#Look at my nip jewellery!!!! It was another gift!!! Part of the set that my other recent nip jewellery was in!!

[satans-knitwear]

Oh, it is a chained beast.

Treat me ~ Tip Me ~ More of me

[blahblahwritings]

Patience is a Virtue.

A/N: Another request, I think this is the most consistent I’ve been with posts.

Request: Would you be willing to write a smut imagine for Matt Murdock? Maybe where the reader/his gf is a virgin?? And have it really fluffy at the end please??

Words: 2764.

Warnings: Smut. Virgin!Reader.

A year. You’d been with Matt Murdock for a year. He’d told you about his... alterego, so to speak before you had even entered the relationship, vowing never to let anything come between you. It took a little while to process it, I mean he was Blind, how did that even work? But, in the end you simply accepted it. Whenever he would come in, beaten and bloody, you would quietly fetch the first aid kit and do your best to patch him up. Those nights always ended in the two of you getting upset, not arguing, just full of soft kisses and teary words of affirmation.

You thought it only fair to disclose your own secret to him, but that came a bit further into the relationship, when things started getting a little heavier. Your make-out session had begun to turn to something more heated when you grabbed his hand, putting an end to it’s descent. When he cocked his head in question, listening to your heartbeat and sensing your anxiety, he pushed back asking you if everything was alright. That was when you’d confessed that you had never gone further than this and wanted to take it slow. Being a Catholic, he understood that people had their reasons and never pressed further, taking it only as far as you were happy with. He loved you dearly and would wait as long as it took until you were ready.

The anniversary, you thought, was the perfect opportunity to take that next step. You’d gone all out, buying soft scented candles that you knew wouldn’t agitate his nose, a trail of rose petals from the kitchen to the bedroom that he would hear crunch beneath his feet and even bought some new lingerie for the occasion. He was working a little later at the office tonight and you had decided to cook for the two of you, setting the table with a soft cloth and a bottle of room temperature red wine in the center. The sauce was bubbling away, the smell of tangy tomato and basil filling the apartment. The pasta was ready and you had begun to dish out as you heard the door click shut.

“What's all this?” He greeted, a lopsided grin sitting on his face. A small giggle left your painted lips, you knew he couldn’t see the deep red colour but it made you feel more confident. You wore a little black dress, complementing his suit and tie you saw him change into this morning. Coming up behind you, he wrapped his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you poured the sauce over each plate.

“Happy anniversary, Mr Murdock.” You hummed, angling your head to capture his lips in a chaste kiss. A groan bubbled from his chest. “It smells incredible, sweetheart.” He praised and you laughed, shooing him to the table. You followed, placing the food at your respective seats and popping open the wine. Hearing him inhale as you poured the liquid, you glanced up to see him remove his glasses, revealing his beautiful brown eyes. Returning the bottle to the center, you picked up the glass and raised it in cheers. He gently clinked your cup with his own and sipped lightly, eyebrows raising at the taste.

“I don’t know much about wines but this is definitely expensive.” He chuckled. “You didn’t have to do all this.” Rolling your eyes you put the drink to the side. “I wanted to, you’ve been working hard at the firm lately and I wanted to do something for you. Besides, it's our first anniversary and I wanted to celebrate.” You finished with a shrug, moving to grab the cutlery. “Wait, I got you something. I want to give it to you before we eat.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and procured a blue velvet box. He handed it to you across the table.

Opening it revealed a card with the words “My love for you is infinite” in shiny gold letters. Beyond the note lay a silver heart shaped pendant, an infinity symbol engraved into the front of it. An audible gasp passed your lips as you plucked it from its cushion.

“Matthew, wow, it’s gorgeous.” A hand covered your heart as you gently thumbed the metal. “Would you mind..” You asked sheepishly, wanting him to do the honours. Without hesitation, he stood, situating himself behind you as you handed him the jewellery. Brushing your hair to the side, his fingers ghosted the skin of your neck sending shivers down your spine. You could feel his hot breath fan over your shoulders as he clasped the necklace, the pendant lying comfortably between your collarbones.

You pulled him down by the tie for a kiss, thanking him for the gift and you returned to your meal, chatting about anything and everything.

--

Shortly after finishing, you piled the dishes by the sink, ignoring them for now and instead taking his hand, lightly tugging him in the direction of the bedroom. His brows furrowed for a moment as he felt the petals beneath his feet, trailing from the kitchen and past the living room.

“There's something else I wanted to do tonight, Matt.” You admitted quietly, nerves taking over. Opening the partition between the open space and the bedroom, you were both greeted with the soft scent of vanilla. Padding further in you turned to him, unsure of how to go about this. His eyebrows raised in understanding. Moving his hand to your forearm he rubbed the skin there to reassure you.

“I can hear your heartbeat, y/n, I know you’re anxious. You don’t have to do this for me if you’re not ready.” he spoke softly, cocking his head as his eyes looked through you, concern swirling in the irises. You wouldn’t let it get the better of you, though. “I am ready, I just- I don’t know how to uh- start.” At this he huffed out a small laugh, moving toward you. “Well, usually, it starts kind of like this.” He said, connecting your lips in a gentle yet passionate kiss. Your hands drifted to his jaw, cupping it as you angled your face to deepen the kiss. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest and you sighed. As your lips parted, he traced your bottom lip with his tongue asking for permission, you answered by exploring his own mouth eagerly.

Fingers tangled in his hair making him groan and you smiled as you parted for air. A giddy chuckle escaped you as you saw his lips smudged with your lipstick. “That colour suits you, Mr Murdock.” You jeered, thumbing his bottom lip. An amused smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he dipped his head to kiss your palm. Moving in for another kiss, you tugged gently at the bottom of his shirt, tucked away into his pants. He reached to undo the first few buttons before you pulled it over his head, revealing his toned torso.

Breath hitched in the back of your throat as you looked at the hard muscle, scarred from the many fights he’d had. Its not like you hadn’t seen it before, fixing him up after a bad night had at least one perk, but it was different now. There was a desire pooling in your belly and lustful intentions this time.

“Like what you see?” He winked, grinning at the heat rising in your cheeks. You looked away, sheepish but he quickly tilted your chin up to look at him. “You don’t need to be shy around me, y/n.” He reassured, eyes softening as they drifted. His hand moved from your chin, gliding down your neck and shoulders to the zip on the side of your dress. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked again, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

Your hand met his, guiding it down as the dress loosened and eventually pooled at your feet. The deep red lingerie you’d bought had lace details that he felt as he dragged his hands all over the newly exposed flesh. Featherlight touches roamed your body as he committed every inch of skin to memory. You watched his face as he felt you, the warmth radiating off his body inviting you closer as you waited.

“You’re stunning.” He whispered, you’d have melted right then and there if he hadn’t been holding you. Placing a kiss over his heart, you mapped out every scar you could reach with your lips, hearing him suck in a breath at the intimate gesture. You began to trail lower but he stopped you, frowning. “This is your night, let me take care of you.” Taking off his belt, he slipped his trousers from his legs, revealing a prominent bulge in his boxers. Heat shot to your core, throbbing with need already. There was a slight hesitation as you eyed his size, a little above average and thick.

Hands skimmed your waist sending shivers through you as he walked you backwards towards the bed. You lay down on the mattress, smooth sheets caressing your body. Matt crawled his way up your body, peppering your skin with kisses and licks as he went leaving a blazing trail of electricity in his wake. He stopped to suck marks onto your neck, finding a sweet spot that had you desperately trying to stifle moans.

“I want to hear you, don’t hold back.” He encouraged as he nipped at your jawline. Your hips bucked up, involuntarily grinding against his clothed member and he reacted with a throaty growl. The sound had you soaking through your underwear. The scent of you drove him mad but he kept his composure, leaning down on his elbows to meet your lips once again. His thigh was knelt between your legs providing the lightest of friction as you shifted against him. Moaning into the kiss, you hooked a leg around his hips, trying to bring him closer but he only chuckled, pushing back.

“Someone’s eager. Patience is a virtue, you know.” He teased. His hands found the clasp of your bra and pulled it from your chest. Your hands instinctively twitched to cover yourself but he entwined his fingers with your own and began worshipping your breasts. Licking, sucking and biting the skin, he grazed the hardening nub with his teeth as he palmed the other. Squirming beneath him, you panted at the feeling of his rough calluses against the tender flesh. Your back arched off the bed, frenzied and wanting. Swapping to give each nipple equal attention left you with your head thrown back against the sheets, whining.

Beginning his descent, he licked a stripe along the hem of your panties, fingertips touching you through the material and coming away soaked. Gasping, you looked down at him and saw his smug expression. “You’re so wet for me.” He grinned, rubbing against your clit. A wanton moan ripped through you and had you not been so turned on you’d probably be embarrassed. Your hips moved for more but he removed all contact. Hooking his thumbs through the sides, he pulled them down and discarded them with the rest of the clothes.

Entirely exposed, you felt uniquely vulnerable in front of him even though he couldn’t exactly see you. Those thoughts were forgotten quickly as he tasted you, his tongue lapping up the juices from your entrance and circling your clit. It wasn’t long before you felt that tightness in your abdomen. His expert ministrations caused you to shake and whimper, coming closer to the edge with every flick of his tongue. Your hands dug into the sheets, desperate to hold onto something but he replaced them with one of his own hands, the other teasing your hole. A strangled moan tore from you as he began pumping a single digit in and out of you, tantalisingly slow.

He added a second finger, stretching you ever so slightly but as he curled them inside of you, hitting somewhere you’d never found when by yourself, you spasmed, falling suddenly over the edge. Your breathing was ragged as he continued to eat you out like his last meal, picking up the pace of his fingers as you rode out your orgasm. His name fell like a prayer from your lips as your thighs quaked around him. Your fingernails dug into the back of his hand, the other yanking at his hair making him moan into you, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure cascading through your body.

Pulling his fingers from you, you watched through half-lidded eyes as he licked the slick from the digits, lips glistening with your cum. You grabbed his face, bringing his lips to yours in a fervent kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. You couldn’t get enough of it. Feeling his bulge on your inner thigh, you tugged at the material covering him, watching him kick it to the side. He pulled a wrapper from the bedside table, tearing it open with his teeth and rolling the rubber down his shaft. Your fear returned and he tensed.

“Are you alright? We can stop if you want, I won’t be angry.” He cooed, brushing some hair from your face. You pushed your face into his palm, the warmth calming you almost instantly. “No, I want this, I want you, Matt.” He nodded, a small smile returning. “If it hurts or you’re uncomfortable just-” You cut him off with another kiss, smirking as you pulled back again. “Alright then.” he laughed.

Lining himself up, he pushed the tip into your entrance and you gasped, the feeling of him stretching you only slightly painful. He waited a few moments, mouthing at your pulse point until you moved your hips, signalling him to move deeper. Inch by inch, you took him until he was fully sheathed inside you. His forehead fell against yours as he found a slow rhythm, senses on high alert for any signs of discomfort. All that greeted him however, were moans of pleasure as you met his thrusts halfway. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he guided your legs to wrap around his hips allowing him to reach a little deeper, the feeling of him sliding against your walls becoming blissful.

The stinging had subsided entirely now and Matt became more vocal, chasing after his own release as he reached between you to rub your bundle of nerves. Nails raked down his back creating a wonderful mix of dulled pain and overwhelming pleasure. His lips found yours in a messy kiss, picking up the pace as your breathy moans told him you were close again. You angled your hips ever so slightly as you moved against him which had him perfectly caressing your g-spot with every delicious thrust.

A few more pumps and you were sent plummeting towards your climax, walls clenching and twitching around his cock. Your back arched off the bed and you groaned, breathing faltering as you came for a second time that night but he showed no signs of stopping. He sat up, pulling you into his lap as he continued to pound into you. You hadn’t even come down from your previous high as another began to build and you were screaming his name, curses spewing from your lips as he never failed to hit that spot over and over, relentlessly pinching and circling your clit with two fingers. The stimulation overwhelmed you and you saw stars, vision blacking out he pulled a third orgasm from you, this time his own followed close behind.

Your entire body shook violently as he lay you back down, head against the pillows and pulled out of you, pulling off the condom and tying it before throwing it in the trash can. With your toes still curling as he came to lie beside you, you both panted, breathless from the night’s activities.

“How are you feeling?” He huffed between breaths. A chuckle was your only response, turning to face him in the candlelight. “That was incredible.” You admitted, rubbing your thighs together. A lopsided grin found its way to his face at your words and he pulled you into his chest, ear against his heartbeat which was still elevated. You intertwined your fingers with his and leant up to kiss him.

“I love you, Matt.” You said, nuzzling into his neck with sleep threatening to encompass you.

“I love you too, y/n.” He whispered, kissing the top of your head as you fell into a deep slumber.

[second-hand-heaven]

More Than a Butler

Alfred and the Waynes were very... close. Here’s a look at how close.

Ao3

Summ: “Can you love more than one person at the same time?” Bruce finally spits out, and Alfred can barely contain a laugh. Bruce turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

He should apologise for laughing at Bruce’s inner turmoil, but Alfred just smiles, not unkindly. “My dear boy, I very much hope so.”

Bruce has a personal dilemma, and Alfred has a secret. 

Master Bruce is in the den, curled up on the sofa like he isn’t a six foot two mass of muscle and scar tissue. He stares into the fireplace, thoughts elsewhere, not bothering to look up as Alfred enters the room. There was no patrol tonight, not in this harsh weather, and Alfred considered it a blessing to see the master of the house take a night off.

There’s still tension in Bruce’s shoulders, something unsettling him. It can’t be a case, or else he’d be locked away in the Cave, so it must be something of a more personal variety. The only solution on Alfred’s part is to wait and offer guidance if asked- and maybe before he’s asked, if Master Bruce is particularly slow. Alfred sets down the tray on the coffee table, the teacups never shifting in their saucers. “I thought you might like some tea,” Alfred says, pouring two cups. Bruce says noting, not that Alfred had expected him to. For a man as perceptive as Bruce, he could zone out with ease within the walls of this house, unaware of another’s presence.

The portrait of Martha and Thomas sits above the mantelpiece, their faces younger than that of the painting in the hall. Alfred smiles up at them softly, adding sugar to his own cup of tea. Even after all these years, he's never been able to kick the habit. Some things never change.

Saucer in hand, Alfred takes a seat on the sofa, perching beside Bruce. It’s only then that Bruce looks up from his silent contemplation. He makes it speak, then pauses, lips pursed. Alfred waits, takes a sip of tea, and waits some more.

“Can you love more than one person at the same time?” Bruce finally spits out, and Alfred can barely contain a laugh. Tea sloshes from his cup, pooling at the ridges of the saucer. Bruce turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

He should apologise for laughing at Bruce’s inner turmoil, but Alfred just smiles, not unkindly, and says, “my dear boy, I very much hope so.”

The Wayne’s were already married when Alfred began working for them. Young, intelligent, incredibly wealthy, both Thomas and Martha were stunningly beautiful. Right away, Alfred was half enamoured with the pair of them. It was their charisma at first, then later their unpolished charm, that drew Alfred deeper into the mess of unrequited pining.

It was the first rule of being ‘the help’: never fall for your employers. Or maybe it was the second rule, after ‘don’t steal the silverware’. Either way, there were lines that should never, could never be crossed. The Waynes were happily married, and Alfred was a chauffeur, nothing could ever happen. There were rules, goddammit!

But even in the SAS, Alfred was never the best at following rules. The rings on their fingers were a sore reminder each and every day, but he carried on as Pennyworths do. Jealousy was unbecoming, just as pining for one’s employers. But the Waynes made it so easy, with their soft smiles and invitations for private drinks. They were so easy to fall in love with, and so very hard to love.

. . .

It was a rare occasion to have only the three of them in the Manor, the Wayne household usually buzzing with activity. But tonight, the mistress had given the staff the night off, all of them except for Alfred. Thomas was home early from the office, a pleasant surprise. Alfred double checked the calendar to make sure he hadn’t missed a special occasion for the couple.

Alfred finished laying the table for two and called the Waynes to be seated. He pulled out their chairs and seated them, Martha first, then Thomas, placing the unfolded cloth napkins in their laps. Uncorking a fresh bottle of red from the cellar, he poured two glasses, and found Thomas holding out a third.

“Why don't you eat with us tonight?” Thomas asked, his smile broad and hopeful. “We do enjoy your company.”

Alfred frowned, “I don't think-” I don't think this is a good idea.

“Join us, please, Alfred,” Martha insisted. “The more the merrier.”

It was just the three of them, no one to comment on the lack of decorum in either party’s behalf. The alternative was a quiet dinner by himself in the kitchen, which sounded rather drab compared to the effervescent company of the Waynes. Not to mention, the sheer joy that arose at the thought of joining the Waynes for a meal, even if it were just a casual dinner. So Alfred nodded and fetched another dinner set, setting a third place at the table.

It was odd to begin with, but by the end of the entree, it was like they were old friends. And like old friends, the teasing was incessant, though Alfred gave back as good as he got. Thomas joked, Martha snooped, and Alfred gossiped. He nearly spat out his Merlot when Martha asked him, “are you seeing anyone?”

His cheeks nearly grew as red as the wine. “Ah, no ma’am. Seems I haven't had the time.”

Thomas frowned at him, calculating. “Perhaps you could do with some time off, have a chance to meet some new people?”

Alfred's eyes flew wide. “No! I mean, I'm perfectly happy with they way things are at present.” It was only a partial lie. “And really, could you survive without me for more than a day?”

Martha sighed dramatically, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead in a theatrical display. “We could never bear to let you go!”

“Insufferable,” Alfred huffed, with a smirk twitching at his lips. He played the unappreciated butler card countless times, much to their amusement.

“Oh but you love us, Alfie,” Thomas had said, jovial as ever as he clapped a hand on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred didn't correct him; there was nothing to correct. He just smiled demurely and took another sip of his wine.

. . .

It happened more often that Alfred had anticipated, Martha and Thomas inviting him to join them for dinner, or drinks, or other small activities. One night they would play poker, where Martha cleaned both Thomas and Alfred out, and the next they would simply sit by the fire in amicable silence. Together, the three of them would relax, enjoying one another’s company, and it pleased as much as confused poor Alfred.

Other times, they would come to him separately. Martha would insist he join her in the garden while she tended to the rose bushes she adored so greatly. He learnt the best times of year to prune, when to be harsh and when to be gentle to them. He learnt his mistress’ favourite strains and her desire to breed new ones. He learnt the sting of a rose thorn is nothing compared to unrequited longing.

Thomas would invite him for a game of chess, played with a glass or two of top shelf brandy and those cigars that Martha detested. They'd talk, mostly about nothing, sometimes about Martha: her new hat, what she'd like for her anniversary, a movie she was interested in seeing. Alfred kept it professional as always, but something at the back of his mind craved more, craved an intimacy unrestrained, an intimacy he could never achieve. So instead Alfred took another nip and moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”

. . .

For the Waynes’ upcoming wedding anniversary, Thomas had Alfred drive him to a jewellers in Midtown, high end, awfully exclusive. Expecting instructions to drive around the block for a while, Alfred was surprised to hear Thomas ask him to park and follow him into the store. It was hardly the first time his master had asked him along for such errands, but to help choose an anniversary gift? It was too much.

But still, he followed Thomas into the store just like he'd follow Thomas across No Man's Land, with a raised eyebrow and a quickening step. They browsed through the cabinets, Thomas touching Alfred’s arm any time he saw something of merit, excited like a child. After what felt like hours of looking at diamond after diamond, Thomas had grinned down at him and asked, “what do you think she’d like, Alfie?”  

Alfie, such a term of endearment. How could he so much as think when Thomas called him such a name. “I-uhhh.” Alfred could feel a blush spread across his cheeks that refused to budge. “Pearls,” he suggested, “a rather elegant look, I’d think, sir.” A string of pearls, tight around his mistress’ taut and regal throat, made a beautiful picture.

“Thomas,” the doctor corrected, but he still nodded, pleased with the verdict. “Pearls it is,” he said, and asked the sales assistant what they had with pearls.

. . .

Later that night, they gathered in the den, Alfred serving some coffee, when Thomas produced a box done up in an elaborate bow. The box from the jewellery store, Alfred recalled, and was about to leave the room to give his employers some much needed privacy.

“These are from us,” Thomas had said as he handed the gift to his wife, oblivious to Alfred’s shock. “Alfie helped pick them out.” He pressed a kiss to Martha's cheek, so intimate that Alfred had to look away. “Happy anniversary.”

She opened the box and gasped at the sight, two strings of pearls laid out across navy velvet. Hand to her heart, she said, “thank you, boys,” and held up the pearls to the light, examining their shine. “They’re beautiful.”

They were superb, Alfred had to agree. They might even be worthy enough to decorate his mistress’ throat.

“Alfred, dear, would you mind?” she’d asked, holding the necklace to her throat with one hand, the other holding her loose hair away from the chain.

Him? Unsure of what games his employers were playing, Alfred played along. He crossed the room until he was behind Martha, and with shaking hands he took the clasp. His fingers brushed against Martha’s as he took hold of the fastener, a simple touch that he could never forget. He tried to close the clasp, but his hands, hands that never shook in the heat of battle, would not comply. He felt a brush of fabric against his back, a seam from a lapel perhaps. Alfred swallowed thickly, not daring to move.

“Nervous?” Alfred heard Thomas say, impossibly close to his ear. “Don't be. Let me help.” Thomas’s hands covered Alfred’s, the surgeon’s hands steadying the soldier’s. Together, they worked the clasp of the necklace around Martha’s throat. “Done.” Thomas announced, but didn’t let go of Alfred’s hands. Alfred held his breath as Thomas brought their joined left hands to his lips, a feather-light kiss ghosting across Alfred's knuckles.

Alfred jerked free of Thomas’s grasp, and spun across the room, trying to put some distance between them. “What on Earth is going on?” Alfred cried, humiliation burning in his throat.

Martha and Thomas stared at him in shock. “Alfred, we-” they tried, but Alfred cut them off.

“No, I will not have this… this teasing any longer.” Anger melted away until he was left with resignation and a hopeless sadness. “I thought I could conceal myself, my feelings, but I was incorrect. I-I apologise. I will be gone before the morning.”

Martha blinked at him. “Alfred, we aren’t teasing.” She moved closer and closer to Alfred, who was frozen to the spot. “We want you, if you’ll have us.”

Alfred spluttered in disbelief. “What?”

“We’re serious,” Thomas said, now at his wife’s shoulder, “we’d like you to join us. Intimately. Not just for tonight.” He took Alfred’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over Alfred’s knuckles. “An arrangement between the three of us could be most rewarding.” His smile was welcoming, sincere, and Alfred could not bring himself to believe their words to be a lie. He thought of the dinners with just the three of them, the late night drinks. He thought of Martha's smile amongst rosebuds, Thomas’s lips wrapped in a smile around a cigar, idle chatter and warm touches. They wouldn't lie to him, not now.

“But,” Alfred tried to protest, but the only excuse that came to mind was “it’s your anniversary?”

Martha grinned, taking hold of his tie and pulling him down close enough for a kiss. “Think of yourself as the gift,” she whispered, before closing the distance between their lips.

. . .

It was a messy affair, with plenty of near-misses, but no one in the Wayne household was stupid or brave enough to mention it. It would have been worth the scandal, he had decided, just to have had a moment with them. But there were plenty of moments, both luxurious and short, where the three of them could be together in the most casual and intimate ways. It was easy for Alfred to love them, far too easy.

It all came to a head when they found out Martha was pregnant. A joyous occasion, surely. But the question that none of them were willing to ask was, of course, whose child would it be? Alfred knew, in name at least, the child would never be his, and it hurt more than he could admit.

That night, Thomas had found him on the Manor roof, with a bottle of whiskey and two cigars in hand. He sat beside Alfred, their shoulders pressed together, and lit both cigars, passing one to Alfred. In silence, they smoked and drank, watching the Gotham skyline light up the night.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your wife?” Alfred had finally said, looking anywhere other than at the man beside him. “It is, after all, your child.”

But Thomas would never rise to Alfred’s bait. “You know,” Thomas said, taking another swig, “I quite like the thought that it might be your child.” Alfred had gaped at him, cigar nearly falling from his hand until Thomas took it in his own, stubbing out the cigar against the roof tiles, but keeping hold of that hand. “We love you, I love you, and by God will we love this child.”

Alfred nodded silently. He would, until the end of his days. The floodgates opened, tears spilling down Alfred’s cheeks. Thomas chuckled and held Alfred to his chest as he sobbed, whispering soothing words into Alfred’s hair, chest rumbling against Alfred’s cheek. The comfort of Thomas’s arms was almost unrivalled. “You’ll be an excellent father,” Alfred had said, once his tears had subsided. He pulled away, just a fraction, but kept hold of Thomas’s hand.

Thomas smiled and pressed the whiskey bottle to Alfred’s chest. “As will you.”

. . .

They never did find out who the father was. It never mattered. Bruce was their child, a child born to the three of them, no matter what the birth certificate said. For all intents and purposes, Bruce Wayne was the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and Alfred was a chauffeur, a butler, whatever his role was for the day. And that was okay. Bruce grew up in a household that loved him, his blue eyes always sparkling with mischief. As his hair changed from soft blonde to unruly, inky dark curls, they were none the wiser about his parentage.

Alfred worked in, for, a household that loved him, but loved him behind closed doors. The Manor afforded some privacy, but the public eye was ever-watchful. It was unheard of for a butler, or a glorified chauffer, to join his employers to the opera, to dinner, or to the theatre. So he would wait, always wait, and and try not to think of what could be.

He should have been there. He should have done something to save them. Too late, he heard of their blood and pearls spilled in a dark and grisly alleyway. He’d have collapsed in grief, but their son, his son, was alive. He raced to the scene and he clung to the boy tighter than ever before. Bruce was safe, and Alfred vowed to keep him safe for as long as he took breath.

Bruce gapes at him. “Alfred, I never…” I never knew.

The World’s Greatest Detective, deceived by an old man, he would laugh if it weren’t so painful to think about all the lies they told, even after all these years. “And you were never meant to know, not really. We wanted to tell you when you were older, but then…” but then they died. “I didn’t want the memory of your parents to be sullied,” he decides on saying, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Sullied? Alfred, it would never do that. You could never do that.”  There a certainty in Bruce’s voice that brings tears to Alfred’s eyes. “All these years, in silence?”

Alfred nods, tears stinging, unshed. “I loved them, Master Bruce, in silence or otherwise.” The truth fills the room, spilling across every surface. He looks up at the ceiling, taking a moment to compose himself. “So yes, I believe you can love more than one person at once. You are not broken, nor are you foolish or indecisive. Well, perhaps just a little foolish.” He sends a wry smile in Bruce’s direction. “But love is foolishness. And love is precious. Your love is precious, Bruce, don’t let it be silent.”

Bruce nods, his blue eyes glittering. Look at them, Alfred thinks to himself, two grown men brought to tears by love. Thomas and Martha must be laughing at them somewhere, surely.

Alfred clears his throat. “So, will Ms Prince and Master Kent be accompanying you for dinner tomorrow night?” It’s hardly a secret who Bruce could have meant, not to Alfred.

“Not tomorrow night,” Bruce says, though it’s not a denial.

Alfred hides the smirk that teases at the corner of his mouth. “The night after, perhaps?”

“Sounds good,” Bruce smiles at him and nods. He reaches across the space between them, covering Alfred’s hand in his. “Thank you,” Bruce says, and that’s all it takes for the tears to fall.

The figures of portrait above the fireplace watch on, smiles on both their faces.

FIN

[feynites]

*sneaks this into @justanartsysideblog‘s bag*

Their first attempt at becoming parents does not go well.

 Werewolves, as it happens, are somewhat prone to miscarriages, and to multiple births. No one is entirely sure why. In part because they’re mostly a secret society, and not prone to letting doctors and scientists poke and prod at them. There are some experts within the community, of course. Sympathy is a doctor and also a magical healer by trade, and so is Lensa, and Olwyn herself knows a good deal of first aid and has taken some online medical courses. But their facilities are pretty limited, and without exposure - which carry its own host of dangers and likely destruction - there’s only so much they can do.

 Still, when Olwyn finds out that she’s pregnant, they celebrate. With sparkling apple juice, and friends who pretend that they’re getting drunk on it anyway, and an impromptu sort-of-baby-shower that features a lot of unsolicited (but mostly fun) advice, and a whole lot of speculation. Marassal, eager soul that he is, is the first one to turn up with baby gifts - three sets of adorable footie pyjamas, in different patterns, all soft and small enough for a newborn. But he isn’t the only one to turn up at the apartment complex. Especially considering most of the pack lives there. In the span of the first month, they are given baby booties and blankets, toys and supply kits, and Beauty and Sym even come by to help paint the nursery room.

 And then…

 Well.

 Olwyn wakes up bleeding in the night. Trying not to panic, but somehow they both just know what’s happened even before Kel carries her out to the car, and gets her to the clinic.

 She tries to be objective about it. And, mostly, she finds that she can succeed. There are so many ways in which the process can go wrong. So many factors outside of their control. She tries to think of it as a false start, for her own sake, but Olwyn takes it harder. Blames herself, even when she knows that she shouldn’t - even when she tries to act like she doesn’t. Kel can see it, can hear it in the way she cries and struggles with it, and burns the bedsheets she bled on, and can’t go into the nursery for the first few days afterwards.

 Kel holds her, and tries to offer comfort. But sometimes there’s nothing for it, except to be there, and to share the grief.

 Even that is subject to Olwyn’s capacity for guilt, though.

 “I know it doesn’t… that I’m, I’m focusing too much on…” she tries to offer, one evening. After another night of crying, and Kel getting them both up and making them tea. Her wife’s hands curl around her favourite mug, soaking in the warmth. But she doesn’t sip it. Just sits and stares at the cracks in the old tabletop.

 Kel reaches over and steals one of her hands from the mug. Threading their fingers together.

 “It matters,” she says. “You’re allowed to focus on it, Vhenan.”

 Olwyn closes her eyes, and lets out a long breath.

 “You don’t,” she says.

 That stings.

 “Of course I do,” Kel replies, unable to hide it. But Olwyn shakes her head, then, in wordless apology.

 “No, not like that. Not like you don’t care. I just mean… you’re not fixating on…”

 Ah.

 Well, that’s true, too. She can admit.

 “It’s easier for me, on that front,” she says. “It happened to both of us, in a way, but in a more physical sense it happened to you. I was on the outside. So, I can be the one who looks at the practical things right now. And you can take your time. It’s alright, love, it really is.”

 Olwyn closes her eyes, and lets out a long breath.

 “You want to try again,” she says, with certainty.

 Kel doesn’t deny it.

 But…

 “There are a lot of ways to have children,” she says. “I’m good with all of them, to be honest. And I’m not in a hurry. If it doesn’t happen, then it doesn’t happen. Life’s still good. I’m not going anywhere, Olwyn. Even if you don’t want to try again - then we won’t, and we’ll live.”

 That gets her a surprised look. Which might sting a little too, except that Kel knows how hard it is to get over the idea that the people you love will leave you. That at the first sign of trouble or failure, the first ounce of suffering, they’ll decide you’re not worth it anymore, and then just cut themselves free. Olwyn’s fingers tighten around her own. She tugs, a little, and after a moment Kel goes. Standing up from her chair, and settling in front of her wife’s. She wraps her arms around her, and sinks into a long, slow kiss. The full moon is a few nights away, and usually when it is things start heating up between them. But not this month. This month everything is slow and steady, soft and careful. The both of them handling one another with a keen awareness for the fragility of everything.

 “It’s the curse,” Olwyn murmurs, before closing her own arms more tightly around her.

 Kel sighs, and squeezes her back.

 “Maybe. Or maybe this is just a bad thing that happens to a lot of people, for no good reason,” she counters. “Either way, it’s not your fault.”

 And that is the mantra for the next while, too. Not your fault.

 Sometimes Kel wonders if it’s hers, instead. Something she did or didn’t do. Something she could have noticed. Maybe she should have argued more, when Olwyn offered to be the one to carry their child. Maybe that would have been wiser or more practical. But at the time, her wife’s enthusiasm had been infectious, and Kel wasn’t really all that enamored with the concept of pregnancy.

 She thinks on it more, though. Through the full moon and the end of the month, through the pack meetings, and into the next, and so on. Gradually, things begin to regain their equilibrium. They sort of have to, she supposes - life doesn’t actually pause for grief or trauma, and both of them are trying to get back to it anyway. Their love life starts to heat up again. On their anniversary, Kel scoops her wife up into her arms, and carries her much more happily. Carting her off to bed after a long and romantic dinner; taking her time to pull off Olwyn’s jewellery, and free her hair from the fancy braids she wove it into.

 And Olwyn slides her hands up Kel’s dress, and hums as she unhooks her bra, and cups her breasts. The full moon is on its way again, and it shows in the way Olwyn shivers more at her touch. Pressing in closer, nipping with her kisses, and letting off a few soft growls of frustration whenever their clothing impedes them. Kel teases her, drawing it out. She pins her to the bed, and trails her lips down the sensitive side of her neck. Lets her touch linger at Olwyn’s hips, and knees, and leaves her in her dress even as she gets a thigh between her legs, and watches her breasts escape the flimsy straps of her top.

 “You look good enough to eat,” she declares.

 Olwyn huffs, and then twists her position enough that she can wrap her legs around Kel, and squeeze her close.

 “Then get a move on, before I flip us over and take care of this myself,” she replies, tauntingly.

 Kel laughs.

 “My pleasure.”

 She migrates her way down with kisses, even so. Letting Olwyn’s breasts stay in her bra, because it’s a pretty one and they look good in it. She pauses at her navel, and dips her tongue into it, first. Before she finishes unzipping the dress, and lets go of Olwyn enough so that she can pull it away. Then Kel takes a moment to admire her matching set of panties. Blue and lace and lovely next to the soft spray of freckles on Olwyn’s thighs. Those, of course, need kissing, which she indulges in, until Olwyn’s hips are twisting and her fingers and pressing very pointedly against the skin behind her ears. Hurry up, the gestures say.

 Kel toys with the band of Olwyn’s panties, but in the end, her first move is to press her mouth to them, and leave them on as she drags her tongue along the smooth center of the fabric.

 Already damp, and the scent of arousal is very strong.

 “Delicious,” she hums.

 Olwyn pinches one of her ears. The moonlight spills into the bedroom, but the heat that’s building up inside of her feels too fiery for it. It looks good on the two of them, though. Landing gently on Olwyn’s curves, and catching on the shine of her lips as she opens her mouth. But whatever she had been planning on saying turns into a soft moan, as Kel presses her legs a bit further apart, and then sets upon the task of devouring her through her panties. Dragging her tongue in long, deep strokes, until the fabric is thoroughly askew, and she can’t resist the tantalizing offer of the heat beneath it.

 Then she pushes the fabric aside, and indulges her fingers and her tongue. Pausing only to look up and enjoy the view, to watch as Olwyn struggles her way out of her bra and cups her own breasts, and bites her lip, and rocks her hips into her licks and touches. Unhesitating in a way that makes something in Kel’s chest ease. An unspoken apprehension, built up from months of carefulness, that finally loosens its jaws.

 She even feels inspired enough to go and retrieve her favourite strap-on, leaving Olwyn perilously close to her edge as she casts her own dress aside, and shimmies her way into it.

 “This alright?” she checks.

 Olwyn looks at her, her gaze all fervent in desire, and then reaches over to grab the belt of her strap-on, and tug her closer.

 “Yes,” she says, emphatically. Before she flushes even more, at her own boldness, and bites her lip again.

 It makes Kel laugh with relief, and steal a kiss from her lips. Pressing close enough to feel Olwyn’s breasts against her own, to feel her pulse hammering, and breathe in the send of her. Then she lines them up, and her wife grips her biceps tight, and lets out a low moan at the inward press of the strap-on.

 This particular toy isn’t two-way, but it still presses pleasantly on Kel’s own parts at the briefest bit of pressure. It means that she has to make fairly deep strokes to get much stimulus on her own end, though, and she takes it careful at first. At least until Olwyn reaches down to her ass and grips her tighter, pulling her in abruptly enough that the both cry out at the sensations. Her nerves tingle and Olwyn’s eyes are yellow-bright in the moonlight, her teeth a little sharper than usual, the whole of her spread out in an invitation that hedges as close to a demand as she ever gets.

 Kel moves faster, then. Picking up the pace and giving in to temptation again, until she’s lifted Olwyn’s hips, and the bed is rocking in time with her thrusts. Each inward stroke tantalizes and teases her further. Drawing her perilously close to her own finish, by the time Olwyn arches and then stiffens in a very distinctive way.

 She has to stop herself from carrying on, then. Mindful of the sensitivity of the aftermath. He chest heaves with her own breaths, but while she thinks Olwyn is still coming down from her own heights, her wife pulls her down for another kiss, and then very pointedly does roll them over. Closing one hand over the strap-on, still slick from being inside of her, and pressing it down, before she undoes the belt. And then she takes it off of Kel, and turns it in her grasp. Sending her a questioning look, as she lines it up with Kel’s own entrance.

 “My turn?” she suggests. Her voice sounds shaky, and the light in her eyes is bright enough that if Kel didn’t know any better, she’d think it was the full moon.

 She stretches her arms up, and spreads her legs wider in invitation.

 “If you want-”

 Her acceptance barely gets any further before her breath catches, then. As Olwyn presses her thumb to her clit, and starts to work the slick toy into her own entrance. She doesn’t put it on, not this time. Instead she just uses it by hand, making shallow strokes and rubbing firm circles against her, mindful enough of her nails that she switches to her knuckle after a moment, but this evening she doesn’t need to take them off, as Kel is close enough already. A few more strokes and she comes, calling for Olwyn.

 Who answers it by climbing back up onto the bed. Her limbs a bit shaky, her grip possessive as she wraps her arms around Kel. But Kel can’t claim the high ground on that, as she clutches her back just as fervently - and with no moonlight to blame for the covetous note in her murmured affections.

 All in all, a pretty normal anniversary for them.

 A few nights later, she wakes up with Olwyn’s head on her chest. Fingers idly tracing patterns over the bedspread. When Kel starts carding her own through her wife’s hair, she glances up at her.

 “Sorry. Did I wake you?” she asks.

 “Maybe. S’alright,” Kel replies, because it is, and she likes the way Olwyn smells when she’s halfway asleep. Likes the way she feels when she’s relaxed and easy against her. She presses a kiss to the top of her head - and mostly gets hair, but who’s counting - and eases into the rhythm of both of their breaths. Almost slipping away again, before Olwyn speaks.

 “I want to try again,” she says.

 Kel’s brain takes a minute to catch up with her, and she finds herself murmuring in reflexive agreement - of course, dear, if you want to - before the real meaning hits her. It wakes her up more, and has her sitting up against the pillows. Olwyn shifts so she’s beside her, and they can look at one another.

 “You’re sure?” Kel asks. Because, whilst Olwyn is not a doormat, she is an exceedingly generous person. And generous people need to be given the space to not be, when it’s needed.

 There’s no furrow to Olwyn’s brow, however. Just a steady - and very awake - sort of contemplation in her gaze.

 “I do,” she affirms. “But I… I’m not sure if… well. If it went wrong again, I don’t think know if I’d be able to try even more. Maybe, but… I’m just, I know I want to. I think I knew I would want to even before, but I just couldn’t let myself. It felt too much like I was just casting aside…”

 She trails off.

 Kel gets it, though. She brushes some strands away from Olwyn’s face, and then cups her cheeks in her hands, before pulling her close again.

 “We’ll talk specifics in the morning. It’ll be okay,” she promises.

 They don’t decide it that night, or even the next few days. But that’s the start of how Kel ends up on the ‘receiving’ end of the ritual, this time. An old elven one, which is neither as sexy as one might hope, nor as invasive as one might fear. It takes them a few tries, another six months in fact, but just when they’re starting to consider that the process might not actually work on Kel for some reason, she takes one of her scheduled tests and sees the blue lines come back positive.

 It fills her with more feelings than she can readily describe. Trepidation not the least among them - and that makes her wonder if they shouldn’t have maybe looked at other options more thoroughly. Though most, of course, were further complicated by the whole ‘werewolf’ thing. Adoption was especially tricky when you knew that any kid you took in was essentially being brought into that, on top of everything else.

 Though, of course, a baby being born into it probably isn’t much better.

 But then she takes a few breaths, and lingers in the bathroom for several minutes. Reminding herself that they’ve been over that. And that there really isn’t much problem with the whole werewolf thing.

 It’s been a while since surreal turn of her life has caught her off-guard. But it strikes her again, as she stares at the positive test. She was just… normal. All her life, just a normal elf. And now she’s married to a werewolf, and it turns out magic is more than she ever might have imagined. And she’s in love and she’s going to have to go on maternity leave and there is a person growing inside of her, which was dizzying enough when… when it was Olwyn. But there’s an added layer of strangeness to the experience, when it’s her own body that’s going to grow and change and… and hopefully accommodate what’s going on inside.

 Creators, she hopes it doesn’t… doesn’t go wrong.

 She’s not the praying type. But she maybe manages a few, just on the off-chance anyone is listening, before she leaves the bathroom. Olwyn knows when she’s testing. They have an agreement that she’s not supposed to wait, because when she sits and waits she gets worked up and over-thinks everything and worries if it takes too long. So she’s on the couch, in front of their television set, pretending that she’s watching House Hunters and not the clock next to it.

 But there’s really nothing for the look in her eyes, when she turns and stares at Kel, and the test in hand.

 Normally Kel just throws them out, when they’re negatives. Comes back out empty-handed.

 This one, she holds up.

 What should she say? ‘Surprise’ doesn’t really seem accurate or appropriate, and ‘congratulations’ seems weird when they’re both going to be celebrating the news.

 “It, um… it took,” she says, and then almost smacks herself in the forehead, because what the hell, that’s the probably the least romantic or enthusiastic or happy way to deliver the news. Which is, indeed, happy news.

 But Olwyn doesn’t seem terrible bothered, as her eyes go wide, and she shoots up from the couch like a rocket.

 “Really?!” she exclaims.

 Kel nods, rapidly, a few times. And then Olwyn reminds her that werewolves are fast, as she’s barely opened her mouth to attempt some slightly less awkward commentary before there are arms around her. Squeezing her tight - though only on the backs of her shoulders, she notes - as Olwyn makes a sound of incoherent joy, and then spins them both around.

 “It worked!” she exclaims. “It worked, it worked!”

 A laugh, equal parts delighted and nervous, bubbles out of Kel.

 “According to the test, anyway,” she says.

 “We have to go to the clinic,” Olwyn decides, immediately.

 And even though Kel isn’t quite as convinced that an immediate visit is called for, she gives in. Sym is on duty, and he takes the time to do a basic check-up, as well as pretty much just confirming what the test told her. It’s early days, yet, for anything more extensive. At Olwyn’s behest he does an ultrasound, too, but even that can only just confirm that there’s a speck of something in there, and not really give much more information either way.

 They do things differently this time, though. Telling everyone right away had also meant that everyone knew when they’d lost their first attempt, too, and that had stung throughout the community. And Kel’s pretty sure it had made Olwyn feel even worse in the end, too. Like she’s somehow let people down, in addition to losing the pregnancy.

 So this time, they don’t have to debate much to agree that they’re going to take a different approach. They keep it just between the two of them, and Sympathy, and Lensa, for the start. Kel goes into the nursery to take stock of what all they have again, though. And Olwyn ventures in too, though they don’t really talk about it. She runs her hand across the side of the crib, and dusts everything, and gets new curtains for the windows.

 The nursery looks out over the small, square park behind the housing block; and staring straight out gives a view of the forests, in the distance, rather than the city skyscrapers.

 If Kel starts acquiring a few more charms for good fortune and health, and happens to leave them on the nursery windowsill, Olwyn doesn’t bring it up, either.

 The first trimester is mostly marked by a lot of nausea. Pregnancy is uncomfortable, Kel finds. She throws up a lot more, and becomes infinitely more neurotic about her food. And not even in the ��weird cravings’ sense that she’s expected - though she does find herself suddenly wanting to eat things like liver and curry and blackberries, that she’d never been entirely keen on before. Those aren’t weird foods, though, and the biggest shift is that she starts getting more particular about what she has with what. Suddenly fruit with cereal is unappealing - it has to be fruit or cereal. And meat she just wants on its own as often as not, too. Her normal breakfast-lunch-dinner habits break down into something more like six smaller meals a day,

 She throws up in the evenings pretty often, too, though not with enough regularity to cause concern.

 Concern doesn’t really make itself known until she goes in for her first proper ultrasound, and a check-up that has been slightly bumped up because Olwyn is convinced that she’s vomiting more than she should be, and is worried about preeclampsia. The check of her blood pressure doesn’t turn up any major problems, though - which is a relief.

 But the ultrasound provides another explanation for Kel’s increased quality time with the porcelain throne.

 “Lupine fertility strikes again,” Lensa declares, as she moves the wand around Kel’s stomach, and gestures to the blurry and - to Kel, anyway - undecipherable shapes on it. She’s too busy trying to parse what’s on the screen to really register the comment’s implications, at first. Olwyn is quicker on the uptake, and squeezes Kel’s hand tightly as her lips part a little in surprised.

 “Two?” she says.

 Wait, two what?

 And then Kel remembers. Werewolves are known for complicated pregnancies, and for multiple births.

 “Twins?” she asks, as her eyes go wide.

 Lensa grins at them.

 “At least,” she declares. “It could be triplets, it’s a little early to be completely sure. But it’s definitely more than one.”

 Kel blinks.

 She feels weirdly faint, for a few moments.

 It’s strange, she supposes, because obviously on some level she knew it was a possibility. But they’d had to work so hard to get pregnant - Olwyn’s pregnancy hadn’t taken in a hurry, either, and while she knows there are people who’ve gone through a lot more, it still feels like it took a monument combination of luck and effort to get here. And now somehow it’s not even just one little baby, it’s two. Two people, growing inside of her. Depending entirely upon her actions to make it to birth, and then depending on her and Olwyn to survive once they’re here.

 Two.

 At least.

 “Kel?” Olwyn asks her, as she blinks some more. She moves closer, obviously concerned, and brushes a few fingers across her forehead. “Are you okay?”

 She considers that. Olwyn’s wanted kids and Kel has too, and as big as this is… well…

 “We got a bargain,” she finally says. “Two kids for one pregnancy. What a steal!”

 Olwyn lets out a breath, and Lensa snorts at her. Kel leans her head against her wife’s, and stares at the weird little screen blobs.

 She can do this.

 They can do this.