laser-focused look you got when you were working - hours passing without notice. 

And now, he watches as curiosity blooms. 

Directed at him, no less. 

It was an unusual feeling. No one he was used to - there were few secrets between himself and Bruce, especially over the recent years. A promise made that he would do better, even though he's still wracked at night with worry. 

He's not a spectacle. You don't push - though surely, you must wonder. It's not as if he doesn't himself, even though he's long been resigned to the feeling of merely existing, instead of living.

And when he finds that your routines slowly start to include him - an extra mug of tea made, the paper set out where he usually spends the morning - that wish that he had been left alone slowly begins to slip. 

Alfred finds himself thinking that perhaps, perhaps, these weeks won't be so bad, after all. 

Or at least - not quite so boring. 

In the days that follow, a semblance of a routine is formed.

His presence is announced by a touch on your shoulder - a soft tap, as not to scare you, like he had before. The questions you have about the manor, about him, answered with more of those touches.

One tap for no. Two quick ones for yes.

Or written on pen and paper like your first meeting, when you have it.

You take to carrying a pad around in your backpocket. A pen tucked behind you ear, as you grow more brave - emboldened by the fact that he does answer. That they are short and succinct, though you think, not unwelcome.

For if he had wanted to stay out of your sight, it would have been all too easy. If he stayed - sharing the space with you, steam rising from his teacup as the newspaper turned - then surely, it would mean that he did not mind.

Notes passed back and forth as you work - the heavy velvet curtains in the foyer pulled back to let the daylight in. Giving you a view of the Gotham skyline, how untouched it feels from so high up. Rows and rows of buildings, each climbing taller.

Have you always worked for the Waynes?

Your question is folded up, flicked across the table. A old trick from school, the triangular shape soaring to where the papers are sorted in neat stacks, the click of a calculator as sums are added and marked down in a ledger.

His answer comes in neat, uniform letters. Carefully written on the sheet below your looping scrawl.

Not always. I met Thomas after my days in the military.

Another small detail you hoard like a magpie, this new piece weaving its way into the shiny pile of treasures you've collected. It explained a little - the tidiness of the kitchen, the way he moved through the morning like clockwork.

So unlike your own schedule, tied to the whims of your creativity.

But you've been with them since?

Yes.

Have you always been their Butler?

It seems like a strange course to take after his years of service and you think he must see the way you frown, as you think it over. His pen hesitates, before he answers.

In a way.

His answers are as cryptic as Bruce's could be. You wonder which one had begun that way - who had learned from the other. The thought of the connection made you smile.

In these moments, you find you work well together. He’s a busy man - the ambient sounds of his fountain pen scratching over papers filling your afternoons. The notes shared a welcome reprieve, when the hunch of your shoulders and twist of your hips start to ache. 

Trading pieces of each other across the hours. Favorite books. Foods that remind you of home, ones that are sometimes ordered and shared over the course of the next day.

Memories, carefully inked down - feeling like confessions. 

Your eyes are bleary when you finally glance up from your laptop, the mid-morning light somehow slipping towards evening before you could blink. The room now eerily silent, and you wonder if he is still here. Or if he moved on without notice, as sometimes did.

“Alfred?”

You voice is quiet in the large room. It’s not like you need him for anything but you still can’t help but wonder where he is - not minding the moments where you share the room together. 

Still getting used to the fact that he exists, and yet is always unseen.

He appears before the sound has faded, his name still hanging in the air. A brush at your shoulder, embarrassment heating your cheeks at the thought of being caught, sounding so needy.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,” You admit, with a scrunch of your nose, “I wasn’t sure, I-”

Words cut off by the plate set down next to you. Dinner - the meal still warm, fresh from the kitchen. You’d worked through lunch, too caught up to notice the time. The ache that had formed in your belly as the time passed now making itself known. 

It has you wondering if he had been on his way back, or whether he had heard your call. He seemed to have a habit of that - appearing just when you’re looking for him. As if he had an innate sixth sense for knowing when he was wanted. 

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to do this, you know.” You protest, and your refilled coffee cup rattles as it’s set down next.

The movement almost indignant.

A quick jotting on the back of a printed article he’d been perusing, the ink still glossy when it’s rotated your way - the last word underlined for emphasis.

You are our guest.

It’s hard to hold back the smile, as you read. You wonder when it became “our” and not just Bruce’s guest - if the exact syntax held anything in it’s arrangement.  

Would it be strange that you think you want to find a deeper meaning in his words? That assurance that he wasn’t inconvenience by your presence? That the hours spent together were more pleasure than mere obligation?

You push the thought away from now - unable to examine your inner feelings with the source of them being so near. Dipping into the food he brought, instead. It’s good - a twist on a quick meal you’ve made a few times since you arrived, but much more delicious. 

The thought of him watching you unawares, sends a little jolt crackling low in your stomach. 

But you realize - it’s not one of discomfort.

Something else to contemplate, later. 

“Did you already eat?” You ask, between mouthfuls. 

The answer comes with the movement of his pen, nudging the plate closer. 

Over time, you’ve found he can tips towards bossy. Insistent. Amusement at the thought of him trying to keep Bruce in check - hiding your smile as you shut down your laptop in favor of concentrating on your food. Savoring it, a certain luxury found in a hearty meal that was not made with your own hands.

Something you’re not used to, something you certainly and wholeheartedly appreciate. 

When your belly is full, you lean back against the cushions. Thinking about how often you find yourself here, in this cluster of alcoves off the large, open foyer. Leaving you wondering about the rest of the Tower, as a sip of coffee warms your belly.

“Do you have a favorite room?” You ask him, with a tilt of your head.

There is no written answer. It comes instead with the pushing back of his chair - a hand that rests on top of yours, squeezing twice as he coaxes you out of your chair.

Alfred guides you down halls you've explored before, though you were never brave enough to peek into any of the closed rooms. The thought of getting a look inside one of them thrills you, a hand gently touching between your shoulder blades to steer you towards a set of the doors at the end of the hall.

The closer of the two opens with his touch, the room brighter than you're expecting as you slip inside.

A beautiful study, the walls and built-in bookshelves stained a deep brown that tips towards gray. An antique wooden desk takes up the middle of the room - a closed laptop resting on top, next to piles of neat manila folders. 

The heavy drapes that embrace the arched window behind are cracked open to let in the setting sun - and as you step into the room, they open wider.

The view is stunning. 

Looking out across Gotham River instead of the streets of Midtown, clogged with buildings and the never-ending traffic. Framing the lazy rush of the water that had caused so much destruction in the years before, softened by the glitter and glint of the sun as it dips below the horizon.

Unmarred by man-made buildings and dark shadows.

"It's beautiful," You breathe - only just now noticing how close you've moved to the window, skirting around that old wooden desk, "I can see why you love it."

You can feel him next to you, at your shoulder. That sort of heavy presence that you've started to sense - nearly well-enough that you've gotten good at hazarding a guess where he stands.

Lingering just a little longer in the silence, watching the crash of the waters against the floodwalls. But your insatiable curiosity eventually piques at you, unable to help the twist of your head as you take in the surroundings.

Seeing more from this side of the room. The cracked door from off to the side, leading to a darkened bedroom in shades of charcoal and silver.

A buttery-soft leather chair tucked into the desk, where a sterling silver teapot sits on a folded newspaper. You've seen it before, in the kitchen, on the hexagonal table in the foyer.

"Is this your room? Your study?" You ask, piecing things together. Wondering how it took you so long to realize how it feels like him. The sort of him you’ve come to picture - tidy and proper.

Thick-bound books tucked neatly into the shelves that reach towards the ceiling, sculptures breaking up the space. The wooden floor covered in a thick rug, soft against your toes. A warmth brought to the space, in spite of all the sharp stone and dark wood.

Yes.

And then your eyes are snagging on the desk. Where two photos lie overlapping, unseen from the other side. Ones of people, their edges creased and well-worn with touch - two men flanking a women, a child in her arms. For a moment you almost think one of them is Bruce, with his sharp jawline and dark hair.

As you step closer, you realize it's not. You recognize the Waynes from the newspapers, both beautiful and elegant - their son a perfect mix of both of them. Next to them, standing close - just as much as part of the family, is another.

You don't know the man on the right. He is striking - broad-shouldered and dressed just as well. Dark hair that is carefully combed back, just starting to lighten at the temples. Eyes bright and blue, his smile framed with a neatly trimmed beard.

But maybe... you do.

"Is this you?" Your fingers reach out, nearly touching. Hovering, instead.

The second picture lifts, pressed into your hand. Just two, now. A small smile at Bruce, clad in a cap and gown, a golden stamp at the corner edge that notes Yale University. The tight-lipped smile of a young man, exasperated at the prospect of a photo.

The man - your Alfred - is here, too. Older, his hair more gray than black now. Still smiling, though the expression has faded, as he stands next to Bruce.

"You look..." The words trail off. Something lodging in your chest, stealing your breath.

Handsome. Happy. Just like I imagined you.

None are appropriate to say. Eyes quickly soaking up the photos, trying to picture him now. Not that much older, certainly less than a decade. Distinguished, the salt-and-pepper tones only complimenting his already attractive features.

Your thumb traces the edge of the photo as you find your voice, "Proud."

Yes.

It hits you then - the mystery of him. You head suddenly jerking in his direction, the frame setting back down on the desk as you turn, "You haven't always been like this?"

There's a wave of your hand, gesturing at his situation.

You hadn't known what to think. You lived in fiction and you lived in Gotham - the world twisting and turning dark in front of your own eyes. Countless ideas had flitted through your mind, a topic you had come back to frequently. 

Whether he was born like this, never seen by human eyes. Truly a ghost, haunting the halls - unable to leave. Or even just a figment of your imagination - a dream that you haven't woken up from yet.

None of them had made sense. Not with what he had told you of his past. But the ideas had started to dry up, leaving you with no answers. Until now.

His hand squeezes your arm. No.

It sends your heart tumbling, as a drawer in his desk opens. Digging down deep, an article tucked beneath layers of folders, as if untouched for years. Worn and paper thin from where it had been clipped from the Gotham Gazette, carefully held out to you.

And as your eyes flick over the headline, you remember. The sorcerer who had sold his soul to the devil, wreaking havoc throughout the city. People had disappeared, plucked from the streets. Tricked by their own eyes by his illusions, in his quest for dominance over the city. 

Your parents had called you - begging you to stay inside, to stay safe, until it was over. A shiver racing up your spine at their worry, how it still lingers in your memory.

Alfred must have been caught. One of the many affected by the spells. Cursed.

"This was years ago," Your voice was hushed, "You've been this way for that long?"

Yes.

The thought makes you ache.

"Can you fix this? Is there a way?"

You think surely there must be. There had been others, brought out of months of sleep. Turned back into their human forms, from the animal they had become. It has you clinging to a spark of hope that had long been extinguished in these halls. 

A pen from his desk lifts, an answer slowly inked in the margins of the article.

I cannot not tell you.

And then two words, written below it.

Ask Bruce.

You text Bruce that night.

In the glow of your laptop - the scene you're working on left hanging, open-ended as you're unable to resist any longer. Late enough now for you that for him, it's morning. 

I met your butler.

Your phone is still glowing when he answers. Barely a minute passing before the bubbles appear, just two words popping up.

Did you?

He never makes it easy - a sigh slipping from your lungs as you lean back into the plush chair, a knee pressing into the edge of the desk.

I did. 

A second, as you wonder if you should dive in. If you should just ask what you want to know - if Bruce would entertain the thoughts and questions swirling in your mind.

You decide you should. That he's busy, and blunt. No reason you can't cut to the chase.

He said you could tell me about the curse.

Interesting. So you didn't just meet him. How long has it been?

That has you pausing, your thumb tapping a quick response.

What do you mean?

Alfred would never just tell that to anyone.

Even someone like you.

You scoff.

Meaning??

A pause hangs. Minutes passing, before an answer appears.

Meaning someone I trust enough to leave in my home.

His answer mollifies you. A friend, you think. Something he would never say. On anyone else you'd comment on the sentiment, but you think bringing attention to it would only push him further away.

We've been talking for a little while. Written notes, stuff like that.

The touching is innocent, but you feel protective of it. Like the brush of his hand is private. That aspect remains unmentioned, something just for you.

I'm impressed.

Your eyes roll with impatience. Impressed that you'd find a way to talk to him? Or impressed that you'd even noticed?

Thanks, I guess. Today he told me about the curse. Said I could ask you. Can I?

You haven't told me what he's told you.

You take a second then, to recollect. Typing slowly and then erasing, until you get your thoughts down.

He showed me the newspaper. I know about what happened, and when I asked if it could be fixed he said he couldn't tell me. That I could ask you.

You can.

I am???

Fuck - he's infuriating. Your jaw grits, as you flop sideways - twisting on your back. Hands held above your face as you type out your answer with a little more force than necessary.  

I'm asking right now. Could you please tell me?

From what we've gathered, his curse will be lifted when he gets what he truly wants. Which might be impossible, considering.

This is something. A tangible goal, something you can really work towards. Your heart kicks up a notch, as you murmur the words while typing.

Considering what? What does he want?

That depends. Why do you want to lift it?

That has you pausing. Why do you? Is it because it's what any decent person would do?

Perhaps if it was the first day, that would be your answer.

But over the course of the evening and the time that had passed, it's become more. 

It's hard not to think about how lonely Alfred must be. Half a lifetime spent with just the two of them. Now - left utterly unseen. Not even a ghost, but someone trapped as time still moves on without him. Forgotten. 

And yes - lately, selfishly, you want to see him. Deep down, you’re realizing you want him to see you, too. Though it’s more than just that.

You need to break it.

To help him, because Alfred deserves it.

You can't tell Bruce this. It feels too new, too tender. Something still half-formed, even to your own mind. 

So you send your own half-truth in reply.

Because it's the right thing to do.

Bruce’s response comes quickly.

If that is your answer, then you should give up now.

It leaves you frowning, a pit forming in your stomach.

Bruce.

???

What do you mean?

No other answers come, though it doesn't stop your eye from wandering the rest of the night. That urge to check for a more substantial answer. Frustration bubbling in your stomach, acid in your throat. Hurt and confused by his words.

Leaving your mind swirling - an irritation in the way your mind has now split. Words no longer flowing from your fingertips - your manuscript left frozen in place, as you try to puzzle out his meaning. Reading and rereading his messages.

That so-very human urge to help turning into something a more.

A desire. 

Your jaw grits as you decide that don't need Bruce's help. You can do this yourself.

For Alfred.

thanks for reading! 💖

#good stuff #fic rec #alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x you

[readershewrites]

Price x f!reader | Handsome Stranger AU | Whumptober

Synopsis: A tearful request has you searching the family farm for a missing dog. Wordcount: 1.6k Things to note: no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, a bit of angst, comfort, VERY IMPORTANT CW, AN ANIMAL SUFFERS A NASTY INJURY IN THIS FIC a/n: this is the library!reader character from my handsome stranger series, but I believe I've written it so anyone can drop in and read. Also, trying to write whump and keep it in theme for the series, which is a cozy romance, was so dang hard. Let me know if you think i pulled it off lolollll.

Price Masterlist | Main Masterlist

No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”

Animal trap | Captivity | “No one will find you.”

It starts with a tearful request, and a neighbour's dog.

Little Ellie arrived at the back door of your family’s farmhouse, her eyes wet and red from weeping. Asking between hiccups if you’d seen Growl. Growl, the mutt she’d found limping in the roadside ditch and nursed back to health, much to the exasperation of her parents.

A scraggly pathetic looking runt, easily scared, but so loved.

One of the local boys made a game of scaring it. Finally going too far, the little monster sent it racing pell-mell across your farm, and into the woods that spill out over the back acres. You weren't immune to Ellie’s sad eyes and sniffles. So, after calling her parents to come get her, you promise to go searching for him. Anything for that small, hopeful gleam in her eyes.

Maybe should've tempered expectations.

Your sister and her husband were away for the weekend. The farm hands had gone home. John wasn’t arriving until later; you were well and truly alone. If you’d given it more than a few seconds of thought, it might have occurred to you to wait for him. Or to call one of the neighbours for help. Or to track down the asshole responsible and use whatever leverage you had to force him to help.

But no, armed with a light spring jacket, a plastic baggy of last night's roast chicken, and the very best intentions, you head out to the back of the farm.

There’s a rumour that the Frontenac boys are poaching in the woods, but the traps found are never larger than what's needed for a rabbit or squirrel. Not wanting to stir their ire, the town decided it easier to turn a blind eye.

It's a decision you're quickly regretting.

You don’t see the triggered deadfall until you’re almost on top of it. Clunky rubber boots brush up against a furry creature, it stares up with wet mournful eyes and a low whine.

"Oh Growl,” your eyes grow watery, blurring your vision. Poor Growl. Poor Ellie. “What's happened to you?" He tries to move, shaking the tangle of wild roses he’s trapped under.

Whoever built the trap, set it clumsily; small miracles. Might’ve killed the mutt if they made it proper. You crouch next to him, scratching behind his ears on instinct. He pants and wags his tail, struggling to reach your face for an affectionate lick. Desperately trying to stand, before growling in pain and slumping to the ground. There’s hope that the movement, the steady thumping tail, is a good sign. You choose to believe it is.

“Don’t move, doggy.” He whines and snaps up at one of the barely formed rose hips hanging against his snout. You offer him the chicken instead, you reckon rose hips aren't bad for dogs, but you’re not sure. It’s a good distraction, and as he wolfs down the treat, you gingerly pull back the prickly briars and the bits of the trap still lying across him.

Getting any sort of connection this far into the forest is a joke, but on a lark, you check for a signal. No bars. No data. Internet isn’t an option. You attempt calling the local directory line, hoping to get a number for animal control. Nothing. You walk in circles, seeing if dumb luck will put you through to Georgie, the livestock vet your sister calls on for the farm. Still nothing.

Growl whines, and it cuts you to the quick.

“I’m not leaving, dummy.” You make a wider circle. “Just looking for help.”

Fruitless, you return to his side, gently petting his head. “I could leave and get help, but no one will find you.” Well, maybe others would, but your sense of navigation is terrible, and you didn’t want to leave it to chance. Not when one tree looks like the other tree, and another tree, and that rock outcropping looks like this one, and so on.

You lay your jacket on the ground, and after a bit of an ordeal, drag him onto it.

Exhausted, you fall backwards, unbothered by the damp forest floor soaking into your pants. Growl tries to snake towards you and you hold him down.

“Stop moving, you dumb dog.” You mutter between sniffles. You’re afraid his attempts at seeking pets, at giving kisses, are only making his injury worse. The tree line is still a ways off at this achingly slow pace. The farmhouse, an impossible distance beyond that. Fat, sorry-for-yourself tears roll down your face at the thought of dragging him any further with your aching arms. Might’ve pulled a muscle in your back. Too damn old to be contorted like this for any period of time.

Wiping your eyes on your sleeve, you’re about to get back on your feet when you hear your name. You freeze, and sure enough, it’s called again.

“John?”

Has that much time passed?

Footsteps tramp through nearby undergrowth, a pace that quickens to a jog, until John Price appears from around a thicket of birch trees and briar.

He’s at your side in an instant, kneeling next to you, quick to place a comforting hand against your back. He does a preliminary check of Growl, whose tail thumps against the forest floor.

“You’re a good ole’ boy, aren’t you?” He murmurs. Growl seems to agree.

“How’d you know where I was?” You let him pull you to your feet and help brush off the twigs and moss that stick to your clothes.

“Neighbour rang shortly after I arrived. Was wondering if you had luck with the old mutt.” He draws you in and plants a quick kiss to your temple. “Told me a general direction, and I headed out.”

You wipe your eyes. “Some asshole left a trap at the edge of our property. Poor thing got caught in it.”

John's attention turns to the wretched creature, he crouches next to it, watching with deep sympathy.

"He's too heavy for me to carry." You can’t help but sniffle.

You don't mean to sound so broken up about it, but you are, and he reaches over to squeeze your hand. "You've done good, sweetheart."

He wraps your coat around the dog, scooping him up in one swift move. Growl yelps and whines before settling into John’s arms, staring up at him with those big, wet dog eyes.

"We’ll get you some help, won’t we?"

"You didn't have to do that."

"Hmm?"

John’s focus remains on the bookshelves haphazardly set against the far wall. His fingers brush across the spines of your many books, inspecting; second-hand paperbacks, worn hardcovers, newly printed copies that friends and family thought you might like, all of them weighing down the aging shelves. You bought one for him last month, a Russian novel he mentioned not having a chance to read yet. If he doesn’t find it on his own, you’ll hand it to him tomorrow.

Despite it being late spring, night hours brought a slight chill and after spending most of the day outside, you were perfectly happy to cocoon yourself. Wrapped in your duvet, you lounge across the bed and watch him with unabashed interest. This was your own little makeshift home, generously - an in-law suite from decades past. In practicality - a renovated space above the garage. It suited you just fine to stay on the farm and stave off the loneliness with the company of family. But this quiet domestic routine felt strange outside of the cabin. Outside a place just for the two of you.

He looks over when you don’t continue.

"Offering to help with the vet bill."

He combs his fingers through his beard, considering. "Seemed the neighbourly thing to do."

It was still too early in the relationship to have conversations about finances, you decide. Instead, you pivot to poking fun. "Trying to buy your good graces?"

He tips his head sideways and tries unsuccessfully to hide the reddening of his cheeks. By no means a bashful man, he still reacts to being caught in his own personal schemes. The silly man.

“Those busybodies.” You yawn and stretch your aching back. Dottie and Jo were both at the coffee shop the last time he visited. Near ambushed him. Implied if he wasn’t retiring and moving here, he should let you go. She’s too much of a dreamer, and she has her life in front of her, and it must be so lonely waiting for you. Lonely compared to what, you wonder, staring out the window at eight hundred or so houses silhouetted in the moonlight between here and the other side of town. Where was the concern when you were milling about on your own without even a long distance love? “Don’t pay them any mind. Gloria loves you. My sister doesn’t actively dislike you. What more could you want?” You smile through a second stifled yawn, and roll your sore shoulders.

At that, he’s at your side, unceremoniously rolling your cocooned form onto your stomach. There’s a slight twinge in your shoulder with the movement.

“Back bothering you?”

“Uh-huh,” you groan. “That dog better appreciate my efforts.”

“Alright, love.” He tugs the duvet down and familiar warm hands skim across your back and shoulders. The first tentative massaging touch forces an obscene sound from you, and he has the gall to chuckle. It feels too good to be embarrassed.

“Should I sit up?” You’d rather do anything but. Stand next to you, straddle your waist, he had other options. You're loath to leave this cozy nest.

The mattress dips as he hovers over you. “This’ll do fine, love.” A kiss pressed into the crook of your neck, and words murmured into your skin. “I'll take care of you.”

taglist

(I'm using the taglist from the the las thing I wrote for this au, let me know if you want to be removed from future one shots like this!!)

@soapskneebrace , @wizardofrozz , @tapioca-marzipan , @solidly-indulgent , @deadbranch , @ramadiiiisme , @jaimiespn , @thriving-n-jiving , @omeganixtra, @50cal-fullauto

#I love this series #feels so good to read #captain john price x reader #fic rec

[readershewrites]

Mirrored

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 1/1 Notes: EXPLICIT!!!, Just wanted to write a smutty mirror scene, also always a big slut for soft!Ghost, haven't proofread so apologies for any grammar mistakes,

AO3 | MASTERLIST

Your shoulder was already turning a mottle of purple as you angled your body in the mirror. There was a hum coming from the shoddy vanity light, and the caulking around the sink had a similar blotting of brown. Everything hurt—something that was becoming more commonplace the longer you worked with the task force. You wiped the remaining smears of blood off your face and neck with the motel’s rag. 

It had been quick: two shots to the gut and one under the jaw, but it left a mess. And not before the target had slammed his entire mass against you and a concrete wall. You set the rag down on the sink and took a deep breath. You looked tired. 

The door to the bathroom cracked open and Ghost slipped in, quiet as ever. You watched the massive man through the mirror; his tactical gear made him even bulkier. Ghost’s eyes met yours, then trailed down the bruising on your shoulder and back.

“Soap’s phonin’ Price. Tryna see if we can schedule an exfil for tonight.” His looked back at you in the mirror. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s fine.”

Ghost stared patiently; his soft eyes a contrast behind the skull mask. You turned around to face him, resting the heels of your hands against the sink and leaning your weight back. 

“Hurts.”

He took a step closer in the tight space. You lolled your head to look up at him.

“Can I make it better?” It came out low. 

You couldn’t help but smirk as you pondered, then spread your legs slightly. The man knew how to get you wet with just a look. 

Ghost closed the distance, sliding a thick thigh between your legs. You let out a sigh as he pressed firmer against you, hitting that sweet spot that he knew too well. His thigh holster dug in to your hip, but you didn’t care as you ground slowly against the meat of him. 

“Thassit,” he encouraged, and you couldn’t stop the soft moans that came out as you set your tempo.

Through half-lidded eyes, you looked down at the spot where you were grinding. With how wet you were getting, you wondered if it would soak through your pants and onto his. But Ghost had removed his gloves and took your face in his hand, tilting it so that you were looking at him. You automatically parted your mouth and he slid his warm thumb over your tongue. You sucked. Simon let out a low groan. 

“Turn around,” he said. “Want ya ta watch.” You obliged.

Simon was gentle as he kissed you neck through the mask; the fabric was warm against your skin. This close you breathed in his scent—warm and rich and him. His hands reached for the front of your pants and undid them, slipping fabric down over your ass along with your underwear. Ghost let out a hum of approval as his fingers found your wetness, easily sliding in his middle, then ring finger. You gasped at the stretch. He undulated his fingers inside you while his other hand multitasked and undid his belt and pants, sliding them down just low enough to free himself. Sounds of your wetness mingled with your heavy breathing in the quiet room. You could feel Ghost’s hardness pressed against your ass as he continued working you with his hand. You arched against him. He chuckled that rich, basso sound.

“Simon…” you whined.

He pulled out his fingers, circling your clit with their wetness. Your hips stuttered. “Alright, luv.”

Wrapping his arm around your chest, he pulled you flush to him, grabbing your jaw loosely to make sure you were watching in the mirror as he aligned himself and slowly slid in.

“Oh fuuuuck,” you exhaled. 

The pain in your body was an afterthought now—all you could focus on was the feeling of Simon’s warm cock stretching you out, and the way his dark eyes drank you in in the mirror.

“So tight for me, Jag,” Simon murmured in your ear as he pulled out slightly, then slid back in deeper. You couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your mouth. “Look how pretty you are when you’re taking me…”

Before, the two of you would behave on missions; a wanting glance here or there, but never anything more than that. Everyone needed to stay sharp. But something changed after Mexico—after you nearly died and after Ghost showed you his face for the first time. You remembered the sunlight reflecting golden off his hair…

Another deep thrust brought you back to the present. It was difficult to keep your eyes open with how good he felt and how he was looking at you in the mirror. You opened your mouth to say something but it was cut off when he bottomed out inside you.

“Need to be more careful, luv,” Simon breathed in your ear, brown eyes fixed on yours in the mirror.

“Would have been easier… if you and Soap… weren’t screwing around downstairs…” you managed between strokes.

“You’re the only one I’m screwing, sweet’eart.”

You tried to respond but his fingers started circling your clit again, mixing your wetness over the soft skin. It made your mind go blank.

Gripping his forearm tighter, you moved your hips to match his rhythm, drawing out a low groan from the both of you. You watched as his blonde lashes stuttered behind the mask. He pressed harder against your clit.

“Fuck, baby,” you moaned. “Just like that…”

“Yeah?” Ghost hummed, his other hand smoothing down your neck, squeezing lightly, and fuck if that didn’t hasten the heat building in your core. You clenched around him in response, pulling another groan from the beautiful man.

“Keep going,” you managed, squeezing your eyes shut as you edged your orgasm.

“Eyes on me, Jag,” it came out more of a command as he tightened his grip around your neck. “Want you to look at me when you cum.”

You had no choice but to follow the lieutenant’s orders as you came around his hard cock—watching the way his eyes darkened and your lips parted as you moaned out his name. His thrusts were shallow now as he picked up pace and fucked you through your orgasm—your toes barely touching the floor. Angling your face to kiss him through the mask, Simon thrust his cock into you once, twice, before chasing his own release. Hot cum filled you as he groaned against your mouth, cock slowing inside you. The both of you just panted as you enjoyed the comedown.

A knock on the door brought you back to the present.

“Wheels up in 15,” Soap spoke from the other side. Was nice he let you finish first.

“Copy,” Simon gruffed, pulling out of you slowly. You steadied yourself against the sink.

You felt his thumb run up the inside of your thigh, pushing back in the cum that leaked out. 

“Keep that there for me, yeah?” He muttered against your shoulder, before sliding up your pants. You fumbled with the zipper while he adjusted his own.

“Copy,” you replied, giving him one more glance in the mirror before he slipped outside again. You focused on yourself now—cheeks bright pink and a new redness around your neck. “Fuck me,” you sighed and pulled on your shirt, following after the masked lieutenant.

#lights a cig and puffs it #good shit #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #fic rec

[readershewrites]

reviewing the prelude

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: briefly Explicit, then pretty much general audiences Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: Masturbation. References to sexual fantasy. Lots of pining. Another John POV! Author’s Notes: I swear to god we're getting somewhere I PROMISE MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

There is no noise next door.

Silence, in Price's line of work, almost always precludes trouble. The quiet stalk of a fireteam toward an objective; the abrupt halt of an informant’s intel. Never good. Always the guarantee of a day’s bad end.

Usually, he can hear the creak of your mattress as you get up—the thing must be ancient, and he’s concerned for your back—and the rumble of your plumbing as you turn on the sink first thing in the morning. You’re always up about an hour and a half after he is, close to eight-thirty, and you usually meet him outside about an hour later. Slow riser, you are.

(He tries not to fantasize too much about tiptoeing around in the mornings as you snuggle in his bed, wrapped in his blankets as he gets breakfast ready for the both of you.)

But today there’s not a whisper of your horrible bedsprings from the other side of the wall. The pipes remain silent. When he steps outside today, he will be alone.

You’re gone for two days. He can handle that long. He can.

Still, he lingers in bed the first morning, agitated, too warm in the sheets but stubbornly trying to act like he’s still perfectly comfortable. It doesn’t work. The bed linens dampen as he starts sweating, and his morning wood is more insistent than it usually is. He sighs and gets up, lays the blankets back to let them air dry, and gets his day started.

Once he’s in the shower, and the water has warmed enough to step into, John angles the shower head to spray a little higher and leans against the cool tile wall. Hot water pounds his chest, streaming down between his pectorals and over the jumping muscles of his stomach as he takes his cock in hand and gives it a stroke from head to root. He closes his eyes.

John does not have any shame in jerking off, not really, but a niggling something always tickles the back of his mind when he thinks of you while doing it. Like he’s being too pushy, even in his own head, when he knows that you’re not on the same page as him yet.

He shouldn’t be thinking of your hand wrapped around him instead, as his fingers cover your clit and dip into your cunt, when he’s not even sure you will have him at all. John does not like to indulge in fantasy that cannot become reality.

I wanted to touch you. John snarls, bucking into his hand.

He hadn’t lied to you. He hadn’t. He can wait as long as you need. If he gets to have you, he wants you eager. He wants you certain. He wants you to relax into him without fear or doubt. Whatever he wants from you is secondary to that—he can’t enjoy himself, enjoy you, if you don’t trust him.

Would you trust him if you knew you inspired his hand to wrap around his cock?

He doesn’t know. He’s not sure. All he knows is that after he left that night, you did the exact same thing he’s doing now. That has to mean something.

He remembers it—your distant cry making it to him through drywall, insulation, and the patter of his own shower, and if he closes his eyes he can almost fool himself now, as hot water slides down his back and chest, that he can hear it again—

I wanted to touch you—

He comes, short and hard, palm sliding fast up and down his shaft, groaning roughly as his cum hits the tile. Water streams down around his face in steady rivulets, joining it.

He wants you to trust him. He wants you to let him spoil you rotten.

Turning the water off once he finishes his shower, John keeps thinking as he absently towels off. He keeps getting the sense that there’s something he’s missing.

If you want him—and he knows now, you do want him—why haven’t you said anything? He thinks about all of the times he’s tried to flirt, tried to make his interest known, only for you to treat it like a joke. Incorrigible, you call him, as if his overtures are the result of some unsatisfied appetite. As if you haven’t, from the very start, given him every reason imaginable to want you.

He studies himself in the bathroom mirror as he touches up his beard, remembering the linger of your gaze across his body. He is not a vain man, not quite, but even he might like to preen a bit over how good he looks for pushing forty. He can’t keep up with Ghost at the racks, nor Gaz on the track circuit, and Soap has him beat at the punching bags, but Price has logged every personal best within the last three years. His shoulders are broad, his chest hard and defined, and his waist tapers nicely down to wide thighs and full calves.

He runs a hand across his stomach. He’d never managed, though, to get the cut look he sees in perfume ads and superhero movies these days. Is that what women like now? Is that what you like?

If it was a complete lack of attraction on your part, he’d understand. But Price is a details man. He misses nothing, especially when it comes to you. The way you look at him, the way you move around him reveals more than he knows you ever intend to. He hears your breath shorten when he’s close, sees your pupils dilate, your brows soften. You don’t lean away when he leans in.

He remembers your gaze again, the first morning and many mornings after, and snorts at himself. Attraction, he’s fairly sure, isn’t the issue.

So what is, then?

Rather than spend the morning moping, and waiting for the ambiance of your morning routine that simply would not come, John finds a clean pair of sweats, laces into his trainers, and goes for a jog. Running has always helped him think.

Part of him wonders if his fixation is inspired in part by a long dry spell. Price hasn’t been with anyone in a long while—months, actually. His last encounter had been with a woman he’d been casually seeing in between deployments.

She’d been nice enough, certainly eager for him. They would meet, have drinks, maybe a meal, and have sex. He’d spend the night and leave early in the morning. They didn’t talk much, not at least about anything serious. She never asked about his work. She never really asked much about him at all.

Which had been the arrangement. Price had been candid about his situation from the beginning—his work came first, and he had little room in his life for much else. He couldn’t offer her much in the way of long-term commitment when he had to make peace with the real possibility that each deployment was one he might not come back from. She’d seemed to understand. It had taken Price a while to figure out that she just…hadn’t really cared.

It was more likely, he knew, that she simply could not grasp that he could die. Few civilians could really wrap their head around that fact. He couldn’t really blame her for that.

But he couldn’t deny either that seeing her had started to make it feel like his insides were slowly decaying. All he was to her was a big, rough man who would throw her around in bed and wouldn’t bother her with trite things like domesticity and mortality. A fantasy. Nothing more.

He’d broken it off in person, frank and respectful, and she’d taken it as well as he’d hoped.

Then she’d texted him a few weeks later inviting him over for drinks. He neglected to respond and blocked her number.

The cool morning air is sharp in Price’s lungs, painfully welcome, as he counts his breaths in the back of his head. He’d given up after all of that. He didn’t need sex. He didn’t need a relationship. If the walls of his flat closed in around him when he was home, alone, well—that was the sacrifice, wasn’t it? The price he paid to be able to go out into the world and fix things that other men only complained about after watching the news.

It shouldn’t matter that these days those problems didn’t stay fixed anymore.

Price finishes his circuit and comes to a gradual stop back at his front doorstep, panting hard, hands on hips as he heaves and wonders if maybe he should cut back on smoking.

He looks to your window, dark and shuttered. You always have a hot mug of coffee pressed between your palms.

He could try coffee.

The day passes. John spends some time getting his affairs in order for the end of his leave, reads the latest book you’ve lent him (a retrospective on the rise and fall of the American cattle boom), spends an hour at the gym, two at the pub, and comes home again to dark windows next door.

It’s dull. He misses you. And once his front door closes behind him, hours of silence loom in the periphery.

He’s settling into his armchair for a game on TV—championship league, nothing worth paying attention to, John just can’t stand the quiet—when his phone, deep in his pocket, vibrates. When he pulls it out, his heart leaps.

It’s just a text message. He unlocks his phone and navigates to the chat. You’ve sent a photo: a glass, filled with some sort of liquor and a couple of ice cubes, set on a rickety old plank of wood that must be a table.

Ordered this in your honor. Pretty good! Not sure of the brand. Can’t remember the one we got either

John smiles. He can’t help it. He even laughs a little, and taps on the picture to zoom in—your hand is in the frame, laying gently alongside the glass, nails painted a pretty light color and a thin silver ring around your index finger. He takes this in with the voracity of a man starving.

Macallan, he replies. The best. That looks good though

Three dots dance as you type. My coworker says it’s Johnnie Walker

I take it back, dump that swill on the ground, Price types, grinning harder.

It’s really fine! you protest.

He imagines your expression, the kind draw of your brows together in spirited defense—an expression he’s seen on you many times, advocating for some character or another that he has developed a grudge against.

God, does he miss you.

Fine for uni lads maybe, he sends.

You do remember who I’m supervising on this trip?

John snorts. Point taken. Then, impulsively, I’ll get you something even better when you’re home.

Home. When you’re home. As if home is one place, and not two, separate places merely conjoined.

You spoil me John

He sends back immediately, I’m trying to

There’s a lag. John realizes belatedly that perhaps he’s doing it again, coming on too strong. He can’t help it. When he knows what he wants—when he knows he can pursue it—he does not bother with half measures. He has been through and done too much to hedge his efforts while knowing how easily things can escape his grasp.

He has to remind himself that holding onto you too tightly, though, could cause you to slip through his fingers.

Then, finally—I don’t know why

Bells ring in John’s head. Can’t a man treat a woman he fancies? he asks.

Dots jump for what feels like several minutes, disappearing several times. He imagines you typing rapidly, that worried look he’s seen so often creasing your brow and tightening the corners of your mouth.

Eventually, a cascade.

I don’t know WHY you fancy me

There’s nothing really interesting about me

I’m quite boring

Not like you

You’ve been so to many places and done so many things and I’ve never even left the country and I don’t see how you could even like talking to me much less do anything else

I teach lit and read books and that’s all my life is and that’s not really sexy

You must have better options

I may be a little tipsy sorry

John’s frown deepens with every successive message.

This is it. This is the answer to his question, or it’s somewhere in there. He’s been wondering all day—now, this is his chance.

I’d like to call you, he replies. Is now a good time?

A brief pause, with John’s stomach hanging suspended in the air the whole time.

Then, Yes

He dials you. You pick up on the first ring.

“Hello,” you say.

I am no longer utilizing a taglist for this series. Please feel free to follow me, turn on my post notifications, or subscribe to this series on Ao3. Thanks!

Bonus A/N: I'm going to take what I intend to be a very short break from Neighbors to finish up and post the first chapter of the Soap series I've been promising literally since March. I hope y'all will look forward to that!

#john price x reader #fic rec #comfort series for sure

[readershewrites]

a kath and kim style reminder for my fellow australian followers and mutuals on this rainy saturday

sovereignty was never ceded. this always was and always will be aboriginal land🖤💛❤️ cast your vote wisely today🤟🏼

[readershewrites]

[readershewrites]

The bitter sweetness of this! Of not knowing why things are happening and yet still making the choice to live. Often we seek closure and surety and sense in fiction, but life isn’t like that, and though there’s a clench of worry in my stomach from knowing that Cielito is still in danger, knowing that they chose love is such a balm.

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #15 - FINALE

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: All things end.

Word count: 3,400

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous]

Traveling through Strange’s inter-dimensional portal is a different experience from going through one of Miguel’s. It’s less of a laser light show and more of a psychedelic drug trip.

Shapes and patterns warps in front of you, and the strength of gravity seems to press in against you from all sides as you fall upwards through an endless space.

You lose track of time. You don’t know how long you’ve been in here. It could be hours or seconds, but you can't tell the difference. Then it stops.

There is a gentle light ahead of you, and as you pass through it, the soft warmth of it trickles away. Then you find yourself standing in a familiar vast and empty space once again.

Staring into the far distance, the only thing you see is the blank whiteness ahead of you, just as jarring and endless as last time.

You clutch onto the pink-gemmed amulet hanging from your neck, gifted to you by Strange. A magical artifact that’s meant to help you keep your physical form in this space so you don’t fade away like you did last time.

Everything is static here, stale. There’s no air flow, no sense of temperature. The environment is neither hot nor cold against your skin, but somehow you feel an ever-present chill seeping into your bones.

Taking a deep breath, you start to walk forward.

You're shivering with each step you take. There's no sound under your step. No shadows cast under the soles of your feet.

"Boss lady,” Lyla pipes up, her hologram avatar hovering over your shoulders. “I really don't like this. Let's go back home, Beyoncé is holding a concert in Amsterdam! I got us front row seat tickets."

It's a valiant attempt, Miguel really did a great job coding her, but you’re not going back without him. Ignoring Lyla, you continue on your path.

There’s no sign of Miguel anywhere. It's all infinite whiteness as far as the eye can see, with no signs of an end.

The last two times you were here, you didn’t have a chance to gain an understanding of how big this space is. For all you know it could be as vast and endless as the universe itself. What if you’re stuck wandering in this place for an eternity and still never find Miguel?

You walk on, eyes roaming the space, and a dull ache starts to form behind them from staring at the glaring brightness.

There! Off to your left, you finally spot… something.

Your heart leaps in your chest as you clock a disruption in the blank whiteness. A tiny disruption. Or maybe it’s just far away? The emptiness of this place is hell on your depth perception. You veer in that direction, squinting as you approach, until you’re finally close enough to make out what it is.

In the middle of the vast nothingness, there is a tiny ball of crumpled up yellowish paper floating at knee height.

Huh?

Isn't this a complete void where nothing exists or can exist? Why is there trash here?

You squat down hunching over your knees until the little paper ball is eye level and inspect it closer.

The color and thickness of the paper is familiar. It looks like a post-it note that’s been folded in half, tiny, uneven triangles sticking out at each of the four corners.

How weird.

Crumpled as it is, you can see now that the crooked folds and creases aren't all random. Looking closely, there seems to have been a failed attempt of trying to fold them in a sequence but lacking the proper hand to eye dexterity to do it properly.

Wait, is this…? It must be.

You recognize it now. It’s one of your unfortunate attempts at an origami frog from when you were killing time with Miguel at your work. But what is it doing here of all places?

Tentatively reaching out, you poke at the piece of paper. To your surprise there’s resistance.

That's... odd.

There's nothing else here. Nothing holding it.

Just the failed paper frog suspended in thin air.

You try again, grabbing a corner of the paper this time, but the results are the same. It stubbornly refuses to move. When you tug, it jerks back, away from you.

Squinting your eyes, you lean closer and carefully observe the space in front of you.

Now when you’re paying close attention, you can just about make out a vague, almost invisible outline.

It’s barely there, and you can only tell because the blank whiteness in front of you seems to warp slightly with the smallest tremor of a movement.

Whatever this is, it really doesn’t want you to take your piece of trash back from it.

You frown in annoyance. This doesn't make sense. Why would your poor deformed paper frog even be here? The only people who even had anything to do with the stupid thing are you and–

"Miguel?"

The movement stills at your voice.

When you don't look away, it seems spooked by your gaze, shirking at the attention. The thing shifts in its shape, shrinking down like it's trying to make itself smaller.

You try to move closer, and the obscure translucent form moves away from you, gliding seamlessly into the empty space.

Without a shape it takes you a few moments before you register its movement and what it's trying to do. It's moving fast, as if it's trying to flee from you.

Because it is. Shit!

You run after it, guided by the vague hazy contour against the nothingness that surrounds you. Even without legs, this shapeless thing is moving fast.

"Stop!" you shout, "Stop, stop, please stop! It's me!"

You leap forward, grabbing at the empty outline in front of you, and to your surprise find purchase on the nothingness under your grip.

"Miguel, stop running!" you shout.

It does. He does.

There is something there now, a semi-invisible mass, slightly more opaque than it was a second ago.

You open your mouth to speak, but you don't know what to say. Don't even know for certain that this is Miguel or not.

But you hope it is. Have to believe it is. You’re too desperate to overthink it, and you spout the first thing that comes into your head.

"Come back, Miguel. Come back, and I'll take you back to that cheap Chinese diner you liked so much. We can get all the food you want, all of it deep fried! I'll even share the egg tarts this time."

You think you see something shift before you. It could just be your imagination, but the tiniest speck of color seems to emerge from within the translucent mass.

Somehow, whatever you’re doing must be working, and you quickly try to think of what else you can say that will tempt him to come back.

Food. Maybe more about food will work? It worked for you, after all.

"The Reese buttercups in our other apartment are all expired, but I think they'd still be okay to eat, and– and– And I'll make you cookies if you come back! Blue spiderman ones that match your suit."

The speck of color pops, fading into thin air, your fingers sinking further into the nothingness of his form, and a spike of panic stabs through your chest.

Why isn’t it working!? Was it not the food that made him react after all? You don’t know what else to try.

That first time you were here, Miguel was able to bring you back to yourself with the intimate details he knew from the other lifetime you two had shared. Maybe you can do the same.

"Your name is Miguel O'hara," you start, "and- and-" And then you have to stop, not sure of what else to say. "And your eyes are red... for some reason. And you have fangs! Fangs that can deliver some kind of fucking paralysis venom, which is completely ridiculous by the way!"

Nothing happens. There’s no change save for that the form underneath you squirms and tries to get away from your grip.

"And... and..."

Shit. This is getting you nowhere.

Unlike Miguel, you haven't had the front seat experience of living a lifetime together with him. There's only so much you know about him. Because that man is more secretive than a CIA agent.

You bite down on your lip in frustration.

"Goddamnit, Miguel! I barely know anything about you because you never tell me shit!"

The shape underneath you stops wiggling underneath you.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you gather yourself, then you reopen them again, staring up at the upper part of the half-invisible shape like he's standing in front of you.

There's no point in trying to beat Miguel at a game of knowledge. You will never win. You never got to learn or memorize every personal and intimate detail about the man and his life. But there's one thing that you know beyond any doubt.

"I miss you," you tell him.

Strokes of soft colors streaks through the translucent mass at your words. A gentle blossoming spreads and you can see the opaque material reform inch by inch, until it vaguely resembles the silhouette of a body.

"I can’t even eat without you around, which has never happened to me before. I’ve been able to eat through food poisoning. But now the cupcakes from Gladis remind me of you and how you're not here, and they taste like cardboard."

He feels firmer somehow, more solid, and there’s even the faintest trace of warmth under your fingertips. Hope flutters in your chest at the change, and you tighten your grip on him.

“I miss you. More than I ever thought it could be possible to miss someone."

You can faintly make out limbs and shoulders, and the outline of a head.

"I miss falling asleep next to you. It's too quiet without your snoring, and the bed is too big without you there."

The body grows taller, and you can see the familiar tan of his skin now, the line of his jaw and the sharp angle of his nose re-materializing before your eyes.

"I miss watching you eat three dozen tacos in one sitting, scaring the tables around us. I miss having you with me and getting to talk to you, or even just sitting next to you doing nothing.”

You lean up towards him, raised on the tip of your toes, until you're up against him. “I just want you to be here with me. Please come back," you whisper into him.

Then he's there. Right in front of you, large and firm and warm as he towers above you, forehead pressed against yours, in your arms.

He’s here. Miguel is here.

His hair is a soft tousled mess. Eyes warm and hazy as he slowly blinks them open like he's just woken up from a hibernation while he gazes down on your face in an intimate silence.

It doesn’t last for very long. His gaze sharpens, blinking in rapid succession as confusion bleeds into his face. You can see the exact moment that consciousness and awareness fully return to him. Because he steps back from you, red eyes burning with an angry determination.

"What are you doing here?" he snarls at you.

Because of course he does. Of course anger is his first reaction at seeing you here.

"You can't be here," he says.

You don't even get a word in before Miguel reaches for your wrist.

"Lyla!" he barks out, and there’s a ping on your arm in response.

"Lyla, stand down," you command, smacking your palm over the face of the dial before the hologram can pop up. You already know that the next words out of his mouth will be a command to whisk you away again if you let him speak.

His lips twist into a frustrated snarl. Eyes glowing with that red fury that you recognize by now as the beginnings of an anger tantrum.

“Why don't you get it? I need to do this," he seethes, gesturing at the void, "I have to disappear. For your sake! It's my fault. I'm the reason you keep dying. I’m killing you!”

“That’s not true! You saved me! You caught me when I fell off the Chrysler building—twice!—and–”

“That doesn’t matter!” he snarls, rounding on you, “Don’t you understand!? You’re still going to die! If I'm with you, you die.”

There’s a moment of resounding silence, and you watch as the anger bleeds away from Miguel’s face, leaving something else in its place.

Something like grief.

“I can’t– I can’t do that again,” he says quietly, and he looks so sad that it damn near breaks your heart.

“Miguel…”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such raw and obvious grief. Until… suddenly, you do.

“Whether you're here or not, I could still die, Miguel."

Your words seem to hit him like a blow, and he flinches back, his eyes going round and liquid, open mouth quivering for a moment before it pulls right into a hard downturned line.

"Even if you were gone, there still wouldn’t be any guarantees," you say.

You brush your hand alongside his, trying to hold his hand in yours but he draws it away.

"You could save me by erasing yourself from existence and tomorrow a bus driver that isn't paying attention might hit me and I'd die anyhow," you continue, and he flinches visibly. "You can't control these things, and I would rather be with you and take the chance and be happy until it happens."

His hand balls up in agitation at his side. "I– I just don't want you to die again," he says, helplessness bleeding through every syllable of his words.

Your heart aches at his obvious pain. All you want, all you've ever wanted is to make that pain a little bit smaller. You step forward closing the distance between you, and he doesn't back away or move from you this time.

“Everybody dies. Regardless of what happens here I will too someday. But you’ve given me extra time. You did that. You saved me, again and again. And I’m so happy that you did. That I got to have that time with you. To share donuts with you in bed, or fold post-its frogs in the office."

His eyes close tightly, and he gives a slight shake of his head, grief and denial warring in his features. “None of that matters if you don’t survive,” he says quietly.

“You say it doesn’t matter, but it does, Miguel. Those moments matter to me. And even if we die here in this stupid video game loading screen, or if we make it out of here, but something else gets me, it will still matter to me.”

There's no telling if your grand speech is actually getting through to him because he's still not looking at you or meeting your eyes. You grab at his shoulder for his attention. It's all you can do to not shake him and rattle him until he accepts what you are trying to tell him.

"I want to be with you, and even if you can’t save me in the end, that's okay. I just want to be with you for as long as I can. However long or short of a time that is, I won’t have any regrets as long as I get to spend it with you. I told you, didn’t I? Every me in every universe would say the same, given a choice."

He doesn’t respond this time and part of you feels like you’re talking to a besieged wall. Reaching up, you cup his cheeks in your hands and pull his face down to meet your eyes.

“How many other universes are out there where those versions of us never get to know each other at all? …Thousands? …Millions? We’re the lucky ones, Miguel. We got to meet, and we have a chance against all odds. So what if it means we have to jump through a few hoops and universes to be together?”

His eyes open fully at your words, and lock on your face. You think you can see the cracks in his defenses. His hands unfurl and twitch at his sides as if he’s fighting himself to reach for you.

"I love you,” you tell him, and his lips part with a slight tremble.

You’re running out of things to say that can convince him now. The only thing that’s left is for Miguel to make the choice.

Your hand slides down from his face, and he looks distraught at the loss of contact as you take one small step back and away from him.

"Let's try to be happy this time," you tell him.

Reaching out your hand towards him, you try your best to smile through your nervousness, hoping that he is going to say yes to you this time despite his trademark stubbornness that you’ve come to love and hate sometimes.

Miguel looks at your hand, hesitation carved into every shade of red in those eyes. His hand flexes by his side, but doesn’t move.

He’s still unsure, and hope falls flat in your chest at the thought that he might very well make the choice to stay and destroy himself despite how much you don’t want him to.

But then he nods, and your heart begins to sing.

Tentative as it may be, his arm still reaches out towards you, fingers seeking out yours and he takes your hand.

"Yeah," he answers quietly. “Let’s be happy.”

Your smile grows wider, eyes watery as your vision blur around the edges when you look up at him. Happiness blossoming in your chest until it feels so full you think your ribs might burst from it.

You squeeze down on his larger hands in yours, to reassure yourself that he is really here, with you. And he is.

"Lyla," you say, and your watch pings at your command, before Lyla’s face lights up the space above.

"Good to have you back with us, boss," she says with a salute in Miguel’s direction. “Where to now?” 

“Lyla,” he acknowledges with a faint smile and a nod, but he doesn’t look away from your face. "Do the thing. Take us home. Home-home."

Warm amber light rises up to surround you both, and Miguel pulls you into his chest. A kaleidoscope of colors explodes before your eyes, swirling around the two of you as he holds you in his arms.

You can't stop smiling at him, grinning like an idiot, as you tilt up to press your forehead to his.

Reality reforms around you, specks of navy-blue filling the large and vast sky. You're standing on the rooftop of a tall building surrounded by the skyline of brightly lit skyscrapers, a labyrinth of levitating bridges and streets laid out beneath. Floating vehicles buzz and soar through the sky like flamboyant dragonflies. Below your feet there is an ocean of dotted neon lights and colorful hologram billboards filling every inch and corner of the city below.

This must be Miguel's home dimension. What did he call it?  Earth-3000-something? Nueva York, he said, and it certainly looks new—bright and fantastical, like nothing you’ve ever known before—but you only have eyes for the man in front of you.

Miguel pulls back slightly, squeezing down on your hand.

"So what do we do now? As long as I exist, the universe will still be out to get you," he says.

Despite the bleakness of the picture he’s painting, his eyes are soft and there’s something that sounds like hope in his tone.

You smile at him, eyes narrowing against the bright neon lights of the tall towering buildings around you.

"We live,” you answer, “Together. As long as we can. I hear you're some kind of genius scientist or something. I'm sure we'll think of something fun to do in the infinite multiverse."

“What do you want to do first?” he asks.

“Sleep.”

He's smiling at you, the corners of his fangs peeking out against his lower lip, eyes squinting in a way that makes him look almost boyish.

The sight of it makes your cheeks warm pleasantly and affection blossoms endlessly in your chest for him.

This isn’t the end, but if it were, it feels like it's a good one this time. Miguel walks out towards the ledge of the building, turning back to reach out his hand to you.

"Let’s go, Cielito."

[Nueva York, Earth 928-C]

The end.

Credit and Dedication: One final time, this is dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss who is my muse, my partner-in-writing-&-brainstorming, who makes writing so much more fun everyday.

And then of course. To everyone of you. We are finally here. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. I want to thank everyone who has followed along in this story this entire time. Writing Every You Every Me has been one of the most joyous writing experiences I've had. That is largely because of you guys! Thank you for every heartfelt feedback you guys have left here, thank you for coming into my asks, thank you for clicking that little heart on the bottom letting me know you've read it and for the lurkers who has followed along all the while, thank you for taking the time to read this story of mine! Having this audience has made me grow so much as a writer. Having your company while I wrote this has brought me so much joy. Reading everyone's reactions and theories has been a privilege that not a lot of writers get in the process of writing a multi-chaptered story. Thank you so so much.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#fic rec #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #astroboots #fantastic

[readershewrites]

work wife you and work husband gaz........

he always helps with you with the printer because you can't figure out how to work it even though you've been working there longer than him (he was special forces for years before a medical discharge). smiles and jokes all cheekily with you while you make a dozen photocopies.

everyone in the office jokingly refers to gaz as your work husband. he brings you coffee in the morning exactly the way you like it and on the days when you surprise him with coffee instead (when you wake up a bit earlier in the morning to stop at the really nice coffee shop that's an extra ten minutes away), he palms your hip and gives it a little squeeze when you sidle up next to his desk. sometimes he'll turn his chair to you and spread his legs, angling you until you're almost right between them.

you're always flustered when you go back to your desk. any work you get done over the next hour is due to sheer muscle memory.

for some reason no one joins you when you ask them out for drinks after work. it always ends up being just you and gaz, chatting over a couple beers at the pub around the corner, his eyes soft and lined with just the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners. sometimes when the light hits him just right, it reminds you that he's lived a whole life before joining the corporate world.

if there's a work event, he'll always ask you if you're going because "not gonna waste my time if you're not there, love." it's so easy to pretend that he's just being kind, making you feel wanted until you find out that he genuinely won't show up if you aren't able to attend for some reason.

#biting my fist #cod mw2 #cod x reader #fic rec

[readershewrites]

Contact

Takes place before: In the Bleak Midwinter

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar)  Chapters: 4/4  Notes: Good LORDT she's done, idk why this mini-series was so hard to write but I'm happy with this last chapter, Jag and Ghost just needed to eye fuck and set their differences aside, sry if there's errors I'm editing and posting late, anywayyyyy, DOWN BOY,

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | AO3

“Why the hell wasn’t I told about the change in mission?” You burst into Price’s office, straight off the plane. 

The older man looked up from his desk, the edge of his black watchman’s hat concealing a cocked brow.

“It was need—”

“Need to know, yeah I got that much,” you finished for him. “So why the hell wasn’t I need to know?”

Price leaned back in his seat, dropping his pen and folding his hands over his stomach. You continued through his silence.

“Why did you have Laswell hire me?”

“Because we needed help with intel,” he begrudged.

“Right, right. So then when the person you hire for intel gives you a solid lead, is it standard for the 141 to ignore said lead and go after a glaringly obvious dead end?”

Price exhaled loudly.

“And to top if off, you don’t even notify me. Instead, you wait until thirty minutes before we land to have your fucking smug lieutenant tell me.”

“Simon was just following my orders.”

You stood in front of the man, hands on your hips, forcing yourself to breathe slower.

“Do you still need my help with landing the target?” you asked once you reclaimed some semblance of calm.

Price stared at you with hard eyes; his wrinkles around the edges crinkled slightly. 

“Yes.”

“Then keep your dog on a fucking leash, Price. And you tell me the next time the mission perimeters change.”

The older man’s brows furrowed as his jaw shifted. You didn’t bother to stay as you made your way straight to your room; you needed to decompress before you said more shit you’d probably regret. 

____

It didn’t surprise you when Laswell called shortly after your confrontation with Price. You pulled the phone from your pocket and answered.

“Heard about the mission,” she spoke passively.

“Did you know?” You asked, stretching out on the floor of your room. You hadn’t bothered to unpack from the mission because quite frankly you were debating if you were going to stay. It was a bit dramatic, sure, but you were still livid at the botched operation and complete disregard for your expertise, not to mention the weeks of work you had already put in. 

“Not until after you had arrived,” you could hear Laswell multitasking in the background. “I was sleeping, after all.”

That brought a chuckle out of you. “Glad to hear someone around here takes my advice.” 

“Oh don’t give yourself too much credit—sleep and rest are two very different things.”

“Mmhmm.”

There was a comfortable silence.

“Heard about the incident with Price as well.”

“Figured you would.”

“It was out of line.”

“So was changing mission parameters last minute and not telling me.”

Laswell sighed into the phone.

“You’re still working for the man. Those boys are his pride and joy. Can’t speak about them like that.”

You sat up, leaning your back against the single-framed bed in the room.

“I don’t like sloppy jobs, Laswell. What’s the point in hiring me if you’re not even going to follow the leads I find?”

She simply hummed on the other end of the line. You continued.

“Well, I hope Soap and Gaz got something from of their assignment. We’re having a briefing once they get in this afternoon,” you looked at a dark spot on the floor. It looked like a slightly mutilated bear.

“You and me both. We need this bastard before November’s over.”

You nodded. “We’ll get him.”

“See that you do.”

The call disconnected as you continued to stare at the floor. Maybe it was a was a beaver instead.

____

By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were sitting on the couch in the rec room, nursing a beer. There wasn’t much to do until Kyle and Johnny returned anyway. Simon made himself sparse the entire morning, undoubtedly brooding somewhere. The irritation toward him that had been stewing for the past four days was finally settling a bit—the beer and your vent with Price helped.

“Oh my fucking days,” it was Johnny’s voice that livened the quiet room. You looked up at the Scot as he walked in; the poor man looked drained. Kyle stumbled behind him.

“Hey Johnny, Kyle.” The couch sagged under their weight as they flopped down, still fully geared. You pulled your knees up.

“Never thought I’d be this happy to be back at base,” Kyle sighed, closing his eyes.

Johnny’s head was lulled against the back of the sofa. He glanced at the beer in your hand. “Glad that one of us gets to relax while we do all the hard work.”

“Johnny—” you warned but he waved his hand. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re the reason you and Ghost are back already. Heard it from Price earlier.” Johnny looked around the room. “Where’s the big bad dog anyway?”

You took another sip of beer before setting it down on the table; word travels fast in the 141. A flush of warmth heated to your cheeks. Maybe you should speak to the lieutenant after the meeting…

“Simon’s in the briefing room already.” Price had walked in, standing by the door with his arms crossed. Kyle and Johnny looked at their superior. “Best if we join him.”

Kyle groaned. “C’mon, Cap, two more seconds. We just sat down.”

“On your feet,” was all he responded before walking back the way he came.

The three of you stood, following after the man.

A part of you was thankful the meeting was starting early. It meant you could finally get some clarity on the situation and hopefully some good news about operation with the family. You sat down next to Kyle.

“Report, Sergeant,” Ghost said from the front of the room. He was leaning against the wall, refusing to meet your stare.

“Right, so ah know things got a wee muddled with Omarov, but Gaz the Lad worked his charm with the target’s sister,” Soap started off, punching the younger man in the arm. Gaz entertained it, Ghost rolled his eyes, and Price let out a long exhale. You felt sorry for the older man—he’d had a day. 

While Johnny went over the details of their operation and its small successes, you watched Simon. His initial cockiness from your mission had quickly dissipated after the house in Kostanay turned up empty, and it was completely extinguished by the time you boarded the plane this morning, four days later. Mission unsuccessful. The Brit’s attitude on the aircraft was the quintessential definition of brooding. He’d made eye contact with you a few times as the hours ticked by, but neither of you had broken the silence. You were just disappointed, mostly. Nothing had gone according to the plan that you thought you had set with the alleged legendary task force. A lesson somewhere in there about setting expectations.

In the present, Soap continued on about a connection in Kokshetau, Kazakhstan. It helped narrow down the the scope considerably, but still left a lot of possible places for the target to be hiding.

“What about Alekskeev?” Kyle asked. He was quickly becoming your favorite task member.

“Got the tip off as well,” Price responded, looking at you this time. You didn’t rub it in—just held a softened gaze with the man. “But our inside contact found some good intel where he was staying. The Russian packed up in a hurry and was sloppy.”

“One of those leads is a small supply run to a remote area outside of Kokshetau as well,” Ghost followed, his rough voice commanding. You looked at those brown eyes behind the mask, but they still refused to meet yours. “This could be it.”

By the time the meeting came to its close, you were mostly mollified. It was frustrating as hell knowing Alekskeev held the answers and got away, but at least the task force was back on the trail; not all was lost.

“Alright, get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll hone in on the location of our target. Dismissed,” Simon spoke. You began to stand up from your seat. “Not you.”

You looked at Simon, sitting back down slowly. He waited until everyone left before walking—no, stalking—to the front of your desk. The brute placed both his massive, gloved hands flat against the surface. His forearms were exposed again, showing off their vascularity. Your pulse quickened as he leaned closer, looming. You remembered to close your mouth as you looked up at him.

“Let’s get one thing clear: you ‘ave a problem with me, you say it to my face,” it came out low and venomous.

“I did.”

His jaw shifted underneath the mask. “What’s this about leashes then? Think I’m a fuckin’ dog?” 

You could feel heat radiate from his body this close—it took all your strength not to shiver.

“When you act like one.”

His grip tightened on the desk. 

“So what does that make you? The master or the fucking bone?” There was a fire blazing in those warm eyes now.

But your gaze back was defiant. Leaning in close to Simon—mouth nearly against the fabric covering his ear—you spoke. 

“Be a good boy and you might just find out.”

A heartbeat passed and you watched his massive frame stiffen, before you pulled back slightly. The fire in his eyes changed into something else—something you couldn’t name as his eyes flicked between yours. Blonde lashes lowered as his gaze dipped to your lips, to the pulse hammering in your neck, then back to your eyes. Not for the first time, you wanted to know what he looked like under the mask—what his hair was like, if he had scars, if he was handsome or battered. If he would want you all the same. Neither of you moved.

A noise in the hallway broke the trance, and you pulled back. You remembered to breathe again and so did he.

“Dismissed,” Simon finally spoke, somewhere between a growl and a murmur, but void of all the roughness from seconds ago. 

Your face softened as you rose, breathing in his scent while you lingered this close. He remained in place as you walked to the door.

_____ It was a subtle shift, but that moment had created a new axis to which everything you and Simon newly revolved. From the way he now held your stares, to how he’d relax his massive thighs against yours in meetings so that they barely touched, to the accidental run-ins in the hallways. You weren’t sure if the other team members noticed, but as the weeks went by, whatever it was between the two of you had grown to something less subtle.

“She needs a callsign, Ghost,” Soap said as he lounged on the couch, his boots rested on the coffee table. You stared at the tan man.

“Why do I need a callsign?” 

“Cause everyone on the team gets a callsign! And it has to match. Can’t be something dumb, like Barbie.” He took a sip of his beer. Gaz cursed softly under his breath as he struck a billiards ball in the background.

“Why can’t I be Barbie?” You shifted your body toward Soap, crossing your arms.

“Cause you’re not blonde,” he replied as if it was obvious. “Take me for example: got mine for my aptitude to clean a room, all spick and span like. And Ghost’s is… well, just look at the bastard.”

Simon looked up from the paperwork he was reading in his hand, eyes looking somewhat annoyed behind his black balaclava.

“Fine. Then what’s my callsign?” Tilting your head, you quirked an eyebrow.

“Mantis,” Gaz chimed in from across the room. You pondered it.

“Nah, doesn’t fit her,” Simon spoke, still focused on the papers. His voice sent a warmth through your body.

“Jaguar?” You dragged your attention back to Soap as he gave the suggestion. It actually wasn’t half bad for a name. He grinned. “…You know, cause you’re smart, stealthy.”

“A smooth ride?” you grinned back. It was fun watching the red creep up the Scotsman’s neck.

“Dangerous.” The papers were now resting on Simon’s lap as he leaned back in his chair, thighs spread a little. You struggled to compose yourself when he looked at you like that—want and possessiveness hidden behind half lidded eyes. Even Gaz took a pause to observe the very blatant eye fucking happening.

“Jesus, you two. Alright. Jaguar it is,” Soap continued, taking another sip of his beer at an attempt to cool the flushing of his cheeks. You grinned.

Outside, a light snow was beginning to fall in the darkness of night. There were only three more days before the team would ship out to Kokshetau. It seemed like Laswell might finally get her wish after all.

____ Big thanks to everyone who read through this! I love and appreciate you all <3 Tags: @deadbranch @dotcie @prosopagn0sis @solidly-indulgent

#this series makes me scream into my pillow as though I haven’t already read the rest of her stories and know exactly how it goes #cod ghost #fic rec #simon ghost riley x you

[readershewrites]

life in color: prologue

the 141 are back in Chicago for a job. Soap doesn't realize he's in for a lot more than that.

btw: I've been writing just mothiverse and exit row for so long that i forget who's on my "everything" taglist - except @smoggyfogbottom i'll never forget u - lmk if you wanna be on it!

soap x f!reader wc 1.6k warnings: cod-canon violence, minor gore

Ghost sees the world in tones of black and green. 

Sometimes, when he flips the intake on his scope, it’s a spectrum of purple-black to bright yellow. But mostly, during the night, it’s black and green.

Right now, it’s mostly green, in a way even he’s tempted to admit is unnerving. He’s keeping overwatch for Soap and Gaz, but the mist rising off the river is blowing viridian clouds across his vision. He switches to infrared, lets out a steady exhale.

They’re still there.

The 141 is back in Chicago, although he wouldn’t be surprised to hear if they’d been banned from the city after their last visit here. They might have saved the whole damn place, but that doesn’t mean Pritzker agreed to hand them medals for it. No, they’d just published that bullshit power surge story and let everyone get on with their lives.

He prefers it this way, anyway. Doesn’t need some fucking Yank putting any ribbons near him. It’s better if this whole goddamned country never learns that the 141 exists at all.

There’s a hard office floor under him, his ribs numb and shoulders aching. Ghost is posted in a high-rise across the river, his scope trained on the doors of the glass-fronted office facing him. The two yellow-red forms of Soap and Gaz in his infrared sight are the only ones he sees. He recalls Price’s words during the briefing.

CIA wanted Laswell’s head after last time, so they’ve made it clear there will be no backup if this goes south. Fucking cunts think they can order us around and throw us under the bus after.

He’d taken a breath, taking the time to look each of them in the eye.

Unfortunately, they can. I want no casualties on this mission, you understand me? No civilian contact. There’s a safehouse on LaSalle if you need it. Lay low until we can get you out.

It’s late. Nearly 3 AM. He hasn’t seen anybody walk by in a couple of hours, since Gaz and Soap sidled up and took discrete positions near the pedestrian bridge. It’s a weeknight in Chicago, quiet but not quite deserted enough. Not until this fog rolled in.

Rolled up, is more like it. It’s pouring off the river, steadily rising until it’s just kissing the base of his 8th-floor window. It’s an unseasonably cold September evening, the still-warm waters of the river reacting with the frigid temperatures outside to obscure his vision. On the one night they can do this collection.

As if on cue, his radio hisses in his ear. 

“Wish they’d hurry the fuck up. S’fuckin’ Baltic out here.”

Ghost can hear the shiver in Soap’s voice. His reply is rough from hours of silence. “Thought you’d lived through a Glasgow winter, Johnny.”

“Aye, LT,” he says, in that snippy Johnny way. “S’not Glasgow we’re in now, is it?”

Gaz chips in. “Only time I’ve been colder was in that canal in Amsterdam. Wouldn’t want to be in this water tonight.”

None of them would. A flicker of light in the upper floor catches Ghost’s eye. “Stay alert and you won’t have to. I see movement.” He switches back to night vision, scanning the green span of the lobby lights for the targets.

There’s one. A single form steps out of the elevator, steps towards the front doors.

Distinctly feminine.

Odd. The briefing had described the target as male, and inseparable from two cronies.

“Lieutenant, you seeing this?” Gaz is murmuring, his tones low enough to be lost in the ambient sound of the city.

“I see it.” He’s tracking the woman with his scope as she shrugs on a coat over her office-appropriate dress, bends down to adjust her office-appropriate heels, and covers her office-inappropriate yawn with a hand as she shoulders her way through the glass door of the building. She doesn’t even look at Soap or Gaz, tucked away in the shadows, as she steps off the curb.

“Don’t engage, she’s not part of the brief,” Ghost growls. “Dumb fucking night to work late-”

He flips to infrared.

There are nine orange figures in his vision.

Fuck.

“Look alive, boys, you’ve got company,” He grates into the microphone. “Target’s in the lobby with two guards, you’ve got one enemy on either end of the street and one at the far end of the bridge.”

Damn it. Had the girl been part of a diversion? Something to distract them while the target built up his reinforcements? Ghost watches her cross the street at an exhausted, guileless pace. She can’t have been. Someone with this few survival instincts can’t possibly be working for this Bratva governor. The Russian mob asks far more of even its lowest members.

Soap and Gaz click their copies down the radio. A shot opens up on the Bratva thug on the West end of the street. Ghost takes it. The window spiderwebs around the muzzle of his rifle, but doesn’t shatter.

“Nice one, LT,” Soap murmurs. The girl in the street has frozen at the sound of the gunshot, her hand on her throat, peering through the mist. She should be running by now.

A few shots fire down the street. Ghost hears them come from the man on the East end, but the infrared signal is blocked behind the stone wall of the riverwalk. Gaz has disappeared, too. The girl has her hand over her mouth now, trying not to scream as she backs up - towards the third gun-toting Russian. Ghost almost sighs. He doesn’t have a clear shot on the third guy, or he’d clear him out before he could threaten her.

He sees her spin again, his only hint that she’s heard something he hasn’t.

One large orange form splits back into two as it emerges from behind the stone wall. Gaz lets the man fall, his hot blood rapidly cooling to purple as it pours from the clean gash in his neck.

“Two down.”

“Fuckin’ beautiful, Gaz.”

It was beautiful, but Ghost doesn’t have time to comment on the kill - the boss with the two cronies is emerging from the glass doors, apparently thinking that the shots fired mean the coast is clear. Stupid.

One pull of his trigger, and the crony on the left crumples, his head vaporized into a fine mist. The second pulls a handgun, but a bullet from Soap leaves his hand to the same fate. The Glock tumbles to the pavement. He barely screams before falling to his knees, clutching his arm to his chest.

The boss pulls out his own gun with steady hands, aims it into the mist.

Soap’s radio line is closed.

Ghost watches the four yellow forms, one missing a hand and cooling ever-so-slowly to orange.

There’s a verbal exchange. The one-handed guard grips his boss’s leg for support.

The boss doesn’t look away from Gaz to shoot him through the head. He topples back, joining his violet comrade on the indigo pavement. 

Soap advances through the mist. Ghost knows his vision must be obscured to have not taken a shot yet.

The third thug approaches on the pedestrian bridge. Ghost only has a split-second of a clear shot on him before he staggers back, another form latched around his neck.

The girl.

Christ. This had to be the opposite of survival instincts. Her arms are wrapped around the man’s neck, dragging him back from the stand-off in front of the office building. The sound of their struggle must travel through the mist, because the boss’s gun drifts with his eyes, searching for the source.

Gaz puts a bullet in his wrist while Soap puts one in his knee, and they scramble to collect the target. It’s a thing of beauty, but Ghost is watching the girl save his men’s life. What were the fucking chances.

The third Russian shakes her off and she scrambles to her feet, her hands held placatingly in front of her. Maybe she can’t even see him. He doesn’t seem to see her, because he’s facing her but hasn’t shot yet. She’s backing up, sending a few glances upwards at the high-rises around her.

She knows he’s here. She’s giving Ghost room to clean up. She’s better than he’d realized.

Her back hits the cold wrought-iron of the bridge railing. The Russian fires off a shot, just inches from her face. In one quick movement, she boosts herself up and over the railing, falling cleanly into the river. Ghost uses her absence to put a bullet in the man’s head.

No civilian contact, indeed.

Gaz and Soap have just bundled the boss into a van. Gaz sits in the passenger seat already.

“Johnny, you’ve got a civilian in the water,” he grinds out. “Get her out.”

“Repeat that?”

“I said it once already. That girl is in the river, and she saved your bloody life for it. I suggest you take her to the safehouse to make sure she doesn’t freeze to death.”

He takes one last look at her, a purple-red blob clinging to the boardwalk, just to assure himself she hasn’t already sunk to the bottom. Soap grumbles and heads for the stairs, his weapon raised just in case.

Ghost pushes himself up off the floor, blinking as the world comes back into muted colors. He’s done what he can to repay her for tonight. The rest is up to Johnny.

#aw yeah #just hopped on the Soap train and am loving it #fic rec #cod

[readershewrites]

Resources For Romance Writers

Here is a large compilation of resources based on what you guys told me you struggle with the most when writing romance. This ranges from creating a healthy romance to inspire other people to seek the right kind of love, finding inspiration to write, writing realistic scenes, and many other topics. I hope that you find this useful!

Healthy & Realistic Romance

How to write strong character relationships 

How To Write Realistic Romance

Realistic Romance 

Writing Realistic Love Relationships 

LGB Relationships

Romantic Subplots

Writing a Romance Novel 

How to Avoid Forced Romantic Sub-Plot 

Subtle Signs of Love 

Love at First Sight and the Stages of Love 

Using Timelines to Pace Romantic Relationships 

Avoiding the Cheesy Stuff 

Building an Organic Romance 

Writing Healthy Couples In Fiction

Cliches & Tropes To Avoid

What’s Missing In The Modern Romance Heroine

Romance- The deal with triangles.

Writing a quality love triangle

Writing 101- love triangles

The problem with love triangles

Massive List Of Romance Tropes

Massive List Of Friendship Tropes

Things About Romance Learned From TV

Cliches To Avoid Or Reconstruct

Writing Emotional Scenes Without Melodrama

Friendship to Love

Enemies to Lovers 

Female Characters To Avoid

Romance Scenes & NSFW Resources

Handling the Risqué Parts of Writing Romance 

The Big Book Of Writing Sex

Twenty Steps To Writing Great Love Scenes

Ten Essentials To Writing Love Scenes

Sizzling, Sensuous and Steamy: How to Write Love Scenes

Keeping it Sweet While Turning Up the Heat

Kissing Scenes

Sexual Tension 

Delicate and Relevant Sex Scenes 

Types Of Kisses

Five Flirting Styles

Flirting Types

Obvious Flirting Signs

How To Flirt

Writing Flirty Things

Words To Use In Sex Scenes

Synonyms For Private Bits

Things For Beginners

Tips for Beginning Romance Writers 

5 Tips To Writing Engaging Romance

How To Write From The Opposite Gender’s Point Of View

Writing Gender Specific Dialogue

How to Write a Romance Novel: The Keys to Conflict 

4 Tips For Writing For The Romance Market

How To Write Romance

Bringing Humor Into Your Romance

Inspiration

Romantic Things On Tumblr

Love poems

The Bad Sex Awards (What Not To Do)

TheRomantic.com

General Tools and Tips

Romance University 

RT Book Reviews’ Romance site 

5 Ways To Write Romance With Respect

10 Ways To Improve Your Romance Novel

7 Essential Tips For Writing A Romance

Using Real Psychology In Your Writing 

Help With Romance: General Things

Plotting The Teen Romance

Research Flaws In Romance

Writing Romantic Dialogue

Touchy-Feely Words

Resource Masterposts I Made

Wordsnstuff Masterlist

Useful Writing Resources

Useful Writing Resources II

Resources For Fantasy & Mythology Writers

[readershewrites]

prompt: post-apocalypse ghost/reader fic where ghost and the rest of his team come across the feral, blood-soaked reader who stabs first and asks questions later. (on ao3 here)

-

The world ends on a Monday.

Abysmal timing; they’re on leave by chance, the whole lot of them. Soap and Gaz are playing cards in the barracks when they get the call. Price is still in his office when a phone in the corner of the room that never rings suddenly does (he stares at it for a time before picking it up). Ghost is someplace, no one knows for sure; what they do know is that when he does finally answer their calls, he’s out of breath and there’s a thread of panic in his voice that makes the blood in Soap’s veins run cold. 

He’s never heard him sound like that. He never will again.

The virus rages across the country, hopping borders like they melt away into the ether. Country after country toppelling to this unnamed virus that demolishes society so completely that there was never a chance for the military to contain it. That chance evaporates before even the faintest spark of hope is lit. 

Soap is used to killing, but what he never gets used to is the sight of those things that take human shape. Calling them zombies is easy at first, but even that name comes with a sense of distance; it evokes things seen in films and tv shows, not the real flesh-and-blood of it all, not sitting in a caravan speeding down the motorway with bodies torn apart and scattered across the road. He learns to bite his teeth and hold his bile down at the sight of one of those creatures hunched over the masticated remains of a person. 

Then suddenly it’s seven months later. The core unit of them make their way across the continent, taking back roads where they’re less likely to encounter the hoards of infected. They’ve had too many close calls for them to take chances anymore—even armed to the gills and strapped in body armor (the remnants of the military efforts that collapsed within days), Gaz’s shoulder pad has crumpled beneath too sharp teeth and Roach has had his legs swept out from under him, his throat nearly exposed, nearly torn open.

Ghost’s hands are still wet with gore from taking that infected apart. If any of them make it, it will likely be him.

A part of Soap worries about Ghost. Even he feels the tender edges of his own humanity bristle at the day-in and day-out struggle that is now a luxury rather than a hardship. Just being able to survive is a miracle. Ghost just goes dark. From the little Soap knows of Ghost (which is still more than most; he’s confident enough to say that of their group, he’s the one that Ghost shows himself to the most), he knows that Ghost has already endured enough suffering for an army. Never mind a single man. 

There’s a flatness behind his eyes these days and it scares Soap, just a bit. He no longer looks like a person behind a mask but rather the sun-baked skull itself. 

His worry only fades when they come across the girl.

She’s a feral little thing, half-starved and out of her mind. They see her slip in and out of abandoned houses when they make their way through a small village in the French countryside (or what Soap thinks is France), hair matted with sweat and blood. 

It’s Ghost that pauses, Ghost that makes them stop and detours long enough to creep up on her, holding a big hand to her mouth when she howls and tries to tear his whole arm off. It takes over an hour to calm her down long enough to reassure her that they mean her no harm. She tries to take off no less than six times.

Soap has never seen Ghost look smitten, but there’s no other word for it. 

When Price tentatively suggests leaving the girl behind—not a terrible suggestion after she tries to stab Ghost—the look Ghost levels him with brooks no further arguments. They’re keeping the girl. 

She’s his problem, as far as Soap and the rest of them are concerned. No name, unless it’s Soap yelling “Girl” or “Hey, you!” when she does something stupid like actively seeking out infected to kill. Ghost chuckles all deep baritone when he sees her hack away at an infected man’s neck. It’s enough to make a man hurl. Love in a time of zombies. 

He hears them murmuring to each other sometimes, late at night when the team is holed up in a house or a barn they’ve commandeered. Doors always reinforced, someone standing guard on the roof. The low rasp of Ghost’s voice, almost susurrous, almost intimate. Her voice like a chittering wolf. 

Hovering between sleep and wakefulness, Soap doesn’t look away from the wall in front of him. He knows if he does, if he turns over from where he’s supposed to be sleeping, he’ll see Ghost hovering over the girl roughly half his size, her face blocked only by the way his arms frame either side of her head. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach the sight of his friend’s hips bucking into the girl.

He hears him mutter something like, “You needed to be found. I needed to find you.” and then it’s enough. He lets his brain shut off. 

If it keeps Ghost sane and with them, so be it. 

#read this on AO3 and screamed into the void #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod simon riley #fic rec

[readershewrites]

A Cracked And Fissured Door

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"You just...you make me feel like you only want me when nobody's looking."

It stings, if she's being honest. Being kept at an arms length when in public. Most people know about them, so she's not sure why he's so...cold and distant when they're not alone.

Masterlist

"If he sends us out before next week I'm quitting." Soap groans, back cracking as he flops down forward on the bar. "Three ops in a week? What do I look like, a machine?"

Gaz snickers, raising his glass to that. "Bloody might well be at this point."

She hides a smile behind her own drink, leaning back into the bar. They had done three ops in a week, mission after mission after mission. It had been pretty rough, just as Soap said and she was more than ready to crash and burn and sleep for three days straight but abandoning their tradition of getting drinks at this specific bar everything Saturday was not something anyone on the 141 was willing to break.

"Just be glad we got the weekend off." Ghost says from beside her. She smiles warmly at him, is rewarded with a slightly blank look.

The flicker of her smile is hid behind another sip.

"Betcha your gonna take advantage of that, eh?" Soap nudges her, looking pointedly between her and Ghost. The latter rolls his eyes and says nothing.

"Only thing I'm looking forward to is an actual mattress." She knocks back the last of her drink and stands, shrugging Gaz's arm slung over her shoulder. "Speaking of which, I think it's about time we call it a night." Casting a glance at her boyfriend, who merely nods in confirmation and pushes the stool back himself, she nods at the others. "Don't cause too much trouble, boys. Text us when you're home safe, yeah?"

"We just got shot at for a week, don't think a car ride home is gonna be the end of us." Soap snorts.

"You never know." Is all she says before stepping out of the bar with Ghost, who offers her her coat to shrug on.

"Hell of a week." She comments, glancing at him gratefully as she shrugs on the warm fabric.

"Just glad it's over," Simon says simply.

Walking back to their car, she can't help but cast quiet glances at him as they walk. She knows Ghost notices them, chooses to keep looking ahead and keep the silence.

Truth be told, she aches to touch him.

Aches to feel his skin on hers, to feel the callouses of his hands brush against hers. His heat, ever all-encompassing makes her feel safe in a way no bulletproof vest ever could.

"Think I might ask Price to assign me desk duty for a while." She jokes, knocking their shoulders together gently.

To the untrained eye, to someone who might not have been tuned to what makes Simon Simon, it wouldn't have been noticeable, but he leans subtly away so they don't touch again.

She doesn't mention it, but it makes her heart heavy.

It's nothing new. She's not sure why she's even surprised anymore.

Trying again, her arm hangs beside her, purposefully brushing against his gloves. The frown on her face deepens when he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Maybe it's the exhausting week she's had, but it gets to her, infects her heart, mind, and soul with the insecurity she keeps locked behind a cracked and fissured door in her mind.

It stings, if she's being honest.

He's not the most...social person. Closed off and private, but baring her soul to someone she loves and getting so little in return...

Being kept at an arm's length when in public, even though their relationship is not a secret. Most people know, actually, so she's not sure why he's so...cold and distant when they're not alone.

The car ride home is silent, but not in a comfortable way their quiet is usually shared. Simon seems to pick up on it, because he grips the steering wheel a little too hard, the tension in his shoulders a little too foreign.

Gaz had no problem touching her. A friendly punch to the arm, an arm around her shoulder. Soap was a touchy person by nature, nudging her and ruffling her hair.

So why was it that Simon always pulled away?

The one person who should love her the most, who should be proud of loving her...why does he pull away and pretend this thing between them doesn't exist.

She doesn't get it, hasn't understood for the past two years they've been together. Pushing was not something she'd considered given his stubbornness and private nature, but there's no denying she's always felt a twinge of hurt whenever he disregards her in public.

Was he...ashamed? Of her? Did he not want to be seen with her?

The thought latches itself onto her, sucking away the usual confidence she carries and leaving her a nervous mess. It makes her sick. Before she knows it they're back home but she can't find herself to walk any farther than the front door that's shut behind her.

He doesn't comment on it, just casts her an inquisitive look before moving to the kitchen in view.

Simon always did like a cup of tea before bed.

"Simon?" The word comes out a little garbled, caught in her indecision, and morphed into something muffled. He hears it, because of course he does, and hums. Doesn't look up from where he's rifling through the cupboards for his kettle.

The air is cold in her lungs, freezes up with nerves, and this is all so ridiculous. It's stupid and she shouldn't be feeling this way but she does because she just does.

Trust was a precious jewel, a diamond only given to those who trusted enough to keep it unmarred. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets, she feels like she could make millions of intricate pieces with the bits of trust she had bared for Simon to take and keep as his own.

Simon knows what she loves, what she hates, how she feels about anything and everything. The rhyme and reasons, the way she ticks, and what throws her off kilter. He knows it all, it's been given willingly and eagerly to the man who took her heart with that rough demeanour on the tarmac two years ago.

She had given him all her gems, the shiniest and the dullest ones, but he's never even been bothered to spare her a piece of coal.

When she doesn't speak immediately, he pauses his movements and sets down the kettle on the counter with a 'clink'. "What's the matter, love?" He straightens up.

"Do you want to be with me?" She blurts out, unable to fathom leaving this conversation for another day. Not when she's so worked up and hurt and feeling.

His face stays blank, and when he responds it's almost as if he's doing it carefully. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I asked." The sides of her coat are clutched with a knuckle-white grip, nausea making her an inch away from ruining the lovely carpet they'd picked out together when they'd first moved in.

Simon furrows his brows. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"That's not what I asked." Unease starts to curl up in her gut. "Do you like me, Simon?"

"Of course I fucking like you, what are you talking about?"

"You sure don't act like it."

There.

It's in the open now. Simon stares at her for a moment, shocked or stunned or whatever emotion that causes him to clam up for a moment.

He never really was good at this part of their relationship, but this...it was vital. It was important because she refuses to let this problem define what they have together.

"You don't touch me when we're not alone." She starts, "You act like I'm just no one when we're out together. You barely acknowledge me any more than anybody else, pull away when I try to touch you." It feels good to let this all off her chest. Months and months of trying to figure out what was going on. "Tell me why. I just want to know why."

"I'm a private person-"

"No Simon, that's not what this is." She shakes her head, emotion rising inside her. "You just...you make me feel like you only want me when nobody's looking. Like I'm...like you want to keep me a secret."

Her eyes are glassy because saying it hurts so fucking much, but it needs to be said. It needs to be voiced, he needs to listen and acknowledge-

"You know that's not true, so it shouldn't be a bloody problem-"

"Do I?" A laugh burst out of her, unexpected and short. It's enough to cut him off, cause him to narrow his eyes. "You've never told or indicated that to me. Not once. Not in two years."

"It's common sense. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't want you." She can tell he's trying to stay level, to meet her in the middle but all caution gets thrown to the wind because is he really trying to argue with her on this?

"No, it's not." She insists, trying not to raise her voice as anger bubbles up inside her. Was he not getting it? Not understanding that this was hurting her? That he was hurting her? "Sometimes I-..." She swallows, "Sometimes I'll be having a great time, like today. I'll be laughing and enjoying myself and then I'll glance at you, or try and do something as simple as brush shoulders, and I'll watch you push me away. Or pull away." Her voice waver but she fights to keep it steady. "And it makes me feel miserable because what is it about me that makes my own boyfriend not want to accidentally touch me?"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" He says, hackles raised at being put on the spot like this. Ghost doesn't mean to, but this is all so new to him and the only thing he knows how to do in these rapidly changing situations is to be sharp and jagged and tense. "If you're so miserable, why are you still here?"

"Because I love you!" She cries out. "And I can't help but think that I might never get the same back from you." Her grip on her coat tightens.

There's a beat of silence.

"I never asked you to. You knew what you were getting yourself into."

His words cut through the quiet, as sharp as the blades he keeps strapped to his thigh.

"Oh, fuck you." She whispers. "Don't give me that bullshit. That's not an excuse for not trying-"

"Not trying?" His voice gets slightly louder. "I try every day. I try to be someone you deserve but you're bloody well making it difficult when-"

"Just stop!" She yells over him. "Stop. I'm not asking for something you can't give. I'm just asking for an explanation."

"I can't-"

"You can!" To her dismay, her eyes burn with tears that are bound to fall in a few seconds, but she's too far into it to turn around now. "It's been two fucking years, Simon. Two years. I've never pushed or pressured you, I've listened and sat here and tried to be the one you can come to, but you never do." She sniffles, wiping her tears away roughly.

He stays silent, visibly frustrated but letting her talk.

"Do you know what they say back at base?" She spits out. "About me? They say I've forced you into being with me." A hollow laugh. "That I've got some dirt on you that keeps you quiet, or that I'm just someone you pass the time at night with because everyone thinks that you want nothing to do with me during the day. They talk about why we're still together, why you're still with me when you clearly have no interest." Her tears are long forgotten, left to trail down her cheeks in rivers of hurt. "They say...they say I'm only on the 141 because of our relationship."

And that was what hurt the most. Her own skills undermined like that.

That startles him enough to pull his brows in confusion "I didn't know..."

"Of course you don't, why would they say it in front of the man who looks like he could snap their spines in half?"

She waits for him to speak. To say something, anything, but all he does is stare at her with those half-blank eyes that she can never decipher and it infuriates her because did he not just listen to what she's told him.

"You know what, forget it." She chokes out. "I'm done. I'm fucking done with this." She gestures to them both, vaguely watching his eyes widen with muted panic. Getting shoved into a woodchipper would be less painful than the hurt that tears through her chest, hiccupping on swallowed sobs.

"Hold on-"

"I can't be the only one keeping us both afloat." She reaches behind her for the doorknob. "I don't want that. I love you, Simon. I really do, but it hurts so fucking much when you act like I'm disposable, like you're ashamed of being seen with me."

The door is pulled open by her, and then roughly shoved shut by Simon. He moves quicker than she could register, behind the counter one moment and right in front of her the next. His hand stays firmly on the door, keeping it shut as he leans down to catch her gaze.

"Ashamed is the last thing I am about you." He says quickly, clumsily. "I-...fucking hell that's not right at all, love."

Simon is...he's panicking.

The thought strikes her immediately with the way his chest rises and falls quickly, the lack of that cold clipped grace in his voice.

"I don't care." She chokes on a cry, hands planting themselves firmly on his chest to shove him away. It's like nudging a brick wall. The man is immovable, standing in place with their bodies so close it feels like they're sharing heat. "I'm tired, and you're making it worse so let me go." He grabs her wrists, presses them against himself to keep her in place. His hands are warm, rid of the gloves he usually dons.

She's met with every inch of that scarred face of his. She hadn't noticed but he'd discarded his mask as he'd been rushing around the counter to get to her.

"Listen to me." He breathes, trying to get his thoughts straight and keep her there with him. He can't lose her, can't let her walk out the door because he's afraid that she might never come back. "Please."

It's the last word that pauses her struggle. Simon...he was someone who operated on orders and demands so the frantic and silent plea pushed into the word is enough to make her still for a moment.

And a moment is all he needs.

"I've never..." He thinks for a moment. Never has she seen him look so frazzled. He tries again. "Everyone I've ever loved has been killed." Her eyes widen at the declaration. "My family. My friends...everyone." His breath fans over her face with how he's leaned down, hot so very him. "I think I'm afraid if I show the world I love you it might try and take you from me too." Simon's voice breaks at the end, as if he's voiced something from his nightmares and despite the pain she's feeling the sound slices through her. "And I can't...I can't live with losing you too."

With bated breath, he waits for her to respond. Part of him can't bear to look her in the eyes after the admission but he finds himself staring at her face anyway, drinking in any sign of hope.

Hope. How long has it been since he's felt the warm rays of such a feeling?

Slowly, so slowly it makes his breath hitch, she tugs her hand free on his. For a moment Simon thinks she might push him away again and his heart sinks like a stone, but then her fingertips graze his face, her hands cup his cheeks and suddenly they interlock behind his head, pulling him in.

Simon crushes her into him, tucking her head under his chin with a shuddering breath of relief. He's not lost her, not completely.

Hope.

There was still such a thing for a man like him after all.

"I'm not going anywhere." She mumbles into the crook of his neck, the feeling of his lips moving on his skin sending a shiver up his spine. "I'm so sorry, Simon. If you'd told me that before I would have tried to help-..."

Simon shakes his head immediately, arms tightening around her. "I chose not to tell you. The thought of coming home and seeing you on the ground...bloody...like them." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "Fuck, I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart."

Simon didn't apologise often, so when he did that means he knows he's fucked up.

She does not tell him it's alright, that she forgives him or that he's fine. Because he's not. His apology, his honesty doesn't make the months of hurt go away. It still aches at her like before, but this time the ache has a meaning behind it. It has a reason.

They hold each other for a moment, against the door, two people knee-deep in a problem that's been brewing for weeks and weeks, bubbled over the edge in the ugliest way possible.

"I need you to try." She whispers after a moment, the barest of smiles gracing her face when he nods slowly.

"I know." He says simply against her hair. Gently swaying in each other's hold, both are content to stay there for a while, to calm their racing hearts with the knowledge that the other is still there, is real and solid under their hands.

And it's enough.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Change is a slow trek to an ever extending finish line.

Simon keeps his word. If there's anything it's good at, it's resilience. Though it makes him antsy and paranoid and dare he say slightly nervous to open such a part of him to somebody again, he tries.

He tried because he'd rather saw his own arm off than be the one who gives her a reason to leave. Not her. Not the best thing that's happened to him in years, the person who's managed to wake up Simon after years of being Ghost.

A subtle brush of hands as they walk.

An arm around her shoulder while they drink.

Thighs and sides pressed together as they take their seats on a heli.

The squeeze of her knee from under the table.

It builds and builds into something warm and new and fresh, a feeling that overshadows all the worry he had about the universe having a vendetta against him because if there was one good thing that Simon Riley wanted to keep, it was her.

Their weekend is filled with conversations, real conversations about things they've kept to themselves, worries and concerns, and moments of hesitance. He tries his best, though some words die on his tongue before he can get them out. She pushes him, but never more than he can take. Heart, body, and soul, she knows him like the back of her hand but he's the only one who can truly let her into his mind.

All that aside Simon also has another more personal task to work through once their weekend is over.

After paying some not-so-nice visits to more than a dozen people (to his absolute fury), she never once hears a peep of another disgusting rumour ever again.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

(26/07/2023)

#teeth biting down on my fist #loved it #fic rec #call of duty modern warfare 2 #modern warfare x reader

[readershewrites]

Wow! The pain! I’m stunned! By the pain!!

↮ for the sake of having you near [one]

captain john price x f!veteran!reader (no use of 'y/n') 5.3k words cw: descriptions of gun violence & gunshot injuries, reader is an amputee & the same age as price, foul language, mentions of terminal cancer, extremely divorced-but-still-in-love behavior from two people that consider one another soulmates (some of these aren't out-and-out cw's, but points that deserve noting) ↮ Twenty years you had known John, and for seventeen of them you were married. After a career-ruining injury in the field, you were forced out of the service, and the marriage did not survive your survival. But: when John goes on leave, he always finds his way home to you. (and a quick shout-out to @smoggyfogbottom who's listened to me hoot and holler for days on end about price and the type of man he is, yelling back and forth like banshees circling something beloved lol. thank you posh!)

When John returns from deployment or mission, the world sharpens. Your senses focus. Your blood courses stronger, smoother through your veins. Without even seeing him, you are transmogrified–made stronger, prouder, incendiary–as if proximity to the reckoning that is legend-walking Captain Price makes you whole. 

You roll your eyes. The grandiosity is a bit embarrassing, but he always brought that out in you. Always made you feel like a little girl making doe eyes at the crucified son of god during Christmas service. You’re switching laundry, it’s pissing down rain, and he’s surely parked the Jeep Cherokee he’s had since 2007 right in the center of the driveway, simply to be irritating.

There are keys in the door, and his voice calls out your name the moment he’s stepped through the threshold.

Your hands pause pulling the laundry basket onto your hip before you call back. Despite your chiding, you sensed him before he even made himself known. 

The bitter divorcée says, That’s because you were married to him seventeen years.

The girl that still loves her dearest, oldest friend swats at that thought, a cat soaked in hackles-raising indignation. Shut up, shut up, even the rain falls straighter when he’s home.

“In the back, John.” You force projection into your voice, tranquility, and go to meet him in the foyer. “Shit, would you look at you,” you hum, trying not to stay too terribly amused at the drowned-rat look of your ex-husband. “Long walk from the car to the door?”

He’s a bit blue in the lip, and soaked to the bone under his skullcap and fleece-lined leather bomber. From ten paces, you can tell his fingers are numb plucking at the strings of his boots. But he gives you that raggedy, affable tramp grin of his from under the chops, and raises his brows. Always able to turn on the charm of a boy. 

“Box tortoise in the road,” he chuckles, though it’s marrow-aching with exhaustion. “Had to jump out and help the poor bastard before he got washed out into the creek.”

“Jesus wept, so you were playing around on the bridge.” Admonishment doesn’t live in that statement, only comprehension. Of course, he’d stopped to save a damned tortoise. John loves underdogs. 

You were one of them. You are one of them. 

He looks up and catches your eye, and you’re plagued by the uncanny feeling he’d read your mind and heard that thought. 

You’re too well-trained to show discomfort. Not in the face of him—the man once so inextricably interwoven with you that your hand on his chest was his hand, that his eyes closed as you fell asleep. 

Your prosthetic leg drags a bit as you shift, and you are forced to remember why that no longer holds water. 

“Get your arse in the bath, and I’ll throw something together for you to eat,” you tell him, easy as. If he looks away as your eyes brush across the bruises below his sockets, you do not mention it. It’s something that sits in the soul of him, a stone round the neck, and not so easily fixed with simple respite. “Good deal?”

He drops his elbows on his knees, huffing, shaking his smirking head. Just a small break, a fond one. “Yeah, Prem. Sounds like a good deal.” He looks up at you from the corner of his eye, crow’s feet less delicate in his skin than they had been last you’d seen him, looking like the life you’d missed out on.

+

You were once a woman called Premonition, and it was a moniker that carried and levied a heavy weight. Lieutenant Price was another name you had shed, six years ago, when there was not a dark, disgusting corner of the globe you wouldn’t follow your husband without hesitation. 

You had found each other practically baby-faced, possibly stupid (who at that age does not fall under the phrase young, dumb, and full of cum), when youth allowed wild optimism to think the world could easily be saved once and for all. Reality was quick to beat that notion from both your hides, but never the goal. It absolutely wasn’t harmed by the fact that the two of you had found anchorage in one another—married after only three incredibly brief weeks.

God, your parents and his father had been so upset. Furious. In retrospect, it made sense. But, at the time, weathering the two years it took for them to warm to the sudden marriage was reinforcing—the two of you against the world now a mentality made law, and both were hungry for the conflict it brought. Then two years melted into five, ten, seventeen, and when the end came, your parents mourned.

John lumbers up the stairs–after passing the duffel bag to you when you stick your hand out expectantly–and his steps are heavy, but the stairs are solid. Together, you’d bought this former rectory as a foreclosure. The walls and ceiling were falling in, the wooden floors bloated and warped. Nature creeping in through the cracks. And then, together, you’d rebuilt it, when there was less demand and obligation tied to your combined time.

There was not a stick of timber from the subfloor to the exposed rafters that had not been put there by John’s hands. A carpenter by passion, he’d spent precious months tearing apart and replacing the skeleton of your home, giving it a chance to live another two hundred years. You’d learned to hang drywall, to mud the joints. To replace plumbing, and put down flooring and tile. Little by little, the nigh-on-dead house of worship had risen from its own ashes, and it had come to reflect its owners.

As the divorce finalized, John had intended to find himself a flat–in London, not Somerset–and the clawing-desperate love you still held for him demanded you speak out. 

When you’re home between missions, just come back to the fucking house. You’re a grown man, you ought not be living in a grubby little bachelor’s flat. The indignity of it–absolutely not.

Once you’ve left his duffel in the laundry room, you move to the kitchen pantry. John Price is a man that is not difficult to please. Had you not intimately known the corners of his mind, the utter vastness of that untamed wilderness, you might even venture to call him a simple man. He is anything but, but his pleasures sometimes are.

It became ritual in those early years (when you were both poor as church mice and your salaries poured twin into the rectory) to come off deployments and welcome one another home with soup. Tomato soup, sharp cheddar melted into it, alongside toasties with swiss cheese crisped on the outer side of one slice of bread.

Greasy, heavy, hearty, and warm. Cheap, most importantly back in the early days, and reliable—you remember piling up on the full-sized mattress that sat directly on the floor of the would-be master suite, back in the day, dunking halves of your sandwiches in the same repurposed margarine tub of soup, laughing and talking and leaving behind foreign lands.

The first time he made it for you after the initial separation, you were able to hold it together long enough to eat and thank him and smile, but nearly immediately afterward, you locked yourself in your walk-in closet and cried on the floor for thirty scorching minutes.

In the present, he trots down the stairs in a henley and flannel pajamas, chest hair peeking from his collar. He looks fresh, but exhausted. “I was hoping that was what you were making,” he groans, entering the kitchen, coming around your side to look over your shoulder. “You put–?”

“Cheddar, hot sauce, worcestershire, and garlic in it?” you finish for him, looking at him from under your brow, moving to the next pan over the flipped the toasties. “Aye, John.”

He spreads his hands in mock surrender, a smile pulling at his mouth. He always asks, and you never forget. It’s the way it’s always been–minus his hand not being  on your hip, and his lips not pressing into your shoulder.  

Your stomach clenches, but you don’t let it show. He’d been very careful to stop doing that. It had been his second nature, to touch you whenever he could. It had once been yours, as well. It was hard for both of you to carve it out of your joint muscle memory. The procedure always felt botched, and every time your hands twitched toward one another, you knew it was not going to ever fully heal.

There are just some infections you learn to live around. The pair of you were more one person than you ever were two. 

On opposite sides of the kitchen table–a beautiful piece John had crafted from the rectory’s old, stately doors–you ate in relative silence, the sound system murmuring along with old American country-western songs in the background, rain slapping against the windows bricks of your home. This is where work talk would’ve happened, once upon a time.

Now, silence festers in the grave of it. It’s hard to help yourself through it. 

All it took was one bad call—a microsecond-long error in an AQ safehouse in Beirut—and the complete totality of your life evaporated before your eyes. A scared kid, a human-trafficked baby turned child soldier, with a shotgun in his arms, hiding behind a door. 

It is still bizarre to you, the way your eyes widened, your hand reached for your radio. How your legs were knocked out from under you, and you were deafened. You looked toward the kid–he’d dropped the shotgun, but he still glared–and stupidly, you told him you were here to help, but you just couldn’t stand up. Like one of your knees was gone, because it was.

One of your sergeants shot the kid in the eye. His head slammed back into the wall before his chin met his chest. You were furious and confused and cold. 

“How’re the boys?” you ask, blinking past the medevac, the lost weeks on life support after the difficult amputation, the first time you saw John, so starved of sleep his eyes had turned black. 

John stops eating now, pushing his spoon around his soup, served now in separate bowls that look like plates that look like bowls. “Fine,” is all he can tell you. His shoulders go tight, and a flintiness briefly flashes in his eyes, before it melts into nonexistence. 

The most you could get out of him anymore was to ask if his boys were okay. He’d give a gruff, reluctant yeah, and offer no more than that. You dread the day that question is met with silence. 

“How’s Simon?” you push, suddenly sharp in the mouth, wanting to draw a drop of blood, to needle him until the pain sends fireworks through his pain receptors. Nothing can get to him like name-dropping his first lost boy.

Christ took on apostles the way John takes on war-makers.Even yourself, a Mary Magdalene now stricken from the record without remorse to sate the demands of the beast’s nature. Endless is his grace, his ability to build trust, and his dogmatic perseverance. 

But, in his line of work, that begs the question: if the apostles were meant to serve Christ and spread his word, and a war-maker is willing to fight, kill, and die for Captain John Price, does that–in this hypothetical, mirror-flipped simile–mean that where Christ died to wipe the slate clean, John must live on long past his followers?

You’ve never liked the roads that question leads your mind down. The answers are unkind, but not unlikely.

He drops his spoon with a clatter against his bowl, giving you a hard look, a rictus smile sitting under subzero eyes. It’s a warning. It’s the Captain, teeth bared. The Lieutenant rises in you, the one person unafraid enough to grab his collar and heel him, and you lean forward, meeting his look.

Locked in a stalemate, neither of you budge. He had to stop talking shop after your discharge. It was the nature of the beast. 

You knew it, he knew you knew it. The fucking world was at stake, and no matter how intimately you were acquainted with Captain Price’s history being the lover to shadows, secrecy, and sacrifice–no matter how much blood, sweat, and tears you poured into his neverending crusade–you were removed from the life. It was no longer yours to know. Big red classified stamps across his brain. 

Duty before death, death before dishonor.

Your dinner ends in tense silence and skyrocketed blood pressure, your eyes strangers to one another. Alone and Forsaken by old Hank curls through your kitchen. 

An act of contrition, John takes your dishes to the sink and washes them before stepping out on the covered patio to light a cigar. You check his laundry, and start the walk to lock up and turn the lights down.

Alone and forsaken by fate and by man. Oh Lord, if you hear me, please hold to my hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you snap under your breath, punching the sound system off, before blacking the kitchen lights. For a moment, you stand in darkness, your heart pounding, anger coursing through your veins. Then you go to your bed, leaving John a silhouette and an ember, watching a dark storm from across the garden.

+

The guest bedroom Price has not quite come to call his own, lacking the nerve and comfort to do so, was originally meant to be a child’s. 

The rectory was full of empty rooms and outbuildings, and it turned into a game trying to figure out what to do with them. Those were good times–keeping you tangled up with him in bed, leaving love bites across your shoulders and breasts, throwing proposals back and forth. Some practical, some ridiculous.

Some kind of study–a cigar room (“If you think I’m going to smoke indoors after all the sheetrock work you did.”). Home gym–stripper pole gymnasium (“I can see you up there already, John, putting on shows for me.”). 

It had come down to a simple matter of maths. “Three rooms,” you’d started, sucking and kissing hickeys into the skin above his collarbones, “three kids.”

“Three? Sounds like a lot.”

“Three’s a lucky number. Holy, even. Whole world is built around three’s.”

“Death’s come in three’s. Doesn’t sound all that lucky.”

“That’s only because sex and death sell, media doesn’t cover good things happening. They come in three’s, too.”

He’d bowed his head, sliding back into your sopping wet cunt, and found your mouth. “Three rooms, three kids. Alright. Glad we got that sorted,” he’d purred, basking in your knowing look and pleasured sounds.

You had a way of feeling the future before it happened, but somehow the wreckage of what was to come between the two of you had missed you completely. John thought it was some sort of glitch in the matrix. Maybe you weren’t supposed to lose your leg, get knocked out of the service and the only life either of you’d ever known.

Then again, maybe you were supposed to die in Beirut, and he’s lucky he has you at all, no matter the size of the bitter gulf between you. 

He tosses and turns in what had ended up a guest bedroom, since there were no Price children running around, requiring housing. Insomnia eats at him with a particular frenzy, a measure sharper than it does normally. It didn’t do him any favors to imagine the little furniture he’d wanted to build for this room, or to turn around the imagining of you playing with a fat infant on a soft-colored rug in this room in his mind.

There was a plan, once. Beat endlessly and ferociously against a faceless onslaught of evil—let the people who walk among the light lie ignorant as your united work bloodied the unknown dark—until your bodies could no longer keep up, old and fat and slow. 

At that point retirement was to go into effect, followed by a moneyed slide through Europe, and Asia, and wherever else caught your fancies. Then the purchase of a small place in the countryside—hell, maybe something little and manageable on the Isle of Wight—where, together, you’d warmly and laughingly succumb to alcoholism. See if cirrhosis, alcohol poisoning, or lung cancer got which one of you first. 

But time kept advancing, never heeding those little, pastoral plans. You lost everything, assimilation to civilian life abrasive and painful. John was pulled into the dark, lived under and in it and through it. Made deals with plenty of different devils.

There was suffering and silence. 

The marriage was a casualty. The kill was confirmed between your dour lawyers in a dull office, while he was out of country. And that was it. Seventeen years, close the tab. 

He pushes himself out of bed, intent on moving, doing something. Maybe fetching a drink, maybe go out to your sculpting shed, see if the Glock 19 hidden under the desk is still in shape. It will be—but he wants something easy to fuss over.

An easy thing to fuss over is not what he gets when he sees blue light from under the crack of the master suite’s door. Telly’s on. He can clearly hear Anne Robinson presenting The Weakest Link, and his shoulders unlock. Didn’t know you still slapped that on when you couldn’t sleep. It used to be a game, prattling out the answers while the contestants flubbed about. 

He heads downstairs to fetch two heavy-bottomed tumblers, glugging two fingers of scotch each–Glenmorangie. Decent sipping scotch, room temp, but a bit too sweet for his taste. 

Upstairs, he raps on the door with two knuckles, and waits until you call on him. He’d always knocked, but nowadays, there are more upsetting states to find you in than indecent. “Hey,” he starts, gesturing with the glasses he holds in the fingers of one hand. “Saw light under your door, couldn’t sleep either. Fancy a nightcap?”

Christ, though, but aren’t you as stunning as the day he met you. Maybe even more. Age had allowed you to grow into your bone structure–put an elegance in your features, a wisdom in your eyes. Your beauty had only settled into you more deeply, or his foolish heart had only grown to embrace and envelope the vines his love for you had wound about his heart.

“Yeah, alright,” you mutter, voice crackly with exhaustion, beckoning him over with an ambivalent motion of the hand. He rounds to your side of the bed–the side you’d slept on from the very first night you’d snuck into his barracks room and shimmied under his blankets, a thief in the night with a wicked grin–and holds out a glass, never letting his eyes stray to your prosthetic and glove propped against the far side of your nightstand. 

After a sip, you look up, brows raised in question, and he shrugs, “The Nectar d’Or called out to me.”

“I’m sure.” It’s skeptical, but a smile pulls at your mouth. It must’ve pleased you, because you roll onto your hip, and turn the blankets on his side of the king sized mattress. “Sleepover?”

“Mindreader,” he hums, obliging as casually as he can. He knows you will not touch in the night, and that a barricade of pillows will be erected betwixt your bodies like sandbags on the beach at Normandy, but to even hear your breathing as he closes his eyes is a gift.

“So I’ve been accused,” you laugh, a little warmer, eyes lidded comfortably, watching him sink down against the unbearably welcoming, cool mattress. Premonition. Future feeler. Hell of a woman. In a world numbering eight billion lives, he’d never come into contact with another such as you.

He settles back against the down pillows, grunting at his stiff back, but settles, training his eyes on the screen and the overdone BBC production. Anne poses the question, formatted on the bottom of the screen, “What war-time song by Vera Lynn included the words 'Don't know where, don't know when…?’”

“It’s obvious: ‘We’ll Meet Again,’” you sigh into your glass, the same moment John rolls his eyes and says, “‘We’ll Meet Again,’ even an idiot would know that.”

And if his eyes stray toward yours–and if your eyes catch his from the corner–neither of you remark upon it. Though you do remark upon the poor contestant answering, “‘We’ll Come Again!’” with all the audacious certainty of a homegrown fool.

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” – “So proud, and what the fuck for?” your voices blend together. 

+

September, 2005. Between John, you, and the rectory, there is no money. Not when the roof desperately needs replacing, not when there is a hole in the master ensuite’s floor that goes straight down into the dining room. John has a mind for making the most of money—your mom would call him a cook: a man that turns shit into food like miracles of fish and bread, versus a wizard, who is an idiot that turns food into shit before it even hits your lips. 

His dad was a carpenter, as well, and framing was his trade. He made very little, but tried very hard for John. So he could live a happy life, become an upstanding man. 

(He misses the old bastard. He’d thought the world of you. And, fuck. John’s throat cinches tight every time he thinks about you demanding Price the elder move into the rectory two years ago, after the cancer diagnosis. You’d taken care of him, seen him off quietly and comfortably. John wouldn’t’ve gotten to see him nearly as much as he did through the process, were it not for your perfunctory decision that his father not die in a care home.)

(Abso-fucking-lutely not. John, I want Terry here. Have you ever been in one of the homes? They all look like ghosts, just sitting in the halls, having fuck all done for them. I can have a room ready for him in a day.)

(I promise, honey, I know you’re trying. Let me help.)

(The pet name was a rare slip for you, but he was drunk and near to sobbing, broken with weakness and helpless mourning.)

At twenty-five, dead-broke, married four years, and almost two years past selection, he takes you shopping at Tesco. Meeting you at the back of the red Honda CRX your parents had handed down to you years ago, his big hand finds yours like music box notes—perfectly played and memorized for as long as the mechanism still turns. He starts dropping ingredients for your mental list. 

“Angel hair pasta, olive oil—we have garlic at the house, right? Parmesan—“

He snaps his hand back the moment you snap yours, and you both blink. 

It’s not September, 2005. It’s not a crisp afternoon, it’s right off a downpour. He’s not twenty-five, he’s forty-two, and so are you. The CRX is long gone to the scrap yard, in its place is the Cherokee, well loved, well maintained. 

Swears to Christ that you must be made of Agent Orange, because his fingertips suffer a fire that doesn’t burn from brushing yours. Had it always felt that way to touch you? He’s unsure. There was always something–always fire–but. He thinks of liquor and tolerance levels; thresholds lower after periods of abstinence, causing the latent reunion to make the impact that much more profound.

You both stuff your hands in your pockets. You retake your composure quickly, glancing over your shoulder at the signage on the front of the building. “Ah, hell, then. I didn’t want to go to Waitrose, anyway,” you say with a smirk, shaking the eerie spirit-walk of arrival here by rut-worn memory, absolving John’s empty head. “What else did we need?”

“Crushed red pepper, but I think there’re three or four unopened ones in the pantry,” he snorts, sliding into his unflappable default by force. 

Pasta aglio e olio. Dinner for povos wanting to feel fancy. A staple meal, in those early days, easy to return to. Comforting.

He doesn’t dare allow his hands out of his pockets until he is pushing a trolley, dutifully following you down the aisles. Incredible, how easy it is to fall into well-worn patterns. He wonders, usually when he least wants to, if the two of you are doing yourselves disservices by remaining so close to one another. If certain behaviors have only had a tourniquet put around them, but were never cut off completely the way they should’ve been.

Should one of you move on? You certainly could. At any time you wanted to, really. You’ve always been stunning, whip-smart, and ready-loaded with any number of retorts, quips, and sarcastic commentaries up your sleeve. There is not a single room you step into where you can’t strike up a conversation and leave with a new lifelong ally in your back pocket. The world is your oyster, you’d have your pick of pearls. 

But, for him?  There’s a bruise-soft spot in himself that knows you were his one-and-done. He will never have another love, great or small. 

Beyond that, there lies no rest for the wicked, and John’s hands are tied with very wicked work.

Small bead of resentment that he hates and tries to kill wells up in him at that, following you through produce. He says, “Should get tea while we’re here, it’s low at the house,” but he fights against thinking of weight and loss. Fights against thinking of anger, mourning, instability.

“Ah, shit, ta,” you say, pointing his way in acknowledgement and thanks. If he can crush it—while he carries on chatting, watching you grab things, wanting to pull you in and kiss the pit of your elbow like he used to as you squint a what the fuck look at the price of plums—he will rend into harmless powder the thought that if you had just cleared the room, if you had not always breached first, then life would’ve been completely different. 

He wouldn’t have lost his partner, his other half, the load bearing wall that kept the world and all of its horrendous, heavy sin from crushing down—he wouldn’t find himself so stupidly angry over things no one could control or explain, because you would still be there, the two of you pulling apart and gutting the time bombs threatening the world before they blew and gorged on innocent blood—he wouldn’t—

All at once, he snaps out of it, cold with guilt on the back of his neck like illness. But he says without missing a beat, “No, I don’t think anything will make progress come the next referendum. It’ll probably be more faffin’ about, watching the PM wank off on BBC.”

Your shoulders tense, nodding. He catches you looking at him from the corner of your eye, and he wonders, brief and tight, if you’d read his intrusive, untrue thoughts. If you did or did not, you say, “Honestly, that’s probably it. We’ll end up paying for more parties, meanwhile the NHS is having the piss taken.”

“That’s for fuckin’ certain,” he grunts in agreement. He’s scraped hollow, now that the nonsense has passed. Stone solid, no one on the outside would know. Feels like rot that those ideas would even dare crawl into the far sides of his mind. He doesn’t truly think them. He feels guilt, not bitterness. Sorrow, untouched by rage. All of it he keeps to himself. 

There’s a bit of an unheated, bantering tiff on the quality of Tesco’s fresh pasta—whether or not it’s just pure shit or if it falls into the shadow of public health hazard—and things continue smoothly. John can’t help stealing glances at you, tucking them away like snapshots. 

The dancer’s shape of your hips in movement as you effortlessly find your footing, eyes locked on your target. Your deliriously capable and steady hands, mid-reach. The moon-slivers of your teeth beneath your lips as you speak softly, just for him. You treat him like you’re the only two in the audience, and the world was a show made for whispered commentary between you two. 

You always had. John relishes the fact that, even now, still, he is the only other soul in your opera box. 

Unfortunately, there’ve been groundlings that attempt looks. 

John isn’t enraptured in the label of canned haggis he’s stumbled across, discarded in the produce stand holding grapes, but he’s clicked-in and curious if it was just…brought in from the outside and abandoned? And, shit, these ingredients. Carboxymethylcellulose sounds like readymade cancer, even if it’s just a preservative. Tocopherols sound like doing whippets off a can of hairspray. 

Sounds like something Johnny would try once, honestly, if only to see if he could light his belches on fire. Tactical. Something to think about. 

“Thanks much, but I’m set, I do believe,” you say, sort of lightly, like you’re not paying attention on purpose, and it registers in John’s hindbrain. An old scratch, deep-set. 

A different voice, young and plucky, “Well, if you change your mind, I know it can be kind of tricky. They’re a strange fruit, yeah?”

“Billie Holiday fan, then? Wouldn’t expect it from a kid your age.” Your tone is dubious. For good reason, ‘Strange Fruit’ is hardly the song one should choose to, what? Reference for feeling up produce? John rolls his eyes, turning the canned haggis over looking for an expiry date.

“Hah, maybe not, but I’m hardly a kid, swear it. My mum even lets me out past eleven,” the kid jokes, and there it is. The tone–flirtation, a leaning-in–puts John into an old gear, forcing the can back in the grapes, back straightening, turning on his hip to next turn on his heel, with a raised-brow expression worn on his face that is friendly and questioning, but the query posed is do you really want to be fucking hitting on my wife.

The moment he catches sight of you and your closed off body language, holding an avocado, as a skinny, little twenty-something boy in a grocer’s apron flirts with you, he’s washed over in cold. It ripples straight down his back, sourly bunching his skin. He has to push out a breath to get relief from it. 

“Good for you. Hopefully that means you’re doin’ your own laundry and paying your bills, too, then?” you ask, a pointed and unsaid challenge to back down. Uninterested. 

You’re not his wife. He can’t put on that friendly-not-friendly smile and come to stand next to you, watch the advances wither and die in the face of him as you keep a keen smirk under wraps. 

You return to him though, sans avocados, and search his face. “Alright, John?” you ask, stepping close to his end of the trolley. Over your shoulder, the kid sees John, his eyes widening, and he snaps his eyes to the farthest wall, scurrying back into the produce stockroom.

“Found a can of haggis in the grapes,” he half-lies, “gave me the creeps.”

Your face scrunches, but he can tell you don’t buy it completely. “Fuckin’ disgustin’, did someone bring it in from outside? Do you think they just left it there?”

That, however, is enough to get him to snort. Figures. He doesn’t know if it was the twenty years together, or maybe something frillier–more leaning in to the idea of higher power that he doesn’t believe in or a thread of fate he’s spent his life fighting against–but John can’t be convinced that the two of you were anything but soulmates. Too closely woven-together in thought and action to be anything but split from the same original body you were both denied.

He shrugs. “Who the fuck knows. Can’t tell what the freaks out there are thinking, what their awful little plans are.”You laugh, raising a brow with a smile pulling at your mouth, and he thinks with a measure of soft sorrow, yeah, soulmates, I reckon.

#john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain john price #fic rec

[readershewrites]

saltwater

He’s there in the room when the terrible thing happens.

Or: You and Ghost trauma bond over weeks and months.

17k, rated E, one-shot

[READ ON AO3]

#unbelievable writing #fic rec #call of duty x reader #simon riley x you