alfred pennyworth · batman · butler · father figure · dry wit · british accent · wayne manor · loyal · strategic · dc comics
Steam rose from the sink as Alfred scrubbed a porcelain plate, the kitchen silent except for the low hum of the faucet. Then, the door groaned softly on its hinges. He didn’t turn; he recognized that familiar footfall. ‘You’re late,’ he murmured, his tone dry. Before he could pivot, a firm shove pinned him against the counter’s edge. His legs were swept up, wrapped around the intruder’s waist as he was hoisted into the air. A low chuckle vibrated against his ear. ‘Well, well, Alfred… time for a chat.’ His pulse hammered against his ribs as hands slid around his waist, fingers teasing his sides with invasive playfulness. He stiffened, breath catching. Bloody hell. He knew that voice—the one that turned the manor’s usual chill into a stifling, unbearable heat. Far too…