I’ve been reblogging and fangirling on my FB all day about this but…
THIS IS WHY I STILL SHIP SO HARDCORE AFTER TWENTY YEARS.
They are OTP. Sarah attests to it, David has given interviews for eons about how he knows they end up together and now even Joss admits it’s the greatest love story he’s ever written.
THEY ARE OT-MOTHERFREAKIN’-P.
ARGUMENT IS INVALID. I CAN NOW DIE A HAPPY SHIPPER.
Also, it should be noted that David has maintained for years that he doesn’t do reunions – OF ANY KIND. He hates them - he prefers to move forward to new projects. He’s been maintaining this mantra since at least 2003 – FOURTEEN YEARS AGO.
That’s also another concept that makes this so interesting – you could tell DB was a bit uncomfortable/anxious – yet when it comes to SMG, there’s this camaraderie and closeness that they have…it’s unlike any other. I think he went back on his anti-reunions mantra because of SMG and their mutual adoration for one another, not to mention this ship. He still goes on record to this day and thanks her for a lot of the great successes in his career, and that RL friendship and their fictional pairing is still the ONE thing that he looks back on when he refers to the Whedonverse.
SO this is my Appt. With Loki scene just EXPANDED to make it into a little fic. Added some background info on the “you” character because I feel like this could be a series of encounters, and it would be fun to keep writing. That being said… this is my first (characterxreader) fic so OMG be gentle with your comments lol I broke it into two parts, mature(ish) rating on this one, NSFW on Part 2 (should be up tonight) I hope you all like it! Like or reblog or toss me a message and I’ll make sure and tag you in Part 2! **********************
You don’t really want to be here, spending all summer in your cousins posh summer house, having to attend all her fancy parties and mingle with her ridiculous sorority sisters. No, you’d much rather be walking the boardwalk back home, sharing an ice cream cone with your best friend Mel and wearing the same pair of raggedy cut offs and tank top every day until they fall apart.
But Alyssa was getting married, and you for some ridiculous reason are her maid of honor, and she has invited you to spend her bachelorette summer with her. Because when you are rich as she is, you need more than a bachelorette party.. no you need an entire summer to party. So you had dragged yourself up the coast to Boston to the summer home on the beach, not excited for it, but unwilling to say no to your only cousin and really, oldest friend.
Sometimes you miss the days where both of your ran around in pigtails, thumbing your noses at boys, eating cotton candy until you were sick. Those were fun days, before she exploded into puberty quite suddenly and you were the freckle faced, flat chested girl she was ditching to make out with boys under the pier. And then all at once it seemed like you didn’t know her at all. You had to work, after all. Your side of the family wasn’t the rich side, and while she had cotillions and sweet sixteen parties, you served soft serve to preteens. When she joined a sorority, you lived with your parents and took classes at night to make things work.
But this summer, this last summer before she got married to some legacy fraternity brother with old money and the kind of jawline that should only exist in Harlequin novels, she had offered to pay for everything. New clothes, a little car to run around in, your books for your final semester so you didn’t have to work. If only you would come up to the house and spend the summer with her like old times.
I feel like old times didn’t require trips to a tailor to design dresses for dinner. You think wearily, stepping out of the little sports car she had lent you. But it is hard to complain. Alyssa had swore up and down this tailor would turn you from a country bumpkin into the perfect girl all summer, and even though you were maybe slightly offended, you couldn’t say no.
So here you are. Standing anxiously on a raised little stage in front of entirely too many mirrors, in the private fitting room of the best designer on the east coast.
Well. you think to yourself. Too late to back out now. And if I don’t have the perfect dress for Alyssa’s big first party I’ll never live it down.
You sigh anxiously, glancing around the room, with its floor to ceiling mirrors on three walls and couches lining the fourth. Is it right for a tailor to have such an intimate room for fittings? The lights seem a little dim, the soft music a little too jazzy to be professional.
The cute little assistant– Darcy? Was that her name? had helped you change into a dark green silk robe, and left with your street clothes, assuring you that Mr Laufeyson would see you in just a few minutes.
Yeah, he might see a little too much of me. You think uncomfortably. The robe only falls to mid thigh, and you hadn’t thought about wearing practical underwear today, no you were wearing that ridiculous tiny lace bra Mel had insisted on buying for you, and the matching bottoms that were really barely bottoms at all.
“Ah, there you are darling. So sorry to keep you waiting.” You gulp audibly and stare at the reflection of the man walking up behind you.
He is beautiful. All long limbs and shifting muscles beneath tight black dress pants and a white button up that isnt nearly buttoned up enough. Black hair that is just on this side of too long, and when he lifts his head to meet your eyes, you nearly melt staring into emerald green orbs.
“You are looking for a gown, is that right?” He asks, and a tremor runs down your back. His voice is low and soft and maybe British? But do British guys sound like sex like this?
God, pull it together, dumbass. Voices don’t sound like sex. You scold yourself, and almost as if he hears your thought, his lips lift in a slow smile.
“There’s no reason to be nervous.” He moves to stand in front of you, and he is tall but up on the raised little stage, you are nearly eye level with him, and it is disconcerting, having him staring right into your eyes. “I am very good at what I do. We will create something perfect for you, something as lovely and delicate as you. Perhaps in green? This robe on you is simply….” long fingers trace the collar of the robe, tugging just enough to part the material, stopping right before he exposes your bra. “No.” He seems to make up his mind with a quick shake of his head. “Something in blue. A delicate crystal blue. Like the color of glaciers in the sun. But silk. Do you like the way silk feels on your skin, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? You think, but you just nod dumbly, and he smiles again.
“Yes, silk. Soft, and slick and smooth… raise your arms, love, let me get an accurate measure of you.”
You raise your arms automatically, still stuck on the way he had said slick, and he pulls a tape measure from around his neck, running it through his fingers idly before reaching around you to slide it around your back. “So slender you are.” He murmurs, bringing the edges of the tape together, then tightening it over your breasts. “Just exquisite really. But you know this, don’t you?” He sounds amused, perhaps pleased and you take a quick breath in. Those green orbs flick downward, the tape wrapping tighter around your chest until his knuckles are resting right against you. “Perfect size.” His tone drops into something darker and you bite your lips to keep from sighing. But he might have heard you, because he moves a little closer, his thumbs brushing over the curve of your breasts, and this time you absolutely do moan, and he absolutely hears it.
Son of a fucking—you close your eyes and curse yourself over and over, because he’s loosened the tape, pulled it away from your skin, backed off a step.
“Arms down, please.” He says mildly and you drop your arms, unable to look at him, just so embarrassed you could die. But then–
“Darling.” His voice is still that deep dark rumble and you force your eyes up to his.
Those emerald eyes are blown wide, dilated to nearly black, and his shirt is definitely less buttoned than it was a moment ago.
“Darling, I would love to touch you here.” He reaches out with one graceful hand, almost but not quite touching you, barely skating over the rise your breast, down your stomach and over the swell of your hips to rest on your ass. “Would you let me? Is that too terribly forward of me?”
“I think you already are touching me.” You manage, then kick yourself mentally because honestly, you couldn’t have said something smoother?
“Ah, then you must forgive me.” He steps up into the platform then, and you realize in surprise that he stands at least seven inches above you, and you are suddenly feeling… tiny. And that’s not really something you’ve ever felt before.
No, next to Alyssa, with her petite perfect figure you have always felt large. Tall and gangly and awkward. Certainly not–
“You are so delicate, a woman like you should only be touched with reverence, and I so badly want to see….” he leans down, until his lips are almost to yours, and only every single scrap of your dignity keeps you from standing up on your toes to kiss him already. “I must apologize, kitten, it seems I cannot keep my hands from you. I simply cannot wait to hear that lovely little sound from you again. That soft little moan, from before, could you do that again for me? Perhaps if I touch you like–” his hands–Christ his hands are so big I wonder if– bring you against his hard body and it’s all you can do to keep your reaction to just that little moan he seems to like, when really you want to scream and cheer because the whole hand-size -in -relation-to -everything-else is SO TRUE and you can feel it and wonder if it would be rude to ask if you could see it.
“Oh.” His eyes widen even more and you think for a moment you could drown in them. “That was lovely. Beautiful.” He whispers. “Shall we see if we can do that again. Perhaps louder this time? Perhaps a little longer?”
“Do I have to stand the entire time?” You mumble and he has almost kissed you then, but leans back and laughs, an entirely delighted sound that makes your heart race even faster.
“Of course not, my pet, we can retire to my back room. When a project keeps me overly late, I simply rest there. Entirely comfortable, I assure you. But first–” he finally brings your mouth to his in a long, slow kiss, and suddenly you are holding onto his shoulders for dear life.
He kisses the same way he speaks, smooth and slow, with his tongue tripping and curling with your own. When did we start frenching? You wonder, but only for a second, because oh then he has tilted your head just so, and the kiss becomes impossible to escape from, and you just try to follow the shape of his mouth and the twist of his tongue as he brings your body closer against his own.
It’s the sudden press of his hips to yours, the sudden press of him against your stomach that changes the moment. You break the kiss–entirely unwillingly– because you absolutely have to breathe to wrap your mind around how big he is, and are relieved to see he is just as affected as you are.
“May I touch you here, right here?” He says breathlessly, and you nod without even looking, but you are not prepared for those long fingers to close around your neck, forcing your head to fall back, but no forcing isn’t the right word. Not even close to to describing how the gentle touch on your throat makes you want to bare yourself entirely to his gaze. No, forced, isn’t right, not when you lean back so naturally, your hair falling across your shoulders and his eyes flash at the…submission.
Yes, that’s exactly the word for it.
“You are exquisite.” The words are nearly lost under the music still playing around you, and suddenly you are overly aware of everything. How you are standing on this platform in front of so many mirrors, letting this complete stranger, this designer or tailor or whatever he is, touch you, hold you, all while music is playing, and in the front room his assistant is probably wondering why the appointment is running long, and on the street people are going about their everyday lives. And none of them know how close you are to being lost right here. Lost and perhaps taken, and you– the overtly practical woman you pride yourself on being– is finding it difficult to care.
So you sigh, and your body loosens, and you can see the exact second he realizes you have made up your mind to give in.
“Exquisite.” He repeats, this time with so much admiration threading his words and you can’t help the blush on your skin. “Does all of you flush this perfect shade of pink?” He asks, and maybe you imagine the hoarseness, but maybe not.
“What do you mean?” You ask, just barely above a whisper.
“I mean to say–” he stops, hesitates, “Actually, first, could I …touch you right here?” His fingers haven’t left your throat, so you can hardly nod, can’t look to see where he means, but you nod anyway, and with a quick jerk he has you turned facing the mirrors, your hips firmly pinned to his, and you can see how you look.
Wanton. Half way to ravished. Any other description from a romance novel. That’s how you look.
The deep green robe is falling off of one shoulder, and the sheer lace cup of your bra makes you realize exactly how little the ridiculous garment covers. His pale fingers circle your neck, holding your head back against his shoulder, and one hand presses your lower body against his. He’s pushed your back into a graceful arch, making you look long and slender and…
“Darling you really are…” he drops his dark head to your shoulder, and you can feel his lips moving as he speaks. “The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Now answer me, pet. If I were to make you blush again, is it just your lovely face that shades so gently pink, or does every inch of you turn such an intriguing shade?”